EIGHT

I followed the story of the church bombing in the Times, feeling personally invested because I’d met Dan Herron. After a week, the story dropped from the front section to the Metro section and the articles were shorter and repetitive. I took that as a sign either that there were no new developments or that the cops were keeping quiet because they were closing in on a suspect and didn’t want him to know how far the investigation had gone.

There had been two bombs. The first, planted at the entrance to the chapel, had a showier impact because of all the glass it shattered, but was less powerful than the second one, which had been planted in a doorway at the administrative building behind the chapel. The second explosion brought down a wall, killed Dan Herron, and blasted the garden where the founder of the church was buried, damaging his grave. The cops said the bombs were homemade pipe bombs set with timers. No other details were given, but I figured bombs that powerful were probably made by someone who knew what he was doing. The cops were also silent as to motive while stunned church members were at a complete loss as to why their church or leader should be the target of a bombing.

I stereotyped all evangelicals as fanatical Bible-thumping religious bigots, but Daniel Herron’s obit, published five days after the explosion, revealed a more complicated character. He wasn’t raised in a religious family but had converted in the late’60s in San Francisco during the Jesus People movement, an odd amalgam of hippie counterculture and evangelical Christianity. Afterward, while attending Bible college in LA, he had run a street mission in Skid Row that not only proselytized but also fed and clothed the destitute. He’d joined Ekklesia as its youth minister where he apparently rejuvenated the congregation by bringing in young families and had raised a lot of money that went into expanding its facilities to include a school and various charitable programs. The founder had designated Herron as his successor, and he assumed leadership when the founder died.

Unlike other evangelical leaders, he tended to stay out of politics. His message, read the obit, “was always one of uplift, hope and God’s love.” Also unlike other evangelicals, he was something of an ecumenicalist. Hester Prince said he was the only evangelical clergyman to call and congratulate her on her ordination as the first woman Episcopalian priest in Southern California. Titus Jones, a bishop in the AME church, remembered that Herron had given the invocation at Mayor Bradley’s third inauguration and had always maintained a bond with LA’s Black clergy. Nonetheless, the obit continued, he fully subscribed to the tenets of his church’s fundamentalist theology, was vocally opposed to Roe versus Wade and abortion for any reason, and favored the return of prayer in school. The biggest surprise for me came at the end of the obit, which listed his survivors: wife, two sisters, both parents. But no children, no son.

On a whim, I called Jim Mulvaney with whom I’d met with Herron when he came pleading for help for his son.

After some catching up, I asked him, “You remember Dan, the guy we met at the court cafeteria that day with the infected son.”

“Sure,” Jim said. “The mysterious stranger.”

“Did you ever hear from him again?”

Jim ruminated for a moment. “As a matter of fact I did. He called me a few weeks after we talked and asked me about getting ribavirin and Isoprinosine for his boy up in San Francisco. I gave him a name and a number.”

“That was that?”

“He was just as tightly wound over the phone as he was in the flesh.”

“I guess he wasn’t able to get his son into the AZT trial.”

“I guess not,” Jim replied. “Why are you asking about him?”

“You read about the church that was bombed on La Brea? He was the pastor there. He was killed in the explosion.”

“No shit,” he said, astounded. “Isn’t that a fundie church?”

“Yeah, apparently.”

“Wow, that’s really strange, but I guess it explains why he was so cagey with us. Really sorry to hear he was killed. Whatever else he may have been, seems like he was a good dad.”

To a son he had apparently never acknowledged, I thought, as we said our good-byes.

••••

I’d been expecting Josh for an hour and had ordered a big takeout dinner from a local Lebanese restaurant to thank him for all the meals he’d made for me when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

I heard a shaky, “Henry?”

“Josh. Are you okay?”

“I’m at the Hollywood police station,” he said. “The police are saying they’re going to arrest me.”

“Arrest you?” I said, trying to make sense of the conversation. “For what?”

“Bombing that church,” he said.

“What!”

“They’re serious, Henry. They came with a warrant and searched my apartment and dragged me down here.”

“Have you answered any questions?”

