 
Reviews of Last Days and Times:

"This story is so well written there is no doubt Mr. Loy will have fans clamoring for more." \-- Writers Digest Magazine

"I enjoyed reading this book and highly recommend it to others who love character-driven, fast-paced action novels." \-- The Music City Oracle

Last Days and Times

by Stephan Michael Loy

Last Days and Times

Smashwords Third Edition

Copyright © 2015 by Stephan Michael Loy

All Rights Reserved

First published, July 2010

in the United States of America

Smashwords Third Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase another copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you by another person, please go to your preferred ebook vendor and purchase your copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work and intellectual property of the author. We all gotta eat.

Be sure to check the notes following the conclusion of this ebook.

******

Table of Contents

Chapter One: In the Company of Dreams

Chapter Two: Luke 17:34-35

Chapter Three: 2 Thessalonians 2:3

Chapter Four: Matthew 24:15,34

Chapter Five: Daniel 9:25

Chapter Six: Proverbs 4:5-9

Chapter Seven: 1 Kings 14:9-11

Chapter Eight: Deuteronomy 2:24-36

Chapter Nine: Psalm 38:6-13

Chapter Ten: Psalm 23

Chapter Eleven: Romans 2:21-23

Chapter Twelve: Luke 21:25-28

Chapter Thirteen: Psalm 139:16

Chapter Fourteen: Psalm 23:4

Chapter Fifteen: Proverbs 10:3

Chapter Sixteen: Revelations 16:4-6

Chapter Seventeen: Matthew 24:6

Chapter Eighteen: Hebrews 10:22-25

Chapter Nineteen: 1 Corinthians 14:14-25

Chapter Twenty: Isaiah 50:4-6

Chapter Twenty-one: 2 Thessalonians 2:8-10

Chapter Twenty-two: Isaiah 26:20-21

Chapter Twenty-three: 1 Corinthians 13:8-13

Chapter Twenty-four: Mark 13:24-27

Afterword

More Books by Stephan Michael Loy

*****

Now, we see as through a mirror, darkly; then, we will see face to face.

My knowledge is imperfect now; then, I will know even as I am known.

There are in the end three things that last: faith, hope, and love,

and the greatest of these is love.

\- The Holy Bible, 1 Corinthians 13:8-13 -

AD 56, approx.

Chapter One:

In the Company of Dreams

(Back to Table of Contents)

Sally Reiser bolted upright from sleep and clamped her teeth on the scream in her throat. Despite the chill of the dark room, sweat ran in rivulets along her temples, down her back, between her breasts. It soaked her matted blond hair. Her knotted muscles ached.

A nightmare, she told herself, hoping it was so. Already, the details evaporated, leaving her only disjointed words and images, and a feeling of overwhelming dread.

Dead leaves, she keened within herself. Dead leaves in the wind.

Nightmares, she thought. Why won't they just go away?

Sally slid from the bed, willing her muscles to loosen, and staggered across the creaking wood floor to the bathroom. She didn't look at the time. Why bother? The dreams always came in the deep night, and sleep was impossible afterwards.

She showered, begging the spray to rinse the dry, dead leaves from her soul. She thought about monsters, and the hidden meanings of dreams, and for the hundredth time acknowledged the real monsters she had built in her life. She knew they would all catch up to her. One day as she wrenched awake, her eyes wide and a scream in her throat, she would fail to scrub the details from her brain. She would remember. Even under the warm spray of the shower, she shivered at such a thought.

Later, she pulled on jeans and that frazzled high school sweatshirt that still fit after fourteen years. Her clothes were easy to find in the dark; she just scooped them up from where she had dropped them whatever number of hours ago. She plodded downstairs, the house still dark, and started the cheap Proctor-Silex coffeemaker in her shotgun kitchen. Sally leaned against the refrigerator, hugging herself and staring at the building black dribble within the carafe. Her eyes were accustomed to the dark; its monochrome details revealed themselves the way friends share dirty little secrets.

She tried to blank her mind, to drown her thoughts in the squelch of dark liquid, but phantoms teased her, fading impressions of empty trains and of a guttural language, perhaps German. Mostly, though, she felt threatened by leaves, dead leaves in the wind.

Coffee in hand, Sally moved up the barrel of her narrow kitchen to the glass-enclosed porch at the back of her house. There she dropped onto her porch swing and steeled herself with her cup's steaming energy.

The porch light burned as it always did at night, illuminating a screen door held closed by a loop of coat hanger. Because of the light, the porch windows revealed not her tiny, snow-covered back yard, but the sad reflection of a slumping woman as careworn as the creaking swing on which she sat. The woman stared back at Sally from hard, chiseled features. That face had once smiled prettily for the boys, and that body had once stood straight-shouldered and confident at the cusp of adulthood. The owner looked older than a mere fourteen years out of high school.

Sally sipped her coffee and stared at the thing that long years had made of her. She stared as if to face the woman down.

Yeah, she thought. That's me. Devoid of purpose, lost to dissolution. Sometimes Sally hated being a writer. The apt, if depressing, descriptive phrase was never long from her grasp.

Her mind returned to the shadows of monsters, guttural monsters on trains. Of course, those were monsters of the unconscious mind. She had plenty of real ones to cope with. That, as always, led her to Michael.

The thought of him defeated the porch light. Her sight turned inward, to a brooding gray like thunderheads.

Michael was a wound that refused to heal. He bled over all Sally was. She came back to that last day with him, there in the Greyhound bus station over twelve years ago. It rushed upon her as if in present tense, her porch swing becoming the hard metal bench at the station. Oblivious travelers once more swarmed around her. She was there.

Michael sat beside her on the bench, one ankle crossed over a knee, an arm resting across Sally's shoulders. It hung there not in affection, but on guard. He spoke with a smugness that frightened her. From across the gulf of time, she listened as she had listened then. "They call the place Millennium City. It's run by a guy named Jack Kordish. He's a self-made minister, a kind of modern prophet, from what they say. The whole place is built on faith, and isolated from distraction. It'll do you good."

Yeah, right, Sally thought, her face burning where Michael had slugged her an hour before. She had brought it on, she supposed, questioning his decision to clean out their bank account and move to this commune in the wilds of Montana. She had known what would happen before opening her mouth. She had known he wouldn't take backtalk lightly.

But, Michael's behavior had eroded her patience. He had developed a habit of disappearing, often for days, and his vanishing acts had come to define the last year of their two-year marriage. Sally had suspected philandering. She had never imagined the truth of the marathon, often impromptu Bible study groups and their growing hold on her husband. Fundamentalist Bible thumpers and her Michael Adams? The same carelessly agnostic Michael who had accepted a Jew as his wife? He had claimed to care little about her background, admitting only that it leant her an exotic flavor. Now, in hindsight, his courtship seemed a mask, an act to leash her, dropped away when no longer needed. He had changed from attentive lover to the monster her mother had warned her against: a Jew-hating gentile wrapped in inarguable rightness, badgering her to "Repent!" Repent from what? From not being him?

He had become this doomsday prophet person, convinced that the world would end that year, the turn of the millennium. What had bred such gross paranoia? God only knew, but Sally, he claimed, would soon face perdition because her people had murdered Christ. She was evil in Michael's eyes, an "other" to be converted or trampled, whichever worked. Only baptism could save her, and she had refused that ritual. So doing, she no longer deserved the simple human decency his religious doctrine prescribed. Michael hated her, and treated her accordingly.

Well, that kind of attitude cut both ways, she had thought from his side on the bench. She was done with playing the faithful wife. She had nothing to show for it but a numb face and rising bruises. Michael had literally beaten down her love.

Knowing her mood, her husband guarded her. He had shadowed her to the restroom, and had held her around the waist as they walked through the terminal. But, why imprison her if he hated her so? He had already taken their money, what little there was. Did he hope to reconcile by brainwashing her into his despicable fringe faith? Was that what he wanted, a doll lobotomized by dogma and fear?

Their gate began boarding. Michael led Sally into the line, holding her by the arm. Her elbow throbbed beneath his fingers. He continued his blathering religious monologue as if she cared what he said. He had always liked the sound of his voice.

He handed the bus driver his ticket and waited to pass through the gate. Sally held out hers, fingers trembling so that the flimsy paper rattled. Then, grimly, she folded it back into her hand. It was so clear to her, this crux of her life. From years in her future, sitting on a swing of her cold front porch, she saw herself doing it, heard her younger voice.

"I'm not going."

"Excuse me, Miss?" The driver blinked, his hand still poised to accept the bit of paper.

"I'm not going," she repeated with greater strength. She looked at Michael and licked her lips. He still held her arm. "I'm not going, and you can't make me."

"Sally..."

"Take your hand off me."

Michael's eyes were glacial. His fingers dug into her flesh. He caught the bus driver's disapproving stare.

"She's upset," he murmured, but his voice had a gravelly edge. "Give the man your ticket, honey. Your luggage is on board."

"You're hurting me," she complained, and pushed away.

His grip on her slipped, but recovered. "Honey, you're embarrassing me. Get it together, and get on the bus."

The driver spoke up. "Now maybe you ought to hold on a minute—"

"Mind your own business!" Michael snapped. Sally felt his coldness twelve years later, and shivered. He grabbed at her other arm. She twisted away and fell into a startled old woman behind her. Michael's hands lashed out and snatched her back to the gate.

"God damn it," Sally yelled, "can't you understand? Let go of me!"

"Get on the bus, you bitch, or I'll kick your ass through the door myself!"

"Leave her alone." Two young men had come to the front, leaving their places in line. They stood inches away, brows furrowed, shoulders squared.

Sally twisted again, emboldened by support. She punched at Michael's chest. Without the slightest change of expression, he released her, and she fell to the floor on her backside.

"Fine." He snorted. "Stay, if you want." He looked around at shocked faces, then down at Sally. "I don't need this. I don't need you. But, you're my wife, Sally Anne Adams. Eventually, you'll do as I say. Anything else is bullshit."

He turned away scowling, and stalked to the bus.

On her porch, her forgotten cup of coffee cooling in one hand, Sally blinked. The terminal around her faded, but the porch did not lighten.

A year later, after the divorce, Jack Kordish changed his commune's name from Millennium City to Base Apocalypse, sure that the final battle between good and evil would begin in his back yard. He wasn't all wrong. The authorities discovered his illegal stockpiles of weapons and, after a bloody standoff, seventy-six members of Kordish's cult died in a fire they probably set themselves.

Michael Adams was not among them.

No, Sally thought, but he should have been, the son of a bitch.

Sally felt a familiar, soft warmth at her ankles. She looked past her coffee and into the marbled blue eyes of her early morning companion. "Good morning, Ghost," she said to the cat, and stroked the short, white fur along his back. He purred, and shoved his head against her hand. Sally scratched him under his chin.

Her coffee gone cold, she returned to the kitchen with Ghost at her heels. He knew the routine. He paced figure eights on the worn linoleum floor, raising a bell-like serenade of mews until she placed his breakfast of kibbles before him. While he ate, Sally replenished her cup, then left the kitchen for her marginally larger living room.

She clicked on the television and settled down on her lumpy couch for the morning news. But the news wasn't on. It wasn't yet morning. Her face sagged at an infomercial on hair replacement therapy, and she reached for the remote. A moment later, she landed at a black-and-white Jimmy Stewart movie, and let her fingers rest. She sipped her coffee and watched, but little penetrated her mood. Jimmy and Jean and Claude were devoid of their intended goodness; they were little more than marionettes in some meaningless monochrome caricature of ... of what? I'm boneheaded, impenetrable, Sally thought. She was locked in a blackened tower, unable to listen, to feel, to trust. As much as she hated to think so, she met the whole night's world with wariness.

Well, no, that wasn't true. She trusted and loved her Eulie.

Her eyes turned to the ceiling beneath her baby's room. Poor, sweet, damaged Eulie, her six-year-old treasure, the rock that had altered the destructive course of her life and had shown her the true face of God. Such great work for such a damaged child, a child whose obvious retardation made strangers squirm. She owed her Eulie for everything good in life. Without him and the love he made possible, her dissolution would be complete.

She looked from the ceiling to the cup cradled in her hands, to the wrists just outside the frayed cuffs of her sweatshirt. She stared at the jagged scars bisecting the blue lines of her veins, evidence of a past conversation with God.

God, she thought with bile. A sadistic cancer on nature. He was not the God of her childhood, the God who had nurtured Israel in the desert, and had time and again forgiven weakness in his creations. Sally understood a disciplinarian God who punished reckless, hedonistic girls. She did not begrudge him her tight finances, her terrible luck with men, or even his curse of a fearless, tactless, and frightening mother. But what monster assaulted an unborn child, scrambling his brains just to get at Mom? On Eulie's birth, Sally had turned her back to such a God. She wished she could deny him completely, convince herself he had never really been. Then she could ascribe her baby's tragedy to anonymous, comforting randomness. But, her mother's work was too well done. Sally could not deny her God, but she could insist on hating him.

Ghost leapt to the couch. He stood staring at her with bright, blue, curious eyes.

"Can't sleep," she told him. "Nothing new, huh?"

The cat kneaded the cushion beside her. Good ol' Ghost. Always armed with perspective. If you can't sleep, you can always pet the pet.

Sally took him into her arms. She buried her face in his warm fur, smelled his freshness and listened to his purr. Such a friend, Ghost. She shoved aside monsters and dreams of monsters. She shoved aside vindictive gods. For a few minutes, anyway, she lost herself in Ghost and his abandonment to pleasure.

#

She shot over the dark landscape of upstate New York, the thin line of State Road 12 guiding her north out of Lyons Falls. The highway was a luminous ribbon winding through thick forest, vanishing from time to time beneath trees, always reappearing at some unexpected angle in some unexpected place. Following that line had at first been a game, but Rosa Vasquez had been airborne for more than an hour. Curiosities were now mundane. She yawned at the tranquilizing view through her windscreen, and looked at her watch.

04:30. Just the look of that hour made her yawn.

"On approach, Agent Vasquez," the pilot said via intercom.

She nodded from her seat beside him, her eyes never leaving the windscreen. The pilot was New York State Police. She didn't know him and didn't want to. He had picked her up in an Albany Wal-Mart parking lot, of all places, after a cryptic but urgent phone call from her agent-in-charge in these hinterlands. Whatever was up was the thing, she knew. Her people didn't snatch her across state for nothing.

She felt her stomach rise as they descended toward the earth, toward blue and red lights flickering just off the highway. Two police cars jammed a dirt track next to a shadowed barn. Other cars crowded the scene, sedans, a pickup truck, and one large van crowned with dead emergency lights. Someone waved a flashlight not far from the vehicles. The helicopter landed close to him in a roar of flailing rotors.

"Thanks," Vasquez said to her pilot, tapping his arm. "I'll get my own ride home." She minded her bulging parka as she climbed to the ground. She didn't want it snagged on some protrusion from the aircraft. That would be embarrassing.

The man with the flashlight intercepted her. He was dressed just as she in a heavy parka, gloves, and boots. Vasquez thrust out one hand, the other clutching her hood against the cyclonic whirl of snow from the rotors.

"Rob Banks!" she shouted above the noise. "Que pasa, mi compañero! It's been a long time!"

"A year, three months, and some uncertain number of days," the man shouted as he pulled her away from the ship. "You should never have taken that promotion, Rose! You left me with a gray, humorless crowd, and they're no pleasure to look at, either!"

The helicopter leapt skyward. In moments, it was gone, its booming rotor noise chasing its wake. Vasquez straightened on the dirt road and pulled her coat tighter around her. "I missed you guys," she said. "Too much paperwork down in Albany."

"I bet. At least, we suffer under the pile you shift down to us."

"Ha! Touché. What's the deal, Rob?"

They walked toward the cars, Vasquez relaxing as the snow, bereft of its helicopter agitator, settled back to ground. Banks pointed to people and vehicles as he spoke. "The whole cast is here, Rose, minus the villain, of course. We got your rattled local gentry over there, came out to visit his horse about eight hours ago and found an aught-9 Lexus blocking the road. Inside the Lexus, Mr. Alvin Whitmire, age forty-three, of New York City. At least, that's what his license and registration say. Bullet right through the head. Very fresh. Rigor gives us squat in this weather, but lividity has time of death at no less than ten hours. Gun in his lap, but the forensics guys are skeptical."

"Bet you a dollar the gun's untraceable."

"No bet. Anyhow, the horse owner calls the sheriff, who calls the troopers, who call the FBI. That big fella over by the Lexus is Captain Hardiman, New York State Police. You're here at his request."

"Why? Sounds like a standard, unembellished murder to me."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to blurt out the spoiler." Banks gestured with a flourish toward the huddle of uniforms near the Lexus. Vasquez took his hint and walked up to the group. She rummaged in her parka's cargo pockets for her bureau ID.

"FBI, Albany," she said. "I'm Vasquez, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of Terrorism."

The uniforms shifted, acknowledging her presence. The tallest man looked her up and down with narrowed, but humorous eyes. "Good morning, ASAC Vasquez. Have a nice flight out?"

Vasquez threw her hands palms up. "It was fair. Could have stood with an in-flight movie. You're Captain Hardiman?"

"Sure," the man said. "Sorry to snatch you out of bed like that, but it's your directive, not mine."

"Oh?" Vasquez raised an eyebrow. Hardiman had said the first intriguing words of the night. "So you wrangled up a state chopper, one that surely had other things to do, landed it against all FAA and law enforcement guidance in a Wal-Mart parking lot to get me, then flew me way out here to the frozen left pinky of New York, all on a say-so I didn't even know I gave. I'm impressed, cap." She stepped close to the Lexus. Red and blue lights cast ghastly illumination against the mangled shell of Alvin Whitmire, still slumped in his driver's seat.

Hardiman crunched snow until he stood beside Vasquez. "We I.D. him as a hardware specialist for Intel Corporation, working with IBM. They say he honchos a special team developing some bioelectric microprocessor crap. Revolutionary. Fast stuff."

"You're suggesting an industrial crime?"

"Just filling in the info."

"Are the forensics people done?"

"Them and the line detective, about ten minutes ago. The medical examiner's behind us, fuming like a sidelined diva because we haven't released the body."

Vasquez leaned close to Whitmire's head, which lay against the window frame of the driver's door. Half of it was missing. More accurately, half of it was splattered elsewhere in the car. "Entry wound's on this side. Lots of blood on the console and passenger's seat. Splash on the passenger window. They shot him from here, then propped him back up."

"That's about right. We dug the bullet out of the passenger side door."

"Why'd you call us, cap? Looks local to me."

"Over here." He tramped around to the grill. He took a big flashlight from a pocket of his parka and directed its beam onto the hood. Someone had spray painted something across the metal:

DANIEL 12:4

Vasquez groaned.

"We got a fly from you guys a couple weeks ago," Hardiman said. "You asked we keep an eye out for religion-based criminal activity."

"Anybody have a Bible handy?" Vasquez asked, expecting no answer.

"Keep secret the message and seal the book until the end time; many shall fall away and evil will increase," Hardiman said. He shrugged at her stare. "We've been here for hours. Plenty of time to look it up. Anyway, I figured this sort of thing, you guys are better equipped to handle it than us."

Vasquez grunted. "The X-Files was fiction, cap." She turned away from the car, looking for Banks. "Anything other than the body and the car? Tracks, that sort of thing?"

"Our boys have been over the place like bloodhounds. We have two sets of footprints angling across that bean field, but they end in a drainage ditch lined with gravel."

"Smart little perps. Rob! Over here! Look, Captain Hardiman, you know the deal. We're experiencing a nationwide rise in faith-based initiatives, to be flippant about it. You get Agent Banks and his two men, and you have the courtesy of Bureau labs if you want. I want reports on all aspects of your progress and I want my people in on any interrogations once you round up the perps."

"Okay," Hardiman nodded, his tone cautious. "What about information downhill?"

"I'll round up what I can and send an agent to advise you. Understand that you aren't the only one dealing with this. Rob," she said to her approaching friend, "I need to wake up another dozen agents and get them into the Albany office. You think I could use your digs?"

"They're only mine as long as you say so," the agent answered, grinning.

"Good. But we'll have breakfast first. I can't shout people out of bed on an empty stomach."

"Thanks," Hardiman said, following her to Banks's car. "This kind of business is way over the top. You guys handle it all the time. That Waco thing, and the Freeman, and those other millennium crazies ten years ago." He watched, frowning, as she dropped into the proffered sedan and hugged her coat around her.

"I'm not doing any favors, cap. This thing is of interest to the federal government. Of course, if it turns out to be hopped up teenagers with guns, you're on your own."

"Fair enough."

"Now, if you don't mind, I'm cold, I'm tired, and I'm getting hungrier by the second."

Banks closed her door, shutting her off from the bitter night. The trooper raised a hand to his parka hood in salute, then turned back to his crime scene.

"So, what do you think?" Banks asked as he turned the car around.

"I don't know. It's probably lowbrow thugs, or maybe a coke deal gone bad. I mean, it's been half a day, Rob. Wouldn't we expect someone to claim responsibility?"

They drove along the dirt track back to SR12, then Banks turned south toward Utica. "I don't know," he mused. "These kinds of things always creep me out. Political terrorists, I understand. Terrorists for money, I understand. Religious freaks, they don't make a lot of sense, not even according to their own rules. There was this guy--"

"Rob, it isn't even daylight. Could you wait until after breakfast to tell your gory story?"

Banks mugged umbrage. "I wouldn't say it was gory. Not in a Wes Craven way..."

He glanced at her now and then as they sped along the highway. She remained wrapped in her coat until the heater reached baking temperatures, then she relaxed, and stretched like a cat. She suppressed a grin as Banks averted his eyes.

"We'll be back," he said, drumming the steering wheel.

"I know."

"This one feels that way."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Their Bible scholar. He isn't done, you know."

"No, he isn't. It's only a matter of whether it's our problem, or Hardiman's."

They rode in silence a while.

"It's nice seeing you again," Banks said.

"Not so nice for me, amigo. Not with mierda like this."

Chapter Two:

Luke 17:34-35

(Back to Table of Contents)

Gary LaMonte sat at a wobbly plastic table in a nearly empty food court on the university campus. Fiddling with the lasagna on his Styrofoam plate, he watched the government man across from him, a skeletal, balding apparition in an ill-fitting gray suit. He had deep-set, judgmental eyes and big hands knotted into fists on the table. Gary didn't like the look of the man, and was sure the man returned the opinion. The suit, for Gary saw him as such, had been told he would meet with an expert, a gilded academic. A cue-balled, skinny black man in a Lakers jersey, his jeans sagging below his ass and his floral print boxers out in the wild probably wasn't the suit's idea of an established college brainiac.

So fuck him.

"The professor tells me you're doing some research of interest to the state," the government man said, "a kind of national directory of religious wackos."

Right. Gary turned away from him to the other man at the table. Dr. Ikaru laughed through a mouthful of lo mein, then cleared his palette with orange cola.

"A high concept description, I'm sure," Gary's teacher explained, his round Japanese face beaming, "and not my words, but Mr. Tuttle's."

"Sorry," the skeleton said. "No offense meant."

Gary hadn't asked for this meeting. Dr. Ikaru had dragged him to it with a promise of free food. Gary's interest centered on his nearly completed degree, not on meetings with "bigshot lawyers", as the professor had characterized the visitor. No offense indeed...

"None taken," Gary muttered, wanting to return an insult, but thinking better of it.

"As I'm sure you were informed," and the bigshot glanced at Ikaru, "we in the attorney-general's office have been tracking an increase in religiously-based crime, everything from obnoxious episodes of disturbing the peace to weapons violations, spousal abuse, abduction, even murder. Their perpetrators all have one thing in common: they justify their actions through religion, usually quoting the Bible. We've handled weirdoes before, what with all that fuss in 2000, 2001, and most recently in 2012, but these guys we don't get. They couch their mumbo-jumbo in scary prophecies, but there's nothing there about aliens or ticking calendar time bombs or the other crap peddled by new-age doomsayers. It's all Christian mumbo-jumbo. The frightening part is that the mumbo-jumbo is spreading. They're organizing into groups, forming doomsday cults with paranoid militia leanings. Very dangerous. The federal government has posted bulletins, FBI, Homeland Security, initialed agencies I'd best not mention. The states are networking on this, trying to get ahead of a trend. The Branch Davidians, Heaven's Gate, Solar Temple, Aum Shinri Kyo. Sounds like them all over again. And that Kordish bastard. We need to know what drives these people, what makes them grow."

Gary took a bite of his lasagna, his lasagna paid for by Dr. Ikaru. "You say they invoke religion? What do they say?"

"I could get you detailed reports, but it usually amounts to lakes of blood, dragons, ten-horned monsters, and Jesus Christ coming down from heaven. That sort of thing."

Gary nodded. "Apocalypse testimony. They aren't hiding anything, Mr. Tuttle. In fact, they're naked in the open. Do you know your Bible?"

"As well as anybody, which means I'd be hard-pressed to quote anything outside the Lord's Prayer."

"You'd better start reading your Bible. They do."

"You can interpret this weirdness? That's why I'm here. I need an expert. The professor here says you're the man." Tuttle's eyes made a slow, skeptical sweep over the so-called expert before him.

Gary refused to bristle. He glanced at Ikaru. "I'm no expert. I just wrote a paper."

"Gary, that makes you an expert," Dr. Ikaru said. His voice had a grandfatherly sound. "Your doctoral thesis is just what these gentlemen want."

"I just explain; I don't understand. These people's actions have nothing to do with scripture, or reality, for that matter. The Bible gets them all worked up. What they do with it is a function of how scrambled they are in the head." Gary looked around the table. Dr. Ikaru grinned, eyes wrinkled almost shut over his round cheeks. Tuttle's eyes were dead, his mouth a thin line. He wasn't getting his money's worth, and showed it.

Well. Time to give the rube a show, but not so much that his eyes glaze over.

Gary slumped back in his chair. He brought one ankle up onto a knee. "There's this end-of-the-world fever," he said. "Pre-millennialism, millennialism, post-millennialism. It came to a head in 2000, but nothing happened, no end of the world, no Jesus, no aliens or black helicopters. Not even the computers crashed. Then they discovered that their nice, round apocalyptic number was a year off, that the millennium actually began in 2001, and they got worked up again." Gary nodded at his thoughts and rubbed his shaven head. "Of course, nothing happened then, either, and a lot of these groups have been rudderless ever since. They tried getting up a head of steam in 2012, the end of the five-thousand-year Mayan calendar, convinced it ushered in the end of all time. Didn't pan out. Now they're clutching at bad forgeries of papal history, sixteenth century documents that assert the latest Catholic pope will reign over judgment day. None of it's new. The same thing happened at the last millennium, and we ended up with the crusades, over two hundred years of religious bullying. These groups have patterns discernible through history." Gary shrugged. "These things take years to build, and years to die away. They'll be with us for a while."

Tuttle nodded toward Dr. Ikaru. "The prof says that paper of yours is right on the mark, that you're the local expert on religious cults."

Gary shifted in his chair from embarrassment. "Not cults. Apocalypse groups and post-millennialism. There's a difference."

"Not to me, there isn't. When the paper's done, I'd like a copy, and I'd like to pick your brain from time to time. In either case, it'll be worth it - financially, I mean."

"You're offering me a job?"

"A consultantship, same as we offer the professor here from time to time. You've been his research assistant, so you know how it goes. He speaks very highly of you."

Gary saw amusement plain on Ikaru's face.

"How about it, kid? I need somebody like you on my side."

"I..." Gary began, not knowing what would follow. He needed money. As a student, he was perennially broke. But he was also black. He had no reason to trust government types. "I'll think about it," he finished.

Tuttle nodded. "That's fair." He extracted a business card from his coat. "Don't wait forever; I sure can't. Give me a call, or call the prof and he'll call me."

"Sure. I'll get back with you."

"Thanks for your time," Tuttle said, standing. He nodded to Ikaru, and was gone.

Gary watched him leave, forgetting Dr. Ikaru. He had never imagined such easy entry into the world of employment. In Gary's experience, nothing came easy.

"It's a surprise, I know," Dr. Ikaru said.

"A surprise?" Gary returned from his daze.

"Yes. Such a sudden and important offer."

"Why?"

"Because I'm retiring, Gary. See? Another surprise! I told Mr. Tuttle about you for the same reason I told Evans at the sheriff's department about you, and Clark at the state police."

Gary looked at him, eyes narrowed.

"I've done the psychotic pinhead analysis bit for years, son. That millennium nonsense was lucrative, but it just wore me out. Now, it's starting up again, for whatever reason. It's time for somebody else to play detective." He reached across the table and patted Gary's shoulder. "I can't think of anyone better to take over my extracurricular niche. You aren't a student anymore, Gary. You're a scientist in demand."

Not a student anymore, Gary thought. Time just flies...

"I imagine you could publish tomorrow," Dr. Ikaru said. "Your research is impeccable; I'm sure I'll have no arguments when I see the final draft. But--!" and, as was his habit, he let the qualifier hang. He munched another bite of noodles. Gary waited patiently, for he knew this man. After five years, Ikaru was more a father than an academic advisor.

"Your paper lacks immediacy. It's mainly historical research, Gary. That won't do with people like Tuttle. They deal with the problems of now, not a thousand years ago."

"I did the paper because of what's happening," Gary argued. "I remember back when and all the millennial things that went down -- the bombings, the hoardings, the computer scares and such. The cops treated it like something new, something unique. I found out later that it had all happened before. That's why I wrote the paper. How can the authorities deal with this latest if they don't understand where it came from?"

"A sound argument, but somewhat esoteric for the white socks and black shoes crowd, don't you think?"

"So, what are you saying, Dr. Ikaru? I should change the entire focus of my work? Maybe you should have said that a year ago."

"Look, Gary, you stand at a deciding moment in your life. You are the expert. There aren't a hundred respectable researchers on this planet as steeped in the lore, the science, and the sociology of apocalypse phenomena as you are. I'm not suggesting you redo your paper. I'm suggesting you annotate it, or add an afterward, a critical analysis, something to relate your historical data to present day trends. Make it more user friendly."

Gary's stomach tightened. He had written a historical analysis of Judeo-Christian doomsday prophecy, the stories centering on the end of the physical world and the reclaiming by God of the universe. To do as Ikaru suggested meant a reinterpretation of all the data in terms of how it explained doomsday groups today. Though the existing data still held validity and lent itself to other perspectives, a reediting process meant months of additional work.

"You're a creative person," Ikaru said, grinning. "A little imagination, and you could adjust your paper and still submit it in January, as scheduled."

"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to write the thing."

"Yes, isn't it wonderful?" Dr. Ikaru gathered his dinner waste and looked around for a trashcan. "Well, it's just a suggestion, Gary. As I said, your paper stands well as it is. But, you must begin thinking beyond your degree. This change I suggest will increase your value in an extremely limited field of expertise."

Ikaru leaned forward, searching through his coat pockets. "Mr. Tuttle and I discussed this situation, as we've discussed many such situations over the years." His eyes sparkled. "We go way back, Lawrence and I. We share many concerns, if the beer's cold enough. I know you have no contemporary hook for your work. Where does your chronology stop, the Renaissance? Anyway, he gave me this." He slapped a scrap of folded paper onto the table.

Gary picked it up. "And this is?"

"Tuttle believes it's a jump start. The person on that paper is a reporter, of sorts." Gary noticed the hint of derision. "She writes freelance, mainly for supermarket tabloid rags, but Tuttle says she hoards as much anecdotal experience on cult groups as anybody he knows. And she's local."

"Tuttle reads the National Enquirer?"

"Tuttle collects information."

Gary opened the paper to find a name in neat block lettering:

SALLY REISER

Below the name was a phone number.

"What do I do with this?" he asked. "I can't use a tabloid reporter as a citation."

"Talk to her, that's all. You might gain some new and compelling insight." He said it with a grin at the silliness of his words.

#

Gary walked the two miles from campus to the house he shared with his Gramma. He huddled deep in his inadequate Colts stadium jacket, making himself small against the bitter winter chill. The walk, occasioned by a lack of bus fare, was a dangerous feat so long after dark, for Gary lived in a rough, even infamous neighborhood in Indianapolis. The highest number of violent crimes per capita in the entire United States, that was Gary's neighborhood. Yes, it was a terrible place and, yes, he would escape it, thanks to his Gramma and to the help of Dr. Ikaru.

Gary was a proud man, but knew to be thankful for those who helped him. His Gramma had taught him both confidence in his personal worth, and faith in God to provide. And God did provide, though in ways unfathomable by merely human means. Sure, God provided empty pockets. He provided a hungry belly. But he also provided the advanced education that made escape possible. And he provided bulwarks like Gramma and Ikaru, who had nurtured, pulled and kicked Gary to the threshold of that escape.

Could Gary's natural parents have done as well? He couldn't know, for he barely remembered them. He knew that his father had died in a skirmish, your clichéd drug deal gone bad. Mom, in despondency, had killed herself not long after. In hindsight, man, woman and baby had never been family as much as a doomed accident. Well, the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. That, Gary often thought ruefully, put him near the front of the line into heaven.

He arrived safely at the tiny, broken house he knew so well. Its roof sagged, its cramped spot of a lawn lay sparse and brown, and its porch slouched where the concrete sank. Gary knocked on the front screen door and braced himself for the expected fretful grandmother.

She answered the door after a long minute.

"Gary! Come in, I was worried." She unlatched the screen door and pushed it toward him.

"Sorry, Gramma. Dr. Ikaru loves to talk." Gary entered the house. He smelled the rank odor of old cigarettes, noticed, as always, the decrepit furniture and yellowing walls in the tiny living room, the wood across one window where the glass had shattered and couldn't be fixed. Gunshots, and poverty. He noticed these things as he always did, and his mood changed from anxiety to melancholy, as it always did. But, he also noticed the neat precision underlying age and disrepair, the cleanliness of the dismal scene. "Do with what you have, and God will bless," his Gramma always said, and lived by her words.

"Dr. Ikaru, eh? Didn't you say he'd leave you alone until January?" She shuffled her heavy form stiffly to her ancient overstuffed rocking chair, then worked herself to a seated position by careful, arthritic stages. Gary locked the front door.

"That's when my paper's due. But he had other things on his mind."

"I don't like how he criticizes your work. I don't see him writing no paper."

"It's his job, Gramma."

"He takes his job too seriously. So, what did he have to say that kept you out past dark?"

"He found me some work, Gramma."

She turned slightly toward him, pleased. "Why, that's good, Gary. Another of those research assistant things?"

"No, this one's all mine. A consultantship with the state attorney-general's office."

She smiled, showing cigarette-stained teeth. "See? It all paid off. Now, hang up your coat. Stay a while."

Gary stepped away from the door. He slid his coat off and dropped it onto a chair in a connecting kitchen as neat and clean as everything else.

"How much does your new job pay?" Gramma asked from her chair.

"Don't know yet. Not much." He took a glass from a cabinet, then opened the refrigerator.

"When do you start?"

"Don't know. It's an 'as needed' kind of thing." He poured water into his glass.

"Well, Gary. You don't know the pay and you got no steady hours. You sure it's a job?"

He reentered the living room and settled onto its sagging sofa. "I didn't say I'd take it, Gramma. But, Dr. Ikaru does the same sort of thing and makes more than his university salary."

She turned to face him. He knew the effort she exerted to do so. His Gramma was older than her seventy-odd years, wracked by arthritis, diabetes, and God knew what damage caused by her smoking. It hurt her to turn toward him, so he focused on what she said.

"Dr. Ikaru, that old goat, isn't a twenty-eight-year-old student. He has that degree; he has that shingle, more than one. And he ain't black."

"I know, Gramma."

"Don't you quit school over this thing."

"I won't, Gramma."

"We sacrificed everything, me and your folks, God rest their souls. You're the first of our family to graduate college." She snorted, and reached for the cigarettes on the table beside her chair. "The first to graduate high school. You won't live in this place, Gary. You'll live out where the white folks live."

Plenty of unfortunate white folks out here, Gary thought.

"Don't quit school."

"I won't, Gramma."

She lit her cigarette and took a drag. She then struggled back to a comfortable position. "Have you eaten?"

"At school."

"Can you reach me that remote?"

The television stood six feet in front of her. Gary took the remote from atop its cabinet, and clicked on the set before handing her the box.

"What's on?" he asked.

"Oh, the Reverend Bennington. Who else?"

"How can you watch that? You could go to real church--"

"I could not. I'm too crotchety. And the Reverend gives me all the churching I need."

Gary sighed and returned to the sofa. He tried to ignore the sudden flare of noise from the TV, but it seduced him nonetheless. The Reverend delivered an artful sales pitch. The lilting announcers, the gospel choir background, and the flashy sets seen through dynamic camerawork all combined into a slick production, as mesmerizing as any game show. But, this wasn't cable. Not even the miracle-working John Bennington, Jr. could clear the pixilation of poor reception. Gary rose from his seat again and adjusted the rabbit ears to a solid image.

"And who among us shall be saved?" the man on the screen asked urgently. He looked sincere with his chiseled tan face, his perfect, conservative white hair, and his intense blue eyes. His silver and green robes lent him authority beyond his natural charisma, gave him papal credibility. "Our driving question is clear, if also harsh. Who among us shall be saved? Certainly, many are dead to Christ. They refuse his love and attack his presence wherever they find it. God, have pity on these! When the appointed minute of the appointed hour comes on the appointed day, and the saints rise in glory to meet JE-sus in the heavens, and when those millions still living as one with the Lord vanish from the roads, workplaces, homes and prisons of our world to join JE-sus in his, when these things pass, God save those left behind in the company of the usurper, in the clutches of the Antichrist. For theirs is a terrible fate. They will live out their years as kindling for the conflagration to come, as animals to be butchered in the terror of Armageddon..."

Gary shook his head. So many Benningtons, and all with the same base goal: to prey on the fears of a gullible, guilty humanity. The uncertainties of the infant millennium exerted a powerful, distorting influence over the normally hard-shelled population of Earth. Supernatural fears clawed at the collective id, fears that rendered common sense inoperable and generations of religious tradition anemic. The major established religions lost membership to the crowing rabble of the doomsayers. They stood besieged, accused of subverting the very faiths they had built over centuries, while televangelism, never a bust industry, exploded with newfound wealth and power. The TV preachers assembled the new congregations of the 21st century, raking in tens of millions of followers, competing for parishioners and the money that followed them in a bizarre perversion of the free enterprise system. Raised Baptist and knowing what he did of post-millennial fever, Gary felt sickened at the thought of it all.

In that moment, he knew he'd accept work from Tuttle.

He left the living room, but the house was small, and the TV's voice hunted him with ease. He paced the kitchen, then remembered the phone number passed to him by Ikaru. Maybe he should call. Since the future's poor excuses for faith pursued him with such purpose, he might as well get some work out of the deal. Besides, the phone might drown out the television.

It did, but not for long. After four rings, Gary heard a click, then the telltale hum preceding a recording.

"Hey, this is Sally. If you're offering money, leave a message. Everyone else, use the mail."

Gary hung up at the beep. She got sass, that Sally Reiser.

He sat down at the kitchen table and buried his head in his arms. The television intruded.

"It isn't that we should hate them, or feel at all superior. But for the God-given grace of Christ Jesus, we would be them. Or, perhaps, we are. No one knows who will be taken and who will stay behind. We must be diligent, always aware of our heritage of sin. We must always seek perfection in Christ..."

"Amen, Reverend," Gary's Gramma said to the television.

Well, the Reverend Bennington had a customer, Gary thought. No wonder. His shtick convinced with a daunting mixture of ominous warning and friendly advice. Not all TV preachers treated their parishioners with as much patrician warmth. And on radio, they got downright abusive, virtually scaring contributions out of their listeners.

He thought of Davidson, that one personifying name of radio evangelism. Davidson made Bennington sound like a waffling apologist for God, and Bennington was himself disavowed by the religious media superstars, the Billy Grahams and Pat Robertsons of the world. Davidson was a red-eyed fanatic, a frothing zealot, or that was his persona on the air. With Davidson, there was no forgiving God, no salvation except for the purest elect of a tiny fraction of humanity. All others were destined for the flaming, blistering, rat-eaten hell of the immortal damned. Davidson offered only two acts of contrition that could save a soul from eternal torture: sending money now, and unequivocal allegiance to him. To him, not the Father, or Son, or the Holy Spirit. With Davidson on your side, you needed no one else.

Such nonsense might have attracted little more than ridicule fifteen or twenty years ago, but the times had since turned ridiculous. Salvation was everything to otherwise ordinary people, and if you could buy it, more the better. Davidson claimed to lead over ten million converted, that is, those who gave money regularly. He reinforced this following with a formidable Internet presence, three books on the bestseller lists, and with the crown of his empire, the year-long Bible crusade and tent (read: stadium) revival that marched across America toward the Day of Christ's Coming. That glorious day was the twenty-third of December, and for no reason at all, as far as Gary knew. The End of All Things. Seventy cities had already survived Davidson's contentious pilgrimage, each stop ballooning regional populations by as much as a million surly, unmanageable disciples. Each hosting city saw spiking crime rates, especially where disruption of the peace, vandalizing of abortion clinics, and terrorizing "unfit" churches were concerned. Davidson's hardcore disciples cared little for the law of man, nor, apparently, for the laws of their God. They heard only Davidson, and interpreted his goading vagaries into action. Nothing else mattered. They were saved, after all, only through him. God and the devil had failed them more than once. The people shopped for newer, more hands-on deities.

Yet, to clearer eyes, their modern messiah was nothing more than an opportunistic megalomaniac. He flirted the boundary between free speech and incitement to riot, admonishing his followers to ignore the rule of law in favor of the commandments of God, through him. Some rumored that he billed himself as appointed by Jesus himself to prepare man for His final coming. But Davidson never hinted such things within range of a microphone. Anything he said of such personal importance was a gift only to his closest disciples, who dutifully leaked his views to the press. The man was many unsavory things, but not an idiot.

Which was just the kind of insight Tuttle wanted.

Gary sighed. He pushed himself away from the table and back to the phone on the wall. He would leave a message for the Reiser woman, he thought as he dialed her number again. Tuttle thought it wise, and Tuttle held the pay stubs. But, as Gary listened to the steady progression of rings in his ear, he wondered what worth a politician found in a reporter, the enemy, especially one writing for--

"Hello?"

Gary hesitated, caught by an unrecorded voice. "Umm, is this Sally Reiser?"

"Yes..."

"My name is Gary LaMonte. I'm a doctoral candidate at IUPUI, that's Indiana University, Purdue University at Indianapolis, School of Public and Environmental Affairs, in Comparative Religion. A Mr. Tuttle of the state attorney-general's office gave me your number..."

"I don't know any Tuttle."

Gary heard irritation in her voice. He also heard its clear, feminine quality, a perfect telephone voice. He wondered what she looked like.

"Look, I'm sorry to disturb you, but this guy, an assistant to the attorney-general, thinks you might help me on a project. I'm doing this paper on post-millennial religious phenomena--"

"I'm busy, Mister-- whoever you are. I'm also a private person. I don't appreciate calls from strangers, and I don't answer surveys."

"Please, don't hang up. This isn't a survey. I was hoping we could meet. Mr. Tuttle and my advisor, Dr. Ikaru, think you might be a valuable resource for my paper."

"I don't consider myself a resource for anything, Mister ..."

"It's Gary. Gary LaMonte. You don't even know what the paper's about, Ms. Reiser." He found it odd that he fought so hard for this meeting. Was it the voice?

"I don't need to know--"

"Just one minute? Then I'll hang up. I'll do it happily, and never disturb you again."

He heard the sigh on the other end. "Shoot."

"I've done this study on post-millennial prophecy -- that's religious stories concerning the end of the world -- and I've documented individuals and groups that have used millennial hysteria to advance personal, political, and social agendas throughout history. Well, the state has some interest in my research, but they'd like it to have a contemporary spin. I've been told that you're the local expert on millennial groups, doomsday cults, and such."

He waited long moments through dead air.

"A history of wackos in religion?" she asked.

"It's been called that."

"An obscure way to make a living, don't you think?"

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. Look, I appreciate that you're bettering yourself with an education and all ... well, no, I don't appreciate it. Sorry, Mr. LaMonte, but you have to find somebody else--"

Gary cursed. It just slipped out. "I don't get this," he said. "You don't need to crack on me. I just wanted insight from an expert. I'm not asking you for a lifetime commitment, and I'm not asking you to fall on your sword or flay your skin, or--"

"My, you're a passionate one, aren't you?"

"Where do you get off insulting me like this? I ain't done nothing to you."

"You called me up. And you said you'd hang up nicely."

Gary froze, gape-mouthed. Well, she had a point. Was this humor, or a needling attack? He noticed the reduced volume from the living room. His Gramma stared at him, curious and concerned.

"Okay," he said after a calming deep breath. "Okay, time out. Sorry I bothered you. I didn't think this was such a great idea in the first place."

"Nine tomorrow."

"What?"

"I'm free at nine tomorrow morning. Drop by and bring everything you know about the history of religious crazies, and maybe you can convince me to help you out a little."

"What?"

"Tell me, are you as cute in person as you are over the phone?"

What?

"Can I expect you?"

"Well, I guess..."

"Got a pencil? Here's my address."

He took it down, then she hung up. He stared at the handset for long moments afterward. It started to buzz.

"What was that about?" he heard from the living room.

"Nothing, Gramma. Business." And it certainly was, as in Sally Reiser giving him the business. Why had she played him? Did he misunderstand her, or was it all a subversive joke on the cute-sounding student telemarketer? Would she show up for the meeting tomorrow? The address on his note pad was likely that of a funeral home or some equally cutting location.

He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. Why did he care? Tuttle and Ikaru aside, there was no incentive to interview rag reporters. He could never quote her, for none would take her seriously; she would sully his research even as an uncited source. So, why bother? Was it really her voice? Had he heard something there that tugged at him?

There, apparently, struck the hook. He would visit Reiser's funeral home, or gas station, or whatever she had given him. He would do so not for substantive gain, but for curiosity's sake.

Besides, the skeleton in the suit had wanted this to happen. Who was Gary to argue?

Chapter Three:

2 Thessalonians 2:3

(Back to Table of Contents)

"Morning, buddy!" Sally said as she entered the room. "Rise and shine, and all that stuff!" The room was small, jammed with the meager accouterments of a bureau, a rocking chair, and the one twin bed. The bureau hid beneath a colorful icing of stuffed animals. Cheery posters brightened the walls: Elmo, Bob the Builder, and teddy bears. No hard toys on the floor, nor anywhere else in sight. Sally didn't trust her son with too many objects in too close a space. He had this thing for banging stuff...

Eulie lay butt upwards amid a tangle of blankets, his pillow dragged over his head.

"C'mon, sport, get up."

"No yet!"

"Not yet? Of course, yet. Look!" She pulled aside his curtains. The world had brightened to a subdued gray. "How about it, Eulie? What do you see?"

Brown eyes peeked from beneath the pillow, which then flew back revealing a wide, toothy grin. "Morning time!" Eulie chirped, and sat up in bed. "Shoo day, Mommy?"

"School day, yes. But first, let's change that diaper. Come on, on your back."

She changed his diaper, his extra large, biggest size they make diaper, hoping as always that it would be dry. It wasn't. She wiped him, sent him to the toilet just to build habit, felt relief at the tinkling sound that reached her as she made his bed.

Eulie's morning ritual was a grueling chore mitigated by love. He dressed himself under direction; he just had to learn. But, the process took forever even when he cooperated. First came the diaper-like pull-ups, then the sweat pants and t-shirt. Even tube socks had their pitfalls for uncoordinated limbs. But the final task was by far the most solemn. Sally laid Eulie on his bed and slipped his small feet into the plastic orthopedic braces that she could not afford, and strapped the braces tightly to control his untrained ligaments and muscles. Eulie had the muscular control of a three year old; anyone could see it. The braces were only the most obvious sign of his troubles. He was a mess both physically and mentally, but Sally fought for him, and made him fight for himself. She refused to accept the will of her mother's vicious God.

Downstairs, Eulie ran to the laundry basket in the living room corner, the one that contained his small cache of cars, trucks, and action figures. While Sally prepared his breakfast, Eulie went to work at noisy, energetic play.

"No throwing, Euland David Reiser. You want time out?"

"No! Euie be good!"

"I hope so. How do you want your bagel, honey? Toasted?"

"No toas, butter and jewwy, peas."

"Butter and jelly it is. Only a minute, sugar, then it's time to eat."

"Euie go shoo, this day?"

"Yes, honey, you go to school today."

Such was the framework of Sally's days. Questions, answers, then, a little later, the same questions again. But Eulie had taken three years to speak his first intelligible word, so Sally didn't complain. This memory thing, and its associated problem in grasping and retaining the nuts and bolts of language, it disturbed her, but nothing like the terror of those first three years. Then she had faced not speech difficulties, but the prospect of no speech at all.

It was time for school. She gathered her laptop into its protective sleeve and settled it deep in the canvas carryall she used as a purse and shopping bag. She bundled Eulie against the cold, encasing his mop of blonde hair in a wooly cap, then beneath the flannel-lined hood of his puffy fiber filled coat. She slid his book bag full of diapers and spare clothes onto his stout shoulders, grabbed her own bag, and led him out the door past her ratty Nissan Stanza.

Sally felt both blessed and cursed to raise her boy in the Broad Ripple section of Indianapolis, a neighborhood of imposing junior mansions alongside small, old cottages like hers, all nestled within a wooded environment of maples, dogwoods, and huge old sycamores dwarfing the meager structures of man. Broad Ripple was as quiet as any non-suburban community in the city, with narrow streets that encouraged walking rather than cars, a beautiful, sprawling park along the winding White River, and the Village, a quaint, old business district replete with art galleries, used book stores, and an international taste from some of the city's better restaurants. But, for all its air of exclusivity and its cerebral reputation as an arts community, Broad Ripple was overwhelmingly middle class. Most of the residents could not afford the conspicuous luxuries flaunted throughout the Meridian and Butler neighborhoods to the west. They worked hard for what little they had, personally shoveled their drives, cared for their yards, and cleaned their homes. They were ordinary people who minded their own business; and that was the blessing. Sally's curse was living her Rockwellian existence on the charity of her mother, who had found her the house and paid all but the property taxes. Sally could not afford her home, and her mother made sure she knew it.

Eulie's Kindergarten day care stood two blocks east at the busy, six-lane intersection of Kessler and Keystone. He called it school because they taught the basics between playtimes: the alphabet, counting, and an appreciation of reading. They did what they could for Eulie despite their lack of special education expertise, and Sally appreciated their efforts. Little as it was, their work showed that Eulie could learn, that, with help from caring adults, he was not doomed to helplessness the rest of his life.

She took him inside, away from the rumbling trucks and honking cars, and said a cheery hello to Brenda, the girl in the outer office just inside the doors. Sally paid the weekly bill and passed pleasantries about nothing as she helped Eulie remove his winter gear. She fussed over him as he put away his book bag, greeted his caregiver in the great room beyond the foyer, and investigated the toys in the red and yellow cubbyholes along one long wall. Other sons and daughters scampered about, and Sally's heart wrenched at how coordinated, oral, and self-sufficient they were, far more so than her broken child. The comparison was old, but its sting did not fade as its truth stretched into years.

Finally, Sally hugged her boy good-bye. "I love you," she said, but silently apologized, convinced of her guilt in delivering his troubles. She was, after all, his mother. Her body had made his handicaps possible. In this mood, she left him, departing into the working world to pay for Eulie's braces, his doctors, his childcare, and his home.

Sally walked north along Keystone, dispatching distance with a strong, purposeful stride against cold air and the fumes of heavy traffic. From that point on, the street was made for cars. Rather than a sidewalk beneath her feet, she crunched over the grey offal of a dirtied snowfall, thrown aside by plows. She stopped at the Marsh supermarket three blocks up on 62nd Street, and grabbed two tabloids at the checkout. Not any scandal rag met her needs. She took a copy each of the National Investigator (Largest Circulation of Any Paper in the World!) and the World Weekly Sun, and paged through them as soon as she left the cashier. The Investigator was mostly celebrity gossip, but she nonetheless folded it to one particular story toward the middle pages, a piece alleging improper financial practices by John Bennington, Jr., the TV evangelist. THE REVEREND'S HAND IN THE TILL-AGAIN! the headline proclaimed. She thought that a little strident, since the same intensity of corruption did not appear in the story. But, the headline was irrelevant; only the byline mattered. The byline was her own.

She tucked the Investigator into the canvas bag slung from her shoulder, then thumbed through the Sun. Its headlines revealed an editorial focus concerned more with selling copies than with journalistic credibility. SUCKED INTO A JET FAN-AND LIVES! shrilled one headline accompanied by an obviously faked photograph. GIRL BECOMES HUMAN CHICKEN! ANGEL CAPTURED, IMPRISONED IN AREA 51! JESUS SEEN IN ARKANSAS, HEALS THE LAME! Sally loved the Sun's irresistible tackiness. It might have made her feel superior, except that she was in it.

She stopped paging. There it was, her money story, five pages back from the cover, her name in eighteen point, bold, red type:

MORE END TIMES WARNINGS BY ARTHUR DAVIDSON!

Millions to Perish in Rapture Fires, Radio Preacher Says!

The story filled two pages minus an advertisement hawking obedience pills for dogs. Pretty damned good, she thought, when you're paid by the line. She smiled as she scanned, more in satisfaction than pride. After all, she couldn't be proud at getting published in a tabloid, but the exposure could lead to greater exposure still, and more money. It could even lead to mainstream opportunities, a hope fanned by recent circumstances. What had that guy said last night? She was the local expert on millennial groups, doomsday cults, and such. A bizarre shingle to hang at her door, but exploitable.

She headed west on 62nd Street, which changed its name to Broad Ripple Avenue. Thankfully, the sidewalks were shoveled again. She passed the park, a pleasant walk except for the jerking, thick, aggressive traffic that snarled irredeemably at Broad Ripple High School. Students unloaded from school buses, city buses, cars, and bicycles. Herds of them wandered with seeming aimlessness everywhere except to the building. Some athletic type whistled at Sally.

She continued walking, but shoved one hand into her canvas bag.

She stopped in the Village at Ripple Bagels to stock up for the week. She got plenty of plain for Eulie, and her own favorites, as well. Her mother would cringe to hear that Sally ate cinnamon-sugar and raisin bagels. What sacrilege! What cultural assassination! But then, Sally wasn't a model Jew. She was more of an indifferent anarchist.

She ordered her one weekly treat, a cup of cinnamon-mocha coffee, but this time she got it for there, and sat down with her bagels and her two newspapers at a tiny table away from the counter. She positioned herself to see the sidewalk through the large shop window, then began to read.

Nothing surprising greeted her from the scandal articles. They were, after all, her own words. The Bennington piece drew more from conjecture than fact, but she had taken care to avoid that extra leap into fantasy. A dispute boiled between the Reverend's ministry and certain disgruntled former employees who claimed the books were cooked. The ministry dismissed their accusations as vindictive nonsense, yet also refused to open the records to independent evaluation. Still, with all the cash flowing into Bennington's empire, none of his favorite missions (of those big enough to absorb the money) had reported any appreciable increase in budgets. Where had the money gone?

None of this was new, but Bennington was a difficult, even political target, so the IRS approached him with caution. Perhaps they doubted the presence of a crime, or were afraid to upset Bennington's legions of voting followers. It didn't really matter, Sally thought, as long as she wrangled a paycheck from the mess.

She set aside the Bennington piece and took up the Sun. Her Davidson spread had been easy to write despite its considerable length. She had simply transcribed Davidson's telephone interview ravings, stringing his apocalyptic horrors together with little more than transitional phrases and commas. So little work, and her property taxes were paid for half the year.

She appreciated the money, but not the experience of earning it. Davidson was a nut. He was obsessed with biblical prophecy, and his loose interpretations of scripture conjured multiple terrors from his fertile imagination. Strangely, he couldn't wait for universal destruction. He called it the joyous return of Christ. Sally called it a death wish. But, his death wish sold copy, and his crusade drew ever closer to Indianapolis. She could milk more from Davidson. With luck, she might even land a face-to-face interview.

She sighed at the thought, and set aside the Sun. She dug into her bag and hauled out her laptop, releasing it from its form-fitted foam shell and opening it on the table. In moments, her machine found the local wireless network and Sally was clicking the tabs on her browser to check her regular assortment of blogs. The work took on a more relaxed character. Reading the blogs was Sally's education. They were vital to her awareness of the world. They were relatively unrestrained, free from the influence of advertisers and the needs of circulation, both of which hampered the printed newspapers. Here in the Internet's equivalent of journalism she found the news of the religious, the skeptical, the weird and the gamy. It wasn't always deftly written or objective in perspective, but the blogs were often more true than the printed word. Often the papers used the blogs as sources.

She scanned the headlines of the first four feeds, reading the leads that piqued her interest. Most fascinating was the story about a computer executive murdered out east, and the unsubstantiated rumors that a cult had left a message with the body. The authorities were mute, but the FBI might be involved, including their Assistant Director for Terrorism in Washington. Fascinating, but too unformed to work with as yet. She would watch how, or if, the story developed. She clicked on to the next feed.

Her daily ritual stalled on a posting from an editor at Nuvo, the city's counter-culture arts paper. Her name glared from the headline:

Does Reiser Uplift Tabloids,

Or Drag Down Journalism?

She frowned.

This is too much, the posting began. Sally Reiser has lurked in the background of journalism for years. For those who don't know, Sally Reiser is a writer, a fairly decent writer, to be fair, but her subject matter and medium relegate her to the fringes of her craft. One finds her work not in bookstores or the major dailies, but in the checkout line at the supermarket. Sally Reiser is a tabloid writer, part of that questionable offshoot of "journalism" that subsists on space aliens, devil worship, freaks of nature, and the Loch Ness Monster. The title "journalist" is undeserved--

Sally slapped the laptop shut. Undeserved? For pity's sake, that guy wrote for a paper whose primary source of revenue was graphically sexual personal ads! She scowled. She sat back in her chair with her arms rigidly crossed. She was sick of outsiders judging her life, finding her wanting in ethics, and morals, and responsible behavior. She was the parent of a six-year-old handicapped boy, for God's sake. Could responsibility chain you any more than that? She thought of her mother, who saw her as a complete social failure, who was embarrassed in her company, and who blamed her for Eulie's troubles. That blogger could be her mother.

