The Trinity (46 page)

He will also come to regret not being in the barracks on this afternoon. If he were in his room, he would find Karen standing at his door, wanting to warn him about the inaction of the chain of command and of her decision to take another course of action.

She wants to talk to the Scottish police, and knows the small office in the village of Lutherkirk is the logical station to go to, as the base would obviously fall under its jurisdiction.

But she needs Chris to go with her, as he is the only link to the activity of Father Crowley and his Trinity.

She gets his room number from the Scottish gentleman on duty in the barracks office. He tries to summon Chris via an intercom system that is present in every room. There is no answer, and, boldly, Karen marches up the steps to find his room. She bangs on the door. There is no answer. Impatiently, Karen paces along the balcony for nearly fifteen minutes, smoking four cigarettes in a nearly continuous inhalation.

She leaves as her intuition tells her Chris won’t be around for a while, and against her intuition, she decides not to go to the Tayside Police. It can wait till Monday, she decides, upon the conclusion of their day watch. She goes home to Brechin and spends the day and evening in melancholy, staring at photographs from her past, thinking about the possibilities of her life, what those possibilities were, and what they are now. She knows now she will stay in the Navy as long as possible, until they tell her it’s time to go. Then, maybe, she will find some small town somewhere in the center of the United States and live simply off of her retirement, spending her days reading books and still wondering about what her life’s possibilities could have been. She sees herself very much alone, but she knows she would be happier in the company of someone else, someone who would want to live a simple life, someone who can understand the disappointment that life can bring, the disappointment that one’s own loved ones can bring.

She thinks of Chris. His life has been similar, in a way. He too has felt unloved by the people he has spent all of his life loving.

As the late afternoon comes, Chris finds his way to the barracks, knowing he can avoid his roommate no more. Soon, it will be time to go to Father Crowley’s. Chris buys a six-pack of beer from the small convenience store attached to the base exchange. It is a cheap American beer, loaded with preservatives for the purpose of export. It is barely palatable, but he forces it down, needing the alcohol to wash away the dread that goes hand in hand with his concerns about this evening.

By the time Brad returns to the room at the end of his workday, Chris has consumed three beers and is more than relaxed; he has already drowned his anxiety in a flood of alcohol. Brad sees the remaining beers attached to a plastic ring on top of the refrigerator and takes one without asking. Chris has another and leaves the sixth for Brad, who drinks his two beers in a rapid succession of long swallows. They make their way to the galley and eat a large amount of mashed potatoes and gravy and roast beef as Brad talks quietly about the deadline that is approaching at the end of next week. “I bet Father will have it all mapped out tonight, what our roles are gonna be,” he says. Even though Chris has lost much of his inhibition, he decides not to tell Brad of his decision. He just nods and eats, scraping his nearly empty plate with a spoon.

Shortly after eating, they find themselves in a taxicab driving in the fading daylight through the village of Lutherkirk, heading to Father Crowley’s.

Chris is feeling pleasant, enjoying the ride, but as he passes the castle in Lutherkirk, just a quarter mile or so from the priest’s cottage, the euphoric feeling of alcohol begins to give way to anxiety. He is sweating underneath his collar as the cab deposits them at the end of the gravel driveway.

His anxiety is quickly washed away by the hospitality of Father Crowley. Chris expected to read a sort of hostility in the eyes of the priest. There is nothing but warmth as he welcomes Brad and Chris and quickly brings them each a beer. They sit down on the couch in the living room, and even though the mood is ostensibly light, Chris can feel as if things have changed, that this evening is the end of something.

“So, Mr. Hinckley,” begins the priest, “I suppose Chris has told you of his change of heart. He no longer wants to be in the Trinity.”

Hinckley glares at Chris in anger, and then turns his head towards the priest with a look that is searching for an explanation.

“It’s all right, it’s all right.” The priest holds up his hand to shush Brad as he sees a protest forming on his lips. “If he doesn’t feel comfortable and if he’s not with us one hundred percent, then frankly, he’s no good to us. We’ll just have to wait. This is a war that has been going on for centuries. We can stand a setback for a few weeks or even months and maybe even years. Our day will come.

“Besides, Chris,” he says without looking at either of them, swirling wine in his silver goblet, “I love you very much, like a father loves his son. I could see you were upset in my office the other day. If a father sees that his child is upset, then he, too, feels upset. I want you to be happy, more than anything, and if you can’t stomach what needs to be done, then so be it. More beer?”

Chris and Brad both nod, and Crowley rises from his sagging chair. He stirs the coal in the fireplace and throws more on, brushing the black dust off his hands on his trouser legs. He asks Brad to come into the kitchen and help him with the beers, as he wants to grab some snacks.

Brad follows him into the kitchen obediently. They are gone for more than a moment, and Chris can hear frantic and low whispers coming from the open doorway between the kitchen and living room. Brad and Crowley return silently.

Brad returns to the couch and sits as far from Chris as possible. He continues to stare at him with loathing, as if Chris is touched with some sort of plague.

If Chris were sober, this sudden coldness on the part of Brad would have caused some alarm, but on this night, in his state of nearly complete drunkenness, he barely notices.

The priest returns to his chair at the head of the coffee table with a bottle of wine in his hand. He doesn’t release the bottle, just constantly refills his goblet as he empties it rapidly.

