The Prophet of Queens Read online

  The vision came to Thornton in two parts:

  First, he saw before him stretching out in grand detail across the valley, a city gleaming like ivory in the moonlight. A model society founded on the bible’s guiding principles, man’s laws bowing to God’s. A City that would serve as a shining example of applied theocracy.

  Second, Thornton saw with perfect clarity how to restore the country to God’s good graces. He and fellow Christian leaders across the land would join forces to rebuild government from the ground up. Together they’d work to remove secular bureaucrats, politicians, and judges, replacing them with men and women of God. Town by town, city by city, state by state, all the way to Washington.

  And now these many years later, Thornton was in sight of his goal. Twenty-five days from today, his handpicked-and-groomed candidate, Republican Senator Roger Filby of Kansas, would face off against Democrat Governor Ellen Shackleton of New Jersey for the presidency of the United States. Should Filby win, Thornton would stand behind him in veiled gray eminence, using the City of God as a holy template to create, at last, one nation truly under God—

  Durban cleared his throat. “Brooks,” he said in the tinny voice that doomed his televangelical dreams, “as you know, the past few weeks I’ve been shuttling among the Council members gathering perspectives. And to put it bluntly, the sentiment isn’t good.”

  He was referring to the Council that governed the CCC. Twelve clergymen representing the Big 12 U.S. Christian denominations: Evangelical, Pentecostal, Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, et al. Though the law barred religious institutions from the pursuits the CCC was awash in, Thornton and colleagues had successfully masked their activities behind a Political Action Committee, taking advantage of disclosure loopholes to divert funds from Church coffers while evading detection.

  Indeed, God had blessed their efforts. The CCC had not only captured many state legislatures over the years, it was close to controlling the U.S. House and Senate. Albeit, the balance was unlikely to shift this election cycle.

  Then there were the many judgeships the Coalition had acquired, including six Supreme Court justices—all Catholic, but reliable conservatives, nonetheless. And now Thornton was poised for his crowning achievement, within a whisker of uniting all three branches of government under Christ’s banner.

  But as Durban pointed out, “We’re losing ground in the polls. The debate was a fiasco. Filby’s gaffes, his slips of the tongue. Late-night TV is having a field day.”

  Thornton assured, “He’ll do better next time. We’ve got a battery of forensics coaches working with him. And let’s not lose sight of our ground assault in the swing-states.”

  Durban shook his head. “No guarantees in any of that. The consensus on the Council is, it’s time for the ‘Nuclear Option.’ And we want you to use it now.”

  Nuclear Option. Code for the explosive video Thornton kept locked here in his desk drawer. A political weapon-of-last-resort, certain to take Shackleton down.

  Thornton crossed his arms. “The Council knows my position.”

  “Yes. And it’s time you set aside your scruples for the greater good. It’s not only our dreams for the country, Brooks, our very Churches are on the line. Need I remind you, it was you who put us in this position.”

  In pitching his plans to the Council years ago, Thornton had sworn on the bible that they and their Churches would be shielded from the prying eyes of the IRS, media, ACLU, atheists and other enemies of Faith who’d surely go after them if their scheme were discovered. Such a calamity, God forbid, could strip their Churches of their exemptions and put them all on the hook for decades of back taxes and penalties. They’d be bankrupted, the Christian conservative movement in America, crushed. The end of the CCC, Thornton’s ministry, his Tabernacle, his City. The end of his holy Crusade.

  Thornton replied, “Back when we entered into our agreement, there was no risk. Who could have foreseen these new laws working their way through Congress?” Laws that threatened to make Super PACs transparent and expose participating members. “The Constitution grants free political expression to the rest of the country, even corporations. If all people are endowed by our Creator with inalienable rights, why are we of the cloth excluded?”

  All the same, the public had grown tired of PACs and Dark Money abuses, pressuring Congress to act. The reform bill was scheduled for vote next year. Republicans opposed it, Democrats favored. And if Democrats kept their slim majority in the House this fall, as expected, the bill would pass, rip the veil off the CCC, and catch Thornton and colleagues with pants down.

