The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  "Okay, okay,” said Annette. “I'm just not used to somebody being able to tell, you know?” She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair and focused on her food. This new venture that Whiteside had undertaken had brought her face to face with more than a taxi driver. It had thrown her headlong into a whole new perspective on life, and while that was unavoidable and arguably fascinating, it also had the effect of changing the rules and threatening to shake up ... well ... everything! She hadn't bargained for that. Nor has anybody else, she thought.

  Victor felt it might be a good idea to just pick up his train of thought from where it had gotten waylaid. “What I said about you and me having to deal with each other because the dollars said we had to, well, the same holds true for Mr. Whiteside, and his family, and Senator Cadbury, and Cam ... especially for Cam. They're all in touch with me on some level, but not because I'm me. They have something to do with me because I'm a commodity, a commodity that has to be protected, exploited, pampered, whatever. It's not that I don't like these people, or you. I do, but the only person I've met so far that I might have made friends with a week ago is the cook, Noel Lambert. I'd like to get to know Winnifred Jopps, the housekeeper at the lodge, but the fact that I'm the important guest and she's just the help makes it difficult. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"

  Annette understood all too well. She could only imagine what Victor would think or do if he realized that some rooms in the lodge had been bugged by Patriot. Of course she didn't actually know that to be true ... in case Victor asked her ... but she had assumed as much. She knew the capability existed, and it was pretty obvious that Helen must have “overheard” their plan to come to Ray's restaurant. Cam O'Connor with golf clubs was a real hoot.

  "I tell you what,” she said, “this afternoon, when we get back, we can work on a plan to keep your name out of it when the LieDeck is released, okay? You'll present it to Mr. Whiteside tomorrow. And we'll try to deal with the psychology of the LieDeck as best we can ... as we go along. How's that sound?"

  It sounded great to Victor, and he found that the fries tasted even better, having sorted that out.

  "Here's something else,” said Annette after a full minute of silence. “I'm going to say something, and I'm going to guarantee you that not one word of it will get caught if I say it again later, at a time when you've got a LieDeck ... or I've got a LieDeck."

  Victor smiled as broadly as he could with his mouth full. “Shoot,” he said.

  "I ... would like...” began Annette. “I would like ... to spend the afternoon with you ... even though I pretty well have to anyway ... unless you get Whiteside to replace me ... which you're perfectly free to do, by the way..."

  Victor signaled “no” and “carry on” with a couple of hand gestures.

  "I would like ... to take you on a tour of the Whiteside offices and the production plant over in Kanata, and then, when we get back in a few hours, I would like ... to go with you to check out the new golf course they're building on the estate. Deal?"

  "I'd like that too,” said Victor. “And I won't make you repeat what you said."

  "Hey Ray,” yelled Merrick McFee, “Tirone's truck just pulled in.” He stepped off his stool at the counter to check the kitchen and make sure Ray was in there to hear him, then he sat back down, took a swig of his beer and waited a few seconds to get his timing down pat. “Guess he got hisself lost coming all the way up from Tenth Line, eh?” he said loudly. “O'course it gets pretty complicated, what with that new stop sign they put in down there at Seventh Line."

  "I heard that,” said Tirone Lucas as he wiped his feet on the mat.

  "You were supposed to hear it,” said Merrick without turning his head. “No point saying it if you ain't here to get ticked off."

  Victor smiled at Annette as they eavesdropped on the banter. To her it was quaint, and rather weird. To him it was real, almost beautiful. These people have roots, he said to himself, families, constellations of friends, trust, memories. When they die, it'll be okay. At least they lived.

  "You said you were going to be here early,” shouted Ray from the kitchen.

  "I was,” Tirone shouted back as he accepted the coffee that Claire placed on the counter, “but I solved that problem easy enough."

  Most everyone in the restaurant managed a chuckle out of that one, except Ray, since he was the one who usually got stuck waiting for whatever Tirone was supposed to be delivering.

  "The key to the Beach Barn is out under the cash there,” hollered Ray from the kitchen. “Beth said her boys will help you unload that straw. She said to just dump it on the floor and it'll get spread out later, just before the dance."

