Dead-Bang (4 page)

Atop the sign an arrow flamed and flickered, much larger but much like those that Indians used to light and shoot into forts, and as I turned in the direction indicated, right off the freeway onto Filbert Street, it occurred to me—oddly enough, for the first time—that a greedy man enmeshed in the carnal and material life might kidnap and hold Bruno in the hope of acquiring his formula for Erovite and from it making a great many millions of dollars; but it was also possible that a man less greedy and
not
enmeshed in the carnal and material life, a man more spiritual, a man more humble, meek, long-suffering, and righteous, would kidnap Bruno and attempt thus to acquire his formula in order that both it and Bruno might then be destroyed and the world saved from sin. Certainly saving the world was a finer thing to do than making lots of money.

I passed the two-lane asphalt road, lined with tall poplars and bearing the wonderful name “Heavenly Lane,” gently rising toward the Church of the Second Coming two or three hundred yards away on my right, and drove on into Weilton. It took only a couple of minutes to reach Pine and Fifty-seventh and then park around the corner a block away. Another five minutes to walk silently back to the house—it was a small white house—on the northwest corner. And two minutes at most to become certain I was entirely alone. Nobody was there at all, either outside the house or inside.

Nearby I found a For Sale sign, and in the front lawn a hole from which, probably earlier this evening, the sign had been pulled. So there was little doubt someone had waited here, in the near darkness, not long before.

In the Cad, I read Bruno's note to his daughter once again, played with numbers and letters, looked for clues in words and phrases and found not a clue. So I drove back down Filbert to Heavenly Lane and up the poplar-lined road. Soon on my left were visible row upon row of cars, hundreds of them, parked in a spacious lot. The road veered right, swung left—and there it was.

The Church of the Second Coming appeared with surprising and impressive suddenness, dead ahead and well above me. Green lawn sloped upward to flower beds, and then, stark in the glare of a dozen floodlights, the white face of the church loomed. It rose toward the sky for a hundred and fifty feet, its width no more than half that, a solid white wall without ornament or interruption other than the almost fragile-looking cross of gold one hundred feet from top to bottom with a thin horizontal bar thirty-feet wide toward its top. Beneath the base of the cross the great doors of the church were open wide in welcome.

I parked my Cad in the lot, and as I walked back toward the lights, while still fifty yards from those open doors, I could hear the familiar voice booming and roaring. Familiar, though I had not met Festus Lemming, because I had heard parts of messages he regularly delivered on television, not merely on Sunday morn but—during the past month—in evening prime time. It was a quite distinctive voice, anyhow. Once heard, like once hit on the ear with a claw hammer, it was an experience impossible to dismiss lightly.

I walked up a dozen pebbled cement steps and through the doors, then stepped a few feet to my right and leaned against the wall, taking a few moments to adjust to my first view of the church's interior, and of Lemming and his flock in the flesh.

The interior of the church was much larger than I had expected. It was not so very wide, but it was very deep, which is, I suppose, the way a church should be. Its approximately seventy-five-foot width, except for an open eight-foot-wide aisle slanting downward and bisecting the building and a narrower aisle at each wall, was filled with worshippers seated shoulder to shoulder, crammed together on backless benches.

From where I stood, in the rear of the church, I could of course see none of the smiling faces, only row upon row of massed and rapt Christians, clad mostly, if not entirely, in black or dark blue or gray; row upon row of motionless backs and expressionless heads. Motionless, yes; and rapt, yes; for all heads were aimed at and all eyes fixed on the Sainted Most-Holy Pastor as he gladdened their eyes and ruined their ears, and heads, with his message.

I heard him before I saw him—of course, I'd heard him while still in the parking lot—and I let my eyes find the source of that marvelous sound. My gaze went down the middle aisle, down and down and far, to a wall of pearly-gate gray—a wall not of wood but of cloth, hanging gray curtains or draperies—and then up.
There
he was, way down there at the other end of the church, but elevated on a podium high enough so that even those of us in back had to lift up our eyes to see him. Whether or not this was designed to induce eyestrain in all, it almost surely produced a lot of stiff necks among those seated in the front rows, from where it appeared likely they would have to look straight up in order to see his nostrils.

