Judgment Day (16 page)

"Maybe they keep their power plants in the next one," Christy said from behind.

Embarrassed at being caught snooping, Roland followed the others. The tour ended in the last module at an observation deck. Where the door to the next compartment should be was a steel plug. Distinguishing this compartment was a row of windows facing the Earth. The artificial gravity of the station held them to a surface, the Earth hanging slightly above them. The sun bathed half the Earth in bright light, spectacularly alien and familiar at the same time. They all crowded around the windows, except Crow who hung back, unmoved. They were still staring when Shepherd entered, hurrying to pull Christy aside. He looked panicky. Roland inched closer to Christy and Shepherd, but they stepped out of the compartment. When he tried to follow he was stopped by Cal at the compartment door.

"I need to talk to Shepherd just for a minute," Roland said.

"He's busy just now," Cal said firmly.

"He looked worried, any idea what it was about?"

"We'll be serving lunch in a minute."

Frustrated, Roland wandered near a port, listening to the Disney people talk. They were anxious to deal now and were speculating on whether the artificial gravity could be used in the shuttles so that the passengers would never have to risk space sickness.

Lunch never came and Shepherd didn't return. After an hour, Susan came back, whispering to Cal. Abruptly the tour ended.

"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but we will need to return to Guadalupe launch facility immediately."

"What's happened?" Powder asked.

"There is no danger."

No one was mollified and worried mumbling continued. Roland hung back but more members of the Fellowship appeared, herding them back to the shuttle. Christy was still missing. Once back to where they had docked, the gravity was slowly reduced to zero, then they were helped back to their seats in the shuttle. Once all were buckled in, they waited. A few minutes later an unidentified crewman entered going immediately to the flight deck, saying nothing to the passengers who continued to worry. Then Christy came in, pulling herself along the aisle, taking her seat next to Roland.

Three other crew entered with Shepherd who pulled himself into the flight deck. The door was sealed and the grim-looking crew members buckled themselves into empty seats, fending off questions from the frightened passengers. When they were away from the station and accelerating, Roland turned to Christy.

"What is going on? Why are they evacuating the station?"

"It's not an evacuation. Those returning with us have families."

"Then what is the hurry?"

"They've taken the children."

"Whose children? The Fellowship's children?"

"Police and caseworkers from Children's Services raided the grade school in Christ's Home. They took all the children away in buses. Seven of the teachers have been arrested and they have warrants for Mark and Ira."

"Christy, they don't take drastic steps like this without cause. What were the charges?"

"Sexual abuse, but I can't believe it. Not Mark, I know him too well."

"Maybe it's for the best," Roland said. "The children need to be protected. If it turns out there's nothing to it, the children will be returned, no harm done."

"They've taken the children away from their homes and their friends,"

Christy said. "They had to carry some of them out of their classrooms crying—the children thought they were being arrested."

"They're professionals. They know how to minimize trauma."

Roland could see she wouldn't be convinced and left her alone. Mentally, he began writing his next column. His files were loaded with stories

about religious people who turned out to be thieves or perverts. He would use those to make it clear that allegations of sexual abuse against the Fellowship fit into a pattern. His files were also full of politicians and community volunteers who had committed similar atrocities, but they would not be mentioned. This editorial would be about hypocrisy. Goldwyn would love it.

CHAPTER 29 THE INQUISITOR

The way to break a man is to start by taking away his humanity. First take his freedom, then his independence and then his privacy. Without these he cannot maintain his dignity. Without dignity, a man feels no shame. When a man feels no shame, there is nothing he will not do.

—
THE ART OF TORTURE
, COLIN MILLS

W
illiam Lichter shivered uncontrollably, partly from cold, mostly from fear. Naked, tied to a chair, and wet from his own urine, he was miserable and terrified. He'd been in darkness since the tape was torn from his eyes and his clothes were cut off. As the hours dragged on he found the fear of torture was torture itself.

His teeth chattering loudly, he almost missed the sound of the door lock. With a creak the door was opened and someone came into his room, closing the door behind. There was no light when the door opened, and no lights were turned on. Forcing his jaw to hold still, he listened as someone

moved around the room. Then he heard something dragged closer.

"Please, can you turn on a light?" he begged.

The sound came closer and then stopped. He could see nothing but he felt the presence of the other man.

"Mr. Lichter, you don't smell very good," the man said.

"Who are you?" he stammered.

Now Lichter knew the Fellowship had taken him.

"I've done nothing to you people," Lichter said through chattering teeth.

"What people are you referring to?" the voice asked.

"The Fellowship. You're from that religious group, aren't you?"

"No. We serve the same boss but in different capacities."

