by Glenn Kleier
On the stairs down, she told Scotty, “The trick is to just close your eyes and move to the beat. Like you’re jello, and the music is an earthquake.”
They maneuvered onto the packed floor, dodging appendages, real and artificial. Kassandra picked a spot, handed Scotty his staff, and began gyrating. Hard to take his eyes off her, but he closed them.
An earthquake, indeed. The floor bounded under the weight of a thousand ravers, music pounding. Scotty couldn’t keep his eyes closed without stumbling, and looked to see cosplay couples writhing nearby. Batman & Catwoman, Mystique & Wolverine. Two roosters, their hair done up in Mohawk-like combs, flapped feathered arms and scratched the ground with clawed, red feet.
Amazing, the effort and expense people went to.
Kassandra shouted to Scotty, “Best costumes win $5,000 in cash.”
Suddenly a trio of dancers insinuated themselves between him and Kassandra. A muscular man in a loincloth, and two gorgeous women, one Black, one White, in clingy leotards. A panther and a leopard. The women undulated against the man, all but having sex, and Scotty wondered how they avoided splitting their skintight outfits. Until, peering closer, he gaped to realize they weren’t wearing any. Not a stitch, their attire was painted on. And glancing around with new awareness, Scotty spied more such “costumes.”
The heat was getting to him, and he navigated to Kassandra, wiping his brow, dizzy.
She shouted, “You OK?” He wasn’t sure, and she added, “Wait here,” and disappeared.
He was still vibrating when a woman approached. Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Pigtails, ruby slippers, stuffed dog in a basket.
“Oh my God,” she cried, “it is you!”
Scotty froze, and she grabbed him, crying out to everyone in earshot, “Look, it’s him. The Prophet. The Prophet of Queens.”
People took notice, gathering. A guy in a Hannibal-Lector mask and straitjacket came close, squinting, and Scotty recoiled.
“Too short,” the guy decided.
A Bride of Frankenstein agreed. “Too young.”
All the same, Alexander Hamilton thought otherwise, and more people collected. Someone tugged on Scotty’s beard, another his staff, others pawed and pinched. Just as Scotty was starting to panic, Kassandra rematerialized to snap at the pigtailed woman, “Back to Kansas, Dotty.” To the rest, she declared, “Are you nuts! Would a real Prophet of God attend an orgy?”
It created enough pause for her to spirit Scotty away. She steered him to a darker corner, slipped into his arms, and they slow-danced despite the driving beat. For how long, Scotty wasn’t sure, a dreamy blur. Then abruptly, the music died, the lights brightened, and Scotty feared his magical night was over.
But the crowd began to buzz and push toward the stage, and Scotty was surprised to see a runway jutting out twenty feet onto the dance floor. On the stage, the band and equipment had been replaced by a tall, medieval-style, wrought-iron fence bathed in eerie red light, fog rolling through. In its middle was an opening, an archway, crowned by the head of a horned demon, eyes glowing fierce. And high above, suspended in a red spotlight, hung a giant Pentagram marked with cryptic runes. Music piped over speakers, deep voices chanting a dirge.
“What’s happening?” Scotty asked, no longer having to shout.
Kassandra grinned. “You’ll see. Quick—back to the balcony.”
Floating upstairs and to their table, they gazed over the railing at men and women on stage in scanty, demonic attire. The demons wielded lit torches, strutting and dancing provocatively, giant TV screens catching all. Seconds later, Scotty was startled by a white flash in the archway, and the smoke cleared to reveal a muscular figure in Devil’s mask and spiked headdress. The demons ceased cavorting to bow to him, as a threatening voice proclaimed over loudspeakers:
“All hail His Satanic Majesty.”
The crowd cheered, and Scotty felt his palms moisten.
The Devil folded his arms on his chest, and his minions lit the spikes of his headdress with their torches. Scotty made note of the exits, wondering how the Hall got this spectacle past the fire marshal.
When the demons finished, they took their frolic to the runway, leaping, lunging, taunting and menacing the crowd. Another demon presented the Devil with a crystal human skull, and His Majesty raised it to the Pentagram high overhead as if invoking special powers. He then joined his underlings on the runway, thrusting the skull at the crowd to and fro like a diabolic dowsing tool, evoking squeals and retreats.