“I told them I wanted to talk to my lawyer.”

“Good boy. Sit tight. If the cops try to question you again, tell them you won’t talk until your lawyer arrives. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

I hung up, ran to my car, and sped down the hill to the police station.

••••

At the station I had a testy exchange with the beleaguered desk officer about Josh’s whereabouts and his status; the cop conceded he wasn’t under formal arrest.

“Detained,” the cop growled, “as a person of interest.”

“But not arrested.”

“That’s what I said, counsel.”

“Then he’s free to leave,” I pointed out. “I want him released. Now.”

The cop gave me a feral look, but I was used to that tactic; mad-dogging it was called on the streets when gangbangers used it to intimidate each other. I wasn’t sure if the cops got it from the gangs or the gangs got it from the cops.

“My client has invoked the right to counsel. I’m his counsel. You are preventing me from talking to him in violation of his constitutional rights. You might not care about that, Officer . . .” I glanced at his name tag “. . . Healy, but I can promise you a judge will. If he’s not under arrest, I want him released. Every moment you delay is an unlawful detention.”

The words constitutional, judge, and unlawful detention seemed finally to register.

“Wait here,” he barked and disappeared into the back.

A few minutes later he emerged with Josh and practically pushed him through the doorway into the waiting room. Josh looked disheveled and exhausted but managed a weak smile when he saw me. As soon as we were outside, though, out of eyesight of the cop at the counter, he threw himself into my arms, sobbing.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I said, holding him. “Are you okay? Did the cops do anything to you?”

He pulled away a bit. “No, not physically, but I’ve never been so scared in all my life.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “They said I helped Theo blow up the church.”

“Let’s go home. You can tell me the whole story there.”

He slumped silently in the passenger seat. I had a hundred questions, but he was still shaken by whatever had happened at the station, so I let him be. We stopped for a light on Sunset. On the left side of the street a billboard featured a diminutive, sweet-faced middle-aged woman in a house dress and frilly apron pointing a wooden spoon at a shirtless hunk. Above them were the words, “Mother says, Play safe.”

Josh glanced at it and murmured, “The police officer called me a faggot. Faggot. Queer. Pervert. Every name he could think of. He said, ‘don’t worry, punk, where you’re going, you’ll have all the dick your ass can handle.’ He pushed me against the wall and was screaming in my face. Accusing me of murder. I almost pissed myself, Henry. I thought he was going to beat me up. If you hadn’t come when you did, I would have confessed just to get him to stop.”

Fucking LAPD! There was nothing they wouldn’t do to squeeze a confession out of whatever unfortunate they’d zeroed in on as a suspect, whether or not that person had committed a crime. Sure, there were some decent cops, but they were the exception, not the so-called bad apples I heard about every time one of them got caught committing some egregious act of misconduct. The bad apples ran the goddammed place.

“That’s what they count on,” I said when I’d calmed down. The light changed and I turned toward home. “You did well.”

“Was it an act, or do the cops really hate us that much?”

“It’s both.” We drove up the hill to Larry’s house. I pulled into the garage, cut the engine. “Why do the cops think Theo blew up the church? And why do they think you helped him?”

“Let me take a shower. I need to wash the smell of that room off of me.”

••••

I put out the food though I suspected neither of us would feel like eating and made a pot of coffee. Darkness pressed against the windows and a chill slithered through the shadowy rooms. Josh came into the kitchen in a pair of my sweatpants and an old T-shirt emblazoned with the name of my law school. They hung on his smaller frame, emphasizing his fragility. He looked at the spread.

“This for me?”

“Yeah, I figured I’d feed you for once.”

He gripped me in a bear hug and muttered, “Thanks,” and I knew it wasn’t for the food. He let go, poured a cup of coffee, dumped what seemed like half a bowl of sugar into it, and sat down. Tension came off his body like steam.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He blew out a breath. “I got home from work around five, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and turned on the TV to decompress before I came over. I heard a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and it was Mike, the building manager. When I opened the door to see what he wanted, a police officer pulled me outside and slammed me against the wall. He shouted at me, asking if there was anyone else inside. I said no; then he handcuffed me and a bunch of guys in bomb suits went inside. I asked, ‘what are you doing?’ And the cop who handcuffed me said they had a search warrant.” He lifted his cup with both hands and drank.

