by Mary Eicher
The monk picked up his placard and went in search of a restroom to determine the severity of his injury. Lucy took her friend by the elbow and guided her back to their table. She asked for the check, but the waiter said the meal was on the house. The monk had been annoying customers for days, they learned. The café manager was only too glad to see him gone.
“Never a dull moment with you, is there?” Lucy said when they reached her car. “You should have seen the look in your eyes, Temmie. What was up with that?”
Artemis offered only a chagrined smile. “Um, I guess I’ve kept a few things bottled up. It felt good to let them out.”
Lucy shook her head. It was a side of Artemis she hadn’t seen before, but she wasn’t all that surprised. She already had decided the astonishing woman had depths yet to be plumbed. And Lucy couldn’t deny a growing desire to plumb them.
Chapter Six
Father Doyle pressed down hard on the handle to make sure the church’s heavy oaken door was locked and headed in a slow shuffle to the rectory. Vandals had broken in twice during the last month. They had only done minor damage, but with anti-religion emotions running hot he wasn’t going to take any chances. The church contained valuable and sacred pieces. It would be difficult for his small parish to replace them.
Two men watched him leave. They slithered into brown robes, and they pulled down ski masks as they crept toward the empty church. With his tele-ministry going well, Uberdorf wanted to press the advantage. The populace was beginning to turn against the bastion of orthodoxy while the Harbinger cult was growing ever larger. The billboards had been a stroke of genius, and the monks working the streets were raising a shitload of cash, but it was time to make a statement.
The men used a tire iron to splinter the wood around the door lock and slipped inside. The openness of the interior absorbed the sound of their tools as they disassembled pews. Their work was illuminated by the light of a few candles flickering on the sanctuary. They stacked the wood at the base of the altar and doused the pile with gasoline before setting it ablaze. The fire roared to life and promptly ran up the altar cloth to the huge crucifix on the back wall. They threw prayer books and loose fixtures into the fire before they made their way out to the street where they performed a final act of desecration. They were nearly a mile away before the stained-glass windows blew out from the heat, and the thrum of engines signaled the approach of fire trucks.
Father Doyle stood in the rectory doorway and watched in silence as flames flared through the roof above the sacristy. His eyes traveled over the vivid yellow letters painted across the entry doors…Harbinger. He had told God he was prepared for the Harbinger’s visit, invited it even. But he never imagined a visit like this.
His chest hurt with the ever-present angina that plagued him, and he rubbed it while he watched his housekeeper chase the fire engines up the driveway. She was screaming at them to hurry, clutching her apron and turning red in the face. Father Doyle had no sense of urgency. As far as he was concerned, the end had already come.
*
“They haven’t caught the perps,” Lucy told Artemis over the phone. Her desk was a mess since she’d been late to work on a day when deadlines loomed like specters. And everyone was abuzz with the events of the previous night.
“There’s no doubt it’s the work of the Harbinger cult. They signed their work. But Uberdorf has an ironclad alibi, and no one saw anything before the fire got out of hand.” Lucy paged down through a draft of her article as she spoke.
Artemis frowned. She hated the news lately. It was full of depressing stories and political talking heads obsessed with the approaching election. She managed to catch a report on the church fire while scanning the channels as she dressed that morning. She’d put the story out of mind, and it had stayed away until Lucy’s call.
“You’d think a man like Uberdorf would be despised,” Artemis speculated. “He’s just creating panic and blaming orthodox religion for what’s happening. He’s raking in the money as he does it. San Angelo’s isn’t the only church he burned down. His rhetoric is burning them all.”
“I agree. But he has a growing following. Go figure,” Lucy replied. “First everyone thinks the Harbinger is a deadly threat. Now some idiots are beginning to worship it.”
“We don’t accept change too well, as a species I mean.”
Lucy lowered her voice. “No. It can take some of us a little time to adjust to something new.”
Artemis raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. Well, let me know if that gets any easier.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Lucy said in a sweetly teasing voice.