"What do you mean?" he asked, terrified of the answer.

"Do you know the Bible?"

"I never went to Sunday school," Lichter said.

"In the Old Testament there is the story of Moses. He led God's chosen people out of Egypt. Perhaps you've seen the movie version?"

"Yes, I know that story."

"Well, Mark Shepherd is our Moses."

"Maybe you're like Jesus—he would turn the other cheek," Lichter suggested.

"That would be a New Testament morality. God seems to have called us back to the roots of our faith. Old Testament morality is more of the eye for an eye kind of justice."

Lichter wet himself when he heard "eye for an eye." The crew of the
Rising Savior
had been burned alive.

"What I want to know from you is who is playing the role of pharaoh?"

"I don't know anything," Lichter lied.

"Shhh! Not now. I'm not ready to ask, and you're not ready to answer."

Lichter sobbed, "I don't know anything. Please don't hurt me. I have a family."

"Now, now, don't cry. There will be plenty of time for that later. First, let me clean you up a bit."

Then there was a hissing sound and a blast of cold water hit Lichter in the face. Methodically the man used the hose to wash him down from head to foot. He ached from the cold when the man finished and the shivering was more violent than before, his entire body shaking. Then the hose was dragged away and the man left. Alone in the dark again he found he couldn't save his tears for later.

Exhaustion brought Lichter sleep but he dosed fitfully, his head hanging down to his chest. When he woke his neck was sore and no amount of movement would bring relief. His hands and feet were numb, the ache long gone from them—he could hardly move his fingers and toes. He was dehydrated now, wishing the man would bring the hose back so that he could drink. His shivering and chattering had long since burned up the free sugar in his system and he felt weak and trembly. He slumped exhausted in the chair. Then somewhere in the dark the door opened again.

"Mr. Lichter, are you ready to talk about it?"

"I'm thirsty."

"When you answer my questions I'll give you something to drink."

"I'll tell you anything I can. I . . . just don't know anything."

"I can see you're not ready yet. I'll come back tomorrow."

"No. Please, I'm ready."

The door creaked closed and when he heard the lock turned he began to cry again.

"I won't live until tomorrow," he sobbed.

His lips were cracked when the man came again. Now he had barely enough strength to lift his head. He was too exhausted to panic but his fear still knotted his empty stomach.

"Are you ready now, Mr. Lichter?" the man said.

"Yes," Lichter said.

"Who ordered the destruction of the
Rising Savior2"

"I don't—"

"Do I have to come back tomorrow?"

"It was Congressman Crow."

"Crow?" the man said, surprised.

"Yes," Lichter said, feeling the relief of truth.

"The others said a woman paid them."

"A woman? . . . It might be his assistant," Lichter said.

"What is her name?"

"Could I have something to drink?" Lichter begged.

"When you've answered my questions."

"Waters. Rachel Waters."

"Why would Congressman Crow want to destroy the
Rising Savior2."

"He never told me."

"Speculate!"

"He doesn't like religious people. He doesn't think a cult should have a monopoly on that technology."

"How are you connected to the congressman?"

"He needed information on NASA's space program. I helped him get it."

"You spied for him?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Why did you do it?"

"He pays me. My family needed the money."

"For what? Your kids aren't sick or crippled, your wife is healthy, you live in a beautiful house, you own two cars—one a Lexus—and you have a boat and RV parked in a storage lot. NASA pays you a good salary, so just what did you need money for?"

He didn't answer because he was afraid of the truth.

"Because without Crow's money your second car would have been a Chevy instead of a Lexus. Without his money you would have had to rent a boat when you went on vacation. Without that blood money you wouldn't have been one step ahead of your neighbors."

"I only wanted the best for my family," Lichter said.

"The men in the
Rising Savior
had families."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, because you got caught."

The sound of footsteps told him the man was leaving.

"Please. I'm thirsty."

He heard the sound of the hose being dragged. Bracing himself for the blast of the high-pressure hose, he opened his mouth willing to risk drowning for a mouthful of water. When the water came, it was a slow dribble that the man held until he had drunk his fill.

"You'll be moved soon. There will be more questions. Answer them honestly or you will come back here."

"I will," he said, beginning to cry. "I promise."

The hose was dragged away and then he heard the door opening.

"When can I go home?"

"Never," the man said.

The door slammed, leaving him alone again, this time with no hope to sustain him.

CHAPTER 30 SURRENDER

Listen to my cry, for I am in desperate need; rescue me from those who pursue me, for they are too strong for me.

—PSALM 1 4 2 : 6 -7

S
tephen O'Malley was one of the Fellowship's many stealth members.

