

### Of Little Faith

Thomas J. Eggert

Copyright 2013 by Thomas J. Eggert

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Earlier version of this work published in 2006. All final revisions, editing and formatting completed April 2014 by original author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

# Chapter 1

"One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it,

unless it has been all suffering and nothing but suffering."

—Jane Austen

Persuasion

Oblivion ... The transference

If hell could express itself upon a soul's arrival, it would be known that the tortured hatred experienced within the earthbound realm, the very hatred that carries a soul to this cruel existence, was but a meager taste of the torture yet to come. But hell offered no foresight of the lamentation ahead. And so it was ... naked, confused, alone, Vincent Goss arrived—a captive soul of an inhumane world on the fringe of Creation.

Vincent rolled on his side, scraping the graveled ground, and propped himself up. He focused his hell-forged eyes for the first time and surveyed his body, his pale, flawless skin. He saw his legs trembling and reached to steady his thigh. He glanced at his arm, then slowly raised his hand and clenched a steel fist. The muscles rippled in his forearm as he wondered upon what anvil such strength was hammered.

A warm, caustic wind began to gust, carrying with it the stench of foul vinegar. Vincent held still and clamped shut his eyes. His hair whipped madly against his temples as he tried jogging his memory. He searched for his name, a home, family or friend—anything to illuminate his past. Nothing emerged beyond short circuit flashes of another time, a different world.

The wind and dust settled and Vincent opened his eyes to his new home. On the ground lay flint: chunks of flint, faded brown flint, shiny black flint, steel gray flint, flint bits, flint splinters and flint dust. He slowly turned his head searching for change.... _Nothing_. Oblivion washed away to a faceless horizon, fading in all directions as a sublimely featureless creature.

Vincent jerked his head and looked up. A wicked sky, painted with violet wisps, revealed itself. Twisting and writhing, the purple clouds churned across the atmosphere as if stroked by the invisible brush of a madman. Beyond the clouds hung a canopy of crimson, bright and pulsing, forever changing, one second brilliant, the next fading. No sun danced in the heavens, no moon cast its glow upon the desert, no stars offered dreams of another world.

Vincent sighed and slowly shook his head. In a dry even voice, he whispered, "What the hell is this place?" He tried to stand up. His legs trembled, still weak from the transfer. He clutched his shaking knees and began walking, trudging forward, sweeping up chunks of flint with each sliding step.

Flesh peeled from Vincent's feet as the seeming hours passed. He crunched his face with every footfall upon the desert floor, the guttural sound of an injured beast rumbling in his chest. The unbearable pain forced him to his hands and knees. He huffed the putrid air, parting dust on the dry ground. "Where am I?" Vincent knotted his stomach, curled his toes, and flexed muscles, trying to force memories back to his brain. Nothing came. No name. No home. No blissful yesterdays to offer him solace.

A single tear formed somewhere in a dark corner of his subconscious and tried to push free. The tear didn't flow. Oblivion wouldn't offer that release, not now, not ever. Its jealous hold on Vincent's soul was sadistic by nature, relentless, eternal.

Vincent relaxed for a moment, wiping his dry eyes, gathering his wits. He squinted at a lump on the bleak horizon, sighed a quick breath of rancid air, and began crawling.

Vincent scraped across the ripping surface for over a quarter mile, teeth clenched, growling. He reached up to shade his eyes, to take the glare off the horizon, and his supporting hand kicked out on loose rubble. His face slammed hard on serrated flint. A three inch vertical gash parted his left cheek. He thrust up his hand to arrest the bleeding, but nothing flowed. He waited a moment, removed pressure from the wound, and spread open the cut. Nothing. Vincent stuck a finger inside the gash. It was dry. He creased his brow and inspected the wounds on his hands. There should have been many, he felt the flesh tear while crawling, yet only a few lacerations remained, a trio of odd rips on the heels of both hands—cuts with no blood.

Terror ripped at Vincent's psyche. It slithered through his brain like an electric eel and clamped down upon his cerebellum with furious intent. "What the hell's goin' on?"

Tightly grasping his wrist, he tried coaxing blood through his veins to the open wound. Nothing flowed. In fact, the wound had narrowed. He shook his head. "No, this isn't happenin'." It was happening. The wounds closed, quickly healing in front of his own wide eyes. "Th-this can't be." He reached for his face. His sliced cheek had healed. "This isn't real. What is this place?"

Vincent's words evaporated in the desert silence without reply.

His unsteady knees found stability in panic and he jumped up and ran. He raced toward the lump on the horizon, running full force, the caustic air ravaging his lungs. Slowing to rest, he noticed no sweat dripped from his brow or glistened on his naked body. Realizing rest offered no relief, he picked up the pace and jogged toward the lump, watching it become distinguishable. _Thank God_ , Vincent thought, _somebody else_!

Alone in the desert was a young man. He was on his knees, his hands at his sides, his mouth hanging open. His skinny, naked frame was covered by flawless, white skin. His head was vacant of hair, his eyes were vacant of life.

"Hey!" Vincent yelled, dropping to his knees in front of the youth.

The young man didn't respond. His lifeless, blue eyes stared through Vincent toward the edge of oblivion.

"Hey!" Vincent grabbed the youth's shoulder and shook. "What's wrong with you?"

The young man didn't move.

Vincent stared deeply into those youthful eyes and saw his own thirty-two-year-old reflection. He ran his fingers across his own scalp, wondering who butchered his short, brown hair. Vincent looked closer and saw his own handsome, well-etched face. He saw his own eyes, hazel mixed with blue. He backed away and stared at the young man. "Hey." Vincent grabbed both shoulders and shook. "Hey! Wake up!"

The youth sprang to life in a panic and scrambled backward. " _Gibt es einen ausweg_?"

"What?" Vincent crawled after him. "What's your name?"

" _Gibt es einen ausweg_?"

"What? What does that—"

The youth stood up, panic flashing through his eyes. " _Es wird nie enden_!" He turned and ran.

"Wait!" Vincent yelled. He stood up and ran after the young man. "Wait! What is this place?" The youth kept running, chasing the horizon, leaving Vincent far behind. "Wait!" Vincent screamed, hoping an echoing word might reach the stranger. "Where are we?"

The pursuit continued for what seemed endless hours, the sharp flint carving flesh from Vincent's feet. Mile upon mile of senseless solitude faded behind him as unquenchable thirst yanked his gut, dust clogged his nose, and his lungs turned to mush. He began stumbling across the desert as the soles of his feet became bare bone. Helpless against the onslaught, coughing up bits of lung, Vincent collapsed to the desert floor, then rolled on his back in agony.

Writhing, vaporous clouds, the color of rotting lilacs, assembled in the sky to Vincent's right. He stared at the pulsating crimson canopy beyond the clouds, then scanned the horizon for signs of change. Three miles away, a single shadowed line split the desert monotony and nothing more.

Pain pierced Vincent's feet as bone returned and flesh regenerated. He noticed a toe missing and watched a fresh one sprout from his foot like a lonely man's erection. He pondered for a moment, faintly recalling carnal pleasure in another world. Vincent reached for his manhood and lightly stroked it, curious to see if it still functioned. Nothing happened. No erection, no pleasure. "What was I thinkin'?" He glared at the pulsing sky. "That would be askin' for too much, _wouldn't it_?"

With resurrected feet, Vincent stood up and ran toward the hazy line upon the desert floor. It was a rift of some kind, a slice through the heart of oblivion. He ran to the brink of the rift and peered over its edge. The cliff face was black and smooth, nearly shining, no way to climb down. He turned to his left and his right. The ravine faded to both horizons. Vincent stared across, gauging the distance at three hundred feet. He scanned the ravine floor and saw only boulders—no river, no animals, no people, no life of any kind, just a jagged slash across a dried up tomb of desolation, offering neither promise nor explanation, bestowing only that which had been granted so benevolently since his arrival—mind-numbing hopelessness. He waved his hand to the sky in salute, and said, "Thanks for nothin'."

Vincent walked, for what felt like, two days along the ravine. Seeing no apparent end, he backtracked twice that time and beyond. The sky never darkened and night never fell. The ravine became neither narrow nor shallow, and no wall allowed a place to climb down. And down is where he wanted to be. It didn't matter that the ravine was of little difference from the desert, it was somewhere else.

Vincent paced at the cliff's edge, feeling his internal fortitude collapse as violet clouds collected overhead once more. A warm breeze swirled down from the sky. An abrasive dust mingled with the caustic wind, chewed its way to his lungs, and stirred like a miniature tornado within his chest. He reared back his head to expel the fury but it would not come. Quick, short, torturous breath leapt from his throat like a locomotive churning out a broken pace. Still he couldn't sneeze. Demons twisted in his nose, laughing, mocking. The cycle would not complete.

The unending brink of a sneeze, uniquely intolerable and sadistically maddening, left Vincent with only one viable option ... an option suppressed since his arrival.

He stood at the edge of the cliff, toes dangling, eyes closed. With the sneeze still taunting him, along with countless other tortures, Vincent Goss prepared for death. He stepped back twenty paces, opened wide his eyes, unleashed a barbaric yell, and ran full force toward his demise.

He skidded short of the cliff's edge by mere inches, sliding, kicking rubble to the ravine floor. "I can't do this," Vincent forced out between shortened sneeze breath. "I can't. There's gotta be an answer somewhere." He sat down at the cliff face, legs bent over the edge, and suffered. "There's gotta be more to this place than this."

The violet clouds condensed overhead into a dark, seething mass. An eerie-blue iridescence mingled within the clouds and cast a neon glow upon the desert. The ravine blackened as the caustic wind blew with renewed conviction.

A drop of glowing liquid leapt from the clouds and stung Vincent's ear. He jerked up his hand as if to smack a wasp. "What the hell?" He looked skyward. More blue drops fell in quick succession. He jumped to his feet, swatting frantically, as if in the midst of swarming bees.

The clouds unloaded a wild torrent of misery, each glowing drop gnawing flesh. Vincent ran, trying to escape the rain, but the storm touched all horizons. The sheets of flesh-eating acid hammered his nerves, while his skin—eaten away by the caustic liquid—regenerated to suffer the same torment again and again. The rain melted his eyelids and ate at his eyes. His genitals boiled with pain as testicles bulged through enlarging holes in his scrotum. He tried shielding his face and manhood as he ran, but the acid found ways to attack the body parts he considered most precious.

Vincent finally gave up. With nowhere to escape, no memories worth cherishing, no life worth living, he turned toward the cliff. Without hesitation, he leapt over the edge and watched fate rush to greet him.

He dropped evenly with the rain, witnessing the iridescent drops splattering on the ravine floor, knowing, for a splintered second, that would soon be him. Vincent felt a sense of _deja vu_ and forced a laugh and a smile. Neither offered release from a relentless grip of pain. At ninety-miles-an-hour, he smashed the side of a flint boulder, then landed as a broken lump of humanity upon the ravine floor.

What life Vincent had did not end.

Contorted in wicked ways, he tried to scream. With his neck broken, he could only move his lips. His spinal cord soon regenerated, carrying with it an extensive network of agony. He tried screaming again. No air passed through his crumpled throat, no sound broke the still air. Vincent could only lay there, helpless, silently suffering as the raining acid gnawed open wounds.

A caustic, glowing pool formed on the ground where a rip in Vincent's thigh waited like a hungry sponge. Flesh melted and bone vaporized, only to regenerate once more. A gash in his chest let acid gather and digest internal organs. Holes opened in his intestines, allowing a burning rush of misery race to find an exit. He cringed with each caustic drop, wincing as exposed nerves regrouped to be eaten once again.

A dreadful amount of time passed while he endured oblivion's torment. With no end to the torture in sight, with all-consuming pain a constant, Vincent surrendered to his fate. _If this is my eternity_ , he thought, _then I can't fight it_. _I can't die, and I sure as hell can't live. I can only suffer_. He ground his teeth. _So, have your way with me. I don't care anymore. Do you hear me? I don't care_!

As if appeased by surrender, the clouds of oblivion faded, the rain stopped, and the crimson sky brightened an otherwise dismal existence. The acid—pooled in various cavities, cracks and recesses—boiled and vaporized. A caustic, glowing fog gently rose, clouding the ravine in an eerie-blue haze.

The fog, although irritating, didn't hinder the growth of skin and bone. Vincent began to regenerate. His femur mended. New ribs grew, caging fresh lungs that no longer needed to sneeze. His skull, jaw and cheekbones healed. His twisted neck straightened as vertebrae snapped back in position. Diligent of duty and focused of purpose, his broken body mended.

Vincent's resurrected flesh and bones ruthlessly caged him once more. He didn't care. Rain or no rain, broken body or whole, his will to struggle in a merciless land had perished. So he just lay there in the acid fog, neither feeling sorry for himself nor caring to live or die, and surrendered to his dismal existence.

The past that now resided in Vincent's memory consisted wholly of oblivion's torment. Having no pleasurable thoughts to dwell upon saved him the injustice of lamenting a better life. Oblivion offered him that by default. If it could, it would have paraded Vincent's most glorious moments before him as a mocking tribute, a testimony to all that was lost, a life he could never regain.

Just as he turned off all attachment to reality, a voice gently echoed across the ravine, gliding through the dense fog on gossamer wings.

Vincent retched up an uneasy laugh as the voice, that of a young boy in peril, ricocheted through his head. He couldn't tell if the sounds were real or just another twisted attempt by oblivion to inflict agony. For if it was somebody else, someone who spoke English, there was hope, but if the voice proved empty of body, only deeper madness awaited, an insanity Vincent dared not imagine. He laughed again to push the voice away.

"Help me, please!" the child's voice pleaded. "I need help!"

Vincent clamped shut his ears and rolled to his side.

"Please, the acid, it hurts! Help me!"

Vincent shook his head, knowing it to be a sick joke.

"Please help me!" the child begged.

"No. This isn't real. You're not real!" Vincent stood up and acknowledged the voice. "Just shut up! You're _not_ real! None of this is real!"

"Mister, please, I am trapped! I need your help!"

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not real. It's not real. Not real! Not real! Not real!"

"Please, mister I—

"Damn it! Fine! _Fine_! You wanna play with me some more? _Huh_? You think you can cause me any more damage than you already have? Then bring it on!" Vincent raised his hands, clenched his iron fists, and screamed through the fog, "Just bring it the _fuck_ on!" He turned, then turned again. "Where the hell are you?"

"I am over here, mister!" came a faint yell. "Please hurry!"

Vincent strained his eyes and ears. "I can't hurry if I don't know where you're at, kid! Keep talkin'!"

"The acid hurts! Please help me!"

"Damn it, kid, I'm tryin'!"

"Please, mister, I need your help!"

Vincent gauged the voice a hundred yards away. He stumbled through the glowing fog, stubbing his feet against rocks, bouncing off flint boulders. "Keep talkin', kid!"

"I am here, mister! I am down in a hole!"

Vincent searched for an opening in the heavy fog. "C'mon, kid! Keep talkin'!"

"Please hurry! It is so cold down here!"

Vincent hit the ravine wall and felt his way along its smooth surface. His hand traced the outline of a chasm. He peered into its glowing entry. "Are you down there?"

"Yes, please hurry."

"How far down are you?"

"I do not know."

Vincent stuck his head in the chasm opening and surveyed a small sloping cave. Twenty feet away, at the back wall, the gradual slant of the entrance gave way to a vertical drop, a pit of unknown depth. An iridescence rose from the bowels of the chasm, casting a familiar eerie-blue haze upon the jagged walls.

"How the hell'd you get down there, kid?" Vincent asked.

"They chased me— The rain, it hurts. Please, mister, it is so cold."

"Did you climb down? Fall?"

"I did not have a choice."

Vincent climbed inside the blue chamber. "Talk to me, kid, tell me how I'm gonna get you outa here." He edged forward, nearing the pit.

"Please, mister, the acid hurts."

Vincent squinted his eyes, staring at the glowing hole. "Where'd all this acid come from? What is this place?" His words evaporated without reply. "Kid? You still there?"

"Yes."

Vincent dropped to his hands and knees and peered over the edge of the pit. Forty feet below, a bundled shadow floated behind a curtain of blue fog. "Is that you?"

"Yes," the child said. "Please hurry."

Vincent studied the pit. Jagged, vertical and circular, it offered no easy passage to the gloom below. "Kid, there's no way I can climb—"

"Please, I want to be out of here."

"So do I, kid." Vincent found a secure hold on the pit's rim. "Where is _here_ anyway? Where are we?"

"Please," the child begged. "I am scared. Please, mister, please help me."

Vincent sighed. "All right, just hang on." He turned around and lowered his left leg over the edge. Finding a foothold, he lowered his right leg and grasped the pit rim with both hands. Inch by inch, like a spider on wet porcelain, he descended. "How far down are—" Vincent lost his grip and dropped fast. He landed flatly on the smooth flint floor, fracturing seven ribs, scattering teeth like rolling dice, breaking the bridge of his slender nose, twisting and snapping both knees.

"Are you hurt, mister?"

Vincent turned his head toward the voice. With one good lung, he answered, "I've had worse." Vincent lay on a hardened flint rim of an acid pool, a mere body length from the caustic ooze. The acid lapped three feet below the rim's edge, churning loudly, daring him to roll in. As his body regenerated, he studied the child huddled in the blue haze against the pit wall. "C'mere, kid, let me get a look at you."

"I cannot," the child replied.

"Why not?"

"It is too dangerous."

"What?" Vincent's ribs snapped back.

"I might fall in."

"You won't fall in, kid. Let me see you."

"Please, mister, can you get us out of here?"

Vincent's left knee mended. He propped himself up. "I don't know."

"Please, mister—"

"Damn it, kid, quit callin' me _mister_. I gotta name." Vincent thought for a moment, then mumbled, "I think I got one."

"I feel so cold," the child said.

"It's not that cold down here." Vincent stood up, grasping his new left knee. "Why the hell do you keep sayin' it's so—" His right knee, not fully reconstructed, buckled as he stepped forward. Vincent stumbled and collapsed. Without thinking, he rolled to stop the agony. Clutching his knee at his chest, he toppled into the acid pool. "Help me, kid!" Vincent splashed wildly, struggling in the bottomless acid.

The boy's shadow began to shift.

Flesh melted and returned as Vincent lunged for an edge he couldn't reach. "Hurry up, kid, help me! I'm dyin' in this shit!"

The misty shadow clarified as the boy walked to the edge of the acid pool.

"You cannot die in the acid, mister, it only offers pain."

Vincent looked up and saw a young boy. The child hovered above like a naked angel, his soft brown hair tucked short behind white cherub ears.

"Get me outa this shit!" Vincent yelled.

The boy knelt down. With eyes of silver starshine that captured Vincent's still heart, he said, "You can only suffer here."

Vincent stopped struggling. The pain subsided as the child's glittering eyes offered a brief phantasm of hope. The pain abruptly returned and he thrust up his right hand. The child pulled Vincent up to the rim and helped him climb out.

"Thanks, kid." Vincent collapsed on the ground, flesh growing.

"Can you get us out of here, mister?"

Vincent paused and sighed, "Yeah, just give me a minute, okay?"

The flesh returned and Vincent inventoried his body. He examined his feet and legs, his stomach and chest, his arms and hands. He noticed his right hand was painted with blood. He twisted it back and forth.

"I'm bleedin'," Vincent said, incredulous, happy. "I'm bleedin'. I can bleed!" He leapt to his feet holding his right wrist. "I'm bleedin'!"

"It is not your blood," the child said.

"What do you mean, it's not mine? Look at it!" Vincent thrust out his hand.

The boy held out his own two hands. Vincent raised his brow. Shredded skin hung from the child's fingertips, exposed bone breached the tips of three digits, flesh was carved away from the palms in jagged chunks. And all the while, blood sweet blood, seeping and oozing, flowing and dripping. _Oh_ , the sweet blood of life, how Vincent envied the child.

"How is it you can bleed?"

The boy deeply gazed into Vincent's eyes. Without a whisper of response, Vincent found solace in the child's sparkling eyes, like starshine, glittering silver ablaze with knowledge and understanding. In those eyes dwelled strength and serenity. They were eyes of truth.

Vincent turned away from the transfixing gaze. He grabbed the boy's wrists and knelt down. "Kid, we need to stop this bleedin' somehow."

"It will not stop," the child said.

"Well then, you're gonna run outa blood. You'll just dry up and die."

"These wounds will not kill me."

Vincent paused for a moment, then asked, "What'd you mean by ' _I can only suffer here_.'" He stared up through the blue haze. "Seems to me the only way that could happen would be if I'm already dead."

The child fell silent and bowed his head.

"Are we dead, kid?" Vincent bobbed his head down to meet the boy's eyes. "Is that it? We're dead?"

"Please, mister, it is so cold down here."

"We're dead, aren't we? Is this hell? Are we in hell, kid?"

The child didn't reply.

"You're not gonna tell me, are you? You know what this place is and you're not gonna tell me ... _are you_?"

"Please, mister. I am so cold."

Vincent clenched his teeth, then said with obvious sarcasm, "Well, I guess we need to get you outa here, _huh_? Wouldn't want you to freeze to death, now would we?"

"Yes. Please, mister."

" _Mister, mister, mister_." Vincent released the child's arms. "Once I remember my name, I never wanna hear you call me mister again. Got that?"

"Yes, mister."

Vincent smiled and shook his head. "What's your name?"

"Thaddeus Konises."

" _Thaddeus_?" A distorted memory flashed through Vincent's head. He closed his eyes, trying to clarify the fractured pictures. The memory quickly faded. Vincent opened his eyes, and asked the child, "Have we met before?"

The boy remained silent.

Vincent laughed a bit, slightly shaking his head. "Yeah, well anyway, that name isn't gonna work for me, kid." Vincent stood up and examined the pit wall for footholds. "Too damn formal." He checked for a toehold. "How about Thad, or maybe Tad, somethin' like that. You got any nicknames?"

"My father called me Thaddy."

"Thaddy?" Vincent nodded his approval. "That works." He walked toward the child. "Thaddy, I want you to reach around my neck and jump on my back. I'm gonna try and get us outa this hellhole." He knelt down and Thaddy wrapped his icy arms around his neck. Vincent shuddered as the cold hands grasped his chest. "Damn, kid, you _are_ cold." He found his first foothold. "Hold on tight." Vincent inched his way up the pit wall using handholds barely big enough for a thumbnail. Nine feet above, he examined a tunnel punched in the pit wall. It was big enough for Thaddy, but not himself. Vincent sighed, then climbed once more. With seventy-three pounds of hope clinging to his back, he slowly labored to the top of the pit.

Vincent grasped the pit rim and pulled. His torso collapsed on the ground above and Thaddy climbed off. Vincent swung up his legs and sat on the ground facing the child.

Through the chasm entrance, Vincent noticed the fog in the ravine had evaporated. A crimson glow from the pulsing sky backlit Thaddy with a fiery aura. Vincent studied the boy as the child sat perfectly still, his arms wrapped around his knees. Thaddy's smooth chest didn't rise with a single breath; his glittery eyes didn't blink away the misery as they gazed beyond the chasm opening. The boy's lean body held aloft an angel's face with thin lips, robust cheeks, high forehead with a lock of soft brown hair cascading in a wave over his brow. And, although his injuries invoked certain pain, the child never complained. He wore his wounds like an old pair of comfortable shoes.

"Thanks, mister," Thaddy said, breaking the silence.

"Yeah sure, kid. Don't mention it." Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. "Now I think it's time you answered some questions."

"Not now, we are not safe here. We must move on."

"Not a chance." Vincent grabbed the boy's right arm. "You're gonna tell my why you're bleedin' and I'm not."

"Mister, please, I cannot. Not yet. It is not safe here. We must go."

"No way." Vincent raised Thaddy to his feet and grabbed both arms. "Why isn't it safe here? You said someone chased you into that pit. Who, Thaddy? Who was it?"

"Mister, please, you are hurting me."

"Damn it, if you don't start givin' me some answers, I'm really gonna put the _spank_ on your ass!" Vincent paused, pondering the source of his own words.

"Please, mister—"

Vincent yanked Thaddy off his feet and shoved him against the chasm wall "I'm not fuckin' around! Why is it I can't bleed? What is this place?"

"Please, mister, you are scaring—"

"Goddamn it, you piece of shit!" Vincent slammed the child against the wall. "You have the answers! I know it! I see it in your goddamn eyes! Tell me! Tell me what this place is! _Where are we_?"

A shimmering tear tumbled down Thaddy's cheek. A singular tear holding the pain a boy his age should never know. In it, Vincent saw grief, a harrowing nightmare of sorrow and remorse. He dropped the boy to the ground.

"I'm sorry, kid. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know, mister."

"It's this damn place. It's eatin' me alive." Vincent collapsed and covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry."

"It is all right, Vincent," the child said. "This place eats at us all."

"It just seemed that you knew where we were, that—" Vincent paused. "What'd you just say?"

Thaddy remained silent.

"What'd you call me?"

"Vincent," Thaddy said.

"Is that my name?" Vincent jumped to his feet. "Is that my name? Is it? Is that really my name?"

"Yes."

Vincent dropped to his knees, grasped both of Thaddy's arms, and searched the child's eyes. "How do you know? How do you know my name?" Vincent paused, staring deeply into those glittering eyes. "That _is_ my name. How'd you know that? _How_? You've got to tell me more."

"It is up to you now, mister," Thaddy said. "You must start to remember for yourself."

Vincent released his grip. "Damn it, kid, I've spent days tryin' to remember." He clenched his scalp with both hands. "I can't find it. Nothin'. It's not up there."

"It is, mister, it is all there. You just have to release it."

"And just how the hell do I do that?"

"Your memories were short-circuited when you arrived here," Thaddy explained, "but not wiped out. Listen to yourself. You speak English, you use your God's name in vain, you know that you should bleed. None of that was learned in this world. If you want a chance to leave this place, you must remember your past, and you must do it quickly."

Vincent backed up against the chasm wall and sat down as Thaddy's words took hold. "Just tell me, kid. Just tell me who I am."

"I cannot." Thaddy walked out through the chasm entrance, disappeared beyond some scattered boulders, and then quickly returned. "I cannot tell you who you are, but this will speed the process of regaining your memory." In his bloody right hand he held a small mahogany box. He presented it to Vincent.

"What the hell's this?" Vincent reached for the box.

"Open it."

Vincent reluctantly inspected the three inch cube. The heavily varnished wood held the scratches of many rough years. Its simplicity was sublimely beautiful, an inornate wooden skin enshrouding a box of dreams. Vincent grasped the top and opened the lid. Crushed red velvet dressed the inside in a solid crimson blanket. Only a small slot through the center of the base interrupted an otherwise perfect interior.

"The crank is snapped under the lid," Thaddy said. "Stick it in the slot and turn it."

"What is this thing?" Vincent asked.

"It is my music box."

"And I'm supposed to do exactly what with it?"

"Please, mister, turn the crank. It will help you remember."

Vincent slowly shook his head. "This is what it all comes down to?" He slumped back against the wall. "My fate hinges on some kid's toy?" He turned to Thaddy. "What if I don't wanna remember? Yeah, what if this _is_ hell? Then I must've done somethin' pretty bad to be sent here, right? So what good will it do me to remember?"

Thaddy's eyebrows raised. "Is it doing you any good not remembering, mister?"

Vincent curled a faint smile upon his lips. "Fuck you, kid. You crank it." He tossed the music box on the ground.

Thaddy picked up the box, gazed into Vincent's eyes, and softly said, "Mister, you can die here. You _will_ die if you do not remember your past. There is not much time." The boy offered the music box once more. "Please."

"Dying might be the best thing in the world for me right now." Vincent looked around. "As long as it gets me out of this place."

Thaddy inhaled and sighed a rare breath. "You should not be here, mister. This place was not meant for you." He placed the music box back in Vincent's hand. "There is still a chance for you to leave. You must have faith in me. Listen to the music. _Please_."

Vincent took the box, inserted the crank, stared at Thaddy, and asked, "Why're you here, kid? What'd you do so wrong that sent you to hell?"

"I am here by choice," the child said.

"Nobody chooses hell, kid." Vincent narrowed his eyes. "What are you about nine years old? Ten maybe? How do you know so much? Who are you really?"

"Please, mister, just—"

"Crank the handle." Vincent sighed, weary of the boy's persistence. "Okay, kid, if this is what it comes down to, I'll do it. I'll play your little music box." He studied the box, then turned the crank. Various springs and gears jumped into their assigned positions. The crank turned stiff with a strong spring tension. Vincent winked at the boy and released the crank.

The lullaby, "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," flowed from the music box. The mechanical chimes of the sweet melody echoed throughout the chasm, blanketing Vincent in a soothing reprieve.

Thaddy faded from view.

Vincent's insides twittered.

The cavern turned black....

# Chapter 2

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying."

—Robert Herrick

"To the Virgins, to make much of Time"

Bon Olivi, IL ... Spring

"I will give of the fountain of the water of life freely to him who thirsts," Reverend Stalwart read. "He who overcomes shall inherit _all_ things, and I will be his God and he shall be My son. But the cowardly, unbelieving, abominable, murderers, sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death." Reverend Stalwart paused for effect, gazing with an inward smile upon his quiet congregation. The forty sheep rigidly sat upon maple pews, heads bowed, as their shepherd bludgeoned them with Revelation.

It wasn't typical for the Reverend to preach from Revelation, but he reckoned the approaching millennium required tough scripture. He knew the collection plate would suffer, and, if he had his druthers, he'd be knee deep in the book of Corinthians preaching love and sacrifice, but wrongful times demanded righteous action, and the fear of God, properly placed, always did more good than harm.

Reverend Stalwart shifted from the safety of his bible and wooden pulpit. Using a knotted cherry cane to prop up his portly frame, he limped forward and stood directly in front of the eighteen pews that lined the wooden floor of the humble Methodist church. He looked at the quiet people and thought, _How long has it been now, Lord_? _Thirty-eight, thirty-nine years_? He winked at a shy girl sitting in the first pew. The four-year-old quickly bowed her head. _I have preached for almost forty years now. Is Your message being received_?

Reverend Stalwart had actually preached for forty-two years, all of that time at the Transcendence Methodist Church in Bon Olivi, Illinois, a generic small town one-hundred-twenty miles southwest of Chicago.

"Now when the thousand years have expired," the Reverend continued, reciting scripture from memory, his voice deep, rasping, reverberating from the fieldstone walls, "Satan will be released from his prison and will go out to deceive the nations which are in the four corners of the earth."

Reverend Stalwart scanned his audience, searching for little Brendon Goss, a shy boy of five years. "They went up to the breadth of the earth and surrounded the camp of the saints and the beloved city," the Reverend limped through the middle of the pews, "and the fire came down from God out of heaven and devoured them." He knelt down on his one good knee in front of the child. The boy's father, Vincent Goss, sat uneasily next to his son holding his hand. "Do you know what happened next, Brendon?" the Reverend asked, pressing his wrinkled face close to the child's face.

"No, sir," the child said with broken words.

Reverend Stalwart smiled and prayed, _Please, Lord, heal this boy's stuttering. Let him talk normal so the other kids don't pick on him_. "And the devil, who deceived them," the Reverend said, propping himself back up, "was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone where the beast and the false prophet are. And they will be tormented day and night forever."

The Reverend paused, winked at Brendon, turned around and limped back to the pulpit. He signaled the organist and she struck the first chord of "Amazing Grace." The relieved congregation stood up and sang.

The noon bells clanged from the church tower. Reverend Stalwart concluded the service and herded his sheep from the chapel. The congregation mulled about the reception area, shaking hands, relaying well wishes, and comparing Sunday wardrobes.

Vincent Goss, not one for small talk, exited directly. He swung open the solid oak front door and entered the April sunshine. The sweet smell of cherry blossoms and honeysuckle scented the warm air. " _Revelations_ ," Vincent muttered, walking down three steps to the front lawn. "What is it with that man and the end of the world?" He sauntered to a wooden bench, pulled off his brown jacket, and placed it in his lap as he sat down.

A cherry tree grew tall next to the bench, its flowers singing the glory of springtime. The sun sparkled through the blossoms, casting shadowy daylight upon Vincent's sun-etched face. He narrowed his blue-hazel eyes toward the church exit, and said to himself, _One more week of Revelations and I swear I'll turn to Buddhism_. He loosened the only tie he owned and undid the top button of his white shirt. Vincent rubbed a calloused hand across his smooth chin and thought, _I guess I'll have to stiff the collection plate again next Sunday_.

As the church bells concluded their noontime serenade, Vincent stood up and paced among fallen cherry blossoms. It wasn't so much the sermon that agitated him as it was the Reverend singling out his child. _He knows Brendon stutters, why does he have to pick on him_? Vincent thought. _Shoot, the kid's smart, he can already read, for God's sake. He's just a little shy, that's all. He'll outgrow it_.

The church entrance opened and the sheep flocked out to the manicured lawn. All wearing their brightest smiles, they intertwined each other to ensure no hands were missed and no friendliness overlooked. Like a choreographed dance number, each person shook a hand, offered a smile, snapped a bit of small talk, nodded a head, smiled again, turned and repeated. The kids dutifully attached themselves to their parents, offering "yes, ma'am" and "no, sir" upon request. Nobody bumped, nobody tripped; it was a flawless ballet perfected by seven generations of repetition.

Out from the church walked Cassandra Goss. Christened Cassandra Isola Meed thirty-two years prior, her casual smile and unassuming air melted the hearts of Bon Olivi's men and pricked the jealousy of its women. Vincent straightened his posture a bit and smiled. He watched Cassandra as she stood on the top step, her white chiffon dress and auburn hair flowing in the light breeze _. I've gotta be the luckiest man in the world_ , he thought as her white-gloved hand shook the Reverend's hand goodbye.

Cassandra flowed down the steps holding a white purse in one hand and her son Brendon's hand in the other. The sheep parted as she glided by with a smile—a beautiful smile of fresh sparkling snow, pearl white perfection in the mouth of an angel. The men tipped their hats and offered nervous "g'days." The women evoked reality in their men with loving reminders: a nudge to a rib, a kick to an ankle, anything to break the trance.

Cassandra paused midflock and stooped down in front of Brendon. She tied a loose knot on his black dress shoe, adjusted his blue striped tie, and winked into his chestnut eyes. A couple of wayward sheep offered her assistance as she stood up. With the voice of a whispering meadow, Cassandra politely refused.

She walked directly to her husband and reached for the comfort of his arm. Adjusting her purse to her elbow, she said, "Isn't it just glorious today, Vince?" She closed her eyes, tilting back her head to meet the sun and smell the cherry blossoms.

Vincent patted Cassandra's arm in agreement. He gazed across the vacant gravel road to the never ending acres of lush hills and farmland. A smile gripped him. "Heaven on earth," he said, reveling in the wonderful life his God had created for him and his family.

It hadn't always been heaven for the happy couple. Many difficult years taxed their hearts and tried their souls. At age sixteen, cardiac arrest stole Vincent's mother while she slept. Six months later, his father died of a broken heart (the doctors claimed stomach cancer, but Vincent knew better). His only relative, an uncle living in Seattle, acted as guardian until Vincent turned eighteen and took responsibility for his parent's farm. Cassandra was also left alone in Bon Olivi. Her mother died giving birth to an only child, and her father drank himself to death ten years later. Cassandra's grandfather, being the only living relative within a thousand miles, stepped in to raise her. A stroke took him during her eighteenth year.

"Mom, can we go now?" Brendon asked with his broken voice, clutching his mother's dress.

"Are you ready to go?" Vincent asked, lifting his son over his head.

"Yes!" Brendon giggled, forming dimples on his cheeks.

"Are ya _sure_ , son? Are ya _sure_?" Vincent tossed him in the air.

"Yes! I'm sure!"

"Okay then," Vincent lowered Brendon, "let's head for home."

The Goss family journeyed homeward on foot. They always walked to church on cheery days, not wanting to miss God's glory. And that day was beautiful. The sun rose high above with wispy clouds complimenting a rapturous blue sky. The honeysuckle breeze lightly blew, just enough to cool a person on a warm spring day. The blue jays squawked and mourning doves cooed, dancing about the treetops, feathering their nests. The green brush and flowering trees on the rolling hills cascaded to freshly furrowed fields. The soy and wheat marked time as the warm sun worked its magic upon the soil and seed.

Vincent held his wife and son's hands as they walked along the gravel road. The occasional car rolled by, stirring up a quick, dusty wind. Cassandra's dress flapped in the breeze, offering Vincent mild concern as her white garter belt appeared.

"Honey," he whispered through the side of his mouth, "your dress is flappin' up."

"You didn't have a problem with it last night," Cassandra whispered back, a coy smile upon her face.

Vincent stopped walking and turned to the side of the road. "Look, son." Vincent let loose of his wife's hand and pointed to the edge of a thick pasture. "A fox. Do you see him?"

"Where?" Brendon stuttered.

"Over there. He just ran across the road. Go see if you can spot him."

Brendon released his father's hand and chased after the phantom fox.

"Now," said Vincent, "what were you sayin' about last night?"

Cassandra smiled as she searched all directions. Assured she was alone and Brendon out of sight, she grabbed her dress and jerked it up, exposing white silk panties. " _This_ is what I was saying." She let her dress back down and began running, laughing.

"C'mere, you!" Vincent laughed, chasing Cassandra. He caught and embraced her from behind. He turned her around, laughing, and kissed her lips hard. She pushed away, struggling, giggling. He tugged her back and kissed her again. She surrendered and returned the passion. "God, you're beautiful, Cassandra." He pulled back to gaze into her emerald eyes. "I love you so much."

She smiled, her heart melting by his words. "I love you too, Vince. I could never be happier."

~

Cassandra and Vincent met in grade school. They hated each other ... at least that's what they told their friends. They spent hours teasing one another on the playground and in the classroom, never leaving each other alone.

At age ten, days after Cassandra's father died, Vincent visited her house, sent by his parents bearing a single red rose. He offered her the rose and nervous condolences as he gazed upon her through a torn screen door. It was then, as sadness and desperation scrolled across Cassandra's face, that Vincent noticed her rare beauty. Butterflies churned his stomach for the first time.

They became inseparable after that. They spent the summers playing hide and seek in the corn fields, chasing chickens through pastures, and squishing mud between their toes in the creek. Autumn dropped piles of leaves for them to dive into and nuts to gather. During the winter months, they built snowmen and rode cardboard boxes down the steepest snow-covered hills.

At age thirteen, lust added to Vincent's love for Cassandra. He never acted upon his urges, except in his dreams. _Oh_ , those dreams, those wonderful dreams. Just the two of them in a meadow, lying naked on a quilted blanket, Vincent exploring Cassandra's ripening body, the sweet smell of her flowing hair, the soft feel of her— Even then, upon waking, he begged God's forgiveness for his lack of control.

At age sixteen, when Vincent's mother passed away, Cassandra attended the funeral. She offered him a single red rose. Vincent thanked her, holding back his tears as his father had instructed. Upon his father's death six months later, Cassandra handed Vincent a second red rose. He broke down and wept. "They were all I ever had," he cried, knowing for the first time in his life how Cassandra felt. "I feel so alone." She took his head and gently offered him her shoulder. She held him tightly while he wept. It was then that Vincent plucked God from heaven and placed Him in Cassandra.

Just over one year later, while standing on Cassandra's front porch, Vincent presented her with something he had written. With a quivering hand, he pushed the wrinkled paper through a torn screen door.

~

Forever Yours

Cassandra, my love, one year and some short days ago you came into my life and rescued my tortured soul.

Forever I had dreamed and forever I had languished. My languish ended and my dreams became reality when forever I fell in love with you.

When I chance to gaze upon the window of our combined soul, draped in the brilliant light of our love and devotion, I swim freely in the rapture of the rare, of the once thought unattainable.

Over a year has passed since we've confessed our love, a love as sacred as God in heaven. So it shall be, that on this day, and in this poem, I will ask you for the one last piece of your heart to make our eternal love complete....

Cassandra, my one true love, will you marry me?

~

Her tears splashed the proposal as she read. Cassandra knew her answer that day, as she knew it a year ago. "Yes," she said, crying, trembling. "Yes!" she shouted, swinging open the screen door, throwing her arms around Vincent. "My God, yes!" One year later, Reverend Stalwart performed the rites of marriage.

~

"I couldn't see the fox," Brendon stuttered.

"That's okay, son," Vincent said, releasing his embrace with Cassandra. He picked up Brendon. "He must've run into his hole."

"Was it a big fox?" the boy asked.

"Big enough to gobble you up in one bite!" Cassandra teased, tickling her son's ribs.

Brendon giggled as his father propped him upon his shoulders to carry him home.

A steel rooster emerged from the hillside. It perched proudly atop the Goss's black cedar barn. The rooster swung in the breeze, greeting its family as they walked over the hill. Aside the barn emerged their house. The three wooden, white-washed levels smiled through a stained glass front door. Behind the house rolled one-hundred-twenty acres of prime farmland, land nobody else wanted.

Vincent recalled the stories his father told him about moving from Seattle to Bon Olivi. "Good country livin'," his dad said, "that's what a family needs to raise kids." Vincent's father bought the farm at auction, never understanding why nobody showed up. "The place is beautiful!" he told the auctioneer. "Why didn't anyone else come to bid?" The auctioneer never offered a reply.

Vincent's parents took good care of the place. They cleared the locust stumps from the front yard and planted two willow trees on either side of the front walk. His mother dressed the perimeter with red tulips and hyacinth, and his father white-washed the entire house.

"Hey, Mr. Goss, here's your paper!" a dirty young kid of nine years yelled, skidding his tattered bike to a stop on the gravel road in front of the Goss's house.

"How have you been, Timmy?" Cassandra asked.

"Fine, Mrs. Goss, just fine," the boy said with a sniff, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"That's good. You tell your folks we said hello," she said, walking Brendon to the front porch.

"Will do, Mrs. Goss," Timmy said, watching her backside.

"Tell your mother I'm still waiting for her pumpkin bread recipe."

"Will do, Mrs. Goss. Right away."

"How much do I owe you, Timmy?" Vincent asked, reaching for his wallet.

"Oh—uhh, four bucks, Mr. Goss. Sorry."

"It's okay, Timmy."

"It's just that, you know, the _Times_ don't get delivered this far down. I hafta ride my bike all the way—"

"I know, Timmy. I appreciate it. Here's five, keep the change."

"Thanks, Mr. Goss! Same time next week?"

"Sure thing, Timmy. Take care."

Vincent unfolded the newspaper and walked up two wooden steps to the porch. He swung open the screen door and entered the bright living room. He crouched down to pet Whiskers, Brendon's stump-tailed cat, then plopped down in his favorite chair—a tall wingback chair with dark violet swirls drifting in a backdrop of crimson cloth.

"Anyone for lemonade?" Cassandra chimed from the kitchen.

"Sounds great, honey," Vincent said.

"I want some too!" Brendon cried out, running from the living room to the kitchen, Whiskers bundled in his arms.

"Oh, by the way, Vince," Cassandra said, filling a glass pitcher with tap water, "I invited Reverend Stalwart over for dinner on Tuesday. I hope you don't mind."

"Yeah, honey, sounds good," he said, then mumbled, "As long as he leaves the fire and brimstone at the church." Vincent placed his elbows on the soft arms of his chair. Tinkling spoons and ice sang from the kitchen as he read the front page of the _Chicago Sun-Times_.

### The Viceman Cometh ... _Again  
_ Grand Boulevard  
Under Attack

By Sam Smith

Eight years, 63 known dead, still no answers.

The serial killer known as the Viceman has struck again. This time at the Robert Taylor housing project on State Street in the Grand Boulevard district.

Dead are 37-year-old, Michael White, and 4-year-old daughter, Leslie, innocent victims of a lethal attack sometime during the past week.

The bodies were discovered on the morning of April 7. Complaints of a foul odor forced Jeremy Gordon (building maintenance) to open the 9th floor apartment.

"The place was a mess," said Mr. Gordan describing the crime scene, "blood everywhere. I knew something was up. I know that smell. I smelled it before. That was death. I walked in, I know I shouldn't have, but I did. I saw the vice clamped on that poor little girl. I knew it was the Viceman up to no good. I knew that right now. So I called the police."

The Viceman, so named because of the bench vice used in the horrendous 1990 murders in Brookfield, apparently left his calling card once more.

"It's unimaginable," said Mayor Shanz at the April 7 news conference, "that after eight years we have not caught this (Viceman). We have the finest police force in the world. We have the FBI on the job, for God's sake. I want some answers! I want them quick! I want them _now_!"

It has been 5 months since the last Viceman murder—the triple homicide at the South Deering housing project. This led to community speculation about police dragging their feet because recent victims have been underprivileged minorities.

"Not true," countered the chief of police, Robert McDullin. "We're doing all we can—everything. We have over a dozen detectives assigned fulltime and 20 officers doing nothing more than following the few leads we have. This is not a race issue. Don't forget, over the years the Viceman has struck Forest Glen, North Park, Beverly, even Oak Park. Nowhere in the Chicago metro area has been safe from this murderer."

Nowhere is safe, that's the problem. Chicago, not famous for a low murder rate, is left a bit edgier by the homicidal work of an apparent madman.

"It ain't safe anywhere no more," said Tyrone Baxter, resident of the Robert Taylor project. "It's like you got to look over your shoulder all the time now. I mean, you got gangbangers jumping you in the halls and shooting at you in the streets. You got the winos messing with you on payday. But hell, I can live with all that, least you know what's going on there. I grew up with that (stuff). This Viceman though, you don't know where this guy's coming from. He's just plain psycho. I mean, I'd rather get (shot) in the streets than be tortured by that (madman)." (Please see **VICEMAN** page A4)

~

"Lemonade, Vince?"

Vincent folded his newspaper and smiled at Cassandra. He took the glass of lemonade, slowly swirled the ice with his finger, and reflectively looked about the living room. Between him and his wife sat four life-size black iron swans. On their backs rested a table top made of thick antique glass upon which sat a vase of white daisies. The swans' heads were held high by long, slender necks. From the four corners of the glass they stared in all directions, watching, protecting. Cassandra sat down on a wicker love seat opposite Vincent sipping lemonade. Brendon played with Whiskers on a white area rug that covered most of the hardwood floor. The walls were painted the color of white chiffon, and the fireplace, to Vincent's right, was cut of fieldstone with two carved cherry beams holding aloft a solid mantle of granite. He silently thanked God for his good fortune, turned his head, and gazed through the picture window.

"What's the matter, Vince?" asked Cassandra.

"I don't know." He tossed the newspaper to the floor. "Just seems so ugly out there sometimes. I mean, we have such a wonderful life here and—"

"I'll never understand why you keep buying that paper, Vince. It's nothing but bad news. You know that."

Vincent smiled. " _I_ know that," he stood up, "and _you_ know that," he walked to Cassandra and sat down on the floor at her feet, "but who else prints the Sunday comics?" He tilted back his head on her lap and gazed into her eyes. "Huh? Who? The _Bon Olivi Leaker_? I think not."

"Oh, stop it, you." Cassandra began running her fingers through his cinnamon hair. "You just want to peek at the ladies in the bra ads, don't you, Mr. Vincent Goss?"

He chuckled. "Now why would I do that when I have you—"

"Daddy? Who is the Viceman?" Brendon stuttered.

Vincent jerked his head. Brendon and Whiskers were playing next to the newspaper.

"You know he can read," Cassandra whispered.

Vincent jumped up and gathered the paper. "It's nothin' to worry about, son. He's just some guy, a bad guy, you know, like the cobra in Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, or like the Grinch. Remember the Grinch?" Vincent made a funny face and lowered his voice. "You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch."

Brendon giggled. "Will he come here?"

"No, Brendon, _no_." Vincent's eyes were pleading. He sat down on the floor and gathered his son in his lap. "The Viceman is a Chicago bad guy. You know where Chicago is, don't you?"

Brendon shook his head.

"It's a big city, far away," Vincent said. "He doesn't do anything bad outside of Chicago. We're all safe here. Even Whiskers is safe here."

Cassandra knelt down behind Vincent. She wrapped her arms around his chest and kissed him on the cheek.

"We'll always be safe here, Brendon," Vincent said. "That's why your grandparents bought this house, because it's safe, away from all the bad guys. There's nothin' to worry about. I promise."

"Cross your heart?" the child stammered.

"I cross my heart." Vincent made an X on his chest. "You'll always be safe here."

Brendon smiled. "Always?"

"Always." Vincent's eyes glinted in the sun. "Always." He smiled, so proud of his son. "Hey, I have an idea," Vincent said, eyes wide, quickly changing the subject. "How 'bout if you help me in the fields tomorrow?"

Brendon looked at his mother for approval.

"Do you think he's ready?" Cassandra whispered.

"I'm ready!" Brendon said with broken words.

"Okay then," Vincent said, "when you get home from school, you come straight out to help me."

"Yeah!" Brendon jumped up, scaring Whiskers. He chased the cat into the kitchen.

"Do you think he's ready for farming?" asked Cassandra, her chin on Vincent's shoulder.

"We won't do much. Just some weedin'."

"That's it, promise me."

"I promise. What'd you think I was gonna do, make him pull a plow?"

"Don't get sassy, Mr. Goss."

~

The sun surrendered to a moonless night. Vincent climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor. He gently opened his son's bedroom door. Brendon was asleep in his bed, comforted by Whiskers and a patchwork quilt. Vincent partly closed the door and retired to his bedroom down the hall. He turned on the ceiling light, stripped off his clothes, plumped up a goose down pillow, and slid under the covers. He reached to the nightstand and picked up his bible as Cassandra entered the room.

"In bed so early?" she asked.

"I have a lotta work to take care of tomorrow. Join me?" Vincent raised the blanket, exposing his trim, naked body.

"After I take a bath." She flowed across the wooden floor and kissed his forehead. "I'll be back soon."

Cassandra walked to the connecting bathroom, cranked open the bath water, then disrobed and wrapped a towel around her firm body, knotting it above her breasts. She walked back to the bedroom and searched for a hair clip in her jewelry box.

Vincent thumbed to 2 Samuel as water cascaded in the tub. _Now it came to pass in the spring of the year,_ he read _, at the time when kings go out to battle, that David sent Joab and his servants with him, and all Israel; and they destroyed the people of Ammon and besieged Rabbah. But David remained in Jerusalem_. The running water stopped. _Then it happened one evening_ ... Vincent turned from his bible to the bathroom. The door stood open and Cassandra, wrapped in a thick blue towel, was pinning up her auburn hair. He turned back to the bible. _Then it happened one evening that David arose from his bed and walked to the roof of the king's house. And from the roof he saw a woman bathing, and that woman was very beautiful to behold_. Vincent placed the bible at his side and turned his eyes to the bathroom. Cassandra, unaware of the attention, undid the knot in her towel, allowing it to fall to her waist as she leaned toward the mirror. Her full, soft breasts lunged forward as she held the towel against her trim stomach, searching the mirror for a loose eyelash. Satisfied, she dropped the towel to the floor, turned her backside to Vincent, and tested the bath water with her foot. Cassandra turned toward Vincent, exposing her only blemish, a narrow, horizontal scar centered between her hips, a mark left from the incision through which her son entered the world. She bent over, picked up the towel, looked up and saw her husband staring. She smiled.

" _Ah, ah, ah_ , no fair peeking. You have to wait." Cassandra slowly closed the bathroom door.

Vincent, fully erect, frantically flipped through his bible, searching for a chapter to curb his lust.

Cassandra finished her bath. Warm and wet, perfumed in jasmine, she walked from the bathroom wrapped in her towel. She stopped at the edge of the bed. Vincent set the bible on the nightstand and reached for her hand. She shook her head, slowly pushing his hand away. "No," she said, "I don't want you to do a thing. Lie still, let me take care of everything." Cassandra dropped the towel, threw back the covers, and straddled his loins. Out of habit, Vincent tried caressing her. "No," she insisted, grabbing his wrists, and shoving his arms above his head to the pillow. "Don't move." She glided against his manhood. Vincent, ready to erupt, entered her quickly. She moved her hips slowly, smoothly, sucking his tongue, gasping in his ear, her breasts stroking his chest. "You feel so good, Vince. I want you to come for me, come inside me." She moaned. "I want to feel it warm inside me." She thrust her hips again, and again, and again, her love flowing. "You feel so good, so good inside me."

Vincent loved when Cassandra talked dirty—his public wife, his private whore. She loved it too. It served as her escape from the prim and proper world of Bon Olivi. Upon her bed, alone with her husband, she freed herself. It was her exclusive island upon which lust and pleasure were sought on a grand scale. Her unbridled passions bubbled to the surface and reveled in the carnal side of life for all it offered.

Cassandra moaned again. "I can feel you, Vince, I can feel you hard inside me. It feels so good, so big. Come for me, Vince, come inside me." She worked her hips, stroking, gliding, lost in lust. "God, you feel so good. Come for me, come inside me."

Vincent thrust his hips, grunting.

Cassandra bit his earlobe, moaning, breathless, convulsing.

Both lovers spent themselves in unison. She slowed her gliding hips, her gasping shallow, and collapsed next to her husband. He gathered her in his arms and placed her head upon his pounding chest. Those splendid moments after release were mystical. They were times when life focused, times of deep sighs and gentle promises, caring tears and understanding smiles. United by the rapture of post-orgasm, they fell deeper in love. Those were moments of heaven.

~

At daybreak, after a hearty breakfast, Cassandra drove Brendon to kindergarten while Vincent prepared to work the soil.

It was the last week of an unseasonable April. The abundant, warm sunshine had the corn standing nearly a foot tall. Vincent drove his rumbling tractor to the south twenty acres to prepare the field for wheat. He worked his old John Deere with finesse, manipulating levers, clutches and gears, turning the soil just as his father did before him.

The midday sun turned hot. Vincent stopped the tractor and stepped down, taking off his green cap to wipe his brow with a dirty, red handkerchief. Standing tall in his Levi's overalls, white tee-shirt and Redwing boots, he surveyed his work. Five, maybe six acres plowed, enough to set his mind at ease.

"Got room on that tractor for one more?" Cassandra asked, walking up from behind, holding Brendon's hand.

Vincent turned around and smiled. Cassandra loved that smile of his, gentle, loving, his face tanned by the early sun, his sparkling eyes eternally devoted. Vincent knelt down in front of his son. "Well, Brendon, are you ready to go to work?"

Brendon, dressed identically as his father, right down to the little John Deere ball cap, nodded yes.

Cassandra smiled and headed back to the house as Vincent plopped his son on the tractor and drove to the corn fields.

Weeds were strangling the sixty acres of corn. Vincent couldn't afford crop-dusting, so he did it the hard way, pulling thistles and vines by hand, just as his father did before him.

"Okay, son." Vincent stopped the tractor, jumped off, and helped Brendon down. "Let's go to work." Vincent knelt down, grabbed a stalk of corn and shook it. " _This_ is corn." He grabbed a thistle. " _This_ is a weed. Pull the weed." He yanked the thistle from the dirt, "Leave the corn in the ground. Easy as that," Vincent said. "Think you can do it?"

"Yes," the boy stuttered, eager to please his dad.

"All right then, have at it."

The sun bore down hard on the pair, but Brendon never complained. He yanked and tugged until his hands became raw, never saying a word. He wanted his father to be happy with him, not disappointed because his words were broken, not sad because the kids at school labeled him "Stuttering Baby." Brendon just wanted his dad to be proud of his son, so he pulled weeds for hours in the hot sun without a peep.

"Hey, Brendon, come look at this," Vincent called out.

The child walked across the field while his father inspected a dark object.

"What is it?" Brendon asked.

"It's an old arrowhead." Vincent knelt down. "Probably Illinois or Peoria, they were both around here at one time or another.

"Who are they?"

"American Indians, different tribes that lived in this area long ago." Vincent twisted the arrowhead back and forth. "Here, take a look." He handed the artifact to his son. "Be careful, it's very sharp."

"What did they use it for?" Brendon stuttered.

"Huntin' usually, sometimes for defense. They used it to kill either way." Vincent peeled off his cap and wiped his brow. "It was a tough time back then, Brendon. Only the strong survived. And the Indians used flint to help them. It was a strong rock, one they could sharpen and shape. Flint was life and it was death. Their whole existence was centered around it."

"Can I keep it?" the boy asked.

"Sure." Vincent picked up Brendon. "Maybe it will bring you luck."

Brendon smiled and shoved the arrowhead in his pocket.

"Let's call it a day, son."

Vincent set his son on the tractor seat, then jumped up to join him. He started the John Deere, kicked it into gear, and turned for home; it was dinner time.

Vincent dropped Brendon off at the house, then drove the tractor down to the barn and parked it inside. He closed the barn door, slapped the dust from his overalls, and headed to the house. Halfway there, he paused. The still air hung thick with silence. No dishes clinked, no pans clanged, the aroma of home cooking was conspicuously absent. "What the hell?" Vincent picked up his step.

It is in those rare moments, when the everyday routine is interrupted by unknown circumstances, that contented bliss can turn to anxious dread. Pictures flashed across Vincent's mind as he ran to the house. _Cassandra, what's happened_? _God, I hope she didn't fall down the— Oh, no, what if_ —

He raced up the front porch steps and slung open the screen door. "Cassandra?" A blinding flash struck Vincent unconscious.

~

_Are we awake yet_?

"No, not yet," Vincent said in a dreamy haze. "Let me sleep."

_It's time to wake up_.

"No, please, let me sleep."

_Wake up_.

"Please, I just want to—"

_I said wake the fuck up_!

Vincent gained consciousness from a sharp backhand against his cheek.

"What's goin' on?!" Vincent yelled.

Vincent awoke to sights worse than hell. He was held hostage in his wingback chair, his ankles duct-taped to the wooden legs, his wrists bound around his thighs, his chest taped around the back of the chair, his head strapped to the top of the chair, his brow stretched up, forcing his eyes wide open. A dozen feet to his right, sitting in a solid wooden chair, Brendon suffered the same fate, taped at his ankles and wrists.

"What goin' on?" Vincent demanded, staring into the face of madness.

Before him stood a lanky man, ghost white, about six-foot two, forty-three years old, a bit askew at the shoulders. Across the man's hairless face ran a slippery smile, cracking open his pockmarked skin. In his mouth, crooked bile-yellow teeth caged a flickering tongue. He wore loose, faded blue jeans, black tee-shirt, black leather ball cap turned backward and a well-worn pair of ostrich skin boots.

"Shall I introduce myself?" the man asked with a grin.

"Let me up!" Vincent demanded.

The man slapped Vincent across his jaw, and asked again, "Shall I _introduce_ myself?"

Vincent looked at his son.

Brendon stared back at his father, eyes wet, awash in fear.

"Let my son go!" Vincent yelled.

The man slapped Vincent once more. "I can keep this up all day."

Vincent shook his head, and asked, "Who are you?"

"That's better." The man sat down on the glass coffee table. "My name is Zedekiah Gehenan, and you, my friend, are in my house."

Vincent creased his brow. "What do you mean, your house?"

Zedekiah jumped up. "This is _my_ house, my friend. Your father stole it from my family."

"What? What're you talkin' about?" Vincent asked, bewildered. "He bought it at auction."

Zedekiah glared at his prey, then kicked Vincent's gut with a boot heel. "He fucking _stole_ it, you piece of shit."

"You're crazy! I have the deed! I took a loan against the house for—"

"I don't give a flying fuck what kind of loan you have, you piece of hillbilly trash!" Zedekiah pushed his face close to Vincent's face. "Your inbred father came down from hell-knows-where and _stole_ my family's home. The Gehenan family had lived here for over a hundred years."

Vincent studied Zedekiah as he spoke. His skin wasn't pockmarked at all; it was scarred all right, not from pubescent tragedy, but from wounds—nasty little cuts, precisely carved, congealing into odd patterns. Zedekiah was a man with no eyebrows. They were gouged out, leaving two narrow furrows of flesh.

"Do you think it's right for you to waltz in and steal someone's home?" Zedekiah asked, nose to nose with Vincent.

The putrid smell of foul vinegar oozed from the madman's mouth as his raspy words spilled out. Vincent met Zedekiah's eyes. They were eyes of a shark, black, void of pleasing color. Vincent looked deeply into the dark pits and saw unnerving conviction and anger. At lower depths, he saw a reflection of himself. At the bottom of the black abyss—death.

"Do you? Do you think it's right?" Zedekiah asked again.

"My father didn't steal—"

Zedekiah struck Vincent in the stomach again. "I'm just not getting through to you, am I?" He removed his leather cap and rubbed a hand over his scarred head.

"Daddy! I'm scared!" Brendon cried out, stuttering in an awful way.

Vincent looked at his son. "It's gonna be okay, Brendon. It's just a misunderstandin', that's all."

Zedekiah replaced his cap, covering scattered clumps of matted black hair. He slowly walked to Brendon and knelt down beside him. " _Whads da madda liddle boy, you scared_?"

Brendon stared helplessly at his father. "Please, dad—"

" _P-P-P-P-Please, d-d-d-daddy_ ," Zedekiah mocked, turning to Vincent. "All this kid does is stutter. What is he, fucking retarded or something?"

"Leave the boy alone!"

" _Tut,tut,tut, shhh_ , Mr. Goss," Zedekiah said, cocking his head, pressing his index finger to his lips.

"You leave him alone!" Vincent yelled. Then it struck him, "Where's my wife? What have you done with Cassandra? Tell me what you—"

Zedekiah smacked Vincent's cheek with a backhand. "You're _just_ not catching on yet, are ya, hillbilly? You are in no position to make demands!"

Twin rivulets of blood streamed from Vincent's nose, snaked down both sides of his mouth, and joined at the base of his chin to form crimson beads which splattered upon his lap. His right eye was damaged, its interior filling with blood, turning his vision rusty red.

"What is it you want?" Vincent asked. "The house? Take it, it's yours. Just don't hurt my family."

"How dare you try and give me something that's already mine." Zedekiah kicked Vincent in the chest, snapping two ribs. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Vincent reeled from the pain. He was a man strengthened by labor in the fields, not by fights on the streets. He had never felt the sting of a punch, the agony of a broken bone. He was a gentle man, a man of faith, of reason. The pain began wearing him down.

"Please, take whatever you want, _anything_ ," Vincent pleaded. "I don't care. I-I got a car— There's a tractor, a John Deere out in the barn. There's some jewelry upstairs. That's all we got, I _swear_. We don't have much."

"Mr. Goss, I will take whatever the hell I—" Zedekiah shook his head, then slightly laughed at the absurdity. "What the fuck would I do with a _tractor_? I didn't come down here to take your miserable possessions, you ignorant hick." Zedekiah sat down on the wicker love seat and made himself comfortable, crossing his legs, stretching out his arms. "I'm here on vacation."

"What?"

"A vacation," Zedekiah explained. "A break. A rest. A holiday. Haven't you figured it out yet, Mr. Goss? Your brilliant father bought— I mean _stole_ the house that belongs to the Viceman. Not a good idea."

Terror ran rampant through Vincent's chest. _My God, no. It can't be._ He thought. _The Viceman doesn't work outside Chicago_. Tears welled as Vincent meekly said, "You can't be the Viceman."

Zedekiah chuckled a bit. "I assure you, I am. But you're right, Mr. Goss, you don't know for sure, do you?" The madman stood up. "Actions always speak louder than words, don't they?"

"No, no, I believe you," Vincent said. "You're the Viceman. Yes. Yes, you're the Viceman!"

"Now, now, don't go getting yourself all worked up yet. The night is still young," Zedekiah said as he walked to the kitchen.

"I believe you!" Vincent yelled, trying to stop the horror. "I _swear_ it! Please don't hurt my family!"

Brendon's silent tears turned to sobs. "Dad? Is he gonna hurt me?"

"No, Brendon, _no_. Everything's gonna be fine."

"I'm scared."

"Be brave, Brendon. Please be brave." Vincent looked toward the kitchen. He heard rustling and the clanging of steel. "Zedekiah! Just tell me what you want!"

Zedekiah walked from the kitchen holding a crimson satchel. "I want you to shut the fuck up, that's what I want." He dropped the bag at Brendon's feet, knelt down, opened it, and pulled out a small vice.

"What're you doin'?" Vincent asked as the madman placed the vice on the white carpet.

"Daddy!" Brendon stuttered, scared as ever.

"Don't you dare hurt him!" Vincent demanded. "Don't you dare! I'll kill you if you so much as touch a hair of his! I _swear_ it!"

Zedekiah raised his brow and grinned, shaking his head at the empty threat. "Mr. Goss," he retrieved a rusty pair of aviation snips from his bag, "seeing your situation over there, all comfy-cozy in your chair and all, I don't think you're in any position to offer such threats. So, and this will be the last time I say this, shut the _fuck_ up!"

"Please, I—"

Zedekiah, shark eyes fierce as razors, bolted like cannon shot and stomped his heel into Vincent's groin. "I said shut up!"

Vincent's head jerked back, swirling the blood in his damaged eye, coloring the room a hellish crimson. Zedekiah knelt down at his bag, reached in and retrieved a battery-powered Bosch drill. He then pulled out four 3-inch wood screws and reached for the vice.

"Dad!" little Brendon cried out.

" _Duh, Duh, Duh, Dad_." Zedekiah shook his head and sighed. "Shut the hell up, kid. You're daddy can't do a damn thing for you now." Zedekiah placed the base of the vice on the left arm of Brendon's chair. The wooden arm was flat, offering an ideal surface to drive wood screws. Once mounted, he placed the drill back in the bag, then withdrew a razor knife.

"What are you doin'?!" screamed Vincent.

" _Tut,tut,tut, shhh_ , Mr. Goss. Just sit back and enjoy the show." Zedekiah, wearing a wicked smile, eyes rolled back for the kill, clicked out the knife blade and edged toward the child's face. Zedekiah ran the flat side of the blade slowly across Brendon's cheek, smearing his tears. _Such tender flesh_ , Zedekiah thought, _so easy to carve_. "Mr. Goss, do you know why they began calling me the Viceman?" the madman asked, musing, eyes on his prey.

"Don't hurt him," Vincent said. "I'm beggin' you, please."

"They named me that because I once, just as a lark, used a bench vice on a kill. You see, if you get creative, exercise a little artistic expression, you get a label." Zedekiah smiled. "That made 'em happy though, it put a name on their boogie man. It wasn't just a series of unexplained murders anymore, it was a madman with a name, a stupid name at that. I hate that name: _Viceman_. It lacks imagination." He gently traced the blade across Brendon's face. "Hell, they called that bastard in California the _Night Stalker_. Now that name sends chills up your goddamn spine." Zedekiah entered a twisted world all his own, spurting vile rhetoric at will. "They might as well call me the Saran Wrap Strangler, or the Dog Collar Killer, I've used both in my quest to spread the gospel of pain. I guess that didn't work for 'em though, just wasn't scary enough."

Vincent listened as the raspy voice yammered out contemptuous prose. The words danced across Zedekiah's evil tongue, a sordid tango of merciless pain. It was crisp, bright, brilliant, each sentence purposeful, unwavering in conviction, his words forged of hardened steel straight from hell's blast furnace. It is in that conviction of belief that a person finds calm, tranquility. Twisted as Zedekiah was, he believed in what he did, that's what made him so dangerous, that's what induced terror, that's why Vincent knew he was going to die, regardless of his actions or pleas.

"How about the Toilet Plunger Assassin?" Zedekiah chuckled. "I suffocated a little girl with one once." He lightly ran the razor knife across Brendon's chest. "The vice was a classic though. I crammed this old man's head in it and twisted it shut. Now, this is the good part, I stabbed out his left eye and then gently removed his right eye, carved it out carefully, delicately, leaving that thin rope of nerves attached." Zedekiah ran the blade along Brendon's left arm. "I stretched that eye out as far as I could, then turned it around so he could see his own face."

_God, please_ , Vincent prayed, _I need Your help, please, I'm beggin' You. Don't let him hurt my son_.

"I took my blade, eleven inches long, and rammed it straight up his nose. The old man watched himself die! It was fucking beautiful!" Zedekiah sliced through the tape holding Brendon's arm. "It was a goddamn masterpiece, I tell you!"

"Daddy!"

"Shut up, kid." Zedekiah grabbed Brendon's hand and jammed it in the vice.

"Please! I'm beggin' you!" Vincent yelled.

Zedekiah clamped tight the vice. The child screamed. Zedekiah smacked Brendon hard across his face. "Maybe that'll knock your brain back online there _, Stutter Boy_."

"Don't hurt him! Please, let him be. You got me. Hurt me instead!"

"I'll be getting to you soon enough."

"Please, God," Vincent prayed, "help us. Save my son. We need—"

"You need _what_ , Mr. Goss?" Zedekiah walked to Vincent and hovered over him. "A miracle? Is that what you need? Some kind of fucking miracle to save you from evil?" Zedekiah shook his head in disgust. "Do you consider me a sinner? Am I going to hell? Am I?" He knelt down, shark eyes glaring, and traced a finger across his eyebrow groove. "Do you think I'm going to hell?"

"Yes," Vincent answered, fearing the consequence.

Zedekiah smiled. "Hell is a relative term at best, Mr. Goss. For instance, _you_ might consider this night to be hell, while _I_ , on the other hand, am having the time of my life."

"You'll _burn_ for this night," Vincent warned.

"It beats floating in the bullshit clouds." Zedekiah stood up. "Have you ever wondered what death really is, Mr. Goss? I mean, what do you do in your heaven for eternity anyway? Think about it. Sounds like a damn boring place, just floating around all day. Do you sort God's mail up there? Walk his Saint Bernard? What? Who exactly is this God of yours?" Zedekiah leaned forward, hands on the arms of Vincent's chair. He pressed his scarred cheek next to Vincent's twitching face, and whispered, "Where is your God now, Mr. Goss?" Zedekiah pulled back with a smile, slowly shaking his head. "Pain is what makes life worth living, never forget that." He turned around, walked to the front hallway, and bolted up the stairs.

"Look at me, Brendon," Vincent begged. "We're gonna get outa this. I promise you."

"Promise?" the little boy stammered.

"I cross my heart, son. Just be brave, okay. Whatever happens, I want you to be brave."

"I'm scared," the child said.

"I know, Brendon, I know."

"You said nobody would ever hurt us here. You _promised_."

Vincent held back a tear. "I know, son. I'm sorry."

Zedekiah lumbered down the steps. Over his right shoulder struggled Cassandra. She was duct-taped at her ankles and wrists, her arms wrestling behind her. He dropped her on the rug at Vincent's feet. She still wore the same clothes from earlier: tight blue jeans, white silk blouse and a pair of navy blue Keds. She kicked out with both feet, trying to force a scream through her duct-taped mouth as she looked at Brendon.

"You got something you want to say?" Zedekiah playfully asked, yanking the tape from her mouth."

"You son of a bitch!" Cassandra looked at her loved ones. "Don't you dare hurt them! Don't you dare!"

"Look, bitch," Zedekiah said, shoving a finger in her face, "you don't—"

She bit the tip of his finger and clamped down fiercely, gnawing skin and bone, glowering at the devil with vivid rage.

Zedekiah didn't wince, he didn't scream out. He raised a greasy smile, then pried the finger from her mouth.

"You sick bastard!" Cassandra yelled, incredulous. "Why us?"

Zedekiah rubbed his bloody finger across the furrow above his right eye. "I don't want to go through this shit again. Just blame it all on your hubby."

Cassandra jerked her head and looked at Vincent.

Vincent saw the bewildered look on Cassandra's face. "You _tell_ her," Vincent demanded Zedekiah. "Tell her it's all a mistake."

"What's going on, Vince?" she asked.

"Mommy," Brendon meekly stuttered.

Cassandra rolled over and looked at her son. She saw the vice clamped on his hand. She looked up at Zedekiah, his shark eyes sharp on her. She turned to Vincent. Back at Zedekiah "No, it _can't_ be."

"Yep, _ding_. You win a prize. It's the _Viceman_." Zedekiah took a moment to revel in the fear of recognition. "Y'know, folks, I'm growing weary here, and I'm supposed to be on vacation and all, so let's get the ball rolling. Here's how it's going to work." The madman knelt down in front of Cassandra, and said, "I'm going to remove the duct tape, and then I'm going to fuck you. How does that sound?"

Anger gripped Cassandra. "Fuck yourself, you sick bastard."

Zedekiah looked at Vincent. "You don't mind if I fuck your wife, do ya? I mean, you say this is _your_ house and all, so being a guest in _your_ house, you should be somewhat hospitable, don't you think?"

Vincent felt the situation hopeless. "Please don't do this."

Zedekiah pulled Cassandra to her feet. He cut the tape from her wrist and turned her around to face him. She smacked him hard across the face. He smiled as his leather hat hit the floor. She hit the madman again with a closed fist across his yellow teeth. He grinned, spit out a bit of blood, and slapped her to the ground. Vincent and Brendon both cried out as Zedekiah knelt down to cut the tape from Cassandra's feet.

"Okay, bitch, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way," Zedekiah said. "I'll give you a choice. Stand up."

"Fuck you!" She screamed.

" _Fucking whore_ , I said stand!" Zedekiah yanked her to her feet by her hair. "We're going to put on a little show for your family here, and if you're good, _real_ good, then your son lives. If not, if you give me any lip at all, bitch, I will kill him."

Cassandra looked at Vincent. Tears ran down his cheeks, helpless tears, knowing tears. She turned to her son. His fear ripped her heart. "Please, don't hurt them. I—"

" _You_ will do exactly what _I_ tell you to do, bitch." Zedekiah traced his knife blade over Cassandra's face. "You want to know why I'm here?" Her knees quivered as the blade edged across her lips. "This is where it all began. This is where I grew up, home sweet home." The blade scraped down her neck. "My first kill, right here. I was only nine years old." The knife traced across her white blouse to her breasts. Cassandra began trembling. "I got them both in their sleep. My six-year-old punk brother first. God, that was sweet, my very first kill. And then my dad ... the bastard never knew what hit him." The blade worked its way to her buttons. "It was like a dream, a wonderful dream." Zedekiah ripped the razor knife down the center of her shirt, cutting both blouse and bra. Cassandra's breasts spilled out. She quickly covered them with her left hand and stumbled backward.

"Please," she begged, backing up. "Please don't."

"She sure has a nice pair there, Mr. Goss. I see why you married her. You can't let tits like that just walk away." Zedekiah tried to pry her arm from her breasts. She struggled. "Look, bitch, keep this up and you will watch your son die. Do you understand?"

"Fuck you!" Cassandra spit in his face.

Zedekiah wiped his face, shook his head, and sighed. "Some people just don't learn." He briskly walked to Brendon, grabbed the aviation snips, spread the boy's fingers in the vice, then snipped off half of an index finger.

Brendon screamed as blood fell to the floor with his finger.

"I'll _kill_ you!" Vincent yelled, straining against duct tape.

Cassandra lunged at Zedekiah. He smacked her to the floor. She stared up at her son, his screaming face crying out for mommy, his blood soaking the white rug. _It's my fault_ , she thought. _My God, it's all my fault. What have I done_? Her emotions became a jumbled mess. She turned to her husband as he tried comforting Brendon. _It's all my fault_. She glared at Zedekiah, his happy little shark eyes plucking joy from the child's screams. _Sick bastard,_ she thought _he's insane_! _Just give him what he wants_. Cassandra met Vincent's eyes. She stood up, crying, shaking. "I'm sorry, Vince." She dropped her arms at her side. "I'll do what you want," she told the madman, "just leave my family alone."

Zedekiah smiled, blood flowing from his mouth. "Take it off, bitch, all of it."

Cassandra began disrobing, gazing into Vincent's eyes. She removed her blouse, pulled off her shoes and socks, then unbuttoned and stepped out of her jeans, leaving white panties to shield her modesty.

" _All_ of it." Zedekiah's sick tongue licked his slippery smile.

She removed her panties, covering her crotch with her hands.

"This is no time for false modesty." Zedekiah walked forward and spread apart her arms. "What's that scar? C-section?" He smiled. " _Oh_ , you're going to be tight. Go lie down on the table."

