by J. R. Mabry
Just as this thought occurred to him, Duunel piped up. Relax, you’re not alone. I’m here.
“Oh yeah, that’s a great comfort,” Richard said.
Sarcasm does not become you.
“Sarcasm seems to be all that I have left,” Richard countered, but the statement gave him an idea. He pulled out his cell phone. More than twenty apps shone out at him in the dark. Surely, one of them could be of help. He began flipping through them. Then he saw it.
“Find my phone,” he said.
You’re holding your phone, Duunel countered.
“But I’m not holding my iPad. My iPad is in the duffle bag in the backseat with Tobias.” It took a few minutes for the app to load and orient itself. But then, to Richard’s great relief, a little green dot appeared moving south on I-5. “South,” Richard announced. He pocketed his phone and started walking, past the rest stop building and onto the freeway on-ramp.
53
AS KAT’S eye’s adjusted, she saw a very tall African-American woman in a black peacoat hovering over Mikael, a large silver candlestick pitched over her shoulder like a baseball bat, ready to strike.
“Whoa!” Kat called out. “Don’t hit him; we’re no threat!”
The woman’s head snapped up, and she seemed only then to notice Kat’s presence. “I’d call burglary a threat!” she said. She kept the candlestick trained on Mikael, who threw up a hand in paltry defense.
“Please, ma’am,” Terry said soothingly. “We’re friars, from the Holy Apocrypha Friary in Berkeley. We’re here investigating on behalf of…certain concerned members of the diocese.”
The woman’s eyes flitted back and forth, sizing up her three intruders. “Please,” said Terry calmly. “As you can see, we’re not dressed like thugs. We’re all wearing Anglican cassocks. Of course, there are burglars who are eccentric, but this level of coordinated eccentricity is unlikely among criminals, wouldn’t you say?”
The woman straightened up, lowering the candlestick a bit. Terry smiled and stepped forward, offering his hand. “I’m Father Terry Milne,” he said. “And these are my order mates. Kat is an oblate, and Mikael will be ordained a deacon as soon as we…well, soon.”
“Are you…Episcopalian?” the woman asked, uncertainly.
“No, Old Catholic,” Terry said. “We’ve got a lot in common with Anglicans, though, and as I’m sure you know, in Europe we’re close partners in ministry. We’ve done plenty of work for your diocese, though. We’re from the Old Catholic Order of Saint Raphael.”
The woman cocked her head. “You’re the exorcists,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I’ve heard of you.” Her eyes narrowed. “Everyone thinks you’re crazy.”
“Envy,” Terry waved, a little too fey in his movements. “The truth is, no one else has the guts to do what we do.”
“Does that include breaking into churches?” The woman had fully lowered the candlestick to the floor by now.
“Apparently, it sometimes does,” Terry shrugged.
Mikael hazarded getting to his feet and held out his hand. The woman took it hesitantly and studied him closely. “I know you,” she said. “How do I know you?”
Mikael squinted at her. “You do look familiar.”
“But why?” she said.
Kat was terrified that, at any minute, they were going to recall a one-night stand, but suddenly the woman snapped her fingers. “Doom Nipple.”
“Wha—??” asked Kat.
Mikael grinned broadly and clapped his hands. “Yes!” he said.
“You were the bassist for Doom Nipple. I used to go to see you at 924 Gilman, back when I was in seminary.”
“That was me!” Mikael said, nodding his giant black mane of hair. “Now I remember—you used to date that chick with the mo-fro.”
“Uh, I was that chick with the mo-fro.” She looked momentarily abashed.
“What’s a mo-fro?” asked Terry.
“A mohawk cut from an afro,” Mikael said, gesturing at his hair.
“Doom Nipple?” Kat asked. “You were in a band called Doom Nipple?”
“They weren’t just a band. They were a great band,” the woman said, excited. “I am so honored to meet you. When did you break up?”
“We never did officially. We just stopped playing out, and then the singer got sick. We’ve just been dormant for a while. We’ll bounce back. You’ll see.”
