www.RayGregory.com

Who Killed Tippy?

by Ray Gregory

Saturday morning, 8:25 a.m. The cavernous, near empty downtown parking garage was quiet. The body lay face-down beside a late-model Lexus. A blood-soaked note on the small of its back was still legible: BURN IN HELL CLOWN, scrawled with a wide, black marker.

The lone parking attendant on duty had heard the shots, but seen nothing. Since it was a city parking garage, half the security cameras weren't working, of course.

Detective Henson stooped to examined what he could of the crude script, the ruled lines, the shredded edge where the page had been ripped from a spiral-bound notebook. But he never touched the bloody paper. That was Forensics’ job.

“It’s him, all right.” Watt said, leaning in over Henson's shoulder to study the face again. “Damn! Tippy! Tippy the Atheist Clown.” Watt shook his head reverently, then checked his iPod. “Yip, Art James, his car.” He patted the Lexus. “Bastard musta come up behind him, popped him soon as he got out. Probably waiting for him behind that.” He pointed at a nearby concrete column.

Henson eased the wallet from the body’s rear pants pocket, then stood again, careful to avoid the six scattered .22 caliber shell casings. “Small caliber for a pro. But he still has his wallet, his watch too. Couldn't have been a mugging then.” He opened the wallet and checked the driver’s license. “Art James, all right.”

Henson stood up, then stepped back for a wider view. Maybe if you added a fringe of orange hair, he thought, and a pair of those big, flappy shoes, but atheist? Atheist Clown? The small bullet holes that formed an obvious cross pattern — one in the back of the head, three down the spine, one in each shoulder blade — looked even more ominous to him now.

“Never heard of the guy before.” Henson said. His old partner, Sam — Sam the Souse, unfortunately — wouldn’t have heard of Tippy the Atheist Clown either. But Watt, his new partner, was only thirty, with two young kids. He was barely more than half Henson’s age. He was also the first "brotha" Henson had partnered with.

“You woulda heard of Tippy if you still watched Saturday morning TV,” said Watt. Henson remembereed him mentioning how he watched TV with his kids now every other Saturday morning, ever since his recent divorce. “The churches are always getting down on the guy. He was funny, all right.” Watt shook his head, staring down at the body. “Those Tippy Was There Bible stories, Tippy reasoning with God? Funny as hell!”

“Oops!” Henson said.

#

Tippy’s executive assistant, an attractive young English woman named Monica, showed the detectives around the studio and offices of Tippy’s Truth Time. They were located in a glassy office tower only half a block from the parking garage where the body was found. Practically the whole staff of the show had gathered there already to comfort each other. Monica pressed a handkerchief to her moist, swollen cheeks the whole time she walked with the detectives.

“Art received enough hate mail to choke a hippopotamus,” she said, sniffling. “Practically every letter, every email has some clichéd mention of hell: go to hell, burn in hell, laughing all the way to hell.”

“Have there been any actual threats?” Henson asked.

“Threats?” she sighed wearily. “They’re like Threats R’ Us, these people. We’ve got five file cabinets full. Religious people are the worst.” She wept into her handkerchief again.

Henson yearned to give her a fatherly hug. He figured Watt would like to hug her too. How could he not with Monica in that tight sweater and skirt? He'd shown Henson the photo of his ex-wife he still carried in his wallet, and Monica here was about the same size and shape, even complexion. And oh, that British accent!

“Threats from the faithful. What ever happened to ‘Vengeance is mine saith the Lord’?” Henson shook his head.

“Yeah, you’d think the Almighty could settle his own scores,” Watt added.

“We’ll have to look at those threats,” Henson told Monica. “We have to see everything.”

“Sounds like we’re gonna need a van — and a couple of weeks,” Watt added.

When they were alone with Monica in the hallway, with no one else on the Tippy team in sight, Henerson said, “So, Art James came here every Saturday morning?”

“Yes, he’s — he was — the star of the show, and the hardest worker. It’s his baby. He even did most of the writing himself. He always got a lot done on Saturday mornings.”

“And — you’re always here on Saturdays too?” Watt asked.

“Yes,” Monica said, staring into her raised handkerchief. “Usually some production people too. Art was always the first one in though, around eight or so. He said he got his best ideas in the morning.”

I’ll bet, thought Henson. Watt looked suspicious too. He'd obviously put her looks together with her tears and come to the same conclusion.

Henson stepped closer to her. His well-practiced voice was firm, but understanding: “Here, together, on Saturdays? How close were you and Art James? This is a homicide investigation, Monica. We have to know everything.”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Monica blurted, then pressed her face into her handkerchief again. “Yes, I had fancied Art once, soon after I started working for him. But that was nearly two years ago.” She looked down, choking back a sob.

“And…?” Henson coaxed her.

“You have to understand. I wasn’t myself at the time. I was new to America and lonely, and Art was so impressive. It was just a look one day in his office, just a peck on the cheek.” She grimaced and looked away. “Art could have done anything he wanted with me then, but instead he sat me down and told me how much he loved his wife and family, how he wouldn’t harm them for the world. He told me I was just lonely, just infatuated. He said it would pass — and it did. Two weeks later,” her eyes welled with tears again, “Art introduced me to a beautiful man. We’re getting married in three months, and Art won’t….” she sobbed freely now. “He was — so — understanding.”

Henson nodded respectfully. Watt did too. They were both convinced.

#

As Monica led them down the hall next toward the room with the hate-filled file cabinets, Henson did a one-eighty one way, then the other: offices, conference rooms, production rooms, the studio with its large stage. All of this for the Atheist Clown show? he wondered.

Watt lagged behind savoring the framed posters and awards on the walls.

“Who are the sponsors?” Henson asked, his eyes darting incredulously. “Who pays for all this?”

“Certainly not the toys-and-cereal crowd,” said Monica. “They wouldn’t touch Tippy with a bargepole. It’s grants from private foundations mainly: the Berkley Foundation for Reason and Science, the Imagine Council, Worship Reality. Lots from socially conscious individuals too. Donations come in worldwide from ordinary people who like what Tippy has to say, and laugh at his way of saying it.”

“I’m curious,” Henson said. “Why the name Tippy?”

“It comes from tipping, as in tipping point. That’s what Tippy’s all about, giving people the facts to tip them toward the truth. The sad part is so many adults need Tippy too.”

“I read the show’s really popular in Europe and Asia,” Watt chimed in. “The Japanese consider Tippy the go-to guy for the lowdown on Christianity. Who better to explain a joke than a clown?”

“This is terrible,” Monica said, breaking down in tears again. “Art gone!”

