Chapter 23

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.