The Scream (21 page)

"Let's go," said the voice from behind her.

Five minutes later, the shopping party were on their way: the gate having opened and closed behind them, the crowd having parted, the road winding outward and beyond. Ted, still pissy, sat in the back beside Natalie and her safety chair. Chris sat beside Rachel in the front of the Jeep, fiddling with the tone controls on the dashboard cassette ("You gotta hear this group, Mrs. Hamer. They're incredible. Really.") and telling some of the bawdiest jokes she'd heard in years. It was understood by all that Chris had a thing for Rachel-one hundred percent teenage, somewhere between "a crush" and "the hots," very similar to the way she figured Ted felt for Jesse-but she liked him anyway and was more than happy to let his good cheer cut through the bad vibes Ted transmitted from the back.

None of them were in any position to notice the carload of Liberty Christian villagers that piled in and took off behind.

It was a five mile drive to Grossinger's, on the outskirts of Jonestown. They were too far in the boonies for an actual supermarket, so Rachel opted once a week to hit the fairly well-stocked counters of Arnie Grossinger over the homespun minit-marts festooning the miles between. He took the time to order what she wanted, distribution permitting; his produce was fresh and his attitude refreshing.

In fact, ol' Arn was making headlines when Jake and company first arrived on the mountain. It was a couple of years back, when the big radical fundamentalist craze was boycotting stores that sold
Playboy
and
Penthouse
. He had surprised them all by saying, "Fine. Don't shop here. I was sick of you people anyhow. You want someone to tell you what you can or can't read, go to the goddamned Soviet Union. This is America."

At the time, Liberty Christian Village had been his largest customer, so the move took major balls. But he was a crusty, self-reliant old coot, and he didn't much take to that kind of pressure. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that business held steady, with a bunch of new faces who told him they were proud to do business with him. So much for godly retribution.

To this day, he refused to do business with Pastor Furniss and his clan.

Rachel wheeled her Wagoneer into the Grossinger parking lot at 12:15. It was largely old macadam and potholes; the recent rain had whipped up some mean mud puddles. They parked on an island between two large ones and carefully disembarked, Ted handing off Natalie to his mom without a word, his gaze wandering sullenly off toward the stores that flanked Grossinger's left.

"You can hit the video store if you want, honey," Rachel said. "Just meet me inside in ten minutes."

"Okay." Ted wouldn't look at her, but it was clear that his armor was cracking.

"Do you need some money?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Hold Boobie for a second." Rachel handed the munchkin back to Ted. Natalie gave her brother a broad and toothless grin. He smiled despite himself.

"Just three films, okay?" Rachel said. "And give me back the change."

"Okay." Ted traded Natalie for a ten-spot. "I guess this is what you call white slavery," he said. Rachel laughed, and he tossed her a smile. End of conflict.

For now.

"So everybody knows what to do, right?" Paul Weissman said. "No questions from the peanut gallery?"

A rumble of silent assent wafted up from the backseat. Paul assessed it through the rearview mirror. To his right, in the passenger seat, Mary Hatch expressed no feelings whatsoever. She never did. He was getting tired of waiting for Jesus to jump-start her; he had a feeling that he wasn't leaning on her nearly hard enough.

By the age of twenty-three, Paul Weissman had grown to become Pastor Furniss's right-hand man. He was in charge of the boys' dorms, which he ran with an iron fist; he edited the monthly newspaper,
LCV Times
, which included ghostwriting Pastor's column; in the last year he had been blessed with the duty of organizing and leading the antirock protests, from the record burnings to the crowd at Hamer's gate to tomorrow's Rock Aid insurrection.

And more than once, he had tidied up the loose threads in the pastor's affairs. Sometimes, tightly; even more than Pastor himself imagined or would necessarily approve. Pastor was in many ways a weak man, Paul realized; at least, a weaker man than Paul. Too New Testament far one thing, too forgiving. And all too often given toward the weakness of the flesh.

Paul's savior was made of much sterner stuff. And he realized that, while his father's house contained many mansions, those mansions contained many closets, in which there rattled many, many skeletons. A given percentage of which sometimes rattled a wee bit too noisily, at which point they needed a thorough cleaning. Cleanliness was next to godliness, after all, and Paul was just the man to do it.

