Chapter 1

“Polish that one a bit more, MRS. Tijeras,” I said with just the proper amount of emphasis. She had moved on from Winona’s charm bracelet and begun applying her rag and silver polish to Elizabeth’s anklet chain, and stopped now, staring at me for a moment with mouth slightly agape.

She had advertised herself (in both the first and second interviews) as a single mother. I hadn’t asked about this, but neither had I stopped her when she volunteered the information. She obviously didn’t know it was against the employment laws of this state to ask about this.

But more significantly, without a further word, I had just let her know that I had checked up on her, in ways she hadn’t been aware of--perhaps even before the second round of interviews.

I DID take it seriously, this business of interviewing for the position of housekeeper. And illegal aliens made the best kind--once you let ‘em know that you had ‘em by the short hairs, they weren’t gonna say squat to ANYBODY, about ANYTHING.

“Mr. Cinccone, please don’t tell nobody about my husband. Ector is trying to get work. We want to both here…both BE here when Martin is born. If Ector gets found out, they deport him right away, because once…when he young and stupid…he try to…to…”

“To smuggle six lots of home-made methamphetamine pills across the border from Tijuana, yes, I know,” I finished for her. “There’s damn little goes on in this world I don’t know, young lady. “ I tarried in front of the wet bar and looked at myself in the mirror. A handsome reflection looked back--a fine, strong nose, slightly-high forehead, strong chin, well-cultivated goatee and moustache, piercing dark eyes, fine, slightly-dark complexion…atop a tall, slender physique, clad in an elegant Armani suit, gold cufflinks and Rolex watch…behind me, I saw Mrs. Tijeras returning to the polishing of Winona’s bracelet with a vengeance, trying to put all the worry out of her mind that now shone so clearly on her furrowed brow…

“For you see”--I continued to soliloquize to this lady of limited expertise in English--“I am a man of God. My flock needs care as it wends its otherwise aimless way through this life. I am the man to give that care. I certainly don’t mind. But it takes vigilance, planning ahead, a proactive curiosity about all kinds of matters. That is why I have the largest non-denominational congregation in this part of the state. That is why my congregants come from all backgrounds, all classes, all ETHNICITIES…”

She knew THAT word. It showed through, along with great nervousness, on her face. She was envisioning my eyes watching her EVERYWHERE. That was good.

She stopped now, and looked around for something. “I see you’ve started on Gloria’s soapdish, “ I said as I went back to my desk now. “Your can of Brasso is here, where it SHOULDN’T be.” I was pointing at it. She was retrieving it, guiltily.

I retrieved my cell-phone and pocketed it in its belt-holster. I got my appointment book, glanced at it, and tucked it into my inner suit-coat pocket. On my way out, I said, “Remember all the rules I’ve gone over with you, Mrs. Tijeras. I wouldn’t like to have to go over them again. Wasted time, don’t y’ know?” I said this with a smile, and saw she had missed the humor. “Lighten up just a little, Mrs. Tijeras. You don’t seem happy in your work. Happy servants make good servants, don’t y’ know?”

She moved heaven and earth, and squeezed out a smile, a very brittle one. The pathos of it all made ME smile--for real. Ah, the travails of little people! A thousand little epics played out on the world’s stage every day, and most of them closed opening night, in the grand scheme of things!


Chapter 2

At the office, I plied my OTHER trade--Cinccone Transformational Techniques. The clients were members of an accounting firm who were having overall morale and productivity problems, and were all assembled in the seminar room, a former secretary-pool space.

“Good morning, Baxter&Baxter Accounting!” General laughter greeted this. “I’m Burt Cinccone. What we will do today is try to get everybody into better focus and a better productive mode through increasing body-mind awareness. There’s various ways to do this--through conscious articulation of the problem, presentation of the problem in a safe, non-judgmental environment, through relaxation techniques based on reiki, through creative visualizations. We’ll spend some time doing all these things…but first, let’s all get acquainted. You all got your nameplate-badges, I see. Let’s start at the left end there, and each person stand up, introduce yourself, and say a bit about yourself. This is all about YOU, don’t y’ know!”

The introductions went off with humor and wit, or what passed for it among people of that…type. Sixteen men, eight women. My mind catalogued the female names automatically. Misty Shuffield, Dana MacFarlane, Cheri Dawkins, Linda Williams, Diane Gunther, Griselda Vodel, Tarisha Manley, Regina Chloey.

Afterwards, I had everybody take some old copies of my ministry’s monthly magazine and used a technique for problem articulation that both guaranteed anonymity AND used up a significant chunk of time.

They were all to state the problem in a sentence or two, in their own minds, then cut letters from the pages of the magazines and paste them onto an eight-and-one-half by eleven piece of poster-board. After completion of these “statements,” I would take them all up, shuffle them together, and split the class into five or six groups. Each group would get a “statement,” and round-table it, with a written summation of their thoughts put on paper by the “secretary” person each group would appoint for itself. The summations would be presented by each group to the class as a whole, and overall discussion ensued, with some added commentary by me, of course.

By the time we finished this, it was nearly lunch-time. Thank…somebody!

The afternoon part of these things were always much more rewarding…for me, at least. First up on the afternoon’s agenda was the reiki session.

You see, the reiki-massage thing was done with the help of some assistants I hired from the junior college (through their intern program). I have female assistants to perform this on female students, of course, and male assistants for the rest.

And the rooms in which this is performed were all in a line on one side of the hall from the seminar room (having once been examination rooms in this building, a former doctor’s office) and adjoin one another through internal doorways from which I had removed the doors, and substituted curtains on both sides.

Part of the reiki format is for silence during the massage part, as we explained to the class ahead of time. So, it was a simple matter for me to switch with my female assistants as NEEDED, with no one the wiser.

The female students would REMEMBER my session, even though they never knew I was in there. I not infrequently got contacted by them later. A significant chunk of my congregation had found their way to my flock in this manner.

Of course, this was all done with everyone fully-clothed, all on the up-and-up, you understand. Nothing illicit, nothing “pinpointable.”

The visualization-meditation session was done with the seminar room’s lights off. This was where my artistic side really came out. I interspersed Hindu- and Buddhist-flavored imagery with my motivational speaking, the kind of New-Agey thing that corporate culture compulsively gobbles up these days.

Afternoon break-time would come next, and people usually used this time to get phone numbers and addresses for my church and its services’ schedule.

Subsequently, evaluation forms (with spaces for comments) would be filled out, and literature for both the class and my church would be passed out to those interested (unofficially, of course). Certificates of achievement would be handed out to the participants, and a quick check made to ensure all had signed the class roll at the beginning of both morning and afternoon sessions.

And that would be it for that day.

After that, since it was Wednesday, I spent some time going over notes for my sermon that night.


Chapter 3

At the compound of Fellowship’s Light Ministries, I kicked things off with my standard opening gambit. Sitting on my brocade-covered throne atop the carpeted dais, in front of the altar, with the choir’s two sections of transverse pews on either side of the dais‘s foot, I hastened to clarify the meaning of the word “light” used in the church’s name.

“Many of our guests and some of our new members may not be aware of why we call this church Fellowship’s LIGHT Ministries. It might almost sound like we’re calling it ‘Lite,’ like Coors Lite or Bud Lite, which are called ‘lite’ because they’re lower in alcohol, and thus more drinkable, and less demanding on the drinker.” The choir laughed, and the rest took their cue from them.

I stepped out from behind the speaker’s podium and carried the portable mic with me. “No, it is rather in reference to the spiritual light that emanates from fellowship with others in this pursuit of purpose and wisdom in life, the pursuit in which we all--hopefully--are engaged. That’s at least PART of the whole point of life, isn’t it?

“The light that comes from the inner self comes together in fellowship, and is more than the sum of its parts--it is more than the sum of all the ’brightnesses’ of the individual lights. It is the light that grows brighter in the sharing.

“And what better life lesson could we impart to the little ones among us than this sharing of light? That’s where it’s at. That’s where the future lies. THAT’S the other part of the whole point of life, ISN’T IT?” I cupped my hand to my ear, and gazed side-long, attentively at them, like the proverbial drill sergeant. They didn’t disappoint me.

“YESSSSSSSSS!”

We were off to a quick take-off tonight. I gestured at the plaque on the wall with the hymn numbers. “Everyone, please stand and join me in singing hymn number 389, “Majestic Thunder,” page 309 in your hymnal.” Maury Kilgore, the keyboard player who worked this as one of his weekday gigs, launched into it with gusto.

A couple more high-energy hymns, standing up, and I judged them softened up and ready for the collection plate. The acolytes delivered them and collected them, making their rounds from front to back. It went off smoothly, and looked like a big take.

The sermon was a sad one, about the recent death of one of our missionaries, Giorgio Bellisari, who had died in Venezuela at the hands of militants, ones with whom I drew a spurious connection to a certain Democratic politician in this country, and thus implicitly blamed him for it. That got them angry, on top of being already sad.

The communion grape juice was on the cheap side, but nobody seemed to notice. It was a touching ceremony, and made a good centerpiece to the service. It was effective, too--I knew for a fact we had peeled off some Catholics from the one local papist institution in recent months.

A couple more hymns, and a benediction, and that wound it up. They seemed wrung out but happy.

A massively good Wednesday night for Fellowship’s Light Ministries!

And I didn’t know the half of it yet. Diane Gunther, who had appeared at the motivational seminar earlier that day, caught my arm before I went to the rectory, armed with an extensive list of questions concerning both the seminar and the church. And SHE proposed discussing them over dinner!

Man, I was on a roll TONIGHT! Before she left to head for the restaurant, I noticed the lovely turquoise-tortoise shell ring she had on. Hmmm…might make a lovely addition to the collection. I’d have to be careful, though. I have found from bitter experience that bilious body fluids tend to bleach out turquoise, should the collection process prove messy…


Chapter 4

At the restaurant (a little Italian bistro), we ordered cannelloni for two, breadsticks, and a bottle of good Vingte-Rossi vintage. She led off the conversation after a few bites of pasta and a sip or two of wine.