“Did you see the warrant?”

He shook his head. “The cop marched me downstairs to the sidewalk. The street was blocked off, and there was a crowd of people at the end of the road behind a police barricade. The cop pushed me toward the crowd— I recognized my neighbor, I guess they had evacuated the building— and then into the back seat of a police car.”

He took a deep breath, picked up the coffee again, and put it down without drinking.

“Do you have any idea what they were looking for?” I asked him.

“They think Theo made bombs that blew up the church in my apartment.”

“Why?” I asked, softly.

He gripped the mug. “They said they found fragments of one of the bombs at the church with Theo’s fingerprints on it. They said they knew he was living with me. They accused me of helping him make the bombs. Is that even possible, Henry? Don’t you need special equipment to make a bomb?”

“I had a client who blew up his ex-wife’s house with a pipe bomb he made at his kitchen table,” I replied. “The ingredients are simple and easy to obtain. Batteries, wires, a section of pipe, some kind of explosive— gunpowder, fertilizer or even match heads. Once you got the ingredients, all you need is The Anarchist Cookbook to give you step by step instructions on how to put them together. Theo’s fingerprints . . .” I mused. “Could he have done it?”

“I don’t—” he began, raked his hair with his fingers. “You’ve met Theo. He’s a mess. I can’t see how he’d get it together to build a bomb.”

“Could Freddy have done it?”

“Freddy?” he said incredulously. “Freddy’s the sane one.”

 “Did you get any idea from the cops about a motive?”

He came back to the table and sat down. “They showed me pictures of the church. Someone spray-painted ‘Bash the Church’ and ‘Queer Revolt’ on the walkway outside the entrance. Bash the Church is the name of the action I was telling you about yesterday, and Queer Revolt is one of QUEER’s slogans. They asked me about QUEER. Was I a member, and who’s in charge?” He shivered. “I’m cold. Is it cold in here?”

I got up, went to the foyer, and took a sweatshirt off the coat-rack. When I returned to the kitchen, he was mechanically scooping food from the takeout boxes onto two plates.

“Put this on,” I said, handing him the sweatshirt.

He put down the serving spoon and pulled the sweatshirt over his head. He gave me a frightened look and said, “I guess I know now what Theo meant when he apologized for getting me into trouble.”

“Did you have anything to do with the bombing?”

“How could you even ask me that?”

“I have to if I’m going to represent you.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Doesn’t matter. The cops are like a dog with a bone when they get an idea in their head. Theo’s fingerprint connects the bombs to him. The fact that he was staying at your apartment connects him to you. If the search uncovers any evidence the bombs were put together at your place, that’s another connection to you. Unless they’ve found Theo and beaten a confession out of him, you’re all they’ve got.”

“Oh, my God,” he moaned. “What am I going to do?”

“You’re not going to do anything. I’ll handle this. Those connections between you and the bombing are circumstantial and weak. Plus, you were at work the night of the bombing. There’s not enough to arrest you and certainly not enough to charge you. What the cops are probably doing is putting the squeeze on you to get to Theo. Do you know where he is?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since he moved out.”

His stomach growled.

“You should eat something.”

He managed a lopsided grin. “That’s my line.” He’d filled his plate with hummus, chicken shawarma, tabbouleh, and stuffed grape leaves. “It looks good,” he said lamely, took a forkful of tabbouleh, and then put it down. “Maybe later.”

“Eat,” I said, and ate a forkful of chicken to encourage him.

He dipped a bit of pita into the hummus and ate it. He reached across the table and took my hand. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the rescuing had just begun.

