the rest of the teenagers seeking sanctuary inside the abandoned church.
“Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great!” Hobbes roared through his megaphone. “It has become a dwelling place of demons, a haunt of every foul spirit, for all nations drunk the wine of her impure passion….”
The God Squad had made it to the foot of the stairs. Jinnah and Saleem were one step from the top and could go no further. A surge of people trying to get out the door had met the tide of teens trying to get in and become a hopeless whirlpool of pushing, shoving humanity. Hakeem and his son were being squished, elbowed, kicked as young men and women flailed, trying to move. It was like being in the mosh pit without the music.
“What’s going on, Dad?” asked Saleem. “What’s happening.”
“I believe the Christians call this ‘tough love,’ Saleem,” Jinnah gasped as someone trod on his Guccis.
“Repent! Repent! The wages of sin is death!”
Hobbes was standing at the bottom of the stairs, haranguing the crowd, backed up by over a dozen God Squad members. Hadn’t anyone thought to call the cops? Jinnah would have done it himself, but his arms were pinned to his side. Where the hell was the doorman when you needed him?
Suddenly, Jinnah became aware of a hush over the crowd. Perhaps a dozen people had entered the old church, but only one person had come out into the cleared space. Standing alone at the top of the stairs, facing down the Reverend Hobbes was Lionel Simons himself, a dark figure facing the forces of white glaring hatefully up at him. Jinnah groaned inwardly. Caught between a rock of ages and a hard place.
“Reverend Hobbes, good evening,” said Simons, his voice firm and commanding. “How good of you to come to the party.”
“Blasphemer!” roared Hobbes, abandoning his megaphone. “How dare you desecrate this holy ground?”
“I think it was one of your denominations that abandoned this as a place of worship,” said Simons, smiling. “It felt lonely. We’ve restored its sense of purpose.”
“Drug dealer!” shouted Hobbes. “Corrupter of youth! How dare you talk of worship! It’s the devil you bow to, Simons!”
Simons’s smile faded. He walked slowly down the steps. Jinnah found himself among the crowd watching from the front of the porch as the Rave Messiah towered over Hobbes like some dark angel.
“We worship life, we do not deny it, as you do,” said Simons calmly. “As you will not listen, you are not welcome to our feast. Go, and take your God Squad with you.”
Jinnah found himself holding his breath. He could easily imagine these two men of peace murdering each other. How many years had they been waging a war for the hearts and minds of kids just like Saleem? For a long moment, there was near silence as the two men glared at each other. Then, another figure joined them on the stairs. It was the doorman.
“Come on, Magus,” he said cheerfully. “Time for your closing set. Unless you want to borrow the Reverend’s megaphone and do a little dancing in the streets.”
Simons did not take his eyes off Hobbes. “Ray, get inside,” he said.
Ray the doorman was nonplussed. “Now, now. Reverend Hobbes, where are your stones, sir? The ones that he who is without sin is allowed to cast?”
“Get thee behind me, Satan!” spat Hobbes. “I know you, Daisley. Servant of the evil one.”
“Hey, the evil one pays scale and has a great benefits package. Now if you two want to start a riot, you’re both going about it the right way. But despite our differences, we all believe in making love, not splitting skulls, right? Remember the sixties? All you need is love. Incidentally, Reverend, where were you in ’62?”
Jinnah looked at Ray Daisley, the doorman, in a new light. He’d looked like a whipped puppy while Jassy was dissing him. Now he stood between these two driven men and tried to kid them out of a potentially violent confrontation. Simons visibly relaxed and even managed a wan smile. “Ray, you’re crazy,” he said, turning to go.
Hobbes went to lift his megaphone to his mouth, then found Daisley’s hand on his arm.
“Enough, Reverend. For the love of the kids, enough.”
Jinnah was amazed. The words were pleasant enough but carried a distinctly menacing undertone. Suddenly, he realized why Daisley was Simons’s gatekeeper.
“Please. I’m asking politely, Reverend. I would add that the police are on their way.”
“We answer to a higher authority,” said Hobbes.
But Jinnah noted that the Reverend still turned away, waving his megaphone over his head at his God Squad. “The Lord’s work has been done here tonight, friends! Let us go and sing His praises in purer air.”
Jinnah watched as the God Squad fell in behind Hobbes and marched off singing “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Daisley stood still at the foot of the steps, watching them go, grinning. Jinnah looked over at Saleem. Consumed with guilt, he saw the boy’s wide eyes watching Hobbes and his crew march off. How could he expose his son to danger like that?
“You okay, son?” he said, voice heavy with concern and conscience.
“Wow! That was wild!” Saleem exclaimed. “Do those guys show up every time?”
Jinnah stared at his son, uncomprehending. “Saleem, I risked my life to save you from being trampled underfoot, lost a pound of heart tissue dragging you to safety, and I have aggravated my meningitis, every symptom of which I am now suffering, and you’re telling me you enjoyed that?”
It was Saleem’s turn to look at a loss. “Does this mean I can’t catch the last set?”
To his credit, Jinnah considered it for an instant. Then the image of Manjit swam up before him like a Yaksha, a divine demoness who would lure him into the forest, only to slay him.
“Saleem, I gave you a job to do tonight. Did you actually ask anyone about Andy Gill or Thad Golway?”
“I was going to,” Saleem whined. “But the music was kinda loud and I was dancing and —”
Jinnah was not angry, just resigned. He had tried to take a shortcut to the truth and in murder cases that seldom worked. One needed to emulate Sadhu’s Kirat Karna to solve a slaying. He put an arm around his son’s shoulders and steered him towards the stairs.
“Consider the ride home your severance package, son,” he said.
Chapter Four
“Y’know, I can count the number of reporters who come in here in a year on one hand,” said the police clerk.
Caitlin Bishop smiled her best cream-fed smile. In front of her was the holy grail of cop reporters: the filing cabinet that held all of the affidavits supporting search warrants. It was public knowledge, but only to the few initiates on the beat who knew of its existence, safe behind the counter in the records room, the domain of the police clerk, who seemed almost grateful for the attention. He hovered close — too close — by her shoulder.
“Y’need a hand or anything?”
