A sect of property-sharing polygamists has proclaimed an autonomous city of God somewhere in central Texas. At first he thinks it’s a demented marketing campaign that Bonner has dreamed up for Fowler’s opening: the ecstatic believers, camped out in the desert, singing, praying, and waiting for time to end. The bungled raid by the ATF. The FBI laying siege to the believers’ compound in a cordon as tight as the Prince Bishop’s earthworks around Münster.Too familiar to take in. What is all this?Bonner’s doing something with his mouth: call it smiling. He glances at the stage, where John of Leiden, sword in hand, heads into Act Two’s closing barnburner aria, The glory of all the Saints is to wreak vengeance . . . Yeah—how about that? Been going on for weeks. Who knew? Shit happens while you’re busy.Els scrambles out of his seat and turns up the aisle. Bonner grabs his wrist.Where you going?Els doesn’t know. To the nearest television set. To the library. To the office of the artistic director of City Opera to plead innocence.He lowers himself back into the chair.