“We are very sorry for your loss.” Henson’s voice was barely more than a whisper. When Monica seemed composed again, he said, “I don’t get it. Atheism and kids? It seems kinda — spoilsport. Don’t kids need to believe in something? There’ll be plenty of time for doubt when they’ve grown up.”

“It’s not like that.” She shook her head. “Art wanted to enlighten kids — to empower them, not rob them. He wanted to spare them the fear and guilt that go with religion, as well as the bigotry.”

“But kids? What about innocence?” Henson said.

“Should we simply lie to them then? Is that somehow right? I remember how annoyed I was with my daft parents when some older girls told me Santa Claus wasn’t real.”

Henson smirked. “But what’s wrong with a little fantasy? And dreaming about all those Christmas presents?”

“That was it, what Art was all about. He always said kids don’t need delusions to understand the spirit of Christmas, to appreciate the loving and giving. In fact, it’s better if they realize those things are their own responsibility, not some fantasy being’s. Art believed kids see through airy-fairy nonsense even better than adults — as long as the adults don’t take advantage of their innocence.”

“But isn’t God in a whole different category than Santa.” Henson said.

“A jolly old fat man from the North Pole who stuffs your stocking is less believable than an invisible super being who loves you, but because you’re so evil, he has to make his own son a human blood sacrifice to pay for your evilness or else he’ll have to send you to hell for all eternity? And a God like that is even supposed to be the moral exemplar of all the universe?” Monica shook her head again. “Believing in things that are patently ridiculous is a dangerous habit, especially when it carries over into a person’s adulthood. I mean, look at all the people in America today who think biological evolution is bogus!”

Watt snorted and grinned.

“But doesn’t religion keep some people from running amok?” Henson said.

“Most people are decent, hardworking citizens whether they’re religious or not. Besides, religion often has just the opposite effect. The Crusades? Burning heretics? Blowing up abortion clinics? Not allowing gay people to marry? Blocking scientific research that could cure diseases and alleviate suffering? — because some people don’t feel comfortable unless they can force their religious beliefs on everyone around them. It’s bloody perverse — pun intended.”

Henson shrugged. “Well, maybe some people just don’t live up to their beliefs.”

“Belief.” Monica pursed her lips and sighed. “Art said belief itself is the overriding moral issue of all time. Is it right to simply assume something is true while closing your eyes to all the evidence against it, especially when your unexamined belief causes you to commit, or condone, all sorts of discrimination against others?”

“Yeah,” Watt chimed in, “I love that contortionist Tippy has on the show sometimes, the guy who plays the TV evangelist. Funny as hell the way he twists himself into a pretzel every time he tries to explain away the inconsistencies in the Bible.”

“No,” a woman suddenly screamed somewhere down the hall. “Oh, God!” another one cried out. A red-headed guy in his mid-twenties poked his head out a door. “Turn on channel three,” he yelled to Monica, who immediately stepped into a nearby room with the detectives right behind her. There was a rack of TV monitors. She turned one on with a click, then a bleep, then came the breaking news: The banner across the bottom of the screen read, 10-YEAR-OLD BOY SHOOTS ATHEIST CLOWN.

A well-dressed, fortyish man and woman stood on the steps of a church. The man said he was giving the kid “sanctuary, until the best Christian attorney in the land could be retained to protect him from secular persecution.”

“Sanctuary?” Henson sneered. “What’s he think this is, the Middle Ages? Who is this guy?”

Monica’s hand flew to her open mouth. “That — that’s Ron Lamont! He’s the preacher Art went to secondary school with.”

“Oh, yeah?” Henson said. He and Watt both craned to take a closer look at Ron Lamont.

“Secondary school?” Watt frowned. “You mean like high school or elementary school?”

“An evangelical ‘high school,’ as you say here in America. That’s how Art knew so much about the Bible.” Monica shook her head slowly, still staring at Ron Lamont. “Art took religion quite seriously when he was a kid, but he had serious doubts too. He said he was the brooding, intellectual type back then. He agonized over the existence of God. He couldn’t just buy into it like everyone else around him. He said he went through hell wanting to believe, trying to believe, but he just couldn’t swallow it. He read Augustine, Aquinas, Kierkegaard, the lot, even the musings of those precocious child men C. S. Lewis and Tolkien, but none of it was convincing. Ron Lamont though? Art said he was just a brainless athlete, a ‘jock’ as you Americans say, wholly into sport and beer and cheerleaders. He never gave religion a serious thought, even being in a religious school. Interestingly, years later, Art became the Atheist Clown and Ron Lamont the soul-saving televagelist.”

“And her?” Henson pointed at the shapely woman in lofty heels and an impeccably tailored suit standing next to Ron Lamont.

“That’s his wife, Gina Lamont. She went to the same, uh, high school.” Monica stared hard at the TV. “Art said she had a thing for him back in school. He even went out with her once — once! He said it was scary how determined she was. He said he figured later she was the only person in the world who could have turned someone like Ron Lamont into a preacher.”

As they watched, Ron Lamont finished talking. Then Gina Lamont stepped to an easel draped with a fuchsia-colored choir robe. She threw back the robe to reveal a poster featuring a large photo of a young boy.

“This is the child the Atheist Clown drove to kill him,” she said. The kid was remarkably wholesome looking, with freckles and blond hair and a cowlick. The mob of reporters surged forward, cameras clicking.

“Unbelievable,” Henson said. “Looking for a lawyer, huh? Looks like the spin team’s already on the case.”

Monica stepped closer to the screen. She focused her teary eyes on the boy’s picture. “Wait,” she gasped, “that — that’s that kid ¾ Johnny something, no, Jonathan. He’s the one… just a couple of weeks ago.”

Both detectives stared at her. She stepped back and sighed, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

“This kid, Jonathan, was supposed to be on the show, but when he came in for an audition, he was so — so obnoxious that Art dropped the idea."

     "Obnoxious?" Henson said.

“Here? He came here?” Watt added.

“Yes, uh, here, to Art’s office. Jonathan is the poster child for the Young Crusaders, this Christian group that runs boot camps for troubled youths. In fact, I remember now, it was Saturday morning too, two weeks ago. I remember now his foster parents said Saturday was the only day they could make it.”

“Would they have parked in the same garage?” Watt asked.

“Yes,” Monica said. “We told them to, so we could stamp their ticket for them. In fact — oh no! — I remember now: They met Art in the garage that morning, walked here with him." Monica's jaw dropped. "They would have seen Art's car, where he parked!"

“That’s how the kid knew where to find him, all right,” Watt said.

“You said that Young Crusaders group runs boot camps for troubled youth?” Henson said.

“Yes, Ron Lamont’s church is a big supporter of Young Crusaders. They tout Jonathan as one of its biggest success stories.”

“So what was his problem? Why was he there?” Watt said.

