Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Dee STP 23 by Peregrinf It wasn't easy, but I kept my promise to Mom and Elaine and Detective Maria Sanchez that Sunday. Even though I had a miserable cold I went to that service for information and evidence, and while I didn't realize it at the time I came out with more than I expected. Well that and some big concerns. But the only reason there hadn't been a murder at the Restored Temple of the Holy Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One True Church that day was thanks to my BFF Missy Wilson. I also have to give her and my friends credit for the success of our mission. My virus-sodden brain was too clogged to really do anything. I saw Missy's mischief dimples, so I knew something was brewing, but I had no idea just how carefully she had planned to attain our goals until well after we escaped that demon's lair. But perhaps I should explain Missy's mischief dimples. She has always had a lousy poker face. When she has some scheme in the works, she gets a sly little smile that brings out the sweetest little dimples at the corners of her mouth. YUM! I can almost taste 'em now! It doesn't happen often, but when it does I know we're in for an interesting ride. Naturally, when I talked to her Friday night to enlist her aid at getting me into the Restored Temple yada yada yada on Sunday I told her -- but certainly not her mother! -- everything, the facts as we -- meaning Mom and me and Maria et al -- knew them and our suspicions. What we needed, I told her, was the evidence needed to metaphorically hang that bastard and everyone else responsible for what was going on there. Missy, as a grope-ee, had her own personal ax to grind and I could almost hear the gears meshing as she contemplated the opportunity I was handing her. Seeing her dimples on Sunday morning bucked me up immensely. I suspected she'd made good use of Saturday to lay plans for a proactive course of action. But I knew not what and I was glad to keep it that way, so when/if the shit should happen to hit the fan I could honestly claim ignorance. I was those three Oriental monkeys -- see, hear, speak no evil -- rolled into one virus-ridden simian knot. I felt so crappy I didn't give a shit if the ceiling came crashing down and put me out of my misery, but I didn't want to screw up getting the goods on the felons. If I was so sick why didn't we call the whole thing off? Nuh uh. No way. This was our best chance to penetrate that den of evil, before the bad guys had time to clean house of incriminating evidence. Even Mom and Elaine reluctantly acknowledged that, so before I left the house Mom dosed me with her patented head cleaner -- hot mint/chamomile tea with lemon and honey -- which set my sinuses draining like a faucet. I rejected a dose of cold medicine for fear of nodding off during the sermon. Armed with a levee of hankies to contain the flood I was driven over to Missy's for breakfast, on the way enduring yet another warning from Mom to Do No Evil -- aside, perhaps, from being an improvised involuntary bio-bomb. I assured her I did not have the strength to do anything but spread germs, and that I'd do my best to limit the collateral damage from that. Missy had taken one look at my inflamed schnozz and bloodshot eyes and backed away, crossing her fingers as if warding off a vampire. I refrained from even touching her, let alone hugging. As for Missy's mom, I wouldn't wish my disease even on her, so I kept my distance there, too. She was so pleased I'd "come around" to her way of thinking she was blissfully oblivious to my debilitated state. Given that I was flying under false colors -- to say nothing of a cloud of contagion -- I felt like a bit of a fraud. But one look at the bulletin board outside the Restored Temple's front doors sharpened my senses, cleared my sinuses with a nuclear blast of adrenalin and wiped away any remaining qualms. The topic of the day's sermon was based on the biblical injunction "Let the little children come to me ... for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these" -- Matthew 19:14, New International Version. Why do I include the chapter and verse here? Because that's exactly the way the sign read. Knowing Pastor Paul for the self-important, self-aggrandizing asshole he is he cited the source as a way to flaunt his alleged knowledge, wisdom and authority as a new-age prophet. Hellfire! Even a heathen like me can find a suitable quote for any occasion in the Bible. It was all I could do not to add puking to my repertoire of symptoms. An electronic carillon was summoning the faithful by the time we had parked. The church's doors gaped open, sucking in a throng of worshippers wearing their Sunday finery, which was generally casual attire with an occasional elderly rebel wearing a necktie and sport jacket, even a suit, or nice dress. My bet was a lot of golf clubs were rattling in car trunks on the drive over. I was fully clothed, even to the point of my most formal hoodie, in deference to my illness, so I didn't feel out of place. Much. I have