Angels? Or Demons? The nature of the struggle between the Reverend and the senshi begins to change. Like "The Return of the Senshi," I think this chapter is pretty tentative. There's a cliffhanger in the middle, because I haven't thought of a good climax for the scene between Fine and the Reverend.

Katherine Warfield watched TV from her hospital bed. She hadn't come out of anesthesia when the news from Japan had broken. It was a spectacular story, just the sort of thing she would have loved doing in her days with Hot News. But it didn't look like she'd be in front of a camera very soon. This had been the third operation.

The word around the news community was that she had cancer. They were keeping silent, for the most part--she had earned that much respect. Or pity.

It wasn't cancer. What it was, none of her doctors knew. All they did know was that the tissue in her nose kept growing--not malignant, but changed somehow. And now she had something else, a growth in a very personal area. Again, not malignant, but odd, like nothing anyone had seen. What was causing these growths? Some kind of retrovirus? Whatever it was, it didn't show up on any of the hundreds of tests she had undergone.

She had chosen a private Swiss clinic this time to minimize the chance word would get out about her predicament. She could see the headlines at supermarket checkout lines across the world: "Trash-TV-Queen Grows Tail!"

It wasn't fair! The White House takeover looked to be the transformer of her career--and then the growth had accellerated. She couldn't go in front of a camera; she couldn't even show up at a press conference as a print reporter, because there would be cameras there and they would be turned on her. She could soldier on as a print reporter, relying on stringers, perhaps getting a column like old Jack Crawford. But she'd never shine as a writer; it was too impersonal.

Radio? She still had her voice. But could she make the conversion? The really big radio personalities in talk radio were either sex merchants, right-wingers, or praise-the-lord types. The biggest mainstream radio news voice feeds were all done by video reporters or were synthesized. No room for her there.

The only English language news channel she could pick up was suddenly filled up with Babs, the old horror who had given her the big interview after the White House incident. <Won't she ever die?> despaired Katherine Warfield. The woman had had so many facelifts, the wags had it, that the dimple on her chin used to be her belly button. But she still had a face that she could show on camera. Kate Warfield couldn't stand to look at that face a second longer, and channel-surfed away.

She found a French-language channel that seemed to be giving the news. Soon it switched into coverage of the angel sightings, going back to the famous Jean Sauvage video, with old interviews . . . cuts to the equally famous blimp shot of the boat blowing up, and the line of young black gunman looking like they stepped out of a bad rap video . . . not really much that showed the angels clearly.

Angels . . . the man in the boat was one of the Jones brothers, and that had to have been Minako Jones with him in the boat. There were reports of angels at Marvell Jones' assassination, but no pictures . . . Minako Jones was at the White House, and there were angels there, two, some fairly good pictures and lots of stories . . . and now this brew-up over one of Minako Jones' friends, and once again, angel sightings . . .

"Angels? Or demons?" Kate Warfield hadn't been paying that much attention to the words, but she could catch some English under the French narration/translation and began to focus more. <It's the NGN,> Warfield realized. It was the New Gospel Network, Johnny Lee Swainson's money machine. The scene went back to a still from the Sauvage video, cropped and enarged to show the faces. Then it zoomed in on the jewelry they were wearing--skulls. The diminutive angels were festooned with gleaming silvery skulls, staring with eyes of ruby or azure. Then the third eye was shown on the smaller one, and it morphed into the sinister lidless eye of Sauron--from Tolkien. Johnny Lee had been condemning Tolkien as a font of revived paganism for quite awhile now.

Now the narration was getting into the familiar theme of signs of the end times, no doubt leading up to a desperate plea for more money so that souls can be saved while there is still time. It wasn't Swainford himself speaking, so he could distance himself from this if he wished.

A woman was doing the narration. Swainson used a lot of women. That is, he employed them; never a hint of sexual scandal around him, though a couple of lesser big names in the NGC had been caught with their pants down over the years since he had taken over. Warfield had taken several looks at him over the years; he was a big target and bringing him down would have been a sure ticket into the world of legitimate journalism. But he didn't have the clay feet of a Jim Bakker or Jimmy Swaggert. No hookers, no mistresses she could ever find, no boyfriends. Probably he was hiding a lot of his income and holdings, but who really saw great sin in evading taxes? Certainly no one saw a great story in it.

People would have to keep her on to the end of her contract, but they did have clauses protecting them a little, so she couldn't draw a full salary. She wasn't broke yet, but there would be no more medical coverage unless she could somehow prove her condition was life-threatening. It was time to think about what to do next. A column? Maybe she could get one out of one of the Chicago papers; she had a few friends in Chicago, or at least a few people she could call in favors from. Or . . .

