Cynthia was bewildered. She had never bargained for anything like this. Could she safely go so public? She had to talk to her control, but it seemed as if she was not going to be given the chance. "I don't know what to say."

"Don't screw up. Cooperate with the PR people even if they are a bunch of fags and, above all, don't let it go to your head. We're not making you into a movie star. It's just another facet of law enforcement."

As Lumet finished her speech, another CA stuck her head around the door.

"Lefthand Path just claimed the killings."

Lumet looked up sharply. "Are you sure?"

"Anderson just took the call."

When the other woman was gone, Lumet glanced at Cynthia. "You didn't hear that, right?"

"Right."

"It'll be all over the building soon enough, but I don't want it coming from here first."

"I understand."

"So go to the thirty-fifth floor and report to Longstreet."

"Yes, ma'am."

Anslinger

Maud Anslinger turned off the TV. She could not watch any longer. Satan seemed so close. All but one of the local channels had preempted their regular programming to run live coverage of the terrible murders on First Avenue. Channel 9 was still showing Treasure in Heaven, but she couldn't watch a soap when the presence of Evil was all around. She turned on the Jesus Wave and knelt beside the bed. The lights warmed to a comforting glow, and she clasped her hands.

"Sweet Lord Jesus, please do not forsake us in this time of our testing."

She really felt that God was testing her – her and all the good Christian people in the country. That was the only explanation for all the awful things that were happening. Looking into the lights of the Jesus Wave made her feel a little better, but even with its soothing hypnotic pulse she could not shake the feeling that the storm clouds were gathering all around. It was just as President Faithful had told them last week on Fireside Sunday Night, "Let us pray for America in what may prove to be our finest hour. Dear Jesus, we are a country under siege. A beleaguered enclave of decency in a dark world of pain and iniquity. To the north, we are menaced by the Godless Red Canadians and the Evil Empire of their Soviet slave masters. At the same time, beyond our southern defenses, the brown hordes from the jungles of South America are massing to descend on our pastures like a plague of locusts. Dear Jesus, bless this Fortress America, dedicated in thy name, and strengthen us lest we despair. Let us not forget that thy banner, though torn, is still flying. Make us strong, sweet Jesus. Make us strong."

The text of the prayer had been published in the Post on Monday morning. Maude had cut it out and taped it to the mirror, beside the postcard that her sister Eva had sent her from Holy-world.

Theodore the cat was watching her balefully. She had gone to the store early, but for the second day running there had been no milk delivery. There had been no chicken bits in a week. The cat had been forced to settle for the new generic Petfood with the white label on the can and the funny smell.

Suddenly there were tears running down her face. God had to be testing her.

"Make us strong, sweet Jesus. Make us strong."

Carlisle

Harry Carlisle put on his sunglasses and climbed the steps to the front door of the brownstone. It was a house without a face, the windows having all been replaced by steel sheets. There was a watch camera mounted over the door but, surprisingly, it did not swivel to look at him as he mounted the steps. He motioned to Reeves. "Get ready for a show of force here." Reeves and Donahue braced their legs and raised their Remingtons. They were dressed for The Untouchables in long overcoats and fedoras. Behind them were six of the riot squad's meanest with helmets and armor and leveled M-40s. Carlisle was very much aware that what was about to happen had a lot more to do with theater than with law enforcement. He had given himself the Eliot Ness role. He could not help grinning as he extended an assertive, black-gloved finger to the old-fashioned, polished brass bellpush and pressed. There were a lot of paybacks about to be exacted. In his other hand he clutched a lovingly maintained, long-barreled.375 Magnum that he brought out only on special occasions. After the first ring, nothing happened.

Reeves glanced at Carlisle. "Kick it down?" Carlisle looked up at the black front door with its discreet gold lettering. 555 East Fifteenth Street. He shook his head. "They're probably a little confused in there right now." He pressed the bell again, leaning on it. After about twenty seconds, the door was opened by a junior deacon. He was wearing his dress grays, but his tunic was unbuttoned and his T-shirt was hanging out of his pants. He looked bleary and hung over. "What the hell do you want?"

Carlisle had to give him full marks for blind pig arrogance.

"T7 taskforce. We're here to ask a few questions before the whitewash gets spread too thick."

"Are you crazy?"

Carlisle smiled. "Maybe, but at least I've got my pants buttoned."

"You can't come in here."

"You ready to buck a Suspicion of Terrorism warrant?"

"Where did you get that from?"

"Judge Sawyer signed it just a half hour ago."

"That old fool?"

"A judge is a judge is a judge."

"Forget it."

"We're coming in."

Carlisle moved quickly forward. The others were right behind him. The junior deacon took a fraction of second to realize that an attempt to block Carlisle would be an unwise course. Instead, he turned on his heel and hurried into the building, yelling at the top of his voice.

"It's the PD! The idiots think that they can come in here on an S of T!"

The decor was classic whorehouse, burgundy velvet and dark crystal. Even though Carlisle and his men stormed in like heroes, there was no way to resist a moment of awe. Goddamn deacons really took care of themselves. The main parlor was an impressive, high-ceilinged space with the inevitable staircase running up one wall. A half-dozen, half-dressed deacons had already gathered there. They looked shocked and not a little anxious. They were obviously meeting in response to the news that three of their more notorious co-workers had walked out of the pleasure dome to the in a hail of heatseekers. Seven or eight girls in lingerie or less sat on the couches looking thoroughly frightened. Carlisle went straight for the high ground.

"Nobody move! Don't breathe! Don't even think! This is the real thing, and you are all in a lot of trouble."

Five deacons instinctively froze. The sixth started forward, working up to bluster. But one of the riot squad was right there, and the flashguard of an M-40 was jammed under his chin.

"The lieutenant said freeze, blowhard."

Carlisle raised his tracy to his mouth. "We're secured in here. Send in the investigation team."

More uniforms streamed through the open front door. One squad charged up the stairs. Others fanned out in the parlor. Detectives followed, some carrying electronic search equipment. They were the shake and scan crew. By the time they finished, there wouldn't be anything in and about the house that they wouldn't know. Another particularly hard-faced group would conduct the individual interrogations. Carlisle had picked his team with some care.

There was shouting from the head of the stairs.

"What's the meaning of this? The whole bunch of you are going to end up in a camp!"

A red-faced senior deacon dressed only in longjohns was struggling with the uniforms at the head of the stairs. Carlisle knew him by sight: Booth, a big deal in the midtown CCC. Carlisle, waiting at the foot of the stairs, signaled that Booth should be allowed through.