All of which was fairly auspicious for a curly-headed jewboy from Long Island. He had come a long way from the liberal politics and literary aspirations of his college days, when he was certain that he would be the great social critic and intellectual beacon of his generation. It didn't take more than a dozen rejections for him to realize that the literati were fools; that the scope of their critical faculties were microscopic compared to his own; and that they rejected him out of jealousy and sheer blind ignorance.

Quite naturally, the revelation had left him bitter. Quite inevitably, that bitterness had led to his split with academia, the decline of his health, his descent into substance abuse and perverse, self-destructive sexuality.

And then, somewhere near Wall Street, when it seemed that all was lost . . .

He was
saved
.

And with that he found, indeed, all things were possible. Redemption for his own sins, retribution for the sins of the wicked. He knew the power and the glory, amen. He knew now that he would be on hand for that final Day of Judgment-that he would watch from the heavens as the souls of the fallen were consigned to a just and fiery Hell.

For the time being, however, the power and the righteousness of the Kingdom of God rested right where it belonged. Within him, praise Jesus.

And power was such a wonderful thing.

Paul Weissman pulled the station wagon to a halt right beside the empty Wagoneer. That set them squarely in the middle of a muddy pool, but God works in mysterious ways.

"Okay," he said, throwing it into park and cutting the engine. "Let's go."

"But . . ." Cathy began, eyeing the slop outside her window with dismay.

"No buts," he countered sternly. "O ye of little faith. Consider the lilies of the field in Matthew six before complaining to me about your silly shoes."

Mary threw him a glance that didn't seem entirely Christian. He thought about chastising her, decided to wait.
When we're alone
, he concluded.
In the Quiet Room
.

Then he was out the door, leaping heavily to the perimeter of the mudhole, his left heel sploshing heavily and very nearly causing him to slip. "
Damn!
" he cursed, under his breath, and then turned and waited for the flock to follow.

"Hey, Ted!" Chris yelled with high good humor. "Check it out! It's
Attack of the Gumbies
!"

"Where?" Ted laughed. He was looking at tapes in the Video Shack horror section-a section he knew well-and the closest thing he saw to it was
Return of the Alien's Deadly Spawn
.

"No, no, man. Outside." Chris pointed to the window. Ted turned and looked. So did the guy behind the counter.

Six of Pastor Furniss's shlock troopers were getting their feet wet in the parking lot. With temperatures in the nineties and their ties tight around their button-down collars and all, it looked to Ted as if it might have been something of a relief. But, no. They were complaining.

"Mercy me," Ted said, and repressed a stoned giggle. "Think they need a lifeguard?"

"If one of 'em starts sinking, we'll throw 'em a rope."

They thought this was funny. They were young and on drugs. "Whoo-EEE!" Chris continued. "Check out the legs on
that
babe!"

A young, well-formed blonde was getting ready to jump from the driver's side, her plain gray culottes hiked up to mid-thigh.

"You know," Ted said thoughtfully, "she'd be awfully cute if she didn't dress like a dweeb."

"And if she had any tits."

"Jesse's got small tits. I
like
small tits."

"You're a homo. That's why."

"That's why you always wanna crash at my house."

"It's your mother I want."

"Dream on," Ted said, and then the connection struck. "Wait a minute. What the fuck are they doing here?"

"It's a free country," Chris said.

"Yeah, but Grossinger's won't sell to 'em. He says they're a pain in the ass."

"No shit."

"So why are they here?" He turned to the guy behind the counter. "Do they ever rent videos from you guys?"

"Not ever."

"How about Thrift Drugs?"

"I haven't seen those assholes here in over a year. Believe me, I've been counting the days."

"This is not good," Chris said.

"Oh, yeah," Ted replied. "You know what tapes you want?"

"
My Bloody Valentine
-the first all-Polack splatter movie."

"Okay. And?"

"I could get into some
Return of the Living Dead
. Now,
that
chick has a set of world-class knockers! Whatsername? Lynia Quigley?"

