by J. R. Mabry
It was only after the door had shut behind him and he had walked across the street to the bus stop that he realized his wallet was missing.
24
RICHARD DROVE BACK through the Caldecott Tunnel in a black haze of worry. It was only after he emerged from the tunnel, seeing the foggy beauty of the Oakland Hills spread out before him, that he realized how tight the knot in his stomach had become. He willed it to relax.
You should have killed him, said the voice in his head.
“And that would have accomplished what?” Richard said out loud.
You would feel better.
“No, I would feel terrible. You would feel better, though.” He almost smiled. Richard wracked his brain for what to do next. There was no shortage of Old Catholic bishops in the Bay Area, of course, and he and Terry had both left numerous voice mails. He felt fortunate to have lined up two meetings so quickly. “One down,” he said out loud. “One to go.”
He felt no more hopeful about his next candidate, however. She taught feminist theory at the Pacific School of Theology, and had come into Old Catholicism via the Roman Catholic Womenpriest movement. Through the grapevine, he had heard that they had chucked her out for being so strident that she was impossible to work with. Richard’s own few encounters with her in the past left him dreading any future contact. Just thinking of meeting with her tomorrow made his teeth hurt.
You could kill her, Duunel suggested.
“You are not helpful,” Richard said.
I’m not actually trying to be helpful, Duunel confessed.
“I didn’t think you were.”
His phone rang, the Casio-like tones of “Here I Raise My Ebenezer” piercing the air. Keeping his eyes on the road, Richard fished for his phone and punched until he hit the speakerphone button.
“Richard here,” he said in a business-like fashion.
“Dicky, it’s Maggie,” said a frail-sounding voice.
“Uh-oh, I don’t like the sound of this,” he said.
“You’ve got that right. It’s terrible news, I’m afraid. Preston was elected on today’s second ballot.”
“No way,” Richard breathed.
“Unbelievable, I know,” Maggie said. “Everyone here is walking around like the living dead, shaking their heads.”
“I’m so sorry, Mags,” Richard said, steering onto the Telegraph Avenue off-ramp.
“I’d like to schedule a meeting with you and the other friars. Tonight, if possible,” Maggie said, her demeanor uncharacteristically business-like.
“Of course. We can’t meet at the friary, though.”
“I know, it’s fine. We can meet at All Saints’. Is 7 p.m. all right?”
“I’ll check with the others and get back to you if it isn’t. If you don’t hear from me, we’ll see you then.”
25
SUSAN SLAMMED down the telephone in frustration. Brian was in the bathroom, so she yelled loud enough for him to hear. “That’s the second call from the Episcopal Diocese of San Joaquin today!” She heard him whistle. “This isn’t a coincidence, Brian. This is a fucking epidemic!”
Just then, the doorbell rang. Brian called from the bathroom. “Can you get that?”
Susan sighed and headed for the door. “Sure thing!” she called. She stretched her arms and moved her head around in a wide orbit, feeling painfully the kinks in her neck. She opened the door to find a scruffy-looking young man wearing a stained striped tie.
“Yes?” Susan asked, sporting a polite, business-like smile.
“Are you”—he looked at his papers—“the Order of Saint Raphael?”
“No, but this is the order’s friary.”
“Uh…I guess that’s good enough.” He handed a light blue bundle of papers to her. As soon as she took them, he said, “You have been served.”
Susan felt like she’d just been slapped. The young man turned and scampered away toward a rusty VW that looked like it was not long for the road.
Stung suddenly now with curiosity and rising anxiety, she opened the bundle and started reading. A moment later, she started screaming, “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Heaving herself into motion, she flew upstairs and threw open the door to the room she shared with Dylan. There he was at his desk, under a bright window. A stack of liturgy books was to his right, his laptop was directly in front of him, and an enormous bong was to his left, still trailing wisps of smoke. He was snoring.
She slapped at his back. “Dylan, wake up.”