Cassandra walked to Vincent and gently cupped her hand on his cheek. "I'm so sorry."

Vincent's world collapsed around him, suffocating his heart in complete agony.

She sat down on the edge of the glass table. The black iron swans stared out from the four corners, begging help to arrive.

"Lie back, bitch." Zedekiah yanked down his jeans and stroked himself as she reclined on the glass. Fear multiplied in Cassandra as Zedekiah achieved full erection. He forced open her knees and slithered on top of her.

Vincent savagely rocked his chair, trying to break free of his bonds. He screamed wildly, insanely.

Zedekiah began to enter Cassandra. She panicked and wrestled to get free, biting, punching, screaming.

"Damn it, bitch!" Zedekiah jumped up, reached in his satchel, and pulled out a fresh roll of duct tape. "We will do this one way or the other." He grabbed her wrists and taped them to the swan necks. He did the same with her ankles. "Struggle all you want now." He entered her again and forced his manhood deep inside. "Damn you're tight— Holy shit." Zedekiah's dark eyes widened. "You haven't been popped yet, have you? _Have_ you?"

"Vince!" Cassandra cried out.

"You're still a fucking virgin, aren't you?" Zedekiah was amazed, excited.

"Vince!"

Zedekiah forced his way in, shark eyes rolled back, and broke Cassandra's atypical hymen, spilling blood on the thick glass.

"Still a goddamn virgin," Zedekiah whispered in her ear, his raspy voice laden with lust. "How does it feel to have a _real man_ inside you?"

"Vince, help me, _please_!"

Vincent's blind rage induced tunnel vision. All he saw was Cassandra's face in agony, the woman he loved, raped, the woman who was his life, his God. Vincent strained with all his might and toppled his chair. Still he could not free himself. Lying on his side, he struggled and screamed.

Cassandra turned her head and met her husband's helpless eyes. Watery blue-hazel gazed into teary emerald in a silent exchange.

_I'm so sorry, Vince_.

_I love you so much, Cassandra. So much_.

_I love you too_.

_Why us, why hasn't God protected us_?

_I don't know, my love_.

Zedekiah quickened his pace. Like a rabid beast, he drove his manhood, grunting, slobbering, feasting upon his prey, gobbling up innocence and virtue as if it were raw meat.

I love you, Vince, with all my heart.

It's not right, Cassandra, this isn't supposed to happen to us.

I'm so sorry, my love.

It isn't supposed to happen to us. Why, God, Why?

Zedekiah moaned a sick animal sound somewhere from the darkest depths of hell. He released his devil's seed in Cassandra, then withdrew, staring down at his crotch. He smiled and rubbed his fingers in the mock virgin blood. He knelt down on the floor and smeared the blood on Vincent's cheek, across his lips.

"Hey, sorry about taking your wife's virginity and all," Zedekiah said with a knowing smile. "No hard feelings?"

Vincent reached his breaking point. He shut down, cutting himself off from the brutality and pain. His tortured soul could bear no more.

Zedekiah got dressed. He smiled down at Cassandra as she lay helplessly on the coffee table.

Ashamed, but relieved, she looked over at Brendon, content in the thought of saving her son. Maybe somehow, someday, Cassandra thought, he would come to understand her sacrifice.

"Well, it's been fun and all, but I really should be going." Zedekiah packed up his satchel. "I'll leave the vice. That's what they want, a calling card, something to ease their worried minds." Zedekiah chuckled a bit. "It's a sick world, isn't it?"

_Just get the fuck out_ , Cassandra silently said.

"Now you know I never let anyone live," said Zedekiah.

_No, no, you said_ —

"But, being on vacation and all, I think I can make an exception."

_Good. Get the fuck out_.

"I miss this house." Zedekiah slowly looked around. "I really like what you did with the place." He dropped his bag by the fireplace. "I wonder...." He reached up inside the fireplace, behind the flue damper, and found a rusted, six-inch steak knife. He pulled it out and smiled. "I can't believe it's still here." Zedekiah twisted it about, gawking at it awestruck. "You know, you folks are the only ones who could ever identify me." He traced the edge of the blade with his forefinger. "I don't think that's a good thing, do you?"

_Just get out, you fucking maniac_ , Cassandra said to herself.

"If I see a police sketch anywhere close to what I look like, I will come back and we'll do this all over again. Is that something we want? Is it, Mr. Goss?" Zedekiah's eyes were wide on Vincent. "Not speaking anymore? That's okay. How about you?" Zedekiah turned to Cassandra. "Maybe you want me to come back. You know, remember old times." He smiled. "You're going to miss me, aren't you?"

_Get out, you bastard_.

"How about you, Stutter Boy? You gonna miss me?" Zedekiah walked in front of Brendon.

The child stared at his detached finger on the blood-soaked floor, crying.

_Leave him be, you sick son of a bitch_! Cassandra screamed in her mind.

Zedekiah's shark eyes glistened as he nudged the severed fingertip with his boot. "You're about my brother's age when, well, you know." Zedekiah sniffed hard. "Best kill of my life."

Cassandra quit holding her tongue. "Leave him be," she demanded. "You got what you wanted, just get out. We won't say a word to anybody."

Zedekiah turned to Cassandra, then spun back to Brendon and muttered, "Best kill ... I've _ever_ had."

"Leave him alone!" Cassandra helplessly pleaded. "We won't say a word! I _swear_ it!"

Zedekiah plunged the knife into Brendon's chest, piercing his heart.

The boy jerked up his head and screamed.

"You fucking bastard!" Cassandra yelled. "He's my son! My only child!"

"Mommy, help me!" Brendon pleaded, blood gurgling in his throat.

"Brendon!" Cassandra screamed. "Oh, my God! Brendon!"

"Mommy, it hurts. Please ... please help." The child's voice became clear, distinct, his last words perfect as he turned to his father. "Daddy, you _promised_ me." Brendon slumped forward.

A trembling sensation gripped Cassandra. Like a giant dynamo powering down, an emotional overload short-circuited a major portion of her brain and she lost all sense of self and reality.

"Nope, it just wasn't the same." Zedekiah jerked the knife from Brendon's chest. "I guess you really can't go home again." He knelt down near Vincent, wiped the bloody knife across Vincent's face, and warned, "Don't forget, Mr. Goss, one sketch even _close_ to what I look like, and I will finish both of you." Tears streamed down Vincent's cheeks. "Oh, buck up there, little camper," Zedekiah said with a knowing grin. "I'm giving you a wonderful gift here. There is no greater pleasure in life than pain. Embrace it, eat it up for all it's worth. Find your faith in it." Zedekiah grabbed his satchel, stood up, pulled on his cap, and said, "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Goss." The madman walked to the stained glass front door, opened it, then paused. He slowly turned around, surveying the house one last time. He sighed, and whispered, "Home's never where you left it." Zedekiah walked out to the middle of the night, a locked door slamming shut behind him.

# Chapter 3

"We walk by faith, not by sight."

—Holy Bible: 2 Corinthians

Oblivion ... 00.00.16

Searing pain forced Vincent to awake back in hell. He jerked his feet from the sting of streaming acid. Yanking up his knees, he collapsed and rolled on his side. "Oh, my God, Cassandra." He tried to dredge up a tear. "Please, just once, let me cry."

Thaddy stood near the chasm entrance gazing out upon the ravine. It was storming again, raining an iridescent-blue acid.

Vincent looked up from the music box. Oblivion multiplied its pain now as past memories haunted him. "Why, Thaddy? Why'd you make me remember?"

The child remained silent, standing still as blood dripped from his shredded hands and mixed with the acid that seeped into the chasm.

"Goddamn it, kid," Vincent said with teeth clenched. "Zedekiah killed my son. Why'd you make me—"

"We do not have much time, mister," Thaddy said, scanning the ravine. "You must go back, you must remember everything."

"I'm not goin' back to anything. Just let me die, let it all end."

Thaddy turned around, walked to Vincent, and knelt down in front of him. "I am sorry, mister. I know your pain is great. But it cannot end here, not like this. You must not give up."

"Damn it, kid, _who are you_?" Vincent stared into the boy's shining eyes. "What is this place? Hell? Is it hell?"

"Hell for most," the child replied.

Vincent creased his brow.

"This is one plane of existence, mister, like earth."

Vincent slowly shook his head. "How is it you know so much, kid?"

"I only know what I should." Thaddy sat down. "Please crank the music box again, mister, we are running out of time."

"Why does time matter in hell?"

"Time is critical," the boy said. "You must not stop remembering."

Vincent shifted his eyes at the music box, then back at Thaddy. "I can't witness anymore shit like I just did, kid. No way. I can't go through that again." Vincent thought for a second, then said, "Obviously I messed up pretty bad to get sent here. I don't wanna know what I did."

Thaddy bowed his head. "Then our fates are sealed."

Vincent squinted his eyes. "What do you mean, 'our fates'? I sent my own ass here. What about you? Why're you here? Why the hell're you tryin' to help me anyway?" He grabbed Thaddy's wrist. "And why don't your fingers quit bleedin'? _Who are you_?"

"The answers are in your hand, mister." Thaddy's eyes blazed with silver starshine. "Please turn the crank."

Vincent slowly shook his head, looked through the chasm exit to the searing blue storm, and took a deep breath. "You say all the answers are in my hand?"

"Yes," Thaddy said.

"Then you must already know everything. Why can't you just tell me about my past?"

"They are your memories," the child said. "You must remember them yourself. You must _feel_ the past."

Vincent pursed his lips and raised his brow. "Anymore shit like I just went through?"

"No, mister, not like that."

"And I'll find out what this place is and why I'm here?"

"Yes."

"And it's nothin' that bad that sent me here?"

"Please, just crank the—"

"And it's nothin' _that_ bad?" Vincent widened his eyes and cocked his head.

"It is not as bad as you might think," Thaddy said.

Vincent turned and watched the storm. The acid dripped from the chasm entrance in glowing blue balls, splattering upon the flint floor. He leaned back and turned the crank. He looked at Thaddy, eyebrows raised. "Nothin' that bad, _right_?"

Thaddy smiled. "Have faith in me, mister."

Vincent released the crank.

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star_ ...

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 4

"Love is my religion—I could die for that."

—John Keats

Letter to Fanny Brawne, Feb. 1820

Bon Olivi, IL ... Spring

"I say to God, my rock: Why hast thou forgotten me?" Reverend Stalwart recited. "Why go I mourning because of the oppression of my enemy? As with a deadly wound in my body, my adversaries taunt me, while they say to me continually, where is your God?"

Reverend Stalwart paused and stroked the water from his face. He stood solemnly at the head of Brendon Goss's open grave, reciting scripture against the light spring rain, one hand on his cane, the other propped atop a rounded tombstone. The reverend trembled as he spoke, visibly shaking in his black robe, recalling the horror of six days past.

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth should change," it was the Reverend who dropped by the Goss's house for dinner last Tuesday, "though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea," it was the Reverend who wondered why no one answered his knock, "though its waters roar and foam," it was the Reverend who shattered the Goss's stained glass front door, "though the mountains tremble with its tumult," it was the Reverend who first witnessed the horror.

Most of Bon Olivi turned out for Brendon's funeral. Huddled together, they created a comforting, dark mass of support. Vincent stood at the edge of the muddy grave, close to the small cherry wood casket that held his son. Only Vincent's dark suit and brown fedora protected him from the rain. All around him hovered the black umbrellas of grief stricken mourners, hundreds of people paying last respects.

"For it is God who said, 'Let light shine out of darkness....'" Reverend Stalwart paused and wiped the rain from his brow, trying to hide his tears. _Why this child, Lord_? he thought, anguish clouding his vision. _He was a good boy, these are good people. Why?_ The reverend looked up and met Vincent's eyes, those vacant eyes, lost, alone. Reverend Stalwart began sobbing. Forty-two years in the church had not prepared him for witnessing such brutality. He could only imagine the suffering the Goss family endured that night, the sheer thoughts of which shattered his composure.

The mourners began to whisper while the Reverend tried gathering himself. It was always that way, no matter the event, the people of Bon Olivi spread gossip like wildfire whipping through a drought-parched pasture.

"What's wrong with the Reverend?"

"He's crying, oh, my."

"Hush, you. A man can cry just like—"

"Is Vince crying? I don't see him crying."

"The man's been through hell. Give him—"

" _Shhh_ , he'll hear you, old man. You quiet down."

"Where's Cassandra? I don't see her."

"I don't either, where is she?"

"Got her up at County Hospital. She's a mess."

"She hasn't talked. Can't talk. Her wires are all crossed or—"

" _Hush_ , you old fool, before I—"

"He didn't even try to save her, his own wife tied up and—"

"He was tied up too, now hush."

"You hush. Damn coward if you're askin' me. I would have—"

"Well, nobody's askin' you anything, now hush up."

Vincent heard it all before. He heard it from the police as they questioned him, sipping their coffee, staring at him from the rims of their cups. He heard it from the nurses talking outside his hospital room, whispering, asking if he knew who the killer was. The doctors even talked while wrapping his ribs, treating his head wounds. Everybody talked. It was the biggest story to ever hit Bon Olivi.

Reverend Stalwart gathered himself. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and began again. "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he makes me to lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul."

The casket began to descend into the grave. Thunder rolled across the dark sky. Vincent tried to dredge up a tear for Brendon, but all the emotion had been sucked dry by the misdeeds of Zedekiah. Vincent hated himself at that moment. He wanted to cry, just collapse and sob, show the townspeople he cared, that he loved his son. Vincent couldn't find it—not in his dry tear ducts, not in his empty soul. All that he was, all that he loved, all of his dreams, became mere shadows, misty memories lying either twenty miles north in a sanatorium or six feet south in a muddy hole.

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff to comfort me."

Vincent felt like stale bread, crusty, dried up, only good for crumbling and tossing to the birds. Who was he to cry anyway? For it was he who lied to his son, telling him he'd never be hurt; it was he who lived life blindly, never preparing for its horror; it was he who was a helpless pawn at the mercy of a cruel world, so naive in the ways of life. Who was he to cry? He should have thanked God for the rain, something to wash across his tearless face, to hide his lack of grief. He should have thanked God, but Vincent was too busy damning Him.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Brendon's casket settled at the bottom of the grave. Mourners slowly walked forward and dropped handfuls of mud into the hole. The Reverend concluded the service, blessing Brendon, Vincent and all who attended.

"Amen," Reverend Stalwart offered.

"Amen," the mourners said in unison.

"Amen," came a late affirmation offered from a stranger—a tall, thin black man. He stood alone at the back of the crowd, dressed in a dark suit and brown knit hat. The mourners turned around. The man closed his eyes, sighed, and lightly said, "Praise _Allah_." He turned and walked away. The gossip began again.

The sad umbrellas streamed by Vincent. Arms reached out in the rain and hands patted his back, lavishing support. Wet, muddy shovels began filling the grave as he walked away.

"Vincent, wait," the Reverend beckoned, limping through the wet grass.

Vincent continued unheeded.

"Please. I'm too old to chase after you."

Vincent stopped near a small stone marker. He knelt down and brushed off the wet maple leaves.

"Vincent, my son," the Reverend said, out of breath, hobbling, "we should talk. I am worried."

"Why didn't he know? He should've asked," Vincent said, staring at his father's grave.

"What?" Reverend Stalwart looked at the marker. "Your father? He should have asked what?"

_Shall I come back and we all do this again?_ whispered Zedekiah, deep from the shadows of Vincent's mind. "Nothin'." Vincent shook his head clear. "It's nothin', Reverend."

"Please, come out of the weather." Reverend Stalwart motioned toward the church bordering the cemetery.

Vincent looked up through the rain as thunder trailed in the distance. "Why, Reverend, why has God done this to my family?"

Reverend Stalwart had no answer, yet offered, "My son, the Lord giveth, and the Lord—"

Vincent bowed his head and sighed.

"I am sorry, my son." Reverend Stalwart knelt down. "Look at me." Vincent met the Reverend's eyes. "What has happened to you was not an act of God. No, not the God I know. The beast that destroyed your family was the devil himself." The reverend grabbed Vincent's arm. "Do you understand? Sometimes the power of evil is so strong that even God can't stop it right away." Reverend Stalwart's eyes begged for belief. "God is with you now. Your son is safe in heaven. He will always be in your heart." The Reverend released Vincent's arm and propped himself up. "Someday soon, your wife will come home. You can start again, a new family full of wonderful children." Reverend Stalwart placed a firm hand on Vincent's shoulder. "Please be strong, my son. The Lord will guide you now."

Vincent stood up and looked back at Brendon's grave.

"Come home with me tonight," the Reverend said. "You shouldn't be alone."

"It's gonna be okay." Vincent turned around and raised a weak smile. "I'm gonna be just fine."

The Reverend creased his brow. "Are you sure? This is no time to be alone. You should—"

"I'm sure. I need time to think. Thank you. Thanks for everything." Vincent shook Reverend Stalwart's hand and headed home.

Walking alone along the wet gravel road, Vincent took stock of his life. With rain pelting his face, he recalled cheerier days, days that would never be again. Nearing his house, the weathervane emerged from the hillside. The steel rooster spun, saw Vincent, and turned away. The black cedar barn squatted as a dark shadow against the spring shower, useless, abandoned. His house pushed out from hiding, three wooden, white-washed levels crying in the rain. The stained glass door was shattered, offering a toothless frown. The screen door was ripped, flapping in the wind. The windows dark, dead.

This was Vincent's homecoming.

For five days the police wouldn't allow him to return, not until the investigation was complete. Vincent didn't want to come back to the farm anyway. Not now, not after—

Home would never be home again.

Vincent slowly walked up the front porch steps. Seeing the shattered door, he stopped and sighed. Whiskers leapt up from under the porch and rubbed against his leg. Vincent picked up the cat and held him nose to nose. "The Viceman didn't hurt you, did he, boy?" He stroked his fur and set him down. Whiskers rubbed his leg and meowed. "What is it, boy?" Vincent asked. "Are ya hungry?"

Whiskers wasn't hungry, he was a country cat and could fend for himself. There were field mice to be pounced upon and lame birds to be stalked. He was lonely. _What happened to Brendon?_ he meowed. _Will he be home soon?_

"You must be hungry," Vincent said. "Let's see if the cops left you any food."

Vincent entered the shadowed house, tossed his wet hat to the floor, and walked straight for the kitchen. Gray fingerprint dust covered everything: the counters, walls, tables, and chairs. The air hung still and stale, musty, like a wet dog. Vincent opened the cupboard, grabbed a box of dry cat food, and poured a small pile on the white tile floor. Whiskers rubbed against his leg. "Go ahead and eat, boy. Eat up. It's right there."

Whiskers sniffed the food and rubbed against Vincent's leg once more. _Will Brendon be home soon?_ he meowed. _Is he coming home?_

"It's right there. Eat up."

_I'll wait for him_ , Whiskers meowed. _I'll be here when he gets home. Please tell him I'll be waiting_.

Vincent set the cat food on the counter and looked at the refrigerator. A finger painting, attached by plastic fruit magnets, hung on the door. It was Brendon's hand print, purple and red paint with _I Love You Mommy_ scribbled underneath. A knot twisted Vincent's stomach. He shook his head and walked to the living room. At the fireplace he saw the height lines etched in the cherry beam, one for each year his son lived.

_Why? Why'd I come back?_ Vincent thought. _There's nothin' left here, nothin'_. There was nothing left, but he knew that long before he returned home. He knew there would be no place to hide from the horror of that night, no amount of time great enough to complete the healing. He knew the torture the farmhouse promised. He knew well of these things, yet he came home anyway.

Vincent mulled around the living room, averting his eyes from his wingback chair and the swans. He studied old pictures on the mantel: Cassandra in white chiffon, smiling as she walked to the altar; Brendon next to the Christmas tree, opening a present from Santa; Cassandra, eight months pregnant, lying on a picnic blanket in a green meadow; Brendon, one year old, playing with a stump-tailed kitten. Vincent's knees began trembling. He fought it.

"No." Vincent jerked his head. "It's over, just let it go." He looked at Brendon's chair, the white carpet stained crimson brown underneath. Something shiny caught Vincent's eye. He walked over and reached under the chair. "Son of ah bitch," he said as he picked up an arrowhead. Tears welled. "No. Be strong." He thought of Brendon helping him in the corn field that day. How proud he was of his son. The dreams of Brendon growing up to take over the farm, all gone. _Did I tell him how proud I was?_ Vincent thought. _Did I?_ He walked to the coffee table. The black iron swans bowed their heads, ashamed. He patted a swan head, turned around, and walked to his chair. It was on its side, pieces of duct tape still clinging to the crimson cloth. He righted the tall chair and collapsed onto it.

The horror began again—the cries, the blood, the tears, the agony. Those eyes, those shark eyes, fierce as razors. "No, it's over. Just let it go," Vincent told himself. He could still hear them, their screams, their anguish, he could hear it all perfectly.... _Shall I introduce myself? Let my son go. He stole it, your father stole the house of the Viceman. Daddy, I'm scared. Tut,tut,tut, shhh. What have you done with my wife? I'm here on vacation. Just sit back_ _and enjoy the show. Cassandra! You son of a bitch, don't you dare hurt them. I'm going to fuck you, how does that sound? Fuck yourself. Mom, it hurts. I'll kill you! I'm so sorry, Vince. Take it off, bitch, all of it. You're still a fucking virgin, aren't you? I'm so sorry, Vince, I love you so much. I will come back and we'll do this all over again. Best kill of my life. My son, My only child! Oh, my God, Brendon! I guess you really can't go home again.... Where's your God now, Mr. Goss? Where's your God now?_

A tear formed in the corner of Vincent's eye. It ballooned and glistened down his cheek, swelling on his chin until it dropped and mixed with the blood spilling from his wrist. Vincent clutched the arrowhead with his cold right hand. "I'm so sorry, Cassandra." He slit his other wrist.

Whiskers ran from the kitchen and jumped on Vincent's lap. He kneaded his paws against blood-soaked pants. Vincent offered the cat a tender smile.

_I'll wait with you_ , Whiskers meowed. _Brendon will be home soon and then we'll have fun_. The cat curled into a comfortable ball. Vincent gently stroked his fur and they both went to sleep.

# Chapter 5

"It takes two to speak the truth—one to speak it, and another to hear."

—Henry David Thoreau

A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, Wednesday

Oblivion ... 00.00.23

Hell's torture forced Vincent to awake once more. "You son of ah bitch!" Vincent yelled, jerking his foot from a puddle of acid. He threw the music box at Thaddy. It struck the child's back and fell to the flint floor. "You said it wasn't anything that bad!"

The boy sat near the chasm opening, staring at the crimson sky. Thaddy calmly said, "We must leave now, mister, they will be coming soon."

Vincent charged forward. He tackled the child to the ravine floor and pinned his shoulders to the ground. "You said it wasn't anything that bad! You gave me your word!"

"I am sorry, mister. It is not really as bad as—"

"I killed myself! _That! Is! Bad!_ You knew the whole time, didn't you?"

Thaddy gazed at Vincent with eyes of silver starshine.

Vincent smacked him across the face. " _Didn't you?_ " He grabbed the boy's hair and yanked back his head. "I should fuckin' kill you."

Thaddy smiled.

"Is that funny? _Is it?_ "

"I have been dead a long time, mister."

A low rumbling coursed through the ravine, shaking loose flint from the cliff face.

Vincent released the child and sat up.

"We must leave this place at once." Thaddy stood up, hearing the rumbling growing louder, closer. "Please, mister." He grabbed Vincent's hand and pulled. "We must go now."

"What's that noise?" Vincent asked.

"It is the Riders. They are looking for me. We must hide." Vincent's hand turned bloody as Thaddy tugged. "Please, mister, there is no more time."

"Maybe I should just let them find you."

"Mister, _please_."

Vincent shook his head and stood up. "This doesn't mean I'm not still pissed off."

Thaddy ran, holding his shredded hands on his neck, letting the blood run down his back. Vincent followed the boy across the ravine. They snaked through a field of black flint boulders and hid near the cliff face. The rumbling became a mad roar. Rocks shifted from the cliff and dropped at their feet.

"Duck your head, mister." Thaddy tugged on Vincent's arm. "They might see you."

"Who the hell're these Riders we're runnin' from?" Vincent asked, kneeling down.

Thaddy didn't reply.

The roar intensified, nearly deafening. The ground began to shake.

"What the hell?" Vincent fixed his sights through the boulders. "We got some kinda stampede— Holy shit."

Across the ravine were horses, at least two hundred, breaking full gallop, their bodies covered in open wounds: bone, gut, glistening muscle—all savagely distinct. The horses chomped down on bits formed from human wrist bones attached to reins of braided intestines. The saddles were made of flesh—tanned human skin. Upon their backs sat the Riders, all men, mostly naked, some black, some brown, most white. They were wailing, screaming, steadying their horses, searching. Self-inflicted injuries adorned their bodies. Bone fragments forced open the flesh wounds, displaying white ribs, chest muscle and skull.

"My God, Thaddy," Vincent said, "who—"

" _Shhh_. Please, mister, do not let them hear you."

The Riders searched the ravine and found blood near the chasm entrance. They dismounted and charged into the cave. Vincent grinned, hearing several drop down the pit. The Riders swarmed out from the chasm and spread like fire ants across the ravine floor.

"They're comin' this way," Vincent said.

"Be still," Thaddy urged.

Vincent balled up behind the boulder, Thaddy huddled next to him. The Riders were close, searching for a blood trail, working their way through the field of boulders, yelling, screaming, kicking up flint dust. A muscular, white Rider shuffled on the backside of Vincent and Thaddy's boulder, scraping loose rubble, searching. Tanned skin pants hung from the Rider's waist, cut and tattered at his shins. His feet were bare, as was his chest. A three-inch bone held open a cheek wound, exposing teeth within. In his right hand he clutched a hatchet made from a human femur with a sharp flint rock strapped at its end.

Vincent clenched his teeth, made a steel fist, and whispered to Thaddy, "I'm gonna take him out."

"No, mister, _wait_."

Flint and dust stirred to Vincent's right. He coiled his body, preparing to pounce. Thaddy reached out to grab Vincent's arm and a large droplet of blood slung out from his shredded hand, splattering a rock directly in the Rider's path. Vincent raised his eyebrows, slowly shook his head, then reached for the bloody rock. He jumped up, teeth clenched, rock raised, ready to strike! The Rider had turned his back. Vincent could have winked and brushed the Rider's neck with an eyelash. The Rider walked away, head bowed, arms raised, shouting, "My Savior!" Vincent stood like a tightly wound spring, waiting for the Rider to turn. He never did. Vincent quietly dropped the rock and ducked back behind the boulder.

"What happened?" Thaddy asked.

Vincent was trembling. He wiped his dry brow. "Can't even sweat in this damn place." He turned to the boy. "He just walked away. Somethin' about a _Savior_. Who the hell is that?"

Thaddy was silent.

Vincent stared back through the field of boulders. Away from their horses, the Riders gathered near the chasm, a swarming mass collecting around a single man mounted upon his steed. "Who is that?"

"That is their Savior," Thaddy said, not bothering to look.

"What's he doin'?"

"Looking for me."

Vincent narrowed his eyes, focusing on the mob across the ravine. The Savior plucked an item from the hand of a Rider ... the music box. He looked at it, twisted it back and forth, and smiled. The Savior turned his steed, knocking men to the ground. He galloped through the crowd and rode toward the field of boulders. The Riders scrambled and mounted their horses, chasing after their Savior.

The Savior rode to the edge of the boulder field, pulled up on the reins, and began slowly walking his horse, searching. Vincent saw the Savior perfectly, his horse carved from black marble, a flawless sculpture save for the head, a head without flesh. Wide, scared eyes, shiny muscle, sinew, bone and teeth—a horrid vision of a beast in wrenching agony. On its back was a human flesh saddle. Upon the saddle, the Savior sat tall wearing a black skin robe and pants, jerking on human gut reins. He wore bone sandals held by black skin straps. A white skin hood made of human scalps covered his head, blocking his face from view. Human heads bounced against the horse's chest, two on either side, strapped through the horse's flesh and ribs. Vincent stared at the face of one head and saw its eyes blink.

Vincent spun back behind the boulder. "I don't think he knows you're here."

"He knows I am close," Thaddy said. "He will not stop until he finds me."

The thunder of the Riders careened through the ravine as they gathered behind their Savior.

Vincent turned to watch. "Why's he lookin' for you anyway?"

Thaddy didn't reply.

The Savior yanked his steed around. Shadows danced under his hood. Vincent glimpsed parts of his face. Perfectly smooth, white cheeks dropped to a narrow jaw, a strong jaw clenched with intention. Vincent focused hard as the shadows evaporated from the Savior's eyes.

Vincent's skull pounded, his chest collapsed, his mouth dropped open, his stomach began to retch. The Savior fixed his stare in Vincent's direction. Shadows beat under that hood, shading his features, obscuring the glorified wickedness within.

Vincent glimpsed his future, his past, more than his brain could process. He became dizzy and collapsed behind the boulder, retching up a dry heave.

"Mister, please try to settle your stomach," Thaddy urged. "They will hear you."

Vincent's temples popped like firecrackers. He turned to the boy. "Who is that?"

Thaddy didn't answer as he watched the horses quit advancing. "I think they are leaving."

The Savior whipped his horse around and tore through the ravine, the Riders close behind, their steeds kicking up thunder and dust.

Vincent reeled with pain, his stomach knotted and convulsing. He rolled on his side and gathered his knees to his chest.

"Are you all right?" Thaddy asked.

"Who was that?" Vincent asked again.

"That was their leader."

"Damn it, kid, I mean, _who_ is he? I know I've seen that face before."

Thaddy stood up and looked through the boulder field, hearing the thunder die, watching the last Rider evaporate in the dust. "We must keep moving, mister."

Vincent gathered himself against the boulder and sat up. "I'm not goin' anywhere, kid."

"They will be back," Thaddy said. "They will not stop looking."

"I've had it, kid. Let the bastards find me. I don't care." Vincent braced against the boulder and dry-heaved. "You tryin' to keep me alive, or keep me from bein' dead, or whatever the hell you're tryin' to do, ain't doin' me a bit of good."

Thaddy sat down and wrapped his arms around his folded knees. "Mister, knowing you can leave this place, I do not understand why you will not try."

"How, kid? _How_ can I leave?" Vincent turned to Thaddy and looked deeply into his glittery eyes. "You say you're dead, then I must be dead too. So what can I do, _huh_? Go back as a fuckin' zombie or somethin'?" Vincent turned away. "Why don't you quit bullshittin' me and just keep your trap shut." He paused for a moment, sucked in a lungful of caustic air, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Thaddy, I'm just gettin' tired of all the—"

"You are dead, mister," Thaddy cut in, "as am I. But not like you understand. My last breath on the earth plane was your first."

"What the hell're you talkin' about?"

"I died on earth at a very early age," said Thaddy, "an age where Creation has no need to judge. I should have moved on to a higher existence, but my mother could not accept that I left the earth plane so soon. Her grief was tremendous, as was her guilt. My essence was— _is_ still attached to hers. I—"

"Essence?" Vincent cut in. "You mean your soul?"

"Yes, my soul, an essence that I share with my natural parents," Thaddy explained. "An essence that is tethered to my mother's guilt, keeping me stuck in an alternate plane of existence."

"So, you were in limbo or somethin'?"

"Yes, it has been called that."

"Kid, this is nuts." Vincent turned away and slumped against the boulder.

"The whole of Creation encompasses all levels of existence, all dimensions. It is not nuts." Thaddy's eyes blazed with starshine. "It operates by a strict set of rules—very intricate and delicate, but strict. When something goes wrong, Creation finds a way to right Itself. When I was held in limbo, I had no choice but to wait until my mother died so she could be enlightened by the truth of Creation and release my essence, my soul."

"Then you would all go to heaven?" Vincent asked with a spark of intrigue.

"I would have moved on to a more advanced plane of existence, what most religions call heaven."

Vincent turned to the boy. "Then why are you down here servin' time in hell with me?"

Thaddy tried to explain again, "It is like I said, mister. As I died, you were being born, inhaling your very first breath. In the split second between the two events, my options were presented. I could watch over you during your earth journeys, or just wait in limbo until my time passed, until my mother became enlightened and released me. I chose to help you. As I died, I breathed my last breath into your newborn essence. When you entered this plane, I—"

"So, you're like what? My guardian angel?"

Thaddy smiled. "Something like that."

Vincent gazed at the crimson sky. "Looks like you chose the wrong guy to protect." He turned to the child. "If I didn't end up here, where would I have gone?"

"An enlightened soul always shifts to the next higher level of existence," Thaddy said. "One that did not learn all he should on earth would be reborn on earth. One with hatred and evil surrounding his soul transfers here."

"Here being hell?"

"As most see it."

Vincent shook his head. "This is too much. It can't work like that. What about God, Jesus, everything I was raised to believe? They don't exist?"

"All religions exist, mister." Thaddy paused for a moment, then said, "Mankind has always needed faith to survive. But do not confuse faith with truth. They are not the same thing."

"What about those horses, Thaddy? _Yeah_ , what about them? How'd they get sent to hell? Stampede the Pope?"

Thaddy smiled. "The horses have been manipulated here. They should not exist on this plane. They belong in their own existence, one created for animals."

Vincent smirked. "Horsey heaven, kid? Is that what you're tellin' me now, that—"

"The animals have yet to evolve into enlightenment," Thaddy said. "Once they do, once they become conscious beings, they will be granted an essence and enter the eternal flow of Creation. They will reach higher levels of—"

"Give me a break." Vincent massaged his temples with the heels of his hands. "You can't expect me to believe this crap."

Thaddy offered a consoling smile. "It is all right. You will come to understand everything eventually." He stood up and stared at the pulsing sky. "You need to remember more of your past, mister."

"Can't. I lost the music box."

"You no longer need it. Just concentrate on the last thing you remembered."

"I just killed myself. There's nothin' left to remember."

"How did you kill yourself, mister?"

Vincent clenched his teeth and glared at Thaddy.

"How?" the boy persisted.

"I slit my goddamn wrists with—"

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 6

"Revenge, at first though sweet,

Bitter ere long back on itself recoils."

—John Milton

Paradise Lost

Bon Olivi, IL ... Spring

Vincent open his crusted eyes and saw Satan stand before him offering a blood sacrament from the devil's chalice. Vincent smacked the demon hand, casting the vile liquid upon the floor. Vincent heard the devil call his name. His low guttural tones of unearthly horror resonated from hell's rafters. "Get away from me!" Vincent commanded the black devil.

"You need to drink," a concerned voice said.

Vincent rubbed his eyes, clearing his fuzzy vision. A dark silhouette stood before him like an ink blot on black velvet. Hell's fire shifted the demon's shadow. "No!" Vincent yelled, crawling across the loose floor. "Stay away!"

The man followed. "Please, Mr. Goss, you must drink."

Vincent hit the back wall of hell, trapped, nowhere to go.

"Be still," the man said. "Your wounds will—"

"No! Let me out!" Vincent demanded.

"Where do you think you are?"

"Hell. This is _hell_."

The man unleashed an uproarious laugh, waking the demon bats, shaking them from hell's chimney. They fluttered about, their wings furiously whipping the still air.

Vincent watched a white feather drift downward and land on a bed of straw at his side. He picked it up, stared at it, then looked at the man standing before him.

" _Ahh_ , no mourning doves in hell, are there, Mr. Goss?"

"Who are you? What's goin' on?" Vincent sat up as his head cleared and his imagined hell dissolved into familiar surroundings. He was inside his barn, blanketed by night, crickets chirping, a small fire crackling within a circle of fieldstone, defining the stranger's face by an orange glow. Vincent, still wearing remnants of his dark, blood-stained suit, noticed his wrists wrapped with crusty, brown gauze and tape. "I remember now. You were at the funeral, weren't you?"

The man adjusted a cinder block and sat down. "Yes, I was there." He reached for Vincent's wrists. "I should check your wounds."

"Who are you?" Vincent asked, jerking back his wrists.

"My name is Al-Hallaj. Now, let me see your—"

"What're you doin' here?"

"Saving your life," Al-Hallaj said, "although not my original intent. Now, let me see—"

"Why? How'd you— Why, why'd you stop me?"

Al-Hallaj tightened his lips. "Mr. Goss, Allah has guided me here to—" He paused and sighed into Vincent's questioning eyes. "That doesn't mean a thing to you, does it?"

"Who is _Allah_?"

"God. Allah is God." Al-Hallaj rubbed his beard and stood up. "I don't expect you to understand, and I won't waste time trying to explain." Al-Hallaj paced as he talked, a quick purposeful stride. He was a tall cut of ebony, aged slightly beyond fifty years with thick graying beard and mustache. His balding head was covered by a short brown knit hat. He also wore the remnants of a dark suit: white short-sleeve shirt, thin black tie hanging open, black pants and shoes. "The bottom line is, I am here on a quest." Al-Hallaj briskly walked forward and knelt down. He grabbed Vincent's wrists and looked into his eyes. "I was guided here to save you, and you in turn will save others." Al-Hallaj spoke with the power and precision of a lightning bolt, faith flowing in his voice, hope radiating from his eyes—one steel gray eye, one brown—resembling each other in conviction only.

"What do you mean, I'll save others?" Vincent asked.

" _Ahh_ , yes, Mr. Goss, you will save many. Praise Allah."

Vincent jerked free his wrist and checked under the bandages. Scabs covered the wounds. "How long have I been here?"

"Three days."

Vincent's eyes widened. " _Three_?"

Al-Hallaj smiled and picked up a plastic cup from the dusty floor. He filled it with bottled water and offered it. Vincent gulped it down. "Whoa, slowly," Al-Hallaj said. "Too much will make you ill."

Vincent handed the cup back to Al-Hallaj. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he said, "More."

"Let that settle—"

"Three days? Nobody called on me?"

Al-Hallaj grinned. "That's why we're in the barn, too many people came calling." He filled the cup again. "The first night, we hid in your attic. It got a bit cold up there, so I moved you out here the following night. You needed warmth."

"Why?" Vincent asked. "Why're you hiding me?"

" _Ahh_ , it's not _you_ I'm hiding, it's _me_ ," Al-Hallaj said. "What a sight it would be, me, a black man in Bon Olivi, hovering over your bloody body. What would your neighbors think?"

"Why didn't you take me to the hospital...? Why didn't you just let me die?"

"I need you, Mr. Goss."

"For what? I have nothin' to offer you."

"Yes, yes you do." Al-Hallaj stood up and helped Vincent to his feet. He walked him to the fire's rim and sat him down on a plastic bucket. Al-Hallaj sat cross-legged on the floor, reached into a paper sack placed next to the fieldstone, and pulled out two fig bars. He gave one to Vincent and ate one himself. "Figs, Mr. Goss, heaven's bounty." Vincent devoured it. "Slowly," Al-Hallaj said, handing Vincent the sack. "Your stomach is weak, eat them slowly."

Vincent began filling his empty stomach. "So, Al, why are—"

"It's Al-Hallaj, not Al."

Vincent's brow collapsed. "What kinda name is that?"

"It is Islamic. I am named after a great Sufi master. My path is—"

"A _what_ master? _Sufi?_ What's that?"

"Unimportant is what it is to you," Al-Hallaj said. "I am not here to teach you my religion. I am merely here to fulfill a quest."

Vincent swallowed a bite of his fig bar, studying the stranger.

"I am here for information," Al-Hallaj said.

Vincent shifted his eyes to his wrists. "What information?"

Al-Hallaj hesitated a moment, carefully choosing his words. "I know these are difficult times, Mr. Goss. I know your pain and loss are extreme, but this is your chance to prevent the horror that you endured from happening to someone else. I must know what the Viceman looks like. I need a description."

Vincent slowly pulled a half-eaten fig bar from his mouth. He gazed into the fire. Zedekiah smiled back from the flames, and said, _Should I come back and we do this all over again?_ "I already told the police everything," Vincent said. "I was knocked out durin' the attack."

"I know he has threatened you," Al-Hallaj said. "I promise, no harm will come—"

"I told you, I was knocked out. I never saw him. I have no idea what he looks like."

"I promise you your wife will be protected."

"Damn it! I told you I was knocked out!"

" _Tut,tut,tut, shhh_ ," Al-Hallaj said knowingly.

Vincent, his eyes floating in fear, jerked his head and looked at Al-Hallaj.

" _Ahh_ , so you have met the Viceman," Al-Hallaj said.

"You son of ah bitch."

"Now, Mr. Goss, let's not waste anymore time. I need that description."

"How'd you know?" Vincent asked. "If you've heard him, you must've seen him."

Al-Hallaj slowly stood up and clasped his hands behind his back. He paced near the fire, his distant gaze attached to the flames. "I have dreams, nightmares. I hear his voice, that wretched voice of his. I hear it." Flames flickered in Al-Hallaj's eyes. "That voice has haunted me for more than twenty years."

"Twenty years?" Vincent asked. "The Viceman has only been around for eight."

"The _name,_ Viceman, yes. Not the murderer himself, he's been around much longer." Al-Hallaj stopped pacing. He stared straight to the heart of the fire and sighed. "Where I am from, somebody gets murdered every night. Sometimes it makes the newspaper, most of the time not. It usually winds up as another report some cop doesn't want to spend time filling out. Nobody cares when a crack dealer goes down, a gangbanger gets shot. Just one more nigger off the street as far as the cops are concerned." Al-Hallaj plucked his gaze from the fire and met Vincent's eyes. "That's how the Viceman began, carving up the so-called expendable society, working his craft to perfection."

Vincent shook his head, trying to comprehend. "He's been at it for over twenty years?"

"Yes."

Vincent's jaw dropped. "How many have died?"

Al-Hallaj peeled off his knit cap and rubbed his smooth head. "Hundreds, Mr. Goss, hundreds."

Vincent bowed his head, slowly shaking it in disbelief.

"It wasn't until he used that bench vice on the rich, white folk up in Brookfield that he got branded the Viceman." Al-Hallaj sat down. "This has become a war for me, a _jihad_. Innocent people are dying and I'm going to stop it."

Vincent swallowed hard. "I can't help you. I'm sorry." _Good boy, Vincent_ , Zedekiah whispered _, your wife will live another day_.

"Mr. Goss, I am closer to your pain than you can imagine. Praise Allah that you and your wife were spared. But that leaves the two of you as the only living witnesses. And since your wife—"

Vincent began trembling, holding his bandaged wrists.

Al-Hallaj wrapped a comforting arm around Vincent. "I am sorry. I know you loved her very much. Watching your wife get raped ... that had to be unbearable. I can only imagine what you went through, but I need to know."

"I told you already." A tear rolled down Vincent's cheek. "I was knocked out. I didn't see anything."

"Your wife couldn't talk to the police, and no semen samples were released."

Vincent, tears streaming, stared hard at Al-Hallaj. "Why're you doin' this? I told you—"

"Your son—you watching the Viceman slaughter him. The pain that poor boy must have suffered. Tremendous."

"Why?" Vincent hobbled to his feet and stumbled against the tractor. "Why're you doin' this to me?" The horror began again. He could hear them—his wife, his son, Zedekiah. The screams. "Just leave," Vincent demanded. "Nobody asked you to come down here."

"People are dying, Mr. Goss. Do you understand?" Al-Hallaj stood up. "Little boys and girls carved up, innocent blood spilled, the saved souls of Islam, they're all dying horrible deaths. Your son ... the same thing will happen again to some other innocent child. The killing will not stop."

_Daddy, it hurts!_ Brendon screamed in Vincent's mind. "Why didn't you just let me die! _Why?_ " Vincent collapsed on the ground, covering his eyes with the heels of his hands. " _Why?_ "

" _Ahh_ , it was not your time, Allah made sure of that." Al-Hallaj paused for a moment. "All I need from you is a description, and I will scour Chicago. I will find him, and I will kill him. It's that simple."

_Shall I come back and we do this all over again?_ asked Zedekiah.

"A description, Mr. Goss."

_Daddy, I'm scared_ , Brendon stuttered.

"Talk to me. I need this information."

_If I see a police sketch even close_....

"Mr. Goss, I know your pain is tremendous."

Still a fucking virgin, aren't you?

"Mr. Goss! I will not leave without that description!"

Shall I come back and we do this all over again?

"Mr. Goss!"

_I love you so much, Vince,_ Cassandra whispered in Vincent's mind. _I always will_.

" _Fuck you!_ " Vincent lashed out, tears of rage pouring down his cheeks. He clenched his teeth, his eyes glazed with insane anger. "If anyone's gonna kill that son of ah bitch, it's gonna be _me_!" The words leapt from his mouth like a runaway train. "You find him, _I'll_ kill him! That is the only way I tell you _anything_!"

Al-Hallaj stirred uneasily, wringing his hands behind his back, pacing. Vincent's conviction disturbed him. "People are dying now, Mr. Goss. _Now!_ I need the information now."

"No deal. You find him, I kill him."

"For God's sake," Al-Hallaj said, "look at you. You're in no condition to kill anyone."

Vincent looked at his bandaged wrists. "This won't stop me."

"It's not your wrists I'm worried about, it's your rage. Your anger has made you want to kill, but _wanting_ and _doing_ are two different things." Al-Hallaj frowned, slowly shaking his head. "How long has it been since your last street fight?"

Vincent rubbed his wrists in silence.

"How long?"

Vincent stared at Al-Hallaj with quiet eyes.

" _Never?_ You have never even been in a fight and you expect to kill the Viceman?" Al-Hallaj laughed. "You, Mr. Goss, are a fool if you think—"

"Goddamn you!" Vincent hobbled to his feet. "He killed my son, raped my wife, and beat me within an inch of hell ... and you think I'll change my mind about killing that bastard because you have the fuckin' gall to stand there and call me _names_?" Vincent grabbed Al-Hallaj's shirt collar and yanked him close. "I will kill him. I _will_." He released his grip, and collapsed. "I swear to you, I will."

"It would take me months to get you ready to kill," Al-Hallaj said.

"Then it'll take months."

"People are dying _now_ , Mr. Goss. Do you have any idea how many more will die within—"

"They've been dyin' for twenty years," Vincent said. "A few more months won't matter."

Vincent's rage unsettled him. His ethics, his moral judgment, his small town values—all forgotten, unbridled rage in its place, cognitive thinking replaced by the primal instinct of revenge. He could taste Zedekiah's blood now. He wanted to see it flow in a river at his feet, watch the life drain from his cold, dark eyes.

Al-Hallaj shook his head. "Rage does not a killer make, not for the likes of the Viceman." He sat down at Vincent's side. "Your thirst for revenge will cost more lives." Al-Hallaj sighed. "But your eyes tell me it will be no other way." He tossed a stick on the fire. Red ash danced in the air. "Tomorrow we leave for Chicago."

Vincent turned to Al-Hallaj.

"Yes, Mr. Goss, your wish has been granted. You will be trained to kill." Al-Hallaj lay back on the straw and covered his face with his knit hat. "Let's just hope your wish doesn't get us all killed in the process.... Sleep well, Mr. Goss."

# Chapter 7

"It is good to have some friends both in heaven and hell."

—George Herbert

"Outlandish Proverbs"

Oblivion ... 00.00.27

"Son of ah bitch!" Vincent yelled, waking back in hell to a sharp pain. He reached for his left buttock and felt the edge of a bone knife. He rolled over and looked up at a stranger. "Who the hell're you?"

"Who the hell is being _me_?" said the stranger. "Who the hell is being _you_?"

Vincent stared hard at the person hovering over him. He was a middle-aged, dark-skinned man, hailing from India in a former life, wearing a brown tunic cut at his knees. Wavy, black hair cascaded over the Indian's shoulders, a thick beard scraped his chest. A chest that dropped sharply to a well-rounded stomach. He had time-worn eyes, sage eyes, mystical knowing mirrors of an ancient soul, constantly shifting, blinking, the black pupils surrounded by a moat of brown, floating in a sea of yellow. The Indian fidgeted as he threatened with his bone knife, not nervous movement, more like a blue crab on hot sand—quick, purposeful, steady, making its way to a cool ocean without forethought.

"Up. Up. You are getting up now." The stranger kicked Vincent with the edge of his bone sandal.

"Who the hell're you?" Vincent asked, then jerked his head. "Thaddy. Where is— What have you done with Thaddy?"

"Glipp is knowing nothing of a Thaddy," the Indian said. "You are getting up and showing me where we can be finding the son of Vishnu."

" _Who?_ "

The man struck Vincent like a king cobra, burying the bone blade in his right buttock. The Indian quickly recoiled, shifting, fidgeting, ready to strike again.

"Goddamn it!" Vincent yelled.

The stranger shifted to Vincent's other side, and said, "You are showing me where son of Vishnu is being."

Vincent stood up and found himself nearly a foot taller than the Indian. Vincent slid his back against the boulder, slowly positioning himself. " _Okay, okay_ , I'll show you where the son of Vishnu is. Just give me a minute." Vincent coiled muscle, winding, tensing, ready to strike. "I'll take you to him. I'll show you where—" He swung at the Indian. Vincent's fist missed by an eyelash. The man sidestepped quickly, smiling, countering with a knife strike to Vincent's left buttock.

The Indian grinned. "Glipp is thinking Glipp can be doing this for eternity before you are learning not to be striking at me. Glipp is not one that is being struck at."

Rage tore through Vincent's chest, worked its way up his throat, to his mouth, where it filed itself sharp on his grinding teeth. " _I'll kill you!_ " He charged the man, swinging wildly.

The Indian had the agility of a mongoose, countering each missed blow with a stab in the butt. "Ha! Your ass is becoming my pincushion. You should be just giving up. Glipp is still thinking you are being no match for the likes of me."

"I am the person you seek," Thaddy gently said.

Both men spun as the boy appeared from behind a flint boulder.

"No, Thaddy, run! It's one of those Riders!" Vincent yelled, clutching his wounds.

The Indian dropped to his knees and bowed. "Son of Vishnu!"

Vincent took pause, a questioned look upon his face. He looked at the Indian, then back at Thaddy.

"He is not a Rider," Thaddy said, "he is a Hindu."

"Son of Vishnu, Glipp is praising you!" the Indian said, still bowing.

" _Vishnu_?" Vincent asked, eyebrows raised.

"Vishnu is one of the Hindu's gods." Thaddy walked to the Indian man and placed a bloody hand upon his shoulder. "Please, I am not—"

"Blood!" the man yelled, staring at his shoulder. "Praise is being unto you. Glipp is being at your service."

"What is this 'Glipp' he keeps sayin'?" Vincent stood up and walked toward the Indian.

"Glipp is his name," Thaddy said. Then to Glipp, "Please, Glipp, stand up. I am not the son of Vishnu."

"If not being the son of Vishnu," Glipp said, searching the boy's sparkling eyes, "then who? No child is being in hell. And that is being three thousand years of looking. Children not. Blood not. None." Glipp turned to Vincent. "Why is this child being in hell?"

Vincent raised his brow and shook his head. "No idea. I'm not even sure why I'm here yet."

Glipp spun back to Thaddy. "A child being in hell is meaning ending of hell, does it not?"

"This plane of existence will be reclaimed," Thaddy said. "But not because of me."

"You are bleeding," Glipp said, eyes pleading. "A bleeding child is being in hell. End must be nearing."

Thaddy scanned the pulsing crimson sky. Swirling, purple clouds gathered, twisting, writhing, casting shadow upon the ravine. "We must find cover, the rain will be coming soon."

Vincent looked up. "And me without my umbrella." He turned to Glipp. "Sorry we couldn't help you. Best I can tell, this kid used to look out for me on earth. Somehow he screwed up and followed me here."

"I am sorry, Glipp," Thaddy said, walking to join Vincent.

Glipp jumped to his feet. "No! No children are reaching hell, e _ver!_ Children are being innocent! Innocence being in hell, there is being chance for pain ending!" Glipp ran and leapt out in front of the pair, knife in hand, eyes blinking hard and fast. "Glipp is going, or no one is going. You, him, me, we are going one, or we are going none. This _is_ being the son of Vishnu, in his eyes Glipp is seeing him. Vishnu is dancing and hell is soon collapsing."

Vincent strode forward. "Out of the way, Gandhi, the kid is short on time."

Glipp plunged his knife into Vincent's left buttock. "Glipp is going, or no one is going."

" _Damn it!_ " Vincent's voice echoed throughout the ravine, his eyes blazing. "I swear I will _kill_ you!"

"Ha! Death is being good if this place Glipp is leaving. If death you are offering, Glipp is welcoming it." Glipp withdrew the knife and stretched it out in front of his own chest. With both hands he thrust it through his tunic, splitting ribs, piercing a lung. "See? Glipp is not dying. Not living either." He stabbed himself twice more. "Only being pain and pain is being all. Hell is laughing and Glipp is suffering. We _all_ are suffering. No one is dying." He dropped his tunic to his waist. "See, the wounds are healing. Glipp is being ready for more pain. Always being ready for more pain. Hell is laughing. Glipp is crying, yet no tears. Hell is laughing again."

Vincent sighed. He looked at Thaddy, then back at Glipp. "How long did you say you've been here?"

"No one is being sure of time here," Glipp said. "I am thinking almost certain over three thousand years."

Vincent looked at Thaddy. "How is that possible?"

"Time is relative, mister. He cannot die again so—"

"C'mon, kid, we're talkin' three thousand years here."

"Not being certain three thousand," Glipp said. "Maybe being more."

"Maybe more, huh?" Vincent shook his head. "So, you must know your way around here pretty well?"

"Yes, Glipp is knowing hell well," Glipp answered proudly. "Glipp could be taking you to safety. Glipp is knowing the way."

"He could be our guide," Thaddy said.

Glipp blinked wildly. "Yes! Glipp is being your guide. Glipp is being proud to be serving the son of Vishnu."

"One thing though, Glipp," Vincent said sternly, a finger pointed in the Hindu's smiling face. "No stabbing me in the ass anymore. _Got it?_ "

"Glipp is being sorry for using your ass as a pincushion," Glipp said. "What are you expecting though? You are running around hell butt-naked. It is making a good target."

Vincent looked at his naked body, then Glipp's clothes. "How'd you make that robe?"

"Skin. Everything in hell is being skin and bone. You are waiting here, Glipp is being back quickly." Glipp ran back to the point of original contact, snatched up a tan skin duffel bag, and returned. "Glipp is looking, Glipp is having spare clothes for all." He opened the bag and withdrew a human skin tunic and a roll of tanned flesh. "You are wearing this." He tossed the tunic to Vincent. "Glipp is making a special robe for son of Vishnu."

Glipp retrieved a bone splinter from the bag and yanked out several strands of his long, black hair. He measured Thaddy by eye, cut the skin with his knife, and sewed it with bone needle and hair thread. Glipp fashioned the clothes with the unerring precision of a master craftsman. His skill flowed from the heart of second nature. Everything he did was like that, thought not hindering a single movement. He soon dressed Thaddy in a hooded tunic, then he crafted two sets of bone sandals.

"What is this stuff, leather?" Vincent asked, admiring his new clothes.

"Leather no," Glipp said. "If cow is being in hell, Glipp is not hearing him moo. Cow is being sacred anyway. Skin is what it is being."

"Who's skin?" Vincent asked.

Glipp smiled proudly.

"This is _your_ skin?" Vincent asked, cringing.

"Glipp's flesh being on the son of Vishnu and his protector. Glipp is being quite honored." Glipp packed the skin remnants into his duffel bag. "Now we are going. Glipp is showing the way."

~

Days passed, or so it seemed. Without night to break the monotony, time became impossible to track. The ravine evaporated in an acid storm behind the trio. In front of them, a desert of endless flint faded to a crimson horizon.

Glipp proved to be a tireless guide. Running, walking, fidgeting, scanning, blinking, always in the lead, keeping close track of the storms and the thunder of hoof beats, steering clear of the occasional wandering prisoner of hell. The trio never stopped and seldom talked. Glipp learned their names and little else. Obsessed as he was about guiding the son of Vishnu to safety, he did not indulge his curiosities.

Glipp abruptly halted, hearing distant thunder. "Horses. Kali is coming," Glipp said. "Down, everyone should be getting down." He motioned with his hand and then dropped flatly on the ground.

Vincent knelt down, and whispered to Thaddy, " _Kali?_ "

"It is another Hindu god," the boy said.

"How many gods does this man have?"

" _Shhh_ , Glipp is knowing that Kali is being close. Be being still," Glipp whispered, pressing his head against the flint ground.

Oblivion rumbled. Bits of flint bounced past Vincent's face as he pressed hard against the ground. Glipp placed Thaddy's bloody hands inside his duffel bag, then covered the boy with his tunic.

The Riders rode close but did not see Glipp or his companions. They thundered off, still searching for the child that bleeds.

Glipp sat up, at ease and smiling. "Kali is searching and is not finding. Glipp is being a good guide. Glipp is taking good care of the son of Vishnu."

"The Riders are gonna come back," Vincent said, standing up, brushing flint dust from his tunic. "I suggest we get wherever we're goin' pretty damn quick."

"Riders? Kali is being called Riders?" Glipp asked Thaddy.

"They have been called that, yes," the boy said.

"Not being Kali?" Glipp asked.

"No. Just men on horses," Thaddy said.

"Just being men?"

"Yes."

"On horses?"

"Yes."

"In hell?"

"Yes."

Glipp shook his head. "Hell is getting all screwed up." He smiled at Thaddy. "Glipp will be calling them Riders too then." Glipp watched the dust settle on the horizon, then said, "We should be going now."

"Wait a minute there, Glipp," Vincent said. "We've been out in this desert for days now, how much farther is this place?"

"Be following me, Glipp is knowing the way. I will—"

"Will _what_? Where in hell're you leading us?" Vincent asked.

"We must not be talking, no time," Glipp said. "The Riders will be coming back. They are finding the son of Vishnu, and then we are never leaving." Glipp started walking.

" _Bullshit!_ " Vincent ran forward and yanked Glipp around by his sleeve. Glipp spun, knife at the ready. Vincent pointed a finger in Glipp's face. "You promised, no more stabbin'.... I just wanna know where we're goin'."

"We are heading for shelter," Glipp said.

"Where, Glipp? _Where?_ I don't see a Motel Six on the horizon." Vincent released Glipp's sleeve and stormed back to Thaddy. "I've had it with you, you're on your own."

"We are going to Vagary Heights," Glipp said. "There we are finding safety. We can be hiding amongst friends."

"What in hell is Vagary Heights?" Vincent asked.

"It is being the last stop before reaching the end." Glipp smiled. "It is being at the brink of the devil's doorstep."

Vincent shook his head with impatience. "The devil's doorstep?" He sighed. "Whatever. Just get us there soon or you're on your own again, got it?"

Glipp laughed. "Soon is meaning different things to you and me. A man of three thousand years is knowing nothing of soon anymore." Glipp began walking.

"How is it possible?" Vincent asked Thaddy, walking. "How can he be that old?"

"Like I was saying, mister," Thaddy said, "time is relative. Time here is not fixed to time on earth. This is a separate plane of existence. In fact, there are very few planes in all of Creation that are linked by time."

"What about heaven?" Vincent asked, trudging along behind Glipp. "Is it linked to earth?"

"What you call heaven is linked to nothing." Thaddy's eyes shined brightly. "It exists on its own plane of existence."

"Son of Vishnu is knowing of meanings far beyond his young age," Glipp said proudly. "I am being honored for being your guide."

Thaddy smiled.

"What are you knowing of more?" Glipp asked. "The other side, heaven, nirvana even? You are describing for me what heaven is being?"

"It is impossible to describe in words," Thaddy said. "One must experience it, feel it."

"And you've experienced it?" Vincent asked.

"While in limbo, on rare occasions, I have felt the higher plane," the boy said. "I could see it through feelings. In those moments, my essence became pure rapture."

"Being pure rapture?" Glipp asked. "Please be explaining."

"It is indescribable," Thaddy said.

"Please be trying. Glipp must be knowing."

"I am sorry, Glipp, but one must experience it. One must—"

"Thaddy...." Vincent interrupted, his eyes staring at the ground.

"Yes, mister, what is it?"

Vincent swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You could've moved on, couldn't you?"

Thaddy bit his lower lip, silently hoping Vincent wouldn't ask again.

Vincent stopped walking. "You didn't have to come here. You said you had a choice, didn't you?"

Thaddy kept walking.

"Goddamn it, kid. You could've moved on to heaven, couldn't you?"

Thaddy stopped and turned around. "Yes, mister, in time I would have moved on."

"You could've went to heaven and instead you're in hell with me? _Why,_ Thaddy?"

"It was my choice, mister."

"That's just great. Now I'm responsible for your misery too?" Vincent shook his head, pressing his lips together. "As if the Viceman hadn't caused enough—"

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 8

"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows."

—William Shakespeare

The Tempest

Chicago, IL ... Spring

Al-Hallaj drove his white, rusted '58 Plymouth Fury into the County Hospital parking lot. The half hour ride from Vincent's farm was spent in reflective silence. Al-Hallaj had nothing to talk about anyway, still being upset about not receiving the Viceman's description. And, on top of that, Vincent forced him to make the side trip to County to see Cassandra.

Al-Hallaj parked the car. He sat silently for a second, adjusting his brown knit hat, then said, "Twenty minutes, Mr. Goss. No more."

"I'll be back as soon as—"

"Tell her nothing of our plans."

"She can't understand what I'm saying," Vincent said. "It won't matter."

" _Nothing_."

Vincent shrugged and opened the car door. "Okay."

Al-Hallaj grabbed his arm. "Tell your wife that everything will be fine. Allah is by her side. He will care for her now."

Vincent raised a mild grin. "Yeah sure, I'll tell her."

"Praise Allah."

Vincent entered the hospital lobby and checked the directory. He boarded an empty elevator and pressed **6**. The doors closed. The floors began to chime. He paced uneasily, staring at his clothes, feeling underdressed in his blue jeans with threadbare knees, red flannel shirt, muddy work boots, and light tan jacket. This was the first time Vincent had visited his wife at County Hospital. He saw her once in Bon Olivi, just before signing papers to have her transferred for long term care, but he couldn't bring himself to visit after that.

The elevator doors opened to a cramped lobby. A sullen, pasty-faced receptionist sat behind a wood and glass desk working her nails to perfection.

"May I help you?" she asked, filing, scraping.

"Dr. Isaac Morubind, please," Vincent said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Vincent said. "He's my wife's doctor though, I need to see him."

"Hold on, I'll buzz him. He's a busy man, y'know." She gnawed at a hangnail and pressed a button on her phone. "There's a man out here, says he needs to see you.... Hold on. What's your name?"

"Vincent Goss. My wife is—"

"Vincent Goss, he says.... Okay, I'll tell him." She hung up the phone. "Dr. Morubind says he'll be right out. Lucky you." She filed her nails.

"Thank you." Vincent sat down on one of the yellow plastic chairs lining the wall opposite the desk. A door to his left opened. Out walked a large nurse clutching the arm of a skinny woman wearing a white hospital gown. Vincent looked up and made quick, casual eye contact with the skinny woman as she and her nurse walked past and entered an elevator.

"What you lookin' at?!" the skinny woman yelled.

Vincent turned away.

"I ain't your _bitch_ , cracker boy!"

"Quiet down," the nurse demanded.

The elevator doors began to close as the skinny woman continued yelling. "You ain't prostitutin' me! I ain't your mother fuckin' _whore_!" The elevator descended as her screams echoed throughout the building.

"Mr. Goss?"

Vincent looked up. "Dr. Morubind?"

"Yes, thank you for coming." The doctor smiled and shook Vincent's hand. "Sorry about the commotion."

Vincent stood up. "No problem."

"Please, follow me," the doctor said. "We have much to discuss."

Dr. Morubind walked slowly. He was bent and depleted from seventy-six years of gravity and calcium loss. In a younger day he may have stood six-foot even, today he walked ten inches shorter. He wore a tan suit with a light yellow bow tie. A lush jungle of silver hair covered his head.

"Here we are." Dr. Morubind opened his windowed office door. "Please, have a seat." He motioned with a shaky hand at a tan leather chair in front of a mahogany desk. He walked behind his desk and gazed through an open window. "Glorious day, isn't it?" Dr. Morubind talked sluggishly, his voice stilted, guttural, hampered by phlegm.

"Yes it is," Vincent said, sitting down.

The doctor sat down in a black leather chair and crossed his liver-spotted hands on the empty desk top. He raised his brow and grinned. Unruly gray eyebrows sat atop baby blue eyes, beautiful eyes highlighting the face of an ancient man.

"I am glad you came, Mr. Goss," the doctor said. "Cassandra will be pleased to see you."

A spark of hope ignited in Vincent. "How's she doin'? Can she speak yet?"

"Your wife is showing slight signs of improvement. But she still can't speak."

Vincent slowly leaned back, sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Mr. Goss, please, patience is critical in this matter," the doctor said. "Your wife is suffering from conversion hysteria. She has been through a great ordeal. Time is—"

"That's the first time I've heard it called that."

"What's that? Conversion hysteria?" Dr. Morubind leaned back, gripping his armrests, hands shaking. "The condition is more prevalent than you might imagine." The doctor offered his most consoling tones. "Your wife has suffered tremendous physiological stress, trauma, mental pain so great that her brain did the only thing it could to protect itself ... it shut down."

"Like bein' in a coma or somethin'?" Vincent asked.

"Not quite." The doctor sighed, thinking of a better explanation. "A coma is usually caused by injury of some kind. Your wife's condition is physiological. Her brain has instructed her body to shut down, completely detaching her from the pain of the outside world, which is why she has the muscular paralysis, the deafness and the blindness."

"How long, doctor?" Vincent asked, tears welling. "How much longer will she be like this?"

Dr. Morubind rose from his chair and walked around the desk. He placed a consoling hand upon Vincent's shoulder. "Please, Mr. Goss. In time, I expect her to make a full recovery."

"How much time?"

The doctor hesitated, fidgeting. "Weeks, maybe a couple months. It's hard to tell. Each case is different."

Vincent looked up at the doctor. "Has there ever been a person who didn't recover?"

The doctor pressed his lips.

"Has there?"

"I— Well—"

" _Has there?_ "

"There have been rare, very rare instances when the patient did not come out of it, yes," the doctor confessed. "I don't believe that to be your wife's case though."

Vincent's jaw trembled, tears flowed.

"Please, you must never give up hope," Dr. Morubind said. "You're all she has in the world right now. She needs you."

Vincent wiped his eyes. "Can I see her?"

"Certainly, Mr. Goss. I'll have the nurse take you to her room."

~

A nurse led Vincent down a secured hallway and stopped at a solid wooden door. "This is your wife's room." She unlocked the door.

"May I visit her alone, please?" Vincent asked.

The nurse smiled. "I don't see why not." She let Vincent pass. "Just pull the cord on the wall when you're finished."

"Thank you."

The heavy door thundered shut.

Vincent walked into the small sterile room with funeral parlor feet—light, tentative, unsure of the next step. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, one bulb out, the other flickering, striving to stay lit. A powder-blue cloth curtain hung from an aluminum track on the ceiling, hiding the front of an electric hospital bed. In the far corner, a yellow plastic chair sat alone upon the speckled gray tile floor. The chair was bathed in sunshine that beamed through the only window—a small square porthole shackled in chicken wire. Vincent paused at the curtain, inhaled a deep breath of sanitized air, sighed, and gently opened it.

Cassandra appeared.

A hollow void floated in Vincent's stomach. Tears welled and his lower lip quivered. He lowered the aluminum bed rail, slid up the chair, and sat down at her side. He began wringing his hands, staring at his feet. A tear splashed his lap. Cassandra lay perfectly still in a white hospital gown, eyes open, staring into nothingness.

"It's me, Cassandra ... Vince."

She didn't move.

"I'm so sorry, Cassandra," Vincent said, searching her vacant emerald eyes. "I'm so sorry."

She didn't blink.

Vincent edged forward. With a baby's touch, he gently brushed the stray auburn hair from her eyes. "You look so beautiful today." He trembled. "I miss you." He clenched his teeth and eyelids, tears streaming. "I miss you so much."

Vincent stood up and tried to gather himself. He shoved the chair aside, knelt down, and took her lifeless hand in his. "I need you to come out of this, Cassandra. Life means nothin' without you." He squeezed her hand. "How can I reach you? There's gotta be a way. It can't end here, not like this. We've shared so much." He paused, wiping his eyes, shuffling through old memories, condensing his pain into his sternum, thinking of a way to touch her soul.

"Remember that time in old man Hickock's meadow?" Vincent asked, eyes sparkling. "We were about seventeen, I guess. You were so beautiful, wearing your blue dress, that special one you bought just for that day. Do you remember?" He swallowed. "The sun was shinin', the pond sparklin', the frogs— Remember the frogs chirpin'?" Vincent smiled, wiping a tear from his cheek. "I remember it so well. You layin' on that red and white blanket underneath the apple tree, just soakin' up the sun, smellin' the blossoms. I told you I was scared that day. You already knew, but you didn't say a word. You knew how scared I was." Vincent stroked her hair. "Remember how it started? I leaned in to kiss you. I didn't know if you wanted me to, so I backed away. Then you leaned toward me and kissed me on the lips. The sweet smell of your jasmine perfume. God, I was in heaven. Then you took my hand and you placed it on your chest." Vincent swallowed hard. "You knew I was scared. You looked into my eyes and told me— You told me—" He began trembling. "You told me not to be afraid. You told me I would be the only man you ever loved, that you would never hurt me." He covered his eyes with his free hand. "I love you with every ounce of my heart, Cassandra. I never imagined bein' without you."

Vincent stood up and gazed through the chicken-wired window. "You were the strong one, not me. It was never me. I was always scared, always tryin' to protect you from gettin' hurt." He inhaled deeply, then sighed. "It wasn't you I was protectin' from the pain, it was _me_. It was always me." Vincent grabbed the chair and sat back at her bedside. "It was always me. I was always afraid of my pain. If you got hurt, I didn't know what I would do. I was always afraid. I'm so sorry."

Vincent placed his head upon Cassandra's chest, her soft bosom barely a comfort, the hospital gown soaking up his tears. "These things aren't supposed to happen to people like us. Not _us_." He picked up his head and searched her vacant gaze. "God was supposed to look out for us, watch over us, protect us." Vincent pursed his lips and slowly shook his head, anger building. "Fuck God," he whispered. He stared at the ceiling, the heavens beyond. "Do You hear me? _Fuck You!_ Where were You? _Where?_ Look what You've done to my family!" Vincent clenched his teeth. "Why? Why us?" His whole body trembled uncontrollably, tears dripping from his cheeks. "I don't know what to do anymore, Cassandra. I don't." He gently stroked her hair. "Please talk to me. I need you. I need you more than ever now. _Please._ "

She didn't move.

Vincent glided his fingers across her lips, leaned forward, and whispered in her ear, "Please talk to me, Cassandra. You're in there somewhere. You've just gotta be. Please come back."

She didn't blink.

" _Please_ ," he begged.

Not a glimmer of response.

Vincent swallowed, leaned back, and looked at the window. A white dove landed on the windowsill and pecked at the chicken-wired glass, its black eyes dead on Vincent. The dove cooed once and flew away. Vincent bowed his head, rubbed his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger, then softly said, "I'm goin' after Zedekiah, Cassandra. I'm gonna get that son of ah bitch. I'm gonna kill him for what he's done to you ... to us. I'm gonna tear him apart. I swear it."

Vincent took a deep breath and sighed, preparing for words he never imagined would pass his lips. "I'm gonna have to go away for awhile. I've gotta leave you." Tears flowed. "I don't know what else to do. I'm so lost right now."

Vincent reached into his tan jacket, to an inner pocket, and pulled out a pressed red rose, the one he gave to Cassandra when her father died. "I took this from your bible." He set it on her chest, picked up her hand, and placed it across the stem. "I want you to always remember I love you." Vincent gently kissed her forehead. "I'm so sorry, Cassandra. So sorry."

He tugged the nurse's call cord.

~

Vincent swung open the car door and entered the Fury.

"Everything go all right?" Al-Hallaj asked.

"Yeah, fine." Vincent slammed shut the door.

"Did you tell her Allah was with her?"

Vincent stared straight ahead. "Just drive."

Al-Hallaj saw the face of a broken man, and said, "You shouldn't leave your wife like this. Just give me the Viceman's description, and it's all over. I will kill this man for you."

A tear glistened down Vincent's cheek. "Just drive. Just put the fuckin' car in gear and go."

Al-Hallaj slammed the car into reverse and backed up. He stomped the brake, screeching tires. "You're _sure_ this is what you want?"

Vincent met the heart of Al-Hallaj's eyes. "Do you have _any_ idea how I feel? Do you know what it's like to have your life torn apart, to have this kinda thirst for revenge?"

Al-Hallaj sighed, shoved the shifter to drive, and stepped on the gas. "More than you know, Mr. Goss. More than you'll ever know. Praise Allah."

~

The Fury tooled up Highway 90 for over two hours. Vincent watched the world pass by through his open window, the wind whipping his hair. The smell of lush woodland and meadows gave way to the stale stench of concrete buildings and urban blight. The lull of rolling tires on the lonely road faded to the roar of jet engines at O'Hare Airport. The light traffic turned to gridlock. The Fury inched up the highway toward flashing emergency lights.

"So, who is this _Allah_ guy again?" Vincent asked, breaking a long silence.

"God, my friend," Al-Hallaj said, welcoming conversation. "He is God."

"Who's God?" Vincent asked.

"Not _who's_ God, _the_ God, the One and Only."

"Like a Christian's God?"

"The same."

Vincent stared at an ambulance a quarter-mile up the highway. "If it's the same God, why are Christians and Muslims always fightin'?"

" _Ahh_ , good question," Al-Hallaj said.

"I mean if the Muslims believe in God and Jesus and all that," Vincent said, "why—"

"That's where we part in belief, my friend." Al-Hallaj tightened his lip, his voice. "The Christians made Jesus their God, that's where they went wrong."

"You don't see Him as the Son of God?" Vincent asked.

"God can have no son. God is not a man. God is absolutely indescribable," Al-Hallaj explained. "To a Muslim, Jesus is nothing more than a man, a prophet, just like Mohammed. No more, no less."

"Mohammed?"

" _My_ prophet." Al-Hallaj maneuvered the Fury to the fast lane, still inching up the highway. "When Mohammed received the words of God, we didn't worship the man who received the words, we worshipped the source of the words. 'There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his prophet.' So the saying goes. Allah is an indescribable entity, there are no words in any language to describe Him. To try and do so, to compare Allah to man, would be considered _shirk_ to a Muslim."

"Considered what?" Vincent asked.

" _Shirk_ , like blasphemy. Like questioning God's existence, or worshipping an idol," Al-Hallaj answered.

"So, I would be _shirking_ by worshipping Jesus Christ?"

" _Ahh_ , now you're catching on. Don't worship the prophet, worship the God, all man's God."

Vincent turned his head. He stared at the wreck backing up traffic. A dirty, red semi-truck, loaded with cattle, sat askew atop a crumpled, purple Ford Pinto. Two bodies were stretched out on the asphalt, covered by blood-stained sheets. "So, you're tellin' me," Vincent asked, "that Jesus dyin' on the cross, the resurrection, and Him goin' to sit next to God in heaven, none of that really happened?"

Al-Hallaj smiled. "My friend, your faith is your business, as is mine. I thought you were asking me what a Muslim believes?"

"I was."

"Then that is what I am telling you, "Al-Hallaj said. "You take it how you want. When Jesus died, he did go to heaven, just like Mohammed, Abraham and many others. I do not believe Jesus to be the son of God. To do so, to see him as anything more than a prophet, would be treading into the waters of idolatry."

" _Shirk?_ " Vincent asked.

"Very good, Mr. Goss. You learn quickly. You'd make a good Muslim."

Vincent grinned. "I doubt it."