to admit the boisterous crowd rattled me. They were greeting each other with hugs and kisses and God-loves-yous, laughing and chattering, and I felt my first reservations. If the end result of our investigation was the destruction of all this what would it do to them? These were nice people. It wasn't their fault they'd put their faith in a monster. Knowing it had to be done, I tried to put that thought out of my mind. They didn't exactly welcome me with open arms. They already knew me as poster child for the NIS program and an admittedly promiscuous bi-sexual. I couldn't help noticing many of them eyeing me suspiciously. On the other hand, I didn't have the feeling they'd start heating the tar and plucking the geese before we got through the doors. Maybe Mrs. Wilson and Missy provided me with a cloak of legitimacy. As I may have mentioned, The Restored Temple resided in a great, huge old pile of brick that had formerly housed a sizeable Baptist congregation. An annex, added during its most prosperous days, even had classrooms, a small gym, locker rooms and showers. That was before the neighborhood got caught on the wrong side of the freeway and began to deteriorate. In the old days most of the congregation lived within a mile or so and many families walked to services, but when Pastor Paul, with his more dispersed flock, took the place over the city demanded the rest of the block be cleared for parking, much to Mom's disgust. Okay, so the neighborhood had fallen on hard times, but as she vociferously pointed out to the city council, it was people's homes and lives and businesses that were going to be paved over. It did no good. Now what Mom called creeping gentrification was spreading like a cancer, further displacing long-time residents. According to her this was under the auspices of some less than savory developers. As we walked up the front walk Missy was madly texting someone. Meanwhile Mrs. Wilson had her talons sunk into my left arm like she thought I'd try to bolt, marching me along with the pride of a hunter showing off a trophy. I got the feeling she wouldn't hesitate to offer me as a sacrifice should one be called for. Maybe it was because of my cold that the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Of course if she wanted a virgin she was out of luck, but she knew that. I think. I didn't need The Stick to remind me to stand tall as we moved through a vestibule lined with tables and racks displaying literature -- "Your Child and Homosexuality: Causes and Cures" and "Naked Only in God's Eyes" -- along with containers where you could voluntarily drop money in to support the church's mission. Along with those there was a petition and a canister just for the "Stop NIS" campaign. The plastic jugs were full enough to give the impression that the money changers ran this temple. I took a program from the usher, making note of the uniform of the day, conservatively groomed hair, very cleanly shaved pink cheeks, neatly ironed white button down short-sleeved shirt (open collar), creased black slacks, highly polished shoes. Sound familiar? Think fanny pinchers. Oh, and a smile and welcome that bordered on rapturous, like they'd sniffed happy gas or a taken a joyous toke. Moving beyond that Missy's mom continued to guide me forward as I blearily took stock of my surroundings. I guess you'd call it festival seating. Instead of pews the central aisle was flanked by rows of chairs. Their focus was an expansive stage with an altar, pulpit, and whatever. The chairs didn't look like comfort was a priority to the Restored Temple yada yada yada. As it was, between hosannas and hallelujahs it turned out we didn't spend all that much time sitting. One thing I noticed - just like in Maria's friendly Catholic church, the closer we got to the altar, and presumably salvation, the thinner the audience. I wondered why churchgoers hang back like kids in a classroom. Were they afraid of being called on by God? Mrs. Wilson kept right on marching. She was either more righteous, or more brave, or she wanted to make sure she and her trophy were noticed. All of the above? The Stick suggested. Nice of you to show up, I responded. I'll try not to snore during the sermon. We're hear on serious business remember. Ah hah. How's your cold? You should know, you're in there with it. Just trying to be polite. Gee you're grouchy! We stopped at the second row and Missy was sent in first, then me, leaving Missy's mom on the aisle, probably to block any attempt I might make to escape or interfere with the proceedings. At the moment we were the only three on the groom's side in that row, if that's the term I want. Being taller I stuck up between the two shorter Wilsons, of course, and the front row still being empty -- too close to the wrath of God maybe? -- gave me an excellent vantage point. As I'd suspected, the chair was a bit short for my legs, a bit long for Missy's. How do designers manage to do that? I didn't envy whoever was behind me. If I started swaying -- whether from illness, boredom or religious fervor -- they'd get seasick