But, why shouldn't all of them feel such disdain? Sally was a high school dropout, suckered into the loser class by a beautiful, smooth-talking bastard who preferred his naive bride at home. That same son of a bitch had sought to control her as a trainer controls an animal. He had beaten her. He had taught her doubt of her own self-worth. He had left her, finally, not for another woman easier to intimidate, but for barbaric, poor trash religious fanatics, of all things.

But Sally hadn't learned. There had been drugs, and depression, and ... desperate measures. She absentmindedly rubbed the skin of her wrists. There had been other men, too, including Eulie's father. They had used her briefly, become bored, and one after the other had thrown her away. Eerily, they had all hailed from that same fundamentalist Christian community, as if she sought men sure to rile her mother.

Now Sally's obsession with fundamentalism was second only to Eulie in her life. She needed to know what drove the fringe Christians, why they committed easy cruelties from within a philosophy based on love. Why did they hate her so, and all other Jews? She searched, and she wrote. The quest fed her baby.

She needed to cry. Instead, she hardened her face. Her life did not permit tears. Crying was a luxury for those with other recourse.

Then, she noticed him: black, a faded Colts jacket worn against the cold, a book bag slung from one shoulder. His black jeans piled, way too long and baggy, like waiting laundry about his slush-crusted court shoes. He stared at the address on the restaurant door, then at a piece of paper in his hand. He looked disgusted, peered up and down the street, then started to walk away. Sally looked at her watch. Nine o'clock. She considered letting him go; she really wasn't in the mood. But, he was so punctual, and her foul disposition was no excuse for rudeness. She pushed from her seat and jogged toward the door.

"Hey!" she yelled, leaning through the doorway. He was almost to the corner, looking for the bus stop across the street. He turned toward her voice. So did a middle class Barbie, who was walking a sheltie in a plaid dog coat.

"Mr. University Student?" He nodded. "Come on in! You're looking for me!"

He stared as she shivered against the penetrating cold. Then he turned back, approaching her at an unrushed, confident pace.

Moments later, he followed her through the doorway and toward her table.

"My office away from home," Sally explained, flourishing a hand at the papers, the laptop, the bagels, and her coffee. "The mocha's great, if you care to buy a cup. I come here whenever I can. It's a treat." Why was she so nervous? She had interviewed dozens, maybe hundreds, of strangers. Why did this one disturb her so?

Because he wants to interview you, she thought.

"Not a coffee drinker," the man said.

They stood at the table a moment, unsure how to proceed.

"Please, I'm Sally Reiser. I never learned my manners, I guess. I'm sorry, I don't recall..."

"Gary LaMonte." He put out his hand. She took it.

Mr. Gary LaMonte intrigued her. He was older than she expected for a college student. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. His rounded, boyish face contrasted with alert eyes and the grave line of his mouth. He might have been a soldier beneath those shabby, bargain store clothes and that worn canvas book bag. He had that confident, engaged look of one who has challenged life and wrestled it to a hard-won draw.

"The chairs are free," she said.

"I didn't think you'd come," Gary said as he took a seat and lowered his bag to the floor. "The way you came across last night, I thought this was just a punk job."

"Sorry, but I don't invite strangers to my home, not without checking them out."

"Fair enough. So. Do I pass?" He said it with hard, sparring eyes.

"You have ... Potential." She threw him a wide, radiant, Julia Roberts smile.

"Should we get started?" he said.

"Sure. Tell me what you know about fundamentalist Bible bangers."

"Umm... my paper is over a hundred pages long, and modern fundamentalism is only a small portion of it. It might be more efficient if we start with the focus I mentioned over the phone--"

"I know the subject," Sally said, tasting her cooling mocha. "Contemporary doomsday cults, that sort of thing. But that isn't my interest, myths and legends aside. I need to understand the fundamentalist mentality. It's a thing of mine. If you want my help, that is my fee." She looked straight at him, her lips tight, her fingers interlaced on the table. "Of course, I could quote some outrageous consultant's fee that you couldn't possibly afford, and you could ask all the questions you want."

Gary nodded, his hard expression unchanged. "So, I teach you about fundamentalists, and you teach me about modern cults? That's the deal?"

"That's my thought."

He nodded again, curiosity growing in his face. "I can live with that," he said.

"Want a bagel?" she asked.

#

Vasquez hated paperwork. She read the last of the overnight reports without interest, then rubbed her eyes and rose to find some coffee. She left her cramped government hole in the Albany federal building and stepped into the outer office where plump, tired Anita, her secretary, banged steadily on her computer keyboard. The other four agents of the New York terrorism team shared two desks in the room, but were all presently in the field. Vasquez and Anita had the place to themselves.

"You look like crap," Anita said, never pausing her typing.

"Up late. That computer guy thing."

"I thought you had a date."

"That rumor was greatly exaggerated." Vasquez took the carafe from the cart in the corner. It yielded half a cup. "Anita, I can't handle this. I kill if I don't have my coffee."

The typing stopped. Anita took the carafe from her boss. "Then maybe," she said as she carried it toward the office entrance, "you should consider refilling it now and then."

"That's your job, honey. We have a deal: you make it, I drink it. Isn't that in a contract somewhere?" Vasquez leaned against one of the desks and sipped the stale sludge in her cup. She shifted her body. The holster under her suit jacket dug into her ribs.

The hall door opened seconds after Anita passed beyond it. Vasquez thought nothing of it. The Army recruiters down the hall sometimes came for sugar, or for coffee, her nonexistent coffee that was always better than theirs. Except for scheduled briefings, her own people rarely stopped by. Yet there it was in the door, the gray suit that served as the Bureau's distinctive uniform. It hung from a square-faced bruiser she didn't recognize.

"May I help you?" she asked, straightening.

"Special Agent Parker," he said from the door. "I'm looking for ASAC Terrorism."

"That's me. Rosa Vasquez."

Parker stepped forward, offering his hand. "Bill," he said. "Agent Vasquez, I have a plane at the airport. I'm to take you to DC, ASAP."

"Oh?" Vasquez dropped his hand. "Nobody told me--"

"Sorry, ma'am. He doesn't want any traffic on this."

Anita stood in the doorway, the carafe full of water. "What's going on, boss?"

"I don't know. Apparently, I'm going to Washington."

Anita huffed. "Well! That's organization for you. So, who's gonna drink this coffee?"

#

"Strains of fundamentalism have popped up in one form or another in different cultures for millennia, but we first got Christian fundamentalism in the last half of the 19th century, a reaction to advances in science thought to threaten the Christian faith." They had been talking for two hours. LaMonte was a yarn ball of technical details. The trouble was getting at the ones that counted.

"No, no," Sally interrupted, a hint of impatience in her voice. "Tell me about today's fundamentalists. That's what I need to understand."

"Sure, but understanding lies in the past. You see, with the discovery of dinosaurs, modern physics, carbon dating and such, the major religions were forced to adjust their philosophies, to accommodate new knowledge. See, you couldn't claim the world is only six thousand years old when people are digging up hundred thousand year old humans and hundred million year old animal bones. And the developing theories of evolution back then contradicted the world cosmology according to Genesis. That was the threat, but the major brands of Christianity accommodated the new discoveries and drove on, a little changed, but unruffled. Mainly, they characterized major sections of the Bible as allegory rather than historical fact; Genesis as symbolism of God's creative act, not documentation of it."

Sally was less interested in the history than she was in Gary's excited brown eyes. How could a guy so cute indulge in a passion so dry?

"Well, that insulted some of the Christian membership, who wanted no accommodation with modern science. These people formed new churches that defended the fundamentals of faith: the Bible as an historical document, with no possibility of error. There was no central organization to unify these people. They were essentially outside organization, renegades from the status quo. And they shared little between themselves, including any philosophical norms that might bring them together. They interpreted that historical Bible of theirs in often radically different ways. They had spokesmen, but only in a very informal sense. William Jennings Bryan, for instance, but that wasn't enough for a cohesive movement to form and survive."

Sally tilted her head, trying to recall some buried bit of trivia. "William Jennings Bryan. The Monkey Trial? Spencer Tracy in Inherit the Wind?"

Gary smiled. "Yeah, but Fredric March played him, and they changed the name. Bryan and other fundamentalists tried to remove evolution from school curriculums, but they failed. Their movement suffered worldwide ridicule, and they dropped into obscurity during the Great Depression and World War II. Later, starting in the sixties, the fundamentalists came back with a scheme to elevate Creationism, which adheres to the literal word of the Bible, to the same level in academia as empirical science. They were roundly debunked by the scientific community, but they had grown in political clout, and could influence state legislatures and textbook publishing companies.

"Nowadays, the tactics have changed, but the fundamentals, if you'll excuse the word, are the same. Fundamentalists still believe in the literal word of the Bible, they still have differing interpretations of that word, and they still live a combative existence, convinced that they're right and the revisionist Christian religious empires -- and other fundamentalist philosophies, for that matter -- are all irreconcilably wrong."

"Well, sure. This is the human race, after all. Who doesn't see the other guy as wrong? But, that's a difference of opinion. The stuff these bastards do-- I've seen things that go way beyond disagreement."

Sally realized her unintentional revelation, but blew it off with a flit of one hand and a cold sip from her cup. Her face grew hot at the curious glance Gary passed her way.

"Terrible things happen," he said, "but that's no reflection on the faith. Islamic fanatics destroy the World Trade Center, but that doesn't make Islam an evil religion. The IRA massacres a busload of school children, but that doesn't mean Catholicism sanctions murder. Evil people do evil things regardless of faith, and even use faith to justify their actions. But blame the people, not the religion. Remember, Jimmy Carter's a fundamentalist, too."

Sally fiddled with her newspapers, trying to recall anything at all about Jimmy Carter. She raised her empty cup to her lips, then put it down again. "I just don't get it, I guess. Maybe if I'd been more religiously involved myself... The Christian and Jewish religions are based on love, not hate. They're based on doing good works, not spreading misery. How does a guy claim to be Christian and still beat his wife, or take his girlfriend's money, or fuck her and leave her with a baby?"

The morning routine of the restaurant stumbled. Some of the help looked their way.

"I'm sorry. My language..."

"No offense taken," Gary said.

Sally looked around at the furtively watching restaurant workers. "Mind if we get out of here? They're starting to look at us, hoping we'll spend more cash." But, of course, that wasn't it.

#

Her meeting with Assistant Director Blackburn lasted five minutes. He did not welcome her. He did not ask her to sit.

"Your Bible scholar did it again," he said, and heaved a file across to her. It landed with a slap at the edge of his desk. "An early worship service in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. Two hours ago. Episcopal church. Female minister recently active in championing the ordination of a homosexual minister within a province of the diocese of Philadelphia. Fella stood up in the middle of services with God knows how much TNT strapped to his chest and blew himself and thirty-two others to kingdom come."

"Are you sure, sir?" Vasquez thumbed through the file. "It isn't a coincidence, maybe?"

"He left a message."

Vasquez stopped at a Polaroid stapled to an evidence routing form. The photo showed a crinkled sheet of paper dominated by a blocky, handwritten phrase:

2 THESSALONIANS 2:3

"Uh-oh."

"An astute, if poorly voiced observation. Your office got first wind of this, Agent Vasquez, so you sail with it. I'm detaching you from Albany as of now, making you Special Agent in Charge of Bible Scholar. Look over the file, gather your team, and report back to me at three this afternoon. Any questions?"

Vasquez tucked the file under one arm. "I assume you believe these incidents might continue? Despite the fact that our Pennsylvania perp blew himself to bits?"

"Captain Hardiman in New York counted at least three sets of footprints around that car last night. We may have one less Bible scholar, but school is certainly still in session."

"Two incidents in two days."

"Yes. I have the same fear. I'm not doing you any favors, Agent Vasquez. Albany says you're good. You'll have to be, if this keeps up."

"Looking forward to it, sir. One more question: why the secrecy? You didn't have to send an unannounced aircraft. Fax or phone would have done just fine."

"Let's make a deal, Vasquez. I won't tell you your job if you refrain from telling me mine."

"Yes, sir."

"It happens that the boss is very concerned. He wants no stink. He wants no rumors. He wants no leaks. There'll be plenty of disinformation spread to separate these incidents. The boss chucks his job in January, and doesn't want the new guy saddled with a big, nasty hairball like this." He watched her flitting eyes as she analyzed his words.

"Sir, you don't mean the Director..."

"No, I don't."

Vasquez sighed. "I guess I'll need offices..."

"I grant you full authority. Anybody gives you problems, send them to me. And make sure they keep their mouths shut. Now, get out of here. I need to work."

Out in the reception room, Vasquez sagged against a wall. The secretary paid no attention. Probably, agents sagged there on a fairly regular basis.

So, she had her field status back. She owned a case of interest to the president of the United States, and it possibly involved a homicide or mass murder each day until she got it solved. Great.

"Can I use your phone?" she asked the secretary.

The woman nodded and released the lock on her phone with the fluid ease of practice. Maybe agents did this a lot, too. Vasquez dialed the only person she cared to hear. She closed her eyes and paced her breathing.

"Banks," the telephone said, and she smiled.

"It's me again, Rob. You won't believe how my day is going..."

#

They crunched snow beneath their shoes, and spewed clouds of breath toward the gray filigree of tree branches above. Gary hunched deep in his coat, frowning against the winter chill. Despite the hard set of his face, he felt fresh in Sally's company. He was alert to her dizzying mood swings, but amused by the cocky energy that powered them. She walked backwards ahead of him, strands of blonde hair whipped by gusts of icy air and by her own animated gestures.

"I don't buy it. Maybe I'm not as religious as I ought to be, or maybe it's just that I'm a Jew. But this image of God as Charlton Heston or James Earl Jones strikes me as wishful bullshit. He's more like Jeffrey Daumer, as far as I'm concerned."

"I'd think a Jew would lean toward Heston," Gary said with a smirk.

"Right. The great white father leading us to freedom. Bullshit! If he's so fatherly, then why the earthquakes in South America, the mudslides in India, the tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, car crashes, and lost puppies? And, if he's such a hot leader, why North Korea?"

"They're challenges, some of them," Gary mused. "Others are the natural order of things. God has more at stake than us, you know."

"Fine. Go on down to Riley Children's Hospital and tell that to a six-year-old with cancer."

Gary sighed. God took so much grief for every evil on Earth, but rarely credit for the overwhelming beauty that defined that evil in the first place. "Is that necessary?" he asked. "That backwards walking thing. I'm scared to death you'll fall and crack your skull."

She ambushed him with that bulldozing smile, so unexpected after the challenging, cynical face it replaced. "I want to see you while we talk," she cooed. "You speak so much with your eyes."

Now the smile challenged, as her cynicism had before. She's a big tease, Gary thought. "Anyway," he said, "you can't go off blaming God for every hurt that comes down the road. We cause most of it ourselves. It's freedom of choice, and our choices are often poor."

"Oh? So the six-year-old caught cancer from his own bad character? Now, that's religion for you."

"A child is all innocence." Gary sighed, tiring of this banter that she found so important. "He isn't accountable for any wrong he does, in this world or any other. But, the rest of us are another thing. Drugs, food additives, pesticides, global warming, pollution, ozone depletion, they're all our creations, and they all affect our children, both born and unborn. The kid has cancer because we likely gave it to him, not God."

"And this faultless, omnipotent God who could prevent or end such suffering by an innocent, this Baptist God -- that's what you said you were? -- this Baptist God who controls our fates just lets the baby suffer and die. Why? What's the point? Does he like to watch?"

Gary just looked at her. She claimed to be a Jew, so hostile atheism wasn't her game. But her face, so bright and combative moments ago, now showed a hot mask of anger. The day seemed much, much colder.

"Where the hell are we going?" Gary asked, catching her dark mood.

"Don't worry, we'll get there."

"I am not an Eskimo. If we aren't going anywhere, if you don't plan to help me out, then I'd just as soon find a bus stop."

"Relax, already." She pivoted on one heel and fell into step beside him, this time facing forward. "You think I'd welsh on a deal? Or maybe I should have said 'Jew you out of'?"

"Oh, that's rich. Now look who's talking shit. I never said anything--"

"That's right. I'm sorry. Maybe we should change the subject."

They marched along in silence, puffing steam like locomotives in tandem. Sally stole furtive glances Gary's way. She was driving him nuts.

"I like your haircut," she said as she turned onto a narrow street.

"Excuse me?"

"I like your hair. It's very cool."

Gary stared at her. Was she psychotic? How do you go from God to haircuts in five seconds flat? And what haircut? He was shaved. Before he realized it, his hand had risen to swipe the slick skin of his skull.

"No, I'm serious. It's an interesting contrast. It makes you more black."

"Makes me more black. Blacker than what, come again?"

"Well, you have to admit, all that pseudo-professorial bullshit back in the restaurant. You didn't sound all that black."

"Thank-you. I take it your mother never sent you to finishing school?"

"You're definitely more black when you're angry."

"And you're more white when I'm angry. Now, let's stop all the baiting and backbiting and get to wherever we're going. I think you just want to see how long my African ass will last in your white folks winter wonderland. That black enough for you?"

"We're here."

It was a tiny frame house amid colossal sycamores, evergreens, and maples, sitting on a scrap of lawn covered in cat-tracked snow. It was old, with peeling wood siding, a sagging attached garage with an overhead door askew on its tracks, and a lot so narrow you could stand in the side yard and touch two houses at once. A decrepit Nissan sat in the gravel drive, a perfect match to the building it called home.

"My place," Sally announced with mock self-importance.

"Nice. Can we get inside where it's warm?"

He followed her into the house. He noticed the careworn nature of the place, so similar to his own on the other side of town. But Sally Reiser wasn't the neat freak his Gramma was; toys littered the living room floor while the breakfast dishes lay untouched on a table in one corner. The vacuuming hadn't been done in a week; balls of animal hair drifted with the inrushing air. And despite his expectations, it wasn't all that warm.

"Dammit!" Sally shouted, making him jump. "God damned heat pump's at it again!" She pushed past him, took a left through a doorless opening just before the arch to the kitchen. He heard loud bangs and curses, then watched her stalk from there into the kitchen. She carried a hammer in one hand. A door slammed seconds later.

Gary stood at the front door threshold, immobilized by yet another change in her mercurial personality. A white cat eyed him from the kitchen, looking bored.

He heard another door slam, then violent pounding. A moment later, the house moaned with air through its ancient furnace ducts. Sally returned from the back of her house, looking disgusted.

"I think you fixed it," Gary said.

"God damned thing's been dying for years. You know how much a heat pump costs? Eight thousand dollars! That's for a cheap one." She dropped the hammer inside the doorless room. "Welcome to my house."

Gary remained at the door. He watched her move about the living room, removing her coat, kicking off her shoes, dropping her bagels on the coffee table before the couch. No pleasure informed her movements; she was more like an animal pacing its cage. The canvas bag remained at her side.

"Nice place," he said.

"Come on in. Make yourself at home."

"I thought you didn't want me in your house. You don't know me, and all that."

She waved him over to the couch. "Familiarity breeds carelessness. We're here. Yes, I'm all alone. I guess you'll want to rape me now."

"Excuse me?" He stiffened at her words and took a step back toward the door.

"That's what black men do, right? Rob liquor stores and rape white women?"

"What?" Gary, Jesus help him, wanted to hit her.

"Isn't that it? Isn't that what happens to women stupid enough to trust men they've just met? What the hell, it's nothing new to me."

"Jesus, lady, what is your problem? I mean, one minute you're Little Miss Barbie talking to Ken. Next, you're the only known survivor of the Donner Party! I'm not one to pry into other people's personal--"

"Then don't. I apologize." She sat at a table in the corner of the living room, next to a massive, worn bureau. She drew out her laptop. "You asked about modern cult groups. Well, there are plenty of them." She opened the lid and plugged a tangled power cord into the machine. The screen came to life, and she began a series of mouse maneuvers. "I'll give you a shipload of web addresses, and links that can lead you to others I don't even know about--"

"Hold on a minute. Let's not change the subject so quickly. You've made some accusations here, and I think we ought to settle them."

"I've made no accusations, just inferences."

"Well, excuse me for missing such a fine distinction--"

"You're raising your voice--"

"Damned straight I'm raising my voice. You've called me a rapist, a Jew-hater, a religious fanatic, and a race-baiter boogieman all in the last half hour. I mean, really, what makes you think I want your pale ass, anyway?"

"Now, you're being rude."

"I'm rude?"

She looked at him, deadpan. "This conversation won't go anywhere. I said I'm sorry. I am, really. And though my behavior was inexcusable, I do note that you didn't take the bait. Or that you did take the baiting, whatever. You could have just slugged me; you wouldn't have been the first. Now, let's stick to the deal, to the information you want, and we won't have any more arguments."

"No. Sorry. Tell me straight up. Do you believe those things, the things you said?"

"No."

He snorted. "Well, that was pat, and convenient, too. How do I know you aren't just blowing me off?"

"God, I said I was sorry. What does it matter?"

The quaver in her voice made him back off. Anger rolled behind that voice, but not anger at him. "It matters to me," he said flatly.

They glared at each other for several long seconds, Gary at the door and Sally at her desk. Then Sally dropped her gaze in clear contrition.

"Please excuse me," she said. "You could say I insulted you out of habit. I guess I pigeonholed you into bad company. I'm really sorry." She forced a smile, more low-key than the blast he had come to expect. "You really do speak with your eyes."

Gary looked away from her. Her words carried sincerity, but he wasn't quite ready to forgive.

"Look, I'm a monster," Sally said with mock expansiveness. She rose from her seat and stepped to the bureau. She took a key from a pocket and unlocked a narrow top drawer. "I guess if anyone makes a gesture of trust, it should probably be the bad guy." She opened the drawer and reached into her canvas bag.

She pulled out a pistol, a large, black automatic. Gary's eyes bulged at the sight of it. She deftly removed the magazine from the gun's grip. She dumped it into the drawer, then broke the weapon into three pieces, dropping two into the drawer with the ammo. "See?" she said, holding up a big hunk of metal, "I trust you."

"Jesus! You were gonna shoot me with that?"

"Only if you asked for it." She locked the bureau, then retook her seat at the laptop. She put the piece of steel into her bag.

"Lady, you are crazy!"

"No, just compensating. Now, you wanted information. That's easy to come by. But, I'm gonna give you some advice that might spiff up your research." She looked at him over her shoulder. "Well? Come on in."

He stepped toward her, not too eagerly.

"You're looking for cults," she continued, "basically, freaks of religious nature. I don't think that's productive. After all that millennium mess and the Mayan calendar nonsense, the more traditional groups are far more active than the freak shows. And if you look at the fringes of acceptable--" She looked at him standing a good six feet away. "Gary, for pity's sake, I'm unarmed. Come on over to see the screen."

"I can see just fine from here."

"Scared of girls?"

His face set. He stepped a foot closer.

"Suit yourself. Like I said, the fringes of the traditional base are generating most of the trouble. They have money, and they have the media savvy to recruit in large numbers. I'm calling up a forum on the Davidson Crusade. Are you familiar--"

"Yes. I know about Davidson. His crusade arrives in Indy the third week of the month."

"I know. I plan to scare up money for a ticket. Anyway, he doesn't control this group. It's pretty wide open. But his people monitor and reply to keep things under control."

They waited for the forum page to load, both staring at the computer as if at a flickering fireplace.

"The gun's my ex-husband's," Sally offered.

"I don't want to know," Gary assured her.

"There it is." She pointed to the mess of entries on the screen. "You can always tell the Davidson camp entries. They consistently have rather overblown titles. The rest are normally pretty lowbrow, kind of afternoon talk radio stuff. This one, though, is always interesting. Her name's Birget Hoffmann. Presumably, she's an ninety-one year old German hausfrau, a survivor of the bombing of Berlin back in the forties. She's claimed for months that Davidson is actually an ex-shadow functionary in the Hitler bureaucracy, that he was, in fact, an advisor to Hitler."

"An advisor to Hitler? What, when he was in diapers?"

"I didn't say she made any sense, just that she's interesting. There are plenty of others just as wacky. More importantly, you can catch dialogs between people who claim to have actually met Davidson, even talked to him, and that's a short list."

"It's an open Internet forum. You can't verify the identities of these people, let alone their stories. They could be anyone, and say anything. Your ninety-one year old grandmother might actually be a fifteen year old boy with a fertile imagination."

"Absolutely. But, the dialogs give you a sense of where things are going within this glassed-in community of Davidson followers. They feed on each other, like Harry Potter nuts. I've gotten a lot of accurate story ideas from here."

"And how many inaccurate ones?"

She looked at him. "Now, don't be rude, or I'll have to reassemble that gun."

A horn sounded outside. Sally glanced at the clock on her screen, and her face brightened. "Noon already. Excuse me, I have to meet someone."

She slid past him and out the front door, closing it behind her.

"Eulie!" Gary heard her sing. "How was school today?"

"Fine!"

"Well, give Mommy a hug. Now, come on in. We have company!"

The door opened. A gust of cold air ushered her in, along with a three-foot tall human, sex indeterminable under a heavy coat, gloves, scarf, hat, and boots.

"This is Gary," Sally said from her knees as she freed the child of outer garments. "He's very nice. He's here to get help from Mommy."

"Get shoo help, Mommy?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. But, Gary goes to a big people's school, not a little school like yours."

The boy looked sideways at Gary, smiling. "Too big widdle shoo!"

"That's right. Now, say 'Hi, Gary' and you can go play."

"Hi, Gehey." The tones were musical, endearing.

"Hi, little dude. What's your name?"

The boy leaned into his mother.

"Go ahead, Eulie. Answer the nice man." Sally had him peeled to a sweater and basics.

"Euie Eiser!" the boy crowed.

"That's right," Sally laughed, and kissed him on the head. "Now, go play."

Eulie shot for a pickup truck on the living room floor. "Euie pway porch!"

"No, honey, not today." Sally rose to her feet. "The heater went out again. The porch is too cold. But, as a special treat, you can play in my room while Gary and I do business, okay?"

"Okay. Mommy help?"

"It'll just be a minute," Sally said to Gary, then went to her son. She helped him gather a suite of favorite toys, then haul them up the stairs. All the while, she kept up an animated conversation about toys and school, the love plain in her voice.

As he waited, Gary sighed away his anger. He felt a dawning shame, felt like a bully for his words toward Sally. He had seen the boy; now he understood. After a moment, she returned.

"That was Eulie," she sighed. "He's my treasure."

"Fine boy," Gary murmured, unsure what else to say.

"You don't have to freak, Gary. Yes, he's retarded. Yes, he has problems communicating. Yes, his muscles don't work very well. They diagnose him as cerebral palsy and autism, which is doctor talk for 'Gee, I don't know.'"

"I'm sorry..."

"Thank-you. I used to be, but now I just live with it." She looked from him to the computer. "Could we get back to work? He won't be entertained up there for long."

"Sure. Where were we?"

"Addresses. Do you have Web access?"

"I use the university computer labs."

"Great. I'm printing this screen. You can use the addresses for the forums. I'm also printing the main Davidson web page, which is chock full of links to other resources. That ought to keep you in trouble for a while."

The printer next to the laptop hummed to life.

"How do you afford all this?" Gary asked. "No offense, but you don't exactly glow with dough."

"No offense taken, coming from Mr. Moneybags-Rides-the-Bus himself. It's a necessity. Without this machine, I couldn't earn my living. Besides, it's a gift from my mother."

The printer rolled out multiple sheets of paper.

"Gary, how come you don't use my name?"

"What?"

"I use your name, but you haven't used mine even once. Why?"

Gary shrugged. "I guess I was mad at you, and preferred to know you as 'that Reiser woman.' I'm not anymore. Mad, I mean."

"Then why don't you use my name?"

"We don't know each other that well..."

"Oh, come on. We don't have to be lovers to use each other's names. Telemarketers do it without even seeing you--"

"Okay, to tell the truth, it's a little awkward. Sally doesn't seem very Jewish to me."

She looked at him, that amused, teasing expression returning to her face. "You have a point there. It's short for Sarah. Feel better?"

"Hmmm, not any shorter."

"Well, you know how names are." She handed him the printouts.

"Sarah."

"Sally. Nobody calls me by that other name. Nobody but my mother."

"Well, Sally, I guess I'd better let you go. I thank you for the resources, and will put them to good use." He folded the papers and stuffed them into a jacket pocket. "Umm, do you mind if I see you again? In case I have more questions, you know."

"No, Gary, I wouldn't mind at all. You have my address and even my e-mail. I printed you off my business card."

"Oh! I didn't even notice."

She left the desk and escorted him to the door. "You know where to catch the bus?"

"Right up on Kessler. Thanks again for the help."

"And, thanks for yours."

#

She closed the door behind him, then stepped to the living room window. She stood near the frame to avoid being seen if he turned to look. Such an odd man, she thought. He seemed so straightforward, so unpretentious. She saw in his unguarded eyes none of the plots she had come to view as basic to the souls of men. What formula mixed a Gary LaMonte? she wondered.

Ghost rubbed across her ankle. "Meurrl," he said.

"Yes, Ghost," Sally agreed. "I like him, too."

Chapter Four:

Matthew 24:15,34

(Back to Table of Contents)

It happened in the street, not at the Mount of Olives, as history later claimed. He had been on his way to that then common spot, but the crowds slowed him, then fired the furnace of his oratory.

"And when will this all come to pass?" one of his men asked. "How will we know the time is at hand?"

He stopped in the street, heedless of the close crowd. He took his man by the back of his neck and placed their faces only inches apart. Even so, he shouted to be heard above the throng. "You will never know," he said. "It's the way of my Father that he will not reveal the time. But the portents are already before you. Know your scripture, and it will prepare you. The signs are many, definite, and inarguable. Still, many people will be deceived. They will say he is here, but he will not have come. They will put him in the desert, but he won't be in the desert. You must be on guard against such deception."

A visiting legate stood to one side, wishing the crowd would pass. He pressed against a mud brick wall, not five feet from the man and his companion. He studied the man's fanatic intensity, eavesdropping on his barbaric language. He cared little for these lowly people in this pitiable land. All he wanted was to pass on the street.

"After I go, many will impersonate me," the fanatic shouted, this time to all who followed. "They will claim to be the Messiah. There will be wars, and rumors of wars, and plague, famine, and earthquakes. But these are but the beginning, and a deceptive one, since all these things abound in normal times. Still, they will all come about. They will steal upon you like a thief in the night, unnoticed and unattended. Your enemies will lay hands on you, and hand you over for torture and death, and even those who defend me will have their spirits broken."

"What will be the sign of these times?" the same follower asked. "What will foretell the end of the world?"

The man looked once more over the uncivil press of people, with their slack-mouthed, attentive faces. Then, oddly, he turned half way around to take in the legate's frowning face. He stared into the legate's skeptical eyes with unaccountable recognition.

"When you see the fourth beast of Daniel arise," he said, turning back to the throng, "when this beast comes upon you with its ten horns and destructive nature, then the Son of Man will be short in coming. After the reign of the beast, the sun will be darkened, the moon will shed no light, and the hosts of heaven will be shaken to Earth. The sign of the Son of Man will appear in the sky..."

The legate considered loosing his troops. Even his small escort could clear this rabble with ease. But he stood aside and reserved his men's potential. He wanted no incidents on this minor visit to his fellow legate in a minor province. Besides, the barbarians were a nuisance, not a threat, and this was, after all, their land. Or so they thought. He considered backtracking for another road. All the nonsensical religious chatter seemed ready to drone on for hours.

"You must listen!" the fanatic roared, shaking the legate from his thoughts. Did he address a Roman in such a tone, or was it coincidence that he stared straight into the legate's startled face? "I say to you, some of you here will witness the coming of the Son of Man! Some of you will not pass away until all these things take place!"

The crowd's constant murmur flared to an anxious pitch. So soon? So near at hand?

The fanatic reached out, and touched the legate's shoulder.

#

He started awake. He clutched the sheets so tightly the blood throbbed in his hands.

"Sir?"

For a moment, he couldn't remember his name, or where or when he was. A shadowed figure stood by his bed.

"Reverend Davidson? You asked me to wake you when Michael got in."

"Oh. Yes. Thank-you, Collins. I'll be there in a minute."

"Yes, sir."

His aide left. Arthur Davidson snapped on the bedside light and moved himself stiffly to a sitting position. Everything aches, he thought, the constant complaint of an aged body. This one had complained so long, he could hardly recall a time of youth, of fit, physical confidence. As he rose from his bed and crossed the room to his robe, he dwelled on the creakiness of his movements and the delicate feel of his bones. He wasn't any older than yesterday, or any older than this time last year, but had lived so long with the weight of seventy-five years that he felt closer to a thousand. He laughed. Two thousand, he corrected himself.

For Arthur Davidson had once been the legate of his dreams. He could still feel the dust of Jerusalem on his lips, could still smell the pungent smells, and hear the animal murmur of the crowd. He had heard, and smelled, and felt it all hundreds of times before, thousands of times. It was as much reality as this hotel room in Kansas City. In dreams and in life, the Christ had wrought a terrible curse.

He cinched his robe, worked his feet into corduroy slippers, then went to the bathroom to splash his face with water. Such a life, he thought. To live beyond friends and family, to continue unscathed beyond the reach of kingdoms. To find oneself immortal, but outside of history, an afterthought of time. How many wives and lovers had come and gone in his life? How many lives had he lived and lost, only to begin again with new names, in new places? At first, his reality had brought him astonishment. He hadn't believed what seemed to be happening. But, there had been proof, many proofs, in fact. Through the robe, he fingered the scars across his ribs, and the one on his chest, right above the heart. He was immortal, all right.

His followers, those close enough to carry his secret, mentioned channeling among themselves, and sometimes reincarnation, or visions from the mind of God. They didn't know the half of it! Yes, they meant well. They wanted to believe. But, they sought explanations they could grasp and explain, while miracles and curses hid beyond the rational. Their hearts desired faith, but their minds clung to skepticism.

Except for Michael. What refreshing faith! He believed every word, every gesture from Davidson's person. He believed with unbending zeal. "Who do you think I am?" Davidson had asked him once. "The perocleat," Michael had answered, "the one sent by Jesus to prepare his way." They had kept that exchange in confidence.

Davidson pushed open his bedroom door and stepped into the sitting area that acted as headquarters for his traveling crusade. His three administrative assistants barely looked up from their laptop computers as they continued their never-ending chores, the same work performed by over a dozen aides during regular business hours. Night had fallen hours ago, but the crusade for salvation refused to rest.

Collins, who supervised the workers, stood beside a couch centered in the room. A handsome, sandy-haired man in his late twenties stood with him. He straightened the drape of his suit jacket as Davidson approached.

"Michael Adams!" Davidson proclaimed in that tenor that sustained his radio career. He grabbed the man's shoulders and squeezed. "I trust your travels were pleasant and fruitful?"

"A real kicker," Michael said with his trademark smile of boyish mischief. "When you hear what I've accomplished, you'll promote me to saint."

Davidson laughed, and gestured for the younger man to sit. "Ah, if only I could, but that sort of thing is the venue of God. Service, Michael, service provides all." He lowered himself to the couch, facing his trusted lieutenant, and signaled Collins to do the same. The three assistants downed their laptops and left the room. Davidson waited for the door to close behind them.

"Now, Michael, tell us your adventures."

"Well, I met with our little Georgian buddy. We got together in the Ukraine. I guess there are still hard feelings between Georgia and Moscow since that thing a few years back. Anyway, he was very willing to cooperate. I even got some parts shipped to the house in Michigan."

"Very good," Davidson said. "Our engineers can soon get to work."

"No, not quite. I intercepted the shipments before they left Europe, and had them destroyed."

Davidson stiffened, but held himself in practiced control. Collins was not so collected.

"What? Destroyed? Are you crazy? Did you retrieve our money?"

"No, I let them keep the money."

"What?"

"Well, it was all good faith work on their part. Taking back the money would have been a sin."

"Michael," Davidson interrupted. "Your sainthood is in jeopardy, young man."

Michael leaned toward his mentor and idol. "We don't need the parts, Reverend. Our contact has located an intact device."

"Intact?"

"That's right. He told me about it on our third meeting."

"Michael, it sounds as though you were hoodwinked. Our contact hasn't access to such a device. Neither do his friends. All they could manage was parts."

"Right. He has no access, but he does have knowledge. A group of Russian ... entrepreneurs ... is shipping a case of devices to Pakistan. Very secret, and money intensive. They liberated the case from a Russian storage facility in Kazakhstan, where the soldiers are particularly demoralized after no pay for months. Our contact knows when, how, and by what route the delivery will be made. He's willing to surrender that information, and updates if things change, for a specified increase in his fee."

"A case," Collins said. "How many devices in a case?"

"Sixteen."

Collins gasped. Davidson relaxed. "You've done very well, Michael. Sixteen. Surely, this is a message from God. I'll have to consider the implications."

"Sixteen? What'll we do with sixteen devices?" Collins wanted to know.

"More than we would with one." Michael smiled.

"Significant..." Davidson said to himself. He thought of his dream. He recalled the fanatic's words, elaborated upon through history. The sun will be darkened, the moon will shed no light, and the hosts of heaven will be shaken to Earth. Darkened. Shaken to Earth. Nuclear winter. Already in his life, Davidson had loosed one prophecy into the world, now a second called to him.

His lieutenants flinched when he bolted to his feet.

"This is a sign," Davidson proclaimed. "If ever we doubted it, we now are assured that our plan meets with approval from God. Michael, contact our man in the Republic of Georgia, and get his information. Then get back here, and we'll develop plans to liberate the devices."

Michael stood. "Yes, sir. Right away."

"What about our heralds?" Davidson asked. "Are they on track?"

"All prepared." Michael nodded. "But they'll need supervision to stay on schedule. These aren't geniuses we're working with."

Davidson patted Collins on the shoulder. "You'll do the honors until Michael's return."

"Thank-you, sir," and Collins swelled with pride.

Davidson sighed and turned away from his men. He walked to a window and the sparkling skyline of downtown Kansas City. "This is the time," he muttered. "The time I've sought for two thousand years."

Two thousand years, he thought, saddened. Soon that march would find its end.

"The prophecies will deliver their truth," Davidson continued. "On that day, I rest."

#

Gary and Sally met many more times. They justified their meetings with excuses about clarifying data or focusing perspectives. But mostly, Gary liked to hear her voice, and she enjoyed the deference with which he treated her, his unspoken recognition that a woman deserved respect.

They liked each other's company.

"They're literal about the Bible, but not necessarily literate," Gary said while sitting cross-legged at the coffee table, playing Legos with Eulie. "The Bible's just full of contradictions, which deals hell to any assertion of its literal truth. I mean, two of God's greatest commandments to the Israelites were not to kill or steal, then he tells them to kill Sihon and all his men, plus all the people of Og, and take their land. That's killing and stealing in my book, and with permission from the boss. How do you reconcile a moral tangle like that?"

"Well," Sally offered from her place on the couch, "Sihon did attack first."

"Fine. That doesn't address the moral dilemma, and it doesn't explain what they did to the Canaanites. Those are just the more obvious problems. I think the Bible should be taken less as history and more as morality play. That way, the obvious contradictions become fuel for philosophical discussion, rather than for detraction."

Sally sat curled on the couch, hugging a pillow against herself. She liked his university-educated tone. He seemed so ... erudite.

"Gehey make house?" Eulie asked for the fifth time.

"Working on it, bud. Want a garage?"

"Gaaj, yes! Euie make chuk!"

Gary looked a question to Sally.

"Truck," she explained, smiling. "He said truck."

#

The terror continued. One day after the church bombing, an incendiary device shattered complacency at the Hyatt Regency hotel in Dearborn, Michigan. Representatives of Ford Motor Company and the striking UAW had gathered there for a press conference, hoping to dismiss reports of acrimonious bargaining sessions. Before a word of denial was spoken, thirteen strikers, negotiators, and reporters lay dead or seriously burned on the pavement. The police suspected renegade strikers, and promised a prompt resolution of the crime.

The public showed apathy toward these terrible events. The church and hotel bombings (almost no one knew of Alvin Whitmire's murder) blended into that huge, day-glo mosaic of America, where the excesses of monsters easily faded against the always replenished tidal wave of horrors committed by the petty and frustrated.

Of course, Rosa Vasquez's FBI kept the terrorist aspect secret. They withheld the messages left at each scene. Their investigation, now involving over 175 agents in eight states, was a silent, invisible ghost.

"Okay," Vasquez said with a yawn from her end of the conference table, "three attacks, three messages, and six quiet days so far. Let's hear solutions, people."

Her supervising agents sat around the table, papers scattered before them, laptops humming. Some looked distracted, as much from smoking restrictions inside the Albany headquarters as from the investigation's slow pace. Others sagged from exhaustion. They had been at it for hours, beating their accumulated knowledge for some hidden clue to move their efforts forward.

"I still don't get the Bible references," Rob Banks said in a blank, over-used voice. "We've checked every recorded, remembered, and rumored minute of Alvin Whitmire's life, and I gotta tell you, we came up empty in the unsuspected evil department."

"Well," Vasquez said, rubbing her eyes, "our psychos hated him for a reason. It may be a stupid reason, but there's one there somewhere, and we have to root it out."

"The man was a geek," Parker, the agent out of Philly, groaned. "He never went out, he had no friends, and he had no enemies. We need to look somewhere else."

"Treat those Bible verses with skepticism," Fleming, from Detroit, warned. "These are psychotics. Their perspectives are twisted. They may have misread their own Bible. They might even have made a mistake, for pity's sake."

Rob disagreed. "No mistakes. These guys hit what they aim for. We just can't see the targets."

"We understand the church incident," another agent offered. "The minister was a woman. She supported a homosexual candidate for ordination. This is a concentrated derivative of old-fashioned, American patriarchal conservatism."

"We can figure the opposite for the Dearborn thing," someone else joined in. "Looks like radical left wing bullhockey, but they were messy."

Banks doodled with a pen. "Very messy. To get that one right, they should have wiped the executives, not the union people, and not the reporters."

"Don't be too sure," Fleming warned. "You know how much an auto worker makes?"

"The Bible passage refers to the sins of the rich."

"It refers to the fat, the comfortable, and the indifferent."

"That means half the people in America," Vasquez said.

"Our experts discard that perspective," Fleming reminded her.

"This Bible game is too much," Parker complained. "It says anything you want it to."

"Our experts have studied this phenomenon for years," Fleming insisted.

"Our experts are guessing," Banks snapped.

Silence lay on the table a moment.

"Parker," Vasquez asked, "how's the forensics looking?"

"Plugging along. The lab in DC expects usable results in a day or so. They might have a type on the Dearborn bomb, and a chemical analysis of the few pieces we found might lead to a manufacturer or two. We have a manufacturer for some parts of the church bomb. We're trying to trace those parts through the distribution system to the store that sold them to our bomber. What we really need is a tag on the explosive used, so we can trace it back to its source. As for the Whitmire thing, no prints on the car, no hairs, skin tissue, blood, spit, or lost wallets. Except for the footprints, the site was clean."

"They knew their stuff," Vasquez mused.

"Right. Into the bean field, then a nearby drainage ditch filled with rough-cut gravel."

"Where their tracks disappeared," Vasquez nodded. "Can we find them?"

Banks sighed. "We've eighteen agents in the area asking that same question. It's a matter of knocking on doors and talking to bartenders."

"It's too slow." Vasquez got to her feet, then turned away from her people and toward the wall. Nothing to see there, just dull white paint and an ancient squashed bug. She felt caged.

Everyone waited.

"Fleming, read the verse again."

Everyone groaned. Fleming shuffled papers at his corner of the table.

"Umm, found at the Whitmire site, spray painted in green on the car. Daniel 12:4. As for you, Daniel, keep secret the message and seal the book until the end of time; many shall fall away and evil shall increase."

"The church?"

"That's Thessalonians 2:3. Therefore God is sending upon them a perverse spirit which leads them to give credence to falsehood, so that all who have not believed the truth but have delighted in evildoing will be condemned."

"And the Dearborn thing?"

"James 5:1-5. As for you, you rich, weep and wail over your impending miseries. Your wealth has rotted, your fine wardrobe has grown moth-eaten, your gold and silver have corroded, and their corrosion shall be a testimony against you; it will devour your flesh like a fire. See what you have stored up for yourselves against the last days. Here, crying aloud, are the wages you withheld from the farm hands who harvested your fields. The cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord of hosts. You lived in wanton luxury on the earth; you fattened yourselves for the day of slaughter. You condemned, even killed, the just man; he does not resist you."

"I imagine the next will be even longer," Banks said.

Dry laughter all around.

"I wish I could see the pattern." Vasquez still faced the wall, shaking her head. "There's an answer here. In the words, in the order we received them, I don't know."

"There's always the possibility," someone said from across the room, "that these passages are random, decoys away from the real crime."

"No," Fleming insisted. "Our experts identify a theme. The passages are all from apocalyptic verse. They all deal with the end of the world."

"We need more than trivia from our experts," Vasquez snapped, and turned to face her agents. "Fleming, send something to all divisions. I want a real expert, somebody specializing in this stuff, who knows this stuff and nothing else. Send along the passages to give them a handle."

"Good as done."

She looked from face to face. "Questions?" No one spoke. "That is all."

Banks remained seated as everyone gathered their things and meandered out of the room. He watched Vasquez as she paced her section of floor across the table.

"The case is only nine days old. For comparison, they still haven't solved that Atlanta Olympics thing from what, almost twenty-four years ago."

"That was a single bombing, Rob. We have two, a shooting, and no guarantee that our unknown perps are done."

"And your wearing out the carpet and running on stamina might change things?"

Vasquez stopped. She looked at him.

"You're wasted," Banks clarified. "You haven't slept well, and you're freaked by the chance that our Bible scholar will strike again. Admit it, Rose. You can't do anything about him unless you first do something about yourself. As your friend and one true source of common sense, I order you to bed."

She sighed. She sat down on the table and leaned across to him. "One more incident, and they take this case away from me, Rob."

Banks frowned. "Why? You're doing a great--"

"Not that. One more incident, and they throw the whole agency into it. Bigger than Oklahoma City. Assistant Director Blackburn takes over, and I drop down to supervising agent of some task force or other. I wanted this opportunity, Rob. I haven't personally worked a case in over, well, way too long."

"If it happens, you could always request duty as a lowly disciple. I'd take you into my flock."

"I'm too important for field work," she said. "And stop it with the biblical gags. I'm sick of the Bible."

She stared at nothing. "When I was little, it all meant so much more. The Mass was a mystery, full of power and love. My mother always told me to listen to the readings; that I might learn something." Vasquez blinked, refocusing. "Fat lot of good it did me, huh?" She stood and stretched. "It'll happen, Rob. Bible Scholar will do it again."

"Yes," Banks nodded, "I think he will."

#

"Guardian 1, this is Plate. Nemesis en route. You may return to base, over."

"Roger, Plate. Authenticate Alpha-Echo, over."

"I authenticate Delta."

"That's affirm, Plate. Guardian 1, out."

Lieutenant Jeffrey Rohn glanced to his left through the misted canopy of his F-18 Hornet. His wingman flew close in and slightly behind. "Well, Stuckey, it's pancake time. Ten more minutes to deck. Got any plans 'til tonight?"

"Yeah," came the tinny reply. "Laze around the deck chairs off elevator 1, get myself a suntan."

"I hear ya. Don't you love the Indian Ocean in December?"

No reply.

"Stuckey?"

"Sorry, just doing some system checks. Say again all after 'Don't you love...'"

"Not important. Starting my turn to starboard. You fall in by formation."

"Wilco."

Rohn nudged his fighter to the right. He had done it hundreds of times, so his mind drifted toward breakfast. Returning pilots got the choicest of meals, and he had never tasted pancakes better than those on the Nimitz. The cook called them crepes, and they were filled with fruity stuff, but they were pancakes at heart, and ten minutes away.

His turn complete, Rohn glanced back to judge his wingman's position.

Stuckey wasn't there.

"What in hell?"

His targeting alarm screamed. He snapped his eyes to the situation monitor. Incoming missile, close!

He hauled back his stick and rolled left. The plane shot nearly straight up, pirouetting as it changed its heading. Rohn struggled to straighten her out while hitting the switches for his weapons heads up display. He heard his labored breathing through his oxygen mask.

A bone rattling jolt and a blinding flash. He was upside-down. He worked the ailerons, found the stick chillingly loose in the left quadrant. He looked through the windscreen as the plane rolled upright. His left wing was gone, nothing left but whipping white smoke.

No time, no thought. Rohn grabbed the handles beneath his seat and pulled the ejection trigger. The planet snatched at his stomach while the rest of him rocketed into space. He saw his ship plummet to the sea far below.

#

"Plate, Guardian 1, under attack! Razor is down! He is down, but has ejected!" Stuckey pushed his stick forward. He fell like an osprey to just above the water. He read the heading on the clipboard against his console, and turned the fighter in that direction.

"Guardian 1, Plate. Backup inbound. Give location. You've left our screens, over."

Stuckey ignored them. He checked his fuel, carefully nursed since launch. He was under half, but he had to go supersonic or they'd catch him. He'd make his target, but only on fumes.

"I say again, Guardian 1, please give location so we can vector assistance, over."

Stuckey shut off the radio. He hit the afterburner switch and accelerated past the speed of sound.

Chapter Five:

Daniel 9:25

(Back to Table of Contents)

The altar stood on a platform elevated high above the water-ringed floor. Seven attendants surrounded it, standing in silent homage like stiff medieval statuary. The encroaching water lapped at the floor in viscous slaps; it moved sluggishly, heaving against the floorboards as if ready to freeze in the very next instant. Despite its oily weight, the water commanded this scene. It would claim the floor, claim the altar, and -- if she stayed too long -- it would claim Sally's life.

The altar called Sally in a sly, seductive voice. It offered peace if she would only approach it. It offered an end to the hard work of living, an end to Sally's contest with God. It offered her rest at last.

But, Sally could see the decrepit, yellowed concrete that formed the altar top. She smelled its rotted, dead-leaf stink. As she approached, she saw something atop that broad, revolting surface, something alive, but barely so. The stench of that altar and the thought of that form urged Sally to flee, but she held her wits in check, and crept ever closer. She crept away from the water, away from the oddly freestanding door with the water oozing from around its jambs, water out of nowhere. She crept past the frozen attendants and up the steps of the dais. She had to. She had to do it for Eulie.

The altar was draped in a rumpled mass of blue and gray paper, red concentric circles battling over haphazard creases, leaping untidy tears. A man lay across the mess, an ancient shell of a man as creased and worn as his paper linens. A voluminous, old-fashioned nightshirt covered his scrawny form, the material a faded red. Within this red, a white circle displayed a broken cruciform icon, its angular arms twisted in the gown's myriad folds. Sally took a while to decipher the circle's symbol. Then she recoiled. That monstrous icon showed the authorship of Holocaust. She tore her eyes from the swastika and looked hard into the old man's face, at that sagging, hollow-cheeked face with its papery, translucent skin and its scatter of coarse white hair. Even through a century of age, she recognized that face.

"My God!" Sally breathed.

The old man opened rheumy eyes. "Help me," he croaked.

#

She started awake, freezing. It took a moment to orient, then, disgusted, she threw on her robe and padded downstairs. She grabbed her hammer from the utility room and carried it outside, heedless of her bare feet in the new-fallen snow. She pounded the heat pump until its fan submitted and groaned to life. Then she reentered the house and tossed the hammer to the utility room floor. She flopped onto the bottom step of her stairs, her feet stinging from cold.

She watched her breath steam in the moonlit room. What time was it? How cold was it?

She rose stiffly and made her way upstairs. Her feet hurt from the cold and snow, but she was too tired, too cold, and too demoralized to care. She opened Eulie's door. He lay splayed sideways and uncovered on his bed. She watched him until she caught the rise and fall of his torso. Relieved, she went to him, wrestled him around on the bed, and pulled his covers up to his neck. Eulie stirred slightly.

"Sleep," Sally whispered, and kissed his cheek good night.

Back in her bed, she curled against the cold, and sighed. She needed money. She needed money fast. But, how could she raise the eight thousand dollars for a new heat pump?

"I'll buy it," her mother had said the other day. "I can have it installed next week. What do you mean 'no'? You're going to get it? With no job? No income? No savings? Your writing? Get serious, Sarah Reiser. Your writing barely keeps you from welfare." The harpy had discovered a new tool with which to berate her errant daughter. Sally had mortally embarrassed that woman, and was made to pay for that sin.

No wonder I dream about Nazis, Sally thought.

She needed money fast.

More work on the Bennington-Davidson thing, her agent had suggested. The tabloids needed copy on their biggest sales attractions. Even the mainstream media sought coverage of those major players on the religious fringe. Sally's years on the subject had earned her a reputation - a bad one, to be sure, but potentially lucrative.

She frowned in the dark. Potential. She hated that word. Potential didn't replace ailing heat pumps. It didn't coax offers from People or Time. She needed a story, not potential. She needed a story, and somebody to buy it.

She could always join the media frenzy over the rising range war in broadcast evangelism. In an obvious move to increase his following, John Bennington had recently, and quite unexpectedly, pledged a holy war against Arthur Davidson's "opportunistic brand of junk Christianity". He would use his TV pulpit to eradicate what he called "the post-millennial rabble rousers" of broadcast religion. What a crock! He went after Davidson because it generated headlines, because it generated a greater audience (and so greater donations), and because Davidson, radio or not, was the biggest challenger in the pit. But, the news venders listened. The TV networks, CNN, the New York Times, and others all swarmed the issue like sharks after chum. Of course, with everyone on the thing, the chances were slim for a small-timer like Sally. Even if she got published, the glut of attention might net her three hundred bucks, if she was very lucky. No, Sally needed the unexpected, the shocking, the story no one believed, but could not resist.

Her efficient survivor's mind suggested the obvious answer.

She needed Birget Hoffmann.

The old lady in the forum, the one everyone laughed at.

Davidson was a Nazi, a confidant of Hitler, she claimed.

Well, no. But, it was worth a thousand bucks, two if stretched.

Something within her noted that irony. The quixotic crusader for truth had become the queen of lies, prostituting her mission for the sake of a dollar. She appreciated the comic error for a fleeting moment, then the iron wall of control that so thoroughly framed her life fell away. A moan of self-loathing clawed up her throat and burst from her with years of pent-up force, jubilant in its expression of her gloom. Tears followed, and wracking sobs. She cried in misery in the dark, cried for the first time in at least five years.

A steady tapping from Eulie's door. She wiped her tears and snatched up her heart as best she could. She then eased from her covers and padded once more from her room. She unlocked Eulie's door and pushed it slowly open. He stood there at the door frame, grinning and rubbing his eyes.

"Morning time?"

"No, honey. It's still dark." He watched her. Did he notice her puffy eyes? Did he sense her anguish?

"Euie cold."

"I know," she said. "You'll be warmer if you climb into bed. The heat was off again."

"Euie go Mommy's bed?" He looked skeptical. He also shivered.

Sally knew what her mother would say. "No way, Sarah Reiser. You share your bed with that boy, and you'll start something you just can't stop."

"Sure, honey, just this once."

"Euie get Bear first!"

"Sure, honey."

"Mommy go. Euie get Bear. Come." It was an order, comically imperious.

"Sure. Don't be long." She stooped, hugged him, then turned back to her room.

#

Eulie ran in his loose-muscled way to the bed, then climbed onto it to retrieve his bear, a worn, brown campaigner with matted fur and only one eye. Then he scampered for the door, stopping short of the hall when he recalled his small deception.

Eulie Reiser was a man with a purpose. It sputtered as poorly as anything within his clouded brain, but refused to extinguish as most thoughts did. He knew it wasn't morning time, but the trick would keep him out of trouble. Mommy didn't like him getting up early, but he had heard her crying, and it bothered him. Now he would hug her until morning time came and the sun could cheer her up. First, however, he returned to his bed. He knelt beside it solemnly and clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer, just like the kids on the Life Show (that is, It's a Wonderful Life, which he had seen at day care).

"Make Mommy happy," he said directly to God, more directly than conceivable by any religious adult. For God was a real, breathing person to Eulie, as real as Santa Claus. God was the one who had made him dumb, and had made him talk funny. But God did good things, too, and Eulie wanted those good things for Mommy.

His prayer complete, he took his bear from the room. His prayer complete, he forgot raising it up. He went to his Mommy, and the two of them cuddled under her covers, and waited for the heat pump to do its groaning best.

#

She sprang awake in the warm embrace of functioning gas heat, and to an insistent pounding on her front door.

"Oh, Christ!" Vasquez stumbled from her bed and out of her room before realizing she was naked. She snarled a stream of Spanish invectives as she retraced her steps, snatched her robe from her closet, and cinched it around her.

The pounding continued unabated.

"I'm coming, God damn it!"

She opened the drawer of her bedside table and took out the pistol. She dropped it into her robe pocket as she turned back to the stairs.

Rob Banks stood on her porch, his fist raised to pound all night, if necessary. He registered her robe, the sour look on her face, her disheveled hair. "No wonder you took so long. Finally catching some sleep?"

"What time is it, Rob?"

"12:17am. I've been whacking this door since 12:15."

"I hope you have a very good reason."

"More action from Bible Scholar. Get dressed."

She left the door wide as she turned to the stairs. "Christ, Rob. What is it now?"

"They're getting careless," he answered, closing the door behind him. "That, or arrogant."

"Just tell me what they did, Rob." Vasquez closed her bedroom door behind her.

"They're e-mailing the Consulate General of Israel to the Mid-Atlantic Region," Rob yelled after her. "Ten e-mails, all the same Bible verse. First message hit three hours ago. The consulate recalled the secret advisory we sent out about the Bible verses, so they called the State Department."

"That's it? Just e-mails? How are the Israelis handling it?" Vasquez was halfway through pulling on jeans and boots. She fumbled in her closet for something to wear topside.

"It's kind of confusing. Everything goes through the State Department. We've asked the consulate to evacuate, but they aren't budging. Matters of national security, and all that. Their own people are sweeping the property for bombs, and they've heightened security. I say let 'em go for it. Those guys know terrorism backwards and forwards."

"And we don't?" She pulled a cowl-necked sweater over an athletic bra, then checked herself in the mirror against her bedroom door. In case her pants were still unzipped, or her sweater on backwards.

"Not like the Israelis, that's for sure," Rob yelled again.

Vasquez swung her door open. "Where are we off to, anyway?"

"Philly," Banks answered, grinning. "Our terrorist friends have a thing for Philly."

"Fine. We'll flood the place with blood hounds." Vasquez galloped down the stairs. She grabbed a heavy coat from her entryway closet, and began to pull it on.