By hiding his association with the Fellowship he was able to advance to full partnership in one of San Francisco's most prestigious law firms. Now that he had stepped forward to defend Mark and Floyd his firm had disowned him. With white hair, expensive suits, manicured hands, Stephen was a distinguished barrel-chested man with a permanent tan.

"You make no statements to the police or to the media!" Stephen O'Malley said. "None! Period!"

"I know, Stephen," Mark replied.

"Don't even say good morning," Stephen said.

"I understand," Mark said.

They were driving toward San Francisco in Stephen's Mercedes.

"The media will bait you," Stephen continued. "They'll say outrageous things to get you to respond. If you answer one question but ignore others, it will look like you are avoiding questions where you might have to lie."

"The media doesn't know where or when I'm going to surrender, Stephen," Mark said. "That was part of the arrangement."

"The media will be there, Mark. These things leak, they always leak."

Stephen was right. Three blocks away they could see a crowd gathered on the steps. Vans with dish antennae were parked on both sides of the street.

"Drop us in front, Floyd, then get my car out of here," Stephen said.

Even before Floyd stopped, the car was surrounded with reporters and cameramen. Blinding electronic flashes lit up the interior.

"Remember, not a word!" Stephen warned. Then he unlocked the car doors, pushing against the faces pressed to the window. "Stand back, please."

Mark slid across the seat, following Stephen who cleared a path with his large body. Questions were shouted and microphones pushed in their faces.

"Is it true you had sex with girls as young as five?"

"Is sex with children part of your religious beliefs?"

"Is it true you fathered seventeen children?"

"Did you ever have sex in orbit?"

Mark's blood boiled, but he kept his eyes fixed on the back of Stephen's head and his mouth shut. As they neared the glass entry, uniformed officers appeared, making a corridor.

Once inside, two police officers sandwiched Mark, taking his arms and pulling him into an elevator. Three more officers pushed into the elevator behind Mark, squeezing out Stephen who protested as the elevator doors closed in his face. Once the doors were closed, the officers laughed.

"Did you see that shyster's face?" asked one.

"Yeah," said another. "His chin nearly hit the floor."

They laughed again. Nervous about surrendering, Mark had counted on Stephen walking him through the process. Now he was scared.

"My lawyer's supposed to be with me," Mark said.

The officers stopped laughing. The officer standing in front of Mark turned, pushing his face inches from Mark's.

"An innocent man doesn't need a lawyer," the big policeman said.

"I didn't do anything—"

"Shut up! If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your mouth shut."

The officer sprayed spittle as he spoke and his face visibly reddened. Instinctively, Mark stepped back against the elevator wall. Mercifully, the door opened and two detectives were waiting to take custody of Mark.

"I'm Detective Harney," the young black detective said. "This is Detective Sitz," Harney said, nodding at his partner, a graying middle-aged man.

Both of the detectives wore gray suits. Harney's fit properly, however, and looked like it cost twice that of Detective Sitz's.

"We'll have some questions but first we're going to process you," Harney said.

Next Harney pulled a card from his pocket.

"I'm sure your lawyer advised you of your rights but just to be sure we're going to do it again. You have the right to remain s i l e n t . . ."

Hearing his rights read in a monotone voice crushed Mark's spirit—he was a criminal now.

He was taken to a room furnished with a rectangular table and three folding chairs. A tape recorder sat on the table. A mirror covered one wall—he knew he was being watched from the other side. Mark sat in the chair as directed. An hour passed and his head nodded, his eyes heavy with the need to sleep, his stomach rumbling. He was feeling the effects of the fast. His hunger was terrible, his mind clouded. The hunger would eventually pass and his mind would clear, but it would take hours yet. Then the door opened. Detective Harney came in.

"It's time to talk," Harney said.

Detective Harney sat opposite him, his back to the mirror, a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth. He punched the tape recorder.

"You know you don't have to talk to me without your lawyer?"

Mark hesitated. Despite Stephen's admonition to not talk to the detectives, he didn't want to appear guilty.

"So, do you want your lawyer or not?" Harney probed.

"I don't care," Mark said, still unsure.

"Yes or no? It's for the tape."

"No."

"Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law," Harney reminded him.

"I understand," Mark said.

"You still want to talk to me?"

"Yes. The sooner we get this cleared up the sooner I can go home."

"Good man. Do you have anything you want to tell me?"

"I don't understand," Mark said.

"If you confess it will go easier for you," Harney said.

"I don't even know what I'm being charged with."

"We have information that you sexually molested several children."

"Never!" Mark said.

"Maybe you don't think of it as molestation," Harney suggested.

"Some religions think it's okay to have sex with children. Do you believe that way?"

"No."

