Dead-Bang (13 page)

A glance showed me the mouth of the nationally syndicated Midnight News commentator moving, and a quick bound put me in front of the television set. I turned up the volume in time to fill the room with, “… further details about the attempted assassination of Festus Lemming, Sainted Most-Holy Pastor of the Church of the Second Coming—after these important announcements.”

I stumbled back to the divan, turned, sat heavily. Bruno and Dru were motionless, silent, staring at the television set.

I stared, too, as a pair of luscious, moist, and bright red lips appeared on the tube and sort of nuzzled and kneaded each other, while the owner of the lips, or somebody else with a very sexy voice said,
“Mmmm!
It's so
good
. It's so …
Mmmm!”

11

Dru said, “Assassination?”

Bruno said, “Festus?”

And I said, “Lemming?”

“Mmmm!”

The important announcements ended and the newscaster again looked out, with a frank and friendly gaze, upon the millions of unseen faces. “For more on the attempt to kill Pastor Festus Lemming, we go to Weilton, California. Here, in a report taped only minutes ago, is our Johnny-on-the-Spot, Johnny Kyle, outside the headquarters of the Church of the Second Coming.”

The picture changed, rolled, steadied on fortyish, intense, Kyle holding a mike in his right hand. He stood on the pebbled steps up which I had so recently ascended, behind him the open doors of the church. With his well-known, measured, almost ponderous delivery he said dramatically, “It is now eleven-thirty-one
P
.
M
. in Weilton. Exactly fifteen minutes ago two shots were fired at Pastor Festus Lemming as he stood speaking to a member of his congregation, at the top of these steps, before the church doors, open wide in welcome. Others of the congregation were walking to the parking lot or already in their cars, leaving for home and rest, when the shots were fired. Most of those present say the gunshots came from an automobile in the parking lot, which left immediately at great speed. Some say it was a dark, four-door sedan, some say two-door, some say it was a blue Panther or a blue Cheetah, others insist it was either a blue or green Stilleto or a gray Krakatoa, and one witness alleged it was a boy on a red scooter. Police are at this moment interviewing witnesses and sifting the conflicting reports.”

A long shot of the Church, reaching Heavenward, then a view of the parking lot, several cars still in it, forty or fifty people milling about. At the entrance to the lot a police radio car was parked, doors open, red light pulsing atop its roof.

“Of those who claim to have seen the occupants of the assassin's car,” Kyle continued, “the majority say there were two men in it, several say there was only one, and some say there were four or five people in it. One witness alleges there was nobody in it, but this is the same individual who saw the red scooter, and police are greatly discounting the old gentleman's testimony.”

Then a long shot of the church steps and two men standing midway up them, one holding a microphone—Kyle, undoubtedly—and the other either a thin bullfighter in his suit of golden lights, or Festus Lemming. As the camera slowly zoomed in and the two figures grew steadily larger on the television screen, Johnny-on-the-Spot's voice, serious and solemn, declared, “Pastor Lemming has retracted—repeat, retracted, and in its entirety—his initial statement that he had reason to believe his would-be assassin was Shell Scott and that Mr. Scott was acting merely as a hired gunman—agent, in the Pastor's words—for Emmanuel Bruno, well-known creator of the highly controversial nostrum, Erovite.”

“Nostrum!”

That wasn't on television. That was Doctor Bruno, here in Dru's living room. Who, I thought, cared what the gabby announcer called Erovite? It was a bit more important what he—and Lemming—called me and Bruno. Of course, the allegation had been retracted.

Except for the one barked word, that was all from Doc. He was leaning forward, eyes on the television set, elbow on knee, thumb and finger gripping his chin.

“Mr. Scott,” the apology continued, “no stranger to violence, is a local private investigator whose exploits have previously received national attention. Not only the police but some private citizens have expressed their confidence in Mr. Scott's integrity and reliability. Pastor Lemming's charge was made immediately after the attempted murder, when he was shaken and upset by his nearly fatal meeting with death. And here, live from Weilton, California, is Festus Lemming, Sainted Most-Holy Pastor of the Church of the Second Coming.”

