Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) (24 page)

But I didn’t want to look like an outsider, so I closed my eyes and raised my hands and joined in the fun. When in Rome, and all that.

“Sha-na-na,” I said. “Ramma-damma-ding-dong. Abracadabra. Allah-kazam. Ah knee ah sneak ah never sniker.”

Nobody paid any attention to me. Everyone was in his own little mystical world.

After a while Reverend Strychar walked to the pulpit and started saying real words into a microphone between the strings of gibberish coming from the crowd.

“Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. My brethren, God is here with us in this building today. I feel His presence, and I know you do too. I’m going to pass this bucket around now, and I want each of you to take a slip of paper and hold it in your hand. Don’t look at it until I tell you, please.”

Everyone in the crowd had quieted down. The man who had been convulsing on the floor now sat in a pew to my left with his hands in his lap.

Strychar handed a galvanized steel pail to one of the men in the front row. He took a slip of paper from it and passed it on. By the time the bucket made its way back to me, it was nearly empty. I took a slip and made a fist around it.

“Did everyone receive a chit?” Strychar asked. “Raise your hand if you did not get a slip of paper.”

Nobody raised a hand.

“Wonderful. Now, I want you to unfold that piece of paper and look at it. Some of your chits will be blank. If that’s the case, you are dismissed from the meeting now. All others are to stay here with me. I have a very special surprise for you.”

My paper was blank, so I filed out the door with the rest of the losers. I saw Brother Thad outside.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions.”

“And?”

“I better not say. Come on. Let’s get some breakfast.”

I wondered if Strychar’s little lottery had anything to do with the two hundred pounds of brisket he’d confirmed over the phone yesterday.
I had a hunch that was it, but I couldn’t figure out why some members were excluded from the feast.

On the way to the chow hall I heard children’s voices in the distance, singing a song I remembered from Sunday school called “I Just Want to be a Sheep.”

“There’s kids here?” I said.

Thad didn’t say anything. We walked into the galley and went through the line. They had eggs to order, bacon, sausage, hash browns, biscuits, and waffles.

I didn’t want any of it. The smell of it made me queasy. I took two slices of whole wheat toast and sat down. A couple of minutes later Brother Thad followed with his plate piled high.

“After breakfast I’m taking a few members up to Orange Park for field ministry,” Thad said. “I was thinking you might like to join us.”

“Field ministry. What’s that?” I thought maybe they were going to preach at some cows or something.

“That’s where we canvass neighborhoods. We knock on doors, offer our literature, and offer to pray with folks.”

I swallowed a bite of toast, chased it with black coffee. “Oh. I’m going to have to take a rain check on that. I’m really pooped after last night. I need a nap before rehearsal later.”

“That’s understandable. Just be aware everyone who lives on campus is required to log twenty hours of field ministry a week. Even the musicians.”

“Okay,” I said, but I couldn’t see myself selling God door-to-door like a vacuum cleaner. Actually, I figured most folks would get better mileage from a Kirby.

After breakfast, Thad dropped me at the dorm and I went up to my room and slept dreamlessly until three o’clock. I felt better. Someone had left a box outside my door with three more sets of new clothes in it. I took a shower and dressed and walked to the rehearsal hall. I made it right on time.

My former roommate, Brother Simon the sax player, wasn’t there. Brother Perry handed me a stack of charts.

“You pretty good at sight-reading?” he asked.

“I think I’ll manage.”

I walked stage right and picked up the Les Paul. It was in perfect tune already. We played a few songs. Everything was easy. I could have played most of it blindfolded. One of the numbers was the accompaniment for “I Just Want to be a Sheep,” the song I’d heard the children singing earlier. We played for nearly two hours straight. My calluses held up nicely, but the Les Paul got heavy after a while and made my back hurt. I wanted a cigarette and a glass of whiskey.

“Let’s break for chow,” Perry said. He switched off his keyboards and then walked over to me.

“Nice set,” I said.

“I think so. Listen, I meant to ask you before, do you write songs?”

“I’ve written a few.”

“We’re trying to put an album together, with redemption as the theme. I would welcome a contribution from you, if you’re up to it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good. You ready to go eat?”