"But maybe some in your church do?"

"No."

"You've got a big church, Reverend Shepherd, with branches all over the country. You can't know everyone in the church, can you?"

"Well, no."

"Then you can't know for sure that some of them might think it's okay to have sex with children?"

"They wouldn't do such a thing."

"But you don't know, do you? Not for sure!" Detective Harney persisted.

"I can't know everyone."

"So you admit it's possible someone in the church molested the children."

"Anything is possible, but I don't believe—"

"Now we're getting somewhere," said Harney, cutting Mark off. "So if you were wrong about your followers, maybe you were wrong about yourself."

"I wasn't wrong—"

"You said it was possible for someone in your church to have molested the children, right?"

"Yes, but—"

"So maybe you are one of those who could have done it?"

"I didn't," Mark said angrily. "I never touched one of the children."

"Okay, calm down," Harney said, taking the toothpick from his mouth and leaning back in his chair. "We'll come back to that. Let's start with the others. Can you give me their names?"

"Who? What are you talking about?" Mark asked, confused.

Groggy from lack of sleep, hunger pangs distracting him, Mark could barely follow the detective's line of questioning.

"The names of those in your church that molested the children. What are their names?"

"I don't know," Mark said.

"Who would know who they are?"

"I mean, I don't know if anyone molested the children."

"But a second ago you said it was possible someone in the Fellowship had molested the children," Harney said. "So who would be the most likely?"

Confused, Mark mumbled more denials.

"Let's try it this way, Reverend. Who has most contact with the children?"

"Their parents."

"I mean outside the home, like at school?"

"Their teachers, I guess."

"Are any of them male?"

"Well, Roger Forster teaches second grade, and Matthew Simpson teaches sixth."

"It's kind of unusual for a man to teach grade school, isn't it?"

"I don't know."

"Take it from me, it is. Do either of them teach Sunday school?"

"Roger does."

"The little kids?" Harney asked.

"Yes."

"See a pattern here, Reverend?"

"Roger likes children. He's good with them."

"I'll bet. So would you agree that Forster has more contact with the little children than any other man in your church?"

"I suppose."

"Now you've admitted that someone in your group may be molesting your children and that this Forster guy has the opportunity. So, don't you think he might just be the one?"

"He wouldn't."

"But you said someone was."

"I said I didn't know."

"That's right, you didn't know who it was, but he's the one who's most likely—I mean opportunity and all. Wouldn't you say?"

"I guess."

"Yes or no, for the tape."

"Yes."

Harney leaned forward and punched a button on the tape machine again, stopping it. Then he put the toothpick back in his mouth.

"That's a good start. Let's take a break, then we'll try it again. You want a glass of water?"

"I'm tired," Mark said.

"I'll get you some water."

Confused, Mark went over the conversation. He hadn't really said anything but somehow he felt like he'd accused Roger Forster of being a child molester. Unsure, he decided to replay the tape. When he reached for the machine the door opened.

"Hello, Reverend Shepherd. Do you remember me, I'm Detective Sitz."

"Yes."

Detective Sitz had taken off his suit coat, wearing his black tie loose. There was a coffee stain on his white shirt just above the pocket.

"I was watching Detective Harney and you through the mirror," Sitz said. "He wasn't treating you very well, so I thought I had better take over."

The detective's confirmation of his mistreatment reassured Mark and he found himself warming to the middle-aged man.

"Detective Harney was right about one thing," he said. "It is better to confess. If you do we might get you treatment instead of prison."

"I didn't do anything," Mark protested.

"I believe you, but there have been accusations and even if you are innocent the evidence tells me someone in your flock has been misbehaving."

"I can't believe it," Mark said.

"It's sad, isn't it? You built this great organization and just like that someone can bring it all down. But there may be a way to save what you've built."

"What do you mean?"

"Help us out. If we can clean out the wound before the infection gets any worse, the body might be saved."

"I don't know anything."

"There's something else you might think about. You've never been in prison before, have you? I know you haven't, I've seen your record. You don't want to go there, not for being a child molester. In prison child molesters are at the bottom of the food chain. Even the scum in prison have kids of their own and they're protective—violently so. You don't want to know what they do to molesters. The lucky ones get killed."

Tired and hungry, Mark shook from fear, terrified of prison.

"Like Detective Harney said, if you cooperate we might be able to get you treatment. Some of those mental hospitals are like country clubs—private rooms, lots of exercise time—they'll even let you write your memoirs. Prison makes that holding cell you were in look like a palace. Trust me, you don't want to go to prison, so let me help you."

Punching the tape recorder, the detective said, "When did you first suspect Roger Forster was molesting the children?"