Thinking Straight (32 page)

But, who would hear me?

Do I have a choice?

Of course. I could leave right now. I could turn this whole thing over to Mrs. Harnett and just not let Charles out of my sight.

Bartle disappears into the room.

This isn't about me now. Not really. And suddenly I remember what Will was ready to do for me. How he was ready to sacrifice his college plans to keep me safe from this very place.

I lift one foot off the floor, and I come so close to setting it down in the direction of the hall outside. But I don't. I go toward the room.

I stand in the doorway. Bartle is sitting in a chair to my left, its back to the wall beside the doorway, and there's another chair facing him, sort of facing the door. He's looking at the chair, not at me. So I sit in the chair. At least he doesn't close the door.

“Have you ever eaten too much sugar, Taylor?”

“What?”

“It wouldn't have to be sugar. Have you ever eaten so much of anything you wanted that it made you sick?”

“Once when my mom was making chocolate chip cookies, the phone rang, and I made off with the bowl of batter. I ate most of it.”

“Did you get sick?”

“I didn't throw up or anything, but I felt really sh—really crappy.”

“I'll bet you didn't do that again, did you?”

“No.”

He nods. “You are a very special person, Taylor. I've felt this since the first time I met you. I was even more convinced on that Sunday when we brought you into the Program. Many would have been discouraged by how you acted at our last meeting. You were pushing me aside. You were denying my help, denying me, denying God. But you are very special. And God has put you in my care. God has commanded me to help you.”

Mrs. Harnett had told me to beware of people who said things like this to me, about how special I am. I wonder if she suspected anything like this.

He stands, and I start to get up but he shakes his head. He moves to my left, goes behind the door, and opens the drawer of a filing cabinet, but he doesn't reach into it, which seems weird. But this whole encounter is so frigging weird; what's one more thing? And now that he's back there, he pushes the door closed. My eyes follow the slow swing all the way to the door jamb. The handle clicks into place. It looks like an ordinary handle; I'm sure I could open it in a hurry if I needed to.

“What we're going to do, my special boy, is teach you not to eat cookie batter. It's interesting, you know? You can't get too much of God's love, but you can get too much of Satan's lustful sin. And just like the cookie batter, when you've finally had too much, you won't want any more.”

WTF? What's he going on about?

And now he's between me and the door. “Stand, Taylor.”

Okay, that's better anyway. Easier to make a run for it from my feet.

“Now, I want you to use your mind. Use your imagination. Pretend to yourself that I am Charles.”

“I—uh, I don't think…”

“It might help if you close your eyes.”

“No. No, I don't think that would help.”

“You told me you've been praying that God will send Charles home. But you can't heal yourself by avoiding things that make you sick. That's only a very temporary solution. You need to be purified. Do you want to be purified, Taylor?”

Holy shit. That's exactly what Charles had said, about avoiding things that make you sick. Christ, how many boys have bought this line? This whole mess? But I'm so close now; and I don't think I could go through this charade again, so I need to get my proof and get out of here.

Jesus, help me. Be with me. Protect me. And I close my eyes. Now,
this
is trust in God.

“I'm Charles,” he says. I can smell him, his soap, his breath. One hand is on my hip. “Remember that I'm doing God's bidding. What happens next gives me no pleasure. No pleasure at all. If it weren't for God's instructions, I'd be risking my own soul to save yours. But God has commanded me.” The other hand is behind my neck.

Before I can even think, he yanks on my waistband, pulling my groin against his, and I sure as hell know what it feels like when a guy's hard dick is pressing against me. Bartle's is hard. Then he kisses me. Right on the mouth. Hell, right
in
the mouth. He's stronger than I'd thought, and it's really hard to push him away. But I do. His back hits the door, though, so I can't get out quickly.

We stand there staring at each other for a minute, then I wipe my mouth off, and his face softens. His voice is silky. “Trust! You must trust. This is what Almighty God has commanded me to do. I hate it; please know that. I hate doing it. I hate what it is and everything about it, just as you will. I promise you that. It will save you, Taylor. This is the only way. You must have too much of what Satan wants you to have, and I am God's tool. Now, close your eyes and submit to God's will.”

Not a chance, fucker. “I've got what I came for.”

He blinks stupidly at me. “What did you say?”

You know all those movies you see where the hero has caught the bad guy, the perp, gun in hand and about to do the bad deed? And instead of getting help or doing anything sensible, he tells the perp “Gotcha” and the perp shoots the hero? And you always say to yourself or whoever's watching with you, “Why the hell is that idiot telling the perp what he's going to do?” Well, I have a better understanding about that now. It's like you can't help yourself.

“You're doing this to Charles, aren't you? And you were doing it to Ray. He didn't kill himself. I know that, and you know that. You murdered him. And how many others?”

He stares at me, nostrils flaring. “No! No, you have to understand. The boys who died were too far gone. Some of them died by their own hands, and some died because God commanded me to end their sinning before it consumed them. This isn't true for Charles, and it doesn't have to be true for you. Pray with me, Taylor. Pray hard, and God will let you see through me, his humble tool, how truly evil this is! Please, for the sake of your very soul!”

It occurs to me to wonder if maybe he really believes this shit he's spouting. Could it be that he doesn't consider it murder because he has some sick voice in his head he's mistaken for God Almighty?

Whether he believes it or not, I'm getting out of here. “My soul is doing just fine, you sicko pervert. I pray, but not for this. Not for your services!”

His face kind of sags, sad, pathetic. He says, “What are you going to do?”