“Yeah. I’m starving.”

It was true. I hadn’t had anything all day except two slices of wheat toast. We walked to the chow hall. They were serving meatloaf and steamed spinach and I ate triple portions. We rehearsed some more after dinner and wrapped it up around nine thirty.

When I got back to my room at the dorm, I read some more of
Welcome to the Chain of Light.
There was an entire section condemning interracial marriages, calling them “an abomination to the Lord,” and not to be tolerated. The more I learned about the organization, the more hate and hostility I saw. The fact that they were bigots came as no surprise, but actually seeing it spelled out in those terms, actually seeing the words—
interracial marriages are an abomination to the Lord
—hit me hard.

I closed the book and flung it across the room. It landed upside-down against the wall. I was mad as hell, but I reminded
myself I needed to keep my emotions in check. I walked over and picked up the book and brushed it off. There was a picture of a lighthouse on the cover. I picked up the Kay archtop and started playing around with some chords and lyrics, trying to take the edge off my anger. I wrote a first verse and a chorus:

Sailing through the storm, must’ve lost my way.
My ship was slowly sinking, the mast was ready to break.
Visibility zero, I fell on my knees and cried,
Please somebody save me, I don’t want to die.

Then I saw the lighthouse, I saw the way.
I saw the lighthouse, bringing me home safe.
Yonder was a guiding light, shining hope and faith.
I saw the lighthouse, I saw the way.

I needed a couple of more verses and maybe a bridge, but I couldn’t focus on it. I kept thinking about what I’d read in
Welcome to the Chain of Light.

I started connecting some dots that hadn’t occurred to me before.

Someone knocked on the door. I got up and answered it. The man on the other side wore a white lab coat and held a metal container the size of a cigar box.

“You’re Brother Matthew?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Brother Caleb. I work in the clinic.”

We shook hands.

“There’s a clinic here?” I said. “Wow. You guys think of everything.”

“May I come in?”

I stepped aside, allowing him to enter the room. I shut the door. I sat on the edge of my bed and Caleb sat across from me on my previous roommate’s bed.

“I was just going through some of the reading material Reverend
Strychar gave me,” I said. “Interesting stuff. The Vatican is the Antichrist, huh? Who would have guessed?”

“Our Lord Jesus Christ came to Reverend Strychar and spoke to him, just as I’m speaking to you now. The end is near, my friend.”

“Kind of depressing. But, you know, who am I to argue with Jesus?”

“It’s not sad at all,” Caleb said. “His kingdom will be glorious. As His loyal servants, we are obligated to crush the serpent’s head and usher our Lord to His throne.”

“Amen,” I said. “What’s in the box?”

Caleb opened the metal container, revealing a syringe and needle, an unmarked vial of liquid, alcohol swabs, and Band-Aids.

“Our ministry takes us abroad at times,” he said. “We’re all required to receive vaccinations.”

He screwed the needle onto the end of the syringe, punctured a port in the vial, drew out the medication. Maybe it really was a vaccination. Or, maybe it was the dreaded chemical castration Bart Harmon had talked about on his website. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, I had no intention of letting him put it in my body.

“I’m going to have to pass on that,” I said. “I’m terrified of needles.”

I glanced out the window. A white van with its lights on was parked at the curb.

“I’m afraid it’s mandatory,” Caleb said. “Trust me. It’ll only take a second. Would you like it in your thigh, or—”

I grabbed the Kay archtop and smashed it over Brother Caleb’s head. Caleb and the splintered guitar fell to the floor in a heap.

I looked out the window. Two Black Berets got out of the van and walked toward the dorm’s front entrance.

Brother Caleb started moaning and trying to get up. I grabbed the syringe, buried the needle in his leg and pushed the plunger. He went limp on the floor. Vaccination my ass. They’d tried to tranquilize me.

I looked around for a weapon. I grabbed the letter opener,
cuffed it, and slid a couple of the sharpened pencils into one of my fishing vest pockets.

I yanked the door open, looked both ways, and ran for the stairs.

When I opened the door to the stairwell, I heard footsteps coming up. I looked down and saw the boys in black casually climbing the stairs. One of them was Brother John, the guy who had water-boarded me last night.