"I've already put fifty blood hounds in the woods. I also took the liberty of calling up a government C-21. It'll meet us at the airport."

Vasquez smiled. "You're very presumptuous, compadre, but also efficient. Now, got any blood hounds that could locate my purse?"

#

Vasquez and Banks arrived at the consulate amid frenetic inspections by security men. They were escorted to a visitor's parlor off the entrance, walking in on an argument between Parker and a blue-suited waif half his gargantuan size.

"They must understand," Parker said, "that these people are implicated in two bombings and a shooting. Everyone here is in danger."

"And you must understand," the other man countered, "that this is the sovereign territory of Israel. We have no power here; we are guests of the ambassador in DC and the local consular. They have their own way of doing things, but they take your suggestions very seriously."

"Really? I hadn't noticed them taking suggestions at all."

"Agent Parker, these people are experts in security, especially bomb detection. We--"

"This isn't about power or who gives orders," Vasquez asserted as she entered the room. "It's about all these people getting blown to bits."

"Morning, boss." Parker nodded. "Feels odd to get here before the mess, eh?"

"Let's just hope we aren't in the mess," Vasquez huffed. She turned to the waif, who wore a State Department badge over his jacket's breast pocket. "Rosa Vasquez, Special Agent in Charge. The Israelis decline to evacuate?"

"The Israelis doubt your suspicions, Agent Vasquez."

"These killers are three for three. They keep their appointments."

"No doubt. But, security here is extremely tight, as you might understand. They don't see how a bomb could have gotten within these walls."

Vasquez clicked her tongue. "A crisis of over-confidence. I'd like to speak with the consular."

"The consular insists that you speak through me."

Vasquez's eyes narrowed. "Okay, fine. The Bible verse of the day warns of the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem. It's a so-called 'infallible sign' of the end of the world, according to our experts. Ask your friend the consular if he knows what this means. And, while you're at it, ask if his security knows why our terrorists chose this target, of all places. Why not the obvious one, the Israeli embassy in DC? Maybe," and she lifted a suggestive eyebrow, "his security isn't all he thinks it is."

The State man frowned. "Agent Vasquez, I'm sure you're very competent, but this matter is, frankly, out of your element. The State Department is not in the habit of telling our guest nations how to run their--"

"Ask him," Vasquez snapped.

"Agent Vasquez--"

"I don't have time for this. Ask him. Ask him, or I will. Do you really want me to walk through that door and take an unauthorized tour?"

The State man stiffened, then left the room without further word.

"Jeez, boss!" Parker rubbed the back of his head. "Are you loopy, or what?"

"It got results," Vasquez said, and dropped onto a couch. "Where's Fleming? I need his bullshit religion experts."

"Those bullshit religion experts are in DC," Parker said, "conferring with Fleming about current bullshit religion questions."

"You'll do. This slack-jawed response to messages from Bible Scholar is starting to piss me off. Have you made progress in getting me a real expert?"

"There's a possible in Indianapolis. A civilian."

"Fine. I don't care if he's an illegal alien. I don't care if he's an extra-terrestrial alien. I want him soonest."

"The Indianapolis office is looking him up."

"Okay." She paused, reorienting her thoughts. "This target is significant. I want to know why. Parker, you're from around here. Why this consulate, and not DC?"

Parker shrugged, pacing the floor. "Nothing at all. The consulate is ... unremarkable."

"Then it's the neighborhood."

"Well, maybe, but I doubt it. We have maybe a half dozen synagogues and Hebrew centers right here in the downtown area, but I don't see that as significant. These guys look at least regional in scope. If they intended to attack a Jewish cultural hub, then why not something more obvious, like New York, or Cleveland? Their Jewish populations are more visible than ours."

"We're missing something," Vasquez insisted.

"This is the second time they've targeted Philly," Banks offered. "Maybe they live here."

But Vasquez didn't think so. It was too pat, and dangerous for the perps. It was the neighborhood, or it was Israel. But, again, if it was Israel, why make the point in Philly?

The parlor door opened. The State man entered, accompanied by a dark suit. The dark suit approached Vasquez, who rose to her feet.

"Are you the consular general?" she asked.

"I am the consular's assistant," the man answered. "We have completed our security sweep, and are happy to inform you that no bomb or other suspicious device has been located. The grounds are secure. We appreciate your concern, and look forward to working with you again, perhaps under more pleasant circumstances."

"That's it?" Parker asked. "Just because you didn't find--"

"Forget it," Vasquez interrupted. She offered her hand to the consular's assistant. "Sorry to have disturbed you. Please offer the consular my apologies."

"No apologies are necessary. We appreciate your concern for our safety."

They shook hands, and Vasquez moved to depart.

Out on the sidewalk and free of the State liaison, Vasquez stood by Parker's Bureau sedan as her people gathered around.

"Anybody around here want to show their hand?" Parker asked.

"Two men stay here," Vasquez said, ignoring him. "The rest of us head to Parker's office and brainstorm this thing. It's the neighborhood, I think, and the consulate is just convenient for dropping the Bible verse. We need to know why, and we need to know where."

"Then let's do it," Banks nodded. "I expect an explosion every time I breathe."

The group split among three vehicles. Banks took the Suburban that he and Vasquez had ridden from the airport. Vasquez rode with Parker in the second car. She put the car phone on speaker as Parker followed the other sedan west through the city.

"Where are we going?" she asked. "Isn't the Federal Building--"

"Yeah. But downtown's a greasy hairball of one-way streets. You go west to get east, and north to get south."

"Can you think about the case?"

"Beats thinking about my driving."

"Okay." She sat back in her seat. "So, what's the deal with Philly? Rob, you there?"

"I'm here," the car phone said. "And, despite my offhand comment, I don't think it's a domicile thing."

Parker coaxed the car through a wide turn north. "If there's anything special here that involves Israel, I don't know what it is."

"Let's go through the clues," Vasquez mused. "There's evil increasing, falsehood pedaled as truth, and the greed of the rich. Then this latest. What was it, Parker?"

"Daniel 9:25. From when they say that Jerusalem gets rebuilt, something-something. It will be rebuilt in sixty-two weeks with streets and stuff, in time of affliction, amen."

Vasquez looked at him. "Thank-you for that very precise summation."

"No sweat. It's my job."

"Our experts claim the rebuilding of Jerusalem might refer symbolically to an attempt by Israel to officially absorb East Jerusalem, or maybe to rebuild the actual Temple of Jerusalem destroyed in AD 70. But, what's that got to do with here?"

Parker didn't answer. The cell phone remained silent.

"Oh, hell," Vasquez snarled. "Whatever it is, they've probably already done it."

They rode in silence around the nearly deserted City Hall Plaza. Vasquez watched the lead car turn onto an intersecting street.

"I need inspiration," she said as Parker followed suit. "I can't think anymore. All that comes out is trash."

"We got the Liberty Bell down past the Fed. Need to get patriotic?"

"That's more like maudlin."

"Well, we got Ben Franklin's grave. We got the military museum. You were military, weren't you? Of course, it's closed this time of night."

"Keep it up, Parker, and I'll be wanting a liquor store."

Parker stared ahead, thinking. "You know, if you want to follow a theme, we could drive out to one of those synagogues I mentioned. Hell, there's even a Jewish museum."

"A museum? One of those holocaust things?"

"No. Bigger than that. The National Museum of Jewish History, or something like that. Only one like it in the country, and a synagogue on the grounds, no less."

"Excuse me? What was that?"

"A synagogue. The first one built in Philly."

"No, before that. The only one of its kind? In the country?"

Parker watched the lead car turn into the Federal Building's parking garage. "Yeah..."

"Drive to the museum."

"The lead car--"

"Forget them. They'll figure it out. You with us, Rob?"

"Roger, but I think you're reaching, Rose."

Trees suddenly flanked them.

"It's right through there, past Independence Mall. You can see it past the trees," Parker said. "You know, we checked this place, as well as all the other Jewish spots."

"Did you go inside?"

"Well, no. They're all closed. But we checked with their security, those that had any. They reported nothing unusual."

Trees bordered the road to the left. Ahead on the right stood the conservative concrete mass of the museum. It could have been an office complex, so uninspired were its lines.

"Nothing unusual? For a museum? The delivery of very large packages, bags left at the lost and found? You should have mentioned this, Parker."

Parker looked irritated. "Why? We checked it out, but only as a long shot. The museum didn't receive a message, the consulate did. Because of that, we've focused on consulate related possibilities." He gestured toward the gray building as they slowed in front of it. "Besides, why threaten an empty museum? Our terrorists prefer to kill people, right?"

In answer, the building flared as if all its lights had suddenly come on. The shockwave hit. The car shook. Parker stomped the brakes. Vasquez yelled and covered her ears. A clattering din swept over the car, then was drowned by the titanic scream of mangled concrete and shattered glass. Vasquez watched, horrified, as the building's south wall tumbled into the street, surrendering to smoke and yellow flames. Furniture, fixtures, and twisted steel beams sprayed from the wreckage to fall like bombs around and onto the car. The windshield blossomed with opaque craters as flying debris peppered its surface. Something big smashed against a fender.

Someone snatched open the sedan's front passenger door. "Rose!" Banks shouted. His hands were on Vasquez, on her neck and face. She felt them tremble.

Vasquez leaned forward in her seat, one hand on the glass-strewn dash, the other wiping blood from her face. "Oww..." she complained.

"Are you okay?" Banks helped her gently, protectively, from the car. Her legs didn't work correctly. "A concrete block rolled over your car," Banks yelled. "I thought you were crushed."

"Only my pride." Vasquez leaned against the wrecked car, watching the burning building. Secondary explosions erupted from deep within its guts. Glass covered the road. Something -- an office chair -- arced over her and crashed into the building across the street. Banks patted her bloody face with a handkerchief.

The driver's door slammed, reminding them of Parker. The Philly man watched from across the car top, his forehead smeared red, blood draining from one ear. "How come I don't get fussed over?" he asked in a shaky voice.

Another car rushed up and braked hard behind Parker. Four agents unloaded.

"Fan out," Banks directed. "Find any witnesses."

"We're in some nasty shit," Parker said, almost in a whine. "The boss'll be pissed when he hears about-- What was that?"

A brilliant flash blossomed in the east, accompanied by a roar that rattled the glass on the road.

"Another explosion," Banks frowned. "Another building."

Parker looked pained. "There's a synagogue up that way. Jesus, man. We're definitely in some nasty shit, now. Good-bye retirement, hello unemployment line."

"Noon," Vasquez said. The two men looked at her. "We have until noon." Her eyes darted as she thought. "The attacks were at ten-hour intervals. 8:00 p.m. for Whitmire's murder, 6:00 a.m. for the church bombing, 4:00 p.m. for the Dearborn thing. Now, it's 2:00 a.m. We have until noon."

Banks did the math. "Okay, but what about the six-day stretch?"

"Forget the number of days. Look at the clock face. Ten hours."

Sirens warbled from blocks away.

"Who the hell cares?" Parker said with undirected anger. "It don't mean squat to us. We're off this case. We'll be catching butt spread from some desk job in the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. We're done, man. We're benched."

"Parker," Banks turned to him with threadbare patience. "Be constructive, man. Nobody's getting canned."

Parker grunted. "That's easy for you to say. Nobody blew up a synagogue in your home town."

They heard another roar, this one more muffled. A glow spread on the southern skyline.

Parker's face contorted with pain. "Aww, shit! Not another one..."

The sirens grew louder, and more numerous.

#

The clock read 4:18. She drew herself from the bed, careful not to disturb her child. She tiptoed downstairs and took her seat at the laptop. Without hesitation, she found her place on the Web and typed her message to the person she hoped to reach. "Use my e-mail," she finished. She started to type her home address, and paused. She didn't want to be naked to the world. Instead, she typed her other address, the one at the university. She read her words, noting their unintentional hint of urgency. She considered editing, then shivered in the still-cold house. She gathered her robe around her, and clicked the "send" button.

Chapter Six:

Proverbs 4:5-9

(Back to Table of Contents)

"The FBI reveals no motive for the attacks, but believes they are related to the Philadelphia and Dearborn bombings last week. They don't believe the incidents to be anti-Semitic in nature, so they are not covered under federal hate crimes laws. The FBI spokesman refused to elaborate further for fear of compromising the investigation."

Gary shook his head at the news, and at the burning buildings on which he turned his back. Thank God no one was hurt, but he just didn't need to see such things so early in the morning.

"Again, a terrorist attack has shattered Philadelphia, nearly destroying the National Museum of American Jewish History as well as six synagogues in the city center. Firefighters from four cities battle to control the blazes, but all estimates put the flaming properties at a total loss..."

"Chow's on, Gramma." Gary dished out breakfast. He heard her struggle from her chair and shuffle to the kitchen.

"I don't know," she complained. "People just got no sense these days. Crazy, that's all."

"Not everyone, Gramma. Just enough to make it scary." He held out her usual chair, from which she could watch the television, the living room, and the snow-covered street beyond the front window. She continued watching the news while Gary placed eggs and bacon on their plates.

"In other news," the TV droned, "the Pentagon continues its search for an F-18 fighter that vanished over the Indian Ocean three days ago. One aircraft was found crashed in the water over a hundred miles from its parent aircraft carrier, the USS Nimitz. The other plane is also feared crashed..."

"I've decided about the job," Gary said.

"Hmmm? What job, honey?"

"The one with the state police. I think I'll take it."

Gramma chomped a crispy piece of bacon. "That's good, Gary. Is that what all this library work is about?"

"Yes and no," Gary said between bites. "I'm confident that I can handle what they want, thanks to Sally's help. She really knows this subject."

"I'd like to meet that Sally sometime. She sounds real nice."

"Not as nice as you're trying to hint."

Gramma smiled. "I can tell from a name like Reiser that she ain't a Southern Baptist in cornrowed hair and Kente cloth. But, she still seems nice, as defensive as you get about her."

Gary said nothing. Gramma knew nothing of Eulie. If she did, she'd surely withdraw her good opinion.

"And, that's another thing," Gramma said as her eyes went back to the television. "How do you lose an airplane? That beats everything. We paid for that airplane, you know."

"We're on welfare," Gary reminded her.

"And our debit card would be fatter if they didn't misplace their airplanes so much."

Gary mopped his eggs with a folded slice of toast and thought about the bombings in the news. The FBI web page listed almost a dozen dangerous religious cults, half of them ostensibly Christian. Did one or more of those groups engage in some crusade? If so, their tactics held much in common with their medieval predecessors. Didn't people ever change? Of course, it could all be the work of another Tim McVeigh, or some disaffected Islamic group. The Americas brimmed with disfranchised emissaries of hate, or splinter groups of such. Religion wasn't alone as a wellspring of terror.

"This Sally Reiser girl is a pretty little thing," Gramma said.

Gary frowned. "No, she isn't. She's big and fat with nappy hair and brown teeth."

"Really? She looks blonde, tiny, and pretty coming up the walk."

The doorbell rang. Gary froze with his toast half way to his mouth. Was she kidding?

"Answer the door, Gary. My bones are too tired."

The doorbell rang again. Gary put down his toast and excused himself, well aware of his Gramma's playful grin. The old Nissan stood at the curb, framed in the living room window. It was Sally's all right. What possessed her--

He opened the door. She stood on the shoveled porch in a heavy parka, her hair reflecting the sun as brilliantly as snow. She blew clouds of steam, and shivered.

"Hi!" she said.

"Hi. What are you doing here?"

"Well, that's a way to greet a girl. I was in the neighborhood. Can I come in? It's cold."

Gary unlatched the screen door and stood aside. "Sorry," he said as she brushed past him into the house. "I just didn't expect you..."

"Mama, the warm air feels good. I should move to Florida." She noticed Gramma, and beamed. "Gary's grandmother!" she sang, and shot across the living room into the kitchen. "He speaks so well of you. I'm glad to meet you in person." The two women exchanged brief hugs.

"Well! Such a nice young lady is welcome in this house. Pull up a chair, dear."

Gary joined them, a little sour. What really brought that girl to his door? Nobody was ever "just in" his neighborhood.

Sally looked comfortable at the kitchen table, her parka unzipped and one arm over the chair back.

"I didn't expect you," Gary said again. He looked at his breakfast, but it now seemed awkward with company sitting beside him. "This isn't exactly your neighborhood."

Sally made a dismissing gesture. "I was in the area, and I remembered you were going to the library this morning. I thought I'd give you a ride."

Gramma touched Sally's arm. "How wonderful! Gary, isn't she a wonderful girl?"

"Gramma..."

Sally waved a finger at him. "Don't stop her, Gary. I am a wonderful girl, after all. So wonderful, that people actually say 'thank-you' sometimes."

Gary stared at her.

"Have some breakfast," Gramma offered. "Would you like to share my eggs? Or Gary could make you some."

"No, thank-you, Grandmother LaMonte. Eggs and I share an uneasy truce. But, could I have a slice of bacon? It smells so good."

She took a slice from the paper-lined plate and crunched it between her teeth.

"Hmmm... Heaven."

"Your ancestors cringe in horror," Gary said.

"I don't know my ancestors, Gary, and I wouldn't criticize their eating habits if I did."

Gramma looked from one young person to the other, a pleasant but confused smile on her face.

"Sally's a Jew," Gary informed her.

"Allegedly," Sally corrected.

"A Jew? Interesting." Despite her words, disappointment clouded Gramma's face.

"That's right," Sally said, "and an unclean variety, at that. I'm a Jewish agnostic." She chewed her bacon in the silence that followed.

Now, she's done it, Gary thought. He needed to make an exit, and take Sally with him.

"Don't worry, child," Gramma said with sincere sympathy, "the Lord will lead you home."

Sally stopped chewing. Her blue eyes froze over, but her smile remained polite and her manner relaxed. "I'm sure he'll try," she said.

Gary coughed. "Well, if we're going, we'd better go now." He rose from his chair. Then he noticed the dirty dishes.

"Don't you worry," Gramma said without heart, "I'll get this mess."

"Oh, no." Sally waggled an index finger. "It's all mine. No, really. Gary, go get your stuff. The early worm eats the book, you know. Grandmother LaMonte, you sit right there while I rinse these things. We'll have girl talk."

"I think--"

"Beat it, Gary." She said it sweetly, the sugar underlain with steel.

Gary beat it. He collected his things from his room, always expecting some shrill eruption from the kitchen. He dawdled, but only caught the musical rhythms of small talk.

When he returned to the kitchen, Sally was rinsing the last of the dishes.

"...and my mom was always the domineering type, even while Daddy was alive, pressing me to fully participate in a culture that denigrates women. Have you ever felt put down, I mean, really, really worthless?"

"All women have. Especially if they're as black as me. At least you have that blonde hair to carry you over."

"Oh, please, Althea. With this blonde hair, everybody assumes I'm just a dumb sexpot, a Barbie doll. And people are confused when they meet a blonde Jew. Maybe I should dye it. Think so?"

"You be careful with that pretty hair. Don't go near those bottles; they'll turn it to straw."

"Oh, hi, Gary. Ready to leave? Let me get my coat back on."

The two women hugged.

"Take care, dear," Gramma said. "Stay open to the Lord."

"Anything for you, Althea." Sally punched Gary's arm and headed for the door.

Gary bent to his Gramma and whispered in her ear. "How come I can't call you Althea?"

#

"Where's Eulie?" Gary asked as he settled into the Nissan's cramped passenger's seat.

"Day care." Sally pulled the car onto the snow-covered street. They listened to the tires grinding over the unstable surface. "I almost went off on your grandmother."

"That's okay. She almost went off on you." He watched the white world ahead and wished Sally's heater would work. "How did you avoid it?" he asked. "Why no fight?"

"She's a good Christian lady and I don't give a damn. I don't get it, Gary. Why does the whole world hate a Jew?"

"Don't take it personally. It's a faith thing. You can't argue or reason with faith; it's pointless even to try. To some people, you're the evil Christ killer, and that's all there is to it."

"She sees me that way?"Gary heard hurt in her voice. "She sees me as a Christ killer?"

"No. Not Gramma. She saw you as a stranger, someone she's unsure of. Then you had to mention agnosticism. That sure got her attention. Stick around, and she'll probably try to save you, make you her pet project."

"I'm not a project," Sally said sharply.

They pulled onto New York Street, a wide main drag slippery with slush and corrosive salt. The bridge over White River and then onto campus waited in the distance.

"I'm taking the job," Gary said to change the subject.

"The state police thing? Good for you. They wouldn't need a shady tabloid freelancer, would they?"

"I'll ask around." He smiled.

Sally started across the bridge. A white Ford sedan approached from the other side. She edged closer to the curb to make way for the larger car.

"I got a money piece today," Sally said. "It'll help pay for a heat--"

The Ford whipped broadside in front of her. She stomped the brakes, entered a skid, let up and stomped again. Gary felt his safety harness clutch at his chest. The Nissan jerked to a stop against the gutter and inches from the Ford's fender. Other brakes squealed from behind. Men slid from the car in front, athletic men in dark suits and overcoats.

"Uh-oh," Sally murmured.

Gary twisted to peer behind them. "More back there."

"Did you piss somebody off? I hope I didn't."

"Don't say anything," Gary warned, knowing she would ignore him. Police? Why? Drug bust? Weapons? A black man with a white woman? A knot of fear grew in his stomach. Maybe they weren't police.

A man stood at each of the Nissan's doors. One tapped at Sally's window. She rolled it down.

"Hi, officer. My plates expired?"

Gary cringed.

The man looked into the car. He wore a bandage cockeyed across one temple. His eyes sought out Gary. "Mr. LaMonte? I'm Special Agent Parker of the FBI. Sorry, sir, but we need your help."

#

They stopped at the small jet, two cars bumper to bumper. Sally and Gary climbed from the first car onto the concrete, the dark-suited men encircling them. The plane's hatch rolled down, and yet another suit, coatless, skipped down the built-in steps to join them.

"Who's the girl?" he asked Parker while staring hard into Sally's nervous face.

"She's my partner," Gary said, at least sounding assertive. "I don't work without her."

The man from the plane looked a question at Parker, who shrugged.

"Okay," the man from the plane told Gary. "I'm sure you're curious and confused. Come aboard, and we'll give you answers." He turned back to the plane and bounded up its steps and through the hatch. Parker herded Gary and Sally from behind.

The plane was sparsely appointed, and close. It was ten feet across on the inside, its overhead low and curved. Four pairs of seats hugged each wall on either side of a narrow center aisle. Just ahead of the seats, a wood veneer partition cut across the cabin, its lone door closing.

Parker hauled up the steps and shut out the cold. "They'll be with you in a minute," he said. Then he left them, passing beyond the sequestering door to whomever waited beyond.

Gary and Sally stood in the aisle like schoolchildren outside the principal's office. They listened to the whine of the aircraft's engines. They inspected the unimpressive furnishings, moving only their heads at first, then turning in self-conscious jerks to take in the confining space. Gary leaned far over a seat, not touching anything, to peek through one of the small, round windows. Sally did the same. The cars still stood alongside, the men smoking cigarettes and leaning against the hoods. Sally wondered what they'd done with her car.

"Partner my ass," she whispered.

"Sorry. I took a dive."

"You mean you threw me in."

"They asked for help. They're the feds, the ones with all the money."

"We're locked in a plane on the airport tarmac, no transportation, with four big guys with guns outside. Money is not the issue."

The forward door opened. "Show time, friends," Parker said as he signaled them.

A cramped excuse for a conference room stood wedged between the partition and the pilot's compartment. A table jutted from one wall, taking up half the aircraft's width. Four chairs surrounded it, each bolted to the floor. A woman paced beyond the table, turning in a tiny circle of restless, caged energy. She was tall, dark-haired and nutmeg-skinned. Her black, simple suit and low pumps reflected physical power as well as elegance. The gauze bandage across her forehead heightened the effect, and spoke loudly of toughness. Sally had expected yet more dark-suited football players, and found her gaze coming back to that woman regardless of how hard she tried to avoid it. She noticed the men, one behind her and the other seated at the table behind a laptop computer and paper file folders.

"Have a seat," Parker directed, and remained by the door as they did so. Sally noticed Gary's eyes on the woman, and that irked her.

The woman ignored them, continuing her pensive pacing until they were seated. "Thank-you for coming, Mr. LaMonte," and Sally caught the Latin music in her voice. "I hope you forgive our rudeness. My men were on their way to your home, and spotted you on the street. They had to move quickly. We're under a tough deadline."

Gary watched her, pissing Sally off.

"You've met Agent Parker," the Latina continued. "This," the seated man, "is Agent Banks. I'm Rosa Vasquez, Special Agent in Charge of this investigation."

"What investigation?" Gary asked, his tone even.

"The bombings in Philadelphia. You've heard of them? We've evidence not revealed to the press, but it needs interpretation by an expert. You come highly recommended by a Mr. Tuttle in your state government, and by Dr. Isamu Ikaru, whom I think you know."

"I know them both," Gary said.

"Everything I tell you is classified at the request of the president of the United States. Revealing this information to anyone would subject you to the most severe penalties under federal law."

"I understand," Gary nodded.

Sally looked at him, her eyes narrowed. What's this solemn hero shit? Bet it has to do with that woman's figure.

"I don't know you," Sally heard. She turned to Vasquez, who looked at her hard.

"That's right," Sally said with secret satisfaction.

"She's Sally Reiser," Gary offered, "my partner."

Vasquez nodded to Banks, whose hand went to his laptop keyboard.

"Please understand," Vasquez said to Gary, "that this data requires the narrowest possible dissemination."

Gary nodded. "I know what you need. I'm the history expert. Sally's the expert on current affairs. We work together. A package deal."

"Nobody said anything--"

"Talk to me, not about me," Sally snapped. Gary looked at her, startled.

"Nobody ever mentioned you," Vasquez said.

"She's the local expert on active cults and fringe religious groups," Gary insisted.

"She's a God damned tabloid reporter," Banks said with unconcealed derision. This time, everyone looked startled. "Not even full-time," Banks continued. "She writes freelance to rags."

Sally stiffened. She stood, leaning toward Banks. "Don't tell me who I am!" she shouted. "What the fuck are you doing over there?" Her hand darted to his computer. Banks slapped it away.

"You're a sleaze reporter," he said. "You're looking for dirt on this case."

"And you're a moronic, full of shit, God damned son of a bitch! You grabbed me out of my car, remember?"

"That's enough," Vasquez said.

"Bullshit! You think you can fly in here with your fancy plane and your expensive suit and insult me like this? I pay your salary, lady!"

"I said, that's enough."

Sally halted in mid-diatribe.

"Sit down," Vasquez said more softly, and Sally obeyed.

Vasquez turned back to Gary. "We can't have any faction of the press nosing around this case. Can you explain your friend here?"

"She's tracked the fringe religious in this country for ten years, especially fundamentalist Christian groups."

Sally saw interest in the woman's eyes.

Vasquez put her head in her hands and rubbed her face. After a moment, she looked up at Sally. "Can we trust you to keep this information in strictest confidence, acting on it in no way at all except to inform our investigation?"

"Hell, no!" Sally sneered. "I'm a God damned scum bag and a traitor. Ask Dudley Do--" Gary kicked her foot. "Okay, okay already. I swear to God and hope to spit." She looked at Banks. "And the question should never have arisen."

Banks yawned.

Vasquez narrowed her eyes. "Understand what you're promising, Miss Reiser. The Espionage Acts require you to reveal nothing of what you hear today. You even grunt, and the full weight of the federal government will fall on you like the Alfred P. Murrah Building. We'll bury you. You'll make no profit, have no peace, and you'll certainly go to prison. There are no tape recorders on this plane and none of us will recall this threat, not even your partner, if he knows what's good for him. Understand?"

"Ooh, I'm so scared." But Sally was scared, and she had heard of the Pentagon papers. Vasquez was on shaky legal ground, but she meant every word.

A moment passed for emphasis, then Vasquez nodded to Banks.

"Ten days ago, a computer hardware engineer was found shot to death in his car outside Lyons Falls, New York. A cryptic Bible reference was painted across his car..." Banks told them everything, recalling even the smallest details of every crime. It took him a while, and illuminated much. Neither Gary nor Sally, even in their hard lives, had realized the extent to which chaos ruled their world.

Banks leaned back in his chair as he finished. "Since this morning, the case has literally exploded. The Assistant Director for Terrorism is now running the show from Washington. Over fifteen hundred agents are working various aspects of the case. Our team has devolved to a tactical response task force, moved around the country as the assistant director orders."

"Assistant Director Blackburn doesn't know I'm here," Vasquez confessed. She lowered herself into the one empty chair. "We've no mission yet, so we're working the leads we've already developed. We're watching the guy who bought the wiring for the church bomb, for instance. We tracked him down only two hours ago, in New York. So, we can find these people, but we can't understand or predict them. We need your help, Mr. LaMonte."

Gary started to speak, but Sally cut him off.

"And, you want us to help purely out of patriotism and American right thinking?"

Banks groaned.

"Oh, like you do your job for free?" Sally huffed. "Nice suit, Dudley."

"I can offer federal contractor rates," Vasquez said. "Only for one right now, but I can clear it for both of you."

"Sure, and how much is that? Soup and bread and a daily threat of imprisonment?"

"About $135 a day, plus travel and overtime."

Sally choked. A hundred thirty-five? A day?

"Sorry," Vasquez said to Gary. "We can't offer more. You're just a student..."

"Can I see your file?" Gary took it from Banks. Everyone waited as he shuffled the pages. Finally, he nodded, and spoke. "Your Bible Scholar believes this Whitmire guy was evil, or so your people think. Either that, or the computer industry is evil, and Whitmire was its scapegoat. But the theme doesn't follow for the other attacks."

"We've entertained the notion that the attacks are random," Banks said. "The inconsistency of motive seems to point that way."

"But, the motives are consistent," Gary murmured. He read the first Bible quote: "'As for you, Daniel, keep secret the message and seal the book until the end of time; many shall fall away and evil shall increase.' I think your people misread the text. They've taken it at face value, where the killers have taken a more sophisticated slant on things. You see, you can't just snatch up a Bible and read it; you have to understand it. The Bible is a hodgepodge of incongruent, often amateurish translations. The original Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek texts bear little resemblance to today's--" Sally slapped him under the table. "Sorry. Some scholars think this word 'evil' has another context. The evils of millennia ago are often the perks today." He looked at Vasquez, who seemed both impressed by his speech and lost in it. "Knowledge. Your Bible Scholars read the text as 'knowledge', not 'evil'. Knowledge was evil four thousand years ago. Adam and Eve lost paradise by eating from the Tree of Knowledge. The correct text, as far as your bad guys are concerned, is: '...many shall fall away and knowledge shall increase.'"

Only the whining engines kept the plane from silence. The men exchanged skeptical glances. Vasquez looked slapped by revelation. Gary shuffled the papers, meeting her gaze in short snatches. Sally stared for him.

"It's bullshit," Parker sighed. "It's too damned simple."

"It usually is." Gary shrugged. "I told Tuttle these people have no secrets. They're advertising. But, unless you know your Bible, you can't get the message."

"It fits," Vasquez mused. "The other quotes made sense, but the Whitmire thing was off on a tangent. Now, it fits. Whitmire's microprocessor will move more information faster-- Knowledge will increase."

"You're buying this shit?" Parker asked, amazed.

"I see no better shit to buy." Vasquez nodded. She leaned toward Gary until their heads almost touched. "Tell us more."

Gary leaned away from her. "Well, all the quotes are apocalyptic in nature. Daniel is the second most significant apocalyptic book after Revelations, if you're a Christian. See how they returned to it last night?"

"What does it mean?" Vasquez asked. "Why are they doing this?"

"They have to," Gary said. "They're frustrated, backed into a philosophical corner. Everything they believe is threatened. Over the last eighteen years, these guys have gone from Jeremiahs to laughing stocks, and they want folks to know they're still in the game."

"That's all? Just pique?" Banks looked disappointed. "From the hints and your interpretations, it sounds like they're trying to save the world. They killed Whitmire so that knowledge wouldn't increase. They bombed that church to prevent the spread of falsehood. And the Dearborn thing..." His train of thought faltered. He made a helpless gesture.

"That's the thing," Gary insisted. "You can't defend the common man by blowing him up. And you can't stop the rebuilding of Jerusalem, even figuratively, by blowing up synagogues in Philadelphia. You're on the wrong track."

"Then what the hell is the right track?"

"The opposite, of course. These are Christian fundamentalists. They don't fear the apocalypse, they yearn for it, because that's when Jesus returns to inaugurate his thousand year reign on Earth. They aren't preventing the end of the world, they're trying to help it along."

His words hung in the cabin like a foul odor.

"This is obvious stuff," Gary said to fill the silence. "Any expert would know it."

"Our people are criminal psychologists, not religious scholars," Vasquez said.

He isn't one, either, Sally thought. Is this so new that they depend on a doctorate student's paper?

"You say they're trying to end the world?" Parker asked with open skepticism. "Like in the comic books?"

"No. The world will end regardless. They're just helping along the prophecsies that must be fulfilled before the apocalypse can occur. Making straight the way of the Lord, so to speak."

"And the end of the world was on January 1, 2000." Parker said.

Gary nodded. "That's what these people believed, that or January 2001."

"Well," Parker huffed, "they're a little behind schedule, aren't they? What's their excuse for being so freakin' wrong?"

Gary adjusted his position in the chair. "They have plenty of reasons, most of them anti-Semitic. They've accused the Jews of lousing things up by refusing to accept Christ, by trading land for peace, by ushering in an era of serious cooperation between Israel and its neighbors. Peace and harmony between Israel and the Arabs is not a linchpin of end times prophecy."

Parker snorted derision.

Gary sagged. "I didn't say it made any sense; that's just what they say. The Jews blew hell out of God's doomsday schedule."

"What about our Bible Scholars?" Vasquez asked. "Can you make any guesses about their schedule? We think they're executing their attacks at ten-hour intervals on the clock."

Gary licked his lips. "Well, ten is an apocalyptic number referring to the fourth beast of Daniel. It's described as terrible, destructive, very strong. It devours and breaks everything in its path, and stamps the residue with its feet. It has ten horns, believed to represent the rising of ten nations or ten kings in the end times. Three of these horns are slain by an eleventh, and the rest taken over. The eleventh horn is the Antichrist." He thought a moment. "They're playing a number game with you, but it's not a secret code. It's right out in the open. With a little thought, we could probably take it further, maybe establish a discrete pattern."

"We tried. It doesn't work."

"Well, if you applied a little fringe psychology--"

A shrill beeping made them jump. Vasquez snatched a cell phone from her jacket.

"Vasquez. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. One moment, sir." She tossed her head at Parker, gesturing sharply at her guests.

A moment later, Gary and Sally were once more in the outer cabin, the conference room door closed in their faces.

"Such pleasant people," Sally said through her teeth.

"They aren't so bad."

"Absolutely, and one of them has such wonderful legs, don't you think?"

Gary looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"Don't give me that," she huffed. "I have eyes. Really, you aren't supposed to gawk at the girls when out with another..." Her voice trailed away. She looked around the cabin.

The engine pitch changed to a tone more shrill than restful. The floor lurched.

"What in hell--?" Sally cursed.

Gary leaned across to a window. "The cars are leaving."

The conference room door opened. Vasquez hurried to Gary. "Belt yourselves in," she said. "We're leaving."

"What do you mean, leaving?" Sally asked. "Where in hell are we going?"

"That guy we were watching, he's slipped his surveillance leash. We think he's preparing the next attack. We're on our way to New York to grab him."

"What? I can't go to New York!" Sally glanced around for an exit. Parker, curious at the commotion, stuck his head through from the front.

Gary put a hand on Sally's arm. She flinched away.

"I can't go to New York!" she repeated. "I have a baby in daycare! He's due home in--" She glanced at her watch. "--in an hour and fifty minutes!"

Vasquez threw up her arms. "God damn it, you said you were in on this!"

"That was before getting kidnapped!"

"Enough! Parker, get this woman off my plane!" Vasquez stalked back to the forward compartment. Parker glanced after her, then excused himself past Sally and Gary to reach the exterior hatch.

The plane rocked on its brakes. Banks appeared at the compartment door and walked toward Gary and Sally. "Sorry," he said, but his face looked bland. "She hasn't slept since midnight. She hasn't slept well in almost two weeks." He turned his gaze on Sally. "I've called a ride back. They'll take you to your kid, and deliver your car to your home."

"Thanks," Sally said, though she felt more suspicion than gratitude.

Parker dropped the stairs. Cold air invaded the cabin.

"Better go," Banks said, turning Sally toward the hatch. "She won't wait for long."

Chapter Seven:

1 Kings 14:9-11

(Back to Table of Contents)

Michael Adams dropped his duffel and walked straight to the wet bar. It was stocked with liquor, but Michael, tired, gritty, and smelling of sweat, took only water from the tap. He savored the cleansing quality of it, and sighed away his exhaustion. Feeling human again, he carried his glass to the wide windows of his hotel room and looked out over the dusty streets of downtown Nairobi. Not a graceful town, Nairobi, but Kenya was not much given to grace.

The phone warbled from the bar. Michael knew who it was, and groaned at the prospect of speaking to him. Fueling, arming, and hiding a fugitive F-18 took a lot out of a guy. And that pilot hadn't helped with his mewling about treason and courts martial. Disposing of him had been another stressful task. Michael deserved a rest.

The phone disagreed.

Michael dragged himself to the nagging box. "Yeah, Collins, what do you want?"

"Well, I'm happy for the enthusiastic greeting," came the thin transpacific reply. "I'd only bother you for a special occasion, and, well, it's a special occasion."

"Out with it, man. And, remember, this is a public line."

"No problem. You'll gag at who turned up on the Internet forums today."

"Collins, it's been a long one. Gimme what you got."

Collins, mischief clear in his voice, mentioned a name.

"No! You're jerking me around!" Michael laughed, spilling some of his drink. "Sally? Back in my game after all these years? I'd almost forgotten her."

"She's left her e-mail with the old woman. That Hoffmann woman."

"And?"

"Hoffmann is flagged by Reverend Davidson himself. Anyone who contacts her..."

"She's a befuddled old windbag, and Sally's the consummate cynic. This is not a match. Forget it. Sally's curious, but not for long."

"Maybe so, but we've done some checking. Your ex-wife is a journalist."

Michael's humor deflated. "A journalist."

"Right."

"Well, that's too bad."

"My thought exactly. Would you like to make the call on this?"

Michael thought about it. Once more sparring with Sally was a bittersweet prospect. She was the only significant blemish on his life. He had failed to save her from her dead, irrelevant faith. His own wife. Still, wouldn't it be fun to punish the bitch just a little more? "Ah, I'm too busy. Schedule's tight over here. You better handle it, Collins."

"Okay, I'll send somebody to the e-mail address, to have a little talk with Sally Reiser."

"Better do the old woman, too."

"No doubt. Sorry to bother you. Take care, and I'll see you here in a week."

The phone went dead. Michael downed the last of his drink. Poor Sally. To get worked over by strangers, probably even killed, and never know why. Oh, well. Life was often a cruel, impersonal joke. But that was God's will, after all, and what could you say to that?

He placed his glass in the sink, then forgot Sally, forgot his adventure with the jet and its pilot, and went eagerly to the shower. The only things on his mind were the dust on his body, and supper.

#

Vasquez sat across the aisle from Gary, keeping polite company. She had apologized for her explosion earlier. Now, she leafed through a Government Quarterly magazine, not seeing the articles.

Banks stepped through from the forward compartment. "ETA twenty minutes," he said. "FAA will alert LaGuardia at ETA ten, freezing all traffic for our approach."

Vasquez dropped the magazine. "Any word from the agents in place?"

"Fleming's on station now, but they haven't found our little worm. The whole NYC division, the Jersey division, and state and local police are scoping for the guy."

"Thanks, Rob. Keep me updated."

Banks nodded, and turned back forward.

"You aren't gonna make it, are you?" Gary asked.

"No, we aren't," Vasquez answered.

"Maybe you'll get them on the next one."

"It's my job to get them on this one."

They sat a moment, the jet rocking beneath them. Then Vasquez, wound too tight for inactivity, rose and took the seat next to Gary. She crossed her legs. He squirmed, and leaned away. Any other time, she would have found it funny.

"How did you hurt your head?" he asked.

"Occupational hazard. I had to get stitches." She turned in her seat to face him better. "The pattern. Have you thought more about it?"

"Well, yeah, but I don't think you'll like it."

"We understand the ten-hour intervals by the clock. We thought there was a ten-day interval between groups of three incidents. That would have worked. Ten hours, ten days, three incidents. Three is like a biblical magic number, isn't it?"

"It comes up, but not as much as you'd think. Three angels to visit Abraham, three kings to visit Jesus, that sort of thing. But those don't fit. We're looking at a different class of numbers."

She frowned. "It doesn't matter, anyway. The interval between groups of crimes was nine days, not ten."

"I think you're wrong about that," he said, and directed his gaze out the window.

"Don't stop there. What do you mean, we're wrong?"

"Ten hours," Gary said to the window. "The ten horns of Daniel's final beast. But, there were four beasts in all. Our Bible Scholars would know that, if they're really into numbers."

"Are you saying there's another incident out there? One before Whitmire?"

Gary turned to her, and nodded. "Four crimes, not three, and a ten-day interval between groups of crimes."

"We're looking for another attack?"

"Committed at 10:00am, the day before Whitmire's death." He rubbed his head as she stared at him. "It's conjecture, of course." Her brow furrowed. "There's more."

"You definitely have my attention."

"The ten-day intervals bothered me. You people see them as uninspired math. I look for deeper meaning. These guys got skewed when nothing happened in 2000, and then again in 2001. They fished for other stuff, like that asteroid, Apophis, that came close to hitting the Earth, then the end of the Mayan calendar, which a lot of new-agers saw as the end of all time as we know it. Lately, they've clung to a new dire prediction, or several, but one in particular."

"I'm all ears."

Gary turned back to the window. "Way back in the early twelfth century, Saint Malachy of Armagh purportedly had a vision while visiting the Vatican. In the vision, information about future popes was revealed to him. He wrote it all down in 112 cryptic verses, which were rat-holed away in the Vatican secret archives for four hundred years. In 1595, I think, and I'm saying all this without notes, you understand..."

"Okay, you're forgiven. Go on."

"In 1595, a Benedictine monk named Arnold de Wyon visited the Vatican and discovered the verses. They apparently successfully predicted aspects of all the popes from Celestine II to Urban VII, who served for thirteen days in 1590. The verses also made predictions for all other popes to follow."

"Really. And they were accurate? I'm Catholic, Gary, and I've never heard of this."

"You wouldn't. The Vatican disavows the documents involved, claiming they're forgeries created right around 1595 in order to affect the outcome of a papal conclave. Most historians agree. The predictions were very accurate up to 1590, but notoriously inaccurate for everything after their date of publication. That's a red flag. But that doesn't stop apocalypse mongers from clinging to these supposed miracle prophecies, especially when they have nothing else. Besides, when the Vatican denies something, that's like milk and sugar nursing the conspiracy theorists."

Try as she did to maintain interest, Rose felt her attention flagging. "I don't get it. Why would anybody care? Some saint delivers divinely inspired trivia of the popes? What difference does it make, beyond entertainment value?"

"The clincher comes with the last prediction, number 112." Gary turned back to her. "You see, the last pope was predicted to see Rome burn to the ground and to witness the day of judgment. And that last pope, by the chronology, is our present Pope Peter Romanus."

Vasquez leaned away from him, sure he must be joking. Gary's face was deadpan. "Okay..."

"They think the present pope is the signal that the apocalypse is on. There's a lot of mud in this story, but most scholars believe the day of judgment in this scenario is December 23. I'd bet these incidents culminate on that date."

"I don't follow."

"The problem is, that gives us three cycles of ten days."

"Mr. LaMonte, don't do this to me."

"We need four cycles. More to the point, we need the biblical forty days of strife."

"God damn it, LaMonte, that means we need five more attacks!"

"Starting on November 14." He spoke quickly, but did not look away, not this time.

Vasquez felt her stomach rolling. She yelled for Banks, but he already leaned through the doorway.

"We got him!" he shouted. "We picked him up at Kennedy International. We have four sets of shadows on the wormy little bastard. Should we hook him?"

Vasquez thought for a moment. "Negative," she said. "Belay the order to LaGuardia. Freeze Kennedy instead, and get this plane close to our bad guy."

"Wilco." Banks turned away. Vasquez almost stopped him, but changed her mind. He had enough to do already. She took her cell phone from her jacket.

"What are you doing?" Gary asked as she punched a speed dial number.

"Checking your theory. Fleming? Vasquez. I need a data search, nationwide, very thorough. I know you're busy with the New York thing, but this is just as vital." She gave him the dates and the mission, then asked him to hold. "Times," she said to Gary. "It would help us narrow the search."

"Umm, that would be midnight on the 16th, 2:00pm and 4:00am on the 15th, and 6:00pm on the 14th. The incidents might be small. I have a theory about that, too."

"Please, not now. I'm overwhelmed." She gave Fleming the data, then hung up. She looked at her watch. "We're cookin' now, Mr. LaMonte."

"Call me Gary. I'm not old enough for Mr. LaMonte."

She smiled. "Steer us right, and you can call me Rose. We're cookin' now. With luck, we can stop this next attack, and you'll help us with the rest. I'll buy you a drink in the best place in Manhattan if we get on top of this thing."

"And, if we don't?"

"Then we won't feel much like celebrating."

#

Sally arrived home half an hour before Eulie's bus. Her car waited in the driveway, its motor hot and pinging. She dragged through the door and waited for the sound of the government car's departure. When she heard its tires crunch on the drive, she relaxed, but not by much. Gary had gone on the plane. Despite his anxiety, he zoomed at this moment toward saving the world at one hundred thirty-five a day, plus travel and overtime. Sally, on the other hand, would only make lunch for her son. Was she really the cheesy white trash Banks made her out to be? She hadn't impressed that super G-woman. She had sounded like a hysterical shrew.

She plopped in front of her laptop. Time for work, she thought. Time to earn a buck before her baby got home, and maybe even reclaim a speck of self-worth. She tapped the mouse, then hung over the keyboard as the monitor glowed to life. Show time, Parker had said, and she wrestled herself to the task ahead.

#

To: Hoffmann@daemon.oxford.org.uk

From: sally242@gmail.com

Subject: forum questions

I'm so glad you answered my DM and contacted me by e-mail. That was an agency address I maintain for public use. Please use the current address (for home) in the future. The agency account has been closed. That out of the way, my name is Sally Reiser. I'm a writer interested in the Arthur Davidson thing. I'd like to hear your theories about Davidson, especially the one that this seventy-five year old man was formerly a confidant of Hitler, and helped mastermind the Final Solution for the Jews. How is that possible for someone who was only a year old in 1944? Please, get back to me as soon as possible. I find your perspective unique.

The reply she got ten minutes later was not what she expected.

To: sally242@gmail.com

From: Hoffmann@daemon.oxford.org.uk

Subject: re: forum questions

Dear Miss Reiser,

You make me so happy. Are you of the Reisers of Frankfurt, Germany? Was your great-uncle Mr. Karl Reiser?

Sally read it twice. Dread embraced her. She leaned away from the laptop. How did this woman know her family? Sally's people had come from Germany. They had fled Nazi oppression some time in the thirties, settling in England, then the United States. Did Birget Hoffmann know Sally's history, or was it all some weird coincidence? And then, there was that name. It sniggered at her from the shadows of consciousness. Dry leaves in the wind... With hesitation, she reached for her keyboard, and composed a new and frightening message.

How do you know my family?

She sat and stared at the screen. Her answer came almost immediately.

Dear Miss Reiser,

I have lived many years at the whim of my God, and am blessed to know some few important things. I have learned the computer easily, and English, too, and all for the sake of the family Reiser and its ancient roots. Once I knew Karl Reiser. We were young, and close. He told me everything. He and most of the Reisers are gone now, burned or buried in Hitler's camps, but their purpose still lives. Who are you? Speak with your God to find out.

Yeah, right, Sally thought. Like he and I have anything to talk about.

She sent another message.

I *am* the Sally Reiser you take me for, but I've never heard of Karl Reiser. The Holocaust truncated my family line just before World War II. Please, what is this purpose you mentioned? Does it have something to do with Davidson?

She sent the message, and waited.

And waited.

After ten minutes, she considered sending again, but a car in the driveway distracted her. She rose from her seat, but froze when a familiar window blinked onto her screen: YOU HAVE MAIL! The message was long, it required scrolling. The opening lines scared her away for hours.

Miss Reiser,

It is your purpose, no one else's.

You must destroy the Antichrist.

#

"He's in a cafe, eating croissants," Fleming reported as Vasquez blew into the crew lounge at Kennedy's International Arrivals Building.

Vasquez raised her arms while FBI technicians fitted her with an almost invisible receiver-transmitter and battery pack. They did the same for Parker and Banks. "What do you figure, Fleming? Anything found in his home?"

"Lots. Arresting this guy is a no-brainer. Wiring, det cord, chemical residues, and the place is plastered with religious tracts, posters, even newspaper clippings of the other bombings."

"Great, but arrest isn't the thing here." Vasquez lowered her arms and straightened her jacket. "Show me where he's been and everyone he's met since you found him."

Gary stood forgotten to one side, watching without understanding. Then a thought, buried for hours under the puzzles of terrorism, worked its way to the front of his mind. His Gramma! He hadn't even called her before leaving Indianapolis!

"You picked him up in the concourse? Nothing after that but restaurants, newsstands, and restrooms? Does he frequent any one area?"

"Well, maybe." Fleming frowned. "But, everybody does it."

"Talk," Vasquez demanded. "Time is precious."

"The arrival-departure board." Fleming shrugged. "He keeps going back to it."

Vasquez chewed her lip. "My brain's shot, compadres. What's so special about the arrival-departure board?"

"Maybe he's catching a flight?" Gary suggested from across the room.

Everyone stared at him as if at an unwanted child.

"We've checked the counters," Fleming said. "No one's sold him a ticket."

"I was just thinking," Gary continued. "If he's set a bomb to go off in, what, twenty minutes, he'd either be nowhere in sight, or planning to die in the blast. Or maybe he's flying to another country, one without an extradition treaty."

"Nobody sold him a ticket," Fleming said again.

"Well, who said he bought the ticket?" Gary asked.

Silence reigned for all of two seconds.

"Who the hell is this guy?" Fleming asked.

"He's mine," Vasquez answered. "He does that a lot, that tidy excavation for the obvious point that nobody sees." She winked at Gary. "He's right. Bring in the prey, boys. We'll ask him what he's up to." Vasquez took Gary's elbow. "And you, my human calculator, stay very close to me."

Vasquez stepped from the crew lounge, Gary in tow, Banks, Parker, and two other agents ahead of her. They took their time through the roiling current of travelers, tourists, staff, and well-wishers in the sprawling main terminal. Gary wondered why, then realized they tried to fade in, to use the crowd as camouflage so as not to alert their quarry.

Vasquez cocked her head against the microphone nestling in her ear. "This is SAC," she said. "Explain yourself."

Gary looked at her, thinking she spoke to him. But the honey-colored eyes were distant; she hardly knew he was there. And that was fine with him; she was too close, and smelled too good. He felt a gnawing guilt at noticing, and at the root of that guilt was Sally.

"Two males, one female," Vasquez said as much to herself as to him. "They just joined our target at his table. He seems to know them. Conversation. Target's agitated. He's looking around. They may have made their surveillance team."

Vasquez halted in the middle of a busy concourse. She took Gary's arm, pulled close to him, and pointed toward the huge mobile rotating above the crowd.

"Don't worry, I'm not being fresh. All units, sound off. I can't see you."

She listened to traffic across her mike, almost glassy-eyed. All the while, she held Gary's arm, and went through the motions of flirting. She patted Gary's arm reassuringly. "Sorry, I didn't know you were shy. But, it's just for public consumption. I don't want to talk to myself, not this close to our boy."

"Our boy? Where?"

"Thirty feet to your right. Table closest to the right."

Gary spied the quarry, a big guy in an Army field jacket, sitting at a table with two other men and a thin, frowsy blond woman. He glanced around for federal agents, but could find no definite sign of their presence.

At that moment, everything changed. The four at the table scraped back their chairs and stood at the edge of the rushing human tide as if unsure how to enter it.

"Form up on them," Vasquez said. "No takedown without my go."

The targets pushed into the crowd, passing within inches of Gary and Vasquez. The field jacket guy looked in his forties, with thinning red hair and round glasses. He was slightly overweight, dressed in dull clothes, and owned an uninspired, almost sullen face. His friends were hard-edged ganger types with stubby hair, black clothing, and the patented apathy of the twenties crowd following Gary's generation. The girl stood out as shorter than her partners, as the only one smoking a cigarette, and as possibly needing a bath. Gary marveled at the commonness of these terrorists. They were just the kind of people you'd pass on the street without noticing.

"Excuse me," Gary said as they passed him, and took secret pleasure at addressing the enemy.

"The one with the glasses is ours," Vasquez said, and tugged Gary into the crowd.

They followed the suspects, keeping a good twenty feet behind them. Gary watched as the younger three changed positions around their older companion. After a moment, he recognized their movements. Years in the inner city had taught him similar patterns.

"They're gonna kill him."

"What?" Vasquez looked alarmed.

Gary burst forward. "Hey!" he yelled, then realized his error.

The gangers grabbed their partner. They spread close around him. A black shadow cloaked them from the mobile overhead. The girl looked smug as she drew her weapon.

Three loud blasts under the sculpture, then instant pandemonium. The already intense crowd exploded into stampeding chaos. Despite the scrambling mass of people, Gary remained focused on the middle-aged man with the round-framed eyewear, whose body settled by stages to the floor.

"Federal agents!" someone yelled. "Put down the weapons, now!"

But, they wouldn't put them down, Gary thought. Sally had taught him that. He watched with rising horror from five feet away as the three stubby-haired youths raised their pistols to their heads, then pulled the triggers.

Two of them jerked as if punched by the roar of their guns. They landed without grace on the floor. Their accomplice stared stupidly at his own silent weapon. Too bizarre, a bystander calmly snapped pictures.

Gary leapt forward, crashing his head and shoulders into the remaining killer's stomach. They slammed to the floor. The ganger twisted away. He hammered Gary's jaw with a fist. Gary fell over, grunting under the grinding impact of a boot against his ribs. He expected more punishment, but it didn't come. A low-heeled pump planted next to his face. Then he was rolling onto his back, and a beautiful sienna face looked anxiously into his eyes.

"You okay?" Vasquez asked.

"I'll do."

"Great. Stay here." She sprang into the crowd. Gary stared up at the slowly rotating mobile, feeling both foolish and lucky. He forced himself erect, rubbing his side. Agents swarmed the scene, driving gawkers back from the bodies. Gary recognized no one. He groaned with the effort, but launched himself into the crowd in the direction Vasquez had taken.

Two uniformed Travelers' Aid people stood together off the escalators, their eyes huge from shock. "Guys with guns," Gary said. "Which way?"

Their eyes jerked toward the escalators.

"Thanks." He took the moving stairs two at a time, feeling it in his ribs. He could not say why he pursued Vasquez, except that he was part of this thing, not to be left on the sidelines. His aching ribs aside, the whole deal was a rush.

He found her far down a line of international airline counters.

"Why in hell didn't you stay where I put you?" Vasquez complained.

"I couldn't." He shrugged. "I just couldn't stay behind."

"Oh? And that's why you jumped your mark, and almost got yourself shot?"

"Okay, okay. Later, already. Where's the bad guy?"

She frowned. "Vanished. He got away in the crowd." She led Gary to the wall.

"All those feds, and he slipped right past you?"

"Don't be a critic. 'Halt, or I'll shoot' didn't exactly freeze him in his tracks. You saw what happened back there."

"Yeah. Sally laid it out." He leaned against a window, his coat smearing the glass. "The fanaticism. They gladly die in the service of God. It puts them among the elect, the first called to heaven. They weren't about to surrender. But, why didn't he shoot himself, like the others?"

"He did. His gun jammed."

Banks ran up from far down the concourse. "Okay," he panted, leaning against his knees. "Men in all the access ways, down in the luggage, loading docks, garages. It'll take forever. Underneath the tourist glitz, this place is an ant colony. And the boys at the apartment think they've found the latest Bible verse, and it matches the religious pamphlets found on the bodies downstairs." He handed Vasquez a tri-fold sheet of paper, a homespun brochure from someone's computer. Vasquez read the title aloud.

"Are the Last Days upon us? You live in them even now." The Bible quote followed after the headline. "God!" she complained. "That tells us nothing at all! Gary?"

Gary took the brochure and scanned its contents. "Daniel 12:4, the same quote as for Whitmire."

"Knowledge will increase again? What's that got to do with an airport?" Banks wanted to know.

"It doesn't," Gary answered, "at least, not that part." He looked to Vasquez. "The Bible has many translations, some very different from others. One translation of Daniel 12:4 is 'But thou, Daniel, shut up the words, and seal the book, even to the time of the end; many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.'"

They looked around. Busy passengers and employees all ran "to and fro".

"Shit!" Banks cursed, summing up their thoughts.

"There," Gary said, pointing through the window that supported him.

A black-clad man crossed the tarmac two stories below, running under a parked jet and out toward the runways.

Vasquez glanced around for access to the tarmac. "All units, this is Vasquez. Suspect is outside, headed toward the runways from, from -- where the hell...? -- from the Royal Jordanian gate. Sound off to intercept."

She bolted for the Royal Jordanian waiting area, Banks and Gary following. An attendant moved to stop them.

"Excuse me, but this area is for ticketed guests only..."

"Federal agents," Vasquez said. "Call airport security. You have a killer on the tarmac, headed toward the runways from here. Get him picked up. Is there a way down to the tarmac from here?"

The attendant stepped away, more than a little bewildered. "There are a number of service accesses located--"

"From here!"

Banks signaled Vasquez toward the gate. "Down there," he said, "at the end of that tunnel thing that gets you to the plane. Don't they have a control booth, with access to the outdoors?"

"Why, yes," the attendant stammered, "but we're attached to the plane..."

Vasquez ran for the gate, Banks beside her. "Thanks for your help. And call security!"

Gary trailed behind the feds.

They rushed past the gate and through the accordion-like jetway. It ended at the plane's hatch, where a gaggle of technicians loitered both in and outside the aircraft.

"Federal agents!" Vasquez yelled. "Fastest way to the tarmac, please!"