  But, as Durban noted, there was a way to stave off catastrophe. “A presidential veto is our only hope. Filby must win in November. And you, Brooks, have the power to guarantee it.”

  Last winter during the primaries, a follower of Thornton’s TV ministry who’d attended college with Ellen Shackleton, sent him an old VHS. The only copy in existence, she swore. When Thornton viewed the tape, he was stunned. And revolted. A terribly disturbing video that would surely destroy Shackleton, if it got out. Thornton wanted no part of a sordid exposé, and believing the Council would concur, made the mistake of informing them.

  Instead, they saw the tape as a godsend, demanding Thornton take it public. He’d refused, and locked the tape away in his desk where it remained to this day, smoldering like a radioactive ingot.

  Durban pressed, “The time has come. The Council wants action, and we want it now.”

  “The Council knows my position. The tape’s off the table.”

  “And what will it take for you to put it on the table? Our foray into politics was your idea. You swore we’d never be up against this wall. Well, here we are.”

  “Have faith,” Thornton replied. “God didn’t lead us this far to abandon us.”

  “I have faith. Faith that the Lord helps those who help themselves. God gave you that tape for a purpose. If you haven’t the faith to use it, you’ll have to answer to the Council yourself.”

  That gave Thornton pause. There hadn’t been a meeting of the full Council in years. Stressful, unpredictable affairs bristling with hubris, hidden alliances and agendas that could easily derail his plans. To date he’d held the Coalition on task with patience and diplomacy, and without compromising his principles. Last time he’d given in to temptation, long ago, it cost him his family. But he could see in Durban’s eyes, the Council wouldn’t accept a refusal in absentia.

  If Thornton had any hope to defuse the situation, he’d have to plead his case in person.

  Chapter 9

  Saturday, October 11, 2:01 pm, Queens

  Whatever was haunting Scotty’s apartment, it seemed to have granted him a reprieve.

  Last night he’d limped home from work to find everything quiet and undisturbed, including the cat. No strange smells or objects, and as Homer reported, no bizarre noises.

  Today the same. And it being Saturday, Scotty was home to appreciate it. Not that the calm lulled him into thinking his ordeal over, he was simply grateful for the breather. And once the clock safely passed 2:00 PM, he left for a nearby hardware store, picked up a new latch for the bedroom door, and returned home to fix it.

  Finished, he and Homer headed to his computer and jumped online, logging into the extraordinary videogame he’d been obsessed with since a boy.

  R U God. Short for Alternate Reality Earth, Universe, God. The most popular, enduring simulation game of all time, if past its heyday. Not for Scotty. He held the world record for continuous successful play. It was his only claim to fame, though he reaped no personal glory, playing under a pseudonym. The game was single-player, and each RUGrat, as enthusiasts were known, was given an entire planet to manage. Their own, simulated, working-equivalent of contemporary Earth. Scotty called his, Scottworld.

  Players presided over their worlds as God, ruling their populaces as they coped with disease, weather, war, terrorism, and other trials and crises. Like God, players were omnipotent, able to step in and perform miracle
s, rain manna, smite evil.

  But unlike God, they lacked omniscience. No way to know how the wonders they worked might unfold.

  And as everyone soon learned, divine intervention was a tricky blessing to apply. No players proved able to sustain their worlds indefinitely. None but Scotty. Of the thousands of R U God planets conjured into pseudo existence over the years, his was the longest surviving. Scottworld had been thriving since he launched it a decade and a half ago. He was a legend among gamers, his anonymity adding to his cachet. Unfortunately, there was no money to be made from playing. Scotty didn’t even benefit from bragging rights, performing under the alias Infinitiman.

  No matter, he was in it for his love of the game. Homer hopped into his lap, and leaving their problems behind, they escaped once more into the virtual realm. Scotty was a bit anxious about what they’d find today. Seldom had he neglected his planet so long, used to addressing issues before things could spiral out of control. But with all the distractions lately…

  He moved his cursor to the game’s icon, a disembodied eye enclosed within a triangle—like the Great Seal of the United States. Clicking, he brought up a familiar blue-and-white-marbled globe that filled the screen, and suddenly he and Homer were plummeting into its atmosphere, swooping over the northwestern hemisphere to the East Coast and New York City, their customary starting point. A gleaming, bustling city far removed from their tawdry reality.