“So, what kinds of things do they do at your church?”

The crude bluntness of the question, its insipid open-endedness, surprised me. I took my time getting around a mouthful of cannelloni, and washing it down with a good swallow of wine before I answered.

“Well, that’s a bit of a broad question. Depends on who ’they’ are. If you mean myself and the rest of the ministerial staff, we have a variety of functions, as any church’s ministry does. Sunday and Wednesday services. Seminars on prayer and meditational techniques. Pastoral counseling. Sponsoring and hosting the youth group, certain self-help groups, and a young adult singles group. Organizing and funding retreats for both ministers and congregation members. Organizing and hosting charity drives. Revival events--and not just in the summer.

“We also serve as a resource for directing people to various social agencies that can help with indigence, medical care, counseling, referral to drug and alcohol-treatment programs, foster parenting---just to name a few.

“We sponsor political awareness events and informational presentations, frequently giving forums to groups who would have a hard time being heard otherwise. Our Palestinian human rights event last year and this year’s global-warming awareness week seminars were pretty massive successes, if I do say so myself.”

I watched Dianne closely as I reeled off my standard spiel. A certain fixity of gaze and her non-stop intake of food and drink told me she wasn’t really listening, that she was just enduring my litany of accomplishments and activities. Once, while I gazed through my fingers while pretending to push my glasses up higher on the bridge of my nose, I caught her rolling her eyes.

Why, the brazen effrontery of this hussy! How dare she! I decided to put the ball in her court.

“May I ask what, if any, church you attend? Maybe some of your own activities have their counterparts in certain of our own activities?”

This drew a blank stare for a moment. Maybe this young lady couldn’t handle her wine too well? That could be useful…

She hiccupped then, and finally answered me. “Sorry. I just needed a minute to understand what you meant. You have a very…different way of speaking than our pastor, at Niedemayer Heights Baptist. You almost sound more like a college professor than a minister. He…I don’t know, he just lays on the hellfire-and-brimstone thicker, I guess. It’s a little hard to shift gears, just like that!” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

Then she continued. “Yeah, what we do there is emphasize the presence of the Holy Spirit, more.
People become possessed of the Holy Spirit during his services, and go into…into trances, an’ speak in the languages of Heaven…”

Great, I thought. A holy roller church! I knew what I had intended to do here, but something in her know-it-all, condescending manner impelled me to debate this with her, nonetheless.

“Dianne, this may come as a surprise to you, but good works aren’t low-priority in God’s scheme of things, don‘t y‘ know?. Manifestations and supernatural events have their place---as the history of the Church shows---but they aren’t what it’s All About. Church isn’t a place to go and be entertained, like going to a rock concert or an NFL game.”

I stopped a moment and considered things, surprised at my own outburst. Things hung in the balance right now, possibly…if I wanted this to be a smooth and easy and pleasant collection, I’d have to backpedal and take a different tack…

“BUT, the charismatic experience is something we don’t try to dismiss or discourage, either. In fact, our new choir director, and his wife, the youth ministry director, have had some surprising movement in that direction, without ever meaning or planning to. That last choir practice had most of the youth group pitching in, and they did get to rocking the house like nothing we’ve ever had there. You shoulda seen it! There was SOMETHING going on that simply couldn’t be explained--an invisible hand moving bodies and lifting up hearts and spirits. And I’m convinced that where hearts and spirits go, minds and means will soon find a way to follow!”

Now that sort of an endorsement should be the kind of thing to do it, if anything would.

Her expression brightened visibly at this, then softened. “Oh, yes, that’s it, you’ve got it! You’ve been there, to that place of power, that place of REAL experience. Halleleujah!” She flung her arms wide, and almost shrugged out of her clothes---or so it seemed, so sensuous were her movements.

Yes, Dianne, I thought to myself, I would bring you the Holy Spirit, and maybe a little of something Nietzschean while I was at it. I sprang for another bottle of wine. Not for my benefit, of course; alcohol has always had little if any effect on me. A most useful state of affairs, considering.

We had steered our way out of hazardous waters. The rest of the evening was light, affable, and increasingly friendly.


Chapter 5

Very messy, I thought to myself, as I dealt with the aftermath of this particular evening. Armed with Windex, paper towels and Clorox wipes, I meticulously went over my car’s interior. Organic life forms have no business existing--much better if we were all rock or steel or porcelain. And I’m ready to duck the riposte that I am an organic life form, too. Obviously, if I winked out and didn’t get to be another kind, I’d not be in a position to resent it, would I?

That’s for the benefit of all you moralizers and devil’s advocates out there.

Anyway, Dianne’s turquoise and tortoise-shell ring made an impressive addition to the trophy case. Mrs. Tijeras would be sure to ask about it, as she did all my acquisitions. Of course, I could have shut it down with a single directive about “minding your own business,” but I saw no need. The cover story flowed effortlessly into shape in my mind as I set up the display.

An old business associate unexpectedly stopped into town, and he also happened to be a fellow metal-detector enthusiast. We lucked out over by, say, the old Dinsmore junkyard site, plowed under these many years, but a mecca for a select few hobbyists--those who are friends of the owner of the property, a man whom Mrs. Tijeras would never know of. All surpassingly easy, and I need never fear being checked up on--because SHE feared SHE would be checked up on.

Ah, but this was all too safe, all too easy. There needed to be more risk, more danger, more FEAR to this whole thing. Of course, I could just come clean about everything right now, and have her call the police. That would do quite nicely in the fear department, but that would be crossing the Rubicon. No coming back from that. The game would end then. And I enjoyed the game. No, that would never do.

Something to make it dangerous, more dangerous than now, but with the odds still stacked in my favor. Something Mrs. Tijeras could find, uncover, untraceable to me, yet a thing to tell her that something was going on, something of a very perverse and unsavory and dangerous quality.

How would she get it? In her purse? In her mail? On her doormat?

In her purse. Yes, before she nipped out the door.

A body part.

Yes. It’d be fun. Deliciously.

Ooh! What if I got caught? What if it were identifiable?

Not a chance. SHE’D know something was up. But she couldn’t prove anything.

Yes, this was the proper algorithm between risk and safety. Not too much of either.

In her more garrulous moods, Mrs. Tijeras would talk about her evening routine, after getting home from a day working in my employ. Always, she started with emptying her purse, and compulsively sifting, categorizing, winnowing, and cleaning the contents thereof.

Well, Mrs. Tijeras, thank you for that information. It will prove most useful.

Tomorrow, it would make its usefulness felt.


Chapter 6

Today was the day! I was all a-quiver with the thought of tasting that savory dish called Fear. I had cancelled a class for CTT graduate assistants. It was Tuesday, so no evening services at Fellowship’s Light Ministries vied for my attention. I came home early, and entered the front door quietly, hoping to find myself alone in the kitchen with Mrs. Tijeras’s purse, where she always set it on the breakfast table.

Bingo! Through the ceiling vent in the downstairs bathroom, adjacent to the kitchen, I could hear movements from the upstairs bathroom, directly above. That’s where she was. Good. There was her purse, right where it always was. I turned and strode into the next room, the downstairs study, to unlock my desk drawer and withdraw the little box, containing the body part in question.

I opened it and visually verified it was there. It was there all right. Whooh! A bit fungusy-smelling. I hoped it wouldn’t tip her off before she got out of the house. Perhaps a bit of body-spray would grease the skids here--so to speak…

No! With the can halfway out of the drawer, I changed my mind and put it back. I took up the box and went back to the kitchen. Once again, I heard sounds in the upstairs bathroom through the air vent in the downstairs one. Open the box, pick up Mrs. Tijeras’s Surprise, as I had labeled it in my mind…put it..!

“Mr. Cinccone?”

That just about sent me out of my skin!

Lucky thing for me that I had had my back to the door between the kitchen and the TV room, through which she had come. It gave me a second to snap the box shut (with the body part still inside), pocket it in my suit-coat pocket, and turn around.

“Mrs. Tijeras! You scared me out of ten years of my life!” I managed to make it sound good-humored and conversational--I hoped!

“Are you all right, sir? You look really upset.” Her eyes flicked down to her purse. She couldn’t have missed the fact that I had been standing directly in front of it, with arms extended toward it. I thought fast.

“Yes, I’m fine. I…thought I saw a roach on the table, running right by your purse. Just saw it right out of the corner of my eye, and really distracted me. I didn’t hear you come in. I THOUGHT I heard you upstairs, in the upper bathroom, right when I walked in…”

“Oh, no, Mr. Cinccone. I finished up there an hour ago. “

I probably frowned at this. “Then what did I…”

The answer turned up in the form of Fenring, my big black neutered male cat, as he came bounding down the stairs, belying his bulk with his speed and agility.

Smiling, my housekeeper nodded in Fenring’s direction. “There’s your noisemaker, Mr. Cinccone. “

I made myself laugh, as she picked him up. “Always nosin’ around, Fenring is,” she said as she closed her eyes and nuzzled the back of his neck. His purr motor instantly went into action.

Then Mrs. Tijeras opened her eyes, and said “But you smell funny. What you been into up there?” She sniffed at him.

I caught a whiff myself from three feet away, and came closer.

OH MY GOD!

As calmly as I could, I relieved Mrs. Tijeras of the burden of Fenring. I recognized that smell. It was faint, but definite. The odor of my GHB, which I aways kept in solution in a bottle in the medicine cabinet up there. CRAP! Did he break the bottle?

I must have left the medicine cabinet open this morning! I’m such an idiot, I thought.

I put Fenring down, conveniently close to the food dish. I started upstairs.

“Where you going, Mr. Cinccone?” my housekeeper asked. “Just to the restroom,” I said casually. I was painfully aware that I normally went to the one downstairs immediately after coming home, from long habit. That couldn’t be helped, though.