The highway opened up. Al-Hallaj stepped on the gas and steered the Fury to an off ramp, catching the I-294 interchange. Vapor trails crisscrossed overhead as the deafening jets ran their routes across the midday sky.

"So, what was all that _Sufi_ stuff you were talkin about earlier?" Vincent asked.

"Sufism is a Path, my friend, a divine Way to the love of God." Al-Hallaj began gripping and ungripping the steering wheel. His mismatched eyes narrowed, his dark forehead rippling. "Sort of like a monk devoting his life to God. I have done the same." His words sprang from his mouth like a hammer bouncing off hot steel. "The original Al-Hallaj, who died over a thousand years ago, followed a strict Path in his total devotion to God. So strict and so complete was his devotion, that he felt at one with God. He felt totally absorbed in the love of God. And he shouted to the world, 'I am the Real, I am the Truth!' He found heaven on earth, my friend." Al-Hallaj sharply turned his head to Vincent. "He found it, heaven. Right here. Right now." Al-Hallaj looked back at the road. "Then he tried to show others how to achieve it." Al-Hallaj paused, pain rippling through his eyes. "He showed me the Way, Mr. Goss. I've been striving along that Path for over twenty years now."

Vincent sat in uneasy silence, the words of the faithful rattling in his head. He thought for a moment, then asked, "So, what happened to the original Al-Hallaj?"

"He was executed for his beliefs," Al-Hallaj said.

"I don't understand. I thought he—"

"He was ahead of his times, too far ahead," Al-Hallaj explained. "A thousand years ago, if you claimed to be the 'Real' or the 'Truth', you'd get your head chopped off. And I'm afraid the original Al-Hallaj lost his."

Vincent raised his brow, and said, "I guess he _shirked_ , huh?"

Al-Hallaj shook his head, rolling his eyes at the sarcasm. "Nope, I guess you aren't Muslim material after all."

The Fury exited the highway and snaked its way down crumbling side streets, through decaying urban sprawl. Abandoned warehouses lined the streets, struck blind by smashed windows, muted by chained doors. Broken chain link fences, graffiti, burning barrels, cars on blocks, stray dogs barking, ragged people huddled on street corners, squatting against crumbling brick walls, sleeping on the sidewalk, toppled shopping carts, a broken water main bubbling through a sewer lid, garbage piled high in back alleys, sirens whining....

"Not too pretty, is it, Mr. Goss?"

"There's not much left in life that is," Vincent replied.

Al-Hallaj grinned, driving his car for two blocks alongside a chain link fence hiding junk cars. Gray plastic slats intertwined the chain link. Razor wire, coiled for maximum pain, sat atop the fence, begging an intruder to take a chance. The fence's midsection was bare for a few feet, the slats missing. Vincent turned to look through the opening. A young Asian woman stood there alone, dressed in flowing blue satin, hands clasped in front, junk cars behind her.

The Fury seemed to pass in slow motion as Vincent's pained, blue-hazel eyes met the emerald eyes of the Asian woman. Her expressionless face surveyed the new arrival. She raised a slight smile, that of the Mona Lisa, knowing, anticipating. She slowly turned and walked away.

Al-Hallaj followed the fence to the corner and turned. He drove another block-and-a-half before they reached an entrance. Al-Hallaj honked the horn as the car stopped at a rusted chain attached between a '48 Lincoln Zephyr and a '67 Pontiac Tempest.

"What is this place?" Vincent asked.

"This place is what you will call home," Al-Hallaj said, "as long as Grandy takes to you."

"Grandy?"

"Grandy owns this place. She's going to want to have a good look at you." Al-Hallaj smiled. "A _very_ good look." He honked again. A slim black youth, sweaty and breathless, wearing only baggy jeans, ran to the entrance. He unlocked the chain from the door handle of the Tempest and let it clink to the ground. Al-Hallaj drove past the youth and parked the car.

Vincent surveyed his new surroundings. Hundreds of cars, pile upon pile, crushed and teetering in unsteady heaps, waiting for the first strong wind to topple them. Straight ahead sat a red crane, rusted, silent, its magnet swinging like a pendulum in the light breeze. Next to the crane was a car crusher, complete with a purple '69 Corvaire in its jaws. To Vincent's left squatted a dilapidated wooden shack, garbage and rusted car parts scattered around its border, an old school bus wedged against its back, the tires flat, cardboard covering the windows.

"Welcome home, Al-Hallaj," the youth greeted, locking the chain back on the Tempest. "Didn't expect you to be gone so long."

"Neither did I, Tyrone." Al-Hallaj stepped out of the car and shook the youth's hand. "Things got kind of strange down there in Bon Olivi."

"Shoot, everything be funky in cow town." Tyrone watched Vincent step out of the car. "Who's that?"

"He's our guest," Al-Hallaj said, turning to the shack. "Is Grandy around?"

An old lady's voice rang out from the shack. "Mamma flippin', jimmy-dong suckin', son of a whore hound!"

Tyrone, eyes wide, stared at the shack. "I think I hear her. Uh, nice meeting you. I gots ta be goin'." He stumbled backwards. "Yeah, real nice ta meet you, sorry, I gots ta go." He turned and ran.

The plywood door shot open from the shack, knocking over a rusted muffler. Out walked Grandy, all five feet, ninety-six pounds of her. Her patchy, white hair barely covered the liver spots on her scalp. The wrinkled, white skin on her forehead billowed down her cheeks to her chin where, underneath, it flapped like a sheet in the wind. Her left eye floated in a cataract glaze, the right eye was a golden eye of an eagle, piercing, sharp. Grandy wore a yellow housecoat, zipped to her neck, dragging the loose dirt behind her, sweeping clean the tracks of her red slippers. A Pall Mall cigarette hung from her red painted lips. In one hand she clutched a twisted cane of hickory, the other held an index finger pointing at Al-Hallaj.

"You gall dang Muslim, where the flip have you been? Makin' an old lady watch over your punks for ya." Grandy's cigarette flipped up with every word. She raised her cane and waved it in Al-Hallaj's face. "Been four dang days, ya don't flippin' call? Her voice crackled like static, popping, snapping, high and low pitches blending, piercing the air like cat squalls on a hot summer night.

"I'm sorry, Grandy," Al-Hallaj said, backing up, arms in front, shielding himself from the cane. "Things got a little crazy down there."

The old lady swung her cane, smacking his shoulder. "You said twenty-four hours!" She took another swing and missed, backing him against a pile of cars.

"Please, Grandy," Al-Hallaj said, nearly smiling. "Let me explain."

"Somethin' funny?" Grandy swung again and hit his elbow. "Is that funny? _Is it?_ I got more funny stuff where that came from."

"Grandy, _please,_ " Al-Hallaj pleaded. "Just give me a minute to explain."

Vincent nervously paced a few feet away.

"A _minute_? I gave you ding dang twenty-four hours and you turned it into some kind of sabbatical!" Grandy poked Al-Hallaj in the stomach. "You want a minute? You want a minute?" She raised the cane over her head. "I'll _give_ you a minute!"

Vincent ran to Grandy and grabbed the cane before it struck.

Al-Hallaj smiled, shaking his head. "Wrong move, my friend. Definitely the wrong move."

Grandy slowly turned, her eagle eye piercing Vincent like a laser. "What the flip do you think you're doing?" She ripped the cane from his loosening grip.

"I ... I just thought that—"

"You _thought_?" Grandy said, advancing, cocking her head. "You mean up in that dung hole you call a brain there might be a thought rattling around?" She circled Vincent, sucking her Pall Mall, blowing smoke in his face. "So you must be the po-dunk farm trash with all the answers?"

"I—"

"Shut up, farm-fresh-egg-boy. Nobody's listening." Grandy turned to Al-Hallaj. "Why is he here?"

"You'd better ask him yourself," Al-Hallaj said as he sat down on the bumper of a crushed '68 GTO.

Grandy turned back to Vincent. "Well, hayseed, what do you got to say for yourself?"

Vincent felt flush. His heart raced and skin turned clammy. He pursed his lips and swallowed.

"Got nothing to say, Opey?" Grandy asked, head cocked.

"My name is Vince."

"I don't give a snake's ass if your name is Gumby." Grandy flicked her cigarette and hit his shoulder. Red ash splattered his face. "All I want to know is why the flip you're here?"

Vincent looked at Al-Hallaj. Grandy reached up and wrenched his chin back in her direction. "Don't be looking to that Muslim for support, Opey. He's in enough trouble already."

Vincent swallowed hard. "I came to help find the Viceman."

"You came to do _what_?" Grandy scoffed. " _Hah!_ You probably couldn't find your ass in a bathtub." She cocked her head and closed her cataract eye. "When's the last time you've been to the big city?"

Vincent shuffled his feet in silence.

"Never been up here, have you, hayseed? Probably been too busy putting the jimmy-dong to your sheep." Grandy unzipped her housecoat, reached to her sweat-stained bra, and pulled out a box of Pall Mall. She stuck one in her mouth, plucked a wooden match from the box, and struck it on her zipper. "You want to know what happens in the big city, Opey?" She lit the cigarette and tossed the match to the ground. "You get the jimmy-dong up the bung hole, that's what happens." She raised a toothless smile. "Maybe that's why you're here? Is it, Opey?"

Vincent looked back at Al-Hallaj.

"Momma flippin' hayseed!" Grandy smacked Vincent's shin with her cane. "I asked _you_ the dang question!"

Vincent grabbed his shin, reeling in pain.

"Now, why don't you tell an old lady why you're really here."

Vincent straightened up and clenched his teeth. "I came to kill the Viceman."

Grandy folded her brow, staring at Vincent's determined face. She spit out her cigarette and laughed. " _I came to kill the Viceman_ ," she mocked, lowering her voice, pouting her lips, laughing hard. " _I came to kill the Viceman_. Opey, just go on back home. You got no business being up here."

Rage stirred in Vincent's sternum, working its way to his tensing muscles, clamping tight his jaw. He charged the old lady, grabbed her by the front of her housecoat, and thrust her into the air, nose to nose. " _Look_ , you haggard bitch, I'm not sure who you are, or why the hell I'm here, but I do know that I _will_ kill the Viceman. So, why don't you just give me a goddamn break?" Vincent released her with a slight shove.

Grandy fell to the ground and narrowed her eyes. She turned to Al-Hallaj. He shrugged. She turned back to Vincent, his eyes still blazing. Grandy picked herself up, brushed off her housecoat, and grabbed her cane. "You got heart, Opey. I'll give you that much."

"The name's Vince."

"Vince," Grandy conceded. She looked at Al-Hallaj. "Wants to kill the Viceman, huh?"

Al-Hallaj nodded.

"He knows what the Viceman looks like?"

He nodded again.

"Won't give up the information?"

Al-Hallaj slowly shook his head.

Grandy walked to Vincent, her eagle eye screeching. "You're pretty tough with an old lady, hayseed. It ain't going to be that easy with the Viceman."

"I don't care," Vincent replied.

Grandy looked down and saw blood dripping from Vincent's left wrist. She grabbed his arm and pushed back his sleeve. "See what you get for being so tough on an old lady?" She studied the wound. "Flipped you up pretty bad, did he?"

Vincent's eyes welled. "Took away everything."

She checked his other wrist. "Did _he_ do this?"

Vincent fidgeted, searching for words, pressing his lips.

Grandy shook her head, and asked Al-Hallaj, "Is this how you found him?"

Al-Hallaj closed his eyes, nodding slowly.

"If you find the Viceman," Grandy said to Vincent, "you're going to wish that Muslim had let you die. You have no idea what you're getting into up here." She turned to Al-Hallaj. "Can't get the information any other way?"

He shook his head.

Grandy took a deep breath, caressing her jaw, shifting a rush of thought through her head. "Okay, hayseed, I guess you stay with us. You see that man right there?" She pointed her cane at Al-Hallaj. "You do exactly what that Muslim tells you to do, got it?"

"I—" Vincent began.

"I assume you're going to train him?" Grandy asked Al-Hallaj.

"T'ien will train him," Al-Hallaj said.

"I don't give a gnat's nut if a stray dog trains him, just so it happens fast." Grandy circled Vincent. "You want to kill? You're going to learn what it takes, then you will do it with mercy not rage. You will never question your trainer, you will never question Al-Hallaj, and you sure as ding dang won't question me. Got it?"

"I—"

"You eat what we give you to eat, you sleep when you're told to sleep, you work hard, and you learn fast." Grandy took a quick breath. "You take any drugs, you drink any alcohol, and your farm-fresh-egg-butt is out of here, got it?"

"I—"

"If you screw up in any way, if you piss me off in _any_ manner," Grandy said, "I will beat the flippin' information out of you myself, then send you thumbin' back to Mayberry. _Got it?_ "

"I—"

"Get this hayseed out of my face," Grandy demanded. "Makes me ill just lookin' at him."

Al-Hallaj walked to Vincent and grabbed his arm. "Let's go, my friend." He guided Vincent toward the forest of crushed cars.

Grandy walked back to her shack.

Vincent pulled free of Al-Hallaj and spun. "Grandy!"

She turned around, her good eye questioning.

"I _will_ kill him," Vincent said, mustering up lost confidence. "I promise you that."

Grandy smiled. "Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?" She shook her head and walked to the shack. "You're going to fold like a house of cards out there, hayseed. Mark my words." She slammed shut the door, laughing.

Al-Hallaj placed his hand upon Vincent's shoulder. "I think she's taking a shine to you, my friend."

"You think?"

They both smiled.

Al-Hallaj led Vincent into the scrapyard, walking between two rows of crushed cars, four cars deep, twenty high. The haphazard piles transformed into uniform structure—Chevy Impalas, Ford Torinos, Volkswagon Beetles, Pontiac Firebirds and the like, all becoming building blocks.

"What is this place?" Vincent asked, staring into the entrance of an arena.

"This is our training area."

The arena ran sixty yards deep and forty wide. Crushed cars, ten high, formed the walls. Two dozen people busied themselves, punching focus mitts, kicking padded posts, jerking weights, sparring and shadow boxing. Twenty feet of the south wall was covered by tinted windshields, forming a mirror in which Tai Ch'i exercises were being perfected.

Al-Hallaj snapped his feet together, slapped his hands at his side, and bowed. He entered the arena. Vincent followed. "Bow first," Al-Hallaj instructed.

Vincent narrowed his eyes. "Bow to what?"

"Bow to show respect, Mr. Goss. This place is considered sacred by those who train here. Respect must be shown."

Vincent backed up to the entrance. He snapped his feet and bowed, slapping his hands at his side. "How's that?"

"Close enough."

"Hey! Al-Hallaj is back!" someone called out.

Everyone in the arena turned, smiled, waved and shouted greetings. A few youths ran to Al-Hallaj and shook his hand, welcoming him home.

"Keep working people. I am no excuse to stop your training!" Al-Hallaj smiled.

Al-Hallaj led Vincent to the Tai Ch'i training area. Five black men of various ages tried to imitate the slow, precise movements of an articulate Asian woman. She was dressed in blue sapphire satin, shimmering, flowing in the breeze. Her shining top ran down her arms and folded back at her wrists in white cuffs. Knotted, white buttons plunged from the nape of her slender neck to her waist. Billowing satin pants flapped as she gracefully flowed through each movement. Her long, shining sable hair bounced gently on her shoulders, caressing her neck and back.

Al-Hallaj raised his hand, stopping Vincent. They watched the exercise.

The woman made each deliberate movement flow gracefully. Eyes closed, she slowly pushed out her hands, a gentle breath following each outward thrust. She inhaled with each inward movement, twisting, flowing, gliding on the gravel as if it were ice. Vincent found it difficult to gauge her age. She could have been seventeen, eighteen maybe, but her graceful nature was that of someone at least a decade older.

Her students were not as graceful. Two stumbled, one stood perplexed with his hands on his hips, and one, an immense man, stepped on his loose shoelace and toppled over.

The Asian woman opened her eyes and smiled at her students' efforts. She saw Al-Hallaj and addressed her group. "That will be it for today. You have all done well. Keep practicing and the Ch'i will flow." She bowed to her students. They returned the respect.

"Dang, that _Chee_ thing ain't never gonna happen' with me," the immense man said, walking to Al-Hallaj.

"How's everything been going, Short Rib?" Al-Hallaj asked, greeting the man with a handshake.

"Everything's been fine, 'cept Grandy goin' haywire day and night," Short Rib replied.

"Mr. Goss, this is Short Rib," Al-Hallaj introduced.

Vincent shook the man's bulky hand.

Short Rib stood five-foot seven, aged twenty-five years, weighing well over three hundred pounds. He wore baggy jeans, dirty white tennis shoes, and a white short-sleeve tee-shirt cut at his bulging stomach. A Nike ball cap sat sideways on his shaved head, and a broad, white smile danced across his pale, black face.

"This the farm boy?" Short Rib asked, squatting down to tie a shoelace.

Al-Hallaj nodded.

Short Rib looked up at Vincent, and asked, "What brings you here?"

"I came—"

"You'll have plenty of time to talk later," Al-Hallaj said. "Mr. Goss will be staying in your shelter."

Short Rib stood up and jutted out his lower lip, nodding. "That's cool. I guess I'll catch you later then." He turned to Al-Hallaj. "I really need to talk to you about Grandy."

Al-Hallaj grinned knowingly.

"The woman's nuts," Short Rib said. "She's gone over the deep end."

"Later, Short Rib." Al-Hallaj watched the Asian woman as she approached. "Later."

Short Rib began walking away, mumbling, "Okay, later. I'm tellin' ya though, that woman is friggin' nuts."

"Mr. Goss," Al-Hallaj said, "this is T'ien."

Vincent smiled, catching T'ien's emerald eyes in the sunlight as he shook her hand.

"We worried about you," T'ien said to Al-Hallaj. She paused, studying the stranger. "Why is he here?"

"Had no choice," Al-Hallaj said. "He had to come."

T'ien stood silently, her smooth, white face expressionless, her eyes studying Vincent. "You have come to Chicago to do it yourself, haven't you?" Her voice was soft, matter-of-fact, flavored by a subtle Chinese accent.

Vincent shook his head. "What? How did—"

"I see your rage, Mr. Goss," T'ien said. "It burns like wildfire behind your pupils. If you're not careful, those flames will ignite your funeral pyre." She turned to Al-Hallaj. "I suppose you want me to train him?"

"Yes," Al-Hallaj said.

"I cannot." T'ien slowly shook her head. "I cannot train an angry man. It would be useless."

"I know, but we have no other choice," Al-Hallaj said.

"His rage will kill him," she said, "and who knows who else."

"Don't worry about my goddamn rage," Vincent said, staring hard at T'ien. "I can take care of myself."

T'ien slowly shook her head, sighed, and walked away.

Al-Hallaj bowed his head and rubbed his eyebrows. He looked at Vincent, and said, "You're not making too many friends here, Mr. Goss. I suggest you start with that mouth of yours. There will be no more curse words while you are here, understand?" Al-Hallaj turned and walked toward the arena exit. Vincent followed. "I know you are very tired," Al-Hallaj said. "I know you need rest, and I know you need time to heal." They walked outside the arena past a teetering stack of cars. "You will have three weeks to recuperate, then your training will begin. Maybe T'ien will have forgiven you by then." They walked past several crushed car shelters. "Once healed, you will be expected to work. You will help to complete our mosque." Al-Hallaj walked through the open door of a shelter. "This is where you will live."

The shelter was small, built entirely of crushed cars. The walls rose four stacked cars high, and ran two lengthwise cars deep and wide. No electric. No running water. Car hoods formed the roof, welded at the seams. A windshield from a '66 Buick Riviera acted as a skylight. A rusted, fifty-five gallon drum sat in the middle of the room with the grille from a '55 Packard Clipper, cut in half and welded together, straddling the top. Half of a gas tank hung over the barrel with an exhaust pipe welded on top that exited through the roof. Four stained mattresses hugged the dirt floor. Two beds had books and miscellaneous personal items nearby, two were vacant. Vincent collapsed on an empty one.

"We sleep before eleven p.m. We wake with the sun, no exceptions," Al-Hallaj said. "If you need to use a bathroom, the Port-o-lets are at the far corner of the lot." He waved his hand north. "There is water near the mosque and in the arena. You will bathe each day."

Vincent stretched out on the mattress, sleep gripping him.

"I don't expect you to follow our religion," Al-Hallaj said, "but you will respect it. We give ourselves to Allah five times a day. We do not drink alcohol or take drugs." Al-Hallaj's words resonated throughout the chrome and steel room, bouncing from the porthole fender of a '55 Buick Century, ricocheting off the tail fin of a '59 Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Like falling rain on a tin roof, his words soothed Vincent's weary brain. "We spend our time in betterment of our minds and bodies. If you do choose to join us in prayer, you may do so, not as a Muslim, but as a guest." Al-Hallaj's words became lost as Vincent began to fade. "At daybreak, we begin working ... the rest of the ... ourselves. There is one phone ... Grandy's office ... at your own risk.

Vincent fell into a deep sleep.

# Chapter 9

"A thousand ages in thy sight

Are like an evening gone,

Short as the watch that ends the night

Before the rising sun."

—Isaac Watts

"O God, our help in ages past"

Oblivion ... 00.00.39

Acid fell in neon-blue torrents, gnawing Vincent's flesh as he awoke on the hard flint. The ground began to rumble, surging, swaying, wrestling him as he stood up. He quickly scanned oblivion. The barren desert had turned to jagged outcroppings, slicing the horizon like frozen waves upon a violent ocean. Through the rain, he saw Glipp leading Thaddy to safety.

"What the hell's all the shakin'?" Vincent yelled.

Glipp tucked the boy into a rocky crag. "Rumbling is being a bad thing!" Glipp yelled, running back to help Vincent find shelter. "Yes, very bad! Be preparing for little suns!"

"Little suns?" Vincent asked. "What the hell is—"

An explosion ripped oblivion's surface, blasting chunks of rock sky high, splitting the ground between them. Glipp backed away from the rift, his sage eyes knowing well what came next. White plasma balls rocketed up from the chasm like a roman candle. One ricocheted off the chasm wall and tore a ten-inch hole into Glipp's chest.

Vincent hurdled the rift and sprinted to aid his friend.

Glipp dropped to his knees, his broken ribs exposed, white plasma glowing in his sternum.

Vincent ran to Glipp and knelt down, reaching out, then withdrawing, unsure what to do.

"Be scraping the sun from my chest," Glipp pleaded, barely audible, plasma searing his lungs.

Vincent cringed, the stench of burnt flesh pricking his nose. "What should I do?"

"Be getting it out of me. Glipp cannot be healing with the sun being in my chest."

Vincent eased his hand into the wound and scooped out the searing plasma. It jumped, crackling with electricity, surging, tingling, melting his fingers. "Goddamn! This shit's alive!" He tossed the glowing plasma into the rift.

"Little suns are not living," Glipp said, smiling. "The acid is making them dance, not life."

"C'mon," Vincent said, helping Glipp to his feet. "We need to get outa this storm."

They ran to where Thaddy was sheltered, squeezed in, and sat three abreast, tightly packed, protected from the glowing rain.

"Are you all right, Glipp?" Thaddy asked, his eyes a shining beacon in the storm.

"Yes, Glipp is being much better now, son of Vishnu."

Thaddy smiled.

"What the hell was that stuff?" Vincent asked.

"Little suns," Glipp said. "They are jumping from hell's cracks, being in this region only, they are being nowhere else."

"Little suns ... like ball lightnin' or somethin'?" asked Vincent.

"All Glipp is knowing, is that acid is pouring into cracks, and the little suns are exploding."

Vincent jerked in his feet, avoiding the seeping acid. He tucked his knees under his ragged tunic, then gazed out at the ghostly blue landscape. "How'd you get me here?"

"Glipp was carrying you," Glipp said. "You were sleeping. Sleep is being in hell not. How is it you are sleeping?"

"It's not sleep," Vincent said. "How far have we come?"

"Glipp was carrying you for many miles," Glipp said.

"How much farther to Vagary Heights?" Vincent asked.

"We are being near, Vagary is being very close," Glipp said.

" _How close?_ "

"We are being near—"

"Where are your memories at, mister?" Thaddy asked.

Vincent turned to the boy. "How long am I out durin' these flashbacks?"

"Time is relative," Thaddy said. "Here, time—"

" _How long?_ "

"A few days," Thaddy said, "but that does not mean any—"

"A few _days_?"

"That is by time on this plane of existence, mister, on earth—"

"You carried me across the desert for three days, Glipp?" Vincent asked.

Glipp smiled proudly.

Vincent shook his head and mumbled, "Amazing."

"Where are your memories at, mister?" the child asked.

"I don't know. What does it matter anymore? I've been dead too long."

"Please, try to remember. It is important," Thaddy said.

Vincent stared out at the rain, its steady rhythm bordering on hypnotic.

"Blue rain is being pretty, yes?" Glipp watched the storm, jerking in his feet to avoid the acid. "Friendly it is being not."

"Definitely not a place for the family vacation," Vincent said, then bowed his head and regretfully murmured, "Cassandra." He turned to Thaddy. "I was at a scrapyard. Some crazy old lady named Grandy, she— No wait, my training. T'ien—"

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 10

"Learning without thought is labour lost; thought without learning is perilous."

—Confucius

Analects

Chicago, IL ... Spring

Vincent awoke as the sun shone through his doorway and reflected from the chrome bumper of a '68 Chevelle. Three weeks had passed since he arrived at the scrapyard. His wrist were almost healed, leaving visible scars to join the shadowed ones across his soul. He rolled to the edge of his mattress, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and scratched at nearly a month's worth of facial hair.

Short Rib woke up twenty minutes earlier and was already dressed, ready to join Al-Hallaj at the mosque for morning prayer.

"So, today's the day, eh, Vince?" Short Rib asked, adjusting his black Nike cap to the side.

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, then took notice of his other roommate. The young man was asleep, shaking, sweating on his mattress in the morning sun. "Brax still havin' a tough time of it?" Vincent asked Short Rib.

"I've heard it's worse than the DTs," Short Rib said.

Vincent shook his head, reached into a plastic garbage bag, and pulled out a pair of blue jeans and a white tee-shirt.

"That's what you're wearin'?" Short Rib asked, heading toward the door.

"It's all I have." Vincent looked at his clothes, then back at Short Rib. "What's it matter anyway?"

"My man, if it was me gettin' private instruction from T'ien," Short Rib said, "I'd be gettin' all decked out. That woman's a masterpiece."

Vincent grinned. "I'm not here to impress her." He stepped into his jeans, tugged them up, and buttoned the fly.

"Your call." Short Rib adjusted his cap. "I gotta split, Al-Hallaj gets pissed when I'm late for prayer. I'll catch you later."

"Yeah, see ya." Vincent stretched the tee-shirt over his head and tucked it in his blue jeans. He sat at the edge of his mattress and slipped on gray socks and black tennis shoes while staring back at his roommate. The sun stretched across the full of Brax's white sheet as he shook violently, his body pleading for relief.

Brax was a solid, black youth, his nineteen-year-old muscles chiseled out on Chicago's meanest streets. No man walked tall enough to bring him down. No man but himself. He vanished from the scrapyard two days after Vincent had arrived. Brax returned two and a half weeks later, junked up on heroin.

Vincent knelt down near his roommate's bedside, grasped his shoulder, and whispered, "Hey, you okay?"

Brax rolled over, sweat pouring from his forehead, his eyes wild. "Help me, man."

Vincent eased down the sheet. "You need to get outa the sun. You're burnin' up." He helped Brax over to a mattress in the shade, then reached for a plastic pitcher and filled a paper cup with water. "Here, drink this."

Brax grabbed the cup, hands trembling. The water splashed his face as he gulped it down.

"You gonna be okay?" Vincent asked.

Brax rolled to his side, silent, shaking.

Vincent set the pitcher and cup next to his mattress. "There's more water here if you need it."

Brax remained silent.

"Just rest," Vincent said. "I'll check up on you later."

Vincent left the shelter and meandered through the crushed cars and sunshine. He stopped at the arena and bowed at its entrance. T'ien stood alone near the middle of the training ground. She wore black stretch pants, a skin-tight, white cotton top cropped at her slim waist, and no shoes.

"Good mornin'," Vincent said, offering his hand as he approached.

T'ien kept her hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes met his. "You are late, Mr. Goss. The sun has been up for over twenty minutes."

Vincent pulled back his hand. "Uhh, sorry. I didn't realize—"

"When the sun breaks the horizon, _that_ is your time." T'ien unclasped her hands. "Let's begin." Standing directly in front of Vincent, she widened and lowered her stance and then smacked her left fist into her right palm. "Bow in."

Vincent shook his head. "What am I bowin' for now?"

"You're bowing to show respect," T'ien said.

"I already bowed when I entered the arena."

T'ien broke out of her horse stance. She stood still, her face expressionless, her emerald eyes tight on Vincent. She offered a faint smile, knowing, aware. She slowly walked forward, her feet flowing across the gravel. "Mr. Goss, this must all seem so strange to you," T'ien said, lightly, sweetly, slowly circling. She paused and faced him. "These times, your life in these new surroundings, must be quite unsettling." She reached out for his hand. He flinched at the first touch. "Please," she said, her eyes awash in trust. T'ien took Vincent's left hand in hers and turned it palm up. "Your rage has carried you here." She lightly stroked her fingers across his palm. "And I have been tasked with teaching you how to kill." Her voice intensified, reverberating with latent strength. She grabbed his hand and wrenched it backward.

Vincent dropped to his knees. "What the hell're you doin'?!" He reached up to break her hold.

T'ien shot straight back, her grip tightening. Vincent sprawled out on his stomach, his face agonized.

"Do not move, Mr. Goss," T'ien said. "It is your own struggle that will break your wrist. If you quit struggling, it will not snap."

Vincent jerked back. A tendon popped. He screamed.

"Relax," T'ien demanded. "It's the struggle that will break it. You must not move."

"Fuck you!"

She applied more pressure.

" _Okay! Okay!_ " He loosened his muscles.

T'ien grinned. "There you go. It's in the struggle that we cause ourselves pain." She released his wrist. "Learn to accept things as they are, Mr. Goss. Flow with life and all it offers."

Vincent sat up, rubbing his wrist. He narrowed his eyes on T'ien, shooting poison her direction. "Life offers nothin' but pain. You want me to flow with that?"

"Life is what you make of it." T'ien extended her hand to his and helped him up. She backed up and dropped into a horse stance. "Bow in."

"Bow for _what_?"

T'ien broke out of her stance. "For respect, Mr. Goss. You are my student, I am your teacher. I am showing you respect, you will do the same for me." She walked forward. "Spread your legs." She kicked his left ankle. "Good. Now bend your knees." She pushed down on his shoulders. "Back straight." T'ien walked behind him, pressed in his tailbone, pulled back his shoulder. She walked in front. "Chin up. Eyes forward." She raised his chin with the back of her fingers. "Feet forward." She kicked his feet straight. "Give me your hands." T'ien made a fist of his right hand and folded three fingers on his left hand, leaving the index finger straight up with the thumb pressed next to it. "Much better. Keep your elbows down." She pushed his elbows to a forty-five degree angle, his hands ten inches from his chest. She stepped back to admire her sculpture.

Vincent grew uncomfortable, his legs weakening. He watched T'ien as she inspected her work, her eyes glistening in the sun, her sable hair blowing across her neck and chest, lightly brushing erect nipples. He grew more uncomfortable and cast his stare at the ground.

"Chin up," T'ien said with a slight hint of a smile.

Vincent raised his head. "Can I get outa this stance now?"

She glided forward. "How do you feel, Mr. Goss?"

"Uncomfortable," he said, legs trembling.

She circled him. "Good."

"I mean it. It's really startin' to hurt."

T'ien stopped behind him. "Do you feel it in your back?" She ran her finger slowly, gently down his spine.

Vincent tingled by her touch. "Yes. My back's hurtin'."

"How about your arms?" T'ien pressed against his back, reaching to his shaking arms.

"Yes," he said, feeling her firm breasts against his shoulder blades.

"Your legs, Mr. Goss?" she asked softly in his ear, reaching a hand down to his quivering thigh. "Are they in pain also?"

His jaw shook. "Yes."

"Take that pain," T'ien whispered, "take it and make it yours. You must become its master or you will always be its slave." She placed her chin upon his shoulder, her lips brushing the fuzz on his right ear. "You must become its friend, its lover," she said, her baby's breath caressing his neck. "Stroke it, kiss it, plunge yourself deep inside and make love to it."

Vincent's whole body shook, half from muscle fatigue, half from her touch. He spun around, his eyes scared, ashamed. "What the hell're you _doin'_?"

T'ien stood silently, expressionless.

"You're supposed to teach me how to kill. What the hell're you tryin' to do?" Vincent adjusted his jeans, shook his head, and walked away.

"Where do you think you're going, Mr. Goss?"

"I'll get Al-Hallaj to train me."

T'ien ran past Vincent and blocked his way. "You will learn from me or you will not learn at all."

Vincent grabbed her shoulder and tried pushing her aside. She reached up, grabbed his hand, and torqued his wrist. He dropped to the ground screaming. "Damn it! You don't understand!"

T'ien pressed her lips, watching the pain ripple across his brow. "I understand that you're afraid, Mr. Goss."

"I'm a married man! I can't deal with this shit!"

"Nobody is asking you to be unmarried." She released her hold.

"You just don't understand," Vincent said, sitting up, rubbing his wrists.

"I understand perfectly," she said.

"No you don't. You don't get it. The Viceman killed my boy, my _only_ child." Vincent covered his eyes. "He raped my wife." He looked at T'ien, tears welling. "He raped her while I watched. I couldn't do anything."

T'ien stood silently, expressionless.

"I just want to kill that son of ah bitch." Vincent began to cry. "That's all. That's _all_ I want. I don't want to feel anything else."

T'ien remained silent while he emptied his tear ducts, then asked, "Are you done?"

He creased his brow.

"Get up, Mr. Goss."

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I said, get up." T'ien grabbed Vincent by his tee-shirt and yanked him up. "The problem is within yourself. You want to kill this man who has caused you so much pain, yet you're unwilling to take the necessary steps to do it."

Vincent shook his head. "You just don't get—"

"This rage of yours," T'ien said, "you carry it like a badge of honor for all to see. It does not impress me, Mr. Goss. If you have come here to be slaughtered by the Viceman, to make a martyr of yourself in your family's name, then leave this place. Walk out _right now_."

He stood silently, brushing off the seat of his pants.

"Otherwise," T'ien continued, "you will do exactly as I tell you to do, you will experience what I want you to experience, you will feel what I want you to feel. Your mind will open and the Ch'i will flow. That is the only way you will learn anything. Understood?"

Vincent thought for a moment, then asked, "I can just walk out anytime I want?"

"Yes."

"Without givin' the Viceman's description?"

" _Yes_. You are a free man here."

"And Al-Hallaj won't care?"

T'ien widened her eyes. "You are the one who should care. More people are going to die because of the information you withhold. More people are going to die because you're not preparing yourself to kill. _You_ will die if you're not prepared. It is you who should care, not Al-Hallaj."

Vincent shuffled the gravel with his foot, biting his lower lip.

"Think about it, Mr. Goss," T'ien said. "Al-Hallaj does care about the information you hold, but he cares about you too. The simple fact that he wanted me to train you should be enough to prove that. He doesn't want you to die."

Vincent remained silent, sighing, bowing his head.

T'ien walked forward and raised his chin with her soft touch. "I want you to think about that."

His eyes flickered with understanding.

"I care about you too," she said. "Everything I teach you has a reason. Everything you'll experience has a purpose."

" _Everything?_ "

"Everything."

Vincent bit his lower lip, plunging deep into T'ien's emerald eyes. He chuckled just a bit, and said, "You have my wife's eyes."

T'ien gently raised that Mona Lisa smile of hers, backed up, and dropped into a horse stance. "Bow in."

Vincent nodded and bowed.

# Chapter 11

"'Tis a consumption

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep, perchance to dream."

—William Shakespeare

Hamlet

Oblivion ... 00.00.46

"Up! Up!" Glipp yelled, shaking Vincent's shoulder. "It is being time! We are being in Vagary Heights!"

Vincent opened his eyes to his Hindu friend.

"Up! We are being here!" Glipp announced, smiling.

Vincent was on his back, inside a rock structure built of black flint, barely large enough to shelter two people. He surveyed his surroundings, then asked, "What the hell is this place?" Vincent sat up, adjusting his tunic, and scraped his head against the ceiling.

"Vagary Heights. Here we are being," Glipp said. "Now you are telling me of sleep. Sleep was being lost to me until Glipp is seeing you. How? How is it you are sleeping?"

Vincent ignored Glipp's ramblings and crawled through the doorway to the outside. He stood up and gazed out upon Vagary Heights. Black flint shelters, most no bigger than their own, ran chaotically to the horizon, one heaped upon the other, forming precarious structures three levels tall. Almost all stood empty, but some were still inhabited by the lost souls of oblivion. To Vincent's right, Vagary Heights stumbled up a jagged slope where the chaotic structures crumbled and dissipated into scattered rock at the edge of a cliff. Miles beyond the cliff, shadowed in red mist, a black mountain rose six miles high, piercing the crimson sky.

"How is it sleep is coming to you?" Glipp asked, crawling out of the shelter.

Vincent stared at the hazy mountain. "That's one sleep you want nothin' to do with. Where's the kid at?"

"He is sitting at the brink waiting for you. First you are telling me of sleep." Glipp's sage eyes were desperate for lost knowledge.

"At the brink of what?" Vincent asked, walking.

Glipp followed, his eyes blinking hard and fast. "Glipp was carrying you for six days or more. Glipp is bringing you here. You and the son of Vishnu, both are being safe now. Glipp has been doing well. Now you will be telling me of sleep?"

Vincent paid no attention as they meandered through Vagary Heights. The few inhabitants that remained turned away, their agonized faces etched by endless suffering.

"Where's everyone at?" Vincent asked, staring at thousands of empty shelters.

" _Ahh_ , you aren't listening to me." Glipp said. "You are sleeping and your time is passing. Glipp is being awake. _Always_ being awake. My time is being hell time, your time is being your own!"

Vincent stopped walking. "What is your problem?"

Glipp stroked his black beard, fidgeting, blinking fast. "Glipp is just wanting to know of sleep. Three thousand years have been passing and Glipp is not sleeping. Glipp must be remembering."

Vincent raised a shallow smile. "It isn't sleep." He shook his head. "I wish it was. Damn, I wish it was." He turned and stared at the few roaming souls of oblivion. "Why are these people still here?"

"These are being the brave." Glipp smiled and faced Vincent. "They are being like me, not being slaves to the devil. They are refusing. All others, everybody, they are working now, they are being the devil's construction crew."

Vincent resumed walking. Nearing the top of the slope, he saw Thaddy sitting with his legs dangling over the cliff's edge. "Workin' for the devil?" Vincent asked Glipp.

"Yes," Glipp said. "Hell was being tolerable until devil is arriving. Now hell is being a bad place, much worse than before."

"Hello, Thaddy," Vincent greeted, walking up from behind.

The child turned around, smiled, and said, "Glad to see you are awake—"

" _Ha!_ Glipp knew you were sleeping!" Glipp ran in front of Vincent. "You must be telling me of sleep. Glipp is begging you."

"It's _not_ sleep," Vincent insisted. "I'm just remembering my past. That's all. End of story." He walked around Glipp. "Now give it a rest, will ya?"

"You are telling me of memories then," Glipp said. "Telling me of anything."

Vincent kept walking. "It's all bad stuff, Glipp. I got some old lady givin' me shit all the time, some Asian girl just kicked my ass, I'm—" Vincent stopped next to Thaddy and stared awestruck over the edge of the cliff to the world below. He turned to the child, eyes wide. "What the hell is—"

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 12

"So many gods, so many creeds,

So many paths that wind and wind,

When just the art of being kind

Is all this sad world needs."

—Ella Wilcox

"The World's Need"

Chicago, IL ... Summer

Rain pelted the steel roof of Vincent's shelter, splattering against the Buick windshield skylight. The room was dark—a contemplative dark that's carried in the throbbing underbelly of a thunderstorm at 5:00 a.m. Vincent rolled on his mattress and adjusted his sheet and pillow. He listened as water crept through the welded roof seams, dripping, plopping in a muddy puddle next to his bed. Lightning crashed, changing dreary night to day in a white hot flash. He sighed, sleep escaping him once more. He sat up on the edge of his mattress as thunder rolled out from the scrapyard. He looked at Short Rib. The massive lump rested easily under a green sheet, dreaming the night away. Vincent turned to Brax. The strong youth was snoring loudly, one full month clean and sober. Vincent grinned and stared through the skylight, the rain pounding out a quick rhythm.

_What the hell am I still doin' here?_ Vincent thought. He bowed his head and shook it. _Why? Why am I doin' this?_ He began questioning himself and his quest some time back, but he continued justifying his actions by rage and a thirst for revenge. But Cassandra, _oh,_ how he missed her. In the beginning, Vincent called the hospital daily. It was the same story each time, no improvement. The daily calls turned to weekly ones. Dr. Morubind assured Vincent that he had Grandy's phone number and would call the second Cassandra recovered. The doctor also implored Vincent to come visit his wife. He promised he'd try.

Vincent's head echoed with fading thunder, his thoughts drifting toward his wife and happier days. He lay back, tugged the sheet to his chin, reached inside his boxer shorts, and began stroking, rubbing. _I love you, Vince, I've always loved you_ , Cassandra whispered in his mind. She stood alone in a green meadow, her blue dress falling gently at her feet. She lay down on a red and white blanket underneath an apple tree. Cassandra reached for Vincent's hand and placed it upon her breast, pulling him close, kissing him. She worked her hand to his jeans, unbuttoned the fly, and reached into his pants. Cassandra undressed him and kissed him and pulled him on top. _You're the first, Vincent_ , she whispered, relaxing her thighs. He felt wet and hard and scared as he caressed her, as he entered her. _I love you so much...._

Lightning crashed.

A blinding flash struck Vincent's subconscious. Zedekiah raised a wicked grin. _She sure has some nice tits there, Mr. Goss, I see why you married her._ Vincent stopped stroking, quickly going limp. _C-section? Oh yeah, you're going to be tight_. A knot tugged Vincent's solar plexus. _Still a goddamn virgin. How does it feel to have a real man inside you?_ Vincent sat up, sweating, shaking, a tear forming. _Sorry about taking your wife's virginity and all. No hard feelings?_

"Hey, man, you all right?" Short Rib whispered through the dark.

Vincent sucked back a tear. "Yeah."

Short Rib tugged up his sheet. "You sure?"

"Yeah, thanks." Vincent began dressing. "Just need some air."

"It's pouring out there, man."

Vincent wiped his eyes. "It's just rain." He buttoned his jeans, threw on his shoes and a tee-shirt, then walked out into the storm. The scrapyard glistened. The chrome, steel, rubber and glass were all wet and shiny, reflecting the halogen lights that glowed from wooden poles set at fifty-foot intervals around the perimeter. He shoved his hands into his front pants pockets and walked to the arena.

It was at least an hour before sunrise. Vincent thought the arena would be his alone, but there she was, T'ien, a lone figure kneeling on the ground, adorned in black satin. Vincent softened his footsteps as he approached. He stopped ten feet behind her, silently watching.

Thunder stirred the heavens as T'ien gracefully arranged gravel of different colors and shapes into a splendid mosaic of an Asian man's face. His hair was formed of dark gravel, his face outlined and shaded by several colors of rock, his smile was that of white quartz, his beard and mustache stone gray. The man's eyes were pools of rain water, glistening, shining, pained. She gently placed a piece of black flint in the center of each eye. Lightning struck, charging the eyes with a sparkling brilliance, breathing life into the mosaic.

"Do you feel it, Mr. Goss?" T'ien asked, still working the gravel.

Vincent remained still, transfixed, hypnotized by the floating eyes. "Huh?" He shook his head, his beard and hair shedding water. "Oh, I'm sorry, T'ien. I didn't— How'd you know I was here."

T'ien stood up, her back facing him. "I saw you in my father's eyes." Lightning struck again. She raised her arms and tilted back her head. "Do you feel it?"

He folded his arms, bowing his head to fight off the rain. "Feel what?"

" _Ch'i_. It is strong now. It flows through the air in waves." She turned around, lowering her arms. "Can you feel it?"

Vincent looked up and shrugged. "All I feel is wet."

T'ien smiled. "Then you are not truly alive." She knelt down on the ground and motioned for him to kneel in front of her. "Where I am from the power of Ch'i rules the universe. It is the controlling force in all things of earth and heaven." She looked to the sky. "It's gathered in the power of this storm." T'ien looked back at Vincent. "It's gathered in the marrow of your bones. When Ch'i is properly harnessed, a person enters the universal flow of life."

Vincent knelt down, shaking the water from his hair. "I have no idea what you're talkin' about."

"Ch'i, Mr. Goss. It's the underlying force of life. It flows through all of Creation."

"Like God or somethin'?"

"No. Ch'i is not a god. It exists whether—"

"T'ien, no offense, but I'm growin' weary of all the religious stuff." Vincent sighed. "I didn't come here to learn how to be a Muslim. I'm not here to enter some kinda universal river, flow, or whatever. In fact, I'm not sure why I'm still here at all." He stood up. "I'm sorry. I'm sure where you come from, that Ch'i stuff is great and all, but it doesn't mean a thing to me."

Lightning lit T'ien's eyes.

"I mean, just think about it," Vincent said. "All the people in the world with all these different religions," he stared at the sky, "all the religions with all these different gods. Who's right? Al-Hallaj has his god, I had mine, and you have yours. Which one is right? Which one?"

T'ien continued kneeling, silently listening, her wet face expressionless.

Vincent shrugged his shoulders and spread his arms. " _Which?_ " He folded his arms. "We can't all be right, can we? That means two out of three gods don't exist. And, as far as I'm concerned, none of them exist. _None_ of them." He turned and walked toward the exit.

"Where are you going, Mr. Goss?"

"Back to bed."

"The sun has broken the horizon. It is your time."

Vincent stopped, looked at the dark sky and rain, then turned around. "How do you know if the sun's up or not?"

"Your training begins now," T'ien said.

"It's pourin' out here."

" _Now!_ "

Vincent shrugged and walked back.

"Sit," T'ien said, sitting. "Cross your legs like I have."

He sat down in front of her and crossed his legs.

"Good."

"Now what?" Vincent asked.

"Place your hands on your lap," T'ien said. "Relax. I want you to breathe, but not the way you have been. I want you to picture each breath, see it, feel it going through your nose, down the back of your throat to your stomach."

He sucked in a quick breath.

"Slowly, Mr. Goss. _Slowly_. Let it leak in through your nose, then exhale just as slowly through your mouth. Try again."

Vincent inhaled, his chest rising.

"Into your stomach," T'ien said. "Let the stomach rise, not your chest. Concentrate on each breath."

"What's this gonna do for me?" he asked.

"It will clear your head if nothing else. Now concentrate. Breathe. Let the air leak in, then let it trickle out. Let your stomach rise with each deep breath."

Vincent followed her instruction. The air trickled in through his nose, his stomach rising, he then exhaled through his mouth.

"Good. Now close your eyes. Continue breathing." T'ien studied Vincent as he breathed, his rugged face softened by long eyelashes, his lean muscles pressing a wet tee-shirt, his strong, calloused hands, his ring finger. "Very good. Continue breathing. Listen to the rain fall, hear it splattering on the ground, feel it against your body. Continue breathing, concentrate on the rhythm of the rain, the steady rhythm of the rain. Concentrate."

For twenty minutes, Vincent breathed as instructed, his muscles loosening. Each breath expelled tainted memories, casting them aside as the violent waves that once crashed upon his brain ebbed, leaving behind a tranquil ocean of thoughtless thought. At thirty minutes, his inhales and exhales became a half-minute long.

T'ien continued softly talking, guiding Vincent deeper into tranquility. She watched his tense facial muscles soften, his strong shoulders slope down, his jaw drop open, each minute of breathing bringing him closer to the universal flow.

"Raise your hands in front of you," T'ien said, her voice a ghostly whisper. "Spread your fingers. Keep your eyes closed. Continue breathing."

Vincent raised his hands from his lap, his elbows bent and fingers spread.

"Good. Continue breathing." T'ien closed her eyes, focusing her breath. She raised her hands, fingers spread, and slowly pushed them forward. Within six inches of Vincent's hands she stopped. "Empty your mind, continue breathing." She moved her hands forward. Three inches from his hands she slowly pushed her hands back and forth, bouncing off the energy field that now flowed between them. Like one magnet opposing the other, Vincent's hands were pushed back.

Vincent opened his eyes, watching T'ien push his hands without touch, feeling the energy throb in his palms.

"What you are witnessing is the power of Ch'i," T'ien said, her eyes still closed. "It is not a god, it is a real substance, it is the force that flows in all things." She opened her eyes. "It doesn't need faith for it to exist. It exists whether you believe in it or not." She lowered her hands to her lap. "It is up to you to empty your mind and flow in its stream."

Vincent stared at his hands and squeezed his fingers, feeling a tingling sensation. "What will it do for me?"

T'ien smiled. "How do you feel?"

"What? I—"

"Where is your anger?"

Her question caught Vincent off guard. He felt at peace, his anger and rage a distant memory. "I feel good, _very_ good. Calm."

"When we train from now on, you will be in that frame of mind and no other." T'ien stood up, the rain splashing her face. "Only in the flow of Ch'i can I properly prepare you. Understood?"

Vincent nodded and stood up, still looking at his hands.

"Good. Now follow me."

T'ien walked to the far corner of the arena. She stopped at a training dummy carved from a solid block of wood. The dummy was two feet wide, five feet tall, and balanced on a metal swivel. Its solid core had seven wooden arms thrust out at different heights, offering pain as the dummy swung about.

"What's this?" Vincent asked.

"It's a _wing chung_ dummy," T'ien said, "used for practicing strikes and kicks."

"You're gonna teach me how to fight?"

T'ien walked behind the dummy. "Mr. Goss, it would take years to teach you how to fight. I am training you to kill." She bent down and picked up a small log left over from the dummy's construction. "Here." She tossed it to Vincent.

He caught the log. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Grasp it ... _hard_." T'ien walked in front of Vincent. "Twist your hands around it."

He looked at her dumbfounded.

"Latch on to it." She smacked her hands over his. "Grip it with all your might and twist."

"What the hell is—"

" _Do it_. Strip the bark from the log."

Vincent grabbed on hard.

"Now twist." T'ien pushed his hands with hers. "Good, Mr. Goss, very good. Now breathe. Enter the flow of Ch'i."

Vincent began breathing, twisting his hands over the rough, wet bark. "So, you just want me to keep rubbin' this log?"

"Yes," T'ien said. "Harder, rub it _hard_. Strip the bark from the log, then strip the log from itself. Wear it down to a splinter."

"That could take forever."

"Then that's how long it will take." T'ien met Vincent's eyes. "This log will become a part of you. It will never leave your side. When you are not working for Al-Hallaj, you will be stripping this log. You will take it to bed with you." She smiled. "You will think its thoughts, you will dream its dreams."

"This is crazy, I—"

"Mr. Goss!" Lightning exploded, igniting Al-Hallaj's silhouette as he stood at the arena's entrance, the rain soaking his white robe. "Mr. Goss!" Al-Hallaj yelled again, his voice out-dueling the thunder.

Vincent turned around and saw a wet newspaper in Al-Hallaj's hand.

"Three more, Mr. Goss!" Al-Hallaj stood motionless for a moment, condemnation gathered in his eyes. "Three more have been murdered!" Al-Hallaj tossed the newspaper on the ground, turned, and walked away.

# Chapter 13

"The longest day must have an end."

—17c. Proverb

Oblivion ... 00.00.47

The ground rumbled, shaking Vincent back to hell. He cleared his head and remembered his last sights of oblivion, the construction beyond the brink. He joined Thaddy at the cliff's edge and peered down upon the land below. "What the hell's goin' on down there, kid?"

Over the cliff, one mile below, through the misty, blue haze of an acid storm, flowed two seething, blue tributaries that joined into one glowing river, rushing madly, cascading over the edge of a great canyon. There, a mesmerizing plume of neon mist caressed the canyon walls. Beyond the river rose a mammoth structure, a fortress. The perimeter wall stretched a half-mile square, the front of which was still under construction. It was seventy-five feet thick, five hundred feet tall, with ramparts reinforcing the wall on both sides at four hundred foot intervals. Within the perimeter wall sat the fortress. It rose in five layers. The bottom level stood twenty feet tall, sprawling within fifty feet of the ramparts. Each higher level reduced in depth and width, forming the bottom half of a pyramid. A hundred foot spiral was cut into the flat roof, funneling blue acid through a hole at its center. Beyond the fortress rose a mountain range, the tallest peak at six miles, jutting up through the storm clouds, piercing the crimson canopy.

"They are preparing," Thaddy said.

Vincent shook his head, watching the masses of people swarm like fire ants below. "Preparing for what?"

"For the end of oblivion." The child spoke matter-of-factly, his eyes blazing with starshine.

"What the hell're you talkin' about?" Vincent asked.

Thaddy stared at the pulsing sky. "They know it is coming. They have known for a long time."

Vincent looked up. "Who knows? Knows what?" He turned to the boy.

"They know that the reclamation will soon begin."

Vincent narrowed his eyes. "I don't get it."

"This plane of existence must be reclaimed," Thaddy said. "Beyond the sky, three suns warm this world. Their solar winds are creating immense pressure against the atmosphere." He turned back to Vincent. "The stars are wearing down the sky once more, the cycle is nearing completion. Once the atmosphere collapses, the solar winds will tear through this existence, obliterating all humanity." Thaddy turned to the fortress and gazed upon a million workers. "Their essences should be scattered throughout Creation, never to exist again. The end of oblivion for everyone here."

"So, that's what those bastards are doin'," Vincent said. "They're tryin' to escape Judgment Day."

Thaddy nodded.

Vincent shook his head, thinking. "Why? Wouldn't bein' obliterated eliminate the pain?"

Thaddy nodded again.

Vincent stared over the cliff. "Then why the fortress? Why not just let it happen?"

"They do not want the pain to end."

Vincent looked at Thaddy with questioning eyes.

"They thought pain would be their salvation," the child said. "So they have created the fortress to make it eternal."

Vincent sighed, shaking his head. "If it's pain they want, they're welcome to it." He turned around and scanned the chaos of Vagary Heights. "Where's Glipp been hidin'?"

"He has been preparing a shelter," Thaddy said. "One more suitable for the 'son of Vishnu'."

Vincent chuckled. "Crazy Hindu."

"It is not crazy to him, mister. His faith carries him, gives him hope. His religion is very sacred."

Vincent nodded, pressing his lips together. "What was your religion?"

"I was raised without one," Thaddy answered.

"No God?"

"No God."

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck "So, you have zero gods and Glipp has how many?"

"Glipp's faith embraces many, many deities."

Vincent widened and shook his head. "I never realized—"

"Religion is a very personal thing, mister. It has always been that way." Thaddy's eyes sparkled brightly. "How many gods does Al-Hallaj have?"

"Al-Hallaj has only one." Vincent paused, then asked, "How'd you know about—"

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 14

"Lord, deliver me from myself."

—Sir Thomas Browne

Religio Medici, Part 2

Chicago, IL ... Summer

_Three more dead ... three more ... three more_. Vincent slowly stirred simmering baked beans in an iron skillet on top of the barrel stove in his shelter. _Three more_ , _Mr. Goss_ , _three more_. He wiped the sweat from his brow, Al-Hallaj's words still ringing in his head. _Three more murders ... three more_. The beans began to smoke, breaking his trance. Vincent yanked the pan off the fire and set it on the dirt floor next to his mattress. He reclined on his side, propped his left arm under his head, then scooped up a forkful of burnt beans. Vincent gazed through the open door. The late June sun was setting beyond stacks of crushed cars, its red hue rippling in the puddles. He chewed the beans slowly, contemplating, summoning up courage. He swallowed. The beans churned with guilt in his stomach. Vincent knew all too well the pain those people suffered. With clenched teeth and tears welling, he whispered his apology, "I'm sorry." Vincent stared through the windshield skylight. "I'm so sorry." A tear rolled down his cheek. "The hell with it." He leapt up from his mattress, throwing the fork, and walked out through the door.

Vincent headed for the mosque. It was a unique building, situated in the middle of the scrapyard, welded entirely of crushed late-model cars: Jaguar, Mercedes and Porsche; BMW, Ferrari and Lexus, all premium building blocks of the sacred building. The mosque neared completion, parts of the front roof and back wall were still open, waiting for cars to be welded in place. At either side of the entrance, two stacks of golden Infinities acted as pillars supporting a crumpled Rolls Royce mantle. The remainder of the building rose as a welded twenty-foot tall dome of crushed decadence.

Vincent paused at a bathing trough near the front entrance. He yanked off his gym shoes and socks, cleansed his feet and hands, then walked through the golden doorway. Candles burned, melting on bumpers, fenders and tailpipes, hugging the inside walls, their flickering brilliance casting a warm glow upon a domed room of chrome and steel.

"All that is in the heavens and the earth glorifieth Allah," Al-Hallaj recited from within the dome, "and He is the Mighty, the Wise. His is the Sovereignty of the heavens and the earth; He quickeneth and He giveth death; and He is able to do all things. He is the First and the Last, and the Outward and the Inward; and He is the Knower of all things." Al-Hallaj paused his recitation, pulling his eyes from the Glorious Koran. He surveyed the twenty-four saved souls of Islam as they sat upon their white mats staring at an outsider.

Vincent spread open his hands, showing that he had washed up before entering. Al-Hallaj sighed. He stroked his graying beard, adjusted his white headdress, and cast his mismatched eyes back into the Koran. He flipped to a different scripture.

"Lo! those who disbelieve in Allah and His Messengers," Al-Hallaj continued, "and seek to make distinctions between Allah and His Messengers, and say: We believe in some and disbelieve in others, and seek to chose a way in between; such are disbelieves in truth; and for disbelievers We prepare a shameful doom." Al-Hallaj paused for effect, then said to the congregation, "Pardon me, please. It seems we have a guest among us."

Vincent fidgeted a bit, uncomfortable in the strange environment.

"Yes, Mr. Goss?" Al-Hallaj said. "Is there a reason you have interrupted prayer?"

Vincent wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then moved it to his forehead to catch the glistening sweat. "I'm ready."

Al-Hallaj closed his holy book, swung it behind his white robe, and grasped it with both hands. "Ready for what?"

"To give you the Viceman's description," Vincent said.

Al-Hallaj closed his eyes, sighing. "Praise Allah." He opened his eyes. "Wait outside while I conclude."

Vincent walked outside. A fog had rolled in from Lake Michigan, creeping through downtown Chicago and its suburbs, settling upon the scrapyard with descending night. The perimeter lighting snapped on, buzzing, creating eerie-blue halos above the crushed cars and razor wire.

The followers of Islam filed out of the mosque, silent, fulfilled in the grace of Allah. Short Rib exited midpack and noticed his roommate near the water trough. "Vince, my man," Short Rib said, smiling, bouncing. "It's finally comin' down, huh? Tonight's the night?"

Vincent raised his brow and nodded.

"Cool." Short Rib checked behind him, scouting for Al-Hallaj. He turned back to Vincent. "I know the Viceman dicked you pretty hard, man." Short Rib looked behind him again, then back. "But we'll find him for you. And when we do, I'm gonna do the Short Rib belly flop right on that mother fucker's sick ass. I'll flatten that cocksucker like—"

"Like _what_?" Al-Hallaj asked, walking up from behind.

Short Rib's eyes flew open. He swallowed hard, sucking in his second chin. He slowly turned. "I-I was just tellin' Vince here that— _Ahh, shoot_. Sorry about cussin' and all, Al-Hallaj, but it's _happenin_ '. It's all comin' down. We're—"

"That's enough," Al-Hallaj said.

"We're gonna put the spank on his ass, I can feel it," Short Rib said.

" _Enough_ ," Al-Hallaj commanded.

"Dag," Short Rib said, dejected, kicking up gravel, heading back to his shelter. "I can feel it. The Viceman's about to get corn-poned up the stink hole. I just know it."

"Are you ready, Mr. Goss?" Al-Hallaj asked.

Vincent nodded.

"Good. Wait in my shelter, I'll be right there."

The pair split. Vincent walked slowly through the fog. Nearing the middle of the shelters, the scent of vegetable soup, fresh bread and baked beans wafted from the rooftop exhaust pipes. Standing as a lone dark soldier in the misty night, protecting the four shelters to either side, was Al-Hallaj's shelter. It was smaller than the others, but essentially the same crushed car construction.

Vincent walked through the open doorway and fumbled around in the dark, searching for a place to sit. He righted a wooden crate and sat down in the foggy gloom, staring at the black silhouettes of a mattress, two bookcases, a barrel stove and assorted clothes hanging from a wire stretched across the back wall.

Al-Hallaj walked in. He reached to a bookcase, grabbed a fat white candle, lit it with a stick match, and placed it on the grille covering the barrel stove. The flickering yellow halo shifted dark shadows about the room.

"What do you want to know first?" Vincent asked.

Al-Hallaj sat down on his mattress and peeled off his white cap. "Wait for a moment."

T'ien walked through the door. She held a large sketch pad in one hand and three tiny paint brushes and a jar of Indian ink in the other. She paused inside the entrance. Candlelight shimmered across her blue satin clothes. T'ien looked past the stove to Vincent, then turned to Al-Hallaj. "I do not do police sketches," she said, concerned.

"You'll do fine, T'ien," Al-Hallaj said, propping himself against the bookcase. "I've seen your art. It's magnificent. And that's coming from the mouth of a Muslim."

"His training is not complete," T'ien said. "He's nowhere near—"

"It's okay, T'ien, really," Vincent said. "I want to give the description." He bowed his head, picked up a handful of pebbles, then let them pour through his fist. "I should've given it a long time ago."

"See? He's ready," Al-Hallaj said. "Now let's get to it."

T'ien's emerald eyes flickered, gazing at Vincent.

"It's okay." Vincent raised his brow and nodded.

She sighed, sat cross-legged on the floor, set down her brushes, and unscrewed the top from the ink jar.

"Where do you want me to start?" Vincent asked.

Al-Hallaj turned to T'ien.

She flipped to a clean sheet of paper. "The eyes." T'ien looked at Vincent, soft shadows shifting across her face. "The truth of a person is in the eyes. We will begin there."

Vincent took a deep breath, stared into the candle flame, then began. He spoke softly, giving the Viceman a name, "Zedekiah Gehenan." That cast the demon out of the mysterious shadows and into the light of comforting day. He was human now, just a man.

T'ien concentrated on her breathing, entering the flow of Ch'i.

Vincent spoke of the eyes: cold, dark, colorless voids, eyes of chaotic discipline, shark eyes, fierce as razors, preying upon the weak, glistening wildly by the spilled blood of innocence.

T'ien relaxed her muscles, the Ch'i flowing, her fine brush working effortlessly across the sketch pad.

Vincent recalled the scars on the madman's face, the skin carved away in nasty patterns. The grooves, he remembered the furrowed flesh where Zedekiah's eyebrows once were. "He was a white man," Vincent said. "Like a mole, someone who hadn't seen much sun." Vincent paused.

"Keep going, Mr. Goss," Al-Hallaj beckoned.

Vincent continued, the fog growing thicker, separating him from his companions. He recalled the madman's height around six-foot one. He guessed his age at mid-forty. He spoke of Zedekiah's crooked, yellow teeth and ...

T'ien, deep in the flow of Ch'i, closed her eyes completely, her paint brush guided by Vincent's voice alone, each inflection of emotion and feeling moving her hand. The timbre of his voice, the resonance of his speech, worked in unison with her graceful precision to recreate the essence of a madman.

Al-Hallaj stood up and nervously paced. He walked to T'ien and checked her sketch pad, assuring no detail was missed. His gut churned and lips tightened, knowing the first and the last battle with Zedekiah would soon begin.

T'ien did not break concentration. She dipped her brush without thought and guided it back to her drawing.

"His head was all scarred up with patches of thick, black hair." Vincent breathed deeply, exhaling toward the candle, flickering the flame. "I think that's all of it." He turned to Al-Hallaj. "I can't think of anything else."

Al-Hallaj nodded. He looked at T'ien, her trance broken. She handed him the sketch pad. Al-Hallaj looked it over, narrowing his eyes, and then held it up against the candlelight for all to see. "Is this him?"

A wrecking ball struck Vincent. He began trembling, shaking, his breath shortened. Tears began to flow, mixing with his drool.

"Is it him?" Al-Hallaj asked again.

Vincent's eyes were fixed on the drawing, his eyelids hammering viciously, trying to eliminate the horrid vision. The drawing was perfect in every detail, down to the cold, dark eyes glaring with evil intent. It was all there, including his wicked soul, captured brilliantly in the expression of a madman.

Al-Hallaj grew impatient. "Is it _him_?"

"Of course it is," T'ien said. "Of course it's him." She stood up, walked to Vincent, and knelt down in front of him, blocking the picture. She reached out and held his hand. "Let it go, Vince." T'ien gazed into his teary eyes. "Don't let Zedekiah do this to you." She caressed his cheek, wiping away a tear. "Release the pain, let it go. Don't let him control you any longer."

Vincent clenched his teeth, his head shaking. He breathed heavily, to the point of hyperventilation.

"Let it go, Vince," T'ien pleaded. "Let it go." She gently wiped away another tear, solace basking in her emerald eyes.

Rage gripped Vincent's body, tightly binding him against anybody's wishes. He ripped T'ien's hand from his cheek, leapt forward, grabbed Al-Hallaj by his white robe, and knocked him to the ground. "You got what you fuckin' wanted, now give me what I want!" Vincent jumped on top and pinned Al-Hallaj's shoulders. " _You_ find him, _I_ kill him! _I_ kill that son of ah bitch! _Me!_ "

T'ien pried the pair apart. Vincent backed against the stove, huffing, his eyes glazed. Al-Hallaj stood up and brushed off his robe. He focused his mismatched eyes on Vincent. "This is where it ends, Mr. Goss. You are no longer needed here."

Vincent's jaw dropped. " _Bullshit!_ "

Al-Hallaj slowly shook his head, confidence settling upon his face. "Mr. Goss, you are a liability. You always have been. Your rage is nothing more than—"

"You promised me. You fuckin' _promised_ me!" Vincent yelled.

"A promise in the time of war means nothing. _Nothing!_ " Al-Hallaj turned away. "This is a jihad." He spun back. "We're in a war here. Do you understand?"

"I understand that you're nothin' but a _goddamn liar_!"

Al-Hallaj smacked Vincent sharply across the face. "That is the last time that you'll ever take the Lord's name in vain in my presence!"

Vincent raised his head, rubbing his cheek, and said between clenched teeth, "You promised me."

Al-Hallaj slowly shook his head, rubbing his eyebrows. "Mr. Goss, I've seen this before, men like you pushed by rage. I grew up on streets full of angry men. Didn't matter what caused the anger, cops knocking heads in alleys, husbands catching their bored wives cheating, it was all rage just the same." Al-Hallaj grabbed his cap from the mattress. "Their rage made them stupid," he pulled the cap on, "then it made them dead." He pressed his face close to Vincent's. "It would have made you dead, my friend." Al-Hallaj backed away. "I'm doing you a favor."

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. "You just don't get it. You don't understand."

Al-Hallaj sighed. He picked up the drawing and studied it. "I think I understand."

"No. No you don't," Vincent said. "Not until it happens to you!"

Al-Hallaj looked at T'ien's expressionless face. "Mr. Goss, I do understand. Believe me, I do." He turned to Vincent, stroking his beard, and stared vacantly for a long moment. Al-Hallaj sighed. "You may remain here if you wish, Mr. Goss."

Vincent's brow raised.

"With any luck, we'll have this wrapped up in a few days and you can go home." Al-Hallaj stood silently for a moment. "Just don't get in our way." He turned and walked out the door.

"You've learned nothing yet, have you?" T'ien asked.

Vincent didn't answer.

" _Have you?_ " she asked again, picking up her art supplies.

"I'm sorry, T'ien. It's just that—"

"I don't care what your excuse is." T'ien stood directly in front of Vincent, her eyes angry. "Do you think you're the only person in this world who is in pain? Do you?"

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know what to say. It's just that Zedekiah's done me so much damage."

"It's all about you, isn't it? There are other people involved now." She slowly shook her head and walked out the door.

Vincent thought for a moment, then asked, "I don't get it? What do you want from me?"

T'ien paused and stood still in the fog. She slowly turned. "I want you to release your anger." She watched Vincent squint his eyes in the candlelight. "Just like Al-Hallaj did when the Viceman murdered _his_ family."

Vincent didn't comprehend.

She sighed and walked back into the shelter. "Al-Hallaj and his family are believed to be Zedekiah's first victims."

"You're kiddin' me," Vincent said, shaking his head. "How? Where'd—"

"At his apartment, twenty-one years ago," T'ien said. "Al-Hallaj wasn't always the man you see today." She bit her lower lip, casting her stare to the ground, deciding whether to continue. "Al-Hallaj," she said pensively, "was a heroin addict at one time." She looked at Vincent. "When Zedekiah entered his apartment, Al-Hallaj was semi-conscious, nearly blacked out on his couch." T'ien blinked a few times. "He heard screams and saw shadows, but he had no idea what was happening." Her voice quaked just a bit. "He woke the next morning and walked into the bathroom." She swallowed. "He found his little girl's eyes floating in the sink." T'ien paused for a moment. "She was four years old ... his only child."

"I-I didn't know," Vincent said, astounded. "I had no idea."

"Al-Hallaj ran to the bedroom," T'ien continued. "The walls were painted with blood, his wife's body was mutilated—" She stopped, unable to continue.

Vincent reached out a comforting hand. "I'm sorry, I don't know what to say."

T'ien brushed his hand off her shoulder. "Al-Hallaj walked the streets for days, withdrawing from heroin, not knowing where to turn." She walked to the door and stared through the fog. "And he ended up here. Grandy found him shaking, huddled near her shack, and she took him in."

"Grandy?" Vincent asked, eyes wide.

"That's right, Grandy," T'ien said. "She's the closest thing to a mother he has ever had. She took him in, fed him, gave him warm clothes, and helped him kick his drug habit." T'ien turned to Vincent and smiled. "It was Grandy who led him to religion."

Vincent fidgeted. "Grandy made all this for him?" He surveyed the shelter.

T'ien shook her head, pressing her lips together. " _Zedekiah_ made all this."

Vincent cocked his head a bit to the side.

"Don't you get it?" T'ien asked. "Al-Hallaj took his rage, and all the energy it created, and channeled it into something positive—this scrapyard. If it wasn't for Zedekiah, there wouldn't be this home for the homeless, this refuge for drug addicts, this sanctuary. It wouldn't exist."

Vincent stood silently.

"And what have you done with your rage?" T'ien shook her head, her eyes softening.

He bowed his head a bit.

T'ien walked to him and raised his chin with her soft touch, her profound eyes meeting his. "Rage has made you a ghost ship, Vince. Nobody at the rudder, the sails empty." She moved her hand to his cheek. "You're floating aimlessly, lost in the churning waters of a vast ocean." T'ien smiled. "Steer the ship, grab the rudder, fill its sails by your will; otherwise, you'll stay forever lost, drifting in an endless sea, at the mercy of its violent waves." She slightly tilted her head, lowered her hand, and whispered, "Please think about it." She turned and walked away.

# Chapter 15

"O Woman! in our hours of ease,

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,

And variable as the shade,

By the light quivering aspen made;

When pain and anguish wring the brow,

A ministering angel thou!"

—Sir Walter Scott

Marmion

Oblivion ... 00.00.49

"Ow, shit! What the hell're you doin', Glipp?" Vincent asked, waking, striking his head against jutting flint as he was carried into the new shelter.

"Glipp is being very sorry, but storm is beginning." Glipp dropped Vincent to the solid flint floor. "Maybe if you are staying awake more often, Glipp is not carrying you so much."

Vincent righted himself, leaned back against a rock wall, and looked around. The new shelter was constructed of jagged blocks of black flint. It ran long and narrow, like a dark, windowless school bus. Its ceiling hovered seven feet above, made of long and short block set at odd angles. Its floor was brushed clean of all debris, its only flaw was a narrow fissure near the back wall. A four-foot wide doorway split the shelter, allowing the iridescent-blue mist of the acid storm to cast its eerie glow inside.

Glipp shifted his way to the back wall, yanked off his tunic, and sat down next to Thaddy. "Glipp is being tired of dragging you all places." He turned to the boy. "When is sleep being finished with him?"

Thaddy looked at Vincent, and said, "His memory is nearly restored."

"Glipp is hoping 'nearly' is meaning soon, and 'soon' is meaning quickly." Glipp reached in his duffel bag and retrieved a bone knife. He looked at his tunic and shoved his hand through the hole in its center. His sage eyes locked on Vincent. "Because of you and little suns, my wardrobe is suffering." Glipp thrust the knife through the skin of his own thigh.

"What the hell're you doin'?!" Vincent yelled.

Glipp quickly carved a ten-inch circle, reached through the cut, clenched his teeth, and ripped the flesh from his leg. He stared vacantly, blinking fast and hard.

"Man, that's _gotta_ hurt," Vincent said, cringing, shaking his head.

"Glipp is feeling much pain, yes," Glipp said, fidgeting. His dark skin regenerated. "And back it is growing. Glipp is soon being ready for more pain, always being ready for more."

"Are you all right?" Thaddy asked, his eyes glittering.

"Yes, son of Vishnu. Glipp is thanking you for being concerned." Glipp held up the tunic and studied the hole. He held up the piece of flesh and smiled. "Being perfect match, no?"

Vincent slowly shook his head, astonished. "Perfect."

"Yes, Glipp is doing well." Glipp reached into his duffel bag and found a bone needle. He plucked several long, black hairs from his head and threaded the needle.

Vincent turned and gazed through the door. The blue rain hammered hard, splattering, catching several inhabitants of Vagary Heights off guard. Their wails of pain echoed in the storm as they dashed for shelter. The ground slightly shook as the rumble of ball lightning blasted chunks of flint in the distance.

Glipp busied himself sewing the skin patch on his tunic. He worked without thought, flowing in the heart of second nature. "My wife," Glipp said to Thaddy, needle still moving, "she was being one that sewed."

The boy grinned.

Glipp checked his patchwork and smiled. "Glipp is being much better at it."

"You were married?" Vincent asked.

"Yes," Glipp said. "Mean woman from what Glipp is remembering."

Vincent thought for a moment, then asked Thaddy, "Women? Why haven't I seen any women here?"

"Women cannot enter this plane of existence," Thaddy said.

"Why not?" asked Vincent.

"This plane is meant for suffering," the boy said. "Women would bestow comfort."

Glipp turned to Vincent. "Glipp is not knowing about you, but hell is being a paradise compared to my wife's comfort." Glipp smiled. "If hell really wanted us to be suffering, it would be raining women right now, not acid."

Vincent chuckled. "So, women suffer on a different plane?"

"No," Thaddy said. "They are either reborn on earth, or move to limbo, or a higher existence."

Vincent looked at Glipp. Their eyes united with injustice. "Well," said Vincent, "that hardly seems fair."

"Glipp is agreeing."

Both men turned to Thaddy.

"A woman is a vessel of life," the boy explained. "Her essence is surrounded by the force of Creation." Thaddy shrugged. "There is nothing that can change that."

Glipp and Vincent kept staring at Thaddy, their stone cold expressions searching for recompense.

"If it makes you feel any better," the child offered, "a woman can be reborn on earth as a man."

"Then she can be going to hell?" Glipp asked.

"Yes," Thaddy said, smiling.

Glipp turned to Vincent. They nodded their approval, and said in unison, "That's more like it."

Oblivion shook. An explosion ripped the ground nearby. Rubble scattered outside the doorway as Vincent gazed at the blue mist wafting into the shelter, carrying with it a caustic stench of foul vinegar.

