by J. R. Mabry
Richard smiled, but it was a thin smile. He appreciated Bishop’s attempt to cheer him, but he needed to grieve Tom. And with all that had been going on in the last week, he hadn’t really had much time to do that. He thought about sharing these thoughts with Bishop, but he felt too tired all of a sudden to try.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” Bishop touched his arm, apparently noticing Richard slide into himself. “I didn’t mean to make light of your bishop’s death. I take it, it was more than just a professional relationship?”
Richard nodded. “He was a very close friend. There aren’t many people who understand what we’re doing—not really. And he…well, he really put his neck out for us.” Richard remembered back to how Bishop Tom had stood up to the other bishops of the Old Catholic Synod of the Americas. He had quit rather than allow the Blackfriars to be cut loose without a bishop. He knew how important what they were doing really was. Richard made an attempt to be more lively.
“So, when he died, we lost our connection to the apostolic succession,” Richard said.
“Along with your ability to perform the sacraments,” Bishop nodded.
“Worse than that, we lost our ability to command demons,” Richard said gravely.
Tragic, said Duunel in his head. Cue the violins. Richard ignored him.
“Which leaves you…” Bishop began.
“In a very vulnerable position,” Richard finished. “Before I left the friary, we had an army of several hundred possessed people loitering just across the street. If it weren’t for the wards that Terry set years ago…” he trailed off, staring off into space.
“I totally get it,” Bishop said. “Now I understand your desperation. But there are lots of bishops in the Independent Sacramental Movement, especially in the Bay Area. Why did you need to come all the way down here?”
“Have you ever met half of the bishops in our movement?” Richard asked, one eyebrow dangerously raised.
“Riiiight,” Bishop said, nodding. “Half of them are good, dedicated, earnest pastors—”
“The other half are self-aggrandizing, delusional, and more often than not, abusive lunatics,” Richard finished.
“Well, people do often come into the movement because they’ve been rejected by the ‘big boy’ denominations,” Bishop said with a tone of commiseration.
“And often, rightly so,” Richard said. “You know the joke about how to get ordained an Independent Catholic priest, right?”
“Get the bishop drunk enough, you mean?” Bishop cracked a wry smile. “Yeah, I know that one. It’s only funny because it’s true.”
“Sadly,” Richard agreed. “So, let’s just say that among the bishops in our area that we know, we’re experiencing a serious shortage on sanity.”
“I’m not sure I’m much better.” Bishop stirred a large pot of stew on an electric burner. “Some people might consider my…isolation…a form of mental illness.”
Make that most people, Duunel commented.
“Do you?” Richard asked.
“Well…” Bishop paused for a long time. Just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable, he said, “Yes, I guess I do. It’s certainly not normal. And it is a form of fear. I like to tell myself that I’m an anchorite for spiritual purposes, but it isn’t true.” Bishop paused in his stirring. “On the other hand, there’s crazy, and—”
“And there’s crazy,” Richard finished. He came up behind Bishop and pressed against him, laying his head on his shoulder. He felt Bishop relax, and felt his hand on his own.
Warning! Duunel screamed in his head. Inappropriate touching! Put your hands up, and back away from the faggot! Do it now!
Richard once again let Duunel go unheeded and squeezed Bishop hard. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” he said softly in his ear. “I think you’re wounded. Just like the rest of us.”
Bishop turned to face him, and Richard saw tears welling in his eyes. Richard ran his hands along Bishop’s shoulders, kneading them, and stared into his eyes. He felt the hot breath of his mouth and was close enough now to smell the spicy musk of his sweat. Bishop raised his mouth to him and despite the temper tantrum the demon was throwing in his thoughts, Richard felt drawn to touch them to his own, pulled by an irresistible, primal force.
Just as Richard brushed Bishop’s upper lip with the tip of his tongue the moment was shattered by the squeal of tires, the blaze of horns, and the deafening crash of metal on metal.
