Blood Test Page 24

  The optimism came to an abrupt halt in Volume X: I opened to newspaper clippings reporting the freak frost that had decimated the cherimoya grove. There were descriptions of the agricultural damage wrought by the cold winds and projections of rises in food prices clipped from San Diego papers. A mournful feature on the Swopes specifically had been printed in the La Vista Clarion. The next twenty pages were filled with jagged, obscene scribbles, the paper deeply indented often to the point of tearing; the pen had been used to stab and slash.

  Then new experimental data.

  As I turned the pages, Garland Swope’s fascination with the grotesque, the stillborn, and the deadly evolved before my eyes. It started as theoretical notations about mutations, and rambling hypotheses about their ecological value. Midway through the eleventh volume was the chilling answer Swope found to those questions: “The sublimely repugnant mutations of otherwise mundane species must be evidence of the Creator’s essential hatefulness.”

  The notes grew progressively less coherent even as they increased in complexity. At times Swope’s handwriting was so cramped as to be illegible, but I was able to make out most of it—tests of poison content on mice, pigeons, and sparrows; careful selection of deformed fruit for genetic culture; culling of the normal, nurturance of the defective. All part of a patient, methodical search for the ultimate horticultural horror.

  Then there was yet another turn in the convoluted journey through Swope’s mind: in the first chapter of Volume XII it appeared he’d dropped his morbid obsessions and gone back to working with annonaceae, concentrating on a species Maimon hadn’t mentioned: a. zingiber. He’d conducted a series of pollinization experiments, carefully listing the date and time of each. Soon, however, the new studies were interrupted by accounts of work with deadly toadstools, foxglove, and dieffenbachia. There was a gleeful emphasis upon the neurotoxic qualities of the last exemplified by a footnote attributing the plant’s common name, dumb cane, to its ability to paralyze the vocal chords.

  This pattern of shifting between his pet mutations and the new annona became established by the middle of the thirteenth volume and continued through the fifteenth.

  In Volume XVI, the notes took on an optimistic tone as Swope exulted in the creation of “a new cultivar.” Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, a. zingiber was discarded and dismissed as “showing robust breeder potential but lacking any further utility.” I put my strained eyes through another hundred pages of madness and set the binders aside.

  The library contained several books on rare fruit, many of them exquisite editions published in Asia. I looked through all of them but could find no reference to annona zingiber. Puzzled, I searched the shelves for suitable reference material and pulled out a thick dog-eared volume titled Botanical Taxonomy.

  The answer was at the end of the book. It took a while to comprehend the full meaning of what I’d just read. An unspeakable conclusion but agonizingly logical.

  As the insights hit I was seized with acute claustrophobia and grew rigid with tension. Sweat ran down my back. My heart pounded and my breathing quickened. The room was an evil place and I had to get out.

  Frantically I gathered up several of the blue cloth binders and placed them in a cardboard box. I carried it and my tools down the ladder, bolted the bedroom, and rushed to the landing. Teetering with vertigo, I ran recklessly down the stairs and crossed the frigid living room with four long strides.

  After fumbling with the latch I managed to throw open the front door. I stood on the rotting porch until I caught my breath.

  Silence greeted me. I’d never felt so alone.

  Without looking back I made my escape.

  22

  ALONG WITH everyone else, I’d dismissed Raoul’s conviction that Woody Swope had been abducted by the Touch. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  I’d seen no aberrant crops growing in the gardens of the Retreat, which meant Matthias had lied about buying seeds from the Swopes. On the surface it seemed a petty falsehood, serving no purpose. But habitual liars often lace their stories with demitruths for the sake of realism. Had the guru fabricated a casual connection between his group and the Swopes in order to obscure a deeper relationship?

  The lie stuck in my craw. Along with the memory of my first visit to the Retreat, which, in retrospect, seemed suspiciously well orchestrated. Matthias had been too gracious about my intrusion, too pliant and cooperative. For a group that had been described as reclusive, the Touch had been strangely willing to endure scrutiny by a total stranger.

  Had the generous welcome meant they had nothing to hide? Or that they had hidden their secret so well that discovery was out of the question.

  I thought of Woody and allowed myself the luxury of hope: the boy might still be alive. But for how long? His body was a biochemical minefield ready to explode at any moment.

  If Matthias and his cultists had stashed the boy somewhere on their grounds, a more spontaneous inspection was in order.

  Houten had gotten to the Retreat by driving through La Vista and turning right at a fork just outside the town limits. I wanted to avoid being seen and if my recollection of the county map was correct, the road I now traveled intersected the one from town, forming the right prong of the fork. I sped along, headlights off and soon found myself nearing the gates of the former monastery.

  Once again I hid the Seville under tall trees and walked to the entrance on foot. The bolt cutter was in my waistband, the flashlight in my jacket pocket, and the crowbar up one sleeve. I wouldn’t stand a chance in an electrical storm.

