“Alien,” Carlos said. “I wish you to find the addresses of these fellows’ re-election campaign funds and write out a check to each for two thousand dollars with a note to keep up the good work and escalate the war on drugs.”

Gold nodded, grinning. “I love it! I’ll draw them from the restaurant’s account. Not that we need to contribute a dime—I mean, they can’t fail—but I love the irony.”

“And I love insurance.” Carlos cruised the channels, not sure of what he was looking for. Something, anything, to help him get a feel for the mood of the country. La compania’s projections had predicted this initial angry reaction, but said it would be followed by a general cooling of emotions as the spin doctors in the media and the administration began to work their spell on the public and congress.

He stopped at a channel that showed a man standing on a stage before a sign with the word drugs in a red circle with a red line drawn through it. An 800 number flashed at the bottom of the screen. He recognized the Reverend Bobby Whitcomb. Everybody knew the reverend. In the past few years he had become increasingly influential in Christian Fundamentalism. At the rear of the stage, behind the no-drugs sign, sat three tiers of phone banks and busy operators.

“Looks like a telethon,” Gold said.

The Reverend Whitcomb stood teetering on the edge of his stage, his microphone pressed to his lips, his free hand clawing the air, as he—literally—foamed at the mouth.

“… and I say to you now that we will not be able to live, work, or play in the sight of the Lord if we allow this to happen! We will not be able to hold our heads up when we enter the house of the Lord. In fact, the Lord will turn a deaf ear on all our prayers if we do not cast out this evil man from the White House! If we do not disown this man as the leader of our nation!” The studio audience was on their feet, cheering, waving their arms.

“And so you must give now! Give whatever you can so that we can get these petitions moving, so that we can send our deacons into every city and town in the nation for signatures calling for the impeachment of President Thomas Winston!” During the next burst of wild cheering. Gold turned to Carlos.

“An impeach-a-thon! You’ve got to let me call in a pledge. A big one. I’ve got to do this.”

“How big?”

“Ten. You want to buy insurance, here’s a good way.”

Carlos was taken aback. “Ten grand? What for?”

“I need five figures to get his attention. You’ll see. It’ll be a killer.”

“Very well. Go ahead.”

On the screen, a long-robed choir was singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as Carlos watched Gold dial the 800 number. When he started speaking he suddenly had a thick southern accent.

“Hello? Is this the Reverend Whitcomb? Well, Ah want to speak to the Reverend Whitcomb his own self. Don’t tell me what ain’t possible, darling.‘ A’course it’s possible. Ah got ten grand says it’s possible. That’s raht. Ten grand to donate to gettin’ that Satan-speakin‘, cokesnortin’, dope-smokin‘, drug injectin’ heathen outta the White House, but you ain’t a-gonna git it unless Ah speak to the reverend real personal lahk. That’s raht. It’s Sinus… Billy Bob Sinus. All raht. All raht. Ah’ll do that.”

Grinning and giggling like a school boy, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Carlos.

“It’s working! I’m on hold while they go get him!” Carlos wondered if his young financial whiz had been sampling the product.

Gold snatched his hand away and spoke into the receiver.

“Yes? Turn down mah TV? Okay.” He covered it again and spoke to Carlos.

“They must be on delay. I’ll go into the next room. You watch the TV.” As Gold left, Carlos noticed that he hit the record button on the VCR.

A moment later, on the screen, the choir suddenly broke off in mid-chorus as the camera cut to Reverend Whitcomb. The rage of a moment ago seemed forgotten as he beamed from the screen.

“Praise the Lord! We have a righteous soul on the line willing to give it all for the cause.” He lifted a receiver to his ear. “Hello. To whom am I speaking?” Carlos barely recognized Gold’s voice coming over the line.

“Reverend Whitcomb, is that really you? Praise the Lord! What a thrill this is! This is Billy Bob Sinus from Washington, D. C., and Ah watch your show all the tahm. Truly you are the voice of the Lord!”

“Thank you, Billy Bob.”

“And Ah want to help you in your faht agin that Satan in the Waht House.”

“That’s very good of you. Billy. What did you have in mind?”

“Ah want to contribute ten thousand dollars.” The audience erupted into frenzied cheering as Whitcomb raised his arms and gazed heavenward.

“Praise the Lord!”

“Faht him, Reverend Whitcomb” Gold could be heard saying over the cheering. “Faht him till he’s cast back into the fahrs of hell whence he came from!”

“I will. Billy Bob!” the reverend said. “And with the generous help of righteous people like you, we will win!”

“Stomp him. Reverend Whitcomb. Stomp that Satan president into the earth and sow the land with salt so that he’ll never rahse again!”

“Thank you, Billy Bob. That will—”

“Chew him up. Reverend. Chew up that Anti-Chrahst and spit him out and then—”

The camera cut back to the choir, which picked up right where it had left off as Gold stumbled back into the room. He collapsed on the sofa, kicking his feet, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Carlos allowed himself a laugh as well, a brief respite from the tension that so relentlessly knotted the muscles of his back. So much riding on this… so much…

When Gold finally stopped laughing, he sat up and wiped his eyes. “Oh, man! I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun!”

“The stakes are rather high for ‘fun,’ no? Will you still be laughing if your President succeeds?”

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell of that.”

“I hope so,” Carlos said. But I cannot sit back and rely on telethons, he thought.

23

John drove around for an extra half hour before heading home. His surroundings were a blur. He drove on autopilot, unable to think of anything but Katie and was she alive and how were they treating her. If asked later where he’d gone, he doubted he’d be able to say.

Finally he forced himself to think, to focus. He had to pull himself together and come up with cover stories for his mother as to why he’d left his office early and why she wouldn’t be picking up Katie from the bus stop this afternoon. They had to be damn good. One look at him and his mother would know something was wrong.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, he had an explanation for why he was home. But as for Katie’s whereabouts…

If only he could think!

Nana hit him with questions as soon as he walked in. She stood in the door to her bedroom dressed in her yoga outfit—he would never get used to the sight of his mother in a black leotard and white tights.

“John? You’re home? Is something wrong?”

He rubbed his stomach. “A little gastroenteritis. It’s a bug that’s been going through the whole department. Hit me just after I got in.”

“You look terrible,” she said, her dark eyes searching his face.

“Believe me, I feel worse than I look.”

“Can I get you anything? Some soup?”

“Thanks, but I couldn’t eat a thing.” That at least was true. “I think I’ll just sip some V8 and lie down.”

“You go upstairs. I’ll bring you some.”

“That’s okay. I’ll bring it up with me.” He went to the kitchen and poured himself half a glass from the two-liter bottle in the refrigerator. His mother hovered over him every step of the way.

“I’ll be fine, Ma. These things only last about twenty four hours; then they’re gone like they never were.” He left her standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring up after him, anxiously rubbing her hands together.