The Power

by J. R. Mabry

  Richard’s right hand found a good grip on the steering column. His left hand felt at the man’s neck. The pulse was faint, but it was there. Outside, Richard heard Toby continue to bark. He tried to shut it out and think. The driver’s limbs were at odd angles. His neck was twisted, tilting his head in a way that looked—at best—uncomfortable. Through his baby-blue T-shirt, blood was beginning to seep.

  Richard knew that he dare not move him—if the man had a spinal injury, he might do more harm than good. But he also knew in his gut that this man would not survive long. Indeed, Richard despaired of the man living to see the inside of a hospital.

  Toby barked and began to scrape at the windshield. Richard looked up through the glass at him, annoyed. Why is he trying to get in here? What good could he possibly do? Richard wondered.

  He felt at the pulse again. It was weaker. The man was slipping. Richard’s heart began to race. He bit back on his panic. What could he do? He couldn’t keep that man alive—

  Then it hit him. “I can’t keep him alive, but Toby can—the angel in Toby can,” Richard said aloud. His mind raced on the logistics of trying to get the dog close enough to make the exchange. Feeling the man’s life slipping away beneath his very fingers, however, Richard knew there was no time for that. But there was time for another exchange.

  “Duunel, this is the moment. This is your new host,” Richard said. “But you’ve got to go now.”

  Now? Duunel asked. I was so enjoying watching you play the clueless paramedic.

  “Watch me fuck up from another perspective, then,” Richard demanded. “Just go, and keep this man alive. You keep him alive, and he’s yours. I can’t promise that he won’t be delivered—but I promise that I won’t exorcise you.”

  Or your order mates? Duunel inquired, hesitating.

  “No. I won’t let them, either. Just go! Quickly!”

  Richard shuddered as the demonic presence passed out of him. Once the last of it was gone, Richard felt sick to his stomach. He also wanted a shower, badly. Yet he did not move. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, his fingers probing at the man’s neck for signs of life.

  The man’s eyes snapped open. Richard jerked back in fright, but he forced himself to breathe deeply, realizing it was just Duunel taking possession of the man’s body. The eyes looked back and forth, and a slow, sly grin spread over the man’s face. “Oh yes,” Duunel said. “Yes, this will do very nicely.” He met Richard’s gaze. “Oh, you have no idea what this man was into…”

  Richard shook his head. “Of course not. I’ve never met him before.”

  “Oh, this is going to be fun,” Duunel said.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not know,” Richard said.

  “That’s because you’re a killjoy and a prude,” Duunel said, using the injured man’s mouth.

  “Yes,” Richard agreed. “That’s me, all the way. Mr. Ascetic.” Under his fingers, Richard felt the man’s pulse surge, then fall into a strong, steady rhythm. He felt at the prominent beat of it beneath his fingers with pride, with relief, with gratitude. “Thanks be to God,” he breathed.

  “God has almost nothing to do with this guy,” Duunel said.

  “Just do your job,” Richard said. He heard the sound of sirens and leaped up, climbing out of the car. He jumped down and landed on the dusty concrete. “C’mon, boy,” he said to Tobias, “let’s get out of here before anybody starts asking questions.”

  98

  Terry watched Bishop Preston like a hawk. Amid the swirl of TV cameras, blinding lights, Secret Service and Homeland Security agents, and all the glitz and pomp of the national convention, Preston remained calm, detached, even regal. Terry struggled not to feel overwhelmed by the sensory overload, and his admiration for the bishop increased exponentially as he saw the man gain greater mastery as the craziness around him exploded.

  Terry modeled his affect on the federal agents around him, cultivating a stony, impassive stare, a military precision to his movements, and a cock-heavy parade rest position as he waited on the bishop. Once, he stuck his hip out but realized that the pose exuded runway-model cool, not agent cool, so he withdrew his hip and pursed his lips fetchingly at a good old boy in a flannel shirt who shot him a curious look.

