Cult (11 page)

For a long time, she looked at the telephone. Then she called Sheriff Moore.

An objective frame of mind is an act of will
, Sheriff T. Clausen Moore thought, as he sped towards the motel. At that moment, he had many reasons to be subjective. The call had interrupted his weekly poker game in the middle of a winning streak.

“She just won't talk to anyone but you, Sheriff,” Perry, his most trusted deputy, who was on night duty, had told him. The Sheriff had written down the number but had not called back immediately. Nevertheless, it disturbed his concentration and he began to lose heavily. His recollection of Naomi was surprisingly clear although she had said little.

“She said it was urgent,” Perry had told him, causing unneeded speculation at a time when business matters were supposed to run on idle. He was, after all, entitled to a little relaxation.

Of course in the end duty prevailed. It always did. He wished others would have his sense of responsibility. Naturally, Gladys thought he was too rigid on that point. He attributed his zeal to the fact that he was dirt poor as a child. Hard times had conditioned him to responsibility, and it deeply disturbed him that he could not convey this ethic to everyone. The way to success was diligence. He had kicked the asses of all three of his boys to get them to understand.

When he had called her back finally, 300 dollars lighter, his sense of diligence had frayed very thin.

“I will not talk about this on the telephone, Sheriff.”

“I can assure you it's not tapped,” he told her testily.

“It's not only that,” she said. “It is too important to be trivialized by a mere telephone call.”

That sounded haughty. He hated conditions, especially when dealing with anything that had to do with the Glories. He had enough of it from them.

“I promise you won't be wasting your time,” Naomi said with just the slightest slur of derision. Before leaving, he had had another beer.

“What is it, Tee?” one of his friends asked.

“Glories.”

“Shit.”

When he arrived at the motel parking lot, he had not yet reached a plateau of objectivity. As they had agreed, Naomi was waiting in the shadows at the edge of the lot.

“I thought you had gone home,” he said.

“I should have,” Naomi said as he turned off the headlights. She came into the car and sat beside him. “I should never have come.”

“Oh, shit. I drove two hours to hear this.”

There was a long silence and he wondered if she could detect the smell of beer. He had run out of mints. Turning to face her, he waited as the oval of her face became clearer. He could not see her eyes, lost in black pockets of shadow, but he could sniff the odor of betrayal. It was all too familiar.

“I'm not sure about this,” Naomi began tentatively, pausing, groping for words in the silence. They always began this way. He waited, absorbing her nervousness. From years of experience, he had learned the value of silence. It was not yet the moment for reassurance.

“Can I be hypothetical?”

“It's your dime,” he said, sighing. He was beginning to feel tired.

“All right then. If you interdicted… stopped a crime before it began, does it become an official arrest?”

“What kind of crime?”

“Let's say any kind.”

“You can't be more specific?”

“No.”

“Then we have nothing to talk about.”

“I'm doing this very badly,” Naomi said. “What I'm trying to say….”

“You don't want him hurt. You don't want him to be in any trouble.” He smiled, although he knew she did not see it. “Do you seriously believe that what you're about to tell me is unique?”

No sense beating around the bush. It was too late for games.

“He's going to try and kidnap her,” she blurted. “He's got this idea that if she sees her child, she will go quietly. If not, they're going to kidnap her. I want you to stop it and I don't….”

He joined her in finishing the sentence. “…want him hurt.”

“Exactly.”

The fact was that the Sheriff didn't want him hurt either.

“And you don't want him to know that it was you who blew the whistle?”

“It's not that I'm cowardly,” she snapped. “Or thinking of myself.”

“Has he got a deprogrammer?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“A man by the name of O'Hara.”

“That one. He's tough. I knew him when he was on their side. Nothing like a reformed addict. Actually, they say he knows his stuff.”

“Then you're in favor of their practice?”

He paused.
I have to be more cautious
, he rebuked himself. He was too tired.

“How are they going to do it?”

“The deal is to get her out of the county, out of your jurisdiction.”

So that's it
, he thought. He speculated that money was changing hands. If that was the case, he didn't want to know. He'd leave that part alone. If they connected him they'd probably think he's also on the take. There was some logic in that, he knew.

“Figures,” he muttered.