trying to look around me. The thing that struck me most was, while the outside of this place still looked like a church, the inside had all the charm of our high school auditorium. According to Mom, after it closed, while it was still in bankruptcy court, the place had been looted of all its fine old fixtures. One day an eighteen-wheeler had pulled up in front and a bunch of very professionally uniformed movers marched in as if they owned the place and marched back out with the pews, the altar and candlesticks, the pulpit with its big Bible, even the pipe organ and the bell from the tower. Then the next day another team arrived with a suitably equipped truck and crew to handle the doors and the stained-glass windows, without dismembering or cracking a pane. They'd probably have taken the copper roof if they'd had the equipment. It was a jolt to learn that failed churches were the target of looters in this day and age. Back during the Protestant Reformation militants had seized the valuable trimmings and melted them down for the gold, and smashed the stained glass windows, at least under the guise of religious intolerance. This had been out-and-out larceny. The school had been left pretty much untouched. I guess religious artifacts are more profitable than old textbooks and blackboards. And no one had bothered to call the cops or anything. There were two explanations given. The first was that the thieves looked so "official" it was assumed they had the rights to the stuff. The second was that the people responsible belonged to an organization you did not want to alienate. Left behind was a shell, quickly boarded up by the city to keep vandals out, not that there was anything left to vandalize. The building was on some registry or something so it couldn't just be knocked down. I couldn't avoid the feeling that Pastor Paul, starting with a blank slate so to speak, had ordered from the local big-box builders' supply and discount furniture mart. There were no pictures of saints, no statues. Maybe they had a thing like the Moslems against graven images. The walls were off-white, the arched ceiling the same. Whoever had refinished the walls had tried to make it look like stucco. Once when I'd toured a house with Mom she'd pointed that out as a way of hiding shoddy sheetrock work, but since these walls were masonry maybe that wasn't the case here. Even the windows were factory stock, including the big one behind the altar. The only real sign of faith was a huge a wooden cross suspended directly above the stage. Center rear were several excruciatingly uncomfortable looking high-backed chairs. On the left about halfway to the front of the stage was a large, stark pulpit, while on the right was a musician with a pile of lacquered black hair working the keys of something that sounded like a refugee from a skating rink, presumably a replacement for the original pipe organ. With her on the only thing resembling pews in sight was a twenty-strong mixed choir, equally divided between adults and kids, all gussied up in long scarlet robes and shining faces as they sipped from water bottles and organized their music. Maria's humble house of worship was half the size of this edifice, probably ten times as old. With its solid Spanish Mission architecture and interior decorations reflecting two thousand years of Roman Catholic culture there was a sincerity that was lacking here. There the whole focus was on the altar, with its shining Communion setting, candles and crucifix. There was the scent of incense, a life-size statue of The Blessed Virgin to one side, votive candles warming her sandaled feet, her arms extended in welcome. The big stained-glass window behind the altar showed Christ blessing the multitude, the sunshine making his halo glow. Even a heathen like me felt something there. If not a Presence then a sensation of peace and tranquility. This felt like a discount store -- blue light special, salvation on sale here, 40% off. Come and get it. No refunds! The Stick added sarcastically, reminding me of Mom's and my discussion of the sale of indulgences back in the Middle Ages. Since worshipers were still filing in and chatting in the aisles I stood up and turned around, pretending to stretch my back and legs as I tried delicately to clear my head with a soft snort and gulp rather than a great, honking blow. There was seating for several hundred and it looked like it would be close to a full house -- or maybe I should say a sell-out crowd. It was evident from the interplay that the regulars had their favorite spots, usually on the aisle. Early-arriving interlopers were being gently but firmly encouraged to move in to yield their place. Mrs. Wilson steadfastly defended her turf against all comers. That might have been to protect her self-described status as an "elder." I don't think it was to protect the flock from my contagion or heretical views. But I could be wrong. The space over the vestibule at the rear -- presumably once a choir loft or something -- was occupied by enough TV equipment to cover a pro football game, along