Michael Parker, whose condition was listed as serious but stable, was recovering at George Washington Hospital; he had been working out for nearly two years and his body was more resilient than most trauma victims.

Danh paced the hallway outside Michael's room, thinking of his rights as a gay man-and of his concerns about their future together: If only we'd completed the Medical Directives; I never thought we'd need them.

Parker's doctor, Bernard M. Rosenblatt, III, walked so quickly down the hall that Danh had to race to follow him, "Doctor, Michael Parker's my partner. May I see him?"

Rosenblatt, a twenty-something intern, with sad brown eyes that were worn down to the lower lids from years of reading under his blankets by flashlight, and shoes that matched his eyes, shook his head. "We've been through that. We've already contacted Parker's family and his mom's on the way. She's the only person, other than Michael, who can determine his course of treatment. By law, I'm only allowed to tell you his condition. He's stable." Dr. Rosenblatt walked down the corridor, pressed a number-coded door and entered a restricted area. What can you do? Rosenblatt thought, Hank and I finished our paperwork the month we committed, but these airheads put everything off to the last minute. Thank God, the patient isn't HIV positive.

As Rosenblatt approached Michael's room he was surprised to see a D.C. cop stationed outside the door. "What's this about? This man is not a criminal."

"It's a criminal investigation," Officer Murdock, a five-foot seven, former marine said, "and this man may be in danger."

Inside, three policemen were firing questions at Michael. "How did you get yourself into this situation? Were you looking for trouble? Did you lure someone into a dark alley?"

Before Michael could answer one question, another was fired at him and he felt as if he was the major suspect in the 911 terrorist's attacks.

"You and your ilk deserve what you get."

"That will be enough," Rosenblatt said. "This man is my patient."

"We're running an investigation."

"Is this man charged with a crime?"

"Of course not, we're-"

"Then get your asses out! Now! And wait for me outside." Rosenblatt had never been so forceful, but he was scheduled to be a keynote speaker at the upcoming Gay Pride celebration, and he saw no other recourse. Either we hang together or we'll all hang separately.

The policemen scrambled away as Rosenblatt turned to Michael. "I want you to write a medical directive as soon as I leave this room." Rosenblatt took Michael's hand, "You're going to be okay. We're all marching on Sunday. This stuff has got to end."

Michael stopped crying, "You're-?"

"Yes, and damned proud of it.'

Rosenblatt turned to Michael as he headed out the door, "I'm going to put the fear of God in those fucking cops; then I'm going to allow one of them back in to question you. My nurse, a gay colleague, will stay with you. If that fucker gives you any lip, nod at the nurse and he'll send for me immediately. We'll find the thugs who attacked you, but we're not going to allow the entire God damned District Police Force to abuse any of us in the process."

In the hallway, Rosenblatt took the cops aside one by one, starting with Murdock. "I want you to listen and do nothing but nod your head if you understand. First, you will not abuse my patients. Second, I want you to think back to the Bobbitt episode. Do you remember John Wayne Bobbitt? Nod if you understand me."

Murdock nodded quickly in one fast up and down jerky motion.

"Bobbitt was an abuser whose wife got fed up with his escapades so she chopped off his penis. I hope your wife never does that but if, she does, I want to be the doctor who gets to reassemble you. Do you get my drift?"

Officer Murdock paled, he knew exactly what Rosenblatt was talking about-everyone in the nation knew about John Wayne Bobbitt.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Officer Murdock was extraordinarily kind to Michael when he continued the investigation-alone now, except for Alan Lewis, Dr. Rosenblatt's private duty nurse. "Do you remember anything about the perpetrators, sir?"

"They were masked and I was in the dark. The only thing I remember was the moment they rushed into my apartment and then, all I could think of was . . . "Michael's voice trailed off, afraid to mention that his lover was a D.C. cop, "my partner. But I didn't see any of their faces."

"How did they kidnap you?"

"One of them threw me over his shoulder and carried me. I remember screaming, but I was jiggling and my mouth was gagged and my head was covered. I don't think anyone saw me. I don't think anyone knew what the hell was going on."

"And then?"