“It's complicated to explain. There are wheels within wheels. You said you have close contact with them. Just warn them and tell them to keep the woman in the camp. It's that simple.”

“Nothing is that simple.”

“I think what Harrigan and O'Hara want to do is deplorable.”

“Even if it works?”

“Yes. Even if it works. It's wrong.”

He had to test her now, to know where she was coming from.

“You want his wife to stay with them?” he said. “Is that your agenda?”

“I resent that inference,” she snapped, fuming.

“Just doing my job.”

“Good. My motives have nothing to do with anything but principle.” There was a slight tremor in her voice.

He was alert now, his mind fully awake, his sense of objectivity steady and strong. He had heard that before. Principle! Whatever the motive for her betrayal, it was immaterial. He represented the forces of law and order. It was enough to tamp down the glob of disgust growing in his gut. It didn't matter at all that he would do the same if it were his wife, his kid.

“All I can say is thanks for the tip. You have done your duty as a good citizen.”

Did she detect a dollop of sarcasm?

“I'm betraying them,” she mused aloud.

“You can't have your cake and eat it too.”

“Sheriff,” Naomi said. “Are you a man of feeling, a man of compassion?”

He hadn't expected that. There was the hint of judgment about it, which rattled him.

“Considering what I do,” he said slowly, “yes.” In his heart, he knew he had long ago buried compassion and hardened himself to pity. Real feeling was not in the province of his business life. He was a professional.
I am not paid to feel
. Perhaps it was the darkness, the woman's invocation of private principles, true or not, that made him feel inferior to her moral standard. This woman, he knew, was a sucker for that, a bleeding heart that really bled.

“What that woman, Mrs. Harrigan, thinks and feels is her business, her life,” Naomi said.

“You don't believe she was coerced? Brainwashed?”
This could be some kind of trick
, he told himself, a new ploy. He'd have to be on the lookout for that.

“Everybody who believes in something strongly is, in a way, brainwashed. She gave herself to them. That's her right.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“I'm convinced. That's why I want her left alone.”

“And her husband not hurt?”

“Yes.”

He considered her offer carefully. Sheriff T. Clausen Moore lived by his word. It had been the slogan of his last campaign, and he had come to believe that it really might be close to the truth. He had never lied to Gladys, had always kept his word to the boys. Maybe he wasn't perfect, but he was not dishonest. “A man of his word.” Sometimes he wished he had the stomach for corruption. He'd have been a lot richer.

Stalling, he pressed the automatic button that brought the window down, letting in the cool air. Like her, he too, had constructed a facade of principle around himself. Sometimes it seemed imposed on him.

Since he was a boy growing up in West Virginia, he had personified a certain kind of rough leadership, whose main value was fairness. It was a mysterious quality, he acknowledged to himself. “What does Tee think? Let Tee decide. If Tee does it, I will.” Not the stuff of officers and gentlemen. More like a sergeant or foreman. Knowing the limits of this mysterious talent had kept his aspirations sensible. One thing about Tee, people said, he's a fair man.

The Glories had tested his veracity. From the moment they appeared in the county, they had imposed on his fairness, stretching it to its outer limits. He was a family man, a Christian churchgoer, a faithful husband, a strict father, a reasonably good man. In his heart, he held no truck for the Glories. In fact, he detested their sinister practices, their abuse of real religion, their way of proselytizing young people. But just as long as they stayed within the law, he had to be fair. And he was. Maybe even a little fairer now that they controlled a bloc of votes. That consideration was being fair to himself and his family.

“Let's suppose….” It annoyed him to be hypothetical, but if he was going to make this deal, he'd better damn sight get some assurances in return. “…we abort this one. What are the guarantees that they won't try again? The Glories hate trouble.”

“They'll keep trying, Sheriff. We both know that. Barney… Harrigan… is very determined. I'm also very worried about his son.”

“And your conscience?”

“Sheriff,” Naomi said firmly. “I have to live with this. It may be principled, but it won't do much for my conscience. I'm betraying their trust. Fact is I'm very worried about Barney and his son.”

“Suppose you just tell him that you told me all about it and that's that?”

“I've thought about that. You can't imagine how big a step this is for me.” She seemed to want to say more, but she held her silence.

“All right,” he said, after mulling it over. “But I can't guarantee that they, the Glories, won't take some action.”