“Well, he was an orphan, his parents died in a house fire." Monica paused, thinking. "Obviously a child would be traumatized by such a thing, but there was never any mention of violent behavior.”

“So," Henson raised his palms, “why him on your show?”

“Jonathan was supposed to be super precocious. Art thought he might be good for a back-and-forth about what he believed and why. But instead,” Monica sighed and shook her head, “he turned out to be a real wacko.”

“Like how?” Watt said.

“He had like a zillion-and-one Bible verses memorized. Anything you said he had some Bible verse to counter it — or so he thought anyway. Often the connection made no sense whatever. He was like this weird little robotron the way he spouted Bible verses. It was rather dark-humor funny actually, but creepy too, since he looked so wholesome otherwise. But Art would never laugh at a kid. He always said he had a better sense of humor than God when it came to children.”

“Better? — than God?” Watt said. “How’s that?” This sounded like something about Tippy he could impress his kids with. Watt remembered too how one of his ex-wife’s moronic fundamentalist cousins had once told his kids the platypus was proof of God’s sense of humor, as well as somehow being prime evidence that evolution was bunk.

“Oh,” Monica smiled remembering. “There’s this one Bible story that Art thought summed up God’s sense of humor quite well. It seems a bunch of kids were making fun of an old prophet named Elisha once, because he was bald. So God sent two she-bears out of the woods to rip the kids to shreds — all forty-two of them — simply because they laughed at an old bald bloke.”

“Wow!” Watt sniffed. "Way to go, God."

“The production crew even did an animation of it,” Monica went on. “It turned out God was touchy about the bald jokes because he wore a toupee himself. But Art thought the violence was too much for the younger kids — I guess you could say Art was more sensitive too than God. So he had the animators tone it down a bit. He also had them add Tippy snatching God’s toupee and running just ahead of the bears and the lightning bolts, laughing all the way. That was just before Tippy woke up, as usual, and realized the whole God thing had been a bad dream he’d had because he’d been reading the Bible again.”

“Wish I’d seen that one,” Watt said, grinning.

“So anyway,” Henson said impatiently, “where’d Art get the idea to put this kid on the show?” He nodded at Jonathan’s picture still on the screen.

“Well —” Monica frowned, remembering, “actually it was Gina Lamont who arranged it all. She just called Art one day out of the blue. It’ll be on his calendar. He told me about it right afterward, said he couldn’t believe it. I saw his mind clicking too. He called in everyone, started throwing out ideas. He said he’d even offered to have Gina and her husband on the show too, but she’d nixed that idea immediately.”

“So this Lamont woman was pushing the kid on Art?” Henson asked.

Monica paused, then her hand flew to her mouth again. “You don’t think…. Wait, you have to see this.” She went to a nearby console, tapped on a keyboard. “This is the sermon Ron Lamont gave just last Sunday. We collect them, along with those of dozens of other televangelists, but this one….”

She hit a key and Ron Lamont appeared on the TV monitor, preaching at the pulpit of his church. The place was packed. He was backed by a huge, nodding choir in fuchsia robes trimmed in gold satin. His voice was firm and deep, bursting with righteous indignation:

“There’s been much in the news about pedophiles lately, those vile monsters who molest the bodies and minds of innocent young children. But is it any less evil to ravage them spiritually, to strip their souls of their faith?” He rent the air with his clenched fist.

“Tell it, Pastor, tell it,” someone screamed from the congregation.

“Brothers and Sisters,” Lamont continued, “it’s almost enough to test my own faith. It makes me wonder if even the blood of our Lord can wash away such abomination. Is molesting children a worse sin than stealing their souls, than assigning them to eternal damnation? Think about it, Brothers and Sisters. That is exactly what the Atheist Clown does when he destroys our children’s faith in their Lord and Savior. Could a sin be more pernicious? Could it be more damnable, more unpardonable? Can there be anything more blasphemous to the Holy Spirit than turning the hearts of little children against him, than consigning them to hell? The Atheist Clown must be stopped, stopped at all cost,” he shouted, his face clenched and red.

Monica snorted. “I thought hell was all God’s idea. Isn’t he the one sending all those little children to eternal damnation?”

“Good point,” Watt said. “I wonder if that kid was sitting out there listening to that stuff?”

“I can check for you.” Monica fingered the keyboard again. “The camera pans the congregation every now and then.”

Just then Henson’s cell phone rang. He turned away to answer it. He listened, mumbled something, then listened more. “We’re on it,” he ended sharply and turned back. “We’ll get back to you very soon,” he told Monica.

“The lieutenant?” Watt asked.

“Yeah, that Charismatic Church of the Whatever has the kid, all right. They’re playing coy about just where though. All they told the lieutenant was he’s in a ‘safe location.’ Won’t say where. Name’s Jonathan Range. They claim he didn’t have the weapon with him. We better go have a word with Preacher Lamont and wife. Child Protective Services is itching to get at the kid too,” Henson added, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, right," Watt said, "before we can traumatize the little murderer even more."

#

Ron and Gina retreated back into their church. They stood just inside the sanctuary doors watching the news people still clamoring outside the floor-to-ceiling glass of the foyer. Ron turned to Gina. Her spot-on instincts, as well as her degree in public relations from a top evangelical Christian university — top of her class too — had always served them well.

“I just hope we did the right thing,” he said. “Maybe we should have got a better handle on Jonathan though. I mean, why he did it. Maybe we shouldn’t have shown his picture like that either. I just wish we’d talked to Jim first.”

     “I told you his law firm said he’s out of town for the weekend. They’ve been trying to reach him too,” Gina said.

     “And Jonathan’s foster parents? They’re not answering either. Where are they?!” Ron shook his head.

“Calm down,” Gina said firmly, and irritably. “We had to get out in front of this thing. We don’t know who might have seen Jonathan come here. He said he took a city bus! Everybody knows about our campaign against Art James and his evil TV show. We couldn’t delay, especially after your last sermon.”

Ron shook his head again. He knew he’d overdone it, especially the part about unpardonable sin. Who was he to decide such a thing? He’d just got caught up in the moment. The thought of someone deliberately destroying the faith of little children?! Back in high school he’d even thought Art James was the smartest and deepest guy he’d ever met. How could Art get so…? But unpardonable sin? That was for God to decide. And even questioning the efficacy of the Savior’s blood, even for dramatic effect? That had been over the top, damnable in itself.

“Dear Lord, how could I? With Jonathan sitting right there too, where he always sits.” He could still see Jonathan, listening so intently to his passionate sermon, looking to all the world like a ruddy little angel.