"Why in the hell did you build a shelter here," Vincent asked Glipp, "if this is the only region shootin' up ball lightnin'?"

"Without the little suns, there are being no big blocks. There is being no Vagary Heights." Glipp slipped back into his tunic. "Thanks to little suns, this place is being home."

"Some home," Vincent said softly.

Glipp gazed through the doorway, contemplating, stroking his beard. "Glipp is thinking that," he turned to Vincent, "if an outsider is landing on earth, he might be finding problems with lightning." Glipp grinned. "Tornadoes, monsoons, earthquakes, Glipp is thinking it just takes getting used to."

"That's _acid_ pourin' out there," Vincent said. "How in the hell do you get used to that?"

Glipp's expression turned solemn. "Be staying here three thousand years and you will be getting used to many things."

"Home is not where you live, it is not your surrounding environment," Thaddy softly said. "Home is in the heart. It is a feeling of warmth. It is part of your essence."

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "What about your home, Thaddy? What part of the world were you from?"

The boy was silent for a moment, then said, "I was raised in Manitoba, Canada, a farm town called Nevahe."

"Do you ever get homesick?" Vincent asked. "You do still have those feelings, right?"

Thaddy blinked and bowed his head.

"I'm sorry, kid. I know you have feelings. I—" Vincent searched hard for the words. "Can you still function like a normal kid? I mean ... _Shit_ , I don't know what I mean." Vincent tried hard to recover. "Do you miss your parents, kid?"

Thaddy looked up, the starshine fading from his eyes. "Yes, mister, I miss them terribly." He began to cry.

Glipp shot out a vicious stare at Vincent. "You are being a bad man." He wrapped his arm around the boy. "Son of Vishnu, it is being better now?"

Thaddy looked up with fresh blue eyes, the glitter completely gone. In the boyish speech of a ten-year-old, he said, "It's okay, Glipp."

"I'm sorry, kid," Vincent said, noticing Thaddy had transformed into a normal child. "I didn't mean to—"

"I always think about my parents." Thaddy sighed, wiping his tears with his forearm. "I miss the time I spent with them, watching the stars from my bedroom, the stories my dad used to read to me by the fireplace."

Vincent smiled, and asked in a comforting tone, "What was your favorite story?"

"Rikki-Tikki-Tavi," Thaddy said.

"Rudyard Kipling, the mongoose story," Vincent said. "I remember that. They made it into a cartoon when I was about nine or ten. I loved watchin' that."

"Yes, I watched it with you many times," Thaddy said. "I liked it a lot when Rikki-Tikki's eyes sparkled and made that little sound."

Vincent smiled with Thaddy, and they both said, " _Bling_."

"It was neat," Thaddy said. "You knew when Rikki-Tikki's eyes went _bling_ he was going to get that cobra."

Vincent smiled. "That cobra never stood a chance." He paused, scratching his head. "Was it just me you could watch? What about your parents? Were you ever able to see them from limbo?"

"That is being good question," Glipp said. "Could you be talking to them?"

Thaddy looked at his bloody fingers. He fidgeted a bit and folded his arms, shoving his hands underneath his armpits. "I was with them when they grieved for me," he said, staring at the ground. "They grieved a lot though, so I couldn't always be there. I had you to watch over."

Vincent lowered his brow. "Could your parents see you?"

"No, that wasn't possible, not with them." Thaddy's baby blues met Vincent's questioning eyes. "With you it was though."

"What do you mean, with me it was? I don't remember seein' you."

"You will." Thaddy grinned. "Al-Hallaj saw me too, that's why he helped you."

"Who is being Al-Hallaj?" Glipp asked, shifting his head.

"You sent Al-Hallaj?" Vincent asked.

"Who is being Al-Hallaj?" Glipp asked again.

"Yep," Thaddy said.

"How?" Vincent asked.

"I appeared to him in a vision," Thaddy said.

"Like a ghost or somethin'?" Vincent asked.

"Al-Hallaj is being a ghost?" Glipp asked.

"I came to him while he meditated. He thought I was a guiding angel," Thaddy said.

"And you told him I needed his help?" Vincent asked.

"You are being an angel now?" Glipp asked.

"I told him that you had the Viceman's description," Thaddy said. "I knew he could help you."

"How'd you know, Thaddy? How'd you know I was gonna kill myself?" Vincent shook his head. "Al-Hallaj was hours away. How'd you know he could help?" Vincent narrowed his eyes on the boy. "The future? You can see the future?"

Thaddy smiled, shaking his head. "I _know_ you, mister. I was with you all the time, while you were awake, while you slept. I know you so well that I guessed the exact day you'd propose to Cassandra." Thaddy turned to Glipp. "She said yes."

"Who did? Cassandra?" Glipp asked. "Is she being a ghost or an angel?"

"Definitely an angel," Vincent said.

Thaddy turned back to Vincent. "I was there at Brendon's birth." He bowed his head and sighed. "I was there at his death." Thaddy began to cry. "I wish I could've stopped it. I couldn't though." Tears streamed down his cheeks. "But I wished I could. If Zedekiah could've been reached, I would've appeared to him. I would've told him to stop." The child began sobbing, shaking. "But I couldn't, I couldn't reach him."

Glipp pulled Thaddy to his chest and hugged him. "It is being all right, son of Vishnu. You can be giving Zedekiah a vision next time."

"So, you just assumed I'd try and kill myself?" Vincent asked.

"I knew you would try, mister. I couldn't let that happen. I—" Thaddy's eyes began to sparkle, his baby blues brightening with silver starshine. "I knew if I could get Al-Hallaj to help you—"

"How did you know about Al-Hallaj?" Vincent cut in.

"Al-Hallaj's daughter exists in limbo now," Thaddy said, "held there by her father's guilt." The boy sat up, completely transformed back to his old self. "She found me and spoke to me. She told me if anyone could help you, it would be Al-Hallaj." Thaddy's voice once again radiated with confidence, knowledge. "It was not your time to die, mister. There is still much to live for."

"If I did kill myself," Vincent asked, "would I've ended up here?"

"Only if your essence was blanketed by hate or evil," the boy said.

Vincent paused, remembering. "My rage, is that it, kid? My rage sent me here?" Vincent's eyes begged for an answer. "Just tell me, Thaddy. Tell me. You already know. Tell me how I died."

"Where are your memories at, mister?"

Vincent waved his hand in protest. "No, you always pull that 'where are your memories at?' crap, and the next thing I know, Glipp's draggin' me through a desert or somethin', gettin' ball lightnin' shot up my ass."

Glipp smiled.

"Just _tell_ me," Vincent insisted.

"They are your memories," the child said. "They must be felt by you alone. You must remember everything so you can leave this place. Please."

Vincent remained silent, stubbornness pursed on his lips.

"Have you presented T'ien with the splinter yet?" Thaddy asked.

Vincent shrugged, indifference upon his face. Then his thoughts drifted toward T'ien. "Splinter?" he asked. "You mean I actually wore that log down? That had to take forever. How long did I stay at the—"

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 16

"The morality of an action depends on the motive from which we act."

—Samuel Johnson

Boswell's Life of Johnson

Chicago, IL ... Autumn

Through the steamy months of summer, the search for Zedekiah continued. Each day, Al-Hallaj's homeless army scoured the streets, the flame of jihad burning in their blood. They combed Chicago east and west, from Lake Shore Drive to River Grove; north and south, from Lincolnwood to the Little Calumet River. The museums, universities, convention centers, parks, and the Magnificent Mile with its gleaming towers, back alleys, and side streets were all checked.

Al-Hallaj accessed library files and uncovered certain facts. Yes, Zedekiah Gehenan did exist, he was a real person, a boy actually, a very bad boy according to the 1969 _Chicago Tribune_. Zedekiah, abandoned by his mother at age eleven, was thrust into an orphanage on Chicago's west side. At age thirteen, using a fork, he killed two screaming infants. While fleeing police, he set the orphanage ablaze, burning eight children to death. After that, Zedekiah was never seen or heard from again.

Vincent couldn't join the manhunt. As much as he wanted to search for the madman, to have a part in his capture, his death, Al-Hallaj forbid his participation. That left Vincent time to train with T'ien and work on building the mosque. He did both diligently through the hot summer, waiting for word on Zedekiah, hoping for a call from Cassandra's doctor.

~

The search's early zeal faded with September's sunny skies. With gray October came depression, compounding Vincent's guilt. He hadn't called the hospital in over three months, hadn't tried to visit. For all practical purposes, he had abandoned his wife. He knew that, but he figured there was nothing else to do, nowhere to go that offered him peace. Being at Cassandra's side, he pictured, would only dredge up horrible memories. Besides, he justified, she wouldn't even know he was there. _I'll wait_ , he told himself. _Her doctor will call when she recovers. Until then, I'll wait_. Vincent began feeling more at home in the scrapyard, content to wallow in his guilt and growing depression, waiting, hoping to see his wife in better times.

~

An early autumn chill gust through Vincent's shelter, flickering the candles, dancing bedtime shadows across crushed cars. He sat at the edge of his mattress, quickly rubbing the flats of his hands together, friction warming his palms. A bead of sweat flowed down his forehead, to his cheek, and got lost in the thick tangles of his beard. Vincent paused his workout, wiped an arm across his forehead, whipped back his long, brown hair, and began working his hands again.

"You still at it?" Short Rib asked, bouncing in, his stomach jutting out from a red flannel shirt.

"Almost done," Vincent said, his intense eyes focused. "This is the third one." He looked at Short Rib, still working his hands. "She's gotta let me quit after this one."

Brax walked in seconds later. "Can't believe you're still workin' those logs. You one crazy white boy, you know that?"

Vincent stopped rubbing. "I may be crazy," he held up a splinter of wood, "but I always finish what I start." He smiled, stood up, and walked out the door.

"I can't believe that boy's still here," Brax said, peeling off his red muscle shirt, flexing his pecs. He yanked off his shoes, then flopped on his mattress. "Why don't he just go home?"

Short Rib scraped a fork across the bottom of a cold skillet. "I think he's comfortable here." He scooped up some kidney beans and shoved them in his mouth. "Maybe the momby jomby just likes hangin' with us."

"Yeah, he likes hangin' with us like Grandy likes kissin' my black ass," Brax said. " _Shit_ , the boy's got it goin' on for T'ien. That's why he's still here."

"Nah," Short Rib sat down on his bed, skillet in hand, "that ain't it. He's still hurtin' for his wife."

"Then T'ien's got it goin' on for him. You ever see the way she looks at him?"

"Nah, there ain't nothin' there. Vince stays 'cause he ain't got nobody else. We're it."

"My ass," Brax said. "He's got a home waiting for him back in Peckerwood. Why don't he just go there?"

Short Rib stopped chewing and paused for a moment. He swallowed and turned to Brax. "You ever notice Vince's wrists?"

Brax narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, I've seen the scars. So what?"

"That's all his home offers, scars. He knows that, so he stays. He—"

Vincent walked in, his hands behind his back, shoulders slumped.

"What's wrong, Vince?" Short Rib placed the skillet on his mattress. "She didn't give you another log, did she?"

Vincent shook his head. "No, she gave me this." He pulled a rusted exhaust pipe from behind his back. "She wants me to rub on this now."

Brax laughed. "Shoot, man, she's gonna have you lookin' like fuckin' Popeye."

Short Rib smiled, eyes wide, his lips pressed together and stomach rippling.

"Go ahead," Vincent said. "Get it out."

Short Rib laughed. "I'm sorry." He bit his lower lip. "What the hell's all this doin' for you anyway?"

Vincent sat down on the edge of his mattress, staring at the exhaust pipe. He flexed his right forearm. Muscles rippled. He looked at Short Rib and slowly shook his head. "I have no idea." Vincent gripped the exhaust pipe, bearing down with both hands. "I'm sure she wouldn't have me doin' this for no reason." He twisted his wrists and stripped the rust from the pipe. "Would she?"

Al-Hallaj walked into the shelter. "You're on tonight, Short Rib."

Vincent looked up and saw Al-Hallaj dressed in black jeans and a gray tee-shirt.

"Set down the pipe, Mr. Goss," Al-Hallaj said. "You're teaming up with Short Rib."

Vincent narrowed his eyes. "For what?"

Al-Hallaj raised his brow. "How long have you been here now?"

Vincent thought for a moment, placing the tailpipe across his lap. "About five months, I guess."

Al-Hallaj turned to Short Rib. "He's been working on the mosque, right?"

Short Rib stood up and nodded.

"He has no idea?" Al-Hallaj asked.

"I didn't say nothin'," Short Rib said.

Al-Hallaj looked at Brax.

"Nah, I didn't tell him dick," Brax said.

They all turned to Vincent.

"Tell me _what_?" Vincent grinned nervously.

"Put on your shoes, Mr. Goss," Al-Hallaj said. "It's time to earn your keep."

~

Al-Hallaj drove into the heart of Chicago's east side, his white Fury billowing smoke from the tailpipe, its lone headlight cutting a path through the still night. He double-parked on Champ Street, an avenue reborn from 1990's decadence.

Al-Hallaj looked at Short Rib. "Remember, only the best."

Short Rib nodded and opened the car door. "On it."

Al-Hallaj grabbed Short Rib's shoulder. "Praise Allah."

"Praise Allah," Short Rib said.

Vincent and Short Rib stepped out of the car. Al-Hallaj drove away.

"What the hell're we doin' here?" Vincent asked.

Short Rib paid no attention. He began walking down the cobblestone sidewalk, shifting his head back and forth.

The early 19th century German architecture of Champ Street had become in vogue once more. The area was rezoned commercial and the money rolled in. The homeless, the derelicts, the gangs—all shoved aside, making way for cigar bars, social clubs and elite housing. Boarded doors, broken glass and urban blight were transformed to clean-cut stone, shimmering lights amber glass, and mahogany doors. The street, once littered with broken shopping carts, abandoned cars, and garbage, was now lined with honey locust trees, antique street lamps and fresh autos.

Vincent kept a quick stride with his friend. "What're you lookin' for?"

"I'll let you know when I—" Short Rib stopped abruptly. He scanned the sidewalk for potential witnesses. There were few. He looked across the street at the Canterbury Cigar Bar. It was dully lit, a single bouncer inside the door.

"What're you lookin' for?" Vincent asked again.

Two car lengths up the street, sleeping on the dimly lit roadside, was a freshly waxed '97 silver Porsche 911 Turbo.

" _Whoop_ , there it is." Short Rib reached inside his pants. He withdrew a plastic-coated lock jimmy, walked up to the Porsche, and thrust the jimmy into the car door.

"What the hell're you doin'?" Vincent asked in a loud whisper, shifting his head about quickly.

Short Rib stayed focused, working the jimmy, watching the cigar bar.

"You're gonna get us thrown in jail," Vincent whispered, grabbing his friend's arm.

Short Rib continued working the jimmy. "Nobody's goin' to jail tonight, Vince, _relax_." He shifted the jimmy toward the side view mirror. " _Dag_ , I hate these foreign cars." He torqued the jimmy back and broke it in half. " _Shit_."

"C'mon, Short Rib. Let's get outa here."

Short Rib checked the bar, up and down the street, then looked at Vincent. He smiled. "Momma always said, 'You got a problem, just use your head.'" Short Rib backed up, then lunged forward, smashing his skull through the driver's window.

The car alarm wailed, turning the few heads walking the street. Short Rib unlocked the door and wrenched it open. He clicked off the dome light, shot underneath the steering column, and yanked out a handful of wires. He silenced the alarm.

"Goddamn it, Short Rib," Vincent said, his eyes wide to the street. "Let's get the hell outa here."

Short Rib ripped three wires apart, stripped them with his teeth, and touched them together. The car engine jumped to life. He quickly pried himself out of the car and checked across the street. The bouncer was gone.

"All right, Vince, my man. It's all yours."

"What the hell you want _me_ to do with it?"

Short Rib smiled, wiping a hand across his smooth head, checking for blood. "Take it back to Grandy, she'll love you for it."

"No way. I am not stealin' shit," Vincent said. "You want it, you—"

"Hold up," Short Rib interrupted. He stared at the cigar bar. The bouncer was leading a tall businessman to the door. "No time, Vince. I can't fit." He shoved Vincent into the car. "You can." Short Rib slammed the door. "Go. _Now_."

"I ain't goin' anywhere."

"Then you're goin' to jail. See that man?" Short Rib pointed across the street. "You're in his car."

The businessman opened the bar door.

"I'm not doin' this," Vincent insisted.

Short Rib back-stepped quickly, casually. "Hey!" he yelled at the businessman. "Some white boy's stealin' your car! Call nine-one-one! Call nine-one-one!"

Vincent turned his head at Short Rib and mouthed, _What the fuck're you doin'?_

"Some crack addict's stealin' your ride!" Short Rib yelled, running up to the car. "I'll stop him!"

The businessman began to stumble across the street. "Hey you!" he yelled, his speech slurred. "What are you doing with my car?"

"I'll stop him!" Short Rib lunged for the driver's door, reached in, and released the parking brake. "Bye, bye, Vince."

Vincent shook his head, turning a little smile. "I'll get you for this." He slammed the Porsche into drive and peeled away.

"Did you see him?" the man asked, staggering up to Short Rib.

"Yeah, I saw him. He had _crazy eyes_. I think he wanted to kill me."

"Kill you? What about my car?"

"Your _car_? Your _car_?" Short Rib's eyes were wide. "What about _me_? I could've got killed! He was gettin' all crazy on me with those Charles Manson eyes and— Shit, all you care about is your _car_? What about me, the man in the street, just lookin' out for his fellow human being?"

The man bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

" _Sorry?_ Sorry don't feed the bulldog," Short Rib said.

The businessman stumbled. "You're right, you're absolutely right. Can I buy you a drink?"

"A drink?" Short Rib jutted out his lower lip. "A drink don't mean poop- _la-la to me_."

The businessman scratched his balding head. "What do you want then?"

Short Rib rubbed his chin. "How much cash you got on ya?"

~

Lost and paranoid, Vincent drove through the outskirts of Chicago. It was almost an hour before he found his way back to the scrapyard. Al-Hallaj unlocked the chain, avoiding the accusing glare. Vincent parked the car near Grandy's shack and jumped out as Al-Hallaj reattached the chain.

"What is this shit?" Vincent asked, walking up to Al-Hallaj, pointing a finger in his face. "Is this what it's all about? These cars are all stolen?"

"Lower your voice, Mr. Goss." Al-Hallaj clasped his hands behind his back, walking up to the Porsche. " _Ahh_ , it's a fine car. You have done—"

"What the flip is all the dang racket!" Grandy whipped open the door of her shack. There she stood, clutching her pink housecoat, toilet paper wrapped around the curlers in her clumps of silver hair. She narrowed her good eye on the Porsche. Her Pall Mall flipped up with a toothless grin. "Well now," Grandy said, walking, her twisted cane at her side. "Looks like Opey's done pretty good tonight."

"I didn't come here to steal cars," Vincent said.

Grandy squared off with Vincent, nose to nose. "Do you even remember why you came here, Opey?"

Vincent clenched his teeth, breathing hard.

Grandy grabbed his tee-shirt. "Been a long time, hasn't it, hayseed?" Her eagle eye pierced his skull. "Why don't you just go on back to Mayberry? I'm sure your sheep would be happy to see you." She grinned. "You know, maybe slip 'em a little jimmy-dong."

Vincent backed away. "Fuck you."

Grandy smacked his shin with her cane and watched the fire ignite in Vincent's eyes. "Yep, it's still there." She slowly nodded. "Still pissed at the world, aren't you, hayseed?"

Vincent pressed his lips together, his teeth grinding.

Grandy walked to the Porsche. She placed her cane on the hood and ran her hand across the fender. "You didn't think I was runnin' this place on my good looks, did you?" She kicked the tire. "We take what's flippin' needed, nothing more."

Al-Hallaj wrapped his arm around Vincent's shoulder. "So a couple fat cats lose a car or two, what's it matter?" He let loose of Vincent and walked to the car. "We part it out, use the money to support our cause, and use what's left of it to build our temple. I couldn't think of a better use for the rich man's toys."

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. "What about the cops? Don't they—"

" _Cops?_ " Grandy laughed. "Daggone cops know we're doing it. They don't give a flip."

"She's right," Al-Hallaj said. "They know what we're doing. They also know our cause. We're helping them by keeping the drug addicts off the street, so they help us by turning a blind eye. Praise Allah."

"Where the Sam hell is Rump Roast at?" Grandy asked, peering through the Porsche's broken window.

"His name is Short Rib," Al-Hallaj said.

"I don't give a snail's ass if his name is _Pork Rind_! Where the flip—"

A refrigerated truck barreled through the front gate and struck the chain, yanking the doors off the Tempest and Zephyr! Al-Hallaj tackled Grandy to the ground, saving her from an attacking bumper. The truck shot past the Porsche and slammed Grandy's shack, demolishing it, launching dust and debris high in the air.

"You all right?" Al-Hallaj asked Grandy.

"Get the flip off me!" Grandy grabbed her cane and stood up. "Who the flip is—"

The passenger door of the truck opened, knocking over loose plywood. Short Rib tumbled out. He waved the dust from his face, turned to the threesome, and smiled. "Sorry. Daggone brakes must've went out."

"What the flip you think you're doing?!" Grandy yelled, advancing on the fat man.

"Sorry, Grandy." Short Rib stood up, took a step, stumbled on a loose plank, and fell down. "You know I can't fit in them foreign cars." He stood back up and spread his arms to the truck. "Now _this_ is something I can fit into."

Al-Hallaj shook his head. He squinted at the side panel of the truck and read out loud, " _Frank's Prime Meats?_ You stole a meat truck?"

Short Rib shrugged. "So it's a meat truck. Can't a man get lucky?"

" _Lucky?_ " Grandy shouted. She raised her cane. "I'll show you lucky!" She stumbled through the debris, her cane threatening overhead.

"C'mon, Grandy," Short Rib pleaded, backing up, his arms out in front. "We can still scrap the truck."

"I'll scrap you, dough boy!" She swung her cane.

Short Rib looked around frantically. He bent down and picked up a couple of loose boards. "The shack? You want me to fix the shack, right?" He pushed the boards together. "I can fix this. A couple of nails, a little glue—"

"Glue?" Grandy raised her cane. " _C'mere_! Let me get just one good whack at you!"

"C'mon, Grandy, please!" Short Rib turned around, searching for support. "A little help here, huh, guys?"

Al-Hallaj and Vincent turned to one another and laughed.

"Guys, I'm serious!"

"You're on your own on this one," Al-Hallaj said.

Grandy took another swing.

Al-Hallaj and Vincent walked away laughing.

"C'mon, guys.... _Guys?_ Guys!"

~

Vincent awoke early the following day. He tugged up his thin blanket to fight the morning chill, then balled into a fetal position. The waking hours always proved to be the worst for him. It was silent time, reflective moments all alone, giving his mind a chance to think, to wonder, to regret. He punished himself with thoughts of Cassandra, leaving her all alone, abandoned. _Maybe I should've stayed with her_ , he thought. _Maybe she could hear me. I should've helped her recover_. He rolled over and stared at the dawn shimmering on a chrome hub cap. _Is she thinking of me right now? Can she think at all? God, how I miss you, Cassandra._ It went that way most mornings, a self-inflicted punishment, neither easing his mind nor purging his soul; a mental mutilation pushing him closer and closer to the brink.

Vincent sat up, shook the thoughts from his head, and gazed through the skylight. The day was bright—a crisp, cloudless morning etched out of the October sky, and a rare morning of no training for Vincent. He pulled on his jeans and tee-shirt, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and walked outside barefoot, seeking relief at the Port-o-let.

Vincent walked past the arena to the perimeter wall. He entered the middle of three Port-o-lets, did his business, scratched his beard in the small mirror on the side wall, and headed back to his shelter. Walking past the arena he heard splashing. _Someone bathing?_ Vincent thought. _Too damn cold_. He kept walking, paying no attention. But then a slight prick, somewhere in his sternum, heightened his awareness, changed his breathing. He walked back, looked through the arena entrance, and—

Vincent flashed to thoughts of Cassandra, the last night they made love, the bible verse he read. He contorted that night with the vision before him. _But David remained in Jerusalem. Then it happened one morning that I arose from bed and walked to the entry of the king's house_ , Vincent blinked his dry eyes, hoping to slow his heartbeat, _and from the entry, I saw a woman bathing, and that woman was very beautiful to behold_....

Guilt, shame, embarrassment, nothing moved Vincent's feet.

T'ien was nude, her back to Vincent, one leg propped upon the water trough.

Vincent beckoned his heart to quiet.

T'ien reached into a metal bucket and withdrew a large sponge. She glided the soapy sponge over her bent leg, across the thigh, down the shin to her foot, where she gently worked it between her toes.

Vincent swallowed.

T'ien removed her leg from the trough, bent down, emptied the soapy water from the bucket, and rinsed it in the clean water. She pulled the bucket from the trough, turned sideways and poured the water over her head. The water cascaded over T'ien's body like shimmering diamonds raining upon an angel.

Vincent pressed his lips together, watching as the water rolled from her silken sable hair, across her small, firm breasts, to her thighs. The fire in his loins pressed against his jeans. Months of abstinence had turned his manhood into a tripwire of wanton lust, controlled only by guilt, love and commitment. He slightly adjusted himself.

"Good morning, Vince," T'ien said, plucking a clean sponge from the water.

Vincent shook his head, closing his mouth. He swallowed hard, averting his eyes, the heat of embarrassment rushing up his neck. "I— I— Uhh, sorry, T'ien. I didn't mean to look."

She faced him and worked the sponge across her taut stomach. "Of course you meant to look. It's a very natural urge." She stroked the sponge over her breasts. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

He bit his lower lip and bowed his head. "I'm sorry." He turned and began walking away.

"Vince," T'ien said.

He kept walking.

"Vince!"

He stopped.

"Turn around."

Vincent swallowed.

"Turn around. Look at me," T'ien gently beckoned.

"I-I can't."

"You were looking at me before, what difference does it make now?"

Vincent turned around, his eyes on the ground. "It's different. I—"

"Lift your head," T'ien said. "Look at me."

Vincent raised his shameful eyes from the ground and gazed upon T'ien's splendid body.

"What is it you see?" she asked, her voice a gentle breeze.

He swallowed and opened his mouth. No words came out.

"It's still me, is it not?" T'ien spread her arms and slowly spun, exposing every inch of her body. "It's still me. No clothes, flesh only, but still me."

"I ... shouldn't look." Vincent lowered his head. "I'm a married man."

"Nobody's asking you to be unmarried." T'ien walked to Vincent, raised his chin with her soft hand, and gently gazed into his eyes. "Married or not, the Ch'i still flows." She smiled a bit. "Don't be embarrassed. It's western thought that makes you ashamed of being natural." She took her hand off his chin and looked at his crotch. "See, Vince, _he's_ being natural." T'ien slowly looked up at Vincent, her knowing eyes swimming in his head. "If _he_ were to have what _he_ desired, heaven and earth would dance." She smiled, and whispered, "It would harmonize the universe."

Vincent's heart raced. His shortened breath stuttered, "I— I can't, T'ien. I ... can't."

T'ien slowly shook her head. "Don't worry. I'm not asking you to do anything." She turned, walked back to the water trough, and picked up a blue satin robe. "What I do want you to do though is experience the Ch'i." She slid on the robe and tied it shut. "Do not inhibit it. Let it flow—mind, body, and spirit." She picked up the sponge and bucket, then walked back to Vincent. "Never be ashamed of being natural. Experience the flow of Ch'i, let morality take care of itself." T'ien smiled and walked away.

Vincent stood perfectly still, swimming in emotion, his breathing restricted.

" _Man_ , I heard it all, Vince," Short Rib said from behind.

Vincent turned around, embarrassed.

Short Rib walked up carrying a white towel over his shoulder. "That woman's a prize. If I was a few pounds lighter, I'd be all over that." He jerked his head behind him, then back. "Don't tell Al-Hallaj I said that, cool?"

Vincent shook his head. "Yeah, no problem."

"So, you saw her naked?" Short Rib asked.

Vincent bowed his head and sighed.

"Hell, Vince, don't sweat it," Short Rib said. "Everybody here has at one time or another. She don't care. Got that Taoist mentality, natural and all."

"Taoist?" Vincent asked.

"You know, like all that _Yen_ and _Yang_ stuff." Short Rib shrugged. "I don't know poop- _la-la_ about it, but if I knew for sure all Taoists were like her, I'd be hoppin' on the next boat to China." He patted Vincent's back and walked to the water trough.

Vincent turned around and began heading to his shelter.

"Hey, Vince," Short Rib said loudly, unbuttoning his flannel shirt. "Why don't you go chuck some more wood in the stove. We got some _prime rib_ to be grillin' up this mornin'."

Vincent smiled, laughing a bit as he walked away.

# Chapter 17

"Something was dead in each of us,

And what was dead was Hope."

—Oscar Wilde

"The Ballad of Reading Gaol"

Oblivion ... 00.00.53

Ball lightning smashed Vincent's jaw, ripped off his chin, and slammed his head against the flint block wall. He woke up and stared in horror at the back of the shelter. White plasma was rocketing up from the ground, roaring, ricocheting off the walls. Glipp had Thaddy covered with his tunic, rushing him toward the door.

"You must be hurrying!" Glipp yelled. "Be getting outside!"

A lightning ball exploded against the ceiling, fragments of which hit Thaddy's thigh, ripping off a chunk of skin and muscle. The child collapsed to the ground outside the shelter, clutching his leg, the glitter fading from his eyes.

" _No!_ " Glipp yelled, gathering the boy in his arms. Glipp carried Thaddy to the side of the shelter and set him down.

"It hurts," Thaddy cried, gripping his leg.

Glipp dove to the ground to inspect the wound. "Glipp must be getting the little sun out from your leg." Glipp reached to the bloody wound and hesitated, swallowing. "There is going to be much pain."

Thaddy nodded his teary consent.

Using his fingernails, Glipp scraped the residual plasma from the wound.

Vincent stumbled around the corner, his jaw partly regenerated.

Glipp looked up. "Glipp is being— _Uh oh_." He stood up, met Vincent's angry eyes, then inspected his wound. "You are still having little sun in you too. Glipp will—"

" _Jus ged id oud!"_

Glipp reached into the wound, scraped out the plasma, and smiled. "All is being better now." He sat back down at Thaddy's side.

Vincent paced uneasily, grasping his new jaw as it regenerated, moving it back and forth to check function. He stared at the crimson sky. "I thought the ball lightning only exploded when it rained?"

Glipp paid no attention. He was in his duffel bag retrieving strips of skin.

"Why in the hell did you build the shelter over a lightnin' fissure?" asked Vincent.

Glipp began wrapping the boy's thigh, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. "Sometimes the acid is eating its way underground," Glipp said, "even after the storm is being over." He sewed the strips with hair and bone needle. "It was being just a tiny crack in the floor. Glipp wasn't thinking it would be exploding." He looked at Thaddy. "Glipp is being very sorry, son of Vishnu."

Thaddy wiped the tears from his blue eyes. "It's not your fault."

Glipp raised a relieved smile and checked the wound once more. Glipp jerked his head and looked up, his eyes floating in panic. "His leg, it is not healing."

"What?" Vincent said.

Glipp turned back to Thaddy. "It is not healing. The son of Vishnu, he is not healing."

Vincent knelt down and checked under the bandage. "It's not just your hands, is it? Nothin' heals, does it?"

Thaddy began crying. "No, mister. Not here. It isn't possible."

Vincent narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth. "Don't do this to me, kid. Tell me you didn't come here knowin' you'd die."

The boy sobbed.

"Damn it, kid." Vincent stood up. "Tell me you can get outa here. _Tell_ me!"

Thaddy bowed his head, tears dripping.

Glipp wrapped a comforting arm around the child. "It is being all right. Glipp will not be allowing anymore harm to come."

Vincent stood rigid, shaking his head, pressing his lips together. "This is insane." He turned away from the pair and gazed across Vagary Heights. Vincent spun back. "You've gotta be able to heal, kid. You were at the bottom of that pit when I found you. You had no broken bones."

Thaddy wiped his eyes. "I tried to enter this existence somewhere near you, mister." He sniffed. "I wound up in the ravine. One of the Riders saw me and chased me, so I crawled into a tunnel in the cliff wall. It led to the bottom of that pit." Thaddy smiled, tears glistening down his cheeks. "I knew you would help me."

"Damn it, kid," Vincent said. "You've gotta be able to heal." He knelt down and ripped open the boy's tunic. Thaddy's skin was marked by acid burns. " _Ahh shit_ , kid." Vincent shook his head and collapsed to the ground. "Tell me you can leave this place. Tell me."

Glipp stared at Thaddy, concerned, amazed. "Son of Vishnu, why is it you are not healing?"

The child sniffed, wiping his forearm across his nose. "I can't heal here."

"Are you not being one with Brahman?" Glipp asked.

Thaddy shook his head.

"You _must_ be." Glipp insisted. "You are being the son of Vishnu."

Thaddy, his face apologetic, said, "I'm sorry, Glipp."

"What the hell's _Brahman_?" Vincent asked.

"Brahman is being indescribable," Glipp said.

Vincent impatiently shook his head. "Can it help the kid?"

"Yes," Glipp said.

"Then describe it!"

"Glipp cannot." Glipp looked back at Thaddy. "Son of Vishnu should already be being at one with Brahman. He should be healing. I am not understanding."

"Damn it, Glipp," Vincent said, "how can somethin' help him if you can't even describe it?"

Glipp reached to Thaddy's cheek. He wiped a tear with his finger. " _This_ is describing Brahman." He showed the tear to Vincent.

"I don't see anything," Vincent said.

"That is being Brahman."

"Glipp, you're pissin' me off."

"Be tasting it," Glipp said.

"What?" asked Vincent.

"Be tasting it." Glipp moved his hand forward.

Vincent hesitated, narrowing his eyes. He shook his head, wiped a tear from Thaddy's face, and tasted it. He smacked his lips. "Salty."

"Tasting the salt, yes; seeing the salt, no," Glipp said. " _That_ is being Brahman. It can't be seen, yet it is existing. It is being everywhere, like salt in the sea." Glipp's sage eyes glazed over. He stared at the pulsing sky. "Brahman is being all that is, all that ever was. It is being the flow of Creation, the giver of life." Glipp looked at Thaddy. "Vishnu is at one with Brahman, yet the son of Vishnu cannot be healing?"

"I'm sorry, Glipp," Thaddy said, clutching his thigh. "I've been trying to tell you, I'm not the son of Vishnu."

Glipp, shaking his head, turned to Vincent. "Glipp is knowing he must be—"

"No, Glipp," Vincent said. "He's just a kid." He turned to Thaddy and smiled. "Just some dumb kid doin' really dumb things."

"No, this is not being true." Glipp searched their silent faces. "You _must_ be—"

"I'm sorry," Thaddy said. "I'm not the son of Vishnu."

Glipp wiped his lips, tensing his muscles, crunching his face. "You have been fooling me! Glipp is one that is not being fooled!" He jumped up. "Glipp cannot believe what you have been doing!"

"I'm sorry," Thaddy said. "I tried to tell—"

Glipp clamped his hands over his ears. "Glipp is not listening. You are being full of lies!"

"The kid did try to tell you," Vincent said.

Glipp closed his eyes, pressing harder on his ears. " _La! La! La! La! La!_ Glipp isn't hearing your lies. _La! La! La! La! La!_ " Glipp reached down, grabbed his duffel bag, and walked away. _"La! La! La! La! La!"_

"Glipp!" Thaddy beckoned.

"La! La! La! La! La!"

" _Glipp_!"

"Hell with that nut case," Vincent said. "Let him go."

Thaddy sighed, watching Glipp disappear into Vagary Heights. "He is not nuts, mister." The child's voice sung with confidence, silver starshine reclaimed his eyes. "He is a man of faith. Faith will carry a man when truth cannot." Thaddy bowed his head. "Truth is not always best."

Vincent spread his fingers and raised his brow. "He saw your hands, kid. He knew the whole time that you weren't healin'."

"His faith made him blind. He wanted— _needed_ to believe in me." Thaddy raised his head. "I gave him hope." He looked at the crimson sky. "Hope in oblivion, faith of any kind, is hard to come by, mister. I have taken both away from him." Thaddy met Vincent's eyes. "Do you remember what it felt like to lose faith?"

Vincent slumped back against the wall and sighed. "Yep."

"There is no greater loneliness than that of a person losing faith." Thaddy scanned across Vagary Heights. "Glipp is alone once again. No faith, no hope."

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. "Want me to go after him?"

Thaddy shook his head. "Nothing you say will bring him back. It is for him to find us again, if he so chooses."

Vincent slowly nodded, gazing at the horizon. "Crazy Hindu. I'll miss him."

"Yes," the boy agreed. "I will too." Thaddy sighed and turned to Vincent. "So, where are your—"

"Memories, mister?" Vincent smiled. "You're gettin' to be a broken record, kid."

Thaddy grinned.

Vincent shook his head. "T'ien. I just saw her—"

"Naked?" Thaddy finished, his brow raised. "That was a memorable day for both of us."

Vincent smiled.

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 18

"Why fear death? It is the most beautiful adventure in life."

—Charles Frohman

Last words as Lusitania sank.

Chicago, IL ... Winter

Gray October bled to bleak November in a windy rush, blowing the occasional misplaced leaf through the cracks in Vincent's shelter. The search for Zedekiah all but halted, the early enthusiasm dying, giving way to everyday monotony. It was suggested that the madman's sketch be turned over to police. Al-Hallaj wrestled that moral dilemma long ago. If he was really concerned for the people's welfare, he told himself, that's what should be done. But he remained confident in his underground network, faithful they would prove more effective than the police, so he held on.

~

The dying days of November limped out, dismal, dark and wet, shedding their decaying skin for December's fresh white glory. Vincent coughed a bit, stoking an early morning fire with slats from a broken wooden crate. Snow had fallen with the temperature, piling the whiteness seven inches high, dropping the thermometer well below freezing. Many in the scrapyard had abandoned Al-Hallaj, seeking warmth at the homeless shelters in the city, Brax among them.

Vincent tossed a piece of wood on the crackling fire. Hot ash exploded against the windshield skylight like miniature fireworks. Red hot starbursts flashed in the darkness, shifting shadows in the early gloom. This was a type of morning Vincent savored, battling the elements, his thoughts guided by primal instinct, struggling to survive.

"Dag, Vince," Short Rib mumbled, his foggy breath floating up from underneath his thin blanket. "Heat that mother up. It's _freezin'_ in here."

Vincent tossed on another piece of wood and stirred the fire with a car antenna. He set the makeshift poker on the barrel's rim and warmed his hands, breathing in the smoldering smoke. Vincent was cold, dressed only in a green flannel shirt, two pairs of socks, gym shoes, blue jeans and an oversized black cloth jacket, the one Brax left behind. The cold served Vincent well, it was a slap in the face, a frozen backhand averting his subconscious from guilt and depression.

Dawn broke dazzling, sparkling across the freshly fallen snow. Vincent walked to his mattress, kicked aside a shining chrome tailpipe, and picked up a black knit hat.

Short Rib peeked out from under his blanket. "T'ien got you trainin' today?"

Vincent stretched the knit cap over his ears and long hair. "No rest for the weary."

Short Rib yanked the blanket back over his head. "That woman's bat shit crazy." He poked his head back out. "Don't tell her I said that, cool?"

Vincent grinned and walked out.

The crunching snow attacked with its brilliance, blinding Vincent, forcing him to shade his eyes. The scrapyard looked clean, bright, nearly beautiful with its mountains of snow-covered cars, their scars and rust hidden by winter's white splendor.

Vincent stopped at the arena entrance. His heart pounded a few beats quicker as he gazed upon T'ien gliding through the movements of Tai Ch'i. She wore flowing satin, the color of which matched her emerald eyes. She stepped fluidly in the snow, black canvas shoes protecting her feet, her soft breath floating in the crisp air. Vincent felt himself a privileged spectator in these rare moments, when T'ien, alone, Ch'i coursing through her body, moved with incomparable grace as she demonstrated life's rapturous bliss. Nothing more than thoughtless thought streaming in harmony with the universal flow. Nothing less than exquisite beauty—mind, body and spirit.

Vincent coughed.

T'ien stopped, slowly turned around, smiled, and said, "The snow, it's beautiful."

"Yes, it is," Vincent said, jamming his hands in his coat pockets, walking into the arena.

"Don't you find it mystifying how something so plain, so white, can be so beautiful?" T'ien asked, admiring the arena's field of snow.

Vincent didn't take his eyes from her. "No," he said. "It is, and always will be, beautiful."

She turned and smiled into Vincent's eyes. "Yes ... it always will be." T'ien gazed at the sky, and said, "The blue, it is deceiving. It will change. This winter will be harsh. I've had dreams of snow a mile high."

Vincent walked close to T'ien. His steamy breath worked its way through his tangled beard to his thirsting eyes, clouding his vision. "I've been having dreams too." His voice was a mere whisper; his lips struggling to retrieve the errant words.

T'ien broke eye contact. "I've had other dreams, Vince," she said, concerned. "I've dreamt of you leaving. You'll be going home soon."

He swallowed and bowed his head.

"It's all right. Your time here has not been wasted," T'ien said with a smile. "You'll never be forgotten."

Vincent slowly shook his head, regretting. "I barely got to know you." He coughed. "I don't even know where you're from."

"Yes, there's still much we haven't shared." She sat cross-legged in the snow. "I will share myself with you now."

"What're you doin'?" Vincent asked.

"Preparing for death."

"What?"

"Join me." T'ien waved her hand to the snow in front of her.

Vincent sat down, crunching the snow as he crossed his legs. "We're gonna freeze out here, T'ien."

"Good. Death is what we're seeking."

His brow wrinkled with concern.

"Trust me." T'ien reached for Vincent's hand. "We're going to experience death, not die." She released his hand, closed her eyes, and exhaled a gentle fog. "Prepare yourself. Enter the flow."

Vincent followed her lead. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, relaxed his muscles, cleared his thoughts, and entered the flow of Ch'i. Once there, at ease in the inward sensation of thoughtless thought, the outward touch of a cold world melted away. No longer did he feel the ice and snow; no longer did his lungs contract with the frigid bite of winter; no longer did his mind want, regret, or desire. Vincent was at peace in the universal flow.

"I want you to visualize death," T'ien said, her words calm, exact.

"How do I do—"

" _Shhh_ ," she said, her voice drifting away in a thin, white vapor. "Do not speak. Listen. I will guide you." T'ien continued to slow her breathing. "Relax, empty your mind." She inhaled, then exhaled. "Death is as much a part of you as life." She breathed. "Both have been stored in your mind since the beginning of time." She breathed. "You are born knowing how to live." She inhaled. "You are born knowing how to die." She exhaled. "It is western thought that makes you fear the inevitable." Inhaled. "Reach deep into your mind. Go beyond life." Exhaled. "Uncover death. Do not fear it."

Vincent slowed his breathing, barely enough to remain conscious. He guided his thoughts through the overlapping layers of life, peeling away his ego, his dreams, his love and hate. He pushed past societal pressure, everyday duties, and shame. He entered a dark area, a tangled jungle of primal instinct, a lust for survival, for breeding to sustain the species.

"Do not fear death," T'ien whispered, as if from outside her body. "Let it happen, allow it to envelop you."

Vincent hacked his way through the jungle of instinct, searching for a forbidden city of hidden promise. Past the first breath of life, beyond the tangled vines of birth, he found death ... the end of the beginning. He felt his body lighten, as if skin and bone were starting to gently slough away, leaving a warm sensation of thoughtless thought and nothing more.

_Isn't it wonderful?_ T'ien silently asked.

Vincent looked down. His body dropped below him as his vision soared above the scrapyard. He turned around. There, in front of him, hovering as a naked body of warm light, was T'ien. Vincent spread his glowing fingers in front of his face _. I feel so good_. His voice produced no sound, yet T'ien heard his thoughts, knew their meanings. _Is this death?_

_It's as close as we dare to get_ , T'ien said.

Vincent gazed at the white light forming his arms and legs. _It's incredible_. He looked back at T'ien's shining body. _I've never felt this good before._

_It's a glorious feeling_. She spun, twirling, flashing, whirling through the air. She slowed. _It is complete freedom._

Vincent flashed beside her, then to her rear, under, above. _It's incredible_ , _T'ien_. He flashed back in front. _How'd you ever learn to do this?_

T'ien's emerald eyes were still distinct upon her glowing face, holding distant pain. _My father showed me the way of death when I was young._

_Your father?_ Vincent spun, glowing in the rapture of freedom. _Where's he now?_

T'ien flashed in front of Vincent. _Would you like to see?_

He floated still. _Is it possible?_

_Yes_. T'ien smiled, spread her arms and moved forward, her glowing body converging with his. In a starry flash, they shot halfway around the world.

_Where are we?_ Vincent asked, separating from T'ien. _It's beautiful._

_This was my home,_ she said.

The glowing pair descended upon the limestone peaks of Guilin, China. The Lijiang River, a quiet body of water, snaked through the jagged outcroppings, flowing like glass, reflecting the misty green peaks as dark silhouettes against the dying day.

_I've never seen anything so amazin' in my life,_ Vincent said. He followed T'ien's glow, twisting, gliding, soaring through the rugged landscape, the river sparkling in the orange dusk.

T'ien shot down close to the river's surface. It ran silently, glittering, barely stirring as it flowed.

Vincent gazed into the water as he flew past _. I don't see anything_. He flashed up to T'ien. _The water ... I don't see anything. Where are our reflections?_

_We can only see each other._ T'ien glided around the bamboo-covered base of a limestone formation. _We flow in Ch'i now, we are unseen ghosts to the outside world._ She stopped and hovered. The river opened up, stretching its golden beauty wide to the shrouded peaks on either side. _This is where I was born_ , T'ien said.

Vincent floated to her side and spun, soaking in the splendid panorama. The jagged outcroppings, carved throughout the chaos of time, formed a circular barrier of sleeping giants covered in lush green foliage. _It's heaven,_ Vincent said.

T'ien floated toward the riverbank _. I used to think that too_. She descended upon the sandy river's edge and floated down a path carved through a bamboo grove.

_Where are we goin'?_ Vincent asked.

_Home_. She slowed, coming upon a crumpled clay house. She spun to Vincent. _This is where I grew up._

Vincent soared high above, gazing down upon the remains of T'ien's home. Red clay bricks lay scattered, partly hidden under green bamboo leaves. The violet colored roof tiles were cast among the debris like scattered teeth. Wicker furniture lay toppled, broken, rotting. Vincent descended, and asked, _What happened?_

T'ien slowly circled the remains of her youth. _The house has been neglected for many years_ , she said, her thoughts barely audible. _An earthquake finally toppled it_. She sighed. _I was the youngest of five children, the only daughter_ _and last sibling before China's 'one child' mandate._ T'ien turned around, phantom tears glistening down her cheeks. _When I was six, my mother died of pneumonia. I'll never forget that day, how my father cried_. She reached for Vincent's glowing hand. _It's never easy when a family suffers a sudden loss_.

_I'm sorry, T'ien_ , Vincent said, his grip glowing brightly on her hand.

T'ien released her hold and grinned. _My father was a farmer and we were very poor._ She soared high above, Vincent close behind. T'ien hovered over the peaks. _This place wasn't made for farming_. She whirled around, spinning slowly, spreading out her arms. _This land was created to fill the heart, not the stomach._ She gazed into the gleaming water burning in the fading sun. _He did his best—planting rice, wheat, whatever he could to get us by, but the pollution rained down from the factories upstream. Year after year, the crops failed._ T'ien flashed to the water's surface. _Year after year, my brothers stayed hungry._ She sank below the calm river.

Vincent followed. _The water's so clear._

_I once loved swimming here. My brothers and I used to—_ T'ien became quiet, dropping deeper, following the sun's dying light to the muddy river bottom. She hovered. Silent. Still.

_What is it,_ Vincent asked?

_This is where he died, my oldest brother,_ T'ien said. _He tied a rock around his ankles and drowned himself._

Why?

T'ien's glow began to fade. _So that our family would not go hungry._ She flashed like a rocket from the water and hovered above the river.

Vincent broke the river's surface and floated next to her. _I'm sorry, T'ien. I don't—_

_That's when heaven became hell,_ T'ien said. _The following year, the Triads came to Guilin searching for—_

Triads?

She paused, thinking. _Like the Mafia in your country, only worse_. She floated toward the river's edge. _They came and offered money, lots of money, for the young girls.... My father sold me to them._

No.

_Yes._ T'ien slowed, hovering over the remains of a boat dock. _We were starving. He had no other choice. He had to save the rest of the family._ T'ien sat her glowing body on a wooden piling and stared at the jagged peaks across the river. _I was only twelve at the time. I didn't understand why my father would do such a thing. So I ran._

Vincent sat down on a plank at her side.

_I hid under this boat dock for almost two days,_ T'ien said. _My father found me the second night as his raft floated back with the cormorants._ She smiled at Vincent's questioning face. _My father trained the cormorants to help him fish._ _One of the birds saw me under the dock and began squawking._ T'ien floated skyward, gliding toward distant peaks. _My father stayed with me that whole night, holding me, talking of life and certain sacrifices that are made. He also told me of the threats the Triads made against our family if I was not brought to them quickly. I cried like never before, knowing I had to leave my home._

Vincent floated in front of T'ien. He reached out and held her hand.

_My father told me that a good Taoist accepts the changes in life,_ T'ien said. _He told me I should not cry._ 'Be strong,' _he said_. 'Travel through life bravely.' T'ien reached out for Vincent's other hand. _That night, we meditated on the Tao. That night, my father taught me how to die. He told me of many things to expect, things I knew nothing about, things that frightened me. He told me if life ever got too bad that I should die, escape into the flow of Ch'i._

_I never realized._ Vincent raised his brow in sympathy. _So, how'd you end up in Chicago?_

T'ien released Vincent's hands and descended to the river's surface. _The Triads took me and many other young girls in the belly of a freighter to San Francisco_. She stared at the dying sun's last reflection. _It took almost a month to get to the United States. It was horrible aboard that ship. I died many times along the way._

_Why there?_ Vincent asked. _Why San Francisco?_

T'ien spun around and answered, _Prostitution._ She searched Vincent's eyes for a sign of change, of repulsion, judgment. She found nothing. _I was to be sold in San Francisco as a virgin._ She turned away slowly. _My virginity never made it to shore._ T'ien's glow faded to a dim light.

Vincent wrapped his arm around T'ien, trying to charge her dying aura.

_I was raped every day aboard that ship,_ T'ien said, _all the girls were._ _When we got to San Francisco, most of us were horribly battered and bruised. No brothel wanted us, no massage parlor needed such damaged goods._ T'ien turned around, her face inches from Vincent's. _They scattered us throughout the country, and I ended up in Chicago._

Vincent slowly shook his head, astonished. _How'd you meet Al-Hallaj?_

T'ien smiled, backing away, her glow returning, flooding her entire being. _He saved me, Vince._ She spun, free, alive. _He saved me!_ She slowed and hovered. _The Triads worked me as a prostitute for almost a week, keeping careful watch as I walked the streets. Al-Hallaj noticed how scared I was as he drove by one day._ T'ien smiled. _He picked me up and took me back to Grandy's. He protected me and gave me a place to live—a fresh start to a new life._ T'ien grabbed Vincent's hands, beaming _. Al-Hallaj raised me as his daughter. I gave him back something Zedekiah took away, and Al-Hallaj gave me back my life._

_I had no idea, T'ien,_ Vincent said.

T'ien released his hands and turned, hearing the squawk of a cormorant. _My father, he's coming._ She floated toward a distant light. _He's fishing tonight._

A long, narrow raft, built from six wooden poles that were curved up at the ends and banded together with hemp, floated through the descending misty night. At the rear of the raft stood a man pushing a bamboo pole against the river bottom, guiding the vessel into open waters. Three brown cormorants walked awkwardly about the raft, their long necks banded with metal rings. From the front of the raft, a kerosene lantern hung by a bent metal post and hook, shining beyond the water's surface, capturing a school of small fish in its fiery rapture.

T'ien floated to her father's raft and hovered in front of him.

Vincent landed at her side, and said, _He looks just like the gravel picture you made in the scrapyard._ He turned to T'ien. _He can't see you, can he?_

_He could if he entered the flow._ T'ien passed through her father, her warm glow pushing through his short, lean body. Her efforts neither ruffled his dark-brown clothes nor his memory. _He never entered the flow of Ch'i again, not after I left._ T'ien floated above her father. _He was so sad when I was gone. He cried. Even though he told me to be strong, he cried. He cried more for me than he did my mother. It never stopped. He felt so guilty. He mourns for me as if I died._ T'ien met Vincent's eyes. _When I found death on the freighter, I came back home. I tried to tell my father not to cry, not to worry about his daughter, but I could never reach him._ She turned back to her father. _So he grieved. Year after year, he suffered. My brothers eventually left him, searching for work in the city, leaving him all alone ... alone to mourn for one lost daughter._

T'ien's father raised the pole from the water and placed it on the raft. He knelt down. The cormorants began jostling, anticipating. He looked at them, and softly said, " _Bu yu_." The birds dove into the water and quickly surfaced with fish in their mouths. They tried to swallow, but the rings around their necks kept them hungry. Her father grabbed the birds, plucked the bounty from their beaks, and tossed the fish into a small wicker basket. The cormorants jostled again. T'ien's father took off his wide-brimmed straw hat and wiped his brow on his sleeve. He turned to the jagged peaks and watched them lose their rough edge in the night. He sighed, sat down on the side of the raft, and dangled his feet in the cool river. The cormorants walked up to T'ien's father and consoled their master with nudges and squawks. He ran a gentle hand across their smooth feathers and began to cry.

T'ien flashed to her father and grasped him in her glowing arms. _He's in so much pain, Vince, and there's nothing I can do._

Vincent floated behind her and placed a hand upon her shoulder. _Your father let go of somethin' very precious ... very beautiful._

T'ien quivered. _I want him to know— I want him to know everything's all right._ She turned to Vincent, tears glowing down her cheeks. _I don't want him to suffer anymore._

Vincent gathered her in a comforting embrace. _It'll be okay, T'ien. Everything will be fine._ His glowing arms hugged her tightly. _Try not to think about it. Someday he'll see you again. Someday soon._

T'ien peeked up at Vincent, smiled, then tucked her head back in his chest _. Thank you._

The pair began floating, glowing high above the river, above the jagged peaks of Guilin. T'ien released her embrace with Vincent and held his hands, gazing into his eyes like never before. _What about your home?_ she asked. _Would you like to show me where you—_

Vincent's glow abruptly faded to darkness. He spiraled across half-a-world, feeling the cold rush of winter enter his bones. He opened his eyes to the scrapyard, to T'ien. She sat cross-legged in the sparkling snow, her eyes shut, her breathing nonexistent.

T'ien slowly opened her eyes. "Where did you go?"

"Was it real?" Vincent asked. "Were we really there?"

"It was very real. You were riding in the flow of Ch'i." She smiled. "You have finally let yourself go."

Vincent stood up and coughed, smacking the ice and snow from his jeans. "It was beautiful."

She got up. "Yes." She turned and stared at the wing chung dummy.

"T'ien," Vincent said gently, "I'm sorry about your father. I—"

She turned to him, her face expressionless. "Follow me."

Vincent narrowed his eyes, hesitating.

T'ien walked to the wooden dummy and stopped. "Please," she beckoned. "It is still your time."

He walked in front of the dummy. "You're not gonna give me another log to rub, are you?"

T'ien brushed the snow from the dummy's wooden arms. "No more logs." She grabbed an arm and pushed, spinning the dummy on its base.

An arm swung around and hit Vincent's shoulder. "What's that for?"

T'ien spun it the opposite direction. An arm smacked Vincent's shin. "You're being attacked," she said. "What are you going to do?" She spun the dummy again, an arm struck his hip.

"What do you want me to do?" Vincent asked, backing out of the dummy's range. "You never taught me how to fight."

"No," T'ien agreed, spinning the dummy, "I never trained you to fight." She stopped the dummy. "I trained you to _kill_." She stared hard into Vincent's eyes, her face serious. "You're now ready." She spun the dummy. "This is your enemy. You must defend yourself from its attack. The next time an arm hits you, break it off."

Vincent hesitated, took a deep breath, and walked back to the dummy.

T'ien spun it and hit his ankle. He reached down. Missed. She spun it again and struck his hip. He lunged at the attacking arm. Missed. She spun it back and smacked his face.

" _Enough_!" Vincent yelled, backing away, holding his cheek.

"You're not concentrating," T'ien said. "Relax. Enter the flow."

Vincent let out a frustrated breath, pressed his lips together, then closed his eyes. He slowed his breathing.

"The next time an arm hits you," T'ien said, "don't think about grabbing it, _grab_ it. Don't think about breaking it, _break_ it. Don't think about killing ... _just kill_."

Vincent entered the flow of Ch'i. His muscles relaxed with his thoughts. He opened his eyes and walked to the dummy. It spun. He grasped a wooden arm at waist level. Without thought, he wrapped his hands around it and applied a grip of steel. Tunnel vision formed. His sight channeled on the attacking arm, all else turned black. Vincent closed his eyes, concentrating the Ch'i energy that coursed through his body. He focused the power down his steel forearms, to his hands, and out through his fingertips. He twisted the wooden arm and it shattered in an explosion of splinters. Vincent opened his eyes as pieces of wood showered at his feet. He looked at T'ien.

She stared open-mouthed at the scattered remains. "Good ... extremely good." She offered a sad smile. "Welcome to the power of Ch'i, Mr. Goss. Use it wisely." T'ien turned and walked away.

Vincent stood in amazement, gawking at his hands, wiggling his fingers, feeling them tingle. He turned to T'ien. "That's all for today?" he asked, wishing more than ever to continue.

She stopped, held silent for a moment, then slowly turned around. "That's all forever, Mr. Goss. Your training is now complete."

"What do you mean, 'That's all _forever_ '? Why're you callin' me Mr. Goss?" He coughed, spreading his hands. "What's wrong, T'ien?"

"There's no reason for us to spend any more time together," she said. "Go home, Mr. Goss."

"T'ien, what's wrong? I don't understand what—"

"Go home. Go back to your wife." She turned, hiding an emerging tear.

Vincent walked up behind her and gently placed his hand upon her shoulder. "T'ien, we should talk. I didn't want to—"

"Please go home," T'ien said. " _Please_." She jerked her shoulder from his soft touch and hurried away.

~

More than ten days passed, through mid-December, and Vincent never saw T'ien. By her choice alone, she separated herself from him and the few remaining people of the scrapyard. Her reclusive actions didn't go unnoticed by Al-Hallaj, but he had little time to worry, Ramadan was but two days away.

~

Snowflakes, big and wet, dropped on Short Rib's steaming bald head. They quickly melted and streamed underneath the mask of his welding helmet. He was propped upon the back side of the mosque, welding the crushed remains of a tan Mercedes to the top of a green Audi. Vincent was perched on the car below, holding an acetylene hose clear of sharp steel. Short Rib killed the torch, flipped up the helmet, and signaled Al-Hallaj. The red crane fired up, rumbling, belching black diesel smoke through the snowfall. Its magnet dropped on a crushed, purple Dodge Avenger, the final building block of the sacred temple. Al-Hallaj energized the magnet and swung the car to the mosque. Short Rib jostled the car into position and signaled again. Al-Hallaj released the magnet.

"Hot damn, last momby jomby!" Short Rib said, looking down at Vincent.

Vincent didn't return the enthusiasm. He shivered, hunched his shoulders, and tucked his hands inside his coat.

"You cool, man?" Short Rib asked. "You ain't lookin' so good."

"Yeah." Vincent coughed. "Fine. Just can't shake this cold." He coughed again, stretching his knit hat to his cheeks.

"Can't have you gettin' sick during _Ramadan_ ," Short Rib said, his voice rippled in sarcasm. "You'll be missin' all the fun."

Vincent formed a weak smile and wiped his nose. "A whole month, huh?"

Short Rib fired up the torch. "Yes, sir." He hit the Avenger with the heel of his hand, knocking it into final position. "A whole freakin' month of starvin' my ass off."

"Could be worse." Vincent coughed. "Least you can eat somethin' at night."

"Shoot. A man of my proportions, all day long, no food, for a whole _month_?" Short Rib flipped down his mask. "Al-Hallaj might as well have everybody line up and take turns kickin' me in the nuts."

Vincent mixed a laugh with a cough. "You always have the feast at the end of Ramadan to look forward to."

"The feast?" Short Rib smacked flame on steel. Sparks flew. "Fat man be starved to death by then. Feast ain't gonna mean poop- _la-la_."

~

Vincent met the first day of Ramadan shivering, tucked under a ragged blanket in his cold shelter. The snow never stopped. It drifted against the crushed cars, blowing through the cracks, melting on his hot forehead. He spent the morning as he had the night, coughing, punching phlegm down a sore throat, shivering, a bit disoriented.

Short Rib tossed kindling in the stove and knelt down on the frozen ground at his friend's bedside. "Man, you lookin' pretty bad." He covered Vincent with another blanket. "You ain't dyin' on me, are ya?"

"No," Vincent chattered. "It's just a cold."

Short Rib stood up, removed his ball cap, and rubbed his bald head. "You better not be dyin'. I'll kick your ass, _hear me_?"

Vincent weakly grinned.

"I gotta go. Al-Hallaj is gonna have us prayin' 'til dark." Short Rib walked toward the door and turned back. "You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah." Vincent coughed. "Will T'ien be at the mosque?"

Short Rib pulled on his cap. "Doubt it, Ramadan ain't her thing." He stood silently for a moment. "If I see her, she'll know you asked about her."

"Thanks." Vincent rolled over, balling up, shivering.

~

Six mornings into Ramadan, one morning before Christmas, the snow fell once again, adding to the three feet of winter white already blanketing the scrapyard. Short Rib sat at the edge of his mattress soaking up bean juice from a frying pan with a piece of rye bread. He ate quickly, trying to beat the sunrise. He swallowed the last of the bread and hopped up. He set the pan on the hot stove top and reached for another can of beans.

Two short pieces of thread hung from the exhaust hood—one remaining black, the other changing from black to white in the early sun, signaling it was time to fast.

" _Dag_!" Short Rib slammed down the can, jutting out his lower lip. "It ain't right. The sun's shining off the snow." He turned to Vincent. "Arabs ain't got snow. It ain't fair." Short Rib narrowed his eyes. "Hey man, you all right?"

Vincent shivered uncontrollably under three blankets. "I can't get warm." His breath was shallow, shortened, struggling.

Short Rib knelt down and placed his hand on his friend's forehead. "Shit. We need to get your ass to a hospital."

"No!" Vincent yelled. He jerked up the blanket, easing his tone. "No hospitals." He looked up. Short Rib's face was fuzzy, distorted. Vincent blinked, trying to correct his vision. "No, Short Rib, please. It's just a cold."

"Bullshit. Pneumonia's more like it."

"No hospitals." He grabbed Short Rib's hand. " _Promise_ me," Vincent implored, his eyes glazed.

"Nah ... nah, baby, nah." Short Rib saw the scar on Vincent's wrist and pried his hand away. "You ain't dyin' in my house."

"I don't have any money. I can't afford a hospital." Vincent's eyes pleaded for belief. "It's just a cold."

Short Rib rubbed his hand hard across his lips, thinking. "Sorry, Vince. I can't have you dyin' on me."

Vincent watched the room spin. "Please." He wiped the sweat from his clammy face. "I can't go, not to a hospital. I left Cassandra there, she'll know. I know, I—"

Short Rib shook his head. "It's not the same hospital."

"She'll know. I know I left her ... she knows—"

"You're delirious, man." Short Rib reached under Vincent's back to pick him up. "I'm gettin' you out of here."

Vincent panicked. He grabbed Short Rib's throat and choked him. "Just leave me the _fuck_ alone!"

Short Rib's eyes flew open. He reached for his throat and tried prying open the steel grip.

Vincent released his hold and sank back under his covers. "Just leave me be."

Short Rib fell back on the ground, sucking air. He caught his breath and stirred it with his anger. "You wanna die? Just fine by me." Short Rib stood up, straightening his cap, adjusting his pride. "Ain't no thing, my brother. Die all you want." He stormed out through the door.

~

Vincent shivered through the day, into Christmas Eve, his body depleted of water and food, his mind swimming in delirium. He shook violently, unable to find warmth, pushing cold sweat through his pores, his teeth chattering.

The fire died in the stove, leaving Vincent's shelter frigid and black in the moonless night. A sound ... he listened for sounds, any kind of noise to drown out the ringing in his head: the hoot of an owl, the roar of a jet, a rat chewing garbage, the buzz of perimeter lights, someone crunching through the snow, the clang of a pan, the sound of a car. Nothing. The night was silent.

Well past midnight, into the early Christmas hours, Vincent began talking to the steel walls using a faint, broken voice barely audible to even himself. "It came without ribbons, it came without tags, it came without packages, boxes, or bags." Vincent spoke words from _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ , his son's favorite holiday cartoon. "Dah hoo dor ray, welcome Christmas, Christmas Day." The crushed cars began twisting, swirling, dancing in Vincent's head. "Christmas Day is in our grasp, as long as we have hands to clasp." A tear gathered in his eye and shivered itself free. "Christmas Day will always be, just as long as we have we ... we have we."

_Daddy? Is it time yet?_ Brendon stuttered in Vincent's mind, the boy's eyes pleading. Vincent rolled on his mattress, pulling his knees to his chin. _Can I open a present?_ "Yes, son," Vincent gasped. "Open them all. It's Christmas." _He's so happy_ , Cassandra chimed in, flowing across the living room. _You have made us all so happy._ She smiled—pearl white perfection in the mouth of an angel. _You're the most wonderful man in the world_. Vincent clenched his chattering teeth. "I love you, Cassandra. I love you both." _We love you too_.

A sound, at long last. Music broke the cold, still air—"The Little Drummer Boy."

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

Vincent rolled over. A dark silhouette stood in the night, placing a handheld radio upon the cold stove. "Cassandra?" Vincent inquired weakly, teeth chattering. "Is that you?"

A short silence and then, "Why are you doing this, Vince?"

"Doin' what?"

"Trying to die."

Vincent rolled away. "There's nothin' left for me," he said, trembling, shivering madly. "I don't— It's so— I can't get warm. I can't get home."

"Your Ch'i, it doesn't flow," a concerned voice said. "Your body isn't functioning."

"I can't get warm." Vincent shook violently. He rolled over, and said, "Death, I want death. I wanna feel good again." He listened as the Drummer Boy played on.

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

"You must allow the Ch'i to flow," a gentle voice implored.

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

Vincent heard silken clothes drop to the floor.

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

He felt his blanket lift.

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

He felt a warm body climb next to his, firm breasts press against his bare back.

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

He felt a throbbing energy course through his skin, into his bloodstream, warming his bones.

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

He felt a soft face rest upon his shoulder.

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

Vincent smelled sweet orchids and heard a soft whisper in his ear, "The Ch'i must flow. Let it course through your body. Let it heal you."

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum_....

"Thank you, Cassandra," Vincent said blissfully. "You feel so good." He felt his body warming. "I love you so much."

_Brrr-rump-a-pum-pum, rump-a-pum-pum, rump-a-pum-pum_....

Vincent felt a tear stream down the back of his neck as he fell asleep.

"I love you too, Vincent."

~

Vincent slept long into Christmas, his fever broken. He woke in the late afternoon to a sparkling day, squinting his eyes as he stared through the skylight at the bright snow. He sat up, rubbed the back of his neck, and remembered— He jerked his head over his shoulder and saw an empty mattress. He sighed, and lay back down, resting his weary body.

"Hey, man, you gonna sleep all day?" Short Rib asked, bouncing through the door.

Vincent rolled on his side and smiled. "Sorry about chokin' you. I—"

"History." Short Rib stirred the fire in the stove and added more kindling. "Didn't think you were gonna make it there for awhile."

"Me either." Vincent glanced at the empty stove top. "You didn't see—" He bit his lip.

"See what?"

"Nothin'. It's— I don't know. I had these crazy dreams last night." Vincent sat up, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. "So, what's a man gotta do to get somethin' to eat around here?"

"Don't be talkin' food to me," Short Rib said. "I haven't had poop- _la-la_ since daybreak."

"Just some beans or somethin'. C'mon, Short Rib, white boy's gotta _eat_."

Short Rib laughed. " _Dag_ , man, you still delirious." He searched the food crate and shook his head. "Empty. I'll have to hit up Al-Hallaj for some cans. Stay put." He turned for the door and paused. "Hey, Vince," Short Rib bent over his bed, "I know it's Christmas and all, but if you leave your toys on the stove again, they just might get eaten." He tossed a small radio to his friend.

Vincent caught the radio, took pause, then slowly clicked it on.... Christmas music played. He quickly turned it off, looked at Short Rib, and swallowed. "I've gotta be goin' home soon."

Short Rib nodded. "I know. It's cool."

"Good morning," Al-Hallaj said, walking through the door. "You're looking much better."

"Feelin' better." Vincent said, then paused for a moment. "I was just tellin' Short Rib—"

"I heard." Al-Hallaj stroked his beard and focused his mismatched eyes. "You haven't lost faith in our quest have you?"

"No," Vincent said. "I can't wait any longer though. I gotta get back to my wife."

Al-Hallaj looked out through the doorway to the falling snow. "I think it's best you stay a bit longer, Mr. Goss. This snow has most of Illinois shut down."

Vincent sighed.

"You wait awhile," Al-Hallaj said. "Leave after Eid-al-Fitr."

"What's that?" Vincent asked.

"The feast!" Short Rib said. "Yeah, Vince, stick around for the end of Ramadan." He turned to Al-Hallaj. " _Dag_ , now you got me all hungry."

"After the feast," Al-Hallaj said, "I will drive you home or drop you off at your wife's hospital, whichever you prefer."

"That's fine," Vincent conceded.

Al-Hallaj turned to Short Rib. "Shouldn't you be at the mosque?"

"Dag," Short Rib said. "How's a fat man supposed to pray with feast on the brain?"

~

Five snowy nights past mid-January, the night of Eid-al-Fitr, Vincent entered a dilapidated warehouse shoved against the back corner of the scrapyard.

" _Dag!_ " Short Rib yelled, sitting on a crate, his mouth stuffed with bread. "That white boy cleans up real nice."

Vincent smiled, rubbing his smooth chin.

The warehouse wasn't large by any measure, barely big enough to house several scrapped cars and Grandy's temporary living quarters. Six broken windows lined the walls on either side, all of them boarded up. Two barrel stoves billowed smoke through a broken skylight. In the center, four sawhorses propped up sheets of plywood, forming a table upon which a feast was prepared: three roast chickens, bowls of green beans, baked beans, and corn, loaves of wheat and rye bread, and pitchers of juice and water. Candles burned, lighting the faces of Al-Hallaj, Grandy, Short Rib and T'ien.

"This is it?" Vincent asked, walking up to the table. "Everybody else has left?"

"Yep," Short Rib said, a chunk of rye in his mouth. "More food for us."

"They'll come back when it gets warm," Al-Hallaj said, his voice reverberating through the warehouse. "They always do. Please, Mr. Goss, join us." He stood up, his white robe flowing to the ground. "Tonight we feast in the name of Allah." He motioned Vincent to an empty crate at T'ien's side.

"Hi," Vincent said, smiling at T'ien as he sat down. "Thanks for your help. I don't think I would have survived Christmas without you."

She grinned politely.

"I hoped I'd see you again before I left," Vincent said. "I'm glad you're here."

"I came to say goodbye," T'ien said, noticing his hair. "Did you cut it yourself?"

Vincent nervously ran his fingers through his short, brown hair. "Did I mess it up?"

"Nah, Opey," Grandy said, "you did a real good job, just like shearing sheep, _eh_?"

Vincent stared hard across the table at Grandy, all decked out in her best pink housecoat. "Y'know, Grandy," Vincent said, reaching for a slice of rye, "I never did have any sheep on my farm. In fact, the only animal I did have was a cat." Vincent took a bite of bread. "So do me a favor, this bein' my last night and all, give me a break, okay?"

"No bickering tonight," Al-Hallaj said sternly. "Tonight we—"

"Why is it you rode me so hard?" Vincent asked Grandy. "What did—"

"Bread, anyone?" Short Rib cut in. "Bread's _real good_."

"What did I ever do to you?" Vincent finished.

"Please," T'ien said, her hand on Vincent's arm. "She doesn't mean any harm."

"I'll tell you what you did, hayseed." Grandy narrowed her eyes. "You come up here from Mayberry, the cock of the walk, struttin' your anger for all to see, saying that you— _you're_ going to be the one who kills the Viceman." She stood up, propped her hands on the table, and leaned forward.

"Grandy, settle down," Al-Hallaj urged. "Not now. Tonight we—"

"If anyone's going to kill my son," Grandy said, "it's going to be Al-Hallaj. He'll do it with mercy, not _rage_!"

The warehouse dropped dead silent.

"Your _son_?" Vincent asked, turning from Grandy to Al-Hallaj.

"Your _son_?" Al-Hallaj asked. "The Viceman is your _son_?"

"Yep," she said, sitting down. She reached for a bowl of green beans. "My own flesh and blood." She shoveled some beans onto her paper plate.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Al-Hallaj asked.

"Why should I?" Grandy said. "What flippin' difference would it make?"

"I would've known what he looked like!" Al-Hallaj yelled, standing up. "I would have _searched_ for him!"

"Bread?" Short Rib asked. "It's real good. _Anyone_?"

"I can't believe you did this—all these years." Al-Hallaj paced, shaking his head. "How could you? _How_?"

Grandy calmly chewed her beans and shrugged. "Didn't know what the little bastard looked like anyway. He was flippin' eleven when I shoved him in the orphanage." She stared at Vincent. "Didn't really know for sure it was him. I had a feeling though." Grandy looked at Al-Hallaj, and said, "When you first showed up at the scrapyard, you had that same horrified look in your eyes that I once did ... right after Zed murdered my family. I always thought it might have been Zed that killed your wife and kid. A mother's intuition, I guess. But I really didn't know for sure, not until Opey here came up with his name."

"I can't believe this is happening," Al-Hallaj said. He knelt down at Grandy's side. "This is your son we're going after, your son we're trying to _kill_."

Grandy took a bite of bread. "You got a problem with that?" She grinned. "He quit being my son the day he killed his brother and my husband." She swallowed. "Little son of a whore hound needs to die. Knew that a long time ago."

Vincent sipped water, sorting things out. "You mean that I live on your old farm?"

"That's right, Opey." Grandy burped. "We used to have sheep though." She wiped her hand across her mouth. "My husband and youngest son caught Zedekiah trying to put his jimmy-dong in one. A nine-year-old boy trying to hump sheep, weirdest dang thing I've ever flippin' heard of." She shook her head. "Well they laughed long and hard at ol' Zed. Next thing I know, I'm a widow."

"I still can't believe you never told me," Al-Hallaj said. "All these years."

"What about the scrapyard?" T'ien asked. "How did you come to own all this?"

"That was easy," Grandy said. "I remarried. My second husband, God rest his soul, owned this flippin' scrapyard—" She paused, looking around the table. "What?" she asked, surrounded by grins and smirks. "You don't think it was easy for me to remarry?"

Short Rib snorted, holding back laughter. "Bread? _Anyone_?"

"Oh, you think that's _funny_ , dough boy?" Grandy stood up, reaching for her cane. "I was a fine woman in my day."

"What day was that?" Short Rib asked, digging his grave. "The day they discovered fire?"

Grandy raised her cane.

"Or was it the wheel?" Short Rib fell off his chair, laughing.

Grandy swung her cane. "Funny _now_?"

Short Rib crawled away, laughing, shielding his head from Grandy's wrath.

"C'mere, Rump Roast. You ain't got nowhere to flippin' hide!"