Upstairs, I found that the jelly jar I used for keeping the drug in was indeed broken, having been toppled off the glass shelf in the medicine cabinet, which I had indeed left open.

That annoyed me. I could get more easily enough from Dr. Gunndafari (or just about anything I wanted, for that matter), but this was after hours, and he’d be off tomorrow. It certainly wrecked my plans for tonight.

I took some Lysol wipes, my handbroom and dust pan from under the sink and cleaned up the mess. Lucky this stuff had only a faint odor, and mostly from our abominable tap-water, at that.

After a reasonable interval, I flushed the toilet and came down and saw Mrs. Tijeras off.

“Good-night, Mrs. Tijeras.” “Good-night, Mr. Cinccone.”

As I closed the front door behind her and returned to the kitchen, I chanced to look at the table once again.

Crap. There was the body-part laying in plain view, near the edge of the dining table. I threw it into the trash, then thought better of it. I would try again, tomorrow. I fished it back out.


Chapter 7

Dawn over Holimaud, as seen from my bedroom balcony, is such a fine, beautiful thing. How fervently the unfortunate, the underlings of this world, must desire something like this. Well, it’s their own fault that they’re not here to enjoy something this.

The telephone rang. I lifted it from its cradle, hesitating a moment before I spoke.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Burt! Did you forget about our date last night?” A puckish, faux-hurt female voice at the other end.

“No, honey. I had somethin’ come up at the church--suspected vandalism. I ran over to see about it, and by the time I got done talkin’ to the police, and got home, THAT’S when I remembered about our date. By that time, it was so late, I thought it’d be better to wait till today to tell you. I’m sorry,” I finished simply.

“Well, okay, I see what you mean. How ‘bout tonight?”

“Wednesday night services, tonight. How ‘bout tomorrow? They’ve got a party with dollar champagne, tonight and tomorrow night, at the neighborhood rec center in my development. Adult residents and guests only, of course. “

“Really? How is that place?”

“Real swank. You’d love it. Tomorrow, since it’s Halloween, they’ve got an extra-special guest appearing.”

“Ooh! Sounds great! Who is he?”

“That’s a surprise. I wasn’t supposed to know, and I don’t wanna steal their thunder.”

“Okay, Burt. Just one thing, though. Is he a celebrity?”

“Yep.” “Ooh! I can hardly wait!”

“Yeah, I’m not sure myself what to expect from this guy. “


Chapter 8

That was that. Or it should have been.

Guess who turned up at Wednesday night services, that evening? Yep, my date for the following night!

She had been parked across the street from the rectory, and emerged from her Chrysler Cruiser when she saw me come outside to my own vehicle, five minutes before I was due to appear at the pulpit.

“Hello, Reverend Cinccone.” I was startled. “Hello…I hadn’t expected to see you…this early.”

“I know,” she said, a trifle embarrassed. “I just…I had to come. I talked to somebody who’s been through one of your personal spiritual teachings, you know, one of the one-on-ones. She said it was such a liberating thing, something to set her spirit free from the bondage of guilt and sin, free to soar upward with the rest when the Rapture comes. And what she had to give up was such a small price to pay, she said. So that…” It didn’t sound like something I would say. And I never gave anybody a “one-on-one” teaching--never even used the word “teaching.” It sounded too much like something a Eastern guru would say.

But even more strangely…

I barely heard the rest. “…WHAT SHE HAD TO GIVE UP“?! Who had been talking to this young lady? More important, WHO HAD SHE BEEN TALKING TO SINCE THEN?

I had to think of something, something to tell her, to shake her off the trail, her and…whoever.

“That’s fine, my dear. Enjoy the service. And I’ll pick you up tomorrow, same time we planned. Okay?”

As starstruck as any groupie, she said, “Of course, Reverend. One more day is such a little thing to give up.”

The recurring phrase was disconcerting. Before I went in, I directed her to the front entrance to the sanctuary.

After the service, I ducked out and managed to get gone before she could catch up to me again.


Chapter 9

The community center was a circular building of polished limestone, set into a sunken garden surrounded by a huge oval of manicured grass and flower beds with wisteria and morning glory, in the middle of a nice suburban neighborhood. On this Hallowe’en, the short trellises around the edges of the flower beds were festooned with posterboard ghosts and witches and black cats.

And it wasn’t far from where my companion of this evening lived. I went the site of our date first, and reserved our table. I also persuaded the waiter to pour our two glasses of champagne and set them on the table, explaining that we’d be “back in a few minutes.”

The moment his back was turned, I whipped out my fresh vial of GHB, keeping it palmed. I glanced around. I bent over slightly and began to pour it into her glass.

“FREEZE MISTER! POLICE!”

I looked up, a trifle agitated. A service revolver pointed right at me.

“Mr. Cinccone?”

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest for drug-facilitated sexual assault upon Diane Gunther, assault with a sharp object on Diane Gunther, and attempted drug-facilitated assault upon this young lady…” and here my date came in with another police officer, “…Miss Glennis Tijeras.” Tijeras? That wasn’t what she had said her name was!

Now Mrs. Tijeras, my housekeeper came in, with yet another officer, just in time to hear the officer reel off my Miranda rights. She and Glennis stood close together, and exhibited a remarkable likeness. Of course! Mother and daughter! The Miranda routine wound up quickly.

“One question, Mr. Cinccone, if you feel inclined to answer one,” the first officer asked.

“That depends,” I said. “What is it?”

“Why did you cut that bit of skin off Miss Gunther’s fingertip? Was it just a personal memento for you?”

I had to stop and think a second. Oh, yes, that! The thing I had been about to slip into Mrs. Tijeras’s purse, when I was flirting with danger. “Yes, you could say that,” I replied.

“Like all that jewelry at the house, too, right?” This was the officer who had come in last with Mrs. Tijeras.

“Yes, you could say that, too.”

The second officer, the one who had come in with Glennis, piped up now. “And we saw your collection of true crime books, about Manson, Bundy, the Green River Killer, BTK. They’d keep mementos, too. Were you contemplating a career as a serial killer next? Was this just practice?”

I cocked my most sardonic eyebrow possible at this. “Now officer, you know any profiling expert will tell you that NOBODY wakes up one day and decides to start a new career as a serial killer. It’s impossible.”

Officer number 2 grimaced thoughtfully at this, and said, “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

As he brought out a pair of handcuffs for me, I added, “Of course, we have no way of knowing if that rule applies to the ones they never caught--like the Zodiac killer.

“And he’s my favorite,” I concluded.


Chapter 1

“Polish that one a bit more, MRS. Tijeras,” I said with just the proper amount of emphasis. She had moved on from Winona’s charm bracelet and begun applying her rag and silver polish to Elizabeth’s anklet chain, and stopped now, staring at me for a moment with mouth slightly agape.

She had advertised herself (in both the first and second interviews) as a single mother. I hadn’t asked about this, but neither had I stopped her when she volunteered the information. She obviously didn’t know it was against the employment laws of this state to ask about this.

But more significantly, without a further word, I had just let her know that I had checked up on her, in ways she hadn’t been aware of--perhaps even before the second round of interviews.

I DID take it seriously, this business of interviewing for the position of housekeeper. And illegal aliens made the best kind--once you let ‘em know that you had ‘em by the short hairs, they weren’t gonna say squat to ANYBODY, about ANYTHING.

“Mr. Cinccone, please don’t tell nobody about my husband. Ector is trying to get work. We want to both here…both BE here when Martin is born. If Ector gets found out, they deport him right away, because once…when he young and stupid…he try to…to…”

“To smuggle six lots of home-made methamphetamine pills across the border from Tijuana, yes, I know,” I finished for her. “There’s damn little goes on in this world I don’t know, young lady. “ I tarried in front of the wet bar and looked at myself in the mirror. A handsome reflection looked back--a fine, strong nose, slightly-high forehead, strong chin, well-cultivated goatee and moustache, piercing dark eyes, fine, slightly-dark complexion…atop a tall, slender physique, clad in an elegant Armani suit, gold cufflinks and Rolex watch…behind me, I saw Mrs. Tijeras returning to the polishing of Winona’s bracelet with a vengeance, trying to put all the worry out of her mind that now shone so clearly on her furrowed brow…

“For you see”--I continued to soliloquize to this lady of limited expertise in English--“I am a man of God. My flock needs care as it wends its otherwise aimless way through this life. I am the man to give that care. I certainly don’t mind. But it takes vigilance, planning ahead, a proactive curiosity about all kinds of matters. That is why I have the largest non-denominational congregation in this part of the state. That is why my congregants come from all backgrounds, all classes, all ETHNICITIES…”

She knew THAT word. It showed through, along with great nervousness, on her face. She was envisioning my eyes watching her EVERYWHERE. That was good.

She stopped now, and looked around for something. “I see you’ve started on Gloria’s soapdish, “ I said as I went back to my desk now. “Your can of Brasso is here, where it SHOULDN’T be.” I was pointing at it. She was retrieving it, guiltily.

I retrieved my cell-phone and pocketed it in its belt-holster. I got my appointment book, glanced at it, and tucked it into my inner suit-coat pocket. On my way out, I said, “Remember all the rules I’ve gone over with you, Mrs. Tijeras. I wouldn’t like to have to go over them again. Wasted time, don’t y’ know?” I said this with a smile, and saw she had missed the humor. “Lighten up just a little, Mrs. Tijeras. You don’t seem happy in your work. Happy servants make good servants, don’t y’ know?”

She moved heaven and earth, and squeezed out a smile, a very brittle one. The pathos of it all made ME smile--for real. Ah, the travails of little people! A thousand little epics played out on the world’s stage every day, and most of them closed opening night, in the grand scheme of things!