••••

Jessica was embarrassed by the dust on the artificial flowers in the silver bowl on the dining-room table, but the room had seldom been used, either by her parents or by Daniel and her. Her mother had been in no condition to entertain, and she and Daniel were oddly friendless. Though he resisted it, the fact was that Daniel’s status as head of the church made him socially unapproachable to his congregants— who invited the pope to a barbecue?— and the congregation was basically all the community they had. So the big formal room with its sea-green wallpaper; tall lace-curtained row of windows; antique china cabinet stocked with a Spode service and Christofle silver for twelve; and the long rosewood table was like an empty theater set waiting for the curtains to open on a play that never began. Until today. Today, there was drama.

The police detective— McCann— squeaked against the plastic-covered chair and attempted a look of solicitude but his eyes wouldn’t cooperate; they remained hard and skeptical.

“Why was Reverend Herron at the church that night? I understand the church wasn’t in use on Thursday nights.”

Jessica glanced at the other men around her dining table— men, always men— a second detective whose name she hadn’t bothered to catch and Bob Metzger.

“Thursday nights were his counseling nights,” she said. “He chose it because he would be alone with— whoever he was counseling.”

“Do you know who he saw?”

She shook her head. “No, you see, Thursday wasn’t for regular appointments. He kept that night for congregants who had— special issues— that required some discretion. The appointments were private. He made them himself and kept them to himself.”

“So,” the detective said, “you don’t know who he was meeting that night.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” she replied, meeting his cold eyes with equal coldness.

She felt the collective disapproval of the men around the table at her tone. What did they want from her? Tears? Hysteria? She was tired of this. Her husband had been blown to bits, her father nearly dislodged from his grave. What did she feel? Shock, horror, exhaustion, remorse, and maybe the tiniest drop of relief— emotions she did not care to share with these emotionless men feigning sympathy. All she wanted was to be alone and a drink. She really needed a drink.

She managed a strangled, “Bob, can we stop?” Uncle Bob, she almost said, but knew that would be laying it on too thick.

Bob Metzger said, “I think that’s enough for today, Detective McCann. My client is obviously under considerable stress.”

My client, she thought. Since when did she need a lawyer?

“Of course,” McCann said. He and the other detective got up to go. “Mrs. Herron, I am sorry for your loss.”

She looked at him and murmured, “Thank you.”

“But,” he added, “we will have to talk again. When you’re up to it.”

Her polite nod concealed a “screw you.”

When the detectives were gone Metzger reproached her. “I realize this is difficult for you, Jessica, but we have to cooperate fully with the police to find Daniel’s killers.”

“By asking me the same questions over and over?” she replied. “My answers aren’t going to change.”

“You’re upset,” he said soothingly. “You should get some rest.”

“I do need to lie down,” she said. “But I suppose— the funeral arrangements. I have to—”

“I’ll handle them,” Metzger replied. “Closed casket, I’m afraid.”

She had a flashing, horrifying memory of the body bag into which the coroner had gathered what was left of Daniel; he’d been identified by dental records.

She thought she would be sick. “Whatever you think best. I’ll walk you out.”

“No need,” he said. “I know the way.”

He got up, arranged his face into what she imagined he thought was a sympathetic smile, and left the room. She heard his footsteps grow fainter as he walked through the other uninhabited rooms of the house. Her father had built his mansion in Baldwin Hills for its proximity to the church only later to realize he’d moved his family into what was known as the Black Beverly Hills.

When she heard the front door close, she got to her feet, smoothed her skirt, and forced herself to walk slowly into the entrance foyer and up the grand stairs to her second-floor bedroom. There she bolted the door and reached beneath the bed for the bottle. Hands shaking, she filled the water glass and took a hard, sharp swallow, then shuddered. She set the glass down as the warmth spread through her chest. She undressed, drew the curtains closed, and climbed into bed. Pray, she told herself. Pray. But for what? Dan was dead. The scandal of his secret life was averted. Her prayers had been answered.

••••

Marc Unger met me in the reception area outside his sixth-floor office in City Hall East dressed, as usual, in a beautifully tailored suit that emphasized his broad shoulders while minimizing his thickening waistline. This one was a gray, pin-striped number he wore with a starched white shirt and red and blue regimental tie, the very picture of lawyerly propriety.