“I'm betting that they won't,” Naomi said.

“Me too.”

“So we have a deal?” she asked.

He hated the word and its implication.

“I'll deal only on Harrigan. I'm afraid I'll have to be rougher on O'Hara. He got past me a couple of times. Besides, Jeremiah will press the point.”

“I don't care about O'Hara,” Naomi snapped.

“Good.”

“As long as Harrigan is safe. And his son.” She hesitated, showing her concern.

“Leave that to me,” the Sheriff said, waiting for a response. When none came, he asked: “Now tell me what the plan is.”

Naomi's voice came at him haltingly at first, then in a torrent. She had undoubtedly rehearsed it first in her mind.

The body of Charlotte Harrigan lay beside the rushing waters of the deep creek. Barney Harrigan, body stiff, head bowed, stood beside it, staring down at the open-eyed, inert face. It was illuminated in a puddle of yellow light thrown from a flashlight carried by one of the Sheriff's men. Naomi had turned away. Her face was buried in her hands as her body shook with quiet sobs.

“I'm sorry,” the Sheriff said. He hadn't bargained for this. Outside of the circle of light, he made out the phantom figures of Jeremiah and Holmes, the lawyer. Deeper in the shadows there were two other barely defined figures.

In the distance, the barracks-like buildings of the camp were dark and calm. Obviously, great pains had been taken not to disturb the slumbering inmates. Inside of himself, the Sheriff felt the acid pain eating at his resolve.

He wished that Barney had made it easier by collapsing in grief. He could understand grief. It had a predictable momentum and could simplify the interrogation process.

When the news of the woman's demise had been reported, his job was to bring Barney the news. It was awful. He had Kevin with him now. Thankfully Gladys had taken him and was caring for the boy at home. Poor little guy. He hadn't a clue about what was happening.

“Sorry, are you?” Barney said, lifting tearless eyes. “They had already killed her mind. Might as well kill the rest of her while they're at it.”

Debating a response, the Sheriff held back. No point in exacerbating the situation. An ambulance was parked behind him on a bridge. Technicians waited with a stretcher. The young doctor who had officially ascertained Charlotte's death stood a few steps behind them, fingering his stethoscope. Three of the Sheriff's deputies stood around observing the scene.

Kneeling, the Sheriff studied Charlotte's face. Her eyes were open, as glazed and empty as they were in life. The old nightmare of the dreaded eyes flashed across his mind, forcing him to turn away. He was conscious of the silent audience watching his performance and coughed to mask the movement, making it seem like an involuntary spasm of revulsion. He felt nauseous and was afraid to stand up. He wished he had the authority to close the dead woman's eyelids, divert their accusation.

The woman's moist hair was matted, the skin drawn back taut against her cheekbones. Her lips were parted, as if she had gone panicked and screaming into the void. Her legs were drawn out straight, the arms pressed against her sides, her dress pulled tight over her knees.

So they had wrapped her for special delivery
, he thought.
All neatly packaged. No longer of use.

“Death by drowning,” the young doctor said, moving forward.

“Murdered,” Barney corrected, his voice carrying. Peripherally, the Sheriff saw Holmes move toward them.

“No evidence of that, Harrigan,” the Sheriff said, standing up, feeling a tingling weakness in his knees. It took him a moment to steady himself.

“You've all got blood on your hands,” Barney hissed. He was keeping himself under tight control. “Don't tell me ‘sorry.' I will not hear ‘sorry.'”

“It was a genuine accident.” The calm voice of the lawyer intruded.

“You,” Barney said, pointing a finger at Holmes. He didn't go beyond that one word. The Sheriff sensed that something was going on in his mind, some plan that he was cooking up.

“Too bad, Harrigan,” Holmes said. “A meeting had been arranged. This is simply a cruel coincidence. An accident.”

“Fuck you,” Barney snapped.

“I'm sorry, Harrigan. That's all I can say.”

The Sheriff came closer, whispering now.

“I'd advise you to hold off. They have credible witnesses. Make more of it, they can keep you in court forever. Think of your son.”

“Credible witnesses? What bullshit.” Barney looked at his wife's body. “She was part of my life.” He stood over Charlotte for a long time, as if in a trance. His mind seemed to have drifted away, probing some dark corner of himself. Holmes retreated.

