Rage, page 23
Blaize realized that Mother Moon’s appeal was her gentle reassurance, the voice of a loving mother in a world gone mad. For those who wanted to return to the safety of childhood, Mother Moon was a haven, the family they craved. She appealed to a society held hostage by crime and federal dictates, a society powerless and impotent, which yearns for the gentle reassurance of a mother’s touch.
Mother Moon offered hope and salvation. But at what expense? She fed the dreams of desperate followers with talk of fate and cosmic destiny. She made them believe they had a divine mission in a world that had stripped them of control.
On stage, Mother Moon’s sermon was building toward a climax as she whipped her followers into a fanatical frenzy. “We will CHANGE the WORLD. The time is NOW.” Her eyes flickered momentarily to the left.
Blaize followed Mother Moon’s gaze, searching for the Judas in their midst. Then she saw it. Flickering candlelight reflected off the steel-blue barrel of a gun. Rising. Aiming.
Mother Moon glanced up and raised her hands in a gesture of blessing, but she made no effort to escape. She never even flinched.
“Noooo!” Blaize screamed. Heads turned. Bodies shifted. Mother Moon caught her gaze, looked deep into her eyes and smiled, as if confirming a secret only the two of them shared. Then she shook her head from side to side, silently warning Blaize not to interfere.
Blaize jumped to her feet, pushing through a barricade of bodies. Running, even though she knew she couldn’t reach the stage on time.
“Look out,” she yelled. But Mother Moon didn’t move and Blaize realized with horror that she knew what was about to happen. She knew and she welcomed becoming a martyr to the cause. This was the scene Algernon had predicted.
But still Blaize ran. And she continued running even when she heard the blast and saw Mother Moon’s arms flung outward in mock crucifixion. New blood formed a lopsided star, stark against the pristine robes of the dying woman.
From the choir, a young voice cried out in horror. “Mother!” Joey screamed, his arms outstretched in imitation of his mother’s death throes. On his forehead, in stark crimson against his pale skin, burned a bloody stigmata shaped exactly like the lopsided death stain on his mother’s breast.
There was movement behind him. A face she recognized. Oh my God, Joyce!
Ignoring the carnage on stage, Blaize reversed her direction and ran toward the choir. Toward Joyce, her missing friend, who cradled the grieving child in her arms.
Gate had almost reached the stage in time. Almost, but not quite. The shot cleaved the night in two, a hushed silence on one side of it, hysterical frenzy on the other as the crowd screamed with one voice. People jumped and scattered. Someone grabbed the assassin and threw him to the ground just as Gate reached Mother Moon on stage. All he could think of was that there should be more blood. A direct shot to her heart and the only blood was a small, scarlet star over her breast painted in blood.
Her breath came in short, quick inhalations that reminded Gate of Lamaze breathing. Up close, he was surprised at how young she seemed. “Hang on,” he said. “Help will be here soon.”
“No,” she gasped. She smiled again, that same all-knowing, all-forgiving smile, and patted his hand as if he was the one in need of reassurance. “It was ordained. Now my children can move forward.”
Gate felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Oswald Gaderian pushing him aside to cradle Mother Moon in his arms. “You couldn’t have stopped it,” he whispered. Gate stared in amazement. Gaderian had a faint mark on his forehead identical to the bloodstain on Mother Moon’s robes.
He looked around. All of Mother Moon’s followers stood in solemn attendance, as if the shock had rooted them to the spot in mournful silence. Each and every one of them wore the stigmata of Mother Moon’s death wound—a strawberry-red star on their forehead.
Mother Moon’s disciples had been born.
Gate watched the procession with dawning understanding. Where before they were simply followers, now each was a leader who would recruit a hundred more. And each of those would gather a hundred more followers, multiplying and spreading Mother Moon’s message until it circled the globe. No bullets would stop them, for violence would only make them stronger. All they’d needed was a sacrificial lamb, a martyr to give meaning to their conviction.