The technicians stared at her, slack-jawed.

"Now, dammit!"

"Right through there," one of the men responded. Two hatches faced each other across the tunnel. He pointed to one of them. It was closed, but a flight of stairs peeked through its window. Banks tried the latch. Locked.

"The key," Vasquez demanded, but the men looked doubtful.

"I guess Roger has the key," someone said.

"He's the supervisor," someone else offered. "I guess we could get him up--"

"Into the aircraft, gentlemen," Banks shouted. He grabbed a body as the group obeyed. "Not you. Get ready to back off the plane."

"Yessir!" The technician angled around Banks to the jetway's other hatch. This one stood open, beyond it a control booth that projected out from the flexible tunnel. Banks stepped to the gasket joining aircraft and jetway. He grabbed a lever marked by yellow and red stripes, and jerked it hard. A hiss of escaping gas, and wintry daylight poured into the chamber. The technician shifted gears from his booth, collapsing the arm of the jetway back toward the building. Concrete revealed itself fifteen feet below, around and beneath the airplane.

Gary and the two agents stood at the drop-off, looking down and shivering in the cold.

Banks grinned at Vasquez. "You'll never make it in those shoes. Break your ankle."

Vasquez kicked off her pumps.

"What?" Gary sputtered, alarmed. "You aren't going to--"

Banks took a breath, then leapt into the bright, cold sunlight. He sailed to the tarmac, flailing his arms, hitting on his feet, then rolling along his side.

"Ahh! Shit!"

Vasquez followed him, her skirt and jacket billowing. She landed beside him, rolled, and ended on her feet.

"I screwed up my ankle!" Banks complained. "Teach me to open my big, friggin' mouth. Go on, go get him!"

Vasquez looked up to Gary. "Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "I've had my limit. You go ahead. I'll see to Banks."

Without a word, Vasquez turned to the hunt.

#

She ran hard despite a throbbing, widespread pain in her side. She shivered, for she wore no coat, and her feet were almost bare on the freezing concrete. The wind swept unbroken across the empty landscape, cutting against her face, her bare hands, and her legs in torn pantyhose. Vasquez denied the cold, the wind, and her bruised, complaining muscles. She focused instead on scanning for her suspect, and closing the gap between them. The pursuit became her universe.

There! Except for ditches and the occasional navigation beacon, the airport terrain was a flat desert of gray runway and brown grass. The suspect struggled from a ditch beyond a taxiway, clawing at the ground like an animal.

She sprinted after him, pounding her feet against cold concrete, prickly grass, and stinging rocks. She pushed hard, grunting violent puffs of steam. She no longer shivered. Instead, she started to sweat. She careened into the ditch, gasped at the ice that greeted her punished feet. She caught a glimpse of movement and glanced along her flank. From fifty feet away, three black forms watched her intently. Dogs, alert and bristling. Two more animals cut across the ditch, paralleling her path. Great! Wild dogs was all she needed. They were a menace on airport grounds, which were the closest thing to wild terrain an urban environment had to offer. She scrambled up out of the ditch without pausing, letting tears flow freely down her cheeks, weathering the pain in her tired legs, and watching for the dogs, and her suspect.

He was thirty yards ahead.

"Halt!" Vasquez panted. "Federal agent!" She snatched her pistol from its holster and summoned a final ounce of speed. She could hit him from here, but that might kill him. "Halt, God damn it!"

The suspect turned toward her, wide-eyed, then pushed away at an even faster pace. She knew she couldn't catch him; she just didn't have enough. She threw herself prone on the scratchy grass, her pistol held before her. She snapped into a firing position, tried to aim through teary eyes. No good. She dropped the weapon, wiped her eyes roughly, took up the weapon again. She slowed her breathing, aimed for the torso, stopped breathing, and fired.

The suspect went over like a cardboard target.

She struggled upright, then forced herself to a jog. Where was he? No body marred the grass ahead. She strangled a fear that he might have escaped. Where could he go on this flat tabletop?

She almost tumbled into the ditch. He lay at the bottom in a shallow stream of icy water, quaking from cold, wet, and a gunshot wound.

Vasquez descended the slope, her pistol held before her. The suspect gritted his teeth at her approach. In her torn clothes, with her bleeding, bruised, sweat-drenched body, she must have been a fright to see. Her head ached even more than her muscles, and that seriously darkened her mood.

"FBI," she said in a husky, breathless voice. "You're under arrest, you maggot. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right--"

"You shot me in the ass!" the man screamed.

"--If you give up that right, anything you say--"

"I ain't saying nothing! You shot me in the ass, you bitch! You'll burn in hell! The time is coming, and you'll fry in hell and wail and gnash your teeth!"

"--can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford--"

"I need no attorney! The Lord is my attorney! Fuck off!"

She thrust the gun at him. "Dammit, that's enough! Where's the bomb? That's what it is, isn't it? Where's the bomb?"

He laughed at her, no fear, not in the least impressed.

"God damn it, I don't have the patience for this!"

"What, you gonna kill me? Go ahead! I'm ready! I would've done myself if not for that cheap-ass gun! Go ahead, bitch, do me! Do me!"

"Well, maybe I will." She cocked back her pistol's hammer. "But, not yet..."

She fired. An ankle exploded in a mess of bone and meat. The suspect screamed, and jerked spasmodically.

"Not so cocky anymore, huh? Where's the bomb, you bastard?"

He stared at her, wide-eyed. He tried to rescue his wounded body, but there was nowhere to go. He only had one leg.

"The bomb," she demanded. "Where's the bomb?"

She shot out a knee.

She waited for the screaming to stop. Her mind was numb. He wasn't human, just an animal, like those dogs gathered at the rim of the ditch. No witnesses. Just the dogs.

"The bomb."

"Fuck you!"

She shot out the other knee.

"Ahh! Okay, I'll tell! I'll tell!"

She aimed demonstrably for his remaining ankle.

"Air France! Air France! The A380!"

"Thank-you, you've been such a help." She tapped her transceiver. "Parker, Banks, anybody, this is Vasquez."

No answer. If the damned thing was broken... "Parker, anybody."

She looked at her watch. A quarter to twelve. She turned away from the suspect's pain and struggled up the side of the ditch, back the way she had come. When she reached the rim, she called again.

"Parker here."

"Air France. The Airbus 380. There's a bomb on the plane."

"Jeez, it's taxiing for take-off right now."

"Stop it. Evacuate. Get the bomb."

"I'm on it, boss. Gonna be close."

"Stay frosty, Parker." She sighed, began at last to relax. Then she flinched at a din from the ditch, sounds of struggle and strangled cries. Her suspect was being an asshole.

She turned back to the ditch, wondering how she would provide first aid for so many serious wounds. All she had was her jacket, her training, and a mind and body too tired to care.

But, first aid wasn't necessary.

The dogs had him.

#

Sally watched Kevin with bare impatience. The visit surprised her, and not pleasantly. Kevin was nice as far as guys went, but wholly uninteresting. He was thick glasses and long, unkempt hair, a computer geek through and through. Sally had work to do; Birget Hoffmann waited across the ocean. Still, she couldn't just throw the boy out. Kevin was her network insider, had engineered her secret e-mail account on campus. He had done it against school policy, and only because she had asked him. He risked his meager work-study job, and possible censure. The likelihood that he liked her twisted her gut with nausea, especially since she used him so. Perhaps, then, the purpose of his visit was fitting.

"I hope you aren't mad or anything, Sally, but I just can't handle it anymore."

"I understand, Kevin."

"I mean, the administration is one thing. They're not too swift on the tech stuff. And my supervisor, she's cool. She'd let me off with a reprimand. But, these other guys, they were like feds, man."

Sally watched him narrowly. "Kevin, what other guys? I thought you were just turning chickenshit."

Kevin looked stung. "Hey, that isn't necessary. I've held up my end. I got you the contacts, did the research that would've cost you a mint on the net. I don't need no disrespect."

"I'm sorry. It was a figure of speech. What guys, Kevin?"

He shrugged. "Well, just one guy, really. He showed up this morning, right after you got your mail. He said he was a fed, and wanted to see you." He lowered his eyes. "I didn't ask any questions. I don't want no shit with the government."

"I understand, Kevin." She wished he'd get on with it.

"Anyhow, he thought you were there. Must have found your address on one of those net sweeps they do from time to time. He was pretty pissed when I told him we didn't have no account for you. I even showed him the database."

"And, naturally, I wasn't on it." She grinned at his ingenuity. But, what about the stranger? He wasn't FBI. They hadn't known she existed until that morning. Who invaded her privacy now? "You did good, Kevin. I don't know who you spoke with, but thanks."

"So, you aren't mad at me?"

She grinned again. "Maybe just a little. Want some tea?"

#

Banks winced as the medic wrapped his ankle. "And I warned you about this," he said, but Vasquez didn't hear him. She slumped with a thermal blanket around her shoulders and stared hard at nothing. She had been that way since returning from her chase, emotionally emptied and withdrawn. She had asked after Banks upon her return, but only in a perfunctory way that spoke of deeper, more intimate worries. What had happened out there? he wondered. Was it the cold? Was it the dogs?

Gary paced the infirmary floor. He prattled on to his grandmother, holding Banks's cell phone in a tight grasp of adrenaline.

"Well, at least we won," Banks continued, trying to make conversation. "No boom; that ought to tick off the bad guys. Parker disarmed the bomb with a couple of minutes to spare, right on the runway, with passengers shoving to get off the plane. Did it himself, by God, since there wasn't time for a bomb squad." He laughed. "Then he went off to airport security and had a nervous breakdown."

"He's easily upset," Vasquez muttered, altogether missing the humor in his words.

"Yeah, I guess so. Speaking of whom..."

Parker dragged into the room. He carried a clipboard heavy with wrinkled papers. He tossed it to Banks.

"You sign 'em," he said. "I'm done."

"Sorry to leave you the cleanup, good buddy, but, hey, you missed all the real work."

Parker huffed. "May your HMO refuse payment." He turned to Vasquez, addressing her in softer, and hesitant, tones. "I did the report on what happened out there. Blackburn was pissed at losing the suspect, but I told him you tried to save the guy, what with shooting all those mutts, and all. He thinks you need a marksmanship refresher, seeing as you missed with three shots, hitting the suspect instead. My report says he was probably dead already."

She hunched in her seat, non-responsive.

"Anyway, there won't be any coroner bullshit. Anybody can see he died on account of becoming lunch."

"Not funny," Vasquez said. She rose to her feet, the blanket still around her, and shuffled around Parker toward a second, empty gurney. She paused next to Gary, reached out and squeezed his arm while he spoke on the phone. "Thanks," she said, "for taking care of Rob."

Gary's end of the phone call collapsed under her attention. "Sure," he said, "wasn't no thing."

Vasquez went to the gurney and pulled shut the partition around it.

"You'll be careful on that," the medic told Banks. "I recommend a cane until the swelling goes down."

"Thanks, Doc. I'll be good."

"You bet you will, every time you step on that twisted ankle. They sell canes in the pharmacy. Second level, west wing." With that, he left the room.

"Good work on the bomb," Banks told Parker. "I didn't get to congratulate you."

"Why, because I was puking up my breakfast in the security room? Oh, Fleming found a remote trigger on the bomber."

"That's why he stuck around. In case the timer failed."

"Yeah. He was either very gutsy, or a complete wacko."

"I vote the second." Banks followed Parker's eyes to the curtain hiding their boss. "What is it?" he asked. "What does she need to know?"

Parker shifted his weight, then scratched behind one ear. "Well, it's like this. We found the bomb among the in-flight niceties. The liquor, nuts, and croissants. Not the luggage, as you might expect for someone who wasn't an airline employee."

Banks frowned at Parker's suggestion.

Parker finished his thought aloud. "So, if he couldn't have, then who did?"

#

He paid his money like the other seven passengers, and boarded the helicopter at Gate 37. But, the crew treated him with extra deference as they showed him to his seat. He was nothing special in the usual sense, no lawmaker or airline inspector. He was one of them, even if of a competing airline.

The helicopter struck for the Manhattan skyline and the TWA Building. It was a short, fascinating commute, enhanced by stunning views of the world's greatest city. The man held off until final approach, then opened his book bag, his only luggage, and extracted the tools so strange to him only a few hours earlier. He had a task, and he wanted no mistake. He was so intent that he attracted unwanted interest.

"Whatcha got there?" the smiling attendant asked.

"Just this." He raised the tool and shot her dead.

He ignored the ensuing panic. He unlatched his belt, rose from his seat, and stood centered in the passenger bay. Bracing his feet, he raised the plastic gun and fired five times through the cockpit partition. He felt the floor twist under his feet, felt the aircraft yawing. Still he fired, intent on sending every round into the cockpit wall.

In this, he failed. The helicopter slammed into a high-rise building while he still had three bullets left.

Chapter Eight:

Deuteronomy 2:24-36

(Back to Table of Contents)

Sally's heart leapt as she opened the door. He stood there looking bedraggled and old, a bandage on his face, a new coat on his back. She wanted to hug him, but the dead look of his eyes warned her toward restraint. "Well, hi," she said, stepping aside. "Come on in, stranger."

He entered her living room and stood there amid the flotsam of Sally's life, a lost man.

"I've seen the news," Sally said, nudging him toward the couch. "What do I call you, Super Junior G-Man?"

"That's lame," he muttered. He stared at the couch, but turned away from it and started to pace the floor. "I've seen some shit," he said, shaking his head as he traced meandering routes through Eulie's discarded toys. "I mean, just the last few days."

Sally settled onto the couch, deciding to say nothing.

"I thought I'd seen everything," Gary continued. "The gangbangers, the crackheads, the tough dumbshits with something to prove and nothing to lose. Predators. That's my life, a crap shoot between predators and turning up as prey. I thought it was the world, but it was nothing at all." He drilled one intense glance into her eyes. "The last few days, they make my whole life look like Mister Rogers's Neighborhood." He wandered about her floor again.

"Have a seat, Gary. Let's talk about it."

He ignored her, or didn't hear. "That guy would've blown up over three hundred people just to make an obscure theological point. Three hundred people! And over a densely populated area, too. And, his own people killed him, then killed themselves. Just like you said they would." He looked at her with open admiration. "You so often talk such cynical trash, but you really understand this shit! They killed themselves rather than surrender to the government."

She drew her feet under her, half reclining. "Well, Gary. It shouldn't be a surprise. The Jim Jones bunch drank poisoned Flavor-aid. The Branch Davidians burned in a house fire, one they probably set themselves, the Millennium City nuts, too. Cults are by definition isolated. They reinvent reality in their minds. Suicide bombers, murder-suicides, what difference does it make, if God commands it?"

"God doesn't command it, Sally. God doesn't do this shit, this buttheaded, stupidly human bullshit!" His voice cracked with emotion before trailing off to nothing. He crashed onto the couch, leaving plenty of space between them. His hands moved to say something, but no words helped them. Sally turned to face him directly.

"First of all, let's clean up the language, okay? I have a six-year-old upstairs." She took his silence as agreement. "Good. That out of the way, I'll try my best to be tactful. I know, I know, but I'm going to make an effort." She paused for effect. "Okay. Gary, you're offended by terrorist mass murderers who call themselves Christians, invoking the same God you worship and the same Bible you read as justification for their crimes. After all, God is -- to you -- a loving, nurturing, forgiving father figure. That's fine." She shrugged. "It just isn't the truth."

Gary groaned. "Sally, come on. I know how you feel--"

"Gary, listen. It's not about me. It's about God, or the Bible, or both, if you can't separate them. Think about it, Gary. The same loving God you worship is the same one who murdered the first born of Egypt as a hostage negotiating tactic, the same one who freed Israel, then tossed her homeless into the desert for generations. Uh-uh, don't interrupt; I'm not on a binge. Remember Deuteronomy? Moses in the land of Moab? Very inspiring: Israel established as a nation. You Christians sing hymns about it. Your own Christ borrows from the book in his own teachings. Now, use that keenly analytical brain of yours, Gary. In Deuteronomy, God gives Heshbon to the Israelites. Only one problem: it's already occupied! How does he solve the problem? Negotiation? Sharing? Peaceful coexistence? No. He orders Israel to attack the residents, steal their land and property, and kill and pillage like the worst Assyrians. They murdered everybody, even the children. They spread through the land like locusts, murdering and stealing at every opportunity, and under God's guidance. That's the God you defend, Gary, the one who, according to your own faith, ordered his own son to a grisly, ignoble death." She sighed. "These people you're after. In their minds, they act in the greatest Judeo-Christian tradition: they follow their God's example."

Gary shook his head. "No," he said. "Not even you believe that crap."

"This isn't about what I believe."

"The biblical justifications on all your points are clear--"

"Of course, they are. Look who wrote the Bible."

"Sihon of Heshbon attacked first. The Israelites, your own ancestors, were justified--"

"It was genocide, Gary. God made Sihon attack, as an excuse for my ancestors to butcher every man, woman, and child in the kingdom. You know, you're right. It doesn't make sense to argue religion. People only hear what they wish."

"And your argument is a perfect example," Gary said, his eyes closed. Sally wondered if he fell toward sleep.

"Think, Gary. There are ways besides violence to resolve disputes. That's your argument against these Bible Scholar people. Why can't God be held to that standard?"

"You want me to second guess God? Forget it, Sally. He's so far beyond--"

"And that's the copout of six millennia."

He watched her a moment, frowning.

"Gary? What else happened?"

He flipped a hand at her, blasted by exhaustion.

"That commuter train wreck outside Boston? Was that them?"

"Yeah."

"Gary?"

"Forty-one people dead."

"The bus bomb in St. Louis?"

"Ten people dead."

"That gang riot in Los Angeles?"

He chuckled, an unpleasant noise. "No, that was somebody else."

Something needed saying, but she didn't know what. "Don't kick yourself. You saved three hundred lives."

"They turned around and crashed a commuter helicopter into a Manhattan skyscraper. God-awful mess. Fifteen dead."

They're vindictive, she thought, getting back at you for screwing up their plans. She decided not to voice that thought. The truth was obvious, and probably stung.

"Who's behind it? That guy the feds were following..."

"He's dead. He's the one killed by his buddies. The feds have leads. Bomb pieces they can trace, the dead bad guys and their personal associations. But every time a new lead develops, people die. This case is a failure, whether or not it ever gets solved. The body count is way too high." He sighed as if speaking were a chore. "Vasquez depends on me to help them catch these bastards, but I'm no help at all. I mean, I developed the pattern for them, but it only tells them when something will happen, not how to stop it."

"What pattern is that?"

He told her. Ghost appeared on the couch, purring and kneading Gary's leg.

"Four attacks in every ten-day period? All the way to December 23rd? Gary, a lot of people are going to suffer."

"A lot of people already have. Five other incidents we don't even know about."

"Is your theory proven?"

"No. They're still checking." He stroked the cat without thinking. Ghost pushed with gusto against his lackluster hand. "I'm exhausted. My eyelids feel like weights."

"Stay here tonight. You can have the couch."

"No. I couldn't put you out. Besides, I came to treat you. You and Eulie, to supper."

"Maybe another time. And since when is your name Richie Rich?"

"Like my new coat?"

"Excuse me?"

"My old one's covered in blood. Vasquez got me an FBI debit card. I was gonna charge supper for you and the dude."

"We've already eaten." Her skin chilled. Blood?

"Well, it's the thought, I guess."

Sally watched him pet the cat. She thought of his trials past, and those yet to come. She thought of his grim pattern and its frightening implications, and never doubted its truth.

"Gehey wead Euie?"

The boy stood at the foot of the stairs. He held a large book in both hands, like a shield.

"Hey, little guy. Whuzzup?"

"Euie up, Gehey, Mommy!"

"Gary's tired, honey. Why don't we go to the back porch and read?" Sally went to her son.

"Gehey no wead?"

"Maybe another time, honey--"

"It's okay," Gary said. "Come on over, little bro. Show me what you got."

"Gary..." Sally began, wishing he would relax.

"No, really. It's all right."

Eulie scampered to the couch. Sally watched with crossed arms as Gary turned himself prone, pillows under his head, and boosted Eulie into a nest between his body and the back of the couch. Ghost, insulted by his loss of privileges, stood on an end table, miming an air of imperial snootiness. Sally drew warmth from the scene, so oddly domestic within her fractured life.

He's like a father to my son, she thought, and suddenly, sickened, she recoiled from contentment. Her warmth became that predictable hell she knew so well. She hurried from the room, then doubled over in the kitchen, stunned by the physical brutality of truth. It was knowledge, history, foreboding and despair, all knotted up in her gut like the twisting leaders of vining weeds. She shuffled out to the glassed-in porch and sank onto the swing like an arthritic old woman.

What was this thing with Gary? she wondered, really facing its presence for the first time. They had so little in common beyond the bonds of poverty. Only information and the need to share it had brought them together in the first place. He was the erudite doctoral candidate to her high school dropout, the faith-filled philosopher to her unprincipled heretic. His grandmother disapproved of her, and Sally's mother would freak at the thought of her daughter with a black man, and another gentile, at that. But, none of that dismissed the feelings cutting deep into Sally's heart, the feelings she knew would never last, that could only be subverted by abuse, self-loathing and the thorny bonds of hate. She had been there before; she was going there again. And, this time, Eulie came with her.

She almost rose from the swing just then, almost stormed to the living room to kick Gary out of the house. She didn't want his fawning attention, then his manly patronage, or finally the back of his hand on her face. She didn't want the humiliation, the stress, the raw, abraded nerves. She had vowed years ago to live for her child, and he deserved a better mother than the woman Sally had been. So, why didn't she do it, kick Gary out? Why did she sit there hunched into the swing, her face contorted to fight back tears? Because history, powerful, gut-wrenching history, could not pound hard enough to drive her away from folly. Gary was different, her foolish heart assured her. Gary wouldn't do her wrong. Gary respected her. Yes, that was it. That was the barb that held her to him against the screams of common sense. She felt this man's respect in a way she had never experienced, in a way she had thought impossible from a man. He made her feel important.

This is gonna be a train wreck, she thought. Please, please, I'm not ready for this.

She sat doubled in the swing, rocking. She fought back tears, arrested groaning sobs, forced it all behind the wall of severity that kept her safe, and alone. She breathed, then directed her thoughts toward something less volatile, toward something that didn't tear at her heart. She thought of the story secured from Birget Hoffmann. It was ready for submission, verified, polished and full of commercial power. She had written a piece of dramatic contrast between careful innuendo and bold accusation. It would cause a sensation, inviting the wrath of radio's most belligerent preacher. Davidson scanned the tabloids as surely as he scanned the Internet; he referred to them on his shows, especially if the sources bad-mouthed his competitors. Davidson would attack her as soon as the story ran. Fine. Free publicity was the best of all.

And that brought her to Kevin. She needed his help on the next story. She hadn't the resources nor the contacts to do the necessary research. But Kevin commanded the web assets of a major university. As a network systems operator, he could access electronic acquaintances in critical capacities the world over. He was one of those people who used the web like most people used the telephone, who thought nothing of calling across the world to connect some student to a library, or of entering professional chat rooms for a faculty member's benefit. He had contacts spanning the planet, many willing to return favors rendered. She needed his resources, but was unsure how to enlist his help, considering his recent anxiety. She knew what he hoped for, but that was out of the question.

Gary, on the other hand, expected nothing of her, and, unfortunately, got it.

Gary, who deserved everything.

"'I do not like them, Sam-I-am. I do not like green eggs and ham.' Check it out, Eulie. See that stuff? Nasty!"

She rubbed her eyes hard. What was she thinking? Why did these feelings rise unbidden from the chaos of her life, refusing to be ignored? She had sworn away that life for Eulie's sake, and for the sake of her fragile esteem. Still, what kind of man went through days of hardship, then enjoyed a picture book with a child? Steadiness, warmth, openness. These were Gary's special gifts, and he gave of them generously. She recalled that meeting in the bagel shop, so different from today. Two weeks of walks, of personal exchange, of playing games with Eulie. Two weeks had changed so much.

"Mommy?"

She looked up. Eulie stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the living room light. "Yes, honey?"

"Mommy wead Euie? Gehey seep."

And, he did. She sighed at what she found on her couch, and smiled her radiant smile that Gary couldn't see just then and Eulie didn't notice. Gary lay on his back on the couch, one arm trailing the floor. His eyes were closed, his mouth open. A rattling snore blew past his lips, its tone rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. Ghost perched atop his chest, purring.

There Gary slept, and snored, until morning.

Chapter Nine:

Psalm 38:6-13

(Back to Table of Contents)

The helicopter flew witlessly into his sights, a hundred feet off the rolling terrain. When the missile flew, there was no time to evade, just for the explosion and a violent strike to earth. The shooter cursed as the aircraft disintegrated over a wide stretch of uneven ground, bouncing over the scrub of southern Turkmenistan like a handful of stones on gravel. He should have taken a better angle. Searching the wreckage was now a lot more complicated.

Within minutes, another helicopter reigned up within the roiling smoke of the kill. It dropped to just above the ground and disgorged its cargo of armed, camouflaged men. Once empty, it darted aside and hovered ready for escape. The men scattered, radiation scintillation counters arcing beneath assault rifle barrels.

"Sorry, Mr. Adams," the shooter said as he met Michael amid the smoke. "I tried to localize the wreckage, but my angle--"

"Forget it, Leo. What's done is done. Join the others. We haven't much time."

"Yessir, but we have a jump. I found one while I waited." He reached behind to his rucksack and threw up the flap for Michael to see inside. A huge, green bullet peeked from the pack, its nose highlighted in red and yellow.

"For pity's sake, Leo. That must weight seventy pounds. You want to break your back?"

"Didn't want to lose it. In case somebody got here before you."

"Fine. Now, dump it at the chopper and go hunt for others. And watch your health, Leo. It's all we have, you know."

The man moved toward the aircraft, trying not to jostle the heavy steel package on his back. Michael keyed his headset mike, and spoke.

"Bird, anything?"

"Negative. No inbounds."

"Thanks."

He stood between his men and the helicopter. He counted the slow drain of time from his mission. Minutes to do hours of work. What a mess.

Two men returned at a jog, grunting under the weight of one green bullet apiece.

"That's three!" Michael shouted and signaled them on to the ship.

They returned by ones and twos, humping through the pall of smoke under the considerable weight of green projectiles. Artillery rounds, Michael thought. He didn't know military stuff, but these suckers were big. Sixteen hid within this wreckage.

"Seven!" he announced to the latest returnees. "Eight!"

"Traffic," he heard in his ear. "Bandits out of the north, about a hundred miles, fast movers, headed right for us."

"Got it," Michael answered. "Time's up, people. Return to base. Let's get out of here."

He counted his men onto the ship while listening to updates sent from his pilot. The reports grew more anxious with each passing moment. The last two men arrived, burdened by two more projectiles. "Nine! Ten!" Michael shouted, and jumped after them into the helicopter.

The deck jerked, and they sprang into the south. Michael squeezed past his men as they lowered their loads into wooden crates and braced them with Styrofoam. The ship was small; it took only a few cautious steps to reach the cockpit area.

"Status," he asked the pilot.

"Three sub-sonic aircraft, probably out of the air station near Ashkhabad. They're less than fifteen minutes out, moving at three hundred miles per hour. They will intercept us."

"Only if they notice us. You're watching them on satellite downlink. Turkmenistan is a fifth rate country. I doubt they have the technology to see us."

"Maybe not, but the Russians do. I wouldn't put it past them--"

"Okay, point made. Keep on for the border. We have a plane in Afghanistan not fifteen minutes from here."

"Those planes will intercept--"

"You see to the rendezvous. I'll see to the planes. Patch me into your radio."

"You're in."

Michael wet his lips and spoke into his headset. Why so nervous? he wondered. They had risked millions for just this contingency. "Eddie? You out there?"

#

Eddie certainly was. He cruised at two thousand feet along a complicated orbit that wove over the borders of Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan. He constantly changed altitude as well as heading and speed, presenting (he hoped) an illusion of normal air traffic. The game was to convince each country that the traffic belonged to its neighbors, and so avoid challenge. For the last forty-five minutes, the game had played as planned. Now he noted the voice in his helmet, and calculated his distance from the caller.

"Right here. Need an assist?"

"You got it. Three bogies. Will intercept before we reach safety. Take 'em down."

"Wilco," Eddie said. He was at the far end of his orbit, over four hundred miles from the helicopter. He would really have to push to get there in time. That meant risking interception himself by three, maybe four air forces. Oh, well, this had always been a possible one-way trip. He strapped on his oxygen and climbed to ten thousand. Then he hit the afterburner and forced his F-18 to almost fifteen hundred miles per hour.

Shitfire! he thought. This does bring back memories!

#

"Here they come!" the pilot announced. The three jets screamed overhead. The helicopter wavered in their wash. The pilot wrestled to keep its heading smooth. "They're talking to us."

"That's encouraging," Michael said, projecting calm by force of will. "Talk back."

"They're sending orders, not how-de-does."

"Kenny!" Michael called into the cargo bay. "Talk to those guys! In Russian!"

"Wilco, sir!"

The pilot's eyes narrowed behind his helmet visor. "They'll have recognized our make. They'll know we aren't Russian."

"They'll hesitate. That'll buy us time. How long to the border?"

"Five minutes, if we make it."

The intercom clicked. "Sir, it's Kenny. They don't seem to know Russian, sir."

"No, but they recognize it. They won't shoot down their northern neighbor. Too dangerous."

"They're coming about," the pilot reported, "taking up firing positions behind us."

"They won't fire. They'll call Moscow first."

"One's breaking formation, coming in from the--"

Flashes streaked in front of them, preceding a staccato booming of guns.

"Shit!" the pilot yelled, and jerked on his controls.

"No!" Michael grabbed the man's shoulder. "Keep going! We stop, we've failed!" Come on, Eddie, where the hell are you?

#

He saw them on radar forty miles away. The chopper was under attack or harassment, he couldn't tell which. The range was extreme for a rusty dog fighter, but he had to try. He keyed the targeting computer and chose a random bandit, just to get their attention. He ranged to the target and got a tentative lock. He saw no reaction from the chosen aircraft, but the radar wasn't that accurate so far out. Anyway, a missile up their middle, even if it missed, would take them off the helicopter. He armed a sparrow, got tone, and loosed the bullet ahead of him.

#

Their reaction was instantaneous. Even before the first plane exploded, the jets scattered, evading as their warning systems spotted the incoming missile. Even with its weak lock, the sparrow maintained vector to that first luckless aircraft, drove up its turbines, and erupted the plane into flame and falling debris. The other fighters shot away east to engage the newer threat.

#

Michael noticed none of this, only an end to the cannon shots. The helicopter drove on, skimming the River Harirud down its wide mountain pass through the Kopet-Dag mountains.

#

Eddie felt panic when the two remaining bogies turned his way, but he drove down his fear and channeled it into defense.

The only viable defense he knew was decisive, uncompromising offense.

He dropped subsonic to extend standoff time. In rapid order, he armed a second missile, locked on target, and let the weapon fly. Then he ducked low for cover in the mountains. A warning tone yelped in his ears. One of the bogies had attempted \-- and failed -- to lock on.

He rocketed between the cliff faces with no thought to failure. How could he fail? He imagined a flanking run, that he was lost to hostile radar and could pop up in position for a deadly close-in shot. He hoped his missile had burned its target; much simpler to hit one target than two. In any event, he would prevail. He had the tool, and the talent to use it. He recalled the line from that movie, The Blues Brothers: Try to understand. We're on a mission from God.

He popped above the peaks and there it hung before him, a sleek, silvery offering, soon to be burned. He armed a missile and ranged to the plane. Its sudden leaps and yawls did not break his aim. He concentrated, willed a solid lock from his missile pylon to his target's luckless turbines. It wasn't the best of angles, but plenty good for the job. He moved his finger to the trigger and--

\--flinched at the frantic tone suddenly in his ears.

Missile lock! On him!

He dove, then yawed left and up. He threw his head from side to side, looking for the shooter. Where was he? Where was the other--

A flash to his right. The ship shuddered. Debris slammed his canopy. He noted with despair that his right wing was gone. Fighting for control he had no chance of getting, he tumbled without grace to the earth. He tried to say a prayer before he hit, but he was too low, the plunge too fast. Thankfully, so was his death.

#

The helicopter grabbed the dusty earth only two hundred feet from the waiting jet. A forklift eased up to the cargo door as all the men but four dismounted for the plane. The stragglers wrestled crates onto the forklift's blades while Michael met his ground man standing between the aircraft.

"Trouble," the contact said. "Turkmenistan's asking both Teheran and Kabul for assistance. The borders will close in the next few minutes."

"Then I guess we'd better be gone by then. Is the other plane ready?"

"I called them fifteen minutes ago."

"Great. We'll be gone in five." Michael pulled his man aside as the forklift trundled past to the jet. It carried its load of two wooden crates, and four human hitchhikers standing on its blades.

"What about Eddie?"

The contact shook his head. "No. Greased one bad guy, then went down."

"Just one?" Michael sniggered. "I guess he wasn't as hot as he thought." He gestured around the dirt airfield. "Cleanse the place. The only thing left behind is the chopper. If you're still on the ground when we're ready to leave, you walk home."

Workers on the plane transferred the bullets to smaller, metallic, suitcase-like containers, one weapon to a foam-lined case. Other men broke down the makeshift airfield, storing portable beacons, radar, and wind indicators. They hauled fat satchels from plane to idling helicopter and dropped them in a pile next to one skid. The helicopter pilot eased from his chair and helped with the satchels. He walked half doubled, nervous at leaving the rotors in gear. Soon, everyone had boarded the plane. The ground man stood beside Michael at the hatch.

"What about the other plane? If they close the borders..."

Michael shrugged, uninterested. "So, what? They play innocent. All they saw was another plane dangerously close, forcing them to land after losing control. They'll have a whole load of tourists to back them up." He took a tiny gray box from one pocket, and pointed it at the helicopter. "What matters is that the air traffic people see only one plane on their screens and mistake us for them so we get clean away." He pressed a button on the box.

The satchels next to the helicopter exploded. The helicopter jumped, distorted, and burst into flames as it fell onto its side. Rotors snatched at the ground, shattered, flew, and flipped the burning ship twice before jamming into the earth.

"Great show!" Michael shouted. "Cool!"

The jet's engines whined to power. The two men secured the hatch. The jet turned, braced itself against the earth, then shot down its natural runway and into the blue-white sky.

#

"Agent Vasquez?"

"Huh? I'm on it!" Her head sprang from her chest. Her unfocused eyes cleared almost immediately.

The secretary nodded with empathy born of experience. "Yes, Agent Vasquez, I'm sure you are. Assistant Director Blackburn will see you now."

"Right," Vasquez said. She grabbed her purse, but remained seated. She blinked, then looked around the empty outer office and at the waiting, amused secretary. She felt lost. She wanted to check the time, but not with that woman around. "Right," she repeated, and drew herself to her feet.

She winced. A burning sting reminded her of the bruises. They chaffed from mid-thigh to neck, no matter what clothes she wore. They also spread to her face, swelling her right eye nearly closed. The doctor counseled time to heal, but doctors reveled in stupid advice. Vasquez couldn't sit at home; Bible Scholar sure wouldn't.

The secretary held open Blackburn's door. The Assistant Director for Terrorism sat behind his desk, the sunlit, early morning tableau of Washington shining through the window behind him. He signed and shuffled impressive piles of paper, as he always had whenever Vasquez saw him. Also as usual, he did not ask her to sit.

"I read your report," he said without preamble, continuing to tend his papers. "That LaMonte's a security risk. Get rid of him."

Vasquez cleared her throat. "Sir, he's the best resource we have. He opened up our intel on the case."

"He's inner city, poor, and a liberal college intellectual. Poor security risk."

"I trust him, sir."

Blackburn frowned. He paused in his paperwork to do so. "Look, it's your head if the obvious happens and Mr. LaMonte blows the case. I'm too busy to fight it. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right." His hands stopped moving. He stared solemnly into her eyes. "The continuing report comes out soon, but I wanted to tell you in advance. Your friend's prediction panned out. We've discovered five more incidents previous to the Whitmire thing, and on the correct dates and times. They were all small incidents, easily lost in the normal flow of crime in this country. I guess your Bible Scholar got tired of being buried in the daily crime news, and went Hollywood for the publicity."

"Yes, sir. As Mr. LaMonte theorized, sir. Any leads from those discoveries, sir?"

He stared at her a moment, his eyes steady, serious. "It's getting ... messy. Some of those perps from the early incidents connect to major high-rollers. More than ever, the president wants this quiet." He went back to his papers. "Everything you need is in the report."

Right. The Clift Notes version of the evidence. Why did he isolate her from the case? Because the president was pissed, that's why. They were inches from panic in the streets since that Philadelphia mess, and relations with Israel were strained, as well. Shit rolls downhill, and Vasquez was the gully.

"One more thing," Blackburn continued. "The doctors say you refuse convalescent leave."

"I'm fully capable of performing my duties, sir."

"You look like shit, Agent Vasquez."

"Sir, don't force me off the case. I have a lot to contribute."

"I have fifteen hundred agents on this case. You're expendable." His voice trailed off at her stare. He pushed back his chair, and moved around the desk to her.

"Agent Vasquez, if you think I'm railroading you off this case, you're very mistaken. I put you on it in the first place, remember? Also recall that I read Parker's hunk of bullshit. If I really wanted you off this case, I'd have you under arrest."

She made no response. More unnerving, she felt none.

"There will be an investigation. There'll be one, but it'll only find a dog attack and your heroic attempt to save the suspect. Now, back to your leave..."

"Sir, I'm quite capable--"

"You don't get it, do you?" His voice was suddenly harsh. "You're loose on deck. You're physically traumatized, stressed, and mentally impaired due to lack of sleep. You aren't rational, Agent Vasquez."

"He intended to murder three hundred people. I had only minutes to stop him. What would you have done, sir?"

"I don't know, Agent Vasquez, but torture and murder would not have been on my list."

"I didn't murder him, sir." She couldn't resist the barb.

Blackburn's eyes flared. "You're on leave as of now. At least two weeks."

"Thank-you, sir," Vasquez said through her teeth.

"You're welcome. Now, get out of here. I have work to do."

She left the office quickly and did not slow her pace as she crossed the outer room. Out in the hall, she approached the elevators, then turned back toward Blackburn's office with a vague intention of confronting him more directly. Common sense prevailed, and she turned back toward the elevators only to detour to a ladies' restroom along the way. She paced the tile in front of the sinks. She felt the fire of her bruised muscles, channeled it, used it to sap her anger. Not enough. She slammed open the door to a toilet stall, and felt a little better. She slammed open all the doors. By then, her anger was blunted, and her muscles screamed in indignant pain. She sank onto a toilet seat, and slumped.

He was right, after all. She couldn't be trusted. Unbalanced. Loose on deck. She was too close to this case, had lost professional detachment. She should have taken that bastard in for questioning, worked him for intel that might have prevented other bombings, not just delayed the one. Instead, she had tortured him. Worse, she didn't regret it. She only hated the dogs for doing him the favor of merciful disembowelment. The man had been an animal, lower than those dogs, a psychotic monster unlike any in her experience. Her childhood faith rose within her, and a word prompted her memory: Antichrist. The embodiment of evil. She shivered there in the privacy of her stall, almost hugged herself before recalling her bruises. Instinctively, she crossed herself, for she knew without doubt that the man at the airport could not have been an Antichrist. Like his despicable partners, he was too small to fit such a name.

He was not the embodiment of evil; he was only a tendril of it.

#

Sally drew the pistol before even leaving the car.

"Hey!" Gary complained. "What the hell are you doing now?"

"The door's open. Somebody's in my house."

She walked toward the house, the gun hanging from her hand. Gary followed, no longer confused why she had bypassed the driveway to park on the narrow road. No longer confused, but a little afraid.

"You might have left open the door by accident. It happens, you know."

"Not with me."

"Excuse me, I forgot how perfect you are. Of course, even if it is a burglar, walking up with a gun isn't the best possible solution. You ought to call the police."

"An interesting suggestion, considering how much you trust the police."

"Well, I don't, not much, but you got no other choice."

"Maybe we should call your girlfriend, the G-man?"

They entered the yard. The front door of the house hung half open beyond the thin screen door.

"You're paranoid," Gary said, his voice a whisper. "I mean, you're blonde, blue-eyed, lily white. Why shouldn't you trust the police? They were made for folks like you."

"It's not the police I worry about."

"Then what--"

"Shut up."

She opened the screen door. Gary felt warm air streaming over the stoop.

"Okay," he bellowed. "Be that way. Just go on in and see what you find."

Sally eyed him sharply.

"Don't look at me like that. I didn't tell you to whip out a gun and go burglar hunting." He directed his voice past the door. "I just hope whoever's in there knows that the back door is only latched with a coat hanger and the back fence is one of those skimpy chain link things a midget could jump."

Sally pushed into the house. It was more of a wreck than usual. Along with the litter of toys and papers, the drawers of her living room bureau hung open, their contents scattered about. The cardboard box beneath her computer table lay on its side, the printouts she kept there rifled.

Gary stood in the doorway, wishing for the police. Sally moved through the living room, the kitchen, and out to the back. She returned a minute later and mounted the stairs without a glance to Gary. He waited, feeling guilty at not taking charge, but certain the place was empty. He listened to her footsteps and the sound of opening doors, and watched for her when he heard her return.

She appeared at the foot of the stairs, just outside the living room. Her first comment was unexpected. "It's your fed buddies, dammit! They've ransacked my house!"

"What?"

"Use your eyes, God damn it! They went through my papers. Every drawer in the house is open. The bastards came looking for dirt, and that bitch Vasquez was right in the middle of it."

Gary didn't know what to say.

"Dammit, Gary, this wasn't a burglar! The computer's still here!" She looked on the verge of tears, which, of course, was impossible. As far as Gary knew, Sally hadn't a tear in her. Whatever demons stalked upper middle class suburban white women had ganged her something fierce at some time in her past, and she had learned much from their courtesies. Sally was solid steel.

"Maybe they got spooked before taking anything..."

"God damn it, whose side are you on? They came for information, otherwise they'd have my laptop even if everything else in this place is too cheap to bother with. Your FBI buddies don't trust me. They think I'm a stink that'll get all over you, and they want some dirt to back their suspicions. Oh, God! I don't need this kind of shit!" She paced energized figure eights over the cluttered floor, kicking anything that touched her feet. Her movements tightened, grew more rapid, more and more chopped. Her voice grew shrill. She sounded as if she might cry. She still held the gun.

"Take it easy," Gary said to sooth her. "Why don't you have a seat, try to think more clearly?"

"What's there to think about? Your buddies have it in for me. What's next, the IRS? God! I couldn't survive an audit if that pope guy came and blessed me!"

"Nobody mentioned an audit. I just thought--"

"It's the perfect thing, from her point of view. Gets me out of the way. I wouldn't interfere with your case thing and I wouldn't interfere between you and her. I can't do an audit! I don't make enough money to report it to the IRS, not as much as I really make!"

He wanted to stop her, to ask her about that last comment, the one about him and Vasquez. What the hell kind of thought was that? Then he recalled his own guilty feelings. Sally had stood at the heart of those feelings.

"She threatened me! Now, she's making good those threats. I can't have this; I can't handle it! I've too much already. I can't do this, Gary! I can't do it! I can't!"

Then, to his horror, she doubled up, moaning. She staggered, looking as if she might collapse. She dropped the gun, which slammed against the floor. He saw tears surge down her face, saw the embarrassment, no, the mortification, that turned her face away from his. For a moment, he just stood there, unable to recognize her at all. Then he threw off his shock. This was Sally. She was a knotted bundle of nonsensical, sudden contradictions. She really was unguessable, and stung by pain from a hard, invisible past. She reeled, and it had little to do with imagined slights by imagined government burglars. She hurt, and she needed him.

He took her gently by the shoulders, tightened his hold when she tried to pull away.

"Go away!" she rattled through her tears. "Go away, I don't want you here!"

"No, I won't." He coaxed her to the couch, sat her down and kneeled before her. He still held her arms. On impulse, he hugged her close. She sobbed wretchedly into his chest.

"I didn't ask for this life," she whined through her sobs. "I didn't, I swear. It ... just ... came to me!"

"Sure, sure. Tell me about it. What's upset you so?"

Suddenly, she pushed him away. She straightened, looking almost imperial except for the teary face, the runny nose, and the red eyes. "I don't need your pity," she said, then burst once more into tears. "I don't need anybody!"

"Yes, you do. Let me help."

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close. She cried into his neck. Her gored heart lay exposed to him. He held her, stroked her back, wondered what to do. His knees ached.

"You're so brave," he thought she said. Her voice twisted through her sobs. She was almost unintelligible. "Either that, or stupid. You don't know who you're up against."

She dropped back into quaking sobs. He waited. His neck grew sloppy with tears.

"I don't deserve any help. I brought it all on myself. I never thought. No respect for my mother. No respect for myself. Ever since Daddy-- since Daddy-- But, what did I know? I was only seventeen!"

Gary patted her back and held her. He thought it best not to speak.

"When I brought Michael home, mother went ape shit! Why a gentile, when there were so many nice Jewish boys?" Her voice grew husky. "Simple, I told her. He was good in the sack. It wrecked her. She thought he was my first. She was wrong."

In sputtering snatches, she confessed about Michael. She told Gary how nice he had been, how he had found her when things were worst. Gary didn't want to hear about her husband, and he certainly didn't want to hear about her sex life, but he listened anyway, for her sake. He listened as she recounted the slow change in Michael as he grew into the radical Christian, a change that encompassed their two-year marriage. He listened as she pushed through the final tragedy, the Jack Kordish thing, her escape at the bus station, the torturous divorce. He glimpsed a little of her drives, especially her obsession with the fundamentalist right. He also glimpsed his own deepening feelings for this fragile fighter so wronged by life. How much of those feelings were real, and how much was pity?

"I was all messed up. I got no help from Mother. She hates me. Instead, I tried to get it right on my own. I mean, I knew that my failure with Michael was all my fault. I should've loved him better. He expected certain things from me. I should have pleased him more. More sex. More imagination, I don't know. Maybe I had too much imagination. Maybe he knew I was a slut."

"You're talking nonsense. Don't disrespect yourself."

"You don't know me. You don't know what I am."

"I know you're wonderful," he said. And I think I might love you, he thought. He separated her from his neck, held her gently away so that their faces almost touched. "You're beautiful, strong, and fascinating. You deserve respect. What happened with this Michael guy wasn't your fault. He was a scum bag who used and terrorized you--"

"You've never even met Michael! How could you say that?" She burst again into uncontrolled tears.

So much for meddling, Gary thought. How could she defend such bullshit? The bastard had destroyed her, and she didn't even know it. Gary rose from his knees and sat on the couch beside her. He held her again, expecting her to balk after that last tearful explosion. She did not resist.

"It was me! Me! Me!" she wailed. "I was such a bitch to my mother. I was such a whore! I'm surprised I'm not dead from AIDS. But, nooo! God had something different in mind. None of the men were any good at all. They hit me, tried to be 'the man'. But I'm uncontrollable, and that made them angry. They robbed me. I'd walk in and find the stereo gone, or the TV, or even the towels. Can you imagine? The towels. Or I'd find the police. That's how I got free of men. They'd rob me, or the police would take them. Drugs, usually. They'd take him away, but that didn't stop me. I'd find another one just like him. And all the bastards were so-called Christians. Just like you. So-called Christians beat me, ridiculed me, stole from me. They gave me the - the clap, for God's sake. He gave me the clap, and he laughed about it. I still feel dirty, even after all those treatments. Then Eulie came. That particular bastard found out Eulie was coming, and he ran for it. I was scared. I was only twenty-two, and I had nothing. What could I do with a baby?" She clutched Gary, her grip touching on the border of pain. "But, I made a pact with myself. I laid off. I reformed. I had nothing to do with men. I got a job. I was determined to be a good mother to Eulie. And then... Oh, shit, it hurts! It's all my fault!"

"What, Sally? What's your fault?"

She slapped his chest. "Are you fucking blind? Eulie's retarded! His body's all fucked up! It's his punishment, for having a mother who's a fucking whore!"

He held her. She held him. For a long time only her sobs filled the house.

"God doesn't punish children," Gary said. "I'm not so sure He punishes anybody. Why should He, when we're so good at punishing ourselves?"

#

Hours passed. The sun filtered through low hanging clouds and naked trees and collapsed exhausted onto Sally's back porch. It gave no warmth or cheer, only the grim warning that it was late afternoon and darkening fast, and would only get darker as time wore on into winter. Sally had escaped the sun's grim message, had returned to her violated living room to finally pick up the mess. Gary had been wonderful. He had taken her abuse without complaint, and had dispensed the medicine her open wounds required, a salve of understanding, and someone dear to hold. He had taken charge of Eulie when the bus pulled up, and still played with him on the porch. And all the while he had kept an eye on Sally, been solicitous of her condition while hiding it from her son. He had allowed her to regain some small portion of strength. She loved him for it, God help her.

He found her on her knees at the computer table, handfuls of paper held close to her face. She turned toward him and dropped her eyes in embarrassment. She tried to flash her magnificent smile, but it faltered and fell, a contrived lost cause.

"Thank-you," she said.

He shrugged. "I couldn't do anything else."

That's why you're so special, she thought. Plenty of others have done plenty worse.

"You okay?"

She snorted. "No. But I'll manage. I know you have places to be."

"That isn't what I meant. I'm just concerned."

Do you love me, Gary? She almost bared her hidden feelings. He certainly knew everything else. But, she couldn't guess his response. What if her affection went unreturned? Could a man like him care anything for her? She didn't have the strength to endure another fall; better to change the subject. "Why would your feds be interested in Davidson?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" Gary crouched beside her. She hadn't noticed his approach. To her horror, he took the gun from the floor. It had lain there all that time.

"I wrote a story about Arthur Davidson," Sally said as she gawked at the gun. "The rough was in this box. It's gone. Why would the FBI take that printout?"

Gary sighed. "How do you unload this thing? I don't know a thing about guns."

She took the weapon from him, slowly withdrew its ammo clip and proceeded to remove the slide assembly.

"I don't think the feds did any such thing," Gary said. "Maybe you threw it out by mistake? Maybe it's mixed in the mess?"

"No. It was here. All the rest is here." She handed him back the now useless weapon.

"I'd like to call Vasquez. That'll solve this mystery right away."

"I don't expect they'll confess, Gary."

"No, I expect they'll be surprised, and maybe a little concerned."

She gestured without energy toward the bureau. "Right up there. Help yourself."

He took up the phone and dialed Vasquez.

Sally listened to her son out back. He was all she had, all she lived for. "I left a gun on the floor..."

"Rose? Gary. We have a problem here, and wondered if you were interested." A curious expression crossed his face, one of concern that had nothing to do with Sally. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is that like a suspension, or are they really concerned for your health? Oh. I'm sorry." He listened for a long moment, enough to pique Sally's interest. "Well, who do I talk to? Sally's house was burglarized today. I know, I know, but we aren't sure it's a police thing." He listened again. "Actually, she thinks you did it. Hey, don't yell at me. The only thing missing is a printout of a story she wrote." Another significant pause. "Arthur Davidson, the radio preacher."

Sally watched him, expecting something to enter his face, a smile, a brightness in his eyes, something to indicate warmth at hearing his G-woman's voice. She saw nothing, just concentration on words only he could hear.

"Okay," he said. "We'll sit tight." He hung up, anxiety lining his brow.

"So, what did she say? Yes, they did it, and they're on their way for more?"

"No," he answered. "She said to stay put, and to not leave you alone." He glanced toward Eulie's oblivious sounds, then nervously back to Sally. "She's on her way," he said. "This burglary. She thinks Bible Scholar's involved."

Chapter Ten:

Psalm 23

(Back to Table of Contents)

The jet touched concrete at a small, private airfield in Florida. The pilot brought it in at just above stall speed, touching the narrow hardstand just at one extremity and heading the wrong way toward the other. He rode the brakes more than was prudent, but considerably less than was necessary.

The jet stopped as the hardstand ran out. Its wheels touched yellow-striped paint, and its nose extended over the beacon that, in legitimate landings, marked the beginning of the runway. The jet hesitated as if to settle its nerves, then pivoted about to taxi off the strip.

Vans waited at the main building. They pulled to the jet as it locked its wheels. Hands transferred metal suitcases from aircraft hatch to van interiors, three to each vehicle. Then the plane disgorged its human cargo, all but its pilot and crew. Emptied and now worthless, it headed back up the runway, vanishing into the black sky as suddenly as it had come.

Michael joined a huddle of fourteen men lately in desert camouflage, now dressed in the urban uniform of jeans and polo shirts. "You have your van assignments," he said. "You all volunteered for this mission, but generous commiserations have nonetheless been placed in the glove boxes for each of you. Remember, you never went on this mission. Once you're dropped at the airport, you don't know these guys standing around you. Thanks for your help. God bless you all."

With that, the men loaded into their vehicles and disappeared into the night.

Michael stood alone on the taxiway, enjoying the silence. Then a cricket chirped, then another, then millions. Vacation was over. He sighed, picked up the metal suitcase at his feet, and turned toward the fence. He squeezed through the vandalized gate and walked to where he knew the car was parked. He pulled out his cell phone on the way.

"Michael here," he said into the mouthpiece. Where were they now? St. Louis? "The package is in, and on its way north. I'll meet it there in two days."

"Got it," the nameless drone said. "Stand by. Someone here to speak to you."

Michael groaned. "Okay, put him on."

"Michael?"

"Good morning, Collins. You sleeping there now?"

"I wanted to talk to you as soon as you got in. You've been invisible the last few days."

"What's the problem, Collins?"

"Your ex-wife. Very slick. She had an unauthorized e-mail address at a college in Indianapolis. They didn't admit it, but she had one. Consequently, we reached a dead end when we traced her. Have you any idea...?"

"Now, how would I know that, Collins? We split almost twelve years ago."

"I know. Still, I thought you might have a lead. We've tried the telephone company and the Indianapolis utilities. So far, zip."

"Then try her publishers. Don't they send her checks somewhere?"

"We've tried. They won't release any information."

"Well, for pity's sake, Collins. What do you expect when you ask so very nicely? Look, I don't have time for this. I'll give you her mother's address, but it may not be accurate after all these years."

"That'll do for a start..." Collins said.

Michael rattled off the address and promptly hung up. He tried to forget the call, drowning it in the menial chores of finding his car, loading his case into the trunk, and dropping his body behind the steering wheel. Then he sat, out of distractions, and Sally rushed to meet his thoughts.

So, she had contacted the old lady in England. Big deal. The old lady was a joke, pegged as a garden variety wacko. Michael, of course, knew better. He knew much that the common public didn't. But, what he knew meant nothing at all. What people believed mattered more than fact, and what they believed veered far from the mark. The Reverend's obsession with the old lady was unwise, Michael thought, giving noticeable credence to her claims. Deflecting Sally's interest was a dangerous strategy. Better to ignore her, then have a good laugh when the story came out.

Still, wouldn't it be odd if this greatest moment in Michael's life brought him once more into orbit with his greatest failure and once-great obsession? He had thought her a memory, thrown off for the Lord, and later for the Reverend's mission on earth. He stopped a moment, and focused. He had thrown her off, hadn't he?

Did he really want to pursue that question?

He shook his head to collect himself, then leaned across to the glove box. There he found a map on which someone had highlighted his route to the north. He glanced over the bright, dayglo line. He chuckled, then laughed.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, he thought, turning the ignition. You're so unsubtle sometimes.

The dayglo trail passed right through Indy.

#

Vasquez landed in Indy about the same time Michael hit Florida. She traveled coach on her FBI debit card, with no place to stay and very little luggage. But, a bed concerned her not at all. She needed most to find LaMonte. To that end, she retrieved her weapon, taken from her by airline security, and scared up a car and directions to Broad Ripple. It was not until she found the expressway that she settled down to any degree. Gary would wait at Reiser's; Vasquez had made that clear. She only feared that the visit might prove worthless; so much depended on Reiser's attitude.

Before leaving Washington, she had pulled Sally's history. Blackburn might have put her on convalescent leave, but he hadn't revoked her access. Reiser's name peppered the Indianapolis government archives, especially the police files. A sealed file for juvenile delinquency had easily opened with FBI credentials. It was small-time, stupid kid stuff. But beyond that were police reports of disturbing the peace and of domestic violence with Reiser was the victim (reported by neighbors). There were hospital records, and the court records of a rather acrimonious divorce. Sally Reiser's life was a mess, and the mess involved men, one man in particular.

Well, yeah, but at least she wasn't a killer.

The unexpected thought, so mercilessly self-critical, stiffened her grip on the steering wheel. She was back at Kennedy, staring down at a fevered, wounded monster. Strangely, her face showed more clearly than his, and it was blank, hard, and indifferent to his life, much less his rights. Human rights? Those were for humans! The monster had been an animal lower than the dogs that had eaten it. An insect ready for squashing.

She nodded, validating the squash, and the unconscious gesture sickened her. She sank into her seat, cringing from her naked self.

This isn't right, she thought.

Then she noticed a change in the road. The swirling interchange had given way to a pitted four-lane thoroughfare. With side streets. Where was the highway? Where was I-70?

She cursed under her breath and looked for street signs. A dark building crouched at the next light, beyond a stretch of chain link fence and a flat, open field. An electric sign next to the fence advertised a name and dates for Christmas vacation. A school.

Vasquez turned at the intersection, then again into the school's front drive. She parked and took up the street map that came with the car.

Okay, she thought, glad for a diversion to keep the devils at bay. The illuminated sign said Bradbury Street. Stout Field Elementary School. Was it on the map, and how did she get back to the highway?

She found it, but her searching finger also found another, unintended landmark, one whose tiny red square and near-microscopic text leapt at her with the force of dawning need. The little square triggered a bombardment of memories, the long-forgotten textures of childhood awe. There in the blackened driveway she smelled the incense, heard the dependable, unchanging chants, felt the comforting embrace of unconditional love.

A church. A Catholic church.

Only five or six blocks away.

She was there in two minutes. The sign on the corner welcomed her to St. Ann Catholic Church and pointed her around a tired white house and down a narrow side street. Another one directed her into a parking lot that set the church back from the main road. The building was squat, hexagonal, and small for its purpose. All the windows were dark.