  First stop, One Times Square. Scotty liked to check the electronic ticker that tracked across its façade, a great source of breaking news and updates on hotspots and flashpoints around the planet. He hovered invisibly out front, noting a situation that required attention:

  Rhomboids staging protest in Paris.

  Homer flitted his tail. Bullheaded bastards are at it again.

  Yes. Trouble had been brewing on the Continent for some time. Established populations were clashing with immigrant ethnics, and Scotty had been working to quell it. The Rhomboïdes, as they were known in what used to be France, were the worst agitators. A faction of mostly young, white, Euro-nationalists spoiling for a race war. Scotty had smacked their noses before, obviously not hard enough.

  The ticker said demonstrators were gathered on a hill above Paris, preparing to march on the city. Armed police awaited, and if recent events were any indication, it would not be peaceful.

  “We’ll see about that,” Scotty said. Exchanging nods with Homer, he punched controls and zoomed back into the stratosphere, speeding across the Atlantic. In seconds he was over the outskirts of Paris above a hill topped by a large, white-stone, multi-domed church. The Basilique du Sacré Coeur de Montmartre. A crowd had assembled below the cathedral on a sloping lawn. Young adults mostly, sporting the battle badge of the Rhomboids—maroon armbands with a yellow rhombus in the center. They shouted and waved placards espousing their peeves, in French. Scotty didn’t speak the language, but he’d seen it all before.

  The lawn sloped up to a stone wall topped by a terrace, the church towering behind. The Rhomboids had commandeered a flagpole on the terrace to fly their banner. In front of it stood ringleaders with bullhorns, exhorting the mob to their cause: the deportation of non-Europeans.

  Scotty sighed. He attributed the longevity of his planet to squelching extremist ideologies. Political, religious, social, Right/Left, he made no distinction. An equal-opportunity mole-whacker. But having taken his eye off things, he’d let the threat escalate. He could see bottles of liquid in some hands, rags stuffed in the tops.

  “What did we use on them last time?” he asked Homer.

  Earthquake.

  “Right. We shook ‘em up. Let’s try something flashier.”

  Scotty controlled R U God from a dashboard at the bottom of his screen—levers, dials and buttons arranged in an Art Deco-like design. Manipulating dials, Scotty aimed his cursor at the flagpole on the hill, targeting its tip. And giving Homer a wink, he punched a button. Instantly a lightning bolt burst from a clear sky, blasting the flag to oblivion as thunder rocked the hillside and people screamed and cowered. Before they knew what hit them, Scotty sent a storm front sweeping in, unleashing a torrent, everyone scrambling for cover.

  Homer purred, That put the fear of God in ‘em.

  Scotty hoped so. Maybe this time it would stick. Of course, he could have made his point clearer by parting the clouds and declaring his displeasure in a thunderous voice. But that wasn’t his style. He liked to keep his godhead down, careful to mask his meddling behind natural phenomena. To reveal your divinity was a mistake other RUGrats made, taking the game at face value, Are You God? It was a dare few players could resist, using their powers to impose personal worldviews, politics, and theologies on their subjects, lording over them, basking in the adulation.

  Until, ultimately, their worlds self-destructed.

  It had occurred to Scotty early on that given the real world was failing so badly under God’s Hand, how could a mere mortal do better? So, he didn’t try. His success wasn’t due to planning or forethought, but to a strategy he’d simply stumbled upon when first he discovered the game.

  He was a boy at the time, fleeing the loss of his mother, bitter over a senseless death he was helpless to prevent. He’d concluded that the God who took her so cruelly was no God for him, and he’d bowed out of his religion. Not that he stopped believing in God, Scotty just didn’t like Him. And he did then what he did now when overwhelmed. He fled to Scottworld, where he could vent his angst on the types of institutions and attitudes that had cost Mom her life.

  Homer pawed at the screen. Not everybody got the message.