Suddenly the skull lit up bright red, and the Devil froze, a hunting dog on point. Above, a spotlight beamed onto the floor to target a young woman cowering in a bridal gown. Beside her, a groom in a tux turned and fled, leaving her to the demons who sprang down to seize her. They raised her up and bore her back to the stage, passing her to their cohorts as the audience howled.
A second spotlight lit up the Pentagram, and it began to descend. The demons presented the Devil with the bride, he held the skull to her again, it went red again, and she screamed again. Scotty’s mouth was dry despite gulps of champagne.
The Pentagram came to rest beside the Devil, who pointed a foreclaw at the bride. The demons took hold of her gown and rent it to pieces, leaving the poor woman in nothing but a g-string. She tried to cover herself as the throngs went wild, music and chants swelling, spotlights roving. But the demons forced her to the Pentagram, turned her face-out, and bound her to it hand and foot. The Devil raised the skull, and the Pentagram rose once more, hoisting the helpless victim high above the stage where she hung screaming and thrashing, camera’s flashing.
After an agonizing lull, there was an explosion and burst of light and smoke, and the Pentagram was lost to view. When the cloud dissipated, the woman was gone, g-string dangling from a nail as a disembodied voice proclaimed: The virgin is sacrificed.
The Hall roared, and Scotty was startled by a hand on his shoulder—a woman in a Harley Quinn costume with two pinkish drinks on a tray. Giving Scotty a lascivious grin, she shoved a drink in his hand, passing the other to Kassandra.
“What’s this?” Scotty asked.
“A toast to our night,” Kassandra said, clinking his glass.
They swigged. Bitter. But when Scotty went to set his glass down, Kassandra insisted, “Once more for good measure.” They drank again, and the woman took their glasses and left.
The music and dancing started up again, and a waiter brought more champagne. Scotty had had enough, woozy. In fact, giddy. He found himself giggling.
“Come,” Kassandra said, standing, extending a hand, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”
He rose unsteady, spilling his champagne, and the escorts came down to lend a hand. They helped him and Kassandra out to the hallway, and into the charge of a half-dozen more men, who led them a short distance to a lone door. More men awaited, frisking Scotty, taking Kassandra’s purse, admitting them into a brightly lit room full of photographers.
Scotty squinted to see an area with gold carpeting and a red, white, and blue-striped loveseat. Behind was a paneled wall and an array of American flags. Nearby stood a woman with chestnut hair, facing away, talking to a group of people.
As Scotty and Kassandra approached, the group noticed, and the woman turned…
Chapter 109
November 1, 9:42 am, Queens
Ivy sat rigid on the couch, surfing channels with Homer, Scotty snoring away in the bedroom. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. All over TV, breaking news: a short, silent video of the Prophet one-on-one last night with Ellen Shackleton.
Adding to Ivy’s confusion, the encounter didn’t appear to take place at Webster Hall, but a campaign office—in jarring contrast to the wild videos Scotty sent last night. The news gave few details, simply clips of the two looking chummy. Scotty was clearly drunk. Clear to anyone who knew him. The video never lingered on his face, but Ivy saw the glassiness.
Of course, he’d been set up. Ivy had suspected something wasn’t right whe
n awakened at 3:00 last night by a knock on the door. She’d opened on Kassandra propping Scotty against the wall, Scotty wearing an “I heart Shackleton” campaign button.
“We had a ball,” Kassandra had said, grinning, handing off Scotty’s shepherd’s staff. He sniggered and slid to the floor, and Kassandra breezed off. Ivy pulled him inside and tugged off his hoody and shoes. He smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. Dragging him to his bed, she’d rolled him in and left him passed out behind his door, roaring like a semi climbing a hill.
This morning she’d awakened on the couch to his phone ringing, rooting it from his hoody to see tons of calls. Among them, Kyle Heath and Reverend Thornton, who’d left multiple voicemails. She’d resisted checking them, knowing Scotty would be upset. But now, in light of the Shackleton development, she had no choice. The Lord’s deadline for the tape was in two hours, and Scotty showed no signs of being back among the living.