Artemis slipped the phone into her pocket and indulged in a hopeful suspicion that dissipated when she saw the newest file on her desk. She had accepted an offer from the bar association to provide information about estate planning processes she had modified to meet the increase in volume they were all experiencing. The Harbinger had begun to move north into the San Joaquin Valley and up the coast to Monterey. Authorities in Sacramento were nervous that the phenomenon would soon be state-wide. Her information had been turned into guidelines, and those were shortly to become laws.
Attorneys would be permitted to take notes containing the client’s wishes and have the client sign a blank form of intent, which must be filled out within thirty days even if the client should die in the meantime. It gave lawyers huge power and would undoubtedly lead to corruption. Lawyers always took care of their own interests first. In counterpoint to the usual order of things, the massive increase in demand for their services had resulted in skyrocketing prices rather than reduced rates. The lawyers were getting rich. The clients were getting dead. And nobody in the government seemed to care.
The same thing was happening in other fields as well. The industry of death was in full force with inflated prices for those seeking to lay their loved ones to rest. Banks were reluctant to lend money. Funeral prices had tripled. There was rampant insurance fraud, and people were being abruptly laid off for something as innocuous as getting a migraine. None of which made sense—the death rate remained constant. People were not dying in droves. But the Harbinger had put death at the top of everyone’s mind.
By 8:00 p.m. her brain was mush. Artemis secured the gym bag in the saddlebags and checked the fuel level in her motorcycle. She hadn’t exercised since Ichabod’s death. She was out of shape, which she reasoned was part of her prolonged depression. A workout would help mend body and soul. She zipped between lanes on her way to the gym, hugging the cycle between her legs and relishing the feeling of transcendence riding gave her.
Traffic was light. The city was quiet, bathed in the gray light of early evening. Once she’d signed in at the gym, she shed her riding leathers and stripped down to shorts and a T-shirt and then went through her warm-up routine. The gym was sparsely populated with strangers. She didn’t recognize a single person and wondered if she could possibly have been away that long. The bulk of her workout proved challenging, so she reduced the reps but forced herself to perform every exercise. Her legs were weak, much weaker than when she had been on the PCT, but her arms were strong, and she liked the burn she got as she exercised.
When she’d finished, she bought a bottle of water and headed to the sauna. Sitting in the moist steam, she let her thoughts go where they wanted. It wasn’t Cab who popped to mind—it was Lucy. She should have waited to show her how she felt. In fact, she mused, she should have waited until she was certain what she felt for Lucy was love, not merely infatuation or need or lust. She got ahead of things that night when Lucy had touched her face in that tender way.
She wiped the sweat from her neck and exited the sauna. It was time for a shower and then dinner. She had something edible at the house, and she detested eating alone at restaurants. On the ride home, she passed an accident in the process of being cleared. The scene had the usual attendants—police, a fire truck, an ambulance—and something unusual. A man in a brown monk’s robe, like the one on the man sh
e had decked the other day, stood silent watch, holding his Harbinger placard at his chest.
*
The next morning, Lucy found herself in a shouting match with her editor. She had wandered into his fishbowl office with what she considered a likely idea for a news story. He had seen it rather differently, pulling himself into a wide-legged stance and staring intimidatingly at his insubordinate reporter. She pressed her point and saw his face grow redder as she challenged him. Lucy believed the public had a right to know, and the Messenger had an obligation to print actual news.
“The rules are the rules,” Jake repeated for the tenth time.
“And the first amendment is the first amendment,” Lucy countered.
He pointed a finger at her and spoke in a low angry voice. “We are not printing anything about the Harbinger. I’ve heard from colleagues who’ve pushed back. The government treats any mention of the Harbinger as some sort of sedition. They will shut us down, and they will throw your cute little ass in jail.”