  As Terry stayed within arm’s reach of the bishop, Dylan roamed the crowd. He never went farther than fifty feet, but it was clear he was being watchful. Terry was sure that Dylan had no idea what he was looking for, but like him, Dylan was trying to look cool and official. Terry had never felt more out of his element in his entire life.

  As they arrived at the makeup room, Terry hoped that this would be his opportunity. He expected Preston to lean his crozier against a wall before he sat down in the makeup chair but watched incredulously as the bishop walked to the chair with his shepherd’s crook firmly in hand. Sitting down, he slung the crook over his shoulder, indicating to the makeup artist that she should spread her protective bib over his shoulders as usual—meaning over the crozier as well.

  Terry tried not to let his disappointment show. The last thing they needed was for Preston to clue into what they were really up to. He glanced at Dylan, whose eyes were wide in an Awww shit expression. Terry sighed. They would simply have to wait for another opportunity.

  The makeup artist worked quickly. Terry was impressed by how she had taken years off the bishop’s appearance. He vowed to himself to get more serious about makeup as he followed the bishop’s double-time steps out of the room.

  Terry heard the roar of the crowd. Every now and then, he would catch wind of something going on in the massive east wing of the Moscone Center where the delegates held forth around a center stage. But the west wing, where the catering, offices, dressing rooms, television control centers, and press offices were contained, was filled with the scattershot sounds of thousands of people doing their jobs, and scurrying as they did so.

  Dylan came up beside him. “Thet was our best shot, Ah thought,” he said.

  “Me, too, dammit.”

  “Do yuh think he suspects somethin’?”

  “I don’t think he suspects us,” Terry answered. “But I don’t think he trusts people in general.”

  “Ah wouldn’t.”

  “No, neither would I,” Terry agreed.

  “So, if we think like him,” Dylan started, “under what circumstances would we set the thing down?”

  “None,” Terry said. “Under no circumstances. For God’s sake, he had Larch’s army of the damned come down on him and he didn’t let go of the damned thing.”

  Dylan nodded. “We’re kinda screwed.”

  “It isn’t us that’s screwed,” Terry said. “This isn’t about you or me, or even whether we get out of this alive. Dearborn was just the down payment on bombing the whole fucking Middle East back to the Stone Age. It’s half a billion people we’re trying to save here. We’re not trying to seize the Spear, not really. We’re trying to stop Preston and Ivory from blowing up half the world.”

  “Waal, when you put it like thet,” Dylan started. “Ah guess you and me don’t really matter thet much, do we?”

  “We’re just two people. They’re…hundreds of millions. And every one of them loved by God.”

  “An’ they all got mothers, and daddies, and children and dogs…” Dylan nodded.

  “They don’t have dogs,” Terry said.

  “Huh?” Dylan asked, his eyebrows bunching in confusion.

  “Muslims don’t usually have dogs,” Terry repeated. “I think the Prophet was a cat person.”

  “I’ve heard tell that cat people are good folk, too.”

  “Theoretically,” Terry agreed.

  “We’re runnin’ out of opportunities here, mah friend,” Dylan said.

  “I am well aware.”

  “Ah’d trade mah left nut fer a doobie about now,” Dylan said. Then he squared his shoulders and made his way to the front of the entourage.

  In a few moments, they were passing through the conne
cting hallway between the two wings of the center. Terry could hear the previous speaker wrapping up. Preston and Ivory were huddled, obviously consulting on last-minute details of the bishop’s speech. His eyes were inevitably drawn to the death grip the bishop kept on his crozier. Everyone was lined up at the doors, agents spoke into the microphones in their sleeves. Inside, delegates raised signs, jumped up in the air, and cheered.

  Terry hadn’t heard this much noise since he’d accompanied Mikael to the Nine Inch Nails concert a couple of years ago. He didn’t like it. He tried to ignore it. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw Preston walking toward a restroom. Momentarily skipping to catch up, Terry fell into step behind him. Surely, he thought, the bishop will lean the crozier against the wall when he goes to the urinal.