Festus Lemming wore no robe, no gown of black or white or scarlet, no symbol-covered apron or even impressive mitre. No such folderol for him. He wore a simple business suit made of hammered gold with ruby crosses for buttons. Lights from spots focused upon him bounced and glittered from his golden threads, sparkled as he moved and waved his arms and mouth, as the sun might have glinted from the chain mail of a Crusader setting forth to chop up infidels for God, an infidel being one who rejected the Christian faith, particularly that part of it which required the chopping-up of infidels.

Even with the vast quantity of light bathing him, so that he appeared to be throwing little sunspots into his corona, Lemming resembled a golden icicle, gradually melting away. I had seen him on television, and on one other occasion in person at fairly close range. He was very short, only three or four inches over five feet, and so thin that upon first lamping him I'd thought it at least possible if he stepped on a scale and its needle did not move he wouldn't be certain the scale was busted. Even then he'd given me the impression of being a wraith, an icy shade that might in a dim light—or a strong light, any kind of light—melt away entirely.

This impression did not, however, apply to his voice. Festus Lemming's was a voice that might never fade away, that might, though getting gradually weaker, keep on going to the ends of the Earth and continue as at least a faint whisper among the farthest stars. It was as though he spoke not with the mouth of an ordinary mortal but with a flesh cannon made from lungs, lips, teeth, tongue, tonsils, and musical buzz-saws.

From that anatomical marvel he shot forth balls and volleys of phrases and sentences, shrapnel of biblical quotes and misquotes, cannonades of verses and chapters and possibly whole testaments, all of it mixed with revivalist humdingers that seemed to bounce from the walls and ceiling and floor and, even slowed down by all that, to pierce eardrums and occasionally stun whole people.

For a few seconds, instead of listening to the almost symphonic tones and chords and arpeggios of Lemming's voice, I concentrated upon what he was saying, thinking perhaps even I, by putting skepticism aside and paying close attention, might learn something of infinite value.

“You, Mary, ever Virgin,” he was crescendoing—and that kind of put me off right there—“make us understand the paradoxical essence of this state of celibacy.… Yes! We
know
it is … a SUPERHUMAN VIRTUE which needs supernatural support! Make us also
understand
its worth, its heroism, beauty, joy, and strength … the strength and honor of a ministry without reservation—Yes! THE CRUCIFIXION OF THE FLESH.… The unconditional SOLDIERING of the Kingdom of God.
Help us
…
to love … like this!
YES!”

As often before, when I'd chanced to hear top-forty songs, I wished I'd continued to concentrate on the music instead of the lyrics. And not merely because the message failed to make me feel all good and warm inside, but because Lemming was not delivering an original sermon but quoting, with minor embellishments, God's remarks on Sacred Celibacy which had, years before, been delivered for Him by Pope Paul VI.

So much for learning something of infinite value, I thought, and glanced at my watch. It was three minutes till ten
P
.
M
. With any luck, Lemming would take a break at ten. In both outer aisles, three-quarters of the way down toward the front, stood a man—or maybe woman; from this distance it was difficult to be sure—wearing what looked like an official outfit or uniform. I checked the individual on my right more closely. The outfit was an ankle-length robe or curtain of pearly-gate gray, snug around the neck, and with an insignia or design on the sleeves. On the person's head was a covering, something like a large shower cap.

It seemed possible that one did not easily gain an interview with the Sainted Most-Holy Pastor, perhaps not at all without the intercession of an intermediary. And I, not a member of the Church by a long shot, would probably need all the help I could get. So I walked to the aisle on my right and started moving slowly down it, as unobtrusively as I could.

I made the halfway mark with no trouble, and paused there to take my first good look at the assembled congregation of the Church of the Second Coming—or, rather, my first look, for to me there was nothing good about it. I could clearly see some hundreds of the approximately four thousand members present, and it was a sight to sore eyes. It may be that I looked upon them with already biased and prejudiced glimmers, and thus saw not only what was actually there but what I expected to see as well. Still, I think even a totally unbiased and unprejudiced observer would have concluded they were a sad-looking lot.