I was supposed to be unconscious by now, and they were coming to load me into the van.

I ran back to my room and shut the door. There was no way to lock it. I opened the window, looked down, thought about it, decided four stories was a little too high.

I stood flush with the wall, beside the door. The knob turned and the soldiers stomped in rudely without knocking. Brother John rushed to where Caleb was lying on the floor. From behind, I impaled the other guy’s left kidney with the letter opener. I left the blade buried and grabbed his gun. He fell to the floor writhing in pain.

I put a foot near his wound to keep him at bay, and at the same time trained the AK-47 on Brother John. He was carrying a pistol.

“Toss it over here,” I said. He looked at me and my machine gun and quickly decided he had no other choice. Both guys had handcuffs on their belts. I made Brother John cuff the other guy to one of the beds, and then I told him to strip.

“You’re going to wear my clothes, and I’m going to wear yours,” I said.

I put the black uniform on. The boots were a little tight, but otherwise Brother John and I were about the same size. Caleb looked comfortable, still unconscious and peacefully drooling on the carpet. I stuffed a pillowcase into the other Black Beret’s mouth to mute his whimpers. A trail of blood wicked along the exposed part of the letter opener, obscuring the image of Christ on the handle.

I dug through the pockets of my new duds and found the keys to the van and the cell phone Brother John had used to enter Reverend
Strychar’s house last night. I made John lie on the floor facedown while I handcuffed him.

“Come on. We’re going for a ride,” I said.

I grabbed my backpack, and a spare set of guitar strings from the archtop’s case. We walked down the hallway and then the stairs. Outside, a resident on his way back to the dorm walked by and said, “Eighty-eight, brother,” to me. Bizarrely, he didn’t seem concerned that I was holding a man at gunpoint.

The van had two seats in the front and an empty cargo shell in back. I shoved Brother John to the floor in back and tied his ankles with guitar strings. I started the truck, drove it into the woods where it couldn’t be seen from the road. I switched on the dome light, climbed in back and nestled the barrel of the forty-caliber pistol into my prisoner’s left eye socket.

“You’re going to tell me some things,” I said.

“I doubt it. Who are you? You a cop? FBI?”

“I’m a greasy hair in your goddamn porridge, Goldilocks. I’m your worst fucking nightmare. And, believe me, you
are
going to tell me some things.”

“Blow me. I don’t know shit.”

“We’ll see. First of all, the guy that walked by a minute ago said, ‘Eighty-eight.’ What does that mean?”

“It’s simple alphabet code.
A
equals one,
H
equals eight. Double H. Heil Hitler. Don’t take no rocket scientist to figure that one out.”

“I see you guys in the black uniforms from time to time. Who are you? You’re some kind of soldiers, right?”

“Fuck you. Strychar’ll kill me.”

I forced the gun barrel tighter against his eye.

“News flash. I’m going to kill your ass if you
don’t
tell me. Be nice and cooperate and I’ll drop you near the front gate. Then you can be on your merry way and find another group of neo-Nazis to play with.”

I cocked the hammer.

“Shoot me,” he said. “We got a code of honor here. I took an oath.
Go ahead and shoot me, you son of a bitch. I’ll go straight to Heaven and see Jesus tonight.”

Damn it. Why did everything have to be such a hassle? I ripped his shirt open, tore a piece of the cloth off, and gagged him with it. A burning cross was tattooed on his chest, along with the angel on his arm. The cross was leaning forty-five degrees to the right, like the one that had been carved into Leitha Ryan’s forehead. I didn’t know its significance, but looking at it pissed me off. It made what I was about to do seem somewhat less despicable. I unbuckled his pants and pulled them down to his knees. I grabbed his cock with my left hand, and with my right gently inserted the sharpened end of a number-two Mirado Black Warrior an inch or so into his urethra.

The noises he made weren’t quite human.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “I don’t believe in torture, but I’m desperate and you’re a racist piece of shit. Now, you can either answer my questions, or I’m going to jam this pencil all the way up your motherfucking dick and then break it in half. You think it hurts now? Just imagine those jagged splintery ends ripping away at that delicate tissue in there. So what’s it going to be?”