(Catch up on the series and read Part3)

Conclusion: Sherry Pops a Fuse

  The city looked lovely from where I stood on Queen Anne Hill,what I could seeof it through the drizzle, at any rate. The Sea-First building, thatgargantuan ebony box, disappeared partway into the mist and Freeway Park wasbarely visible where it straddled Interstate 5 midway up Capitol Hill.Although it was not yet four o'clock, there was already a substantial number ofcars streaming out of town in the daily exchange of sheet-metal between cityand suburbia. In a matter of hours beautiful downtown Seattle would beyuppy-free, left to the pimps and hustlers and other denizens of the night.Given a choice, I'd take night denizens over yuppies every time.

  The address Bernie had given me for Sherry Toller was on theside of QueenAnne that was reserved for lawyers, drug dealers and politicians on the take.There wasn't a house on the street worth less than a half a million dollars,and the one I stood in front of looked to be closer to a million-five. Justdown the street was the spot where countless post-card photos of the Seattleskyline had been taken over the years, most of them in much better weather thanthis.

  A Porsche Turbo Carrera sat in the driveway, making me glad I'dparked theOpal down a ways on the street, and from inside I could hear the strains ofWagner as I rang the bell. After what seemed a long time, the door opened toreveal a dark-haired man who looked like he'd stepped out of The SaturdayEvening Post  -- he wore a smoking jacket, and held a pipe in onehand andthe Wall Street Journal in the other. I wondered if I'd come to the rightplace.

  "Can I help you, Miss?" Not exactly a model of politicalcorrectness.

  "Hi. I'm Elizabeth Johnson, from the National Organization forWomen. We'reconducting a survey on women in the workplace. Is Sherry Toller in?"

  "My wife's still at the office, but I expect her any time.Won't you comein?" Wife? Sherry Toller was married?  Well, anything waspossible.Her husband stood aside just far enough to let me squeeze by -- I brushed hisarm as I entered the foyer -- and led me up a short flight of stairs and intothe living room.

  "Won't you sit down?" He indicated a plush couch. "Can I getyou a drinkwhile you wait?"

  "A little white wine would be nice." Why not? After all, aP.I. didn't haveto worry about drinking on duty.

  While he poured our drinks, I glanced around -- the house wasas impressiveinside as it was on the outside. Its ceilings were tall and vaulted withmassive timbers, and the decor was cream-colored with redwood accents. Tomy left, a photograph on the wall showed my host in nautical garb in frontof an enormous sailboat, a cheesy smile on his face. The room wasdominated bythe picture window and its sweeping view of the city, which no doubt accountedfor at least a quarter-million of the home's worth.

  Toller handed me a delicately fluted glass, then sat beside meon the couch,disturbingly close. I could feel his thigh touching mine.

  "The National Organization for Women," he said, grinning."That's a new one.But I like it."

  I smiled tentatively. Better humor him. "Well, we aim toplease, Mr.Toller."

  "Please . . . call me Bert," he said, and inched closer. Iscooted furtheraway along the couch.

  "Let's see," he continued, settling back. "They've sent metermaids,policewomen, and even a someone who said she was an olympic gymnast. Youshould have seen the thighs on that woman . . ." His voice took on a dreamytone, as if fondly remembering moments of athletic ardor. He placed a hand onthe inside of my thigh.

  Toller was good looking, in an old-fashioned way, but I'mone-hundred percentheterosexual, so I removed his hand from my leg and moved further away.Unfortunately, I was about out of couch.

  "Hard to get. I like that, too." He leaned close, breathingdeeply. I feltlike a deer caught in the headlights -- I knew what was coming, but waspowerless to stop it. He kissed me tenderly on the mouth -- his lipswere soft and supple, and tasted like fresh mint. When his tongue slitheredinto my mouth, I decided I'd had enough and took decisive action -- Idisengaged and fell off the end of the couch.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Iscreamed. At times ofstress my voice tends to drop down into my male register; fortunately, thatdidn't happen this time.