with a couple of theatrical spotlights. I couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame was lurking in the background. It was said they'd renovated the old church for contemporary worship, but to my untutored eye this, plus the stage lighting, made it look more like a TV studio. I was to be reminded later of the Temple's low-powered TV broadcasts of their services. Given the proper scrutiny, what happened here would certainly not stay here, and that would have far-reaching consequences. As for Pastor Paul, he hadn't gotten his money's worth for the ambiance. But what if this is what he wanted? The Stick asked. Good point. I also noticed familiar faces scattered throughout the congregation, people I didn't expect to see here. There was Fran's cheerful bulk, sitting with Inez and Peggy from the Lunch Bunch, in the middle, toward the back. And was that Matthew "Mongo" Mozilla in the back row? And what was our favorite middle school über-geek and Dirty Dozen veteran A. J. Mansfield doing there beside him? On the other side of A. J. was another hulking football player, Mongo's linebacker co-captain. Since A. J. was apparently attending stag, his girlfriend Mickey Kelly was presumably attending Mass at the imposing Saint Joseph's in the -- ahem -- more affluent neighborhood than that served by Maria's modest Church of the Blessed Virgin. There were a surprising number of Central High students, some perhaps regular members, I suppose. Though I recognized a surprising number of Program veterans, who would seem unlikely postulants. I just let my gaze skim by my friends and if they saw me -- which they had to -- they didn't blow their cover by semaphoring wildly. My eye caught Greg over on the left flank and my heart gave a little leap at his quick smile, but nothing more than that. Missy had marshaled the troops and presumably briefed them, but for what purpose? Which reminded me of something Maria had suggested I scanned for a quick kiddy count -- well, more of an estimate. There were more here than I expected, mostly young teens and pre-teens. A lot of the congregation was young families. But the sermon topic might explain that. Responding to an impatient tug from Mrs. Wilson I turned around and sat down again, acknowledging her frown with an apologetic nod, discreetly wiping my nose. Ignoring that, she reached across in front of me to give Missy a poke and scold for her continued texting. The smart phone was set aside, face down so her mom wouldn't see it wasn't turned off. The organist struck up more stirring music and as the late arrivals hurried to their seats and gossip died down the choir burst into joyous song. A glance at the program told me it was probably the Processional. I rose with the rest of the congregation to look back, wobbling slightly as my sinuses reacted to the change. Down the aisle came four imposing men, their requisite white shirt and slacks uniforms supplemented by well-tailored matching jackets and expensive-looking satin neckties. Rank hath its privileges, I guessed. I suspected they were the true Elders and Mrs. Wilson, being a mere woman, was regarded only as a pathetic but useful wanna be, but maybe I was doing her and the church a disservice. Perhaps without me along she'd have had her place among the Chosen Ones. But somehow I doubted it. Following them was Pastor Paul, easily recognized from his pictures in the paper. No robes for him, unlike Maria's priest, but his suit looked even more expensive. The only thing brighter than his shining cufflinks were the teeth bared by his beatific smile that I could only compare to a shark's grin. As he processed down the aisle he greeted the adoring faithful reaching for him, pressing the flesh, kissing cheeks, beaming to each member of his flock. They reached out to him as if he were the second coming of Christ or something, which explained the competition for the aisle seats. Impeded by his rabid fans, the pastor fell a bit behind his minions, who took places up on the stage in the tall seats at the back, the choir still singing their joyous song of welcome and adoration. The whole thing lacked the pageantry of Maria's church, with a sterling crucifix carried at the head of the parade, the priest in his lush robes and colorful stole, the deacons and altar boys and girls with their own ceremonial garments. However, I'll say one thing for Pastor Paul. He knew how to work a crowd. Each person he greeted personally became the focus of his attention, as I found out when he finally reached our row. I thought Missy's Mom was going to melt down into a puddle just from being in his divine presence. But except for some air kisses he didn't spend much time on her. He was much more interested in me, and I found myself pinned there by his laser-blue eyes. He greeted me jovially, before Mrs. Wilson could get her presumably carefully prepared introduction out, "Miss Diane Walker, it is a pleasure to see you here!" He layered his undeniable charisma with a veneer of sincerity as he extended his hand. I resisted the urge to sneeze into my palm before