The Power: Berkeley Blackfriars Book Two

by J. R. Mabry

  Her teacup was empty, so she went to the kitchen for a refill. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she gazed out the window at the milling mob just across the street. They were about thirty strong now. She felt a chill run down her back as she watched them, staring straight at her, working their mouths in some kind of distressed compulsion.

  She had to remind herself that they weren’t zombies massing for an attack. They were ordinary people, and if all went well, would be again. They were just…“temporarily hijacked,” she breathed. She said a short prayer, and then poured the steaming water into a fresh cup.

  She pulled her sweater more tightly around herself. She felt alone and scared. She wanted to be held, to be reassured. She looked over at Randy, but he seemed to be asleep—at least, she couldn’t see him anywhere in the mirror. Tobias was asleep, with all four paws in the air underneath the table. She smiled at the sight of him.

  Where is Dylan? she wondered. She turned toward the back staircase and quickly and quietly ascended. She passed quickly down the hall to their room and opened the door. Dylan was in much the same pose as Tobias, spread-eagle on the floor, a half-unsmoked blunt firmly wedged between two fingers. Her heart sank. She knelt by him. “Oh, Baby,” she said. “Why are you so weak? We need you to be strong right now.” She took the blunt from his hand, wondering at the size of it.

  She did enjoy a hit now and then. It was especially helpful if she was experiencing hard PMS. She wasn’t puritanical about it. It would have been impossible to live with any of the guys if she were. But she hoped for more for her husband. She knew he truly enjoyed marijuana, and she didn’t begrudge him that. But he also used it to hide, to numb out. The more stressed he was, the more compulsively he smoked. Right now, with all that was going on, he seemed completely powerless. No doubt after their close call this morning he had come directly up here and smoked himself into oblivion.

  She felt a difficult mixture of emotions—pity for him, and for herself, anger, and gobs of frustration. “I don’t know how to help you right now, Dylan,” she said, stroking his hair.

  One of his eyes opened. “Hey, cutie,” she said. “Good to see someone is in there.” His eyeball moved around, taking her in, but otherwise he did not move. “Honey, I hate to say this, but it needs to be said: You’re an addict, and it seems to me that you are completely powerless to pull yourself together. The problem is, we all need you right now. We need you strong and clear-headed and brave. We need you to be the best Dylan that is in there, and I know that Dylan is in there because that is the Dylan I married.”

  The eye sagged, his body relaxed, and he began to snore. Susan sighed. Then, without even thinking about it, she grabbed the trash bag out of the little can in the corner, opened Dylan’s stash cabinet, and emptied every bud, every joint, every roach, every brownie, every capsule that she could find into it. Then she thought for a moment, making a mental checklist of all of Dylan’s stashes throughout the house, and systematically, she emptied every single one.

  Stepping down the back stairs again, she saw Tobias on the landing waiting for her with broad swoops of his tail. “Hey, baby dog,” she said to him, feeling sad and scared. “Your papa’s not going to be very happy with me when he wakes up.” Toby licked her hand. She opened the back door and walked to a large metal trash can. She was amazed, as she poured the contents of the trash bag into the can, how much Dylan had accumulated. Then she reminded herself that this was about how much he consumed every month. She shook her head, opened the lid on a bottle of lighter fluid, and doused the pot. Then she struck a match and watched as the metal can erupted in flame. Susan stood back and Tobias barked.

  “Careful, there, Toby,” she said. “Don’t breathe too deeply. We don’t want you passed out all afternoon, too.”

  37

  RICHARD STOPPED and caught his breath walking up the steep hill toward the Graduate Theological Union. In a moment, he was trudging on again. He checked his phone and stepped up the pace, not wanting to be late. When he called to set up the appointment, Bishop Mulgrew had been curt: “My office. Two thirty.” Then she hung up.

  Another day, another bishop, Duunel said in his head. Will this one be a prick, too?

