Deadfall(85)

The guy was the Right Reverend Clyde T. Daybreak, and he was wearing a big blue-and-white button on his lapel that said THE MORAL CRUSADE.

“Looks like he finally got himself a TV show,” Kerry said. “I wonder how much it cost him?”

“You sound as cynical as me.”

“He’s pretty good, though, isn’t he?”

“If you’re into pagan messages of filth and perversion.”

“I wonder—” she said, and the telephone rang.

“If that’s for me,” I said, “I’m not here.”

“It’s probably Cybil. Sunday’s her day to call.”

She got up and went to answer the phone. I watched Clyde T. Daybreak fulminate in his quiet, forceful way, and I didn’t find him amusing. What he was advocating was censorship, something I consider even more vile than crusading fundamentalists who use God’s name to foment intolerance and to coerce money out of gullible citizens. Pretty soon, mercifully, he quit babbling and the camera pulled back and panned around, letting me see part of his entourage, all of whom were smiling and nodding like marionettes whose strings had just been pulled. I was leaning forward, peering at the faces, when Kerry came back.

“There’s Reverend Holloway,” I said, pointing. “Most of the Holy Mission mavens are there, looks like, except for—”

“—the Reverend Dunston,” she said grimly. “I know. That was him on the phone.”

“What? What did he want?”

“Me. He acted as if nothing had happened, as if Daybreak never even talked to him.”

“But Daybreak must have.” I didn’t want to look at the Right Reverend or his congregation any longer; I shut off the television. “You put the fear of lawsuit into him last week.”

“Well, if he did, then Ray’s defying him. What if he comes here again? What if he starts bothering you again? What if—”

“Hey,” I said, “easy. Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it.”

“But after all we’ve been through—”

“After all we’ve been through,” I said, “Dunston isn’t important. He just doesn’t matter.” I pulled her down beside me. “What’s important is us.”

She let me hold her for a time. Then she drew back a little and said, “I’ve made up my mind.”

“About what?”

“About your suggestion. The mildly exotic one. I still think it’ll hurt you, but if you’re game so am I.”

“I’m game,” I said.

She was right, as it turned out: it hurt me. But not much, and I didn’t care. All I cared about was her. Being with her, loving her. Living a sane and normal life with her.

I kept thinking about retiring …