reaching out in response. One of his cufflinks probably cost more than Mom's car. His grip was strong and for a moment I had the feeling he wanted test my grip. If I were man he probably would have. Since I draw a forty-pound bow he might have been surprised. In terms of height we were eye-to-eye. His hair was thick, dark, expensively groomed, flecked with silver at the temples. His complexion was tanning-booth even, without even a hint of a stubble. A set smile puffed his cheeks. It was a strong face, though his nose had the contours that implied an encounter with something solid sometime in the past. His manner was warm, his shoulders square and powerful. There was a hint of aftershave or cologne. For some reason for a moment I had this image of him as a favorite uncle, the kind that would dandle an adoring young niece or nephew on his knee or his lap, while he tickled them -- and tickled them -- and tickled them. Realizing I was sinking into those eyes of his I yanked myself back to my senses and fumbled for something to say. "Mrs. Wilson has spoken so highly of you I felt I should come to one of your services. I know you've taken a strong interest in the young people in our community." How was that for sly innuendo? "Thank you. I'm quite aware of your activities on their behalf as well, Miss Walker. Or may I call you Dee?" If this was a battle of wits this was not an unarmed man. If that didn't sound like a sword being unsheathed nothing did. I could feel Missy's mom watching me dotingly, as oblivious as ever to the nuances. "Miss Walker sounds so formal," I parried. "I'm more comfortable with Diane, if you don't mind." "Of course," he agreed, and we both knew that the battle lines had been drawn. I could sense him trying to figure out what I had up my sleeve, but I knew the only thing to be found there was my friends, and God alone knew what they were up to. Given who was involved -- Missy the Meek and A. J. the Geek -- I was reasonably certain that actual physical bloodshed would be held to a minimum. As to spiritual damage, that was anyone's guess, and it was likely to be delayed until after the service. "I hope you'll find our celebration of God's love enlightening," he responded, excusing himself to mount the stage with perfect timing as the choir finished their processional anthem with a resounding "A-MEN!" As he pronounced his warm welcome to the congregation I deliberately wiped the hand he'd shaken on my snot soaked hanky. Crap I felt like shit! Released from Pastor Paul's undeniably magnetic personality I mentally realigned myself, wishing heartily that I'd brought along a thermos of Mom's industrial strength sinus drainer. It was a relief to sink back on my chair, only to have to bob up again for a hymn. Then it was down and up again for some stuff, Pastor Paul's voice amplified with a rich resonance I hadn't heard in our brief interaction. He'd gotten his money's worth in the sound system. The sanctuary rang with his assurances that God loved us no matter what and that all our sins were forgiven. He told us that all we needed to attain eternal salvation was to come forward and place our lives in his hands -- the possessive pronoun's reference was unclear in my mind, but I suspected it was clear in his. As far as I was concerned just being here was atonement enough for me, but I can't tell you how relieved I was to be absolved of all my sins by this self-appointed called and ordained minister of the Restored Temple of the Holy Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One True Church. I wondered if God agreed, either with Pastor Paul's ordination or the forgiveness of our sins. Oh ye of little faith! The Stick sniped. Yeah, right, I responded, sinking into my personal swamp of snot, reacting mechanically when the proceedings required. There were a lot of "hallelujahs" and "praise the Lords" from the congregation, along with stirring songs from the very animated choir. I didn't really rouse again until Pastor Paul called the children forward for what the program called "A Time for All Ages." Mrs. Wilson tried to nudge me forward but I resisted, especially when Missy touched me and shook her head. "I don't want to give the kids my cold," I alibied, watching as youngsters from toddlers up to early teens -- God, that's me, isn't it? -- out of the audience joined the young choir members already making themselves comfortable on the stage at the foot of the pulpit and their beloved Pastor Paul. Their crimson robes spread around them like the petals of flowers, their shining faces uplifted. While the organist twiddled a childish tune Paul's minions busied themselves providing chairs for the moms who had escorted or carried shy toddlers up and wanted to hold them in their laps. In my obsessive-compulsive way I counted choir robes. I remembered thinking there was a nice symmetry, ten adults for the low voices, with ten children providing high voices. My count was disrupted by Pastor Paul in all his glory, his resonant voice ringing through the hall as he began the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors, and