Gina sighed. She grabbed her husband’s elbow and shook him. “Get it straight, Ron. We don’t want to look like we’re hiding anything here. The cover-up’s always the downfall, even just the whiff of cover-up. We’re blameless. Remember that. You only spoke the truth in that sermon. You never said anything about killing the man. Meeting Art was where Jonathan got the idea. The world had to see Jonathan’s face from us first, not some tabloid front page. We had to release his photo, in the right context. Just wait till they run Jonathan’s sweet picture next to the Atheist Clown’s. See how that makes Art James look.”

Ron sighed and shook his bowed head. “The man is dead, Gina.”

“Pull yourself together, Ron. I was shocked too, but we’re not in high school anymore. Don’t forget what Art's been doing all these years, to children no less. He even thought it was funny.”

“I know, I know,” he said, “but maybe…. It just seems like we’re moving too fast here. I mean, maybe we should have….”

“We had to dominate the news cycle, get our side out before the secular authorities and the news media start in. We couldn’t let them beat us to the punch. They’ll use anything to attack us now. They’ll say it was our idea to put Jonathan on the Atheist Clown’s show, try to make it look like we programmed the kid to kill. They’ll even call us the murderers. How would it look if they could paint us as trying to hide him too?”

“But it —” Ron shrugged, “it was our idea for him to go on Art’s show.”

“What we did was good and righteous, the work of the Lord. We were only trying to get the truth out, maybe even expose Art to it once more, make him think. We can’t let them twist it any other way.”

“True,” he muttered.

“Look,” she said, patting his arm, “we have to protect Jonathan. He was misguided, obviously, but by Art, not us. Art set his sights on Jonathan. He wanted to destroy the faith of the Young Crusaders poster child. Think about what a coup that would have been for him. Putting Jonathan on his show was Art’s idea. Get that through your head now, Ron.” She lasered into his eyes. “Just refer all questions about it to me. You have no first-hand knowledge of it. I’m the one who dealt with Art.”

As Ron stared at the screaming reporters outside, he convinced himself his wife was right. Gina stared at the reporters too, remembering how Jonathan had first approached her. The boy had wanted to get on the Atheist Clown’s show. His idea! And how sincere he’d been too, what perfect sense it’d made. He’d assured her he could put the Atheist Clown in his place with the word of God. And why not? Jonathan Range was the brightest kid she’d ever met. What a command of scripture for someone his age! And what a face too! What God-given sweetness and sincerity! What a misstep! How could Art James possibly have looked good attacking him? Art must have realized it too when he’d met Jonathan in person. Why else would he have reneged?

Their campaign to get the Atheist Clown off TV had been languishing. It’d seemed the perfect way to revive it. Jonathan was so real and true. But — murder? Had Satan gotten to him? And when? It was a terrible thing, of course, but really, was it more “terrible” than someone shooting a baby-murdering abortionist? Could Art’s death indeed have been the will of God? Who was to say for sure that Jonathan hadn’t heard his voice? Who could know his mysterious ways?

#

The Charismatic Church of the Risen Savior was only twenty minutes away, near the third exit off the expressway. Watt knew it well. Some of his ex-wife’s Bible-thumping relatives went to church there. The born-again blather he’d heard at family gatherings used to infuriate him, even their silly blessings before cramming down the double cheeseburgers and baked beans and franks. He’d packed many an argument with those brainless jerkoffs with things he’d picked up watching Tippy’s Truth Time.

Watt’s ex-wife wasn’t a religious nut herself, but as soon as they’d separated, her born-again relatives had been on her like fleas on a lost dog, harping about how the kids needed a “godly upbringing for a change,” how she needed to go back to church herself to find “a godly man this time” — right, instead of that “Ham bone”? Yeah, Watt had overheard one of her cracker cousins joking once about her liking ham — especially the bone.

You could bet those Saturday mornings when the kids were at his place they all watched Tippy together. In Watt’s book, Tippy’s show was essential to proper childhood development. He recalled the rollicking skit Tippy had done about Ham, the alleged “dark” son of Noah. The Bible said Noah cursed Ham’s descendants to eternal servitude — read slavery and/or janitorial work. And why? Simply because Ham had made fun of Noah once when the old goat had been literally bare-ass drunk. The Bible! Watt huffed.

“That Monica’s a real looker. ‘Bloody’ sexy accent too,” Henson said as he drove. “A tad too intellectual for my tastes though. Pretty cold about Santa. If religion really bothers you, just spell Christmas with an X and call it a day, I say.”

“She seemed just right to me,” Watt said as he studied his iPod. He was the tech-savvy member of the team. His fingers danced over the screen, calling up the scene of the Lamonts standing on the church steps before the media throng. “Fast work. It’s on the church website already,” he said. Watt held out the iPod so Henson too could see and hear Ron Lamont’s performance:

“Could there be anything more pernicious than an atheist dressed as a clown? Atheism laced with fun and games and cartoons to seduce our young children? The atheist Art James actually accosted this young Christian boy in person. The child was traumatized by the lie of atheism, that there is no God, that life is devoid of meaning and purpose. Could there be any worse evil to plant in a young child’s mind? The Atheist Clown routinely tried to destroy the faith of young children. He even laughed about it on television.” Lamont bowed his head. “I blame myself,” he said. When he looked up, tears were streaming down his cheeks. “I should never have allowed it. I should have known as soon as the atheist suggested it. But Jonathan was so strong in the faith, so firm in his belief. And his foster parents, godly people both, were by his side. Yet he was only a child, only ten years old, and the atheist so….” Lamont was visibly shaken now. He paused before resuming with renewed determination in his eyes. “The child’s faith was shattered by the atheist’s devilish tricks. It must be restored before we release him into the hands of the secular authorities, the very ones who allowed the Atheist Clown to broadcast his pernicious sacrilege into our homes in the first place.”

“Can’t wait to meet this guy,” Watt said. His opinion of TV preachers and their followers was already at an all-time low. Only a month before, yet another revered televangelist had been in the news. The guy, who’d routinely railed against all things gay, had been caught in flagrante with a male hustler in a public toilet. Now, barely a month later, he was back in the pulpit, already “cured” and “rehabilitated” and “forgiven.” You didn’t have to be a cop to see it all anymore, Watt figured. Just go to church. Or better still, just watch your favorite religious hypocrite on TV.

As they sped down the highway, Watt regaled Henson with things he’d learned about the Bible from Tippy’s Truth Time, “stuff they don’t teach in Sunday school.” Did Henson know, for example, that according to the Bible, right after Moses came down from the mountain with the Ten Commandments — “you know, ‘thou shalt not kill’ and all that good stuff” — God told him to take a show of hands to see how many of the Hebrews would follow him? Then God told Moses to slaughter everyone who voted no. “So Moses and his men whacked over 3,000, give or take the chattel — the women and children.” Or what about when the Hebrews entered the Promised Land, which a bunch of heathens already called home? “God told the Israelite army to slaughter everyone, even the barnyard animals.”