  Confusion replaced lust on Toller's face. "Aren't you fromLady Sheila's?"

  "I told you . . . I'm from N-O-W." I emphasizedthe letters.

  "I, uh . . . I'm terribly sorry, I'm afraid I've mistaken youfor someoneelse. My wife'll be home about six . . . maybe you could come back then." Heheld out his hand to help me from the floor, his face a bright crimson."Listen, Miss. . . "

  "Ms.  Johnson."

  "Ms. Johnson. Can't this just be our little secret? I canmake it worth yourwhile . . ."

  "Mister  Toller! This is just the kind of thingthat we're trying tocombat." I was actually enjoying this, in a perverse kind of way, and did mybest to appear outraged. Finally, I sighed. "However, I am conducting asurvey, and cannot bias it in any way, so when I interview your wife, I'll notmention it."

  He was almost pathetically grateful, prancing around me like apuppy as heshowed me out. In the open doorway, I turned back toward him, intending tomake sure of the time his wife was expected.

  "I really appreciate this, Ms. Johnson," he began. Then hiseyes lookedbeyond me and widened in surprise. "Sweetheart -- I didn't expect you soearly. T-this is Ms. Johnson, from the National . . ."

  As I began to turn around, I heard what sounded like an axehitting a ripemelon. Everything began to grow dark, and lights began to dance before myeyes, and I remember thinking Oh . . . that wasn't a melon, that was myhead.

  Pain. Throbbing, jolting, epiphanous pain. Pain was myuniverse, thelandscape of my mind. I opened my eyes briefly, and there was pain.

  And Madonna.

  Madonna?  Curiosity got the better of me, so Iopened my eyes again.Yep, that's Madonna, all right. What's she doing here?  Ishifted myeyes to the right, and there was Anita Bryant. God! Madonna and Anita, inthe same place? Alert the media!  I wrenched my eyes back to theMaterialGirl. She glared down at me with a sneer, her boobs all metallic and pointy.My tits are better . . . so there!  I flicked my eyes to theleft, andsaw Jesus, Our Lord and Savior, standing in his robes, with a beatific smile onhis face. NOW you're gonna get it, Madonna . . . Jesus is here, and hehates your boobs too . . . Darkness again.

  When consciousness returned, the throbbing in my head haddiminished afraction. Cautiously I opened my eyes, and sure enough, there was Jesus again.Oh, shit . . . I'm dead. I hope He doesn't hold a little thing like makeupor miniskirts against me . . . wait . . . I squinted at the Lord, whohadn't moved a muscle, and relief flooded over me -- it was just a cardboardcutout. I looked over, and saw that the same was true of Madonna and Anita.What the hell kind of place IS this, anyway?

  Then I became aware of a burning sensation in my wrists; when Ilooked down Isaw they were bound tightly together -- my legs were tied together as well --and I was secured to a wooden chair in a basement. The walls were adorned withthe strangest assortment of posters I'd ever seen. Directly opposite me was alarger-than-life image of Michael Keaton as Batman (not that upstart Kilmer, Iwas glad to see), who seemed to be sneering at the back of Madonna's head.Next to him was a Boris Vallejo print of a voluptuous warrior maiden, completewith sword, leather harness and a caption that read "Sheenara, Queen ofZamora." And, presiding over the whole set-up was a huge poster of theoriginal Madonna, aka the Virgin Mary, hand raised inbenediction andgently smiling.

  As I sat contemplating the bizarre imagery, I heard a door openbehind me andthe clicking of heels descending unseen stairs. A small woman -- SherryToller, from Frieda's description -- came into my field of vision wearing amaroon choir robe, carrying a crossbow in one hand and my bloody wig in theother. Things began to get really surreal at that point.