The Sheriff turned and sought out Jeremiah, well hidden under a mask of impassivity. The Sheriff could detect neither anxiety nor remorse. Deep under the calm, he sensed an air of annoyance. He searched himself again for his professional objectivity.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

“She slipped, fell into the river. We tried to save her. It was too late. I called you immediately.” The words floated out of Jeremiah's mouth on a puff of vapor. He moved further into the shadows, drawing the Sheriff with him. Near the creek, two of his officers were inspecting the area now, their flashlight beams searching among the rocks and crags that sloped down to the rushing waters.

“You can't just say ‘accident,'” the Sheriff snapped. “We're in a fucking bind here.”

“Just do your job, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said simply. “And I'll do mine.” The Sheriff felt Jeremiah's implication of his superiority but let it pass.

“I'll do my job,” he said with what he knew was boyish bravado. He looked up the rise toward the sleeping camp.
Poor bastards
, he thought.
Now this!

“She couldn't sleep,” Jeremiah said, his words clipped and precise. “The incident with her husband and their upcoming meeting disturbed her calm and she wanted to take a walk.”

Had Charlotte been told what he had conveyed?
He doubted it. He also doubted the explanation given by Jeremiah.

“Since when do you allow a stroll at night?”

Jeremiah glared at the Sheriff, ignoring the question. The Sheriff felt his pores open and sweat bead on his back.
I am still the Sheriff here
, he told himself, beating off a convulsion of anger.

“Everyone here is free to do as they wish,” Jeremiah said through a tight smile.
How many times had he heard that?
It was pointless to persist against Jeremiah's statement.

“I'm going to make it easy, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said. The Sheriff balled his fists impotently.

“See how dark it is? New moon. They went for a walk.” He pointed toward the Glories who were with him. “Amos and Rachel's sister, Mary, were with her. Charlotte apparently went too close to the edge and slipped. Simple as that.”

“Didn't they try to save her?”

“Of course. But they couldn't get to her fast enough. The river, as you can see, runs fast. It is dangerous. Note we have posted signs after the last incident five years ago.”

Shit, did he have to bring that up?
the Sheriff thought. The memory still disturbed him, but that too had had witnesses. Glories.

“She drifted down a ways,” Jeremiah continued. “They finally reached her, then fished her out of the water and called me. I called immediately and tried mouth-to-mouth. Obviously, it was too late.”

The words had flowed in a measured cadence, matter-of-fact, like the Pledge of Allegiance. He detected, too, the total absence of any comments from Jeremiah. The dead were useless to him.

“Have you told your leader?” the Sheriff asked, remembering the protocol. “The head of the church?”

“Of course,” Jeremiah replied, pausing for the next question, like a boxer bracing for the next jab.

In terms of alertness and agility, the man has me dead to rights
, thought the Sheriff. He felt leaden, his mind plodding.
Hold yourself together
, he told himself. He wished he could go home and talk it out with Gladys.

“I hope we can put a cap on the publicity, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said suddenly, showing where his fundamental interests lay.

“You know I can't control that.”

“Try.”

It came at him disturbingly like a command. There was no attempt at subtlety or obfuscation. “Hush it up” was the way it translated in his mind.

“I've got that other thing brewing back in my office.” The Sheriff's own attitude filled him with self-disgust. “I've still got O'Hara in custody.”

“I think we can dispose of that issue. The church already has. Release him. We'll get him sooner or later.”

“And Harrigan? What about him?”

“He has no reason to stay.”

“I'm afraid you haven't heard the last of him.”

“That remains to be seen.”

His eyes drifted to where Holmes stood watching him from a distance. Barney had not moved from the spot over his wife's body, as if he had rooted there.

“Better get the body away,” he called. The technicians sprang to life, placing the dead woman on the stretcher. Barney followed it somberly to the ambulance, Naomi beside him. He heard the slam of the ambulance door and the creak of the bridge's wooden planks as the vehicle drove off.

“You said they were with her,” the Sheriff said to Jeremiah, motioning with his head at the two sentry-like Glories that stood nearby.

“I told you that,” Jeremiah said with a flash of annoyance.

“Just routine,” he said, moving forward, hearing Jeremiah's footsteps behind him.