  "Can't figure why they always got to have frigging straw for that dumb dance,” said Buck as he lit a Player's Plain cigarette, the kind with no filter, “a man's cigarette,” he'd always contended. He was on his third beer, and beer had a funny way of bringing out the grouch in him. “Every year, same dumb-ass thing, a room full of straw."

  "It's so Merrick won't hurt hisself when he falls down,” explained Claire as she cleared table #3. “Of course there's always the chance he stays vertical this year, but we can't really count on that, eh?"

  "How come they put the dance on Good Friday this year?” asked Merrick, if only to change the topic.

  "Somebody screwed up,” said Ray as he came out of the kitchen, toweling his hands. “They didn't check the calendar, and by then they had the band booked and everything. Nobody cares anyways."

  Tirone and Merrick took their coffees and joined some other buddies at the corner table. “So they had Joe Farley's funeral last week,” Tirone said as he sat down. “I was kinda sorry I couldn't make it. Joe was a good old fart."

  "Week ago yesterday,” said Merrick. “There was a hunnert people at the church, I figure. Laid him out pretty good, too. Looked so natural I half expected him to sit up and spit."

  "Joe Farley must have been quite the character,” whispered Victor.

  "Oh yeah,” said Annette knowingly. “Maybe you heard about him on the news. He was charged with assault last year ... on a bishop, if you can believe it!"

  "It was them break-ins that his grandson Geoff did that killed him, you know,” said Claire as she dried her hands. “They're good boys, Geoff and Bobby, except Bobby got turned bad by the priests and young Geoff got carried along. Joe would be sitting at that table right now, giving us a piece of his mind, if it weren't for all that stuff that was going on out there at the boarding school. Joe's heart was a big one, made of steel and vanilla ice cream, but they damn well broke it. He just couldn't forgive them priests for what they done to those boys."

  "It weren't priests, Claire,” said Jesse angrily. “It was Brothers, not full priests, and we oughtn't get to passing judgment on anybody until those government hearings get to the bottom of all that."

  "How come you're defending them friggin’ preeeverts, Jesse?” asked Merrick testily. “I haven't seen you at mass for twenty years."

  "I ain't defending nobody,” insisted Jesse. “And I go to mass every Sunday. Go to the French mass, at eight o'clock, while you're still snoring."

  "You do not,” argued Merrick. “You don't even understand French."

  "Don't understand Latin neither,” said Jesse, with a shoulder shrug, “but that never stopped nobody for hunnerts o’ years."

  That ended the discussion, and Victor got the distinct impression that Jesse usually had the last word ... as well as the first.

  "Soooo...” said Victor as if he were revving himself up for something of importance, “are we—uh—friends now? Don't get me wrong—I'm not coming on to you. It's just that ... well, after all those years..."

  Annette put her left hand on his right forearm and looked him in the eye. “Friends ... yeah ... sure,” she said, squeezing. “You're okay, Victor."

  Victor smiled. “Know what?” he said. “This is the first time in months that I don't have my LieDeck on to ... to verify everything that people say. I feel sort
of ... naked, but it's ... it's kind of nice. I believe you. You ... do think I'm okay!"

  "Yeah, I do,” smiled Annette. “You are okay. So am I. We're two ... okay people."

  Victor laughed, and the Patriot agent reclaimed her hand. “There's a poster over there on the wall,” he said, “about that barn dance they were talking about in Quyon ... tonight. You—uh—want to go?"

  "Jesus, Victor,” Annette exclaimed, “do you have any idea what it would cost to set up a security operation for that?"

  "So?” said Victor, feeling quite rich and powerful.

  "So ... yeah, why not? Let's go to the barn dance. We can pretend we're cottagers."

  "I'll pretend I'm a cab driver,” added Victor.

  He left five loonies on the table for Claire, then he wandered over to the counter and popped a candy mint from the glass jar. “I'll get it,” he said, motioning. “What's the damage?"

  "Be my guest,” said Annette as she handed him the bill. “It's twenty-nine ninety, with the cigarettes added in ... and the damned tax."

  Perfect, he thought with a smile as the proprietor came out of the kitchen.