Chapter 2

At the office, I plied my OTHER trade--Cinccone Transformational Techniques. The clients were members of an accounting firm who were having overall morale and productivity problems, and were all assembled in the seminar room, a former secretary-pool space.

“Good morning, Baxter&Baxter Accounting!” General laughter greeted this. “I’m Burt Cinccone. What we will do today is try to get everybody into better focus and a better productive mode through increasing body-mind awareness. There’s various ways to do this--through conscious articulation of the problem, presentation of the problem in a safe, non-judgmental environment, through relaxation techniques based on reiki, through creative visualizations. We’ll spend some time doing all these things…but first, let’s all get acquainted. You all got your nameplate-badges, I see. Let’s start at the left end there, and each person stand up, introduce yourself, and say a bit about yourself. This is all about YOU, don’t y’ know!”

The introductions went off with humor and wit, or what passed for it among people of that…type. Sixteen men, eight women. My mind catalogued the female names automatically. Misty Shuffield, Dana MacFarlane, Cheri Dawkins, Linda Williams, Diane Gunther, Griselda Vodel, Tarisha Manley, Regina Chloey.

Afterwards, I had everybody take some old copies of my ministry’s monthly magazine and used a technique for problem articulation that both guaranteed anonymity AND used up a significant chunk of time.

They were all to state the problem in a sentence or two, in their own minds, then cut letters from the pages of the magazines and paste them onto an eight-and-one-half by eleven piece of poster-board. After completion of these “statements,” I would take them all up, shuffle them together, and split the class into five or six groups. Each group would get a “statement,” and round-table it, with a written summation of their thoughts put on paper by the “secretary” person each group would appoint for itself. The summations would be presented by each group to the class as a whole, and overall discussion ensued, with some added commentary by me, of course.

By the time we finished this, it was nearly lunch-time. Thank…somebody!

The afternoon part of these things were always much more rewarding…for me, at least. First up on the afternoon’s agenda was the reiki session.

You see, the reiki-massage thing was done with the help of some assistants I hired from the junior college (through their intern program). I have female assistants to perform this on female students, of course, and male assistants for the rest.

And the rooms in which this is performed were all in a line on one side of the hall from the seminar room (having once been examination rooms in this building, a former doctor’s office) and adjoin one another through internal doorways from which I had removed the doors, and substituted curtains on both sides.

Part of the reiki format is for silence during the massage part, as we explained to the class ahead of time. So, it was a simple matter for me to switch with my female assistants as NEEDED, with no one the wiser.

The female students would REMEMBER my session, even though they never knew I was in there. I not infrequently got contacted by them later. A significant chunk of my congregation had found their way to my flock in this manner.

Of course, this was all done with everyone fully-clothed, all on the up-and-up, you understand. Nothing illicit, nothing “pinpointable.”

The visualization-meditation session was done with the seminar room’s lights off. This was where my artistic side really came out. I interspersed Hindu- and Buddhist-flavored imagery with my motivational speaking, the kind of New-Agey thing that corporate culture compulsively gobbles up these days.

Afternoon break-time would come next, and people usually used this time to get phone numbers and addresses for my church and its services’ schedule.

Subsequently, evaluation forms (with spaces for comments) would be filled out, and literature for both the class and my church would be passed out to those interested (unofficially, of course). Certificates of achievement would be handed out to the participants, and a quick check made to ensure all had signed the class roll at the beginning of both morning and afternoon sessions.

And that would be it for that day.

After that, since it was Wednesday, I spent some time going over notes for my sermon that night.


Chapter 3

At the compound of Fellowship’s Light Ministries, I kicked things off with my standard opening gambit. Sitting on my brocade-covered throne atop the carpeted dais, in front of the altar, with the choir’s two sections of transverse pews on either side of the dais‘s foot, I hastened to clarify the meaning of the word “light” used in the church’s name.

“Many of our guests and some of our new members may not be aware of why we call this church Fellowship’s LIGHT Ministries. It might almost sound like we’re calling it ‘Lite,’ like Coors Lite or Bud Lite, which are called ‘lite’ because they’re lower in alcohol, and thus more drinkable, and less demanding on the drinker.” The choir laughed, and the rest took their cue from them.

I stepped out from behind the speaker’s podium and carried the portable mic with me. “No, it is rather in reference to the spiritual light that emanates from fellowship with others in this pursuit of purpose and wisdom in life, the pursuit in which we all--hopefully--are engaged. That’s at least PART of the whole point of life, isn’t it?

“The light that comes from the inner self comes together in fellowship, and is more than the sum of its parts--it is more than the sum of all the ’brightnesses’ of the individual lights. It is the light that grows brighter in the sharing.

“And what better life lesson could we impart to the little ones among us than this sharing of light? That’s where it’s at. That’s where the future lies. THAT’S the other part of the whole point of life, ISN’T IT?” I cupped my hand to my ear, and gazed side-long, attentively at them, like the proverbial drill sergeant. They didn’t disappoint me.

“YESSSSSSSSS!”

We were off to a quick take-off tonight. I gestured at the plaque on the wall with the hymn numbers. “Everyone, please stand and join me in singing hymn number 389, “Majestic Thunder,” page 309 in your hymnal.” Maury Kilgore, the keyboard player who worked this as one of his weekday gigs, launched into it with gusto.

A couple more high-energy hymns, standing up, and I judged them softened up and ready for the collection plate. The acolytes delivered them and collected them, making their rounds from front to back. It went off smoothly, and looked like a big take.

The sermon was a sad one, about the recent death of one of our missionaries, Giorgio Bellisari, who had died in Venezuela at the hands of militants, ones with whom I drew a spurious connection to a certain Democratic politician in this country, and thus implicitly blamed him for it. That got them angry, on top of being already sad.

The communion grape juice was on the cheap side, but nobody seemed to notice. It was a touching ceremony, and made a good centerpiece to the service. It was effective, too--I knew for a fact we had peeled off some Catholics from the one local papist institution in recent months.

A couple more hymns, and a benediction, and that wound it up. They seemed wrung out but happy.

A massively good Wednesday night for Fellowship’s Light Ministries!

And I didn’t know the half of it yet. Diane Gunther, who had appeared at the motivational seminar earlier that day, caught my arm before I went to the rectory, armed with an extensive list of questions concerning both the seminar and the church. And SHE proposed discussing them over dinner!

Man, I was on a roll TONIGHT! Before she left to head for the restaurant, I noticed the lovely turquoise-tortoise shell ring she had on. Hmmm…might make a lovely addition to the collection. I’d have to be careful, though. I have found from bitter experience that bilious body fluids tend to bleach out turquoise, should the collection process prove messy…


Chapter 4

At the restaurant (a little Italian bistro), we ordered cannelloni for two, breadsticks, and a bottle of good Vingte-Rossi vintage. She led off the conversation after a few bites of pasta and a sip or two of wine.

“So, what kinds of things do they do at your church?”

The crude bluntness of the question, its insipid open-endedness, surprised me. I took my time getting around a mouthful of cannelloni, and washing it down with a good swallow of wine before I answered.

“Well, that’s a bit of a broad question. Depends on who ’they’ are. If you mean myself and the rest of the ministerial staff, we have a variety of functions, as any church’s ministry does. Sunday and Wednesday services. Seminars on prayer and meditational techniques. Pastoral counseling. Sponsoring and hosting the youth group, certain self-help groups, and a young adult singles group. Organizing and funding retreats for both ministers and congregation members. Organizing and hosting charity drives. Revival events--and not just in the summer.

“We also serve as a resource for directing people to various social agencies that can help with indigence, medical care, counseling, referral to drug and alcohol-treatment programs, foster parenting---just to name a few.

“We sponsor political awareness events and informational presentations, frequently giving forums to groups who would have a hard time being heard otherwise. Our Palestinian human rights event last year and this year’s global-warming awareness week seminars were pretty massive successes, if I do say so myself.”

I watched Dianne closely as I reeled off my standard spiel. A certain fixity of gaze and her non-stop intake of food and drink told me she wasn’t really listening, that she was just enduring my litany of accomplishments and activities. Once, while I gazed through my fingers while pretending to push my glasses up higher on the bridge of my nose, I caught her rolling her eyes.

Why, the brazen effrontery of this hussy! How dare she! I decided to put the ball in her court.

“May I ask what, if any, church you attend? Maybe some of your own activities have their counterparts in certain of our own activities?”

This drew a blank stare for a moment. Maybe this young lady couldn’t handle her wine too well? That could be useful…

She hiccupped then, and finally answered me. “Sorry. I just needed a minute to understand what you meant. You have a very…different way of speaking than our pastor, at Niedemayer Heights Baptist. You almost sound more like a college professor than a minister. He…I don’t know, he just lays on the hellfire-and-brimstone thicker, I guess. It’s a little hard to shift gears, just like that!” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

Then she continued. “Yeah, what we do there is emphasize the presence of the Holy Spirit, more.
People become possessed of the Holy Spirit during his services, and go into…into trances, an’ speak in the languages of Heaven…”

Great, I thought. A holy roller church! I knew what I had intended to do here, but something in her know-it-all, condescending manner impelled me to debate this with her, nonetheless.

“Dianne, this may come as a surprise to you, but good works aren’t low-priority in God’s scheme of things, don‘t y‘ know?. Manifestations and supernatural events have their place---as the history of the Church shows---but they aren’t what it’s All About. Church isn’t a place to go and be entertained, like going to a rock concert or an NFL game.”

I stopped a moment and considered things, surprised at my own outburst. Things hung in the balance right now, possibly…if I wanted this to be a smooth and easy and pleasant collection, I’d have to backpedal and take a different tack…

“BUT, the charismatic experience is something we don’t try to dismiss or discourage, either. In fact, our new choir director, and his wife, the youth ministry director, have had some surprising movement in that direction, without ever meaning or planning to. That last choir practice had most of the youth group pitching in, and they did get to rocking the house like nothing we’ve ever had there. You shoulda seen it! There was SOMETHING going on that simply couldn’t be explained--an invisible hand moving bodies and lifting up hearts and spirits. And I’m convinced that where hearts and spirits go, minds and means will soon find a way to follow!”