took off from there. I counted again, thinking I'd missed one of the scarlet robes in front of the pulpit, but his histrionics distracted me. I kept waiting for him to produce a bouquet of roses or a flaming torch from his sleeve or something. He positively glowed as he spun his tale out, flushing as he explained God's love of children, quoting liberally from the Bible. His hands trembling, his voice shaking with passion, he gazed skyward as if calling directly on the Almighty to come down and take these youngsters in His loving embrace. He spread his own arms wide, until finally, seeming overcome with joy, he clutched the podium, trembling, before slumping with exhaustion, face glistening with sweat, panting for a moment before finishing up with an almost breathless "Thanks be to God." Then Pastor Paul's minions busied themselves with putting the chairs away as the mothers lugged their toddlers off. Released from their enthrallment, the children dispersed, back out into the audience or, in the case of choir members, to their place on stage, where the older choristers welcomed them back with pats on their backs, hands on their shoulders. There was a lot of touching and hugging in this church. Once the choir was reassembled I confirmed that there were ten in the children's division. Not being at my sharpest, thanks to my cold I decided I must've just miscounted when they'd been listening to the pastor's message. Then the choir struck up another song, the congregation once again rising and enthusiastically joining in. Pastor Paul's whole performance -- and a performance was what it was -- was masterfully designed to encourage audience participation. But it didn't include me. I don't sing, as you may have noticed. Oh, I did rise, rather than being rude. As I stood I saw one girl in the choir, maybe ten or eleven but on the small side, wiping her lips on the back of her hand and making pretty heavy use of her water bottle. I also noticed the good pastor shooting me a suspiciously smug look, and I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, realizing that I might have been had. I couldn't avoid the suspicion I'd just witnessed the most deft bit of stagecraft since Missy's eighth-birthday party. Her parents had hired a magician who had, among other things, produced the cutest bunny rabbit you could ever hope to see out of thin air and a billowing scarf. What if I had counted right, and there'd only been nine children from the choir in front of him. Suddenly Pastor Paul's histrionics during his story took on a lot more sinister -- call it perverse -- connotation. Something other than religious fervor could have resulted in the same symptoms he'd displayed. You're kidding! The Stick had gotten my drift, of course. I wish! I'll be damned!. Pastor Paul should be, I countered. No way he'd risk that! Way! I argued. All the signs were there, the children moving, the organist playing that distracting tune, those minions of his shifting chairs, both when the kids gathered and when they dispersed. He could have marched an elephant across the stage and we wouldn't have noticed. Shit! You really think that little girl washing her mouth out was slipped in under the podium, gave him a blow job and slipped back out again, slick as a magician's vanishing act? He couldn't have.... Shit yes he did! I'd bet my long gone virginity on it! Seriously? In the middle of a service? Now THAT takes balls! Obviously the man has no limits. We were barely into the second verse of the hymn by the time this little internal dialogue concluded. Things were getting livelier. Next there'd be dancing in the aisles. Missy's mom positively glowed. Obviously sweating from his efforts, and passions, Pastor Paul was shedding his suit jacket, draping it casually over one of the microphones on the pulpit. I was steaming, but when I stiffened and turned to Missy she was looking at me, and the look in her eyes told me all I needed to know. She'd seen it, too. Only her strong grip on my arm and the solemn shake of her head kept me from rising out of my seat and ripping the throat out of.... "Everything's under control," Missy hissed under the cover of the congregation's enthusiastic singing. "We'll deal with it, but now is not the time, not unless you want a riot on your hands." "But it's...." "Trust me! You said it yourself. We're only here to gather evidence. I promise we'll have what we need to take care of this. A triple cross-my-heart promise." I don't think I'd ever heard that tone of voice from her before. It gave me a chill, which didn't do my cold a bit of good. On the other hand, if she hadn't taken that tone with me I would have gone ballistic. I wanted to kill that sonofabitch with my bare hands. What I wanted to do to that hypocritical monster would make what I'd done to another guy with chains and a kick look like a mild beating. Fortunately, with Missy's help, my ego took firm control over my id. Or maybe Missy was functioning as my super-ego. Or something like that. Frankly I think Freud was full of crap. I drew