“So, hard times require stern measures,” Henson said, shrugging, enjoying the role of Devil’s advocate — or in this case, God’s.

“Genocide ain’t even the half of it,” Watt continued. “Loving God? Heavenly Father? Gimme your garden-variety abusive human parent any day. Look at the laws he laid down. Death penalty for everything: Adultery? — stone ‘em; kids not respecting their parents? — stone ‘em; marry a chick and find out she’s not a virgin? — stone her, and on her father’s doorstep even.”

“Really?” Henson frowned and glanced aside. “I never heard that one.”

“Cold, huh? But it’s right there in the Bible. And get this: catch a guy humping an animal? — stone him, and the animal too. And all this from the most enlightened being in the universe?” Watt threw up his hands and laughed. “You gotta wonder if the idiots who believe the Bible is the word of God ever even bother reading the damned thing.”

Henson snickered. “Everybody must get stoned,” he twanged, thumping the stirring wheel. “The ways of the Lord are unfathomable.”

“Yeah, right, and if you question those ways, the righteous wackos claim you’re arrogant, trying to set yourself up above the Almighty. Well, as Tippy would say, that’s exactly what humanity’s done every time our moral standards have risen above the Bible’s. For example, there’s a shitload of verses where God tells the Hebrews it’s perfectly all right to have slaves: own ‘em, sell ‘em, pass ‘em on to their kids as an inheritance. Even Jesus never said slavery’s wrong. That jerkoff the Apostle Paul even said slaves should obey their masters. No running away or rebelling against Massa, right? You gotta know those cracker preachers down South had a heyday with that. Paul even said if a slave owner is a Christian, his slaves should work even harder for him! I kid you not.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Henson quipped. Then he cringed, wondering if he’d crossed the line making light of slavery with Watt. He grinned apologetically, but Watt hadn’t missed a beat.

“It’s a mystery, all right — God, even Jesus, couldn’t have slipped in at least one little anti-slavery verse? Why not ‘Thou shalt not have slaves’ for one of the Ten Commandments even? Think of all the misery that could have been avoided if the had Bible had simply said that slavery was wrong. But forget that. It’s more important not to take the great one’s name in vain. Saying ‘goddamn’ is worse than the slave trade.”

“Hey, is that it?” Henson said suddenly, pointing through the windshield at a glistening stainless-steel cross rising high atop a glass-domed roof miles in the distance.

“Yip,” Watt said.

#

The ample parking lot surrounding the Charismatic Church of the Risen Savior gave it more the feel of a sports stadium than a place of worship. Henson and Watt drove across the black asphalt with its endless rows of white parallel lines. They parked in the shadow of the round, four story building, then walked toward the front doors of the church waving their badges before them to part the crowd of reporters.

A young woman about twenty opened the glass doors, then quickly pulled them shut behind them before any of the reporters could barge through.

“Please wait here,” she said, smiling. “Pastor Ron will be with you momentarily.” She backed off and hurried away as Henson and Watt scanned the expansive foyer. The renewed shouts of the reporters outside finally died down.

“Sanctuary, my ass!” Henson said. “This ‘church’ looks like big business.”

“Here they come now,” Watt said, nodding at a hallway where the Lamonts had just rounded a corner walking toward them.

“I’ll say hello, then you can have at ‘em,” Henson said.

“Can’t wait.” Watt nodded, then folded his arms, waiting. He noticed that in person Lamont looked much too primped and slick. His coiffed hair seemed supernaturally thick. His cheeks glowed, no doubt from a recent facial. His suit looked like it’d cost a fortune. And his wife looked even more polished and pampered.

When Ron and Gina reached them, Henson made the introductions, then Watt pinched one of the lapels of Lamont’s sumptuous suit. “Nice threads. Squeezed through the eye of the needle, did ya, Padre?”

“Please,” Lamont said, swiping Watt’s hand aside. “Money was everything to that rich young man our Lord admonished. It’s the least of my blessings, praise the Lord.”

Gina beamed, obviously satisfied with her husband’s retort. Watt noticed her perfect teeth, gleaming as brightly as the diamond-studded pin that spelled JESUS on her lapel.

“We’ve come for Jonathan Range,” Watt said. “Where is he?”

“We’ll arrange for him to turn himself in, accompanied by his attorney,” Gina answered.

“Is he here? Is he in the building?” Watt demanded.

“The boy is safe, in a safe location,” Gina said. “He’s being watched over and prayed for. We’re still trying to contact the church’s attorney — it is Saturday. He’ll make all the arrangements. We’re also trying to reach the boy’s foster parents.”

“Look,” Watt stepped forward, leveling an index finger at Gina’s eyes, “if you don’t want to be charged with harboring a fugitive, or even as accessories, you’ll produce the kid pronto.”

“Detective,” Gina said calmly, “do you really think we would have gone before the world to reveal the child if we intended to hide him? Would you even be here if you hadn’t just seen us on television? For that matter, would you have any idea yet who shot that man? Our generous cooperation is already obvious. Please be patient. We’re dealing with a child.”

“Well, what was all that talk about sanctuary?” Henson said.

Gina sniffed. In a lowered voice she said, “Just that, detective — talk. Of course we intend to cooperate fully with the proper authorities.”

“So much for us ‘persecuting’ the kid, huh?” Watt said. “We’ll expect to hear from your attorney then, soon, before we get back with a warrant and a busload of officers to search the building. We’ll see how that looks to the press camped out on your doorstep.”

“It will look like just that, Detective: religious persecution, especially when you don’t find what you’re looking for,” Gina said icily. “You do know Councilmen Reynolds and Burke are esteemed members of our congregation. Councilman Burke has investigated police misconduct before. I’m sure he’ll be thankful to you for the need to do so again. If we’d been able to reach him this morning, he’d be standing here right next to me telling you so himself.”

“Your further cooperation will be appreciated,” Henson said to Gina as he tugged Watt back by the coat sleeve. “We’ll expect to hear from your attorney soon.”

Gina nodded gratefully at the older, obviously wiser detective.

“If you don’t mind,” Henson said next to Gina, “may I ask why Jonathan Range came to you and your husband?”

“Jonathan is incredibly brilliant and talented,” Gina said, beaming. “He has a genius-level IQ and a photographic memory, despite all that he’s been through in his young life. His parents and younger brother died in a house fire when he was only six. Jonathan was the only one to get out alive. Of course he suffered some emotional scarring from such an ordeal. Ron and I have tried to help him. We got him into Young Crusader camp, where Jonathan was saved.”

“Hmm,” Henson said.

