ruddy glow of the dying fire, amid a rising murmur of prayer.
Another explosion rumbled across the mesa and the ground shook.
“Do you,” said Eddy, “the disciples of the Antichrist, confess your apostasy and accept Jesus as your personal savior? Do you accept Jesus wholeheartedly, without reservation? Will you join us and become part of God’s great army?”
Absolute silence. Ford squeezed Kate’s hand. He wished she’d speak, wished she’d agree. But if he couldn’t do it himself, how could he expect her to?
“Will not
Ford felt a rush of boiling anger. He raised his head. “I’m a Christian, a Catholic. I have no heresy to repudiate.”
Eddy took a deep breath and spoke in a quavering voice, his hand raised dramatically to the listening crowd. “Catholics are not Christians. Catholicism’s spirit is one of idolatrous adoration of the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
An uncertain murmur of agreement.
“It’s the spirit of demonism, as is evident by the vain repetition of Hail Marys in the Rosary Prayer. It’s the idolatrous worship of graven images, in violation of God’s commandments.”
A rage took hold of Ford, which he tried to master. He rose up. “How dare you,” he said in a low voice. “How
Eddy raised the gun and pointed it at him. “Priests have brainwashed you Catholics for fifteen hundred years. You don’t read the Bible. You do what the priests tell you. Your pope prays to graven images and kisses the feet of statues. The word of God is clear that we’re to bow to Jesus and
“You’re the real blasphemers,” said Ford, staring at the crowd.
Eddy raised the shaking gun and pointed it at Ford’s right eye. “Your church is straight out of the mouth of Hell! Give it up!”
“Never.”
The gun steadied as Eddy took aim from four inches away, his finger tightening on the trigger.
76
THE REVEREND DON T. SPATES SLAMMED down the phone. Still out of order. His Internet connection was also down. He thought of going over to the Silver Cathedral media office and turning on the television to see if there was any news, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was afraid to leave, afraid to get up from his desk—afraid of what he might discover.
He checked his watch. Four-thirty A.M. Two hours until dawn. When the sun rose, he would go straight to Dobson. He would put himself in his lawyer’s hands. Dobson would handle the whole thing. Sure, it would cost money. But after this, the donations would be like a gusher. He just needed to weather the storm. He’d been through storms before, like when those two whores reported him to the newspapers. He thought then his whole world was over. And yet, a month later he was back in business, preaching in the Cathedral, and now he was the hottest televangelist in the business.
Pulling out a handkerchief, he mopped his face, wiped around his eyes, forehead, nose, and mouth, leaving a brown stain of old makeup on the white linen. He looked at it in disgust and tossed it in the trash. He poured another cup of coffee, splashed in a shot of vodka, and drank it down with a shaking hand.
He put the cup down so hard it broke in two. The rare Sevres cup had split perfectly down the center, as if cleaved. He held the pieces in his hands, staring at them, and then, in a sudden fury, threw them across the room.
Lurching to his feet, he went to the window, threw it open, and stared. Outside, all was dark and silent. The world slept. But not in Arizona. Terrible things could be happening out there. But it wasn’t his fault. He had devoted his life to doing Christ’s work on earth.
If only the sun would rise. He imagined himself cosseted in the hushed, wood-paneled confines of his lawyer’s offices on 13th Street, and he felt comforted. At first light he’d rouse his chauffeur and head to Washington.
As he looked down the darkened, rain-slick streets, he heard the distant sound of sirens. A moment later he saw something coming down Laskin Road: police cars and a wagon, lights flashing, followed by vans. He ducked back inside and slammed the window, heart pounding. They weren’t coming for him. Of course not. What was wrong with him? He went back to his desk, sat down, reached for more coffee and vodka. Then he remembered the broken cup. To hell with the cup. Sweeping up the bottle in his hand, he tipped it to his lips and sucked down a mouthful.
He put the bottle down, exhaled. They were probably just chasing niggers out of the yacht club down the way.
A loud crash in the Silver Cathedral made him jump. Suddenly there were noises, voices, shouts, the blaring of police radios.
He couldn’t move.
A moment later his office door boomed open and men in FBI flak jackets came barging in, crouching, guns drawn. They were followed by an enormous black agent with a shaved head.
Spates remained seated, unable to comprehend.
“Mr. Don Spates?” asked the agent, unfolding a shield. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. Special Agent in Charge Cooper Johnson.”
Spates could say nothing. He just stared.
He nodded.
“Place your hands on the desk, Mr. Spates.”
He held his fat, liver-spotted hands out and placed them on the desk.
“Stand up, keeping your hands in sight.”
He stood up clumsily, the chair falling with a crash to the floor behind him.
“Cuff him.”
Another agent came around, took a firm grasp of one forearm, pulled it behind his back, pulled the other one behind—and Spates felt, with stupefaction, the cold steel slip around his wrists.
Johnson walked up to Spates and parked himself in front, arms folded, legs apart.
“Mr. Spates?”
Spates stared back. His mind was completely blank.
The agent spoke in a low, rapid voice. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand?”
Spates stared. This couldn’t be happening to him.
“Wha—?”
“He’s drunk, Cooper,” said another man. “Don’t bother, we’ll just have to Mirandize him again.”
“You’re right.” Johnson gripped Spates’s upper arm. “Let’s go, pal.”
Another agent took the other arm and they gave him a nudge, started walking him toward the door.
“Wait!” cried Spates. “You’re making a mistake!”
They continued to hustle him forward. Nobody paid him the slightest attention.
“It isn’t me you want! You’ve got the wrong man!”
An agent opened the door and they passed into the darkened Silver Cathedral.
“It’s Crawley you want, Booker Crawley of Crawley and Stratham! He did it! I was just following his directions—I’m not responsible! I had no idea this would happen! It’s his fault!” His hysterical voice echoed crazily in the vast indoor space.
They escorted him up the side aisle, past the dark audience prompts, past the plush velvet seats that had cost three hundred dollars apiece, past the columns gilded in real silver leaf, through the echoing Italian marble foyer, and out the front door.