“Doom Nipple?” Kat repeated. “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”
“Please tell us your name,” Terry said, “and…well, why you’re here. Although I’m sure you’re wondering the same of us.”
“I’m the rector here, Felicia Dunne.”
“Reverend Dunne, it’s a pleasure.” Terry made a little bow. Just then, a blue strobe light flashed through the stained glass. “Um…I’m wondering if you called the police?”
Her head jerked up. “Yes, actually.” She smiled apologetically. “Why don’t you explain yourselves concisely, and perhaps I’ll send them away.”
“Huh…okay.” Terry rubbed his hands together and looked around nervously. “Well, some…representatives of your diocese approached us to investigate how Bishop Preston could possibly have won election to the episcopacy. They suspected supernatural means—and so, of course, they called us. We’re following up on a lead. How’s that for concise?”
Reverend Dunne looked like she’d been slapped. She looked down at Terry with a look of such abject sorrow and—was that guilt on her face? Kat couldn’t be sure. In any case, it looked like she was about to cry. Without another word, she nodded, dropped the candlestick, and went to the front doors of the sanctuary. She let herself out, and in a few minutes, the blue lights receded and she entered the church again. She was shaking, Kat noticed, and she sat in the front pew, not daring to look at them.
Terry looked at Mikael and then at Kat, clearly concerned. He sat next to the rector and placed a tentative hand on her arm. “Reverend, it looks like we might have hit a nerve. Perhaps we can help each other?”
Reverend Dunne nodded and patted at his hand. “I started here a couple of months ago. It seemed like a great honor. I’m a girl from the streets, you know. My mama lived in the Episcopal Sanctuary in the City. The Episcopal Church saved my life. So, to be called here…”
“You mean, to such a conservative congregation?” Terry asked.
She nodded. “Exactly. It was like…a vindication. I think they saw it that way, too. Anyway, I’m ashamed to say it, but I committed a sin of omission when they were vetting me. I didn’t tell them about my partner.”
“You’re a lesbian?” Terry asked. “You don’t need to worry about judgment from us.”
Reverend Dunne narrowed one eye at Terry. “Gee, do you think?”
“I’m not that flaming!” Terry mock-protested. Kat laughed.
“Anyway, Bishop Preston decided to settle in the diocese for a while. His daughter is sick. So, he came here, for obvious reasons.”
“Is this a ’28 prayer book parish, then?” Mikael asked.
“It is now that Preston’s in place. Switched just last Sunday. But under Bishop Ryder we were using Rite I from the ’79 prayer book.”
Terry nodded, seemingly unsurprised. “So, what happened?”
“He caught us,” she pressed at the bridge of her nose. It seemed to Kat to be an expression of either sinus headache or shame. Maybe both. “He caught us, and he threatened to expose me. Except…”
“Except…?” Terry asked.
“Except I had something he wanted.” Reverend Dunne looked up at Terry, a fierceness on her face that Kat did not understand.
“I’m going to guess that you don’t want to tell us what that was,” Terry said. “Because I already know what it was, and I wouldn’t want to tell anyone either.”
Dunne’s eyes grew wide. She nodded.
“It’s a spear, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“And it was in the tabernacle until very recently,
yes?” Dunne nodded, a look of amazement coming over her face.
“And now Preston has it,” Terry finished. “Am I right?”
Dunne nodded again.
Terry looked down at his hands. “It took me a while to realize just why your name was familiar. You put Preston forth as a candidate, didn’t you?”
She looked down, and her lower lip began to quiver. Kat wanted to move over to her, to comfort her, but she stood her ground. Terry knows what he’s doing, she told herself.
“Did he threaten to expose you if you didn’t?” Terry asked. “Or did he compel you by means of the Spear?”
“I don’t think it works that way,” she said. “He threatened me.”
Terry nodded. “We’re still trying to get a handle on exactly how it works. Now that we know for sure that it’s the Spear, we can narrow our research. That’s very helpful. Thank you.”