“Thank God, the foster parents who took Jonathan in brought him to our church. Now he’s even the Young Crusader’s poster child,” Gina said proudly.

“Yes, we expected great things from Jonathan,” Ron said.

“We still do,” Gina corrected him. “The Lord is far from finished with Jonathan Range.”

“Um-hum,” Henson said. He stared into Gina’s eyes. “We understand it was your idea to get this kid on Art James’ TV show.”

“It certainly was not.” She stepped back. Her hands lurched to her hips. “It was Art James’ idea. He phoned me.”

“Yes, we’ll certainly be checking the phone records,” Henderson said.

“Actually, I ran into Art on the street one day downtown. I’m not sure of the date.” Gina squinted as if trying to jog her memory. “No, I’m sorry, I just don’t remember.”

“Is that right?” Watt said, scowling.

Gina paused, then sighed. “My husband and I knew Art James, or used to. He went to high school with us. Everyone knew how emotionally disturbed he was. I even tried to help him, but he spurned God at every turn. He was the one who brought up having a Young Crusader on his show. He’d seen Jonathan’s face on the posters, and he specifically asked for him.”

“And, uh — this made sense to you, to put the kid on the Atheist Clown’s show?” Henson asked.

“I talked it over with my husband and with Jonathan — reluctantly, I can assure you. We prayed about it for some time. The Lord finally led us to see that it could be a great opportunity. It was only then that I called Art — back.”

“There are witnesses who say Art James told them it was your idea, that you contacted him,” Henson said. “His notes confirm that,” he added creatively.

“You’re going to believe an atheist?” Gina’s jaw trembled. “What would you swear him to tell the truth on — even if you could now — the Bible? That would be a sacrilege. Atheists are liars by definition. They have no standards, no moral absolute.”

“Dear, please.” Ron slid an arm around his wife’s shoulders, hugging her tenderly. “The Evil One’s lies will be made apparent by the light of the truth.” He turned to the detectives. “Art James was a vile person. He would have used Jonathan, as he used everything else, to attack God. The boy’s foster parents are godly people. They accompanied him to the Atheist Clown’s TV studio. I suggest you speak with them. They said Jonathan comported himself well, a good and faithful servant of the Lord. He had a true, biblical answer to every one of the Atheist Clown’s slanders. Art was flustered by such strong faith in a child. That’s why he cut Jonathan’s appearance from his show.”

“Wait a minute,” Watt said, squinting. “What was that stuff you said on TV about the kid losing his faith?”

Ron hesitated. Even Gina gave him a frustrated stare.

“It — it was only later, after the shooting, that Jonathan’s anguish became apparent.” Ron’s voice grew deep now — sermon mode. “Satan planted the seeds of doubt, where they lingered and festered in the child’s mind. They were too cunning for one so young in the faith. I blame myself for not realizing….” Ron bowed his head and squinted. The tears flowed again when he looked back up.

“No, I’ve got to tell them,” Gina suddenly blurted. She shook her head, took a deep breath. “Getting Jonathan on his show to ruin his faith wasn’t Art’s only goal. Art running into me on the street was no accident.” She sighed heavily, hanging her head as if tempted to stop, then she leveled her eyes on the detectives’ again. “A man who thinks he doesn’t answer to God — an atheist — has no limits. Art James had a thing for me in high school, a lust that never ended. He asked me to come to his office, to talk about how he would use Jonathan on his show.” Her face grew pained. She turned back to her husband, snuggled safely against his chest. “But before he even got off the phone, he — he….” She shook her head, frowning. “It was only then, after I rebuffed him, that he said he wasn’t going to use Jonathan on his show.”

“What are you saying?” Henson said flatly. “What did he say?” But before Gina could answer, they heard someone running in the nearby hallway. A lanky young man in his late teens rounded the corner.

“Pastor Ron, I’ve been looking all over for you. Jonathan’s gone!” he said, panting.

“What? How, Barry?” Gina snapped.

“I just went to the bathroom, that’s all. When I got back to your office he was, uh — watching TV. I told him….”

“You let him watch TV?! We told you….” Gina clenched her fists. Barry flinched from her scowl.

“I thought you said he wasn’t here,” Watt shouted.

“I said you wouldn’t find what you were looking for here with your search warrant,” Gina said indignantly, “the implication being the physical evidence, the gun.”

“This is your idea of taking care of the kid?” Henson said to the Lamonts. He turned to the young man. “How long ago did he leave? Where was he headed?”

“Well, I guess like, uh, maybe — ten or fifteen minutes ago? I’ve been looking all over for Pastor Ron. I thought he’d be in the conference room or the TV studio. I didn’t know….”

“Where? Where’d he go?” Watt shouted.

“Well, uh, he said he was going home. I couldn’t stop him. I tried to. You shoulda seen the look on his face. It was like he… I dunno. I’m sorry, Pastor Ron, I….”

“We told you,” Gina growled. “You’d better ask God to forgive you now.”

Barry trembled. He hung his head. The detectives pulled him several paces away from the Lamonts. “Stay there,” Watt commanded Gina when she started to follow. He leveled an index finger at her eyes. “Stay.”

The detectives huddled with Barry.

“Yes,” Barry said, “Jonathan definitely left. He said he was headed home. I saw him run out an exit door, one that locks when it closes.”

“Which door? Show us,” Watt demanded.

They rushed down the hall with Barry leading them. The Lamonts followed too, at a distance. When they got to the door, Watt swung it open and barged outside, staring one way, then the other. Henson and Barry stepped out behind him.

“Do you know where he lives?” Henson asked Barry.

“Yeah, sure. His foster parents’ house is only like five blocks from here. I don’t know the address, but you go down Marbray there, then right on Tingly, then….”

“Let’s go,” Watt said. “You’re coming with us, Barry, to show us.”

“Yeah, I will. Yeah,” Barry said, glancing nervously at the Lamonts, who were leaning out the door now, looking around themselves. Barry seemed happy for any excuse to get away from Gina.

“Stay in the church, and stay put,” Watt told the Lamonts. “Nobody goes in or out till you here back from us. Is that clear?”

“Yes!” Gina said, slamming the door shut.

Then Watt and Henson ran with Barry around the church to their car. Henson drove while Watt called for backup and units to scour the neighborhood.

#

Back in her office, Gina tapped fluidly on her computer keyboard. She was relieved the cynical cops were gone, though she was still troubled by the thought of them getting their hands on Jonathan. Maybe Ron had been right about spending more time with Jonathan before they went public. If they’d only had more time. They should have prepped Jonathan better too. He’d sounded so…. She sighed heavily. He was only a child. He’d get past this. With the Lord’s help, he’d rise above it, even make the best of it. It must have been God’s will, a test, a forging for some higher purpose. With his God-given gifts, Jonathan was surely destined to be a great servant of the Lord. Maybe even in a prison ministry.