  Inside the bathroom, Terry’s heart sank as he saw Preston head into one of the stalls—carrying his crozier in, too, of course. Terry breathed deep and willed himself to relax. He prayed for courage, that God would keep him from despair. Open my eyes, Lord, to see the opportunity, he finished.

  His eyes snapped open. When the bishop washes his hands! Terry thought. Quickly, he moved to the urinal, pushing aside the folds of his cassock, and mimed taking a pee. Out of the corner of his eye he watched for the bishop. As soon as the door to Preston’s stall opened, Terry moved toward the sink.

  To his horror, though, he found himself and Preston moving in different directions. Preston wasn’t moving to the sink; he was going straight out of the door. Ewww, Terry thought. How does a man get to be so powerful if he doesn’t even wash his hands after going poop? Truly, it occurred to him, there was no justice in the world.

  Terry corrected his own trajectory to match Preston’s. And I shook that hand! he thought, horrified. Those are the hands he distributes communion with! Ewwww…

  Terry tried not to panic. Instead, he struggled to stay close to the bishop in spite of the density of the crowd. Over the loudspeaker, he heard the announcer say, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am privileged to introduce to you the Episcopal Bishop of California and an indefatigable champion of traditional Christian values—please welcome the Right Reverend John W. Preston!”

  A cheer erupted from the crowd, and Preston moved from the doorway into a stream of people, guided toward the stage by black-suited federal agents. Terry fell into step directly behind them, attempting to look like he belonged there. Who are you fooling? asked a voice in his head. You’re a queer hardcore liberal and a socialist at heart. He couldn’t argue with the voice. The best he could do was to be an actor, and play his part to the hilt.

  As Bishop Preston stepped out onto the floor of the convention center, a booming cheer rose up. Terry stayed just a step behind him, unnerved by the magnitude of energy roaring at them from the crowd. He saw images of the bishop and himself on enormous Jumbotron screens in every corner of the hall, and he fought against a rising feeling of vertigo. Glancing at Dylan, he saw his friend give him a thumbs-up as their entourage made its way to the stage.

  Once there, most of the agents surrounding them fanned off one way or the other, leaving the bishop to climb the stairs onto the stage by himself. Preston looked back at Terry and winked, motioning for him to follow. Blinking, Terry obeyed.

  The vertigo asserted itself aggressively once he cleared the stairs—the lights and the noise were almost more than he could process. Looking at Preston, however, he saw that the bishop was clearly in his element. He waved and smiled, and seemed to be making a very personal connection with everyone in the room. Terry marveled at the man’s sheer charismatic force.

  Terry moved to a place behind the podium and a little to the left, amid a wall of other dignitaries and aides. Now still, he found it easier to assimilate what he was seeing.

  The convention hall was massive. When Terry had been there before, it had been a warren of booths and displays. Now it was open, cavernous, almost cathedral-like. Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of people stood in clearly marked sections. Down the center of the massive hall was a runway similar to a fashion show or a rock concert where the singer could come out into the crowd.

  That was exactly what Preston was doing now—walking out onto the runway, his crozier in hand, pointing to people he knew, waving at the rest. The cameras threw his avuncular face—miming surprise, joy, concern, elation in quick succession—onto the enormous television screens.

  Terry eyed the podium, wondering if he would speak from it or the runway. The teleprompters were clearly aimed toward the podium. Terry relaxed; he would be coming back. And he would lean his crozier against…what? Perhaps I should offer to hold it for him? Terry wondered. No, it can’t be that easy. He decided to step forward when the bishop returned to the podium to make it clear that he was at his service should he choose to hand it to him.

  Soon, Preston began walking back toward the front. As he neared the podium, Terry stepped forward and gave a subtle bow. He held his hands out, but Preston held his free hand up and shook his head, smiling gratefully. Terry dutifully stepped back in line with the others, fighting back his panic.

