LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

said a quick prayer for her husband, “Brother Shimron,” and her son, “Brother Meshach.” And worried anew at Josh’s cryptic words whispered when he passed her this morning: “It’s time. Now.”

      No, her heart had cried out. Too dangerous!

      For only she knew he meant that after all those years of wanting to believe in his old friend Harve despite increasingly ominous changes, of trying desperately to hold onto his dream of a “real family” of believers, Josh was finally ready to take his own little family and leave. Maybe he even had finally developed a plan to attempt it—however impossible.

      B-r-r-r-K! B-r-r-r-K!

      That same anguished mockingbird she heard earlier now landed on the fence right beside her, pleading for help. No, no, bird! There’s nothing but death here! Fly away quickly before—

      But Gabriel had noticed it also. Still smarting from missing it earlier—nothing dared interfere with his will, man or beast!—he whipped out his gun.

      And, with a mean smile, fired again.

      Chapter Three

      

      But in a blur of wings, the mockingbird soared high overhead. He’d missed once more.

      Turning the air blue with curses, “Move, woman. You’re wasting the Prophet’s time. And mine.” He grabbed her arm so tightly she almost collapsed.

      Instead, praying for strength, she followed him on to the most massive of the commune buildings: the bleak concrete Tower of Sanctuary. At all times, two well-armed, well-paid men wearing, like the Messenger, the uniform of the Prophet’s elite Right Hands of Power, lounged on stained plastic lawn chairs under a canvas overhang outside its thick steel doors. Chain-smoking, tobacco-chewing, gulping beer, and trading yarns, they acted more like “good old boys” than formidable guards. But Melinda knew their trigger responses were lightning-fast. As were their pair of snarling pit bulls.

      This graceless building—resembling a misbegotten grain elevator—housed the Disciples’ Teaching Tabernacle; the Altar; the dread Catacombs, including the Places of Inquiry, Repentance, and Judgment; and the Ark of Holiness—the Prophet’s super-secret living quarters.

      Satellite dishes and various antennae and cameras sprouted from the Tower roof, along with a tattered American flag. Just below them, a small room on the top floor held an increasingly-sophisticated arsenal of computers, GPS, closed-circuit TV systems, and other hi-tech surveillance equipment. Plus piles of guns and ammo. Even though Josh was systems manager, in charge of keeping everything electronic running or else, he was never permitted to work there (even on his own computer) without a guard right beside him. And a gun pointed straight at his head.

      “Yo, Gabe!” the guards shouted as the Messenger approached. Tossing him a cold beer, “Whassup, bud?”

      They had gifts for Melinda, as well: two well-aimed spurts of tobacco juice. And shrill laughs.

      As she tried to wipe her face with her scarf, Gabriel ordered, “Inside, woman. And keep your silence. This is holy ground.” Then he pushed her into a dark, narrow hallway with slime-covered walls. Oh, dear God, what will become of me? Will I never see my loved ones again?

      Up to now, Melinda had only been allowed in the Teaching area of this fortress—though often enough to know every dreary inch of it by heart. For each and every night, following their cold, spare Evening Prayer Feast in the spartan Providence Pavilion, all the Disciples—men, women, and children—had to assemble in the Tabernacle for the Prophet’s messages.

      Long ago, those nightly meetings had been delightful hour-long “Family Devotional Times,” with the adults poring over their own Bibles and discussing Scripture together, while special activities were provided for the children. Sometimes with a delicious dessert afterward. But as both the number of commune members and Harve’s own personal power increased, the Disciples’ Bibles were taken away, and only the Prophet permitted to speak. Forced to sit cross-legged on the concrete floor before him for four or five hours at a time, after long days of labor, his listeners—even little ones—were forbidden to doze or make any sound except “Amen,” or “As God wills.”

      Or clap at the Prophet’s tuneless songs and laugh at his jokes.

      Pictures of the Anointed Prophet and Exalted Prophetess and crudely-printed posters of their stern admonitions graced the Teaching Room’s unpainted concrete-block walls. And where an untrained but joyful choir once boomed out glad hymns and praise songs—accompanied by an old spinet piano and several guitars (including Melinda’s)—now the only music allowed was the Prophet’s off-key singing of his own “psalms,” while he banged on his bongo drums.

      But today the Messenger hurried her past that room to a narrow metal door lettered crudely, “Repent or die!” He flung it open, revealing a steep flight of stairs dropping off into total darkness. The Catacombs!

      “Go!” he ordered. Then a shove sent her reeling downward into the blackness as the door clanged shut behind her.

      Falling hard on her right ankle, she was blinded by pain. And, as suddenly, by flashlights.

      `“Get up, woman!” barked an unseen voice. “The Prophet is waiting.”

      “My ankle—” she gasped.

      “Silence! Do you want to anger the Prophet?”

      Swallowing her moan, she struggled upward. Leaning against one wall for support, she managed to make it along the narrow hall. At its end, another door flung open, and Melinda was shoved inside.

      The Place of Inquiry.

      A single candle lit the bomb-shelter-like room. Immediately a sickly-sweet odor—like the pot Melinda remembered from Harve’s pre-conversion days—assaulted her nostrils. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. Taped haphazardly around the rough concrete walls were pictures of America’s President and other Government officials—all scribbled over with doodlings and obscenities. Unseen small animals scurried among the piles of newspapers, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, spent shells, French fry cartons and empty beer cans littering the filthy floor, along with whips, clubs, and electric cattle prods. While two huge speakers blared raucous music so loud it seemed to vibrate through Melinda’s own body.

      The Prophet squatted lotus-fashion in worn jeans and camouflage T-shirt on a faded piece of linoleum, beating away on his drums in time to the music. The unkempt curls and beard of his college days had long since been discarded for a smooth chin and closely-shaved skull, like those of his skinhead guards. A widening waist spilled out over a massive silver belt buckle and elaborately-tooled holster. At his feet dozed his just-as-well-fed favorite pit bull, The Avenging Angel.

      Only the chain around the Prophet’s neck with its large Sign of the Anointed—solid gold in contrast to his guards’ silver ones—marked him as the Prophet instead of just another aging militia wannabe.

      That and his well-worn Bible.

      And his combat boots, glistening Glock pistol, and AK-47.

      “Kneel!” ordered his guards, forcing her to the floor with their rifle-butts.

      At first the Prophet simply kept on playing. Finally he stopped and turned to her.

      “Sister Abigail,” he intoned solemnly, “the Prophetess and I have known you and your husband for many years.”

      Yes, Harve, almost eleven years now. An eternity of wanting to believe in you. Josh kept pointing out how you were “ministering” night and day. He said you witnessed to unbelievers—that you spent hours praying and studying your Bible and listening to God. That you and Agnes needed the money the rest of us earned to pay for this ministry. That’s why we all hung in there. What happened?

Скачать книгу