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The Fongs continued to smile at me patiently, pleasantly, as if they understood that it would take a moment for the shock of their announcement to wear off. Truthfully, I was still reeling, except in the last few minutes my silence had a new cause -- I physically ached to arrest this well-dressed smiling couple. I used to be a cop, and being a Satanist was a crime. In fact, when the Fongs made their announcement, my first reflex had been for my hands to go to my hip, reaching for handcuffs that were no longer there. Then I tried to raise the precinct on the LINK, but I'd forgotten that that, too, had been taken from me.

"Uh," I said again. Unfortunately, that had been extent of my conversational skills since Marshall introduced himself and Delilah.

"We need a private eye," Marshall said.

That would be me. The paint had barely dried on my office door, but that's what it said: "Deidre McMannus, Private Investigator."

At first, I'd been thrilled to see the Fongs. I'd started to wonder if the stigma of my public dismissal from the police force was going to destroy any chance of having paying clients and making a living. I hadn't yet noticed the pentagram, so I cleared some parking tickets off a couple of chairs, offered them coffee, and cheerfully opened up my new, antique notepad. It hummed under my fingers, even now, nearly forgotten.

"Miss McMannus? Are you quite all right?" Delilah asked finally.

It was strange to hear my name with the normal honorific. I'd gotten used to Officer, or Detective. "Just call me Deidre," I said.

"Yes, very well. Deidre," Delilah smiled warmly, but her delicately shaped eyebrows knit together as she spoke: "It's our son, you see. We’ve lost him."

"Yes," said Marshall. "He's gone missing now for days. The cops don't seem to care too much about his case because we're off the LINK, you know... outcasts, like yourself."

I wasn't sure I liked the comparison. Sure, I'd been excommunicated ever since my partner shot the Pope in front of a worldwide audience, but I used to be a fairly sincere Catholic.

Frowning hard, I rubbed the almond-shaped lump of the dead receiver that lay just under the skin of my right temple. I might not like the idea, but Marshall Fong was right about one thing. I was an outcast from the LINK. These days an excommunication was literal.

America was theocratic republic, and had been ever since the Great War, twenty years ago. Thanks to the Medusa bomb and the humanistic science that spawned that destructive technology, secularism had fallen so out of favor that it was now a requirement of citizenship to belong to an accepted religion. All citizens were connected by the LINK. The LINK was everything: commerce, business, entertainment, community... the works. I used to be in, just like I used to be a cop -- a LINK vice-cop, no less, but now I was out. Just like the Fongs. The law made no distinction between us.

That pissed me off. Deeply.

I'd been trying to do the right thing; these people flaunted their crime. They could change if they wanted to. Unlike me, the Fongs could take back what they'd done, renounce their sins, and the world would wash them clean and welcome them back as prodigal children. Then, the Fongs could get a LINK nexus, and join the righteous. I would kill for that opportunity. They squandered theirs.

I glanced at the door and imagined myself telling the Fongs they could stuff their case. I didn't want their illegal money. But, the problem was, of course, that I needed the cash. Desperately.

I could hardly be picky about my clientele, since I had none. I'd just opened shop, having dumped my life savings into getting the private detective license, running a few LINK and print ads, and paying the rent on this office space. If I didn't start doing business soon, I was going to be out of it -- and sleeping on the streets -- before the end of the month.

Was it worth violating my morals, my principles?

I glanced down at the electronic notepad. "Okay, so tell me about your son," I said.

I heard the tension in the Fongs release with a soft sigh. They'd been worried I would turn them away. I wondered how many other places they'd tried after the police, or if I was the first.

"Azazel," Delilah said with a smile. "He's in his senior year at high school. We've brought a photo."

"Azazel," I repeated. Jesus, they'd even saddled their kid with a name that flaunted convention. Azazel is one of the names given to the serpent that tempted Eve.

"Yes, Azzie. Our son." Marshall removed a flat-print from the back pocket of his slacks and handed it to me over the clutter of my desk. Azazel Fong was as clean-cut as his folks, although he'd rebelliously chosen to wear a pastel blue shirt and a dark blue denim jacket. His hair was long and straight, and from what I could tell he kept it tied in the back. He had a black cowboy hat on and a rakish smile. A good-looking kid -- from the picture, you'd never know he'd been raised as a Satanist. I blinked rapidly twice, the command for recording on the LINK. I waited a full ten seconds before I remembered I was no longer connected.

"Shit," I muttered, angry with myself for forgetting. The LINK had just been so much a part of my life. It felt like a phantom limb. To them, I said. "Can I keep this?"

