Under the Beetle's Cellar (41 page)

Finally from above came a rapping noise. It seemed to come from the stairs at the back, but it was too dark to see to the top.

One of the gunmen took a few steps toward Molly. He pointed with his rifle. “Upstairs.”

Molly glanced at Rain, whose cool gray eyes were slowly sweeping the room.

Molly said, “The agreement was I would show Samuel Mordecai my notes here, at the door.”

The man touched the gun to her spine.

“You don’t understand,” Molly said. “I’m supposed to—”

He jabbed the gun into her back.

Molly had a moment of panicky fear that it might accidentally discharge.

“Upstairs,” the man repeated.

She moved toward the stairs, with Rain still holding her arm. Panic lapped at her in hot little waves. This was not going according to plan. Not at all.

Two of the men walked behind with their rifles just inches from the women’s backs. Molly was sweating. Her legs felt weak, undependable. Her body was undisciplined, not trained for this. She was starting to shiver. Again she wished she had worn a jacket.

When they got to the rickety wooden staircase at the back, Molly hesitated. This might be her last chance to get the plan back on track. She opened her mouth to protest. A gun pressed into her lower back,
hitting a knob on her spine and sliding off. There was no choice now. She’d abandoned the luxury of choice when she agreed to enter this madman’s lair.

She put her foot on the first step and looked up into the darkness. There were no lights on the stairs or at the top. She had to feel for the steps with her foot. As she mounted them, she counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Next to her, Rain’s breathing was labored.

A voice from the darkness at the top said, “We need to go
through
the blood. Can’t climb over it, ladies, can’t go around it. Got to go right through it. Like in childbirth. Y’all will understand that.”

Molly and Rain stopped climbing.

At the top of the stairs a light flicked on.

Samuel Mordecai stood there waiting for them. He wore black jeans, boots, and a ballistic vest Molly recognized as similar to the ones the Austin police wore. That would make him harder to kill. Molly hoped fervently that Rain Conroy really was the crack shot she was reputed to be.

Mordecai was staring intently at Rain.

Molly started to repeat her lines: “I’m Molly Cates and this—”

“I know,” he said, without even glancing at her. “I know.” His eyes were fixed on Rain. He looked long and hard, greedily studying her gray eyes and wide mouth, as if her features might hold some familiarity for him.

Rain took another step up to get in front of Molly. “Miz Cates just came to introduce me. She needs to leave and I want very much to talk to you alone.”

“Both of you will come up,” he said in an even voice.

Molly continued to climb, reluctantly. Every step she took away from the front door carried them closer to disaster. She stopped at the top of the stairs and made another try at salvaging the plan. “The agreement was that I would stay at the door and show you how I found your mother. My break was in finding this homeless man, Hank Hanley, who—”

“Enough,” Mordecai said.

She held the folder out toward him. “Then let me leave this with you. I have to go. They are expecting me right back.”

He pushed the folder back at her. “They are expecting lots of things that won’t happen.” He turned and headed down the dim hallway toward an open door.

Molly felt the rifle against her backbone again. She followed him down the hall.

Samuel Mordecai waited at the door for one of the guards to enter first. The other guard prodded Molly with his gun. She stepped into the
room. Rain followed, then the second guard, and finally, Samuel Mordecai. He shut the door.

The two guards positioned themselves on either side of the closed door. They held their rifles ready and stared into some middle space like servants who were expected to be in attendance but not hear the discussion.

Molly’s heart pumped in huge bursts. Grady was right. Things were going south here pretty damn fast. Rain couldn’t take three of them on and survive. They had to get rid of the two guards, and quick. And she had to get the hell out.

Rain stepped forward. She said, “I feel bad about Miz Cates being here. Please let her leave.”

Still studying Rain’s face, Mordecai said, “Leave? She’s got work to do.”

Molly held up the folder again. “Let me—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “Not that. Here’s what I’ll let you do. I’ll let you tell me—is this woman my mother?” He pulled his gaze away from Rain and approached Molly, invading her space, stopping just inches from her. He bent his head down to hers. “Is she?” His breath was hot on her face.