Now that sort of an endorsement should be the kind of thing to do it, if anything would.

Her expression brightened visibly at this, then softened. “Oh, yes, that’s it, you’ve got it! You’ve been there, to that place of power, that place of REAL experience. Halleleujah!” She flung her arms wide, and almost shrugged out of her clothes---or so it seemed, so sensuous were her movements.

Yes, Dianne, I thought to myself, I would bring you the Holy Spirit, and maybe a little of something Nietzschean while I was at it. I sprang for another bottle of wine. Not for my benefit, of course; alcohol has always had little if any effect on me. A most useful state of affairs, considering.

We had steered our way out of hazardous waters. The rest of the evening was light, affable, and increasingly friendly.


Chapter 5

Very messy, I thought to myself, as I dealt with the aftermath of this particular evening. Armed with Windex, paper towels and Clorox wipes, I meticulously went over my car’s interior. Organic life forms have no business existing--much better if we were all rock or steel or porcelain. And I’m ready to duck the riposte that I am an organic life form, too. Obviously, if I winked out and didn’t get to be another kind, I’d not be in a position to resent it, would I?

That’s for the benefit of all you moralizers and devil’s advocates out there.

Anyway, Dianne’s turquoise and tortoise-shell ring made an impressive addition to the trophy case. Mrs. Tijeras would be sure to ask about it, as she did all my acquisitions. Of course, I could have shut it down with a single directive about “minding your own business,” but I saw no need. The cover story flowed effortlessly into shape in my mind as I set up the display.

An old business associate unexpectedly stopped into town, and he also happened to be a fellow metal-detector enthusiast. We lucked out over by, say, the old Dinsmore junkyard site, plowed under these many years, but a mecca for a select few hobbyists--those who are friends of the owner of the property, a man whom Mrs. Tijeras would never know of. All surpassingly easy, and I need never fear being checked up on--because SHE feared SHE would be checked up on.

Ah, but this was all too safe, all too easy. There needed to be more risk, more danger, more FEAR to this whole thing. Of course, I could just come clean about everything right now, and have her call the police. That would do quite nicely in the fear department, but that would be crossing the Rubicon. No coming back from that. The game would end then. And I enjoyed the game. No, that would never do.

Something to make it dangerous, more dangerous than now, but with the odds still stacked in my favor. Something Mrs. Tijeras could find, uncover, untraceable to me, yet a thing to tell her that something was going on, something of a very perverse and unsavory and dangerous quality.

How would she get it? In her purse? In her mail? On her doormat?

In her purse. Yes, before she nipped out the door.

A body part.

Yes. It’d be fun. Deliciously.

Ooh! What if I got caught? What if it were identifiable?

Not a chance. SHE’D know something was up. But she couldn’t prove anything.

Yes, this was the proper algorithm between risk and safety. Not too much of either.

In her more garrulous moods, Mrs. Tijeras would talk about her evening routine, after getting home from a day working in my employ. Always, she started with emptying her purse, and compulsively sifting, categorizing, winnowing, and cleaning the contents thereof.

Well, Mrs. Tijeras, thank you for that information. It will prove most useful.

Tomorrow, it would make its usefulness felt.


Chapter 6

Today was the day! I was all a-quiver with the thought of tasting that savory dish called Fear. I had cancelled a class for CTT graduate assistants. It was Tuesday, so no evening services at Fellowship’s Light Ministries vied for my attention. I came home early, and entered the front door quietly, hoping to find myself alone in the kitchen with Mrs. Tijeras’s purse, where she always set it on the breakfast table.

Bingo! Through the ceiling vent in the downstairs bathroom, adjacent to the kitchen, I could hear movements from the upstairs bathroom, directly above. That’s where she was. Good. There was her purse, right where it always was. I turned and strode into the next room, the downstairs study, to unlock my desk drawer and withdraw the little box, containing the body part in question.

I opened it and visually verified it was there. It was there all right. Whooh! A bit fungusy-smelling. I hoped it wouldn’t tip her off before she got out of the house. Perhaps a bit of body-spray would grease the skids here--so to speak…

No! With the can halfway out of the drawer, I changed my mind and put it back. I took up the box and went back to the kitchen. Once again, I heard sounds in the upstairs bathroom through the air vent in the downstairs one. Open the box, pick up Mrs. Tijeras’s Surprise, as I had labeled it in my mind…put it..!

“Mr. Cinccone?”

That just about sent me out of my skin!

Lucky thing for me that I had had my back to the door between the kitchen and the TV room, through which she had come. It gave me a second to snap the box shut (with the body part still inside), pocket it in my suit-coat pocket, and turn around.

“Mrs. Tijeras! You scared me out of ten years of my life!” I managed to make it sound good-humored and conversational--I hoped!

“Are you all right, sir? You look really upset.” Her eyes flicked down to her purse. She couldn’t have missed the fact that I had been standing directly in front of it, with arms extended toward it. I thought fast.

“Yes, I’m fine. I…thought I saw a roach on the table, running right by your purse. Just saw it right out of the corner of my eye, and really distracted me. I didn’t hear you come in. I THOUGHT I heard you upstairs, in the upper bathroom, right when I walked in…”

“Oh, no, Mr. Cinccone. I finished up there an hour ago. “

I probably frowned at this. “Then what did I…”

The answer turned up in the form of Fenring, my big black neutered male cat, as he came bounding down the stairs, belying his bulk with his speed and agility.

Smiling, my housekeeper nodded in Fenring’s direction. “There’s your noisemaker, Mr. Cinccone. “

I made myself laugh, as she picked him up. “Always nosin’ around, Fenring is,” she said as she closed her eyes and nuzzled the back of his neck. His purr motor instantly went into action.

Then Mrs. Tijeras opened her eyes, and said “But you smell funny. What you been into up there?” She sniffed at him.

I caught a whiff myself from three feet away, and came closer.

OH MY GOD!

As calmly as I could, I relieved Mrs. Tijeras of the burden of Fenring. I recognized that smell. It was faint, but definite. The odor of my GHB, which I aways kept in solution in a bottle in the medicine cabinet up there. CRAP! Did he break the bottle?

I must have left the medicine cabinet open this morning! I’m such an idiot, I thought.

I put Fenring down, conveniently close to the food dish. I started upstairs.

“Where you going, Mr. Cinccone?” my housekeeper asked. “Just to the restroom,” I said casually. I was painfully aware that I normally went to the one downstairs immediately after coming home, from long habit. That couldn’t be helped, though.

Upstairs, I found that the jelly jar I used for keeping the drug in was indeed broken, having been toppled off the glass shelf in the medicine cabinet, which I had indeed left open.

That annoyed me. I could get more easily enough from Dr. Gunndafari (or just about anything I wanted, for that matter), but this was after hours, and he’d be off tomorrow. It certainly wrecked my plans for tonight.

I took some Lysol wipes, my handbroom and dust pan from under the sink and cleaned up the mess. Lucky this stuff had only a faint odor, and mostly from our abominable tap-water, at that.

After a reasonable interval, I flushed the toilet and came down and saw Mrs. Tijeras off.

“Good-night, Mrs. Tijeras.” “Good-night, Mr. Cinccone.”

As I closed the front door behind her and returned to the kitchen, I chanced to look at the table once again.

Crap. There was the body-part laying in plain view, near the edge of the dining table. I threw it into the trash, then thought better of it. I would try again, tomorrow. I fished it back out.


Chapter 7

Dawn over Holimaud, as seen from my bedroom balcony, is such a fine, beautiful thing. How fervently the unfortunate, the underlings of this world, must desire something like this. Well, it’s their own fault that they’re not here to enjoy something this.

The telephone rang. I lifted it from its cradle, hesitating a moment before I spoke.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Burt! Did you forget about our date last night?” A puckish, faux-hurt female voice at the other end.

“No, honey. I had somethin’ come up at the church--suspected vandalism. I ran over to see about it, and by the time I got done talkin’ to the police, and got home, THAT’S when I remembered about our date. By that time, it was so late, I thought it’d be better to wait till today to tell you. I’m sorry,” I finished simply.

“Well, okay, I see what you mean. How ‘bout tonight?”

“Wednesday night services, tonight. How ‘bout tomorrow? They’ve got a party with dollar champagne, tonight and tomorrow night, at the neighborhood rec center in my development. Adult residents and guests only, of course. “

“Really? How is that place?”

“Real swank. You’d love it. Tomorrow, since it’s Halloween, they’ve got an extra-special guest appearing.”

“Ooh! Sounds great! Who is he?”

“That’s a surprise. I wasn’t supposed to know, and I don’t wanna steal their thunder.”

“Okay, Burt. Just one thing, though. Is he a celebrity?”

“Yep.” “Ooh! I can hardly wait!”

“Yeah, I’m not sure myself what to expect from this guy. “


Chapter 8

That was that. Or it should have been.

Guess who turned up at Wednesday night services, that evening? Yep, my date for the following night!

She had been parked across the street from the rectory, and emerged from her Chrysler Cruiser when she saw me come outside to my own vehicle, five minutes before I was due to appear at the pulpit.

“Hello, Reverend Cinccone.” I was startled. “Hello…I hadn’t expected to see you…this early.”

“I know,” she said, a trifle embarrassed. “I just…I had to come. I talked to somebody who’s been through one of your personal spiritual teachings, you know, one of the one-on-ones. She said it was such a liberating thing, something to set her spirit free from the bondage of guilt and sin, free to soar upward with the rest when the Rapture comes. And what she had to give up was such a small price to pay, she said. So that…” It didn’t sound like something I would say. And I never gave anybody a “one-on-one” teaching--never even used the word “teaching.” It sounded too much like something a Eastern guru would say.