She parked. Common sense should have told her to leave, to return to the highway and her mission. But common sense had deserted her; Vasquez ran only on hope. She climbed from the car. She walked to the church and the first door she found. Locked. She knocked, tentatively at first, then with increasing force. No one answered. Her pounding echoed off the house behind her. She edged along the outside walls, found a window a little way over. She knocked, but no answer. Another door hid in the pitch blackness around the next corner, but pounding on it changed nothing. She circled the building, pounding every ingress she found, sure that someone, even a caretaker, might come to admit her.

No one did. The church stood closed to her.

Vasquez stood in the parking lot, looking defeated in the dim light. Her soul dragged, and she knew the reason. It wasn't her very real anguish at having killed without cause, nor her guilt at having abrogated her oath to protect and uphold the law. Nothing so grounded in the laws of man brought her spirit so low on that night. She drowned instead in the certainty that her sins had made her dead to God. She felt a growing terror that the church was closed to her, physically and spiritually, for now and forever.

She felt alone, and doomed.

"May I help you?"

She turned toward the voice. A man stood close to the worn, white house. He huddled deep in a black great coat, sweat pants and house slippers protruding beneath its bulk. Porch light bounced from his bald head. "May I help you?" he repeated.

"No," she said. "I was just leaving."

The man walked cautiously forward, as if approaching a frightened animal. "A little early for Mass. They don't unlock the doors for three or four hours, I reckon."

"It's a church," Vasquez protested. "Churches don't close."

"A beautiful myth. I wish it were true." He stopped a few feet away. The weak light of the street lamp revealed details of his face. He was middle-aged, and his head was not entirely bare. Gray wisps tangled at his temples and around his ears. "In this neighborhood," he continued, "locking your doors isn't a crime against faith, it's just common sense."

They watched each other, he with a searching candidness, Vasquez with tired need.

"I'm Bob Kennelworth," the man offered. "Most people call me Father Kennelworth, or Father Bob. You can call me Bob. Late night special." He smiled.

"This is your church."

"No, it's God's church. I just keep the light on."

She stepped toward him, an unintentionally aggressive movement. The priest did not retreat, but rose to his full height despite the sharp winter air.

"Father, I need confession. I'm sorry, I know it's late, but I need it, I really do."

He relaxed and reached out to touch her arm. "Well, normal confession is in the afternoon, but we've nothing better to do right now, do we?"

#

The house was old, but well maintained. He sat her at a cheap formica table in the kitchen, and went to the stove to make tea. "So, should I make myself presentable, or do my Fruit of the Loom vestments do the trick?"

She tried to smile at his forced humor, but curving her lips proved a monumental task.

"Tea?"

"Thank-you."

"It'll be a few minutes." He stopped fiddling and took a seat across from her. He tried to look disarming, but Vasquez saw his uncertainty. What was this about? his eyes asked. How can I help this woman? What brings her pounding on doors in the middle of the night? "Quite a shiner you have there," he said, as if just noticing. "Hmmm... goes down your face, I see."

"It goes all the way down," she admitted. "I jumped from an airplane. Well, sort of." She felt like a child before this man. She hoped he judged her lightly. "I've sinned, Father. I've sinned big-time." She looked at him, her whole spirit pleading. "You may not want to hear this."

"The Lord commands that whatever we forgive be forgiven in heaven." He shrugged. "I'm kind of obligated to forgive everything."

She sat there, staring at her hands.

"How about your name," he coaxed. "I'm at a disadvantage here..."

"Rosa."

"Ah. You from around here, Rosa?"

"No. I'm originally from Mexico. Then El Paso."

"Right. I guessed as much, the Mexico thing, that is. You have that beautiful accent. When was your last confession, Rosa?"

She was a long time answering. "Confirmation."

"Uh-huh. And I guess you weren't an adult convert?"

"No."

He chuckled. "Well, I guess you're a little rusty. Normally, we start with a prayer, kind of gets the ol' mouth muscles moving. Would you like to offer one, or should I?"

Vasquez opened her mouth, closed it. She looked at him helplessly, her mind blank. She had only wanted confession. She carried no formal words within her. She couldn't even recall the Lord's Prayer, the most basic of Christian petitions. Instead, she wondered if she made a mistake, if she should leave that place.

Then, as if dredged by an attentive muse, words surfaced from her buried childhood and flowed from her mouth with the rhythm of psalms.

"Shepherd me, O Lord, from all my wants,

from all my fears, from death into life."

Her voice cracked at the aptness of the words. She struggled to finish, feeling the full burden of her personal hell. Her body heaved. Her shoulders shook, and she gripped the table with fierce intensity. Tears flowed from the floodgates of her eyes.

Father Kennelworth rose from his chair and patted her shoulder. He respected her sorrow, and refrained from comment.

He went to get tea.

#

The headline staggered him, made him nauseous. Collins reached a trembling hand toward the tabloid in the convenience rack.

RADIO PREACHER IS EX-NAZI, WAR SURVIVOR SAYS

Davidson's earnest face glared from a full-page photograph. The shot was not complimentary; he looked forbidding, capable of evil.

"Shit," Collins hissed, then looked at the store cashier. "When did this come out?"

"They delivered them twenty minutes ago," the cashier said. "Ain't them stories a hoot?"

Collins hardly heard her. He read the article.

"Shit, shit, SHIT!" he said.

#

She stared at an old man's face, an old man's face in the black window, a reflection against the night outside. Extraordinary, she thought, and the geriatric's knobby hand reached up to touch his wrinkled cheek, just as she touched hers. This is me, she reasoned, as only one reasoned in a dream.

Her car rattled along its track. Somewhere ahead, the locomotive sounded a mournful whistle. She had been here before, she thought with growing horror. She knew this train, this ride, and where it led. She knew what the night told her, for it had told her the same so often before. She had lived this dream, though she had never remembered it.

It is your purpose. You must destroy the Antichrist.

Dark, wormy fear engulfed her. She rocked in her seat and could not look away from her grizzled reflection. An old man, she thought, why an old man? Red eyes. Haggard from age and fear. Hers, and his. She wrung her hands until they hurt.

It was the same as every other time, but now clear, a concrete memory. The fear, and the pain in her hands. And the false memories, his memories, insinuating themselves like journalistic record into her anxious mind. Through him, she recalled the dank, ageless rot that had assaulted her nose at the party, a stink like an empty house left to the elements. There had stood the Antichrist himself, a desiccated mummy in an expensive Italian suit, laughing, drinking martinis, telling jokes. No one had noticed. All those discerning people crowded into those lavish rooms, and none had seen the monster among them. Not even that young, grim-faced man in the cheap suit, who stood out from the obvious rich in his company, and who looked so much like Hitler. The monster hung at his elbow, solicitous and expectant.

Only she noticed its presence, but could do nothing about it. This was a dream, after all, a predestined, pre-plotted nightmare. She had made the usual phone call to that disembodied voice, to Birget, but the phone call never changed. The voice didn't believe. The Antichrist was drugs, the voice had said, or liquor, or not enough sleep. The voice offered nothing to kill the terrible dream. Now, the old man's form careened to the end of its nightmare. Her stiff, arthritic hands trembled against a fate they had endured a dozen times.

The mournful whistle. Her stop drifted into sight, the dark platform almost empty. She snatched at her wits, held them close as she rose against her will and passed beyond the compartment door. She couldn't concentrate; foreknowledge hung before her, too terrible to contemplate, too terrible to ignore. In this time, in this place, the monster she feared could find no better home. So many prophecies lay fulfilled. The chaos, the warfare, the financial and political disasters, the increased atheism and growing occultism had all been foretold and proven true. The world lay ripe for the greatest of usurpers, who would lead the world to terror, and then to death. And what better nest for his evil hatchings than this dream of hers, a prewar Germany steeped in poverty, starved for a chance to revenge lost fortunes. The Brownshirts, the communists, the pseudo-intellectuals and the defeated military all made perfect soldiers for the armies of hell to come. They needed no recruiting, no propaganda to focus their rage. They were already trained through the crucible of Versailles, and were willing.

The Antichrist was here. Golem.

Two men stood on the platform, one impeccable in a brushed wool suit, the other wearing that all-too-common Brownshirt uniform. They both looked well fed, and hungry for more than food.

"Abend," the impeccable man said as he tipped his hat in greeting. Always that hat. Always so polite. "You are Herr Karl Reiser, out of Berlin?"

"Ja," she answered in natural German, a language she didn't know. "What's the matter?"

"Please, come along. Someone wishes to speak with you."

She tried to refuse. Perhaps, if she woke up...

"Come along! Now!" The Brownshirt snatched at her arm.

She looked from one man to the other, and her already mangled spirit collapsed against their resolve. Who is Karl Reiser? she had once asked her mother after one of the dreams. Her mother had frozen as if slapped in the face. Then her expression had morphed to a terrible mix of anger and pain, and her response had bristled with rage. "He's dead!" she had shouted. "He's dead! They all are! He died in the ovens at Auschwitz!" The question never arose again.

These men, they came from the monster.

The train sighed away from the station. Hopelessly, she watched it go. She was a mouse caught in a cat's paw, frozen in the moment before her end. If only she could stop the dream... But, she never had. It always marched to the end, and its brutal, indecipherable purpose. The Brownshirt nudged her forward, and the three crossed the platform to the exit. The station was a plaster and tile echo chamber populated by a single ticket agent seated within his cage, a living mannequin. He was background, no help at all.

A late model Mercedes waited beneath the deep, funereal shadows of a linden tree, its canvas top up. Moving between her guards, she crunched across gravel to the car. She shrank into herself as she drew near. The impeccable man supported her, pushing her onward.

The Brownshirt pulled open the front passenger door. Someone leaned across from the driver's side, a dark figure on a dark night, almost invisible.

She knew who it was.

"You saw something you shouldn't have," the figure said in a voice like dry leaves in the wind. "This is unfortunate." He patted the passenger's seat.

The impeccable man grabbed her old man's neck and forced her into the car. Her fear finally gave way to panic. She struggled, but without success. They had their prey, and would not give it up. Then that rotted stench from the party pressed into her nostrils, choking her.

She wailed, condemned and terrified, but the car door closed on her anyway.

#

Sally burst awake, greased with sweat. "Oh, God," she wailed, "I remember."

#

"I am cast as a kind of Christian halcyon in these final days. You see, the halcyon is a fabled bird that calms the sea while it nests there during the winter solstice. How appropriate, for this is the solstice, the shortest of days, and the winds rush so violently, and threaten worse. My task is to keep the watch, to expose false prophets, and to spread the tenets of the Lord. Heed our Lord, who plainly said that none would know the time of his coming. Heed the words of Matthew 24:36. 'Of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only.' Could a mere mortal divine the plans of God, just because he claims Christian faith and speaks across the radio? Ensure that no one leads you astray. For many will come in his name, saying 'I am the Christ.' They will bring rumors of wars, or unrest and chaos, and marshal you into camps, claiming the day is at hand. But, understand this: if they say the world will end tomorrow, then surely it will not. For how could they know? The Son of Man comes at an hour you do not expect."

Gary nodded on the border of sleep, the words and images from the Bennington rebroadcast kneading the reality in his mind. He had tuned in to reruns of Saved By the Bell, then The Andy Griffith Show. Now Bennington filled the screen, and Gary couldn't rouse himself to punch the remote.

"You've heard the news. You know of the bombings of synagogues, planes, and trains, and the murder of laborers. I won't lie to you: these really could be portents of the end. But, they are more likely the common muck of our miserable earthly existence, signifying nothing beyond the decadence of man. Do not run to those selling fear! Put your house in order, come to the faith, rededicate yourself to God. Do great works for all the days allotted you, and live not in fear. Let the master return and find the servant occupied with His work, not engaged in foolery."

Next to Gary, Gramma slapped her knee. "Preach it, Reverend!" she cried with joy.

From the computer table, Dr. Ikaru gravely puffed his pipe. "A polarization of belief systems," he offered. "It also happened in the last millennium, and the crusades were born from the aftermath. Isn't that what you wrote, Gary?"

"Oh, what would you know?" Gramma complained. "You didn't write that paper. Now, what's that? The door?"

Gary's head snapped up from his chest. Bennington had relinquished the rostrum in favor of a blonde, overweight gospel singer and her multi-ethnic choir. Except for the TV, the living room was dark. What had awakened him? Sally and Eulie slept upstairs.

Someone knocked on the front door.

Gary rubbed his eyes and went to the window. A late model sedan sat behind the Nissan, and Vasquez waited on the stoop. He invited her in with hushed greetings.

"She's sleeping," he said. "Should I get her?"

Vasquez seemed relieved by Sally's absence. "No, let her be. I need to talk to you."

"Okay. Umm, can I take your coat?"

"Please."

Soon, they sat together on the couch. Vasquez watched the stairs. "Your call corresponded to some very recent discoveries, Gary. I think your friend could be in trouble, maybe even in danger, and we must find a way to protect her."

"In danger? Who from? You said this involved Bible Scholar."

"That lead you gave us finally paid off. There were five other incidents, but they were small enough to escape even regional attention, let alone federal scrutiny. They were unified by the Bible verses left behind at each scene, but secrecy prevented local police from making any connection. Yesterday, we apprehended two suspects, one for arson in Washington state, and one for vandalizing a reservoir in Kentucky. They're both followers of the Reverend Arthur Davidson. What's more, they knew our suicides at Kennedy, also Davidson fans."

"Okay, but where did you get this info? The guys at Kennedy sure didn't talk."

"These newest aren't any different. Most of what we know is second hand, coming from relatives and friends. Anyway, the entire Davidson empire is now under surveillance." She fidgeted in place. "It almost didn't happen. Davidson was an important contributor to the president's reelection campaign."

"Sally wrote a story about Davidson," Gary said. "I don't know what it said, but it wasn't anything nice, if I know her at all."

"Did it tie him to terrorism?"

"I said, I don't know. She's private about her stories. I think she's ashamed of them."

"She didn't tell you anything?"

Gary thought. He wondered what any of this meant for Sally. "She's written stuff about Davidson before, and John Bennington, the TV guy." He nodded toward the television. "She gets her material from their own web pages and the forums built around them." He looked at Vasquez doubtfully. "There was this thing about an e-mail account. She closed an account at University Computing Services after giving its address over the net. Right after, some guys came to the computer lab, looking for her."

"Then they got her home address, and broke into her house."

"I doubt it. The account was unofficial. No records. The tech in charge admitted nothing. The men went away empty-handed."

"Who were they?"

He watched her with narrowed eyes. "Actually, Sally thought it was you."

"Excuse me?"

"The men looked like cops, maybe even feds. Sally thinks they were you. She also thinks you broke into her house."

Vasquez stiffened. "I didn't go after her e-mail, Gary. And I didn't burglarize her home..."

"You threatened worse."

"But, I didn't do it. You believe me, don't you?"

Gary expelled a long breath, his half-hearted challenge broken. "Then who the hell's responsible? If they did it once, they could do it again, and next time she might be home."

"You said that the only thing missing was dirt on Davidson. I don't think he likes his press."

"You think he sent goons to shut Sally up? Why? She writes for tabloids, for God's sake."

"Much of Davidson's financial support comes from that demographic. I mean the people who actually believe what the tabloids print. If she wrote something damning, it could affect his financial base..."

"Come on. She's been writing the stuff for years. Nobody ever bothered her before."

"I can't say." Vasquez sighed. "I'll have to talk to her. But, it's also possible your friend--"

"Sally."

"What?"

"She has a name. It's Sally. Treat her with respect."

"Okay, Sally," Vasquez drawled. "She might be in danger, especially if Davidson heads a major -- and very violent -- terrorist organization."

"You think it's going that way?"

"The trend is fairly definite."

"Man, he's coming to Indy. This weekend. Sally and I are getting tickets."

"That may not be wise."

"It's a research thing. She's writing a story. I'm observing the crowd."

"If Davidson is behind all this, he may not care for her presence."

"She needs protection. I'll go wake her."

Vasquez grabbed his arm, then coaxed him back to the couch. "There's more."

Gary's throat tightened at her tone. It got worse? Sally was on the shit list of the biggest terrorist in American history? It got worse than that?

"One of our targets is a guy named Michael Adams--"

"Oh, shit..."

"You know him?"

"I know of him. He's Sally's ex, right? The son of a bitch used to beat her. Psychological warfare, too. He's a scum bag."

"He's also her ex, Gary. Because of that, I don't think she's trustworthy with this information."

Gary stared. "You think Sally might collaborate with the man who destroyed her life?"

"Statistics bear out--"

Anger fought reason for control of Gary's face. "I know the fucking statistics. I'm telling you it's bullshit. Sally wants nothing to do with that Michael Adams character. She'd just as soon kick his balls as kiss him."

Vasquez spoke very softly. "Gary, you're a nice guy. She's very lucky--"

"Whatever's between us--"

"--but you don't know much about men and women."

"--is none of your business."

"Granted. But, some men are control freaks. They threaten, torture, and bend a woman until she's convinced she likes it, or she blames herself for the treatment. Women like that lose any rational compass where men are concerned. They behave stupidly. I'm sorry, Gary, but the statistics say that Sally will run back to Adams any chance he gives her, and take his abuse with whipped cream and nuts. She'll also take her son into it--"

"Bullshit!"

"--and, if she does that to her son, then why protect our measly little secrets?"

Something bumped upstairs. They stared at each other, knowing the source of the sound. Vasquez begged silence with her serious honey eyes.

"Who is it?" Sally said from the bottom of the stairs.

Vasquez stood. She moved between Gary and Sally. "It's Agent Vasquez, Miss Reiser. I was discussing your case with Gary here."

Sally gave no response.

"I was concerned about your break-in."

Sally stood just in the TV's light in a tightly wrapped terry cloth robe over sweat pants. Her face shone with skepticism. It also glistened from sweat.

"I think you might have offended someone in the Davidson camp, possibly even a low-grade disciple, a glorified dead head. With your help, I can locate them."

Sally stared, then sought Gary's eyes. He sat on the couch, elbows on knees, holding his lips closed to a line. "Gary? What is this? You said Bible Scholar--"

"My fault," Vasquez hastened to say. "I misread some data. Sorry, I'm out of the loop. They took me off the case."

"How sad for you," Sally said, not sounding sad at all.

"I'll get you protection until we find this guy. Could you tell me what he was after?"

Sally ran her hands through her hair, her eyes not moving from Gary. "I don't need your protection."

"Gary told me about the e-mail thing. That wasn't us. Neither was this burglary."

Sally grunted skepticism. She moved to the laptop and bumped its mouse to activate its screen. "I can take care of myself, thank-you."

"Miss Reiser, I know we haven't exactly clicked, but--"

Sally's glare was death. Vasquez shut her mouth.

Two clicks of the mouse, and Sally's printer hummed. "Here," she said, handing over the double-spaced pages. "If you wanted it so bad, you could have just waited. It hits the newsstand this morning."

"Thank-you. I wish I could gain your trust in this matter."

"Do you have what you need to grab this evil manuscriptnapper?"

Vasquez returned her stare.

"Then I guess you ought to leave. Unless you and Gary have something else to discuss behind my back. Should I go back upstairs and plug my ears?"

Vasquez sighed. She took up her coat, but did not put it on. "I'm not dense," she said, moving to the door. Then she was gone, the door hanging wide behind her.

Sally clicked it closed.

Here it comes, Gary thought.

"What is this?" Sally asked. "What were you saying before I came down?"

"It's classified."

She laughed, the sound unpleasant. "Classified? You'd pull that on me? It was about me, wasn't it? Wasn't it?"

He looked at her, helpless. "She offered you protection, Sally. I think you should take it."

"I think I should get back to bed and out of the company of so-called friends." She padded to the stairs. "You can stay 'til morning, since there aren't any buses. I've blankets somewhere. Help yourself."

"Where are they?"

"That's classified."

#

He watched her leave and wondered who she was. Not a casual acquaintance, not this late. He nudged his sleeping partner and squelched his grumbling as the sedan backed from the Reiser driveway.

"Get on that radio," he said, and rattled off the license plate number. "Rental car. Avis. Find out who rented it. He'll want to know."

"Aww, man, why me? You're the one awake."

"I have to watch the house."

"And I have to get some sleep."

"Fine. I'll report that attitude next time he calls."

The grumbler climbed to the back, bypassing the stowed surveillance equipment and the weapons in their fiberglass cases. He found the laptop far in the rear of the van, then opened it and activated its VOIP connection. He rubbed his face and yawned, wondering at the time. Maybe he'd wake them up. So? The Reverend always said "The clock's poised at 11:59 and fifty-nine seconds! Waiting is not an option!" Fine. The grumbler hoped he'd scare them all out of bed. Yawning once more, he clicked the proper icon, and spoke.

Chapter Eleven:

Romans 2:21-23

(Back to Table of Contents)

Arthur Davidson stormed from the broadcast booth, the station manager trailing him. "Did you hear that nonsense?" he shouted to Collins, who waited just down the hall. "This is intolerable!"

"I'm so sorry," the station manager keened. "But, we couldn't screen them out, even with your people helping."

Collins weathered the worst of Davidson's fury. "An entire hour of 'Why did you help the Nazis, Reverend?', 'My grandfather fought the Nazis, Reverend', 'Are you really an angel of Satan, Reverend?' By God, Collins, it must be stopped!"

"Perhaps a second, explanatory broadcast would help?" the station manager suggested, wringing his hands.

"Please!" Davidson spat. "We need to speak alone! Do you mind?"

"Sorry, not at all. I'll just be in the office..." The manager sidled past, then disappeared down the hall.

Collins waited for his boss to collect himself. Davidson breathed deeply, then exhaled anger into the hall. "I'll have to attack," he decided, "destroy it before it gets me. You talk to advertising, Collins. Change the ads to reflect this strategy. I will attack the press that released the story; I will attack and destroy the writer. They will learn what it is to libel a prophet of God."

"Umm, sir?" Collins hated contradicting his chief, but sometimes it was necessary. "Maybe there's a better way?"

"Oh?" Davidson turned on Collins. His eyes were frightful things, full of depth, age, and condescension. He was unlike other men. He tolerated men as commodities, discarding them when expedient. All this showed in his eyes, which was one reason he did radio.

"Well, sir, wouldn't it be best to just shrug it off? I mean, look what she said. You're a walking dead, an abomination? A confidant of Hitler, engineer of the Jewish genocide? What's that make you, at least a hundred and forty years old? It's all nonsense, sir. Maybe we should treat it as such, and just laugh it off?"

Davidson's tone was impatient. "Your vision is so limited, Collins. You want to believe with all your heart. The question is what to believe."

Collins shrank away. Davidson continued unabated. "They did the same to the Christ, Collins. They covered him in half truths, then escorted him to the cross. But, at least his destiny lay with that cross. He died that we might live. My purpose is somewhat different. I have a mission, and cannot succumb to obstacles set by man. So many times, I've suffered at the hands of my enemies. The Turks halted four crusades. The so-called enlightened clergy of Rome abolished the Inquisition. I found myself mired in madmen and bullies in the French revolution and the First World War. Only in the second did I find the shadow of promise..." Collins listened, but none of it was new. He knew about the prophecies and the Reverend's unique spin on them. He knew the plan for the next few weeks. But, he didn't know everything. He still wondered at these tirades. Did the Reverend speak in allegory, or did he seriously believe that all those lives were his? Not that it really mattered. Though odd indeed, he led the movement, carrying it by sheer charisma. "I have the tools this time, Collins, and a clear mandate from God himself." Davidson stared at his chief assistant, oblivious of the office workers passing around them. His voice was loud and strained. "I have been called by God to destiny, and I will be allowed to complete my work!"

The hall fell still at his booming declaration. Witnesses stared as Davidson shrugged, looked around, and seemed to recall his surroundings. Dismissing the strangers, he leaned close to Collins. "The Reiser woman," he whispered, "I want her expunged."

With that, he walked away, his firm steps ringing against the hard tile floor.

#

"Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it."

"I was going here, anyway."

Her tone stung. She had been testy all morning, and refused to let up. Now they left the car in a campus parking garage, and Sally walked from the exit, leaving Gary behind.

"Hey," he said, jogging to catch up. "Can I help it if she told me a secret? I didn't ask her to, you know."

"Oh, please! She gave you money, a wink, and a shot at excitement, and you're signed on like a lifer."

"Sally, you know better than that. It's a job. They wanted you, too, after all."

"Who said I wanted this gig? God, why am I talking to you? You're just a spy for your girlfriend. It's a power kick to you. Just like the others."

They stopped on the sidewalk and checked for traffic. The street was empty. With the students gone after finals, the campus looked just as deserted.

"You're full of it," Gary said.

"Oh? You talked about me, Gary. What did you say?"

Gary held his tongue.

"Just what I thought. Have a nice day, junior G-man." She cut across the street.

Gary followed. "You're not very easy to like, you know."

"Nobody's given me reason to be."

He grabbed her arm. She shook free, but he latched on again. He held her close, their faces inches apart. "I'd never hurt you. Please believe that."

"Let go of me."

He held her stare a moment, searching her eyes for the smallest speck of compassion. All he found was ice. Sighing, he released her. She stood there a second, hitching her bag farther up her shoulder. Then she turned away, headed toward the Technology Building a short walk down the street.

Let her go, Gary thought. She's a headache, anyway.

Go to her, he thought again. Don't let her leave like this.

He turned the other way down the street, and cut across the grass to his building.

#

"Ah," Dr. Ikaru said as Gary entered his office. "I'm glad you're early. Now, I can leave before lunch."

Gary placed his book bag on the only other chair. He fished out the manila envelopes and handed them across the desk. "Graded tests and student evaluations."

"Excellent. So, I guess you're free until January. Have a seat, young man. Have a seat."

The office was a closet, barely large enough for the worn desk dominating its space. When Gary took his book bag's place in the chair, his extended legs stretched nearly across the room.

"You look morose," Dr. Ikaru observed as he opened the envelopes and filed their contents. Normally, he first verified the test results against the key, and then against the semester grades, but Gary was nothing if not efficient. "What is it, Gary? Money problems again?"

"Worse," Gary sighed. "Women."

Ikaru grinned. "An interesting change. I thought you were maybe a celibate monk of some obscure religious order."

"Sure. The Order of the Burned Out, Overworked Doctoral Student. No, money's no problem, not lately, anyway. I told you about that FBI gig."

"Yes. Our friend Mr. Tuttle was very disappointed, but he did recommend you to the federals."

"Well, cash isn't a worry."

"But, this girl is. I remember those days. Of course, after thirty-four years of marriage, the rough ways are made smooth. Is this something you'd like to discuss?"

"No. But I'd like some information. I figured you'd have answers, if anyone does."

"Well! I'll try to vindicate your faith." He stopped working his papers.

Gary leaned across the desk. "I'm not exactly sure about this. This girl I know has a little boy, six years old, with mental and physical disabilities. She isn't rich, and her son's therapies suck her income dry; she barely survives. Are there any government programs to alleviate the financial stress?"

Ikaru nodded. "There certainly are, especially if she lives within any of the larger school districts of the metro area. I can't recall specific names of programs, but the public schools are required to offer special education opportunities to students within their districts, all the way from preschool, mind you, and they do it essentially for free."

"I don't think she's worried about classes. He's in a solid, sensitive preschool. It's the medical expenses that bury her."

"The public school programs include physical, speech, and psychological therapy, at the least. I think they offer occupational therapy, too. The services are very complete if the individual program is properly administered, and services are based on an evaluation of the student by school personnel, parents, and members of the medical community."

"And, it's free?"

"As far as I know. It's really a social services issue, but the tentacles of SPEA reach far and wide, as I'm sure you know." He smiled. "Seriously, you should check the public school commitment. As long as they receive federal funds for special education, they must provide these services."

Gary stared at nothing, planning. "So, I can get details at the School of Social Sciences..."

"I'll do you better than that, young man. Call Crossroads Rehabilitation Center on the north side of town. They can direct you to specific programs, maybe even specific administrators."

"Beast. I won't have to hunt as much."

Ikaru grinned. "You like this girl, don't you, Gary?"

"She's a friend," Gary said, "or she used to be."

#

"Got your stuff," Kevin said when Sally walked through the door. The computer lab was empty. Even the tech-heads were absent, home for Christmas vacation. Kevin left his workstation in the back corner of the room and walked up the double row of Macintoshes to where Sally stood in the entryway. He took a jump drive from his shirt pocket and held it out to her.

"Thanks, Kevin. I'm grateful."

"No sweat. It helped pass the time." Their fingers brushed as she took the drive. She flinched away. "What's the matter?" Kevin asked, as if he couldn't guess.

"Nothing. I'm just foul, that's all. Thanks, Kevin. 'Bye."

"Don't you want to know what's on it?" Kevin asked as she turned to leave. His voice held an edge of desperation.

"I'll read it at home," she said from the door. "I can read it, can't I?"

He shrugged. "Well, sure. But, aren't you even curious?"

She wanted to leave, to just throw him a disingenuous smile and hurry out the door. After all, what did Kevin want beyond a fighting chance at sex? Not much, she imagined. Still, she owed him. Where would she shop for data, if not through him? "Okay, I'll bite. What's on the drive?"

"Weird shit," he said, his eyes brightening. "Digging it up was a hoot." He grabbed a chair from a workstation and offered it to her. Sally arrested a frown, and sat. "Your old lady said Arthur Davidson was in his seventies and schmoozing with Hitler back in the 1920s. The public record says he was born in the forties in Argentina. To determine what was what, I Skyped some friends in Buenos Aires and Berlin. I asked them to check their ends for anything on Davidson's past, including birth records. I also asked them to toss me their links, so I could archive them for your reference."

Listen to him preen, Sally thought, and wanted to smack him. Do men actually carry a gene for self-importance?

Getting no reaction, Kevin pushed on, though his tone deflated. "Argentina found zip on the web. Records that old aren't computerized. But, he was nice enough to check the physical files at city hall. Your birth date is correct: April 18, 1945. No news there. Arthur Davidson, born to Jewish immigrants from Germany."

Now it was Sally's turn to deflate. There would be no follow-up story.

"But," Kevin continued, holding up a cautioning finger, "something very interesting. My friend also found the records of Arthur Davidson, age eight months, who died on December 3, 1945."

"Died."

"Uh-huh. In his sleep. What we'd call sudden infant death syndrome. He's buried in a Jewish cemetery outside Buenos Aires. And no other Arthur Davidson was born any time during or around that period."

"You're sure," she said, interested now. "I mean, record keeping back then..."

"Come on, Sally. We're talking the 1940s, not the middle ages." He pulled out a chair and sat close across from her. "In 1945, the family Davidson had copies made of little Arthur's birth records. The request for copies dove-tailed with a sudden rise in fortunes for Mr. Davidson's shoe business, which had been choking for years. Seems Mr. Davidson got a sudden influx of investment capital from a small but ass-kicking stock speculation company from Germany, proprietor and sole employee a guy named Werner Braun."

"From Germany."

"Uh-huh. My buds in Germany checked out this Braun guy, but couldn't get much, considering the sheer number of Brauns involved. It's close to looking up John Smith here in America. So, considering the bizarro nature of your research -- Davidson being a Nazi Methuselah, and all -- I had them check the records for the mid-1870s. You know, seventy-five or so years before the Davidson birth?"

"Yes, Kevin, you're very clever. What did you find?"

"Nothing yet. Too many cities, too many border changes, too many wars resulting in too many lost or destroyed records."

"There's an end to this, right Kevin?"

"So, figuring we were just too swamped, we came at the problem from the other direction, checking the bios of all Hitler's recorded associates. Hitler's very big on the web. That's how we found Frau Bechstein's parties for the rich, famous, and the up-and-coming, a series of soirees held at her house both before and during the war."

Sally straightened in her chair. The hair rose on her arms and neck. "Frau Beckstein. Karl Reiser went to those parties."

Kevin looked at her, his mouth a pursed "O". "Who?"

My grandfather's brother, Sally thought, her stomach sinking. She feared what Kevin might tell her next. Dry leaves rattled in the dark of her mind.

She stood suddenly, startling both of them. She hitched her bag higher onto her shoulder. "Look, I really need to run, Kevin. I'll read it and talk with you later--"

"But, we got him, Sally. Werner Braun, born September 7, 1875, rich gentry-at-large, the source of his fortune a mystery."

"That's great, Kevin," she said, her voice rising in pitch, "but I'm looking for Arthur Davidson, not Werner Braun. This is getting too convoluted and too ... too silly." She turned toward the door as she spoke. "Thanks for the help, Kevin. You're a pal."

"No, hold on!" he shouted as she left. "I'm just getting to the good part!"

God!

He bolted to his workstation and rummaged the papers there. "I've something here you have to see. Just one minute--"

But, she was gone.

Sally hurried away from the lab, her boots clicking on the tile floor. She felt relief and disappointment at once, relief at having cut off Kevin's story without hearing the end, regret of the same. But, did she really want to know the end? She strangled that thought and shook herself. Kevin told a ridiculous story, the worst, most clichéd science fiction drivel. Drivel she could work with, but even the trashy tabloids would balk at such utter fantasy.

"Sally, hold up!" she heard from behind, and groaned. Kevin caught her at the exit.

"Come on, look at this," he said, panting from his run. "It's what you asked for, after all." He handed her a photographic image taken from the web. The paper framed eight men eying her with humorless, arrogant faces. She recognized one as Adolf Hitler. Kevin tapped a face circled in black marker.

Sally's hands shook. She felt sick and afraid. It is your purpose, not mine, the old woman had said. You must destroy the Antichrist. "It's him," Sally said. "It's Arthur Davidson."

"No," Kevin corrected. "It's Werner Braun."

She didn't know what to say, but fears scrabbled within her, paralyzing her will. Something formed in the dark of her being, almost visible, almost within reach. She feared that thing, feared the radical change it threatened for her life. Just in time, she forced it away, and threw up hasty walls of denial.

"For God's sake, Kevin, do you realize how silly this sounds?"

"It's just what your old lady in England says. Besides, it's a picture. Now, unless this is Arthur Davidson's long-lost identical twin great-grandfather, then some weird shit is going on, and that's for sure."

"You're saying that Arthur Davidson was born Werner Braun in 1875, that he amassed a fortune under mysterious circumstances, that he helped Hitler orchestrate the Holocaust, then fled to Argentina and bought himself a new identity from the very people he tried to exterminate?"

"You forgot the part about his being over a hundred and forty years old and not having aged an hour in seventy-plus years."

"That's bullshit," Sally spat, "lame-brained, cockeyed bullshit!" She shoved the printout back at him. "What about the Davidson kid's family? Are you saying they kept all this secret for half a century?"

"No, I'm saying that there aren't any Davidsons anymore, at least not from that family. They all died in various accidents between 1945 and 1948. Very tragic, don't you think?"

She stared at him, her jaw tight.

"From there," he continued, "it gets strange. Once we made this Braun character, we were able to find his records. Same story as with the Davidsons, only the Brauns didn't die in accidents after selling their dead kid's identity. They were killed during the kulturkampf of 1878 by anti-Catholic gangbangers."

She continued to stare, saying nothing.

"Kulturkampf," he elaborated. "Cultural struggle. Chancellor Bismarck tried to break the Catholic Church in Germany. I wouldn't be surprised if some other version of Werner Braun masterminded that, as well."

The muscles flexed in Sally's jaw. She thought she might scream.

"Then there's our theory about the birth record purchases. We figure it wouldn't do much good to buy birth records only a few years old, not when you're presumably seventy-five. We think he makes the buy every five or ten years, and stocks up the documents so he always has something to choose from. Of course, that means a lot more families doing the dust to dust thing, don't you think?"

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

"Hey, I thought you wanted this. Don't you write this stuff all the time?"

"He has not one, but two false identities. So, how old is he this time, Kevin?"

Kevin's lips grew tight. He threw up his hands. "Okay, fine. I was just doing a favor." He turned back down the hall. "It's okay," he called over his shoulder. "I'm cool. You change your mind, it's all on the disk. And, thank-you, I will have a great Christmas break, just as soon as I put some distance between me and all this sci-fi crapola."

She stood alone at the exit. Except for Kevin's footsteps, the building crouched uncomfortably still around her. Had she screwed up again? How so? Because she refused to acknowledge this clean corroboration of the old lady's fantasies? Because she refused to acknowledge the blatantly Old Testament essence of the story unfolding before her? Because she refused to acknowledge her vindicated dream? Her great-uncle Reiser had disappeared after meeting Werner Braun at a society party. His family, those Hitler could grab, had all died in the death camps. The Reiser/Braun connection had vanished with the dead, except for a call to Birget Hoffmann ninety years ago, a phone call in a dream. A terrible message had hunted Sally across time and circumstance, and now across her own black chasm of fear.

It is your purpose. You must destroy the Antichrist.

No. It was bullshit, untouchable even for the lowest of tabloids. This had been her heat pump, maybe three thousand bucks. Not anymore, not this story.

The thought screamed through the empty, judgmental halls.

"Well, fuck you, too!" she yelled, and regretted the outburst immediately.

After standing there for another few moments, she huffed through the exit and into the cold, lonely campus.

#

She watched him approach across the desolate quadrangle. She seemed not to notice as he brushed snow from the bench and sat down beside her. She just sat there, her knitted hat and mittens off, her coat open wide to the harsh winter cold. She did not wait for him to speak, did not wait for anything. She just sat there, her eyes tired and old.

"I saw you through the windows, from up there in the SPEA building," he said. "Kind of cold, don't you think?"

"Not so cold," she said, her voice deadpan, almost mechanical. "It's so quiet here."

"That's because everyone with sense is inside."

"Have you ever thought about it? Freezing to death? I mean, it's such a peaceful way to go in the movies. You just turn gradually whiter, and you fall asleep."

The hair tickled the nape of his neck.

"Don't worry, I'm not making plans. I have Eulie to think of."

"You've more than that, Sally."

She turned to him and flashed that magnificent smile. It was a vital elixir that quenched as no other could. "You said my name." Her voice sparkled. "I love it when you say my name. At first, you wouldn't do it. Have you decided you like me?"

"You're all right, just weird. Does all this mean you're no longer mad?"

"I'm not mad, not at anybody. I just need a vacation."

The almost treeless quadrangle was a desert of wind-swept snow. The bench on which they sat seeped cold through Gary's jeans and into his numbing body. "I'm freezing my ass," he complained.

"This was my heat pump," Sally said, less a response than continued broodiness. "But, they won't buy it and I'm too scared to write it."

"What's the matter?" Gary asked, worried.

"Nothing. I'm just tired."

"We all are, Sally. It's part of life. Whatever's bothering you, leave it in the past. Turn around. See what fills your future."

"I have Eulie."

"You also have me."

She nuked him again with that smile. "That's sweet. I appreciate the sentiment."

"Not just sentiment. As much as you tick me off sometimes, I'm still here for you, you and Eulie both." The words frightened him. He still held back their full meaning.

"You're such a sweetheart," she said. "Loan me three thousand dollars?"

He huffed. "Yeah, right. Like I've got three thousand bucks in my wallet."

"What about that debit card? You know I'm good for it, being a bizillionaire nationally published journalist, and all."

"You aren't serious."

Her face darkened again. "No, I'm not." Her swings from morose monotone to effusive sugar unnerved him. "But, what the hell! Maybe you're the bizillionaire, a Prince Charming come to relieve me of my poor, tired, pathetic life."

Now he felt guilty. "I don't have three thousand dollars. If I used the card like that, they'd probably throw me in jail."

She said nothing, just closed her eyes and flexed her unprotected fingers.

"I've a thought," Gary continued, unsure what he would say. "Maybe you can have that vacation you mentioned, at least for a few hours. Maybe, if you're willing, we could go out, maybe to dinner. It'd be good. You could put things in perspective."

She sought the frozen wind with her face. "Gary LaMonte, are you asking for a date?"

"Well, I don't know. What if I was?"

"I haven't been on a date in years. I swore it off. I'm still not ready."

"Okay, so it isn't a date. It's stuffing your face for free. Oh, I know: payment due for your help on my paper. How about it?"

"It's neither, Gary. It's a date." She dropped into silence as the wind thrust with unexpected vigor against her. Gary almost spoke, thinking she had finished. "Gary, I'm afraid. I like you. If we get together, will you turn into the others?"

"No. I'm not the others..."

"Don't get too close. I'm not the girl you want, or the girl you deserve."

Her tone bothered him; it drifted too close to "no". He needed a positive answer. "Sorry, I think I'm lost," he said, pretending nonchalance. "Weren't we discussing a business dinner?"

A wry smile crossed her lips. "Do I get pasta?"

"You want pasta, you get pasta."

"Okay, then. Don't try any funny business, though."

"No funny business, absolutely not. Now, do you have a sitter for Eulie?"

The bright morning sun reflected off the cable knit of her sweater. The woolen swell of her breasts briefly distracted Gary from his question.

No funny business, he reminded himself.

"I've no babysitter at all."

"Excuse me?"

"I've no babysitter. I've never left Eulie with anyone except the daycare."

"You mean you haven't had a day off in over six years?"

"I don't need a day off. Eulie's all I live for. Besides, I couldn't leave my baby on the first night of Hanukkah. If that's a problem--"

"No, none at all. Eulie's cool. Now, where would you like to go?"

"You're the man..."

He watched her a moment, amazed that she consented to his offer. She leaned almost dreamily into the wind, so out of character, so possessed. Her face flushed red in the cold. He noticed her shiver beneath the heavy, loose weave of her sweater.

"Sally, what are you doing exactly?"

"Pretending," she answered matter-of-factly. "I'm wondering what it's like. You know, to freeze to death."

"You said..."

"I said I wouldn't do it, not that I wouldn't consider it."

She looked at him with deliberate calm. "I would never kill myself, Gary. I have Eulie to think of."

Still he stared, his mouth dry.

"You have something to say?" she asked.

"But, you'd consider it? I mean, Sally..."

"It's not the first time, Gary. Suicide and I, we're old friends. See?" She rolled back the sleeves of her coat and sweater, then held her arms out to him, palms up.

He noted the scar across each wrist.

"Jesus, Sally."

"It's like cards," she continued, her voice and face bland. "Have you ever gotten a hand you knew you couldn't win? What's the point? You throw it in and go get a beer. Sometimes, I can almost taste that beer."

He bolted to his feet and stepped in front of her. Without a word, he zipped her coat. Then he took her hat from the bag and jammed it onto her head. He held that small, angular head, so white in his dark hands. She watched him passively, willing to follow, but not willing to listen.

"Don't you ever," he said to her. "Promise me you won't."

"What good are promises?" she asked. "Nobody ever keeps them."

#

Michael groaned at the beeping from his jacket. He put down his fork and its sweet smell of eggs and reached for the cell phone he hated so much.

"Business," he said to the waitress across the truck stop counter, and she diplomatically moved away.

"Yeah, Collins, what do you want now?"

"Not Collins, young man, and I want your full attention."

Michael stiffened. "Yes, sir. Is there a problem?"

"A woman named Sally Reiser. I believe you've made her acquaintance?"

"Yes, sir. We were married once."

"Well, I'm sure you'll want to see her again after so many years, especially since she's giving me no end to grief. Where are you now, Michael?"

"Just out of Pulaski, Tennessee. On I-65 North."

"I want you to stop off in Indianapolis and find Miss Reiser. Collins seems inept at the job. I want her silenced, Michael."

"But, sir, what about the package?"

"It can wait a few hours. Take care of this ex-wife problem of yours. I am not well disposed to personal distractions intruding on my mission. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir. Perfectly."

"Good. So, by Friday: no more avatars creeping from your life to mine. Am I right?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely."

"Excellent. Drive safely, Michael."

The line died. Michael returned the phone to his jacket. He'd accepted blame for Sally's meddling though he hadn't seen the woman in years. If the Reverend blamed him, then that was gospel to live on. He would find her, and he would silence her, and he'd feel much better afterwards, perhaps his best in years. Shit rolls downhill, he thought. According to Collins, it had rolled like a truck over that old woman in England. Now it was Sally's turn, and the idea both thrilled and sickened Michael. No longer hungry, he pushed away his plate and went to pay his tab.

"The boss upset?" the waitress-now-cashier asked with mock conspiracy.

"Yeah, you know how it is. Got any tabloids for sale around here?"

#

She dropped him off around 10:30, shaving it close to beat Eulie home. Gary, somewhat dazed, took the shoveled walk to his door, his mind looping the morning's surprises. He tried to hide in the news for Eulie, but his heart escaped deception with irksome persistence, always returning to Sally's marred wrists. I said I wouldn't do it, she had told him with frightening blandness, not that I wouldn't consider it.

He watched the decrepit Nissan struggle into the slush-packed street. It was easily as old as Sally, but not nearly as worn. He wanted to roll back time, place himself at just the right place and at just the right moment to deliver her from her demons. But, in the end, all people are burdened — and altogether defined -- by the accumulated trials of their lives. The woman he cared for would not now exist except for her past oppression. God chose fire to temper his tools on earth.

"Well, come on in from the cold," someone said from behind him. Gramma stood in the doorway. "Gary, I don't know about you. For years, it's all study, and now girls coming out of the woodwork."

"Excuse me, Gramma?"

"Get in here."

A woman lay on their living room couch. She lay on her side, her back turned to them, the curve of her flank alluring even beneath the sweater, jacket, and long, billowy skirt. Her lean, golden legs curled partly behind her, too long for the couch. One black pump dangled provocatively from a limp foot. Gary recognized her; he knew no one else so long and physical.

"She got here less than half an hour ago, fell off to sleep right in the middle of talking. She showed me a badge. She don't look like the police, Gary."

"She's a cop, all right. FBI."

"She's all bruised up. What are you into, Gary? I want to know."

He walked to Vasquez, wondering if he should wake her. Her bruises still raged, as they would for weeks. But, her face shone angelic and calm beneath them, authority and power stolen by sleep. Why on earth had he felt so guilty? he asked himself. Of course she attracted him. She was magnificent.

"Gary?"

"Can't say, Gramma. Government stuff."

He turned back to her as she shuffled to her chair only a few feet from the couch. "Don't worry," he said. "It's dangerous only to her."

Vasquez stirred. Gary bent to her ear. "Agent Vasquez? Rose?"

She stirred again. Her eyelids fluttered. Then she stared at the couch back, recalling where she was.

"Agent Vasquez?"

"I fell asleep."

"I guess so."

She moved by slow, deliberate stages to a sitting position, favoring her damaged side.

"Oww."

"Feeling poorly?"

"You could say that." She rubbed her face and stiffened as she touched the bruises. "Oww!"

Gary waited. Gramma rocked patiently.

Vasquez put her hands in her lap. She mustered a professional bearing. Gary watched the unburdened innocence of sleep evaporate from her face.

"I'm sorry," Vasquez said. "I've been going forever, it seems. Thank-you for your indulgence." She turned to Gary directly. "I couldn't get that protection we spoke of. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

Gramma made a huffing sound. She pointed her remote at the TV.

"It's a small house," Gary apologized. "The kitchen?"

Vasquez followed him. "I'm very sorry," she said to Gramma as she passed. "It's government work, and very secret."

Gramma increased the TV volume.

#

Vasquez and Gary spoke in whispers, leaning across the table over glasses of Kool-aid.

"I went to the Indianapolis office," Vasquez said. "They can't spare a man. Neither can my team." She cringed and, in the name of truth, backed up. "My ex-team. I'm out on medical, and my boss is kind of pissed at me."

"Oh? Why? That thing in New York?"

"Sort of. Anyway, no one can spare a security detail. There was this thing in Asia involving an American F-18 fighter. We apparently have at least three countries in an uproar and everything has gone that way."

"You said Sally was in danger. What kind of chickenshit reaction is this from the United States government?"

"I said she might be in trouble. There may be nothing to it. Priorities--"

"Correction: chickenshit reaction from you."

"I tried, Gary. All of a sudden though, I got no pull."

Gary leaned closer to her. "No pull? You had all the pull. What happened out there, Agent Vasquez?"

What happened out there? What happened? She had gone out there and been destroyed. Father Kennelworth had hardly considered her late night confession before suggesting her penance. Since she thought herself lost to evil, he had said, she must go into the world and rescue another from her same plight of despair, desperation, and loss of grace. In helping another find their way, she would surely rediscover her own.

"Sally Reiser," Vasquez had said. The priest had raised an eyebrow. Did this Reiser person have need of the Lord?

"No," Vasquez had answered, confused and a little frightened. "I mean, I don't know. I hardly even know her, Father. The name just entered my head, that's all."

"See?" he had smiled. "You aren't as lost as you think. He speaks to you; you just have to listen. Now, go and find this Sally Reiser, and, well ... do what comes naturally."

"I'll have to do it myself," she said. "No one else will."

The thought disturbed her. Vasquez cherished the team, depended on it. As the FBI, the El Paso police department, the Army, or her sorority, the team had always surrounded her, nurtured her, and projected her talents toward greatest success. It had guaranteed a home, had sustained her in times of weakness. And, above all her teams in all her life, the church had stood omnipotent and constant. Thanks to Father Kennelworth, perhaps it still did.

Now, the Church had set her an imperative: protect Sally Reiser. It demanded she gather another, more earthly team to ensure the success of that mission. It even hinted at where she should start. So, unfocused and unsure, Vasquez obeyed the hot drive buried within her soul, an ember that hoped for redemption in obedience. Vasquez was driven, but she was also scared to death.

"Then, we tell her," Gary said. "If she's in danger, she needs to know."

"That could foul a major investigation. I've no authority there."

"I couldn't care less. If she's in trouble, she needs to know."

"I can take care of her, with your help."

"You can barely sit up."

"Remember what I told her about the Espionage Acts? The same applies to you. I'll handle it. Don't tell her anything."

"Sally told me about the Espionage Acts. Every time you feds invoke it, you get your teeth kicked in. But, back to serious talk. Look at yourself. How can you protect her?"

"You have a better candidate?"

He looked away, and thought. He stood. He stepped to the phone and took up its handset, checking for the business card tacked to the wall.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling for help." He tapped the numbers, and waited. "Attorney General's office? I need Mr. Tuttle, please."

Chapter Twelve:

Luke 21:25-28

(Back to Table of Contents)

"I recall the authority of those words and the sincerity of the speaker. He warned me. He said they would cause me to suffer in His name, that they would torture, defame, and murder me because of Him. Well, it's begun. In a sleazy tabloid immersed in gossip and innuendo, they have libeled me, defiled my name, called into question my faithful service. Many of you know the defamers of whom I speak. Many of you have read the scurrilous words of my chief accuser, this Sally Reiser. She quotes unnamed sources who tie me to the most monstrous acts in human history. I'm a Nazi war criminal, a friend of the evil dictator Hitler, an engineer of genocide. How preposterous! As if I commanded the Third Reich when I was only a few years old!

"I'd ignore it all, if not for the consequences. For our world is enslaved by sin, and by the lying lieutenants of the one below. Perhaps Sally Reiser is misled by evil. Perhaps she is a soldier of the great Abomination, of the chaos-bringer we know as Antichrist! I don't know; I'm just a man in the service of God. I do know, however, that this woman's evil words have rattled the faith of our weaker brothers and sisters. She has sown in them the seed of distrust, hoping to lead them from the one true path. Me? I am nothing. Trample me, tear me, sully me. But, don't shave the ranks of the saved. There isn't the time to rebuild faith, to regather sheep. Our time is nearly up. We can't allow this emissary of Satan to claim our brethren for her terrible master.

"So, I call on your strength, on your fortitude against evil. Strike against this monstrous sham. Strike against this vindictive charade, this insidious gambit to split the Lord's--"

"What an asshole," Sally said without thinking, and clicked the radio off.

"Who ass hole?" Eulie asked from the table. He continued eating his buttered bagel, and failed to notice his mother's startled face.

Sally left the radio and sat beside her son. She doled out contrition as she leaned toward him and spoke. "Honey, don't say 'asshole'. It's a bad word. Do you understand?"

"Mommy say bad word?"

"Yes, I did. Will you forgive me?"

Eulie ate his bagel, his face smeared with margarine. "Yah," he said finally, with an air of generosity.

"Thank-you." His mother smiled. "Now, finish up. It's time for school."

Their walk followed its usual routine, except for the 9x12 envelope Eulie clutched in his hands. Inside was a crayon drawing, a gift to Brenda, his favorite "teacher". The gift was in honor of Hanukkah (which actually started the next day, but Eulie had insisted). He had also insisted on carrying it himself. Sally hadn't liked the idea, but had acquiesced in the face of preschooler stubbornness. Still, she kept alert as a mischievous wind yanked frequently at the treasure, trying to steal it from Eulie's palsied fingers.

"Gehey come this day?" he asked as they walked the busy stretch of street.

"Yes, honey. Remember? He's taking us to dinner."

"Euie yike Gehey."

"I know you do, honey."

"Mommy yike Gehey?"

She felt her cheeks flush. "Yes, I do."

They walked a little farther in comfortable silence, then Eulie spoke again.

"Gehey come chuch ding this day?"

"No, honey. Gary takes us to dinner tonight. The church thing is this weekend."

"Euie yike chuch ding. See God!"

Sally frowned. "No. Not God, just people."

He thought a moment. "Why chuch, no God?"

"It isn't a church, Eulie. It's a convention of church people. Besides, honey, it isn't your church. You're a Jew."

"Not Euie chuch? Where Euie chuch? Euie, Mommy."

"We don't go to church, honey."

"Why?"

"We just don't."

He looked at her, unconvinced.

"Not everyone goes to church, Eulie. Only some people." He still seemed unconvinced. "It's like your school, Eulie. Not everybody goes to your school. Some kids go to other schools. And many kids your age don't go to school at all."

"Euie yike shoo."

Sally relaxed. He didn't need to know that his mother hated God. She didn't want her personal devils limiting his horizons. She was evil, after all. Davidson had said so. She wondered what Eulie would think of walking with Satan's whore.

She found out soon enough. They arrived at the daycare and were stopped at the outer office.

"I'm sorry, Miss Reiser, but you need to wait for the manager."

"Okay, fine," Sally said, suspicious. "I'll just send Eulie in and..."

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry, really I am, but you'll both have to stay here."

"What is it, Brenda? A chicken pox thing? Lice?"

"I'll just get the manager," the girl said, reddening. "Please, stay here."

She didn't go very far. She leaned her head through the common room doorway and shouted. "Jackie! She's here!"

Jackie appeared moments later, a stout woman in a ballooning business suit and too much makeup. Brenda retreated to her corner desk and tried to look invisible.

"Miss Reiser," Jackie said in that professionally wretched tone used by TV doctors bearing bad news, "I'm sorry, but we are unable at this time to care for Eulie on these premises."

Sally stared at her, her face hardening to stone.

"Umm, if there were any other way, we would certainly accommodate your needs, but many of our parents have voiced concerns. I'm sorry, Sally, but they won't bring their children as long as Eulie's here."

Sally stared at the despicable face of the daycare manager. "And what in hell is the matter with Eulie? He's been here two years and nobody ever--"

"It isn't Eulie. It's you."

"Excuse me?"

"It's you, Sally--"

"Don't use my first name."

Jackie pulled herself up, insulted. Good, Sally thought. "It's you, Miss Reiser. The parents feel you are a bad influence on the children. Because of your articles about Reverend Davidson, ten parents have threatened to cancel their arrangements."

"I see," Sally said. "So, 'Reverend' Davidson runs this preschool."

"Not at all," the manager hastened to clarify, "but we have to make a profit. Ten families is thirty percent of our income. You understand, don't you?"

"I understand that I've paid for this week."

"Your money will be refunded. Brenda's working on that now."

"I also understand that this is illegal." And that her heart wrenched from mortification, and from the terrible pain of ostracism.

"Please, Miss Reiser, we're both in a tight spot here. Let's not make this a lawsuit. We're refunding all your money for this week, as well as your deposit, and if things blow over, we'll gladly take Eulie back without benefit of a new deposit. We can also recommend suitable babysitters who might be more ... liberal ... in this situation."

I don't believe this, Sally wanted to say. How could this happen in this world, in this of all countries? But, it happened all the time, she knew. To blacks, to Hispanics, to Indians, or anything other than Mayflower pilgrim whites. Of course, Sally was a Jew, and (as she saw in the manager's naked eyes) a Christ-killing Antichrist. She tried to imagine a response without obscenities. The woman deserved a burning, and Sally wanted to give her one, but Eulie clutched her leg, confused and a little frightened.

"Come on," she said to her son, and tugged him toward the exit.

"Euie no shoo? Pitcher Miss Benda!"

"Come on, Eulie. We have to leave."

"Euie yike shoo!"

"I'm sorry--" the manager started.

"Just shut up!" Sally shot at her, and pushed open the door.

Eulie started to cry.

"Don't," Sally ordered when they hit the parking lot. "You're a big boy. You have to be."

"Why no shoo? Euie yike shoo!"

"School's closed, Eulie. We have to go home." They were almost to the sidewalk when someone called from behind.

"Miss Reiser! Please, wait!" Brenda ran to them, coatless, bootless, and shivering. Sally ignored her. She pulled Eulie resolutely along the street. She bit her lip to avoid cursing.

"Please, Miss Reiser, your money!"

"Is Miss Benda! Mommy, stop!"

Eulie couldn't slow her much, but he buckled his legs and hung from her arm, a forty-pound dead weight. "Mommy stop now!"

"Miss Reiser, please!"

Sally stopped at the corner. She turned frozen eyes to the pursuing receptionist, causing the girl to retreat a step.

"What in hell do you want? Why in hell are you chasing me? God, you people are nervy!"

"Your money," the girl said sheepishly, and held out a handwritten check.

Sally snatched it from her hand. "Now, will you leave me alone?"

Eulie had scrambled upright. He held a crumpled, snow-smeared envelope out to the shivering girl. "Miss Benda, Euie gib. Is pitcher Onka."

Brenda looked with uncertainty from Eulie to his mother. Sally translated. "The godless little devil spawn is offering you a Hanukkah gift that he made with his own godless, demonic hands with encouragement from his Christ-killing mother, that's what he said."

"Oh." the girl wiped her eyes. "Oh, gee..." She stooped, one knee in the dirty snow. She took the envelope and started to open it. Spontaneously, she enveloped Eulie in a massive hug.

Sally wanted to kick her, to stove in her ribs with her winter boots, to kill her there on the street.

"Please, Miss Reiser. I had nothing to do with it. I'm sorry--"

"I don't need your life's story. Release my son so we can go home."

Brenda held onto Eulie as if to hold onto his mother. "I feel really bad about this. I know it must be terrible for you..."

Well, duh!

"I'll do anything to help. I'll babysit Eulie for you; I'll do it for free!"

"Do you really think I'd want any of you people around my child after this?"