  "Now for the good part,” grinned Ray as he dinged open the cash.

  "Keep the change,” Victor said loudly as he slapped down a twenty and a ten.

  Chapter 9

  THE POPE WILL HAVE YOUR COLLAR

  The afternoon sun cascaded through the glass of many colors, and eight-minute-old photons put a certain zing into the halos, robes, and a bevy of cherubim and seraphim. Sheep shone, doves glowed, sinners repented, and saints saved souls between strips of soft gray lead. The headquarters of the Canadian Association of Catholic Bishops needed a guiding light of some kind, but perhaps it would have been better if it had been blessed with the plain white variety.

  Bishop Steve Sutherland looked around the ornate meeting room and wondered how he'd gotten to where he was. It wasn't so long ago that he was an apple-faced boy playing buck naked in the backyard of his family's Calgary home, in a grass-free depression they called “the sand pile,” fighting with his younger brother Anthony over possession of a red plastic fire truck. Steve invariably won, and Tony always cried, with predictable results. "Steeeee-vennnn," his mother would half sing and half scream. “Let your brother have a turn!” And he would, until his mother went back to whatever it was that mothers did all day.

  How did that brat grow into this tree? he asked himself as he dropped his face into his hands. When did I make the decisions that brought me all the way from being the most annoying kid on Sunnyside Avenue to a robed fifty-five-year-old in charge of sorting out the sexuality of the Church ... again? How long has it been since I believed the bumf or accepted the official party line? How many years has it been since I first realized there might not even be a God? Why am I still doing the same old shtick I've done all my adult life? Could I go and be a civil servant if I wanted, or maybe a chef? If there's no life after death, is there still time for me to live life before my death, to know the love of a woman, perhaps to father a child? Am I the only sane person in this room, or just the only person who's lost his faith? Lord God, I believe. Help me in my unbelief.

  "Are you all right?” asked Bishop William P. Doyle as he placed his hand on the chairman's shoulder.

  Sutherland snapped out of the daze and assured Bishop Doyle that he had just been praying, seeking divine guidance for the difficult task at hand. “I guess we'd ... better get going,” he said as he fiddled with the papers in front of him on the desk, “or we'll never get through the agenda. Thanks for asking. Honest, I'm fine."

  Thou shalt not bullshit thine fellow clerics, he thought. But then, who knows what the rest of these splendidly dressed men are really thinking, feeling? They're all actors, and nicely in tune with the manner, the way, the ancient etiquette of demonstrable piety. It goes with the territory of being a player in an outfit that claims to have a lock on truth and a direct pipeline to God.

  I'm not even close to being fine, he admitted silently. I'm a sinner, a liar, a scaredy-cat. That used to be the worst thing to call Tony in the sand pile. And yet here I am, a middle-aged guy, faking my way through life with a bunch of other fakers.

  Bishop Sutherland knew that this was not the time or the place for a tearful cathartic experience. He had been thinking about leaving the Church for several years, but there was much work to be done, for the good of the wounded flock and the country. He had the rest of his life, perhaps thirty years, to ponder the boatload of unCatholic questions that haunted him, the thousands of doubts that he was very careful never to confess ... never mind that he was supposed to confess all. Now the moment of truth had come. The decision to leave the Church was probably going to be made for him today, and he had no more time for second thoughts, no time for doubts about his doubts. “Shall we convene?” he asked, rising from his chair.

  Small clusters of clergy cut short whispered conversations and turned to face their elected chairman. The emergency meeting of the CACB was finally in progress, or at least called to order.

  "Instead of the usual opening prayers,” said Sutherland, “I'm going to ask that we all pray silently for guidance."

  He folded his hands reverently, lowered his head, and fought back a grin. It suddenly occurred to him that he couldn't peek. It simply could not be done. He thought it over, and realized that he'd really like to peek, but even if he did, he was dead certain that he wouldn't catch a single one of his colleagues committing the same impropriety. Still, he would have bet his dead mother's favorite rosary that there were other bishops and even archbishops in the room who were wondering if anyone would dare to peek, instead of praying. He knew it was silly, and yet there it was—something to consider. These men could be trusted absolutely when it came to not peeking. If only that level of trust applied elsewhere, he thought sadly ... say, for instance, to the welfare of the children.