But even more strangely…

I barely heard the rest. “…WHAT SHE HAD TO GIVE UP“?! Who had been talking to this young lady? More important, WHO HAD SHE BEEN TALKING TO SINCE THEN?

I had to think of something, something to tell her, to shake her off the trail, her and…whoever.

“That’s fine, my dear. Enjoy the service. And I’ll pick you up tomorrow, same time we planned. Okay?”

As starstruck as any groupie, she said, “Of course, Reverend. One more day is such a little thing to give up.”

The recurring phrase was disconcerting. Before I went in, I directed her to the front entrance to the sanctuary.

After the service, I ducked out and managed to get gone before she could catch up to me again.


Chapter 9

The community center was a circular building of polished limestone, set into a sunken garden surrounded by a huge oval of manicured grass and flower beds with wisteria and morning glory, in the middle of a nice suburban neighborhood. On this Hallowe’en, the short trellises around the edges of the flower beds were festooned with posterboard ghosts and witches and black cats.

And it wasn’t far from where my companion of this evening lived. I went the site of our date first, and reserved our table. I also persuaded the waiter to pour our two glasses of champagne and set them on the table, explaining that we’d be “back in a few minutes.”

The moment his back was turned, I whipped out my fresh vial of GHB, keeping it palmed. I glanced around. I bent over slightly and began to pour it into her glass.

“FREEZE MISTER! POLICE!”

I looked up, a trifle agitated. A service revolver pointed right at me.

“Mr. Cinccone?”

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest for drug-facilitated sexual assault upon Diane Gunther, assault with a sharp object on Diane Gunther, and attempted drug-facilitated assault upon this young lady…” and here my date came in with another police officer, “…Miss Glennis Tijeras.” Tijeras? That wasn’t what she had said her name was!

Now Mrs. Tijeras, my housekeeper came in, with yet another officer, just in time to hear the officer reel off my Miranda rights. She and Glennis stood close together, and exhibited a remarkable likeness. Of course! Mother and daughter! The Miranda routine wound up quickly.

“One question, Mr. Cinccone, if you feel inclined to answer one,” the first officer asked.

“That depends,” I said. “What is it?”

“Why did you cut that bit of skin off Miss Gunther’s fingertip? Was it just a personal memento for you?”

I had to stop and think a second. Oh, yes, that! The thing I had been about to slip into Mrs. Tijeras’s purse, when I was flirting with danger. “Yes, you could say that,” I replied.

“Like all that jewelry at the house, too, right?” This was the officer who had come in last with Mrs. Tijeras.

“Yes, you could say that, too.”

The second officer, the one who had come in with Glennis, piped up now. “And we saw your collection of true crime books, about Manson, Bundy, the Green River Killer, BTK. They’d keep mementos, too. Were you contemplating a career as a serial killer next? Was this just practice?”

I cocked my most sardonic eyebrow possible at this. “Now officer, you know any profiling expert will tell you that NOBODY wakes up one day and decides to start a new career as a serial killer. It’s impossible.”

Officer number 2 grimaced thoughtfully at this, and said, “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

As he brought out a pair of handcuffs for me, I added, “Of course, we have no way of knowing if that rule applies to the ones they never caught--like the Zodiac killer.

“And he’s my favorite,” I concluded.


Chapter 1

“Polish that one a bit more, MRS. Tijeras,” I said with just the proper amount of emphasis. She had moved on from Winona’s charm bracelet and begun applying her rag and silver polish to Elizabeth’s anklet chain, and stopped now, staring at me for a moment with mouth slightly agape.

She had advertised herself (in both the first and second interviews) as a single mother. I hadn’t asked about this, but neither had I stopped her when she volunteered the information. She obviously didn’t know it was against the employment laws of this state to ask about this.

But more significantly, without a further word, I had just let her know that I had checked up on her, in ways she hadn’t been aware of--perhaps even before the second round of interviews.

I DID take it seriously, this business of interviewing for the position of housekeeper. And illegal aliens made the best kind--once you let ‘em know that you had ‘em by the short hairs, they weren’t gonna say squat to ANYBODY, about ANYTHING.

“Mr. Cinccone, please don’t tell nobody about my husband. Ector is trying to get work. We want to both here…both BE here when Martin is born. If Ector gets found out, they deport him right away, because once…when he young and stupid…he try to…to…”

“To smuggle six lots of home-made methamphetamine pills across the border from Tijuana, yes, I know,” I finished for her. “There’s damn little goes on in this world I don’t know, young lady. “ I tarried in front of the wet bar and looked at myself in the mirror. A handsome reflection looked back--a fine, strong nose, slightly-high forehead, strong chin, well-cultivated goatee and moustache, piercing dark eyes, fine, slightly-dark complexion…atop a tall, slender physique, clad in an elegant Armani suit, gold cufflinks and Rolex watch…behind me, I saw Mrs. Tijeras returning to the polishing of Winona’s bracelet with a vengeance, trying to put all the worry out of her mind that now shone so clearly on her furrowed brow…

“For you see”--I continued to soliloquize to this lady of limited expertise in English--“I am a man of God. My flock needs care as it wends its otherwise aimless way through this life. I am the man to give that care. I certainly don’t mind. But it takes vigilance, planning ahead, a proactive curiosity about all kinds of matters. That is why I have the largest non-denominational congregation in this part of the state. That is why my congregants come from all backgrounds, all classes, all ETHNICITIES…”

She knew THAT word. It showed through, along with great nervousness, on her face. She was envisioning my eyes watching her EVERYWHERE. That was good.

She stopped now, and looked around for something. “I see you’ve started on Gloria’s soapdish, “ I said as I went back to my desk now. “Your can of Brasso is here, where it SHOULDN’T be.” I was pointing at it. She was retrieving it, guiltily.

I retrieved my cell-phone and pocketed it in its belt-holster. I got my appointment book, glanced at it, and tucked it into my inner suit-coat pocket. On my way out, I said, “Remember all the rules I’ve gone over with you, Mrs. Tijeras. I wouldn’t like to have to go over them again. Wasted time, don’t y’ know?” I said this with a smile, and saw she had missed the humor. “Lighten up just a little, Mrs. Tijeras. You don’t seem happy in your work. Happy servants make good servants, don’t y’ know?”

She moved heaven and earth, and squeezed out a smile, a very brittle one. The pathos of it all made ME smile--for real. Ah, the travails of little people! A thousand little epics played out on the world’s stage every day, and most of them closed opening night, in the grand scheme of things!


Chapter 2

At the office, I plied my OTHER trade--Cinccone Transformational Techniques. The clients were members of an accounting firm who were having overall morale and productivity problems, and were all assembled in the seminar room, a former secretary-pool space.

“Good morning, Baxter&Baxter Accounting!” General laughter greeted this. “I’m Burt Cinccone. What we will do today is try to get everybody into better focus and a better productive mode through increasing body-mind awareness. There’s various ways to do this--through conscious articulation of the problem, presentation of the problem in a safe, non-judgmental environment, through relaxation techniques based on reiki, through creative visualizations. We’ll spend some time doing all these things…but first, let’s all get acquainted. You all got your nameplate-badges, I see. Let’s start at the left end there, and each person stand up, introduce yourself, and say a bit about yourself. This is all about YOU, don’t y’ know!”

The introductions went off with humor and wit, or what passed for it among people of that…type. Sixteen men, eight women. My mind catalogued the female names automatically. Misty Shuffield, Dana MacFarlane, Cheri Dawkins, Linda Williams, Diane Gunther, Griselda Vodel, Tarisha Manley, Regina Chloey.

Afterwards, I had everybody take some old copies of my ministry’s monthly magazine and used a technique for problem articulation that both guaranteed anonymity AND used up a significant chunk of time.

They were all to state the problem in a sentence or two, in their own minds, then cut letters from the pages of the magazines and paste them onto an eight-and-one-half by eleven piece of poster-board. After completion of these “statements,” I would take them all up, shuffle them together, and split the class into five or six groups. Each group would get a “statement,” and round-table it, with a written summation of their thoughts put on paper by the “secretary” person each group would appoint for itself. The summations would be presented by each group to the class as a whole, and overall discussion ensued, with some added commentary by me, of course.

By the time we finished this, it was nearly lunch-time. Thank…somebody!

The afternoon part of these things were always much more rewarding…for me, at least. First up on the afternoon’s agenda was the reiki session.

You see, the reiki-massage thing was done with the help of some assistants I hired from the junior college (through their intern program). I have female assistants to perform this on female students, of course, and male assistants for the rest.

And the rooms in which this is performed were all in a line on one side of the hall from the seminar room (having once been examination rooms in this building, a former doctor’s office) and adjoin one another through internal doorways from which I had removed the doors, and substituted curtains on both sides.

Part of the reiki format is for silence during the massage part, as we explained to the class ahead of time. So, it was a simple matter for me to switch with my female assistants as NEEDED, with no one the wiser.

The female students would REMEMBER my session, even though they never knew I was in there. I not infrequently got contacted by them later. A significant chunk of my congregation had found their way to my flock in this manner.

Of course, this was all done with everyone fully-clothed, all on the up-and-up, you understand. Nothing illicit, nothing “pinpointable.”

The visualization-meditation session was done with the seminar room’s lights off. This was where my artistic side really came out. I interspersed Hindu- and Buddhist-flavored imagery with my motivational speaking, the kind of New-Agey thing that corporate culture compulsively gobbles up these days.

Afternoon break-time would come next, and people usually used this time to get phone numbers and addresses for my church and its services’ schedule.

Subsequently, evaluation forms (with spaces for comments) would be filled out, and literature for both the class and my church would be passed out to those interested (unofficially, of course). Certificates of achievement would be handed out to the participants, and a quick check made to ensure all had signed the class roll at the beginning of both morning and afternoon sessions.