She selected Thornton’s most recent message:
“I’ve been trying to reach you, Scott. I’m devastated to tell you, after the Council saw the morning news, they decided against handing over the tape. We need the Lord’s help!”
Ivy dropped the phone and pulled Homer tight. Scotty had unwittingly secured Shackleton’s future at the expense of theirs. Fat chance now the Lord would be merciful to them, not this vengeful God. No closure for her and Scotty. No explanation for their enigmatic encounters with the divine. Their moment in the sun would end without them learning their fate, or even what was on that damned videotape—
Thunder erupted in the room, causing Ivy to jump. Homer scuttled to the bedroom, knocking the door wide, and Scotty’s snores joined the thunder in a duet.
Ten o’clock. Ivy shivered. She and Scotty hadn’t heard from Ariel in days, and given the reverend’s new message, Ivy was terrified at the thought of facing the angel alone.
She curled on the couch to wait it out.
But as thunder segued to whine, she reconsidered. While she had no faith that the Lord would forgive them, she recalled the conflict she’d often seen in Ariel’s eyes. And more important, the empathy. By throwing herself on the angel’s mercy, might Ivy persuade Ariel to reveal the fate awaiting her and Scotty? And like in the case with little Teddy, might Ariel give them a chance to change it?
Nothing to lose, she opened videochat with trembling fingers, beholding once again that ethereal face. But this time, Ariel looked distraught. Angels perspire?
“Ivy? Where’s Scott?”
“Uh, indisposed. It’s just me.”
The silver eyes grew intense. “The tape. Did you get the tape from Reverend Thornton?”
“I’m sorry, the Council refuses to give it up.”
Ariel looked more ashen than ever, if possible.
Ivy thought she heard swearing on the other end, and asked, “Who’s there with you?”
The angel seemed not to hear. “What happened last night? Scott was told not to see anyone, talk to anyone. Above all, not Ellen Shackleton!”
“I don’t know, I was gonna ask you. But I know this much, it wasn’t Scotty’s fault.”
Ariel lowered her head. “The Lord is very angry. The consequences will be dire.”
“What consequences?” Ivy moaned. “What will become of us!”
The angel faltered, her voice sounding scripted. “Fail to deliver the tape, and you, Scott, the reverend, his Council and Churches—you will all suffer the Lord’s wrath… Eternal Damnation.”
Ivy rocked back in her chair. “Oh my God! What can we do? The deadline’s in two hours!”
Ariel raised up, cheeks wet. “The Lord’s granted you an extension. Your last. If you value your souls, Thornton must deliver the tape to Scott before our session tomorrow at 10:00. Contact Thornton immediately. He must swear on his soul he’ll comply, and Scott must confirm that in person today at our two o’clock. Do you understand?”
Ivy nodded numbly, and the screen went blank with time to spare. It took a second to get her limbs moving, and she stumbled back to the bedroom. Homer lay next to Scotty, fleeing under the bed as Ivy stormed in.
“Wake up, wake up!” she cried, shaking her brother. “We’re in big trouble.”
Scotty came out of it slowly, grimacing, eyes not in sync. “Whuh?”
“I just spoke to Ariel. If we don’t get that tape, and fast, there’ll be hell to pay.”
She grabbed his face and leaned close, forcing his focus.
“Literally.”
Chapter 110
November 1, 10:08 am, Talawanda
Ariel sat in the tent in angel mode, watching with glazed eyes as Stan probed the vortex with the grabber pole. The image on his laptop showed the inside of an umbrella plant—until Max yanked the antenna from the hole, turning the screen to snow.
Stan protested, but Max snapped, “Forget the damned rabbit’s foot, it’s Defcon 1.”
Ivy Butterfield had just confirmed their worst fears. Thornton’s Council refused to surrender the tape. The team expected as much this morning, after waking to a media bomb in the archives. Last night, four years ago, paparazzi caught the Prophet chumming with Ellen Shackleton. Now, even if the Prophet’s defiant actions raised Shackleton’s numbers, the devastating tape would soon sink them.
Tia barked at Max, “Nice work, Mr. Wonderful. Now what the hell do we do?”
