Righteous03 - The Wicked (25 page)

At last, Kirk rose to his feet. “She’s right. Christopher stays in the pit.”

“Until the Disciple gets back,” the woman with the strident voice said. “And then he’ll decide.”

“No,” Kirk said. “Not even then. I’m going to get Benita and Madeline. Everyone will come inside, I don’t want any of you to leave the trailer until morning. We need to make sure nobody does anything stupid.”

“What are you saying?” the woman asked.

“I’m saying it’s over. We’re all going into the city tomorrow to turn ourselves in, tell the police what we’ve done. The cops can get Christopher out and decide what to do with him.”

The room erupted in shouts, and Kirk had to pull two women apart who immediately came to blows. One of the young men started screaming at him and Kirk told him in a sharp voice to shut up. Once he’d settled people down, he met Eliza’s gaze.

She stared back. A feeling of triumph rose inside her. It was more than she’d hoped. She’d hoped only to preserve a stalemate until morning, then escape with whatever cult members she could bring with her. And now, thanks to one member with a conscience, or perhaps just waking up from a nightmare, she could see the whole sect breaking apart before her eyes. The two leaders would go to prison—or a mental hospital—where they belonged. The rest of these people could get help.

But lurking below the surface, Eliza could almost hear Jacob’s warning. Eliza had avoided getting sucked into the shootout with the FBI at the Zarahemla compound. She was one step removed from the mentality of the people who’d abandoned everything to follow a prophet into the desert.

He might have reminded Eliza that there was a common thread between a person who would willingly enter a pit and a junky’s need to fill his veins with heroin. But for the moment, she didn’t allow these thoughts to rise to full consideration.

That would prove to be a deadly mistake.

Chapter Twenty-three:

David thought he’d defeated his enemy, but five miles outside of Blister Creek, the demon returned to the battlefield.

At first, he dismissed it as motion sickness. The road flattened out west of town, but Jacob was driving too fast for the buckled, ill-kept asphalt, and he took turns as if he were driving a race car. Outside the window, sagebrush crowded the road. Bugs hurled themselves against the windshield. The headlights caught a startled jackrabbit, which froze until the last minute before bounding into the dark. The moon cast the distant buttes into silhouette. Lightning still flashed over the Ghost Cliffs to their rear, but none of the sound reached the car.

Within another five minutes, it became clear that David wasn’t fighting garden-variety motion sickness. A tremble took his left hand, then he felt the need to kick his feet. His broken arm itched and he wanted to break off the cast and scratch his skin until it bled. Finally, the veins on his feet began to burn. It felt like he’d walked barefoot through a bed of desert ants, the kind that form a mound, clear every twig or plant within ten feet, and attack any creature bold enough to step within the dead zone. He could feel them climbing his legs, biting.

You can’t live without me. You need me. Don’t fight it.

“No,” he whispered.

Sister Miriam watched with brow furrowed, chewing on her lower lip. She sat in the back with him, while Jacob sat alone up front. “David, you can do this,” she said in a quiet voice, meant only for his ears. She took his hand and squeezed. Her hand felt cool in his own.

He opened his mouth to tell her he couldn’t make it, that he was an addict who could never give it up, but she shook her head, as if anticipating his demand. “Not any more, you’re not.”

“Are you okay back there?” Jacob asked.

“We’re fine,” Miriam said. “Pay attention to the road.”

If Jacob didn’t see David’s struggles, it was because he seemed to be wrestling with demons of his own. He was brooding, David initially believed, about what would await them outside of Las Vegas and why he couldn’t reach Eliza on the cell phone. When they stopped for gas in St. George, he spent a few minutes pouring over the Mapquest and Google Maps pages he’d printed before leaving the house. They’d narrowed the access point to the Chosen Ones’ sanctuary to one of two dirt roads leaving the northwest edge of Las Vegas, near the abandoned subdivisions where David lived.

But when they set off again, Jacob started muttering to himself. Once, David caught something about Doubting Thomas. It sounded like self-recrimination.

“Jacob, you need to stop this,” Miriam said.

He started. “Stop what?”