  One Rhomboid leader staggered to his feet with a bullhorn, defying the storm to re-rally his troops. Scotty grunted and maneuvered his gunsight round to the back side of the terrace. Dialing down the amperage, he directed his cursor at the seat of the man’s pants, punched a key, and sent another bolt zapping. The man leaped in the air, cried out, and scampered off, holding his ass.

  Scotty and Homer howled with glee.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday, October 12, 12:15 pm, Queens

  The third day in a row with no strange disturbances in the apartment. Not a peep.

  Scotty lay on the couch with Homer watching the noon news, hoping against hope their torment was finally over. He saw nothing new going on in the world today. Recession, unemployment, crime—all on the rise. As he grabbed the remote to change channels, his apartment door-buzzer went off, startling him. Visitors here were a rare occasion.

  Homer yawned. Bill collector?

  Scotty limped to the intercom and pushed a button. “Yes?”

  “Hey, Snotty, let me in.”

  He couldn’t believe his ears. Hitting “Enter,” he rushed out into the hall to hear the front door creak open, and footsteps skip up the stairs. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Months since he’d seen Ivy. Blonde hair short and sassy now. Skimpy skirt—bet she caught hell from Pop over that. And as she rounded the stairs in makeup Pop would also despise, Scotty’s heart faltered.

  Mom.

  Ivy leaped into his arms like when she was little, squealing, wrapping him tight. Christ! Breasts. She was nearly as tall as him, too—Pop’s genes, the ones that had skipped Scotty.

  Down the hall, a door opened and Scotty’s new neighbor, K. Kraft, slipped out, looking chic in a burgundy pantsuit and beret. She glanced over, did a double-take, and Scotty felt his face redden. This wasn’t the introduction he’d had in mind.

  Still clinging, Ivy turned and waved, and the woman raised a quick hand before gliding down the stairs, front door shrieking.

  “Well-well-well,” Ivy murmured. “Who’s the sophisto?”

  “New tenant. Haven’t met her yet.”

  Setting his sister down, he flexed his ankle. Ivy was the image of Mom. Same impish grin, wry and dimpled—braces-free now. He waved her inside.

  It surprised Ivy how large Scotty’s apartment was. Neater than expected, too. He was such a slob at home, Pop always on his case.r />
  “Can’t stay,” she said, shedding her jacket. He hooked it on a rack by the door, and she noted an odd object hanging next to it. “What the heck is that?”

  “A, uh, a shepherd’s crook. Gift from…someone.”

  “And this?” She pointed to a leash on another rung.

  “You’ll see.”

  He led her toward the couch, hobbling, and she cried, “Jeez, what’d you do to yourself?”

  “Slipped and fell. It’s nothing.”

  Curled in a corner of the couch was a big red tomcat, and Ivy let out an ooh, gathering him in her arms. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “Where’d you get him?” she cried, plopping down. She’d always wanted a pet.

  Scotty joined her, smiling. “Found him here the day I moved in. Must have gotten inside when I left the door open. I asked around, and no one claimed him. I call him Homer.”

  “Hey Homer,” Ivy cooed, rubbing his round belly. He stretched and purred. “Don’t tell me you walk him on that leash like a dog?”

  “He’s smarter than he looks. More dog than cat.”

  Ivy could have sworn Homer gave Scotty a scowl, and laughed.

  Scotty said, “He not only heels, he fetches.” Digging around in the corner of the couch, he produced a fur-covered plastic mouse, warning, “Watch the claws.”

  Displaying it to Homer, Scotty called, “Here, boy—mousie.”

  Instantly the cat was engaged, ears back, fixated. Scotty fired the toy across the room and Homer shot off, trotting back seconds later, spitting the mouse into Scotty’s hand.

  Ivy hooted, and Scotty said, “Pop doesn’t know you’re here?”

  “Thinks I’m at Mass.” Pop always made her go, while he didn’t.

  “So how’s he getting on?”

  “Same. Spends his days with Jim Beam and Hawk News, cussing the world. But I do my chores, keep my grades up, and we get on.”

  Hawk News. Ivy had watched in despair over the years as the right-wing news network sunk its talons ever deeper into Pop.