“Nasty how?” I had visions of stern mistresses in bird helmets running spanking parlours for government officials at Consumer Liberation headquarters.
“At least one death,” Alison said. “One I know of.”
“A death?” I repeated.
“Last month, in Seattle, a man named Jack Chikowsky was trampled to death by a group of about ten people, apparently in a highly charged state of sexual ecstasy. According to witnesses, the victim was a willing participant, having stripped naked and covered himself with mud before lying on the ground in front of the dancers. Police reports state that none of the group knew Chikowsky or even each other. Nor did they exactly remember what they had done.”
“Well,” I said, “at least he died happy.”
Alison said, “Jack Chikowsky was a friend of mine, Ellen. He and I lived together for a while when we were both in law school. We’d stayed friends ever since.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, looking down at the table. And then I couldn’t help myself. Taking a sip of my coffee, I said, “At least it wasn’t like he was your cousin or something.”
Alison sighed. She looked down at the table, more hurt, or maybe embarrassed, than angry.
Goddamn you, I thought. You expect me to be perfect? “I’m sorry,” I told her. “It was a cheap shot. And I’m sorry your friend died.”
“There’s more,” she said. “I’d been hearing about Timmerman for some time. I probably should tell you that I haven’t…involved myself in anything controversial for some time now. About eight years. So I was not investigating Timmerman. Not at all. And yet, some of my sources had kept contact with me. And they were telling me of incidents, primarily at Timmerman’s rallies. People’s rational consciousnesses permanently vacating their bodies. People hospitalized for sexual obsessions with inanimate objects. Marriages broken up by sexual acts later deemed intolerable. In Boston six months ago, three teenage girls left the rally, went to a nearby mall and cut up some poor man buying an anniversary present—a nightgown—for his wife.”
I leaned back. I could feel a tingling along my arms and legs. “Why has none of this got into the papers?”
“Good question. When I first heard the stories I wondered about that, but frankly, I didn’t really care. Since Jack died, I’ve been thinking about that a great deal.”
I thought, I’ll bet you have. I remembered all the days and nights I’d spent thinking of nothing but Paul, and how those snakes could have gotten to him when the SDA had promised to protect him.
Alison was saying, “I began to investigate.” She smiled. “Despite my eight-year hiatus, some habits are hard to break. I began with that question. I spoke to people from the papers, the networks. Some of the incidents they knew about, some they’d never even heard of. In each case, however, a decision was made somewhere along the line to suppress the story. Often, it seems, without any conscious connection to the previous cases. Mary Howell, at the LA Times, seemed genuinely surprised and upset when I pointed out to her that she had decided against Timmerman stories on three separate occasions. I suggested to her that she print the story now. ‘Emerging pattern, disturbing questions.’ She promised me she would think about it. Think about it? Of course, nothing has been printed.”
“Do you think she was being straight with you? Maybe the government is clamping a lid on it.”
“Of course I thought about that. But I couldn’t find any trace of government interference. And why would the government want to protect Alexander Timmerman? He certainly doesn’t represent business as usual, which is generally the government’s first priority.”
I said, “The rally today didn’t have anything like riots, or orgies.”
“No, no, it doesn’t happen every time. Still, you must have noticed the intense sexual energy among the people who were blessed.”
I nodded, closing my eyes. I leaned back and thought about all the people touching each other, touching the trees, park benches, stones, anything they could get their bodies against. Alison said, “It wasn’t like that at the beginning. I’ve looked at TV footage of the early rallies. The people who received the blessing most often just stood there and cried. At the most, they would hug each other. Somewhere it changed.”
I said, “Timmerman has Devoted Ones working for him. Could they be acting directly on the news media?”
“Possibly. And possibly it’s a combination. When I started digging deeper, I caught the scent of some sort of government involvement, just not in the manner of actual censorship.”
“There was someone else at the rally,” I said. “When the Beings were reaching out to bless the audience and everyone was hopping up and down, there was this woman at the back. Small, dressed all in black, with black hair. She didn’t join the show but there was something about her. One moment she was just there, and then a little later she was gone.”
Alison shook her head very slightly and smiled. “Her name,” she said, “is Margaret Light-at-the-end-of-the-Tunnel 23. She appeared out of the Living World in August of last year and immediately reported with the Spiritual Development Agency as a companion-protector for Alexander Timmerman.”
I was trying to remember anything else about the woman—the Benign One, I should say—when someone called my name. I looked up and two of my friends, Kathy and Sharon, were coming towards me. “Hi, gorgeous,” Sharon said in her chirpy voice, “preparing for your life of leisure again?”
“Just grabbing it wherever I can get it,” I said. Reflexively I took off my glasses, then instantly regretted it. Just in time I stopped myself from jerking them back on again.
Kathy glanced at Alison, then looked past her at me and raised a plucked eyebrow. I said, “Kathy Patterson, Sharon Cianetta, Alison Birkett.” To my surprise, I found myself wondering if I’d done that correctly, if you say the older person’s name last or first. “Alison’s an old friend,” I said, and noticed Kathy’s smirk on “old”. Extremely tall—six feet three inches—Kathy grew up embarrassed and ashamed of sticking out above all the boys, let alone the girls, until one day she got a good haircut, put on some makeup and a short skirt, and discovered she was beautiful. Now she spends half her time looking in mirrors and the other half designing software for a cosmetics company—except when she’s gossiping about her friends.
Kathy said, “Guess who we saw together on 4th Street?” She paused, then announced, “Jocelyn and Rebecca.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Does this mean they’ll stop trying to divide all their friends for restaging the Revolution?”
“It means more than that, sugar,” Kathy said. She turned to Sharon. “Do you want to tell her?”
In style, Sharon looks a little like a junior Kathy, though in fact she’s a year older, a head shorter and a size plumper. She told me, “They were standing in front of that jewellery store, you know, the one with the wedding rings, and holding hands and making noises like cute little animals.”
“My God,” I said, laughing. “The tragic breakup of the ages founders on the rock of salvation. Do you think they’ll send out announcements? Or maybe letters of apology for all the agony they’ve caused the rest of us.”
“Speaking of salvation and agony,” Kathy said, “I happened to call Joan Monteil just a few short minutes ago.”
“Oh, did you now?” I said. “And what did sweet little Joanie have to say for herself?”
“Oh, not much.” Kathy paused. “She did have quite a lot to say about you, though.”
“Really,” I said. “I may have to have a little chat myself with Ms Monteil.”