“You’re eating yourself alive up there. Can’t you let go of the doubt for one minute and admit what happened? The Lord gave you His power and He worked a miracle. Accept it, glory in it.”

“If it was such a miracle, why is David going through withdrawal?”

He’d apparently been more alert to the struggles in the back seat than David had thought.

“David isn’t suddenly cured. That’s not the way the Lord works. He strengthens us after we’ve done everything we can do. Your priesthood blessing stripped the heroin out of David’s body. It gave him the tools to defeat this, made him strong enough to do it. But he still needs to make that final effort on his own.”

“We’ll see how strong he is soon enough, won’t we?” Jacob stopped, seemed to realize what he’d said. “I’m sorry, David, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” David said. “I can hardly blame you. I’m a junkie, why wouldn’t you think that?”

“It was wrong to say it though. You know I want you back, I want you out of that destructive lifestyle and I want you whole and healthy. I just have a hard time believing I had anything to do with what happened. It was you, me, Miriam, and Father, all throwing our wishful thinking into the ring and we wanted it so badly, it became a self-fulfilling prophesy. At least in the short term.”

“You can justify it away,” Miriam said. “But it doesn’t change the facts.”

“See, I’m not sure we can agree on the facts,” Jacob said.

“I think we can. David sat on that chair on your father’s porch a hardcore drug addict.”

“And I’m still a drug addict,” David said.

She continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “He was stoned. I didn’t know what I was doing and I gave him too much. He was barely conscious. Am I right?”

“That’s true,” David admitted. His brother said nothing.

“You put your hands on David’s head and promptly lost your ability to speak. I’ve heard you give dozens of blessings and never seen you blank out like that. We could ask your wife, but I’ll bet Fernie’s never seen it happen before, either. It never has, has it?”

“A coincidence, bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Maybe, except you have to add another coincidence that when you started to speak, you didn’t just go back to the old, confident-sounding flowery style you use. The one that convinces everyone you’re speaking for God, when it’s just theatrics. Someone else was speaking through your mouth.”

“Except that David isn’t healed yet, is he? That’s the flaw.”

“Back to the facts. What happened after you gave your blessing?”

“Okay, fine. What happened?” Jacob asked. “I can’t quite figure it out.”

“You have an idea, let’s hear it.”

“I’m too much of a mess to engage in this conversation,” David said, “but I like that you’re using his own tactics against him.”

“He seemed to make a temporary recovery,” Jacob said. “The power of suggestion.”

“You can’t
suggest
heroin out of the bloodstream,” Miriam said.

“Maybe he wasn’t as drugged as we thought.”

“Come on, that’s the best you’ve got? You’re like a drowning man, clawing for air.”

At this point David lost track of the conversation. He turned in on himself to fight the pain and need tormenting his body.

Some time later, he felt Miriam’s hand on the back of his neck. “Lie down,” she said. “It will help.”

She unbuckled his seat belt and laid him down until his head was on her lap. Then she brushed her cool fingers against his face, ran them through his hair. A tiny spark penetrated the dense feeling of hopelessness.

He looked up and met her gaze. “You were so disgusted with me before. What happened, why are you being so kind? I don’t understand.”

“More than one person’s eyes were opened tonight, David.”

#

“Oh, Christopher. What a disappointment you’ve been.”

The man’s face looked up from the pit, a shadow within a shadow. “Forgive me, Master.”

“I can’t forgive you,” the Disciple said. “Only the one who is great and terrible can do that, and right now, He is displeased.”

“I tried, I did what you asked, but the two girls overpowered me.”

“Two naked, starving girls overpowered you? I find myself wondering about that.”

“They weren’t alone. They had Satan’s help. Somehow, he helped them get out of the pit.”

“I don’t think so.”

It was about an hour before dawn and the first hint of gray had begun to erode the eastern horizon. It was almost time. The Disciple had driven to Las Vegas in silence. No radio, no conversation, just the sound of tires on the road and the voices in his head. He imagined Blister Creek burning, consuming his enemies, imagined Wormwood falling from the heavens. The earth would burn, the wicked consumed by God’s wrath, screaming, skin melting from their faces. They would beg for mercy. Too late, they’d had their chance.