Short Rib reached the door, his sides splitting, and swung it open.

Brax blew in with the ice and snow.

" _Dag_!" Short Rib yelled, eyes wide. "Somebody help me!" He dragged Brax into the warehouse, then slammed shut the door.

Everyone rushed from the table.

Brax wore only jeans and gym shoes. His head flopped from side to side, his eyes rolled back.

"Lay him down," Al-Hallaj commanded. "Let me check his breathing." Al-Hallaj pressed his ear on Brax's cold chest. "He's freezing. somebody get some blankets!" Al-Hallaj grabbed Brax's chin and shifted his head, checking his eyes. He slapped him twice. No response. "C'mon, Brax, come back." Brax's eyes rolled. "That's it. C'mon. Come back home."

T'ien ran back with blankets. "Here."

Al-Hallaj began to cover Brax, then paused. He reached for Brax's arm and saw needle tracks. "Smack." Al-Hallaj shook his head. "He's back on the heroin." Al-Hallaj stood up.

"It'll be cool," Short Rib said, trying to calm. "He just needs time to—"

"How much time?" Al-Hallaj asked. "How _much_? He comes here by the grace of Allah, and then he spits in His face again and again! How much longer—"

"I saw him," Brax mumbled, drool spilling across his cheek.

Al-Hallaj looked down. "What's he saying?"

"I saw the Viceman, _Zedekiah_. I saw him," Brax said weakly.

The warehouse fell silent once more.

_Thump-thump ... thump-thump_ , Vincent felt his heart pound, _thump-thump ... thump-thump_ , racing wildly, climbing up his throat. "Where?" Vincent asked, his voice made of feathers.

Al-Hallaj sat Brax up, straightening his head. "Where? Where did you see him?"

Brax rolled his head, drool spilling. "Over on Michigan, near the park." Brax looked up, scared and trembling. "Those eyes." He looked at Vincent. "There's death in those eyes."

"Yeah, we know about the eyes," Al-Hallaj said. "What was he wearing? What part of the park?"

Brax wavered on the thin line of consciousness. "Those eyes...."

T'ien placed her hand on Vincent's shoulder and turned him around. "This is not your concern anymore. There's no need for you to—"

Vincent forced himself away from T'ien and knelt down at Brax's side. _Thump-thump ... thump-thump_. "Where in the park?"

Brax coughed. "Across from the Adipose building— Hood, in the hood. Those eyes...." Brax passed out.

"Hood? What hood? You said downtown." Al-Hallaj tried to shake life back into Brax. "C'mon, we need more."

"He's done," Short Rib said, checking under Brax's eyelids. "I'll take him back to the shelter." He scooped him up. "C'mon, Brax-man, it's time for a little nappy poo."

Al-Hallaj stood up and paced, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned to Grandy. She grinned and nodded her approval. He turned to T'ien. She stood still, expressionless. Al-Hallaj looked at Vincent, then back at T'ien. "We are short-handed. Is he ready?"

"No," T'ien said quickly.

"Bullshit," Vincent said. "You _know_ I'm ready." _Thump-thump ... thump-thump_.

Al-Hallaj checked T'ien for confirmation.

"No," she insisted. "His rage still burns."

"Why're you doin' this, T'ien?" Vincent asked. _Thump-thump-thump-thump_. "I'm ready. You saw what I can do."

" _No_!" she commanded. "Go home, Mr. Goss. _We_ will finish this."

Grandy walked slowly to Vincent, her eagle eye screeching. "You still want a piece of my son, don't you, hayseed?"

"You're _damn_ right I do."

Grandy searched Vincent's eyes, smiling. "Hold out your hand."

"What?"

"Hold out your flippin' hand!"

Vincent held out a trembling hand. He quickly clenched it. "That doesn't mean—"

"Let him go," Grandy said, turning to Al-Hallaj. "Let him go if he wants. He'll crack." She laughed, turning back to Vincent. "Go get 'em, Opey. _Go on_. Go get your farm-fresh-egg-butt sliced and diced. Won't make me no never mind."

Al-Hallaj sighed. "She's right. You've never been tested under stress. Odds are, you will break."

Vincent walked up to Al-Hallaj, toe to toe. " _Then I'll break_. I'd rather die by Zedekiah's evil than live with it."

"And your wife?" T'ien asked. "Which would she rather you do?"

Vincent spun around, his face frozen in anger. It quickly melted by T'ien's concerned expression. "Please," Vincent said, a calm voice returning. "Give me a chance to prove myself. I won't crack. I promise. Just give me a chance."

T'ien's face turned expressionless.

"Please ... let me prove myself."

She looked at Al-Hallaj, shaking her head. "He will die if he finds Zedekiah."

"Damn it, T'ien!" Vincent yelled. "Quit protectin' me! Let me prove myself!"

She shook her head once more, turned around, and calmly said, "Go home, Mr. Goss. _Please_." She turned and walked out through the door.

Grandy began to cackle, laughing at Vincent's injured pride. "What's the matter, Opey? Not lettin' ya dig in the sandbox? Gettin' kicked off the playground?" She lowered her voice to a mocking tone. "Won't let you play in any reindeer games?"

"Mr. Goss, I will leave it up to you," Al-Hallaj said, sitting down at the table. "If you choose to join us in the morning, it will be as a scout, nothing more. _You_ find him, _I_ kill him."

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, weighing his options. "How'd you plan on killin' him?"

"Knives are the only weapons we have here," Al-Hallaj said.

"And you'll let me carry a knife?" Vincent asked.

"No," Al-Hallaj replied.

"Just a scout?"

"Just a scout."

" _I_ find him ... _you_ kill him?" Vincent said.

"Take it, or go home," Al-Hallaj said. "It's your choice, Mr. Goss."

Vincent sat down at the table. He stared hard at Grandy, picked up a piece of rye, and took a bite. "I'll take it."

Grandy slowly raised a toothless grin.

# Chapter 19

"Better the devil you know than the devil you don't know."

—19th c. Proverb

Oblivion ... 00.01.08

The ground violently quaked. A flint block tumbled over the side of the shelter roof and crashed between Vincent's legs. His eyes flew open with his mouth. He tried screaming, but the pain emptied his lungs of air. He rolled over, jerking up his knees, the ground trembling beneath him. Vincent searched the crimson sky for storm clouds, falling acid, anything causing the shaking. He saw nothing as he stood up, propped himself against the shelter, and sucked in a lungful of caustic air.

Vincent scanned across Vagary Heights. It remained mostly empty, only a few straggling lost souls milling about. "Thaddy!" Vincent yelled, the ground still shaking. "Thaddy! Where are you?!" He jogged through the twisted maze of flint block shelters to the brink of Vagary. There sat Thaddy, his leg bandaged, his skin hood pulled over his head.

"What the hell's all the rumblin'?" Vincent asked, walking up behind the boy.

Thaddy turned around and smiled, his eyes sparkling. "You are awake."

"How long have I been out?"

"You have been gone a long time, mister."

"How long— Ahh, it doesn't matter. Vincent turned back around. "I guess Glipp never came back?"

Thaddy shook his head. "No."

"It'll be okay, kid." Vincent patted the child's back and sat down.

Thaddy grinned. "The rumbling comes from below. The storms have been tremendous."

Vincent cast his stare into the valley. It was shrouded in purple clouds that spewed out glowing blue rain. Through the turbulent storm he could still see the outline of the fortress, could still see people working.

"Don't they care about the acid raining down?" Vincent asked.

"Most do," Thaddy said. "But those closest to their Savior claim to exist for it, anything that can provide pain."

"That's insane."

Thaddy turned to Vincent. "It is all they have. There are no gods to worship in oblivion, mister. There is only pain. And their Savior has shown them a way of salvation, a way to eliminate the agony of pain by forcing themselves to embrace it."

"What kinda nutcase would—" _Do you consider me a sinner, Mr. Goss?_ Zedekiah asked from the shadows of Vincent's past. _Am I going to hell? Am I?_ Vincent jerked his head and looked at Thaddy. _Pain is what makes life worth living,_ Zedekiah reminded, n _ever forget that!_ "Thaddy?" Vincent meekly asked. "Their Savior," Vincent paused and swallowed, "it's Zedekiah, isn't it?"

The boy nodded

Vincent's expression didn't change.

"But you already knew. You knew for a long time," Thaddy said. "You saw his eyes when he rode up on the horse."

"What about his hair? He had long hair." Vincent shook his head. "The man on the horse, hell, that guy was a good lookin' man."

"Zedekiah lost his scars when he entered this plane of existence," the child explained, "just as you did. What you see of him now is what he once looked like on earth." Thaddy turned to the valley. "His hair is nothing more than a wig. Your body forever remains exactly as it was before your essence transferred here—minus the wounds, minus the scars."

Vincent rubbed his chin, scraping a day's worth of stubble. He ran his fingers through a bad haircut, and asked, "I guess I died pretty soon after the feast, huh?"

Thaddy didn't reply.

Vincent closed his eyes and lay flat on his back. "So, the devil wears a wig?"

"Yes, like a king wears a crown."

"King," Vincent mused, "king of eternal damnation. Who the hell would wanna be king of a place like this." Vincent shook his head. "All right, kid, this is gettin' outa hand. Tell me what I gotta do to get us outa here. Kill the king?"

"He is already dead," Thaddy said.

"You know what I mean." Vincent opened his eyes to the pulsing sky, thinking, planning. "If I could remove him somehow, maybe if I—" He sat up. "What if— I don't know. What if I could destroy him, tie a rock around his neck or somethin', throw him in the acid river. It would all stop, right?"

Thaddy didn't respond.

"Right, kid? It would all be over? Nobody would follow this madness without him, would they?"

"No, mister," Thaddy said, appeasing. "Without Zedekiah none of this exists."

"So, I can just destroy him and all this ends, right?"

"He is too powerful for you to destroy. You would never make it past his guards." Thaddy's eyes sparkled brightly. "There is a way though, a way to end his madness."

"How?" Vincent asked.

Thaddy didn't reply.

"Goddamn it, kid, tell me how—"

"Where are your memories?"

" _Uhh, uhh_ , not again." Vincent grabbed the boy by his shoulders. "Tell me what it's gonna take to get us outa here. Just tell me and I'll do it, no matter what it is!" He released Thaddy and lay back down, covering his eyes with a forearm. "Damn it, kid, just tell me. I'm so tired of goin' back and rememberin' all the bullshit. I'm dead and I'm tired, and you wanna sit here and play games." Vincent sighed. "He killed me, didn't he? Zedekiah killed me. _There_ , I saved us all the trouble of reliving another flashback." Vincent sat up and stared into the valley. "He killed me, I'm here because of my rage, and now I got another chance to destroy that son of ah bitch. Simple as that."

Thaddy sat silently, gazing at the crimson sky.

"What're you waitin' for, kid? Tell me what it'll take to destroy him and I'll _do_ it."

"You are not ready for what it is going to take to destroy him," Thaddy stated matter-of-factly.

Vincent sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah, I heard this shit before. Grandy said the same damn— Hold on. Zedekiah couldn't have killed me if he transferred to hell before me." Vincent turned to Thaddy, and asked, "How long has Zed been here?"

The boy, still gazing at the sky, answered, "Decades."

Thaddy faded from view.

Twitters.

Blackness....

# Chapter 20

"Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot

That it do singe yourself. We may outrun

By violent swiftness that which we run at,

And lose by over-running."

—William Shakespeare

King Henry the Eighth

Chicago, IL ... Winter

Al-Hallaj yawned as he drove his Fury down West Monroe Street to the heart of Chicago. Short Rib soon yawned, then Vincent. The only one not showing signs of a restless night was T'ien. She sat in the front passenger seat, quietly gazing out through the window.

The Windy City, usually a vibrant, crackling, intense monster, limped now, injured, nearly paralyzed by snowfall. The morning rush hour traffic ran light, most people opting to walk or take a bus. Vacant cars lined both sides of the street, suffocating under mountains of snow. The Fury snaked in and out, winding, swerving through the jumbled mess of dark slush and vehicles. Al-Hallaj turned south on Dearborn Street, then east on Congress Parkway, heading for Grant Park.

Al-Hallaj drove halfway into the park and stopped the car near Buckingham Fountain. He turned the key; the Fury coughed white smoke and sputtered for a moment, refusing to die.

Al-Hallaj sat silently, gazing beyond the fountain to the frozen edge of Lake Michigan, the sun sparkling on its snowy surface. He turned to T'ien. "You ready?"

She flipped up the furry hood of a brown cloth jacket. "Yes."

Al-Hallaj turned to the back seat. "You see him, Mr. Goss. You come find me." Al-Hallaj raised his eyebrows, signaling _no exceptions_.

Vincent nodded. "Just a scout."

"What are we waitin' for?" Short Rib asked, zipping up a hooded tan coat. "Let's go put the spank on that momby jomby's ass."

Al-Hallaj stretched on a brown knit hat, wrapped a gray scarf around his neck, and buttoned up a dark wool jacket. "We go in pairs. T'ien and I will head for Michigan Avenue, you two zigzag around the park. If you see him you'll know where to find us." Al-Hallaj surveyed their silent faces, his mismatched eyes catching each in a stern gaze. "This is it, my friends." He withdrew a long, sharp and shiny Bowie knife from his coat. "It all ends here, today." Al-Hallaj gazed at his reflection in the blade. "Twenty years," he whispered to himself. "Twenty years, this jihad ends now." He fixed his stare on T'ien. With iron hammered in his voice, he said, "By Allah's grace we will finish this today."

Vincent stepped out of the car, his work boots crunching the snow. He closed the door and hunched up his black cloth jacket, fighting off a stiff breeze from the lake. T'ien reached out and placed her hand upon his shoulder. He slowly turned, his eyes meeting hers.

"Be careful," T'ien said, her face concerned. "Please."

Vincent nodded once. "You do the same."

She grinned and turned to join Al-Hallaj.

"C'mon, Vince," Short Rib prodded, steam rising from his fat, bald head. "Let's hit it."

Short Rib and Vincent began their search. They walked past Buckingham Fountain. Its base was half buried by snow, the fountain's serpent-like sea horses swimming in a frozen wonderland. They worked their way north along Columbus Drive, past the shimmering Art Institute, up East Jackson to Michigan Avenue. They kept a keen eye on everyone they passed: homeless men stretched out on benches, blanketed by newspaper and snow; fast walking businessmen, tapping their cell phones, shoes covered by Totes; an old man walking his collie, scooping up dog poop, cursing at strangers. Vincent and Short Rib kept their intensity focused on every eye, looking for a pair matching death.

Rush hour faded as the frantic masses found their livelihoods inside steel and glass towers. Yellow cabs and dirt-brown buses churned along Michigan Avenue, flinging black slush against snow piled high on the sidewalks. The occasional car rolled by, taking its chances against the professional madness of the cabbies and bus drivers.

"Dag," Short Rib said, rubbing his head. "We ain't never gonna find him."

"It's only been an hour," Vincent said. "Can't give up yet."

"It ain't me that wants to give up." Short Rib grabbed his stomach and jiggled. "It's him. He's sayin, ' _Feed me. I need food_.'"

Vincent shook his head, smiling. He looked up the street to the corner of Randolph and Michigan. A vendor had his cart set up next to a mound of snow. "There you go, donuts straight ahead."

"You the man, Vince. You want jelly filled or glazed?"

Vincent checked his stomach. Too nervous. "Just hot chocolate if he has any."

"On it."

Vincent stopped and cleared snow from a concrete bench. He sat down and looked across the street at the Chicago Public Library and Cultural Center. It was an old stone structure, a work of architectural art with its arched windows and gray limestone columns. To its right, across Randolph Street, built on the grave of an abandoned warehouse, stood the Adipose Natural Gas Conglomerate. In direct contrast to the classic charm of the Cultural Center, Adipose was modern, tall and square, its white concrete and black glass stacked in intermittent levels for fifty stories. In an odd spasm of 1980's style, Adipose was sliced from the fiftieth floor to the twenty-eighth floor—cut at a forty-five degree angle, then bandaged with dark glass. It shimmered in the bright daylight like the facet of an enormous diamond.

In front of the Adipose building, in the red brick courtyard, stood a flagpole reaching up three stories, its American flag waving. It was crowned by a fierce brass eagle, its wings flapped to a point, reaching up for the sloping glass of Adipose. Two stories of the flag pole sat buried in snow. A hungry earthmover rumbled and beeped, adding more to the pile as it cleared the avenue.

Vincent looked up the street. Short Rib was haggling with the vendor over the price of jelly filled. Beyond the vendor, across the street from the Adipose building, rose the Prudential building, a proud monument of minimalist thinking. Constructed in the pragmatic 1950's, it stood like a giant brown domino begging to be toppled.

"'Scuse me," a woman said.

Vincent shifted his gaze from the Prudential building and jerked his feet out of the way of a short Hispanic lady. She walked past him bundled in a red cloth jacket pushing a child in a stroller. The toddler, warmed by a thick vinyl coat with purple hood, leaned forward and drooled, staring deeply into Vincent's eyes.

"Thank you," the lady said.

Vincent nodded.

A cab rushed by, splashing slush on a parked bus. The bus fired up, coughing black diesel smoke into the crisp air. A brave soul on a mountain bike whipped past, a brown package on his handlebars. An old lady clanged at the edge of a garbage can, searching for breakfast. A horn honked. Another one answered. They both sang in unison. Steam escaped from a manhole cover and was swept away by a UPS truck. A siren sang out two blocks away. A lady walked by, dressed for success, her nose in the air. Two businessmen stomped past, their chatter on bonds. A middle aged man with a well-worn guitar case, tapping a rhythm. A gang of black youths, talking smack. A dog walker, six canines barking. A man in a gray hat, his face scarred, his dark eyes fierce as razors—

Chicago turned dead silent.

_Thump-thump ... thump-thump_. Vincent's jaw dropped.

Zedekiah, fifty feet away, dressed in a black trench coat, pinstriped slacks, black scarf and gray hat, blended in perfectly. He could have been a businessman or someone's uncle; he might have been a visiting relative or awkward tourist. His eyes proved who he really was.

_Thump-thump ... thump-thump_. Vincent froze, not able to swallow. He sat pinned to the bench, fear tensing his muscles. Chicago's frantic pace became slow motion. Each movement crystallized, amplified by ten.

Zedekiah walked with conviction, a man with places to go, people to kill.

Vincent blinked. In the splintered second between eyes closed and opened, Cassandra's rape played once more, the unholy horror endured that vicious night. Vincent jerked his head and looked at the donut cart. Short Rib had just paid.

Zedekiah slowed his pace, sensing something in the air. He turned to the street. A bus jockeyed for position with a dented cab. Zedekiah stopped and stood right in front of Vincent.

_Thump-thump ... thump-thump_.

Ninety feet away, Short Rib walked without care, sucking jelly from a donut, oblivious.

_Thump-thump ... thump-thump_.

Zedekiah stood four feet away at the edge of the street, his back to Vincent.

_Thump-thump ... thump-thump_.

Panic flashed through Vincent, chilling his bones, racing his heart near explosion. He forced down a gulp.

Something stirred in the air ... fear, the familiar vibrations of helpless terror. Zedekiah slowly turned and focused his cold, dark eyes on the man in front of him. Recognition was immediate. Zedekiah raised a crooked grin, and with the calm air of supreme power, he said, "Welcome to the Windy City, Mr. Goss."

_Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump_....

"How's the wife and kid?"

Vincent couldn't close his mouth, much less offer a reply. He jerked his head, looking for Short Rib.

Zedekiah looked up the street, then glanced at the blue sky, and then back at Vincent. "You've chosen a _splendid_ day to die." Zedekiah grinned and turned, bumping Short Rib's shoulder as he walked away.

"Glazed or Jelly?" Short Rib asked, his mouth stuffed.

Vincent, eyes wide and vacant, didn't answer.

"Hey, man," Short Rib said, sitting down, holding out a steaming cup of hot chocolate. "What's up?"

Vincent gawked up the street at Zedekiah's back. Vincent swallowed, his senses returning.

"What is it?" Short Rib asked, turning to see. "Who—" He whipped his head back at Vincent. "Nah ... no way."

Vincent nodded, ashamed. "It was him."

"Why didn't you call out?"

"I don't know."

"We gotta find Al-Hallaj." Short Rib dropped the donut bag and hot chocolate. " _C'mon_."

Vincent didn't move as he stared down Michigan Avenue. "Zedekiah saw me. He knows I'm here." Vincent swallowed. "He'll hide now, we'll never find him." He turned to Short Rib. "I'm goin' after him." Vincent stood up, strength gathering in his legs.

" _Bullshit_ ," Short Rib said.

Vincent began to jog.

"Damn it!" Short Rib yelled. "Wait for me!"

Vincent tried to shake his gripping fear. He focused his breath as he ran, working toward Ch'i. It didn't come. Shame replaced it, washing over him in waves. Grandy's words echoed in his head, chiding him, _Let him go if he wants. He'll crack.... He'll crack.... He'll_ —

"Wait up!" Short Rib yelled.

Vincent crossed Randolph Drive. He spotted Zedekiah, then lost him as the madman turned the corner of the Prudential building. Vincent raced to the edge of the building, then stopped, fearing what might await beyond.

Short Rib caught up, out of breath, jelly flowing in his veins. "Hold on. This ain't the way it's supposed to go down. We gotta go—"

Vincent rounded the corner.... Nothing but snow, light posts, dumpsters and shipping docks.

"C'mon, man," Short Rib said, tugging Vincent's coat sleeve. "We don't even have a knife. How we supposed to—"

Vincent pulled free, then searched the opposite end of the Prudential. He found nothing. He backtracked, looking up, watching the building reach toward a wispy cloud.

"What?" Short Rib asked. "You think he's Spiderman now?"

Vincent walked to the loading docks. Five dumpsters lined the north wall. Six feet above the dumpsters, a large rusted exhaust vent jutted out from the wall. He walked toward the dumpsters.

"I ain't searchin' through the trash for that momby jomby." Short Rib shook his head, eyebrows raised.

Vincent caught a foothold on the sliding side door of the first dumpster. He pulled himself up and jumped on the plastic lid of the next one over. He studied the exhaust vent. It was ten feet long, three high, sticking out from the building four feet, then bending down at a ninety-degree angle. Vincent ran his fingers across the rusted screen of its intake. "Brax said somethin' about a hood. This could be it, a rain hood."

"A _what_? Get your ass down from there," Short Rib said. "Let's go find Al-Hallaj."

Vincent pushed the screen. It gave easily. He poked his head into the vent.

"You are _not_ goin' in there!" Short Rib demanded.

Vincent pulled his head back out. "Yeah, I'm goin' in."

"Bullshit! This ain't the way. I can't even help you. My cheeseburger ass can't fit through there."

"Go find Al-Hallaj. Bring him back."

Short Rib spread his arms in disbelief. "Man! You can't be doin' this! Wait! Just wait 'til I get back!"

Vincent nodded at his friend. "I won't do anything. I'll wait for Al-Hallaj."

"Damn right you'll wait." Short Rib pointed a finger. "You don't do poop- _la-la_ 'till I get back with the posse, _hear_?"

Vincent nodded another lie to his friend.

Short Rib jogged away.

Vincent shoved in the rusted screen and pulled himself up. He began crawling through the rigid duct, working his way into the Prudential building. The duct darkened quickly, slowing him, making him think Zedekiah could be hiding anywhere, waiting, poised with a knife and a greasy smile.

Fear ran rampant through Vincent. He stopped and closed both eyes, allowing his pupils to adjust, listening. He heard clanging, whining, the churning of mechanical equipment. He opened his eyes and pushed on.

A dull light began filling the dusty corridor. Vincent crawled up to a louvered grille. It was an inlet for combustion air to a boiler room. The outside air rushed past, stinking of garbage, chilling him, making him shiver. He shook it off and peered through the slats.

Inside the tall, bright, concrete room sat a row of hot water boilers. Large pipes jumped from their tops, rushing in a twisted maze to water pumps. Opposite the boilers sat two new chillers, one idle, one whining, its high pitch deafening. Two uniformed maintenance men, ears plugged, tools at the ready, busied themselves adjusting a thermostatic expansion valve.

Vincent scanned the whole of the mechanical room, then checked the tightness of the grille. It was sound. He began questioning his actions. _Did Zedekiah even go through this duct?_ He slumped back against the sheet metal, staring into the mechanical room. _What the hell am I doin'?_ "This is fuckin' nuts," he whispered.

The chiller abruptly shut down. The mechanical room became quiet save for a maintenance man cussing about refrigerant surge. Vincent sighed, swallowed, then turned to crawl back outside. Just as his hand met sheet metal he heard music. It was a strange tune, the haunting piano of "The Elfking," by Franz Schubert. He paused, zeroing in on the sound. It came from behind, down the back side of the duct. He shook his head, biting his lower lip. He looked back the way he came, then toward the music. Vincent paused, sighed deeply, then slowly bowed his head. Like a rat to the Pied Piper, he crawled toward the Elfking.

The duct became dark once more and transitioned to a tighter tunnel. Vincent felt uneasy, nearly claustrophobic, scraping through the cramped sheet metal, the complete blackness working his nerves. The duct soon angled down nearly fifty feet to a yellow glow and another grille. He pressed his hands on the sheet metal walls, controlling his slide. The music grew louder, odd ramblings of a German singer.

Vincent stopped at the grille and looked through the slats at an earthen tunnel. He checked the grille. It was hinged and easily swung open. He removed his hand from the duct and rubbed his mouth, repeating rapidly, "I shouldn't be doin' this. I shouldn't be doin' this."

Vincent found it strange why he pushed on. He knew his fear, and he knew what awaited, yet he couldn't stop. Like lemmings to a cliff, it was an overwhelming compulsion to seek death's doorstep.

Vincent jumped out of the vent and squatted down, quickly checking back and forth. The tunnel was small, seven feet tall, eight wide. It was the last tunnel dug from Chicago's Loop. In its day, the tunnel carried coal and supplies to the surrounding buildings. Today it carried water pipes, electrical conduit and fear. A string of construction lights hung from the ceiling, splitting the darkness with intermittent cones of sick yellow. Vincent swallowed, listened for the music, then stepped lightly in that direction.

Shadows shifted in the musty gloom. Dust hung in the thick air, tasting of stale, moldy bread. Old broken crates lined the wall. Steel tracks sprang out from the dusty floor, narrow and rusted, once used for a coal cart.

The music stopped.

Vincent paused.

_Thump-thump-thump-thump_.

A voice ran through the tunnel, announcing the music's title, asking for donations. Vincent sighed, recognizing the radio. He slowly moved ahead, rounding a curve. The tunnel widened, opening up to a storage area.

There it was, the radio, next to—

Vincent froze.... He had found the madman's refuge.

Vincent jerked his head, checking behind, in front, scanning every dark nook in which a shadow lurked. His heart raced, about to erupt. Clammy sweat beaded his forehead, dripped from his armpits. Every little sound was Zedekiah now: the scurry of rats, the snap of loose overhead lighting, the drip of a water pipe, the hum of traffic some forty feet above, the falling dust from the ceiling, the yakking announcer on the radio—all potential killers.

The musty earth turned stagnant, pungent, stinking of urine and rot. Vincent slowed his breathing and entered the storage nook. It jutted off the tunnel about sixteen feet, then ran parallel with the tunnel some thirty feet. Vincent scraped his head on the wood braces supporting the ceiling. Against the left wall, resting on wood crates, was a bluish mattress, partly covered by a ragged crimson blanket. Behind the bed hummed a small refrigerator, its supply cord rigged to the lighting. Journals ran amuck on the floor, hundreds of them heaped in piles, scattered and abused. A stack of broken barrels hugged the opposite wall, their hoops rusted. An old upended coal cart sat next to the barrels. Next to the cart, riding the dirt wall, was a workbench of sorts, built from solid six-panel doors and wood crates. On top of the bench lay Zedekiah's tools, all his knives of various lengths and styles, including the rusted steak knife. Two vices sat next to the knives, both stained brown. At the base of the bench rested the satchel.

Vincent backed up. His head bumped something. He spun around. In front of him, hanging from barrel staves and fishing line, were five wind chimes constructed of rat heads, their beady red eyes vacant of life, rotting, lamenting their demise.

Vincent spun back, repulsed by the smell. In front of him sat a ramshackle desk. A yellow light hung above. Loose dirt fell behind him. He jerked his head and saw nothing. He turned back to the desk. Its top was clear save for the radio and one open journal.

Vincent shook his head, trying to slow his breathing and heart. "Hell with this," he whispered, coming to his senses. He turned and headed back to the tunnel, figuring it better to leave and find Al-Hallaj. Vincent slowed, then stopped ... and then slowly turned back around. Something was pushing him, prodding him to endure his fear, to seek confrontation.

New music echoed from the radio. It was the fifth movement of Hector Berlioz's _Fantastic Symphony_. Vincent bit his lower lip, thinking. He walked back to the desk and spun the open journal. "What the hell?"

~

4 / 27 / 98

Goss Family

Bon Olivi, IL

Women blessed — 1 — Cassandra Goss / 30's /

Unusually Tight Bitch, bled — C-section / Sweet whore, fighting fuck

Deaths — 1 — Brendon Goss / 5 / Stuttering brat

Vice used / Finger removed / Death by Genesis weapon to heart

~

"The son of ah bitch kept a diary," Vincent whispered.

Something shuffled.

Vincent spun around. A rat worked its way along the tunnel wall. "Better get lost," Vincent warned, nodding at the rotting wind chimes. "Unless you wanna end up like your buddies." Vincent turned back to the journal. The music slowed. Giant bells rang out one at a time ... deep, rich, haunting chimes.

~

Hello, Mr. Goss. I am writing this to you directly. It seems I have surprised even myself by letting you and your whore of a wife live. But, hey, we all make mistakes ... don't we?

Since you are reading this, I must be dead. Or maybe I rot in prison. Oh, what pain that would be, confined, shackled, beaten. I dearly hope it's prison and not death. Either way, the pleasure remains mine.

I am now one day removed from killing your son, one day removed from stealing your wife's virginity, and I shudder in ecstasy as I ponder your emotional torture. I assume you're still duct-taped to your chair, staring at your wife as she bleeds, gazing into your son's dead eyes. By hell's glory, how I envy you! To be able to experience that level of pain again. That innocent rapture, so vivid and deep. What splendid agony! If only I could be you for one fine day, feel that liberating pain, the way I haven't felt it since childhood. How my body chills just remembering.

I have given you quite a gift, Mr. Goss.... Yes, it must be seen as nothing else. The love you held for your whore of a wife was nothing more than ignorant, misplaced faith. Faith does two things, creates and destroys. Neither make sense when the faith is based on the pack of lies that flowed from that slut's mouth.

I know I've destroyed your faith. But in its place I'm giving you Truth—something whole, something pure.

You see, the Human Race was created to breed and to kill, nothing more. Between birth and death, there is nothing but pain. We run from it our entire lives, hiding from it, denying its existence. But pain exists whether we want it to or not. It is always with us, waiting to be embraced. There is no other sensation of man so wholly simplistic and eternal as pain. It never lies, it never cheats, it never abandons us.

_Pain is Truth_ _—_ _pure and simple._

I do hope you have embraced the pain, Mr. Goss. I would hate to think my vacation was wasted.

1 / 21 / 99

Mr. Goss, you've chosen a splendid day to die....

~

Vincent's eyes flashed open as he read the last passage. He spun around.

" _Welcome_ ," Zedekiah calmly said.

Vincent trembled, staring directly into cold, dark eyes. Vincent's muscles tightened, tensing as drool formed in the corner of his mouth.

Zedekiah stood four feet away, wearing dark pinstriped pants, dress shoes, a stained, white tee-shirt and a slippery smile. His face held a few new scars, crusty blood scabbed at their corners.

Vincent stuttered. "Wh- How-"

Zedekiah belted Vincent squarely in the eye, breaking blood vessels, filling the eye's interior.

Vincent fell sideways and struck the desk, knocking the radio silent. Zedekiah kicked him in the ribs, snapping one. Vincent rolled over, his face cringed in pain.

"What the hell were you thinking, Mr. Goss?" Zedekiah grabbed Vincent by the collar of his black coat and yanked him forward, nose to nose. "What were you thinking?"

Vincent turned his head, avoiding the stench of foul vinegar that flowed from the madman's mouth. Vincent tried to slow his frantic breathing. "I want—"

Zedekiah grabbed him by his ears and slammed his face on the journal.

Vincent's nose broke and spilled blood on the white pages.

"You want _what_?" Zedekiah yanked him up and spun him around. " _What?_ " _What_ is it you want?"

"I— I—"

"I, _what_?" Zedekiah knocked Vincent to the floor near the workbench, then slammed into his broken rib with another kick. "You've come here to die, haven't you?"

Vincent collapsed next to the satchel, its tools of destruction in view through the open top.

"You have fucking come here to die!" Zedekiah kicked his thigh.

Panic mixed with fear. Vincent reached into the satchel and grabbed the first thing he touched. He stood up, propping himself against the workbench, threatening with a twelve-inch wooden ruler.

Zedekiah smiled. "Mr. Goss, you will never measure up to me."

"Stay back," Vincent warned. He turned to the workbench and swapped the ruler for the rusty steak knife. "I mean it."

"You think you can kill _me_?" Zedekiah grabbed Vincent's trembling hand and guided the blade to his white tee-shirt. "Just shove it in, and it's all over." Zedekiah smiled, licking his twisted tongue over crooked yellow teeth. "Do it," he beckoned, his dark eyes wide, head cocked.

Vincent breathed fast and shallow. With all his heart he wanted to plunge that knife deep into Zedekiah, twist it in his stomach, carve up his intestines, and let them spill as a bloody lump upon the floor.

"You can't do it, can you?" Zedekiah looked down at the knife. He saw Vincent's wrist, grabbed it, then pushed up the coat sleeve. " _This_ is what you're here for." Zedekiah studied the scar. " _This_ is why you've come. To stop the pain."

"No," Vincent denied, his eyes panicked.

Zedekiah grabbed the knife. "You want it to end, don't you?"

"No, goddamn you! You killed my son!" Vincent yanked free his wrist and backed up.

"I give you a great gift, and you've come to return it!" Zedekiah's eyes glistened with anger. "You have no idea the pleasure of pain!"

Vincent backed into the stack of barrels.

Zedekiah advanced. "You have no clue, do you?" He stopped two feet away. " _This_ is what pleasure is." Zedekiah opened wide his own mouth. He took the knife and pierced his scarred cheek, allowing the blade to glide through his mouth and penetrate the other cheek. Zedekiah ran his tongue along the serrated edge as blood dripped from his lower lip. He withdrew the knife and smiled. "Pain, it does a body good!"

Vincent's jaw dropped. He shook his head in disbelief. "This isn't real. It's not—"

Zedekiah stuck his finger through the hole in his cheek and wiggled it. "I assure you it _is_ real."

"I— I don't—"

Zedekiah belted Vincent's jaw, dazing him. "You've come to the right place to die, Mr. Goss. Sad as it may be, I will oblige your wishes. It won't be as painless as when you tried to do it though. No, today you will feel the full rapture of pain. You will be my masterpiece!" Zedekiah placed the steak knife on the workbench and grabbed a roll of duct tape from the satchel. He stretched out a length.

Vincent's eyes welled, the ripping tape forcing memories of Cassandra's rape to replay.

"Oh, you remember, don't you?" Zedekiah asked, wrapping duct tape. He jerked Vincent's arms over his head and taped them through the broken barrel staves to the metal hoops. "Yes, the way I pleasured your wife, the pain. My God, if only I could feel that pain again." He spread Vincent's feet, knelt down, and taped them to the barrel hoops. Zedekiah stood up and stared deeply into watery eyes. "You carry so much pain, more than I dare dream of anymore." Zedekiah worked his face close to his victim, cheek to cheek. His raspy voice whispered, "It's not revenge that brought you here today ... _is it_ , Mr. Goss?"

Tears streamed down Vincent's cheeks.

Zedekiah smiled. "No, that's not it at all. It's _shame_ ," he backed away, "isn't it?"

Vincent closed his eyes, his teeth clenched. "Just do it. Get it over with."

"Shame. You let your family down, didn't you?"

"Just do it!"

"You let your boy die, didn't you?"

"Goddamn you!"

"You let me steal your wife's virginity, _didn't_ you?"

Vincent flashed open his eyes, flexing against his restraints. "Do it! Just fuckin' _do it_!"

All in good time." Zedekiah smacked his lips. " _Mmm_ , how that sweet cherry of hers popped."

"You son of ah bitch! I'll fuckin' _kill_ you!"

Zedekiah laughed, then punched Vincent in the stomach. "Your rage comes from nothing more than shame. How pathetic."

Vincent lunged forward with the blow, the blood swirling in his eye, turning his world rusty red. He sobbed bitterly. "Just do it."

"Happy to oblige." Zedekiah rubbed his fingers on his chin, thinking, studying his victim. "I think we'll start with a bit of dental work today. How's that sound?"

Vincent didn't respond. He began to slow his breathing.

Zedekiah walked to the satchel and plucked out a pair of slip-jawed pliers. He walked back. "Open wide."

Vincent offered no resistance. He was a willing lamb at death's doorstep. Zedekiah clamped the pliers on a lower incisor. Pain shot through Vincent like a lightning bolt. He jerked back his head, breaking the tooth.

"Now I'm going to have to drill." Zedekiah shook his head with mock disgust and walked back to the satchel.

Vincent slowed his breathing even more, remembering the advice of T'ien's father, _If things ever get too bad—die—escape into the flow of Ch'i_.

Zedekiah returned with a portable drill. He inserted a quarter-inch drill bit and locked the keyless chuck. He squeezed the trigger, and the bit chewed enamel.

Vincent blocked the pain, working deeper into the flow of Ch'i. He peeled away the layers of his mind, reaching into his subconscious, searching for comfort, seeking death.

The drill bit channeled through tooth, nerve, and jawbone. Zedekiah reversed the drill and yanked it out. He checked Vincent's lifeless eyes. "You still with me? We're just getting started here."

A warm sensation gripped Vincent. He felt pain no more as he absorbed himself in Ch'i.

"I _said_ ," Zedekiah thrust the drill against soft flesh and pulled the trigger, "are you still with me?"

Vincent didn't feel the bit bore into his gut, but he saw it. He saw everything now from the other side as his naked body of Ch'i energy glowed and pulsed, floating in death's realm. _Just do it_ , Vincent urged Zedekiah. _Get it over with_.

Vincent left his body to die. He floated out of the lair, into the yellow tunnel, down the earthen corridor toward the vent. He paused as a bright glow moved around the bend. It was a flood of light, blanketing the tunnel in a sparkling brilliance.

Before Vincent, floating in a vivid white corona, a child, a boy of ten years, his body pure light.

Vincent took pause at the shining sight before him, and then asked with silent words, _Who are you?_

_My name is Thaddeus. I am here to help_.

Vincent floated close to the child, trying to recognize. _Do I know you?_

_No_ , the child answered, his eyes blazing with silver starshine. _You do not._

_Why are you here?_ asked Vincent.

Metal clanged behind Thaddeus. Al-Hallaj rolled out of the vent, followed closely by T'ien.

The child spun around. _They are in great danger._

Vincent floated past the glowing boy and saw his friends. He flashed back to the child. _We must stop them._

The boy didn't respond.

Vincent floated in front of Al-Hallaj and shoved out his hands. Al-Hallaj walked right through him unheeded. Vincent saw T'ien. _No, T'ien! Turn back!_ She passed through Vincent and paused.

"Al-Hallaj," she whispered loudly, "Something isn't right!"

Al-Hallaj paid no attention. He focused on the whine of a drill somewhere straight ahead.

_You must stop them!_ Vincent commanded the child.

_I cannot_.

Then they will die!

The child floated close to Vincent, his glittering eyes pulsing. _Yes, they will die._

Vincent's glow began to fade.

_It is not your time, mister._ The child turned and watched T'ien race after Al-Hallaj _. It is not theirs either._

_What've I done?_ Vincent asked, phantom tears flowing. _What've I done?_

Al-Hallaj charged blindly into Zedekiah's lair, Bowie knife poised to kill.

Zedekiah saw shifting shadows. He dropped the drill, spun around, and grabbed Al-Hallaj's wrist.

" _Die!_ You son of a bitch!" Al-Hallaj yanked free the knife and sank it into Zedekiah's left shoulder.

Zedekiah back-handed his attacker, pulled the knife from his shoulder, and charged. He tackled Al-Hallaj over the desk, onto the mattress.

T'ien bolted into the lair and saw Vincent's bloody body strapped to the barrels. She quickly ran to his side, ripped loose the tape, and held his lifeless body in her arms.

Vincent floated into the lair, the child right behind. He turned to the boy. _What should I do?_

_It is in your power to stop this, to stop Zedekiah._ Thaddeus became somber _. I am sorry I could not do it for you. I tried._

Al-Hallaj wrestled Zedekiah on the ground, striking him with kidney punches. The two broke apart, stood up, and began circling each other—the madman with a knife, the Muslim with the grace of Allah in his mismatched eyes.

"You killed my family," Al-Hallaj said, teeth clenched.

"I've killed a _lot_ of families," said Zedekiah.

"I was _there_. You carved out my little girl's eyes and tossed them in the sink!"

"Sweet little whore, no doubt."

"She was _four_!" Al-Hallaj charged forward.

Zedekiah met the attack with a slice to Al-Hallaj's cheek.

T'ien propped Vincent against the barrels, then maneuvered behind Zedekiah. She made her attack from behind. Silent. Swift.

Zedekiah spun on instinct, slashing at T'ien, backing her up.

Al-Hallaj charged again.

Zedekiah, his shark eyes fierce as razors, spun and plunged the knife deep into soft flesh. "I remember you now," the madman said. "You were the first, weren't you?"

Al-Hallaj fell back clutching his bloody hip. "You murdered my wife! My whole _family_!"

"I should've killed you too." Zedekiah shook his head. "I must remind myself to kill everybody from now on." The devil grinned at Al-Hallaj. "See what you did? You went and fucked it up for everyone. From now on, _everybody_ dies!"

Thaddeus looked at Vincent one last time, and said, _Go now, mister_ ... _before it is too late_. The child faded away.

Vincent felt pain—mad, violent, rushing pain. He was back in his body, sprawled on the floor, taking quick inventory: two teeth broken, three puncture wounds to his stomach, a broken rib, busted eye and broken nose.

"Everybody fucking dies from now on!" Zedekiah yelled, knife held high, poised to strike death. "Nobody gets a break!"

"Then why don't you come finish _me_ ," said Vincent with an unwavering voice of harnessed rage.

Zedekiah spun around. His eyes opened wide.

Vincent stood solid, Ch'i coursing through his veins, revenge flexed in his muscles. He clenched his teeth as blood dripped from his mouth. Vincent pierced Zedekiah's eyes with focused intensity, and said, " _C'mon_ , you sheep-fuckin' bastard. _Finish me_!"

Zedekiah fidgeted uneasily. Something ... not quite right—different.

T'ien raised her brow. She saw it, felt Vincent's power. "Focus," she whispered to herself. "Focus."

Zedekiah blinked fast, unleashing a nervous laugh. He set his dark eyes on Vincent's gut and lunged with the knife.

Without thought, Vincent grabbed the attacking right arm at the elbow and wrist. Tunnel vision formed. He closed his eyes, concentrating the Ch'i energy. In a lightning flash, Vincent twisted Zedekiah's arm, then twisted again. Bone shattered, muscles ripped. He twisted again, then again. Tendons snapped, blood vessels tore. Vincent opened his eyes, grinned just a bit, then yanked the arm violently, tearing it in half.

Zedekiah fell back on the floor, clutching a bloody stump, fear and panic coursing through his dark eyes.

Vincent stood confident, solid, a rock. He held that severed arm in a lethal grip and stared the madman down. "How's that pain thing workin' for ya now, Zed?"

Zedekiah grunted, huffing wildly. He jumped up and dashed to the workbench. He grabbed the bloodied steak knife and held it in front of him, backing up. "Stay back," he warned, pressing the stump against his ribs, blood pouring on the dusty floor.

"What's the matter, Zed?" Vincent asked, eyebrows raised.

"Be careful, Vince," T'ien warned, kneeling at Al-Hallaj's side.

Zedekiah jerked his head frantically, searching for a way out. He looked at his stump, then back at the severed arm. He shook his head, backing away, shocked, confused.

"There's nowhere to go," Vincent said. "It all ends here ... _now_."

Zedekiah tapped the black sludge of his soul, and said, "Nothing ever ends." He turned and darted into the tunnel. "It's all just beginning!"

Vincent didn't hesitate. Still clutching the bloody arm, he bolted after the madman.

Zedekiah ran down a westerly corridor, yellow lights hanging, lighting the way.

Vincent picked up his pace, reaching full speed, the quarter-inch holes in his gut tugging with every step.

Zedekiah ran underneath Michigan Avenue, knocking over crates, kicking wood staves onto the coal car tracks.

Vincent stumbled twice, and once lost sight of his prey, but the blood trail served him well.

Zedekiah stopped running. Breathing heavily, he stood at the boarded mechanical room tunnel to the Adipose building and began ripping loose boards from the side timbers.

Vincent stopped twenty feet away, out of breath. "Need a hand with that?" He tossed the bloody arm.

Zedekiah unleashed a primal scream as the severed arm landed at his feet. He crashed through the boards and tumbled into the darkness beyond.

Vincent charged in behind.

~

T'ien busied herself attending Al-Hallaj. "Keep pressure on the hip." She held his hand on the wound.

"I'm going to be fine." Al-Hallaj stood up, weak, stumbling.

"Rest." She guided him to a crate and sat him down.

"Damn it," Al-Hallaj scolded himself. He caught T'ien's eyes. "I had him.... I _had_ him."

"Vincent has him now. Everything's fine."

"You've got to go help him."

T'ien slowly stood up, her face expressionless.

" _Well_?" Al-Hallaj said, "What are you waiting for?"

T'ien nodded knowingly. "I'll send back help." She ran for the tunnel.

~

Vincent felt the earth become concrete, sloping sharply up into the darkness. He edged along the hard, wet wall, listening. He heard the dim roar of traffic, the drip of seeping water, the scurry of rats, the hum of electric motors. Vincent smelled old coal dust and rat dung. He pulled his hand from the wet wall and lightly tapped his tongue with his fingers. He tasted blood. Vincent heard footsteps, bolted forward, and tackled Zedekiah through a boarded doorway into the Adipose building's bright mechanical room.

Zedekiah kicked like a wild bull, stabbing Vincent twice in the right thigh.

Vincent rolled off.

They both hobbled to their feet.

"Hey!" a maintenance man shouted. "You guys can't be in here!"

Zedekiah jerked his head.

The maintenance man approached.

Zedekiah held up the knife and stared into the man's soul, daring him to take one step closer.

"No problems here," the man said, arms up, backing away, seeing the madman's blood spilling to the floor.

Zedekiah ran, dashing past spinning pumps and humming transformers.

Vincent ripped off his coat, tossed it, and picked up the chase.

~

T'ien followed the blood trail. She worked her way down the earthen tunnel to the broken boards and entered the darkness.

~

Zedekiah shot out of the mechanical room into a receiving bay. Five workers froze in their tracks, then took cover seeing the knife and blood. The receiving bay garages were occupied by FedEx and UPS trucks. Zedekiah searched for another way out.

Vincent raced in.

Zedekiah panicked and stumbled over scattered cartons.

"What's-a-matter, Zed?" Vincent asked, advancing. "Runnin' outa blood, are ya?"

Zedekiah snarled, threatening with the knife. He turned and ran through a metal swinging door.

Vincent followed, clutching his thigh.

~

T'ien entered the mechanical room and picked up the blood trail.

"Hey!" the maintenance man yelled.

T'ien paused.

"What the hell is going on here?" the man asked. "Who were those people?"

"The one with half an arm was the Viceman," T'ien said. "He injured my friend down in the tunnels. Call an ambulance." She turned and ran.

~

Zedekiah bolted into a mail room. Numerous people busied themselves, sorting, packing, pushing, shoving. Zedekiah slipped in unnoticed until blood splattered on the white envelopes.

"Oh, my God!"

"Sweet mother of mercy!"

"Somebody stop that—"

"Jesus Christ!"

Zedekiah lashed out, slashing at all who dared get in his way.

Vincent hobbled in. He saw the madman slamming through doors at the opposite end of the bay and ran after him.

"Hey! You can't—"

"Stop!"

"Holy shit!"

Zedekiah crashed through the doors into a massive atrium, a thirty story glass and steel masterpiece. His bloodied mess of a body was now warmed by the sparkling sun as its golden rays ricocheted from polished brass and chrome.

"My God, man!" a businessman yelled, jogging up to Zedekiah. "What happened?" The man saw the bloody stump, raised his head, then turned and fainted.

Vincent crashed through the atrium doors.

Zedekiah ran, losing blood, feeling cold. He shot across the atrium, knocking down people, raising screams and panic. He jerked his head, searching for an escape route, and crashed into a brass wall. Elevator doors opened. Zedekiah crawled in, reached up, slammed his hand against the buttons, and collapsed in the back corner. The doors began to close....

A hand jammed in.

The doors opened. Vincent hobbled onto the elevator, breathless, smiling, blood dripping from his chin. "Room for one more?" He limped in and collapsed on the floor opposite Zedekiah. The doors closed.

~

T'ien entered the mail room. Complete chaos began to grip the Adipose building, spreading fast across its internal networks. She took notice and paused. She walked, slowing her breathing, easing her thoughts.

~

_Ding ... ding ... ding_. The elevator ascended. Music softly played: Terry Jack's "Seasons In The Sun." _Ding ... ding ... ding_. Vincent sat silently, breathing hard, exhausted but calm, knowing his prey was trapped. _Ding ... ding ... ding_. Blood pooled at Zedekiah's side, streamed across the purple tile floor, and mixed with blood flowing from Vincent's leg. _Ding ... ding ... ding_. Crimson spit dripped from Vincent's lower lip as he kept his eyes on Zedekiah. _Ding ... ding_ — The elevator jerked. Zedekiah flinched. The doors opened.

Three laughing secretaries dropped dead silent, gawking at the bloody mess within. The doors closed.

_Ding ... ding ... ding_. Vincent fixed his stare deep into Zedekiah's dark eyes, slowed his breathing, and said, "Did you have a little mint jelly with that lamb, Zed?" Zedekiah clenched his teeth, his shark eyes swimming in rage, embarrassment. _Ding ... ding_ — The doors opened. Zedekiah quickly scanned the hallway and lunged forward, bolting from the elevator before Vincent could react.

~

T'ien opened the doors to the atrium, her breathing slow, deep, her body relaxed. People raced by her, frightened, screaming. The whole of the atrium echoed the chaos of panic. She followed the blood trail to the elevators and pressed the up arrow.

~

"Everybody get the fuck out of my way!" Zedekiah yelled, scrambling down the wide, carpeted hallways of the penthouse executive suites. He turned down a side hall, then turned again.

Women and men alike, screamed and shouted, pressed against walls, opened and slammed shut doors, jumped under desks. A lady fainted in front of Zedekiah. He stomped her pelvis running over her.

"Zed!" Vincent yelled, searching the hallway. "I know you're here! I see the blood!"

Zedekiah reached the end of the hall. A sweeping wood staircase circled upward twenty feet. He began climbing.

"Zed! I'm right behind you!" Vincent jerked his head, searching for blood, trying to catch a glimpse of a madman.

~

T'ien rode the elevator, pushing bloody buttons, searching each floor for the trail of pain. She began to feel her own panic stir. She pressed another button, slowed her breathing, and concentrated on thoughtless thought. The doors opened to a dumbfounded businessman on thirty-eight. T'ien politely smiled and pressed the Door Close button as she completely absorbed herself in the flow of Ch'i. The doors opened to nobody on twenty-six. She pressed the Door Close button, then quickly jammed her hand between the closing doors. The doors opened as she looked down the hallway.

A glowing light appeared.

T'ien's eyes widened.

A ten-year-old boy, his body glowing, his eyes blazing with silver starshine, floated into the elevator.

T'ien stood motionless, expressionless.

The boy turned and fixed his glittering eyes on T'ien. "Forty-eight, please."

T'ien's jaw dropped a tiny bit and a chill coursed through her blood as she realized the Ch'i had opened her to death's realm. She pressed the button. The doors closed.

They rode in complete silence to the forty-eighth floor. The doors opened. T'ien noticed the blood trail in the hall, then turned to the glowing child.

"Hurry," the child urged, fading. "Vincent needs you."

~

Zedekiah reached the top of the wood staircase. He ran down a short hall that ended at a tall mahogany door. He opened the door and looked into a massive room. A meeting was in progress. He quickly turned around, searching for another hiding place. He ran back to the stairs and saw Vincent at its base. Zedekiah ran back to the meeting room and swung open the door.

The meeting room, located at the top of the sliced glass tower, was the crown of the Adipose Natural Gas Conglomerate. An oval table, carved from mahogany, inlaid with black marble, sat toward the front. Twelve occupied low-back rolling chairs circled the table. One high-back chair, occupied by the President of Adipose, sat at the head of the table near sloping windows. Plush white carpeting hugged the floor. Rare oil paintings lined the wall with brass sconce lamps glowing above them. Across the room sat a male secretary, legs crossed, typing meeting minutes at a small desk.

Zedekiah slammed shut the door. The meeting became silent. All thirteen power brokers turned from their takeover schemes of a minor propane company and looked at the madman.

Zedekiah's head flinched, surveying the room, the people.

"Sir, please," said the young secretary. He stood up and walked to Zedekiah. "You shouldn't be— _Oh, my_." He cupped his hand over his mouth, staring at the blood. "You have a nasty wound there. Let me—"

Zedekiah slashed the secretary's throat.

"My God, man!"

"Just what the hell do you think—"

"Somebody call security!"

" _Ahh_!" the Lobbying Director yelled. "What have you done?" He raced to the bloody secretary and lovingly scooped him up in his arms. "You bastard! What have you done?"

" _This_." Zedekiah slashed the lobbyist's throat.

The remaining businessmen fell silent, moving cautiously from their chairs.

"And just where the fuck do we think we're going?" Zedekiah asked, feeling lightheaded. He shoved his stump firmly against his ribs. " _You_ ," Zedekiah said, looking at Bill Stramble, Director of Production. "C'mere."

The tall, skinny albino man froze.

"I said get the fuck over here. _Now_!"

"No, please. I have a wife, three kids. _Please_."

"Quit your whining and give me your tie." Zedekiah walked forward.

Bill quickly loosened his violet tie and handed it over.

"Strap it around this thing." Zedekiah held out his stump.

Bill, hands shaking, applied the tourniquet.

Vincent crashed open the meeting room door.

Zedekiah spun. "People are still dying because of you, Mr. Goss." Zedekiah whipped around and slit Bill Stramble's throat. "It's all your fault!"

Vincent cringed, watching blood spill from the man's throat. He turned his head and saw two more dead. "Fuck you, Zed." Vincent advanced. "You're the one. You're doin' all the killin', not me."

" _Oh?_ It's _me_?" Zedekiah said. "These people died because of _you_.... Just like your boy died—"

"Now see here," Mr. Hoffingwell, the President, interjected. "This madness must stop." Mr. Hoffingwell stood short, bald and fat, a weak chin and dishonest eyes his most distinguishable features.

Zedekiah stared at the President who stood at the end of the oval table. The devil grinned.

"I am the President of this company," said Mr. Hoffingwell, his voice blind arrogance. "As such, I cannot condone this violent display of—"

Zedekiah walked toward the President.

"I hold a lot of power," Mr. Hoffingwell said, knees quaking, backing up against a slanted window. "I can—"

" _What?_ " Zedekiah asked. "You can _what_? Give me a job?" He looked at the reports scattered on the table, picked one up and saw the takeover plans of a mom-and-pop propane company, a list of people to be terminated. "Planning a bit of downsizing, are ya?" Zedekiah raised a crooked grin, licking his teeth, his dark eyes on the bloody bodies. "I could be the hatchet man." Zedekiah maneuvered behind Mr. Hoffingwell and applied the blade to his throat.

"Enough!" Vincent yelled from the rear of the table.

"People are still dying, Mr. Goss," said Zedekiah. "It is all your fault."

"Let him go!" Vincent demanded.

Zedekiah cocked his head to the side, his eyebrows raised. "Or what?"

"Let him go. _Now_!"

" _Tut, tut, tut, shhh_." Zedekiah held an arrogant grin, relishing his retrieval of power.

Vincent moved forward.

Zedekiah drew up the blade hard against Mr. Hoffingwell's second chin. " _Ah, ah, ah_ , don't move, or I assassinate the President."

" _Please_ ," Mr. Hoffingwell begged, shaking, urine trickling down his legs. "I can give you anything you want. _Anything_."

Zedekiah moved his mouth close to Mr. Hoffingwell's ear. "You can give me _nothing_ , you ignorant fuck. People like you make me sick. You sit in your glass towers, bowing down to money like it's God almighty. Look around." Zedekiah grabbed the remnants of the President's hair and forced him to look at the dead bodies scattered on the floor. "There's a new God in town." Zedekiah jerked Mr. Hoffingwell's face close to his, and said, "Now you bow down to _me_."

"Let him go," Vincent said, unsettled by the madman's faith.

"Or what? You're going to kill me?" Zedekiah looked at his bloody stump, felt the cold of his body. "I'm already going to die." He stared at Mr. Hoffingwell with raging intensity. "These people, on the other hand, seem to need a little help."

"No," Vincent said. "Just let—"

"Just like your son needed my help." Zedekiah searched Vincent's eyes ... There it was, just a small spark, but detectable none-the-less. "Yes," Zedekiah continued, a smile gripping him. "Poor little retard didn't know why it happened."

Vincent ground his teeth. "Let him go. Come finish me."

"Poor little baby. Daddy told him nobody would ever hurt him." Zedekiah raised his brow. "You _lied_ to your son, Mr. Goss. That makes you a bad father."

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, tensing.

"Bad father. _Bad_."

Vincent narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips.

"Does he call out to you? Does he come to you in your dreams?" Zedekiah closed his eyes and mocked in a stuttering voice, " _Daddy, you killed me_."

" _You_ killed him, not me," Vincent said.

"No," Zedekiah said, eyes wide. "I was just on vacation. You're the one who moved your family into my house. That sweet family of yours. How is your wife these days? Does she ask about me?"

Vincent's stomach boiled. He jerked his head and stared toward the paintings on the wall.

" _Does she,_ Mr. Goss? Does she call out my name when you fuck her?"

Vincent jerked his head the other way.

"Can she even feel your little prick inside her anymore?"

Vincent snapped his head and glared at Zedekiah.

"Ol' _kissy kiss_ just wasn't the same after she had a _real_ man, was it?"

Vincent clenched his fists, spring steel coiling in his forearms, a vein popping on his forehead.

~

T'ien bolted into the meeting room and took quick stock of the situation.

~

Zedekiah smiled, then slit Mr. Hoffingwell's throat. "Nothing quite like sinking your cock into some virgin pussy."

"I'll _kill_ you!" Vincent charged forward.

"No!" T'ien shouted, scrambling after Vincent.

Zedekiah launched the bloody knife. It flew past Vincent's head, missing by an inch, and found soft flesh beyond.

"You're fuckin' dead!" Vincent screamed.

Zedekiah backed up and spread his arm and stump to the charge.

Vincent tackled the devil with every ounce of strength left in his battered body. They tumbled back and shattered glass, crashing through the window. Vincent grabbed the madman's throat in a death grip as they slid down the slanted glass of Adipose. "I'll _kill_ you! I'll fuckin' _kill_ you!" Blood smeared the glass. People in offices below looked up and watched the pair quickly slide to the drop-off.

Vincent's foot caught the steel edging on the twenty-eighth floor. He lost his grip on Zedekiah. The bloody pair plummeted side by side—Zedekiah facing the white snow below, Vincent facing the blue sky above.

The chaotic world became silent save for the cold wind rushing by. The free-fall played in slow motion. Vincent turned to Zedekiah and smiled, watching him fall, knowing death was a second away.

Zedekiah jerked abruptly. The spearing eagle on top of the Adipose flag pole pierced his stomach, ripped through lungs, and tore out his spine.

Vincent landed hard in the snow, crashing deep into the winter white piled high at the flag pole's base. Broken body be damned, Vincent could still see. Yes, he watched through an open patch of snow as Zedekiah, impaled through the gut, slid down the flag pole to bid Vincent farewell.

Zedekiah's bloody, ripped body came to a slow stop on the widening pole, mere inches from Vincent.

They stared hard at each other, nose to blood dripping nose.

Zedekiah lifted his head a bit, blood flowing from his mouth. His lips quivered, trying to form words that wouldn't come, couldn't come.

Vincent slowly raised his hand and pressed his index finger on the bloody lips above. With ice in his veins, Vincent whispered, " _Tut, tut, tut, shhh_. Just die, you son of ah bitch. Just die." Vincent smiled at the devil, watching the life drain from Zedekiah's cold, dark eyes.

Vincent sighed and let go, his muscles loosening, the world spinning, light fading....

# Chapter 21

"Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and

Hell followed with him."

—Holy Bible: Revelation

Oblivion ... 00.01.12

The ground exploded. Oblivion shook angrily, its flint surface cracking, launching ball lightning, ricocheting it from the block structures of Vagary Heights. The sky swirled with dark, purple clouds, neon-blue rain pummeled the horizon, quickly advancing.

Vincent awoke to the disorder and jerked his head, searching the chaos of Vagary. He sprang to his feet and saw people fleeing, white plasma splattering, Thaddy hobbling, men on horseback close behind.

Panic struck Vincent. He raced toward the edge of Vagary. Ball lightning exploded and knocked him down. He shook the cobwebs from his head and checked for plasma wounds. He jumped to his feet, brushed off his skin tunic, then looked up as plasma flashed brilliant white once more, illuminating the face of the devil himself.

Zedekiah stared down from his abused white steed with blazing intensity. The devil wore black skin pants and bone sandals, a black cape was tied at his neck with a human scalp hood crumpled on his shoulders. His chest was bare white and smooth save where jagged wounds were cut through the ribcage. He kept the ripped flesh from healing by forcing it open with bone fragments. His cold dead heart sat exposed within.

The devil, riding bareback, circled his horse, surveying his foe. Zedekiah's fake, black hair flowed in soft waves to his shoulders. His face was smooth, white marble, chiseled at the cheeks, soft and subtle at the lips. His eyes ... those cold, dark eyes held a certain glory now, a new awareness, not as fierce, yet somehow more dangerous. Ghastly, grisly conviction glistened in their centers.

"Long time no see, Zed!" Vincent yelled, his voice battling plasma bursts.

Zedekiah's expression didn't change as he stared down from his steed, his face awash with stone cold power.

Vincent spun around, hearing hoof beats. Twenty Riders galloped from the chaos of Vagary Heights.

"My Savior! We have found the boy!" a white Rider yelled, yanking on his human gut bridal, guiding his horse close to his Savior.

The Riders all gathered their maimed horses around Zedekiah, jockeying for position.

A black Rider, wearing only white skin pants, his flesh marred by open wounds, bumped his horse through the crowd. He reached behind to the skinned back of his steed, then yanked Thaddy in the air by the nape of his neck. "My Savior—the child!"

Thaddy, his eyes sparkling, gazed down upon Vincent.

"You son of ah bitch! Let him go!" Vincent yelled, his face crunched in anger. He charged forward.

The Rider tossed the child. Zedekiah caught Thaddy by his throat and drew him close, nose to nose. He stared hard into the boy's sparkling eyes, searching, smiling.

"Let him go!" Vincent yelled, advancing on Zedekiah.

The Riders rode in front of Vincent. Their mangled horses bumped him, knocking him to the ground.

Zedekiah's steed slowly walked forward. Ball lightning exploded, spooking the horse, rearing the beast up on his hindquarters. The horse whinnied, unnerved by the chaos. It came down sharply, its front hooves splintering flint.

"Let him go!" Vincent demanded. "The kid means nothin' to you!"

Zedekiah's face became rock hard. He pierced Vincent with a powerful gaze. "It has been many, many years, Mr. Goss. I was beginning to think you would never die." White plasma flashed, backlighting the devil in all his glory. "I'm so glad you could finally join us."

Zedekiah turned to the Riders. He traced his index finger from his throat to his stomach.

The Riders whipped into a frenzy, yelling, screaming, leaping from their horses. They advanced on Vincent, reaching into their flesh clothing, retrieving stone age tools: flint axes and knives, small spears and hammers, bone sickles and clubs.

Vincent scrambled backward, his feet sliding on the loose rubble. He watched in horror as the self-mutilated mob bore down. An ax swung. Vincent blocked with his forearm. The sharp weapon cut halfway through his wrist. He stared in agonized rage at Zedekiah and saw a menacing evil dance in the devil's eyes, savoring the torment.

"Mr. Goss, I see you have yet to embrace the pain." Zedekiah grinned. "Oh, what pleasure—"

Ball lightning exploded, shadowing Zedekiah as a dark silhouette against the brilliant flash.

From out of nowhere, another dark form shot through the air. A man hell-bent on destruction. A knife poised to strike!

"Son of Vishnu! Glipp will be saving you!" Glipp tackled Zedekiah from his horse. They landed sprawled out on the ground. Glipp plunged his bone knife deep into Zedekiah's chest, then withdrew, backing up, yanking Thaddy from the horse to his side. " _Nobody_ ," Glipp said, his voice energized by blind faith, "not even the _devil himself_ , is bringing harm to the son of Vishnu!"

Zedekiah slowly stood up, unfazed, healing. He waved off help from the Riders as he hovered over his attacker, nearly a foot taller. "And who might you be?" Zedekiah asked, his power-rich eyes disbelieving the insolence.

"Glipp."

"What the hell is a _Glipp_?"

Glipp tugged Thaddy closer. "Glipp is being me."

Zedekiah advanced.

Glipp threatened with the knife. "Hell was being a fine place until you are arriving."

Zedekiah paused, cocking his head. "Fine was it?"

"Yes. Then you come screwing it up for all!"

Zedekiah searched Glipp's eyes. "My friend," he motioned at the Riders, "it's hard to believe you haven't found pleasure in my paradise." Zedekiah grinned. "What can I do to make it better for you?" He raised his brow. "Pain? Are you in too much pain?"

Glipp fidgeted, blinking fast, jerking his head at the advancing Riders. "Glipp is always being in pain."

"Well then," Zedekiah said with a calm face of power, "it would be my pleasure to relieve it." He turned to the Riders and commanded, "Seal his head!"

Five Riders held Vincent, the rest swarmed Glipp, slicing and hacking. Glipp struggled, lashing out with his blade. He was quickly overcome, vanquished by the rabid mob. The Riders jerked Thaddy away and handed him to their Savior.

Zedekiah walked to Glipp and pried the bone knife from his hand. "What did you think you were going to do with this?"

"Glipp will be hurting you, evil dog of Kali!"

"Hurt _me_?" Zedekiah's brow raised. He thrust the knife into his own eye, twisted the blade, and scraped the socket clean. "Pain is what it's all about, my friend." He withdrew the knife, nodded to his followers, then flung the eye on the ground.

Nine Riders held Glipp: two on each ankle, two on each arm, one holding his head by his dark wavy hair. A greasy-fat Rider, his gray eyes on Glipp, held aloft a flint knife. He sliced Glipp's face from the bridge of his nose, over his forehead, across his scalp, to the base of his neck.

"No!" Vincent yelled, his wrist regenerated, struggling against his captors. "Let him go!"

Glipp didn't flinch as the knife carved down his back; he never cried out. He smiled. They ripped the scalp from his skull and he just smiled. Glipp looked at Thaddy. "Glipp is being sorry, son of Vishnu." The skin was torn from his face. "Glipp was losing faith. It is returning!"

Vincent dropped to his knees hopelessly pleading. "Don't do this!"

Thaddy watched in silence, his eyes blazing with starshine.

The greasy-fat Rider yanked the skin from Glipp's head, sliced him across the shoulders, and ripped the flesh from his arms. He sliced his torso and tore the skin from front and back. Glipp's abdominal muscles gave way, spilling intestines at his feet. The Rider cut across the pelvis and ripped the flesh from his hips, thighs, and scrotum. Glipp's testicles dangled by two thin strings. The Rider raised an evil grin, then yanked them off. Glipp flinched, but remained silent. The Riders knocked Glipp flat on the ground, ripping the flesh from his legs, from his feet.

Thaddy hobbled in front of Zedekiah as the torment continued. "Please," the child said, "you have me now. Let my friends go."

Zedekiah turned his head slowly and stared into the boy's sparkling eyes. He looked up at the swirling purple clouds, the pulsing crimson sky beyond, then back at the child. "You're the key, aren't you?"

The Riders sawed through Glipp's neck with a serrated femur. They yanked off his head and held it above his decapitated corpse. The flesh on Glipp's face began regenerating as the Riders ripped into his corpse's midsection and cut out his stomach and gallbladder. They sliced open the stomach and sewed it and the gallbladder to the base of Glipp's neck. His spine tried to grow, but the stomach acid halted regeneration. The frenzied Riders presented the sealed head to their Savior.

Zedekiah held the head aloft by the regenerated hair as glowing blue rain began falling, splattering, carrying the caustic stench of foul vinegar.

Vincent struggled against his captors, and yelled, "The kid! Get him outa the rain!"

Zedekiah turned to Thaddy and grinned. "Weren't meant for this world, were you?" He watched the acid burn Thaddy's face, saw his bloodied hands and leg. "I'll be getting you home soon enough." Zedekiah tossed Glipp's head to a Rider, peeled off his cape, covered Thaddy, jumped on his horse, and yanked the boy aboard. Zedekiah grabbed Glipp's head, walked his steed to Vincent, and held the head in front of him.

Glipp winked at Vincent.

"Goddamn you, Zedekiah!" Vincent yelled.

Zedekiah flashed a stony look of supreme power. "Why would I damn _myself_?" He dropped the head at Vincent's feet and raised a slippery smile. "Welcome to paradise, Mr. Goss. Enjoy your stay." He turned to the Riders. "Seal his head!" Zedekiah whipped his horse and galloped into the rain.

The Riders wailed and screamed, converging on their prey like wild dogs. Vincent fought back, twisting, snapping, breaking bones and crushing throats with his lethal grip. The Riders proved too many, quickly subduing Vincent, two riders on each leg, four on each arm. They yanked back his head. Vincent cried out as the caustic rain pelted his face, burned down his nose.

"Skin him!" a Rider yelled.

"Skin him! Skin him!" they all began to chant.

Vincent squirmed as he saw the flint blade. He clenched his teeth and snarled, struggling to break free.

The greasy-fat Rider made the first cut. Vincent felt the knife slice his forehead and scalp. He yelled as the blade worked its way down his neck and back. The Rider tucked the knife in his skin pants and reached into the scalp incision. He worked his fingers under the skin, took a firm hold and yanked the skin from his head.

Vincent screamed as the pain of the ripping flesh sent shock waves through his body. Fear gripped him as he watched the skin pull from around his eyes, his nose. He felt his ears rip off. " _Stop!_ " Vincent pleaded.

The Riders laughed, taking pleasure in the torture. The chant intensified. "Skin him! Skin him!"

Vincent screamed again as the acid fell, gnawing his open wounds. They yanked the skin from his lips and chin—

From out of nowhere, a rock struck a Rider....

The greasy-fat Rider stopped cutting, and spun around. A rock smashed his head, knocking him to the ground. Then another rock hit. Then yet another. Soon a hailstorm of rocks, large and small, rained in on the Riders.

Vincent collapsed to the ground. He saw the Riders back away, retreating from the onslaught. Vincent jumped to his feet and ran, seeking refuge in the twisted chaos of Vagary Heights.

At the edge of the shelters, the remaining residents of Vagary took aim, launching flint missiles in vast numbers. Vincent ran past them, angry, confused, and took shelter out of the rain.

The outraged Riders mounted their horses and rode toward Vagary. The rocks kept flying, hitting the horses. The steeds bucked the Riders off their tattered backs and galloped away. The Riders cursed the people of Vagary, promising vengeance. Their threats were met with stone. The Riders retreated, chasing their horses back into the valley, back to the fortress.

Vincent huddled in the corner of a small block shelter as his face regenerated. He watched the neon-blue rain splatter outside his doorway, wondering how in hell he was going to rescue Thaddy.

A man walked in holding a rock. He was old, withered, wearing a wrinkled tan robe, a gray beard to his chest.

Vincent shot a look of death at him. "Why'd you wait so long?"

The old man bowed his head. "I'm sorry." His voice was ancient, gasping. "We cower from the devil, not his followers. With them we fight, they still fear the pain, we stand a chance." The old man looked up at Vincent. "With the devil, there is no chance. He holds no fear."

Vincent shook his head. "You saw what he did to my friend. How could you stand by and let that happen?"

The old man slowly turned and walked toward the door. He paused, gazing at the storm. "In Vagary, we exist in constant fear. In another life, another world, a man could kill himself for the shame of such actions. Here, it's just one more fate worse than death."

Vincent was not appeased.

The old man hung his head and sighed. "I'm sorry about your friends." He started walking away.

"Wait," Vincent said, rubbing his regenerated cheek, his chin.

The old man stopped.

Vincent sighed a bit and offered, "Thank you."

The old man slowly nodded once, watching the storm, then walked away.

Vincent slumped back against the flint wall, weighing his options, replaying the current events in his head. "Zedekiah said the boy was the key. The key to what?" Vincent shook his head. "Goddamn it, kid, what've you gone and got yourself into?"

Vincent sighed, recalling his past, remembering Zedekiah impaled by the flagpole. He closed his eyes and replayed his last flashback. He saw it a hundred times, the life draining from those cold, dark eyes, but that was it. No more.

Vincent's memory was complete.

# Chapter 22

"The wretch, concentrated all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence [she] sprung,

Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung."

—Sir Walter Scott

"The Lay of the Last Minstrel"

Chicago, IL ... Winter

"This is Pam Navon, _Action Seven News_ , broadcasting _live_ from the Adipose building on Michigan Avenue. Wait. Excuse me, can you tell me what's going on?"

Pam, a diminutive creature of five feet, stood in the chaotic atrium of the Adipose building, thrusting her wireless microphone at all who ran past. The frightened people barely acknowledged her as she flitted about in a black pleated miniskirt, sheer white blouse, black bra, and short, furry coat.

"Please— What's— Excuse me— Please— I— Just one— Excuse me, I—"

Pam was working across the street at the Cultural Center, interviewing the librarian on the detriment of unreturned books to the city's budget, when her cameraman's police scanner sang out, "Blood and mayhem at Adipose!" It was the kind of news that raced chills across her scalp, prickling her puffy blonde hair, black roots and all.

"You— Can you— I just want— Excuse me— I—"

Pam had recently left her husband and Cincinnati's _Channel 5 News Team_ to transfer to Illinois. Just twenty-nine years old, she was ready to tackle Chicago, ready to make it big, no matter the cost.

"You— Just a minute— Can I— Wait!"

Nobody stopped: businessmen, secretaries, accountants, white collar, blue collar, nobody cared to talk to the over-ambitious reporter.

Pam turned to the camera. "Umm, as you can plainly see, chaos has gripped the Adipose tower. Uhh ..."

The camera panned across the atrium. The police had arrived. A half-dozen of Chicago's finest gathered at the elevators, unholstering weapons, forming a plan.

"Excuse me," Pam butted in, rushing toward the elevators. "Can you tell me what's happening?"

A tall, stern sergeant walked up to Pam. "Lady, you shouldn't be here."

"Why?" she asked.

"This is a dangerous situation," the officer said. "Leave. _Now_."

"Leave _what_?" Pam thrust out the microphone. "What's going on?"

"Please, lady, I—"

" _Mss_ ," Pam cut in.

"Please, _Mzz_." The sergeant rolled his eyes. "Leave the building immediately."