  My hopes for surreptitious entry were dashed by the sight of a male cultist patrolling inside the gates. His white uniform stood out in the darkness, the loose-fitting garments billowing, as he walked back and forth. A leather stash bag swung from the sash around his waist.

  I’d come too far to turn back. A plan presented itself. I moved forward cautiously. Closer inspection revealed the guard to be Brother Baron, nee Barry Graffius. This cheered me greatly. I’m not a violent person by inclination and had begun to feel more than a little guilty about what I was about to do. But if anyone deserved it, Graffius did. The rationalization didn’t remove the guilt, but it did serve to lower it to a tolerable level.

  I timed my footsteps to coincide with his and drew closer. Unloading my tools, I waited, concealed behind high shrubbery, but able to see him through the branches. He continued his walk for a few minutes, then obliged me by stopping to scratch his rear. I gave a low hiss and he snapped to attention, straining to locate the source of the sound. Edging closer to the gate he peered out, sniffing like a rabbit.

  I held my breath until he resumed pacing. Another pause, this one deliberate, inquisitive. Hiss. He reached under his blouse and drew out a little pistol. Stepped forward, pointing the gun in the direction of the sound.

  I waited until he’d stopped and listened three more times before hissing again. This time he let out a curse and pressed his belly up against the iron bars of the gate, eyes wide with suspicion and anxiety. He raised the weapon, moved it in an arc like a turret gunner.

  When the barrel was pointing away from me I rushed him, grabbed the gun arm and yanked it forward through the bars. A sharp perpendicular twist against the metal made him cry out in pain and drop the weapon. I put my fist in his solar plexus and as he gasped, employed a little trick I’d learned from Jaroslav. Grabbing his neck, I felt for the right places, found them, squeezed and shut down his carotid arteries.

  The choke-hold worked quickly. He went limp and passed out. As consciousness departed, his body grew heavy in my grasp. I struggled to keep my hold on him and lowered him carefully to the ground. It was tricky working through the bars but I managed to roll him over and loosen the drawstrings of the stash bag. The yield: a roll of breath mints, a small sack of sunflower seeds, and a ring of keys.

  I left him the snacks, took the keys and unlocked the gates. After retrieving the tools and the pistol, I walked through, closed and relocked the gates.<
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  Stripping Graffius was harder than it looked. I used his clothes to bind his arms and legs. By the time I’d finished I was breathing hard. After ensuring that his nasal passages were clear I gagged him with one of his socks.

  He’d be coming around soon and I didn’t want him discovered, so I lifted him over my shoulder and carried him off the path, stepping into the bed of succulents. The plants squished underfoot, moist and cold against my trouser legs. I took him through to where the wooded area began, continued several yards, and deposited him between two redwoods.

  Gathering my tools I began the walk to the Retreat.

  A pale amber light shone above the door of the cathedral. The crucifix seemed to float above the belfry. A pair of male cultists patrolled the entrance at ten minute intervals.

  I took my time crossing the viaduct, crouching to avoid detection, concealing myself behind the columns of the arbor. An arched gate was set into the wall to the right of the main building. When the time was right I made a run for it, found it unlocked, and walked through.

  I was in one of the many courtyards I’d noticed during my first visit, a grassy rectangle rimmed on three sides by a hedge of eugenia. The church wall formed the fourth. At the far end of the lawn was a brass-topped sundial.

  Draperies had been drawn over the clerestory windows, but a crescent of light escaped from one and whitened the grass. I bounded over to look but the windows were too high to see through, the stucco walls free of toeholds.

  I searched for something to stand on, saw only the sundial. It was solid stone, far too heavy to carry. Roots had wrapped themselves around the base. By rocking it back and forth I was able to free it from its earthly mooring. Laboriously I rolled it to the window, hoisted myself up, and peeked in through folds of brocade.

  The huge domed room was brightly lit, the biblical murals vivid to the point of vulgarity. Matthias sat in its center, cross-legged and naked, on a padded mat. His long body was as thin as a fakir’s, soft and pale. Other mats ringed the periphery of the cathedral. Cultists squatted on them, fully garbed, men to the left, women to the right.

  The pine table that had been at the center of the room during my first visit was pushed back behind the guru. One of the men— the black-bearded giant from the vineyard—stood by it. Several red porcelain bowls sat on the table. I wondered what was in them.

  Matthias meditated.

  The flock waited silently and patiently as their shepherd retreated into an internal world, eyes closed, palms pressed together. He swayed and hummed and his penis began to harden, tilting upward. The others gazed at the tumescing organ as if it were sacred. When he was fully erect he opened his eyes and stood.

  Stroking himself, he regarded his followers with authoritarian smugness.

  “Let the Touch begin!” he thundered in a deep metallic voice.

  A woman rose, fortyish, pudgy, and fair. She walked daintily to the table. Blackbeard inserted a golden straw into one of the bowls. The woman stooped and put her nose to it, sniffed hard and inhaled the powder up into her sinuses.

  The cocaine must have been high-quality. It took effect quickly. She swooned and grinned, broke into a giggle and did a little dancelike shuffle.