  Bishop Sutherland couldn't pray. He knew too much. He knew too much about the sins and failings of the holy ones. He knew too much about the specific problem they had gathered to resolve. He didn't feel any need for guidance from above or from anywhere else to make up his mind about what had to be done, and he had decided weeks ago that he was the one to do it, or at least the one to try.

  They would counter his efforts with quotations from scripture, obscure passages and doubtful interpretations. They would be sure to bring up the dire consequences for the sacramental dish, the collection plate. Some would drop shadowy hints about his chances of remaining chairman, not to mention his odds of ever advancing further within the Church.

  But Sutherland felt immune to these tactics. He had a secret. He was disinterested in personal advancement, and he didn't give a tinker's damn about whether the collection plates of the land were empty or full. In fact, he didn't care much what it said, or didn't say, in the Bible. Right was right and wrong was wrong. The scandals of the early 21st century had died down, but the Church had not changed. It still attracted deviates to the station of priest, it still ordained sexual predators, and they still couldn't keep their hands to themselves and their peckers in their pants. I, Steven Sutherland, he said to himself, being an ordinary man with a functioning conscience and nothing to gain or lose, will put an end to this abomination, once and for all.

  "Gentlemen,” he said aloud, raising his head, “please be seated."

  Eighteen bishops and six archbishops slipped their forearms under their respective bums, pulled their black frocks forward and seated themselves. The term “gentlemen” felt like a bombshell, not because they were worried they might not qualify as gentlemen, but because “gentlemen” was not the prescribed appellation for men as revered and reverent as themselves. Sutherland was obviously looking for a scrap.

  "My first week in the seminary,” began the chairman, slowly, “I was approached by a young man, a second-year student, and—"

  "Excuse me,” interrupted Bishop Doyle, standing for the occasion, “but before we get down to business, I must go on
record as opposing the manner in which this meeting was called.” He paused for a moment, and slowly removed his wire-framed glasses. “This is Good Friday,” he intoned. “We should be in our parishes with the faithful, not—"

  "As CACB chairman, I have the power to call an emergency meeting at a time of my choosing,” said Sutherland forcefully. “But for the record, I take note of your objection. I wouldn't be surprised if it is shared by all present."

  "You're too kind,” said Bishop Doyle, with uncharacteristic acid. He sat back down, and replaced his glasses on his nose.

  "My first week in the seminary,” Sutherland repeated pointedly, “I was approached by a young man, a second-year student, a homosexual. He asked if I'd like to go to his room ... for a bowl of soup. What he really wanted was to have sex with me, right there in the seminary."

  Eyes were darting, eyes that were practiced and even expert at control, at concealing emotion.

  "I learned later that this sort of thing was not uncommon, that many new seminarians were propositioned by older gay seminarians, and even by some of the priests. I declined that invitation ... politely, would you believe? That incident was my introduction to the seamy side of Catholicism."

  He looked out at the room of black and white vestments and multi-colored sunlight and wondered how many of his fellow men of the cloth had had similar experiences, or whether they had said no to their invitations, or if they had been the ones to cook the soup and lure young seminarians into their rooms, and beds.

  "The man who approached me became a parish priest, and later a monsignor,” he continued. “His name was Bernard Hawthorne, a name you surely recognize. At this moment, he's sitting in a cell in the Kingston Penitentiary, convicted on fourteen counts of sexual assault.

  "As you know, being gay doesn't mean you're a pedophile, and most pedophiles aren't gay. However, Bernard Hawthorne was a gay pedophile, and by my fearful silence, some thirty-five years ago, I became a part of the problem. I became part of the reason this evil man could go on to become a priest. I became part of the reason that Catholic boys had their bodies violated, their minds twisted, and their small hearts broken, for life. Many of the youngsters who were entrusted to our boarding school system and who were molested by our priests and Brothers became sex-offenders themselves, as adults. By the latest count, more than one hundred and fifteen of them are now in jail, or were in jail, or stand accused ... and that's just in Canada."