Pam held firm, her fake eyelashes whipping angrily. "What are you trying to hide?"

"Lady, we aren't—"

The elevator door opened.

"Oh, my God!" Pam yelled, seeing the bloody mess within.

A young accountant stumbled off the elevator, his hand over his mouth. Pam grabbed him by his sleeve. "Can you tell me what's happening?"

The man shook his head.

"Why not?" Pam yanked the man's hand away from his mouth. "Talk to me."

The accountant vomited on Pam's high heels.

"I'm sorry," he said, wiping his mouth.

Pam was dumbfounded, repulsed. "What's going on here?"

"It's a freakin' madhouse." The man jerked his head in a panic. "People dying everywhere!"

"Lady, I'm not going to tell you again," the sergeant warned, boarding the elevator.

Pam smiled disobediently, then turned back to the accountant. "People are dying? Who? How many?"

The man began huffing. " _Who?_ I don't know _who_. There's blood everywhere. People running around with no arms, their throats slit." The man shoved the reporter aside. "Leave me be! Let me out of here!" He ran for the doors.

Pam turned to the camera. "It seems we, uhh, have death at Adipose. Umm, I think upstairs somewhere. Umm, I uhh—"

"You're going to have to leave, lady," an officer said, grabbing Pam by her arm.

"What are you doing?" Pam asked. "The people have a right to know!"

"I was just radioed, lady, I—"

" _Mss_."

"Whatever, lady. It's time to go. This scene is still hot." The officer led Pam through the lobby.

Pam stumbled as her high heels caught the grout of the tile floor. "It's obvious," she said to the camera, struggling against the officer, "that there's something to hide here at Adipose!"

"Nothing to hide," the officer said. "Just doing our job." He swung open the doors to the cold winter wind and guided Pam outside. They entered the courtyard, nearing the mound of snow surrounding the flag pole.

Pam heard a crash, breaking glass. She jerked her head and looked up.

The officer stopped and peered skyward. He watched shattered glass slide over the slanted edge of the building, quickly followed by two bloody men.

"My God!" Pam yelled at the cameraman. "Are you getting this?!"

The two men fell quickly, one into the mound of snow, one impaled by the flagpole. Blood splattered everywhere.

"Holy shit!" Pam yelled, giddy with excitement. "Did you get that?" She yanked the camera her way. "Uhh, you just saw _live_ , umm—" She tried to beat down a smile, her face speckled with blood. "—two men fell. It looks like one might be, uhh, possibly dead. Umm ..."

The officer released Pam and clambered up the snow pile.

Pam whipped her head about, scanning the scene. The streets surrounding the Adipose building were littered with flashing lights: police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, all available emergency vehicles.

Pam met the camera with dreams of a Pulitzer. "Uhh, it seems," she watched an immense black man and a half-dozen policemen climb the snow pile, "that help has arrived. I'm, uhh ..." She turned to the camera. "I'm going up to see what's happening."

She tucked her microphone into her coat pocket and began climbing the snow pile. The cameraman stayed on the ground, his camera broadcasting Pam's pink thong panties to a massive live audience. She quickly made it to the top, losing only one shoe.

The immense black man was digging frantically, flinging red, slushy snow in the air. Five policemen assisted, shoveling with their night sticks.

Pam yanked the microphone from her coat. "Excuse me." She nudged between two officers, thrusting out her microphone. "Who are these people?"

"This guy right here?" The immense man reached an arm under the injured man's back. "Nothin' less than a hero."

"Who is—" Pam paused, sickened as the immense man shifted to the side and exposed the bloody corpse impaled on the pole. "What about _him_?" she asked, nearly gagging.

"That momby jomby right there?" the immense man asked. "That would be the Viceman."

The officers froze. They stared at each other, then at the corpse.

Pam's heart raced madly.

The immense man freed his friend from the snow. "Hang in there, Vince. Help's-a-comin'."

"How do you know these people?" Pam asked. "Who are you?"

"My friends call me Short Rib," the immense man said. "Now move your skinny ass out of my way."

"Lady," an officer said, grabbing Pam's arm. "You shouldn't be here." He began guiding her down the snow pile.

"No! _Wait_!" Pam yelled, fighting for her story. "That's the _Viceman_ up there! People want to know!"

"And they will, lady," the officer said. "Just as soon as the scene is secured."

The cameraman followed Pam and her police escort to the bottom of the snow pile. Once on the ground, she yanked her arm free of the officer's grip.

"You just screwed up!" Pam pointed a finger in the cop's face. "People want to know!"

The officer stared hard at Pam Navon. He looked at the camera, then back at her. "Start thinking of someone besides yourself, lady." He shook his head in disgust. "Those men have family and friends. Let the people read about it if they want. Don't throw it in their faces." He turned to the snow pile and climbed.

Pam's face showed guilt as she spun to the camera. "I, uhh, well, I was up there," she said, regaining her composure, her cold heart. " _I_ , Pam Navon, at _Action Seven News_ , was _first_ on the scene at the death of the Viceman!

# Chapter 23

"The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men

alone are quite capable of every wickedness."

—Joseph Conrad

Under Western Eyes, Part 2

Oblivion ... 00.01.13

Zedekiah jerked the reins of his tattered steed and guided it out of Vagary Heights, down into the valley, the storm close behind.

Thaddy rode willingly, succumbing to his fate, his knowing eyes basking in starshine.

The horse broke full gallop, slowing at the edge of a raging confluence. Two seething, blue rivers joined as one, rushing madly, cascading over the edge of a great canyon. A thundering energy pulsed through the still air, a roar akin to rushing water, but thicker, more violent, maddening. Across the river stood the protective wall of the fortress. Block upon block, two thousand feet wide, seventy-five feet thick, five hundred feet high, reinforced at four hundred foot intervals by massive ramparts.

The horse whinnied loudly as it was prodded forward, its hooves slapping the edge of the acid river.

A man appeared across the river at the corner of the fortress wall, then three more, then twenty, then hundreds, then thousands. Guards in skin pants and bone sandals swarmed around the men, bludgeoning the naked mass with flint axes and hammers, forcing them toward the river. One by one, they entered, howling, screaming, submerging themselves in the rushing acid. More men plunged in, piling upon the poor souls melting below. The river began churning and splashing over the lumps of flesh and bone. A chain began to form—a human bridge. More men submerged, adding strength to the pilings. They intertwined themselves, lying flat, arm in arm, leg locked to the person in front. The river fought back, splattering acid on the bridge surface, flooding the bank.

Zedekiah smacked his horse. The steed protested and reared up, nearly tossing the child. Zedekiah sharply yanked the reins and whipped the horse again. It relented and galloped across the human bridge, its hooves snapping spines, smashing skulls and scattering teeth. It was eerie the sounds, the soft puttering of horse hooves pounding human flesh, the agonized moans and cries of the bridge surface. _Oh,_ how Zedekiah enjoyed the timbre of lamentation, sweet music of oblivion.

Thaddy gazed upon the lost souls of the bridge as they stared up, their faces in pain, feeling it, knowing its meaning, its purpose.

The horse reached the opposite bank, its legs burned to the bone by acid, its eyes screaming in agony. Zedekiah whipped the steed again, guiding it down the edge of the massive wall. The horse galloped over a half-mile, passing tens-of-thousands of men gathering stone.

Each guard bowed as their Savior rode past, offering salute. "My Savior! The pain is eternal!"

Zedekiah paid no attention as he whipped his horse around the front of the towering wall. Hundreds-of-thousands of workers appeared, chipping away at the mountains, laying block on a quarter-mile stretch of unfinished wall.

Zedekiah slowed his horse, surveying his monument to eternal pain. He turned to Thaddy. "Is it not magnificent?"

The boy didn't reply.

Zedekiah laughed, guiding his horse through the open wall. The horse stumbled on loose rubble and lunged forward, breaking its lower front leg on jagged rock, tossing Thaddy and Zedekiah as it collapsed to the ground.

Workers by the hundreds, their eyes swimming in fear, rushed to the aid of their Savior.

"Get back to work!" Zedekiah demanded, standing up, shoving the crowd away. He walked in front of the horse. The animal lay on its side struggling to stand, suffering, huffing rancid air, its scared eyes staring up at the devil. Zedekiah stomped on the horse's head. The steed whinnied in agony. He stomped again, then turned to his workers. "Tear this thing apart."

"Yes, my Savior!" The workers swarmed on the horse, kicking, hammering, ripping it apart with stone age tools.

Thaddy clutched his injured leg, knelt down, and gazed into the scared eyes of the tattered beast.

The steed whinnied and bucked, feeling its body being mutilated. But then it began to settle, relaxing its muscles, staring at the child. It saw the boy's bloody hands, his injured hip, his eyes of silver starshine. The horse found warmth in those glittering eyes, peace.

Thaddy stroked the horse's face, feeling the animal's anguish, knowing its pain.

The steed snorted, closed its eyes, and succumbed to its fate.

The workers ripped off the horse's head. "My Savior, what would you have us do with it?"

Zedekiah, indifference etched across his smooth face, said, "Make tools of the bones, tan the flesh, toss the rest in the river." He turned for home, yanking Thaddy with him.

The fortress rose from the ground in five stepped levels, like the bottom half of a pyramid, each receding level measuring twenty feet tall. A massive arched entry loomed at the jutting front of the bottom level, two glowing pools of acid at either side. Guards stood solid near the archway, dressed in white skin pants and bone sandals, their open wounds profuse.

Zedekiah passed the guards. They offered him glory. He paid no attention and entered a long, arched hallway. Glowing acid snaked down either side, winding through channels carved in the flint block floor. The passageway was tinted a hazy blue, lighting the guards who stood firmly against the walls. Next to the guards squatted large hollowed blocks of gray flint. Tanned flesh was stretched tight across the tops of the block to form drums. The guards began striking the moody instruments as their Savior passed. The beat was slow, rhythmic, composed in a manner to exalt, to praise.

Short archways punctured the main hall on both sides. There were doorways to countless block rooms, dormitories for a million lost souls, promising each a chance at eternal pain.

The main hall ended at another archway, opening up to a massive room. It was an enormous chamber with curved walls and a domed ceiling that was chiseled high into the upper levels of the fortress. The pounding drums reverberated haunting echoes throughout the chamber as Zedekiah walked in.

"My Savior!" hundreds of guards and Riders sang out. "By Your glory we suffer!"

Zedekiah paused to survey the room. The black flint floor shined. An eerie-blue haze was captured in its reflective surface. Horses whinnied at the far walls on either side, trapped behind wide channels of acid, their mutilated heads bucking in protest. Glowing acid snaked its way throughout the chamber, stinking, pooling at the arched entry, streaming past the horses to the center of the room where it formed a narrow moat around an altar built of receding circular stone platforms—steps to a throne. The throne was solid, strong, intimidating, created to exhibit ultimate power and fear. It was built of black block and covered in fresh skins, layers of white, tan, black and yellow flesh padding the thick arms and seat. The back arched like a ten-foot tombstone with a large hole chiseled through its top representing the sun. Behind the throne rose a black fifty-foot monolith with a twisting snake hammered completely through it. The snake glowed blue as it slithered down to the head of the throne, its open mouth devouring the sun.

Zedekiah yanked Thaddy and walked toward the throne. Riders and guards threw themselves at Zedekiah's feet.

"By Your glory we suffer!" one guard praised.

"Within pain lies paradise!" another exalted.

"Pain and the Savior are one!"

"The pain shall never be forsaken!"

"Only by pain may I find bliss!"

Zedekiah climbed the thirteen steps to his throne. He slowly turned. The drums fell silent. The masses bowed before him. Zedekiah held Thaddy aloft by his neck and triumphantly shouted, "I have found the key to limbo!"

A roar echoed throughout the chamber, cheers and salutes, fearful praise for the devil himself. The drums sounded, pounding hard and fast. Zedekiah lowered Thaddy, then thrust him in the air once more. More cheers, louder drums! He did it again. The frenzied mob's roar became deafening, shaking the solid fortress walls. The mutilated crowd swarmed the throne's base, praising their leader. Zedekiah curved up a wicked grin. He released Thaddy and supremely sat upon his throne, reveling in the pain of his followers.

Through the sea of writhing agony jostled a short, old man named Hashmell. Dressed in a black skin toga and bare feet, he swam past the rabid guards and wild-eyed Riders and took refuge upon the stone shore at the base of Zedekiah's throne. Once free of the seething masses, the old man turned to the crowd, his shallow, wrinkled face snarling his contempt.

Hashmell was a crooked man, his body bent by guilt and remorse. He was the most intelligent man in oblivion, the man who cracked open the doorway to the animal plane of existence. It was Hashmell who made it possible for the frightened steeds to come rot in hell, and it was he who was working his lock picks on limbo's gateway.

Hashmell nervously rubbed his bony, spotted hands and clicked his tongue, making soft cricket chirps. His rat eyes surveyed the crowd in disgust. He ran a hand over his bald head, smoothing down liver spots, then turned to the altar.

Zedekiah stared down upon Hashmell, scanning his body, seeing no wounds propped open with bone.

"My Savior," said Hashmell, his sandpaper voice discreetly edged in contempt. "By your grace I suffer."

Zedekiah raised a crooked grin, knowing well of Hashmell's abhorrence of pain, taking pleasure in his suffering, knowing it was felt at more levels than most. Zedekiah, although displeased by Hashmell's dislike of eternal agony, respected him none-the-less. Without Hashmell, the process of sealing heads may never have been discovered. Without sealed heads, Zedekiah would have been a minor force in oblivion. With them, he ruled supreme, offering all who didn't bow to his painful promise of eternal bliss a fate worse than hell itself. It was Hashmell he had to thank for that.

"My horse," said Zedekiah, "it exists no more. I need you to retrieve another."

Hashmell grinned uneasily, wringing his hands, staring at the horses already gathered in the chamber. "My Savior," he turned back to the throne, "we already have so many."

Zedekiah paid no attention. "I want the horse to be solid black." He focused his glorified dark eyes on Hashmell. "Get two, they're not holding up very well here in paradise."

Hashmell flinched at that word, "paradise," and cringed by Zedekiah's knowing smile. "Yes, my Savior. But the acid," Hashmell said, thinking a way out, "there isn't enough to—"

"It's on the way." Zedekiah raised his brow, daring Hashmell to resist again. "The storms chased us into the valley."

Hashmell jerked his head, looked toward the high ceiling above the throne, and nervously stared at a thousand dark holes riddling the block. He slowly backed up. "Yes, my Savior. Two horses, immediately."

Zedekiah smiled with power and grabbed Thaddy. "Take the boy, you'll be needing him soon."

Hashmell turned to the child and stared at his sparkling eyes, his bloody hands. "By Your glory I suffer," Hashmell offered the devil, guiding Thaddy from the throne.

The storms raged, unloading violent sheets of glowing misery. Outside the fortress, the workers moaned and screamed, running for cover. The guards hacked and chopped, forcing the workers to continue cutting block from the mountains. The rain gathered on the top level of the fortress, churning, spiraling down a hundred-foot wide vortex funnel carved in the roof. The acid poured into the fortress, streaming through sluiceways and tunnels.

Zedekiah looked up, the rumbling intensifying, rubble dropping. The holes in the ceiling began to glow, then drip, then rain. Acid showered upon the throne, highlighting the devil in a glorious blue aura. His followers bowed. A few entered the acid rain to prove their love of pain, but then quickly retreated. The drum beats quickened as Zedekiah began melting. He grinned as chills raced across his liquefied flesh. His cold, dark eyes glistened with pleasure, enjoying the heavenly delights of hell.

Hashmell clicked his tongue, voicing his displeasure, then guided Thaddy through the frenzied mass to an arched passage on the curved wall at the left of the throne. They passed two guards and entered a small chamber. The room was bare except in its center. There, in a circle, sat the severed heads of thirty men. A stream of acid flowed down the far wall, snaked across a rut in the floor, and filled a channel underneath the unsealed heads, halting regeneration of flesh and bone.

Thaddy looked at the heads, then at Hashmell.

Hashmell felt the child's judging eyes upon him. He clicked his tongue hard, knowing well the extent of his misdeeds.

The heads held a savage air, their eyes glazed with primal instincts polite society could never remove. The heads moved their lips, raised brows, and clicked teeth, but none of them could talk, none could move. There they sat, lamenting their existence, separated at three-foot intervals in a circle of acid.

Hashmell watched the acid stream down the wall, rushing faster by the storm's fury. It gurgled around the heads, chewing raw nerves, melting flesh. It flowed toward the center of the circle, following carved grooves in the flint block, then poured into a fissure in the floor.

The ground began to rumble.

"Bring me Vasage's head!" Hashmell yelled at the guards.

A guard left his post and disappeared through an archway behind the altar. He soon returned holding a sealed head by its woolly, black hair.

The ground rumbled again.

Hashmell turned to the circled heads. He wrung his hands, his rat eyes anticipating.

Ball lightning flashed from the fissure, crackling, searing, igniting the acid. The severed heads opened their mouths, trying to cry out as white plasma worked its glowing tentacles to each open neck. Something began happening. The acid turned green under the heads. The emerald glow worked its way down the spokes to the center of the wheel. Ball lightning exploded, flashing through the acid, forcing silent screams once more.

Hashmell chirped, his hands wringing furiously. He turned to the guard holding Vasage's head. "Unseal him."

The guard called for reinforcement, ripped the stomach lining from Vasage's neck, and tossed the head on the ground.

Like a bony, white root seeking water, Vasage's spine began regenerating. His shoulder blades took shape, then ribs. Organs developed, an esophagus, two fresh lungs. Vasage gulped rancid air and howled. He was primal, a complete animal lost in the human realm. Muscles formed on his neck and he shook his head, snarling at the guards. Arms, hands and fingers sprouted. Vasage clawed at a guard's foot. Dark skin began to grow, as did curly, black hair, massive amounts. His feet regenerated and he sprang up, attacking the guard who tossed him on the ground. Six guards jumped in and pried Vasage's teeth from the guard's throat.

The ground rumbled again.

An emerald cloud materialized above the circled heads, rising from the glowing acid to the ceiling. It swirled and churned, then evenly dissipated, exposing a lush, green world beyond ... the animal plane of existence.

Hashmell smiled, his sharp teeth grinding. He knew his glorious achievement was an abomination, but that didn't make him any less proud. For God's sake, he had broken the barrier between _this_ world and _that_. He had done it with no more than the heads of those closest to animal instinct. With their primal thoughts linked by acid, then charged with white-hot plasma, the doorway opened.

And there it was, in all its lush green splendor, animal heaven.

Thaddy cast his sparkling eyes at the scene above the circled heads. The animal plane was synchronized with oblivion. The animals beyond stopped to gaze into the rift in existence, knowing something was wrong, very wrong.

Hashmell walked to Vasage, looked into his wild eyes, and said, "Horses. We need more horses."

Vasage howled, trying to break free.

"A black one," Hashmell said, trying to connect. "Your Savior would like a black one. Two, make sure to get two."

Vasage snorted and growled, his hairy, naked body flexed.

" _Two_ , Vasage!" Hashmell said. "Do you _understand_?"

Vasage barked, snapping at Hashmell.

"He said two!" Zedekiah stormed through the archway, his flesh still melted. He grabbed Vasage by his thick hair, and said, "Two black horses, you fucking animal! Do you _understand?!"_

Vasage's eyes showed fear. The hair on his back rose prickly. He growled at the devil.

Zedekiah narrowed his eyes, his face crunched in rage. He released Vasage, grabbed a guard, yanked him to the green gateway, and tossed him through. The guard crackled and vaporized, never to exist again. "I will find a way to make that happen to you if you don't do what I command!" Zedekiah walked forward, nose to nose with Vasage. "Get me my horses, or I will destroy you."

Vasage snorted, not caring about being destroyed, yet knowing he must obey.

"Release him," Zedekiah commanded, his smooth, white flesh regenerated.

The guards released their hold. Vasage howled and barked, squatted down, and walked on all fours.

"Go!" Zedekiah commanded, pointing. "Get me my horses!"

Vasage snorted and growled, edging ever closer to the circled heads. He looked at the devil, then at the green world beyond. He wiped his curled lips with the back of his hairy hand, snorting angrily, not wanting to enter the animal plane, knowing well the pleasure it brought, knowing even better the pain that awaited upon his reentry to oblivion. Each journey Vasage made into the alternate existence weakened his resolve to return. He wanted to stay and enjoy the warm bliss of constant sunshine and flowing sweet breezes, pleasures not felt in over twelve thousand years. But the pain ... he feared others would cross over and force him back. And if they had to force him back, Zedekiah threatened eternal torture well beyond anything yet imagined.

"Damn it!" Zedekiah yelled, plucking an ax from a guard. "I said go!"

Vasage howled and leapt into animal heaven.

Hashmell walked forward, watching Vasage chase a mongoose through a flowing green field. Hashmell wrung his hands, wishing it was him roaming the flowering greenery beyond. But he knew all too well, from early experimentation and over two thousand vaporized souls, that the filters between the two worlds would obliterate him immediately. Only Vasage made it through without a scratch. Only he, the most untamed beast in oblivion, could defeat the filters.

Zedekiah raised his brow at Hashmell, daring him to envy Vasage for one more second.

Hashmell raised a guilty grin, chirped his protest, and backed away from the heads.

Guards walked in with fresh clothes. They draped their Savior in a white skin robe and adorned his head with a flowing black wig.

"How close are we to limbo?" Zedekiah asked Hashmell.

Hashmell wrung his hands, his rat eyes shifting. "We are very close. I need more heads, the right ones. They must mourn for a lost child."

Zedekiah grinned, staring into Thaddy's glittering eyes. "I think our friend, Mr. Goss, might still be in mourning."

" _Yes, yes_ ," Hashmell said, quickly agreeing. "They must mourn. I need the right mixture."

"What about the filters?" asked Zedekiah. "Will they work the same?"

Hashmell bowed his head, clicking his tongue, and thought, _How do I know, you ignorant bastard. We haven't opened the doorway yet_. He looked at Zedekiah. "I do not know, my Savior. We have the boy though. He should—"

"Yes," Zedekiah cut in, circling Thaddy. "We have the boy." He knelt down in front of the child and grabbed his wrist, checking the bloody hands. "The bleeding never stops, does it?"

"No," Thaddy said, staring directly into the devil's glorified eyes.

"Do you bleed in limbo?" Zedekiah asked.

"No," Thaddy said. "Only on this plane do I carry the wounds of my death."

Zedekiah creased his brow, focusing on the boy's eyes. "Why is it your eyes shine?"

Thaddy didn't reply.

Zedekiah smacked the child hard across the face. "Answer me."

"I hold the knowledge of Creation," Thaddy said, rubbing his cheek. "I have felt the other side."

"Heaven?" Zedekiah asked, then quickly corrected himself. "You have felt what you call heaven?"

"Yes."

Zedekiah raised a wicked grin. "And what exactly was your heaven like?"

Thaddy didn't reply.

Zedekiah raised his hand, ready to strike again, then suddenly jerked his head to the archway. The drums were sounding, horse hooves clopped the flint floor.

The Riders returned from Vagary Heights and dismounted their abused steeds in the throne room. They gathered in a nervous group of twenty, whispering, shoving, walking apprehensively.

A greasy-fat Rider shuffled in. He looked at the rift in existence, the emerald world beyond, then looked to his king. "My Savior," said the Rider, his voice cracking. "We have returned with the head." He placed it at Zedekiah's feet.

Zedekiah stared down at Glipp's sealed head.

Glipp smiled.

Zedekiah kicked the head into the corner of the room and cast his dark eyes upon the Rider. "Where is the other?"

The Rider swallowed, searching behind him for support.

"I asked _you_ ," said Zedekiah, straightening the Rider's head. "Where is the _other_ head?"

The Rider's lip quivered. "We have lost him, my Savior. We were attacked—"

"You _what?_ "

The Rider collapsed at Zedekiah's feet. "Please, my Savior! It wasn't our fault! We-"

Zedekiah grabbed the Rider's hair and dragged him near the green gateway.

"No! Please, my Savior! I beg you! We will find him! I swear to you!"

Zedekiah gathered strength, preparing to obliterate the Rider, when he saw Vasage riding through a flowing green field on the back of a black stallion. Zedekiah relaxed his grip, gazing at the magnificent beast beyond.

Vasage halted the wild steed, tugging on its mane. The once tame horse bucked wildly, resenting the control.

"Bring it over!" Zedekiah beckoned.

Vasage steadied the horse, slowly walked it to the edge of the gateway, and peered through. He saw the greasy-fat Rider's face all cringed up, scared, in pain. He saw Zedekiah—pure evil. How ugly and dark oblivion was, its only promise that of eternal agony. Then Vasage gazed upon the animal plane. It was all bright and green, free of pain, free of the devil.

" _Now_!" demanded Zedekiah. "Bring me the horse!"

Vasage growled, weighing his options. He watched as the Riders gathered around their Savior, supporting his painful quest. Vasage felt a cool breeze, scented of lilies, ripple through his woolly hair. He closed his eyes and sucked in the sweet air.

"I said _now_!" Zedekiah, at full fury, wrenched the head of the greasy-fat Rider and cast him through the gateway. There, he crackled and obliterated.

Vasage's eyes flew open. He barked and snorted, the horse whinnied. That was the second man he saw disintegrate. Then it struck Vasage on the lowest level of understanding. It was only _he_ who could pass from that world to this ... no one could follow, no one could ever bring him back.

"Son of a bitch!" yelled Zedekiah. "I will _destroy_ you!"

Vasage turned his stallion around and backed up close to the gateway. There, Vasage stood up on the horse's back, bent over, and slapped his hairy butt cheeks, mooning the devil.

" _Ahh_!" Zedekiah screamed, furious at the insolence. He reached out and grabbed guards and Riders, shoving them through the gateway, obliterating their beings.

Vasage howled. He leapt off the horse and smacked its rear. It galloped away.

"Son of a bitch!" Zedekiah yelled. "How dare you defy me!"

Vasage clenched his teeth, a guttural growl rumbling in his chest. He dropped to all fours and ran, fading into the flowing green bliss of animal heaven.

Screaming and shouting, his wrath at full fury, Zedekiah began kicking the circle of heads, destroying the conduit between this world and that.

"My Savior!" a Rider called out. "We will ride out and find the man that we lost. I promise you, we—"

" _No!_ " said Zedekiah, gathering his wits, slowing his violent breath. "No." He turned his angry face from the Rider to Thaddy. "I will wait." Zedekiah stared deeply into the boy's glittering eyes. "Mr. Goss will come to _me_."

# Chapter 24

"The hypocrites ... enjoin the wrong, and they forbid the right.

Lo! the hypocrites, they are the transgressors."

—The Glorious Koran: Repentance

Chicago, IL ... Winter

"Get it in gear!" Pam yelled, hobbling through the slushy parking lot at Mercy Hospital, the frigid wind whipping her stiff blonde hair. She stopped abruptly. Her cameraman bumped into her. "Watch it!" Pam bitched, yanking off her lone high-heeled shoe. She tossed it and began running barefoot, heading toward flashing lights.

The ambulances streamed into the emergency entrance, police cars right behind, sirens blazing.

Pam stopped and looked into the camera. "This is Pam Navon, _Action Seven News_ , coming to you _live_ from Memorial Hospital where—"

" _Mercy_ Hospital," her cameraman corrected in a whisper.

"Mercy Hospital," Pam said, steam boiling under her makeup caked face. "As _I_ first reported, the Viceman has been killed. I repeat, the Viceman is dead."

Pam turned around and ran to the rear of an arriving ambulance. The back doors swung open. Two relaxed paramedics stepped down and rolled out a gurney with a sheet-covered body on its surface.

"Who is this? The Viceman?" Pam asked, eyes wide, thrusting out her microphone.

A young, dark-haired paramedic answered, "Don't know, lady."

" _Mss_.," Pam shot back. "Can I look?" She reached for the sheet.

The paramedic caught her arm. "Look, _Mzz_. Start messin' with the dead, next thing ya know, they start messin' with you. Leave him be."

Pam pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. "People want to know."

"Tell ya what, lady," the paramedic lowered the gurney wheels, "you name one person who wants to see a dead man's face splashed across their TV before I wheel him through that door," he nodded at the emergency entrance, "and I'll pull the sheet down myself." He pushed the gurney.

Pam clenched her teeth. "You just screwed up! People want to know!"

"I'm not hearin' any names, lady."

Pam spun to the camera, her face flustered. "I, uhh, think that, umm. Well, obviously that man was dead. We don't know if, umm—" Sirens screamed. Another ambulance rolled in and skidded to a stop. Pam held back a smile. "This medical team might be more helpful." She ran to the ambulance.

The rear doors swung open. Two frantic paramedics jumped out, rolling an occupied gurney with them. A third paramedic leapt out, clenching a plastic IV bag. A middle-aged doctor, an ER resident and a nurse ran from the hospital's emergency entrance to the gurney.

"Oh, my God," Pam said, gawking at the bloody face of the unconscious man. She spun to the camera. "It's him! The guy who killed the Viceman!"

The doctor paused his inquiry of the paramedics and turned to Pam. "This man killed the Viceman?"

Pam spun to the doctor and saw his wild blue eyes. "Yes," she said, wishing his nose was smaller. "Is he going to live—" She checked the doctor's empty ring finger, his badge, "—Dr. Thaumatuerg?" She flitted her eyelashes.

The doctor fit his stethoscope in his ears and listened to Vincent's heart. He checked pulse, pupil dilation and his fractured arm. The doctor looked at the camera, then at Pam. "To be, or not to be.... Good question." Dr. Thaumatuerg turned to the nurse. "Rush him through X-ray: cervical, lumbar, sternum, lower abdomen and left ulna." The doctor placed two fingers on Vincent's neck, checking pulse. "All right, people, coffee break's over. Let's move!"

Pam turned to her live audience. "The man they just wheeled into Mercy Hospital was the person who killed the Viceman. Uhh, we don't know who he is right now, maybe FBI or undercover cop. Umm, stay tuned and I, Pam Navon, will keep you updated."

# Chapter 25

"A certain logic, very supple, very implacable, and very agile,

is at the service of evil and excels in stabbing truth in the dark."

—Victor Hugo

By Order of the King

Oblivion ... 00.01.13

Vincent was alone once more, gazing beyond the brink of Vagary Heights to the churning clouds below. How furious the storm was, twisting and writhing in the valley, spewing neon agony at will. A warm, caustic wind gathered from the chaos and rose up the valley wall, whipping his brown hair across his temples.

Vincent closed his eyes and thought, _What've I done?_ He regretfully shook his head. _How long has it been since my arrival?_ The time passed so quickly, so much happening all at once, no time to think, to reflect. Now Vincent was alone with nothing but time and the sadistic grip of oblivion as his comfort.

It all crashed in: the torturous pain, the senseless guilt, the longing for home. It chipped away at Vincent's psyche, flooding him with remorse and self pity. He tried to cry, _oh,_ how he tried, his tear ducts dry, oblivion laughing.

"I'm sorry, Thaddy," Vincent said, watching the storm assault the hazy fortress. "I'm so sorry." He pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, his teeth clenched, and began rocking back and forth. "Please let it end. Let it all be a dream." He moved his hands and opened his eyes.... Oblivion was still there, staring at Vincent with cold-hearted intensity. _This is your existence_ , it told him. _This is how your remaining years will be spent. Constant pain. By your own actions_ , oblivion reminded, _you brought yourself here, to hell. Accept your fate.... Accept your fate_.

Vincent lay back on the ground and stared at the crimson sky. _What have I done?_

He remained at the brink of Vagary for nearly a day's time, wallowing in guilt, sinking in remorse, just as he had done on the earth plane. The only difference, oblivion offered no exit, no suicidal safety net.

The storms soon faded from the valley, leaving Vincent a clear view of the million lost souls working on the fortress below. He could hear them now, the workers, the faint echoes of flint striking flint wafting up through the valley, the agonized screams mixed in with the hammering.

"It could be worse," Vincent reasoned, chuckling. "At least I'm not layin' brick for the devil."

Vincent laughed, sloughing off remorse, shaking his head at the absurdity of eternal damnation. He rubbed his face, peeling away guilt. He wiped his dry eyes, stood up, and stared into the valley. "Zedekiah!" Vincent shouted at the fortress below, "you already stole one son from me! You're not takin' Thaddy! Do you _hear_ me, you son of ah bitch?!" He snarled. "I'm comin' for ya, Zed! I'm comin' for ya!"

Vincent's booming voice evaporated in the valley, stirring neither worker nor guard.

Plans churned in Vincent's head. First, he reasoned, he should examine the fortress interior, he must know what awaited. He sat down and began meditating. Vincent tried unsuccessfully, for what seemed hours, to find death, to float as a glowing being into the fortress. He could calm himself, reach thoughtless thought, but the Ch'i didn't flow. It remained dormant, waiting for Vincent's still heart to begin pumping blood once more.

Vincent rubbed his face, stood up, and peered over the brink of the cliff. "I guess I'll be doin' this the hard way."

He jumped.

Vincent free-fell for most of a mile and crashed hard on jagged boulders at the base of the brink. With one unbroken arm, he twisted his head from back to front.

"Son of ah bitch," Vincent muttered, his horrendous wounds regenerating. "You're gonna pay for this, Zed. I swear to God, I'm gonna make you pay for all of this shit."

Vincent hobbled to his feet, plucked a shard of flint from his liver, and walked to the raging river. He stopped and checked upstream and down, searching for a crossing. There was none. "Goddamn it." Vincent plunged in the rushing acid and swam across, the river gnawing his skin. He crawled out and collapsed on the riverbank. His flesh was melted, bone exposed. "Son of ah bitch," he huffed. "I'm addin' this to your bill, Zed."

Naked, angry, alone, Vincent walked to the block wall and looked up. He slowly shook his head, scanning the fifty stories of flint barrier between him and the devil. He reached for a hand hold and began climbing.

Vincent scaled the wall, reached the top, pulled himself up, walked the seventy-five feet to the other side, then sat down to ponder his next move. The fortress was hundreds of feet below, well protected by the perimeter wall against the reclaiming winds of Armageddon. He searched for guards and workers. All were gathered at the front of the fortress or in the mountains beyond. Vincent studied the vortex funnel carved in the top layer of the devil's keep and reasoned it a point of entry. He stood up, looked down, slowly shook his head, and then jumped. "I _swear_ ," he yelled, halfway into his fall, "you're gonna pay for this too, Zed!"

Vincent's body broke on the solid ground below. He huffed rancid air as pain shot through his twisted limbs. He righted himself, hobbled toward the fortress, climbed five levels of jagged block, and walked to the vortex funnel. In its center was a hole big enough for a man to climb into. He checked the sky. Purple clouds were gathering. Not good ... not good at all.

Vincent slid down the funnel, residual acid nibbling his skin. He reached the hole and jumped in. How eerie it was, the surreal glow in the tunnels he followed, all lit up by residual neon acid. Vincent crawled through a half-mile worth of tunnels before he happened upon the throne room.

Vincent slowly edged up to the riddled tunnel floor and lay flat on his bare stomach, peering through the holes. The throne room was noisy, teeming with guards and Riders, echoing the chaos of pain and salute. The altar was vacant, but Vincent knew well who sat mightily upon its flesh and stone seat.

"Sick bastards," Vincent whispered. "Let's see how this pain shit flies when Zedekiah's gone."

The tunnel rumbled. Vincent's eyes flew open. A storm was raging outside, acid falling, flowing into the vortex funnel, racing straight for the throne room. He spun around. A stream of acid began gnawing at his hands and knees. He crawled like a naked, white rat through more tunnels, neon-blue acid lighting the way. He paused, hearing a voice ... Zedekiah. Vincent heard him, a faint whisper echoing lightly off the tunnel walls. He focused his ears, smiled wickedly, turned, and headed toward the devil. "Now you're mine, Zed."

Vincent followed a sloping tunnel and happened upon another set of holes piercing the floor. He lay down flat on his stomach and peered through the openings as the flowing acid melted his skin.

Vincent's still heart dropped. No scene yet witnessed in all of oblivion prepared him for what played in the room below.

Scattered on the block floor of a small chamber were heads, hundreds of sealed heads. Hashmell busied himself working various combinations of the heads in a glowing circle of acid. Zedekiah watched from the archway clutching Thaddy at his side.

"My God," Vincent whispered, appalled, astonished.

Hashmell passionately worked the heads, unsealing and sealing the necks, plunging them in the acid, cursing his luck, then trying again. He knew he was close, his success opening the animal plane told him that. He was one head away, maybe two, no more. Hashmell dunked and he yanked; he tossed and he dunked, wringing his hands, clicking his tongue.

Vincent watched, his face cringing, his stomach retching. " _Ahh_ , you're gonna pay big for this shit, Zed." Vincent looked at Thaddy. The boy was suffering terribly, his flesh riddled with acid burns. "Damn you, Zed," Vincent cursed under his breath. "Keep the kid outa the acid."

The ground rumbled. Ball lightning shot up from a fissure at the center of the circled heads, charging the acid, unleashing immeasurable grief upon the bodiless souls scattered on the floor.

"That's it!" Hashmell yelled. "I've done it!"

Vincent jerked his head and looked back at the abomination. He watched as the acid turned to a pink mist and swirled above the severed heads, condensing into a dense vaporous cloud.

Zedekiah raised a wicked grin. He looked at Thaddy, then at Hashmell. "Is it open?"

Hashmell wrung his hands, his rat eyes shifting. "Yes," he said, his scraping voice laden with contempt. "Limbo is open for business."

Vincent's eyes shot open. "What the hell?"

"Is it synchronized?" Zedekiah asked, his dark eyes trying to penetrate the cloud.

"No," Hashmell said, then slinked around the circle, chirping, admiring his work. He stared into the cloud, seeking a glimpse of the great beyond. "No, it's definitely not linked, that's why we see nothing."

"What about the filters?" asked Zedekiah. "Do they work the same as the animal plane?"

_Step in and find out_ , Hashmell said to himself, a guilty grin marking his wrinkled face. "I don't know," he replied. "We should test it."

Zedekiah walked to the throne room and quickly returned, dragging a young, skinny guard by his red hair.

The guard saw the cloud, the circle of heads. "No, my Savior. Please! I beg You!"

Zedekiah yanked the guard's trembling face close to his. "Do not fear the pain, embrace it."

"No, please!" the guard begged, knowing well of the countless failed experiments on the animal plane.

"If by chance you make it to the other side," Zedekiah said, pushing the guard close to the cloud. "I do expect you to bring back a guest or two." He shoved the guard into the cloud. The guard crackled and vaporized, never to exist again.

"Son of ah bitch," Vincent whispered. He slumped back against the tunnel wall, yanking in his feet to avoid rushing acid.

Zedekiah turned to Thaddy. "I guess we'll be needing you after all."

Thaddy bowed his head.

"Well, kid," Zedekiah said. "What're you waiting for? Go bring someone back."

The child slowly hobbled to the clouded porthole. He gazed upon the unsealed heads circled in the acid. A shimmering tear ran down his cheek, knowing each head, each person, carried the heartbreak of a lost child. Thaddy's eyes sparkled with silver starshine, offering those he could a consoling glance.

Zedekiah grabbed Thaddy's arm "Don't even think about staying in limbo, kid. I still have your friends here. I can make it most unpleasant for them if you don't return. Is that something you want?"

Thaddy didn't reply.

"Good," Zedekiah said, taking Thaddy's silence for a 'no'.

"Hell with him," Vincent whispered, watching through a half-open hole. "Go back to limbo and stay there. Just stay."

Thaddy turned around and searched the ceiling. His eyes sparkled, feeling someone watching, caring. He turned back to the cloud. Limbo tugged at his soul, calling him home. Thaddy swallowed and stepped in the swirling, pink cloud. His tattered skin clothing and bandages crackled and vaporized as he disappeared into the great beyond.

"That's it, kid. Go," Vincent whispered. "Stay there. Don't come back." Vincent slumped back against the tunnel wall once more, the acid rising, churning, gurgling through the holes. He jerked in his legs, still forming a plan. _The gate to limbo_ , he thought, _that's the only way. If the guard obliterated, then Zedekiah would be destroyed too_. Vincent shook his head, reasoning. _What if Zedekiah didn't obliterate? Then he'd exist in limbo, he could harm Thaddy._

The storm reached full fury. Acid rushed through the tunnels, splattering against the walls, splashing on Vincent.

" _Ahh_ , fuck it." Vincent stomped against the riddled tunnel floor, wildly churning the acid. "There's no way that bastard could make it to limbo and live. No fuckin' way." The block began to crack. The tunnel floor collapsed, and out poured a thousand gallons of neon-blue acid and Vincent Goss.

Zedekiah and Hashmell turned from limbo's cloud and witnessed the chaos flooding in near the back wall.

Vincent righted himself, his body half melted by acid. He stood solid, his eyes fixed on the devil. "You ready for round two, Zed?"

Zedekiah grinned. "I was beginning to doubt—"

Vincent advanced on his prey. "No more talk. It's time to finish this."

"Finish what?" Zedekiah asked, holding firm. "Nothing ever ends here. _Nothing_."

Vincent looked at the clouded gateway, then back at Zedekiah. "It ends for you." Vincent charged Zedekiah, grabbed his throat with his right hand, and clamped down with fierce intensity.

Hashmell backed away, checking the archway for guards. There were none. He grinned, chirping happily.

Zedekiah reached for the attacking wrist and tried to break the hold. It wouldn't budge. He felt his cartilage rip, muscles tear, his esophagus rupture.

Vincent clenched his teeth, growling, focusing his fury through intense eyes. Zedekiah's face wrenched. "That's it, squirm, you fuckin' bastard!" Vincent said as he reached up with his left hand, doubling the stranglehold's force. "How's it feel, Mr. _It's-All-About-Pain_?"

Zedekiah panicked, struggling against the steel wrapped around his throat. He looked at Hashmell and mouthed, _Call the guards!_

Hashmell turned away, chirping, hoping.

Vincent yanked Zedekiah close to limbo's gate, and asked, "You like pain?" Vincent freed up a hand and thrust Zedekiah's forearm into the cloud. The arm crackled and vaporized, leaving behind a charred stump at the elbow. "You like that, devil boy? Huh? Feel good?"

Zedekiah stared at his stump. It wasn't regenerating. Cauterized by the filters of Creation, his arm refused to grow back. Panic raced.

"More?" Vincent asked. "You want some more?" He shoved the other arm into the cloud.

Zedekiah twisted madly, insanely, and freed himself of the stranglehold. He fell to the ground and backed away using his feet to push. "Guards!" he yelled, panicked, his voice struggling to get out.

"No!" Vincent yelled. "Not this time!" He jumped on Zedekiah and clamped down on his neck, shutting off his flow of air, ripping through muscle, sinew, and bone. Vincent twisted Zedekiah's throat in a mad rage. He spun the devil's head until the flesh of the neck twirled into a tight knotted spiral and snapped. Vincent stood up and raised the severed head, nose to nose. "This is where it ends." Vincent walked to limbo's gate, paused, then gazed into Zedekiah's scared eyes. "Hell just won't be the same without ya, Zed." Vincent winked, swung Zedekiah's head back, and—

The guards rushed Vincent!

"No!" Vincent yelled.

The guards tackled him, yanking their Savior's head from his steel grip.

Vincent watched as Zedekiah's spine began to grow. "It could've ended!" Vincent yelled looking at the guards, into their scared, stupid eyes. "It could've all been over!"

The guards looked back-and-forth at each other, then at Zedekiah, his body growing legs, flesh.

"Nothing ends, Mr. Goss," Zedekiah said, standing on fresh feet. He glanced at his charred and mutilated carcass that lay on the floor.

Hashmell bowed his head, chirping nervously.

Zedekiah shifted his eyes at Hashmell. "Nothing ever ends, does it?"

_Chirp, chirp_.

Zedekiah grinned and turned to Vincent. "Seal his head."

The guards swarmed Vincent and grabbed his ankles, his wrists, his hair.

"Goddamn you!" Vincent lashed out.

Zedekiah, his shark eyes glorified, said, "I'll ask you once again, why would I—"

"He returns!" Hashmell shouted. "The boy returns!"

Thaddy materialized in the swirling, pink cloud, his eyes sparkling, his naked body completely healed.

"No, Thaddy!" Vincent yelled, struggling to break free. "Go back!"

Thaddy stepped out from the cloud. His pristine hands became shredded and began dripping blood on the severed heads circled on the floor.

"Go back, kid!" Vincent pleaded.

Zedekiah slowly walked to Thaddy. He stared into the cloud. "I told you to bring someone back."

"I did." A sparkling tear rolled down the child's cheek.

Another form appeared in the cloud.

Vincent began huffing, his wild eyes intently focused on the cloud. "No," Vincent whispered, his insides hollow. "No! How could you, Thaddy?! How _could_ you?!"

Out from limbo's gateway walked little Brendon Goss.

"No!" Vincent screamed. " _No!_ "

Brendon's chest began to bleed, his left index finger evaporated at the second knuckle. With eyes of silver starshine, Brendon gazed at his father.

"I'll kill you, Thaddy!" Vincent's body flexed for revenge. "I'll fuckin' kill you! How could you bring my son here? _How?_ Take him back! Take him back!"

" _Tut, tut, tut, shhh_ , Mr. Goss," Zedekiah said. He rolled his tongue, thinking, slowly walking forward. "I don't think I've used that line in over seventy-five years, since earth." Zedekiah stuck his face close to Vincent's. "I believe the last time I heard that phrase it was coming from your mouth as I died."

Vincent curled his upper lip in rage.

"Feels good to have the last word, doesn't it?" Zedekiah said.

" _Fuck you_."

Zedekiah turned to Brendon, then Thaddy. "Now why would you bring Mr. Goss's son out of limbo?" The guards adorned Zedekiah with a fresh skin robe and flowing wig. "Interesting choice."

"Take him back!" Vincent yelled.

"Father," Brendon said softly, walking to Vincent. "Please do not fear for me."

Vincent quivered, hearing his son's perfect speech resonate the knowledge of Creation. "I'm sorry, son," Vincent said. "This is all my fault. You shouldn't be here." Vincent turned to Thaddy. "Please, take him back, I'm beggin' you."

A tear glittered down Thaddy's cheek. "I am sorry, mister. It was his choice."

"Goddamn you!" Vincent yelled. "He's just a child! Take him back!" Vincent turned to Brendon. "Go back, son. Go. Jump into the cloud."

"Nobody's going anywhere." Zedekiah jerked Brendon away from his father. "Except you, Mr. Goss." The devil nodded at the guards.

"No!" Vincent yelled as flint sliced his scalp. He looked at Thaddy. "Get my son out of here! Don't let him see this!"

Thaddy quickly walked to Brendon, grabbed his hand, and led him to the archway. Thaddy paused, turned back, and met Vincent's naked eyes. "I am sorry, mister, but Brendon is your last hope."

Vincent ground his teeth, holding back screams as his lips were peeled away.

Thaddy solemnly turned away and led Brendon out of the chamber.

Vincent winced and cringed as they ripped flesh from his abdomen, his chest; peeled skin from his hips, his thighs. The guards sawed off his head and sealed it with his own stomach and gallbladder.

"My Savior," a skinny guard saluted, presenting the head to his king.

Vincent's face began regenerating.

Zedekiah held the head up by the neck and watched it sprout ears. "Can't seem to get a break, can you? First your wife gets raped, then your son is murdered." Zedekiah grinned. "Now this thing with Thaddy bringing your son here, to paradise."

Hashmell winced and chirped.

"Shut up," Zedekiah demanded Hashmell, not taking his eyes off Vincent. "I have the same question you do, Mr. Goss. Why would he bring your boy? It doesn't make sense." Zedekiah raised his eyebrows. "Does it?"

_Fuck you_ , Vincent mouthed.

"'Last hope'?" Zedekiah questioned. "I do believe that's what Thaddy referred to your son as, the 'last hope'." Zedekiah began laughing. "When will people learn? Hope, faith, whatever name you tag on it, is a senseless waste of time." He swung Vincent's head closer, nose to nose. "And neither exist here."

Vincent bit the end of Zedekiah's nose. He clamped down hard and gnawed off the tip.

Guards swarmed in. Zedekiah waved them away. "Still fighting are we?" he asked, his nose regenerating. "Still think there's hope? There's not. Once again, you have been betrayed by your faith."

Vincent clenched his teeth.

"Your old god let you down when I killed Brendon," Zedekiah said. "And now, your new god has let you down by bringing Brendon here ... of all places." Zedekiah grabbed Vincent's jaw. "Where do you place your faith now?"

Vincent clamped shut his eyes.

Zedekiah ripped open Vincent's eyelids. " _Where,_ Mr. Goss? Where do you now go to find peace, to find your Savior?"

Vincent snapped at the heels of Zedekiah's hands.

"I'll tell you where to go ... here—straight to paradise." Zedekiah laughed and tossed Vincent's head to a guard. "Straight to paradise." Zedekiah sucked in rancid air and sighed. "You see, Mr. Goss, at some point in our lives everyone here did something so horribly bad that our Creator thought it best we spend near all of eternity in this existence, in what most call hell." Zedekiah shook his head as he surveyed the guards and Riders. "They were all lost souls when I arrived, every one of them, no direction what-so-ever, wandering the land, running from the storms, crying and moaning, ' _Why me, Lord? Why me?_ ' Then here I come, dropped in a world tailor-made for me, a world of constant pain." Zedekiah slowly shook his head, his dark eyes glazed in wonderment. "Can you believe it? Constant pain ... constant bliss. This place is _heaven_ not _hell_!" He walked to Hashmell, grabbed his cheek and shook it. "They just had to be shown the light, the error of their pagan ways." Zedekiah winked and released his grip. "Think about it. Broken bones mend, flesh regenerates, and the pain goes on. Pain, the _one_ truth in the universe, the _one_ essence that's whole and pure." Zedekiah faced Vincent. "All it asks is that it not be denied."

Vincent creased his brow.

Zedekiah slowly shook his head. "Don't you get it? If all you do is avoid the pain, then the pain shall be unpleasant. Let it soak in. Suck it into your lungs, let it bleed from your pores, let it drip from your mouth, run from your eyes, ricochet through your balls. Become its master and bask in its rapture. _That_ is where you find bliss. _That_ is where heaven lies. _That_ is truth, pure and simple." Zedekiah moved in close to Vincent. "Your son will learn to adore pain as I do, Mr. Goss. He will soon embrace the glory of paradise for all it's worth."

Vincent's eyes flashed with panic.

The devil smiled. "Your son will become my son. He will look upon me as his Savior and father, and he will spit upon you for all you represent, all of your lies and false promises." Zedekiah backed up and turned away. "He will learn from me, then together we will pry open limbo and suck it into our world." He spun back. "New souls to save. Isn't that what it's all about? Spreading the gospel, the gospel of pain?" Zedekiah walked forward, wrenched Vincent's head from the guard, and held it up by the hair. "Then, just to make things a bit more interesting, I will pry open the gates of what you call 'heaven' and make myself at home. And if the filters don't allow me to enter, I will send in the children. Yes, and with their help, I will wrench the angels back through the pearly gates to hell and ride them like birds. Do your angels fly, Mr. Goss? Do they? Do they glide on gossamer wings? I will convert them—the pagans, heathens, mere savages all! They must be converted, they must see the light!" Zedekiah wildly shook Vincent's head. "They must understand the error of their ways!" He inhaled a mad rush of air. "And if there's another man in your heaven who proves to be a god, our _Creator_ , then I'll make him sorry he ever created the likes of me! I will yank him down to his so-called 'eternal damnation' and show him the error of his ways! I will make him pay by methods I've dared yet dream! Who is he to try and make me suffer for my beliefs, my truths, the _only_ Truth! Who is he, this god of yours, to judge me? _Me_! Who is this person, this entity that claims to control the fate of Creation?" Zedekiah huffed short and quick, his eyes blazing, charged with pure glory. "I will show him who's in control! I will pry open every dimension that exists and reign supreme! The whole of Creation will come to embrace my eternal bliss, my rapture, my pain! _I_ am the Eternal! _I_ am the Savior! _I_ am God!"

The room faded to dead silent.

Zedekiah dropped Vincent's head on the ground.

Silence....

Zedekiah knowingly grinned.

"My Savior," a guard said sheepishly. "What would you have us do with the head?"

Zedekiah looked at Vincent, then at the guard. "Let him rot in the wind chime."

# Chapter 26

"Philosophy is nothing but discretion."

—John Selden

Table Talk

Chicago, IL ... Winter

Dr. Thaumatuerg shot through the swinging operating room doors like a cannonball. "Get those reporters out of the hallways!" He kicked open the door to the prep room.

It had been nearly ten minutes since they rolled Vincent Goss off the ambulance. Dr. Thaumatuerg had given orders for X-rays and surgical preparation, then stopped to relieve his coffee-filled bladder. By the time he left the bathroom, the hospital was teeming with reporters.

"Blood sucking leaches," Dr. Thaumatuerg muttered, stroking his dark, curly hair, his bulbous nose sniffing. He stepped into a pair of blue surgical pants and turned to his assistant. "Like maggots sucking garbage."

The doctor was considered a loose cannon at Mercy Hospital. He was a great surgeon, genius in his specialty of Neurology, but a bit unnerving in his methods. Everyone knew he would produce favorable end results, the scary part was, nobody could ever guess exactly how.

"Well, Shoe Shine Boy," Dr. Thaumatuerg said to his assistant, Simon Plugg, "looks like we're in for a wild ride this morning." The doctor searched for his rubber boots. "What're your thoughts?"

Simon was thirty-one years old, an average man with average thoughts, at least until he began assisting Dr. Thaumatuerg two years back. It was then Simon's blonde hair grew thicker, longer; it was then his brown eyes quit shifting and focused; it was then his career attained purpose, his life meaning. Simon chuckled and tugged on his boots. "'The truth of a thing is the feel of it, not the think of it.' Stanley Kubrick," Simon said, grinning, knowing he had started a philosophical battle he stood little chance of winning.

Dr. Thaumatuerg rolled his tongue, preparing for the battle of quotes. "So," he said with baiting voice, "you agree with O.J. Simon, 'Thinking is what gets you caught from behind'? That it? You and O.J. been swapping notes?" The doctor turned to a nurse standing outside the door. "Where are my boots?"

"Right here," she said, carrying the doctor's rubber boots through the door. "You left them in the hallway again. They had to be sterilized."

The doctor winked at the nurse. "Thank you." He stretched on the boots, stood up, walked to the scrub room door and kicked it open. "Time for a bath, Shoe Shine Boy."

Simon followed the doctor. They adorned disposable blue caps and shoved their elbows against the water faucet levers.

"Looks like we got some kind of hero with us today," the doctor said, scrubbing his fingertips with a stiff brush.

"This guy really killed the Viceman?" Simon asked.

"So they say."

"What is he? Cop or something?"

"Not sure. He was dressed like an ordinary Joe."

"How bad is he?" Simon asked.

"He's a bloody mess," Dr. Thaumatuerg answered. "Lacerated face, puncture wounds to abdomen and thigh, compound fracture of left ulna, possible back and neck injuries."

"Going to live?" Simon asked.

"Have I let anybody die yet, Shoe Shine Boy?"

Simon paused and raised his eyebrows. "You've taken a few years off our Director's life." Simon bit his tongue. "And when are you going to quit calling me Shoe Shine Boy?"

"The Director," the doctor washed the back of his hand, scrubbing a small tattoo of Underdog, "is nothing but a bean counting fool. He cares more about the lawyers than the results." The doctor looked at Simon. "You don't like your nickname?"

"It's hard to appreciate a nickname like Shoe Shine Boy," Simon replied.

Dr. Thaumatuerg thrust his Underdog tattoo in Simon's face. "He appreciates it."

"He's a cartoon character," Simon said.

The doctor's brow raised. "Aren't we all? Just painted by a different brush?" He winked at Simon. "You'll lose your current nickname when you've earned a new one, Shoe Shine Boy, not before."

The Scrub Nurse walked in with rubber gloves. "You guys should have your minds on medicine, not cartoons."

"But, nurse," Dr. Thaumatuerg said, rinsing his hands, "the most enlightening wisdom can be found on a Saturday morning. Let us not forget the profound teachings of Bullwinkle."

The nurse shook her head, helping the doctor into his blue surgical gown. "You keep practicing medicine the way you do, and you'll be a full-time philosopher before you know it." She smiled and stretched a green rubber glove over his hand.

" _Ahh, yes_ , what joy that would be," the doctor pondered. "'Blessed is he who has found his work. Let him ask no other blessedness.' Thomas Carlyle."

"I fear philosophy would do nothing more than empty your bank account," the nurse said, pulling on the other glove.

"Yes," quipped Simon, tying on his mask. "'There's a certain Buddhistic calm that comes from having money in the bank.' Tom Robbins."

"Agreed," said the doctor as the nurse tied on his mask. Dr. Thaumatuerg turned to the OR door and kicked it open. "Where in hell is the patient?" He turned to the nurse. "Be a dear, kindly see if X-ray is done with my patient so I might begin saving his life."

# Chapter 27

"O Solitude! Where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms

Than rein in this horrible place."

—William Cowper

"To Mary"

Oblivion ... 00.01.14

I _am God_ ... I _am God_. Those haunting words echoed in Vincent's skull as his sealed head slowly twisted in oblivion's wind chime. I _am God_ ... I _am God_. His shaky foundation of faith lay in ruin once more. I _am God_.... _What if Zedekiah was God?_ Vincent thought. _What if the concept of a supreme being did radiate from the entity wielding the most power?_

What seemed weeks passed as Vincent dangled from a rope of knotted intestine—one end secured to a high ceiling, the other tied through his hair. Day after day, the surreal horror of the wind chime attacked his senses. Heads, thousands of them, hung at all heights throughout the dismal chamber, a chamber perpetually lit in an eerie-blue haze by a narrow acid moat near the curved walls. Each head suffered his own separate torment, swaying to-and-fro as the wretched winds blasted through two archways. They bumped and collided, knocking the heads next to them, lashing out at one another, biting, gnawing, ripping flesh from each other's faces. Then came the rain. It dripped lightly at first, trickling down from the riddled ceiling, just a few glowing drops. Then it rushed in as a horrid deluge of neon agony, showering upon the wide-eyed horror below. Flesh melted and returned, but the heads didn't fall to the floor. The intestinal ropes were shoved between the stomach lining and neck, perpetually regenerating.

Throughout time, on one plane of existence or another, no crueler fate has a soul endured than that of forced solitary confinement. And, yes, Vincent may not have been alone as he swayed in the wind chime, but to experience the unique despair of having no body beneath his head, feeling its ghost trying to move as if the arms and legs still had life, having no breath to expel comforting words, to console or be consoled by others. _Ahh_ , how complete was Vincent's eternal solitude, the torment only amplified by the mockery of companionship.

Vincent slowly twisted and faced another head hanging at his height. It was a wrinkled, gray-haired man, withering at the end of his rope. The old man moved his lips, trying to communicate. Vincent couldn't read lips and wasn't certain if the man spoke English. Vincent just closed his eyes, tiring of watching the desperation scroll across the old man's face.

_How long has it been?_ thought Vincent. _How long?_ He kept his eyes shut as he spun, recalling his past, seeing no other future than an eternity in oblivion's wind chime. Chaotic sorrow rippled across his brain. _My God, this can't be it. It can't end here, not like this._ But he knew it could, it was ending there, like that, his soul forgotten at the fringe of Creation. And the sincere injustice of hanging in a fortress that wouldn't allow the suffering to cease. That was the worst torture by far, having no chance to end an otherwise dismal existence.

A guard bumped through the wind chime carrying a freshly sealed head. He lumbered past Vincent, knocking him into the old man. The man bit Vincent's ear and gnawed off the lobe. Vincent swung back, his ear regenerating. _Fuck you!_ Vincent mouthed, seeing the old man smile.

"How we doin' today?!" the guard yelled, tying up the head. "Everybody comfy-cozy?!" He knotted the intestine and shoved it under the stomach lining. "There's talk of a storm comin'!" He finished his work and bumped back through the heads. "That should give us all something to look forward to!" The guard exited through the archway.

_Goddamn him_ , thought Vincent. _We don't need another weather update. Just let the storms come!_ Vincent pressed his lips together, wanting badly to cry, his desperation multiplying. It was too much time ... too much time to think, to regret, to lament simple pleasures so easily taken for granted in another life, the little things: the smell of spring rain, Brendon's face at Christmas, the bright sun on a freshly furrowed field, Cassandra's smile, her love, her soft kiss, the way she smelled, she felt, how she made love. These were the memories that made Vincent want to sob, these were the things he knew he'd never experience again. Pleasures so easily overlooked in another world were so deeply missed in hell. If Vincent could have offered his soul to the devil for one more day, a minute, a single second on earth, he would have done so in a dead heartbeat.

I _am God_.... _If Zedekiah pries open heaven_ , thought Vincent, _my God, the pain he could inflict. He could—_ Vincent's eyes flashed open in a wide panic. _If he opened heaven after Cassandra died, he'd yank her down here too!_ Vincent unleashed a silent scream, bludgeoning his fragile psyche with the most outside of possibilities. _Son of ah bitch! Let me down! Let me out of this place!_

Vincent slowly twisted.

The old man smiled.

_No, no more_ , Vincent pleaded _, let me down!_ _God, please_ — Vincent paused for a moment, remembering his God, his lost faith, feeling guilty. Only now, when all else had failed, did he turn back to that which he had forsaken. _God_ , he prayed, _I'm not sure who You are anymore. I'm not really sure who I am either, but I'm askin' You, beggin' You to end this, please._ Vincent tried to swallow. _My son's down here now, he shouldn't be_. _He's a good boy, he shouldn't be here. Please, find a way for him to go back. Please._

The storms whipped in. Acid rained from the ceiling.

The old man's head spun into view, his face cringing, melting. Vincent winced, feeling the acid gnaw his flesh, his eyes.

_God, I know I've screwed up,_ Vincent prayed. _I know I quit believin' in You, Your power. But please, if there's a way to end this, do it. I'm beggin' You._

The storms raged for hours, blasting unruly winds into the chime, buffeting acid eaten heads against one another.

Vincent quit praying, accepting that salvation would not come from the heavens, knowing it would come from nowhere at all. He shut down, losing all hope for an end to his dismal existence. He began to believe Zedekiah's wisdom: _Hope, faith, whatever name you tag on it, is a senseless waste of time, and neither exist here_. Zedekiah was right, Vincent surmised as the last glowing drops dripped from the ceiling. _Abandon hope and set yourself free. Abandon hope and set yourself free. Abandon hope and—_

"Mister!" Thaddy whispered loudly.

Vincent's mouth dropped open.

Thaddy reached up with shredded hands and ripped thread from the seal at the base of Vincent's neck.

Vincent couldn't believe what was happening. Anger and rage churned with relief and excitement. _Hurry up!_ Vincent mouthed, shifting his eyes, searching for guards. _Hurry up, you little piece of shit!_

"I know you are mad at me, mister, but we do not have much time." Thaddy yanked the seal from Vincent's neck and watched his body regenerate.

Vincent reached up and untied the knotted intestine in his hair. "Why, kid? Why my son?"

"You do not understand," Thaddy said, eyes sparkling. "Your son chose to—"

Vincent grabbed Thaddy by the throat and thrust him in the air. "Why? Why my _son_?" He shoved the boy through swaying heads and leapt over the shallow moat to the far wall. Vincent slammed the child against flint block. "I should fuckin' kill you."

"I am already dead."

"Shut up!" Vincent dropped the boy on the ground. "Just shut up." He slumped back against the wall and sat down on a pile of discarded skin clothing. "Why, kid? Why'd you bring him?"

"We watched you," Thaddy said. "Everything beyond that hazy, pink cloud in oblivion played out very clearly for us."

"But you didn't have to come back, did you?"

"We waited as long as we could," Thaddy explained. "We were hoping that you could have destroyed Zedekiah."

Vincent shook his head. "And, what? I didn't, so you forced my son to hell? What kinda shit is—"

"No, mister, he chose to come. He—"

"He's a _child_! He can't make decisions like that, Thaddy!" Vincent huffed rancid air with rage. "You forced him across, didn't you? _Didn't_ you?"

"No, you do not understand."

"Nah, I understand perfectly," Vincent said. "I understand that you're gonna get your ass back in there and find a way to get my son outa hell!"

"I cannot do that."

Vincent jumped to his feet and grabbed Thaddy. "You'll do what I tell you! Get back in there and free him!"

"He is with Zedekiah at all times now," Thaddy said. "I could not get close."

"What do you mean, he's with Zed?"

"Zedekiah is training your son to worship the pain." Thaddy bowed his head.

Vincent shook the boy. "Goddamn you, what've you done? He's my son. You've trapped my son in hell!"

Thaddy looked up, his glittering eyes searched Vincent's soul. "Your son was trapped long ago, mister."

Vincent released Thaddy. "What? What are you talkin' about?"

"Just as my essence was trapped in limbo by guilt, so was Brendon's."

Vincent shook his head. "What? Who trapped him? Cassandra? Is she holding him back?"

Thaddy slowly shook his head. "No, mister, you are."

Vincent paused, his brow folding.

Thaddy nodded. "It is true."

"No." Vincent denied, "No, it's not me. It can't be."

"I am sorry, mister, but—"

"No! It _can't_ be!"

"It is," Thaddy said. "You carry immeasurable guilt for his death."

Vincent dropped to his knees, ignoring the silent laughter of five thousand heads, knowing well Thaddy's words were true. "My son ... I've trapped my own son. I can't believe this." Vincent tried to cry. "I— I love him so much, Thaddy."

"I know." Thaddy wrapped a comforting arm around Vincent's shoulder. "He knows."

Vincent felt the boy's blood trickle down his chest. "I love him so much. I never meant him any harm."

"He knows," Thaddy said. "He understands everything now."

Vincent reached for the boy's hand and meekly asked, "Does it hurt?"

"What?"

"Your wounds?" Vincent stared at the boy's bloody fingers, and asked, "Did it hurt when you came back to hell?"

Thaddy smiled, shook his head, and offered, "No, mister, it did not. Your son suffered no pain when he transferred here."

Vincent clenched his teeth, trying to cry. "The truth's not always best, is it, kid?"

"Your son is okay, mister. Everything will be fine."

"I know, Thaddy." Vincent looked at the child, slowly shaking his head, knowing it all to be a lie. "I know."

The pair sat in silence for a long time as Vincent pondered his next move, his guilt shifting back to revenge.

"Thaddy," Vincent said as he stood up and began searching through the pile of skin garments, "I'm goin' back after Zedekiah." Vincent jerked on a pair of ragged skin pants and cinched them up with an intestinal belt. "I'm gonna need your help. I need you to create a diversion of some kind." Vincent found a tan tunic for Thaddy and dressed him. "Go yell 'fire' or somethin' and I'll rip Zed's head off when he's not lookin'."

Thaddy smiled. "You would never make it past the guards."

"You have a better idea?"

"Yes," the child said. "It is the only thing that can destroy—"

Vincent slapped his hand over Thaddy's mouth. " _Shhh_ , guard's comin'."

They crouched down behind the pile of flesh garments as the guard sauntered in.

"Who's in here?!" the short, stout guard yelled, searching through the wind chime. He knocked heads as he walked, deliberately inflicting pain. "Is there somebody in here?!" He grabbed two heads. "You talking? No? How 'bout you?" The guard slammed the heads together, knowing well they couldn't speak. He slammed them again, cracking cheekbone. "Better not be talking!" he warned, scanning the wind chime, a twisted smile upon his face. The guard knelt down and searched the free area underneath the hanging heads. It was clear. He stood up and grinned, relishing the agony of others. He grabbed a head and yanked it close, nose to nose. "Storm's-a-brewin'. Tell your buddies." The guard laughed, swinging the head, slamming it into another. "Catch anybody talking in here we start ripping out tongues!" He faded into the blue mist beyond the archway.

"We need to get outa here," Vincent said, staring up. "Through the ceiling is our only way. I can kick a hole where it's weak."

Thaddy nodded.

Vincent grabbed the child's bloody hand and led him through the wind chime to the lowest part of the ceiling. "Here, we'll climb the ropes and—"

"Mister!" Thaddy whispered loudly. "Look!"

Vincent spun around and saw the boy smiling. "Wha— I'll be a son of ah bitch."

Glipp's head hung next to Thaddy, slowly spinning, a wide smile upon his bearded face.

"Get him down," Vincent urged.

Thaddy yanked the seal from Glipp's neck while Vincent untied the intestine from his wavy hair. The body regenerated.

Glipp, his skin not yet complete, hugged Thaddy, then Vincent. "It is being good to be seeing you again ... although, I was having the most pleasant of rests here."

Vincent shook his head and smiled. "Crazy Hindu, what were you thinkin' attackin' Zedekiah like that?"

Glipp blinked rapidly, shifting, checking his body. "Devil was being bad, hurting the son of Vishnu." He winked at Thaddy.

"Thanks," Thaddy said. "It is good to see you again."

"As is Glipp being happy seeing you."

"Yeah, yeah," Vincent said, checking intestinal rope. "Enough with the nice-nice. Let's get the hell outa here." He yanked three heads together and twisted the intestines, forming a sturdy cord. Vincent climbed up, kicked a hole through the riddled ceiling, then slid back down.

"Okay, Glipp, you first, I'll carry the kid."

Glipp climbed the rope and squeezed through the hole.

Thaddy wrapped his icy arms around Vincent's neck and jumped on his back.

"Just like old times, eh kid?" Vincent said, climbing rope.

The trio followed the glowing tunnels, climbed out through the vortex funnel on the top level of the fortress, and emerged to a crimson sky.

"All right, Thaddy," Vincent said, scraping acid from his pants. "let's have it, _everything_."

Thaddy sighed and sat down at the edge of the funnel. "It is like I was trying to explain, you cannot destroy Zedekiah by shoving him into limbo. His guards would never allow it."

"I got that much," Vincent sat next to Thaddy, "but you were about to tell me—"

"Glipp is thinking we should be setting a trap," Glipp said, naked, hairy, fidgeting. "Maybe we should be kidnapping the devil and just be burying him somewhere."

"Yeah, great idea," Vincent said, dismissing Glipp. "Well, Thaddy, what—"

"Glipp is also thinking we should just be leaving this place, getting away from the devil."

"We cannot leave," Thaddy said, staring solemnly at the sky. "The grand design of Creation is now threatened. The threat must be stopped."

"How?" Vincent asked.

Thaddy turned around, his eyes brightly sparkling. "You must stop Zedekiah, mister."

"I _will_ ," Vincent said. "Just tell me how."

"Your son's essence, the fate of Creation, depend upon your actions," Thaddy said.

Vincent shook his head. "What the hell're you talkin' about? I'll get my son back to limbo, but don't be layin' this 'fate of Creation' crap on my shoulders."

Thaddy offered a sad smile. "Your actions can preserve both."

Vincent shifted his eyes to Glipp, then back to Thaddy.

"You must free your essence, mister," Thaddy explained. "Once you have done that, Brendon can move on, he will not be trapped by the boundaries of oblivion or limbo."

Anger raged inside Vincent. "What do you mean, 'free your essence'? Goddamn it, kid, why can't I just go rip Zedekiah's head off and be done with it?"

"You could," Thaddy said, "and the gateway to limbo might still be open, and you might be able to shove Brendon through. But that is where your son would stay until this existence is obliterated, and you with it."

"Then what?" Vincent asked. "Brendon would go to heaven? That works."

"Then he would be reborn on earth," Thaddy said. "He would not move on."

"Why not?" Vincent asked.

"Because you have chosen to remain here," Thaddy said, "unenlightened, your essence still tethered to his."

Vincent grabbed Thaddy by his tunic. "You little piece of shit. You knew that when you dragged Brendon across. You _knew_ he'd be trapped here!"

"No, mister," Thaddy said softly, "Brendon knew if he came you would do what is necessary to free him."

Vincent clenched his teeth. "And what exactly _is_ that?"

Thaddy, with eyes of starshine and solemn voice, said, "You must forgive Zedekiah."

# Chapter 28

"The whole world says I'm Great;

Great, yet unlike everyone else.

But it's precisely because I'm unlike everyone else, that I'm

therefore able to be Great."

—Lao-Tzu

Te-Tao Ching

Chicago, IL ... Winter

"On one. One!" Dr. Thaumatuerg directed the efforts of four orderlies as they transferred Vincent's limp body from the gurney to the operating table. The doctor removed Vincent's plastic neck brace. "Neck's fine." He then checked his patient's eyes. "We'll save the lumbar for last." He checked the IV. "Increase the saline drip, I need ..."

The operating room was cold, it always was, hovering at sixty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Dr. Thaumatuerg embraced the low temperature, but blamed it on hospital policy to take the heat off himself. His surgical crew despised the cold, but they knew if the thermometer hit sixty-nine, Dr. Thaumatuerg began sweating profusely, so they endured.

"More pressure on the forearm, nurse," Dr. Thaumatuerg said. "What's his BP?"

"One-ten over seventy-five, systolic holding," the anesthetist said, checking the EKG, hearing its intermittent _beep ... beep_ keep rhythm with the _whoosh ... shhh_ of the respirator.

"I'll need five more units O-positive standing by," the doctor said. "How's the knitting circle coming along, Shoe Shine Boy?"

"Pearl one, knit two. Gauze please. Making me a fine sweater up here," Simon said, suturing the horizontal cut across Vincent's face.

The nurses and orderlies chuckled. They all enjoyed working in the chaos of Dr. Thaumatuerg's operation room. Nothing went by the book. Hospital policy called for total OR illumination, the doctor preferred lighting only over the operating table; policy spelled out no TVs, the doctor played the in-house "Wellness Channel" (better known by the orderlies as _Channel Zero_ —the death channel) on the training monitor to relax his nerves; protocol for anesthetics was routinely breached by feeding ketamine into the saline drip. And the banter during the most serious operations bordered on frivolity, which miffed most of the hospital staff, so the crew on hand was specifically selected by Dr. Thaumatuerg. These were people who appreciated the unique chaos of greatness.

"Why is it so bright in here?" the doctor asked. "Somebody kill the overheads."

An orderly flipped off the fluorescent lighting, leaving only a nightlight ceiling fixture lit, darkening the OR to the shadowless illumination hovering above Vincent's body.

Dr. Thaumatuerg grabbed the overhead lamp and swung it down to get a better look at Vincent's abdomen. "I'm smelling bowel." The doctor adjusted the lamp again. "Smell this, Shoe Shine Boy, see if you can recognize it."

Simon edged down and bent over the puncture wound. "Smells like shit."

"It is shit," Dr. Thaumatuerg said.

Simon shook his head. "If you already knew, why'd you make me smell it?"

The doctor shrugged and smiled under his mask. "Just wanted a second opinion." He turned to the nurse. "Scalpel, if you please. And I'll be needing the microscope powered up."

"Yes, doctor."

"Can't believe you made me smell that," Simon said.

"Had to be sure, dear boy, it could've been anything."

"If it smells like shit," Simon said, reaching for clean gauze, "it most likely is. 'A rose is a rose is a rose.' Gertrude Stein."

Dr. Thaumatuerg sliced open Vincent's abdomen. "Yes, but, 'All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.' Edgar Allen, suction, Poe."

"Now you're reaching, Doc," Simon parried, snipping the last suture.

"'It's hard to think and hit at the same time.' More suction. Yogi Berra."

"Is it true," the nurse asked, "that this guy killed the Viceman?"

"That's what they say," Dr. Thaumatuerg said, searching deep into a basket of coiled small intestines.

"He freakin' fell from the Sears Tower," an orderly chimed in. "Chopped off the Viceman's head with an ax on the way down."

Simon paused. He looked at the orderly, then at the doctor. "That had to be over a thousand feet this guy fell."

"Landed on a circus tent or something," the orderly continued. "Lucky bastard."