96
WITH DISPASSIONATE EFFICIENCY, Homeland Security agents ushered Dylan and Terry to Bishop Preston’s dressing room. As they waited in the hall, two agents entered and quickly searched the room, then one of them wordlessly held the door for them. Definitely feeling a little over his head, Terry ducked in first, followed by Dylan. The door snapped shut behind them.
“We’ve had ourselves a lot of weird days, mah friend…” Dylan started, setting down his kit bag.
“This is definitely right up there,” Terry agreed.
“Just you and me,” Dylan held his fist out.
Terry bumped it. “We’d better be careful with that around here,” Terry noted. “Could have Democratic associations.”
“Word,” agreed Dylan.
“You okay?” asked Terry.
“Ah’m gonna be sore as a mutherfucker tomorrow,” Dylan admitted. “But Ah still got the use of mah limbs. So, Ah’m good.”
“Why don’t you go first, though?” Terry suggested, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I think you got it a bit worse than I did.”
“Much obliged, and Ah will not say no,” Dylan said and made for the bathroom door. “Uh…Ah never thought Ah’d be utterin’ these words, but if there’s any way to get a cup o’ tea around here…”
“I’m on it,” Terry said, giving a nod with exaggerated military briskness.
Dylan flashed a grateful but pained smile and shut the door behind him. Terry heard the sound of water in the sink and for the first time allowed himself to take in their surroundings.
The room was spartan, but there had definitely been some thought to it. There was a makeup table that Terry supposed could double as a desk, but set upon it was a plastic hospitality basket and a bright, overlarge arrangement of flowers.
Turning, Terry saw a couple of padded folding chairs, a cot, and a freestanding wardrobe that looked like a cross between a queen-size high school locker and an industrial cabinet. Except for the flowers, there was nothing even remotely homey about the place. No artwork adorned the walls—it was all about efficiency. Despite the fact that the temperature was on the warm side, the room made Terry feel distinctly chilled.
He wondered if that was all due to the room, or might he chalk some of that up to their mission? It was hard to say. He was certainly nervous. He wished they had more of a plan. Still, he thought, except for Mikael getting hurt, so far, so good.
The phrase “inevitable casualties” crossed his mind, but it was too painful to consider, and he forced it back. He flashed on the scores of people they had just killed or mutilated outside. We had no choice, he thought. It truly was them or us. Their only crime, he knew, was having the rotten luck to be possessed by demons.
His rationalization kicked in, and he considered that demons were much more likely to enter someone who had, to some degree, already surrendered to them—those habitually engaged in some egregious sin, for instance. So, in the end, he wondered, did they deserve what they got? No. He couldn’t even think it.
Terry shook his head and realized that if he kept going down that road, he’d be paralyzed by guilt or shame or by the simple enormity of the task before them. Stay present, he told himself. What needs doing right now?
“Tea,” he said out loud and began looking. He opened the wardrobe and saw a few hanging shirts and a freshly pressed and dry-cleaned suit still in its plastic bag. For Preston’s speech tonight, Terry thought. He stooped, and on a low shelf he saw what he was looking for: a single-cup coffee maker. He pulled this out and checked the plastic hospita
lity basket on the makeup table—two bags of English Breakfast tea were plainly visible on top. He started heating the water. Then he paced.
Terry realized he was pacing, so he forced himself to sit and willed himself to relax. He’d just started to pray when Dylan opened the door, definitely looking fresher. He certainly looks wetter, Terry mused.
“Uh, dude, Ah ripped mah cassock, here,” Dylan pointed to a jagged seam under his arm.
“No problem,” Terry pointed to the hospitality basket. “There’s a needle and thread in there. I don’t think Preston will mind. Tea, coming up.”
“You are a true friend,” Dylan said, reaching for the tiny sewing kit.
Terry turned toward the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
A few minutes later, he emerged. He’d dusted the grime from his cassock, tended to his personal toiletries, and even managed to get his hair to stand up in just the cute way he liked, even without a fresh dose of gel. Like Dylan, he knew he was going to be sore, but for now he felt ready to meet the world.