And that would be it for that day.

After that, since it was Wednesday, I spent some time going over notes for my sermon that night.


Chapter 3

At the compound of Fellowship’s Light Ministries, I kicked things off with my standard opening gambit. Sitting on my brocade-covered throne atop the carpeted dais, in front of the altar, with the choir’s two sections of transverse pews on either side of the dais‘s foot, I hastened to clarify the meaning of the word “light” used in the church’s name.

“Many of our guests and some of our new members may not be aware of why we call this church Fellowship’s LIGHT Ministries. It might almost sound like we’re calling it ‘Lite,’ like Coors Lite or Bud Lite, which are called ‘lite’ because they’re lower in alcohol, and thus more drinkable, and less demanding on the drinker.” The choir laughed, and the rest took their cue from them.

I stepped out from behind the speaker’s podium and carried the portable mic with me. “No, it is rather in reference to the spiritual light that emanates from fellowship with others in this pursuit of purpose and wisdom in life, the pursuit in which we all--hopefully--are engaged. That’s at least PART of the whole point of life, isn’t it?

“The light that comes from the inner self comes together in fellowship, and is more than the sum of its parts--it is more than the sum of all the ’brightnesses’ of the individual lights. It is the light that grows brighter in the sharing.

“And what better life lesson could we impart to the little ones among us than this sharing of light? That’s where it’s at. That’s where the future lies. THAT’S the other part of the whole point of life, ISN’T IT?” I cupped my hand to my ear, and gazed side-long, attentively at them, like the proverbial drill sergeant. They didn’t disappoint me.

“YESSSSSSSSS!”

We were off to a quick take-off tonight. I gestured at the plaque on the wall with the hymn numbers. “Everyone, please stand and join me in singing hymn number 389, “Majestic Thunder,” page 309 in your hymnal.” Maury Kilgore, the keyboard player who worked this as one of his weekday gigs, launched into it with gusto.

A couple more high-energy hymns, standing up, and I judged them softened up and ready for the collection plate. The acolytes delivered them and collected them, making their rounds from front to back. It went off smoothly, and looked like a big take.

The sermon was a sad one, about the recent death of one of our missionaries, Giorgio Bellisari, who had died in Venezuela at the hands of militants, ones with whom I drew a spurious connection to a certain Democratic politician in this country, and thus implicitly blamed him for it. That got them angry, on top of being already sad.

The communion grape juice was on the cheap side, but nobody seemed to notice. It was a touching ceremony, and made a good centerpiece to the service. It was effective, too--I knew for a fact we had peeled off some Catholics from the one local papist institution in recent months.

A couple more hymns, and a benediction, and that wound it up. They seemed wrung out but happy.

A massively good Wednesday night for Fellowship’s Light Ministries!

And I didn’t know the half of it yet. Diane Gunther, who had appeared at the motivational seminar earlier that day, caught my arm before I went to the rectory, armed with an extensive list of questions concerning both the seminar and the church. And SHE proposed discussing them over dinner!

Man, I was on a roll TONIGHT! Before she left to head for the restaurant, I noticed the lovely turquoise-tortoise shell ring she had on. Hmmm…might make a lovely addition to the collection. I’d have to be careful, though. I have found from bitter experience that bilious body fluids tend to bleach out turquoise, should the collection process prove messy…


Chapter 4

At the restaurant (a little Italian bistro), we ordered cannelloni for two, breadsticks, and a bottle of good Vingte-Rossi vintage. She led off the conversation after a few bites of pasta and a sip or two of wine.

“So, what kinds of things do they do at your church?”

The crude bluntness of the question, its insipid open-endedness, surprised me. I took my time getting around a mouthful of cannelloni, and washing it down with a good swallow of wine before I answered.

“Well, that’s a bit of a broad question. Depends on who ’they’ are. If you mean myself and the rest of the ministerial staff, we have a variety of functions, as any church’s ministry does. Sunday and Wednesday services. Seminars on prayer and meditational techniques. Pastoral counseling. Sponsoring and hosting the youth group, certain self-help groups, and a young adult singles group. Organizing and funding retreats for both ministers and congregation members. Organizing and hosting charity drives. Revival events--and not just in the summer.

“We also serve as a resource for directing people to various social agencies that can help with indigence, medical care, counseling, referral to drug and alcohol-treatment programs, foster parenting---just to name a few.

“We sponsor political awareness events and informational presentations, frequently giving forums to groups who would have a hard time being heard otherwise. Our Palestinian human rights event last year and this year’s global-warming awareness week seminars were pretty massive successes, if I do say so myself.”

I watched Dianne closely as I reeled off my standard spiel. A certain fixity of gaze and her non-stop intake of food and drink told me she wasn’t really listening, that she was just enduring my litany of accomplishments and activities. Once, while I gazed through my fingers while pretending to push my glasses up higher on the bridge of my nose, I caught her rolling her eyes.

Why, the brazen effrontery of this hussy! How dare she! I decided to put the ball in her court.

“May I ask what, if any, church you attend? Maybe some of your own activities have their counterparts in certain of our own activities?”

This drew a blank stare for a moment. Maybe this young lady couldn’t handle her wine too well? That could be useful…

She hiccupped then, and finally answered me. “Sorry. I just needed a minute to understand what you meant. You have a very…different way of speaking than our pastor, at Niedemayer Heights Baptist. You almost sound more like a college professor than a minister. He…I don’t know, he just lays on the hellfire-and-brimstone thicker, I guess. It’s a little hard to shift gears, just like that!” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

Then she continued. “Yeah, what we do there is emphasize the presence of the Holy Spirit, more.
People become possessed of the Holy Spirit during his services, and go into…into trances, an’ speak in the languages of Heaven…”

Great, I thought. A holy roller church! I knew what I had intended to do here, but something in her know-it-all, condescending manner impelled me to debate this with her, nonetheless.

“Dianne, this may come as a surprise to you, but good works aren’t low-priority in God’s scheme of things, don‘t y‘ know?. Manifestations and supernatural events have their place---as the history of the Church shows---but they aren’t what it’s All About. Church isn’t a place to go and be entertained, like going to a rock concert or an NFL game.”

I stopped a moment and considered things, surprised at my own outburst. Things hung in the balance right now, possibly…if I wanted this to be a smooth and easy and pleasant collection, I’d have to backpedal and take a different tack…

“BUT, the charismatic experience is something we don’t try to dismiss or discourage, either. In fact, our new choir director, and his wife, the youth ministry director, have had some surprising movement in that direction, without ever meaning or planning to. That last choir practice had most of the youth group pitching in, and they did get to rocking the house like nothing we’ve ever had there. You shoulda seen it! There was SOMETHING going on that simply couldn’t be explained--an invisible hand moving bodies and lifting up hearts and spirits. And I’m convinced that where hearts and spirits go, minds and means will soon find a way to follow!”

Now that sort of an endorsement should be the kind of thing to do it, if anything would.

Her expression brightened visibly at this, then softened. “Oh, yes, that’s it, you’ve got it! You’ve been there, to that place of power, that place of REAL experience. Halleleujah!” She flung her arms wide, and almost shrugged out of her clothes---or so it seemed, so sensuous were her movements.

Yes, Dianne, I thought to myself, I would bring you the Holy Spirit, and maybe a little of something Nietzschean while I was at it. I sprang for another bottle of wine. Not for my benefit, of course; alcohol has always had little if any effect on me. A most useful state of affairs, considering.

We had steered our way out of hazardous waters. The rest of the evening was light, affable, and increasingly friendly.


Chapter 5

Very messy, I thought to myself, as I dealt with the aftermath of this particular evening. Armed with Windex, paper towels and Clorox wipes, I meticulously went over my car’s interior. Organic life forms have no business existing--much better if we were all rock or steel or porcelain. And I’m ready to duck the riposte that I am an organic life form, too. Obviously, if I winked out and didn’t get to be another kind, I’d not be in a position to resent it, would I?

That’s for the benefit of all you moralizers and devil’s advocates out there.

Anyway, Dianne’s turquoise and tortoise-shell ring made an impressive addition to the trophy case. Mrs. Tijeras would be sure to ask about it, as she did all my acquisitions. Of course, I could have shut it down with a single directive about “minding your own business,” but I saw no need. The cover story flowed effortlessly into shape in my mind as I set up the display.

An old business associate unexpectedly stopped into town, and he also happened to be a fellow metal-detector enthusiast. We lucked out over by, say, the old Dinsmore junkyard site, plowed under these many years, but a mecca for a select few hobbyists--those who are friends of the owner of the property, a man whom Mrs. Tijeras would never know of. All surpassingly easy, and I need never fear being checked up on--because SHE feared SHE would be checked up on.

Ah, but this was all too safe, all too easy. There needed to be more risk, more danger, more FEAR to this whole thing. Of course, I could just come clean about everything right now, and have her call the police. That would do quite nicely in the fear department, but that would be crossing the Rubicon. No coming back from that. The game would end then. And I enjoyed the game. No, that would never do.

Something to make it dangerous, more dangerous than now, but with the odds still stacked in my favor. Something Mrs. Tijeras could find, uncover, untraceable to me, yet a thing to tell her that something was going on, something of a very perverse and unsavory and dangerous quality.

How would she get it? In her purse? In her mail? On her doormat?

In her purse. Yes, before she nipped out the door.

A body part.

Yes. It’d be fun. Deliciously.

Ooh! What if I got caught? What if it were identifiable?

Not a chance. SHE’D know something was up. But she couldn’t prove anything.

Yes, this was the proper algorithm between risk and safety. Not too much of either.

In her more garrulous moods, Mrs. Tijeras would talk about her evening routine, after getting home from a day working in my employ. Always, she started with emptying her purse, and compulsively sifting, categorizing, winnowing, and cleaning the contents thereof.

Well, Mrs. Tijeras, thank you for that information. It will prove most useful.

