Free Judgment Day by James F. David Page A

talk to them?" Christy said. "Isn't that why you invited them to the launch?"
    "These people weren't at the launch. They had their chance to report the story, now they'll have to pay."
    "You're going to charge them for the story?"
    "We sure are, aren't we, Mark?" Floyd said. Then looking over his shoulder at Christy he said, "Tell them how much you're charging."
    Mark looked embarrassed so Floyd answered for him.
    "If you want to talk to our leader it's one hundred thousand dollars for ten minutes."
    "That's a lot, isn't it, Daddy?" Daniel asked.
    "It's a whole lot," Floyd assured the little boy.
    "They won't pay you for a story," Christy said. "It violates journalistic principles."
    Mark and Floyd broke out laughing, embarrassing Christy.
    "You're stereotyping journalists," she said defensively.
    "If they can pay serial killers for their stories, they can pay us," Mark said.
    "If you don't talk to them, they'll talk to people about you," Christy said. "Disgruntled former members, employees, your barber, anyone who has a story to tell—it doesn't matter if the story is true or not."
    "They'll do that anyway," Mark said. "Besides, they're already bargaining with us. The National Enquirer offered forty thousand dollars this morning," Mark said.
    "What's this going to cost me?" Christy asked.
    Mark smiled, but before he could answer Floyd turned down a dirt road and called for Mark's attention.
    "Looky here, Mark. It's one of Proctor's people."
    A bearded man stood by a pickup, a rifle in his arms. Mark's worry creases returned and the muscles along his jaw tightened. After a short drive they pulled up to a gate, Mark getting out to unlock it. No fancy electronic security system, just a gate with a big Yale padlock.
    Soon they passed three large dish antennae, each turned at the same angle and pointed at the sky, then they were at the compound, parking on the concrete launch pad. As soon as they were out of the car Floyd swung Daniel up to his shoulders.
    "Follow me," Floyd said, excited like a kid. "I'll show you something."
    Floyd led her through a door into the largest structure. The news helicopter was there, being disassembled. Workers swarmed over it, dismantling it into the smallest pieces possible. Bits of the helicopter were strewn around the large enclosure. Boxes were being packed with other pieces.
    "It was Mark's idea," Floyd explained. "Those newspeople have been demanding we return the helicopter, so we are. We're sending it to them C.O.D."
    "Can I sit in it?" Daniel asked, kicking to get down.
    "Yes," his father said. "Just stay out of the way."
    Daniel ran to the cockpit while Floyd went to talk with the workers.
    "You won't make friends this way," Christy said.
    "We just want them to respect our rights," Mark explained. "We've got a restraining order against the other helicopters. We can't keep them from flying over, but we can keep them from landing."
    "Is that why your followers seldom go outside?"
    "They're not my followers," he said firmly. "We stay inside so there is nothing to see. Eventually we'll provide more information, but on our terms, not theirs."
    Taking her arm again he led her around the helicopter. The Rising Savior was on the other side, sitting on its trailer. Wires ran out of both spheres to a console thick with electronic gear. The pilot with the eye patch was there with another man. A woman's voice could be heard coming from inside one sphere.
    "Three eighty-two, three eighty-three . . . that's it, hold it."
    Mark let them work, the men concentrating on an oscilloscope, adjusting a wave pattern. When they seemed satisfied Mark interrupted.
    "Ira, this is Christy Maitland. Christy, Ira Breitling."
    Ira's grip was firm, his hand warm. His good eye watched her warily. Scars extended beyond the eye patch, reminders of a horrific injury.
    "I appreciated what you did in Idaho," Ira said flatly. "Some of our people had relatives there."
    "I'm just glad I could—"
    Before she could finish Ira