  She ignored me and placed my wig on the cardboard Madonna'shead, lovinglyarranging the curls and humming "Shall We Gather at the River" under herbreath. Stepping back, she surveyed her handiwork for a moment, then turned tothe effigy of Jesus and placed the crossbow into a crook of his arm, carefullyaiming at the Material Girl.

  "Lord Jesus," she said, in a mellifluous voice, "I await thywill." Sheleaned toward the Savior and cupped her ears. "What was that? Oh, yes -- Iquite agree . . . time for that slut to go to her reward."

  She triggered the crossbow in one swift movement, sending thebolt flying intoMadonna with a loud thwack.  The cutout sailed backwards until itcrashed into Mary and clattered face-down onto the floor, my wig still affixedto its head.

  "Straight into the arms of the blessed Virgin," Toller said,nodding insatisfaction. She produced another arrow from under her robe, re-armed OurRedeemer, and carefully aimed him at me. I started to shiver uncontrollably

  "Well, now, aren't you the prettiest little thing? I saw youat that den ofvipers, you and your little lesbo girlfriend, and I thought you were a woman,but now I see you're just a dirty little faggot." Her eyes were bulging now,and a sheen of sweat beaded her forehead. "Jesushates faggots. Don'tyou, Jesus?"

  She stopped talking and again cupped her hand over her ear."What was that,Anita? You hate fairies too? I know you do, dear . . . you fought the goodfight, but there's still a lot of them around, aren't there?" Her hands beganto writhe in front of her like a nest of snakes.

  "Mrs. Toller," I said, my voice a hoarse croak. "I-I'm not ahomosexual, I'mjust . . . undercover on a case . . ."

  "Silence!" she thundered, taking a step towards me. "`Thewoman shall notwear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a women'sgarments for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God.'" She tookanother step closer, hands raised toward the heavens.

  It was clear that the fate of the faux Madonna would soon bemine, and that Ihad only one chance. I needed her to come just a little closerfor itto work.

  Cocking my head to one side, I said "Jesus? What was that yousaid? Youthink I'm beautiful?  Why thank you, Lord."

  For just a second, Toller looked puzzled, but her expressionquickly turned to outrage. She screamed "Blasphemer!" and took anotherstep toward me. I leaned forward in thechair and convulsively straightened my legs, driving my head into her stomach.We rocketed backwards across the room and clattered into the cardboard Jesus.I heard a muffled click, accompanied by a chunk, and Sherry's bodyshuddered spasmodically where it lay underneath me. Then, all was still,and I felt a spreading warmth as her blood soaked my clothing.

  Struggling to my knees, the chair digging into my back, I foundmyself staringdown into Sherry Toller's wide-eyed, sightless face. Blood seeped out of ahole in her chest where tip of the arrow protruded -- it had gone almost allthe way through her body. Peering around her shoulder was benevolent smile ofthe Lamb of God.

  "Thank you, Jesus," I whispered, before I passed out.

Epilogue

  Frenchy held my hand in the back of the ambulance all the wayto Sacred Heart.Preliminary indications were a severe concussion and a possible fracturedskull, but the medics had pumped me full of morphine, and I was feeling nopain. Strangely, though, I was still awake.

  "Didja see Jesus?" I asked Frenchy brightly.

  "Yeah, I saw him."

  "Did he look pissed off?"

  "You really ought to get some rest . . ."

  "Have y'ever thought about how strange love is? I mean, BertToller was awomanizing slime-bucket and everything, but he still loved thatloony-tune." I giggled. "After all, he knew she was going aroundoffing lesbians and all, but he stood by his woman . . . Hey! Wasn't that asong title?"

  "That was `Stand by Your Man', Dawn. Something womenseem to be a lotbetter at than you men." She paused. "Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, loveis just a mess of hormones that inflate some things up and deflate others."

  I peered owlishly up at her. "Well, I love you, Frenchy . . ."

  She sighed, and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. "I loveyou, too."

Next: Murder on Channel Eight, A New Dawn Benedict adventure.