“He’s evil,” Reverend Dunne said. “He’s evil—and he’s the worst kind of evil.”
“How do you mean?” Kat asked.
“He’s an evil man who thinks he’s doing good,” she said. “He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Prester John. Did you know that?” Terry nodded. She looked back down at her hands. “He said as much at the diocesan convention. He’s batshit crazy. But he’s not just crazy; he’s a crazy person with power.” She looked up at Terry with a grim resolution in her eyes. “I want to help. I have to redeem myself. I’m partly responsible for this. I want to help undo it. Can you help me undo it?”
“That’s exactly why we’re breaking into your lovely church,” Terry said, smiling impishly.
54
SUSAN STARED with horror at the empty frosting container. She put her hand to her mouth and felt momentarily dizzy. Sugar rush, she thought, and even though she was sitting down, she reached out and held on to the desk for support. Instinctively, she turned the container to see the nutritional information, to assess how many calories she had just consumed. But before she could see the astronomical numbers, she slammed it down on her desk.
“If you’re going to sin, sin boldly,” she quoted her beloved Luther. She opened a photo program on her large, 27-inch iMac and perused pictures of her life with Dylan. Here was their wedding day, before he’d grown his beard out. It was hard to believe he had ever been that trim. Here they were camping in Oregon; she had a garland of flowers in her hair, and her lips were pursed up to kiss someone just out of frame.
As she flipped through the pictures, her eyes became wet. She sniffed, and for the millionth time that night, regretted how she’d attacked Dylan. He maddened her at times, sure, but she’d never loved him more than she did now. Now, just as he was on the cusp of growing into the leader she knew he could be. Now, as he was being confronted by his own demons instead of other people’s.
Time and again, she’d seen him and Richard walk side by side into situations so scary it’d make a cop faint. Her heart swelled with pride to think of it. He needed her support right now, not her judgment or her wrath. She felt small, petty, and out of control. “I’m not out of control,” she said out loud. The empty frosting can stared up at her. She pitched her head into her hands and wailed. “Oh my God, I’m so out of control.”
She heard movement behind her, and Brian poked his head into the office. “Um…are you…eating frosting out of the can?”
She didn’t move her head from her hands. “Go away.”
“Well, far be it for me to rain on anybody’s guilt parade, but there’s something I think we should watch. I just heard that Bishop Preston is about to be interviewed on Washington Week. Can you get a video capture on that?”
Susan took a deep breath and sniffed a little too loudly. She nodded, and her fingers flew over the keyboard, calling up the Washington Week website and starting an mp4 capture. “When’s he on?” she asked.
Brian looked at his watch. “In about two minutes.” He gave her a compassionate smile. “Do you want to talk about it?”
By “it,” she knew he meant her attack. She felt ashamed. “Don’t feel bad, Honey,” Brian said, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her shoulders. “Terry and I have had our knock-down-drag-’em-outs, you know. Remember when Terry was going through his whole sex addiction thing?”
She nodded. Terry and Brian had almost split up over that. “I don’t know if you remember, but I laid down the fucking law, and Terry didn’t speak to me for a week. There were also some stitches involved.” He grimaced. “But we got through it, stronger than ever. You will, too.” He squeezed her. “Besides, you’re my hero.”
She burst out with a single sob at that. “Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s true. It’s not easy to be partnered with these guys, as we both know too well. I think we both struggle to give our men the freedom they need to do their ministries well and still have good boundaries. Sometimes I’m in awe of how well you’re able to walk that line. I say to myself, ‘I want to be Susan when I grow up.’ I learn a lot just watching you.”
“You’re no slouch, Honey,” Susan said, patting his arm.
He let go of her and turned so that he could look into her eyes. “I do what I do well in part because you’re there. And that’s the truth.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand. With her other hand, she raised the volume on the computer. “It’s on.”
A square-jawed news anchor faced the screen, “Tonight on Washington Week we talk to a panel of newsmakers and experts about the recent bombing of Dearborn, Michigan, and the upcoming Republican National Convention—the initial ceremonies of which kick off tomorrow in San Francisco. I’m Block Jamison, and this is Washington Week.”