"We all make our own luck," Dr. Thaumatuerg said. "Forceps. Sponge."

"Who penned that one?" asked Simon as he began work on the broken arm.

"Not sure, Shoe Shine Boy," the doctor said. "It just sounded right. Suction. Victory is yours."

"How could a man survive falling that far?" asked the anesthetist.

"That's nothin'," an orderly said, "I know some guy that fell like over ten thousand feet without a parachute and lived."

"And so it is," the doctor said, "that 'life continues to elude logic.' Andre Gide, more or less." He winked at Simon. "New game." Dr. Thaumatuerg smiled underneath his mask and continued work on Vincent's abdomen. "Sponge. What's his pressure?"

"One-O-five over seventy."

"Tell me that's higher than last time."

"Sorry, doctor."

# Chapter 29

"It is the stars,

The stars above us, govern our conditions."

—William Shakespeare

King Lear

Oblivion ... 00.01.58

Vincent trembled with rage. "What the hell do you mean, I gotta forgive Zedekiah?" He searched Thaddy's eyes for the faintest glimmer of a joke. Nothing but starshine. "You're kiddin', right? You're kiddin', tell me you're pullin' my leg. _Tell me_!"

Thaddy slowly shook his head.

A knot twisted in Vincent's stomach. "Anything, kid, anything but that. You can't be serious. You _can't_ be!"

"I am sorry, mister. It is the only way."

"Bullshit!" Vincent jumped to his feet and paced across the flint block of the fortress roof. "There's gotta be another way."

"There is not," Thaddy said.

Vincent collapsed to his knees and stared at the crimson sky. In a desperate realization, he whispered, "You've trapped my son." His jaw dropped. "My son's life will end in hell now."

"No, mister, all you have to do is forgive—"

"I _can't_ do it!" Vincent scrambled to the boy and grabbed him by his tunic. "You saw what he did to my family! You were there! You know what happened! You saw it, you son of ah bitch! You _watched_ it happen!" Vincent jerked his head and looked at Glipp, searching for support.

Glipp was smiling.

"What the hell're you smilin' at?" Vincent asked.

"You are not understanding what the son of Vishnu is saying," Glipp said. "Keys to heaven he is offering, and you are spitting in his face. Be unlocking the soul, you are unlocking the gate. Simple is being the choice, difficult is being the chore."

"You have no idea what that madman did to my family," Vincent said.

"Glipp is feeling the sting of much injustice," Glipp said. "More pain than Glipp is daring to remember."

"Then maybe, just _maybe_ , you understand why I can't forgive that son of ah bitch." Vincent released Thaddy and sat down on the flint rim.

Glipp sat down at Vincent's side, and said, "Glipp is understanding many, many things, but never revenge. That is something that is cutting off circulation to the soul. If you are not forgiving the devil, then the devil is having your soul for breakfast. You are only harming yourself."

Vincent bowed his head, and asked, "How is it me forgiving Zedekiah will end this anyway?"

Thaddy's eyes shined brightly. "Zedekiah has never been forgiven for anything on the earth plane of existence or this one," the boy explained. "If you could touch his soul with your forgiveness, then he would finally feel the pain."

"What about my son? You said—"

"He would be free, mister. Once you have forgiven Zedekiah, you can forgive yourself. The shackles of guilt would break and untether Brendon's essence. He would move on—free of oblivion, free of limbo."

Vincent sighed. "Thaddy ... I can't do it. How am I to forgive someone who's done so much damage to me, to my family? Tell me."

"Glipp will be showing you," Glipp said, excited about helping. "Glipp can be leading you to Brahman. Within Brahman you are understanding, and forgiveness you are finding."

"Back with this Brahman shit again, Glipp?" Vincent rubbed his eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. "You couldn't even describe it last time, so how the hell's it gonna help now?"

"Brahman is like the salt in the oceans," Glipp said. "It is unseen yet—"

"Forget it, Glipp." Vincent lay down on his back, his eyes covered by his forearm. "I can't see some crazy, ass-stabbin' Hindu showin' me the secrets of the universe."

"Glipp is right," Thaddy said. "If he can help you find enlightenment, then you can find forgiveness."

"C'mon, kid," Vincent said. "The Hindu's nuts. No offense, Glipp."

"Some is being taken," Glipp said.

"I just don't see it, that's all." Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. "I tried meditating before. It doesn't work here."

"You are knowing of meditation?" Glipp asked. "What was it you were meditating on?"

Vincent sighed. "Death. I was taught to meditate on death so I could leave my body."

Glipp laughed loudly.

"What's so funny?" Vincent asked.

"Funny is being you." Glipp laughed harder. "Dead man is seeking death? The night should seek the shade!" Glipp held his stomach. "Laugh in hell is feeling almost good!"

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Gandhi." Vincent sat up. "Least I know my limitations."

Glipp calmed himself. "Truth you are speaking. Jealous is being hell's hold. But Brahman is being reality, just as hell is being reality. Hell is escaping Brahman not."

Vincent bowed his head. "I'm so sick and tired of all this. Everybody with their damn religion, trying to make me believe what they believe." He looked at the sky. "Does it ever end?" Vincent turned to Thaddy. "Does it?"

The boy nodded. "Yes, there comes a time when faith is no longer needed, when the essence of a person bonds eternally with truth, the knowledge of Creation."

Vincent snorted and shook his head. "But I gotta have faith to believe what you're tellin' me now is true? It doesn't make sense."

Thaddy grinned. "Faith rarely makes sense, mister."

Vincent paused. "I had faith in you once, kid, and you brought my son to hell."

"Mister," Thaddy said in a solemn tone, "I am sorry that your son is here, but you still do not understand. Brendon has felt the other side, he holds the knowledge of Creation now. He _chose_ to cross over to this existence, he was not forced. He now has reasoning skills far beyond your comprehension. He knew what he wanted to do, and he was guided by his love for you, which remains as limitless as ever, as does mine. Without a second thought, we both would sacrifice ourselves to save you. That is why he is here ... that is why I am here."

Vincent was struck silent.

"So, please," Thaddy continued, "for Brendon's sake, listen to what Glipp is trying to tell you. You do not need faith for truth to exist, it will always be there. Let him help you find it."

"Yes," Glipp said, "I will be helping you to be finding Brahman."

Vincent breathed deeply, knowing his options were nil. "Okay, where do I start lookin'?"

Glipp laughed once more. "Look, and you won't be finding. Reach out, and it is being the wind you are touching. You cannot be reaching Brahman through the senses, as you cannot be stopping a mad elephant by grasping its shadow. You must be leaving your senses behind."

Vincent glared at Glipp and ground his teeth.

"Please," Glipp said, folding his legs into a lotus position. "Be facing me and Glipp is showing you how to be reaching the eternal soul."

Vincent turned to Thaddy.

The boy nodded. "Trust him, mister."

Vincent slowly shook his head, sighed, then sat down in front of Glipp. "Lead the way."

Glipp closed his eyes, rested his hands on his thighs, and took a deep breath. "You are following me. You are doing as Glipp is doing. Glipp will be showing the way. There is being six steps to reaching Brahman."

Vincent closed his eyes and relaxed.

"Each step will be bringing you closer to your soul." Glipp slowed his breathing. "The first step is being the restraining of breath. Since we are being in hell, you may be choosing to be breathing not at all."

Vincent quit breathing.

"Glipp is being the only one talking during this journey. You are listening to my words alone. Glipp will be guiding you deeper, then you will not be hearing me at all."

Vincent listened.

"Brahman is being the source of all things, it is controlling our universe, it is unifying all of Creation." Glipp opened his eyes as he spoke and watched Vincent. "Be thinking not of your body; be leaving it behind. You are being you, the body is being something else."

Vincent began to lose his outward senses.

"Begin meditating," Glipp said, leading Vincent deeper into himself. "Be calming your senses and losing your body. Be concentrating on one unifying word: _Rama_. Be repeating it in your mind often. _Rama ... Rama ... Rama...._ "

Vincent meditated on the sacred word.

"To be one with Brahman, you must be understanding the path to the soul." Glipp paused, jogging his own memory. "You must be peeling away each layer of matter. The first layer is already being peeled away, you have lost your gross body, the one you were using on earth. You are now wearing your subtle body. You must be shedding that also. You must be losing all outward senses; you must be concentrating; you must be contemplating; you must be absorbing yourself within yourself." Glipp smiled seeing Vincent's face relax. "You will be hearing nothing; seeing, feeling, tasting or smelling nothing of this hell. You will be finding your karma, the negative matter surrounding your soul. You must be shedding it. Only then will you be free, only then will you be finding Brahman."

Glipp's words began to fade.

"Be searching ... letting yourself go ... seeking the ocean...."

Vincent escaped oblivion's stranglehold. A dark bliss enveloped him as he lost all outward senses. The sacred sound of _Rama_ echoed in his head as the perpetual pain left his body. No longer did Vincent's skin feel the sting of hell's caustic air; no longer did its stench offend his senses; no longer did oblivion's sights attack his soul. He was free, free of external attachments, free of flesh and bone.

Vincent felt himself floating in the black void, completely at ease, content to exist in the dark cradle of detached existence. _This must be heaven_ , he thought, never experiencing its equal.

A bright yellow pinhole of light pierced the utter blackness. It sped toward Vincent and raced by his head, creating neither sound nor breeze. Another light appeared, then another. Soon, millions of yellow lights began flashing by Vincent. He then realized it was he who was moving, speeding in total silence toward the glowing brightness. The lights converged, forming one mass of brilliant yellow. Vincent felt compelled to enter the promising light, knowing now, feeling it in his very soul, that the ball of brilliance straight ahead was the star that warmed earth.

Vincent shot through the sun's flaring corona, affected by neither heat nor radiation. He plunged into the first layer of fiery matter—the yellow photosphere—and had a flashback to earth. He was home in Bon Olivi, in his living room, strapped to his wingback chair, witnessing Cassandra's rape, Brendon's murder. The room turned bright yellow and Vincent watched his body disintegrate. He sank from the first layer of the sun to the second—the orange convection zone—and had a flashback to oblivion. He was in the fortress, near limbo's gateway, restrained by guards, watching Thaddy lead Brendon to hell. The chamber turned bright orange and Vincent watched his body disintegrate. He plummeted to the third layer of the sun—the red radiation zone—and a cool static field enveloped him. Every bad deed Vincent ever did, every vile thought he ever had, existed within the tingling white fury of static. He panicked, realizing the depth of his misdeeds. He struggled in the static, wrestling a multitude of sins: the hatred of Zedekiah, holding back a madman's description while others died, Zedekiah's murder, stealing a car, abandoning his wife, and wallowing in shame and self-pity instead of honoring the love of Cassandra. Vincent's sins didn't stop there. The static was a record of every wrongful action since birth: stealing apples from his neighbor's orchard, lying to his parents when he broke the tractor, cheating on a test in fifth grade. It was all there, the accumulated sins of a lifetime.

Vincent quit struggling, accepting his misdeeds as part of being human, understanding it was lack of control over his base primal urges that made the static fly. He also realized that the static field was the roadblock of Creation, forcing one to become enlightened before moving on, before freeing the soul.

Vincent soon felt his eternal love for Cassandra, knew its true meaning for the first time. He recalled the bible. _Love is patient and kind.... Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.... Love never ends_. And he felt that, for the first time his essence was enraptured, knowing Cassandra was his one true love.

Vincent pictured T'ien, realizing his feelings for her were natural, understanding his passions weren't a by-product of lost love for Cassandra, knowing now, it was his instinctual human spirit that sought friendship, comfort, warmth. Vincent's feelings for T'ien were as honest and pure as his love for Cassandra. Both genuine. Both sacred.

The guilt was gone.

Vincent embraced the crackling static, allowing it to ripple through his being. He now understood, near the heart of Creation, the meaning of forgiveness. He felt the world as a whole, the existence of all life delicately intertwined. There was no _I_ anymore, only _We_. Vincent acknowledged when a singular person performs a horrendous act against another, he acts against himself. It is his own soul that's injured, and there it must stop. For a person to exact revenge, he must be willing to sacrifice personal enlightenment. Vincent realized he couldn't control the actions of Zedekiah anymore than he could untwist a tornado. But it was in his power to pick up the pieces and rebuild after the destruction. He forgave Zedekiah. No longer did the devil own his soul.

The static began to dissipate.

A flood of understanding washed over Vincent. He forgave himself and all his trespassers. All misdeeds and vile thoughts were clarified and sloughed away as supreme knowledge was reached. Vincent found a self within himself, a self of pure consciousness, an ultimate reality encompassing all of Creation.

The static field disappeared.

Vincent traveled through time, each page of his life unfolding in a splintered second. He relived the experience in the womb, the implantation of primal instincts at the moment of conception. He witnessed his birth and embraced the bestowing of his essence. He grasped the true meaning of existence.

Vincent felt his being enveloped by a warming bliss as he entered the sun's brilliant white core. He felt the presence of a supreme entity—the Creator. And what perfect sense it made to Vincent, the sun, warmer of earth, creator of life, without which all would perish, what better place to house his God. Then he realized it wasn't just earth's sun that held the Creator, it was all stars throughout Creation. Each one a warming beacon bestowing comfort to an otherwise frigid sterility of existence.

Vincent floated in silence as the sun's core flashed blinding white. He was at peace, in complete rapture, untouched by hunger, thirst, or earthly needs, swimming in a gentle stream of desireless serenity. He reached the core's center and all became black. He felt a warm rush of solar wind blast by his being. Before Vincent, emerged an ocean of shimmering light, a sea of silver starshine. It was vast, immense, limitless—no islands, no shores, only a vivid, white heaven above. It made gentle sounds as the body of light surged, jingling and chiming, pulsing and echoing, richly resonating tones only felt by the soul. He absorbed himself within the endless ocean of starshine.

Vincent had no nose, yet the water smelled bright; he had no ears, yet heard its warmth; he had no eyes, yet saw its lullaby; he had no fingers, yet felt its sweet aroma. He had retrieved the long lost purity of childish innocence.

Vincent's soul was free once more....

~

"Get out of the storm!" Glipp yelled, racing across the fortress rooftop.

Vincent opened his eyes. Neon acid was falling, ball lightning flashed through the air. He jumped up, raced behind Glipp to the back of the roof, and scrambled down to where Thaddy was huddled in a makeshift shelter at the base of the fortress.

"How long has it been?" Vincent asked, climbing into the shelter, shaking the neon acid off his tattered pants.

"It was being a long time," Glipp said. "Glipp was thinking maybe you were staying. Were you reaching Brahman?"

Vincent gazed at Glipp with faraway eyes. "I found truth."

"Yes," Glipp said. "That is being Brahman. Were you seeing the ocean?"

Vincent nodded.

"Please be describing for me."

Vincent shook oblivion back in his sights. "You haven't been there? I thought—"

"No," Glipp sadly said. "Glipp has been trying many, many times, but hell has never been releasing me. Glipp was doubting you would be making it."

"If you haven't been there," Vincent asked, "how'd you know about the ocean?"

"Glipp hasn't been to McDonald's, yet Glipp is knowing of a Big Mac." Glipp smiled. "Hindu is being my religion. Glipp was being taught by those who were reaching Brahman. Please be describing the ocean for me, it is being so very long."

Vincent turned to Thaddy. "Look into the boy's eyes, Glipp. Picture a limitless ocean shinin' like those eyes."

Glipp met the glittering eyes and imagined.

"No land, no ships, no shores of any kind," Vincent said, turning to watch the rain fall. "Nothin' but shinin' bliss surgin' back and forth." He turned to Thaddy. "Was that heaven?"

The boy shrugged. "I am not sure yet."

"It sure felt like it." Vincent sighed. "I don't feel the hatred anymore, or the need for revenge. I understand who I am."

Glipp closed his eyes, still picturing a vast ocean. "Then you are being ready to forgive the devil?"

Vincent fell silent, searching his feelings, his newfound awareness. "Yes, I'm ready to forgive him." Vincent crawled out from the shelter to the passing storm. "I will find Zedekiah, and he will come to understand."

# Chapter 30

"Physicians of the Utmost Fame

Were called at once; but when they came

They answered, as they took their Fees,

'There is no Cure for this Disease.'"

—Hilaire Belloc

"Cautionary Tales, Henry King"

Chicago, IL ... Winter

"How's it coming, Shoe Shine Boy?" Dr. Thaumatuerg asked, examining lumbar X-rays at the light box.

"Two more," Simon said, pinching staples down Vincent's abdomen.

"Good, good." The doctor turned to an orderly. "Once he's done, I need the patient on his side." Dr. Thaumatuerg glanced through the window in the OR door and saw an immense black man pacing. "Who is that man standing out there? I thought I told you to clear out all the reporters."

The orderly ran for the door.

Dr. Thaumatuerg shook his head and turned to the anesthetist. "Pressure?"

"Ninety-five over sixty. Still falling."

The nurse stretched a fresh pair of gloves on the doctor.

"Shoe Shine Boy," the doctor said, "can you tell me why my patient is dying?"

"Don't know," Simon said, inspecting his handiwork. "No reason for it,"

"No reason, indeed," the doctor said.

The orderly raced back into the OR. "His name's Short Rib, says he's a friend of the patient."

"A friend?" Dr. Thaumatuerg looked through the window once more. "Get the patient on his side." The doctor walked to the opposite side of the operating table and pumped three pneumatic foot pedals, raising Vincent to a workable height. "Run back out and see where this man's family is. Scalpel."

Doctor Thaumatuerg sliced a five-inch incision in the flesh covering Vincent's lower spine. This was the final operation, the easiest for the doctor. He could do a discectomy standing on one foot in a drunken stupor.

"Suction. Forceps."

The orderly slammed back through the OR doors. "He says he has no family. His wife's in some mental hospital."

The room fell silent. Only the _beep ... beep_ of the EKG and the _whoosh ... shhh_ of the respirator could be heard.

"Says the Viceman killed his little boy," the orderly continued. "Says that's the reason his wife cracked."

"Forceps, please." Dr. Thaumatuerg looked at the orderly, then his staff. This was another breach in protocol; there should've been no emotional connection to the patient, but now it was too late. The doctor could see it in his nurse's blinking eyes, he heard it in the anesthetist's sniffing. "Shoe Shine Boy?"

"Yes."

"Scalpel. Have you figured out why my patient is dying yet?"

Simon shook his head.

"Wipe, please."

The nurse wiped Dr. Thaumatuerg's brow.

"Forget your medical training," the doctor said. "Or as Bruce Lee once said, 'Don't think, _feel_.'"

"Feel?" Simon said. "Wouldn't Bruce Lee have just kicked this man's ass back to life?"

Dr. Thaumatuerg chuckled.

Simon swallowed hard. These were uneasy moments, moments when the doctor traveled beyond the realm of medicine to a secret world of mystic knowledge all his own. Simon could sling quotes and phrases with the doctor all day long, as could he practice medicine, but when the doctor asked for a diagnosis of a patient who defied the most profound logic of medicine, Simon tensed. He knew Dr. Thaumatuerg already concluded his diagnosis, undoubtedly the correct one, and he feared giving his own.

Simon swallowed again, ruffling through the medical pages of his mind. He found his answer. "Shock, brought on by—" He hesitated, seeing Dr. Thaumatuerg smile under his mask. "I don't know," Simon conceded. "'To know that you do not know is the best.' Lao Tzu."

"Indeed." Dr. Thaumatuerg looked up from Vincent's shimmering back muscles. "It's no sin to not have all the answers, Shoe Shine Boy." The doctor reached up and adjusted the overhead lighting. "Why am I getting shadows?" He looked at the ceiling, to a flickering fluorescent nightlight. "Someone please tell me why that light is blinking."

Simon quickly answered, "Shock, brought on by—"

Dr. Thaumatuerg laughed. "You're a funny man, Shoe Shine Boy. Sponge. Someone go get maintenance and have them disconnect the damn thing, please, and thank you." The doctor bent backward, popping a few vertebrae. "How long have we been at it?"

"Over seven hours," the nurse said.

Dr. Thaumatuerg stretched his arms. "Got about two to go." He looked at the video monitor, at Channel Zero. A babbling brook was gently flowing. He sighed and turned to his patient. "Scalpel. No more quotes, Shoe Shine Boy. What about poetry?"

"What about it?"

"Do you know any?"

"Sure."

"Recite, suction, something about death," the doctor said.

Uneasy glances shifted throughout the OR.

" _Death?_ " Simon asked, inspecting the IV drip, the ketamine feed.

"Yes, if you please," the doctor urged.

Simon exhaled a nervous breath. "Okay, here's one for you, 'Death,' by C.M. Joiner. 'What is death we all so dread? Is it the termination of a life that's fled, or is it a transition from cares of earth, to a realm of bliss and perpetual mirth? If death is a transition from earth to bliss; the meeting of loved ones we have missed, why should we dread the narrow span; the narrow divide to the—"

"Mind telling me what's going on here?" Charles Winslow, the hospital Director, asked, slamming through the OR doors.

Dr. Thaumatuerg stopped working. "Yes, Shoe Shine Boy. What's going on here? This is not the time or place for surgery. More poetry, please."

"I'm not taking any of your guff today, doctor," the Director said, fiddling with the knot on his mask.

"Guff? Forceps. What exactly is _guff_?" the doctor asked.

The middle-aged Director walked to the head of the operating table. "Guff is the stuff that keeps our lawyers tense." He rubbed his balding white scalp and studied the stitches across Vincent's face. "And nobody's lawyers are more tense than Mercy's these days." The Director shook his head. "That is a wicked cut."

"I like that," Dr. Thaumatuerg said. "Shoe Shine Boy, take a note, from now on all horizontal lacerations will be referred to as 'wicked cuts.'"

Muffled laughter broke out.

" _Yeah, yeah_ , you're a regular Hawkeye Pierce," the Director said, somewhat hurt by lack of inclusion. "How much longer? There's a press conference set around eight o'clock."

"Well," Dr. Thaumatuerg said, "considering that this man is dying, and maintenance hasn't fixed Mr. Blinky up there yet, it might be awhile."

The Director looked at the shadowed ceiling, then at Channel Zero. He shook his head. "So, what am I to tell the press?"

"Suction. Tell them to keep the hell out of the hallways," the doctor said.

The Director huffed and tapped his foot, awaiting more information. None was offered. "Contact me immediately if anything changes." He yanked off his mask and slammed through the doors.

"Sorry about the interruption," Dr. Thaumatuerg told Simon. "Please finish your poem."

"I—"

Someone knocked lightly on the OR doors.

" _Ahh_ ," Dr. Thaumatuerg looked up, "'So gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my OR door.' Poe. Please get a mask for Big Al."

An orderly rushed to the scrub room, then ran back with the surgical mask. He shot through the doors and handed it to the maintenance man.

Big Al was a formidable Italian, hovering at six-foot two and weighing two-hundred-and-thirty pounds. He was sixty-six years old, but could've easily passed for fifty. He claimed good sex and single malt scotch kept his dark hair thick, his skin tight, and his pecker hard.

Big Al walked in holding an eight-foot folding ladder and two fluorescent tubes. "I don't usually work while the OR's in session," he said, his no nonsense voice deep and burly.

"I usually don't either," Dr. Thaumatuerg said. "But sometimes we need to break the rules."

Big Al looked at the flickering light, then at Simon. "I'll wait 'till you're done."

Simon walked over to Big Al and nodded his head at the operating table. "Do you know who the patient is?"

Big Al didn't know and didn't care.

"That's the guy who killed the Viceman," said Simon.

Big Al's eyes shifted.

"That's right," Simon said. "The only bad thing is ... he's dying."

Big Al swallowed. "Why?"

"I don't know," said Simon, "but we all think that the blinking light might have something to do with it."

Big Al shook his head. "You guys always have to have it your way, don't ya?" He set up his ladder and climbed it. "Like you're God almighty."

Simon walked back to the table.

Dr. Thaumatuerg winked at his assistant.

Simon smiled under his mask.

Big Al unlatched the lens cover and replaced the bulbs. They still flickered. "Needs a new ballast."

"Pressure?" the doctor asked the nurse.

"Systolic at ninety."

"Prepare five units of blood, somebody verify the defib, and pour me a double shot of epinephrine." The doctor sliced the bulge from a ruptured disc. "Have you figured out why this man's dying yet, Shoe Shine Boy?"

Without thinking, Simon said, "Because he wants to."

"Bravo, Underdog! _Bravo_!" Dr. Thaumatuerg shouted.

Simon slowly shook his head with a smile, knowing his old nickname had just been replaced by a new one.

# Chapter 31

"To err is human, to forgive, divine."

—Alexander Pope

"An Essay on Man"

Oblivion ... 00.02.06

Zedekiah, his flesh liquefied, sat upon his throne relishing the searing pain that rained down from the domed ceiling. The massive chamber was crowded with guards and Riders, thousands of them swarming in the eerie-blue haze of acid mist praising their Savior. The horses at the far walls whinnied and jostled as acid breached the moats and gnawed their hooves. The drums of the main hall were silent, but music could still be heard. "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" gently chimed, echoing throughout the throne room.

Hashmell sat down on a flint rock at the side of the altar, well clear of any blue pain, studying the music box that was retrieved from the ravine. The old man rubbed a bony hand over his bald head, his rat eyes feasting on the possibilities the music box offered. _If the box could transfer through the filters_ , he thought, _what else could pass?_ He began chirping happy little cricket sounds. _How did the boy get it here?_ Hashmell pondered _. He had to cross to earth before he came. How was that possible?_ Hashmell sucked in his cheeks. _What form did he take on earth? Ghost? Could that be? We aren't ghosts here?_ Hashmell listened as the last note resonated from the music box, then turned the crank, allowing the music to chime once more. He surveyed the throne room, enjoying the surreal atmosphere of beautiful music plucking the dead heart strings of chaotic evil. _I already know that the soul transfers from one existence to the next, the body left behind. And I know the soul receives a fresh yet different type of body in each existence. But by what circumstance is it possible for the boy to transfer from limbo to earth? By what mandate—_ Then it struck Hashmell. _A mandate from a higher order, a supreme power!_ He chirped excitedly. _If the boy was allowed to visit earth, and then transferred to hell by divine right, then there has to be a reason._ Hashmell turned his head, looked up at Zedekiah, then suddenly realized ... _The boy is here to end this. He came to restore order!_

The last neon drops dripped from the ceiling. Riders rushed to their Savior with bone fragments and fresh clothes. Zedekiah, his flesh regenerated, plucked a knife from a Rider and began carving open his own chest. He inserted a bone fragment, then made other incisions: two on his neck, one on his cheek, and one on his stomach. He then propped them all open with bone.

Zedekiah walked down the steps of the altar as the Riders adorned him in a long skin robe. He stepped over the narrow acid moat, then knelt down at Brendon Goss's side. "Are you beginning to understand the glory of pain, my son?"

Brendon, dressed in a light skin tunic, his eyes sparkling, his flesh marked by acid burns and blood, replied, "Yes, I understand its purpose. It is you who does not. It is you who should seek enlightenment."

Zedekiah slapped the boy with a quick backhand. "Pain _is_ enlightenment!"

~

Vincent walked past the unfinished wall in front of the fortress. Glipp and Thaddy were right behind, followed closely by twenty nervous, mumbling guards. The workers saw them approach. One by one, their flint mallets fell silent. Something extraordinary rippled through the rancid air, something long forgotten, long dead, but the workers felt it like never before ... a glimmer of hope.

Vincent neared the fortress entrance. The guards at the arched doorway blocked his way. "Please," Vincent said, calmly staring into a fat guard's eyes. "I wish to see your Savior."

The guard shifted his head back-and-forth, checking the reaction of other guards. Uneasiness stirred in their eyes. The guard swallowed, turned to Thaddy, then turned back to Vincent. "What is it you seek?"

Vincent, his face mellowed by enlightenment, said, "Understanding."

The guard narrowed his eyes, pressed his lips together, then fearfully said, "My Savior already understands. The pain is eternal."

Vincent reached out to the guard and placed his hand upon his shoulder. "No. It is not."

The guard trembled, wishing those words to be true. He turned to the other guards, and said, "I will escort him myself. The Savior would want to know of such insolence."

Another guard, old and withered, shifted in front of Vincent. "I recognize you. We hung you in the wind chime." He turned to Thaddy.

The boy, his eyes shining, grinned at the guard.

"You released him, didn't you?" the guard asked the boy.

"Yes," Thaddy said, neither pleased nor proud.

"And you've come back?" the guard asked Vincent. "Why?"

"So all this may end," Vincent said.

The guard scratched his head and surveyed the growing crowd. "Nothing ends here."

Vincent raised a knowing brow. "It must end. Please, allow me to pass."

A rumble stirred through the crowd, nervous tension twitched and contorted their lost faces. "Sound the drums!" a guard yelled. "Sound the drums!" Guards quickly took positions at both sides of Glipp, Vincent, and Thaddy, grabbed their arms, and led them into the archway.

The main hall reverberated with the heavy beat of thick drums. The trio slowly walked down the blue-misted hallway, passing the drummers, seeing their wicked grinning faces turn to bewilderment. Horse hooves clopped the flint block floor. Four Riders approached from the throne room, their scared horses neighing wildly. The guards halted the captives. The drums fell silent. A lean, milk-white Rider studied the prize, then nodded at the lead guard. The Riders galloped back to the throne room. The drums beat once more, faster, deeper, chaotic. The guards marched on.

Vincent passed through the last archway and entered the throne room. The drumming stopped, the last booming echoes fading into utter silence. Vincent scanned beyond the teeming mass of guards and Riders, searching for his son. He did not see him, but he saw Zedekiah sitting mightily upon his solid throne. The guards advanced on Vincent, thinking it a perfect time to please their Savior.

"Let him pass!" Zedekiah commanded, pricking stunned ears.

The dead sea of guards parted and Vincent walked forward.

Hashmell stood up, sucked in his withered cheeks, and chirped nervously, cranking the music box without thought.

Zedekiah sat supremely at the top of thirteen steps, his glorified, dark eyes tight on Vincent.

A Rider led Vincent to the base of the circular altar, kicked the back of his legs, and demanded, "Kneel before your Savior!"

Vincent dropped to his knees.

Zedekiah waved off the Rider.

Hashmell chirped.

Vincent turned to the old man.

Hashmell, eyes wide, chirped wildly. His fingers slipped from the crank. The silence was broken by sweet metallic chimes.

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star_....

Vincent turned to Zedekiah.

Zedekiah stared down from his throne.

Gentle music echoed throughout the massive chamber, dueling the sound of neither man nor beast.

Zedekiah slowly stood up.

A horse whinnied, then, as if beckoned by the other horses, became silent.

Zedekiah furrowed his brow.

Vincent widened his eyes.

Zedekiah stroked his flowing black wig, then rubbed a hand over his smooth, white cheeks. _Something_ ... he thought, _not quite right—different_. He caressed the wound sliced in his face, unaware quite why, then began to slowly walk down the steps.

Glipp fidgeted.

Hashmell chirped.

The music box played.

Zedekiah's black robe leapt from step to step behind him, flowing to the base of the altar.

Vincent, still on his knees, tilted up his head and stared into glorified evil.

Zedekiah cocked his head to the side, then surveyed the throne room, seeing thousands of quiet faces like never before. He rubbed his cheek wound once more, and asked, "Why is it you defy your Savior?"

Vincent remained silent.

Zedekiah raised his handsome brow. "You continue to defy me?"

"No," Vincent said, his voice laced in understanding. "It is you who defies truth."

" _Me_ who defies truth?" Zedekiah slowly shook his head and smiled. "I _am_ truth." He rubbed his wound more intently.

"There is only one ultimate truth," Vincent looked at the crowd, "and it doesn't exist in eternal pain."

Zedekiah wrenched Vincent's head and yanked him to his feet. "Don't even think about it. I know what you're trying to do. I can see through you like nobody else." Zedekiah scanned the room, hearing the chimes fade from the music box. "Just like I saw through your wife ... sweet little whore that she is." Zedekiah smiled uneasily. "She loved it when I fucked her. I could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she thrust her hips, getting the full feel of a _real_ man." Zedekiah searched Vincent's eyes. It wasn't there. The spark of revenge was gone.

Vincent bowed his head, searching his thoughts, his feelings, and gently said, "I forgive you."

Zedekiah clenched his teeth and then kicked Vincent to the ground. "Who are _you_ to forgive _me_?"

Hashmell chirped.

Zedekiah spun around and looked at Hashmell, then back at Vincent. "There is no forgiveness by my law!"

"I know the pain you've suffered," Vincent said. "I know of your embarrassment. I offer you my understanding, my heart."

Zedekiah stomped Vincent's ribs. "If I want your heart I'll rip it out!" Without thinking, Zedekiah thrust his hand to his face and yanked out the bone holding open the wound. A murmur of voices fluttered across the crowded room. Zedekiah jerked his head and glared at the unrest, quickly silencing it. "You just don't understand, do you, Mr. Goss? Life is one big joke, you either get it or you don't." Zedekiah kicked Vincent again. "I got it. I understood its sadistic little punch line. We were placed on earth to perpetuate the species, and nothing more. Everything else, between your first breath and your last, is a futile attempt to escape the pain." Zedekiah clenched his teeth, reached into his robe, and yanked the bone from his chest wound. The crowd murmured. "Take the pain, make it yours." He reached to his neck and stopped short of pulling out the bone fragment, scanning the crowd. Unrest was brewing.

Hashmell chirped.

Zedekiah ripped the bone fragments from his neck wounds and spun to Hashmell. "Shut the _fuck_ up!"

Vincent stood up and slowly placed his hand upon Zedekiah's shoulder. "It's okay to feel the pain."

Zedekiah spun back. "You— Son of a—" He walked to a guard, grabbed his flint knife, then found Brendon and dragged the child in front of his father. "Restrain Mr. Goss!" Guards grabbed Vincent's arms. "Now," Zedekiah said, "let's see how deep your forgiveness reaches." The devil slit Brendon's throat.

"No!" Vincent screamed, seeing the blood flow, watching the glitter fade from his son's eyes. "He can't heal here!" Vincent bowed his head, wanting desperately to cry. "He can't heal."

Zedekiah felt strange, empty, taking no glory from Brendon's torture, no pleasure from Vincent's pain. Zedekiah walked forward and yanked back Vincent's head. "How do you feel now?"

Vincent, his heart swimming in grief, could not condemn. "There is no hatred left in me."

Zedekiah trembled—not with rage, but with fear. He scanned the bustling throne room, searching for support.

Hashmell chirped, then nervously said, "Use the knife on yourself! Prove your love of pain!"

Zedekiah spun around.

Hashmell evaporated into the crowd.

"Use it on yourself!" Hashmell said from deep in the crowd.

Zedekiah released Vincent and slowly backed up. "You _dare_ defy me?"

"Use the knife!" a voice rang out.

"Prove yourself!" a voice joined in.

"Show us your love of pain!" Hashmell yelled, gaining confidence.

Zedekiah backed up the steps.

Bone fragments dropped, clicking on the flint floor as fast as the guards and Riders could yank them from their wounds.

Four steps up the altar, Zedekiah stopped and addressed the advancing crowd. "How dare you defy me! I have given you eternal life!"

"Eternal pain isn't life!" Hashmell yelled.

A chorus of support broke out. The guards released Vincent.

"Pain is life! The only way!" Zedekiah frantically shifted his eyes. "You ungrateful bastards! You need me to prove myself?" He yanked open his black robe. "Then I shall!" Zedekiah clenched his teeth and furrowed his brow. With a shaky hand, he plunged the knife into his chest, piercing his heart. His eyes flew open as the pain rippled through his body.

Vincent slowly walked up the steps. He gazed into Zedekiah's cold, dark eyes and watched the blackness fade. Zedekiah's dead soul was alive once again, resuscitated by the forgiveness of an enlightened being.

"It hurts," Zedekiah whispered, astonished.

Vincent nodded. "It's supposed to."

Zedekiah fell back on the steps, his scared eyes racing with panic. "I've never felt this. How is it possible?"

Vincent withdrew the knife from Zedekiah's chest, then said, "It's not the flesh that feels pain, it's the soul."

Zedekiah quivered, watching the mob advance. "What now?"

Vincent slowly dropped the knife. "It ends."

Zedekiah shifted his eyes, frantic, afraid.

"He feels the pain!" Hashmell yelled.

"He feels the pain!" a chorus of support acknowledged.

"Stop this madness!" Hashmell yelled. "Destroy him!"

A surge of anarchy charged the throne. Riders and guards swarmed Zedekiah, beating, ripping, tearing him apart.

Vincent backed away, knowing he was helpless to stop it. He ran to Brendon and scooped him up.

"We must be leaving quickly!" Glipp yelled, shoving his way through the rabid mob. "Where is being the son of Vishnu?"

Vincent scanned the chaos for Thaddy. "I don't see him!"

Glipp fidgeted like never before. "I must be finding him!" Glipp ran back toward the throne.

Vincent struggled to the archway, stopped, then turned around. He watched the mob topple the throne, casting block down upon the crowd. He saw them swarm into the limbo chamber and toss the unsealed heads into the throne room. Block began to tumble from the walls as the mob sought to destroy that which should never have been built.

Vincent checked his son. Brendon smiled as his father began to run. "I gotta get you outa here," Vincent said, dashing down the main hall, dodging toppled drums and falling debris. He passed through the main archway to the outside. The workers were scrambling from the mountains as word of liberation met their ears. They were turning their tools on the fortress, tearing down what should never have risen. Vincent ran along the broken perimeter wall and found safety around the first corner.

He gently placed Brendon on the flint ground, knelt down at his side, and applied pressure to his slit throat. "I'm sorry, son."

Brendon reached for his father's hand.

Vincent eagerly grasped it, wanting more than ever to cry.

His son grinned and mouthed, _It's okay_.

Vincent slowly shook his head. "I'm so sorry."

The ground began to shake. The rancid air echoed with the thunder of destruction. The fortress was falling; that which took decades to build was quickly crumbling.

"There you are being!" Glipp yelled, Thaddy in hand.

Vincent turned his head and smiled.

"The son of Vishnu was going back for his music box," Glipp said as he reached Vincent's side.

Thaddy released Glipp's hand and knelt down at Brendon's side.

"He's dying," Vincent said. "I don't know what to do."

Thaddy placed a bloody hand on Brendon's shoulder. "Your son is not dying." Thaddy gazed skyward. "He is about to live." Dust began swirling. "You have saved him, mister."

Vincent looked up. A bulge in the crimson canopy was forming.

Thaddy stood up, grabbed Glipp's hand, and tugged. "We must give Brendon room. We must not be caught in the transference."

Vincent smiled at his son. "I'm gonna miss you, Brendon." Vincent gathered the boy in his arms. "Thanks for comin'. I never would have forgiven Zedekiah without you here."

A high pitched droning, like a million angels humming, fell from the sky. The crimson bulge widened and twisted. The wind whipped wildly, the air crackling.

"Mister!" Thaddy yelled. "You must back away!"

Vincent gazed into his son's chestnut eyes, and said, "I love you."

_I love you too_ , Brendon mouthed back.

Vincent released his son, gently placed his head upon the ground, and backed away.

The droning reached near deafening. The bulging sky exploded. A twenty-foot wide beam of silver starshine shot to the ground and washed over Brendon.

Vincent, his arm protecting his eyes from the swirling flint dust, witnessed his son's wounds heal.

Brendon slowly stood up and faced his father.

Vincent walked to the perimeter of the droning light and dropped to his knees.

Brendon walked to the silver boundary, and, with sparkling eyes, said to his father, "Thank you."

Vincent bowed his head, overcome by emotion.

Brendon raised his hand, fingers spread, and placed it at the edge of the silvery boundary.

Vincent looked up, raised his hand and held it near his son's.

"Do not reach into the light!" Thaddy warned.

Brendon smiled at his father, and said, "Someday."

Vincent swallowed hard, wanting more than ever to touch his son, to hold him.

"I have to leave now," Brendon softly said. "I do hope to see you again."

Vincent nodded. "You will, I promise."

Brendon began to fade, his essence blending with the starshine, his last words lost in the high pitched drone. "Love is limitless, father. Never lose faith in its glory."

The silver beam faded. The droning stopped. The wind subsided. The sky mended.

Vincent remained on his knees.

Thaddy walked to Vincent's side and placed a bloody hand upon his bare shoulder. "You did it, mister, you freed your son."

"Thank you," Vincent said, staring at the sky. He placed his hand on top of Thaddy's. "Thanks for—" Vincent suddenly turned to the child. "Why didn't you leave? Why didn't you enter the light beam?"

"My essence is not yet free," Thaddy said. "I would have been destroyed by the filters."

Vincent thought for a moment, knowing limbo's gateway was no more. "Then how do we get you outa here?"

Thaddy didn't reply.

Vincent narrowed his eyes. " _Thaddy_...."

The boy slowly shook his head. "I am sorry, mister, I cannot leave this place."

# Chapter 32

"Casting the body's vest aside,

My soul into the boughs does glide."

—Andrew Marvell

"The Garden"

Chicago, IL ... Winter

Big Al silently watched from atop his eight-foot folding ladder as the operating room turned to chaos. He shook his head, regretting fixing a flickering light during surgery. He turned back to his work and disconnected the fluorescent ballast, snipping the red, blue and yellow wires. He glanced at the operating table, the sweaty doctor. _Poor bastard_ , thought Big Al. _Couldn't pay me enough to do his job._

"He's fibrillating!" the nurse yelled.

"I hear it." Dr. Thaumatuerg quickly stapled Vincent's back. "Take off his mask, pull the tube, and bag him." The doctor turned to Simon. "Wheel sparky over." He turned back to his work. "Nurse, we about ready?"

"Yes." She purged air from an epinephrine loaded syringe.

Dr. Thaumatuerg laid his patient flat. He checked the EKG, the failing blood pressure. "Okay, let's get going." The doctor clasped his hands together and thrust on Vincent's chest—short, rhythmic pulses once every second. He stopped after twenty. "Bag him."

The anesthetist squeezed the bladder of a plastic resuscitation bag, forcing air into Vincent's lungs.

"Juice him, three-sixty," the doctor ordered.

Simon cranked the defibrillator to 360 joules, rubbed the paddles together, and slapped them on Vincent's bare chest. "Clear!"

_Bam! Thump ... beeee_.

"He's flat-lining!" the nurse yelled.

Dr. Thaumatuerg yanked off his surgical mask and cap, then tossed them to the floor. He thrust on Vincent's chest once again, feeling broken ribs spread with each downward push. "Bag and shock him!"

The anesthetist pumped fresh air.

"Clear!" Simon yelled.

_Bam! Thump ... beeee_.

"Needle." Dr. Thaumatuerg grabbed the syringe from the nurse and jammed it into Vincent's chest, directly to his heart. He depressed the plunger, yanked it out, then began thrusting. "Give me a time somebody."

Simon checked the wall clock. "Seven thirty-four ... now!"

"Bag and shock!"

Fresh air.

"Clear!"

_Bam! Thump ... beeee_.

"Come on!" the doctor yelled, thrusting. " _Live_!"

Fresh air.

"Clear!"

_Bam! Thump ... beeee_.

"You got that thing cranked up?" the doctor asked Simon.

"Three-sixty. Doesn't go any higher." Simon stared at the clock. "Seven thirty-seven."

"Can we sustain the shock?" Dr. Thaumatuerg asked, thrusting wildly.

Simon surveyed the equipment, already knowing the answer. "No."

Fresh air.

"Clear!"

_Bam! Thump ... beeee_.

"Seven thirty-nine," Simon said.

The OR became silent save for the unwavering beep of the EKG. The urgency waned in all but Dr. Thaumatuerg. He surveyed the abortive hopes etched in the eyes of his crew. "No ... not yet." The doctor hammered Vincent's chest. "I need more juice." He jerked his head up at Big Al sitting on his ladder. "What's the voltage of those lights?"

" _What?_ " Big Al asked, not believing his situation.

"The voltage, if you please, Big Al."

"Two seventy-seven clamped to a twenty amp breaker." Big Al slowly shook his head.

"Is that more than the defibrillator?" Dr. Thaumatuerg asked.

"It's enough to kill a freakin' elephant." Big Al yanked off his mask. "You're not thinking about—" Big Al froze. "No, you can't, this is AC voltage, it will cook him."

"Clear this room immediately!" the doctor ordered. "Everybody out! _Now!_ Where I'm going will end careers." He looked up at Big Al. "Will you help me?"

Big Al paused and laughed just a bit. Nodding his head, he said, "Ending my career won't much matter."

The doctor wiped sweat from his forehead. "Then I'll be needing that voltage on the table in thirty seconds."

Big Al scrambled down the ladder. "That's not enough—"

Dr. Thaumatuerg raised his brow. "Twenty-eight, twenty-seven...."

Big Al raced to his tool box.

The OR cleared out except for Simon. "You know I can't leave."

"He's dead," the doctor said. "What I'm about to do will be considered desecration of a corpse. Not good for one's future at this hospital." Dr. Thaumatuerg grabbed two large syringes.

Big Al ran back into the OR with a roll of twelve-gauge wire, diagonal cutters, automatic strippers and a pocketful of wire nuts. He raced up the ladder, ripped open the ballast box, and attacked the main electrical feed.

Simon pulled down his surgical mask and checked the clock. Vincent flat-lined over six minutes ago. Simon knew the brain still functioned for at least five of those minutes, but after that it was all downhill.

"I'm staying," Simon said.

"What would your wife have to say about that?" asked the doctor.

"The same thing this man's wife would," said Simon, "'Thanks for trying everything.'"

Big Al leapt down from the third rung of the ladder and raced to the operating table, clutching the ends of two black wires. "Untwist the wire nuts," he said, breathless, "and you're ready to go." Dr. Thaumatuerg took hold of the wires. Big Al shot back up the ladder to secure the wiring at the ballast box.

Dr. Thaumatuerg nodded at Simon.

Simon took the two wires and removed the wire nuts. "How about you, Doc?"

Dr. Thaumatuerg peeled off a rubber glove and shoved it in Vincent's mouth. He wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. "What?"

"Do you know any poetry?"

The doctor took pause, then sighed and smiled, feeling warmed by Simon's breach of protocol. "One, I know one poem by heart ... by Dylan Thomas." The doctor began thrusting on Vincent's chest. "'Do not go gentle into that good night old rage should burn and rave at close of day; rage, _rage!_ against the dying of the light!'" The doctor thrust down with maddening conviction. "'Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning they, do not go gentle into that good night.'" The doctor jammed the two syringes into Vincent's heart, leaving an inch of the needles exposed. "'Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, do not go gentle into that good night!'" Dr. Thaumatuerg snatched the wires from Simon. "'Grave men, near death,'" The doctor slapped the live wires to the exposed needles and sparks flew, "'who see with blinding sight— Blind eyes could blaze like meteors—'" Vincent's body jerked wildly, his jaw clamped shut, the air crackled....

# Chapter 33

"Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell."

—Emily Dickinson

Poems, Part 1, Life

Oblivion ... 00.02.06

"What do you mean you can't leave hell?" Vincent asked Thaddy.

The ground shook as heavy block toppled from the fortress walls.

"I cannot leave," the boy said, his eyes glittering. "I must stay here."

"No!" Vincent yelled, still kneeling on the ground. "There's gotta be a way!"

Thaddy slowly shook his head. "There is not."

"Please, kid, tell me there's—"

"I knew when I came that I could not leave."

Vincent swallowed. "Don't do this to me."

Thaddy walked forward and placed a bloody hand upon Vincent's shoulder. "It is okay, mister."

Glipp fidgeted as he listened. He stroked his beard, and asked, "Why is it you can't be leaving? How is it you were arriving?"

Thaddy turned to Glipp and answered, "The filters of Creation allow anyone to enter this existence. The road to hell is easy." The boy turned to Vincent. "The journey back out can prove more difficult. When I was in limbo, there were gateways to all the other planes of existence. I could enter those which allowed my essence to pass—the earth plane and the hell plane. Once I came here, transference ceased to be an option."

"Then why'd you come?" Vincent asked. " _Why?_ "

Thaddy's sparkling eyes touched Vincent's soul. No answer was needed. The truth, the love, the sacrifice was all gathered in the starshine.

Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. "Kid, I can't have you stayin' here. I can't. There's gotta be a way." He thought for a moment, then asked, "What if we circled the heads in the acid? What if we could open the gate to limbo again?"

"I cannot allow such suffering," the boy said.

"You may be using my head," Glipp offered.

Thaddy grinned. "Thank you. It will not be necessary." The boy knelt down in front of Vincent, bowed his head, and softly said, "Mister, it is time for you to leave. You must wait no longer."

" _What?_ " Vincent asked.

"It is time for you to go." Thaddy raised his head.

"How? I'm dead."

"Yes," Thaddy agreed, "but life is still an option."

"What're you talkin' about, kid?" Vincent shook his head. "For God's sake, I've been here months by now."

Thaddy nodded. "Yes, just over three months. But your soul transferred here little more than two minutes ago by earth's time."

Vincent's jaw dropped.

Glipp smiled.

"Right now, on earth, you are on an operating table," Thaddy said. "I was there when you died. The doctors were trying everything to bring you back."

"Two minutes?" Vincent asked.

"I was there as your essence left your body," Thaddy said. "That is when I transferred here."

"Two? That's _it_?" Vincent asked, amazed, bewildered. "How can that be?"

"Hell exists outside the dimension of earth," Thaddy said. "Their times are not synchronized."

"Two minutes?" Vincent asked again.

Thaddy nodded.

"If I've been able to leave this place," Vincent asked, "then why'd you come?"

"I had to come," the child said gently, "to help you understand. The fabric of Creation depended upon your actions, upon Zedekiah's demise. And I knew if your memory was quickly restored, you could transfer back to earth. But now that open window is nearly shut."

"How can I transfer back?" Vincent checked his bare feet. "It's not like I'm wearin' a pair of ruby slippers here."

Thaddy gently raised his brow. "Your will to exist on earth must be stronger than willingness to obliterate in hell."

Vincent collapsed his brow.

Thaddy smiled. "You must want to live again. That is the only way your soul can transfer out of here."

Vincent was struck silent. He stood up.

"The son of Vishnu is offering the keys to heaven once more," Glipp said. "What is it you'll be doing this time?"

"My God," Vincent said, feeling the truth. "But how can I leave you here, Thaddy? I can't do that."

"You must."

The ground trembled with destruction. The swarming masses hammered at the perimeter walls, chiseling, pounding, destroying the promise of eternal damnation.

"I can't do it, kid," Vincent said. "I'm not leavin' you behind."

"Mister," Thaddy said, the silver starshine in his eyes transforming to baby blue, "I couldn't bear it if you stayed here." He bowed his head and stood up, tears flowing down his cheeks. "I came so you could leave, so you could be with your wife."

Vincent wiped a tear from the boy's face and knelt down. "I know, Thaddy, I know. But I can't leave you here. You can't ask me to do that."

" _Please_ ," Thaddy begged, his boyish voice cracking, "just leave."

Vincent placed his hand on Thaddy's back. "I'm sorry, I can't. I can't do it."

"You've got to leave, mister. You weren't meant to be in hell."

Vincent smiled and gently brushed the hair from Thaddy's eyes. "Neither were you, kid ... I'm not goin' anywhere."

Thaddy paused, sniffling, thinking, then meekly said, "There is a way."

Vincent's brow raised. "What do you mean? A way for what?"

"For me to leave."

Vincent held Thaddy at arm's length, urging him to continue.

Thaddy sniffed, and said, "Remember how I told you I was held in limbo by my mother's guilt?"

"Yes."

"If she could release her guilt," Thaddy paused, fighting a quivering lower lip, "then I could leave this place. I would transfer to heaven, just like your son did."

Vincent jumped up. "How— What do I have to do?"

"Go back," Thaddy said. "Find my mother and have her release my soul."

Vincent nodded. "I can do that. Canada, right?"

Thaddy bowed his head, a tear dripping. "Manitoba, a small town called Nevahe. Look for a covered bridge. Our farm is right across."

Vincent nodded, not grasping the depth of the boy's sorrow. "I can do that, kid." He raised Thaddy to his feet and hugged him. "You big dummy. Why didn't you just tell me in the first place?"

A brilliant flash of light struck Vincent's psyche. He witnessed an operating room, two doctors, and then flashed back to oblivion.

"It's beginning, mister," Thaddy said. "You must let yourself go."

Vincent released the boy and turned to Glipp. "You'll take care of him, right? Keep him outa the acid until he's free?"

Glipp thrust out his chest and smiled. "The son of Vishnu will be coming to no harm."

Vincent nodded and shook Glipp's hand. "Thank you for everything. I'm gonna miss you."

"Glipp will be missing you also."

Vincent thought for a moment, then said, "You never did say why you were sent to hell."

Glipp smiled. "You are being right. Glipp has not been saying. Would you like to be knowing?"

Vincent smiled, then slowly shook his head. "It doesn't matter ... never has." He hugged Glipp and patted his back. "Take good care of the boy, and yourself."

A blinding flash struck Vincent. _Fight it! C'mon! Fight it!_ He flashed back to oblivion.

Vincent scanned the pulsing sky. "How much longer until all that collapses?"

Thaddy sniffed, tears flowing. "A very long time."

" _How_ long?" Vincent insisted.

"About ninety years or so," Thaddy said.

Vincent knelt down in front of the child. "Kid, I don't know how to begin to thank you."

Thaddy smiled just a bit.

"I'm gonna miss you," Vincent said. "But we'll see each other again someday ... in heaven."

Thaddy nodded, still crying. "Yes, heaven."

Vincent flashed to the operating table, a doctor pounding his chest. _Live!_ He flashed back to oblivion.

"Mister," the boy said, sucking in his tears. "When you see my parents, tell my mother to forgive herself. Tell her there was nothing she could've done."

Vincent's brow collapsed. "What're you talkin' about, kid? Tell her yourself when—"

"Let them be happy," Thaddy said. "Don't tell them where I am. Tell them I'm in heaven." He sniffed and wiped his tears. "Tell them I love them."

Vincent spread his arms. "I don't get it, why don't you tell them—"

Vincent flashed to the operating table. _Some kind of miracle!_ He flashed back to oblivion.

"Kid, you tell them yourself when—" Then it struck Vincent, it hit him hard. He clenched his teeth. "What's ninety years in hell compared to earth time?"

Thaddy didn't reply.

" _What is it?_ " Vincent demanded.

"About twelve hours," Thaddy said softly, knowingly.

Vincent shook his head in disbelief. "No. That's not enough time. I'm still in surgery! That's not enough! Why, kid?! _Why'd_ you do this?!"

"I had no choice, you were not meant for hell." Thaddy sniffed and smiled. "Goodbye, mister. I will miss you."

"No! You can't do—"

Thaddy faded from view.

Wrenching pain.

Blinding light....

# Chapter 34

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however

improbable, must be the truth."

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Sign of Four

Chicago, IL ... Winter

Dr. Thaumatuerg removed the electrical wires from the needles jammed in Vincent's heart. The patient flopped to the table with a heavy thud. The doctor checked the EKG. The beep, a long time steady, fluctuated.

"C'mon!" The doctor yanked out the syringes. "Fight it!" He began thrusting down on Vincent's ribcage. "Fight it!"

Simon studied the monitor. "One hundred over seventy." Chills rippled across his flesh.

" _Yes!_ " Dr. Thaumatuerg yelled. "Fight death, you son of a bitch!" He quit thrusting and checked the monitor. "Tell me that's not a regular pulse."

"It's regular!" Simon said.

"Tell me his pressure's still falling," Dr. Thaumatuerg dared.

"It's rising! One-fifteen over seventy-five."

"Tell me this isn't some kind of miracle."

"It's—"

"He's awake!" Big Al yelled from atop his ladder.

Dr. Thaumatuerg snapped his head and looked at the operating table.

Vincent blinked, adjusting his eyes to the surgical lights. He yanked the rubber glove from his mouth and swallowed. His stomach churned.

"Whoa, now!" Simon reached for the anesthesia mask.

"No," Vincent said weakly, pushing the mask away. "I've gotta go." He turned his head and vomited blood and bile on the base of the suction machine.

Dr. Thaumatuerg and Simon stared at each other in disbelief.

"Settle down," the doctor urged. "We need to get you back under." He pushed his patient flat.

"No," Vincent muttered. He slowly sat up, cringing, trying to flex his broken left arm. He ran his fingers along the staples in his stomach, across the sutures in his face. Vincent held out his hand and looked at it. "Blood." A tear streamed down his cheek.

"Please," Simon implored, "you're in bad shape. You should—"

"It's _blood_ ," Vincent said, elated.

"Yes, and there'll be more if you don't lie back down."

Vincent reached up to his face and wiped a tear. "I can cry."

"Yes, you can cry. Now, _please_ , lie back down." Simon tried to push the patient flat.

Vincent grabbed Simon's arm. "This is real, right? I'm back home, right?"

Simon shook his head, bewildered. He turned to Dr. Thaumatuerg.

"He's been away," the doctor said, forming his theories.

"Where have you been?" Simon asked.

"Hell. I've been in hell," Vincent said.

"It's the ketamine," Dr. Thaumatuerg said, grasping Vincent's shoulder.

"We use ketamine here as part of the anesthetic," Simon said. "It can induce vivid dreams, sometimes nightmares."

"No!" Vincent demanded. "It wasn't a dream." He brushed Dr. Thaumatuerg's hand off his shoulder. "There's a boy— I've gotta go." Vincent jerked his head in a panic, trying to orient himself. _These people won't understand. How could they?_ "Please," Vincent said, grasping Simon's wrist. He paused, noticing Simon's bloodshot eyes. "I appreciate what you've done. I do, I mean it." Vincent turned to Dr. Thaumatuerg and saw his sweaty brow. "You guys have done a hell of a job, but the Viceman can still claim one more life." Vincent's stomach retched and he vomited once more.

Simon shook the blood and bile off his rubber boot, and asked, "How can the Viceman kill again? He's dead."

Vincent wiped his lips, breathing heavily, his ribs spreading with each short gasp. "You don't get it. In hell, a boy was there with me, so was the Viceman—" He paused, seeing their disbelieving eyes. "You've gotta believe me."

I'm sorry," Simon said, "it's just the ketamine. It makes your worst nightmares seem real." He pushed on Vincent's shoulder. "Please, you're going to reopen these wounds and—"

"No!" Vincent yelled. He rolled off of the operating table, ripping out his IV. "You don't understand!"

Big Al climbed down from the ladder. "You guys need help?"

Short Rib barreled through the OR doors. "What the hell is— _Vince?_ " Short Rib collapsed his brow, seeing his friend standing stapled, stitched, and naked next to the operating table. "What're you doin' up?"

"He has reacted to the ketamine," said Simon. "We could use your help."

Vincent widened his eyes. "Short Rib, it's you, isn't it? God, it's good to see you."

"Good to see you too." Short Rib walked up to Vincent. "Now get your ass back on that table."

"I can't. I've gotta go," Vincent said.

Short Rib shook his head. "Look at yourself, all bloody and shit. You ain't in no shape to go nowhere."

"Please, help me." Vincent grabbed Short Rib by his winter coat. "A boy's life, his _soul_ is on the line. You've gotta get me outa here."

Short Rib turned from Vincent's pleading eyes to Dr. Thaumatuerg. "You in charge here?"

The doctor nodded.

"You think he's hallucinating?" Short Rib asked.

Dr. Thaumatuerg pursed his lips. "He's not hallucinating, but he's had some intense dreams."

"It's true," Vincent said. "I was there, Short Rib. I was there."

"Where?" Short Rib asked.

"Hell. I was in hell."

Short Rib paused, then asked Dr. Thaumatuerg, "Have you seen that ketamine stuff do this before?"

The doctor shook his head. "Never this vivid. I—"

Vincent collapsed to the floor.

"Shit, Vince." Short Rib helped his friend up. "Aren't you in pain?"

Vincent slowly shook his head, relief painted across his face. "Not compared to where I was." A tear streamed down his cheek.

Short Rib stared deeply into Vincent's believing eyes, then turned to the doctor. "Get this man some clothes."

"You can't—" Simon began.

" _Look_ ," Short Rib said, eyebrows raised, daring interference, "the man says he's got a life to save, then he's got a life to save. Now get him some _damn_ clothes."

Simon looked at Dr. Thaumatuerg. The doctor nodded. Simon ran to the prep room.

"You're going to be in a world of hurt once the anesthetics wear off completely," Dr. Thaumatuerg said. "I can prescribe some pain killers."

"No drugs," Vincent said, shaking his head. "This pain is nothin'. And I've gotta stay awake."

The doctor sighed. "We've sweated nearly ten hours straight patching you back together. Don't screw up our work." Dr. Thaumatuerg walked to Vincent, and explained, "Here's your situation. You got nine coils of intestines patched, one herniated disk mended, another disk still blown. You have a compound fracture of your left forearm, which is set, but you have no cast. Jerk it around, it's going to break. You have three cracked ribs, you're stitched up across your face and leg, and you're stapled down your back and stomach. If you overexert yourself in any way, your wounds will open, you will die, and all our hard work will be for naught."

Simon ran back with blue surgical pants and shirt and helped Vincent dress.

"There's going to be an outrageous bill for all this," Dr. Thaumatuerg said. "I assume you have insurance."

Vincent shook his head.

"Of course not," the doctor said. "I don't give a damn, but the hospital will." The doctor paused, rubbing his chin. "Then again, you did kill the Viceman, that should cover half the bill." Dr. Thaumatuerg winked. "And you were dead ... and all debts are paid by death." He stared into Vincent's eyes of conviction. "When you get to where you're going," the doctor reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his card, "and if you're still alive, call me. I'll phone up your prescriptions and give you a doctor's name to wrap a cast on that arm."

"Thank you," Vincent said, paused for a moment, then asked, "Do you believe me, what I said about hell?"

The doctor raised his brow and slowly nodded. "I believe the truth in your eyes."

Short Rib slung Vincent's right arm over his shoulder and helped him through the OR door.

Big Al stood at the base of his ladder, mouth open, dumbfounded.

Dr. Thaumatuerg watched the doors swing shut, and he lightly said, "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light'."

Simon turned to the doctor. "What the hell just happened here?"

~

Vincent and Short Rib walked out to the stunned faces of the surgical crew gathered in the hall.

"What are y'all lookin' at?" Short Rib asked the wide-eyed people.

"How— He was dead," an orderly said, amazed, confused.

"This look like a dead man walkin' here?" Short Rib brushed the young orderly out of the way. "Don't y'all got bedpans to empty or somethin'?"

"I've gotta go," Vincent said. "I don't have much time."

"No problem," Short Rib said, helping his friend down the hall. "Where we goin'?"

"Canada."

" _What?_ "

"I've gotta go alone." Vincent stopped and released himself from Short Rib. "You have the keys to the Fury?"

" _Canada?_ " Short Rib asked.

"Yeah. I've gotta get goin'." Vincent held out his hand. "Please."

"I ain't got the keys, Al-Hallaj has 'em," Short Rib said. "But the Fury was smokin' somethin' awful on the way here."

Vincent's mind raced, remembering the Viceman's tunnel. "Al-Hallaj? He all right?"

"Yeah, he's cool," Short Rib said. "It's T'ien who's hurtin'."

" _What?_ "

"Yeah— Oh shit, you probably didn't know."

"Know what?" Vincent asked. "What's wrong with her?"

"Dag, Vince, she took a knife to the neck up in that meeting room you all were in. Hit the main artery."

Vincent stared at Short Rib in disbelief.

"She barely made it here alive. Lost a ton of blood."

Vincent swallowed. "It's because of me."

"You can't blame your—"

"No, you don't get it," Vincent said. "Up in that meeting room ... Zedekiah threw that knife at me. Where is she?"

"Got her in ICU."

"You've gotta take me to her."

"What about saving—"

"Just take me to her."

"No problem."

Short Rib helped Vincent down the hall. They slammed through two sets of swinging doors, passing stunned faces and shocked silence.

"What's everyone starin' at?" Short Rib asked, walking up to the ICU nurses' desk. "Never seen a man stitched up before? This is a hospital ain't it?" He turned to the Hispanic nurse sitting behind the counter. "I need a wheelchair for my friend here."

"No," Vincent said. "Just take me to T'ien."

"Okay," Short Rib said, "but don't be blamin' the fat man if you fall down and die."

Vincent nodded.

Short Rib helped his friend down the hall, passing nurses, food carts, orderlies, worried friends and family, and large picture windows displaying the grief beyond. Straight ahead, at the end of the wide hallway, sat Grandy and Al-Hallaj.

"My God," Al-Hallaj said as he stood up. "What are you doing? Why is he here?"

"Momby jomby jumped right off the damn operating table," Short Rib said. "Says he's got to save some kid."

"I have to see T'ien," Vincent said, peering through the large window behind Al-Hallaj.

Grandy, dressed in a pink housecoat and black slippers, propped herself up with a knotted cane. "Opey, get your ass back—" She paused and swallowed, focusing her one good eye on Vincent's face. "Looks like you've been through flippin' hell, hayseed."

Vincent raised a meek grin.

"Please sit down, Mr. Goss." Al-Hallaj tried to help Vincent to a yellow plastic chair.

Vincent noticed the pain in Al-Hallaj's mismatched eyes. He also saw the stitches across Al-Hallaj's cheek and the limp in his movements. "I can't," Vincent said. "I don't have much time, I just wanna make sure T'ien's gonna be okay."

Silence....

Vincent's stomach floated.

Al-Hallaj turned to Grandy, then Vincent. "The doctor said she lost too much blood, her organs are failing. There's nothing more they can do." A tear gathered in Al-Hallaj's eye.

Vincent bowed his head. The pain of his broken arm became a bit sharper. He sighed. "It's my fault."

Al-Hallaj shook his head. "You can't blame yourself." He rubbed his fingers across his stitched face without thought.

Vincent placed his good hand on Al-Hallaj's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Al-Hallaj met Vincent's eyes. In them, he saw newfound faith, forgiveness. "She's like my daughter," Al-Hallaj said, "my family." He bowed his head and covered his weeping eyes. "I'm losing my family again."

"No," Vincent consoled, "you'll never lose her. _Never_." He looked through the window and saw T'ien lying on a bed, hoses and wires attached, a nurse hovering over her checking monitors. "The doctor told you there's nothing more they can do?"

Al-Hallaj narrowed his eyes and nodded.

Vincent turned to Short Rib. "Run back and find my doctor. He might be able to help."

"On it," Short Rib said.

Vincent hobbled to a solid wooden door and slowly opened it. The _beep ... beep_ of the EKG and the _whoosh ... shhh_ of the respirator welcomed him. He inhaled antiseptic air as he limped forward.

A young nurse turned from her monitors and looked up at a stranger. "You shouldn't be in— What in hell happened to you?"

Vincent hobbled to T'ien's bedside and slowly sat on a plastic chair, wincing as the staples and blown disc bit his lower back. "I was in an accident. How's she doin'?"

"She should be doing better than you." The nurse checked the monitors. "But she's failing. The doctors said she should have passed hours ago. It's almost like—" The nurse stared at Vincent's battered face. "It's like she's kept death on hold."

Vincent studied T'ien's face. Even under a respirator mask she was beautiful. He reached out and took her free hand in his, then leaned in and rested his forehead against the aluminum bed rail.

The nurse watched Vincent suffer as she marked T'ien's chart. She checked the monitors, and said, "I'll be back in a couple minutes." She left the pair alone.

Vincent lowered the bed rail and edged his seat closer. He sighed, wishing T'ien's eyes were open, wishing she could hear. "T'ien," he softly said, "it's me, Vince." He squeezed her hand, hoping beyond hope.

_Beep ... beep. Whoosh ... shhh_.

Vincent swallowed. "I know you wouldn't be here now if it wasn't for me. I— I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am. I wouldn't even know where to begin." Tears welled in his eyes. "I wanna thank you for everything, not just for today, but for all you've taught me. You've opened my eyes to the world, you've allowed me to see beyond sight, you've guided me to truth and—" Vincent bit his lower lip. "And this is the way I repay you." He shook his head with grief. "I'm so sorry, T'ien. You don't deserve this. It's not fair. You're such a beautiful person." He clenched her hand, shaking with remorse. "I'm so sorry...." He calmed himself, finding courage to continue. "I've gotta go, T'ien." Vincent laughed and cried at the absurdity of the statement. "There's still a boy's life on the line and—" He shook his head, staring at T'ien's still face. He released her hand, then placed his head on her chest. "I'm so sorry," he cried, his tears spreading on the white sheet.

Vincent listened as the monitors and respirators kept rhythm. He also heard a faint heartbeat, something long forgotten. It soothed him, as did T'ien's hand as she began stroking his hair.

Vincent jolted backward. T'ien's eyes were open, her mouth slightly moving, trying to speak. She reached up and peeled the respirator mask from her mouth. "Vince," she meekly whispered.

"No," Vincent said, trying to place the mask back. "Don't speak. Rest. I'll get the doctor."

T'ien pushed the mask away again and turned her head.

Vincent saw the blood-soaked bandages on the left side of her neck. He tried placing the mask back on.

T'ien pushed it away and smiled. "Vince, you look like hell."

He raised his brow. "I'm fine." He gently brushed the sable hair away from T'ien's emerald eyes. "How're you feelin'?"

"Splendid," she whispered. "The Ch'i has been strong."

Vincent wiped away his tears. "The nurse said you'll be better in no time."

"I know I'm dying." T'ien slightly raised her brow. "It's okay."

Vincent shook his head. "No," he rubbed his eyes, "it's not okay, T'ien. It's not okay at all."

" _Shhh_ ," she comforted. "Everything will be fine. I have seen my destiny."

"Can't you let the Ch'i heal you?" Vincent softly pleaded.

T'ien smiled. "It has let me live this long, I can wait no longer." She reached for Vincent's hand and squeezed. "I will always love you, Vince."

Vincent hung his head.

The door swung open. Al-Hallaj rushed in. "She's awake?" He ran to her bedside and knelt down. "How are you feeling?"

T'ien released Vincent's hand, then reached for Al-Hallaj's. "I want to thank you for my life."

"No, no, T'ien, it is I who should thank you." Al-Hallaj shook his head. "You're going to be all right, do you hear me? You're going to make it through this." He turned to Vincent. "What did the nurse say?"

Vincent didn't respond.

"She gave me time alone to say goodbye," T'ien whispered.

Short Rib slammed through the door.

Vincent spun around. "Did you find my doctor?"

Short Rib shook his head. "Shit no, suspended him or somethin', and there ain't one momby jomby out there that'll do anything."

Grandy walked in and stood behind Al-Hallaj, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. She looked at T'ien. "How're you feeling?"

"I feel fine."

Grandy's lower lip quivered, her eagle eye tearing. She swallowed and nodded. "You look good."

Short Rib stood behind Vincent and smiled at T'ien.

She smiled back, released her grip on Al-Hallaj, then cupped her hand on Vincent's cheek. "Your eyes," T'ien whispered, her voice fading, "the fire is dim." Tears streamed down Vincent's face. T'ien gently caressed his cheek. "I feel the Ch'i within you. It is strong."

The monitors became erratic. Panicked alarms flashed at the nurses' station.

Vincent reached up, held T'ien's hand against his face, and swallowed. "I'll never forget you, T'ien. _Never_."

Doctors and nurses rushed the room.

T'ien's eyes sparkled. "I will always be a part of you, Vincent. I will always be close." She released her dying breath, a short sweet gasp, an angel's sigh, an eternal whisper of love.

~

Somewhere, half-a-world away, T'ien's father still mourns for one lost daughter, unknowingly trapping her pure essence in limbo.

Somewhere, between the brink of death and limbo, T'ien bestows her dying breath to a newborn child.

Somewhere, a newborn child, bearing the Mark of Eternity, inhales T'ien's last breath, unaware of receiving a guiding spirit.

And somewhere, in the heart of Creation, stars are brighter sparkling.

~

"Everybody out!" a nurse yelled, shoving Al-Hallaj aside.

Vincent watched T'ien's eyes close, her face turn to stone. Tears streamed down his cheeks as a doctor yanked him to his feet.

"Give us room to work!" the doctor demanded.

Vincent and companions exited the room, then watched through the window in silence as the doctor attempted to save T'ien.

Al-Hallaj heard the beep remain steady, he saw the doctor shake his head, he watched a nurse tug the white sheet over T'ien's head.

Grandy patted Al-Hallaj's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Al-Hallaj collapsed onto a plastic chair and cried.

Vincent wiped his eyes and knelt down in front of Al-Hallaj, grabbing his forearm. "She's not dead, Al-Hallaj. She'll live in your memories, your dreams. You'll see her again someday, I promise." Vincent swallowed. "She's goin' to a better place."

"I know." Al-Hallaj wiped the tears from his cheeks. "Allah will care for her now. Allah will provide."

Vincent nodded. "Yes, Allah will provide." He turned to Short Rib, then back to Al-Hallaj. "I need to get goin'.... I need to borrow your car."

Al-Hallaj narrowed his eyes.

"There's a boy, a kid that helped me escape hell—" Vincent paused, seeing the bewilderment on Al-Hallaj's face. "I know this is bad timin', but I've gotta go. The boy's life depends on me."

Al-Hallaj sniffed. "I can't help you. The Fury's dead."

Vincent sighed. "It's okay ... I'll find another way." He tried to smile just a bit. "Thanks for everything. You've been a great friend."

Al-Hallaj slowly closed his eyes and nodded. "I don't blame you for anything, Mr. Goss. I understand the rage that carried you." He opened his eyes, and confessed, "It carried me for over twenty years.... I'm glad it's over."

Vincent patted Al-Hallaj's shoulder. "So am I, my friend, so am I."

"We really kicked the poop- _la-la_ out of that sucker today, didn't we?" Short Rib asked, wiping his eyes.

Vincent stood up and grinned. "Yeah, we put the spank on that momby jomby's ass."

Short Rib chuckled and sniffed. "Don't be forgettin' about us. You come back to the scrapyard and visit."

Vincent nodded.

"So, you're just gonna walk out dressed like that?" Short Rib asked, trying to halt his tears.

Vincent scanned his surgical garb. "Yeah."

"Bullshit." Short Rib yanked off his oversized winter coat and wrapped it over Vincent's shoulders. "That's better." He pulled off his shoes. "Throw these puppies on." Short Rib wiped his eyes. "How about cash?"

Vincent stepped into the size fourteen black Nikes. "What about it?"

"Got any?" Short Rib asked.

Vincent shook his head.

"Then how you gonna buy gas? What about food? Fat man gotta think of everything?" Short Rib sniffed, reached in his jeans pocket, and pulled out a handful of crumpled bills. "Here." He shoved them into Vincent's coat pocket. "That'll get you by for awhile."

"Thanks." Vincent sadly grinned. "You take care of yourself."

"No problem." Short Rib wiped his tears once more. "Make sure you take care of your own damn self."

Vincent nodded, turned around, and began hobbling away.

"Wait one dang minute," Grandy said.

Vincent stopped and turned back.

"You ain't going to tell an old lady goodbye?" She walked up to Vincent.

"Goodbye, Grandy," Vincent said graciously. "Thanks for givin' me a place to stay."

"I don't give a ding dang about that," Grandy said, her eagle eye searching. "I want to know, did—" She gummed her lower lip, not wanting to lower her protective wall. "Did my son, did he say anything?"

Vincent paused, seeing her pain, then slowly nodded. "Yes, he told me if I lived, I should tell you he was sorry."

Grandy stood silently.

"He said he regrets all the killin'. He knows it was wrong."

Grandy's eyes shifted.

"He said to tell you goodbye."

She swallowed hard, knowing Vincent was lying, and gently said, "Thank you."

Vincent nodded. "Goodbye, Grandy." He turned and began limping away.

"Wait a flippin' minute."

Vincent turned back.

"Here." Grandy tossed him a set of car keys. "It's the silver Infinity in the front parking lot."

Vincent looked at the keys, then Grandy.