“Lookin’ good, dude,” Dylan said, sipping at his tea. He put the cup down and faced his friend. “Are you wonderin’ how Larch knew we’d be at that service entrance?”
“Nope,” Terry replied. “I’m not wondering at all.” Terry put his hands on his hips. “I’m pretty sure I know exactly what happened.”
“Yer thinkin’ Randy?” Dylan asked.
“Aren’t you?”
“Waal, Ah don’t want to think it, fer Kat’s sake. But Ah reckon it’s the truth.”
“If it wasn’t Randy, I’ll eat my fairy slippers.” Terry narrowed his eyes. “How’s the tea?”
“Ah never did give tea its due,” Dylan confessed.
“Any minute now, Preston is going to be here for us,” Terry started.
“Ah know it.”
“I’m going to stick to him like glue,” Terry continued.
“Thet’s just what Ah was gonna suggest,” Dylan said. “And Ah’ll stick to you. You see any opportunity to snag that crozier, you do it. Ah’ll run interference fer ya.”
“Uh, Dylan,” Terry took a deep breath. “What if we don’t get that chance?”
“Ah don’t want to think about that,” Dylan said. “But if’n it comes to that…Ah guess we’ll have to just confront ’im.”
“What good would that do?” Terry said. “Any opposition would be moot.”
“Waal, what if we don’t oppose ’im?”
“What?” Terry shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“Like Mikael’s aikido, or Jesus goin’ to the cross, or Gandhi’s nonviolent resistance,” Dylan said. “What if we confront ’im but don’t oppose ’im?”
“What good would that do?” Terry still couldn’t fathom it.
“Isn’t that what they were askin’ Gandhi?” Dylan wondered.
“But how would that force Preston to surrender the Spear?” Terry asked.
“Mebbe by not forcin’,” Dylan suggested. “As we all know, coercion is not God’s way.”
“I don’t see it, Dyl,” Terry said. “And let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If it does…I guess I’ll just have to trust.”
“Thet’s all God ever asks of us, dude,” Dylan clapped him on the shoulder. “’Course, thet’s easier at some times than at others.”
There was a knock on the door, and the handle turned. Into the room stepped Bishop Preston. Outside, Terry could see a gaggle of Secret Service agents. He was surprised to see Governor Ivory there, too, looking nervous, pulling at his shirtsleeves.
“How are you doing?” Preston asked, placing a paternal hand on Terry’s shoulder. “That was some nasty business. Will you be all right for the rest of the day?”
“Put us in, coach,” Dylan affirmed. “We’re good to go.”
Preston cocked his head and faced Dylan. “Kentucky?”
“Nah, suh, Tennessee.”
“I pride myself on being able to place accents. You just took me down a notch,” he smiled. Terry thought it was the most lizard-like smile he’d ever seen.
“Well, come on, then,” Preston said. “We’ve got to head over to makeup. I’m on in less than an hour. I notice that neither of you are armed. I’m sure we could find a couple of sidearms for you, if—”
“No thank you, sir,” Terry said. “And we are armed”—he picked up his kit bag and slung it over his shoulder—“with precisely the weapons that are most effective against the kind of enemies you hired us to protect you from.”
Preston nodded. “Good enough, then. Shall we?” He opened the door for them. Terry went first, then Dylan slung his kit bag over his shoulder and followed.
As soon as they hit the hallway, the group started to move. Terry motioned Dylan to take point with one of the Secret Service agents. Dylan nodded and double stepped until he was in position. As they walked, Terry took up the rear, staying close enough to hear Preston and Ivory’s conversation.
“You can’t hit this too hard, John,” Ivory said, looking down at the bishop. “You have to go out there and win hearts and minds. If you just play to the base, it’ll get us nowhere.”
“You forget that a preacher’s first job is to persuade,” Preston said coolly. “Don’t worry, David, it’s going to go fine.”