Lucy could tell he was lying. The tick in his left eye was a dead giveaway. “I’m not writing about the Harbinger. There’s nothing more to say about it. People already know about it and have their own opinion on whether it’s real.” She took a breath, lowered her voice, and tried to sound rational. “I’m talking about that cult, The Servants of the Harbinger, and its unscrupulous leader, Jamil Uberdorf.”
Jake tapped his empty pipe pointlessly into an ashtray. “Lucy, my dear little bard, cults rise and fall all the time. This one is going nowhere. They run around in brown wool dresses in this damnable heat shouting the end is coming. Nobody pays them any real attention and won’t unless something like Jonestown or Waco happens.”
“They just burned down a church!”
“One fucking church, and there’s no proof it was them.” Jake stuck the pipe back between his teeth. “And we covered that story. Full front page spread with color shots.”
“We printed what amounted to a postcard, Jake.” She walked over and got in his face. “There was no journalism. We didn’t even mention that the cult was suspected.”
“And we won’t.” He took a step back, reclaiming his space. “You can keep submitting whatever you want beyond your actual assignments. I will not approve any articles containing the word Harbinger. Is that clear?” There was no wiggle room. He had a nice side gig going with a generous donor who wanted the cult to be ignored. One eager little reporter was not going to jeopardize that.
“The Times at least printed a photo of the church with the word Harbinger painted across the front.”
“Luce, you don’t work for the Times.” Jake’s face verged on purple. “We are in the coupon business. That’s what pays the piper around here.”
Lucy picked up her laptop and stormed out of his office. Jake wasn’t going to fire her. She was too good at her job for that to happen. She dutifully turned in crisp little public interest stories, and he owed her for the deal he’d made with the Times months back. She sank into her chair and started spinning the laptop on top of the desk. Taking a few deep breaths, she gradually let go of the anger. When she was calm enough, she dialed Artemis.
“He actually called you ‘my dear little bard’?” Artemis asked amused.
“Yeah. I think he secretly watches Xena reruns for the leather and the legs.”
“Don’t we all!” Artemis was still chuckling. “So, what are you going to do?”
There was a long pause. “I really don’t know. Probably nothing. Got any ideas?”
“You could go elsewhere. Maybe another newspaper would like to publish what you’ve got.”
Lucy sighed. She’d considered going elsewhere with what she knew, but with the responsibility of a child to support, she was hesitant. “No, Jake would fire me if I went around him.”
“That’s a pity.” Artemis understood the reason for Lucy’s reticence. “Listen, Lucy, so far the Harbinger has remained below the radar of the big media outlets. It’s just another kooky idea from California. But if one more thing happens, the world is going to take notice. You’ll be ready for it. You’re the kind of honest reporter who will eventually be listened to. Just wait. And know that I am here for you whatever you, ah, need.”
“Thanks.” Lucy clicked off her phone. She got the subtle message. Talking to Artemis made her feel better—or at least as better as she could feel. She was confused and tense; not just with Jake but with whatever it was she was doing or not doing about her relationship with Artemis. It was a blur in her head—except for the memory of their kiss that kept sweeping over her, warm and wonderful. She felt the tingling the memory always generated in her center. There was a connection to Artemis. It frightened her and it pleased her, and she wanted more, whatever more meant. Deep down she knew. They both knew. The “more” Lucy wanted was Temmie.
*
Helene grabbed the bottle she’d been eyeing all afternoon and made herself another vodka martini. The clock in the kitchen read 5:57. Everyone knew happy hour started at six. Howard would be home soon from his lowbrow, insignificant job. He wouldn’t be happy about finding her drunk again, and she didn’t much care. He was always unhappy about something: business was slow, it was going to rain, she hadn’t given him any children. There was always something to keep him in a bad mood.
She stared at the clock waiting for it to chime the hour and then realized she was waiting in vain. Howard had disabled the chiming mechanism weeks ago.
“You’re no fun,” she chided the silent clock and took a sip of her drink. It was hard to remember the last time anything had been fun. She issued a squeaky little laugh, which ended abruptly as her husband stepped into the room.