"I remember waking up on a cold hard floor. I remember hearing three or four distinct male voices. I think they were Afro-American but one spoke with a deep Southern accent, he could have been white." Michael paused, composing himself, "They threatened to kill me and then . . . they molested me." Michael felt like a whore; he didn't want to share his molestation with a straight person-let alone a straight cop. He wondered how a woman could ever share her memories of being molested with a policeman. "Then they tied me up and left me in the dark with a hood over my head. I thought about the Islamic terrorists who hooded their prisoners just before they decap-" Michael stopped in mid sentence as nurse Lewis took his hand. "After I regained my senses, I found my cell and tried to call my . . . friend, but all I got was voice mail so I left a message, but then the battery went dead and I hid the phone inside an old tire and that's when I knew I was in a garage." Michael took a deep breath, he knew he had to talk quickly to get it all out his system: there wasn't a moment he ever wanted to remember again. "I managed to lift my hood, but there was no light and no windows and since I couldn't hear anything, I guessed I was in a garage, off the main street, in the alley behind my house. I lowered the hood, afraid of the men, afraid of the darkness, but . . . more afraid of what they'd do if they knew I'd seen their faces. Then they came back and . . . they kicked me in the nuts, the head . . . the body. . . . and the next thing I remember I was drowning and all I could think of was-" Michael was tired of lying, "Danh. I wanted to live long enough to see Danh and, somehow, I managed to flop over onto my back as the stream rushed over me. I passed out and that's it. That's all I remember."

Officer Murdock looked at Nurse Lewis, feeling his testicles withdraw, knowing what would happen if he screwed up. "Thank you, Mister Parker. We're sweeping the garage for prints and DNA. We'll solve this case; you can bet your-" Murdock started to say ass but thought better of it, "sweet bippy. We'll find these guys." Murdock made one more round of thank-yous to Parker and Lewis and scurried out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Right Reverend Billy B. Abel stood before his flock, thrusting his Bible in front of him as if he were sieg heiling his Storm Troopers "I have been washed clean and holy in the Jordan in the land of the Hottentots. Hallelujah! And the Lord God tells me you, too, must be baptized in the mighty Jordan."

"Hallelujah," Myrtle Ann screamed as she rejoiced in the Lord. Myrtle Ann had lost her right leg due to diabetes the year before and there was a strong possibility her three-hundred pound frame wouldn't last much longer, but she relied on Reverend Abel as much as on the Holy Word of God to get her through, With Jesus by my side, I don't care about this life because I know I'll walk with God on streets of gold.

"Jesus is the river of Life," the Right Reverend Abel continued. "He knows everything you do. He sees within your hearts because without Jesus, without the Lord, without the power of Almighty God, you're nothing but a toilet bowl filled with human excrement waiting for the Lord God Jehovah to flush you into the nethermost parts of hell." Reverend Abel took a deep breath, when the Spirit filled him he could go on for hours. "Unless you are born again, unless you've been baptized in the Jordan and give ten percent of your income to the Lord, you will suffer eternal damnation and burn in hell for all eternity." Abel wiped his forehead with his damp handkerchief. "That's the bad news, my brothers and sisters, but the good news is that you have been saved through the glory and power of our living savior, Jesus Christ, Lord of Lord, and King of Kings, glory, hallelujah! You all give ten percent of your income to God, but none of you has been baptized in the Jordan and that's why I'm here today-to explain my latest revelation: God has shown me the New Jordan, hallelujah! And that's where you must be baptized. Though a man speaks in the tongues of angels and fire, he will not enter the Pearly Gates unless he's been baptized in the Jordan, wet with the Holy Spirit of God. Do I hear a hallelujah?"

Hallelujahs filled the church.

"You preach it pastor; share the glories of God." Elmira gave eighty percent of her Social Security check to Reverend Abel, dreaming of the day she would die and be with the Lord and ushered to the front of the line at heaven's gate where Jesus Christ would personally escort her down the streets lined with gold.

"Jesus is the River of Life, but in order to be united with him, you must be washed in his holy river, the river that starts out in the Garden of Eden and flows through Africa-into the land of the Hottentots-into the land of our ancestors.

"Jesus will find the way to get us to Africa, reverend. I trust Jesus." Darvel Jones had just celebrated his twenty-first birthday, and although still a baby in the Lord, he trusted Jesus for everything. He had already turned down three job offers because Jesus told him the jobs were not right for him. Darvel did nothing without praying, without waiting for God's wisdom and guidance to show him the True Path and it wasn't rare to see him on his knees praying to find his clean underwear or TV Guide. Darvel was Reverend Abel's Poster Boy for Christianity, a living saint.