"Of course," the Fongs said in unison. Delilah added, "That's why we brought it."

I nodded. It made sense that they would have thought ahead, never having been LINKed. My eyes strayed to the pentgram on Marshall's shirt.

"How did you get across town without getting picked up?" I found myself asking. "Why do you even wear something so blatant?"

It was Delilah who answered in a soft, cultured voice. "As Satanists we worship individual expression. For us, it's all about flaunting convention, daring society to pass judgment."

I grunted in confusion. "I would have thought that as Satanists, you worshipped Satan."

"Only abstractly," said Marshall.

"We actually consider ourselves atheists," agreed Delilah.

I rubbed the hard lump of the receiver. "Then, why not just be atheists?"

Being atheist was also illegal, but it was far more likely to be the kind of thing polite society would simply ignore. Most atheists could, for instance, pass. There was no "atheistic" costume. Unless someone asked, no one would have to know you were an atheist.

"It's not enough," Delilah said. Her voice had gained a sharp edge; she was clearly losing patience with me. "We are more than atheists. If you must know, we like the carnal aspect of Satanism and the autodeistic nature of the religion. But," she paused to sniff haughtily, "what this has to do with our son, I don't know."

I nodded. She was right. It wasn't really any business of mine, not any more -- not without the badge. "Okay, so are you close to your son? I mean, do you get along? Any reason to think he left home because of some argument?"

The Fongs glanced at each other, but answered fairly quickly. Marshall spoke: "We've had a few arguments, like you would with any teenager, but I can't imagine he'd have run away. He's our only child. And Azazel had been excited about the birthday party we were planning with all his friends."

I tried to imagine a Satanists' birthday party and failed. Chicken blood cake? Party hats with horns?

"We were going to let him do the whole thing, however he liked," Delilah said. "At a hotel. He could invite whomever he wanted. No restrictions."

I felt compelled to write that down no restrictions, hotel. The stylus felt clumsy in my hands. It took forever to record a simple phrase, especially when I remembered the ease capturing images and sound using the LINK.

Do what thou wilt, and hurt no one undeserving," Marshall agreed. "It's really our only law."

I ignored the creepy feeling that my stomach gave me when he said that so cheerily. I cleared my throat. "Was he planning on paying for this party himself, or...?"

"No, we gave him a credit counter," Delilah said.

I was excited to hear that on many levels. One, it meant they'd be able to pay me in something other than barter and, two, there might be a money trail.

My hopes were dashed on the latter when Marshall said: "But he hasn't used it for a week. We've been getting the reports."

"Did he have a job? Money of his own?"

"No, not really." Marshall said.

Even so, I wrote check credit counter, and asked Marshall if he'd be willing to share the reports. After his brief nod, I found myself asking a rather indelicate question that had been on my mind since they walked through the door: "How do you make your money? I mean, without the LINK."

Marshall shifted in his chair and glanced meaningfully over at Delilah.

"I'm a prostitute," she said. "Specifically a dominatrix for hire. It's extremely good money. Marshall is a visual artist. I support him. I support the whole family."

My jaws clenched. I had to hold onto my hand to keep from trying to reach for imaginary handcuffs.

"Oh," my voice was hard. "Does Azazel know what you do for a living?"

"Of course," she said with a little snort, as if I'd insulted her.

"How does he feel about it?"

Delilah opened her mouth to respond, but Marshall cut her off. "He has more problems with our religion than what mother does for a living. He's said so himself."

I was stunned. What kind of twisted kid doesn't care that his mother is a whore? All I could do was ask, "What?"

Marshall looked truly flustered, then spat out. "He's dating a Christian."

"We're afraid that boy is responsible for all of this," Delilah said. "That's he's taken our son off to..." her lips turned up into a sneer, "to brainwash him."

"That boy?" I repeated, not certain I'd heard rightly. Could this be any worse? Being gay was once again a crime in America, thanks a series of New Right presidents and some passage in Leviticus about men lying down together.

"Yes, that Christian boy Azazel has gone and fallen for... Robert or something -- he had a ridiculously forgettable name like that." Delilah said through pursed lips. She turned to her husband "Why couldn't Azzie have stayed with that Smith boy, Mephistopheles? He and Mephie made such nice, handsome couple."

She had to be joking. But from Marshall's equally distressed expression, I guessed not.

I wrote down: gay, parents okay with it. Wish he was dating Satan. Christian boyfriend. I looked at the words, then erased them with a swipe of my finger against the pad. I wasn't going to forget this turn of events.

If you want to read how the story ends, check out the #1 (November, 2003) issue of Simulacrum