The camera lens had zoomed about as far as it could zoom, and now was in tight on Lemming's nickel-thin face, narrow shoulders, and enough of his golden chest to show the top ruby-cross button on his coat of chain mail. “Fellow children,” he sighed, like a small whirlwind, keeping the volume down, “fellow children of Almighty God, I deeply appreciate this opportunity afforded me by the blessed ABS Network to retract and refute my former words, made when I was shaken and upset by my nearly fatal meeting with death, here, before the doors of my Church of the Second Coming, open wide in welcome, in Weilton, California.”

He stretched to his full five feet, three or four inches, lifted his head a little. “I regret, regret
deeply
my initial unthinking allegation that it was Sheldon Scott, acting as agent for Emmanuel Bruno, who attempted to kill me. Yes! I regret it. I do not know the identity of the man or men involved in the murder attempt. I repeat, I do
not
know, I do not
know
. In partial expiation for my sinful thoughtlessness I can only confess that, less than an hour prior to the assassination attempt, Mr. Sheldon Scott departed from this house of God—” he waved one arm in an all-embracing gesture which seemed to include the church behind him, Southern California, Earth and Heaven—“after here interrupting holy services, shocking and disturbing the entire congregation of five thousand.…”

Already up a thousand from four, I thought, not really caring much.

“… or six thousand souls. And after having threatened me. Yes! After having threatened me with … bodily harm.
This
was in my mind, this was my thought, when the death bullets screamed past my head … this and the fact that Mr. Sheldon Scott had so recently made the threat. It was a human error, and I regret it. I have
no
evidence,
no
proof, of that allegation and I here publicly retract and deny it in its entirety! I repeat, it was only because of my recent dialogue with Mr. Sheldon Scott, and his threats at that time, that I made my thoughtless allegation, my reprehensible
human
error, and because of other …”

Other what?

He didn't say. He just left it dangling there.

I thought that was clever of him. It did not endear Festus to me, but I thought it was clever. What
else
besides my dangerous presence and threats had impelled him to make the reprehensible charge? Surely a
something
other, and surely something specific, even if delicacy prevented it or It from passing his lips. And so soon after the repetition of “human error …
human”
… could it possibly have been something
in
or
un
human? A little bird? A big bird? Something even bigger?

Festus did not say. He let his listeners guess.

“Well, he's cooked
my
bird,” I said aloud. “My goose, that is.”

No one else spoke. Not here, in the room.

Festus spoke. There, under the stars.

After a long pause, after that significant and titillating “other …” he said solemnly, “I am sorry. I deeply regret my too-precipitate speech. I
am
sorry.” And while the “ry” of “sorry” still brushed his lips he turned his head to stare keenly to his left. Where, to nobody's surprise, least of all mine, Johnny Kyle was waiting, a question on
his
lips.

As the camera pulled back and there was room for both men on the screen, Kyle queried, “Pastor Lemming, you say Mr. Shell Scott threatened you? Threatened you with
bodily harm?
That is a serious charge—”

“Yes! And that charge, sir, I do not retract, that charge I will not retract.” Not a sighing any longer, beginning to boom and thunder now, voice rising as Festus turned and let his burning eyes blister all the fellow children watching. “He came into my church during my sermon, while I spoke, he confronted me during the Chorale—away, away from the eyes of my flock … and there said he was acting as agent for Emmanuel Bruno … name and face and force of evil! He said if I did not cease my work against Emmanuel Bruno, and against unholy Erovite, he would …”

“Yes, Pastor?”

“I hesitate—he did not say he would
kill
me. No, he did not.” The shoestring lips curved in a teeny-weeny smile, with the warmth of the last little coal from yesterday's fire expiring on the hearth. “Those who know Mr. Sheldon Scott need not be informed that he speaks in strange ways. His words are strange, and his ways … If I recall his words to me, precisely, he said he would break my arms and legs and neck—Yes! And neck!—in at least one, if not several, places.”

