by Rob Byrnes
But something had touched him at that moment. Something had given him a renewed sense of purpose.
He knew instinctively it was the hand of God.
And that was the moment Chris Cason decided that he’d no longer let the world consider him a delusional, talentless loser. He would embrace God just as God’s hand had embraced him at the top of that cliff, saving his manuscript and screenplay from certain doom.
Oh, and so much for the secular liberalism, too. Because those who tended to speak the loudest on God’s behalf didn’t abide all that touchy-feely do-gooderism. Chris Cason would follow their lead.
He would give up a lot. Not the writing, though. In fact, it was more apparent than ever that God wanted him to write. Now, though, his 832-page novel—and 347-page screenplay—would take a new direction. Ant! had been a horror / erotica hybrid with a neo-Marxist point of view about a race of mutant Ant-Women and the scientist who is their creator, oppressor, and lover. It would be easy, he knew, to substitute traditional Christian values for neo-Marxism without losing the heart of the story. In fact, the story would gain the solid moral footing that had been eluding him.
Soon he moved east and became a congregant of the Virginia Cathedral of Love. When the position opened in the security department, he was the first applicant. And now, his life back on track, he could finally complete work on Ant! and prove to God that His faith had not been misplaced.
No one would ever—ever—think of Chris Cason as a delusional, talentless loser again.
With his flashlight, he waved another car into the parking lot, and tried to imagine what sort of vehicle an Ant-Woman would drive.
$ $ $
Lisa Cochrane pulled into a parking space down the row where she’d been directed by the security officer, neatly positioning the Chrysler that had once had congressional tags evenly between the lines. She grabbed a large handbag from the backseat, checked her makeup in the mirror, and departed for the auditorium, not caring that the keys were still in the ignition.
$ $ $
The Town Car raced down Cathedral Boulevard. In the backseat, Merribaugh tried once again, for perhaps the thirtieth time since they’d left the District, to reason with the other passenger.
“Everything will probably be all right, Oscar.”
And for the thirtieth time, Dr. Oscar Hurley wasn’t buying what his second-in-command was trying to sell. “It will not be all right, Dennis. The FBI tossed our rooms, someone stole our money, and your ex-gay conference turned into a melee. Not to mention our two most prominent gays went AWOL. This has been a debacle.”
“As far as the conference goes, that’s survivable.”
“Damn right it is,” snapped Hurley. “Because as of this moment I am canceling and disavowing Project Rectitude. As far as I’m concerned, those homos can just die. The hell with trying to save them!”
“I know you’re angry, but…”
“Hell yes, I’m angry! I listened to you and tried to do something nice for them by saving them from eternal damnation in the fire pits of hell, and what did I get in return? A room full of hair-pulling, screeching queens! Well, the hell with all of them. My next sermon is going to be a demand that homosexuality immediately be criminalized. It’s time to forget salvation and return to damnation.”
The car slowed and turned onto the campus of the Virginia Cathedral of Love.
“Okay,” said Merribaugh. “I won’t fight you on that.”
“You’d better not. And if the FBI…” Merribaugh gently touched his arm and motioned toward their driver. Hurley shook him off. “After today, I don’t give a damn. If the FBI gets their hands on that money…”
“But they won’t.” On this topic, Merribaugh was calm. “They’ll never find it. Which means they can raid Cathedral House or our hotel rooms all they want, but we’re in the clear.”
“We’d better be, Dennis.” Hurley fixed him with a hard stare. “Because I am not going down alone.”
The Town Car stopped in front of the steps leading to the cathedral. The backseat passengers took a moment to compose themselves, then exited the car.
“These problems will sort themselves out. Walter Pomeroy’s version of The Sound of Music is just the sort of diversion you need to perk yourself up.”
Hurley looked up to the heavens. “I truly wish God would strike me dead right now.”
$ $ $
The wide metal offering bowl was passed parishioner to parishioner as it made its way down row after row. At the end of end of each circuit, Lisa emptied it into the oversized handbag, then handed it back for another circuit.
If anyone noticed the offering bowl had five cut-outs, each approximately the diameter of a cigarette, and each with a bit of tar residue, they didn’t say anything.
The bowl came back down the row and she emptied it into her bag, smiling as she handed it to a matronly woman sitting in an aisle seat one row back.
“Give generously to support the arts!”
$ $ $
Fifteen minutes before the curtain was to go up, a sandwich board was placed at the main entrance informing latecomers the lots were full and directing them to park along Cathedral Boulevard. That effectively ended Officer Chris Cason’s duty as a parking lot attendant, so he decided to take a stroll and make sure everything was secure.
He bypassed most of the crowd walking into the auditorium. Those would be the good Christians thrilled to see a musical about Southern Baptists in Austria fighting the Nazis, and therefore unlikely to cause any trouble. His first inspection would be the loading dock behind the buildings, because who knew what kind of ruffians were there smoking and drinking and daydreaming about fornication?
The white panel truck stood out. It was the only one without a company name spelled out on the side.