“Chris, I want you to remember one thing,” Crowley says as he settles into his seat. “I want you to remember one thing about this night, now, while you still can. I want you to remember that whatever happens will only happen because of the choices you’ve made. Does that make sense?” This the priest asks with an innocent smile, his eyes twinkling. And inside those eyes, Chris can see the reflection of the burning coal, the reflection causing the priest’s normally pale blue eyes to appear to be a bright red, a red that grows with intensity as the night colors the sky.

“Okay,” replies Chris calmly, returning the priest’s smile. He feels quite content right now, warmth from the alcohol, warmth from the fireplace, and warmth from the priest. In his comfort, Chris’s mind starts to wander. He wonders what Karen would think if she saw him here now. She would undoubtedly be angry. Chris wonders at what lengths he would go to to include Karen in this sick group of friends. This daydream quickly passes. Even drunk, he knows that it is an impossibility.

The priest uses his gift of inane conversation to keep the mood light, not expanding any more on the result of Chris’s choices. He shuffles beer from the kitchen almost constantly, making sure Chris always has a full can in front of him. One other thing odd that Chris would normally notice but doesn’t on this night: Crowley is constantly pulling on his penis through his pants. Chris does not notice the outline of an erection bulging behind Crowley’s zipper.     

Once again, Crowley summons Brad into the kitchen.

If Chris were more cognizant, he would also notice that Brad is drinking much less than he, and is sitting silently with arms crossed while he and the priest talk.

Brad and the priest return from the kitchen, the priest holding a beer for Chris, and Brad holding a video camera. Chris wonders why he has a camera, but doesn’t ask aloud.

Crowley is feeding Chris Valium in his beer, not quite the same amount that he fed Lee, but combined with the eight or nine tall tins of beer that Chris has consumed, the effect of the drug is rapid and severe. Chris collapses on the couch. His eyes flutter but remain open. If he were more aware, he would feel the priest’s hands grab his legs and swing them onto the floor. The priest forces Chris’s face down on the couch, placing his knees on the floor. He would also feel the priest reach around his waist to unbutton his pants and slide them down around his ankles.

He does feel the priest sodomize him. But he is too powerless to move or protest, and through the haze, the entire evening is starting to make sense to him. It lasts only a few moments as the priest pulls out in a mix of blood and excrement and semen. Chris will feel the pain later, in the morning, when he wakes up feeling a severe hangover and a feeling in his body where the priest has been.

Brad videotapes the whole thing. He doesn’t feel queasy or disgusted at all. It is a necessary act, to force Chris’s compliance.

The priest is acting out a long fantasy, and there is a bit of a letdown when it is over. In his fantasy, Chris had been a more willing participant, not a near-zombie. It is a longtime craving that he has satisfied. He now knows that he will have to do it again—and often.

Clumsily, the priest pulls Chris’s pants back up and swings his legs back onto the couch. Chris lays there motionless as his mind falls away and he lands in a dreamless sleep.

Chris wakes up to the sight of sunlight shining through the very dirty window above the priest’s chair. It takes a moment for him to recall the evening, and when he does, he is washed in dread and shame. The half-memory of the assault makes him feel lower than he ever has before, even lower than the moment he realized his family had finally disintegrated. He sits up feebly on the couch, catching the sight of a patch of dried blood gathered on the floor.

His
blood, he realizes, tenderly patting his behind, horrified.

He hears Brad sleeping on the floor, snoring loudly. He spies the camera on the mantel and makes the connection—Brad taped the whole sordid scene—and he knows from the dry taste in his mouth and the way he passed out last night that the priest drugged him somehow, with god-only-knows what.

He is startled by the sight of the priest walking out of the kitchen. He is naked except for his bathrobe, which he fails to close. He leans against the wall at the foot of the couch and smiles at Chris. Chris doesn’t return the smile.

“You see, Chris, I told you a bit of a fib before. It is not okay. You can’t leave the Trinity. We are bound by blood and a sacred oath to enforce a deadline, which is now only a week away. As intelligent and able bodied white men, we are also bound by a certain responsibility. It is up to us to liberate our race and our nations and send those of color packing and send the Zionists where they belong—straight to hell.” He pats his penis. “I just reinforced that bond, that is all, and if you should still decide to leave us, well, then,” he points to the camera, “your family back in Michigan will have to see what kind of man their son has become.”

Chris can understand the nature of blackmail. He has witnessed blackmail at least a thousand times in movies and on television. But for someone to blackmail him, that is almost unfathomable, so unfathomable that the whole thing seems unreal. And to be blackmailed in such a fashion, such a grotesque fashion...

There is one fact that the priest doesn’t know, and Chris does not enlighten him—Chris doesn’t care what his family thinks of him—and though Crowley could probably glean the address of his original home of record from his service jacket, the video tape would arrive on a stranger’s porch.

“Plus,” Crowley says with a touch of a smile, running his hands through his tousled red and graying hair, “I rather enjoyed it. Didn’t you?”

Chris thinks about flying off the couch with his arms flailing and pummeling the priest. This he decides against; he is still too feeble from the effects of Valium and his hangover, and the lower half of his body feels as if it’s been branded by a hot and sharp iron.

Instead, tears well up in his eyes. He walks out the priest’s front door as quickly as he can. He walks the long miles back to the base, not aware of the red outline of blood that is visible in the seat of his pants, causing him to be quite a sight as he walks through the village of Lutherkirk, High Street just showing the first signs of Saturday commerce.