murders—the latest unsolvable horror in a life that has become a veritable smorgasbord of awful terrors Eichord must confront; a buffet of foulness and nasty surprises, and the moment the image registers he jerks his mind fully awake before the silver tray of shit canapes and penis sausages intrudes to paralyze him yet again.
He hurries to little Jonathan's room to make sure the boy has not suffocated in his sleep. To make certain no other nameless terrors have befallen the child, sensing the chill of some envenoming presence even as he quietly turns the doorknob. And Eichord opens the door, taking his first deep, normal breath since waking as he stares into the darkness.
The glass of the doctor's window was a barrier between his spotless office and the clutter and stink of what lay beyond. It sealed out the breeze carrying a mixed scent of urban fumes and country smoke, as transportation stench and burnt fields commingled and stirred together. It had not rained for a long time and the roadside foliage had turned a dry, parched, brittle brown where the ground had gone too long without moisture. Tap roots strained down, probing the earth for life-giving water. The once-rich farmland was beginning to crack open. Things were still alive and from the distance there was the appearance of normalcy, but up close you could see they were dying.
The man looking out the window turned from the depressingly barren landscape, speaking to his patient seated on the other side of the immense, hand-carved desk.
“The mind is the most powerful medicine there is. It can heal. It can cure.'
There was a pause and the man in the chair said, very seriously, “Would you like to know what I believe, Doctor? What I REALLY believe?'
“Certainly,” the doctor said with sincerity.
“I believe that one day a hole will open in the sky and that somehow, miraculously, Shirley MacLaine shall be revealed to me. I believe that I never, to paraphrase Will Rogers, met a woman named Shirley I didn't like. I believe in the mystical significance of names. Think how many funny comedians are named Richard: Pryor, Belzer, Lewis, just to name three. I believe that the names Shirley and Richard each contain seven letters as do Lincoln and Kennedy. I believe that John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald each contain—'
“Please,” the doctor said gently, “I'm only trying to—'
“i wasn't fucking through goddamn you NEVER fucking interrupt me,” and then laughing to show he was just kidding, realizing that he had alarmed the good doctor and adjusting his face to its least frightening clown mask and becoming in that next quarter-second a scowling, jowly, pouting Nixon, saying, “Just as I told Kissinger at one of our prayer breakfasts, the mind is powerful medicine. It CAN heal. It CAN cure. Say, Henry, do you think I should burn the tapes?'
The doctor laughed heartily in appreciation and the evil and dangerous man across the desk mugged, rolled his eyes, and waved victory signs with each hand. Quite the court jester, this killer.
The day was picture-perfect and cottony billows made fanciful shapes against the blue sky. The sun shone down on the cliffs, warming the rocks underfoot, and the old man smiled, looking down at his brethren gathered before him.
“I am eager to preach gospel to you,” he said to them in his loud, pulpit voice. “For I am not ashamed of the gospel. The righteous shall live by faith.” Some of them clearly understood. Others would not immediately meet his eyes. But he knew this was always the way.
“For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes. His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse.” He stepped down onto the next plateau of huge, flat rocks, where a few of them watched him. His fierce eyes probed his congregation for backsliders and heathens.
“For even though they knew God, they did not honor Him as God, or give thanks; but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened.” He moved down among them, gingerly stepping down onto the next slab of rock. It was a fine turnout today. He supposed fifty to sixty of them had showed up.
“Professing to be wise, they became fools, and exchanged the glory of the incorruptible God for an image in the form of corruptible man and of birds and four-footed animals and crawling creatures.” He walked among the congregation without fear. A righteous man of the gospel.
“Therefore God gave them over in the lusts of their hearts to impurity, that their bodies might be dishonored among them.” His voice grew louder.
“For they exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever. Amen.
“For this reason God gave them over to degrading passions, for their women exchanged the natural function for that which is unnatural.
“And in the same way,” he said, his voice hard with unshaking conviction, “also the men abandoned the natural function of the woman and burned in their desire toward one another, men with men committing indecent acts and receiving in their own persons the due penalty of their error. Well, my children, we all know what that is now, don't we?” He was very close to them. Close to their faces.
“The Epistle of Paul to the Romans! Yes. The gospel spells out this thing that the sinners call AIDS. And just as they did not see fit to acknowledge God any longer. God gave them over to a depraved mind to do those things which are not proper.
“You know,” he said, feeling himself radiating the power of the Holy Spirit, “just a hundred years ago, a mere heartbeat of history, the big cities of the world were bastions of Christianity. New York. London. Paris. But in the year 2000, the largest cities of the world will be seething hotbeds of the anti-Christ.
“And in cities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Bombay, millions of sinners will be born, live, and die without ever hearing the word of the gospel. Unrighteousness wickedness, greed, malice, envy, murder, strife, and deceit are a way of life to these heathen. Poverty and prostitution, immorality and malnutrition, these things corrupt and degrade the peoples of the vast, anti-Christian nations.” He had them now. He could sense his congregation inching closer to him, and it filled his heart with courage.
“And they're moving to the west. These haters of God and inventors of evil. Foreign anti-Christs buying up our property, spoiling our culture, slithering into the foundations of our morality with their depraved ways.” One of his congregation touched him as he started walking again. He felt the touch against his boot as he stepped down onto the next massive slab of rock.
“We must CRUSH these nonbelievers,” he shouted, reaching for a member of his congregation.
They called him The Baptist, some of the ones who churched with him. He was something of a legend among them, but those who practiced the forbidden ways kept to themselves. They were not talkers.
He was an old man with an ordinary appearance, wearing faded blue coveralls, tan work shirt, and scuffed boots. Standing alone on the side of a sunny cliff, holding a large, writhing rattler a few inches from his face, as if daring it to strike him.
The slabs and buttresses around him were covered with coiled snakes. The Baptist and his congregation.
Daddy hated the sound of baby crying, so he began punishing baby in unusual ways. He liked using the youngster's bottom as an ashtray, for example.
The sadism would have accelerated and the boy would have been a poor candidate for survival, but fate intervened. A kindly neighbor called the police one time too often and investigating officers found the little boy alone, in a shit-filled cage, and he was rescued from Dad's loving care in time.
His foster mommy, on the other hand, adored her new baby boy. It was her habit to cover the child's rear, a scarred lunar landscape of cicatrices from cigarette burns, with loving kisses.
Soon the kisses took another turn and she found other ways of showing this strange child her deep adoration