Sitting on the edge of the open back compartment were three men in coveralls. They looked up at him as he approached, without a friendly expression among them.
“Help ya?” asked a lean, frowning man with salt-and-pepper hair favoring the salt.
“Just checking,” said Cason. He looked into the back of the truck. “What are you delivering? Folding chairs?”
“Yeah.”
“But the show’s about to start. Shouldn’t these chairs be inside?”
The deliveryman rubbed his bristly chin. “These are backup folding chairs. In case they run out. We’re whatcha call Plan B.”
The security guard shrugged. “I guess that makes sense.”
$ $ $
It was eight o’clock. Dr. Oscar Hurley took a few deep breaths, then stepped from the wings, crossing slowly until he reached stage-center. He had toyed with the thought of making his customary entrance from the rear, but this hadn’t been a good day. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and two thousand people fell silent. “Welcome to the opening night of the Virginia Cathedral of Love’s new auditorium!” He waited for the applause to die down before continuing. “Tonight we have a special treat. Our musical director, Mr. Walter Pomeroy, has reimagined The Sound of Music for your listening—and spiritual—pleasure.”
Again there was applause, this time spiking as Walter Pomeroy walked out of the opposite wing. Hurley’s face dropped. He hadn’t expected this, and he certainly didn’t want to share the limelight with one of Merribaugh’s experiments in sexual rehabilitation. Not on this day; not ever.
Pomeroy approached Hurley. Smiling. Offering his hand. And then…
Embracing him.
Hurley felt his stomach lurch, and yet Pomeroy held him tighter as the audience roared.
Finally, after it had gone on far too long, Hurley whispered in the musical director’s ear. “Let me go, you sick fag.”
Walter Pomeroy pulled back, wide-eyed. “Dr. Hurley, I…”
“Just smile and wave to the crowd and pretend everything is fine. Then, tomorrow, make sure you see Rev. Merribaugh to pick up your final paycheck.”
“And now,” said Hurley, as if nothing unpleasant had just happened onstage, “I’m proud to present The Sound of Music.”
Walter Pomeroy reemerged in the orchestra pit and raised his baton, with one last, hurt look at the departing Hurley.
The overture began.
$ $ $
Lisa texted Grant to let him know Hurley was at the cathedral. They hadn’t considered he wouldn’t be in Washington, but it sort of made sense, since this was the grand opening of his five million dollar building.
They also knew his ex-gay conference had imploded, which probably lessened Washington’s appeal.
Then she took a seat in the rear of the auditorium and kept a tight grip on her handbag.
$ $ $
An hour later, they figured it was dark enough, so Chase and Constance once again propped up the easel and foam core panel with the picture of the Great Cross, blocking the camera. This time, though, they were obstructing the view of the window.
Chase had resisted opening it because he didn’t want to be distracted by Sound of Music earworms. Sure enough, the first thing he heard was the von Trapp kids singing.
“So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good-bye…”
He tried to ignore it, opening the black bag and extracting a rope ladder. Then he tied one end around the radiator under the window and stripped off his white shirt, revealing a back T-shirt underneath.
Constance’s phone buzzed. She looked at Grant’s incoming text message, then turned and talked at the rendition of the Great Cross of the Virginia Cathedral of Love.
“They’re rolling, Chase.”
“In that case,” he said to the back of the panel, “I’m going down. Wish us luck.”
She wished them a lot more than luck.
$ $ $
While they tried not to listen to The Sound of Music, Grant, Farraday, and Leonard had kept themselves busy. If Hurley was in the auditorium, there was a decent chance the Desk of Christ would have to be stolen if Grant couldn’t quickly pick the locks.
First they’d unloaded the folding chairs, each one stenciled with “St. Agnes’s Orphanage” on the back, in case they needed the room. Then they’d helped themselves to some equipment from the other delivery trucks: hand-trucks, dollies, straps, and a few tools that might prove useful.
Because this would be their last shot at seven million dollars, and none of them wanted to blow it.
Just after nine o’clock, Farraday got behind the wheel and began gently driving the half mile down the road to Cathedral House as the von Trapp kids wished them “So long, farewell…”
$ $ $
Chase unfurled the rope ladder, which stopped a few feet short of Hurley’s terrace. He made his way down just as Grant, Farraday, and Leonard crept around the corner of the building, then whistled up to Constance.
She responded by untying the ladder from the radiator and letting it fall toward Chase. Then she slammed the window and busied herself putting away the easel and panel, and was almost out the door before remembering to take Chase’s white shirt and black bag.
Two stories below the finance office, Chase dropped the rope from the terrace to the ground and secured it.
Grant began his climb.
$ $ $
Oscar Hurley, in the front row watching those damn von Trapp kids singing their insipid “So Long, Farewell” song, glanced at his watch. He’d try to tough it out until intermission, but only until intermission.
Lisa Cochrane, in the back row, didn’t think the kids were too bad. Not pros, but not bad.
But now she had the song stuck in her head…
$ $ $
On her way out the front door of Cathedral House, Constance tossed the security guard a small wave and a “Good night.”