Molly felt the corner of her left eye quivering. She tried to stop it and couldn’t. This lie would be her death if he knew anything to disprove it. She met his eyes. “Yes, she is.” Her voice came out nice and steady.

“Do you swear it on your eternal soul here on the eve of Apocalypse?”

Molly nodded. Right now the survival of her body felt paramount; she would worry about her soul when the time came. “I swear it.”

He looked at Rain and sighed, shaking his head sadly. “You had to come,” he said. “It was prophesied.”

Molly glanced around the room. The only illumination was a small gooseneck lamp on a desk. Scattered around the unvarnished wood floor were barbells of various sizes. At the end of the room stood an unmade king-sized bed piled with a jumble of sheets and blankets. A belt with a holstered pistol lay on top. Above the bed was a small window that must open to the front. If she looked out, she’d see Grady’s white Ford Tempo parked in the shadows near the gate.

One of the gunmen said, “We should search them now, Samuel.”

Mordecai looked at Rain, who had a hand pressed over her heart, still trying to catch her breath. Then he ran his eyes over Molly, from head to toe. He looked at the man and shook his head.

At least one thing had gone as planned.

Molly said, “They are expecting me to walk out now. And Cynthia
needs some time alone with you.” She nodded toward the guards at the door. “Could they walk me out?”

A smile played briefly at the corner of Samuel Mordecai’s mouth. “You aren’t finished. You have a job to do.” He walked over to his desk. “The most important writing job since the Bible was wrote down.” He stared down at some red fabric that was draped across the desktop. He picked it up and shook it out. It was an old banner. Molly recognized it immediately as one of the banners that had flown from the towers. He stretched it out in front of his body, extending his arms to show them the image on it. Molly was not surprised to see that it was a coiled dragon. Painted crudely in black, it was nowhere near as detailed or resplendent as the embroidered one on the silk robe that had served as his swaddling cloth, but the circular design was identical. Like a child’s clumsy attempt at copying the other.

“This is my mascot,” he said, glancing down at the dragon. “My defender, my rock of ages, my parent.” He looked hard at Rain. “It protected me when others left me to die.”

Rain took a step toward him. “Let me tell you about it.” Her voice was tremulous. “I have so much I want to say, Samuel—so much.” She took another step forward. “But it’s painful to talk about. I need to do it in private—just the two of us.” She reached out and touched him gently on the arm.

He looked down at her hand on his arm. A vein pulsing along his jawline frightened Molly. The man was a time bomb. He could detonate at any moment.

He took the banner he had been holding outstretched and lifted it up and over Rain’s head. He brought it down behind her and draped it around her shoulders like a shawl. “There. Now
you
can feel it. The presence of the Beast. How do you like it?”

Rain didn’t move. “I’m so sorry for the pain I caused you,” she said.

“Well, that’s as it should be. It’s prophesied.” He turned away from her and walked to the desk. He picked up another red banner and held it out. “You haven’t seen the other banner, Miss Cates. Look.”

This one bore a crudely painted picture of two hands with the fingers stretched up. From each finger a yellow ray extended up, and on each finger some words were printed, but the letters were too faded and too small for Molly to read them from where she stood.

With the wide-eyed, exhilarated look of a child who has been anticipating revealing a surprise he is certain will dazzle everyone, he said, “I made this when I received my first rapture and became the new Mordecai. Twelve years ago. The ten prophecies of Mordecai are here. All have come to pass, or are about to.”

Molly glanced at her watch. Eleven-nineteen. They’d been here eight minutes already, and he was just warming up.

“Miz Cates,” he said, “it don’t make any difference what your watch says. Time is ending.”

“Yes, but—”

“I want you to read this out loud.”

Molly stood where she was, unsure of what to do. She glanced over at Rain, who was standing in the middle of the room with the banner draped around her.

“Come on,” he said. “Come closer so you can read it. Read so my mother can hear. It’s our story. Yours, too.” He held the banner out closer to her, flicking it like a bullfighter enticing a bull. “Read.”

Molly took a few steps toward the banner until she could just make out the crude letters that ran vertically down the fingers. She tipped her head to the side so she could read easier.