“What's your name?” the Sheriff asked, confronting the young man who was, incredibly, smiling.

“Amos.”

“I mean your real name.”

“That is my real name.”

“We'll provide it,” Jeremiah interrupted. “For your records.”

“What happened?”

The young man's eyes sought Jeremiah's, who must have nodded, setting off the mental tape recorder in the boy's mind. It would be futile, the Sheriff knew. He half-listened as the young man delivered his speech like a litany, his lips fixed incongruously in a smile.

“She couldn't sleep. She said she wanted to take a walk so her sister and I went with her. It was very dark, but we followed close by. She walked along the river. Suddenly she went too close, then slipped and fell into the water. She started to drift away but we got her finally and pulled her out. Then we ran up and got Jeremiah. He came immediately and tried to revive her.”

“I told you,” Jeremiah said. The Sheriff turned to the girl, Charlotte's sister. There was a distinct family resemblance. Studying her face, he could not see the slightest sign of remorse.

“It doesn't bother you?” he asked. Her eyes moved toward Jeremiah.

“Is that relevant?” Jeremiah asked.

“It is to me,” the Sheriff said.

“He wants to know how you feel about Charlotte's death, Mary.”

The woman hesitated, then her smile inexplicably broadened, her glazed eyes opening like saucers.

“Rachel has been summoned to the spirit world. She is happy on the other side. Father Glory is seeing to that.”

“I thought it was an accident,” the Sheriff said sarcastically. He felt Jeremiah's flash of contempt.

“That was his method. His will. God wanted her,” Amos said.

“Yes,” Susan said. “God wanted her.”

“Poor child,” the Sheriff murmured.

“I know it's hard for you to understand,” Jeremiah said with forced sweetness. It was another sermon he had heard many times before.

“Tell him what happened, Mary,” Jeremiah pressed. Susan began in a rush that barely floated into the Sheriff's consciousness. They were almost word for word Amos' account.

“So you see,” Jeremiah said, “a simple accident. We have two credible witnesses. Nothing left but to wrap it up.”

For the first time, the Sheriff noticed Jeremiah's tension.
The son of a bitch is nervous
, he thought, restoring a shred of self-respect. His cohorts in the church hierarchy must be pissed off. They didn't need this. Nobody needed it, least of all the Sheriff.

“The Heavenly Father would like this matter disposed of as quickly as possible.” It was a blatant admission, and the Sheriff pressed his advantage.

“Does he?” His sarcasm was deliberately blunt. Father Glory's involvement could be a double-edged sword. Dispose of it quickly. It was a ringing threat to both himself and Jeremiah. In this totalitarian world, Father Glory pulled all the strings.

“It was an accident,” Jeremiah said, lowering his voice. “A simple accident.”

“You're totally satisfied with that?” the Sheriff asked.

“Totally.”

“Could it have been suicide?”

Jeremiah gasped, not expecting the Sheriff's question.

“She was happy. She'd been reborn. She found faith.” His voice rose. “She found Father Glory.”

“No need to get defensive. I am, after all, the Sheriff in this jurisdiction.”

Jeremiah paused, gathering his wits.

“So then where's the crime?”

“Crime? Whoever said anything about that?”

“Your implication was quite clear.” He paused. “You seem to have forgotten our earlier conversation.”

“I'm afraid I haven't.”

“I've made it easy for you, Sheriff. It was an accident,” Jeremiah said, his confidence restored.

He tried to look into Jeremiah's eyes, but he turned away. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, he'd have to go with it. Like the others. He detested the idea. This one smelled to high heaven, especially in the light of what the Forman woman had told him. It was too coincidental.

It was definitely murder
, he decided in his gut. He had informed Jeremiah about what was planned, had even taken O'Hara into custody. The fact was that he was an accomplice. He told Naomi to keep her silence for the time being. There was no point in pushing the envelope. He looked toward the dancing beams of light still searching along the shore of the stream.

“So long as we understand each other, Sheriff,” Jeremiah said, sucking in his breath.

I'll have to think this out
, he told himself, mostly to sop up his esteem.
Used to be an idyllic place
, he thought sadly,
sweet air, low fertile hills, nice people, a good place to raise a family, the American dream
. How did they ever let this black wind of evil blow through here? He turned away, depressed and empty.