"We all must trust Jesus, my brother. Jesus will feed you and clothe you and give you shelter . . . as long as you trust and rely on the Lord."

"Hallelujah," the assembly shouted and Myrtle Ann rubbed her stump.

"But the good news is that the Lord revealed unto me that although the Jordan flows out of Eden underneath the Red Sea into Rwanda, it has an underground aquifer that flows out of Africa underneath the Atlantic, past that bump called the Equator, up the Chesapeake Bay, under the Potomac, and comes up right here in God's New Jerusalem-at the back door of our church. Verily, verily, I say unto you, we mistakenly call it the Anacostia-that murky river we all grew up with-but it's really the Holy River Jordan! Praises Jesus!" Reverend Abel reached for his handkerchief but stumbled and fell on top of the four elders standing behind him. Rudolph Mackall, the oldest elder at sixteen, stroked Abel's forehead with his handkerchief as Elder Murray, a fourteen year old sixth grader, who was home schooled because his mother believed public schools were filled with heathens and Roman Catholics, led the congregation by singing in his rich baritone, '"We Shall Gather at the Anacostia, the beautiful, beautiful Anacostia, we shall gather at the riv-iv-ver, the beautiful river of God.'"

The song continued with all four verses and six dozen choruses for over twenty minutes, until the Right Reverend Abel had to be propped up to urge his followers to dig into their pockets and promote the word of God.

"Elders, please pass the collection plate. Let's count God's tithes and offerings to see what the Lord hath provided." Abel began humming the "I'm Stuck on Band Aids" song, thinking of the dollars sticking to the collection plate, picturing the dollar bills flying through the air, amassing in a huge wad for the Lord God Jehovah and himself.

After the plate went around twice and the elders counted the money at the front of the church each time, the Right Reverend Abel praised God, "The Lord tells me this still isn't enough. The Lord wants to remind us all-heathen and baby Christians alike," he stared hard at Malcolm X. Jones and Win Bullock, "that you must dig deeper into your pockets, you must present the Lord with tithes and offerings worthy of His Holy Name." Reverend Abel pressed his hands onto the shoulders of his four young elders and whispered, "Go out and collect from the folks in the street. You are the ambassadors of the Lord." He gave them each a pat on their butts, and as they headed out of the church, he said, "Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus Christ now and forever-the one true and living God, Hallelujah." And he hollered after the elders, "Don't come back until the collection plates are heaping high with enough gold and silver to reach all the way up to heaven and jingle around the feet of our blessed Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Go! Go!" Then he turned to his congregation, "Let us sing and make a joyful noise unto the Lord," as he led them in a riotously loud rendition of Bringing in the Sheaves.

Then, as the sun began to set, the Right Reverend Able gave his final benediction. "My brothers and sisters, we have witnessed the power of the Lord Jesus, who is strong enough to bless me with His visions and keep me in His bosom. Blessings be unto you, and you, and you. Blessings be unto you all." And Reverend Abel looked at the collection and smiled.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Zeke had struggled to keep Floanda away from the church. "The Lord told me we must visit your mother-she's in grave danger," he said, feeling more like Albus Dumbledore than himself, but he knew how hooked on Harry Potter Floanda was and he figured it would be the fastest way he could convince her to skip going back to the Right Way Bible Church, the best way to save her from Reverend Abel's grave danger, the best way to keep her safe.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

David Burns held the notebook filled with his doodles of the Tiber Creek in his left hand as he locked his car door. No use taking any chances of losing any more maps, he thought, as he walked toward Milton Kurtz's pick-up. If I get the fertilizer today, I can get on with Plan B.

Milton had been waiting for over thirty minutes, "I thought you got lost, where you been at?"

"I got held up." David smiled, trying to forget the cop, "Did you get extra help?"

"Yeah, I got us a boy name of Anthony Morsell, he don't know nothing, but I thought you finished makin' them bombs, why you be needing this?"

"Actually, the fertilizer is nothing more than a red herring."

"A what?"

