The Crash of Hennington (42 page)

Peter slumped to his knees, placing his elbows on the bed and resting his head on his folded hands. The words were frantic, a rush of sentences.

—I don’t know who’s out there, but I believe. I believe that Luther isn’t dead. I believe that it’s only a matter of waiting. I believe, I believe, I believe. Don’t take him from me. Not now, not because of a few seconds’ doubt. Bring him back to me. Bring him back to me safe and sound. I’ll take care of him until then and for as long as I need to afterwards. I believe, I believe. I do believe. I have faith. I believe. Please don’t take him. Please don’t take him.

On and on he prayed. Minutes ticked by, then an hour unnoticed, until he had worked himself into a kind of rhythmic trance, the prayer repeating again and again, folding in upon itself. He lost himself in the prayer, in the chant of belief, his voice cracking from the repetition and finally disappearing into a whisper. It was then that the sound registered.

The hum. Insistent and present. Quiet but strong.

Outside, the sun continued its blast, the fox protected her newborn kits, and the gray sedan remained parked across the street from the house and stayed there for a very long time without anyone getting out.

89. The Schism, Arriving on Schedule.

—My sermon today is about false prophets, and this topic is not a coincidence. I’ve heard disturbing reports of members
of this congregation turning to certain individuals who claim to know of fulfillments to Sacramental prophecy. I know not why and I know not how this all exactly came to be. I only know that members of this flock are being led astray, away from the true teachings of the Bondulay, away from the words of the Sacraments, and apparently away from rational, individual thought towards a kind of cult-like mentality, the spirit of which seems to benefit no one except those requesting such adulation, fulfilling only the agendas of those who wish to assume and then consolidate power. You are being hornswaggled, my good people. You are being fooled by those who would play on your fears, on your rightful pursuit of holiness, and on your quest for spiritual sustenance. You are being used as pawns in a game where your own personal wellbeing is the interest of no one.

Jarvis paused. The parishioners stared at him in stony silence. Even Theophilus Velingtham, sitting like a king in the front row, seemed stunned. Good. He was bluffing some, making guessed exaggerations, but they needed to know he meant business. He wouldn’t give up his congregation without a fight.

—You must forgive me for my strong language, brothers and sisters, but it is only an indication of the depth of my feelings on the matter. I’ve noticed a drifting-away among members of the congregation for some time now. At first, I assumed that it was merely the normal fluctuations of parish life. I have since learned that my good faith was misplaced, that there is an active contrary hand vying for guidance of this church. I have learned that you are being swayed and cajoled by those who would usurp the power of this parish, this church of longstanding that has helped and cared for you for so many years. This church which
still
helps and cares for you. This church which aches to see you so misled. My good people, I beg you to hear me—

—Pastor, if I may—

—You may not, Theophilus. You may sit back down, and you may listen. That’s all you may do.

—But, certainly, Pastor—

—You seem to have fallen under the mistaken impression that my sermons are actually debates. They are not, Brother Velingtham. This is my church, and I will give my sermon without interruption.

Theophilus arched his eyebrows for a moment and then smiled.

—Very well, Brother Kingham. You may continue.

Jarvis took a long moment to silently pray away his anger. When he spoke again, it was with a flat calmness of which he was actually quite proud.

—You forget, Brother Velingtham, that I do not require permission to speak in my own church.

But then, a slip of the tongue. He couldn’t stop himself.

—Or has your arrogance grown so enormous that you now see yourself as spiritual leader of this parish?

And he lost them, that quickly, that easily – perhaps they were gone already. The faces in his congregation began to frown, all except for Theophilus whose smile remained, perhaps even increased. Murmurs spread throughout the assembled group. Jarvis saw Mrs Bellingham look around with some alarm as the words swirled past her. Someone towards the middle of the pews rose, someone, Jarvis realized, that he had never seen before in his life.

—How can you speak to Brother Velingtham that way? He’s the one showing us the true path!

Shouts of assent surrounded the stranger, and more voices joined in.

—You would lead us away from the truth!

—Where were you when the dark wind arrived?