on Missy's promise. A triple cross-my-heart promise from her was as good as gold. I also invoked my anger management training from Ms. Andrews. I began slowly counting backwards from 10,000. By threes. Trust me. That takes a lot of concentration, and the rules said anytime I made a mistake I had to start over from the beginning. Pastor Paul was out from behind his podium now, his snow-white shirt positively glowing in the spotlight. At least he had zipped his fly, or maybe the girl had done it for him. The good pastor had also slipped on one of those little mikes that stuck around his cheek like a thin lock of hair gone awry, freeing himself to stride around the stage, waving his arms while still taking full advantage of the sound system's resonance so he could stir the faithful to ever greater passion, "Thanks be to God" rang out from him yet again. As if God had anything to do with it! sniped The Stick. "Let the little children come to me ... for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these," he said, regaling us with tales of the church's selfless charitable work with the children of the area, the wonders he'd worked with the poor, misguided youth, calming their doubts and fears, the confusion of puberty, and how all the answers they needed were to be found in the Bible he brandished. Oh my. I had the feeling that instead of a sermon we were in for a commercial for his youth programs. "See how we are saving our children from the very grasp of Satan!" he ranted. "From the vile degradation and Pro-Mis-Cue-I-TEE of the Naked in School program, from the wanton perversions of Ho-Mo-Sex-You-Al-A-Tee and For-Ni-Cay-Shun! "We do it by providing a refuge in our Salvation Summer Camp, with its healthful activities in the out of doors, under the loving guidance of our trained staff, by the grace of God!" I cringed. The grace of God my ass! "Yes, it is by the power of the Almighty that we work our miracles, guiding our youth onto a path of righteousness and purity!" Subtly the organist began backing him up with a reverential musical accompaniment. As he went on members of the congregation began rising to their feet, Missy's Mom almost leading the way. They responded to his pronouncements with sporadic shouts of joy -- Hallelujah -- Praise Be! -- Amen! He was an inspirational cyclone, sucking them in, lifting them, sending them soaring in a funnel cloud of religious ecstasy. It was as awesome a performance as any rock star could give, between the sound system, the music, the stage lighting, the joyous message, the steadily accelerating drumbeat pace of his rhetoric I felt even my pulse quickening. Then he called forth members of the congregation by name to dedicate their lives to the mission of the Restored Temple of the Holy Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One True Church. "Diane Walker! Come on down!" With my brain muddled by my cold as well as the almost hypnotic power of Pastor Paul's tirade I almost responded, saved only by Missy's hand in mine and The Stick commanding me to Count! SHIT! Fury exploded inside me, fury at him, fury at my own mindless response to this charlatan's demagoguery. Armoring myself with my rage I began again, counting down by threes -- nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-four. I sank once again into my own self-hypnotic mantra of descending numbers -- nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-one, eighty-eight, eighty-five, eighty-two, seventy-nine. As my fury faded I realized with a shudder that I had pulled back from the same fury I'd felt when I'd aimed my arrow at the head of the man who'd tried to assassinate me, the blind rage I'd felt when I'd lashed out at the man at the top of the stairs with a fistful of chains and kicked him in the guts. This is not the time or the place for that. I know, I responded, my pulse slowing and my muscles untensing, some part of my mind still managing to maintain the count, further distracting me. Thank you! I added to The Stick. You're welcome my alter ego responded graciously. Now look around. You need to understand what you're dealing with here. Starting small, I shot a glance at Missy's mom. Oblivious to me, she was on her feet, raptly following Pastor Paul's every move. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were flushed, she was positively transformed. I realized it was probably the first time in my life I'd ever seen her looking truly happy! Oh shit. Pastor Paul's amplified and augmented eruptions still soared upwards, ,but he had moved away from his prejudices, supposed hatred of The Program and his naked homophobia to promote the love and healing power of God, and the mood of the whole congregation was shifting from the righteous anger he'd instilled in them to something more positive. He had them by their noses and was leading them like sheep, to mangle a metaphor. Granted, it was probably as much the way it was delivered as it was the content, but was that a bad thing? I could feel the audience being sucked in, an undertow that even tugged at me. Aware of what was