“Go on,” he said, his breathing coming quicker. “Start with the thumb on the left hand. That’s where the story begins. Read it out loud.”

Molly read the five words:
“ ‘The mother sins in blood.’ ”

Without looking at Rain, he said, “Hard to believe any mama would give birth to a baby and just throw it out like it was garbage.” His lips were tight with anger. “The mother sins in blood. Yup. That’s sure true.” The muscle in his jaw twitched.

Rain said, “I want to tell you about your father and the rest of—”

“Too late! It don’t matter now.” He spat the words out with venom.

“But there are things—”

“Shut up.” He whirled and draped the banner over the desk, so the words on the fingers lay on top. He smoothed it out flat and turned back to Molly. “Read the next one.”

She took a few steps closer to the desk so she could see it better. She read the words on the second finger:
“ ‘The prophet moves through blood.’ ”

“Well, that’s true, too, ain’t it? I got born and left to die, but I managed to survive. I managed.” Molly could feel the man’s barely controlled anger radiating off him in heat waves. It was an anger that could justify burying children alive, sacrificing infants, inflicting pain and death on others. His anger was so powerful, he believed he could destroy the world with it.

“Go on.” He nodded to Molly.

She read the middle finger:
“ ‘The Beast watches.’ ”

“You bet he does,” Mordecai said. He looked at Rain. “Tell me, what does that mean in our story?”

Rain looked up at the guards. “It’s so hard to talk about it with them and Miss Cates here. I’m shamed. I wish we—”

His voice sliced through hers. “Answer me!” he thundered. “The Beast watches—what does it mean?”

Rain sighed. “I suppose that old housecoat of mine I wrapped you in, the one with the dragon on it.”

Samuel Mordecai appeared suddenly stricken. His shoulders stiffened and his forehead wrinkled in pain, as if he hadn’t really believed it until that minute, as if the pathos of that abandoned infant were just now hitting him. “Read on,” he said to Molly.

“ ‘The prophet touches heaven,’ ”
Molly read.

In a sudden manic shift of emotion, Samuel Mordecai smiled his dazzling movie-star smile that involved only his mouth. Looking at Molly, he said, “The tips of the prophet’s long slender fingers are his nexus to heaven.”

Molly tensed in surprise. The wording was familiar. It was from her “Texas Cult Culture” article.

“That’s right,” he said. “I had to look up that word. Nexus means connection or tie or link. I love your words. Go on.”

Molly read:
“ ‘The words fill his hands.’ ”

“Uh-huh. Tell us what you wrote about my rapture.”

Molly tried to remember the passage. “I don’t know it by memory,” she said.

He reached down and opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folded magazine. He handed it to Molly. “Read from where it’s marked.”

Molly found a penciled X and began to read from her article:
“ ‘The tips of Samuel Mordecai’s long slender fingers are his nexus to heaven. In what he calls his rapture, he raises his bare arms above his head and spreads his fingers wide like a satellite dish seeking the right signals from on high. He stretches them higher as if reaching into heaven itself for inspiration. Even the blond hairs on his fingers seem receptive. You can see his fingertips vibrate; then his fingers tremble. He cups his hands to capture the message, his face radiant, as if a shower of gold has sprinkled down on him. He lowers his cupped hands to his open mouth. Whatever he has received, he seems to be incorporating. Then he begins to speak.’ ”

“Right on,” Mordecai said. “
The prophet touches heaven. The words fill his hands.
Molly, don’t that amaze you? These words get raptured to me twelve years ago and you come along and put that sacred vision in your worldly words, for your corrupt magazine. Like it was so powerful it broke right through to you.”

Molly was stunned. She had written that description of Samuel Mordecai as part of what she considered a devastating portrait of a dangerous,
self-deluded prophet. The paragraph she just read could be taken out of context and interpreted as the description of a man having a genuine vision, but you’d have to ignore the rest of the article that detailed his endless sermons, his incoherent theology, his tyranny over the group. Didn’t he understand that?

“Read the other hand,” he said. “The right hand tells what’s needed to start the Apocalypse. Then you’ll understand what I’m doing. Start with the little finger.”