He just hadn’t been himself. He’d been traumatized. He’d still had blood on his hands, literally. “Lesser blood”? “Light of the blood”? What had he even been talking about? she wondered. But she knew she was right. Jonathan needed God now, and God alone, not the secular experts, not psychiatry. As Ron liked to say in his sermons, Jesus had never sent anyone elsewhere for help. Art James had gone to a psychotherapist — he’d even admitted it on TV! — and look what he’d become.

Gina paused, then sighed again. Art — dead? But what had he expected, the way he’d rejected God? He’d been so troubled about God in school, but at least he’d been honest then. At least he’d still been open. What if she’d been able to help him then? What if…? She shook her head. At least Ron had been open to the Spirit. Thank God she’d opened his eyes! Even in all his angst and somberness, Art had been so…. He’d known what he was doing too, the way he’d drawn her to him, then…. It had really been no exaggeration, what she’d told the cops just now, not that part. She’d known Art was up to his same old tricks again, the way he’d caressed her with his voice. Glad to hear from her? She knew what had really been in his heart.

She finished what she was working on — what she’d started composing before she and Ron had made their TV appearance on the church steps. She immediately uploaded it to the church website. Time was of the essence now. Things were rolling fast. It was good work too. The bronze text on black background was stylishly funereal. It looked great on the screen. She took particular pride in the magnanimity of the ending she’d just added. She called Ron in from his adjoining office to take a look. He was on the phone still trying to find the church’s lawyer. The title, “The End of the Atheist Clown,” was prosaic, but to the point — she hadn’t had time to come up with anything punchier. It read:

“Intellectual dishonesty.” Art James, the man behind Tippy the Atheist Clown, routinely threw that slur at the faithful, whom he accused of having closed minds. But the simple truth is that it is possible to give convincing intellectual arguments on either side of any issue. So-called intellectual honesty or dishonesty has nothing whatever to do with faith. Faith, more than anything, is about openness, being open, fully open to the Holy Spirit. Art James would not allow himself to open up to anything he could not completely wrap his small, sin-stained mind around. He could never admit that his mind, any human mind, is too small to encompass God. “Delusional belief” was another catchphrase he threw at the faithful, but what could be more delusional than to think your mind, and even your morality, is superior to God’s?

Is it honest to disbelieve in something just because you cannot squeeze it into the narrow confines of your own mind? No. In fact, it is intellectual cowardice. That is exactly what Art James was all his life, a coward, afraid to admit to the limits of his own mind or to venture beyond them. Christian apologetics, the intellectual defense of the faith, arguments for the existence of God? These are the things Art James claimed he pondered and found lacking. But such things, in and of themselves, never converted anyone. They are mere laxatives to clear the minds of the intellectually constipated. The real work of salvation is done in the soul. And only the Holy Spirit can do it.

Yes, Pastor Ron and I knew Art James in high school. It was a good, Christian school too, where the Gospel was taught and lived. But Art James chose to reject God. We remember well how troubled he was, how self-centered and moody and craving of attention. We watched in horror later when he became the infamous Atheist Clown on television and made destroying the faith of children his life’s work. His desire to deny them their faith became his sick obsession. For such is the conceit of atheists — and their dishonesty and cowardice — that they blame the “facts” when the simple truth is that it is their own rebellious arrogance that is behind their rejection of God.

We pray now that maybe, just maybe, as Art James lay dying, realizing his earthly life was slipping away from him, he was finally able renounce his pride and grievous sins. Maybe in that final moment, even Art James could let the Holy Spirit into his soul to do His wondrous work. Maybe in that very last instant of his life, even Art James was able to open his heart and accept Jesus Christ as his personal Lord and Savior. We pray that maybe, just maybe, it was so, for anything, even that, is possible with God.

#

Jonathan sat alone in the quiet darkness. As the Lord said, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet. So Jonathan prayed, but not with mere words. He saw the blood again, the fresh, living blood. He saw it clearly, even in the darkness, as clearly as the panorama that was the Word of God itself. New-freed blood was always so magical, the color and gleam of liquid fire. The neighbors’ pets, before he’d been saved, were but dim harbingers of the Savior’s free-flowing gift. Back then he’d only been an ignorant, secular child. But oh, how he’d striven for the unknown Creator, even as the pagan ancients had with their earnest, but unclean, sacrifices. How strong too had been his passion for the Oneness! The heady incense of lighter fluid, sizzling fat trickling down the altar stones, the crackle and stench of roasting sin. And the blood, how it had bubbled and splattered and steamed! How it had wafted heavenward! The Father had noticed. Even lesser blood was sufficient for purification. It’d been a start.

He’d been ready when he’d gone to Young Crusader Camp, far more prepared than the kids “reared in the Lord,” those hypocritical Sunday-school kids with their smiling, storybook Jesus. What had they even known? What could they have known? All they’d ever seen and tasted was tepid grape juice from thimble-sized glasses. He’d been led though, even in his ignorance, by the true, unseen Spirit. Then at Young Crusader Camp the Spirit had descended on him in full, crackling, bursting from the flames of the campfire in all its divine glory. Born again? It’d been his only birth, his real birth — thanks to his real and only Father.

When he’d read the Bible, over and over, all had been made clear. It was all there, in black and white and gold and fire: God’s Perfect Plan, the Reason for Everything, all so vivid and searing. The pages glowed white-hot with the Truth. With the Spirit and the Blood opening his eyes now, cleansing his soul, he could see everything, each aspect of the Truth flowing into the next, with perfect order and harmony, in pure, mathematical ecstasy: The Oneness and Wholeness of God; the Duality of Good and Evil, Matter and Spirit, Male and Female; the Self-sustaining, Self-anointing, Self-sacrificing Trinity; the Four Evangelists, Four Holy Wounds, Four Horsemen; the Five Books of the Pentateuch; the Six Seraphim, six wings each; the Seven Seals… and on to Eternity.

All the chapters, all the verses, everything fit together perfectly, beautifully, more alive and breathtaking and real than even the best of the video games. Those primal epics of carnage that enslaved the weak, sin-addled minds of non-believing kids had tempted even him before his salvation. They’d been mere dim, anemic foretastes of the ultimate glory. How they paled next to the picture of Abraham pressing Isaac to the altar, the knife to his throat! — his favorite illustration, trimmed in gold and silver and fire, glowing off the page. It said it all: will, commitment, obedience. The Father wasn’t playing around any longer.

