That was next. The rent for two places stretched an already tight pocketbook, and my supply of Christian Scientists in need of a private investigator was running dry. Despite their religious convictions against getting LINKed, the Scientists were, at least, respectable clients. More importantly to me, they could pay in credits rather than barter. The government recognized their objection as legitimate because it was based on religious belief against surgery. As conscientious objectors, they were allowed official external hardware.
Anyone else not on the LINK was either a dissenter or couldn't afford the process. America, as my letters to the editor often lamented, was no longer the home of democracy. We were becoming, instead, a theocracy, and had been since the last Great War, twenty-one years ago. Science, which had brought an ugly end to the fighting by producing and detonating the Medusa bombs, and the secular humanism that spawned it, had fallen so far out of favor that it was now officially a crime not to be at least nominally part of an organized religion.
Dissenters, mostly secular humanists and atheists or people like me, who were forced out of a recognized religion, made up the bulk of my clientele. However, as dissenters, they didn't have a citizenship card no card, no LINK; no LINK, no access to commerce; no commerce, no credits. Not even my shady landlord would take home-brew or other barter in lieu of real rent. It was credits or the street.
People had suggested I simply convert to another religion and have done with it. There had been several offers. Still, my Catholic guilt told me I deserved to be punished for what had happened between Daniel and me. Moreover, the Pope had made things more complicated when he excommunicated me. Legally, I was still a Catholic, just an excommunicated one. So, if I tried to officially join another religion, it would be like trying to marry a new husband without being divorced from a previous one not even Mormon women got away with a stunt like that in this country.
I sighed, then tapped the space key and watched halfheartedly as the New York Times scrolled across the antique monitor propped on the edge of
my desk.
"Not even a graphical interface anymore," I muttered, waiting for the next article to materialize on the screen. I skimmed another op-ed page article.
Once again, the reclusive presidential candidate, Reverend-Senator Etienne Letourneau, took a firm position against "liberal" (read: all but heathen) Rabbi-Senator Grey from New York. It took me two sentences to realize Letourneau's rant was an obvious ploy to put the fear of God into the opposition. This campaign was such a joke. If you believed in what the LINK angels had to say, and an overwhelming majority did, Reverend Letourneau embodied the Second Coming of Christ. In a theocracy, being God was a guaranteed winning platform.
I had my doubts, and not just since the excommunication. One of my main arguments all along against Letourneau was that new messiah ought to have similar basic tenets as Christ. A recluse holed up in the mountains of Colorado surrounded by all the fresh air money could buy fell pretty damned short of my expectations. Honestly, I'd sort of been holding out for a woman messiah this time around or, at the very least, not some nearly dead white guy.
My finger hovered over the reply key ready to fire off another letter to the editor, when I heard a loud rap of someone at the door.
"Later, Letourneau," I told the monitor, and hit save. "Door's open," I shouted, twisting the chair to step back into the leather pumps I'd kicked off earlier. I was still adjusting the heel when he let himself in.
"Detective McMannus?"
"Not anymore," I corrected, without looking up. "Door says private investigator."
With the shoe finally in place, I swiveled the chair. Something between a gasp and a hiss came out of my mouth.
Granted, masculine beauty has always been a weakness of mine, but this man literally took my breath away. Olive-skinned, tall, broad-shouldered, slender-waisted he looked like he might have been sculpted from marble. Unfortunately, this David remembered to dress himself this morning. His fashion sense leaned toward urban combat. Leather jacket and dusty-blue jeans hugged his muscular frame. He looked like a warrior sheathed in casual armor.
As I traced the line of his throat up to his face, a smile captured my lips a girl could cut herself on the angle of that jaw. His dark, curly locks were shorn above the ears in a martial style; gray eyes flashed from under strong, dark swatches of eyebrows.
"Are you Deidre McMannus?" He asked again, irritation marring his godlike brow.
"I am," I said, remembering to stand up and offer him a hand. Smoothing out the wrinkles in my blouse, I turned on my most charming smile. "And who might you be?"
He took my hand and I wasn't disappointed by the firmness of his grasp. "Lieutenant Michael Angelucci, Tenth Precinct."
"Oh. A cop." I dropped his handshake and turned my back to him. Not only a cop, but an angel freak. Since the appearance of the LINK-angels several months ago, thousands of converts changed their given names or surnames to include some form of the word "angel." More than half my client list was named Angelica or Angelo.