As for me, there was no doubt whatsoever in my mind that I had never before beheld such a joyless, juiceless, loveless and lifeless gang of withered, weary, and dried-up ding-a-lings. Knocking off ninety percent for the possibility of my personal warps, there were still very few of them who looked fully alive, and some who appeared to have been deceased for a number of years.

Most stared upward, rigid and unmoving, as though absorbing through every pore the love of life or lust for death—take your pick, for Festus was still instructing them in the virtues and joys of virginity and celibacy, suffering and denial—being unleashed upon them from the elevated pulpit. But a few became aware of me and turned their heads lazily to look. And oddly, each and every one of those who looked continued to look at me, or stare, becoming—when such a thing was possible—even more sour and suspicious, thinner of lip and colder of eye.

Turning, I started creeping down the aisle again, and stopped right behind the individual I presumed was standing watch, or at station, doing something official. His, her, or its—even from this close I couldn't tell, because of that loose outfit—back was toward me, so I reached up and tapped the nearer shoulder and whispered, “I beg your pardon sir, or ma'am. Or Miss.”

She—yeah, it was a she—and how it was a she—turned quickly. She wasn't a very tall gal, and for a moment she stared from about a foot away, at my chin, or rather at a point slightly below it, which must have been my Adam's apple. Maybe it was being reminded here, of all places, of Adam's apple. Or maybe it was what I—automatically, without thinking the least bit about it—said to her. Whatever—something shook her up a bit.

As she turned and eyeballed my Adam's apple, then sort of jerked her head back as though to keep an eagle from landing on it, and stared up into my face with her eyes widening, I noted the depth of those huge purple-blue-almost-lavender eyes and the soft smoothness of her skin and the sweet curve of her lips and—approaching a mild state of shock induced by suddenly seeing
this
so soon after looking at so much of
that—
blurted, “Sweet Jesus in Jerusalem, how did a live one like
you
get mixed up with this bunch of
that
—”

She let out a small noise, a sort of amusing little
wheeuk
like you've heard people make when they suck in their breath too fast and it sticks, and it wasn't loud at all. But it bothered me. Because it
seemed
loud. And with all that roaring from the pulpit, all the thundering and booming and cannonading going on, it should not have seemed so loud.… All the thundering and booming? All the thund …

In thick silence I moved my head a little and rolled my eyes left so I could see some of the congregation, and then wished I hadn't done it. Because a whole lot of them were looking at me, and they were looking darkly. Moreover, a heavyset man nearby in a dark gray suit with a fine little pinstripe stood out like a sour thumb among the citizens crammed shoulder to shoulder in his row. All the others were dressed in black, or in equally dark gray, but he stood out because
he
had a fine little pinstripe.

Right then I realized, perhaps a bit late, that I was probably the only person here wearing a canary-yellow sports outfit.

I rolled my eyes left briefly, just for a peek, then rolled them back at the girl a foot from me. Her mouth was open, and her eyes were very wide, but even wearing that expression she was well-worth seeing.

“Quick,” I whispered. “What's your name?”

“Miss Winsome,” she whispered as if hypnotized. “Regina Winsome.”

“Beautiful,” I said.

I flashed a quick look left, and way up, hoping Lemming wasn't preparing to throw a prayer book at me. But to my surprise he seemed not even aware that a big disturbance had been created. He was flipping through pages of a large book partly visible on the lectern in front of him. I took another peek at the gang on my left. Some were still eyeing me dimly, but about half of them were thumbing through little books held in their laps. And beyond the group closest to where I stood, hardly anybody was even idly gazing this way.

Here I'd thought the entire congregation was about to rise up and do something painful to me, but all the time it was only a few of those closest who had heard Regina's squeak and scowled at it, heard it because—with strange timing that made me wonder if this was going to be one of my lucky nights—at the moment just before Regina's noise Pastor Lemming had finished his sermon. So naturally it got as still as a tomb.