happening now, forgetting my backwards counting, I let my awareness expand beyond our little gathering, looking around, seeing so many others similarly inspired. Once Pastor Paul had abandoned his vindictive diatribes against The Enemy and concentrated on God's Saving Grace -- his words, not mine -- the entire tenor of the service changed, and I saw the happiness and joy I'd sensed outside as the congregants had greeted each other, anticipating this almost delirious rapture. What about them? The Stick asked. After all, isn't a church more than just the Pastor? I felt a twinge of conscience. When he is brought down, what happens to them? Shit! You fight dirty! No. We know he's got to be brought down, but when he is their hopes and beliefs are going to be crushed. Where's that going to leave them? I felt sick. The closest parallel I could think of was my own feelings when I realized that I might have actually been capable of deliberately killing that assassin out there on the archery range. I couldn't have lived with that knowledge. Ms. Andrews had hauled me back from that brink. Who would these people have? I realized we had to be very, very careful. We had to anticipate -- what? -- not so much a backlash as a collapse. What's that term politicians keep using? A safety net The Stick suggested. Great. How the fuck do you weave one of those? I have no idea. Finishing his oration, sending the contestants -- uh, acolytes -- back to their seats with yet another "Thanks Be to God," Pastor Paul called for donations to his church's noble cause, and ushers bearing collection plates came down the aisles as the choir provided musical accompaniment to the fleecing of the sheep. When the platter with it's red velvet cushion in the bottom came to me it was all I could do to restrain myself from unloading a loogie the size of Texas into it, on top of Mrs. Wilson's donation. Missy just passed it on to the people who had eventually joined our row. I was still pondering the problem of saving these people from themselves when yet another ringing "Thanks be to God" followed by a "Go in peace serve the Lord" lead into a recessional hymn, and this time the choir did march out in double-file, singing lustily, focusing intently on their music. I looked for stains on the girls' choir robes, but there were none. Pastor Paul shot me a sidelong look as, he passed, but I was blowing my nose. The congregation was almost in a daze as they moved to follow the end of the parade, but it was a joyous daze. I was wrapped up in my own thoughts as we shuffled slowly down the aisle. Missy's mom, like the rest of the crowd, was eagerly looking forward to a brief handshake from Pastor Paul, hoping perhaps even for a blessing or some words of wisdom from him as he bid his flock farewell. I used the excuse of my cold to squeeze over as far as I could to get away from him, maneuvering warily past the watchful eyes of the Guardians of the Gate. Even so I couldn't avoid noticing what looked to be a smirk in my direction from him, as if he thought he'd put something over on me. Now what? The Stick asked as we emerged into the warm morning. Oh God that sunshine feels good. I breathed in the fresh air. Now I'm going home to bed, I retorted. I ... we've got to get rid of this cold. "We've got to do something," Missy urged me, out of her mom's earshot, as we made our way to the car. "We need more than what we saw," I cautioned. If anything she was more outraged than I was, and I was worried she might go off half-cocked. "Or what we think we saw. Maybe someone else saw it, or something else. We had enough eyes there, after all. You did a good job. What was A. J. doing?" "Some geek thing. I think he was going to bring his laptop. I don't know what for." I was too beaten down by disgusting nasal secretions and my mind was slogging in circles with the problem of how we could throw the baby out without the bathwater going with it. Or did I have that backwards? Right now all I wanted was to get home to my cozy bed for a long nap. "Please find out, and survey the others for what they saw, but don't do anything." Somehow I was certain we had him right where we wanted him, but another worry had surfaced from the snotty depths of my mind. "Especially, don't say anything to your mom. She is so totally invested in the church this could crush her. We've got to find a way to let her down gently. I'll call you later, or no, better, email me with whatever we've got." "But what if he knows we're on to him? What if he sneaks away?" I considered the incredibly arrogant look the "he" in question had given me. "Won't happen. Trust me. He's sure he put one over on me -- us. He's not going anywhere right away. Maybe we can get surveillance on him. I'll talk to Maria." And before we pulled the rug out from under the good pastor I hoped someone could come up with a way to minimize the shock coming to people like Missy's mom. That was probably even beyond Ms. Andrews's miraculous healing power. I wondered if there was something like a twelve-step program for the pseudo-spiritually addicted.