Feelings? Emotions? Ha! That’s what the Atheist Clown had gone on about. He’d equated the spiritual with the emotional, awesome spiritual reality with mere human feelings. How laughable! The clown had even been funnier than he’d realized. He’d claimed people believed just to feel happy or safe or good or special — as if human feelings were even real things. They were nothing, of course, just made-up things, neither material nor spiritual, just illusions of the sinful human mind, as insubstantial as lies, of no significance, no eternal significance, whatsoever.

How could people be so stupid? They called him special because he knew lots of Bible verses. But why? He simply read them and repeated them. He could recite whole books of the Bible if anyone asked, but he knew better. He knew how dangerous they could be if he let them see too much, especially if he let them see what he really thought. How easy it was to fool them anyway, simply by acting like them. As for their all-important feelings? Let them feel the wrath of God — just as the clown had.

The clown in his arrogance had said God was no more real than Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy or even an imaginary playmate. He’d claimed earthly parents were more important than the Father. He’d said a mommy hugging you or a daddy holding your hand was even more real. And why? Because you could feel their corruptible flesh? That foolishness had been what he’d told the gullible children sitting on his knee. How better to seduce the smallest and weakest, clinging to their earthly mothers and fathers? What deceivers though, what traitors, what heirs of Judas earthly parents were. Jesus had warned His disciples. He’d told them to forsake their parents, to answer only to their real Father.

Satan loved to dress up and play, just like the clown had, but not just on Halloween. That silly day, with all the phony evil of cheap plastic masks and bad candy, was custom-made for the ignorant secular kids. But Santa Claus? Could there ever have been a better way to trick little children and even adults? Let the sly old gent in red fulfill all your dreams. Gather around the blazing yule log. Enjoy the warmth and glow ¾ of hellfire! Well, the Atheist Clown knew all about that now. God, a feel-good fake like Santa? The clown had even mocked the Blood!

How mighty and swift had been the Father’s wrath! Blam! The lightning had blazed, the thunder cracked. The clown’s body had plopped like a rag doll on the concrete, without even one last sneer. And oh how mightily he’d nailed it down, pounding it with the sign of the cross — blam! blam! blam! blam! blam! And oh, how the lesser blood had flowed, like the River Jordan on fire again! How it had washed the unclean offering clean. The clown’s impure soul had flown straight to hell on demon’s wings, without even a whimper. Feelings? Had he felt that? Where had all his lies and blasphemous jokes been then?

But now the wily deceiver was back again already, thanks to his father, Satan. How he mocked the work of the Lord, now even with the tongues of the Lamonts! Jonathan Range’s faith shaken? That was what the Lamonts had said, on TV too. Their horns had sprouted and grown as soon as their lips had moved. The sparkling pixels had flared and quaked. The whole screen had flickered when tongues of hellfire’d leapt between them. How could even the Lamonts have told such a damnable lie? Doing the work of the Lord only strengthened faith. The Lamonts’ sins too were unpardonable.

#

The detectives along with four carloads of backup entered the house where Jonathan Range lived. They found the bodies of his foster parents and their nine-year-old daughter. There was a blood-soaked note, same paper, same black marker as the one they’d found on Art James’ body. The childish scrawl read FALSE BRETHEREN.

Then the lieutenant called. Shots had just been fired in the Charismatic Church of the Risen Savior! More units were on the way. “Shit!” Henson said. They all tore back out to their cars.

#

Jonathan raced back to the janitor’s closet where he’d hid after flinging open the door to the outside to fool stupid Barry. It was where he’d stashed his backpack behind a blue, plastic trash barrel when he’d first crept into the church after shooting the clown, before he’d gone looking for Pastor Ron — the first time he’d looked for him. Jonathan wedged the warm, fragrant .22 caliber revolver — his “starter” gun, the one worthwhile thing he’d ever got from his foster father — into the backpack between his Children’s Illustrated Bible and a couple of fifty-round boxes of ammo. A can of lighter fluid, a box of matches, a hunting knife, and a Jesus Christ action-figure doll were also jammed in the backpack. He slid his arms through the straps and hoisted it on his back, then he peeked out the closet door. Nothing. He calmly slipped out the nearby exit door into the light of day.

He crept behind the thick hedge that ringed the church building until he reached Ralph’s car, one among many in the church parking lot. The crowd of reporters and curious onlookers at the front of the building had grown. Ralph started the engine as soon as Jonathan cracked the passenger door and slid in. Ralph may not have been the brightest person, but he was dependable. He was loyal and obedient and unquestioning, remarkable traits in a full-grown man. His only sins were sins of the flesh, not of the soul, not spiritual sins. Admittedly, in a big, hairy, sweaty man’s body like Ralph’s, such sins could seem earthshaking. But Jonathan had helped him understand, ever since he’d met Ralph online. Ralph knew now his simple bodily sins were the easiest for the Father to forgive, easily cleansed with lesser blood. The Father had far worse sins to deal with, and deal with harshly. Ralph’s manly sins of the body, just like those of King David, were hardly the conniving, back-stabbing, girlish sins of Judas and the hypocritical Pharisees.

Jonathan ducked down so no one in the crowd would spot him. He told Ralph to drive slowly out of the parking lot. His head buzzed with ideas — the sight and smell of fresh blood always did that to him. Pastor Ron and his wife, by showing his picture to the world, had marked him for death as surely as Herod had the infant Jesus. It was time to flee to Egypt now, the American Egypt, the desert. He’d get Ralph to buy him some hair dye, maybe even something to make his skin darker — he’d seen commercials for such things on TV. He had all his foster parents’ savings in the trunk, and Ralph knew how to get money too, lots of it. Then he and Ralph would drive out west. They’d get a farm or ranch, maybe even conquer one the way Joshua had conquered the Holy Land. There’d be animals, lots of animals, even bulls. He’d prepare for his ministry, start a website to find his followers.

He’d expected Pastor Lamont to praise his work, not betray him. JUDAS HYPOCRITES was what he’d written this time. The Lamonts had no more respected the Father than the Atheist Clown had, or they too would have seen the cleansing light. In their treachery, maybe they even had seen the light and denied it anyway. Maybe that had been why the Jezebel had rushed him to the restroom to scrub away the clown’s blood as soon as he’d arrived?

Now his hands glowed with renewed brilliance. With Pastor Ron’s fresh, freed blood on his palms — he’d avoided touching the unclean blood of the woman — he felt even closer to the Father. Now he even saw the glory of the Blood through the Father’s eyes, the fiery crimson flecked with gold, pulsing with power. Now that he knew the fullness of the Father’s passion for righteousness.

He touched his head and felt the bristling crown radiating from his scalp, spikes of gold now instead of horns. It electrified him, filled him. The Father’s will be done. He and the Father were one! He’d show the whole world now how real the Father was. He’d give the world a whole new respect for the Blood.

Copyright 2009 Ray Gregory

www.RayGregory.com