Tomorrow, it would make its usefulness felt.


Chapter 6

Today was the day! I was all a-quiver with the thought of tasting that savory dish called Fear. I had cancelled a class for CTT graduate assistants. It was Tuesday, so no evening services at Fellowship’s Light Ministries vied for my attention. I came home early, and entered the front door quietly, hoping to find myself alone in the kitchen with Mrs. Tijeras’s purse, where she always set it on the breakfast table.

Bingo! Through the ceiling vent in the downstairs bathroom, adjacent to the kitchen, I could hear movements from the upstairs bathroom, directly above. That’s where she was. Good. There was her purse, right where it always was. I turned and strode into the next room, the downstairs study, to unlock my desk drawer and withdraw the little box, containing the body part in question.

I opened it and visually verified it was there. It was there all right. Whooh! A bit fungusy-smelling. I hoped it wouldn’t tip her off before she got out of the house. Perhaps a bit of body-spray would grease the skids here--so to speak…

No! With the can halfway out of the drawer, I changed my mind and put it back. I took up the box and went back to the kitchen. Once again, I heard sounds in the upstairs bathroom through the air vent in the downstairs one. Open the box, pick up Mrs. Tijeras’s Surprise, as I had labeled it in my mind…put it..!

“Mr. Cinccone?”

That just about sent me out of my skin!

Lucky thing for me that I had had my back to the door between the kitchen and the TV room, through which she had come. It gave me a second to snap the box shut (with the body part still inside), pocket it in my suit-coat pocket, and turn around.

“Mrs. Tijeras! You scared me out of ten years of my life!” I managed to make it sound good-humored and conversational--I hoped!

“Are you all right, sir? You look really upset.” Her eyes flicked down to her purse. She couldn’t have missed the fact that I had been standing directly in front of it, with arms extended toward it. I thought fast.

“Yes, I’m fine. I…thought I saw a roach on the table, running right by your purse. Just saw it right out of the corner of my eye, and really distracted me. I didn’t hear you come in. I THOUGHT I heard you upstairs, in the upper bathroom, right when I walked in…”

“Oh, no, Mr. Cinccone. I finished up there an hour ago. “

I probably frowned at this. “Then what did I…”

The answer turned up in the form of Fenring, my big black neutered male cat, as he came bounding down the stairs, belying his bulk with his speed and agility.

Smiling, my housekeeper nodded in Fenring’s direction. “There’s your noisemaker, Mr. Cinccone. “

I made myself laugh, as she picked him up. “Always nosin’ around, Fenring is,” she said as she closed her eyes and nuzzled the back of his neck. His purr motor instantly went into action.

Then Mrs. Tijeras opened her eyes, and said “But you smell funny. What you been into up there?” She sniffed at him.

I caught a whiff myself from three feet away, and came closer.

OH MY GOD!

As calmly as I could, I relieved Mrs. Tijeras of the burden of Fenring. I recognized that smell. It was faint, but definite. The odor of my GHB, which I aways kept in solution in a bottle in the medicine cabinet up there. CRAP! Did he break the bottle?

I must have left the medicine cabinet open this morning! I’m such an idiot, I thought.

I put Fenring down, conveniently close to the food dish. I started upstairs.

“Where you going, Mr. Cinccone?” my housekeeper asked. “Just to the restroom,” I said casually. I was painfully aware that I normally went to the one downstairs immediately after coming home, from long habit. That couldn’t be helped, though.

Upstairs, I found that the jelly jar I used for keeping the drug in was indeed broken, having been toppled off the glass shelf in the medicine cabinet, which I had indeed left open.

That annoyed me. I could get more easily enough from Dr. Gunndafari (or just about anything I wanted, for that matter), but this was after hours, and he’d be off tomorrow. It certainly wrecked my plans for tonight.

I took some Lysol wipes, my handbroom and dust pan from under the sink and cleaned up the mess. Lucky this stuff had only a faint odor, and mostly from our abominable tap-water, at that.

After a reasonable interval, I flushed the toilet and came down and saw Mrs. Tijeras off.

“Good-night, Mrs. Tijeras.” “Good-night, Mr. Cinccone.”

As I closed the front door behind her and returned to the kitchen, I chanced to look at the table once again.

Crap. There was the body-part laying in plain view, near the edge of the dining table. I threw it into the trash, then thought better of it. I would try again, tomorrow. I fished it back out.


Chapter 7

Dawn over Holimaud, as seen from my bedroom balcony, is such a fine, beautiful thing. How fervently the unfortunate, the underlings of this world, must desire something like this. Well, it’s their own fault that they’re not here to enjoy something this.

The telephone rang. I lifted it from its cradle, hesitating a moment before I spoke.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Burt! Did you forget about our date last night?” A puckish, faux-hurt female voice at the other end.

“No, honey. I had somethin’ come up at the church--suspected vandalism. I ran over to see about it, and by the time I got done talkin’ to the police, and got home, THAT’S when I remembered about our date. By that time, it was so late, I thought it’d be better to wait till today to tell you. I’m sorry,” I finished simply.

“Well, okay, I see what you mean. How ‘bout tonight?”

“Wednesday night services, tonight. How ‘bout tomorrow? They’ve got a party with dollar champagne, tonight and tomorrow night, at the neighborhood rec center in my development. Adult residents and guests only, of course. “

“Really? How is that place?”

“Real swank. You’d love it. Tomorrow, since it’s Halloween, they’ve got an extra-special guest appearing.”

“Ooh! Sounds great! Who is he?”

“That’s a surprise. I wasn’t supposed to know, and I don’t wanna steal their thunder.”

“Okay, Burt. Just one thing, though. Is he a celebrity?”

“Yep.” “Ooh! I can hardly wait!”

“Yeah, I’m not sure myself what to expect from this guy. “


Chapter 8

That was that. Or it should have been.

Guess who turned up at Wednesday night services, that evening? Yep, my date for the following night!

She had been parked across the street from the rectory, and emerged from her Chrysler Cruiser when she saw me come outside to my own vehicle, five minutes before I was due to appear at the pulpit.

“Hello, Reverend Cinccone.” I was startled. “Hello…I hadn’t expected to see you…this early.”

“I know,” she said, a trifle embarrassed. “I just…I had to come. I talked to somebody who’s been through one of your personal spiritual teachings, you know, one of the one-on-ones. She said it was such a liberating thing, something to set her spirit free from the bondage of guilt and sin, free to soar upward with the rest when the Rapture comes. And what she had to give up was such a small price to pay, she said. So that…” It didn’t sound like something I would say. And I never gave anybody a “one-on-one” teaching--never even used the word “teaching.” It sounded too much like something a Eastern guru would say.

But even more strangely…

I barely heard the rest. “…WHAT SHE HAD TO GIVE UP“?! Who had been talking to this young lady? More important, WHO HAD SHE BEEN TALKING TO SINCE THEN?

I had to think of something, something to tell her, to shake her off the trail, her and…whoever.

“That’s fine, my dear. Enjoy the service. And I’ll pick you up tomorrow, same time we planned. Okay?”

As starstruck as any groupie, she said, “Of course, Reverend. One more day is such a little thing to give up.”

The recurring phrase was disconcerting. Before I went in, I directed her to the front entrance to the sanctuary.

After the service, I ducked out and managed to get gone before she could catch up to me again.


Chapter 9

The community center was a circular building of polished limestone, set into a sunken garden surrounded by a huge oval of manicured grass and flower beds with wisteria and morning glory, in the middle of a nice suburban neighborhood. On this Hallowe’en, the short trellises around the edges of the flower beds were festooned with posterboard ghosts and witches and black cats.

And it wasn’t far from where my companion of this evening lived. I went the site of our date first, and reserved our table. I also persuaded the waiter to pour our two glasses of champagne and set them on the table, explaining that we’d be “back in a few minutes.”

The moment his back was turned, I whipped out my fresh vial of GHB, keeping it palmed. I glanced around. I bent over slightly and began to pour it into her glass.

“FREEZE MISTER! POLICE!”

I looked up, a trifle agitated. A service revolver pointed right at me.

“Mr. Cinccone?”

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest for drug-facilitated sexual assault upon Diane Gunther, assault with a sharp object on Diane Gunther, and attempted drug-facilitated assault upon this young lady…” and here my date came in with another police officer, “…Miss Glennis Tijeras.” Tijeras? That wasn’t what she had said her name was!

Now Mrs. Tijeras, my housekeeper came in, with yet another officer, just in time to hear the officer reel off my Miranda rights. She and Glennis stood close together, and exhibited a remarkable likeness. Of course! Mother and daughter! The Miranda routine wound up quickly.

“One question, Mr. Cinccone, if you feel inclined to answer one,” the first officer asked.

“That depends,” I said. “What is it?”

“Why did you cut that bit of skin off Miss Gunther’s fingertip? Was it just a personal memento for you?”

I had to stop and think a second. Oh, yes, that! The thing I had been about to slip into Mrs. Tijeras’s purse, when I was flirting with danger. “Yes, you could say that,” I replied.

“Like all that jewelry at the house, too, right?” This was the officer who had come in last with Mrs. Tijeras.

“Yes, you could say that, too.”

The second officer, the one who had come in with Glennis, piped up now. “And we saw your collection of true crime books, about Manson, Bundy, the Green River Killer, BTK. They’d keep mementos, too. Were you contemplating a career as a serial killer next? Was this just practice?”

I cocked my most sardonic eyebrow possible at this. “Now officer, you know any profiling expert will tell you that NOBODY wakes up one day and decides to start a new career as a serial killer. It’s impossible.”

Officer number 2 grimaced thoughtfully at this, and said, “Yes, I guess you’re right.”

As he brought out a pair of handcuffs for me, I added, “Of course, we have no way of knowing if that rule applies to the ones they never caught--like the Zodiac killer.

“And he’s my favorite,” I concluded.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 02.11.2010

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