Years later, as a young man sitting in the sun in a white wicker chair on the sweeping lawn of the mental hospital, David studied a wide spectrum of metaphysical sciences. At various times, he dabbled in theosophy, I Ching, Mesmerism, kabalism, voodoo, santeria, and even a brief fling with Satanism. He re-read Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde until the binding tore apart. The bookshelf in his tiny room was crammed with classic mystical literature including Marion Crawford’s Zoraster, H. Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines, and Florence Marryat’s Daughter of the Tropics.
Always possessed of self-awareness, David knew he was on a quest for his own identity. He read Ammonius, Buddha, Pythagoras, Confucius, Orpheus, Socrates and Jesus. He invented and re-invented himself a dozen times. First believing in a divine wisdom and moral ideals, he adhered to the motto, “There is no religion higher than truth.” Later he came to believe that he could define the truth.
He became fascinated with the early apocalypticists. He studied the teachings of Novatian and Donatus from the third and fourth centuries who prophesied the coming Armageddon. That took him to the millennialists, the Anabaptists, Waldensians, Albigenses, and Moravian Brethren. He listened to Jehovah’s Witnesses and Seventh Day Adventists, and he consumed the Bible, focusing on the apocalyptic writings of Daniel, Ezekiel and finally, the Book of Revelations.
All the while, David practiced his psychic gifts. After he was released from the hospital, he lived in a commune in Idaho populated by a motley collection of New Age dropouts, time-warped hippies and lethargic lost souls. The others gravitated to him, drawn by his piercing eyes and uncanny mental abilities. He learned the art of hypnotism and sleight-of-hand and became a compelling speaker and performer. To earn money for food and books, he ventured into town and set up a tent, amazing the locals with his mind-reading demonstrations at ten bucks a pop.
When he had honed his gifts and perfected his performance, when he determined who he was, or at least who he wanted to be, David had but two choices: he could become a carnival act or he could start a religion.
No, David thinks now. He won’t tell the psychiatrist his story. Not yet, anyway. But there is something within him, the showman, that cannot resist the center stage. It is the quality that makes him a seductive preacher. But even he knows it is built on the sin of pride. He turns to Doctor Susan Burns and says, “Do you believe that both God and Satan is within each of us?”
“Is that what you believe?”
“It is the Word. There is a constant struggle, the Lord our God against the fallen angel. Evil is such a powerful force.”
Next to Susan, Rachel stirs from her chair. “David, don’t. This isn’t the time or—”
“I can lead the flock because I know sin,” he goes on. “If I open the Seven Seals, it is because I was chosen to do so. If I am the Messiah, I am a sinful one. Even now, Lucifer’s voice rings louder than pealing church bells.”
“David!” Rachel knows what is happening, even if Susan does not. “This is between us, David. It is not to be spoken of.”
“Still, I fear I feel his hot, sulfurous breath on my neck.”
“David, please,” Rachel implores him.
He closes his eyes and lets his voice rise and fall, the words like pounding waves breaking on the shore. “And I saw a mighty angel proclaiming in a loud voice, ‘Who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll? See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has triumphed. He is able to open the scroll and its seven seals.’”
“Ain’t gonna open nothing,” James says, “unless we get that code. I figure two hours before Special Forces gets here with a hard-on for the Root of David.”
“But even as I follow my destiny,” David goes on, ignoring his old friend, “even as I prepare to be martyred as the Lamb of Christ, Satan pulls at me.”
David hits a button on the console and the blast door pops open with a pflop of its seals. He leans down behind Susan, opens her handcuffs, then roughly pulls her to her feet. As he drags her toward the open door, Rachel’s voice takes on a scolding tone, “David, we have a higher purpose.”
“Indeed, we do,” he replies, “but all work and no play makes David an even naughtier boy.”
Captain Pete Pukowlski knows his rights. Which is just what he is telling this muscle-bound son-of-a-bitch who dispenses words as if they were silver dollars.
“I am intimately familiar with the provisions of the Geneva Convention as it pertains to prisoners of war,” the captain says.
Gabriel says nothing, just gives Pukowlski a little shove as the group moves through the underground tunnel toward the missile silo.
“And under said provisions, I demand confinement in quarters commensurate with my rank.”
Gabriel separates him from the ambassadors and shoves him through the door to a storage room. Using his shotgun to nudge Pukowlski along, they move to the rear of the room and stop in front of a steel vault with a wheeled door. “Open it,” Gabriel commands.
“That’s against the regs unless we’re wearing—”
“Open it!” Gabriel pokes the shotgun barrel into the captain’s rib cage.
The captain does as he is ordered.
“Inside! Now!”
Before he can protest, Pukowlski is shoved in the back and stumbles into the vault. Gabriel slams the steel door shut and turns the wheel, locking the door. Talking to himself, for the sound cannot penetrate to the other side. “Much more appropriate.” Then he walks away, flicking off the lights. Even in the dark, the sign on the steel door is illuminated by a fluorescent orange border. Glowing ominously, it reads, “Danger — Radioactive Waste.”
-31-
Nuclear Family
Brother David leads Dr. Susan Burns down the tunnel toward the silo, passing several commando sentries whose posture straightens as they pass. David nods to them but says nothing. His mind is elsewhere. He pushes open the door to the sleeping quarters/galley and shoves Susan inside. Shadowy, with a bare concrete floor and jammed with half-a-dozen bunks, the room is illuminated by a single yellow bulb. David does not turn on the overhead lights in the Spartan room.
“Now, doctor,” he says, “before you get rid of my demons… ” He pulls out two pairs of handcuffs, and fastens each of her wrists to an overhead pipe, arms spread wide. “I’m going to show you heaven.”
He kneels down and removes her shoes. She is on tip-toes now, spread-eagle, exposed and vulnerable. David stands and places his face close to hers. She can feel his breath, warm and moist, coming faster now as he loosens her long, dark hair from a clip, then unties the bow-tie on her silk blouse.
“I thought you were a man of God,” she says, struggling for control.
He unfastens the top button on her blouse. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“I didn’t think you were a common rapist.”
Another button. “Oh, but I was never common. Surely you are capable of a more sophisticated diagnosis.”
“You’re what the medical literature would call a middle-class psychopath.”
“How bourgeois. I always imagined myself a bohemian.” He grabs Susan by the chin and twists her head, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “Come now. Tell me my symptoms. What’s bugging poor little Davy?”
Susan masks her fear, knowing part of his pleasure derives from her terror. She tries to control her breathing, aware that her face is flushed. Her arms are already growing heavy, and she feels the damp cold from the floor against her bare feet. “I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”