"No," the girl said with unsteady, sickened truth, "but I'm offering anyway. Please, let me help if I can. It might not help you, but it'll make me feel better."

She released Eulie, then made a show of opening his gift. She pulled the drawing from its envelope and marveled at the brilliance of those few shaky circles and their attendant random scribbles.

"It's beautiful, Eulie. Uh, tell me about it."

"Gib Miss Benda. Onka Yites."

"Hanukkah lights? How sweet. Is it Hanukkah already?"

"Next day Onka. This day, shoo." His face froze, and he turned, confused, to Sally. "No shoo?"

"No school." Sally squeezed his hand and glared at her nearest betrayer.

Brenda rose to her feet, an icon of shame. "I'd better get back, before she gets mad. Thank-you, Eulie. Don't be a stranger." And, to Sally: "My number is on the back of the check."

"Tell me the truth," Sally asked through her teeth. "Is it just her, or did the parents really..."

"Both," the girl admitted, and hurried back toward the day care center.

"Bye-bye," Eulie said, waving.

Sally tugged him around the corner and up the street toward home.

"What go-go-god-wess, Mommy?" he asked as they turned onto their street.

"Godless," she corrected. "And, it's everything, Eulie. Just everything."

#

They looked a little old for students, but this was a city college, after all. Kevin nodded to the three men entering his computer lab and turned back to servicing Aristotle, his oldest and most cantankerous printer. He didn't expect the violent shove from behind, or to find his face pressed to the paper tray.

"Jesus! What gives, man?" He felt something thin bind his wrists, then he was rotated to face his attackers.

A blonde man in a black parka stood before him. The other two, both nondescript body builder types, moved to nearby seats in the lab. "Understand this," the blonde man said, pointing at Kevin with a gloved finger. "I'm pissed off. I have business elsewhere, and this sordid little mess is holding me up. I want to finish here and get out of this town."

"Hey, cool, man, just don't--"

"Shut up. You're the systems guy. You control the e-mail accounts. Somebody came here last week looking for info on one of your e-mail clients. I want that information."

"I don't know what you're talking--"

The fist hit Kevin with such force that he tumbled across the printer table and onto the floor. Aristotle crashed from its perch, never to print again. Strong arms jerked Kevin back to his feet and shoved him backwards against a bank of Macs. The body builders returned to their seats while the blonde man once more stood before Kevin, rubbing one hand closed into a fist.

"I haven't the time," he said. "I want Sally Reiser's home address. I want it right now."

Kevin tried to hide his fear. These weren't cops. A good, sound beating seemed coming his way. Still, he could take it if it meant protecting Sally. As much as he feared his immediate future, he intended to deny them everything.

"Right now," the blonde man said. "Sally Reiser."

"I don't know any Sally Reiser," Kevin said in a shaking voice. "We got over twenty thousand students, man, and faculty, too. I told that dude last week, there isn't any Sally Reiser in our directory. Want to look?"

"I won't waste my time. She isn't faculty, and she isn't a student. I don't need research to figure that out. It's like her, though, to get an on-the-sly account. What did she do to sucker you, buddy? Flash that smile? Maybe she jumped your bones?"

The bastard knew about Sally's smile. Who were these guys? "I told you, man, there ain't no Sally Reiser in the directory. I can't find nobody who isn't in the directory, man."

The blonde man nodded. "I'll bet you can." He moved with feigned nonchalance toward the door. "I saw a Coke machine down the hall. I'll get a drink while my friends adjust your mood. See you in about five minutes, that about right, geek boy?"

"This is bullshit, man! I haven't done anything. This is bullshit!"

"Yeah," the blonde man said as he walked from the lab, "but it's my job, you know?"

Michael traced Sally's steps of only a day before. At the exit doors stood a soft drink machine. He got his Coke and settled onto a bench across the hall. He drank slowly, trying to think of nothing. He watched through the doors to the empty campus and considered the cold outside. Then he thought of warmth, and delicious coeds flouncing about in a never-ending effort to fog the minds of men. His mind wandered through all kinds of distractions, but he could not escape his three pressing concerns: the metal case in the trunk of his car, his slipping schedule, and what to do about Sally. He hadn't seen her in years, but he remembered her stubborn, combative nature. Could he silence her with threats, or would more permanent methods be necessary? He hoped the former. Even with their history, or perhaps because of it, Michael shrank from killing that girl.

He looked at his watch, sighed, and downed his Coke. He tossed the empty can into a recycle drum as he headed back to the lab.

Kevin lay on the floor, moaning. Both eyes were blackened, blood smeared his mouth and face, and one arm hung at an odd angle. The two torturers moved to lift him, but Michael waved them away. He knelt by his victim and spoke in a casual, friendly tone. "So, can we talk?"

"Fuck off," Kevin spat through broken teeth.

"What's that? I couldn't hear you. Maybe if you spoke from a more upright position..." He grabbed Kevin's bad arm and dragged him up by the broken bone. Kevin screamed. One of the body builders moved to close the door.

"Sally Reiser," Michael asked. He dropped Kevin against a computer. Kevin screamed again, but the sound was weaker, gasping.

"Sally Reiser," Michael repeated.

"Fuck you, you fucking bastard!"

Michael sighed. "Needs more cooking," he said to his men. "I'm going for a walk."

It was necessarily a short one. He could only dawdle so long in such a public place. The campus seemed deserted, but there was always the overachiever working on next semester, or the faculty member without a life, or the janitor. Michael wanted to dispense with this nuisance and return to his primary mission.

He reentered the lab with a brisk, purposeful stride. He went straight to Kevin's bloody, prostrate form, and kicked it viciously.

"Sally Reiser," he said, pacing a loop on the floor.

Kevin groaned.

"What's wrong with him?" Michael asked no one in particular.

"Can't say." One of the men shrugged. "Stomach problems, I guess."

"Sally Reiser," Michael insisted, and kicked Kevin right in the stomach.

Kevin convulsed, then slowly cringed into as tight a ball as his bindings allowed.

Michael stooped beside him. "Look, it really hurts to do this. I'm not by choice a violent man." He waited for some response. When Kevin said nothing, he continued. "She got to you, didn't she? She does that, I should know. I was married to her for two lousy years. That's right," he nodded at the spark in Kevin's swollen eyes, "we were hitched, but it didn't work out. Now, after all these years, I have to find her. She's in danger, you know."

"Lying shit," Kevin croaked, and dribbled more blood onto the floor.

"Oh, no. It's all true. I do need to find her, and she is in danger. You should cooperate. You can moderate her danger, and you can also, let's face it, make things easier on yourself."

Nothing. The guy just lay there. Michael stood. He ran his fingers through his hair, frowning. Then his foot lashed out, coming down hard on Kevin's exposed arm. Kevin sucked in breath to scream, and Michael promptly kicked him in the mouth.

"Sally Reiser," he said, then stepped on Kevin's broken arm again.

Kevin thrashed weakly, yelping like an abused dog.

"Sally Reiser," Michael said, and kicked him in the stomach.

Kevin moaned, a helpless, animal sound. The body builders watched impassively.

"Sally Reiser," Michael said, and kicked him in the crotch.

Finally, whimpering, Kevin gave them what they sought.

#

Davidson scrabbled at the armrests of his chair before realizing where he was. He was safe on the ministry jet, the one that carried him through the crusade. The others huddled in back, whispering as they planned the work ahead.

Davidson sat up straighter, and yawned. Another dream. Always lurking in the back of consciousness, they came more frequently as the great day approached. This one had been exceptional, the crucifixion revisited. Perhaps it was a sign from God, like the ten devices salvaged from Asia. Ten devices, not sixteen. They represented the ten horns of the last beast of Daniel's witness; God had revealed it so. For millennia, men had assumed those horns to represent the kingdoms of the last days, three of which would fall by force to the Antichrist, the others enslaved by him. But, Davidson now knew that the ten horns of Daniel were anvils of power regardless of form, that ten would find the Antichrist, and three would bend to his purpose. Then prophecy would be fulfilled, and Davidson, after an eternity of time, could finally, completely, sleep.

The Antichrist, Davidson thought, and his heart chilled with loathing. The Antichrist was the key. Without him, prophecy foundered and Davidson's torturous life continued. But, that odious creature had been found. He had been nurtured, trained, and let loose upon the world. For a time, he had walked the earth as a god, revered or feared by all. And, though his life now faded in a sickbed, he had done his part, if blindly. A shade over seventy years ago he had made his bid for power, and lost.

"Reverend Davidson?"

Collins stooped beside the chair, reluctant to intrude.

"Yes, Collins. I'm much refreshed. What is it?"

"We'll arrive in Indianapolis in about ten minutes. Bankers Life Fieldhouse and the outdoor staging areas are coming together on schedule, and the car is waiting at the airport, as directed."

"You're very efficient, Collins. Any word from Michael?"

"He thinks he has her address, and is on his way there."

"Very good. I'm ... uncomfortable entering an unchastened enemy's domain. Michael will teach her some manners, I'm sure. What about the devices, and the next set of heralds? They begin tomorrow."

"All on schedule. Our engineers are outfitting the devices as you directed, and the three will be delivered as planned. As for the heralds, we have something special planned for tomorrow night's event." He grinned, pleased with himself.

"Let us guard against the sin of pride," Davidson warned.

"Of course, for the glory of God," Collins nodded, but his grin remained.

#

They walked to the restaurant, just a few minutes away in the Village. Eulie went ahead, crunching snow in the white yards and kicking at frozen clods of slush. Gary felt a little perplexed. Already, the evening progressed in ways he hadn't expected. It was, after all, the first night of Hanukkah. He had expected a Menorah poised for lighting, an excited boy, maybe a mother nervously trying to get the blessing right. The Menorah had been there, but the boy had hardly noticed, and the mother had lit the first candle without the solemnity Gary had imagined for such a loaded event. Sally had, in fact, seemed unsure of the ceremony. She had almost been late in conducting it, waiting for sunset rather than the requisite eighteen minutes before.

"I feel like a hypocrite," she had said. "I'm not even sure I believe this stuff."

The candle lit, Gary had waited a sensitive ten seconds through uneasy silence before daring to speak. "Blessed are you O Lord our God," he had said in studied Hebrew,

"...King of the Universe

Who has made us holy through your commandments

And instructed us to kindle the Hanukkah light."

Sally's surprise had been comical.

"I take my lessons seriously," Gary had responded. He did not mention that the prayer should have been said before the lighting, not after. Instead, he had reached into his pocket and hauled out a half dozen foil-wrapped chocolates, the traditional Hanukkah "money", and had given three each to Sally and Eulie.

"Why, Gary, you're a better Jew than I am," Sally had said with delight.

Now they walked along a darkened street toward the first meal of her holiday season, and Sally was not in a holiday mood. A strange Jew, this volatile and spiritually lost girl, but her oddities attracted him. She was a nest of sparks, to be handled with care and forethought. A lot of work, but Gary was not a lazy man.

"I was so pissed!" Sally said again. "They all but said I was too dirty for them. That parental protest crap was a smoke screen, nothing more. She just wanted me gone."

"I'm sorry to hear it," Gary said, more sorry that the subject controlled their time. "But, maybe it's for the better. You probably don't want that stuff around Eulie."

"True, but now I need child care. I can't do my job with Eulie in tow."

"What about that receptionist, Brenda? Eulie likes her."

"She's one of them."

"She works for them. That doesn't make her one of them."

Sally moved ahead, pivoting until she walked backwards before him. She did it on purpose, Gary thought. She knew how much it bugged him.

"You're supposed to support me," she demanded, "agree with everything I say."

"Actually, I'm supposed to make stimulating small-talk in hopes that you go out with me again. That's kind of hard when my date's all gloom and doom."

She frowned and fell in beside him, facing forward. "I'm sorry. It's just that I was pissed. Besides, this isn't a date."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. A business dinner. So, what's this place like? Not too white, I hope?"

"Not too white? What's that supposed to mean? Will you be disappointed if it doesn't have two stages, one each jazz and gospel, and a Black Panthers meeting in the back?"

"Actually, I meant more like clams, and bland-tasting vegetables, and lots of white folks in polo shirts and cardigans screaming at each other through Phil Collins music. That kind of white."

She laughed like a bell. "A little off the mark, honey. This joint plays Sinatra."

#

Actually, it played whatever you wanted, including Sinatra. The tiny pizza place off Broad Ripple Avenue barely squeezed six booths onto its floor. These stood along the wall closest to the street. Along the opposite wall stood the order counter, a few refrigerated storage cases for dessert items, and a jukebox. Eulie adored that last, hooting at its facade of bent glass tubes filled with colored liquid and meandering bubbles, interspersed among flashing tubes of neon and fiber optic cable. He put his face close to the twinkling lights and traced the bubbles from the machine's base to where they vanished behind the selection panel. He was thoroughly amused while the adults argued over pizza toppings, finally deciding on half sausage and half cheese, the cheese side for Gary.

"What would your mother say if she caught you ordering sausage pizza on the first night of Hanukkah?" Gary asked as they took their seats in a booth across from the jukebox.

"She'd be ecstatic," Sally huffed. "Another excuse to beat me down. Besides, I'm sure it's turkey sausage."

"Turkey sausage? They make such a thing?"

"Well, sure. They make everything out of turkey. Turkey bologna, turkey hot dogs, turkey hamburger, turkey bacon, everything but turkeys. I saw a turkey once made entirely out of soybeans. You don't get any whiter than that."

The restaurant was empty except for a teenaged couple three booths away. They leaned close to each other and whispered in earnestly romantic tones. Gary averted his gaze. He tracked his eyes across the walls, the other tables, and the open kitchen behind the counter. The atmosphere was sparse, almost severe in character, much like Sally herself. He hoped the food promised more than the ambiance, but then Sally surprised in that respect as well, full of depth and history. At least the counter help spoke with an accent, though it didn't sound much like Italian.

"I thought you wanted pasta," he said by way of small talk.

"I changed my mind."

"Euie pway chuck suppuh come?"

"Are you going to make a racket?" Sally asked. She held a little Matchbox dump truck against the tabletop. "We're in a restaurant, Eulie. No loud motor noises."

"Euie be good!"

"I hope so. Don't make me take it away." She slid him the toy, but Gary's hand landed on hers before she could release it.

"Special occasion," he said, and pulled a small, but brightly wrapped package from his coat. He laid it on the table before Eulie.

"What dat?"

"Happy Hanukkah, little dude. Open it up."

Eulie's eyes grew large. "Onka, mommy! Gehey gib Onka ting!" His little hands wrestled with the wrapping paper.

"That wasn't necessary," Sally said, looking at Gary curiously.

"I know."

It was a pickup truck, larger than the Matchbox, bright red, and with doors and a hood that opened. "Gehey gib chuck!" Eulie cried. "Doohs wuk!"

"What do you say, honey?"

"Tanks, Gehey!" Immediately, he laid his head on the table and began his fantasy drives.

"When you look at him, your face is nothing but love," Gary said.

"He's my treasure. I do it all for him."

Gary opened his mouth to speak, but closed it as the waitress, a pretty, petite girl with olive skin and a face much like the owner's, brought Cokes, and a milk for Eulie.

"Euie dink!"

"Not yet," Sally objected. "You'll fill up on milk and not eat your supper."

"You know," Gary said, "I might have an answer to your day care problem."

"Not your Gramma, and not you. Eulie's my headache, nobody else's."

"That wasn't what I meant. I did some research on campus, to help you with the medical bills. Did you know that the public schools have an obligation to help with Eulie's problems?"

She looked at him doubtfully. "I know about special education. But, Eulie's barely kindergarten age. He isn't really in school yet."

"Doesn't matter. After looking into it, I'm surprised nobody told you about it before. Eulie's been eligible for physical therapy, speech therapy, and educational intervention nearly since birth. The Crossroads Rehabilitation Center might have taken him as a toddler, done physical evaluations, IQ tests, the whole shebang, and they might have put him in toddler classes to help him grow. From age three, the public schools could have enrolled him in special education preschool, which is basically childcare with professional staff, including a licensed teacher and all the therapists you can stand. He can still enter special ed kindergarten, if you want."

"Oh, I can't afford that, Gary. No health insurance. I'm completely out of pocket here."

"It's free. If they evaluate him as special ed, it's all on the school district."

She looked at him, confused and oddly pained. "I didn't know that," she muttered.

Eulie drove his truck around the condiments caddy.

"Is something the matter? Sally?"

"No," she sighed. "Nothing. Except that I should have known... My obvious failing as a parent shines through again." She looked at her Coke glass, shutting Gary out.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you'd be happy..."

"I am," she said quickly, not looking at him. "Really, I am. I'm startled, I guess, that you cared so much--" She took a long draught of her Coke, then planted it back on the table. "You're really handing out the Hanukkah presents, aren't you? We're lucky to have you, Gary. You deserve better than this. You do all that for Eulie, who isn't your son, isn't your problem?"

"Well, yeah. He's a good kid, and he isn't a problem, either. He just needs a boost."

Now, she looked at him. "Why go through the trouble? Everybody has a reason."

He shrugged, uncomfortable under her gaze. "Look, I won't lie to you. I like you. I mean, you brass me off sometimes, but there are more things about you that I'm into than I'm not. I suppose I did it to impress you..."

"Well, you certainly have."

"But, I also did it for Eulie. I like Eulie. I've gotten used to his company. I want to do what I can."

Sally hid her eyes again. "Why are you here?" she asked, her voice husky. "You're too perfect, too wonderful."

Gary sat back in his seat, trying to look casual. He didn't know how to handle the compliment. He was far more at ease with her needling sarcasm. "Well, yeah," he said. "I am wonderful, but this was nothing. I mean, I'm wonderful in a lot of ways; I have references and testimonials. But, I was on campus anyway. I just checked with social work on my way to the restroom, that's all."

She looked at him past her eyelashes, not buying any of it.

Having run out of bullshit, he jumped to the next subject at hand. It was a dumb idea, but he needed something to say, and reason came choppily under her gaze.

"Well, I'm not all that wonderful. I have my moments of confusion, like right now. In fact, I ought to tell you something. You remember that night Vasquez came over? She told me something that I'm not supposed to divulge, even though it concerns you."

He told her the Bureau's suspicions linking Davidson to Bible Scholar, and of her ex-husband's possible involvement. He told her Vasquez had attempted to arrange surveillance as much to watch Sally as to protect her, in case she fell again under Michael Adams's influence. He told her everything, then noticed the wash of her eyes toward ice, and realized his trouble.

"You kept this from me?"

"I had to. It's classified."

"Really? Or did you think I'd go back to that bastard Michael and tell him what I knew?"

Gary returned her hard stare. "Vasquez did, not me. If I thought that little of you, would I tell you all this now?"

"Why are you telling me, Gary, considering it's all classified?"

"Because I care about you. I want you to be warned."

She stared ice for a full minute, but he didn't flinch from her eyes. Eulie failed to notice. He conducted singsong conversations between imaginary heroes in his tabletop adventure. Finally, Sally's eyes deflated, dropped, and she took another taste of her soda.

"I suppose I should be thankful," she said. "I know you'd never hurt me." Unexpectedly, she laughed, though it wasn't a cheery sound. "Funny. I never expected to say that to anybody."

Gary felt a suddenly intense ache for her. He wanted to hold her, protect her from the travails of her life. Still, he restrained the impulse. She was unpredictable. She might reject such compassion.

"How about some music?" Gary asked into the silence.

"Sure."

"Help me pick? Oh, I hope we have the quarters..."

"It's free. That's one reason I like this place."

"Where Mommy go?"

"Just over there, honey. You keep playing, and don't touch that milk."

Together, they stood at the jukebox.

"A mix of choices," Gary said. "You know, it occurs to me that after all these weeks, I have no idea what music you like."

"I don't play much music."

"Well, we have some here. Look, there's Sinatra; I almost didn't believe you. So, what's your pleasure?"

"You pick. You're the man."

He looked at her, mock irritation on his face. This close, she looked so small. "I wish you'd give up on that 'you're the man' thing. You know you don't mean it."

"Yes, I do. It's a date. You're the man. Pick."

He ignored her slip, her admission that it was, indeed, a date. "Yeah, sure. I'm the man until I screw something up, then I'm the Neanderthal man. Look, this is tight. A restaurant run by Corsicans or whatever, and they have W.L.A.K. on their box."

Sally looked uncertain. "Hmmm, is that rap?"

"See, there it is. What kind of man am I now?"

"No, it's just that I thought you'd actually pick music. I mean, all they do is talk."

"Really. Well, show me the real music, Miss Rolling Stone."

"How about this one: Shadowboxer."

"I've heard Fiona Apple. Not only is she twenty years passe, but don't you think she's a little bland? I mean, she sings like she's on sleep deprivation and just lost her dog."

"For someone who doesn't like criticism, you're such a critic. How about this one?"

"Imagining You. Is that more of that Fiona Apple old folk's shit? Does this person own an acoustic guitar?"

"What is it with you? I swear you have no taste at all. I'll have to get you home and teach you a thing or two about music." She stepped away from the box, but not away from Gary.

#

She liked sparring with him, and liked being near him. Sally stood inches away from Gary, feeling secure, and watched her son at the table. Eulie drove his truck, but only absentmindedly. He watched his elders with interest. What did Eulie think? she wondered. He liked Gary, but how deeply? Would he approve of his mother's dramatic fall? Would he understand?

A strain of piano and synthesizers drifted from the box. It surrounded her, embraced her, and assured her of warmth to come. It was not the chill of a rap beat, or the chopped groove of alternative rock. The style seemed immediately, subconsciously familiar.

Gary touched her shoulder, an exploratory gesture. "Dance?" he asked.

She turned toward him, reddening. "Dance? Oh, no. Let's get back to the table."

"It's just the right music," he insisted. "I met you half way. Earth, Wind and Fire."

"No. I don't dance." She sought to slip away. His fingers slid along her arm, tingling, and held her wrist. A soloist began a soulful croon, words of love and devotion. She knew the words were for her.

"No big deal," Gary soothed, pulling her to him. "It's a slow dance." He embraced her, coaxing her into a gentle sway, and guided her in a tight circle before the box. "Just watch the toes," he said to cut the tension. "They're the only ones I have."

Sally felt his arms around her, felt his fingers against her back. He held her cautiously, as if afraid she'd break. She wished he'd hold her tighter. She sighed, leaned into him, barely hearing the music as she allowed him to lead her in dance. She could dance perfectly well. She just hadn't liked what it led to.

He whispered in her ear, or so she thought at first. He sang softly, following the romancing inflections of the vocalist. Did he sing to her? Was that possible, or did he mouth the words with no more thought than he gave his moving feet? The chorus swelled, almost drowning Gary's voice. Sally tilted her face toward his, their lips almost touching. "Don't," she begged. "Don't say the words unless you mean them."

Startled, Gary almost pulled away, but checked himself, smiled, and held her that much closer. "It's a love song, babe. Of course I mean every word."

She felt her defenses evaporate. She felt released, a freedom that had eluded her for years, and a sudden welling of joy, and sorrow, and fear, and euphoria. She felt tears flood to her eyes. Embarrassed, she futilely shut them tight. She felt weak in his arms, but grateful. When she felt the warmth of his breath on her lips, she needed no coaxing to close the inches between them, and kiss him full on the mouth.

#

Gary pulled away, stopped dancing. He looked at her, confused.

"I love you," she said. "Don't stop."

"The music's over."

"Start it again. Please." She folded her arms in front of her and pressed into his chest.

Gary held her with one hand and hit the jukebox button with the other. The music drifted once more around them, and Sally snuggled closer.

Thank-you, Jesus, Gary thought. Thank-you very much.

He felt another presence. Tiny arms tried to encircle the waists of both adults, but without much luck. Gary looked down past Sally's blonde hair to find Eulie peering up at him, smiling.

"Euie dance, too!"

Gary tousled the boy's head, then enjoyed the feel of the ever-surprising woman surprisingly in his arms.

"I love you, too," he said, and smelled her hair.

#

Michael wasn't lost, and he had the right address. But he had seen the men in the beat up van, watching the house like cops. Long experience warned him not to attract their notice, so he continued past without slowing, and circled back onto the main drag. Next time around, he passed Sally's street and turned onto the next block. He oriented by dead reckoning past Bishop Chatard High School to somewhere, he thought, behind Sally's house. He coasted along the dark building, deserted for the weekend, until he found the turn he hoped he wanted, leading to a parking lot behind the school.

So, who watched Sally, and why? Was she suspected of a crime, or did she rate protection? He didn't really care, as long as he stayed invisible. Considering what hid in his trunk, anonymity was key.

He crunched over the snow-covered lot, rolling to the edge and shutting off his lights. Ahead and far to each side stretched the high school's football field, little more than a cleared swath of land that abutted the yards of every house on the west side of Sally's street. That left the rear of her house exposed, unless someone watched it, too. Michael climbed from the car. Caution whispered, but he didn't expect any trouble. The van out front had felt like minimal surveillance. Careless from what they believed was concealment, the men watched only the front door. Still, he scanned the distance before him. Nothing waited in the field, in the dark shadows of the school, or hunkered among the trees across the way.

He squinted to find the house he wanted, trying to recall its front and extrapolate that to the back. There it was, he believed, backed by a low, chain link fence separating it from the football field. The place was narrow and crowded by its neighbors, and looked deserted but for the light at the glassed-in porch. Maybe she wasn't home.

He crossed the field at an unhurried pace, wondering what he would do when he got there. Maybe he'd mess the place up a bit. Maybe he'd be cute; he'd leave a message, something to scare her into line. He had loved her once, they had a history, so he didn't relish the idea of snuffing her. His orders, technically, were not really to kill her, but to silence her interference. He could do that as well through bullying as through murder. All he needed was the right tool with the right threat.

When he got to her living room after breaking in through the back door, he found exactly what he wanted.

#

They turned onto Sally's street, Eulie once more dashing ahead, kicking and stomping the snow. "Pizza song!" he sang, and hummed something indecipherable to anyone not in the know.

"I think we made him an Earth, Wind and Fire fan," Gary said.

"I guess so," Sally agreed. "I'll have to buy the CD." Her house grew nearer. What would she do when they got there? Kiss him good night? Invite him in? He would not stay over, she promised herself. She hoped he wouldn't expect to. She wanted Gary, but she wanted him for keepers; she needed him to want her for reasons other than sex. Love, marriage, sex, babies, she declared silently. Let's see what Gary is really all about.

"We have to talk," he said.

"Well, duh!" she responded with forced humor.

"Well, we do."

"I know, but not tonight. Let's sleep on it." She cringed at her choice of words.

"That's what we should talk about," Gary said, snatching up the thread.

Please, let's not, she prayed.

"You're very beautiful," he said, killing her. "You're very attractive. I know we're thinking the very same thing. Your body language shouts it. Sally, are you attracted to me?"

"Not at all. You're ugly, smelly, and your nose looks funny."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Well, I wanted you to know that I feel the same for you. I want us to, you know, hook up. But, not now."

She turned to him, confused.

"I hope you aren't insulted."

"Huh?"

"I just think we should wait. I think we should do this right. The respect--"

She almost toppled him with her hug. "Thank-you. Thank-you so much." She'd kiss him to death when she said good night, that's for sure what she'd do.

Eulie waited at the front door. He yelled through the mail slot, heedless of the neighborhood peace. "Ghose! Ghose, come here!"

"They're pals." Sally smiled, and unlocked the door. Eulie careered in, shouting his buddy's name. "Ghose, Euie pizza!"

"Coming in?" Sally asked, hoping he wasn't too much the gentleman.

"I really ought to get on back. The buses--"

"--will wait. It's cold out. At least warm up before you stand on a corner."

"Okay," Gary shrugged. "Sounds good."

#

He stepped into the now familiar home, not even noticing the scattered toys, papers, books, and other miscellanea that defined Sally's life.

"I'll offer you hot chocolate," she said as she took his coat and removed her own. Her voice sounded musical, animated, happy. He had never heard that tone from her. "If I recall, you don't like coffee, but Eulie's a big fan of Swiss Miss. She's practically his girlfriend." She was in the kitchen. "Do you like marshmallows, or plain? Personally, those little white BBs give me the--" Gary heard a sharp gasp, then nothing.

"Sally?"

"Eulie!" she yelled with a sharpness that scared him. She appeared in the living room, her face set in ice. She went straight to the gun drawer. "Eulie, where are you? Come to me, now!"

"What's the matter?"

"The back window's broken. There are footprints on the floor. Eulie!"

"Euie come!" she heard from his room. She bolted up the stairs, the gun in one hand.

This is not good, Gary thought. He should do something.

"Downstairs with Gary," he heard, and he stepped toward the bottom of the steps.

"Sally, maybe you'd better come down here. Let me check the house."

"Take care of Eulie," she answered.

Eulie scooted on his rear down the steps, Ghost held in his arms. Gary frowned at Sally's aggressiveness. Shouldn't the man be hunting prowlers? Then he realized where he was, and turned quickly to check the utility room behind him.

Nothing.

That was it for downstairs, except for the back porch and the yard. He turned to check those, but stopped as Eulie tugged his hand.

"Here Ghose. Gehey pet?"

The cat meowed.

"No one here," Sally said as she came down the stairs. She looked powerful with her icy eyes and the gun in her hand. "How about you?"

"Haven't had a chance to check."

Her face flashed irritation, then she squeezed past him and into the kitchen. "Hold on to Eulie, and check the front door to make sure it's locked."

Gary watched her disappear out the kitchen door.

"Mommy mad?" Eulie asked nervously, clutching the cat tighter.

"Yeah, but not at you."

Sally reappeared, already disassembling the gun, and Gary breathed easier.

"It's okay, Eulie," she said. "Go play with Ghost until bedtime."

He trundled off with the cat, chortling something about dance. Sally plopped onto her seat at the computer table. She dropped the gun next to the laptop and put her head in her hands. "That's the second time in a week," she said, all pleasure erased from her voice. "I'm so popular."

"Are you sure there was a break-in? The place seems undisturbed. Is anything missing?"

"Yes and no. The window on the back door is busted. The door was unlocked. I locked it before we left."

"Are you sure? Maybe some kind of accident--"

She looked at him evilly. She opened her mouth to say something, then heard the steady beeping of the laptop coming to life. She glanced, then did a double take.

"What the hell..."

A web page filled the screen, Cherwell Online, from Oxford University. Oxford? From England? A headline and photo dominated the page, the photo a casual color image of a wrinkled, rheumy-eyed old woman. The headline read:

BELOVED CLERK DIES IN MOTOR BUS ACCIDENT

Sally gasped. Gary stepped close to the screen.

Birget Anna Hoffmann, 98, a clerk in the records office of the College of Archeology, died yesterday when she apparently lost her balance on a street corner and fell before an oncoming motor bus in Oxford. Miss Hoffmann served for fifty-six years in her capacity at the college, and is sorely missed by many faculty and students...

"Isn't that the old lady?" Gary asked. "The one you contacted about Davidson?"

"Yes," Sally whispered.

Gary feared her next answer. "Did you leave this document open?"

"No."

He felt a chill. He reached for Sally, to hold her. She deflected his hand, shrinking inwards.

"Please," she said, afraid to touch the machine herself, "get rid of it."

Gary moved the mouse to the menu bar. He clicked the "quit" button.

His eyes widened, and he jerked away in revulsion.

A NeoOffice window hid neatly behind where the browser had been. Huge, bold, sans serif print glared at them from within the open document. The message was curt, and unequivocal.

YOU'RE NEXT,

YOU BITCH.

Chapter Thirteen:

Psalm 139:16

(Back to Table of Contents)

The men in the van ignored the car as it pulled into Sally's driveway twenty minutes later. They had traced it once to the airport rental and the government debit card, and didn't want to do so again. The same woman got out and hurried into the house, but the men ignored her, too. They had specific orders for a specific mission, and federal agents had no place in either.

They grew more curious when the police cars arrived, haphazardly parked and lights flashing. Then the crime lab appeared, then an unmarked car. By then, the watchers had grown alarmed. They radioed for advice and frowned through the windshield as two more vehicles pulled up to the house, these with federal plates. The Reiser place was crowded indeed. You couldn't throw a rock without hitting some sort of cop.

#

Inside, Vasquez sat next to Sally, hardly hearing the pedantic, predictable questions of the investigating officer. She regretted suggesting the police be brought in. This wasn't some pointless burglary or vindictive act of petty intimidation; none of the usual time-proven police work was up to the task that Vasquez suspected. Bible Scholar renewed its attacks in only twenty hours. Was Sally its next victim? Had its agents become so arrogant that they telegraphed their intentions? She looked over to Gary, who shared her concern. He was hemmed in by uniforms, kept separate from Sally so they couldn't coordinate stories, held in suspicion as cops held everyone in suspicion. He had to realize how pointless all this was, how the plodding march of evidentiary procedure would only give Bible Scholar breathing room to strike, and how asking questions that could not be answered would yield little but wasted time. But Gary seemed unconcerned with muddy police procedure. He seemed most bothered by being from Sally's side. He barely took his eyes from her, and those eyes showed real anxiety. Vasquez looked from Gary to Sally and back again, and wished someone would look at her that way.

When Rob Banks entered the house, he went straight to Vasquez.

"You're looking better," he said to get her attention.

"Rob! What are you doing here?"

"We're all here, Rose. Davidson came into town. Blackburn sent us along, just in case."

Vasquez rose from the couch. She took Banks a few feet aside. Only then did she notice his awkward stride, and the cane that held him up. "What are you doing here, Rob? I thought you were restricted..."

"Blackburn restricted us, and I follow orders. Still, somebody needs to keep you out of trouble."

"Didn't do a very good job." She smiled.

"Your bruises are fading. Now, if you could just lose that head bandage..."

"I like it. Scares away men. How's your foot?"

"Better than it seems. The doctor said to take it easy, so I take it easy. Still, it's just about new. See?" He lifted the cane and put solid weight on his foot. "Oww!"

"You never were a fountain of common sense, Rob."

"Look who's talking. What happened here?"

"Another burglary. Tell me how it ties in."

He looked at her, mugging confusion.

"You're a lousy liar, Rob."

He took her arm and led her into the kitchen. Lab techs snooped around there, so he backtracked into the utility room. He put his back to the living room and spoke in a droning whisper. "This is all still classified, and you don't need to know."

She nodded. "I understand completely. Whatever you say, I certainly won't hear it."

"This is bigger than we ever imagined. We have twelve terrorist attacks committed on US soil. We've traced bomb components and personal evidence to many of the perpetrators. We have four individuals in various federal prisons, held for questioning. None of them are talking. Some of our suspects committed suicide before we got our hands on them. All of the ones in custody have managed to secure clever, if unscrupulous, lawyers. All of them are affiliated with the Davidson crusade."

"Can you go after Davidson?"

"No such luck. None of our perps actually worked for Davidson. They were fans, or followers, or what Fleming calls acolytes. As far as we know, he's never even met them, nor has anyone on his staff. They could be wackos inspired by the great man's words, but we don't think so."

"There has to be a trail back to Davidson."

"Sure, but it might take years to uncover. We think these bastards were sleepers, set up years ago as part of an intricate network to distance the perps from their bosses. Unless somebody talks, it'll be quite a while before we track the convoluted stream of anonymous contacts back to Davidson. But, that's only the cream of it, Rose. Have you heard about that thing in Asia?"

"One of our planes, apparently stolen, shot down some jets in Turkmenistan. Nuclear weapons were involved."

"Right. Ten artillery nukes disappeared from a downed helicopter. They were stolen from a weapons storage site in the Russian Republic, for sale to Al-Queda in Pakistan. That same day saw a radar snafu involving a tourist jet over Afghanistan, not far from the dogfight. And a burning helicopter was found just inside the Afghan border. We were able, with the help of the Russian and Afghan governments, and later help from Pakistan, Kenya, and Iran, of all countries, to trace it all to a guy named Michael Adams, late of the Millennium City psycho club. Sound familiar?"

"Michael Adams stole those nukes? Jesus, Rob!"

"Uh-huh. And Michael Adams has been invisible for over three weeks. His credit cards and signatures show up, but his body doesn't. He disappeared last out of Kenya, just before the heist. We have no idea where he is. The Russians, as might be expected, are pissed."

"Jesus, Rob."

Banks grinned sourly. "I wish he'd lend a help. Davidson admits shock that Adams might be involved. He actually offered to pray for his soul. Meanwhile, the Russians are out of control. They have spooks prowling from here to Whoville, looking for those nukes. Containing the bastards is difficult. We aren't even sure we want to, they're so good. The president's sitting on the end of the friggin' world here. If we don't find those weapons, the Russians, the Chinese, and the French will all hold us responsible. You won't hear it in the news, but defense systems are scrambling all over this planet."

She looked at him, dumbfounded.

"So, does your little burglary measure up to that?"

"I guess not. Except that this Reiser woman might be Bible Scholar's next hit. They threatened her tonight. They walked into her house and put a death threat on her computer. Probably due to her Davidson writings."

"What's the Bible verse?"

"What?"

"The Bible verse. They always have a Bible verse."

"There wasn't one," Vasquez admitted.

Banks's face hardened, and he looked away. "You need sleep, Rose. They always leave a Bible verse. No Bible reference, it probably isn't Bible Scholar."

"I'm convinced it is."

"Convinced by what? You ever read that woman's file? Any number of wackos could have marched into her house. She knows them all by first names."

"They do the Bible verse at the commission of the act. They haven't struck yet."

"You're reaching, Rose..."

Parker appeared at the doorway. "You two better get in here. We're getting a show, and I don't know how to deal with it."

"What the fuck kind of railroad is this?" they heard Sally shout, as if on cue. They hurried back to the living room.

"Chill, Sally," Gary was saying. "Just calm down."

"You calm down! He didn't just call you a drug dealer!"

The crowd stood frozen around Sally, Gary, and the investigating detective. Fleming hung in the back, looking to Banks and Vasquez for guidance. The uniforms stood stony-faced, looking to their detective.

"It's just for questioning," the detective said blandly. "Please, don't offer resistance."

"She doesn't go anywhere until she sees a lawyer," Gary insisted.

"She'll get an attorney downtown."

Where was the boy? Vasquez thought.

"What's the problem?" Banks asked in his best federal authority voice.

"Nothing for the FBI," the detective warned. "We have probable cause to link Miss Reiser here with at least two murders involving narcotics, that's all."

"It's bullshit, that's what it is!" Sally shouted. "I'm no drug pusher, God dammit!"

"Sally..." Gary warned.

"I think there's a mistake," Vasquez offered, not sure what she meant.

The detective half turned toward her. "Earlier today, a computer lab assistant at a local university was brutally murdered on campus. Subsequent investigation showed that he had met with Miss Reiser just yesterday, and that he had maintained several clandestine email accounts for her over the last few years. He was found with narcotics on his person. On top of that, Miss Reiser's computer had accessed a document announcing the death of a university clerk overseas, said clerk with whom Miss Reiser had arranged one of her clandestine accounts. After waking up a few fellow cops in England, we found out five minutes ago that the clerk's death is suspect, and that she, too, had narcotics on her person at the time of death. Same drugs. Same amount. We want to see where Miss Reiser fits into all this."

"Wow," Banks breathed.

Vasquez stepped between Sally and the detective. Sally stiffened to hurl more invectives. "Shut up," Vasquez told her, raising a cautioning finger. She turned to the detective. "Sorry officer, but taking in this woman would compromise an ongoing federal investigation. Miss Reiser is a material witness for the government, and we can't risk her identity going public."

The detective looked startled, then skeptical, then angry. "That's a crock of shit. You called us, if I recall."

"About a burglary. I can't, however, allow you to compromise our investigation. Right, Agent Banks?"

Banks flinched at his name. "Umm, sure. You bet."

The detective looked from one agent to the other. "Bullshit," he concluded, almost laughing. "You people aren't here for jack."

"Sorry," Vasquez continued, "but our orders are specific."

"Oh, yeah? Which orders? What investigation? And, what do they say about this?" He lifted a clear ziplock baggie from the couch. It held an automatic pistol, partially broken down. "It's registered to a Michael Adams, a wanted felon with an FBI file longer than War and Peace, including suspicion of drugs and weapons trafficking from his Jack Kordish days. So? What's your investigation say about that?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Banks mugged.

The detective's face reddened. "Fine. Just fine. I don't have time for this. But, I'll tell you, this isn't done." He directed his gaze to Sally. "Don't you go anywhere. Understand that I have a homicide in my city, and if I tie you to it, you're coming downtown faster than you can pee, and your bodyguards here won't have a word to say." He grabbed his hat from the couch and jammed it on his head.

"I assume we have access to your crime lab findings?" Vasquez asked.

Astonished, the detective opened his mouth, then closed it again. He turned away, and signaled his patrolmen to follow. In a moment, they were gone. Only the lab men remained, all of them outside.

Everyone stood stock-still, unsure what to say. Finally, Sally started to tremble, and dropped like a stone to the couch. Gary was beside her instantly.

"Oh, my God!" she moaned. "They killed Kevin!"

"Shit," Parker breathed. "Are you trying to get us fired, Vasquez?"

#

The others went on about what to do. What should they do about Bible Scholar? Was Bible Scholar after Sally? Was Sally the next target? If so, where was the Bible verse? If not, could resources be better used elsewhere? Sally heard it all through a cloud. Her mind dwelled on Kevin, and how she had treated him on their last day together. She despised herself for using him, for using him literally to death. She wondered where that jump drive was, the one he had given her. Had they killed him for it? Surely, they hadn't killed him for a lousy e-mail account. She vowed to make his research public, if only her mind would tell her where it was.

"Sally is a side issue to them," Gary was saying with passion. "They have bigger plans that don't include her. To suss it all out, we have to challenge their authority. We have to disrespect them on their own turf."

What had he said? Sally tried to remember. That Davidson was a Nazi? That he was something before that? That he hadn't aged in seventy years, maybe in over a hundred? And Mrs. Hoffmann, crushed beneath a bus and framed as a druggie, what had she said? That Davidson was the Antichrist, an abomination, a monster. Did Kevin's files prove her assertions? Was Davidson a hundred-year-old horror, like the Golem of Sally's childhood? Was he five hundred years old? A thousand?

"This isn't a gang situation," Banks said.

"I disagree. It's similar to a gang, only bigger. Every religion is pretty much a gang. It's a closed collection of people with similar beliefs and mythologies, usually under a highly directing hierarchy of leadership. You have to go through some sort of courtship or test to get in, and once you're in, you belong to the group. The group is also highly territorial; it's intolerant of dissent from within and of challenge from without. In the middle ages, about the time of the last millennium, self-styled messiahs claimed huge blocks of land as their own. Anybody entering those borders was robbed, assimilated, or killed."

"It provides an option," Vasquez mused. "If we challenge them on their own turf..."

"What turf?" Banks asked. "This is the twenty-first century, not the middle ages."

"Bankers Life Fieldhouse," Vasquez suggested. "That's the heart of this Indianapolis leg of the Davidson Crusade. They're having events all over the downtown part of the city, but mainly at Bankers Life Fieldhouse."

"Bankers Life Fieldhouse," Parker mused. "Ain't that where the Pacers play?"

A frightening thought leapt upon Sally. If Davidson was the Golem, he didn't come for her at all. He came for Eulie.

She jerked upright, away from Gary. Her eyes suddenly cleared. "Where's Eulie?"

"Umm, I think he's upstairs," Gary said.

"Eulie?" she called, the pitch of her voice rising. She moved to get up, but Gary held her by the shoulders.

"I'll get him," he offered. "You stay here and rest." He went to find the boy.

#

Gary heard sniffling from the bureau next to Eulie's bed. It was an old fashioned cabinet with three long drawers and a compartment for vertical storage. Plastic stack trays lay tumbled to the floor along with shrink-wrapped packages of disposable diapers. Clever hide-and-seek, this wasn't. Gary opened the compartment door. Eulie sat curled inside, a worn, brown teddy bear held close to his chest. He had been crying.

"What's up, bud?" Gary said.

"Not know," Eulie whined.

Gary sat down on the floor, his back against the bureau. "Well, something's the matter. You don't look your usual happy self just now."

"Mommy mad."

Gary sighed. "Yeah, I guess she is, but not at you. Those men who left upset her, but we got rid of them."

"They here. Downstairs."

"No, not at all. The people downstairs are friends. They're here to help your mom."

"Euie no want help! Gehey help!"

"Of course I will, Eulie. Any way I can."

#

Vasquez laid it out, and was surprised at Sally's calm. "You'll never be alone," she emphasized. "You'll always be surrounded by agents, whether or not you see them. All you have to do is get close to Davidson or a member of his staff, and see what you can trip them for. Think you can manage that?"

"I've had practice," Sally said blandly. "I'm a journalist."

"I'm curious," Banks said. "Why would you cooperate in this? Last time we met, you wanted nothing to do with our work."

She addressed her reply to Vasquez. "I want these bastards stopped. They killed Kevin. They killed Mrs. Hoffmann. I have to do this to protect myself, and Eulie, too."

Vasquez looked to her fellow agents. They returned her uneasy gaze. "I have to tell you," she said to Sally, "the only good reason to do this job is to stop a terrorist organization. We've no place for vendettas. Too messy."

"You want to do this, or not?"

Vasquez did. So did Banks, against his better judgment. In an hour, their plans were finalized. In three hours, the necessary gear arrived.

Chapter Fourteen:

Psalm 23:4

(Back to Table of Contents)

Downtown swarmed like a disturbed anthill. Ground traffic crawled, and was impossible close to the city center despite the efforts of traffic cops. The sidewalks coursed with bodies, and bottlenecked often against knots of humanity held spellbound by the charismatic cries of street vendors, doomsayers, and self-proclaimed prophets. These latter attracted more than just an audience. Fistfights broke out near them, escalating into violent, pointless mini-riots that died almost at birth. Meanwhile, helicopters whined overhead, like backdrops to war. Some flew for the broadcast press, some for the police, and some took advantage of the numerous rooftop helipads to ferry the rich above the snarl. It was an irredeemable mess, a whirlpool of the worst of humanity centered on a basketball stadium and surrounding venues. The mood was of apocalyptic desperation, of communal joy, and of claustrophobic fear. Few considered themselves in the second week of Advent, nor at the cusp of the second day of Hanukkah. They thought only of pickpockets, the force required to get from A to B, and the pressing, threatening animal horde. Downtown Indianapolis had become a writhing mob scene.

Beneath the skeletal arbors of Hudnut Commons, within one van among hundreds of vehicles crammed into the underground garage, Vasquez taped a thin wire microphone around Sally's waist, then up her stomach and between her breasts. She was confident the job could fool all but a thorough search, but was less sure about the battery pack/transceiver in the small of Sally's back. A foam wrap concealed its bulk from casually searching hands, but any serious pat down would mean immediate trouble. Of course, Sally wasn't supposed to get searched.

"Okay," Vasquez said. "Nobody can see it, nobody can feel it, but they can all talk into it. Most of the parts are plastic or ceramic, so you don't have to worry about metal detectors. If they whip out a mass sensor, run like hell."

"Like I'd know a mass sensor if I saw one." Sally hooked her bra and reached for her turtleneck. It was cold in the van. "I didn't thank you," she said. "About last night."

"No need."

"If you hadn't stepped in, I'd be in jail right now."

Vasquez shrugged. "Couldn't have that. Besides, we know it's a scam. I need you out here."

Sally pulled the turtleneck over her head, then stuffed it into her jeans. "Sorry, but I know better. You did that for me, not Bible Scholar. Why?"

"I have my reasons."

"And, I don't get to know? I mean, you don't even like me, right?"

"Okay, okay. I'm on a mission from God. Are you decent? I'd like to call in the boys."

Sally zipped her pants and reached for her coat.

"We're ready," Vasquez said into her earpiece transceiver. "Come and get her, guys."

A moment later, the cargo doors opened, and Banks climbed aboard with Parker. Gary stood outside on the concrete, holding Eulie's hand. "Everything all right?" Banks asked Sally.

"Yep."

"Okay. Then, I guess it's show time."

"Just remember," Vasquez said, touching Sally's arm as she turned to leave the vehicle. "Take your time, and act natural. That battery will last longer than you."

Sally climbed from the van. Parker pulled the door shut after her. "She'd better be Lady Luckiest," he said. "We only have seven agents to keep her safe, and we're three of them."

"Then we'd better get moving," Banks said. "It's a hike to that service entrance, unless you want your Beretta setting off alarms at the front door."

"Commo check first," Vasquez insisted, and thumbed the switch in her palm. "Fleming, give me a read on Reiser, and give her a call."

"Wilco," came the reply.

#

Sally hugged Eulie as soon as she left the van. "You ready, honey? Lots of people tonight. You stay close to Gary and me."

"Euie be good!"

"I bet you will." She tightened his muffler around his neck, and straightened his wooly cap. Then she looked at Gary. "How about you? Ready?"

"I guess."

"You're a spoil sport. Cheer up." She took Eulie's hand and slipped her other into Gary's. She turned them toward the exit.

"I don't like this at all," Gary said. "It's dangerous. Since when are you one of the boys? I thought you'd spit rather than work with those people."

"I hate being the hunted," Sally said. "This way, I fight back." And do something for Kevin, and Mrs. Hoffmann, and Eulie.

"I roger that," a tinny whisper said into her ear. "This is Fleming, Miss Reiser. You're coming through in glorious scratchy mono. How do you read me?"

"Clear, but a little weak."

"It's the cars. You'll get better reception once you're in the open. Stay away from concrete walls, and don't hang out near microwave sources."

"Okay. I understand." She caught Gary's quizzical stare. "It's 'those people'. Be advised that nothing you say is private anymore."

They heard the anarchy long before they reached it. The blaring horns, the thudding boom of amplified music, and the roaring murmur of thousands of voices had permeated the garage for hours. Now, as Gary and Sally climbed the stairs to street level, the din rose to greater intensity. They stepped from the garage exit into another world, one carpeted with people, raked by lights, and blasted by sound. Sally took in the amazing sight, the sea of humanity covering the plaza like unmanaged dandelions over a lawn, the people under the hibernating arbors, in the arbors, for that matter. She had never seen anything like it.

"It'll be hell getting to the fieldhouse in this!" Gary shouted, though Sally stood only inches away.

"You lead!" she shouted back. "You're the man!"

Gary held her hand as he excused himself through the writhing animal of the crowd. Sally held Eulie close to her, but still feared losing him in the press. They struggled toward the sidewalk, only to find it worse than the park. Gary boosted Eulie to his shoulders, and they merged with the stream of people herding toward the stadium.

"Why did you bring him?" Gary asked. "He'll never enjoy himself!"

"I wanted him with me!"

"He'd be safer at home!"

"I don't go out without Eulie!" Golem, she thought, and shoved that fear aside.

The crowd was oppressive, but its progress good. They hit the doors to the stadium in minutes, passing many bizarre sights along the way. A man dressed like a Catholic pope, his face smeared with ashes, gyrated atop a trapped taxi. Two others held a placard aloft from an illegally parked van. THE END IS NEAR! it read. EAT YOUR LAST MEAL AT RICK'S!, plus an address for the hungry.

Outside the fieldhouse, a young woman Sally's age stepped into the snarled traffic and addressed the human tide rushing for the stadium. She spoke through a bullhorn, and held a traffic flare high above her head for attention. "Don't go in there!" she begged. "Davidson is just another false prophet convinced he knows the mind of God! He can't help you! He can't save you! Only Jesus can do that, and you won't find Him in glitzy stage shows or in the words of a man who peddles fear!"

Eulie clapped from atop Gary's shoulders. It was quite a show.

"She's in hostile territory!" Sally shouted. "She's gonna get her ass kicked!"

And she did. She droned on for a while, largely ignored by the rushing pedestrians, vilified by the honking motorists whose paths she blocked. Then four men separated from the crowd, snatched away her bullhorn, and jostled her off the street. They were not gentle, looking more like soccer hooligans than a random assembly of insulted fans. Sally heard a smattering of cheers and applause, which bothered her more than the incident itself.

Gary's mouth moved wordlessly in the din. He squeezed Sally's hand.

"I know," she answered.

#

Fleming looked down from his skybox location. The floor, converted from basketball court to removable wood laminate, lay invisible beneath the churning mass of people. Thankfully, Davidson hadn't secured the much larger Lucas Oil Stadium, the football venue. At least at Bankers Life, Fleming could separate one human speck from another. He would recognize the Reiser woman once she made her entrance. Of course, her locator signal was strong on his laptop computer, with the stadium schematics overlaying the sensitive detection grid. With that kind of help, he could locate her to within ten feet any time the boss asked.

"She's just inside the main entrance," he said into his radio, "making her way south."

"Roger," Vasquez answered. "Does she have coverage?"

"Smith and Wilson have her east and west. She's safe."

"Great. We're headed for the floor. Keep us informed."

#

Eulie munched buttered popcorn, each yellow handful greasing his palm and face. Sally wiped him almost constantly with a wad of paper napkins. Eulie didn't mind, though. The crowd was more orderly inside the stadium, so he once more moved on his own feet, though never far from Sally's hand.

"Notice the change?" Gary asked as he chewed his cold hot dog. "The anarchy's gone. People remember how to behave."

"Thank God the riffraff aren't paying customers."

"Possibly, but there's more. Notice the security? The guards all over the place?"

"I noticed. As long as they're friendly, I guess that's a good thing."

"Look deeper. Those guys there, in the black suits."

Sally followed his nod to a group of three young men. They looked like Jehovah's Witnesses preparing to canvas. "So? They're Blues Brothers fans. What of it?"

"They're the real security, Sally. Storm troopers. They look for behavior they don't like, and squelch it before it's a problem. You should know this; you told me about it."

"Oh, yes. The thought police. Political officers. However you want to characterize them. They keep the territory philosophically pure. They served the same purpose in medieval times, if I recall?"

"Right. Not too smart, but dedicated. They intimidate by their presence as much as by their acts. Amazing that they control this crowd of tens of thousands of strangers so easily."

"Let's count 'em, Gary. Could this be a problem, Vasquez?"

The answer took a while, relayed as it was through Fleming. "Negative," he said. "They're likely unarmed, and poorly trained. They won't present a problem, but don't provoke them."

"He says they're nothing," Sally told Gary. "Come on, let's get going. Check out the Bible action figures."

#

"She's on the floor," Fleming said to his radio, "southeast approach, center, in front of the crappy Las Vegas-looking crosses."

"I copy that," Vasquez returned, "moving to intercept. Who's on her?"

"Wilson's still with her. Cruz has picked her up. He's on her south, thirty feet."

"Rog, I'm in the area, but I don't have her. Did you say the crosses?"

"Affirmative. She's right there. She might be blocked by a structure..."

"Hey, Rose," Banks said across the airwaves. "I got a bogey for you. You copy?"

"Roger. Go."

"Avery Collins, Davidson's right hand after Michael Adams. He's at the main stage, south."

"Does he know about our girl?"

"Don't think so. He's talking to three technicians. Seems to be checking microphones."

"Let's introduce him to Sally," Vasquez decided.

Fleming looked at his watch. 5:25 pm. If Bible Scholar adhered to its schedule, all hell erupted in thirty-five minutes. "I'll send her over," he offered.

"And me to her," Vasquez added.

#

Gary whistled. "It reminds me of Taste of Chicago, only indoors." The noise on the floor was terrific, the crowd phenomenal, and the competing blasts of two music stages cemented an impression of the huge, the Hollywood bigger-than-life.

"What's that smell?" Sally asked, wrinkling her nose. "Did somebody's cat die?"

"All I smell is hot dogs and beer," Gary said.

"I think I'm gonna hurl." The smell was pungent. She knew it from somewhere...

"Then, let's go somewhere else," Gary suggested. "How about this way?"

"Change of position," a voice said in Sally's ear. "Left, about a hundred feet."

"This way," Sally said, breathing through her mouth. She went left.

She found it hard to concentrate, so nauseating was the stink. "You don't smell it?" she asked, incredulous. "It's awful, like a sewer. Like the scrap pile for a slaughterhouse. Gah!"

"Sorry, but all I smell is food," Gary insisted. "Are you okay? Need to visit the first aid station?"

"Stop," the radio voice said. "Hang a right."

"I can't hang a right," Sally groused. "There's a God damned Christian bookstore in my way."

"Are you okay?" Gary asked. "Maybe we should leave."

"I'm not a baby, Gary."

"If it's a bookstore," the tinny voice continued, "move south around to its right."

"This way," Sally said. "Duty calls." She groaned, and pushed through the milling crowd.

#

Collins saw her as he turned to leave the stage. He recognized her face, previously seen only in photographs. But, wasn't she dead? Hadn't Michael promised as much to Davidson? But there she stood, right in their midst, as if bringing home an attack. What had become of Michael?

#

"He's hooked," Banks said. "Looks like he's seen the proverbial ghost."

"Track him," Vasquez ordered. "I'll stick with Sally."

#

He thought he should warn the Reverend, but he couldn't lose the woman, either. If he left her in that forest of people, he might never find her again, and Davidson wouldn't like that. He steadied himself, focused, and decided to follow her until he located help.

#

Vasquez looked at her watch. She stood just ten feet from Gary, unnoticed in the crowd. 5:45. So much for stopping the next attack, unless it was against Sally. Come on, Banks. What's going on?

#

"He's just watching her," Banks said. "I guess the next move's ours."

#

"Boss says to move," Fleming said at last.

"Move where?" Sally snapped.

"Anywhere will do."

"We have to move," Sally told Gary. "Any suggestions?"

"Well, why don't we do what we came here for? Let's find the information booths and start some informal research."

"Sounds fine."

"Stomach okay?"

"I can handle it."

#

Collins followed her, less concerned with anonymity than with watching his small, blonde quarry. He cursed himself for leaving his phone at Control. He viewed her window shopping through the dark prism of suspicion. She's writing another story, he thought, this one more libelous than the last, and she gathered her sharpest barbs right in her enemy's camp.

Finally, a clutch of black-suited youths coalesced out of the crowd and Collins signaled them to his side. He spoke to them, then borrowed a phone as they saw to his orders.

#

"More bogies," Banks said. "Three jackboots, all on our girl. You got it, Rose?"

"Copy. I see Smith nearby, but I can't eyeball anyone else. A little help, Fleming."

"Curtis is south, about thirty feet. Parker's right there. Try turning around."

#

A cheerleader of a pamphleteer manned the table, eager to assist. "If there's anything you're interested in, I can help you find it," she offered.

"No, thanks." Gary smiled. "Just browsing."