He looked at Mother Moon draped across Gaderian’s lap in a pose strikingly similar to Michaelangelo’s “Pietà”. She’d known. She’d known all along that the only way to give them her strength was to die for them.
Suddenly Mother Moon shuddered and gasped with a quick intake of breath. Her eyes flew open and a smile lit up her face. She turned her head and stared across the room. Gate followed her gaze and saw Joey standing with the choir, his arms outstretched, the stigmata of his mother’s death wound bleeding on his forehead. “The Messiah,” she murmured. “A child will lead us.” With a final gasp, Mother Moon died.
As the full meaning of her dying words sunk in, Gate stared across the auditorium at Joey. There’d be no more carefree days for the boy. His childhood was over. Baptized by blood, he was now his mother’s successor.
Then Gate saw movement and realized Blaize was running toward the choir—toward Joey. “No,” he whispered, watching Blaize make her way through the crowd toward the boy. They wouldn’t let her near him. There was no telling what these religious zealots would do to protect their new leader. Blaize was in danger. He had to get her out of there.
Despite the horror that had just taken place, Blaize was overcome with relief to find her friend alive and safe. “Joyce! Oh Joyce, I was so worried about you.”
She pushed through the crowd and reached out toward her friend and the boy, but Joyce slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch him,” she said. “Stay away from him.”
Joey turned, his voice full of anguish. “Season. Oh, Season, she’s dead. Mother’s dead.” Joyce wrapped him in her arms, soothing him with a hushed voice.
Season? Who the hell was Season? Did Joyce have amnesia or something? “Joyce,” Blaize cried, grabbing her arm. “It’s me. I wouldn’t hurt—”
“Just stay away.” Joyce’s voice held an ominous warning. She shielded the boy with her body. Then there was a glimmer of recognition in her eyes that came and fled in an instant as she pushed Blaize aside.
“Joyce, I’ve been looking all over for you. Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”
“You have to get out of here,” Joyce hissed. “It’s not safe.”
That was when Blaize noticed people closing in on her, their eyes dark with suspicion.
“Go!” Joyce hissed. “There isn’t time to talk now. Meet me at the fountain at midnight and I’ll explain everything.”
“But—”
Then Gate was beside her, tugging her arm and leading her away. She looked back to see people following them, their movements slow but purposeful. Without further urging she walked faster, matching Gate’s step. Then they were running, running through the open doors, running beneath the moonlit night.
Running for their very lives.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Spyder couldn’t wait any longer. Despite his father’s protests, he had to get moving. Blaize needed him and it might already be too late.
He’d refused the painkillers Dr. York had offered, determined to get by with only non-addictive pain relievers. He’d allowed Pops to take care of him, feed and bathe him as if he were a child again. But in the end he’d had to go, despite his father’s arguments that he wasn’t fit to be out of bed yet.
“What’s so important it can’t wait a few days?” Pops had asked, following him down the porch to the Jeep.
There was no way he could explain it all to his father, so he’d kept it simple. “Blaize is in danger,” he’d said, climbing into the Jeep and trying not to look as shaky as he felt. “She needs me, Pops. And I need her. I need her if I’m ever going to find myself again.”
“I don’t know what the two of you have gotten yourselves into,” Pops said. “But was it worth losing your hand for?”
“Yes,” Spyder had assured him, reaching around to pull the door closed with his good hand before turning the key in the ignition. “She’s worth it.”
Pops hadn’t argued after that, but he’d stood on the edge of the driveway staring after the Jeep as Spyder drove away, looking smaller and older than he’d ever looked before. Spyder vowed that once Blaize was safe he’d take better care of his father. He’d be a good son, the kind of man Pops could be proud of.
He swallowed six Motrin and headed north. The pills only dulled the pain, softening some of the sharp edges without easing the torment. But even worse than the pain was the constant flexing of phantom fingers on a hand that no longer existed. Squeezing and releasing, squeezing and clenching, squeezing and grasping.