“Howdy, Howie,” she said, swiveling in her chair to greet him.
“You’re drunk,” he observed flatly.
“And you’re filthy. Situation normal.” She took a healthy gulp of vodka.
Howard peeled off his workman’s jacket and tossed it on a chair. “Don’t make a scene, Helene. ICE picked up my best mechanic today, and I had to do his work along with mine. I need to find a replacement real quick.”
“Well, you know what they say about finding hard help. It’s good to be lucky or something.” She stood up and wandered over to her husband.
He pushed her arm aside, avoiding an insincere embrace, and then stripped off his greasy work shirt. He was going to tell her he had filed for divorce whether she was drunk or not. Everything was finally ready. He had arranged his finances so that the majority was untraceable, and he had selected a hot young redhead to be Helene’s replacement. He wasn’t going to tell her that part. But he was going to tell her about the divorce, and he hoped it was going to hurt. A man can only stomach so much abuse, and he had long since reached his limit.
“We have to talk.”
“Not now, Howard.” She took another sip from her drink. “I’m not in the mood.”
“You are never in the mood,” he said, emptying his pockets to the table. “Tell me. Just out of curiosity, do you even know why you drink so much?”
“I only drink when there is something to celebrate. Today, I’m celebrating growing old.”
Howard wrenched open the refrigerator and looked for something to eat. Grabbing a beer instead, he popped the cap with his thumb and turned to face his wife. He wanted a clear view of her reaction when he told her his news. He formed a sly, cruel grin and opened his mouth but grabbed his head instead. The beer bottle dropped to the floor spurting foam as it bounced and rolled while the pain of the tolling bells took Howard to his knees.
Even in her melancholy buzz, Helene realized the Harbinger had found her husband. She looked down at him and hoisted her glass.
“All righty then, I’ll drink to that.”
*
Jamil Uberdorf considered San Bernadino the perfect location for the next escalation of his campaign. Years earlier when terrorism was the popular panic, San Bernardino had experienced a terrorist attack and painstakingly recovered. The c
ity had battened down the hatches after the slaughter, increasing security and advocating the slogan: see something, say something. As a consequence, it was able to handle the Servants of the Harbinger cult adeptly. The cult had been unable to secure a foothold mostly because their monks were usually harassed by both the public and the police. Payback would be a satisfying bitch, he thought.
He liked the sense of retribution it gave him. He’d told the mentor which church they were going to hit, but he had left out the more morbid details. He was getting the sense SME was squeamish, a failing Uberdorf felt compelled to mitigate. This was hardball in his opinion. Casualties were a good thing and necessary if people were to take his message seriously. The Harbinger, at least Uberdorf’s idea of the Harbinger, was a vengeful god.
His team spent Saturday night getting ready. Gathered in Uberdorf’s office, the three hand-picked men reviewed the simple plan until it was second nature. Each had a role to play. Each expected to get away undetected. Uberdorf gave them a pep talk and a blessing and sent them on their way. He put his feet up on his desk, stuck a cigarette between his lips, and fidgeted with his fancy lighter. The room seemed dreary to him. He needed someplace bigger, grander; more in keeping with his success. Ratings for his weekly broadcast were increasing and donations were pouring in. There was money enough to do whatever he could dream up. Receipts from the Servants’ panhandling alone would be sufficient to pay for a posh downtown office.
He lit the cigarette dangling in his lips and conjured up the kind of office an important man such as himself should have. And he wouldn’t ask his mentor. He was obedient to any requests they made, but Uberdorf was inching ever closer to going his own way. After all, Jamil was a respected religious leader who needed no mentoring other than from his manufactured deity. He had a growing following and an army of servants. Life was good.
Chapter Seven
The little boy held his mother’s hand as they walked down the aisle and took their seats in the second row. He watched the small motes dance in the early morning sunlight that streamed in from the windows and then stood on the bench to see the other people. He had never been in a church. He was curious about the way people were whispering and the strange pictures on the walls.