Dominion (15 page)

“Can I help you?” Ruppert asked. He felt his heart pounding. He was only a dozen steps from the exit. He’d almost escaped.

“Pastor John wishes to speak with you in his office.”

A mealy grin curled across O’Shea’s wide face. It was a personal victory for him, confirmation that his incessant pushiness was valued by the church, and that Pastor John might now have heard that Liam O’Shea was an astute monitor of the flock, able to sniff out the wayward.

“Are you sure it’s me he wants?” Ruppert asked.

“Certainly. Please come with me.”

Ruppert followed, making sure not to look back at O’Shea, who looked as proud of himself as a three-year-old who’d punched a smaller child and stolen his toy.

The pastor led him down a flight of steps into the warren under the Sanctuary, past the rooms where choirs dressed and undressed, the vast closets full of musical equipment and stage dressing. Ruppert’s annoyance at O’Shea gave way to real fear about having a face-to-face with Pastor John.

Pastor John Perrish’s weekly audience extended far beyond the thirty thousand or so congregants who physically appeared on Sundays. His sermons were piped into the hospitals, nursing homes, and veterans’ organizations that Golden Tabernacle administered under their federal contracts and grants. They also remained available to the global web audience for seven days after he delivered them. Pastor John reached hundreds of thousands of viewers each week, and no politician could advance far in southern California without his support.

Ruppert could not imagine why such a powerful man would bother speaking to Ruppert. Ruppert might have some minor value as a television personality, but he could easily be replaced. Could O’Shea really be causing this much trouble just by reporting Ruppert? He wanted to go back, find O’Shea, and punch him in his flabby mouth.

The assistant pastor took him through an ordinary-looking pair of double doors into an elevator large enough to transport cargo, but lined with soft red carpet and oak paneling. They descended several floors—Ruppert guessed four or five—then emerged into a high, domed lobby that was a miniature of the Sanctuary overhead.

“Wait here,” the assistant pastor said, and Ruppert sat on a cushioned bench near a small flower garden. He watched a kind of modernist-style fountain at the center of the room, where water gurgled over smooth black and white rectangles. Nobody had fountains anymore, not even the big commercial or state buildings. It was illegal to squander water that way.

The assistant pastor marched across the marble floor without making a sound, then leaned down to whisper to a powerfully attractive young woman at a glass desk at the front of the room. She nodded, and the assistant pastor turned and left the room, passing Ruppert as if he’d become an uninteresting piece of furniture.

Ruppert waited for several long minutes, taking in the large room. There were some religious magazines on the end table next to him, but he was too nervous to read and, for that matter, wasn’t feeling particularly religious. He’d been raised a Presbyterian, in a loose, on-and-off kind of way, but now anybody of any importance belonged to the Dominionist church. After more than a decade, he still had only a vague idea of what the denomination was about. Sermons and studies focused heavily on Revelation, the holiness of war, the importance of morality and obedience to authority. He remembered the Gospels had figured pretty heavily in his childhood church, but Pastor John rarely referred to them. Not enough death and war in the Beatitudes, Ruppert guessed.

“Mr. Ruppert, Pastor John will see you now,” the woman at the desk said. She stood, checked her face in three angled mirrors mounted on her desk, then whipped her head to toss a heap of blond locks behind her shoulder.

She finally looked up at him. “You’re the guy from the news?”

“I am.”

She escorted him towards a recessed panel in the wall, which slid aside to reveal a long, narrow, mirror-lined hallway. They approached the double doors at the far end.

She frowned at this. They reached the double doors, which folded inward to reveal Pastor John’s enormous office. The walls were all screens, depicting a lush rainforest.

The young woman stepped immediately to one side and curtsied towards Pastor John, who occupied a broad, hand-carved desk that looked as if it had been lifted from a medieval cathedral, dark wood engraved with hard-faced angels and leering gargoyles.

“Mr. Ruppert to see you, sir,” the woman said.

“Thank you, Alexa. Bring us a pot of tea and you can go home for the night.” Pastor John rose from his chair and shook Ruppert’s hand. “Good evening, Daniel. I hope you don’t mind sparing me a few minutes this evening.”

“Not at all, sir.” Ruppert was trembling. He’d never been so close to the man before, had really only seen him as a small figure in the distance and a gigantic face overhead. In person, Pastor John moved like an electric eel, fluid and effortless, the whole room thrumming with his energy. He did not make a sound as he returned to his high-backed chair.

“We are not going to bother discussing this Liam character’s concerns.” Pastor John’s halogen-blue eyes were magnetic, commanding Ruppert’s attention. “He’s been a member of this church for some time, and he is an employee in my Social Services division. I know as much as I require about him. What we are discussing today is your situation with Terror. Thank you, Alexa.”

The attractive receptionist leaned close to Pastor John, letting her breast brush his shoulder as she poured two cups of strong green tea. She set one in front of Ruppert, but he did not feel inclined to drink.

Pastor John remained silent until the receptionist had left and the door closed behind her. He took a painfully long time to lift his tea, wave the cup under his nose, sample a taste, nod his head, set it back on the desk. Then he looked at Ruppert, letting his eyes bore into Ruppert’s skull, as if perfectly aware of the unsettling effect he was inflicting.