Squeeze all you want, he grimaced. You’ll never hurt her now. Never.
He’d lost all sense of time in the days after the amputation, but there was no doubt in his mind that Pierce’s second book had been released ahead of time.. He wasn’t sure how or why, but they’d lost even that small cushion of time. The book was out now. His hands told him so. That meant Blaize was in even greater danger. Despite the brave voice that had played back on his answering machine, he’d heard the tremor of fear lurking below the surface and it had tugged at his heart.
He used his bandaged left forearm to steady the steering wheel while he shifted with his right hand, wincing with the pain. He didn’t need pain medication. He was fueled by adrenaline and fear. He had to get to Blaize and he had to get to her now. But at least he no longer posed a danger to her. He couldn’t strangle her with only one hand. No matter how many people read Algernon Pierce’s new book, no matter how fiercely his phantom digits flexed, there was no way he could duplicate the prophesy of this particular written word. He would need two hands to do that—and he only had one.
He merged onto the Northway. Twisting in his seat to check traffic, he accidentally slammed the bandaged stump of his left arm against the door. A shock of pain shot through him. “Oh shit, oh fuck, God-DAMMIT all to hell,” he screamed. He bit his bottom lip to keep from blacking out while the Jeep jerked and wove between lanes, trailed by blaring horns, flashing lights and screeching tires. He pulled over to the shoulder, making little whimpering sounds he couldn’t control until finally the pain eased to a blistering throb.
“Some fuckin’ hero I am,” he gasped, hot tears stinging his eyes. Bandaged and crying and fighting to keep from passing out. Yeah, I’ll be a real big help, he thought grimly. He took several deep breaths, fighting for control.
Grinding gears and gritting his teeth, he pulled out onto the highway again. “I may not be much,” he snarled, resolve hardening his voice. “But I’m all she’s got.”
There was no sign of life or movement in the darkness, but Blaize felt as if there were a thousand eyes focused on them as they waited by the fountain.
“It’s after midnight,” she said. “Where’s Joyce?”
Gate didn’t seem to hear her. He paced, raking his fingers through his hair.
“She knew,” he muttered. “Son of a bitch, she knew all along.”
Blaize nodded. She knew he was talking about Mother Moon. They’d gone over and over this since they’d escaped the auditorium, but it was as if Gate needed to say it again, hear it again.
“She was their sacrificial lamb,” he said. “A martyr for the movement. It was the only way to ensure Joey’s succession to the throne. It wasn’t Pierce, but his sister who planned the whole thing. Pierce was just her pawn.”
“Yes.”
“You were right about the books,” Gate admitted. “You were right about Pierce. But he’s not the villain here. It wasn’t his vision. Somehow she planted the seed in his mind. He was only writing what his sister fed him.”
“The tapes,” Blaize whispered.
“What?”
“The tapes we found,” she said with sudden insight. “They seemed innocent, just relaxation tapes. But there must have been subliminal messages on them.” It all started to fall into place. “She fed the ideas directly into his subconscious. All he had to do was write them down.”
Gate stopped pacing and stared at her thoughtfully. “She must have realized the power his books had long before she set this plan into motion.”
“Yes. After the first murders spawned by his book ten years ago. Joey would have been just a baby then. Maybe she’d already planned his future and saw this as the perfect opportunity to ensure its success.”
“But then Pierce stopped writing and swore he’d never write another word.”
Blaize nodded. “There was no one else she could manipulate,” she said. “No one else whose work was popular enough to be read by the sheer number of people necessary to trigger a universal belief. That’s the key here. It was the collective force of millions of minds reading and believing at the same moment that brought his words to life.”
“So she needed Pierce to write again. And you think she used those tapes to feed him the script?”
“I’m sure of it,” Blaize said. “What did Pierce say when you interviewed him? Did he say why he started writing again after all this time?”
Gate frowned. “Yes. He said he was compelled to write. Driven. As if he had no choice.”
“That makes sense, then.”