  “Probably,” Richard said, puffing. And it was probably true. She always had been, every time he’d met her in the past. It was a long shot, but he had to take it. Mikael had filled him in on the frightening assembly of the possessed. He was running out of time, and he knew it. How many more Occupied Americans would be encircling the friary by sundown? He shuddered to think of it.

  You know that saying, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em?” Duunel asked. I don’t think you can beat us. There’s just too many. Even if you find a bishop this afternoon. If a disembodied voice could smile, Duunel did. And you know what, boobie? You’ve already joined us. You’re no different from those poor sods lining up outside your house. Not even a little bit.

  Richard ignored him. It was a skill that he had almost perfected. Instead, Richard mulled over what he knew about Bishop Mulgrew. She held the Mary Daly Chair of Feminist Theology at the Bay School of Religion. She had been ordained and later consecrated as part of the Roman Catholic womenpriest movement, but had jumped ship to the Independent Catholic movement about three years ago.

  She was not well liked in Old Catholic circles. She never attended clergy meetings, and she kept her distance from any local church communities. Richard didn’t know why. He didn’t even have a guess.

  He was sweating as he stepped onto the campus. Even though it was Sunday, several students were sunning themselves on the lawn, and most were studying. On his right was a large medieval-style manor house that was home to the oldest part of the school, looking for all the world like a wing of Hogwarts. Straight ahead was a 1950s Disneyfied version of a Tudor house, where many of the students lived. To his left was a 1960s modern-art chapel, all sharp angles and glass. It was an architectural mutt of a place, and Richard could never quite figure out what to make of it. What were they thinking? he wondered to himself as he made for the enormous dark wooden doors of the castle-like manor house.

  Straightening his cassock, he ran his fingers through what remained of his hair and approached the front desk. Being Sunday, however, there was no one there. He rang the bell just to be sure. A very butch woman with a nose ring and a blue Mohawk scowled at him as she passed by. “Closed. It’s Sunday.”

  “Um…and yet, I have an appointment with Doctor Mulgrew,” he said cheerfully. “Do you know where her office is?”

  “Second floor, office 234,” the woman called over her shoulder, not bothering to stop.

  “Thank you,” Richard said, and turned toward the stairs.

  Is that how they’re cranking out Christians these days? Duunel asked. ’Cause that was a little disconcerting, even for me.

  “Some of the students here are what I would describe as ‘post-Christian,’” Richard said.

  Look, we demons have whole bureaucracies devoted to inventing doublespeak like that, and even I don’t know what that means. I thought this was a Christian seminary, Duunel said—sounding remarkably perplexed.

  “Well, it’s a seminary that encourages questioning. Deconstructing the Christian faith is definitely high on the agenda. Ideally, reconstructing should follow.”

  That “deconstruction” sounds like something we could get behind, Duunel said, and Richard could almost see him rubbing his hands together. I feel a sizable bequest coming on.

  “Where from?” Richard said. “You’re no longer inhabiting a tycoon, or have you forgotten? You are now rooming with a penniless friar.”

  Don’t have to, Duunel said.

  “No indeed. Please leave anytime you like,” Richard said.

  And where would I go?

  “How about a nice herd of pigs, perhaps somewhere near a cliff?”

  I love your little biblical allusions. They’re quaint.

  “I didn’t know you read the Bible,” Richard said.

>   Read it? Dear boy, I have it committed to memory.

  Richard was somewhat taken aback by this news and didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, he didn’t need to respond because he found himself at the threshold of office 234. He knocked.

  “Hold your horses!” came the loud response. In a moment, the door swung open. A very large woman appeared, who seemed to loom over Richard. At six feet two, Richard had met few women capable of this, but here, without a doubt, was one.

  “Doctor Mulgrew, thanks so much for seeing me,” Richard held out his hand.

  She ignored it, narrowing her eyes at him. “In this office,” she said as if instructing a child, “we eschew the rituals of the patriarchy. Who are you?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I’m Father Richard Kinney, of the Order of Saint Raphael. We spoke briefly.”

  “And we’ll speak briefly again.” She did not budge from her doorway. Richard had expected to be invited in, so he shuffled in the hallway uncomfortably.

