The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (11 page)

“How on earth do you manage to finance yourselves? Surely the dues from the membership can’t possibly support the organization.”

“We don’t call them dues, child. They’re offerings. Not only that, offerings are purely voluntary. We don’t require our members to contribute anything. But they all do. We raise money through other activities, though. Fundraising is an integral part of religion these days, I’m afraid!” She laughed a little.

The front door opened and an imposing black man entered, followed by an attractive Caucasian woman whom Suzanne recognized as Brenda Twist.

“Hello dear,” the reverend said to his wife. He smiled at Suzanne and said, “Hello.”

“Hi,” Suzanne replied.

“I was just telling this young lady about the Messengers,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “Suzanne, this is Reverend Theo.”

The reverend shook her hand and said, “I’m pleased to meet you. What brings you to our happy home today?”

“Oh, I was just walking by, saw the building, and was curious,” Suzanne said. “I’m kind of a church junkie. I like the architecture. I made a goal several years ago to visit every church in Manhattan. I don’t think I’ve made it through half of them yet!”

“I would think you haven’t,” the reverend said. He grinned from ear to ear and Suzanne noted that the man exuded an intoxicating charm. “You should come to our service tonight. The only way to really find out what we’re all about is to experience us.”

“Thank you, I might do that,” Suzanne said.

The reverend turned to Brenda Twist and said, “Brenda, perhaps you’d like to give this young lady a tour? I need to make some phone calls in the office.”

“I’d be delighted,” Brenda said. She smiled sweetly at Suzanne.

Reverend Theo addressed Suzanne again and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you. I do hope I’ll see you again.” He gave a slight bow and went into the office.

His wife said, “I’ll leave you in Brenda’s good hands, child. Have a nice day.”

“Thank you,” Suzanne said. Mrs. Ramsey followed her husband and shut the door.

Brenda held out her hand and said, “I’m Brenda Twist.”

Suzanne shook it and said, “Suzanne Prescott.”

“Let’s go inside the sanctuary, shall we?”

As they walked through the double doors, Suzanne asked, “And what, may I ask, is your function at the church? Are you an employee?”

“Yes, I’ve been with the Messengers for about eight years. I guess you could say I’m the reverend’s executive assistant, if such a title is applicable in a religious institution.” Suzanne noted that Brenda was dressed demurely as if she had just come from or was on her way to Sunday School—a black skirt that covered her knees, flat shoes, a white blouse, and a scarf around her neck—and she was carrying a Bible. Suzanne wondered if she had been at the reading of the will that afternoon. She may have met Spike.

The sanctuary was small, simply because it was in a narrow brownstone on the West Side of Manhattan. Two sections of six pews occupied the floor. The altar at the front appeared to be fairly typical, except that the iconography surrounding it was strikingly gruesome. Nailed to the crucifix behind the altar was an extremely bloody effigy of Christ—something Suzanne thought was more at home in medieval passion plays. The expression of pain and suffering on Jesus’ face was unnaturally lifelike and the blood seemed to be freshly wet. Also unusual for most Christian churches, the two thieves that had been crucified along with Christ were also present, mounted on opposing sides of the central cross. They, too, were depicted in a graphically brutal fashion.

Suzanne looked around the entire sanctuary and noted that the walls were also decorated with particularly unnerving sculptures and paintings. These portrayed the saints and apostles that met violent deaths. One of them—she thought he was Peter—was nailed to the cross upside down.

“Ewww,” she muttered involuntarily.

“Powerful images, aren’t they?” Brenda asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

“We believe in touching one’s emotions with the Lord’s word. Most people don’t realize how great our Lord’s suffering really was. Or the sacrifices made by his apostles. The Messengers believe in enlightenment. That’s our primary goal. To enlighten those who don’t believe, or to strengthen the faith of those that already do. Enlightenment is the key to Heaven.”

Suzanne felt a shiver run up her spine. The place was truly creepy and Brenda Twist reminded her of one of the pod people from
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
.

“Interesting,” was all that Suzanne could say as she did her best to smile cheerfully. Then she noticed a glass case atop a pylon near the altar. It contained a metal urn. Suzanne moved closer to the case until she could read the plaque mounted on the front—
Here Sit the Ashes of Flame, True and Devoted Member of The Messengers.

Suzanne was too shocked to say anything. Why in the world would they display Flame’s ashes in their
sanctuary
?

She turned away, attempted to smile at Brenda, and said, “Okay, what else?”

“This way, please.” Brenda led her back to the lobby and through a door marked
To Chapel
. “We also have a space for private meditation and reflection,” Brenda said. “Personally, I find the chapel to be extremely comforting when I’m stressed out. It’s my favorite room in the building.”

They moved through a short hallway that opened onto a landing. A dark, narrow staircase led to the basement. Brenda touched a light switch on the wall, illuminating the stairwell, and proceeded to descend the steps. Suzanne’s had a fleeting thought that she was about to enter the depths of Hell.

The “comforting” chapel was a room the size of a meat locker and was nearly as cold. It, too, was covered in violent and frightening iconography that would have given Suzanne nightmares had she chosen to remain there for any period of time. Screaming out from the walls of the chapel were paintings of Christ being flogged by Roman centurions, up close-and-personal images of the nailing, and numerous head shots suggesting just how painful that crown of thorns really was. Even the ceiling was painted with images of angels that appeared to be horrified at what was taking place on earth below them. Oddly, there were also paintings representing Eastern religions on the wall. A Hindu God—was it Krishna?—appeared to be crying as she looked upon the broken body of Christ. There was no way that Suzanne could feel any sort of serenity here.