"I also have a master directory of the other booths, to help you focus your search."

Gary smiled again. "That's very efficient. Is that a Crusade service?"

"They're very supportive." She was cute, Sally had to admit. Too bad she pushed such titles as The Prophecy of the Popes: Why Most Go To Hell, and Homosexuals and Liberal Democrats, Abominations and Pharisees for the End of Time.

Sally elbowed Gary.

"Hey! What did I do?"

"That's the twelfth bunch," she said into his ear. "Uh-oh, they're coming this way."

The three youths approached together, then broke formation to flank the table. Nonchalantly, they looked through the pamphlets. The cheerleader's face darkened.

#

"It's definitely her," Collins said into the phone. "I recognize her from the picture. She's asking questions around the booths. She's with a black man, and a little kid."

"The child would be her son," Davidson said without inflection. Why was he so cool? "I'm curious about the man, though. He's black? In his mid-to-late twenties?"

"Yes."

"Look around, Collins. Look at some of the faces surrounding them. See anyone familiar?"

"It's just a crowd. Why would I--"

"Please, remember our file."

Collins frowned as he squinted into the crowd. Okay, so he recognized that grad student, the black kid standing with Reiser. Big deal-- He caught sight of Vasquez twenty feet away.

"Oh, God."

"No, Collins, just the FBI."

#

The youths followed them from table to table. Sally held tight to Eulie's hand.

"Don't worry," Fleming said in her ear. "They have you cased, but that's what we want. Remember, you're surrounded by friendlies."

"I'd feel a lot better if you didn't think it necessary to tell me that so often."

"There's more of them," Gary whispered. "They're coming out of the crowd like roaches to sugar."

Another pair of blacksuits approached, then another. Soon, the place swarmed with them, as if a convention had just been announced. Sally wished she had left Eulie at home.

"Here comes the finale," Gary said, and took her free hand.

A gray suit approached with an entourage of four uniformed security men. The man in the suit was slight, round-faced, and wore circular wire-framed glasses. He looked serious, and viewed Sally with stark distaste. "Miss Reiser? Are you Miss Sally Reiser?"

"Go along," Fleming advised. "We're right with you."

"Yes, that's me. Who are you?"

"My name is Collins. I'm the personal administrative assistant to the Reverend Arthur Davidson. If you'll come with me, the Reverend Davidson would like to speak with you." He reached a hand in her direction. Sally hesitated.

"Boss says go," Fleming urged. "Leave the boy with LaMonte and Parker."

She passed Eulie's hand to Gary's. She said nothing. What was there to say?

Gary clenched his jaw. There was fear in his eyes.

"Where Mommy go?" Eulie asked.

"I'll be back in a little while, honey. You stay close to Gary, okay?"

"Euie be good."

"I know you will." She smiled at him, then turned to Collins.

He took her arm and led her into the uniforms, then through the crowd. The masses magically parted, curious glances thrown after the group. What had that woman done? Why so many guards? Boy, was she in trouble.

#

"Okay, stay with them. Cruz, Smith, take the left. Wilson, Banks, go right. She's never more than ten feet from an agent, you hear?"

"We got it, Fleming. Pipe down and let us work."

#

Gary started after them, but found a firm hand on his shoulder. "Don't," Parker said in his ear. "She's okay."

"Mommy come?" Eulie asked. He stood very close to Gary.

"Sure, little dude. Any minute, now."

#

Control was a tractor-trailer parked at the south end of the floor, behind the main stage. A haphazard screen of wooden sawhorses isolated it from the vendors. Collins led Sally through a guarded gate and up to a door in the trailer.

Vasquez strolled past the gate, then circled at the edge of the crowd, pretending to wait for someone. She watched her people fan out along the sawhorses, ready to lend assistance. She didn't like this turn at all; they were too far away from Sally. The trailer stood at least twenty feet beyond the barricade, and experience warned that anything could happen in the gulf of twenty feet.

#

Sally felt helpless within the cage of uniforms, but she forced her mind to trust her protectors in the crowd. They did this stuff all the time, she reasoned, and no one knew they were there. Then she entered the barricade, and really started to worry. She felt cut off. She didn't know a thing about security, but she knew they'd have to assault the place to pull her out, and that meant seconds she might not have. To complicate matters, the stink that no one seemed to smell had grown gradually worse; it now dominated the better part of consciousness. It was a rotten smell, a dead one. Was she sick, or what?

Then she stood at the door, and Collins pulled it open for her.

The reek rolled out of the trailer, a fog of putrescence. For a moment she couldn't breathe, then she wobbled and fell like a drunk to the floor. Guards grabbed at her, pulled her up, and carried her into the trailer. Collins followed, and closed the door behind him.

#

"What the hell--?"

"Hang loose, Rob. Steady."

"What was that, Rose? You think she cracked?"

"No," Vasquez said. "No, I don't."

#

Sally fought for breath. She felt her lungs shrivel from the pungent stink of rot. Her eyes watered. Her skin literally crawled as she broke into clammy sweat. The white-shirt-and-tie crowd sat immobile at their laptops, staring as the guards pulled her up against a wall. Collins swaggered to the far end of the trailer, to a tall, shadowed figure that Sally immediately recognized. She had seen him too much in photos to mistake his lanky stance. She had also seen him in dreams.

Collins stood aside and the shadow straightened, turned, and walked in Sally's direction. The stench grew almost unbearable as he approached. Sally's teeth bared. She pushed herself against the wall in a vain attempt at escape.

"What's her problem?" someone asked, and the guards held her tighter.

In a moment, the shadow would enter the light. That was a prospect more horrible than the smell. Sally tried for the door, but a guard shoved her back to the wall.

"Sally," a voice buzzed in her ear. "Are you okay?"

Arthur Davidson stepped into the light.

Sally screamed.

Chapter Fifteen:

Proverbs 10:3

(Back to Table of Contents)

The canal meandered through downtown, the spine of a garden promenade that made charming walks in the warmer months. But the trees were bare now, the flower beds empty, and the snow that covered everything lay blackened and trampled as tens of thousands of competing faithful swarmed over the grounds. North of downtown at St. Clair and West, where the water dead-ended twenty feet below the streets, the terraced landscape was as jammed with people as any place in the city center. Just off the water, a black marble slab rose from the crowd like a tombstone. This was the USS Indianapolis Memorial, in remembrance of that doomed ship that had carried the A-bomb to the Pacific in the last days of World War II. Struck by torpedo on the return leg of its mission, the ship had sunk without a distress signal, most of its crew lost to the sea. Now, its memorial grew from a sea of humanity every bit as seething as the shark-infested ocean that had devoured those men so very long ago. Protesters sat atop the marker, swinging their legs as if perched on a couch. "TURN TO JESUS, NOT FALSE PROPHETS!" the people chanted, led by a college-aged man with a bullhorn. They yelled the same thing over and over, undaunted by repetition. They came to support the Reverend John Bennington and his Crusade for Jesus, and to show disapproval of that other crusade in town. They were happy if counted within the human carpet, happier still if others joined their number.

Just above in the stalled traffic of West Street, ten men and women exited three cars. They were automatons, efficient and quick. They weaved through traffic to the edge of the terraces, then spread along the bordering sidewalk, their parkas oddly open to the freezing night air. No one noticed them. No one suspected a thing. The ten dispersed like dogs surrounding communal prey, and waited for six o'clock.

#

"Jesus, Fleming, I need information!"

"I'm telling you, I don't know! She's freaked out. I don't think it's their fault. I don't think they've touched her."

"She's fucked it up," Banks snapped. "We'll have to go in and get her."

"No. Not yet."

"It's over, Rose. This isn't a sting anymore. It's a rescue."

"Would you just wait one minute?"

#

She closed her eyes until they hurt and twisted her head to the metal wall behind her, but still the apparition approached, still it invaded her mind, impossible to erase. It would stalk in her dreams and unguarded moments forever, a figment of the id brought to terrible, impossible life. Sally's carefully constructed if unkind reality was now a fiction of puny reason, inadequate science, and laughable common sense, a lie that denied the dark, and what really lurked within it. For what world of reason birthed such a monster as that which stood before her? Where did such horrors reside, except in the twisted realms of insanity? For an instant, she prayed for death, for the rotted, walking corpse to snap her neck with its bony hands and bring her blessed oblivion. But reason -- what little remained to her -- fought that desire with bared teeth, and steered her back to the world.

This thing came for Eulie.

You must destroy the Antichrist.

"Oh, please," she whimpered, unaware that she spoke, "please get me out of here..."

"So," Davidson mused, and it was roadkill gassing in the sun. "So, this is the one I've feared so long. You're no more than the other one, girl. What was he, a grandfather? Or just another surname in your over-packed house?"

He grunted, then took her face and turned it toward him. She recoiled from his touch, snatching rancid air in animal gasps. "She's nothing," he concluded, and turned away.

Sally vomited down her front.

"Should I get rid of her?" Collins asked.

Davidson looked at his watch. "Not yet. Let her visit a minute or two longer."

#

Fleming stared at his transceiver, frustrated. What kind of conversation was that? Did Reiser know this guy? Did that explain the scream? Fleming was glad for his tape recorder; it would take more brains than his to interpret what he heard.

"What the hell are you?" he heard Sally ask in an almost hysterical voice. He had heard that voice from heroin headcases, just before they clawed at their skin. He could imagine her gritted teeth, her bulging eyes, and the sweat streaming her body.

"I think Banks is right," he said over the radio. "She's lost it. We have to get her out."

#

"Me? I'm a lowly servant of God. I wasn't always, but the ways of the Lord are strange. He chooses His tools with an oddly eclectic taste, wouldn't you say? But, I came around, and have served His plan for a long, long time, indeed."

"You monster! You murdered Karl Reiser! You murdered Birget Hoffmann because she knew who you are! You murdered Kevin!"

"Who's Karl Reiser?" Collins asked no one in particular.

"You are deranged," Davidson said with sudden vehemence. He stalked across the room to her, throwing his face almost into hers. Sally nearly fainted. "You know nothing beyond your fears. Would anyone credit your blathering nonsense? Look at you! And yet, you stand against me to greater effect than other, more powerful opponents. With an ounce of purpose, you could bring me fear, maybe even bring me down. Still, you will not persecute me. I won't allow it; the Lord won't allow it! I live a great purpose, a purpose right under your flaring, offended nose!" He turned away again, walked slowly into the darker, more private end of the trailer. "Others have come, have tried to destroy me. They were greater than you, but still too feeble to match the task. They wallowed in self-righteousness, thought themselves the instruments of God, and that's why they failed, as you will fail. I am a witness to the great plan of God! I am meant to complete His plan! I will be allowed to fulfill that destiny, and you will not stand in my way!"

#

"Shit," Fleming said. "He's pissed."

Banks sought Vasquez's eyes. It's time to move, he tried to project. Everything's fucked up, anyway. He opened his mouth to speak, then flinched at a frantic beep from his jacket. He snatched out his phone and turned away from the barricade. "Banks, here."

"You're on station. It's going down now. Downtown Indianapolis, St. Clair and West."

"Yes, sir. On my way, sir." Christ! That was just blocks away!

"ETA?"

"Ten minutes."

"No longer." The phone went dead.

"That's it," he said as he put the phone away. "Bible Scholar's made the hit, Rose. This is a wild goose chase. I'm taking my people out of here."

"What? She's still in there!"

"Then, get her out now! I have an appointment, Rose!"

#

Vasquez muttered a rapid sequence of Spanish curses. They couldn't just cut and run, she thought, and they couldn't just burst through that door. There was no crime, no information dropped. "Fleming, I want an instant play-by-play, every word and breath."

"Can't. You heard the boss. I'm packing up."

"God damn it!" She looked around. Already, faces vanished into the crowd. They deserted her. Worse, they deserted Sally.

Some guardian angel I turned out to be, Vasquez thought, her mouth dry.

#

When he heard the news, Parker turned from Gary to speak into the radio link. That was his mistake.

"What about me?" he asked. "I'm with LaMonte and the kid--"

"You atheist son of a bitch!"

They piled out of the crowd like missiles, three men much like everyone else. They landed on Gary, slamming him into a table and sending pamphlets flying. Gary fought back, sent one assailant crashing backwards. The crowd reacted with predictable pathos: with screams, and people stampeding.

"Hey!" Parker yelled, and half-drew his gun. But, he couldn't pull a weapon; they were just civilians. Weren't they? A wink of comprehension crossed his face, but too late. The crowd roiled, then exploded in every direction. Concession booths toppled. The trampled screamed for assistance.

Security was nowhere in sight.

The attackers scrambled and ran, disappearing into the havoc. Parker pulled Gary upright.

"Where's Eulie? " Gary asked.

"I don't know!" Parker yelled, and cursed himself. "Banks, Vasquez, this is Parker! They got the kid, man! They got him, and split!"

#

The announcement struck Vasquez hard, but she hesitated only slightly as she crossed the barricade. "Federal agent!" she said, and flashed her badge and ID. She would have preferred her weapon, but wanted to keep things simple. She doubled her pace to avoid interception and reached the trailer just ahead of the guards. Without preamble, she snatched open the door and launched herself inside.

"Federal agent!" she repeated, and blinked at the dark. What she found broke her charge. For an instant, she forgot her intent.

"What is this?" Collins thundered.

"Special Agent Vasquez, FBI. You're inadvertently interfering with a federal investigation, of which this woman is a part. What happened to her?"

Sally lay crumpled where the surprised guards had dropped her. She stank, and looked like a wrung-out rag.

"We were wondering that ourselves," Davidson said. "Perhaps, Agent Vasquez, you should choose your associates more carefully."

"She's some kind of wigged-out druggie," someone said to clarify.

Vasquez took Sally's arm and tried hauling her to her feet. A guard helped. Vasquez watched him closely.

"Of course, our attorneys will contact you..." Collins said.

"In actual fact, gentlemen, you may hear from the Justice Department. You may have ruined our entire operation by interfering with this woman." And wasn't that a fact!

"No need for nastiness," Davidson said, hushing Collins with a gesture. "We've both apparently made mistakes. My people detained a suspicious person. You failed to check with security--"

"The stadium's security was well informed. That's all that matters." Vasquez supported Sally under an arm and backed toward the door. "Excuse me, please," she said to the guards outside, who blocked her way.

"Well," Davidson continued, "I hope we're all better informed now. Perhaps we'll learn a lesson from it all."

"Would you please ask your guards to move?"

"Security bulletin coming in," a technician reported, and handed Davidson a headset.

Davidson put the headphones to one ear and watched Vasquez closely. He seemed to stifle a flash of emotion. Anger? Surprise? His eyes shifted to Sally. "Oh, my," he said, his inflection dead, "They've reported a missing child."

Sally flinched. Vasquez almost dropped her.

"Well, it happens often. The crowds, and all."

Sally's eyes sought her tormenter's face.

"Why, Miss Reiser. Don't you have a child? Would you know where you left him last?"

Sally burst toward Davidson and fell headlong to the floor, knocking over a guard on her way. Vasquez stood stunned and empty-handed.

"You bastard!" Sally roared through tremors of emotion. "You son of a bitch! He's just a baby!" She braced her feet beneath her, but wobbled. She fell again, began crawling toward Davidson. What was her problem? "He's a baby, you bastard! You want a piece of me? Fine! But leave Eulie alone!"

The fallen guard grabbed her. She grunted and flung an arm against his chest. Then her other arm wound back, cocked, and slammed into him like a piston. He yelped and grabbed his face. Sally promptly fell onto hers.

Vasquez recovered. She grabbed Sally from behind and dragged her backwards by the hips.

"Leave him alone!" Sally screamed. "He's my baby! Give him back!" Vasquez pulled her up by the shoulders, shifting to trap her flailing arms.

"He's my baby!" Sally wailed. "Give him back!" Her body quaked from anguish.

"Come on," Vasquez said. "I think it's time to leave."

It wasn't that easy. Sally struggled, cried, and screamed with alternating ferocity and pathos. She was far beyond reason, divorced from any reality beyond her consummate hatred of Davidson and the truth of her missing child. Vasquez literally dragged her from the trailer and past the barricade. People stared. Where were Banks and the others, those capricious bastards?

#

"We need help, man! They've only had him a minute. He's still on the floor, man!"

"The Crusade people are on it," Banks said. "They've already sealed the stadium."

"Bullshit!" Parker exploded. "They're the ones who did it, man. It isn't like he wandered off. Christ, Banks, that was a setup job! Those fucking Bible Scholars were waiting for us!"

"Bible Scholar isn't even here! It's a wild goose chase. Now, get to the van, so we can check the hit!"

Parker glanced around at the crowd, at the canvassing security people, all magically appeared. He glanced at Gary, who stood a few feet away, a small, brightly wrapped package in his hand. He looked dumbstruck.

"Look, I'm staying here," Parker said to Banks. "You don't need me. You got all those others. I'm staying here to look for the kid."

"I could order you, Parker."

"It's my fault, Banks. It's my fault the kid got snatched."

Banks took a second to answer. "Catch up later. I'm sending Fleming with the tape. Keep it 'til you hear from me."

"Yeah, sure."

"Keep cool, okay? Careful around Vasquez. She's over-involved, and I don't give a shit if she hears me."

"Right. I'm loose. Vasquez, you there?"

No answer. Dammit, where was everybody? Such a Goddamned cluster fuck! Banks running out in the clutch (well, hell, they weren't supposed to be here, anyway!), Vasquez disappearing right when it mattered, and LaMonte standing like a signpost, looking stupidly at that little wrapped package!

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Parker shouted to Gary. "Make yourself useful! Get out there and hunt that kid!"

"It's the second night of Hanukkah," Gary said, clutching the colorful package. "I was gonna give this to him at sunset, but it got so busy..."

"What? What the hell?"

Gary shrugged. "Then I figured, when we got home..."

Parker shoved Gary at the shoulder. "Listen, man, you'll never give him the fucking gift unless we find him first. It's only been a minute. He's still down here on the floor. Now, get out there and find him!"

Brought back from shock, Gary's face hardened to granite. He glanced around at the madcap scene. "It's impossible."

"Only if your ass don't move!"

Gary grunted agreement. He placed Eulie's gift in his pocket, then launched into the crowd.

#

Vasquez was cooked and done. She staggered under Sally's struggling weight, and fell to the floor. She scrambled back to her knees, pulling Sally up by her turtleneck, then slapped the hysterical woman's face. "God dammit, get a fucking grip!" She'd either slap her calm, or slap her unconscious. She didn't care which.

Sally's struggles ceased. She hung by her shirt from Vasquez's fist, breathing raggedly. Her eyes focused, squinted, then froze an almost translucent blue. Vasquez was prepared this time, and easily blocked the flying fist.

"Try that again, and I'll kick your skinny blonde ass." She hauled Sally to a sitting position and stared into her eyes to see how much of her was home. "Our support is gone. There's only you, me, Gary, and Parker. Somebody snatched your boy. I need you to help me find him."

Sally's face contorted once more, and her body stiffened. "That son of a bitching rotted monster, he--"

Vasquez shook her. "No! Get with me, dammit! Davidson doesn't have your boy! You hear? He doesn't have your boy!"

Sally looked confused. Good, she was thinking.

"When he got the call from security, he didn't like what he heard. I don't think he has your boy, but I do think he wants him."

"Eulie's lost in this stadium? We have to find him!"

"My sentiments exactly."

But they didn't.

#

Those in Control tried to look busy. They feared their Reverend's dark anger, so tried not to glance into the shadowed end of the trailer. Davidson paced there, heedless of the activity twenty feet away. He mumbled frustrated thoughts and cursed his tormenter, whom he still clearly feared despite his equivocal victory.

"I need that child!" he thundered at no one, causing his crew to flinch as one. "I need him in order to silence her!"

His people cowered. The stadium was sealed (they hoped), and security combed the floor, scrutinizing every person and every hiding place (again, they sorely hoped). But 30,000 people swarmed the building, few of them amenable to searches, herding, or any close scrutiny. And there was so much to cover, even with the aid of stadium security. What about the loading docks, the maintenance accesses, and the oddball, unexplained back doors that all such structures generated? Still, they put up an honest effort. The security checks, the canvassing, the interrogation of bystanders, it was less a show than those federal clowns suspected. Davidson's people had the resources; they also had incentive through fear. No one, least of all Collins, wanted to earn the Reverend's ire. So, they worked as hard to find the boy as his FBI protectors. If the boy could be found, they'd do it.

But they didn't.

#

Parker went ahead to unlock the house. He checked security while the others brought Sally slowly through the door. He did so more for himself than necessity; he sought competence in the face of failure. It was after midnight, and they hadn't found Eulie.

"House is clean," he said, returning from the kitchen. Everything about him was stretched taut. He moved stiffly, tending to pace. His eyes darted, often seeing nothing as his brain replayed the evening's mistakes with punishing embellishment. It was his fault, his conscience insisted. Eulie had been his to protect.

The Reiser woman hobbled across the floor like a crippled old lady. She didn't even know where she was, so wrapped up was she in grief. She reached the stairs, Gary and Vasquez keeping her on her feet. Gary tried to help her up, but she pushed him away. She stood at the bottom for a long moment, her body almost buckled. Then she lifted her foot for one step, stumbled, recovered, and half-crawled upstairs.

Gary stepped forward to help again, but Vasquez held him back.

"Shouldn't somebody help her?" Parker said after a while. "You know, help her to bed?"

"She'll make it," Vasquez muttered. "She needs to be alone."

"But, she's covered in puke."

Vasquez turned on him. "You noticed that, Parker? Did you? You didn't notice a setup when it swarmed all around you, but you notice she's covered in puke?"

Parker grimaced. "God dammit, Vasquez, you weren't there. I did my best. I -- I just--"

"Your best wasn't good enough," Vasquez stabbed, and pushed past him to the couch.

The house fell still for long, uncomfortable seconds. Only Sally's mournful sobs broke the silence.

"You're so fucking brilliant," Parker finally said, his voice a serrated blade. "You never make a fucking mistake, do you Vasquez? No, not you. You don't blow away suspects in airport ditches, or get them eaten by dogs. You don't mistake a half dozen synagogues for a consulate, and you don't leave your people screaming inside guarded trailers and puking their guts down their tits. You're too perfect for that kind of shit, aren't you Vasquez?"

Vasquez slumped on the couch, holding her face. "Look, I'm sorry. I spoke without thinking, okay?"

"Damned straight, you did. But, you also meant it, didn't you? It's my fucking fault because I'm a big dumbshit. I screwed up in Philly, and now I screw up here, because I'm just--"

"Lay off, Parker--"

"--fucking dumb. Well, you're so smart, you think for me, Vasquez. What you gonna do now that your plan blew up in our faces, Vasquez? Well?"

"I don't--"

"Oh, you're smarter than that. What are you gonna do, Vasquez? Huh? What now?"

"I don't fucking know!" She bolted to her feet and faced him. A tall woman, she met his eyes easily. "Is that what you wanted to hear? Well, there it is! I don't fucking know what to do!"

"That's just what I thought--"

"Dammit, Parker--"

He caught her fist before taking the blow, stood there with his hand tightly closed over hers. "That could be my excuse..." he threatened.

"Get hold of yourselves," Gary said from the window. "You're acting like children."

"Listen to that!" Parker laughed, the sound rising high, almost frantic. He threw down Vasquez's hand and stepped toward Gary. "So, I guess you're smarter than all of us, being a grad student, and all. Well, in case it slipped your syllabus, LaMonte, we just got our asses kicked out there. We went in for information and all we got was a kidnapped kid and a laugh in the face. With all that so-called security, and your girlfriend locked in that trailer with the bad guys, we were lucky we didn't get killed. Now, he has the kid, and--"

"He doesn't have the kid," Vasquez insisted. "I keep telling you--"

"So, you work with crystal balls now? Jesus, Vasquez, you have gone downhill!"

"Somebody's here," Gary whispered.

"I'm telling you, I was there. I saw his reaction--"

"You didn't see shit. You saw--"

"Somebody's here," Gary said more loudly, cutting off the argument. "You'd better look."

The agents hesitated only a moment, then Parker stepped to the door and flipped off the lights while Vasquez went to the window.

Three cars and a van pulled in front of the house. Two of the cars emptied their passengers, at least six shadowed figures who darted into the yard and around both ends of the house. Parker recognized the evil looking objects in their hands.

Vasquez drew her own pistol. "You'd better get upstairs, Gary." She moved across the dark room, pushing him along until she reached the end of the couch. There she crouched, watching the window and door from behind an overstuffed armrest. Parker retreated to the utility room arch, his pistol out and low. Gary stood at the foot of the stairs, forgotten.

"Stay frosty, Parker."

"I'm cool. I'm on it." He thought he would snap like a stressed rubber band.

The doorbell rang.

The two agents looked at each other. Generally, bad guys didn't ring the bell.

The doorbell rang again.

Gary crossed the room to the door.

"Gary..." Vasquez warned.

"I'll just look," he answered. "It's probably Ed McMahon."

"Back away, right now. They have weapons..."

"Vasquez, the house is surrounded. Do we answer the door, or reenact Custer's Last Stand?"

He flipped on the lights, and opened the door.

They recognized the tall figure before them, with the out-of-season tan and stark white hair.

"I believe you've lost something," the Reverend John Bennington said, and squeezed Eulie's hand.

Chapter Sixteen:

Revelations 16:4-6

(Back to Table of Contents)

Sally was in the shower when someone knocked on the bathroom door. She was there partly from habit, partly from gross compulsion. She had needed something to do, something normal that she could grasp, and she had needed to cleanse the filth from her soul. Now her arms ached from scrubbing, but she still smelled the stink, still felt the touch of corrupted flesh. She sagged in the shower's corner, one hand gripping the safety bar, the other a useless bar of soap. Her soul was numb, her purpose robbed. The Golem had taken her Eulie.

"Sally? You okay? It's Gary."

She tried to focus on Gary. He loved her, didn't he? But, what did it matter with Eulie gone? It didn't. It didn't matter at all.

"Sally, answer. If you don't, I'm coming in there." A short pause. "I'm worried about you."

And, he should be. She was dead, her only reason for life vanished.

And, I wasn't even with him when it happened, she thought.

"Sally?"

"Umm."

The relief in his voice was dramatic. "Sally, get decent. Someone here to see you."

"Go away."

"No, Sally, I already told you. I ain't going nowhere."

"I don't want..."

"Then, make an exception. Go ahead, little dude. Tell her."

"Mommy Euie hug!"

His voice gripped her. For a moment, she stopped breathing, had perhaps forgotten how. Then her muscles lost their remaining strength, and she sank into the shower on legs of pudding. She sat knees to chin, sobbing so hard her chest hurt. But her chest ached from joy, not the sorrow of moments before. Eulie! She had heard his voice! Then her mind retreated. It denied the truth electrifying her tortured heart and ears. What if she hadn't heard right? What if she was delusional? She couldn't bear to lose him again.

"Gehey, Mommy come Euie?"

A sound sparked in the core of her being, emerging from her as a moan. She spat out water, wiped her face, fiercely tried to operate her legs. "I'm here, honey!" she shouted through tears. "I'm here, Eulie! Mommy's coming!"

She struggled upright, punched off the water control, threw open the shower door. She moved shakily, as if relearning how to do so, but she found her robe, somehow pulled it on, and made a sloppy job of sashing it about her waist. All the while she continued a half-babbling monologue, afraid to stop or Eulie might evaporate. "I'm coming, honey ... just a sec ... I'm on my way ... yes, on my way ... don't go, I'm coming..."

She threw open the door and fell to her knees at the sight of him. Eulie, still wearing his coat, slammed into her before she reached the ground, and the two of them collapsed in a terrific hug. Sally bawled openly from joy. They held each other with steely intensity. The rest of the world barely existed.

After a moment, Gary stepped back from the door, then left to rejoin the crowd downstairs.

#

"We've watched her for weeks," Bennington said. "We've a surveillance team parked less than five hundred feet from here, day and night, and we've shadowed her through the city." He shrugged, looking sheepish. "I admit, our surveillance methods have sometimes been ... tasteless."

"You broke into this house?" Vasquez asked. "Earlier this week?"

"I'm afraid so, but with reason. You see, we've been watching Arthur Davidson for years. We've seen Miss Reiser's stories, and we needed to know which side she's on, especially after she contacted one of our friends in Europe."

"I don't get this," Parker broke in. "Isn't burglary and illegal surveillance all a little extreme for what amounts to a freakin' business rivalry?"

The old man's eyes hardened. "This is a mission, not a business. I've hunted and thwarted Davidson for decades. We've interfered so much with each other that we wouldn't know how to stop. But, let me explain about Miss Reiser. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Vasquez and Parker sat on the couch. Gary stood at the foot of the stairs. Bennington shifted in his chair and continued. "We needed to know her allegiances. Her Internet traffic was suspect, especially her contacts with Birget Hoffmann. But, the papers we removed from this house proved an inconclusive resource. After all, she's also written critically of me, and I don't hate her for it. So, we watched. That's how we saw her son snatched, and were lucky enough to retrieve him. Anyway, we sneaked the boy through an unguarded exit and immediately brought him back here. And, well," he shrugged, "that's it."

When he simply stared at them, Vasquez cleared her throat.

"First, Mr. Bennington, we appreciate that you protected and returned the boy. But, understand that you've just confessed to burglary, assault, stalking, and invasion of privacy. That isn't the mark of a real solid citizen, no offense meant."

"None taken. My mission is unorthodox, and sometimes calls for unorthodox tactics. Perhaps, if I explained the problem..."

"So, explain, already," Parker invited wryly.

Bennington clicked his tongue. "Unfortunately, you aren't disposed to listen, Mr. Parker. Miss Reiser first. Then, we'll see." He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing as they passed from face to face. "You must understand that the woman upstairs is no small person. She's a very important character in the most dynamic epic of our time. I know it sounds melodramatic, but I've sought that girl for years. She has power that we, with our narrow perceptions, cannot possibly comprehend, nor survive without."

"And, you need her help to defeat Davidson and rescue the world from the brink of unholy disaster?" Parker asked.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes." Bennington spread his hands, palms up. "Your sarcasm is tiresome, Mr. Parker, but it does prove my point, don't you think?"

"You're saying Sally's a superhero?" Gary asked. "That Sally, the one up there?"

"In a word, yes. Maybe not the newsprint definition of one, but God works in peculiar and infinitely interesting ways."

They stared at him in amazement. Bennington stared right back.

"So, what do we do, Vasquez?" Parker finally asked. "Lock him up, or get him a shrink?"

"I'd like to speak with Miss Reiser now," Bennington said.

#

His scrambled brain did not have the means to explain his night's adventures, but she didn't really care, now that she held him again. He told her no monster stories, even with prompts, and that was enough. "I love you," she said over and over as she held him there in her bed, stroking his hair and face. "I love you very much."

"May I interrupt?" the man in the doorway asked. He stood tall, and moved with elegance. His white hair was perfect, his tan perfect, his clothes expensive and perfect. He might have been Warren Beatty. Gary stood behind him in the hall.

"Thank-you for my baby," Sally told Bennington in a quavering whisper.

The man smiled, and stepped into the room. "So, you're psychic? How did you know?"

"Sound travels."

"Then you know why I'm here." His smile remained frozen a moment, then he nodded to the boy. "Can we talk, Miss Reiser?"

Sally wanted Eulie to stay, but she also wanted answers from this genteel man who understood. She gave Eulie one more embrace and a long kiss on his head, then slowly unfolded from him. "Go to Gary, honey. Mr. Bennington and I should talk."

"Mommy no ky?"

"I'll try, darling. Now, go."

Eulie climbed from the bed and ran into Gary's arms. After a moment, they both descended the stairs.

Bennington sat down on the edge of the bed. Sally arranged her robe, tightening it more around her.

"You are a woman with questions," the old man began. "Perhaps I have the answers."

He pressed his hands before his face, as if praying. Then he spoke in a carefully modulated tone. "You are a product of the House of David, which bore the Messiah, Jesus the Christ. Only Jews of your unique heritage possess your gift of sight, which allows you to see the works of Christ no matter how they are hidden. That's how you see whatever it is you sense in Davidson's presence. You see, he has a gift, as well.

"Long ago, Christ promised to return to Earth and free us from death forever. He promised that those around him might live to see him do it. As always, He spoke the truth, but few understood his meaning. A handful of those people to whom he spoke, ordinary humans, were blessed with the gift of near-immortality, the certainty that they would live, ageless, until the Lord's return. This happened two millennia ago, and they still live among us. Most remain hidden, curious historians of God's Christian covenant. Most, but not all."

"Davidson."

"Or Braun. Or whatever alias he claims through the ages. For him, the gift of life was a curse. He was not content to live in the shadows; he was rich, after all, and blessed with worldly power. But he couldn't live ageless among mortal men. They saw what he was and turned on him. They seized his properties, erased his social standing, and threatened his life until he was forced into hiding. Even that he might have weathered, but then he outlived the people he loved. He became lonely, embittered, and when introspection revealed to him an imagined cause of his troubles, he lashed out at those he believed responsible: the people of Christ, the Jews.

"Through the twilight of Rome and the dark ages that followed, he made a career of persecuting Jews, adopting many personae to facilitate his vengeance. Your friend Mr. LaMonte knows him better than you'd imagine, though by other names, from other times.

"But, the pogroms proved unfulfilling, and after more years of introspection he discovered the point of his strange condition, and also a remedy for it. He took up the Holy Scriptures and became a man of God, studying the Bible zealously, but with little real understanding. He determined -- we think, over a thousand years ago -- that he could end his tired life by simply bringing about the return of Christ."

"Crazy," Sally said.

"Yes, and he has been for a very long time. He hadn't the discipline to live an eternity without going mad. You realize this man is directly responsible for the depletion of your race. World War II was his last great scheme to speed the end of time. He made mistakes then, but feels they are corrected. You see, he's very much disturbed, but hides it well, and he has the resources to make his plans happen."

"He can bring about the end of time? God's kingdom on Earth?"

"He believes he already has. At least, he believes the prerequisites are already met. You see, at the end of time the earth must suffer a period of tribulation at the hands of a false Messiah - the Antichrist."

"Davidson."

"No." Bennington was emphatic. "No, Davidson is not the Antichrist, though he believes that he has found him. He found this man, he nurtured him, led him to power. According to Davidson, the Antichrist made his appearance -- began the time of trials -- just over seventy years ago in Berlin."

Sally did the math, then stiffened. "Hitler's dead," she said.

"Is he? Who can say? All they found was a burned body, perhaps a deception, as conspiracy addicts have claimed for decades. Regardless, Davidson believes that Hitler is our Antichrist, that he brought ruin upon this world that has persisted beyond his time, and he will soon trigger the return of our Lord."

Sally shook her head and clutched herself across the arms. "I dreamed about him," she said.

Bennington blinked. "Dreamed about him? The Lord Jesus Christ?"

"No!" Sally shouted with sudden intensity.

Bennington nodded. "As I said, it's your gift to see the works of God. And, perhaps, of His enemies."

"You're changing your story."

"It isn't my story. It's yours."

Sally sat in her bed, her legs curled beneath her, her hand holding closed the top of her robe. She considered what any reasonable mind would dismiss out of hand. Then she turned toward Bennington with her only response.

"What do you want of me?"

"Why, nothing," Bennington said, a little startled. "You don't work for me; you work for the Lord. It's my calling to apprise you of the forces impacting your life. You must know your danger, and your importance to the work of Christ Jesus, the Lord."

"I see two serious problems," Sally said a moment later. "One: how can I do anything about Davidson, when he's i-immortal?" She struggled for the word. Didn't immortal mean blessed with eternal life? Davidson was a rotted corpse.

"The Lord works his wonders in strange ways indeed," Bennington said by way of answer. "Your entire life is proof for this ministry. Every skill you've learned, every thought you've formed, every joy and sorrow you've experienced molds you to this purpose. It's the epitome of predestination. You were assigned this duty by Christ and his Father over two millennia ago."

Sally snorted at that.

"Your other concern?" Bennington asked, making no sign that he noticed her last response.

She looked steadily into his eyes, wanting to see his reaction. "I don't believe in Christ."

Bennington only smiled. "That's quite all right," he said. "Christ believes in you."

#

Minutes later, Bennington came downstairs. The FBI agents stared at him, Parker with open suspicion, Vasquez more ambiguously. They both still sat on the couch. Gary's voice drifted in from the back, interlaced with Eulie's animated chatter.

"Man wif gun."

"Really? What kind of gun?"

"Biiiig gun! Gib Euie ice ceam!"

"The gun gave you ice cream?"

"No! Gehey siwwy!"

"Did you listen?" Bennington asked.

Vasquez nodded. Parker stared.

"We'll have to confer on security," Bennington said as he stepped into the living room. "He'll come for her, to shut her up. He might also come for the boy."

"I've been unable to get a detail," Vasquez said.

"I can handle it, with Miss Reiser's permission. Still, it would be better if she moved to a safer location."

"We've no access to Bureau safehouses. We're unofficial here."

"Quite all right. It could be self-defeating, anyway. We're locked in battle here. We can't win by hiding."

"What is this?" Parker asked. "Vasquez, are you crazy? Confer about security? With a burglar and God knows what all? I'm delusional, I know I am."

"Get used to it, Mr. Parker," Bennington said. "You need help, and I'm giving it."

"We can't count on the Bureau," Vasquez added.

"The man's a nut, Vasquez."

Bennington spoke after peering up at the ceiling. "I don't expect you to believe, Mr. Parker. You haven't the history or the vision. This ministry, though, is my life, passed to me from my father, and to him from his father, one continuous hereditary assignation in a network as old as the western world. This is not fantasy, Mr. Parker. Mr. Davidson is real, and so is his threat. He lives only to engineer the end of this world and the threshold of the next, and he won't rest until that mission is complete and he lies dead in the ground."

"You're a nut," Parker said. He rose from the couch. He ran fingers through his hair. "There are no immortals, there are no super-powered shock troops of God, and my name ain't Mulder, and hers ain't Scully. We deal in reality here."

Bennington nodded. "All right, then. The reality is that your problem child, Davidson, has built a highly effective terrorist network over the last seventy years. He is using it now to murder American citizens."

The agents looked at him blankly. "When did he get this started?" Parker asked. "Just after potty training?"

Bennington continued. "Right this minute, your colleagues clean up his latest atrocity. At six o'clock this evening, he gunned down no less than one hundred twenty innocents, all gathered downtown to counter-protest his movement. They were trapped in a recessed area of your city canal, and packed so tightly that escape was impossible. Davidson's people used machine guns positioned at several angles around the gathering, and fired for two minutes into the crowd, reloading several times. They directed their fire to herd as many people as possible into the water, then massacred them there. When the police arrived, the canal was red with blood and dammed with bodies. Over a hundred seriously wounded added their blood to the total, echoing the Bible verse spray-painted on the naval memorial there: Revelations 16:4-6. 'The third angel poured out his bowl on the rivers and springs, and these turned to blood' and 'To those who shed the blood of saints and prophets, you are given blood to drink'. Your FBI and the Indianapolis Police have scoured the area for hours, but, once again, they'll find nothing that leads them to Davidson. They're as helpless in this as the scores of my people lying dead in your filthy canal."

"I'm sorry--" Vasquez began, but Bennington cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"I'm sickened by their deaths, but I don't pause to mourn. For I know the next attack, or the one after that, will be worse, harming not hundreds, nor thousands, but millions."

"This is ridiculous." Parker sneered. "And, it's none of your business, either. It's a federal case, a government responsibility--"

"This is the province of God."

"Look, friend, as a representative of government, I say that one of government's prime concerns is separation of church and state. You listening, Vasquez? I say let's separate from him."

Vasquez watched a disturbing flare in Bennington's eyes. "What do you know?" she asked.

Bennington turned from Parker. "I know the final verse of his cycle, to be read on December 23rd, the fortieth day of terror. We discovered it weeks ago, through similar questionable means as used against Miss Reiser. Are you familiar with Revelations 16, verses 17 through 19?"

Her blank expression made him frown.

"It refers to the seventh apocalyptic plague," a voice said from the kitchen. Everyone turned to find Gary in the doorway. "The seventh angel poured his bowl into the thin air, and a great voice came out of the temple saying, 'It is done!' And there were flashes of lightning, loud noises, peals of thunder, and a great earthquake such as had never been seen since men were on the earth. The great city was split into three parts, and the cities of the nations fell, and God remembered great Babylon, to make her drain the cup of his wrath." He shrugged as the agents stared at him. "It comes up a lot."

"It's a climactic event of the New Testament," Bennington nodded. "The end comes rapidly after."

"Well, yeah," Gary allowed, stepping into the room. He rubbed the back of his neck. "But, none of this makes any sense. I mean, if Davidson wants to destroy the world as laid out in the Bible, he's really off the mark. Not only does he skip around through prophecy, but his terrorist interpretations lose a lot in translation. I mean, how does killing a computer guy hasten the time when knowledge would be increased? If anything, it sets it back. How can you promote apostasy by blowing up an offending congregation? How do you highlight labor conflict by exploding a bomb at a contract negotiation? He isn't fulfilling prophecy; he's only alluding to it."

"Correct, young man. And, of course, there are the misfits inherent in his choices. Tonight, he symbolically takes on the role of the second angel of plagues. He made a river of blood flow on the earth. But, what of the first plague, the one of boils on those serving the devil? And, what about the other plagues of Scripture? Unless he doubles up or throws away his pattern, there isn't enough time to get them all in. What do you think of that, Mr. LaMonte?"

"His thinking is fragmentary, not entirely lucid. He's just striking out, possibly convinced that his plan makes sense, but too intent on it to see the obvious holes. This Hitler thing, for instance. The Antichrist is prophesied to rule for three and a half years. Afterwards, God destroys him. If Hitler is the Antichrist, and he's still alive, which is a long bet since he'd be something like a hundred and forty years old, then his rule has gone on way beyond prophecy. The time line's lost completely. I mean, what has Davidson done, rewritten prophecy to fit his needs? He seems to have confused the rule of the Antichrist with the entire time line of the rebuilding and desecration of the Temple of Jerusalem, which includes the rise of the Antichrist. They're only a few pages apart in the Bible, and could be read as interchangeable until you do the math. Obviously, Davidson isn't doing the math." He looked at Vasquez. "I guess I've led you wrong. I've argued all along that these people aren't crazy, just dedicated. At least in the case of their leader, this might not be the case. A sane person as studied in Scripture as Davidson supposedly is would dismiss his actions as ludicrous."

"He isn't sane," a new voice asserted.

Sally stood by the stairs, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. Gary went to her, took the hand she offered, and squeezed it. "He isn't sane," she repeated. "He isn't even human. Any humanity in him shriveled ages ago. He's just an animal now. He must be destroyed."

Everyone turned toward Vasquez. She leaned forward in her seat and clasped her hands together. "We can't touch him," she said. "He's too heavily insulated. Nothing points to him. The only person in his crusade under any suspicion is Michael Adams." She paused, glancing at Sally's blank face. "Parker? Do you have the tape? The one Fleming made?"

"What for?" Parker asked. "This isn't an investigation. It's a ward meeting for psychos."

"Parker. The tape."

"We can't turn it over to them."

"Give me the tape, now."

He took the tape from his jacket. He slapped it into her hand. "Delusional," he said. "Fucking delusional." He dropped back onto the couch.

"There might be something here," Vasquez said, ignoring Parker's attitude as she held up the tape. "Fleming said he got some odd conversation. Maybe it's odd enough to give us a boost."

Bennington looked skeptical. "I prefer to locate Michael Adams. If we find him, we find the nuclear weapons he stole."

Vasquez froze, stunned.

"How in hell did you know about that?" Parker boomed.

"My network is older than your FBI, and nearly as pervasive," Bennington said.

"God dammit, I want to know--"

"Parker!" Vasquez turned back to Bennington. "How do you plan to find Adams?"

"I have my sources..."

"I knew you'd say that."

"Which leaves us where we started," Bennington said. "How do we protect Miss Reiser? As long as she lives, Davidson is in danger. He knows that. He'll do something about it."

"I'll protect her," Gary said.

Bennington grinned. "I'm sure you'd try, Mr. LaMonte, but we need more insurance than that. Davidson's network is at least as great and as efficient as mine. He has armies to send against Miss Reiser. I can offer surveillance and security, but we need someone to coordinate it all, and act as her personal protector. Someone suited to fighting armies."

"It's me," Vasquez said in an odd voice. She sat immobile, hands to her mouth and eyes widening.

I hardly even know her, Father. The name just entered my head.

See? He speaks to you, you just have to listen. Now, go and find this Sally Reiser, and do what comes naturally.

"I'm the one to protect you," Vasquez said to Sally. "I was sent to protect you..."

Sally looked at her blankly, but Bennington's face brightened.

"The Lord walks among us," he said with authority. "Perhaps we should pray for his guidance."

"Shit," Parker spat. "The world's going to shit, and here I sit in church."

#

"We got 'em," the sonarman said, his grin like that of a child at Christmas. "Two echoes, one our friend with the nets, the other submerged, dual screws, a nuke. Odds are a heap big fish, fellow fisher folk."

"Target designations," the officer of the watch called, his sense of humor muted in the presence of his captain. He stood straight, his hands behind his back, and moved about the control room as if checking his busy crew. He looked relaxed, even competent, but his pacing had grown obvious.

The fire control officer came back after a moment. "Sub-surface contact is Target 01. Surface contact is Target 02. Acknowledge."

"Sonar, aye. Surface 02, sub-surface 01."

"Target solutions?"

"Calculating now," Fire Control said.

"Got an alias on 01, Sonar?"

"Negative, sir. Got some strange noise off his screws. It's making a pos difficult."

"Keep trying, Sonar." At last, the OW turned to his captain, who leaned against the centrally located plotting table, sipping a cup of coffee. "How did you know, sir? I would never have guessed--"

"Just a hunch, OW," the captain said, smiling. "It isn't like we had anything else to follow." He took another luxurious sip from his cup, then addressed his junior again. "I've chased Russian subs for fifteen years. Over time, your hunches get pretty good. That trawler topside was moving with too strange a pattern for any normal patrol. They were hunting something. I guess they found it."

The fire control officer rattled off his targeting data.

"Roger, Fire Control," the OW called. "Continue to update."

"Definitely a Delta III missile boat," Sonar called from his station. "Which boomer is hard to say. Too much extraneous noise from propulsion."

"The only question," the captain said to no one in particular, "is why a Russian trawler would rendezvous with a missile sub. They have tenders for that purpose."

"From that screw noise, maybe they're dropping off some WD-40?" Sonar suggested.

"At ease, now," the OW warned. He turned back to his captain. "So, what do we do with them, sir?"

The captain shrugged. "Why, nothing, OW. The Russians are our friends, remember? Let's just listen a bit, then \-- what's our range, thirty thousand? -- then we'll close to three thousand and click off some trophy photos. How's that sou--"

"Shit!" The sonarman threw off his headphones and shook his startled head.

"Sonar, report!" the OW snapped.

"Explosion, sir! The trawler, it just blew up!"

No one said anything for all of one second. Then the captain straightened, and threw his voice throughout the compartment.

"I relieve you, OW! Sonar, details!"

"Surface blast, as far as I can figure! Big one. I can't find the boomer, sir!"

"Action stations!"

A siren answered the captain's order. Sea doors closed fore and aft. Crewmen all over the boat scrambled to duty stations.

"Pressure wave!" Sonar reported. "Leading edge 23,000 meters! Can't measure it, sir!"

"Engine room, back full! Con, hard to port, down twenty degrees, come to four hundred meters. Nav, what's below? I need a hidey-hole."

"Bottom's at 5030," Navigation reported. "We've the Zapiola Ridge below, running north to south, 4300 below our keel."

"Too deep. That's-- wait, thermal layers above the ridge? Sonar!"

"1800, sir, coming on fast, slow dissipation."

"Engine room, ahead three quarters. Con, crash dive."

"Crash dive, aye!"

The captain heard glass in their voices. He hoped he hid the fragile grind in his. The approaching pressure wave, they all knew, could crush their boat like an eggshell. "Easy goes it, people. We can do this." But, of course, they couldn't. The protective shield of the Zapiola Ridge was too far away. Only a thermal shield of hard sea could dissipate the pressure wave and save them. The deck tilted drastically under the captain's feet. His coffee cup slid across the plot table and crashed to the floor.

"Got the thermal!" Sonar reported. "Here's the plot!"

The captain listened intently, then repeated the figures to Con as an order. Now the deck tilted in two directions at once.

"Sonar, sound off continuously. It's a race, you know."

"1500, sir. Passing 1500."

The aft sea door opened, and the executive officer's muscled bulk fell into the tilted room. He secured the door behind him. "What the hell's going on?" he demanded by way of humor. "Can't a guy sleep around here?"

"1100, sir."

"Surface explosion, undoubtedly a nuke. Pressure wave's coming. I'm trying for the Zapiola Ridge and a thermal barrier there."

"Eight hundred!"

"Christ!" the XO breathed. "How close are we?" He struggled over to Con and leaned over the two seamen struggling with their plane and rudder controls.

"Six hundred!"

"Just passing eight hundred," the XO shouted. "We'll never make it, sir. We need a new plan."

Of course, he had one, barely, and it offered little chance for survival. But, the XO was right. The best plan just couldn't work.

"New orders! Con, twenty degrees up bubble, come to 167! Engine room, on my command, all back one-quarter. Acknowledge!"

"Engine room, all back one-quarter, at your command, aye!"

The deck twisted beneath their feet. The captain thanked the designers for such a maneuverable boat. The old Los Angeles boats could never have been so agile. He estimated progress through the soles of his shoes. Sonar called off increasingly frightening numbers.

"Five hundred!"

"167, twenty degrees up!" the XO shouted.

"Engine room, execute!"

"Four hundred!"

A rattle announced itself from somewhere in the room, was joined by others. The deck began to vibrate.

"Three hundred!"

"Collision alarm!" the captain shouted, and reached for the overhead handholds. He had turned his boat into the wave, or as nearly as he could figure, and now backed her off to minimize the inevitable slam. He counted on the wave's dissipation over distance. He hoped it was enough.

"Two hundred! It's inside my ears, sir!"

"Brace for impact!"

A bulldozer of water crashed into their bows.

#

"What's he mean by that?" Vasquez wondered, and reversed the tape to hear it again. She and Gary leaned over Sally's little boom box, their ears straining to hear.

"So, this is the one I've feared for so long," said Davidson's tinny voice. "You're no more than the other one, girl. What was he, a grandfather? Or just another surname in your over-packed house? She's nothing."

"Who's that 'other one'?" Vasquez asked. "This grandfather person?"

They heard a retching sound, but needed no discussion to imagine its source.

"Should I get rid of her?"

"Not yet. Let her visit a minute or two longer."

"He knows about the attack," Gary guessed. "The one at the canal. He wants to hold her, keep your people away from his work."

"That's a stretch," Vasquez said, wanting to believe him.

"No, it isn't," Sally broke in. She sat at her computer table, looking slack-faced from exhaustion. What had she suffered back there in the stadium? Vasquez wondered. "He looked at his watch before answering Collins. He knew you were there."

"What about that grandfather person?" Vasquez asked.

"Karl Reiser, my great uncle on my father's side."

"Your great uncle?" Vasquez looked skeptical, but Sally had already tuned her out.

"What the hell are you?"

"Me? I'm a lowly servant of God. I wasn't always, but the ways of the Lord are strange. He chooses His tools with an oddly eclectic taste, wouldn't you say? But, I came around, and have served His plan for a long, long time, indeed."

"You monster! You murdered Karl Reiser! You murdered Birget Hoffmann because she knew who you are! You murdered Kevin!"

"Who's Karl Reiser?"

"Exactly when did he kill your great uncle?" Vasquez wanted to know. "When they were kids? Sally?"

"Don't you listen? The man's immortal."

"Nobody's immortal," Parker insisted from the couch.

"I don't know," Gary said, shaking his head. "Listen to this guy. He seems to support what Reverend Bennington said. All those time references..."

"Nobody's immortal," Parker repeated.

"Did you hear Collins?" Vasquez rewound a few seconds, then pressed the "play" button.

"--murdered Karl Reiser! You murdered Birget Hoffmann because she knew who you are! You murdered Kevin!"

"Who's Karl Reiser?"

"Hear that?" Vasquez said with guarded triumph. "Collins wonders only about Reiser. He knows about the others. This is evidence, people."

"Awfully lame evidence," Parker offered.

"Dammit, Parker, if you can't be constructive, then just shut the hell up."

"I'm trying to be constructive, only nobody listens."

"Why are you here, anyway? What in hell have you offered in the last hour?"

Parker's jaw tightened. "I've offered common sense. Somebody needs to keep you straight..."

"I live a great purpose, a purpose right under your flaring, offended nose!" the tape player continued. "Others have come, have tried to destroy me. They were greater than you, but still too feeble to match the task. They wallowed in self-righteousness, thought themselves the instruments of God, and that's why they failed, as you will fail. I am a witness to the great plan of God! I am meant to complete His plan! I will be allowed to fulfill that destiny, and you will not stand in my way!"

"Meant to complete His plan," Gary mused. "He sure talks immortal, or like he thinks he is."

Vasquez raised an eyebrow. "You don't seriously think..."

"No, but maybe he does. That's what matters. If he thinks he's immortal, and that he has to bring on the end of time to rest, then we need to act accordingly. Get into his head, you know?"

"I've told you," Sally said, slapping the computer table. She startled the others, who had grown used to her complacent, shock-dulled persona of the last several hours. "Dammit, I've told you and told you. He is immortal, just as Bennington claims. He isn't human. Why can't you see that? It isn't his imagination, and it isn't some demented ploy. I mean, can't you see it? Are you all completely blind? Can't you see the flesh falling off his bones, the festering ah, ah compost of his skin, the, the things moving in him, the g-grinning skull--" Her eyes widened as she went on. Her jaw tightened. She ground her teeth.

"Sally?" Gary soothed, concerned.

"And his touch, and the smell. My God, didn't anyone notice the smell? Like a landfill. Like a sewer. Like dead animals left in the road--"

"Sally!"

She flinched at his tone. She looked around quickly, as if waking up.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, her eyes still saucers.

"Maybe you should catch some sleep..."

"Don't patronize me, Gary! I'm not a child!"

"Okay, okay. Don't rip my throat out. It was only a suggestion." He turned back to Vasquez. "If he really wants to complete God's plan, then these attacks are gonna get worse. Like Bennington said..."

#

Sally drifted mentally away, back to that place where everything -- everything -- was a tapestry of conflict between her and Davidson. To where his awful stink and awful features proved his identity as Antichrist, or Golem, or some other nemesis bent on her destruction. That place had formed at first from fear, the mindless, blanketing fear of a mouse trapped by an alpha predator. But a gradual change had brought her from primal fear to paranoia, from there to rising indignation. In the few hours since losing Kevin, since losing and finding Eulie, since securing an understanding ally, Sally's numbing fear had given way to something more useful. She felt a building need to strike against her tormenter. She felt anger burning cold into her soul.

No one noticed. Only Bennington might have, but he was gone, departed for hours. The others saw only a shaken hysteric, divorced from reality and weak from some dementia that no one understood. They watched her with pity, concern, or derision, depending on their perspective, but Sally, who grew more focused as time permitted, dismissed them all as blind, and maybe a little dense. She pondered the details of her last several hours, searching for weapons with which to strike her enemy. Kevin's jump drive came to mind. It might inform Davidson that he had failed to cow her. The papers wouldn't pay for a heat pump, but they would certainly print her work. She could live with that, and the money no longer mattered. What mattered, what got her out of her seat, was finding Kevin's drive.

While Vasquez and Gary huddled over the boom box, and Parker sulked on the couch, Sally rose from her chair and moved to the bureau and her canvas bag beside it. She made slow, wobbly progress, still drained from her ordeal, but determination shored her up. That and her growing center of rage. She kneeled before her bag and fingered through its contents. And there it was, right where she had put it three days -- almost four days -- ago. She returned to her seat at the laptop.

Sally inserted the drive and clicked its icon, then that of Kevin's document. Dispassionately, she read. No one noticed at all.

#

Banks stood on the sidewalk, cringing from the wind and the heavy, struggling traffic. Floodlights and helicopters lit the terrible scene below, where police in waterproof thermal suits removed bodies from red water. They dropped the corpses in neat rows, searched for identification, then carried them as manpower permitted out of the recessed promenade and up to the streets and the waiting trucks. At first, they had used ambulances, but the bodies were so many with no room at the hospitals. Now, the Indiana National Guard hauled the dead to their armory. Dozens were already gone, but Banks saw no shortage of gore from where he stood. It was repulsively surreal, even for a man of his experience. The voice on his phone improved things not at all.

"Washington," Blackburn said over the air. "You'll meet me at Indianapolis International in one hour, and we'll prepare our briefing in-flight."

"Jesus, sir. A nuclear explosion?"

"Right on top of a Russian ballistic missile submarine. At first blush, it might have been coincidence. They intended to get the trawler."

"Jesus, sir. What do the Russians say?"

"They hold us responsible. NATO's on alert, and our defenses are to DEFCON 3. That's why the National Security Agency now has the ball."

"But, we've had this case--"

"One hour, and we'll work up the NSA briefing en route. We aren't fired, Agent Banks, we just have bosses, that's all."

The cell phone went dead. "Well, shit," Banks breathed. Demoted? Again? The damned secretive NSA? Nuclear weapons? This whole affair was way out of hand. That last had been well at sea, only two ships destroyed (though the witnessing sub had been badly damaged), and the trade winds had taken any fallout the long way around toward land. Next time could be messier, and less than ten hours out. The case, meanwhile, lay in disarray, going through yet another restructuring at just the worst time. Such a Blackburn signature; Blackburn, whose timid, politicized approach had taken less than promising momentum and had spun it down to a virtual freeze. He showed no disappointment at bowing to the military; in fact, he seemed relieved, the wimp. Bible Scholar had scared him since its first leanings toward powerful, connected suspects.

Banks recalled the spray-painted monument across the way. Revelations 16:4-6. "The third angel poured his bowl into the rivers and the fountains of water, and they became blood. " What did Blackburn need to set a fire in his gut?

Banks jumped at a screech and a loud, metallic crash. A block down the street, a crowd gathered, as well as several policemen. Banks didn't want to know; he had his fill of craziness. The streets were nuts. Maybe it was the dragging traffic, or the excitement of horror close at hand, but people shouted, honked, and threatened more readily than they had just minutes earlier. Some even abandoned their cars, taking off on foot. What was that about? Then he saw a familiar figure approaching from the accident scene, and sighed.