“Counsel,” he said, extending his hand. “Are you lost? I think you want the criminal division on the sixteenth floor.”

“No,” I said. “I have business with you.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Well, then, let’s get to this . . . business.”

I followed him into the suite that housed the police litigation unit and into his capacious office. There were the usual framed diplomas— UCLA undergrad and law— certificates of admission to practice in various courts, including the United States Supreme Court, and photographs with dignitaries: the governor, the current and former mayor and the chief of police. Big desk, comfortable chairs, and a round conference table piled high with files, transcripts, and US Reports— the bound volumes of Supreme Court opinions. Bland and conventional but not quite believable; it was like a movie set of a lawyer’s office. Or a disguise.

There was not a hint of the lewd and funny-verging-on-campy gay man I knew. I suppose he had to save that for his off-hours, when he wasn’t defending cops in federal court in wrongful death actions. When I had once asked him how he had come to work for the cops, given who he was and who they were, he said he liked a good fight and he liked cops, and did I like the rapists and murderers I represented? The conversation ended in a draw.

“So,” he said, ensconcing himself in his chair, “Henry. Am I going to have to chase you around my desk or will you just bend over it?”

“I’m here about a case.”

He furrowed his brow. “What case? This is the civil side of the law, not the gutter where you practice.”

“I wouldn’t take the word civil too seriously. I’ve seen you at work. Civility’s not your strong suit.”

He grinned. “While I’d love to sit here all day and trade insults with a gorgeous guy, I do have a deposition to prepare for. What do you need?”

“It’s about the church bombing.”

He was instantly serious. “What about it?”

“The cops have identified a person of interest. I’m representing him.”

He groaned. “Oy, of course you are.” He shook his head. “How did you come to tilt at this particular windmill?”

“The cops think a gay group called QUEER is behind it. I’m their lawyer. My client is associated with them.”

“These people make all of us look bad. Not,” he added, “that I don’t get why they want to blow things up. My friends are dropping like flies, and fucking Ronald Reagan— okay, that’s a conversation for another day. Continue.”

“They didn’t blow up anything. Their thing is civil disobedience, political theater, not explosions.”

He sank back into his chair, looked at me skeptically. “Evidently LAPD disagrees. Still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”

“The cops are going to hold a press conference this afternoon to discuss developments in the case. I want to keep my client’s name out of it.”

“Why?”

“He’s a kid, Marc, only twenty-three, not even out to his family. It would be shitty if the way they found out he’s gay is as part of a felony murder investigation. He’s not a suspect. He just had the misfortune to be roommates with the guy the cops think planted the bombs. They questioned him and let him go. His name doesn’t need to be disclosed.”

He looked dubious. “If they questioned him and let him go, why is he still a person of interest?”

“He’s the only connection the cops have to their actual suspect.”

“The roommate,” he said. “Off the record, Henry, and just between us girls, is your guy involved?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely, positively,” he said, with mild mockery. “And you know this how? Because he whispered it into your ear across the pillow?”

I knew he was joking, but it hit too close to home for comfort. I deadpanned, “There’s no physical evidence connecting Josh to the bombing, and a roomful of people can swear he was working the dinner shift at Chez Richard’s on Robertson when the bombs went off.”

“Jacob’s been wanting to eat there,” he said absently. “Excuse me if I need to check with my people before I buy your story, but let’s assume what you say is true. You don’t want the kid outed. I get that.” He closed his eyes and ruminated. “If he was falsely identified by name as a suspect, and he was later cleared, an enterprising lawyer might be tempted to sue the city and the police department for what? Slander? Defamation?”

“Don’t forget false arrest,” I added, catching his drift, “and intentional and/or negligent infliction of emotional distress.”

He opened his eyes, leaned forward, grinned and said, “We can’t have that. The city’s broke as it is. What’s the kid’s name?”

“Joshua Mandel.”

“A fellow Jew? Now I am insulted! Okay, if everything checks out, I can spin a tale about avoiding potentially costly litigation to keep his name out of it, but you better not be bullshitting me about his involvement because if he ends up in an orange jumpsuit that will be the end of our beautiful friendship.”