He bolted upright, but the only word that leaped to his lips was, “Waffles.”
She brandished the light blue papers. “Dylan, we just got served.”
He peered up at her as though through a misty haze, seemed to recognize her, but then laid his head back down on the desk, smiling. “Ah love me some waffles.”
“Dylan! Up! Honey, this is serious!”
But Dylan did not stir.
“Aaahhhh!” Susan shouted in frustration. She slapped at his head.
“Wha—?” Dylan grimaced. “Why are you hittin’ me?”
“We’re being sued, Dyl! Sued!”
“A boy named Sue…bum-ba-ba-bum buh-da bum-ba-da-bum…” he mumbled out a rockabilly rhythm. Then he began to snore.
Susan stood there, feeling helpless. She looked at the papers. She looked at Dylan. Then a steely look of resolve crossed over her face, and she snatched open the closet and grabbed Dylan’s kit bag.
She headed down the hallway toward the back stairs, and saw Kat out of the corner of her eye, putting on a sweater.
“Hey, whatcha doing?” Kat called.
“I’m going to kick some demon ass!” Susan called over her shoulder.
26
THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN, and Bishop Preston stepped into the room that would soon be his office. Carefully, he leaned his crozier against the wall. The rich, red carpet was soft beneath his feet, and the wide windows looked out onto a stone labyrinth and the entrance to Grace Cathedral.
A security person held the door as he looked around. Softly, not wanting to break the mood, she said, “Bishop Ryder’s family cleared everything out when he died. It’s pretty much ready for you to move in.” She smiled.
Preston nodded, still taking in the grandeur of it. “Do you mind if I…take a few minutes alone?”
“Of course, sir,” the security guard said, hunkering slightly and looking sheepish. “I’ll be right out here if you need me. Oh, and sir? Congratulations.” She bowed nervously and shut the door behind her.
It had been a long time since Preston had been the recipient of such deference. “I could get used to that,” he said to himself. On the far side of the room was a large desk of dark wood with a leather office chair behind it. He walked around the desk and sat in the chair, wheeling up into a working position. “Oh yes,” he said, “this feels good.”
Set into one wall was a TV, and on his desk was a remote. Lured by curiosity and pride, he switched on the television and flipped to the news. He grunted with satisfaction, having caught a story about his election. He scowled a bit as he saw himself on the screen—he never could get used to seeing himself without his hair. In his mind’s eye, he would always be thirty-five, with a thick, healthy pile of hair on his head. It had been twenty years since that pile had dissipated to a scraggly shadow of its former glory, but it still stung his pride to see it.
He allowed himself to revel in his victory, though, as he watched images of the diocesan convention flash on the screen. The commentator came on and made some remark about “the controversial nature” of the selection, but he knew that was coming. He glanced at his tall, oversize crozier and smiled a grim smile.
Soon, the news story had passed, so he switched to another channel. He wasn’t so lucky this time. Last night, the commentator was saying, Iran had experienced two earthquakes in unlikely places. NATO security experts questioned the nature of the earthquakes, saying they were more likely to have been underground nuclear tests. The Israeli prime minist
er was almost hysterical. Preston’s eyebrows bunched up, and he pursed his lips in concern.
His private cell rang. Very few people had that number, so he fished it out to see who it could be. He smirked with satisfaction to see that the call was from Governor Ivory. “David,” he said, flipping open the phone.
“John, I can’t believe it. I’m watching it on CNN, but I can’t believe it,” the phone made the governor’s voice sound thin, but he spoke with gusto.
“Believe it,” Preston said. He passed the phone to his other hand and put his elbows on the desk. His desk. “I told you I had this thing in the bag.”
“You sure as hell did. But what I don’t understand is how.”
“It takes power to get power, my friend.”
The governor laughed. “You know, not all of my preacher friends are so cryptic.”
“I’ll let you in on my little secret later—are you still at the Hyatt?”