"Mmm hmmm." Ted grinned at the thought. "That leaves us with one more. How about . . . ummm . . . how 'bout
Invasion of the Blood Farmers
?"

"Apropos," Chris said, staring out the window. "Real apropos."

Rachel had the shopping cart optimistically half-f when the first white-shirts came through the door and headed right for her. The irritating fat kid was in front, not surprisingly. The rest of them looked embarrassed to be there.

"Oh, boy," she muttered, then took a deep breath and a jar of Clausen's Kosher Dills off the shelf.
It was bound to happen, sooner or later
, she told herself.
Might as well get it over with now
.

I wonder where Ted and Chris are?

Natalie, in the seat of the cart, turned to grapple with the jar of pickles. "No, baby." Rachel substituted a shatterproof bottle of Herbal Essence shampoo. "Not unless you're going to throw it at them."

And then they were upon her.

"Hello," she said with what she hoped was a disarming grin. It fell upon the thick flat lenses of Paul Weissman's glasses and died there.

"Hello, Mrs. Hamer. I've-"

"Adams. My last name is Adams."

His eyebrows raised, and his mouth began to smile unpleasantly. "You're not married?"

"I kept my own name."

"Ah, I see. Well, I've been meaning to speak with you for some time, Mrs. Adams-"

"
Ms
. Adams. About what?"

"About the
world
"-a bit exasperated-"that you're bringing your children into."

"Okay. Speak. But if you don't mind, I'll be shopping while you talk. Excuse me a second." She pushed forward a little, forcing back the throng, and snagged a jar of Dijon mustard.

Then Paul Weissman put his hand on the front of the cart and said, "Stop."

Rachel paused, feeling her spine turn suddenly cool. The calm before the storm. "What are you doing?" she inquired pointedly.

"I'm making you listen."

"You're making me mad. Let go of the cart."

"Will you listen to me?"

"Not if you don't let go of the cart."

"Okay." He pulled his hand away, making an entirely bogus gesture of hand-raised apology. "Is that better?"

Rachel took a minute for a few deep breaths and a good look at Natalie. Her little girl was staring at Weissman, much as she'd appraise a spoonful of food that she really didn't want to eat: not crying yet, but fully prepared to.
Make her cry, I'll roast your butt
, Rachel thought, then deferred it for the moment. A poker face was better.

"Speak."

Paul Weissman smiled then. His eyes were like chunks of gray slush, gray and intensely cold. He was, in that moment and for the first time, frightening. His mouth, when he spoke, seemed too wide and had too many teeth.

"The world is in serious trouble,
Ms
. Adams. It's an ugly world. Full of wickedness, corruption, and sin. You, of course, already know that."

Rachel said nothing. She was fascinated. It wasn't every day that you met someone who could say that with conviction.

"But are you familiar with the word of God,
Ms
. Adams?" He was obviously enjoying the emphasis, now that he'd turned it around. "And are you aware of how it reflects upon a life-style such as yours?"

"Yes."

"Yes to which question,
Ms
. Adams?"

"Yes to both questions,
Mr
. Whatsyername."

"Paul Weissman."

"Mr. Weissman. Okay. So what's your point?"

"The
point
, Ms. Adams, is that your husband is a dangerous man. Don't you ever think about the moral consequences of raising a child with a man who espouses the . . . er . . .
principles
that he seems to represent? I mean-"

"Do you have any children, Mr. Weissman?"

"Umm . . ." Perplexity flashed across his features. The question had caught him clearly out of the blue.

"If you had any children, what values would you hope to give them?"

"I. . . I would, of course, raise them with the Bible."

"With emphasis on which parts?" She felt any fear she might have had slip away. It was not the kind of question Jesus freaks had an easy time with. His muddled expression said it all.

"Why . . . with the book in its entirety, of course. There is no legitimate separation . . . that is to say, no way of breaking down the word of God and saying this part is valid, and this part isn't-"

"Well, maybe there is, and maybe there isn't," she cut in, advancing upon him now. "That isn't the question. The question is, where do you put your emphasis? Old Testament or New Testament? Luke or John or Paul? Do you lean toward the word of Jesus, the word of people who came before Jesus, or the word of people who came after?"