Ariel’s moon shot was collapsing. Once so promising, her vision had been hijacked by Max and fashioned into a fraud. A carnival con, with Ariel as shill. She had a horrible feeling how it would end. And finally, her role in this pretense, so wearing for so long, had worn through. She stood to face her friends.
“Whatever you decide,” she told them, “leave me out. I quit.”
Grabbing her laptop, she raced to the house and her room. And changing out of angel mode for the last time, she crumpled on her bed in tears.
Chapter 111
Saturday, November 1, 11:18 am, Queens
Scotty’s head throbbed. And not just from a monster hangover. He sat on the couch watching with dismay TV clips of himself in a confab with Ellen Shackleton. Head-to-head, nodding, grinning stupidly with his crooked teeth. An encounter he had absolutely no recollection of.
Ivy brought him a second mug of coffee and more aspirin. “I dare Kassandra to show her face,” she spit, shoving Scotty’s phone at him. “Call Thornton, no time to lose.”
Scotty was still working to scrape his wits together. He swilled down the pills and dialed, and Ivy turned off the TV, her hand tight on his shoulder.
A distressed voice answered, “I’m terribly sorry, Scott. When the Council saw the news, there was nothing more I could do.”
Scotty pleaded, “I was bushwhacked, like Filby did me in the City.”
“I told them as much, but their minds are made up. Have you heard from the Lord?”
“I’m afraid so. He’s furious. I’ve bad news, you better sit down.”
Thornton moaned and Scotty said, “But there’s still hope, the Lord’s granted us an extension. You’ve got till 10:00 AM tomorrow to get me the tape. And you must swear to God you will.”
“Or what?”
Scotty had difficulty forming the words. “Or it’s damnation for all of us. You, me, Ivy, the Council. The Council must listen, or it will cost us our souls.”
There came a nasty clatter, Thornton dropping his phone. Scotty feared he’d passed out.
But then came a strained whisper. “I, I hear the Lord, and I obey. I’ll deliver the tape to you personally, first thing tomorrow morning. But I must beg something of the Lord in return…”
Two o’clock, and thunder filled Scotty’s living room once more. He faced his computer, Ivy at his side clutching the cat. Her anxiety mirrored Scotty’s. And yet, their long, harrowing journey might still end well, if only the Lord would swallow His Wrath to grant a last favor.
The whine faded, and yet the videochat window on Scotty’s screen remained quiet.
Ivy grumbled, “What gives?”<
br />
A minute passed, still nothing. Then up popped that face-of-God icon from the Sistine Chapel, bearded and angry.
“A stupid epistle!” Ivy snapped. “They’re really pissed this time.”
Scotty opened it:
is thornton bringing the tape
Scotty typed:
yes, flying up tomorrow for AM session. insists on face2face w/u, has questions
A delay, and:
the lord will not allow
Ivy cried out to the screen, “Cut us some slack, for chrissakes!” and Scotty typed,
how badly u want tape
A longer delay. As they waited, Scotty noticed Ivy squinting at Mom’s plant in the corner.
“What now?” he said.
“I saw leaves moving. There’s something in there. Yuck, I think you got mice.”
“So let Homer earn his keep,” Scotty told her. She set the cat down to investigate, and Scotty turned back to the screen to see Ariel had responded.
must have absolute assurance thornton brings all copies
Scotty agreed, confirming there was only one copy, and Ariel replied,
very well
thornton surrenders tape to me in person tomorrow at 10:00
or you pay with your souls
The link ended, and Ivy said, “Wow. You made the Lord blink.”
Chapter 112
November 1, 3:16 am, Talawanda
Ariel lay on her bed trying to read, unable to keep her mind on it. Her friends seemed to have gotten the message to let her be, handling the two o’clock on their own. That session had ended an hour ago, and still no one had disturbed her. An indication things went better than expected.
Then came a knock at her door.
Tia popped her head in, and suddenly Stan and Max entered, too, all facing Ariel.
After an uncomfortable silence, Tia said, “Sorry to interrupt, we gotta talk.”
Ariel assumed, “Thornton rejected the ultimatum?”
“Actually, no. He’s agreed to hand the tape over tomorrow.”