“Yup, two more meetings tonight, God help me. The week before the national convention is always an endurance test.”
“Let’s get together for a little victory drink soon, then, and I’ll tell you all about it. In the meantime, we have a dark horse candidate to promote.”
“This morning, I would have said you were crazy. But now…” Ivory’s voice trailed off. “Do you really think we can do this, John?”
“I think we have to. Did you see what’s happening in Iran?”
“Goddamned Persians,” Ivory spat. “Can you believe it? We’re this close from seeing Israel go up in a mushroom cloud. If we’re not careful, those little brown people are going to be running the world.”
“And you know damn well that the pansy Democrats aren’t going to do a damned thing to stop it. And neither are the two Republican candidates you guys are putting forward next week—Calver and Pinopscott. Too cautious, both of them.” Preston sighed. “We’ve got to face facts, David, you are the only person with the resolve to stand up to the Persians—and the Arabs. The fate of the world hangs on you getting the nomination next week. And by God, you will.”
“How can you be so sure?” Ivory was still incredulous.
“Because I just tested it. I just ran an impossible upset, right here at granola ground zero. I won, David. Consider this the trial run. Next week, we’ll pull off the real coup.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
“My friend, you literally cannot lose.” Preston sat back and put his feet on the desk. That felt pretty good, too. “But you know what we need now is a show of strength—something to put you on the map, to get people’s attention. Something to get people talking, saying, ‘Hey, this Ivory guy is the answer.’ Especially now, with things hotting up in the Middle East.”
“What do you have in mind?” Ivory asked.
“Remember that threat you made about Dearborn?” Preston asked.
“Yeah—that was just hot air. I was trying to get attention.”
“You want attention? Make good on it. Not today, though,” Preston chuckled. “Wouldn’t want you to steal my thunder. Wait ’til the next news cycle. Do it tomorrow.”
27
WHEN LARCH HEARD about Charybdis’s “defection,” he smashed a replica Babylonian pot his aunt had bought for him from the New York Antiquities Museum. Then he started throwing books. Eventually, he had slumped—panting—into a dusty, overstuffed Victorian chair that had probably been in the lodge’s sitting room since such chairs were all the rage, certainly before the earthquake and fire of 1906.
He was not a rash man. He was not a vindictive man. So, why were his fists clenching? Why were his teeth gnashing? Why was he dying to punch out a neophyte?
He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his cheeks. He looked at his haggard face in the mirror. “I barely recognize you, old man,” he said to his image. Could Pim be enchanting me? he wondered. This isn’t how I act. It’s not how I normally feel. I like Richard and his crew. If Charybdis feels called to walk a Christian path, well, power to him. Right?
His gut churned. They’d had a lodge meeting last night. The others had joked about it. They made fun of Charybdis; there were “good riddance” and “serves those monks right” statements. Larch had listened with a face like stone.
He had to talk to her. He had to see her. He had to know why he was acting this way. A part of his brain resisted. You’re like a heroin addict, he told himself. You’re not in your right mind. You’re going to make a mistake, and it is going to fuck you up.
But the other part of his mind didn’t care. He lit the censer and placed the incense on the charcoal as soon as it turned gray. After a few moments of concentration, the object of his obsession danced into view. She bowed ostentatiously, quite intentionally permitting him a maddening view of her cleavage.
“I feel like we’re in a relationship,” he told her. Instantly he regretted it. It was like saying “I love you” too early. It could ruin what they had—whatever that was. If only she was a succubus, he thought.
“Did you find your wee little lamb?” she asked teasingly.
“I know where he is,” he said. “But it’s his choice. I don’t own him.”
“Don’t you wish you did?” she tilted her head.
“Uh…well, no, actually, I don’t,” he said, uncertain and uncomfortable disagreeing with her about anything. But if he were honest…no, he didn’t want to command anyone. Not anyone human, that is. Or did he? He closed his eyes and checked in. She seemed to notice.