He thought about the boy in the shed, looking up at him as the Disciple locked the door. In his memory, it wasn’t Diego who looked back, but a young Caleb Kimball. The boy who heard the voices at night, who suffered the torment of older brothers and a callous, indifferent father. A father with dozens of children, who sometimes struggled to remember each of their names. There was no place for them in the church. The oldest few brothers stood a chance, the girls had value. But the younger boys? May as well lock every one of them in a shed and set it on fire. The adults would shake their heads in sorrow. All those boys burned to death. Wasn’t that a terrible tragedy? But it was unavoidable. Boys will be boys.

You are wrong. That is how you became strong. That is how you became the Chosen of God. The one to call Wormwood from the sky to cleanse the earth with fire. You suffered and you learned and eventually it became your turn to rule.

Something quivered in his senses as he turned onto the old ranch road and the access to the abandoned dump. His tires crunched over the gravel and he drove slower and slower until he came to a stop maybe a mile from the compound. He stepped out of the car, looked in the direction of the trailers and frowned. Something had gone wrong. He wasn’t sure what or how, but he could sense it.

Beware your enemies.

Christopher should have been on the road, waiting for him with one of the kerosene lanterns hissing in his hand. The man would be anxious to explain how he’d carried out the Disciple’s commands, would be justifying the extra-zealous steps he’d taken to fulfill not just the exact words of command, but the true intent. This sometimes meant harsh measures. No doubt Christopher would have hurried through his tasks, eager to get to the part where he sanctified the pretty young woman from Blister Creek.

So where was he? Down in the pit, still working on Eliza?

As he approached the trailers, he expected to see the others gathered outside, waiting. The world was about to come to an end and they would help him prepare for that moment. That was the instruction, that was the command. So where were they? Why were they inside with the lights on?

He started toward the door, ready to barge in and shake them with his wrath, to stiffen their courage. Yes, it was a hard thing they had to do, but that’s why they’d been selected. They were the Chosen Ones. He was at the cinder block stairs when he stopped, listened. A woman was speaking inside. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he recognized the tone and the accent.

“…important to remember…”

And then a male voice. The Disciple thought it might be Kirk, a weak young man, easily swayed. “I think we get the picture. It’s just words, he’ll just talk. He’ll be alone, remember.”

Her response was quieter, and the Disciple couldn’t quite pick up her answer, but her strong, confident tone came through. It was the girl from Blister Creek. He’d made a mistake with Eliza, should have watched over her. Somehow, she’d talked someone into letting her out and was now poisoning them against him. A terrible, overpowering anger burned inside him, rising until he felt it straining at his eyeballs.

So where was Christopher, and why wasn’t he standing up to her? That was his job, to enforce discipline while the Disciple was out looking for converts or on other missions from God. The only answer was that somehow Eliza had overpowered him. She must have had help. Madeline, and maybe Benita and Kirk. The weakest of the Chosen Ones. Had they killed Christopher? That seemed unlikely. Subdued him, then, perhaps. Where would they have put him? Probably had him tied up in the back room where the Disciple sanctified the girls.

The others had holed themselves in the center trailer. They were waiting for the Disciple to come, so they could subdue him, too. No doubt they expected him to stroll into their midst, be caught unaware.

It was then that he heard the faint sounds of shouting to his rear. He turned around, made his way back into the deeper darkness that surrounded the piles of tires and abandoned, fading appliances, the half-buried black plastic bags of garbage. The noise came from the purification pit beneath the fridge. He made his way through the piles of tires, smelled diesel where Christopher had poured it in and around the trash.

A moment later, he was looking down at the man’s face in the blackness, fighting the disappointment and disgust at seeing how badly the other man had failed.

“It was Satan,” Christopher insisted. “They never could have done it themselves.”

“Today is the day of reckoning, Christopher. The day when the Lord lifts the Chosen Ones and thrusts the wicked into hell. So when I come back to find you in a pit, defeated by two girls, having disobeyed my simple instructions, where do you think I classify you?”