  “Um…could we speak privately?”

  She looked up and down the hall. “I don’t see anyone. And I don’t allow males into my inner sanctum. You will pollute the sacred womb energy that my sisters have worked so hard to establish here.”

  Richard wasn’t sure what to say to this.

  “Perhaps you don’t understand,” she said, speaking slowly and deliberately as if to a slow child. “This is a patriarchy-free zone, so I will thank you to keep your testicles as far away from me and my office as possible.”

  Ah! said Duunel in his head. Bet you a fifth of Maker’s Mark she runs with wolves. Probably naked. At the new moon. Perhaps she’ll speak to you at length if you consent to being castrated. I think that’s a fine idea, don’t you?

  Richard ignored him. “Could we perhaps have some coffee in the cafeteria?”

  “There’s no food service, only drinks,” she scowled. “Sunday.”

  “That’s fine,” said Richard, a little too cheerily. “I’ll spring for coffee.”

  Mulgrew looked uncertain about this. “All right,” she said. She closed the door to her office, leaving Richard outside. After a few minutes, she reemerged wrapped in an autumnal shawl. She locked the door after her and set off down the hall without a word.

  Richard fell into step behind her. She was a giant wall of a woman, standing half a hand taller than Richard and extending to fully twice his width. Her gray hair was styled in a drill sergeant buzz-cut, and tiny twin-edged axes hung from the lobes of her ears. As he caught up to her, he noticed a button pinned to her shawl. It had a cartoon picture of the pope’s head, with x’s in the place of his eyes and his tongue hanging out. The letters underneath spelled, Starve the Patriarchy.

  Stepping out into the summer sun, Richard pushed himself to keep up with her. She did not deign to speak to him as they rushed across the commons toward the cafeteria. Once inside, Richard paid for himself—Mulgrew apparently had a meal plan—and grabbed himself a mug of coffee. He found the professor in a corner table at far remove from any of the other diners. He sat and forced a smile.

  “What do you want?” she asked, arms crossed over her bosom.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, if you read the ISM listserv or not, but Bishop Müeller was killed a couple of days ago.”

  Richard was expecting a rude retort to this somehow, but none came. Instead, she looked sad and a little concerned. “How is Gretchen?” she asked.

  “You know Gretchen?” Richard asked, surprised.

  “She was a student. And later, we were…friends.”

  The pause indicated to Richard that they had been something more than just friends, but he didn’t pry. Of all people, he understood the pull that former lovers could exert on the heart, the sad sweetness that can issue from memory and longing. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I should call her,” she said.

  “She’s very upset,” Richard said. “I’m sure a friendly voice would help. She’s pretty isolated.”

  Mulgrew nodded. “How did Tom die?”

  “Motorcycle accident,” Richard said. “I don’t have the whole story, but Gretchen says he swerved to avoid a cat.”

  Mulgrew almost smiled. “They were obsessive about cats,” she said.

  Richard laughed. “Yes. Yes, they were. I remember once I stayed overnight, and they had seventeen of them in their one-bedroom apartment.”

  “I hope you’re not allergic,” she said, looking at him for the first time.

  “I am, in fact,” he winced visibly. “It took me a week to recover. I think I cornered the market on Benadryl.”

  Mulgrew laughed out loud. As her smile faded, she looked him in the eyes. “So, you didn’t come to bear bad news, I assume.”

  “No. Tom was our bishop. Do you know about the Order of Saint Raphael?”

  “I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know anything about you. Are you local?”

  “Yup. Our friary is just a few blocks away, in the Gourmet Ghetto,” Richard answered.

  “What is your charism?”

  “We’re exorcists,” he said plainly.

  “Exorcists.”

  “Yes,” he affirmed.

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No, no joke. That’s what we do. We handle about seventy demonic deliverance cases a year, give or take. We regularly receive referrals from Roman Catholic and Episcopal dioceses. We’re actually on their speed dial,” he chuckled.

  “Is this a joke?” she repeated.