“The Democrats are ready to clap me in irons, and our own moderates are wavering on Dearborn. You’ve got to convince them it was the right course of action. That’s the goal today.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Preston said. “The goal today isn’t just to convince them that you did the right thing—which you did—but to likewise convince them that the kind of leader that had the courage to take such decisive action is exactly what this country needs right now.”
“You don’t think you’re biting off more than you can chew?” Ivory asked.
“Did your people vet my speech or not?”
Ivory said nothing for a few seconds. “It’s the press I’m worried about. If all they’re interested in is questioning my motives and painting me as some kind of monster…”
They rounded a corner, and Preston placed a warning hand on Ivory’s shoulder. “Well, here’s your chance to find out.”
Down the hall, Terry could see the blinding lights of camera crews. As soon as they saw who was coming, they rushed over, yelling questions over one another in an impossible cacophony. They were mostly shouting for Ivory, so the governor stepped forward and held his hands up. “One at a time, please,” he insisted.
“Governor, what can you tell us about the firefight outside about a half hour ago?” Terry saw that the speaker was a reporter he recognized from the local CBS affiliate.
“Homeland Security and the Secret Service are investigating. The only thing we can say right now is that it appears that one group of protestors turned violent and began to attack innocent people, necessitating the use of appropriate force. Any further questions will have to be directed to Homeland Security.”
A balding man from MSNBC yelled out the next question. “Governor, what do you say to your critics regarding the Dearborn action? Did you overreact? Did you overstep your constitutional authority?”
“Son, I have seen the intelligence. You have not. I am not at liberty to reveal classified information, but I will say one thing—there would not be a San Francisco to stand in today had I not taken the action I did. And that is in no way an exaggeration. It is the simple, God’s honest truth.”
A tall, strikingly handsome man from ABC news shouted out, “Governor, will Lansing become the next Guantánamo?”
Ivory stiffened, “I am not at liberty to discuss classified national security matters. Next question.”
A short blonde woman from FOX pushed to the front. “Governor, Bishop Preston has promised to nominate you from the floor to be the Republican presidential candidate. If he does, will you accept?”
Ivory stood taller and took on a distinctly presidential air. “I am dedicated to serving my country in whatever capacity th
e people think best. If the delegates decide that I’m the man for the job, I will not hesitate to do my duty.”
Looking pleased with this answer, the woman asked a follow-up question. “Governor, what do you consider to be the finer things in life?”
A chill ran down Terry’s spine. Rarely had such an innocent question held so much portent. If the press are already beginning to ask him human-interest questions, Terry thought, that means that not only is all forgiven but that they’re beginning to invest in him as a person, as a candidate.
Ivory seemed pleased by the question but stumped as well. Terry wavered. On the one hand, he wanted Ivory to fail, to come off as a bumbling boob. On the other hand, it was not Terry’s way to simply stand back and watch someone flail. After a split second of hesitation, Terry stepped forward, and tugged on the governor’s shirt sleeve.
“Uh, excuse me, please,” the governor said, and leaned down to receive Terry’s whisper. “Thank you, Son,” he said. He straightened back up and faced the cameras again, this time with a confident smile. “The finer things in life? Well, ma’am, I only know of two: cowboy coffee and Wisconsin cheese.”
97
“OH GOD, NOT AGAIN,” Bishop’s face screwed up into a mask of pain.
“What the fuck was that?” Richard asked, whipping his head around.
Tobias began barking urgently, his nose already at the door. Rearing up on his hind legs, he fumbled at the catch with his paws, and after a moment of effort, the door swung outward and Toby bounded out, quickly followed by Richard.
Running out into the blinding light of midday, Richard squinted and put a hand over his eyes to shade them as he looked around. He saw a yellow blur that he took to be Toby and followed after at a dead run.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bishop hovering in the doorway, and barely heard his thin voice over the wind, “Tell me what you need!”
“Call 911!” Richard called over his shoulder. Toby barked incessantly, and Richard struggled to keep up with him. Rounding a corner, he saw precisely what he feared: two cars lay side by side as if in a lover’s tangle, the metal of their bodies twisted like bedclothes. Steam erupted from one of the radiators.