“What d'you think? I'm gonna spill my guts. You're done here.”

For a second he looks like he's about to cry, like he's ashamed. And then he lowers his head and steps to the left and away from the door. But it's a fake. Just as I'm reaching for the handle, he shoves me hard and I go flying to the right. I fall over something on the floor, barely aware that he's turned to that open file drawer and back toward me, and by the time I can get to my feet again he's got a rope around my chest, arms pinned to my sides.

He's lassoed me!

I struggle to get a hand up high enough to grab onto his arm, the rope, anything, but he's too quick. He wraps more rope around me, the coarse fibers digging into the skin below my short sleeves. It hurts to struggle, but I don't care. I have to break out of this!

I try kicking, but he just pushes me over; you can't keep your balance very well when you can't use your arms. So now I'm helpless
and
I'm on the floor. I guess this is the time to scream. So I do.

He just stands there, watching me. Then, “Really, Taylor, who's going to hear you?”

I fill my lungs and scream again. He sits down in a chair to watch. Shit. Fuck! How the hell did this happen? I'm trying so hard not to cry. I absolutely
refuse
to cry. But I'm scared shitless.

“I made a mistake with you. I took more time with the others, prepared them better. I see now that Satan has had a hand in this. He got me to move too fast, and I've failed you. The only chance for you now is for God to take you before you can sin any more.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” My voice sounds like someone else's.

“See? See?” He shakes his head almost sadly. “You know, I didn't kill all those other boys. Well, maybe one or two. But mostly they just couldn't go on living, knowing what God thought of them. So they killed themselves.”

“Are you like Strickland?” I'm nearly spitting at him. “Do you think death is better—”

“Than living a life of abomination? Absolutely. I'll be God's tool, one way or the other, to do his will regarding you. You've rejected the way that would have saved your soul while you lived. It will be up to God what happens to it when you're dead.”

“No! No. You can't do that. You have to let me go. What choice do you have?”

“Oh, I have lots of choices. I may not have lots of time, but I have lots of choices. My only decision at this moment is whether to teach you a lesson before you kill yourself. Of course, I'm talking about the cookie batter here. If you leave the world hating it, Satan may lose his chance to claim your soul.” And he starts undoing his belt.

Okay, I'm hyperventilating now. He's going to rape me and then kill me? I have to raise my head off the floor to look him in the eye, but I do it. “You can't exactly leave a violated corpse. They'll never believe suicide.”

“You poor, desperate boy. You know, Taylor, I've done this before. You haven't.” Why does this sound familiar? In what previous lifetime have I heard those words? “And besides, I have God on my side. He won't risk losing his instrument. So he'll help everyone believe that you tied yourself up, you see? With that noose as a start, it's not inconceivable. You tied one end of the rope to the kneeling bench in the balcony, then you put the noose around your arms and turned round and round until it circled your neck a few times, and then you jumped. You'd been tying yourself up in an effort to keep yourself from sticking whatever you could find up that hungry ass of yours, but it hadn't helped, so you asked God and this is what he said to do. It will all come out when I tell them about your confessions to me. God will dictate to me what I should say. I'll blame myself, of course. I should have taken action when you told me some of the things you've put up there. As long as they don't find semen, it will all fall into place. A condom will suffice for that.” He stands and pushes his slacks and underwear down to the floor. His dick is pointing at me, red and angry. “And it's my fault, too, for not preparing you well enough. But God will forgive me. You've been such a challenge.”

My last-ditch effort is to try and roll away from him. And one final prayer: “Almighty God, help me! Please!”

The door behind Bartle crashes open. I wrench my body so I can see in that direction, and there's a very impressive black figure standing there.

It's Sean.

Bartle wheels around. For several tense seconds nothing happens except for Bartle pulling up his pants, and then Sean says, “Let him go.”

“Sean, my son, he has denied sanctification. He has denied—”

“Let him go. Now.” No one moves. Sean raises his voice. “Now!”

Bartle takes a step toward Sean, who pulls his fist back, ready to strike. They're frozen like that for four, maybe five seconds. Then Bartle starts shouting scripture.

“Blessed are those who have been persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven! Blessed are you when people reproach you, persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely, for my sake.” His arms shoot up over his head and his voice rises so he's almost screaming. “Rejoice and be exceedingly glad for great is your reward in heaven! For that is how they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

Bam. Sean's fist shoots straight out from his body like a pile driver and Bartle goes flying. Actually, he lands on top of me, or part of him does. I kick like the devil, aiming for his shins, and I hear him cry out. I'd aim for his groin if I thought I could reach it, but I do what I can.

Sean, however, hasn't finished. He leans over and drives that weapon of a fist right into Bartle's nose, and from where I am I can see the blood splatter. Bartle rolls completely off of me, half crying, begging Sean to stop. Sean leans over to me and grabs a handful of rope, hauls me to my feet, and throws me onto his shoulder.

He carries me out of the room, shuts the door behind him, and then sets me gently on my feet. As he's loosening the ropes I ask, “How did you know? Why did you come?”

He's breathing hard, and I don't think it's just with effort. It's like he's trying to contain a monumental fury. Once I'm free he sits hard on the pew nearest the door he's just shut. I sit next to him.

“Sean?”

He leans back and closes his eyes, his breath rasping through his nose. Then he shakes his head hard, like he's flinging water off himself. He says, “You didn't come to circle. Nate got worried and sent Peter to find me and help him look for you. I don't know where Peter is; we split up. And I remembered what you called Reverend Bartle. So I put it all together.”