—The light wind is here, and you’re telling us to ignore it!

—You’re the arrogant one!

—You’re the one who would lead us astray!

—You’re the power-hungry one!

Jarvis instinctively held up his hands for quiet and got no response. He would just have to shout over them.

—Listen to yourselves! Abandoning all that you’ve held true for your entire lives for the ravings of one man! The Sacraments teach us intelligent faith with good works and humanity based on a belief in God, not submission to the vision of one earthly man!

The shouts swelled now, an ocean threatening to crash over the tidal breaks.

—Who do you think you are?

—One lying sermon after another!

—You self-serving, faithless wretch!

Jarvis could see individual faces among the screaming parishioners who were just as frightened as he was becoming. So it wasn’t unanimous then, at least. Small consolation.

—What has happened to you, my beloved congregation? Why do you attack the Bondulay like you are? Just think of the things you are saying, of the anger you’re displaying. How can any of this be the work of the Lord? Again, I ask you, listen to yourselves!

The shouting continued, until first one parishioner, then another, then a row stepped from their pews into the aisle. They headed towards the front of the church, towards Jarvis. Involuntarily, he took a step back, and with a rush it seemed as if the entire church were on him. Hands grabbed him from either side, forcing him downward while they held his arms behind his back. Someone kneed him in the stomach, a hand belonging to Widow Mitcham grabbed his beard and pulled
hard. Other faces, other hands, many that he didn’t recognize, threw him to the floor. Vaguely, he could hear the faint shouts of Mrs Bellingham and one or two others of the few who were on his side, but these were ineffectual. Jarvis felt pummeling on his back, feet and fists digging into his kidneys and neck. He tried to call out, but a kick to the side robbed him of his breath.

—Enough.

One word, said quietly, almost conversationally, and the ruckus ceased, though Jarvis was still held against the floor. He could see the crowd part to make way for a single set of legs. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

—I think, Brother Jarvis, that the congregation has spoken.

Quiet assents passed through the crowd holding him down.

—I think what they’re saying, my dear Father Kingham, is thank you for all the work you’ve done for the parish, but we are no longer in need of your services.

At some signal Jarvis couldn’t see, the hands lifted him, arms still behind his back. He felt blood trickling from his nose and a pain in his side. He looked up into Theophilus’ still-smiling face.

—There is no happy ending for this victory of yours, Theophilus.

—I wouldn’t worry about me, Jarvis. You shouldn’t fret, though. You gave it your best shot. It was just woefully inadequate, that’s all.

Theophilus looked up at the crowd.

—Any who disagree with what we’re doing, I suggest you leave now.

He tilted his head towards the side exit door. The handlers immediately dragged Jarvis towards the door, opened it, and threw him to the concrete walkway beyond. In the long moment it took for Mrs Bellingham to reach his side, Jarvis
spat the blood that now filled his mouth and said a hopeless, angry, lost prayer.

I trust that whatever you have in mind for me, Lord, it is worth all this.

90. Cracking Skulls.

Thomas drew in such a long drag that his much-practiced lungs were finally required to cough. He closed his eyes and tried not to lose any of the smoke until the tremor passed. None of this was helping his mood any. He spoke again through watery eyes.

—What I fail to see, and what you are continually failing to illuminate for me is just how not one but two separate fugitives, one of them practically a giantess, the other quite possibly carrying around a dead body, can continue to elude your capture? I thought you were the best, my friend. That’s what I heard anyway. And would you take off those goddamn sunglasses?

Paul Wadstone’s expression declined to change, no matter what level of abuse Thomas hurled at him, a character trait Thomas both respected and loathed. Even as he removed the sunglasses, the face of the director of the best private security agency in Hennington betrayed nothing.

—This is not a fantasy story, Mr Banyon. The real world rarely ever agrees with the linear narrative that you seem to expect. People disappear. We do what we can to find them, but sometimes they stay gone.

—You mean you can’t give me a guarantee of success? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take my business elsewhere then.

—Of course I cannot guarantee you success. The reason is
that I am not a liar. You are always welcome to change security agencies if you are unhappy with our level of service, Mr Banyon.