“I swear I’m not, Marc. I come in good faith.”

“Is he dishy?”

“What?”

“The kid,” he said, with a lewd smile. “Is he a hunk?”

Since he was doing me a huge favor, I humored him. “He’s a good-looking young man.”

“Have you sampled the wares?”

Okay, time to cut this short. I got up. “Thanks, Marc. I owe you.”

“Remember that next time I pinch your ass and ask you to come home with me.”

“Does Jacob know you talk like this?”

He laughed. “Everyone knows I talk like this.”

“Including the chief of police?”

“Scoot now. I have work to do.”

••••

Where the fuck was Freddy?

Theo jumped off the bed and went to the window for the fourth time that hour, parting the curtains just enough to get a view of the motel’s parking lot. The same three cars he’d seen ten minutes ago were still parked there. The sun was sinking into the distant ocean, and a golden light shimmered behind the buildings that formed the Hollywood skyline— the old hotels and movie palaces, the Capitol Records tower, the T-shirt shops and falafel stands. Almost imperceptibly the street noises had begun to shift from day to night, the purposeful movement of cars and trucks and pedestrians, the urgent squalls and shrieks of the working day, fading into something more aimless, undirected, and covert.

They’d been on the move since the explosion almost two weeks earlier, going from one shabby motel to another while Freddy got the money together for them to head to Mexico. But Freddy’d been gone for a day and a half without any word and Theo was detoxing. Freddy had warned him not to call his dealer.

“The cops will be looking for us,” he’d told Theo. “I heard on the news they found fingerprints on pieces of one of the bombs. Didn’t I say wear gloves?”

“What! No, you didn’t— My fingerprints? You sure?”

“They weren’t mine,” Freddy said. “I wore gloves.”

“You didn’t say anything about gloves,” Theo whined.

“The hell I didn’t,” Freddy snapped. “I gave you a fucking pair when you got out of the car and told you to put them on.”

Theo was confused now. Maybe Freddy had told him to wear gloves. The days leading up to the night of the explosion and the night itself were a blur and not only because he’d been high most of the time. When he’d realized Freddy was serious about blowing up the church, he’d freaked. But through a combination of bullying and seduction, Freddy gradually wore down his resistance. He sealed the deal when he finally took Theo to bed and gave him what he’d wanted since they’d first met, his big cock and the words “I love you.”

“If you love me,” Freddy said as Theo lay in his arms. “If you want more of this,” he grabbed Theo’s hand and rubbed it against his big cock, “you’ll help me.”

“But what if someone gets hurt?” Theo said, taking the heft of Freddy’s cock in his fingers.

“I told you, baby, I checked it out. There’s no one at the church on Thursday nights. No one to get hurt.”

Freddy slid his hand beneath Theo’s ass and drove a finger into him. Theo squirmed with pleasure. “You like that, m’ijo?”

“Yes, papi.”

“Are you going to do what Daddy tells you?”

“If you promise no one will get hurt,” he said in a small voice.

Freddy moved his finger inside him. “Baby, trust me.”

••••

He was amazed when they went to the hardware store how ordinary the stuff for the bombs was— pipes, caps, wires, alarm clocks.

“Is that all you need?” he asked Freddy as they pulled out of the Home Depot lot.

Freddy laughed. “No, babe, I still have to get the fairy dust.”

He didn’t understand what he meant until Freddy showed up at the apartment one evening while Josh was at work with a container of gunpowder. He shooed Theo out of the kitchen. Theo paced the living room anxiously. A couple of times, he peeked into the kitchen, worried that Freddy would blow them up, but Freddy worked with delicate intensity as he put the explosives together.

“When did you learn that?” Theo asked him when he’d finished.

Freddy replied in a voice that ended all further questions, “Someone taught me.”

••••

They went to the church the Sunday before to scout it out. Freddy’d brought a camera and took pictures until a couple of guys approached them. Seeing them, Freddy sent him to the car and later, when he asked why, said he didn’t want both of them to be recognized.