"It's something big and stinky enough to draw the cops' attention," David picked up his notebook and started doodling a fish; he thought more clearly when he had a pen in his hand. Milton looked at the fish and shook his head. "This is a red herring," David said, "We're tossing red herrings all over the place in order to mislead the enemy. The more places the cops run to, the less likely they'll find our secret weapon-our Plan C." Milton looked puzzled as David continued, "Think about Osama Bin Laden who could hide in plain sight because he planted dozens of guys who looked like him all over the world. Those were red herrings, fakes, created by Bin Laden to make us waste our time chasing the wrong man. My war's the same." It was the first time David used the term 'my war' and his eyes lit up as he continued, "If we can trick our enemy into looking for bombs in the wrong places, we can win the war." David paused. The look of puzzlement on Milton's face had turned to gross stupidity.

Milton got hungry half way through David's explanation, thinking about the fish and wondering if he could get some French fries to go with the herring. He was already mentally planning a family dinner with his son at the Suitland Fish and Chips Restaurant on St. Barnabas Road when he saw the new boy, Anthony Morsell, entering the gates.

David shoved his notebook in the side pocket of the truck-thinking he was in his own car, wanting to make sure Anthony didn't see it.

"I got me more guys just in case," Anthony said, pointing to two young men waiting behind near the gate. "You able to pay the same as me?"

"Sure," David mumbled, thinking how cheap it was going to be to walk away with six tons of nitrogen laden fertilizer. "I pay cash. No taxes here."

Anthony's eyes lit up and he hurried to his buddies. "We all gonna get paid," he said, "Ten dollars a hour-same as me."

David loved working with crooks. He'd promised to pay pick-up labor twelve dollars an hour. Anthony had barely started working and he was already stealing from his friends. He's good. Maybe I should keep him.

It took two hours for the men to load up and David noticed that Anthony stalled just long enough, controlling his two-man crew, so they'd get the optimum salary. Then, as soon as they finished, David took Anthony aside and counted out seventy-two dollars. I can hardly wait to see how quickly he gets rid of his co-workers.

Anthony gave each of his helpers a twenty and pocketed the rest. Burns was impressed. This boy knows how to supervise and he's got a bit of larceny in his heart. "I may have some side jobs for you in the future, if you can keep your nose clean and do what you're told."

Anthony left quickly, knowing the liquor store would close at four-wanting to get there in time-happy he'd bilked his friends-happier that he met a man who might hire him again.

David hopped back in the truck as Milton drove it down to the fill-dirt section to link up with his contact, Demetri.

"Mornin', 'Metri. Boss says you got some extra fill dirt you wanna get rid of 'n we're headin' to the landfill. Might as well take care of it." Demetri was more than glad to fill the truck but he noticed the tires were already sagging because of the heavy load. "Better cover them old bags," he said, "you might have to separate this stuff at the dump."

Demetri found an old tarp and Milton started lugging it to the truck as David slipped his notebook into his hip pocket. When the bags of nitrogen were hidden, he asked Demetri to cover them with fill dirt.

"What you got in the bags?"

"No idea," Milton said, "just do what I'm told. Ask no questions, get no lies."

"I know the feeling," Demetri said as he walked to the caterpillar, swung back with half a ton of fill dirt, and dumped it into the truck.

As Milton drove away, Demetri thought, they're up to something, but as long as it don't affect my job, I didn't see nothing.

Milton drove the dump truck toward the security gate and waved at the guard who stopped him anyway. "What you got there, big guy?"

"Just fill dirt-we're clearin' out a pit."

"Let me check-Homeland's got another APB out about missing nitrogen."

David got out of the truck and immediately noticed the dirt had shifted and the tarp was showing-the guard'll suspect what we've done if he looks at it carefully. "Hey, got a match?" David flaunted the cigarette as it dangled from his lips.

"Look, bud, let me level with you. I'm planning to meet Milton's daughter," David tugged at his crotch. "We're in a big hurry," David reached into his right hip pocket fumbling for his wallet and inadvertently knocked his doodle pad onto the ground before finding a ten and handing it to the guard, "Anything you can do to move me along?"

"You're all clear, sir." The guard folded the ten and stuffed it in his pocket as David and Milton drove away.

A few miles down the road David realized his notepad was missing. Damn, did I leave it at the site? Oh well, the Feds won't find it-and even if they do, they're all mushrooms-all they do is eat shit and live in the dark.


On to Chapter Eight
June 5th
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June 3rd
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