—Anyone ever tell you you talk like a fucking robot? Ever hear of contractions, Paul? Fantastically efficient little things.

Paul said nothing. Thomas took another long drag, burning his fingers before he realized the butt was too short.

—Fucking fuck!

He stomped out the ember on the carpet where it had fallen. He opened the top drawer of his desk, fingered through his cigarillo box, and pulled out another. He bit off the end, lit it, and inhaled three more great lungfuls before he addressed Paul again. The narcotic seemed to be losing its effectiveness lately. Thomas would have to have words with the agribusinessman who supplied them. He was having to smoke so many to feel any sort of buzz at all that he suspected those around him were getting very expensive passive highs.

—Just tell me why you haven’t found them. That’s all I’m asking.

—There are very few trails to follow, Mr Banyon. Ms Strell disappeared from the Foster Downs through avenues as yet unknown to a location as yet unknown. The trail for Mr Wickham was already a week old when we began our search. We have investigated some avenues and have narrowed down possible surveillance sites. We also have reason to believe that either one or both of Ms Strell and Mr Wickham are receiving help from the Rumour Underground.

—I thought that was a myth.

—Myths have a way of perpetuating themselves to sometimes useful effect.

—How do you know all this?

—It is my business—

—To know these things. Yes, I’ve seen crime movies, too, Paul. How long? Just tell me how long.

—As I said, we have narrowed down surveillance for Mr Wickham to a few abandoned houses—

—Why?

—It is a fairly common practice for anyone not wanting to be found to hide in houses that have been foreclosed. There are a surprisingly large number of them in the city, hence they are difficult to keep track of. Again, through process of elimination, we have narrowed down our surveillance to a few—

—But you don’t know if he’s actually
in
one of these houses?

At last, Paul Wadstone sighed. Thomas smiled behind his veil of smoke. Give me enough time, I can get to fucking
anybody.

—It is the most logical path of pursuit, Mr Banyon. I will, of course, let you know if it yields results.

—And Jacki?

—I was coming to Ms Strell. We have placed the house of her former husband and her two children under surveillance—

—Won’t do any good. She doesn’t talk to them anymore.

—Nevertheless, we have placed them under surveillance. Phone records indicate a high number of calls from a mobile phone number that turns out to be registered to a deceased person.

—Really. Meaning what?

—Meaning, of course, that it is something to keep an eye on. Perhaps Ms Strell is contacting her children and—

—But you don’t know for sure?

Paul Wadstone slowly replaced his sunglasses. After a long moment, he reached down for his briefcase and stood.

—Where the hell are you going?

—Perhaps it would be best if I kept you aware of developments from the field.

—And why ‘would it be best'?

Thomas puffed out a cloud, then involuntarily tried to huff it back in.

—Because clearly, Mr Banyon, at the moment, you are chemically indisposed.

—I beg your pardon.

—We will contact you as soon as there is anything to report.

—Wait a minute. I’m not—

The door clicked shut behind Paul Wadstone. It took a few seconds for Thomas to register the surprise, then a few beats more for anger to boomerang its way in.

—You fuck! You fucking fuck!
Nobody
fucking … You fuck! Fucking talks to me! Fucking tells me. Tells
me.
Stupid fuck. ‘Chemically’ fuck! Fuck!

He angrily stubbed out the cigarillo butt in his ashtray and didn’t notice he had lit another one until he was already well into it.

91. An Invisible Threat, Real Nonetheless.

She lifted her head. What was it?

Something had awakened her. A sound, maybe, but one that didn’t follow into wakefulness. The herd slept, scattered deep among the foliage in the shade of the trees, each member resting in whatever niche or nook they could carve out of this crowded bit of woods. The sun poked through the leaves, low in the sky. Morning, then, still early by the crisp smell
in the air. The scent of dew and of chill being lifted. And something else. She sniffed deeply. At first, she only detected what should have been there, the greenery, the fruits on the trees, the slumbering members of the herd. She drew in another long breath through her great nostrils. Something evasive was there. Yes. Evasive but definitely present.