A blast of synthesized trumpets heralded the start of the show, and Brian pulled Dylan’s chair around to sit beside Susan. He pointed to the can of frosting. “Got any more of that?”
“Fuck off,” Susan said. She squeezed his hand again.
“I’m not making fun of you; I’m serious.”
“Back of the fridge, behind the pineapple,” Susan said behind her hand, not looking at him.
“Just kidding. I am making fun of you,” Brian said. “I can’t believe you have another can of that gross stuff.”
“Fuck off,” Susan said again. She did not squeeze his hand.
“Good evening, America, and good evening to our panel,” Block Jamison said, nodding toward a large table with a bluish-washed set behind it. “Mehilia Tanner is an attorney for the American Civil Liberties Union.” A largish African-American woman with beautiful wavy hair spiraling out in all directions nodded, gold spectacles reflecting the harsh stage lights. “Tiffany Peet is a columnist for the Washington Post and a regular on our show.”
A bone-thin, model-beautiful blonde woman with harsh, angular cheekbones waved and cracked a severe smile as she said, “Good to see you, Block.”
Without bothering to acknowledge the greeting, Block turned to the other side of the table. “Returning to our show once again is the now newly elected Episcopal Bishop of California, the Right Reverend John Preston. Welcome back, Bishop.” Preston dipped his head briefly in greeting. “And finally, environmental lobbyist and former press secretary for the Clinton administration, Cliff Arneson. Good to finally have you on our show, Cliff.”
“Good to be here, Block. Persistence pays.”
“Indeed it does,” Block said with a chuckle. “First up, the whole world is talking about Michigan governor David Ivory’s unprecedented nuclear strike on American soil. Mehilia, I’m going to put the first question to you: Did Governor Ivory overstep his bounds?”
“Block, we’re way beyond bounds here. Governor Ivory is a criminal who needs to be removed forcibly from office and charged with genocide. He’s a homicidal maniac, and the people of Michigan will not be safe until he is behind bars. And I personally will not rest until we get him behind bars.”
“Feelings are certainly riding high about this incident,” Block noted. “Tiffany, your thoughts?”
The slender blonde shook her hair before giving Block a smile so thin and sharp it could slice meat. “Governor Ivory doesn’t belong behind bars, Block. He isn’t a criminal; he’s a hero. I’ve seen some of the documentation that his intelligence sources presented to him, and the evidence is incontrovertible—if Governor Ivory had not acted as he did, we would not be sitting here tonight blithely discussing it. Those of us who were still alive would be digging survivors out of smoking piles of rubble, and the liberal wonks would have been wailing about our feeble intelligence sources and the failure of Republican leadership in Michigan.”
She shook out her hair again as if she were selling shampoo instead of giving a political opinion. Her smile as she spoke was confident and deadly serious. “Well, the liberal crybabies can’t have it both ways. Governor Ivory saw the intelligence, and he pursued the one and only path open to him in order to save American lives. He struck at the root while it could still be stopped, and he stopped it. And millions of Americans are alive tonight because he did.”
“I strongly disagree with that, Tiffany.” Cliff Arneson leaned forward over the large conference table that served as Washington Week’s main set. “That intelligence has not been verified—”
“That intelligence is classified,” Tiffany Peet countered.
“And even if it were reliable, something of this magnitude is the president’s call, not the governor’s. I contend that Governor Ivory did overstep his bounds. The National Guard is not his to command—”
“But the Michigan reservists are—” Peet interjected.
Block held his hand up to her. “Cliff, please finish your comment, then we can hear responses.”
“And who gave the governor the authority to appropriate a thermonuclear device?” Cliff pounded the table to drive home his point.
“Bishop Preston, you’ve been uncharacteristically reticent in this conversation so far.” Block swiveled in his chair to face the bishop. “Obviously, the loss of life in Dearborn was extreme. What is the Christian perspective on this situation?”