Or maybe she should think about giving Johnny Lee Swainson a call. He didn't hire NGC people exclusively; he liked to present enough variety to make his operations look more mainstream, more likely to appeal to skeptics than a steady diet of Bible-thumping. <Hell, maybe being "born again" wouldn't be a bad career move . . .>

The program moved on, now relying mostly on sketches, reenactments, and even some animation, though not from any of the many magic girl/angel amime--they were all copyrighted and fiercely protected by battalions of attorneys. It was really wonderfully done for what it was; Swainford had found some first-rate people to do this one. One thing Katherine did know about Jimmy Lee Swainford was that he took great care with what went on NGN. The Reverend Jimmy Lee had a palate perfectly attuned to popular tastes. He aimed low enough to catch the white working class that were his bedrock supporters, broad enough to take in ethnics and even many people of color, and high enough to educate a bit and appeal to the middlebrows, high enough so that the highbrows could not dismiss him out of hand.

The program moved very far back, to England nearly twenty years ago and the Sailor-V videos. Something about them disturbed Katherine Warfield . . . she couldn't put her finger on it, but something bothered her now. Warfield wished she could record this program . . . she actually waited until the end to find out how to order a copy. <Something to talk about when I meet Swainford . . .> she thought. That might make the 49.99 an excellent investment . . .

This scene takes place the morning after the senshi recover Tammy and Zoe.

Valita Grant could always tell when the Reverend had had a troubled night. He seldom slept for more than five hours, often less, but it usually wasn't a problem for him. But there were nights when he got no sleep, or no sleep that got him any good. She could always tell, by the way the pillows were beaten, by the smell of his sweat on the sheets.

He picked at his breakfast, another bad sign. He let his food get cold as he went through the papers. He let time go by--Valita wasn't his secretary, but she always knew his basic schedule, and she knew he had an appointment. Finally she said, "Excuse me, Reverend, but it's getting kind of late. Are you feeling all right today?"

Johnny Lee Swainson scowled for a moment, but then he shook his head. "I've got something on my mind, Valita."

"Is it anything I could help with?"

"I don't think so, Valita. But thank you for asking."

"Are you sure?"

His expression changed, and he looked at her for what seemed to be quite a long time before speaking again. "Mr. Fine is coming here, Valita. I'd rather you not hear what we may talk about."

"I don't listen in on your talk, Reverend."

"You don't try to, but you might hear something you would rather not."

"Is it about the Yount children?"

The Reverend nodded. "That will surely come up . . . What do you think about the situation now, Valita?"

Valita Grant shook her head. "It's a terrible business."

"You mean, besides Tammy Yount being abducted by criminals?"

"Well . . . Yes. I think the woman that's been taking care of them loves them, too. I mean, their folks have their rights, but still . . . it's a terrible thing."

"Valita, doesn't it matter to you that these children are being brought up as pagans?"

Valita Grant said, "Of course it does. But now that I've seen the Younts, especially Mrs. Yount, I don't think they are likely to be saved even if they do go back to their parents." She paused a moment, and stood up straight from her usual slight stoop. "My grandmother tried to beat the Lord into me, and it didn't work."

"The Younts won't do that!"

"You don't have to get beat to be hurt, Reverend. I can see how Mrs. Yount's kids would be afraid of her, like that lady Mrs. Urwah's friends say they are. If they go back to Mrs. Yount and she has her say on everything, I think those kids are going to wind up hating Jesus worse than I did before I was saved."

The Reverend took a moment to respond. "That might be true. But the Bible says 'Honor thy father and thy mother.' What right is more fundamental than the right to raise your own children according to your faith? This isn't just about the Younts, Valita, it's about the way this secular society we live in has worked to destroy the family. We can and should counsel the Younts, but before anything else, the Younts have the right to have their children back. You haven't been approached by any reporters, have you?"

"Not lately, Reverend. I wouldn't tell them about your business, you know that."

"Well, this is a good time to get something clear, Valita. Don't tell any reporter anything bad about the Younts. If you do, as sure as the Lord made little green apples, it will be all over the media. There's more at stake here than the preferences of two children. Don't lie, don't tell a reporter anything. Whatever you say will get twisted six ways from Sunday by the liberals in the media, even if you talk with a decent reporter to begin with."

"I understand," said Valita, a little shaken.

"Good. Now, I want you to spend the day out. You work very hard, Valita, and you need to take some personal time. OK?"

Valita nodded.

"OK. Run along now. I'll tend to the dishes."