“Now,” the Pastor said. “You have been chosen for a valuable assignment. You will serve your country and Our King in Heaven by carrying this out.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I am certain that you will.” Pastor John stared at him for another long moment. “However, in times of tribulation, it is often the case that we are tempted. The devil is everywhere, Daniel Ruppert, and he wears a multitude of forms. He can tempt you, he can lure you, he can whisper poison in your ears as you sleep. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to talk to you about the devil within, Daniel.” Pastor John tapped the side of his own head. “The devil that whispers. This devil can deceive you. He can draw great illusions over your eyes. Do you know how he deceives you?”

“With…temptation?”

“No, Daniel. That is a lesser devil, the devil of the belly and the loin. That devil is for simple men. You are not a simple man, Daniel. The devil in your mind, Daniel, deceives you with questions.” Pastor John leaned back from him. “That’s all. That is his most powerful instrument. He pours questions into your mind day by day, asking questions about your God, your faith, your beliefs. He makes faith itself seem weak. He tells you that the truth is a lie, that lies are the truth. When you walk in righteousness, he whispers that perhaps you are deceived, perhaps even this very church works deception against you. In reality, of course, he is the deceiver, and this church is the truth.

“I do not try to deceive anyone, Daniel. I lead them to walk in the only real truth, the only truth that matters, and that is the truth of Our King, for whose coming we must subdue and ready the world. I have tried to keep you on this path, Daniel. I have tried to keep you in the way that leads to salvation. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I pray that your faith is strong enough to guide you through all temptation. You will soon embark into a world of darkness, of lost souls and damnation. You must keep your faith strong within you during this time. You must pray, even if it is not safe to say your prayers aloud. And you must do as you have been told. You must not succumb to the devil within, but stand tall and act for your King. You must not falter. You must not stop to question. You must do the righteous thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are on a road, Daniel. The road will lead you to life. But if you stumble, if you turn, if you walk the opposite way—that road, I promise, leads only to destruction. If you choose the road of destruction, even I cannot help you. Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

“If you have any doubts, now is the time to share them with me. I’m here to counsel you through this and bring you to life everlasting.”

Ruppert thought it over. Of course he didn’t believe a word Pastor John said, and he wasn’t entirely clear how the church was so intertwined with the Department of Terror. He knew he would be of little use to Terror after he carried out their orders, but there were others in his life to think about.

“Okay,” Ruppert said. “But as you said, I’m going among dark forces, and I could physically suffer or die for it. Of course Terror would never hurt a patriotic citizen like me, but the enemies of the state that I contact might. I accept that. But I have an obligation to take care of Madeline—as the church teaches—and I won’t be able to provide for her if I’m gone.”

“Do you not have a life insurance policy?”

“If the insurance company can declare I died in questionable legal circumstances, they can deny the claim. I want to make sure. Madeline’s never done anything wrong. She lived by your rules. I’ve watched her break herself to pieces to fit into your rules. She hates me, but she’s my responsibility. I need assurance of her security. It will help me do my part.”

Pastor John reached across and squeezed Ruppert’s arm just above the elbow. “You have my promise as the pastor of this church and servant of Our King.”

“I’m going to need something more concrete than that.”

“You want money, then.” Pastor John pulled back, sighing. “That’s what this is about. You feel you should be paid for carrying out your duty to the King.”

Pastor John remained silent for another long moment. “It troubles me that you would be so concerned with material issues when performing an act of a spiritual nature.”

“I gather your point, Daniel. Fine. I will personally arrange a transfer of funds in recognition of your concern for your wife. She will be cared for, provided you perform the task that has been assigned to you. However, if you try to take the money and run, as they say, you will find that you can go nowhere. The eyes of Our King are everywhere, and no man may buy or sell without His approval.”

“That’s from the Bible, right?”

“We are living in Biblical times, Daniel. The forces of darkness are loosed upon the Earth. For the sake of your soul—and for your wife’s—you must bring the light of the King forward into the wastelands, and carry out His will.”

Pastor John stood, and Ruppert hurried to his feet. The pastor shook his hand again, but this time with crushing force. Ruppert thought he could hear the bones of his fingers creaking under the pressure. Pastor John’s eyes seemed to have darkened.

“Our King is vengeful to those who transgress against him, Daniel, and His wrath is without end. Remember that.”

SEVENTEEN

Friday evening, Ruppert was in his office upstairs reading a bad murder-mystery novel when he heard a shattering crash from downstairs, followed by the sound of Madeline screaming. He’d been on edge, not believing he’d actually extorted money from Pastor John, though the man certainly had the resources. The money had magically appeared in the joint spending account he shared with Madeline—two million dollars. He had no doubt that it could disappear again just as easily, but he’d done the best he could for her.

Gathering his bathrobe around him as a pathetic form of armor, Ruppert hurried downstairs towards his wife’s shrieking voice. He did not own a gun, although he probably could have qualified for one, at least before his recent troubles with Terror.

He rushed down into the foyer, where Madeline hurled porcelain decorations from a side table at two unannounced guests. A broken lamp and two demolished vases lay on the floor near them.

“Out! Get out of my house, you whore!” Madeline screamed.

Ruppert recognized one of the two visitors—it was the sandy-haired Packers fan, though today he looked much more rough, with the tattered and stained shirt of a street person and a few days’ growth of beard. His Packers gear was gone. Ruppert did not recognize the young woman with him, apparently the target of Madeline’s wrath. Her skin had a dark caramel tone, which was enough to trigger anger or fear in Ruppert’s neighborhood. Suspicious blood, possibly tied to Neocommunist or Mercosur forces. She deftly blocked the flying porcelain objects with her forearm, which was fortunately clad in a leather sleeve.