“Good night, Ms. Brown,” he said, followed quickly by: “Wait!”
She stopped and turned slowly. “Is there a problem?”
“Didn’t a man go upstairs with you earlier?”
Constance affected a thoughtful look. “No, I was working alone tonight. No one was with me.”
He didn’t even try to hide his confusion. “But I’m sure…I mean, I think I’m sure…”
She gave him her most sympathetic smile. “It sounds like you’ve had a long day.”
With that, she spun around, and tightly gripping Chase’s bag containing Chase’s shirt, walked out of the building.
$ $ $
“I was afraid of this,” Grant said to the darkness. Somewhere in the room, pitch black since they’d closed the curtains to block out light that might reveal them to the security cameras, were his three companions. “I can barely find a lock, let alone pick one. I need some light.”
“But we can’t,” said Chase.
“Yeah, I know.” He sighed. “The desk has gotta go with us.”
$ $ $
The Mother Abbess had now been Christianized into a preacher’s wife, but she still sang “Climb Every Mountain,” which always threatened to put Dr. Oscar Hurley to sleep. And for this version, Walter Pomeroy had written four additional verses.
Just one more reason tonight would be Walter Pomeroy’s last night at the Cathedral.
If there was one bit of good news, it was that this was the last song in the first act. It would be followed immediately by intermission, which in turn would be followed by the departure of Dr. Oscar Hurley.
$ $ $
The Desk of Christ was heavy, and it had taken everything the four men had in them—as well as every piece of equipment they had with wheels—to move it.
But it was finally, slowly moving.
While Farraday and Leonard pushed, Grant and Chase pulled on straps wrapped around the desk’s legs. With the help of a few well-placed dollies, they soon threw caution aside, opened the curtains and French doors, and had it on the terrace.
Chase looked at the ground below. “Now what?”
Grant sized up the situation. The good news was no one could really see them. The bad news was they were still ten feet above the ground.
“Back the truck up onto the grass,” he told Farraday, and the driver hurriedly climbed over the railing and back down the rope ladder. When the truck was close, he turned to Chase and Leonard.
“And now…we push. And hope that ground’s soft, ’cause otherwise we’re gonna have a hell of a mess on our hands.”
$ $ $
It was almost intermission when her phone buzzed. Lisa read the text message and excused herself from the seat she’d been occupying in the rear of the auditorium.
Constance was waiting outside.
“How’s it going up there?” asked Lisa, nodding toward Cathedral House.
“Good on my end. As far as the rest of it, well…I know they made it as far as the terrace.” She shook her head. “This is a damn crazy job. How are things here?”
“Great!” Lisa opened her handbag and showed off the offerings. “I figure about five grand.”
“Nice. I should work that scam with you.”
“You should.” Lisa eyed Chase’s bag in Constance’s hands. “How about if I empty this into your bag? Mine is getting kind of full.”
“Go ahead.”
Lisa nudged her. “And I haven’t even started working the right side of the room. We can tag-team them. Between intermission and the exit that could be worth ten grand!”
Constance smiled. “I like the way you talk numbers.”
$ $ $
The Rev. Mr. Dennis Merribaugh had not been having a good day. He’d tried to watch the play, but was so distracted by all the things spinning out of control that he couldn’t focus on it. Instead, he spent most of the first act pacing the cathedral’s entrance hall, walking repeatedly from Adam and Eve past the Crucifixion to the Ten Commandments and back again.
He was outside, breathing the cool night air, when the auditorium doors banged open and people began to stream outside. That, he knew,
would indicate intermission.
He almost disappeared again into the relative solitude of the cathedral when he saw perhaps the last person he expected to see standing on the edge of the crowd.
Sister Constance Brown.
Or rather, Constance Price. The thief.
He watched her as she talked to a tall woman with blond hair, and could only imagine what kind of scam she had up her sleeve. Well, she’d ripped them off once. He wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
“Sister Constance!” Merribaugh hissed as he quickly approached. “Or whatever your name is!”
Constance wasn’t used to being caught off guard…but she was. She’d assumed Merribaugh was somewhere in the dark theater with Hurley, not prowling around outside. Still, the FBI had given her their seal of approval. That should be good enough for Merribaugh.
It wasn’t.
He pulled her to the side, unwilling to air dirty laundry in front of the tall, blond woman.
“I believe,” he said, “that you somehow got into the safe and stole offerings to the cathedral before they could be banked.”
“Who, me?”
He wagged a finger in her face. “Don’t play innocent with me. I know your real name. I also know you have a criminal record.” Merribaugh looked down at the bag she held. “What’s in your bag.”
She kept calm. “Just a shirt.”
“I don’t trust you. Open it.”
“It’s just…”
But he had already leaned over and was unzipping the bag, exposing an estimated five thousand dollars in cash. Before she could open her mouth in protest he had ripped the bag out of her hands.
“Shame on you, Ms. Price.” Merribaugh wagged his finger again, and began walking away.