  Preston stepped up to the podium but kept his crozier firmly in his grip as if it were the very symbol of his legitimacy. It occurred to Terry that it was, indeed, his only claim to it. No wonder he’s holding to it for dear life, he thought.

  Preston held his free hand up until the crowd noise subsided. “Greetings and peace in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” the bishop began, sounding as if he were reading the prologue to a Pauline epistle. The crowd roared again.

  “I do not stand here today as a concerned citizen,” Preston said. “I do not even stand here as a Republican. I stand here as a Christian, as a man who believes he has a mission to a lost and hurting world. I stand here because God is in the business of saving lives and curing souls.”

  He had to stop when the crowd roared again. He smiled patiently and held up his hand. When the crowd quieted, he continued. “I come from a long line of people who have fought manfully against the world and the devil. My ancestor was Prester John, the Crusader king who rescued the European forces from the Mohammedan sword and ensured that Europe remained a place where Christ is king.”

  The crowd roared. “Let me set that scene for you. When Prester John rode up to the castle at Damietta in the Year of our Lord 1220, the Fifth Crusade was nearly lost. The European army had been decimated by the Muslims. The Islamic terrorists of the thirteenth century were winning the day. The European forces were leaderless. They were tired. They had begun to despair.

  “But then Prester John rode over the hill onto that Egyptian plain. He rode on a war horse bred in Mongolia. He wore the red Crusader’s cross over his chain mail, and was crowned with a helm of iron. He rode with his head high and his shoulders square. He was kingly. He was resolute. He rode with the confidence of a man who knew that he fought for Almighty God!”

  The crowd went wild, enraptured by the romantic vision Preston was spinning. Terry realized that he himself was captivated by the performance. He shook his head and breathed deeply in an effort to stay present and aware, to not get taken in.

  Preston continued. “My friends, we are in the midst of a new Crusade today.” A cheer rose up, but there were a few boos, too, Terry could hear. Preston held up his hand and nodded gravely. “I know, I know, that is a loaded word. But the Crusades were our best efforts to save our lands from certain destruction. A crusade is a sacred conflict. So, I use the word cautiously and intentionally. We are in the midst of a new Crusade—a conflict for the destiny of the free world, a conflict for the salvation of our nation.”

  He paused and waited for the cheers to subside. Then he continued. “Our forces have been every bit as decimated as the Crusaders at Damietta. Decades of conflict in the Middle East have left our forces beaten down. We have been demoralized. We are on the brink of giving up and slinking back to our strongholds, leaving the defenseless and the embattled to the mercy of cruel and godless men. This is not our
calling as Christians! This is not our calling as Americans!”

  The crowd stamped and cheered its agreement. A couple of celebratory shots rang out, echoing explosively through the hall. Terry’s eyes grew wide as he saw hundreds of pistols raised in the air like a salute.

  “The Islamic terrorists are winning because we are losing heart. We are floundering without leadership. We are losing the war against terror, against godless heathenism, against violence and despair.”

  More guns went off to punctuate his words. The bishop held his hands up, looking both patient and pleased with the response. “We need another man like Prester John. We need another leader who will rise fearless before our common foe, who can unite our scattered and despairing forces. We need someone presidential, someone resolute. We need someone with the confidence that he is fighting for Almighty God!”

  A cheer rose up, so loud that Terry wondered if perhaps the Hayward Fault had finally given way. The crowd hooted and stamped for a full three minutes as cameras and handguns flashed. Bishop Preston looked grave as he waited. When the noise level fell, he continued.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, my friends. My job as a minister of the Good News is to tell you the truth—even when that truth is hard. None of the people put forward by the nominating committee have that kind of resolution. And I can say that with confidence because deep in your hearts, you know it’s true.”

  A murmuring filled the hall, and Terry could see heads nodding all around him. “But you know something else, too. You know that there is in your midst one man who has already proved that he has the courage, the resolve, the innate sovereignty to stand up to the forces of evil; one man who can unite the scattered Christian armies; one man who can carry the cross into battle and emerge victorious.