Johnny Kyle couldn't speak. Well, maybe he could. He didn't.

Finally Festus confessed, “I came close, then, to feeling … fear. He—Mr. Sheldon Scott—is a huge man, a towering beast, very muscular, almost obscenely broad and bulgy.”

The camera drew back
just
a little, and because the camera cannot lie it could not help revealing how little, how frail, how weak and puny Festus Lemming was alongside five-feet-eleven and one-hundred-and-seventy-pound Johnny Kyle. He looked like Kyle's arm. Which naturally meant he would look, alongside the huge towering bulgy beast …

“Yes! I
would
have felt fear in the presence of that violent man had I not known I would be protected by the seven thousand members of my congregation … and by …”

“Did it again,” I said.

“I understand, Pastor Lemming, that one of the bullets which missed you injured a member of your congregation.”

“Yes. Fortunately the wound was slight, very slight—the shock to her was greater than the wound. There was … hardly any blood.”

“You've got to hand it to this guy,” I said aloud. “Of course, you don't save three million souls in only seven years unless you know what you're doing. I think I underestimated—”

I stopped as I heard Festus say, “Miss Winsome.”

“Miss Winsome,” he said, “tarried after most of the other worshippers had left, remained behind in order to discuss some of her duties with me. She is one of the most diligent and devout, one of the finest and most spiritual members of the Church of the Second Coming. I know I am not supposed to have any favorites, but.… We were standing outside the church entrance when the shots rang out and hissed past my head. One of them wounded her. It was a slight wound, very slight, high on her left side. But that bullet, aimed at me to kill, could have struck her young heart! Could have killed her! Could have torn through the tender flesh, pierced the innocent brea—”

“Yes, ah, yes, Pastor, ah … she is all right, though, is she not?”

I was thinking, at least one of those slugs did not
quite
hiss or scream past your head, Pastor, not if it nicked Miss Winsome high on her side.

“Yes, she is,” said Festus, “thank God.”

On that lofty note, the interview with Festus Lemming was concluded.

There was about half an inch of bourbon and water left in my glass. I polished the drink off and said, “Well, I guess the old boy has also fixed me up just great with Regina.”

Dru finally turned to look at me. “Who?”

“Regina Winsome—the gal Lemming was just talking about.”

“You know her?”

“I met her tonight at the church. When I beat up on Lemming.” I paused. “Well, at least now I
know
that freak is a fraud and a liar. Didn't know it before, not for sure. Which makes him, perhaps, even more dangerous.”

Bruno straightened up. “He is the most dangerous man in America,” he said, as though without fear of contradiction.

“The champion goose-cooker, at least. Mine, of course, is totally charred, on the outside and inside, but yours is about done, too, Doc.”

“He is attempting to get at me through you.”

“Besides which, the Pastor and I aren't very close. What's this?”

More action on the televison screen. Nothing of unusual importance, just quick interviews with three members of the flock.

“Yes, I seen him, standin' there yellin' his fool head off, like as if something … I won't say what … entered into him. He shouted and bellered like as if to bring the walls down with his yellin'.”

That was a man. The next one was also, very likely, a man. “I didn't know he was Shell Scott, then. But I saw all that yellow moving up and down the aisle, up and down—uh-huh, he had yellow clothes on.
Yellow
clothes. Stood there and howled. Like a wolf.
WooOOOoo
. Like that, you know?”

Then a woman for sure. Probably an actress, because I was almost certain I'd seen her on an old late-night movie, something about “The Undead Return,” if memory serves me, in which she'd played the title role. “Me and my bluvd husband we was settin' real close to him. This Scott, the one they say is a detective. He swore, took the Lord's name in vain, right there in the Lord's house, cursed, went back and forth and stamped up and down, cursin' and swearin' like he was a wild man, and he yelled out with a great noise something I can't reclect except it was loud and I didn't like it.”

From that point to the end of the newscast there wasn't anything else of importance, but we watched and listened to reports of an explosion on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, a bloody riot at Vassar, and a severe earthquake during a hurricane in Florida, then Dru switched the set off.