“Thank you,” Willie said dryly. She was puzzled by Mrs. Haywood’s sudden change of voice and attitude. “I have no reason to believe George is in trouble he can’t handle.”
“He is. I feel it, I know it. It involves a woman.”
“A woman? I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“I wish I were but I’m not. There have been too many things recently, too many unexplained out-of-town trips. Where does he go? What does he do? Whom does he see?”
“Have you asked him?”
“Yes. He told me nothing, but he couldn’t hide his guilt. And what else besides a woman would he be feeling guilty about?”
“I’m quite sure you’re mistaken,” Willie said again. But this time she could hear the doubt in her own voice, and for a long time after she’d hung up she remained in the cramped, airless booth, her forehead resting against the telephone.
Eight
Finding the dirt lane that led to the Tower was more difficult than Quinn thought it was going to be. He went two or three miles beyond it before’ he realized he had missed it. He made a precarious turn, and driving very slowly, in low gear, he tried to spot the only landmark he could recall, the grove of eucalyptus trees. The piercing sun, the strain of driving around endless blind curves, the utter desolation of the country, were beginning to fray his nerves and undermine his confidence. Ideas that had seemed good in Chicote, decisions that had seemed right, looked frail and foolish against the bleak, brown landscape; and the search for O’Gorman seemed unreal, absurd, a fox hunt without a fox.
A young doe bounded out from a clump of scrub oak and leaped gracefully across the road in front of him, avoiding the bumper of the car by inches. She looked healthy and well-nourished. Quinn thought, She didn’t get that way on the food supply she’d find around here at this time of year. I must be near irrigated land.
He stopped the car at the top of the next hill and looked around. In the distance, to the east, he saw something glisten in the slanting rays of the sun. It was his first view of the Tower itself, a mere reflection of light from glass.
He released the brake and the car rolled silently down the hill. Half a mile farther on he spotted the grove of eucalyptus trees and the narrow dirt lane. Once he was on it he had a strange feeling of returning home. He was even a little excited at the prospect of being greeted, welcomed back. Then he saw one of the Brothers plodding along the road ahead of him. He honked the horn as he came alongside.
It was Brother Crown of Thorns, who had driven him to San Felice the previous morning.
“One good lift deserves another,” Quinn said, leaning across the seat to open the door. “Get in, Brother.”
Brother Crown stood rigid, his arms folded inside his robe. “We been expecting you, Mr. Quinn.”
“Good.”
“Not good, not good at all.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Pull your car off the road and leave it here,” Brother Crown said shortly. “I got orders to take you to the Master.”
“Good.” Quinn parked the car and got out. “Or isn’t that good, either?”
“A stranger snooping around inside the Tower is tempting the devil to destroy us all, but the Master says he wants to talk to you.”
“Where is Sister Blessing?”
“In torment for her sins.”
“Just what does that mean, Brother?”
“Money is the source of all evil.” Brother Crown turned, spat on the ground, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before adding, “Amen.”
“Amen. But we weren’t talking about money.”
“You were. Yesterday morning. I heard you say to her, ‘About the money...’ I heard it and I had to tell the Master. It is one of our rules, the Master’s got to know everything so’s he can protect us against ourselves.”
“Where is Sister Blessing?” Quinn repeated.
Brother Crown merely shook his head and started walking up the dusty road. After a moment’s hesitation Quinn followed him. They passed the communal dining hall, the storage shed where Quinn had spent the night, and a couple of small buildings which he hadn’t seen before. Fifty yards beyond the path rose sharply, and the steepness of the ascent and the unaccustomed altitude made Quinn breathe heavily and rapidly.
Brother Crown paused for a minute and looked back at him with contempt. “Soft living. Weak constitution. Flabby muscles.”
“My tongue’s not flabby, though,” Quinn said. “I don’t tattle to the teacher.”
“The Master’s got to be told everything,” Brother Crown said, flushing. “I acted for Sister Blessing’s own good. We got to be saved from ourselves and the devil that’s in us. We all carry a devil around inside us gnawing our innards.”
“So that’s it. I thought my liver was acting up again.”
“Have your jokes. Laugh on earth, weep through eternity.”
“I’ll buy that.”
“Buy,” Brother Crown said. “Money. Hell-words leading to everlasting damnation. Take off your shoes.”
“Why?”
“This here’s consecrated ground.”
In a clearing, on top of the hill, the Tower rose five stories into the sky. It was made of glass and redwood in the shape of a pentagon surrounding an inner court.
Quinn left his shoes outside the entrance arch which bore an engraved inscription: the kingdom of heaven is waiting for all true believers, repent and rejoice. From the inner court scrubbed wooden steps with a rope guardrail led up the five levels of the Tower.
“You’re supposed to go up alone,” Brother Crown said.
“Why?”
“When the Master gives an order or makes a suggestion, it don’t pay to ask why.”
Quinn started up the stairs. At each level heavy oak doors led into what he decided must be the living quarters of the cultists. There were no windows opening onto the court except at the fifth level. Here Quinn found the door open.
A deep, resonant voice said, “Come in. Please close the door behind you, I feel a draft.”
Quinn went inside, and in that first instant he realized why the Tower had been built there in the wilderness and why the old lady whose money had built it felt that she was getting closer to heaven. The expanse of light and sky was almost too much for the eye to take in. Windows on all five sides revealed mountains beyond mountains, and three thousand feet below lay a blue lake in a green valley like a diamond on a leaf.
The scenery was so overpowering that the people in the room seemed of no importance. There were two of them, a man and a woman wearing identical whire wool robes loosely belted with scarlet satin. The woman was very old. Her body had shriveled with the years until it was no larger than a little girl’s, and her face was as creased and brown as a walnut. She sat on a bench looking up at the sky as if she expected it to open for her.
The man could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy years old. He had a gaunt, intelligent face, and eyes that burned like phosphorus at room temperature. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he was working on a small hand loom.
“I am the Master,” he said easily and without self-consciousness. “This is Mother Pureza. We bid you welcome and wish you well.”
“Buena acogida,” the woman said as if she were translating the words to a fourth person present who couldn’t understand English. “Salud.”
“We bear you no malice.”
“No estamos malicios.”
“Mother Pureza, it is not necessary for you to translate for Mr. Quinn.”
The woman turned and gave him a stubborn look. “I like to hear my native tongue.”
“And so do I, at the proper time and place. Now if you will kindly excuse us, Mr. Quinn and I have some matters to discuss.”