"Go on, get your ass out of here, hayseed." The old lady grinned and winked. "Before this city eats you alive."

Vincent smiled at her and his friends, and said, "I'll see you all again in better times, I promise." He hobbled away.

~

Pam Navon shoved her way through a bustling mob of reporters in the main lobby of Mercy Hospital. She positioned herself midpack and checked the wall clock. It was 8:20 p.m. The news conference was late.

Charles Winslow, hospital Director, stood firmly behind a makeshift wooden podium, stalling for an update on Vincent. He could wait no longer. He leaned forward and spoke into twenty-three microphones attached to the podium. "Okay, people, let's begin." The Director adjusted his glasses and read from a prepared statement. "Earlier today, we received several casualties, apparently victims of the Viceman."

The reporters dropped stone cold silent, amplifying the low hum of the TV cameras.

"Among the dead was the Viceman himself," the Director continued. "At present, we are unable to release the names of the other victims, but we now know that the Viceman was one Zedekiah Gehenan, mid-forties, white male."

The room began to bustle.

"The Viceman was tackled through a window on the top floor of the Adipose building. The man's identity that apparently killed the Viceman is unknown at this time, as is his health." The Director scratched his balding head. "I will answer as many questions as possible, but much is still unknown."

The room began to rumble. Reporters jockeyed for position.

"The only thing for certain," the Director said, relieved, "is that the Viceman no longer torments our fine city. Questions? You."

"Fred Jones, _Ohio Capital Press_. What involvement did the police have in the Viceman's death?"

"As far as I know ... none," The Director answered. "But save that question. A police spokesperson will be up next."

"You mean," the reporter followed up, "this might be the work of a vigilante?"

"Please," the Director said, "save those questions for later. Next question. You—you in the white suit."

"Caper Holloway, _Three Alive_ , Milwaukee. Are you sure it was the Viceman that died?"

"The best information we have leaves no doubt," the Director replied. "Once again, that's a question for the police. Next—you in the green dress."

"Gwen Fostin, _Bon Olivi Leaker_. What's the condition of the man who killed the Viceman?"

The Director paused. "Not sure at the moment." He pulled off his reading glasses. "The doctors have apparently saved his life, but—" He cut himself short, not wanting to say his whereabouts are unknown. He cleared his throat and revised. "We're still awaiting an update. His injuries are extensive ..."

~

Vincent hobbled down the hallway and shoved open the door to the main lobby. He saw hundreds of reporters bustling, waving hands, yelling. Vincent sighed, covered his head with the furry hood of his coat, then began jostling through the crowd.

~

"... No, it wasn't from the fall," the Director replied to a reporter from the _National Enquirer_. "We're not exactly sure how the Viceman's arm was ripped off." The Director paused, watching a hooded stranger slowly push his way through the sea of reporters. "Next question. You in the white blouse."

"Pam Navon, _Action Seven News_ , Chicago." Pam bustled with energy, she waited all day for the primetime spotlight. "Uhh, I was on the scene first. I saw the Viceman die, and, umm, I saw his killer on top of the snow pile, and I saw another man trying to dig him out. Umm, he knew it was the Viceman. So it, uhh, must have been a vigilante group of some kind. And since I was on the scene first and witnessed this all firsthand, I think, umm, the man that killed the Viceman belonged to a right-wing militia group, probably the Michigan Militia." Pam smiled proudly.

The Director held silent for a moment, then asked, "Is there a question in there somewhere?" He shifted his eyes toward the hooded stranger and saw a row of bloody sutures across his face. The Director squinted, noticing an injured arm tucked inside the man's coat. _Son of a bitch._

"All I am trying to say," Pam continued, "is _I_ was on the scene first, _I_ saw what was going—"

"Excuse me," the Director cut in. "I think most of these questions are better answered by the police." The Director couldn't believe what he was witnessing, yet couldn't let Vincent walk away unrecognized. "I would like to take a moment right now to thank the man who rid our fair city of such a terrible menace."

Vincent stopped directly in front of Pam Navon. He slowly turned his head and faced the cameras and man speaking at the podium.

"Whoever he may be, whatever may become of him," the Director said, astounded by the sight before him. "Chicago will remain eternally grateful."

The room bustled with question.

"May God watch over him," the Director said with a slight knowing nod.

Vincent caught the Director's eyes and slowly nodded back.

"Get the hell out of my way, you stinking bum," Pam bitched at the hooded man in front of her. "I'm trying to ask a question here."

"Sorry, lady," Vincent offered.

"It's _Mss_., you cretin." Pam elbowed Vincent aside, and yelled at the Director, "I was first on the scene! I was there! I know more about this man than anyone!"

Vincent pushed through the crowd and exited the building.

The cold night slapped Vincent's face. The sky was clear, but the wind still whipped off Lake Michigan, instantly freezing the seeping blood on his cheeks. He searched the well-lit parking lot and found the '96 silver Infinity. It was a stunning car, model Q45, trimmed to the teeth. Vincent unlocked the door and eased down onto the cold leather seat. He closed the door and noticed the front passenger door window was gone, the window frame covered with dirty white plastic and duct tape. He chuckled, thinking of Short Rib. _Son of ah gun probably used his head_. Vincent inserted the key in the ignition, rubbed the back of this neck, and sighed. _About eleven or so hours left, he thought, how am I gonna do this?_ He checked the fuel gage—nearly empty. _Thanks, Grandy._ He clicked on the headlights, threw the shifter in reverse, and backed out. "Okay, Thaddy, let's do this." He slammed the car into drive and spun the tires in the frozen slush.

Vincent sped through the icy streets of Chicago and picked up Interstate 90, a tollway. He stopped at the first rest station and filled the gas tank. He limped inside to pay and get change for tolls. He bought a road atlas, a cup of coffee and a package of Fig Newtons. Vincent winked at the stunned face of the cashier, then hobbled back to his car. He eased into the Infinity, ripped open the fig bar package with his teeth, flipped on the overhead light, then studied the atlas. _Where the heck is Manitoba?_ Vincent paged to a map of the United States and Canada. "No," he said, "it can't be." His stomach churned with dashed hope. "That's gotta be a thousand miles." He slowly shook his head, swallowing, tasting the blood from his broken teeth. He shoved a fig bar in his mouth, set the car into drive, and spun the wheels.

The tollway relented to unshackled freeway as he crossed the border to Wisconsin. Vincent pressed the speedometer to ninety-five, praying no cops were hiding on the snow-packed roadside. The Infinity sped along in the fast lane, passing truckers and cars alike. The rumble of the highway clatter roared through the broken window, dueling the frenzied whipping of loose plastic for attention. Vincent pressed his chin against the steering wheel, cranked up the heat, and clicked on the radio. Country music battled the road noise—Garth Brooks "The Thunder Rolls." Vincent sighed, relaxing for a moment as the music and the smooth ride of the Q45 eased his nerves. The thunder rolled away and a new song began—Charlie Daniels "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." He slammed the radio silent.

Vincent picked up I-94 and sped past the town of Tomah. His lower back hammered him with pain. He adjusted his buttocks to the left and right, but the agony still rippled down his spine to his legs and groin. He clenched his teeth and pressed the car over a hundred-miles-an-hour. The plastic ripped from the passenger door window and cold air rushed in. He bundled up his coat, cringing as he shifted his broken arm against his stomach.

Vincent crossed the border to Minnesota. The snow began to diminish, blowing against the barren maple and birch trees, forming foot tall drifts at their bases. He reached St. Paul on vapors, sputtered into a Shell station, and stopped the car at self-serve. Vincent opened the door and tried stepping out. His lower back had locked, his blown disc jammed into his spinal cord. He rolled out of the car to his knees, huffing frigid air through his nose. Vincent straightened up, filled the tank, entered the store, used the bathroom, gulped down a cup of coffee, paid the cashier, winked, hobbled back to the car, and sped off.

Vincent placed his chin on the steering wheel and flipped on the dome light. He checked the map, picked up the I-694 bypass around Minneapolis, then sped northwest on I-94.

The night was lonely, his only companions were truckers and the occasional car. The monotonous rhythm of rubber on asphalt, broken white lines, and endless snow began to lull Vincent to sleep. He bit his tongue and inhaled hard, smelling the stale Pall Mall butts Grandy had packed in the ashtray. The lullaby sensation was quickly countered as the frigid air rushed through the broken window. He hunched his shoulders. His ribs crunched.

Vincent hit the outskirts of Fargo in the wee hours of the morning, pulled into a BP station, stopped at the pump, checked his map, then opened the door. He rolled out, straightened up, pumped the gas, limped inside, used the bathroom, gulped down a cup of coffee, paid, winked at the cashier, hobbled back to the car, eased into the driver's seat, and spun the tires—Manitoba straight ahead.

Vincent crossed over to North Dakota and picked up I-29 north, estimating Canada at a hundred-and-fifty miles. He pushed the car to a hundred-miles-an-hour to make the math easy. _Hour-and-a-half to go_.

Signs for Canada littered the roadside: billboards for Winnipeg, the Crystal Casino, the Blue Bombers football team, the River Rouge boat tour, and a sign warning: **Canadian Customs Stations: 2 Miles**. Vincent slowed the car and shook the early morning cobwebs from his head. He saw truckers stopped a mile ahead, he saw the border gates and guards, he looked to his right and saw a broken window, Vincent looked to his future and saw a judge, grand theft auto, prison bars. He pulled to the roadside and slammed the car into park. "Now what? Stolen car, no license, 'all bloody and shit'." He sighed, clicked on the dome light and searched the atlas. There it was, a couple miles back, Route 59 bridging the Red River. He slammed the car in reverse and spun the wheels, cringing as he jerked his head to look backward. He plowed through the snowy roadside until he reached the Red River overpass. Directly below was a frozen trail leading straight into Canada. Vincent crashed through a barbed wire fence and guided the Infinity down a concrete embankment to the river. "You better be solid! I swear to God!" The car skidded to a halt in the center of the frozen river. Vincent held his breath, widened his eyes, his teeth clenched, waiting for the ice to break.... It held.

He turned off the headlights and stepped on the gas, driving the car slowly, keeping the engine noise low, snaking around a tight bend in the river, heading toward the Canadian border check. He swallowed hard, gripped the steering wheel tight, and gently drove the car around the next bend. Vincent heard the roar of diesel engines, the banter of truckers; he saw bright lights, the border guard and the duty free shop. Then it all disappeared behind him without sound, cry, or alarm. Vincent sighed, relieved, his hand relaxing on the wheel, the adrenaline working from his body. "Thank God that's—"

Something cracked. The ice!

" _No!_ " Vincent floored the gas pedal. Snow flew as he swerved for the river's edge. He spun back and lost control. The Infinity slammed the riverbank and got stuck. The car's front end clung to the solid, snowy earth as its rear slipped wildly on the cracking ice.

He stomped the gas pedal. The tires whined, melting the ice by friction. The river's surface collapsed, the car lunged backward. He threw open the door, rolled out, and crawled quickly, painfully, to the riverbank and helplessly watched as the Infinity gulped up water and drowned itself. Bubbles spewed to the surface, churning the broken ice.

"Now what?" Vincent stared at the looming sunrise, rubbing his broken arm. "No car, no map." He flipped up the hood of his coat and lay back in the snow, his back biting, the staples tugging at his gut. "This is crazy," he whispered. "What am I doin'?" _It's the ketamine_ , the doctor consoled his subconscious _. It induces vivid dreams—nightmares_. Vincent bit his lower lip and sat up. His ribs popped. He hunched his broken arm against his stomach and cringed. _What if it was all a dream?_ he thought, the pain wearing him down. _Maybe I was just hallucinatin'_. He swallowed, trying to justify inaction.

Vincent sighed, collapsed on his back, and turned his head to watch the sun break the horizon. Its golden rays warmed Vincent, bestowing comfort in an otherwise frigid existence _. It couldn't have been a dream_ , he told himself. _No way. It couldn't have been._ The sun stripped itself of earth and appeared in its full glory.

Vincent hobbled to his feet, squinting at the sun. "Don't lose faith in me yet, kid."

He trudged forward on the frozen river, following his memory the best he could. He recalled from the map that the town of Nevahe was due north, situated near the Roseau tributary, but he couldn't remember how far that was. He thought ten miles, maybe less.

Vincent limped two miles in sheer agony before he scanned the riverbank, the frozen flatland beyond, and thought about hitching a ride. He no longer saw the road or heard any traffic. He swallowed cold spit, feeling the slush packed in his loose shoes, the wind blowing against his flimsy surgical pants, his back crying for relief. He pressed on.

The sun glided higher in a pure blue sky. Vincent tried to gauge time, maybe 8:30 a.m. _How many hours has it been?_ he thought, calculating, barely able to walk on numb feet. _At least twelve_. He faced the sun with desperate realization splattered on his face. _That's all the time I had._ Vincent thought of Thaddy, forming images of his destruction in hell, then dropped to his knees. "I'm sorry, kid. I blew it." Vincent collapsed on the ice, rolled on his back, and stared at the sun. "I let you die." He could see Thaddy in his mind, vivid pictures of the boy being torn apart, obliterated by the collapsing acid atmosphere. A tear rolled down Vincent's cheek and froze. "I'm sorry, kid, I tried ... God knows I—"

Something faintly thumped. Vincent sucked back his tears and listened. He heard it again, _ka-thump, ka-thump_ , like something rolling over loose boards—boards of a bridge! He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain, and hobbled upriver. There it was, jutting off the east side of the Red River, the Roseau tributary. Up ahead, just as Thaddy had described, the covered bridge and farmhouse beyond.

Vincent found a clear, snowy path up the riverbank to the bridge. He inhaled a couple quick, cold breaths while clutching the wooden railing and hobbled across the loose planks. He stopped in the middle of the bridge for a short second to catch his breath. There, nailed to a support beam, was a wooden memorial plaque:

1966

In loving memory of Thaddeus Konises, the sunshine of Nevahe.

Our days will never be as bright

as those when you were smiling.

God's grace to thee.

Vincent swallowed and turned to the farm. He followed the road to a long driveway. A snow-covered mailbox sat on a sturdy metal post with a sunflower painted on its side. 'Konises' was stenciled below the flower. Vincent limped up the drive, studying the house, thinking, forming a plan.

Thaddy's home floated on a flat field of snow like a ship on a marshmallow ocean. It was two levels of white pine-sided rustic farmhouse. Brick chimneys jutted through the cedar shake roof at both ends. Gray smoke billowed from the east chimney. Five oak-framed windows lined the top floor. Four windows lined the bottom floor, with an arched door pairing them off to either side. On the east side of the house, at the lower level, an enormous bay window curved out, glistening, sparkling, greeting the morning sun.

Vincent hobbled up two wooden steps to the front porch, took a deep breath, then knocked on the oak and glass door.

A few moments of silence, then the puttering of footsteps on a wooden floor, the sound of an older lady. "Yah, who is it?"

The Canadian accent caught Vincent off guard. "Vincent, Vincent Goss."

The woman yanked back the door's blue curtain and peered through the glass panel. She snapped the curtain shut.

"Please," Vincent said, "I need to talk to you." He heard her run upstairs, then heard an old man's voice. Vincent knocked again, harder this time. " _Please!_ "

The old couple walked down the stairs. The man opened the curtain and quickly shut it. "We're not wantin' any of what you're sellin'. No way."

"I'm not sellin' anything. I'm here about your son. I must talk to you." Vincent heard a muffled conversation; the old man was firm in his resistance. Then silence. " _Please_ ," Vincent pleaded, staring at the sky. "I don't have much time!"

"I'm sure sorry," the old man said, "but our son's been dead a long time. You have the wrong house here."

"Your son's name was Thaddeus, right?" Vincent said.

Muffled conversation broke out again; the old man was getting angry. Vincent heard him say, "He probably read the plaque at the bridge."

"No, I know your son. I've met him." Vincent paused, allowing the statement to sink in.

"Yah, you met our son? How could you now?" the old man asked. "If you aren't leavin' here certain soon, I'll be callin' the cops, yah know."

Vincent felt the panic rise. "I know I look like hell out here—"

"I'll say," the old man said. "What's that your wearin'? We're not in need of any bums here in Nevahe."

Vincent swallowed. "It's all I have." He shook his head. "You don't understand what's happenin'. Your son. I must talk to you about your son. Let me in!" Vincent pounded the door. "I must talk with you! _I'm runnin' outa time_!"

"Call the police, Adonia," the old man said. "I'm a gettin' my bat sure."

"Don't call the police!" Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. "You— I don't know how— You have to—"

"The police will be here certain," the old man said. "Yah, you best be goin'."

"I can't." Vincent crunched his face, paging his weary brain for options. "Stand away from the door!" He backed up and kicked the door. His numb foot tingled.

Adonia screamed.

"You come in here, you'll be certain sorry!" the old man warned. "I got my bat!"

Vincent kicked again. The door jamb split, glass cracked.

"The police are comin'!" the old man yelled.

Vincent kicked again. The door swung open with a hail of splinters and broken glass.

Adonia screamed again.

Vincent hobbled into the entry.

The old man swung his bat and refractured Vincent's arm.

Vincent fell to his knees. " _Please!_ I'm not here to hurt you!"

The old man swung again and struck ribs.

"I'm beggin' you!" Vincent yelled. "It's about your son!"

"Our son has been certain dead for over _thirty_ years!" The old man raised his bat.

Vincent shielded his face, and yelled, "Thaddy! You called him Thaddy!"

The old man froze.

"Thaddy.... Do you remember now?" Vincent asked in sheer agony.

The old man lowered the bat as his wife walked to his side. They stared at each other, confused.

"He said you used to called him Thaddy," Vincent said, cringing, sitting up.

The old man shook his head. "No, it's not true." He raised the bat. "You're just takin' a guess there, aren't yah, big fellow?"

Vincent slowly shook his head, his pleading eyes fixed on Adonia.

She placed a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Give him a chance to say his piece, Hamon."

Hamon shook his head. "Look at him, Adonia, the way he's dressed. I'm certain sure he's with some kind of cult. Certain sure."

Vincent looked at his clothes, his wounds. "I just got outa the hospital." He turned his head and saw a TV. "I'm Vincent Goss from Bon Olivi, Illinois." He winced from the pain of his broken arm. "You might've heard about what's been happenin' in Chicago. The Viceman. I killed the Viceman."

The old couple stared at each other.

"You killed him?" Hamon asked, looking back at Vincent. "Yah, and I wrestled a honey pot from a grizzly bear this mornin'." He shook his head. "You're certain full of lies."

"No. I _did_ kill him." Vincent took pause, feeling weak, dehydrated. He crawled a few feet to the living room, pulled himself up onto a white sofa, and studied the old couple.

Hamon stood six-foot even, nearing seventy years—rough years, years of hardship and pain that chiseled deep his worry lines. His gray hair was thick and flowing, cut at his shoulders. With pained, blue eyes, the old man searched for answers. Hamon always squinted, his brow forever hammered by unimaginable sorrow. He wore nothing more than blue-striped pajama bottoms, a white tee-shirt covered by a green bathrobe, and a pair of ragged black slippers.

Adonia was a sturdy woman, fit for pioneering. A bit plump and a bit nervous; she had right to be. Her speech was a blend of Canadian with a hint of Scottish. She was gently aged mid-sixty. Her black and gray hair was gathered in a tight bun held by two long stick pins. Her face was smooth and milk-white. Vincent was sure her color faded upon his arrival. Adonia wore a floppy, red flannel shirt on top of a gray sweatshirt, loose black jeans, and white Keds.

"I did kill him," Vincent said, bowing his head. "I shouldn't have, but he murdered my son ... raped my wife."

"Yah, well we're sure sorry about your luck there, fella," Hamon said, "but you got no right to be bustin' in here. The police are comin' certain."

Adonia fidgeted a bit, uneasy, tense.

"Then I don't have much time." Vincent looked up at the couple, not sure where or how to begin. "When I tackled the Viceman through the window, we both fell forever. He was speared by a flag pole. I think I landed— I did, I must've. I landed in a pile of snow. I didn't die though, not right away."

Adonia's eyes widened.

Hamon's brow tightened. He set down the bat.

"My soul," Vincent continued, "was shrouded in hatred," he swallowed, pressing his lips together, "and I transferred to hell."

Hamon's lips pursed. "You're sayin' my son's in _hell_?" He reached for the bat.

"No," Vincent said quickly, his eyes wide. "I mean yes, but no. There's so much to explain. Thaddy was there to help me. He shouldn't have been, but he was."

"Yah, and you were talkin' to him?" Hamon's grip tightened on the bat.

"Yes, I talked to him," Vincent said. "He's a very bright boy."

Adonia jerked her head and looked at her husband.

Hamon slung the bat in the air, ready to strike. "You son of a bitch! You come here with your lies, dredging up memories that should've stayed certain dead!"

Vincent shielded himself with his good arm. "I did. I talked to him. He's a brilliant kid."

Adonia began to cry.

Hamon swung the bat straight down and hit the arm of the couch. "Get out!"

"What?" Vincent asked, bewildered. He shifted from Hamon to Adonia. "He is. The kid's brilliant."

"Our child was mentally handicapped," Adonia cried.

Vincent shook his head, his eyes narrowing.

Hamon raised the bat. "Do you understand now, you liar? Our kid was retarded!" He slammed Vincent's good shoulder with the bat. "Get the hell out of our house!"

Vincent collapsed to the floor in pain. He frantically searched the room and saw the fireplace, a fire crackling. "Your son, you used to read to him!"

Hamon froze.

" _Rikki-Tikki-Tavi!_ He loved that story!"

Tears welled in Adonia's eyes. "How did you know that?"

"He must've read it in an old newspaper," Hamon said. "Yah, that's what you've done, isn't it?"

"No. Why would I do that?" Vincent sat up as the threat diminished. "I didn't read it in a newspaper. I know your son."

"Our brilliant son, right?" Hamon asked.

Vincent searched his thoughts. "My son, Brendon, he also transferred to hell to help me. He was only five years old." Vincent climbed back on the couch. "Brendon stuttered, God, he stuttered somethin' awful, but when he was in hell, his speech was perfect, his mind ..." Vincent reminisced, so proud of his son. "My son was smart, _brilliant_ , just like Thaddy. Brendon was healed when he died. His speech was fixed and he was endowed with knowledge unknown on earth. It was like he held the knowledge of Creation in his eyes."

Hamon lowered the bat.

"Thaddy was trapped in limbo," Vincent said. "He told me he had a choice when he died. He could do nothing, just remain in limbo and wait out his time, or bestow his dying breath to a newborn child, a child in need of a guiding spirit." Vincent grabbed Adonia's hand and gazed into her eyes. "Your son gave me his dying breath on January fifteenth, nineteen sixty-six."

Adonia shuddered, knowing well that date. She felt her legs go weak and sat down next to Vincent.

Hamon released the bat and sat down next to his wife.

"And when I wound up in hell," Vincent said. "Thaddy came to save me."

Adonia sobbed.

Hamon stretched a comforting arm around his wife, and wistfully said, "I used to read to that boy every night, ya know. Yah, Thaddy would gaze out through his bedroom window, watching the stars-a-twinkling, almost certain hypnotized, and crank that music box of his. Yah, he'd watch them stars all night long."

Vincent chuckled a bit. "Yeah, there's a certain magic in 'em." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I haven't told you everything yet...."

With scared eyes, Adonia turned to Vincent.

"Your son, he was trapped in limbo," Vincent swallowed, "because of your guilt. He was trapped there, watchin' over me, waitin' until you died so you could be enlightened and release his soul."

The couple stared in shock at Vincent.

"I know, I know, believe me, I know," Vincent said. "I went through all of it, the denial, the disbelief. It took me months to understand, and that's when hell was smackin' me right in the face. But we don't have that kinda time now." Vincent shook his head, his eyes apologetic. "When your son transferred to hell, he knew it was a one way ticket, but he did it anyway to free me." Vincent held Adonia's hand. "Hell was collapsin', reachin' the end of its cycle, and your son came ... he came knowin' he'd never leave. When the doctors brought me back to life, I had to try and save him, but there wasn't much time. I might already be out of time. I don't know anymore. But, please, you have to believe me, your son was trapped in limbo by your guilt." Vincent met Adonia's pained eyes. "Your guilt for his death kept him from goin' to heaven, and now it keeps him from leavin' hell."

Adonia acted astonished. "I don't understand."

Vincent scratched his head. "Because you're his natural parent, your soul is attached to his. He can't be free until you release him, until you forgive yourself for whatever may've happened."

Adonia shook her head. She turned to Hamon, and weakly said, "No ... _no_."

Hamon patted her shoulder. "It's okay there, Adonia. It's okay."

"No," she sobbed, "my boy, he's in hell."

" _Shhh_ ," Hamon comforted. "It's certain gonna be okay."

She turned back to Vincent, her head slowly shaking. "He's my only child." She opened wide her mouth, shuddering, crying.

Vincent remained silent.

"He's all we ever had." Adonia inhaled short and quick. "All I ever wanted ... and I _killed_ him."

"No," Vincent said, grabbing her hand, "you didn't kill him, he chose to be in hell. He—"

"I killed him. Here in Nevahe. I killed him certain." Adonia collapsed her head on Hamon's shoulder.

"Oh, jeesh, don't you go-a-blamin' yourself again," Hamon said, gently patting her leg. "It wasn't your fault." He looked at Vincent. "She's always blamed herself, yah know. It's always been like that."

Vincent shook his head, feeling woozy, a bit disoriented. "Blamed herself? For what?"

Hamon spoke quietly as his wife cried. "Near about this time-a-year, back in sixty-six, Thaddy died in a car accident, she always blamed—"

"He didn't die in the crash," Adonia sobbed, dredging up horrid memories. "He didn't die in the crash at all."

" _Shhh_ , now settle down," Hamon urged. "You know it was the wreck that killed-"

"It _wasn't_!" Adonia demanded, sitting up. She turned to Vincent, her face pained, her eyes weeping. " _I_ killed him. He's certain dead because of _me_!"

"No, no, Adonia, no. It was never because of you," Hamon said, "never." He patted her thigh, took a deep breath, and spoke. "It was a cold day, yah know, back on January fifteen, sixty-six; a terrible, awful cold day. We were drivin' back from Winnipeg, visitin' family, and we were comin' home. Well, we were-a-drivin' down the road, Thaddy in the front seat, he loved sittin' in the front, yah know, loved to see everything first, and Adonia was sittin' in the—"

Adonia covered her eyes and sobbed.

Hamon sighed. "She was sittin' in the back, plenty of room, a sixty-three Ford Galaxie, plenty of room in the back. Anyway, we were drivin' over the covered bridge— You saw the bridge on the way in, didn't you?"

Vincent nodded.

"Yah, well comin' the other way was John Cooley's propane truck," Hamon continued. "He just got done fillin' up the McMichael's tank down the road. And I see him swervin' on the road and all, and I'm yellin', 'Hey, watch your drivin' there, big fella.' But he can't help it, there's ice all over the road." Hamon swallowed and squeezed his wife's leg. "Yah, well he swerves onto the bridge, and I got nowhere to go, so I swerve, yah know, I had to there. The truck came-a-barrelin' into us." Hamon paused to rub the mist from his eyes. "And the truck slams us, and the Galaxie crashes through the guardrail, and I get knocked unconscious, and the car's teetering on the edge of the bridge there and—"

"And Thaddy was thrown through the windshield," Adonia cut in, baring her soul. "He was thrown right through the windshield. I saw him smash the glass. I saw it happen," she cried. "I _watched_ it happen!"

"Now there was nothin' you could do there, Adonia," Hamon comforted. "You know your leg was crushed under the front seat. For gosh sakes, you couldn't even move."

"No. No. I tried. It hurt so bad." She bowed her head, sobbing. "I _tried_ to move."

Vincent squeezed her hand. "He knows you tried, he—"

"No," Adonia said. "I watched him slam through that windshield, but he didn't fall into the river, not right away. The car was pitched at a steep angle, and Thaddy tried to hang on, he tried real hard, ya know."

Hamon patted Adonia's leg. " _Shhh_."

"Thaddy grabbed the edge of the broken windshield and clung to it for dear life." Tears streamed down Adonia's cheeks. "I lunged up to grab him, but I couldn't reach him. I looked for help, but the truck driver was all jammed up in his cab, Hamon was knocked out. I kept reaching for my boy. He saw me, he stared at me with those big, frightened eyes, pleading for help." Adonia covered her face. "I never saw Thaddy so scared. He kept screaming 'Mommy, help me! Help me! It hurts!' And it did. I never saw so much pain on my little boy's face. Never saw so much blood. His fingers were shredded to the bone, bits of flesh hanging from the windshield. And he kept yelling, 'Help me!'" Adonia raised her head and quickly gasped. "There was nothing I could do. I lunged forward one last time and felt my leg break certain. So I jerked backward." She turned to her husband, her eyes full of guilt. "I jerked backward, Hamon. It hurt so bad ... Thaddy just stared at me. I'll never forget those eyes, _never_."

" _Shhh_ , it's okay," Hamon consoled.

"He stared at me," Adonia said. "Stared at me, crying. Then he slipped away, staring at me, asking 'why?' Thaddy asked that as he slid down the hood of the car 'why?' I see it over and over again, day and night. I see him sliding down that hood, knowing he's about to die, asking me 'why?' Why did mommy let him fall through the ice? Why did mommy let him die?" Adonia pressed her head against Hamon's shoulder, tears soaking his bathrobe. "Why did mommy let him die?"

"Now you settle down there," Hamon said, gathering his wife close. "Thaddy doesn't blame you for nothin', no way."

"It's true," Vincent said, placing a hand on her back. He gulped down rising nausea. "Thaddy gave me a message to give to you. He didn't think I'd make it here in time, so he wanted me to lie, tell you he was safe in heaven, and thinkin' back, maybe I should've. But that would be givin' up, and he never gave up on me." Vincent gently rubbed her back. "Your son wanted me to tell you he loved you both. He wanted you to know, Adonia, that he doesn't blame you, not one bit, for _anything_."

Adonia wiped her tears.

Vincent felt light-headed. "He would never want either of you to suffer, never, not in a million years." Vincent slowly shook his head. "I know Thaddy's in hell because of me, I know that, and I pray somehow that hell hasn't been reclaimed yet." Vincent knelt down in front of Adonia and held her hand, gazing into her pained, brown eyes. "You must believe that your son still has a chance, you _must_ believe that. You gotta let go of the guilt and free yourself. I'm beggin' you."

Adonia's teeth chattered with fear, she turned to Hamon.

"He's right, yah know," Hamon said. "You can't go on like this. You can't."

She turned back to Vincent, her body shaking.

Vincent tightly gripped her hand. "It's okay to release the guilt. Thaddy would want that more than anything." Vincent swallowed. "You must free yourself. It's the only chance Thaddy has."

Adonia didn't know what to do, she panicked, knowing well it was the guilt that carried her these many years. "I— I—"

"Let it go," Vincent implored, eyes wide.

She jerked her head at Hamon. "I— I-I don't— I—"

"Let it go, Adonia," Hamon gently pleaded. "Listen to the man, let it go."

She turned to Vincent. "I-I—" She broke down, screaming, sobbing, her arms flailing. "What have I done? What have I done? My son. I'm so sorry. _Oh,_ my. _Oh,_ my." She turned back to Hamon. "It was all ... all I had. I'm so sorry." She buried her head on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Hamon."

"There, there, now," Hamon comforted, "things will be certain fine now, certain _fine_."

"I feel so awful," she said.

" _Shhh_ , just let it go, let it all come out," Hamon said. "Thaddy doesn't blame you for nothin' there."

"I know," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

Vincent patted Adonia's back and searched for a clock. He found one hanging above the fireplace: 9:26 a.m. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and sighed, knowing it to be too late.

"Thaddy was a good boy there," Hamon said, "a good boy. He'd never blame his mother, never."

Adonia raised her head from Hamon's shoulder, her eyes sparkling with life, hope. She turned to Vincent. "I feel him." Her voice was fresh, alive, reborn. "I feel Thaddy inside me." Adonia turned to Hamon. " _Here_." She thumped her sternum. "Yah, I can feel him certain. He's alive, I know it. He's still—" she looked at Vincent, "—alive."

Vincent opened his eyes, offered a weak grin, and nodded.

Adonia shook her head. "No, I mean it, I _feel_ him. He's here inside. I used to be able to feel that when he was alive." She met Hamon's eyes. "He's alive."

Hamon turned to Vincent, searching for confirmation.

Vincent silently struggled from his knees to the couch and shook his head. "He'll always be a part of you, Adonia. Always."

"No. You think Thaddy's dead," Adonia said. "I hear it in your voice there. I hear it. He's not, he's not dead. I feel him, I tell you, I feel him right here inside."

Hamon patted his wife's leg and gently rubbed it. "Yah, he'll always be close, always."

" _No_ ," Adonia pleaded, searching her husband's eyes for understanding. "He's alive. I feel him. Thaddy's _alive_!"

# Chapter 35

"Man in truth is made of faith. As his faith is in his life,

so he becomes in the beyond: with faith and vision let him work."

—Chandogya Upanishad: 3.14

Oblivion ... The reclamation

It came as a gentle song, a disarming lullaby echoing throughout the heart of oblivion. That's how the reclamation began ... not as storm, not as plasma bursts, not as quaking ground, but as a low-pitched whistle, a sweet tune slicing open the blood-red sky to cast destruction upon the poor souls below. The whistle, of course, was the rushing solar wind scraping an acid atmosphere. But how beautiful it was, how serene, how pleasing to the dead ear.

The injured sky pulsed and surged, trying to mend the widening gap that the three stars had created. There was no chance; the flood gates were open and the winds of Armageddon would be denied no longer.

The first person to obliterate was in the desert, not far from where Vincent first entered oblivion. The man's soul had just transferred and he was adjusting to his new body—naked, confused, alone. He shaded his eyes, staring at the rift in the sky, pondering the source of such beautiful sound.

The solar winds mingled with atmospheric acid and struck the ground. A cloud of flint dust billowed into the air and rushed the pale man. He shuddered with pain as shards of flint carved flesh from his lanky frame. He dropped flat on the ground, his arms covering his bald head. The wind began to wail, its sweet whistle mutating into an ominous drone, like a million demon bats fluttering, screeching.

The man cried out as acid gnawed his skin. Then came the solar winds, rushing, charging, churning like a freight train stoked with the fiery embers of Judgment Day. The man bundled into a fetal position, screaming. He quickly obliterated, never realizing how fortunate he was to exit oblivion so soon.

~

At the rubble of the fortress, one chamber was still intact—the room once housing oblivion's wind chime. Now, after many seeming decades, only a few heads remained: eleven Riders, Zedekiah and Hashmell. The heads were carefully maintained by those who once swayed in the chime. If a neck seal deteriorated, it was quickly repaired as soon as a hanging head grew a fresh body and stomach lining. The heads hung in a close circle, with Zedekiah dangling in the middle. Slowly they twisted and swayed as the buffeting winds coursed through the broken walls.

Zedekiah had long suffered, the last few years time by far the worst. Once his soul had awakened, so did his guilt. Every drop of spilled blood, every last dying gasp, every plea for mercy, haunted him relentlessly. It played over and over in his head, from his little brother's death sigh, to Brendon's slashed throat, and every murder in-between. It all replayed into infinity, multiplying his suffering a thousand fold.

The seeming years wore on, unending time of mocking solitude as Zedekiah twisted at the end of his own knotted intestine. He long prayed for an end to the suffering, hoping for a quick demise during the reclamation. Hope, _ahh_ , the one thing he so recklessly abandoned so long ago, now his only thoughts, his only dreams, his only Savior. How sweet the irony, how it pricked his tortured soul.

Zedekiah twisted. His pale eyes met the beady rat eyes of Hashmell. Zedekiah clamped shut his eyelids, trying to forget the experiments, the heads circled in acid—so much suffering, so many men obliterated.

Hashmell held his anger throughout, unleashing his revenge time and time again. Whenever a strong wind knocked the heads together, Hashmell lashed out, his rage filed sharp on his ripping teeth. He gnawed off bits of Zedekiah's flesh: his ear, his cheek, his eye, whatever he could sink his teeth into, all the while waiting, patiently planning for the reclamation, knowing then Zedekiah would suffer most.

The time had arrived....

Wind and dust hammered the fortress rubble, blowing, gusting, whirling like a hurricane loaded with flint splinters and acid, echoing the roar of a million demon bats, charged with the righteousness of Judgment Day.

The keepers of the wind chime scattered, leaving the heads to suffer a dismal fate.

Hashmell grinned, hearing the rushing winds, feeling the flint rip his flesh, smelling the stench of foul vinegar.

Zedekiah opened his eyes wide with fear. His jaw dropped as he tried to sob. _Please, God,_ he prayed in vain, _forgive me. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the—_

The wind blasted Hashmell's head. He swung forward, clamped down hard at the base of Zedekiah's neck, and violently chewed the seal.

Panic gripped Zedekiah.

Hashmell swung free, a neck seal clenched in his teeth, his rat eyes feasting on the agony.

Zedekiah's spine began regenerating, carrying with it a vast network of nerves, a billion receptors of pain. He silently screamed, feeling the flint splinters piercing his spinal cord. Ribs regenerated and organs grew. A dead heart, lungs and liver all suffered the relentless ferocity of reclamation.

Zedekiah's body quit regenerating, barely able to sustain itself against an onslaught of acid. He wailed at the top of his new lungs, " _God, help me!_ "

Hashmell wickedly grinned, hearing the dying screams at long last.

The solar winds charged through the broken walls. The heads began to fall, striking the hard ground, disintegrating by the reclaiming winds.

Zedekiah was the last to drop. He landed as a cruelly distorted lump of inhumanity on the flint ground. His eyes were obliterated, every last nerve attacked by the flint shards, the acid, the solar winds.

Then the agony intensified. Every detail of Zedekiah's miserable life replayed in seeming seconds. He felt the torture and horror of every one of his victims. In a righteous transference, their pain became his: every slashed throat, every mutilated body part, every cruelty endowed on a helpless innocent—all his. Zedekiah lived their suffering, their fear, their hopelessness. It rippled through the remainder of his body, sensitizing every nerve ending to the nth degree.

Zedekiah began to obliterate.

Hashmell grinned, watching the devil die.

In one last sordid twist of fate, Zedekiah's life flashed before him once more. Not the dreadful one he lived, but the one that could have been: a gentle life on the farm, a fulfilling marriage to a devoted wife, loving children blanketing his soul in happiness, a contented death at an old age surrounded by those he loved, those who loved him. Beyond the deathbed, Zedekiah caught a glimpse of heaven, felt the warming bliss of eternity, briefly held the knowledge of Creation— He flashed back to reality, to oblivion, the winds of Armageddon fiercely churning, his body shrouded in agony. _What could have been_. Even in his deteriorated state, he couldn't help but shudder.

Zedekiah's lump of muscles, bones, nerves and organs convulsed one last time. His miserable being vaporized, never to exist again.

Hashmell followed the devil, gladly obliterating, his wicked smile the last to go.

~

Three days time later, on the other side of oblivion, Glipp stopped Thaddy in his tracks. They stood at the edge of a steep cliff. An ocean of neon-blue acid stretched from its base to the red horizon.

Glipp sighed, knowing their journey had reached its end. He sat down, dangled his legs over the cliff, and said to Thaddy, "It is being beautiful, the ocean, it is sparkling blue as far as the eye is seeing."

Thaddy sat down with help and nodded, barely having neck muscles left to move his tattered head, barely able to clutch his music box.

It had been a long time, over a hundred-and-three years time of being battered by the storms of oblivion. Glipp never relented in his duties though, he stayed by Thaddy's side every painful moment, doing his best to prolong their destruction by seeking stronger sky. Glipp figured the sky was weakest where everyone entered hell, so he led the son of Vishnu away from the desert, and journeyed downriver for over a lifetime. They followed the churning blue acid that flowed past the fortress and finally found its delta feeding a hungry ocean. They could go no farther.

The seeming years had proved devastating to Thaddy. His flesh hung in jagged clumps, barely clinging to deteriorating muscle. His feet were worn down to raw bone, as were his hands. Glipp suffered too, seeing the child's pain. A million times he wished the boy's suffering to be his own. A million times Thaddy asked him not to worry.

Thaddy, knowing he could never exit hell, never once mentioned it to Glipp after Vincent found his freedom. Thaddy let Glipp have his faith and apply himself diligently to his duty of protecting him. But Thaddy was tired, the endless time in oblivion had sapped his strength, prying away his memories of heaven and earth. The starshine faded long ago, his glittering eyes extinguished after the first dozen years of oblivion's torture.

Glipp gazed across the shimmering sea, his sage eyes weary, his long, black beard and hair flecked with flint dust. "How is there being such beauty in hell?" Glipp asked, mesmerized by the churning acid. "Is there being ugly in heaven?"

Thaddy reached up slowly, painfully, and lowered the battered hood of his light skin tunic. He turned to Glipp and offered a weak smile, trying to recall a thought of heaven. "Yes," the boy whispered in a raspy voice, his lungs badly damaged by acid. "The nature of beauty is contrast. No one would recognize heaven without first knowing hell."

Glipp turned away, barely able to look at Thaddy. The boy had no hair, the skin of his face hung in clumps, his eyes gone, long burned away by acid, two dry sockets in their place. No longer could the child offer peace in the silver starshine.

"What is that I am hearing?" Thaddy asked.

Glipp saw it coming some time back, way out in the ocean, a speck on the horizon flaring down from the sky. It began growing, widening, churning the flat divide between the crimson canopy and the glowing blue sea. "It is being nothing, son of Vishnu."

Thaddy reached out his bony hand and found Glipp's shoulder. "It is beginning, is it not?"

Glipp slowly shook his head. "No, it is just being the wind."

Thaddy held silent, listening to the low-pitched whistle wash in on the ocean surf. "It is not the wind." He removed his hand from Glipp's shoulder and tried to stand up.

Glipp jumped up and shifted quickly, helping Thaddy to his tattered feet. "You should not be standing."

"I want to be on my feet when it comes," the child said.

Glipp held Thaddy by his shoulders and knelt down. "Glipp is being very sorry."

Thaddy grabbed his forearm. "You have done well. I never—"

"No, Glipp is saying— Glipp is failing. Glipp is not saving the son of Vishnu. Glipp is failing."

Thaddy shook his head, smiled blindly, then whispered, "No, Glipp, you have not failed. You held faith in an existence without hope."

The dust began to blow, the dreadful music of reclamation approached. Glipp ripped off his tunic and wrapped it around Thaddy's shoulders. "There is nothing more Glipp can be doing. Glipp is being sorry."

"It is all right. We should rest now." Thaddy reached out. "Rest, my friend."

Glipp guided Thaddy's hand to his and watched the reclamation approach.

The solar winds carved through the crimson sky, striking the neon ocean, mixing, churning, vaporizing the acid depths.

The blue waves crashed against the flint cliffs. Thaddy felt the foamy mist leap up and caress his fragile skin. The low-pitched whistle mutated into a drone, like a million— Like a million angels humming!

Thaddy tilted back his head. "What do you see, Glipp?"

Glipp looked up and smiled. "The sky, it is bulging!"

Thaddy squeezed Glipp's hand.

A dead chill raced down Glipp's spine.

Dust swirled around Thaddy's legs, the air began to crackle. He released Glipp's hand and tried backing away. He stumbled on his tattered feet and fell blindly to his hands and knees, losing his music box.

Glipp rushed to his side, grabbed the box, and placed it back in the child's bony hand.

"No," Thaddy warned, "you must not be caught in the transference."

Glipp sat Thaddy up. "Do not be worrying."

The crimson bulge widened and twisted, the wind whipping madly, forcing back the acid and flint flying in the winds of Armageddon. A million angels hummed; a million demon bats fluttered and screeched. The chaos was maddening.

Glipp felt his flesh begin to dissolve. He looked up and slowly backed away.

The droning of heaven reached near deafening. The bulging red sky exploded. A beam of silver starshine shot to the ground and washed over Thaddy, obliterating his skin clothing.

Glipp turned his back to the approaching solar winds, fighting off the inevitable as long as possible, praying to catch a glimpse of a miracle.

Thaddy was reborn in the starshine, his body healed, his eyes replenished with the knowledge of Creation. The boy slowly stood up and walked to the edge of the beam.

Glipp, his spine exposed, met Thaddy at the beam's edge and dropped to his knees.

A shimmering tear rolled down Thaddy's cheek.

"Glipp is being so happy, son of Vishnu!" Glipp yelled, his voice dueling the drone of heaven and hell.

Thaddy felt eternity tug at his essence. He fought it. "I will never forget you!" the child shouted, his gentle eyes sparkling.

Glipp nodded his deteriorating skull. "Glipp will never be forgetting you too!" He collapsed to his hands and knees.

"It is not fair!" Thaddy yelled, knowing there to be no other choice. "Your virtue in hell surely outweighs your misdeeds on earth!"

Glipp winced, his feet disintegrating. "Hell was never meaning to be fair, son of Vishnu!"

Thaddy shook his head, watching his friend suffer, and then softly said, "Try...."

Glipp met the child's sparkling eyes.

"Try!" Thaddy yelled. "Enter the starshine!"

Glipp shook what was left of his head, the solar winds furious in their assault. "Glipp is being content just seeing you free!"

"No!" Thaddy pleaded. "Try! Maybe your essence has been purified! Maybe you can enter heaven!"

Glipp's chest slammed the ground, his arms and legs disintegrated, his eyes fulfilled. With his last tortured breath, he said, "Glipp is already being ... in heaven."

Shining tears glistened down Thaddy's face. "No! Please try! _Please!_ "

Glipp grinned, happily obliterating, his smile the last to go.

"No," Thaddy said softly as he began to fade, his essence merging with the starshine, his last words lost in the violent winds of Armageddon. " _Try_."

# Chapter 36

"Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

—Holy Bible: Hebrews

Nevahe, Canada ... Winter

"Thaddy's alive!" Adonia insisted.

Hamon sighed, nodding, his squinting eyes sympathetic. "Yah, he'll always be alive, right here." He patted his chest.

"No," Adonia cried, clutching her flannel sleeves, bowing forward on the couch. "He _is_ alive. Why won't you believe me?" Her tears splashed the knotted wool carpet.

Vincent tilted back his head, fighting nausea. He patted Adonia's shoulder, and gently said, "Thaddy knew he couldn't make it out of hell alive. He knew that. There wasn't enough time. He couldn't—"

"He made it," Adonia said. "I'm certain sure he made it."

Vincent saw the guilt extinguished in Adonia's brown eyes. Faith wasn't flickering either. Nothing but truth's fire.

"Please, believe me," she pleaded. "I feel it certain. Thaddy's alive, I just _know_ it."

The living room became silent save for the crackling fire.

Hamon turned to Vincent.

Vincent checked the clock once more, and said, "I don't see how—"

A sweet chime broke the still air, faint at first, inaudible to Hamon's old ears, but it was there none-the-less.

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star_ ...

A chill pricked Vincent's skin.

A smile marked Adonia's face.

Hamon stared at his wife, wondering what the heck was— Hamon's brow raised for the first time in years. He heard it, Hamon heard the long dead chime. His jaw quivered. "Where's it comin' from?"

"Heaven," Adonia whispered, gladness in her eyes. "It's certain comin' from heaven."

Hamon turned to Vincent.

Vincent shook his head, unsure. He turned to the fireplace and stared at the oak mantle above. Between a miniature, hand-carved wooden ship and a silver framed picture of Thaddy, sat a battered music box, its lid open, displaying the crushed red velvet within.

Adonia covered her mouth, her eyes amazed. "Oh, my, it's Thaddy's." She turned to her husband. "It's certain his."

Hamon's mouth dropped open. "How could it be? We kept that box in his bedroom."

"Son of ah gun," Vincent whispered, relief tumbling down his cold, aching body. "The little guy made it."

The room flashed blinding white.

Hamon gathered Adonia in his arms.

Vincent shaded his eyes, squinting at the light source in front of the fireplace. A form could be seen within, an outline of a body—a child.

Adonia pried herself from her husband's protection. "It's Thaddy! I want to see him!" She slowly stood up, the light fading to bearable, and walked toward the fireplace.

The glow dimmed. Thaddy became visible, his body forged of silver starshine.

Adonia dropped to her knees, reaching out with both hands. "Thaddy ... oh, my." Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Hello, mother," Thaddy said, his voice the bliss of eternity. He floated forward, reaching for her hands. "I have missed you."

Adonia held his hand and bowed her head, sobbing. "Yah, I've missed you too." She looked up. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to— I wanted—"

The child embraced Adonia, his warm glow filling her being with forgiveness, understanding. "It was never your fault."

"I wanted to grab you," Adonia said, "just yank you right back in through that windshield there. I—"

"I know, mother. I have always known."

Adonia took pause and sighed. "Oh, Thaddy."

Hamon walked toward the fireplace and knelt down beside his wife. "It's certain good to know you made it out of hell there, son."

The child grinned. "Hello, father. I am happy to see you again."

"Yah," Hamon said, "real good seein' you too, all glowin' like you are there."

Thaddy smiled and turned toward the couch.

Vincent offered the boy a mild salute.

Thaddy floated forward, his aura bright. "Thank you."

Vincent pushed down nausea. "I'm glad you made it out before the reclamation, kid."

"It was very close." Thaddy examined Vincent's face, his broken arm. "You looked better in hell, mister."

Vincent laughed, then cringed as his ribs spread. "I feel better here, kid." Vincent paused for a moment, biting his lower lip. "What about Glipp? Is he—"

Thaddy's glow slightly faded.

Vincent reached out and held his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, kid."

A glistening tear rolled down Thaddy's face. He closed his eyes and nodded once.

Adonia and Hamon sat back down on the couch, their eyes in complete wonderment.

"So, how is it we're able to see you?" Vincent asked. "Never could when you were in limbo."

"I am not in limbo anymore." The boy turned to his parents. "I am shifting between planes, on my way to heaven."

Happy tears washed down Adonia's face.

Hamon misted up. He pulled a handkerchief from his bathrobe pocket and dried his eyes.

"I will miss both of you." Thaddy said. "I will look forward to the day we are together again."

Adonia shook her head slowly. "Oh, Thaddy, you went and got real smart there." She wiped her eyes. "We've missed you somethin' awful."

"Yah, somethin' awful," Hamon said.

Thaddy reached out his glowing hands.

His parents each held one, their palms tingling in his aura.

"I want both of you to be happy," Thaddy said. "Live life with no regrets." He released their hands and floated in front of Vincent. "No regrets, mister. Life is always ahead of you, never behind."

Vincent nodded.

Thaddy's glittering eyes touched Vincent's heart. "I can no longer watch over you."

"Understood," Vincent said as the room began to spin, the bright light making him sick. "You're going straight to heaven now, right?"

Thaddy smiled. "My journey is nearly complete. I have one more stop to—"

"In heaven," Adonia cut in, delaying her son's departure. "Is God in heaven? Did you see Him?"

Thaddy's aura brightened, his eyes basking in the knowledge of Creation. He floated to his mother and placed a warming hand upon her cheek. "Creation and the Creator are one. The God you speak of is every part of all things." Thaddy paused, seeing question in his mother's eyes. He smiled. "Someday, mother, someday."

The room began to darken.

Adonia reached out for her son's fading glow. "We love you so much, Thaddy."

"I know," the child said, his voice the whisper of eternity, his body a mere vapor of starshine. "I have always known." Thaddy faded completely, his haunting words echoing deep within his parents' replenished souls.

Adonia turned to Hamon, her head shaking with elation. "He was so beautiful, a certain angel."

Hamon patted his wife's leg. "Yah, a certain angel."

Adonia cried and buried her head on Hamon's shoulder. "He was so smart there. Did you hear how smart he was?"

"Yah, he was certain smart," Hamon agreed.

"He was so smart," she said. "I always knew Thaddy was smart, always. Did you hear him, Hamon? The way he talked, the way he—"

Vincent lurched forward and vomited.

Adonia turned to Vincent. "Oh, my."

Vincent wiped his lips, his color fading. "Sorry."

Adonia jumped to her feet. "What am I thinking here? Where are my manners? You come right with me and we'll get you cleaned up, maybe something for that tummy. Are you hungry there? Thirsty? Oh, my, I never noticed how bad— We need to get you a doctor here."

Vincent hobbled to his feet, Adonia and Hamon both helping. "I just need to lie down for awhile." Vincent inhaled hard, trying to halt the spinning walls. "A phone, do you have a phone?"

Hamon paused, remembering. "Oh, jeesh, we called the police." He looked at his wife. "We've got to call them back and tell them—"

"Yah, well I never called them there," Adonia said, guiding Vincent to Thaddy's bedroom. "Never saw no real need, him knowing our son and all."

~

Vincent lay in bed staring through a large bay window that framed the rising sun. It had been sixteen days since he had arrived in Nevahe, sixteen days since he was made comfortable in Thaddy's bedroom, sixteen days since Vincent had called for his wife.

Vincent tugged up a soft, green quilt to his chin and surveyed the room. Thaddy's bedroom was a shrine, a sacred place full of warm memories. An unfinished oak dresser, covered with framed pictures of the boy, sat in one corner; a white painted desk, the music box on top, sat in the other. The four poster bed that Vincent lay upon rested at the back wall. The side walls were speckled with large and small framed pictures of Thaddy, all of them happy, all of them smiling. A bay window glittered in the front wall. Beyond the wood-paned glass flowed an endless sea of white snow. No trees, no shrubs, no tracks of any kind hindered the unblemished whiteness that stroked the horizon.

Vincent closed his eyes and rubbed the cast on his left arm. It felt strange, like the arm had no feeling, numb to the world. An old, gruff doctor had reset the broken arm and applied the temporary cast two weeks ago. He implored Vincent to seek care at a hospital. Vincent politely refused and thanked the doctor for his time.

Vincent opened his eyes and squinted at the rising sun. It was the only thing left that offered his troubled heart peace. How he wished to be back at its core.

The one and only thing that Vincent desired now was to talk to his wife. But he knew there was no chance of that. How was he to know Cassandra's doctor died five months ago, never sharing Grandy's phone number with his staff? How was he to know his wife was released from the hospital four months ago? How was he to know she went home and sold the farm to pay off mounting debts and taxes? How was he to know she no longer lived in Bon Olivi? Vincent knew exactly how he should have known, he should have stayed with his wife, by her side every step of the way.

Each phone call Vincent made that dreadful day was answered by abrupt, accusing people. The secretary at County Hospital was so incensed by Vincent's abandonment that she threatened to file charges for spousal cruelty. Back in Bon Olivi, Reverend Stalwart refused to speak to Vincent, calling him a faithless sinner for what he did to Cassandra. The phone number at his house had been disconnected. The county clerk told him that his home was destroyed back in November, torched by the church after assuming the mortgage. _What about Whiskers?_ thought Vincent, then let it pass, knowing the cat's death was his fault too. Who was he to be concerned for anybody or anything? Who was he to mourn for destruction of his own doing? Who was he to feel pity when all those he loved had been so senselessly abandoned? Who was he to feel anything?

Vincent rolled on his side and drew up his knees. The staples didn't bite anymore, but they itched something awful. He coughed, feeling ribs shift, the blown disk shooting pain down both legs. The physical agony meant little, nothing at all, but the mental anguish of guilt and hopelessness ravaged his insides, tearing him apart cell by cell.

Vincent tried twice to bid farewell to Hamon and Adonia. They would hear nothing of it. To them, Vincent was part of the family, a saving grace uniting them with Thaddy. They insisted that he stay until he was healed, and, if he chose to do so, he could live with them as long as he wanted after that.

Adonia and Hamon had more on their minds than hospitality when they asked Vincent to stay. They knew of the disheartening phone calls, they learned of his plight in Chicago and of his love for Cassandra, they saw the scars on his wrists, and knew certain he shouldn't be alone.

~

"How are you feeling today?" Adonia asked, knocking on an open door. She walked into Thaddy's sunny bedroom, her gray-black hair hanging free beyond her shoulders.

Vincent swallowed, his throat sore, and rolled over. "Fine, thanks." He watched Adonia as she placed a steaming cup of tea on the nightstand near his bed.

She smiled, walked over to the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Her eyes were happy now, her plump face glowing. She wore a dress, a bright one, yellow flowers against a cotton white backdrop. Adonia opened the center lid of the desk and pulled out the start of an afghan, brown and yellow sunflowers the theme. "If you're ready to eat something, I'm certain ready to cook it, yah know." She began hooking yarn.

Vincent grunted and tucked another goose down pillow under his head. "Yeah, thanks. Just not real hungry." His voice was slow, weak.

Adonia kept a steady eye on her work. "Yah, well you haven't eaten in over two weeks, yah know." She yanked out more yarn. "Hamon's worried. Says a man should eat. Not good for the brain. Says it'll make you certain loopy."

Vincent nodded. "Yeah, just kinda tired, these prescriptions and all."

"Well, you rest all you want to there," Adonia said, her soft voice understanding. "Nothing wrong with rest in your condition."

Vincent sat up against the headboard, covering his bare chest with the quilt. He enjoyed these times with Adonia, when she came to Thaddy's room and hooked her afghan. It was a ritual she began a year after Thaddy's death. It gave her a chance to feel close to her son, a chance to feel like a mother again. But now she had Vincent to talk to, happy once again to have someone offer her real company.

"So, where were we then?" Adonia asked, working the yarn. "You said Thaddy just brought your son back to hell was it? Or were you dangling in that wind chime there?"

Vincent grinned. He'd already told her the story of his plights in hell two times. He rubbed the back of his neck, staring through the window to the sea of sparkling snow, its glittering surface reminding him of the ocean at the sun's core. "What does Hamon grow on the farm?"

Adonia placed her afghan on her lap, turned around, and stared out through the window. "In the summertime, as far as the eye can see, nothing but sunflowers. It's the most beautiful sight in the world there." She pressed her lips together. "In the morning, all the flowers would be turned away, yah know. But come late afternoon— Thaddy called it 'Lookie Time' —all the flowers faced the house, this window. It's a sight to behold." She picked up her hooks and worked yarn. "Hamon hates harvest time, all that beauty destroyed for oil and seed. Hates it certain."

"Sunflowers," Vincent whispered, envisioning them brushing the horizon.

"Yah, sunflowers. They're grown all over this region." She smiled. "Prettiest place on earth. Maybe you'll be around to see them?"

Vincent smiled, acknowledging her hospitality. "I'll try to come back to visit."

Adonia sat silently for a moment. "Yah, come back and visit. Anytime at all.... Are you sure there isn't something I can get you to eat there?"

He slowly shook his head. "No. Thanks."

She studied Vincent with concern. "Then you drink your tea before it gets cold there. I can whip up a stew in no time."

Vincent slid under the quilt, squinting at the sun. "I'm fine. Thank you."

~

The following day, the doctor drove down from Winnipeg. He removed the staples from Vincent's abdomen and back, plucked the stitches from his face and leg, and inspected his broken arm. It had swelled. The doctor added a bottle of anti-inflammatories to the row of drugs lined on the nightstand. He also warned Vincent if he didn't eat soon he'd shove a tube down his throat and force-feed him. Vincent politely nodded and thanked the doctor for his time.

Adonia visited with Vincent that afternoon and hooked her afghan, offering warm food. He declined, staring through the bay window, watching the snow sparkle.

As evening came, Vincent began to feel disconnected, his brain starved. It began to shut down all reasoning circuits, diverting blood to critical functions only—running the heart, lungs, and other vitals.

_So, this is starvin'_ , he thought, lying in bed, Thaddy's room pitch black. _It's not so bad._ And it wasn't. Vincent glossed over the first three days of starvation on adrenaline and guilt. That was the worst of it: the rumbling stomach, the gnawing hunger, the salivation at the slightest food aroma. All of that was over without notice. Now his body, in its most desperate hour, struggled alone to survive. His limited fat reserves were released and quickly depleted. His body began to burn muscle, using blind instinct—life's primordial defender—to survive.

Vincent stared at the twinkling stars through the window. How bright they were, how defined in their brilliance against the crisp quarter-moon sky.

"Mind if I come in?" Hamon asked, lightly knocking on the bedroom door.

Vincent turned his head and saw the old man standing in the dim hallway wearing faded, blue overalls and a green flannel shirt. Hamon held a small brass pot in one hand, a ceramic plate in the other.

"Yeah. Can you—" Vincent blinked hard, trying to spark his brain. "Can you keep the lights off?"

Hamon walked into the dark room, set the pan and plate on the desk, and pulled out the wooden chair. "Certain beautiful, them stars tonight." He gazed through the window and sat down.

"Yeah," Vincent said weakly, wishing not to talk.

Hamon tilted the pot over the plate and poured out a handful of steaming sunflower seeds. He picked one up and studied its silhouette against the starry sky. "Thaddy and I used to eat these seeds day and night, yah know." Hamon's voice was old, profound, reflective. "I like to eat the heart of the seed, that's where the flavor's locked up, in the heart." He cracked a seed between his back teeth and chuckled. "Adonia won't even eat 'em, gets the shells caught in her dentures, yah know. Not me, still got a full set." Hamon tapped his front teeth with his forefinger. "Chomp right through these seeds here." He cracked open another.

Vincent watched the stars, barely able to listen to the old man.

"Thaddy," Hamon continued, "darned if he didn't just go and eat the seed, shell and all, every time. He'd take one and swallow it whole, yah know. Not even crunch it up." Hamon snapped the heart from another seed, staring at a shooting star. "Do you see that flyin' through the sky?" The old man watched the fiery object rocket across the darkness and burn to black. "Thaddy used to call them 'God's tears'.... Never really knew why. We never went to church, yah know. Never no need when heaven's all around us here. But Thaddy would say that every time. I'd look at him and he'd have a strange look in his eye there, like he lost a puppy or somethin'. I'd tell him, no way there, big fella. God doesn't have anything to cry about." Hamon stopped chewing. "Thaddy really didn't understand what I was sayin' there. But I didn't understand where he got 'God's tears' from. I mean, jeesh, it's just a dying star, that's all. And when I said that, and I only said it once, he cried.... Never understood why."

Vincent turned from the window, his breath shallow, and stared at Hamon's sad silhouette.

"I certain sure miss Thaddy." Hamon picked up the music box and opened the lid. "He was a good boy, always tryin' to do right, smilin' all the time." He turned to Vincent. "That day we lost him was the worst day of my life." Hamon turned the crank. "Thought certain I'd die of grief."

Vincent gazed back at the stars.

"I quit eatin', quit workin' around the farm," Hamon said. "Nothin' really mattered ... except Adonia. I put everything aside, yah know. Did it all for her. Had to be strong, think of someone besides myself, besides my own grief." Hamon paused, seeing Vincent's eyes shine in the darkness. "Then, when she got strong—and she certain did come spring—she let me grieve, gave me time to get it all out." He released the crank and set the music box on the desk.

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star_ ...

Hamon picked up the pan and plate, walked to Vincent's bedside, and said, "I know the pain you're feelin', hurts like nothin' else, all knotted up in your gut there like it's just gonna burst, thinkin' it's never gonna end." Hamon set the plate on the nightstand and poured out the rest of the sunflower seeds. "I'm sure sorry about your wife and all, but everything has its reason, you just can't go and give up. It's not right, goes against nature." The old man softened his voice as best he could, his brow lifting, the sweet chimes of the music box gently playing. "You didn't give up on Thaddy's life, you shouldn't go and give up on your own, no way."

Vincent stared through the window, blinking his teary eyes.

"Yah, well if you're needin' anything, call out," Hamon said. "Anything at all."

Vincent clamped shut his eyes, hearing Hamon leave, wishing he never spoke. Vincent clenched his teeth, his breath shallow, his heart devouring itself. _God_ , he prayed, opening his eyes to the stars _, why? Why me? I never meant no harm. I just wanted to live in peace._ Blackness began to envelop his vision. _I loved my wife, my son.... Why?_ Vincent blindly reached to the nightstand and found the plate of seeds. He plucked one from the center. _I— I loved her and—_ His thoughts became jumbled, his brain forcing blood back to critical functions. He placed the seed in his mouth. Saliva quickly formed. He sucked the salt from its skin, then swallowed it whole.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star ...

"I'll eat," Vincent muttered in the darkness.

How I wonder what you are ...

The room began to spin.

Up above the sky so high ...

He inhaled short and quick.

Like a diamond in the sky ...

His body tensed.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star ...

Utter blackness consumed him.

How I wonder what you are....

"Thank you, God," Vincent whispered, his body going limp, his breath vanishing, Thaddy's room and stars fading....

~

" _Vince?_ "

His name floated across the still blackness like morning mist on a mirrored lake. How perfect it was, that sound, the voice of heaven.

" _Vince?_ "

It came again, like a whispering meadow, swaying, serene. _Ahh, the bestowing grace of Creation,_ thought Vincent, _how majestic, how knowing, how complete._

"Vince, it's me, Cassandra."

_Of course it's you_ , Vincent thought, _who else could hold such rapture in her voice._ He rolled in the darkness and lay flat, the hand of God his bed, a soft cloud his blanket.

"He doesn't look well."

_I'm fine, Cassandra_ , thought Vincent, _now that you're with me._

"He looks so thin."

_No, Cassandra, no. I'm well again. I'm with you. I'm in heaven._ Vincent smiled and pulled the cloud to his chin. He felt a light scratch against his hand. He patted a rough object, trying to define its silhouette.

Vincent opened his eyes, his head clearing. Thaddy's bedroom emerged in the glowing sunrise. Vincent squinted and held aloft a dried rose. He swallowed as he recognized the flower. He gazed toward the foot of the bed. There, standing in a flowing white dress, the sun blazing at her back ... Cassandra.

"My God," Vincent muttered, his eyes welling.

Cassandra smiled—the smile of fresh sparkling snow, pearl white perfection in the mouth of an angel.

"No," he cried, guilt washing over him in waves. "Cassandra, I—" He couldn't finish, his chest choked in emotion.

Cassandra shook her head slowly, knowingly. She glided to the edge of the bed, sat down at his side, and ran her fingers through his hair. "It's okay, Vince. _Shhh_. It's okay."

Vincent met her forgiving eyes, slowly reached up, touched her auburn hair, and cried.

" _Shhh_ , rest, Vince, please rest." She wiped the tears from his face.

Adonia walked into the bedroom carrying a glass of milk and a plate of seedless cherries. She set them on the nightstand, winked at Cassandra, then walked out of the room.

"Here," Cassandra said, plucking a cherry stem. "You need to eat."

Vincent opened his mouth, his jaw quivering.

She pushed the cherry past his lips.

He chewed and swallowed.

"That's better." Cassandra leaned over and kissed his forehead. She plucked another seedless cherry and met his guilt-ridden eyes. "I've missed you, Vincent Goss."

"I— I've missed you too. I don't know how to tell you—"

She placed the cherry in his mouth. "You don't have to tell me anything."

He gazed at her with question.

"Vince," she shook her head in wonderment, "there's so much that's happened." She grabbed the plate of cherries and lay down beside her husband.

He shuddered, smelling her jasmine perfume, feeling her warm, soft breasts press against his side.

Cassandra set the plate on his stomach and snuggled her head against his shoulder. "It feels so good to be near you again."

Tears flowed down Vincent's cheeks. "I didn't think— I—"

"Don't talk," she fed him another cherry, "just listen." Cassandra took a deep breath. "After that night— After Brendon died, I shut down completely. I'm not sure what happened.... I didn't want to leave you all alone, but I couldn't help it."

Vincent reached up and stroked her cheek.

"When I finally awoke," she continued, "I was in County Hospital. I was—"

"I saw you there," he muttered.

" _Shhh_. Don't think about it." Cassandra plucked another cherry and fed it to him. "When I woke up, it was like no time had passed, like Brendon was murdered that very day." Her eyes welled. "And I cried all night, wishing you were by my side." Cassandra swallowed, the pain of the past lodged in her throat. "When I finally quit crying, I realized five months had passed. _Five months_. I couldn't believe it. I was so weak, so tired. I could barely walk."

Vincent swallowed and coughed.

"Here." She reached for the glass of milk. "It'll make you strong again."

He gulped the cold milk, his throat aching.

Cassandra set the glass on the nightstand and snuggled even tighter. "I went home, Vince. I went back to our house, but I couldn't stay there, not alone, not without you. It was so cold, so lonely." She looked into his eyes. "I sold it. I'm sorry. I know it was your parents' home, I know you grew up there, but it wasn't our home anymore, it never could be." Cassandra pushed her head back against his shoulder. "It could never be our home again." She wiped her tears. "It wasn't easy to sell either, lawyers got involved. The church finally bought it, not for very much, just enough to pay the taxes and medical bills."

Vincent stared through the bay window, the snow sparkling. "They burned it," he whispered.

" _What?_ "

"The church, they torched the house."

Cassandra paused, then said, "Oh, no. I'm sorry, Vince. I didn't know. I left Bon Olivi right after—"

He patted his wife's shoulder, then turned his head and smiled. "If they didn't do it, I would've."

"Oh, Vince," she cried, kissing his scarred cheek. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," he comforted with a weak grin.

They lay face to face upon the bed.

"I didn't know if I'd ever see you again," Cassandra said. "I couldn't find you anywhere. I searched all the way back to Seattle to check with your uncle."

Vincent swallowed, staring at Thaddy's music box. "I-I gave up, Cassandra." He clamped shut his eyes with the pain of admission. "I just gave up."

" _Shhh_ ," she comforted.

"I couldn't stand to be without you," Vincent said.

"Don't worry—"

"I didn't know how to live without my family."

"Open your eyes," Cassandra said.

He clamped them tighter.

" _Open_."

He did ... slowly.

She lovingly shook her head. "I don't blame you for anything— _not one thing_."

Vincent swallowed his tears.

"I love you." Cassandra's voice was barely a whisper. "I always have. Nothing's _ever_ going to change that. Do you understand?"

He widened his eyes and smiled.

She caressed his face, her soft touch racing chills. "You're such a wonderful person, Vincent Goss. I love everything about you. Everything." She kissed his temple. "Especially your eyes. They're sparkling more than I remember."

He chuckled. "That's because you're back in them." He kissed her on the cheek. "So how was it you found me?"

She lightly traced the scar across Vincent's face with her forefinger. "A little more than two weeks ago, I was in the hospital again."

"What for?"

Cassandra paused, then said, "To give birth, Vince."

His brow raised.

She smiled. "You're a daddy again."

Vincent was stunned, his weary brain trying to make sense of it all.

" _Shhh_." She caressed his cheek. "It's too much too soon."

"I'm a father again?"

"Yes." She set the plate of cherries on the nightstand. "But it gets better. Are you sure you're ready to—"

"Tell me."

"Brendon came to me, Vince. He appeared in my hospital room just hours after I gave birth." Cassandra sat up, her face elated. "He was so beautiful, glowing, his body healed. Even his speech, Vince. He didn't stutter." She stood up and clasped her hands in front, staring at the snow. "God, he was so beautiful. And he told me about you, that you were in hell, everything that happened there.... I didn't understand most of it, but it was so good to see him, to hear him. _So good_." She turned to her husband.

Vincent smiled.

"Brendon stayed for as long as he could," Cassandra continued, "but he said heaven could wait no longer. Then our son brightened, Vince, like a thousand stars. The whole room was that way. I had to close my eyes. Then Brendon began to fade. But before he was completely gone—and I'll never forget this—he said 'Love is limitless. Never lose faith in its glory.' I couldn't help but think of you."

Vincent shook off a chill. "But how'd you find me? Brendon didn't know where I was."

"He was only the first angel that appeared," Cassandra explained. "The following day, as I lay in bed with our baby girl, the room flashed white again. A boy appeared, glowing just like Brendon, said his name was Thaddeus." Cassandra sat down on the bed, held Vincent's hand, and stroked his scarred wrist. "He told me everything, all about the scrapyard, the Viceman. I can't believe you killed him." She smiled. "You're so brave, Vince."

He shook his head. "So stupid."

"No." Cassandra ran her fingers through his hair. "You're my hero." A tear rolled down her cheek. She picked up the dried rose from his chest and studied it for a moment. "You always have been."

Vincent stroked her hand with his thumb.

"Thaddeus saw you on the TV in my room," Cassandra said, "when CNN replayed that press conference in Chicago. It was so funny, nobody knew who you were. Neither did I, not until I saw your eyes.... Thaddeus told me where you were and why." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Oh, Vince, I'm so proud of you. You've made Hamon and Adonia so happy." She wiped her eyes. "I wanted to call, to tell you I was coming, but there was so much with the baby and all that I—and I had no idea what to say to you, or—"

"It's okay."

"I left Seattle as soon as I could. If I knew—" She paused, seeing Vincent's shallow cheeks. "If I knew that—" She bit her lower lip.

"It's okay, Cassandra. You're here now."

She quickly nodded, tears falling from her chin.

"So, where's the baby?" Vincent asked. "I wanna see her."

"Are you sure? You're so weak."

"Please," he said, nodding.

She kissed his forehead. "I'll be right back."

Cassandra flowed from the room. Vincent heard her talking in the living room, then he felt something jump on his chest. He smiled and stroked Whiskers, Brendon's stump-tailed cat. "How ya been, buddy?"

_I've missed you_. Whiskers began purring, kneading the soft quilt on Vincent's chest. _Where have you been?_ Whiskers meowed. _We've looked everywhere._

"Yeah," Vincent said, scratching the cat's ear. "I've missed you too."

_He's in here, everybody!_ Whiskers meowed. _I found him!_

"Sorry," Cassandra said, walking in with a soft bundle of pink cloth. "I couldn't catch the cat in time." She sat down on the edge of the bed.

"It's okay." Vincent rubbed under Whiskers' chin. "It's good to see him."

Whiskers walked to Cassandra, rubbed against her side, and lay down in a furry brown ball. _I found him_ , he purred. _He's right here_.

"She just woke up." Cassandra lowered the pink blanket and exposed a small child dressed in a lavender jumpsuit and hood.

"She's beautiful," Vincent whispered, his eyes sparkling. He sat up against the headboard, gazing upon the baby, her face glowing in the sunlight. Vincent reached out and lightly caressed her cheek. The baby gurgled happily. A tear glistened down Vincent's face. "She's incredible. She has your eyes."

Cassandra smiled. "She's such a good baby, never cries, never any trouble."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, to help you—"

"Don't you think a thing of it, Vince. Not one more thought."

"I just wish—" Vincent stopped abruptly. His eyes widened. His stomach turned. He swallowed his fear, and asked, "Cassandra, you don't think that—"

The baby giggled.

Vincent paused, sighed, and then smiled. " _Ahh_ , you think daddy's funny, don't you?" He tickled her chin.

The baby laughed again, reaching out her tiny hands. Vincent held out his finger. She grabbed it and giggled.

"What about a name?" Vincent asked.

"I named her Faith ... Faith Isola Goss."

"That's a wonderful name." Vincent tickled her again. "Can I hold her?"

Cassandra's eyes sparkled as she walked to the other side of the bed and set the baby in the fold of Vincent's cast. "Is that comfortable for you?"

"It's fine." He smiled at the baby. "She's so incredible, Cassandra. So beautiful, just like her mother." Vincent reached up slowly, gently, to the baby's hood and folded it back. "Hi, Faith. Hi. How we doin'? She has so much hair already. My goodness." He touched her nose. "You're gonna be a beauty just like your momma, aren't you? Aren't you? Yeah, just like—" Vincent tugged back the hood a bit more and studied the baby's forehead. "What's this scar?"

"Birthmark," Cassandra said. "Doctor thought it was nothing to worry about though."

Vincent traced it lightly with his finger. "It's like a sideways eight or somethin'."

Faith captured Vincent's eyes and smiled.

Cassandra cuddled next to her husband—the moment, perfect; the future, bliss. "The doctor said it's the sign for infinity." She sighed, her emerald eyes enchanted. "Called it the 'Mark of Eternity,' a sure sign our little girl has a guardian angel...."

~

And somewhere, in the heart of Creation, stars are brighter sparkling.