  This time, Richard just shook his head and looked her in the eyes.

  “There are no such things as demons,” she said.

  Oh, I do like her, Duunel said.

  “Yes, well, that’s what they’d like you to believe because then they can practice unopposed.”

  “Young man,” Mulgrew began, causing Richard’s eyebrows to shoot up, as he hadn’t been called that in many years. Mulgrew continued, “Have you ever been picked up on a 5150?”

  “Uh…no,” Richard said, not liking the sound of that. “Isn’t that a Van Halen CD?”

  “It’s code for involuntary psychiatric hold, for observation,” she said. “Did you know that I’m also a psychologist?”

  “No,” Richard said, beginning to squirm. “Look, we’re not crazy. We cast out demons in the name of Jesus Christ. That’s our calling. It isn’t delusional; it’s real.”

  Slowly, Mulgrew reached for her phone.

  Richard plowed ahead. “But Tom was our bishop. Without him, we’re cut off from the apostolic succession. Our power line has been…severed. Ever since he died, we can’t command the demons. They just laugh at us.”

  Mulgrew’s eyes narrowed. Richard continued. “That’s why I’m here. We need temporary episcopal oversight to get us back in business. We’ve got a demonic crisis brewing right here in Berkeley, and if we don’t tend to it, like, yesterday, a lot of people could get hurt. A lot of people are getting hurt now.”

  “First of all,” Mulgrew said, waving his arguments away, “you are delusional. There are no such things as demons. They are entirely a figment of your imagination. Second, your theology of apostolic succession is a twisted patriarchal distortion of the tradition. You don’t need a bishop any more than I need testes. And third”—she leaned in and narrowed one eye on him—“the Roman Catholic archdiocese isn’t the only one with speed dial. The ambulance will be here in about five minutes.”

  Just then, someone screamed. Richard looked around but couldn’t identify the source. Mulgrew bolted out of her chair, apparently keen to investigate. At the same time, Duunel distracted him by with his own screaming, confined to his own head, and regarding how they had to get the fuck out of there, but he ignored him.

  “She’s not really going to call 911,” he said.

  Wanna bet? Duunel asked.

  “How do you know?”

  She’s batshit crazy, Duunel said. It’s—what do you call it—projection?

  “What makes you say she’s crazy?” Richard asked under his brea
th.

  Um…’womb energy’? Duunel answered.

  Another student screamed, and Richard rose and joined Mulgrew beside a tiny gaggle of students, all looking up at a television set in the corner. Richard saw the CNN logo, then a picture of a mushroom cloud erupted across the screen. The caption read, Dearborn Bombed.

  “Holy shit,” Mulgrew said, clutching at a stone goddess hanging from her neck. Not daring to breathe for fear of missing some words, Richard strained to hear the tiny television speaker. Then one of the students found a remote and turned it up, much to his relief.

  The scene cut to a press conference, and the caption told them that Michigan governor David Ivory was about to address the public. By this time, everyone in the cafeteria was crowded around the television. Richard discovered he was holding his breath. It was so quiet he could hear Mulgrew’s faint wheezing beside him.

  Oh, this is going to be good, Duunel said. Richard ignored him.

  “My fellow Americans,” Ivory began, looking both grave and confident. “In the last twenty-four hours, my office received incontrovertible evidence of no less than seventy sleeper cells concentrated in the city of Dearborn. Both state and federal intelligence agencies affirm that these cells were organized and poised to strike at more than a thousand US targets simultaneously.

  “The projected date for the attack would have been…tomorrow, in part to coincide with the first day of the Republican National Convention, and in part to commemorate the death of the Indian Islamic terrorist Abdul al-Siddhar.

  “My office was faced with an impossible choice—we had a very narrow window between learning of the planned attacks and the hour at which the cells would be mobilized. In fact, that window was less than four hours. I made an executive decision, and an hour ago, I ordered the Michigan State Militia of the National Guard to drop a 1.2-megaton thermonuclear bomb on the city of Dearborn.