“Why don’t you go to that order’s house and confront them? Why don’t you tell your practicus to come home?”
“Those monks will laugh me right back to the Bay Bridge, and Charybdis with them.” Larch noticed that his voice sounded bitter. He didn’t like the sound of it.
“Not if you’re commanding an army, they won’t.” She smiled from that mouth that was just a little bit too wide. A mouth that invited fantasies.
“What army? How?” he asked.
“What if I told you that you could command hundreds of occupied people?” she asked him.
“Occupied?” Then realization dawned on him. She meant possessed.
“Every one of them would obey only you. You would so impress your lodge members that they, too, would follow you anywhere. And that lost little lamb”—she leaned in and licked her lips—“would come scampering home faster than you could say ‘mint sauce.’” She leaned back and turned in a circle, playfully allowing her skirts to swing in wide arcs. She was tantalizing his gaze, and he was dying to see more.
Larch shook his head, trying to break the spell she was weaving over him. Power—was that what he really wanted? Well, yes, if he were honest. That’s what any magickian was after, really. But power over other people? He would need to think about that. Demons were one thing; people were another. But if you put people and demons together…he wasn’t sure how he felt. And yet he heard his mouth utter the word: “How?”
28
“WHAT? WHO’S SUING US?” Kat asked as Susan pulled the cherry-red Corolla onto Vine Street. She headed downtown.
“That botched exorcism that Terry and Dylan didn’t do,” Susan said angrily. “The man is suing us for breach of contract.”
“We don’t sign contracts, do we?” Kat asked, sitting up straighter in the passenger seat.
“No,” Susan answered. “Which is why we can probably beat this in court. But I’m hoping it won’t get that far. If we can nip it in the bud now, we should.”
“But…” Kat wasn’t sure how to phrase the next sentence. “But you’re not…”
“A member of the order? Right. Precisely why I might succeed where the boys can’t right now.”
“I don’t understand,” Kat said. “Have you ever done an exorcism?”
“Nope,” said Susan, turning left on Shattuck.
“So, why is it you think you can succeed when Dylan and Terry—who have done tons of them—couldn’t? And Susan, please”—Kat touched her shoulder—“I’m no
t putting you down. I’m just trying to understand.”
Susan managed a smile. “You’re a dear, and it’s fine. The boys are Catholic. I’m not.”
“But you’re all Christians.”
“Yes. But Catholicism is conceived in terms of a medieval monarchy—power flows from the top down through ‘approved’ channels. The power is real, and it’s strong, but it’s mediated.”
“Okay, I can see that. Is that why we need a bishop?”
“Right. The bishop is the link to the power source—to God. The…mojo—as the guys like to call it—flows from him to his subordinates, the priests and deacons. Then they give it to us—the ‘little people.’” She smirked. “Sorry. It’s hard for me not to laugh.”
“But it works, right?” Kat asked.
“Oh, it works all right, to countless demons’ shame and humiliation.” Susan turned right onto University Avenue.
“But, I’m guessing not just for demons,” Kat said, pursing her lips.
“Right. Any sacramental mojo works that way,” Susan affirmed. “That’s why only bishops and priests can preside over the Eucharist—the bishops give the power to the priests, and the priests ‘confect’ the grace-bearing gifts and distribute them to the people.”
“Trickle-down grace?” Kat asked.
Susan laughed. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“So how does it work for…You’re Lutheran, right?”
“Right.”
“It’s hard for me to keep all the varieties of Protestants straight,” Kat admitted.
“It’s a rat’s nest, that’s for sure,” Susan agreed. She dodged a delivery van and made a left on Sacramento Street.
“So, how does it work for Lutherans?” Kat asked.
“Pretty much the same as it does for all Protestants. The power is democratized. Luther preached ‘the Priesthood of All Believers,’ meaning that every baptized Christian has direct access to the mojo—no bishops required.”