Michael Fine had gotten used to sudden summons to see the Reverend Johnny Lee, and so had his firm: He had a permanent office in Houston, where the headquarters of the NGC was located, and he spent about as much time working out of it as out of New York. Seeing the Reverend at home wasn't usual at all, though. Michael Fine realized hadn't been there for a year, since the morning after the last Presidential election. That was also when he began looking into the Yount matter. And now . . .

The Reverend Johnny Lee answered the door himself. He was in a robe and pajamas, and he hadn't shaved. "Are you feeling well, sir?" asked Fine. He'd been around the Reverend long enough to know he was an early riser, and seldom dressed more casually than a sportcoat without a tie unless he was doing some really outdoorsy thing like his occasional hunting or fishing expeditions.

"I didn't sleep well. I've decided to spend my day in." He shrugged. "I am human, you know. Better to cancel my appointments than perform badly."

"Perform. That's the first time you've put it that way."

The Reverend Johnny Lee smiled a bit. "We all must put on our acts. I'm just better than most." He studied Fine for a bit after letting him inside. "Mr. Fine, I believe you are looking at me in a new way. Could it have something to do with your last meeting with my daughter?"

"You're daughter said some remarkable things."

"And I see now that you believe her. Some of it, anyway." The Reverend Johnny Lee smiled again. "You're no fool, Mr. Fine. I'm not the least afraid you'll do something foolish concerning me or my daughter."

"Professionial ethics�"

"Mean something to you, that's a very large reason I admire you, Mr. Fine."

"Is that what you want to talk about now? What your daughter told me about you?"

"No. No, now I want to talk to you about Alvarson again."

"I don't have anything else to tell you. Alvarson is very particular about his privacy. It's not even known with certainty how old he is or where he was born."

"I'm having him looked at by other people."

"Patterson?"

"Not only Mr. Patterson . . . actually, Mr. Fine, I want to use you as a sounding board. You are my resident skeptic. Because of the way I am, I can convince people and know they are convinced. But that's a danger for me, because I can also convince myself when perhaps I shouldn't. You, Mr. Fine, are hard to convince about anything, so if I can get an idea past you, I'm reasonably sure it's a good one."

"I suppose I'm flattered," said Fine carefully. "Just what idea do you want to test on me now?"

"I think that our good 'Doctor' Alvarson may be much more than he seems. I'm sure now his interest in the friends of Mrs. Urawa is more than a family connection through his latest wife."

"What do you think, Alvarson was connected with that drug gang? We would have picked up on something that big by now. The firm does have its sources in Washington."

"You told my daughter Alvarson might be connected with some intelligence agencies. I seem to recall a lot of stories about the CIA and the old KGB and who knows how many others being into the drug trade."

"Even so, we would have heard something."

"Maybe not . . . whether it's true or not, it is corker of a story, ain't it?"

Michael Fine crafted his response to that one carefully. "I don't really care to find out how tough the Swiss laws against extortion are. And Alvarson is bigger in the media than you are, Reverend. GNN's the ten-thousand-pound gorilla in news. He could do you and your Church enormous harm. Just dragging up some old stuff about your father�"

The Reverend Johnny Lee cut him off. "It's something that could make a corker of a story. Not necessarily on NGN, not first, at any rate. I want you to suggest this to the good Doctor. I'm sure you can do it in such a way that you won't incriminate yourself. After all, we are not asking for money, are we?"

<There doesn't have to be money involved to make it extortion,> Michael Fine was about to tell the Reverend Johnny Lee, but he didn't actually say the words. "What do we want from him?"

Benicia Swainson, the girl known to everyone at Orinda High as "Betty Beringer," came to school wondering, like most everyone else, why the angel girls should be reported looking for one of the Yount children. The wearers of the "Come Back to Jesus" pins argued with one another; some thought the appearance of angels must be a sign God was showing whose side he was on; others said these "angels" were fakes or even demons. Benicia was aware her father had distributed some material along that line, although he had never said anything about it himself in public.

She didn't have any morning classes with Pleione Umino, but she did have a one with Johnny Brown. He didn't know what was going on, either, really, though it turned out he was really a bit of an angel-girl enthusiast--he was a little sheepish about it; it wasn't exactly something that went well with his image as a jock. One fact she did get: Pleione hadn't come to school with him like she usually did, and she hadn't been in either of the classes she shared with him.

Valentina Petrov did know something, but she was especially sensitive to being read, so Benicia didn't get very much. But she did get, unmistakeably, that Valentina knew something about the Yount children she was concealing, something she hadn't known before.