“One of them was security. They know my face now,” he told Theo. “You have to plant the bombs.”

“What? You said all I’d have to do is be the lookout.”

“Change of plans,” Freddy replied curtly.

On the day of the bombing, Freddy spread a group of Polaroids on the kitchen table, marked with black X’s where the bombs were to be planted. They went over them again and again until Freddy was satisfied Theo knew exactly where to place them.

But, as they were getting ready to leave, Theo said, “Can’t you wear a mask or something?”

“What did you say?” Freddy asked dangerously.

“You could wear like a ski mask to hide your face and I could stay in the car and—”

Freddy’s backhanded blow sent Theo sprawling to the floor.

“Listen, you little shit, we’re in this together. You understand? You’ll do what I say.”

Theo, blood seeping into his mouth, stared at him in shock and started to cry. Freddy pulled him to his feet, hugged him, kissed his cheek and said, “I’m sorry, m’ijo. I’m a little stressed. I just . . . I need you, Theo, you know. I need you.”

His voice was soft, vulnerable. Theo wiped his face and nodded. “Okay, papi.”

“Good boy. Look, we’ll do this, we’ll get a room tonight, and I’ll fuck your brains out. Then we’ll take off to Mexico for a while. I have friends in Puerto Vallarta. Right on the Pacific coast. We’ll sit on the beach and drink margaritas. You’ll love it there.”

Theo managed a smile and asked, “Can I smoke a pipe before we go?”

Freddy frowned, shrugged. “Okay, but just a taste. We need your hands to be steady. I don’t want you to blow yourself up.”

••••

At the church Freddy gave him the backpack with the bombs and a can of spray paint.

“Paint the slogans first to let them know who was here,” he said. “Then plant the bombs and get the hell out of there.”

Theo whispered, “Will you come with me?”

For a second he thought Freddy was going to hit him again, but instead he said gently, “You’ve come this far, m’ijo. You can do it. I’ll be waiting here for you. Think about the beach, the waves, the margaritas.”

Theo nodded. He got out of the car and crept onto the grounds of Ekklesia.

••••

They were halfway to the underpass of the 10 when the bombs went off. Freddy grabbed Theo’s leg and said, “You hear that?”

The sound was muffled by distance and the drone of traffic on the approaching freeway, but still audible. The blasts were unlike anything he had ever heard, concentrated, intense and sudden, the bellows of pure destruction. Later, he thought, if evil made a noise, it would be those explosions.

They spent the night in a motel in Boystown. Early the next morning Theo went out to get a newspaper and brought it back to the room. The bombing was on the front page with photos of the church and the man, the pastor, who had been killed in the explosion. He shook Freddy awake.

“What?” Freddy said sleepily, his back to Theo.

“You said no one would be there!”

Freddy rolled over in bed and said, “What are you talking about?”

Theo shook the front page at him. “There was a guy at the church, the pastor. We killed him.”

Freddy grabbed the paper from him, scanned it, tossed it aside and said, “Accidents happen. Anyway, the guy was a fundamentalist asshole. World’s better off without him. Now come back to bed and take care of this.” He stroked his dick beneath the sheet.

“I killed someone,” Theo mumbled, still shocked. “We killed someone.”

“I said it was an accident. The place was supposed to be deserted.”

“What are we going to do?”

Freddy sat up, the sheet falling from a body plated in muscle like armor, and said coldly, “What are you talking about, what are we going to do?”

“We could turn ourselves in to the police,” Theo said, weakly. “Tell them it was an accident.”

“You think the pigs will believe it was an accident? Do you think it will matter to them? We turn ourselves in and we’ll die in prison.” He reached for Theo’s hand, gripped it. “Hey, you have to trust me. I have friends. I can get us out of this.”

Theo felt the creep of emotional paralysis, mind and body sinking into numbness. All he could think was, I need to get high.

Freddy, watching him intently, said, “Call your dealer, but stock up because this is the last time.”

••••

Now, in another motel room, with twenty dollars to his name, no car, no speed, and no way of reaching Freddy, the walls closed in.