Gate shook his head. “Okay, we know the who and the how, but why? Why us, and why you in particular?”
“I think I know the answer to that,” Blaize replied. She told Gate what she remembered about delivering the baby in the school lavatory. “She was raving at the time. I thought it was due to the pain and fear, but I guess it was more than that. She was already going over the edge. And whatever delusions she had then, have only grown stronger over the years. All this…” she waved her arm, the gesture taking in the commune and including Pierce and everything that had happened to them up to this point. “All this can be traced back to that moment when she convinced herself she was giving birth to the Messiah.”
“And she thinks you’re some kind of guardian angel? That’s why she made sure Pierce got you here?”
Blaize nodded. “My being here closes the circle.”
Gate shook his head. “All these years she’s been planning, waiting, collecting followers and training her son to take over the world.” He stopped and frowned. “One thing still puzzles me,” he said. “Who shot Mother Moon?”
Blaize shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. Pierce signed her death warrant the moment he put pen to paper. Everyone who read and believed his writing had a hand in killing her, too. And if we’re right and she fed Pierce the idea in the first place, then you could argue that she herself committed suicide. Whoever pulled the trigger was the last person in line as far as Mother Moon’s death was concerned.”
Then another thought struck her. “Gate? Pierce hasn’t delivered the final book. The editor’s copy was garbled, remember? And we couldn’t find anything on Pierce’s computer or anywhere in his house. It must be here.”
He sat beside her on the edge of the fountain. “Most likely Pierce has the backup disk here with him. We have to find it and stop him from publishing the final book. The question is, how do we get to Pierce?”
“Maybe Joyce will help us find him.”
“I’m afraid not.” The gravelly voice startled them both. Neither had heard Gaderian arrive. “You see,” he said. “Joyce sent me here in her place.”
For the second time tonight, thoughts of Judas crossed Blaize’s mind.
Gaderian crossed his arms over his chest. “Joyce is one of us now. See, you should have figured out on your own to come here long before now. Since you didn’t, we had to use Joyce as bait. It was the only way we could get you here.”
He gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. “So, you seem to have put everything together. Not that it matters. I’m happy to say that, due to popular demand, the second book of The Play went on the shelves today. A bit sooner than expected, but that works out for everyone involved…except the two of you, of course.”
He smirked at their shocked expressions. “Pierce has already signed your death sentence.” He pointed at Gate, mocking him with false sympathy. “You died in a fire at Pierce’s house. Something about a faulty computer, I believe.”
He turned to Blaize. “And you, my dear, were strangled to death by your lover. You’ll be pleased to know he found it intensely stimulating. He screamed when he came.” Gaderian made a tsk-tsking sound and shook his head. “You didn’t, however. You had no breath left to scream.”
Blaize shivered, thinking of Spyder’s hands around her neck. It was too close to the truth.
“So you see,” Gaderian continued. “You’re both dead already. You just don’t realize it since the book hasn’t been read yet.”
Blaize struggled to take it all in. There was no satisfaction in knowing she had been right about her theory.
“What about Mother Moon?” Gate asked. “You both knew what Pierce had written. How could you let her die?”
A shadow crossed Gaderian’s face, making him seem almost human. “It was a necessary gamble,” he said. Then his face brightened. “But again, it doesn’t matter. You see, in the final book of The Play young Joey will raise his mother from the dead and there will be no doubt in the eyes of the world who he is, who he has become. So you see, we’ve covered all the bases.”
Blaize shook her head. They were all mad!
Gaderian smiled, as if reading her thoughts. “You still have doubts? But don’t you see? You’re our proof, our guinea pig, so to speak. Granted you were a little harder to control than we expected, and there were some surprises along the way. But all in all, things went according to plan.”
He pursed his lips and looked off into the distance, frowning. “Spyder was a little bit of a disappointment, however. Either he was stronger than we realized, or all those years of pickling his brain cells made him…um, let’s just say a little less susceptible to the focused power of mass consciousness.”