This was Brenda Twist’s favorite spot in the building?

“Wow, this is really something,” she said to Brenda. “Now let’s see something else.”

Brenda stood a moment, staring at one of the bloody Christs, and sighed. “All right,” she finally said. She led the way upstairs, back to the lobby. From there they continued to ascend another staircase to the second floor of the building.

“This is where we run our Day Care,” Brenda said, opening a door to a playroom containing small desks and chairs, cushions for naps, boxes of toys, and other accouterment of a nursery. Suzanne was shocked to see crayon drawings of the crucifixion adorning the walls.

“When are the children here?” Suzanne asked.

“Earlier. From around seven o’clock in the morning until about five-thirty. You just missed everyone. There are roughly twenty children that come here on weekdays. Their parents have to work, you know.”

“Of course.”

As they descended the stairs toward the lobby, Brenda said, “You really should come to one of our services. They’re held every evening, and twice on Saturdays and Sundays.”

“That’s a lot of services.”

“Not all of our members can come to every service, so we hold them often.”

“I see.” Suzanne decided it was now or never. “So, was Flame really a member of your congregation? I read that somewhere.”

A visible change came over Brenda. The sweet smile and angelic aura suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a frown. The brown eyes, earlier so sparkling and pretty, turned cold.

“So,” she said. “That’s why you’re here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re just a Flame fan, aren’t you? That’s why you came here. You wanted to satisfy your morbid curiosity. I saw you looking at his urn.”

“Uhm, that’s not true.”

“I know it is. I can see it in your face. You know who I am, too. Don’t you. The Lord knows you’re lying.”

Suzanne was taken aback. “Look, I just came in here to look around.”

Brenda abruptly strode toward the front door and opened it. She held it and addressed Suzanne. “If you care to come to one of our services, then I might believe you. Otherwise I must ask you to leave. We’ve had a lot of problems with fans coming here, wanting a piece of Flame. Or me.”

“Sorry,” Suzanne said, sweeping past her. “I’m not what you think.”

As she stepped over the threshold, a large bald-headed man was coming up the steps in front of the building. A black limo that wasn’t there earlier was parked in a reserved space in front of the church.

“Goodbye,” Brenda said behind her. “The Lord knows all and will judge you.”

Suzanne looked back at her guide and couldn’t think of anything to say except, “Thanks!”

The bald man moved past Suzanne and glanced at her, but he said nothing. Brenda held the door open for him and then shut it once he was inside.

Suzanne felt yet another chill—the second one that day. An incredibly weird vibe emanated from that guy. Who was he? She had a vague feeling that he was familiar to her, but it could have just been the willies she had been experiencing ever since stepping into the freaky place.

One thing was for sure—the Messengers were a scary bunch of grade-A wackos.

A
fter he had taken a look at the mess of guitar strings that had been delivered to Rockin’ Security, Berenger threw the package in a drawer and tried to forget about it. He had more pressing things on his mind at the moment, so he ate a quick meal from the deli on Second Avenue, got his 2005 Nissan Altima 2.5 SL sedan out of his building’s garage, and headed for the Queens Midtown Tunnel. He paid a fortune for a parking space in the garage but it was a necessary expense. The car was his CD player on wheels and he was loath to park it on the street. He rarely used the Altima when his work centered in Manhattan. Public transportation and taxis were the way to go within the city. But when he had to travel beyond Manhattan island, Berenger preferred to travel in style. The SL came standard with a four-cylinder engine mated to an automatic transmission, and it coddled occupants with heated leather seats, an eight-way power driver's seat, a trip computer and a six-disc CD changer with stereo controls mounted on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. It was a luxury vehicle but not so much that it would attract attention in the event he had to shadow someone or sit and stake out a building. Berenger had originally considered purchasing a Corvette but decided it was too much of an eye-catcher.

He had put on Gentle Giant’s classic Prog Rock CD,
Free Hand
, and tried to groove to the syncopated complexity of “Just the Same” when he realized it didn’t fit his mood. That was an album for feeling good and ever since he had received the call from Franklin Village, he had not been jumping with joy. He changed the CD to something to match his gloom—Neil Young and Crazy Horse’s
Sleeps With Angels
. There was something about Young’s plaintive voice and the raw grunge guitars of the Horse that fit neatly with melancholy.

Berenger’s seventy-nine year old mother Ann had moved to Long Island after she found her second husband in 1973. The period when she and Berenger’s real father were married, back in Austin, Texas, now seemed like a fairytale. The memories of his parents were good but things changed drastically after their divorce. It happened when he was still in high school. The announcement came as a shock to him, for he naively thought his parents were happy. One day Berenger had come home from tenth grade to find his father crying in the kitchen. His wife had left him for another man. Berenger remembered that he didn’t believe his father and refused to accept it, even after two weeks. When he finally spoke to his mother he was still in denial. She didn’t waste any time moving to New York with her new beau, Abraham Berkowitz, a tailor she had met at the department store where she worked. Berenger stayed in Austin with his father so he could graduate in 1975 without having to change high schools. His younger brother Carl wasn’t so fortunate. He moved to Long Island with their mother and new stepfather with the idea that he would begin high school at the new location.