  “Magdalene,” called Matthias.

  She walked to him, undid her clothes and stood naked before her master. Her body was pink and plump, the buttocks marbled and stippled. She knelt and took him in her mouth, licking, nibbling, breasts bobbling with each movement. Matthias rocked on his heels, gritting his teeth with pleasure. She serviced him as the others watched until he pushed her head away and gestured for her to go.

  She rose, walked to the left side of the cathedral and stood in front of the men, arms at her sides, completely at ease.

  Matthias spoke the name “Luther.”

  A short man, bald and stooped, with a full gray beard, stood and disrobed. Upon command he went to the table, received a giant snootful of coke from the giant. Another stage direction from Matthias led him and the chubby woman to the center of the room. She dropped to her knees, teased him hard and lay down on her back. The bald man mounted her and they copulated frantically.

  The next woman to dip into the snow and kneel before the guru was tall, bony, and Spanish-looking. She was paired with a heavily built, bespectacled, florid man who looked like he’d been an accountant in a former life. He had an unusually small penis and the angular woman seemed to swallow it whole as she worked energetically to arouse him. Soon the two of them joined the first couple in the horizontal dance on the cathedral floor.

  The third woman was Delilah. Her body was freakishly youthful, lithe, and firm. Matthias kept her with him longer than the first two and had four other women join in. They ministered to him like drones servicing a queen bee. Finally he released them and assigned them partners.

  In the course of twenty minutes a fortune in coke had been consumed, with no letup in sight. I saw people go back for seconds and thirds, all in response to commands from Matthias. When one bowl was depleted the giant simply shoved his straw into another.

  The padded mats held a writhing mass of wriggling bodies. The scene was sexual without being sensual, depressingly lacking in spontaneity, a mindless ritual, codified, choreographed, and based on the whims of one megalomaniac. A nod from Matthias and the cultists tumbled and thrust. The crook of an eyebrow and they heaved and moaned. I couldn’t help being reminded of the maggots blindly burrowing through the meat in Garland Swope’s greenhouse.

  A roar rose from the cultists. Matthias had spurted. Women scurried to lick him clean. He lay back, sated, but their attentions made him hard again and the action resumed.

  I’d seen enough. Climbing down from the sundial, I walked quietly to the gate. The two sentries were approaching from the right, brown-bearded, grim-faced, and goose-stepping in rhythm. I stepped back into the shadows until they had passed. When they’d turned the corner I sprinted out of the courtyard and raced to the iron-banded front door. Pulling it open a crack I peeked through and found the entrance unguarded. From behind the doors of the sanctuary came sounds of muffled bleating and the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh.

  To the left was the dead end punctuated by Mathias’s office. I ran to the right, nearly tripping over a potted palm in my haste. The corridor was empty and white. I felt as conspicous as a roach on a refrigerator. If discovered, I was a dead man: I’d seen the coke cache. I had no idea how long the orgy down the hall would last, or if the sentries’ circuit took them indoors. Speed was of the essence.

  I searched the laundry room, the kitchen, the members’ library, looked for hidden tunnels, false walls, secret stairways. Found nothing.

  Using a master key I discovered on the ring I’d taken from Graffius, I conducted a fruitless search of each room. Halfway through there was one false alarm: sudden movement under the bedcovers of one of the beds. For one heart-stopping moment I thought my search was over. But the body under the blanket was adult, male, hirsute, and thick, the face above it red-nosed, open-mouthed, and mottled: a cultist sleeping off a cold. The man stirred under the beam of my flashlight, passed wind, and rolled over, dead to the world. I left quietly.

  The next room was Delilah’s. She’d kept some of her old reviews and press clippings in the bottom of a drawer filled with plain cotton underwear. Other than that her sleeping quarters were as barren as those of the others.

  I went from room to room, checking another dozen cells before coming to the one I remembered was Matthias’s. The door wouldn’t respond to any of the keys on the ring.

  I used the crowbar. The bolt was a long one and wouldn’t surrender until the door was nearly shattered. Anyone passing by would notice the damage. I slipped inside, taut with pressure.

  It was as before. Identical to the others except for the small bookcase. Low ceilinged. Cool. Walled and floored with stone. Dominated by a hard narrow bed covered with a coarse gray blanket.

  The humble domicile of a man who’d forsaken the pleasures o
f the flesh for those of the spirit.

  Ascetic. And false to the core.

  For the man was anything but spiritual. Minutes ago I’d watched him defile a church, drunk with power, cold as Lucifer. Suddenly the books on his shelves seemed to stare out at me. Mockingly. Righteous tomes on religion, philosophy, ethics, morality.

  Books had revealed secrets once already this evening. Perhaps they would again.

  Furiously, I emptied the shelves, examining each volume, opening, shaking, searching for false spines, hollowed out pages, clues scrawled in margins.

  Nothing. The books were pristine, bindings stiff, pages crisp and unfoxed.

  Not a single one had been read.

  The empty bookcase teetered, shifted on its base. I caught it before it fell. And noticed something.