"This is a fucking zoo!" the homicide detective spat. "They'll have riot units here by sunrise, I'll bet you that!"

"What's the deal down there?"

"Not just there, all over! Sweet mother of God, they didn't train me for this!"

"What's the problem?" Banks asked.

"We got wrecks all over. As if this..." He gestured toward the canal. "...this Godawful mess wasn't enough, now the TV news says somebody's blowing up nuclear bombs for fun. People are fleeing the city. Not just ours, but Chicago, Louisville, all over. It's a fucking panic!"

Banks was grim. "Which news shows?" he asked.

#

Parker was outside checking Bennington's guards. Gary slumped in an easy chair with his head thrown back, softly snoring. Vasquez lay curled on the couch. The house stood dark except for a kitchen light.

Sally moved quietly to the computer. She stole into her chair, tapped the mouse, and cringed at the laptop's wakeup beeps. The others didn't move, though Gary's snores increased in pitch.

After a moment, Sally relaxed, then opened the file still waiting in her drive.

Thirty minutes later, Vasquez stirred on the couch. "Sally?"

"Yes, it's me. I'm just messing around. Go back to sleep."

"Where's Parker?"

"He's around," Sally lied. "Go back to sleep. You'll wake Gary."

That seemed to satisfy. Vasquez turned over and dropped back into sleep. Sally returned to her typing, hitting the keys as lightly as possible. Another forty minutes passed uneventfully, then footsteps tapped on the back porch. Quickly, Sally collapsed her window into the dock at the bottom of the screen. She did the same to Kevin's document. A moment later, Parker entered the room.

"Hey, aren't you the early riser," he said.

"I thought some work might clear my mind."

"What kind of work?"

"Oh, just letters. Private stuff, y'know?"

"Nothing to me. It's six in the morning. I'm waking my relief."

"Vasquez?"

"Yeah. Time for me to snooze."

Sally went to her applications folder and opened a game of chess. "If you'd like, you could sleep upstairs in my room. I won't be using it."

"That's mighty nice of you. I might do that."

She shoved around chess pieces for an eternal two minutes. Parker woke Vasquez and briefed her about nothing. They forced small talk, then Parker excused himself and went upstairs to sleep. Thankfully, Vasquez said nothing, but she sat on that couch for what seemed like an age before moving to the kitchen to rattle about for coffee. Finally, when Sally was almost resigned to giving up her clandestine pursuit, the back door rattled, and Vasquez was out in the yard.

Sally brought back her windows and plowed into her work. As Bennington had said, Davidson's monsters would return soon enough. There was no safety in hiding. She attached her document to e-mail and set up a note to her agent. Then she pressed the "send" button, and sat back in her chair. Satisfaction covered her like a warm wool blanket.

But, with the wool, came an insistent, worrisome itch.

Golem.

Chapter Seventeen:

Matthew 24:6

(Back to Table of Contents)

Vasquez silenced her cell phone under the lab assistant's chastening glare.

"Yes?"

"Rose? It's Rob. Look, I'm sorry about last night. You understand, don't you?"

"Sure, Rob. I understand. I don't appreciate it, but I understand."

"Oh. So, you're still pissed?"

"For a while, yes."

"Can I make it up to you? A t-shirt from DC?"

"Rob, I'm very busy..."

"Yeah, well, I need your expert, LaMonte. Is he handy?"

"Right here." Gary sat at the next workstation, surrounded by books.

"Yeah, this is LaMonte." He cradled the phone at his shoulder but continued working his mouse.

"Banks here. What can you give me on Matthew 24--"

"--6. Wars and rumors of wars. Is that what they cited?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"We figured it out from the news. Nuking a Russian sub, that's likely to tickle international relations. Also, an incident that big and this close to the end? I think they'll go even bigger from here on out, and stick to the major apocalyptic writings."

"Hmmm, anything more concrete? I'm at a pajama party with Homeland Security, and they're chomping to send the US freakin' Marines just about anywhere we say."

"We're working up scenarios for locating the nukes before they go off. It'll be a while."

"Not too much of one, I hope. Bible Scholar's crossed the border for this last demonstration. Remember, it's two in the afternoon somewhere in the world, all the time."

"Roger. We'll keep you advised." He handed the phone to Vasquez.

"Roger?" She choked back a laugh, her hand over the mouthpiece. "You actually said 'Roger'?"

Gary blinked, then grinned with embarrassment. "I guess it rubs off."

"Yeah," Vasquez agreed, "I guess it does. Rob? You still there?"

"Never left."

"Look, I have Parker out at Sa-- Miss Reiser's house. I'll pack him off to you ASAP."

"Keep him. He's a griper, but handy. You know Parker..."

"Well, okay. He'll probably prefer to stay. He feels guilty, you know. Thanks."

"Rose..."

"No, Rob. We both have work to do."

A short, uncomfortable silence. "Okay. I'll get with you later."

"'Bye, Rob." She hung up and replaced the phone in her jacket. "Now, what was that about Matthew?"

Gary bookmarked his web site and turned all attention to her. "We have Bennington's story, corroborated by Sally, of an immortal tool of Jesus Christ. Whether we believe the story or not, I think we should assume that Davidson believes it. Everything in Fleming's tape seems to point that way. Now, if he's really fulfilling prophecy to release himself from a curse, where do you think he'll likely wind up?"

"Matthew? I don't understand. I guess I wasn't a very good Catholic."

"No, no, no. There are tons of apocalyptic writings in the scripture, and many interpretations of each and every one. But, Davidson thinks he's uniquely affected by one in particular, where Jesus tells his apostles about signs of the end of time."

"You think he'll return to that passage for the last of his attacks?"

Gary nodded. "Yes, and he'll have ample opportunity. There are seven signs of the end times mentioned in those writings."

"Seven. That isn't bad."

"Well, no, but they're awfully vague. We'll have to work up scenarios for each, and we aren't dealing with a terribly rational mind."

"Can we narrow the choices?"

Gary sat back, his notes held before him. "We eliminate the last two passages, 24:14 and 24:29. One points to worldwide preaching of the Gospel as a sign of the apocalypse, and the other is a reference to the moon being darkened, the sun losing its light, and the stars being shook from the heavens. I think Davidson would like to save the first duty -- preaching the gospel \-- for himself, and the catastrophe of 24:29 is his grand finale. Both will wait until the twenty-third. That leaves 24:7, nations rising against nations in the face of famine, pestilence, and earthquakes, 24:10, a rise in betrayal and hate, 24:11, false prophets arising, 24:12, love falling away in the face of inequity, and 24:9, somebody being delivered into somebody else's hands to be afflicted and killed. And, of all those, he'll only do two." Finished, he caught his breath.

Vasquez frowned. "I guess we'd better keep reading," she said.

#

He found her in the field behind her house, the same field crossed by Michael Adams two nights before. The guards patrolled far across the snow, unobtrusive but efficient. With their weapons hidden beneath heavy coats, they looked more like vagrants than trained killers. Sally, on the other hand, seemed an entirely carefree mom, chasing her son in the sparkling ankle deep snow, then dragging him down, where they plastered each other with snowballs and wrestled until they were both powdered white. How unexpected, Bennington thought. She was confused and she was stressed, but her center was hard, ultimately uncrackable, a worthy opponent despite the enemy's scorn. God sure knew how to pick 'em. Bennington hoped to prove as useful when the Lord had need of his talents.

He stepped into view beyond the back gate. Parker stood thirty feet down the fence, hands stuffed deep into his warm parka. Bennington smiled and moved toward the agent.

"Well," he said. "She seems recovered..."

"It was mental," Parker said. "All mental."

"Perhaps, but she seems no worse for the experience."

"She's never more than a few feet away."

Bennington looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"You couldn't shove a stick between her and the kid. She's afraid to leave him."

"Understandable, considering what she's been through." He watched Parker carefully. "What about you, sir? How are you after last night's adventures?"

Parker eyed him. "I'm fine."

Bennington waited a full ten seconds before speaking again. "It wasn't your fault, you know. They would have gotten the boy regardless. You're lucky they didn't kill you to do it."

"You managed pretty well getting him back."

"They didn't expect us, Mr. Parker, and we've been trained against them."

"I see. Crucifixes and garlic, right?"

Bennington smiled politely. He stood there another minute, then excused himself and crunched across the snow toward Sally. She sat panting on the ground. Eulie made snow angels with his body.

"Hello!" Bennington called.

Sally flashed a devastating smile.

"Morning, Reverend. How goes the hunt?"

"Nothing for you to worry about. Things go as they go, is all."

Sally raised an eyebrow. "Men's work, huh? Don't want to scare the womenfolk?"

"Oh, not at all. But, I have my work and you have yours. I won't ask after your activities. If God wills I know, he will reveal it to me."

"I guess. We're going in soon. Would you like some cocoa?"

"Actually, I brought you a treat, a coffee and some bagels from a favorite haunt of yours."

Her eyes brightened. "My! Being spied on sure has its perks!"

#

He watched, showing his teeth, as she savored a mouthful of bagel.

"Mmmm. Ripple's is so good. And your spies are so nosy. This is my favorite kind."

"My people are very thorough," Bennington said, then once more set to waiting. He knew what soon would come. He had practiced his part in the coming dialog many times in his mind. He watched Eulie push trucks on the living room floor and ran his eyes over the worn, cheap household fixtures. Sally lived in mean surroundings. They all had, the seers. Every report back to legend agreed; the weapons of God were forged in poverty. He never chose kings, or presidents, or industrialists to pit against Davidson, never anyone with worldly power. Was it an aesthetic quirk, or did God favor the underdog?

"So, Reverend," Sally said between mouthfuls, "tell me about this network of yours."

"It's an ancient, informal group, thousands of us over the world. We formed during the early pogroms against the Jews, that is, Davidson's first attacks on your people."

"Jew lovers, huh? I bet the Nazis just loved you for it."

"Actually, our membership claims all faiths, even those without faith. Each person justifies the fight in his or her own way. We agree on this: that we oppose an evil as old as the West, a force of nature endowed by God." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I've told you that Davidson believes that Adolf Hitler, the devil of your people, is the Antichrist. What I haven't told you, and it's unproven but believed, is that Davidson created the Antichrist Hitler eighty years ago. It's been said, but not proven, that Hitler still lives, that Davidson forces his body to live so that the prophecies citing the Antichrist can be fulfilled this year."

Sally stared at him narrowly. "I've dreamed of an old man. He lay under a red cloth. I think it might have been a Nazi flag."

"You may have dreamed of this improbable Hitler. If you did, then he is fact."

"Can Davidson be killed?"

The question surprised him, coming so soon. Was she ready for that kind of work? "Only God can kill him. We can only contain him, which is really quite enough. Killing him would go against the Lord."

She chewed more bagel, her eyes closed to enjoy it more. She seemed to dismiss his response. "So, what do you call yourselves?"

"We have no name."

"Two thousand years in business and you haven't picked a name? Come on!"

"It's a very loose association for keeping track of a common enemy. I know only a few of the group on any personal basis."

"Well, if you only know a few of these loose associations, then how do you know there are thousands all over the world?"

He shrugged. "How many Jews do you know? A few hundred? How do you know there are millions of your people?"

"Umm, CNN, I guess."

"Omitting the media, you know through acquaintances, their acquaintances, their stories and those of your family, through pictures, letters, histories, records, accounts, legends, tradition. And you know because, wherever you go, someone of the group is there. Someone always finds you. I have circled this earth many times in my ministry, and I have never been alone."

Sally lowered her eyes while her fingers tore loose another bite of bagel. She steeled herself, as if she prepared a personally frightening question. The question he expected.

"How many are there, you know, of me?"

Bennington kept his voice neutral. "Before World War II, there were many more. I remember traveling with my father as he sought out and ordained those with your gift. He told them who they were, adopted them into the network, that sort of thing. But, the war decimated your people. Whole families died, depleted by Nazi ovens and the pogroms of other nations. I have searched this planet for fifty years, and you are the only one alive that I know of."

She watched the table, fiddling with her food.

"Thanks," she said. "That's just what I wanted to hear."

"My ministry is one of duty, not comfort. I'm sorry."

Sally sighed, and slumped in her chair. "Don't be. I'm used to it. Not much for crowds, I guess."

#

Davidson watched the chaos below with grim satisfaction. From his upper floor window in the Hyatt-Regency, right next to his on-going crusade, Davidson saw the flashing blue and red lights of at least three accidents, and heard the steady, raucous blare of hundreds of impatient horns. Two news helicopters orbited overhead as the television at Davidson's back droned through another of its frequent updates on the "flight from the cities", as the networks liked to call it.

"...and the governor of California, as well as those of sixteen states in the Midwest, east, and south, might activate the national guard to control traffic and looting as the cities empty toward the open spaces of the western United States and Canada. The Indiana National Guard has already mobilized to clean up the massacre of hundreds of Christian protesters last night in Indianapolis. For many, the almost surreal exodus has a religious tone, as this man on the street in Detroit illustrates.

"It's just like in Matthew, man! Everybody's running for the mountains, leaving behind everything, not taking anything that won't fit in the car. Lots of folks leaving the car behind, just leaving it in the street, they're so scared. And in winter, too, man! The Bible says to hope this doesn't happen in the winter, because the times will be harder than hard, man. But, it's happening just like the Bible says, only we're the Jerusalem, man!"

The Great Babylon, Davidson thought. Revelations 17.

"Sir? Brother Michael on the line, as you directed."

Davidson turned to the man at his door, and nodded. He then turned back to the window. Michael could stew a minute.

"In a development surprising to journalists, the FBI canceled its official briefing for today and is not taking questions on either the Bible Scholar terrorist case or the latest reports of nuclear weapons in the hands of such terrorists. Sources at the Pentagon hint at military control of both investigations, a White House reaction to the increasing threat of a Russian nuclear response to the crisis."

I did this, Davidson thought. I created the script from which this drama grows. The two major nuclear powers slide toward confrontation. Their armies stand at alert. Weapons are poised, held at the ready by frightened children. I have brought this world to its closing night, all its actors in place, all its crew primed for a final, glorious performance. I did this; I did it all.

And yet, all his plans were threatened. Collins had gone to the Reiser woman, had gone to her with a hit team. But they had found her house guarded. Tough men with guns patrolled front and back, with Lord only knew how many inside. And Collins had seen Bennington.

This was all Michael's fault.

He left the TV running, and went to take his call.

The outside room stood empty. It was early morning. Most workers had not yet arrived, and the night shift had vanished to give their leader privacy. Michael's face waited on one of the many laptop screens, a jittery picture of concern transmitted over the Internet via video conferencing software. Davidson wanted his subordinate's face before him. He wanted the intimacy -- perhaps the threat -- that came with eye contact.

"Good morning, Michael. I gather things are well in the north?"

"Everything's on schedule," Michael acknowledged. "The first step went better than expected, so we have a high confidence level."

"Good. I wish my confidence was as high. I received a visit last night, a very disturbing visit from your supposedly dead wife."

Michael made no response. His eyes stared with frozen ambiguity.

"I gather," Davidson prodded, "that she is not as dead as I had previously assumed."

"No, sir, she isn't."

"An explanation would be nice..."

"She wasn't home, sir, and her place was under surveillance. I had no opportunity--"

"You might have reported this lack of opportunity. She is a danger to my ministry. She must be dealt with."

"I thought I had, sir. I left her a very clear message designed to warn her away."

"Really. Then your communication skills need remediation. All your warning accomplished was to bring the FBI further into my affairs. Your ex showed up at the stadium last night with federal agents in tow."

Michael's lips tightened. "I'm sorry, sir. I really am. I didn't think--"

"No, I suppose you didn't."

"Sir, I couldn't afford to hang around there, not with others, probably the feds, watching her house. I had an A-bomb in my trunk, after all."

"I don't question your logic, young man. I question your motivation. I asked you to see to a very important task, and you failed me. You also neglected to report your failure, placing my mission in jeopardy. Would this have to do with the subject of your assignment?"

Michael's expression changed from dismay to alarm. "No, sir. Not at all. I honestly thought a healthy dose of intimidation would do the job. I guess I didn't report because I considered the job done, and then, with the mission up here and all, I just kind of forgot."

"I understand, Michael. But, you must understand that your negligence has damaged our trust. You are called now to repair that damage."

"I can be in Indianapolis by late afternoon. I'll deal with Sally then, and for good."

Davidson liked the contrition in that voice, but his mood was unforgiving. "That timeline isn't necessary, just the deed. I need her eliminated -- killed, to be clear -- but I need it planned and executed as cleanly as possible."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. You'll get one chance, Michael, and one chance only."

Michael didn't ask what would happen if he failed.

#

"Shit!" the trooper growled, removing his headset. "I thought we'd get something there!"

"We did," his partner muttered. He rewound their wiretap tape and replaced it with a fresh one. "We got a rough location on Adams, and the FBI and Michigan State Police will bust from joy because of it. All we have to do is tell them."

Both turned to a third man behind them in the hotel room below Davidson's suite. He was the boss. He owned the permits to tap Davidson's phones and monitor his Internet traffic. He took the blame if anything went wrong, and he took the credit if it all went right. He made the decisions. Of course, they wouldn't have been there if that fed hadn't asked for assistance. If she hadn't been short personnel, and hadn't known that grad student/consultant guy at the college, the troopers might never have heard of Arthur Davidson, Michael Adams, or Bible Scholar. This was a complicated case with strange lines of authority, few of them official. So, like good soldiers, the two cops waited for their boss and prepared to continue according to his orders.

Their boss, for his part, was not so sure of their data. They had recorded a call between Adams and Davidson, but the audio was encrypted, so they could not decipher its meaning. Still, you didn't engage in complicated, memory hogging encryption routines just to discuss the weather. So, why not give Adams to the feds? Because his location was barely accurate to the telephone exchange, that's why. They had him cold in Oceana County, Michigan, near Silver Lake State Park, but no address, and no idea of how long he'd be there. To drop a busload of feds in the area might only scare him away.

"We can't call the feds," Lawrence Tuttle finally said. "They'll just screw it up. But, I have contacts more subtle than the FBI. They'll get us what we need." And, he hoped, in time.

#

"That's it. That's the one."

"Let's not jump too soon. Finish the search."

Gary continued to scroll the citations, but the effort now seemed wasteful. "I'm telling you, we've found it already."

"Such civilian impatience. All the way to the last, please."

He plunged ahead, scrolling through the listings as quickly as he could read them. He reached the end in a few minutes, and reversed to the appropriate entry.

"Okay, here it is. St. Louis Post-Dispatch. The newly created American Consortium of Catholic and Episcopal Clergy. Big rally in support of life, tolerance, and the mystery of Christianity. Brought on by all this chaos around the Davidson Crusade, and by the popular paranoia about the so-called Prophecy of Popes. The Cervantes Center in St. Louis. Today, 1-4 pm."

Vasquez leaned over his shoulder, contemplating the screen. He could smell her, and was distracted. "Okay, it meets the time constraints, but big deal. What about those three lawsuits we saw. Three lawsuits in three states, all direct challenges to Davidson. Why wouldn't he take one of them out by taking out the city where the litigants live?"

"Come on, Rose. Davidson doesn't care about money. He's planning to kill himself in a week. No, this thing in St. Louis is it. It's been public knowledge for at least eight months. The clergy publicly condemn Davidson's tactics and challenge his credibility as an agent of God. They assert the complete unpredictability of God's timetable for the last days, so Davidson, with his predictions of the Rapture on the twenty-third, can't possibly know what he's talking about. They also prominently decry the whole pope thing, around which most of this religious panic orbits. Then there's the side bar about the Christian Coalition counter-rally at the Radison downtown, because they see the Cervantes bunch as leftist radicals who don't speak for all religious. And here's a blurb about the Soldiers of God, those Christian skinhead types, getting all rowdy and threatening Catholics at the rally. It's a one size fits all scenario. It fits so much of what's offered in Matthew."

"Are you stretching, Gary? I don't see--"

Gary turned in his seat to face her more directly. "Okay, look. A thousand years ago, a Catholic soon-to-be saint has a vision. He sees that the last pope, and he estimates that as the guy in office now, Pope Francis, will see Rome burned to the ground and witness Judgment Day. Never mind that the report of this vision was a forgery, has no credibility. After the Mayan Apocalypse fell through, the on-running doomsayers had to grasp at something, and this prophecy was it. It caught on. It's really had an underground following for decades. Now the Catholic church, under that same doomsday pope, has spent the year vehemently denying the prophecy is real. That just makes everyone believe it even more. Davidson latched onto this thing. It's partly the source of his popularity. Why wouldn't he go up against the people who deny him?"

She still looked unconvinced.

Gary pressed. "The clergy at Cervantes are the false prophets referred to in Matthew 24:11. They vehemently disagree with Davidson, and they speak out against his mob-stoking scare tactics. Plus, he's already marked the Episcopalians as diluters and distorters of the faith. If he'd point to anybody as false prophets, then these guys are it. Then there's 24:12, where love grows cold in the face of inequity. Isn't that what's happening between the Consortium guys and the Christian Coalition? Shouldn't they be on the same side, not sniping back and forth across the city? And, the skinhead zealots who just like to beat people up. Don't they fit with Matthew 24:10? Betrayal and hate, Rose. It's as plain as the words on that screen."

She pursed her lips. "We can't afford to miss, Gary. For God's sake, it's nine o'clock already."

"I'm telling you, it's no miss. Look at the conference schedule here. Look who's speaking via satellite at precisely two o'clock. Pope Francis himself, the doomsday pope. Blowing up the Cervantes Center with the pope addressing the faithful would be as good as putting Rome to the flame."

"Then why not just burn Rome? Why St. Louis?"

Gary threw up his hands. "I don't know! Maybe because Davidson couldn't find any Episcopalians in Rome. Anyhow, Davidson is trying to bring the Bible to life, not some bullshit Nostradamus-esque prediction. Call Sally. She'll tell you the same. He's had the time, he has the motivation, and it fits the scripture. He's gonna blow up St. Louis, Rose."

"No, he won't," Vasquez said, and reached for her phone. "Can you print that out?"

#

Michael crashed out of the house and across the expansive yard. He walked in no particular direction, puffing icy vapor and ignoring the cold that sliced through his sweater and into his bones. He thought only of Sally, and the thoughts were unpleasant. Just then, he could have wrung her neck, done it happily, in public. Once again, she tainted his life. She came between him and the one person he admired in this miserable world. What a mistake, to have taken her into his life! A mistake he was now determined to erase.

He pulled up short of the lake. The basin there sloshed black water and ice out to thirty meters, tranquil in the mottled light of a partly cloudy day. But Lake Michigan was as deadly in December as any arctic sea, capable of leaching body heat at a rate that could kill within minutes. Michael looked out over the water, and shivered. He looked toward the south, toward Chicago, and prayed time to accelerate, to come to its predestined end, to take him away.

But, not too quickly. Not before he dealt with his nuisance ex-wife.

#

"Where have you been?" Gramma demanded from her chair. Her eyes were wet from worry. The TV ran muted before her.

Gary closed the door to keep the cold out. "It's all right, Gramma. That job with the government, it keeps odd hours." He kissed her on the forehead, then retreated toward his room.

"Job? Gary, last I heard, you went out with that girl, not to any job."

"Actually, Gramma, that was part of the job. Sally's in on it, too." Gary pulled his tired cardboard suitcase from under his bed. "You remember when I called you the other night and said I wouldn't be home? That's when it started, right after I got her home."

"I don't like this," Gramma groused, her voice shaking. "This isn't like you, Gary. I want to know what's up."

Gary heard fear in her tone. He stopped stuffing his suitcase, and wondered how much he should tell her. Would knowledge bring her peace, or frighten her even more? Considering the story, probably the latter.

"It's nothing, Gramma. But, this consultant's job, well, you consult whenever they need you, that's all."

"What kind of business needs consultants in the middle of the night? This isn't right."

He carried his suitcase into the living room and saw her draw in breath at its sight. He dropped the bag near the front door, and went to stoop at her feet.

"It's the federal government, Gramma. They're open twenty-four/seven. Remember Agent Vasquez? She's waiting for me right now, out on the curb."

"You're leaving? You disappear all night, and you're leaving?"

Real fear clouded her eyes. It made him pause. "Gramma? What's the matter?"

"What's the matter? You'd leave an old, crippled woman all by herself, and you ask me what's the matter?"

"Come on, I don't buy that. You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. For pity's sake, Gramma, you take care of me."

"I just want some company for a change, that's all."

"What's happened, Gramma? You look scared. What's done it to you?"

Her eyes took on that hard, old person stare, the one for looking at young, blind idiots. Then she took her remote and killed the TV's mute. "That's done it to me."

"--straining order is increasingly problematic as tens of thousands crowd the interstates toward the believed safety of the mountains. Interstate 70 is bumper to bumper from Denver, Colorado to Goodland, Kansas, while airports in New York, Philadelphia, Detroit and Indianapolis flood with thousands seeking flights to the west--"

"For God's sake, Gramma, why do you watch this stuff? Isn't anybody playing The Cosby Show, or The Fresh Prince?"

"The whole world's crazy, Gary. You can't leave. Not now."

"Is the neighborhood crazy? I didn't see any looters, and I didn't see anybody loading up their cars to escape the wrath of God, either."

"There's nothing to loot around here. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Everything, Gramma. All this panic, it's such a white folks thing to do. You know, afraid they'll lose their 401Ks and Mercedes in the Rapture, that sort of thing. When was the last time any black folks panicked that didn't have to do with the cops, huh?" Yeah, he thought, she isn't so scared. She almost smiled at that one. Still, what was this about? "You don't live in the world, Gramma. You live in this neighborhood. And, if this neighborhood's too burnt out to join the crazy parade, then that's a perk, don't you think?"

She wasn't satisfied. She clicked the remote, replacing the news with Jerry Springer's face.

"...and Nostradamus predicted all these things, the bombings, the Russian problem, the flight from the cities..."

"Gramma, you have got to stop watching TV."

"I don't have anything else."

"I'm not doing this, Gramma. No, I'm not. I can find someone to look in on you. Sally would love--"

"I don't need a babysitter, just some consideration."

"Gramma..."

"At least say you'll call."

He stopped half way to his suitcase. He cocked his head at her. "Gramma, I'm suspicious. You aren't worried about yourself at all, are you?"

"I don't know. You just go on. Do your government job thing."

He smiled as he turned toward the bag. "Now, that's conniving. Sometimes, I forget I live with a woman." He hefted the suitcase and looked at the door, then his Gramma. On impulse, he hurried back to her and, to loud protest, kissed her roundly on the cheek.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I'll be plenty all right."

"Not when you get home and find the locks all changed, you bad boy."

"'Bye, Gramma. I love you, too. I'll see you soon."

"Well, if that's all I get..."

"Yeah. 'Bye."

"Gary?"

He stood half in and out of the doorway. Cold air whirled at his ankles. "Yes?"

"You like that girl, don't you?"

"Vasquez? She's my boss."

"No, no! The other one."

"Yes, Gramma. I like Sally a lot."

"I like her too, Gary."

Gary was touched. "Why, that's good, Gramma. I'll be sure to tell her so."

"Yes," the old woman repeated, focusing on her television. "I like her, too. If only she weren't no Jew."

#

Sally crouched behind a desk or a table, she wasn't sure which. The room was unfamiliar in the weak moonlight, with dark paneling sheathing walls that rose to a shadowy coffered ceiling. She held tight to Eulie and trembled.

"Don't talk," she said, her voice loud and quavering. "Don't talk, and he can't find us. Don't talk, and we're safe."

"Then why are you talking, Mommy? If you talk, won't you get us in trouble?"

"Please, honey, don't talk. He'll hear us if you talk."

"Is that him, Mommy?"

Light radiated from the doorway, framing a figure in glory. His clothes blazed impossibly white, and his feet did not touch the floor. Sally squinted into that blaze, and found familiar sorrow.

"Daddy? It's you?"

He reached to her. She stood. His hands coaxed her to him as he drifted away with the light. Sally followed without a thought, pulling Eulie along by the hand. Her fear dropped away like an ill-fitting coat. She felt only calm, and a driving urge to seek that light.

"Won't we get in trouble?" Eulie asked. "Won't the other one find us?"

"Come on, Eulie, and don't talk."

The figure paused ahead, but urged her on with a gesture. She followed along a dark hall, narrow and featureless except for a few closed doors. She wondered what hid in those rooms, but could not open the one door she tried.

She followed the light down long, curving stairs. The house was old, flavored with elegance from another age, when homes were built with love and, in this case, ostentation. Even the paneled walls were coffered, giving the space a tactile dimension that partially dispelled-- But hadn't the walls been blank? Her father's apparition revealed all in his passing, his lantern light exposing details that burned into Sally's brain. The stairs dropped to a parquet foyer, melting snow pooling on the polished wood from boots lining the wall. Heavy coats overloaded a rack at the door. Leaded windows looked onto dark night. The connecting sitting room stood almost naked, its parquet floor empty but for a few haphazard pieces of furniture, slim tables with delicately turned legs, a feminine-looking sofa, a phone on the floor beside it, and two folding metal chairs hugging a card table. Sally's father slid past these. He drifted through sliding double doors to a dining room filled by a huge, elegant table, but no chairs. Here he lingered, and his light grew brighter.

"Look, Mommy. Somebody drew on that map."

A geodetic survey sheet hung across most of one wall, held by strips of duct tape. A huge swath of blue dominated most of the map, surrounded by the deep green of forests, the white of marsh and beach, and the black pimples of civilization. The image pricked Sally's memory. It was familiar but elusive, made more mysterious by red concentric circles blossoming from a point in the map's lower left. The outermost circle touched another drawn in the upper right quadrant, but this last was small and drawn in black. All were laid out with obsessive care that spoke of dire meaning. The glorious man watched Sally, gentle expectation curling his lips, but she could not decipher the map's message, or divine why she should try.

"Daddy, I don't understand. What does it mean?"

Men entered the room through a second door. The blaze of her father's ghost had masked their approach. They moved to the map, ignoring the glowing phantasm and the room's human occupants as if they didn't exist. One man held a flashlight to the map while two others pointed and talked. Sally noted with peculiar detachment that one of the men was Michael.

She approached, hoping to eavesdrop, but the men spoke in garbled nonsense, not a language, just sounds. They traced fingers from the red-circled city across the blue to a bulge of mottled green and white. The smaller black circle enclosed the bulge, as well as a tiny blue triangle near its center. What did it mean? Sally wondered. Where was this place, what was this map, and why was Michael here?

Why was her father here?

Why was she here?

Then she smelled it, an undercurrent at first. It crept toward her, but from where? She concentrated, a difficult thing with panic welling within her. Her senses focused. She peered around the room, past the stoic vision in light, to the blackness of the second doorway. A scream scrabbled up her throat, checked only by desperation. She could not fold; she had Eulie to protect.

"Let's go," she said, and tugged the boy toward the sitting room.

"Why, Mommy? Is that him? Is that the Golem?"

"Let's go. Let's go, let's go!" She snatched him onto her hip and hurried toward an exterior door. He was lighter than he should have been, and so was her control. She found herself running, eyes wide, teeth clenched, the smell enveloping her, dispelling cleaner air. She felt rotted, bony limbs reaching for her, wanting her in their killing embrace. She tried to stifle panic, but control fell from her like dry leaves from a tree.

She ran grunting across a deep carpet of snow. In her terror, she didn't feel the cold. She fell, clawed herself upright, and ran again. She did not drop Eulie. He was her link to life; she had to protect him. He began to cry.

Suddenly, the snow was gone, the ground smooth and white. Looking down, she saw spider webs burst from each fall of her feet. Too late, she realized her danger, and crashed through the ice into freezing water.

The shock arrested her fear, but then Eulie fell away, ripped from her by an eager current, and her terror redoubled. She snatched at his clothes, his hair, his hands, but could only watch his horror-struck face disappear into the depths. She screamed, and felt herself filled with ice.

#

She awoke screaming. Parker was first through the bedroom door, his weapon drawn, his eyes searching for intruders. But the room was empty except for Sally, and the morning sun streamed through her window as if unaware that a darker atmosphere ruled the house.

"Eulie!" Sally cried between shrieks. "Eulie! Where are you?"

Gary elbowed past a baffled, immobile Parker and launched himself toward the bed. He took Sally's shoulders, shook her, and fixed her eyes with his. "Sally! Sally, wake up! Sally! You're having a nightmare!"

The screaming stopped, replaced by ragged gasps over a keening, uncertain whine. Sally's eyes darted, confused. "Eulie? Where is he?"

"He's here, Sally. He's right downstairs."

"I need him! Bring him here! Eulie!"

"Euie here, Mommy!" The boy ran to her in his odd, ungainly way and struggled onto her bed. Sally hugged him close, greatly relieved. After a moment, she held him at arm's length and examined him critically, testing his arms and chest, checking him for damage. She ran her fingers through his hair, amazed that it was dry.

"Mommy do?" Eulie asked, a little unnerved.

"What's this about?" Gary asked, and rubbed Sally's back.

"A dream..." Sally said, as if just accepting the truth. She slumped against the headboard. "I can't do this," she whispered. "He's always there. Asleep, awake, it doesn't matter. He's always somewhere near..."

A crowd filled the room. Parker reholstered his weapon. Vasquez edged past him, looking exhausted in last night's jeans. A younger woman hesitated to enter. She stood self-consciously by Parker. Everyone stared at Sally as if she were mad.

"I'm all right," Sally said, first to herself, then to the others. "I'm all right. It's just, these things I see. I don't understand..." Her voice cracked. Her jaw worked at the words, struggling for control. "These things, they mean something. I don't understand, but they mean something."

"It was a dream," Gary said to sooth her, "just a dream."

She looked at him, and yearned for such comfort. "If only that were true," she breathed.

"Okay, false alarm," Parker called. "Everybody downstairs for shorts cleaning detail."

"I'm not crazy!" Sally erupted at them. "I'm not -- what's she doing here?"

Gary glanced from Sally to the girl next to Parker. "We asked her here, Sally..."

Sally straightened in the bed. "I don't want her here, or any of her--"

"Sally!" Gary warned.

"Benda pway Euie," the little boy said, his voice short of a whine.

"I'm sorry, I'll leave..." Brenda suggested. She moved to retreat. Vasquez held her arm.

"Nobody goes anywhere," Gary said. "Sally and I will discuss this matter."

Sally stared death at him.

"Everybody downstairs," Parker directed, and herded them through the door. "Hey, kid, come on. You'll miss the rest of Spider-man."

"Go on, Eulie," Gary said with a toss of his head toward the door. "Your mom and I need to talk."

The room emptied. Gary moved to the edge of the bed, his back partly to Sally.

"She called to check on you," he said. "We needed someone to help with Eulie, so Vasquez hired her as a temporary caregiver. She was grateful, and came right over."

"What gives Vasquez the right--"

"I suggested she do it."

"This is my house, dammit! Eulie is my child! What I say--"

"Well, excuse me for saying, but your 'say' has been worse than questionable lately."

Sally's house hung open.

"The girl feels sick about the daycare thing. She quit her job because of it. You need the--"

"I do not need help raising my child!"

"Sally, you spend half your time stumbling around in a waking nightmare, and the other half asleep in the real thing. You're on the edge. I don't know the edge of what, but you're there. You definitely need some help, and with me and Vasquez away--"

"Away? Where are you going? You said you wouldn't leave me, Gary!"

"I'm not leaving you." He faced her, a forced patience thinning his lips. "We're going to St. Louis. They're on to Bible Scholar. We have to, Sally. It's the only way to protect you."

"Oh? You came up with that all on your own? What about the FBI and the American fucking military? Can't they do the stepping up thing?"

"And, what the hell am I supposed to do, sit around here and wait for Davidson? What if he sends an army of his own? There's only nine of us, for God's sake!"

"You said you'd be here, Gary. This ... adventure ... is just a lot of macho bullshit! You said you'd be here for me!"

"This is for you! And for Eulie! You think I'd walk into a city with an A-bomb up its ass just to show off for the girls?"

Sally flinched away from him. Gary frowned.

"Gary...?"

"Nothing. It's just a theory."

"Gary..."

He sighed. "They plan to destroy St. Louis and a big conference of Catholic and Episcopal bishops."

"Episcopalian?"

"Yes. And counter-demonstrators from the Christian right, and skinhead Christians."

It took Sally a moment to calculate his logic. "Don't go, Gary."

"Don't worry. The FBI, Homeland Security, they're all over it. By the time we get there, the whole thing will be over."

They sat, immobilized by helplessness.

"It's all such a mess," Sally complained.

"Promise you won't harass Brenda. She means well."

"Promise you'll come home."

"I promise."

"And, I'll think about it."

A tap at the door. Vasquez stood in the hall, her coat on. "Gary, it's time."

Gary looked from Vasquez to Sally. "Right. I'll be there in a minute."

Vasquez nodded, and retreated down the stairs.

Sally and Gary looked at each other. What could they say? What comfort could they share? They hadn't found time to enjoy one another; they were still inventing their delicate dance. Their life for weeks had been running, and fear, and accidents, and ambushes. Chess without rules. Would they ever see each other again?

"I love you," Sally whispered, and reached out to squeeze his arm.

"Yeah. I love you, too. That's why I have to go."

She nodded. "Sure, I get it. But first, I have to tell you my dreams."

Chapter Eighteen:

Hebrews 10:22-25

(Back to Table of Contents)

St. Louis succumbed to invasion on that terrible day in December. Lambert-St. Louis International Airport seemed nearly as populated by soldiers in riot gear as by civilians, and the civilians more than justified the sticks, dogs and assault rifles used to keep them compliant. Two travelers would argue, or one would cut in front of another, or they'd simply touch shoulders at the worst possible moment. A curse would escalate to a fight, then to a brawl. The crowd would writhe like a maddened snake, throwing off violence in random, but vicious convulsions that the infantry were ill suited to master. Vasquez felt for the unruly crowd. Fear brought these people into collision, fear of death and of the dark sins they carried into it. Vasquez pitied those people, but understood their fear. It clawed at her heart as well, tempered only by hope of redemption.

Redemption was far afield just then as she paced that nondescript waiting room in the restricted space of Airport Security. Banks slumped in a hard plastic chair, slowly shaking his head behind a forlorn, helpless hand. Vasquez ran her fingers through her thick, dark hair, the focus of her frustration lowering tall and bald above her. He held out his left hand, his right across his chest, the fingers inside his jacket. "Your badge, weapon, and card, please," he demanded past a tightening jaw. Two dark-suited men stood impassively at the exit, pretending not to notice the unseemly confrontation.

"What?" Vasquez said, leaning into the angry man.

"Your credentials and weapon, please. You're done, Vasquez. I'm hanging you up. I won't protect you anymore."

Banks wet his lips. "Umm, sir? Don't you think--"

"Shut-up, Banks. You'll get your turn."

Vasquez stared at the Assistant Director for Terrorism. Instead of shock at what he demanded, she found revelation in what he meant. Blackburn was a petulant bureaucrat worried about his pension, a very small shadow of a man. But, where Vasquez carried a crippled soul yearning to be healed, Blackburn suffered even more than she. His was a life of pointless worldly possessions and temporary worldly esteem. Nothing shone greater in that world than him, so nothing in his world shone great at all. He achieved nothing, believed nothing and counted for nothing in the world; he was dead without even knowing it. The thought overwhelmed, as if Vasquez listened to another, wiser voice, and finally, after a lifetime of effort, understood. In that moment, she adopted as certainty what she had taken during childhood on faith. In that moment, she believed in the physical presence of God, in the missions of prophets and saints, and in the destiny of disciples. She believed suddenly and unerringly in the calling of Sally Rieser.

Wordlessly, she extracted her pistol and dropped it into Blackburn's hand. She took her badge, ID, and debit card and laid them atop the weapon.

"The phone, too." Blackburn's right hand retreated from his coat, but waited for the demanded item.

Vasquez dropped her cell phone into his palm.

"Well," Blackburn said, dropping the burden into various pockets, "I guess that takes care of everything but you."

"I can't believe this," Vasquez snarled. "I found the bomb, with Gary's help."

"Yes, Agent Banks has apprised me of that, and the Bureau is indebted to you. We found the bomb right where you predicted, right under the altar on the main stage where the pope was due to speak at two o'clock today. We found it, we disarmed it, and the lab boys took more prints off it than you'd get from a sticky candy bar. I know all that. I don't get assistant director's pay for nothing. Your help here has kept you out of handcuffs, Vasquez. Appreciate that for a moment."

"I know what this case is about. I--"

"You, Vasquez, are unstable."

Vasquez had no response to that. She couldn't help but agree.

Blackburn huffed, and turned toward Gary, who stood aside from the confrontation with his hands jammed deep in his coat pockets. Blackburn surveyed him with open contempt. "Mr. LaMonte, I'm Assistant Director Blackburn, FBI. I thank you for your selflessly offered service."

"Sure," Gary said, his tone flat.

Blackburn placed an ostensibly friendly hand on Gary's arm. "Good. Good. Your service is also no longer required. Of course, we'll honor the terms arranged by Agent Vasquez, but consider actual employment terminated."

"Umm, okay."

"Great. Then, I'll be on my way. Again, thanks for your help."

He was gone, sucking the two stoic guards into his wake. No one spoke for several seconds.

"Well," Banks said, "that could have gone better."

"Did I miss something?" Gary asked no one in particular.

Vasquez laughed, a dry sound without humor. "You saved the city, Gary. Then you got fired."

"Wow. Saving the city's expensive."

Right, Vasquez thought. She didn't know what she had expected. She had gotten word that the bomb was found before she and Gary had even arrived in the city. An hour later they picked up the bomber, or at least the woman who had planted the thing. There was nothing to it; her prints had been all over the device, and in the system as well. What had she expected?

"Well," Banks offered, "since we're all suspended, would anyone like to hear about your girl?"

"You mean you're allowed to tell us?" Vasquez asked. She began once more to pace the floor.

Banks shrugged. "What's a few secrets among brigands?"

Damn that Blackburn, Vasquez brooded. Damn him! She had saved the city, she and Gary. They had figured out the city of the attack and had sussed out the location down to just a few feet. Davidson would go for the symbolism, they had reasoned. Even if no one saw it but him, he would go for the gesture of singling out his foe. He would take out that doomsday pope and those false prophet, apostate Episcopalians and would do so at the appointed time. The bomb had been planted beneath the stage, directly under the altar. Right where Gary had figured it would be. Right where Vasquez had told Banks to look.

And now she was suspended. Banks was suspended. Gary was fired.

"She's an electrical consultant contracted by the Archdiocese of St. Louis to handle its stage presentation," Banks droned. "She planted the bomb while ostensibly checking some microphone cabling. They're taking her to the Federal Building until transportation is arranged to DC."

"Wow," Gary mused. "She must really hate her boss."

"Or she's a sleeper, planted months or years ago," Banks said.

"Yes," Vasquez acknowledged. "Anyway, we're back where we started, with another bomb going off seven hours from now and no clue how to stop it."

"Almost no clue," Banks corrected.

Vasquez nodded. "Her apartment is plastered with maps and brochures of Washington, DC. Unless she was planning an off-season vacation..."

Gary shrugged. "So, we relax. The FBI handles the rest. They have it under control."

"I wanted that suspect," Vasquez snapped. "The Bureau has zero luck with these people."

"And you're any different?" Banks snorted. "Who would you feed her to, Rose? The rats in the local alleys?"

Vasquez stopped pacing and stared at him. The accusation hurt, all the more so because he had leveled it.

"Blackburn's right on one account, Rose. You've been shaky as hell on this thing."

What could she say? I'm not a loose cannon, I'm on a mission from God?

Gary cleared his throat. "Umm, so what's the deal? You're no longer on the inside, so you approach from the outside? Is that it?"

No one spoke.

"Is it?"

"We don't approach at all," Vasquez sighed. "We've no means to do so."

"And? You've no confidence in the FBI. How important is it to get back in?"

"That suspect is our only chance," Vasquez said. "We've only seven hours."

"Then I guess we'd better get going." Gary looked around the room. "How do we make a phone call? I don't have any money."

"Who do you plan to call?" Vasquez asked.

"I was gonna call Sally, see what we can get on DC."

"No time for that!" Vasquez suddenly stormed. "I'm sick of this one-sided chess game. It's time we did the attacking, and they did the reacting."

Banks watched her through slitted eyes. Gary pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. "So, who do you suppose we call?"

"The only army we have left," Vasquez said. "We call Bennington."

#

They had snatched her from the convention center floor ten minutes before her bomb would have blown. She had surrendered in bewilderment, for death hadn't come in the blast she expected, and she hadn't conceived of a need for escape. Now, she climbed from the government car, handcuffed and flanked by two dark suits. She looked harried, frightened, and not much the terrorist as she shivered in slacks, flat leather slip-ons, and a loose crew-neck sweater under her Kevlar vest. Her eyes darted behind large-rimmed glasses, seeking the assassin she knew would deliver her. But no bullet struck. No killer approached. Her people hadn't found her yet, or restrained themselves for a better chance. Well, it wouldn't get any better than this. Soon she'd enter the government's lair, far beyond reach of martyrdom, and a danger to her cause.

The men led her into the Federal Building's lobby. It was five in the evening, so the place streamed with workers rushing home. Maybe the assassin hid among them, edging close to do the job. But the men stayed close to their prize, as much to protect her in the crowd as guard against her escape. At the elevators, they chose an official lift, further narrowing the chance at interception. They remained tense until they entered the box and its doors closed firmly behind them.

"So far so good," one man said. His narrowed gaze fell on the prisoner. "Nobody, friends or otherwise, tried to waste your ass in the lobby."

The woman did not respond. She stood large-eyed and still, a frightened rabbit.

The elevator chimed at the second floor.

"Damn," the other man said. "Company."

The doors opened. A third man boarded, briefcase in hand, a heavy topcoat over his suit. His ID badge peeked from beneath one lapel. FBI. The other men relaxed. As the doors closed, they all assumed that studied apathy required of elevator riders. The newcomer pressed the top floor button.

Seconds later, the elevator chimed again. "This is our stop," one guard said to the woman.

The newcomer reached to the "close door" button, and his free hand went to his coat. He extracted a green metal canister and flicked the safety pin from its handle.

"What the--"

Both guards went for their weapons.

The newcomer dropped the canister. White gas sprayed from its innards in a burst of opaque fog. The guards fell against the elevator walls, gagging, sneezing, and grunting. A pistol clattered to the floor. The woman collapsed, vomiting.

#

The newcomer held his breath, his eyes screwed closed. He knelt before his briefcase, his finger still on the "close door" button. He snapped the case open and took up the gas mask stored within it. He brought the mask to his face one-handed, released the elevator button, heard the doors open as he guided the straps onto his head. He heard a gasp, a cough, then the doors closed again, and the elevator resumed its slow climb. Seven seconds after dropping the grenade, he placed both hands over the filters at his cheeks, and blew forcefully to clear the mask of gas.

He felt a sting as he opened his eyes, but his fellow riders felt much worse. All three lay in heaps on the floor, struggling in pools of vomit, the gas so thick it was nearly opaque. The masked man hauled the woman upright. He reached inside his coat for a black plastic box about the size of a TV remote.

He waited.

The doors opened. A man in shirtsleeves stood just outside the elevator. He never saw what waited within. Gas billowed out of the box and engulfed him, collapsing him into a squirming mess. The man in the gas mask dragged his captive into the elevator alcove. He turned down the hall, snatching his gagging, teary-eyed prisoner along. An office door opened. An elegant older woman stepped into the hall, her IRS ID badge clipped to a pleated silk blouse. Her eyes registered an instant of surprise, then the plastic box jammed into her torso. A loud crack of static, and the elegant woman slammed backwards into a wall, dropping to the floor like a bag of rocks.

The man continued down the hall. He kicked open a door labeled Exit to Roof, and flung his prisoner through. He snatched off his mask as he followed, and tossed it to the hallway floor. His prisoner had dropped to her knees in the stairwell, her shoulders arching in dry heaves. The man couldn't afford her weakness; they would be after him. He grabbed a fistful of Kevlar and forced his captive up the stairs. He hauled open the door at the landing above, and flung her into a biting winter wind and the thudding roar of helicopter rotors.

#

They waited in a bar off the wide airport concourse. Vasquez toyed with a shot glass of whiskey, tapping it this way and that on the counter's smooth surface. She listened for the bar phone, but her attention sometimes drifted to the television above, which aired a news broadcast from the almost unlucky Cervantes Center. Terror hadn't dammed the human press there. People were there in the tens of thousands, and had come there for a reason. Their aggregate voice roared in response to prayers from the center's front steps. The threat of devastation had slipped the convention's schedule, not canceled it. Pope Francis, via satellite video, presided over an improvised altar.

"Father, all-powerful God, your eternal Word took flesh when the Virgin lent her life to your plan. Lift our hearts in watchful hope that we may hear the voice of your glory, and open our hearts to receive the Spirit who prepares us for your coming. We ask this through Christ our Lord."

"Amen," Vasquez said in unison with the crowd.

"Shit," Banks said from the stool to her left. "You're making me nervous."

Vasquez ignored him. "It's been so long. Why don't they call?"

No one spoke. Gary sat to her right, listening to the nervous tap of Banks's cane and recalling Gramma's devotion to Bennington. What did she see in him? How could she trust that white-haired TV preacher. He was too facile in everything he said, his celebration of the Word too polished. Faith was a matter of heart, not of production values.

Gary looked to the phone down the bar. Noticing his glance, Vasquez shook her head.

"Why don't they call?" she asked.

They did call, but not as expected. A few minutes later, as the pope read from Hebrews 10, an overweight man in a rumpled business suit entered the bar from the chaos outside. He scanned the interior through eyes slotted from fat, then walked straight to Vasquez.

"You Vasquez?" he asked in a thick southern drawl.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Yeah, you Vasquez. He said the godawful purty Mexican gal. You got fifteen minutes to get to the roof of the parkin' garage. There you'll git a surprise." He turned away and thrust back into the mob beyond the door.

Vasquez opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. She watched the man disappear around a corner.

"Aren't we cloak-and-dagger tonight," Banks muttered under his breath.

#

The roof was sparsely sprinkled with cars. A few soldiers walked the perimeter wall, scanning out over the street below.

"Are they his, or the government's?" Banks asked, his tone disapproving.

At five o'clock, night had fallen. An aggressive wind scrabbled with active, icy fingers over the concrete. Vasquez stepped away from the stairs, hunkering deep in her coat. The others followed. They stood in plain view, hoping the soldiers were too cold to care.

"Now what?" Gary wondered. "Besides freezing my ass off, that is."

The aimlessly whipping wind took on sudden definition. A pounding roar descended toward them, coalescing into the dark, angular form of a helicopter. No light shone from the aircraft as it dropped to within a few feet of the roof. If not for the streetlights below, it would have been invisible.

A door rolled back along the chopper's flank. Gary picked out a figure there, signaling toward them in broad, demanding gestures.

"Let's go!" Vasquez shouted, and jogged toward the aircraft. She bounded aboard, then turned back to help the others along.

What was that smell? Tear gas?

Vasquez grabbed Gary's arm as he, too, made the leap. Banks hesitated, his hand in hers, his feet still on concrete. His face showed suspicion.

"Take your pick, Rob! It's this, or trust in Blackburn!"

Banks made his decision. He struggled aboard on his knees to spare his wounded ankle. Then the crewman slammed shut the door and directed his newfound passengers to seats. The deck pitched under their feet, and they felt their stomachs plunge as they leapt into the sky.

After a moment, the lights came on. Gary looked around the cabin. This one was smaller than the airport shuttle, and sparsely appointed. The deck was metal, the walls draped with quilted insulation to deaden engine noise. Nylon benches ran the aircraft's spine so that the passengers sat with their backs to each other. Vasquez sat on Gary's right. To his left was someone new, a woman about Vasquez's age, with large glasses and frightened eyes. She looked him up and down, but said nothing. She couldn't talk through the duct tape on her mouth.

"Oh, shit," Banks moaned behind Gary's ear. "Let me guess."

Gary's eyes snapped to Vasquez. "Is that who I think it is? Doesn't Blackburn have the bomber?"

"Not anymore," Vasquez said, and Gary thought she might laugh.

Chapter Nineteen:

1 Corinthians 14:14-25

(Back to Table of Contents)

Nothing below but trees. Vasquez leaned away from the window and once more surveyed the cabin. The crewman sat in a jump seat next to the cargo door, an assault rifle loose in his lap. He never took his eyes from the woman, who remained frozen in fear next to Gary. Her eyes were teary, her face drenched in sweat. Her wrists were bound behind her back and her mouth was gagged by duct tape. Her nostrils flared as she breathed, and the tape at her mouth fluttered from panting.

Banks sat behind Vasquez. He stared into the bulkhead and shook his head. Vasquez knew his thoughts. Here they were without official sanction, running with people who had kidnapped a federal prisoner from under federal authority. Here they were, only hours removed from their personal authority as federal agents, now no more than kidnappers themselves. Did Gary understand their danger? Did he realize he was a criminal?

Gary leaned toward the crewman. "I think she's choking," he said. "Maybe if we took the tape from her mouth..."

The man stared at his prisoner, ignoring Gary's words.

Gary sat back, seemed to think a moment. Then he turned in his seat, took the woman by her head, and peeled the duct tape from her mouth.

Vasquez flinched toward her weapon, then realized it was gone.

The tape came off with a sticky stripping sound. The woman wrenched head downward, and threw up onto the floor. Gary ignored the spattered mess on his shoe, and rubbed her back and neck.

The crewman stared dispassionately at them both.

"You all right?" Gary asked. "You need a doctor?"

"She's been gassed," Vasquez said. "She'll be fine once it's worked through her system."

The woman sucked deep gulps of air. She did not straighten herself. Gary patted her back.

"Watch it, civilian," Vasquez warned. "She's a terrorist bomber. She tried to kill over a million people only a few hours ago."

The helicopter banked and decelerated. Vasquez leaned to the window, noted a clearing below. A number of flat, rectangular buildings drifted into view, all arranged with practiced nonchalance to "blend" with the surrounding woods. It reminded her of an Army post, or her summer camp from childhood.

The helicopter dropped, hesitated, then settled among the buildings. The cargo door flew open. Men in white battle dress clambered aboard, grabbed the bound woman, and dragged her from the aircraft. More men appeared at the hatch, all dressed alike in white winter combat gear. "Agents Vasquez and Banks, Mr. LaMonte," one man shouted above the whooping rotors. "Please, come with me."

They followed their escort across the clearing toward the only building with lighted windows. Where had they taken the woman?

The clearing drummed with activity. Men jogged to unknown destinations in tight groups, or loaded or unloaded trucks and helicopters quickly arrived and just as quickly gone. Vasquez's erstwhile transport took on a dozen armed men and bucked once again toward the dark December sky.

"We've found either a Ku Klux Klan rally or a remake of Apocalypse Now!," Gary observed. The clearing looked like a staging area for arctic war, but who were the armies, and who would they fight?

"Welcome to Mosenthein Island," their escort shouted above the beating rotors. "This is Twelve Pillars Camp, part of Reverend Bennington's network of summer camps for disadvantaged children. Of course, it isn't summer, so we use them for other purposes."

"Where the hell are we?" Banks demanded.

"Mosenthein is in the Mississippi, just off Granite City, north of St. Louis."

"Why are we here?" Vasquez asked, her bland voice masking concern. She was unarmed, outnumbered, and surrounded by icy water.

"You wanted help," their escort said. "This is it."

They entered the lighted building. A large, open room greeted them with scattered easy chairs and couches, and a huge fireplace throwing heat and light. Standing before a long table loaded with coffee urns, sandwiches, and donut boxes, four men surveyed their visitors. One stood in white battle dress, like almost everyone else. The others looked strange in dark pants, boots, and heavy parkas. These sipped coffee from steaming Styrofoam cups. Little trust shown from their faces.

"Sir," the escort said to the man in white, a tall, black man with whitening hair, "I've brought our guests."

"Thanks, Bill," the tall man nodded. "Now, go about your business."

The escort left the building. The black man turned his eyes to each of his guests in turn, in no hurry to offer greetings.

"My name is Nathan Fox," he finally said. "I'm a CPA, though sometimes I engage in more ... colorful activities. These men here, well, their names aren't important. They're consultants to Reverend Bennington."

"Why are we here?" Vasquez asked again.

"Because he wanted it." Fox stepped away from the table, revealing a laptop computer staring blank-screened into the room. Fox tapped a key, and the computer came to life.

"Hello!" a white-haired face said from the screen. "I trust your flight was smooth, if not relaxing?"

"The flight attendant was surly, but it was otherwise fine," Banks huffed.

"Great!" Bennington laughed, a hearty, open sound. "I expect you've met Mr. Fox, my associate in St. Louis, as well as my friends Boris, Boris, and the other Boris. Fine. Now, to business. I'm sorry I couldn't be with you, but I have this rally in Indianapolis, and we're preparing to move to Chicago, our next and final stop. Anyway, your request is granted. You may now interview our would-be bomber, and discover her plans for Washington. Mr. Fox is at your service. Understand, however, that he also has a second agenda, prescribed by me. Your missions should dovetail with that of the three Borises, who have duties prescribed by their understandably concerned government."

One of the Borises grunted.

Vasquez stared at them, eyes narrowed. "Russians," she said. "Federal Security Service."

"Absolutely," Bennington said, laughing again. "The Russian government, though strapped in many uncomfortable ways, has partially funded my operations since the loss of their nuclear material six days ago. In return, we have agreed to help them, and to guard their agents against discovery. Your discretion, of course, is appreciated."

"We're fucked," Banks spat. "We're fired, we've conspired with kidnappers, and we're allied with foreign agents. What an afternoon."

"Come now, Agent Banks. You're starting to sound like your friend Parker."

"What do you want from us?" Vasquez asked.

"It's what you want from me," Bennington corrected. "Mr. Fox will direct you to the terrorist. Please obtain your information promptly. We have six hours or less. I have people in DC to implement whatever you decide. Questions?"

No one spoke. Bennington nodded. "God be with you, and may He loosen our enemy's tongue." His face disappeared from the screen, replaced by a window of buttons and boxes, one button highlighted in black. Hang up? it asked.

"This way," Fox said. He walked from the common room and down a hall marked STAFF ONLY. NO CAMPERS. He stopped at one of three doors, pushing it open and standing aside. "Your time is limited," he said. "Make it count."

The woman sat in a chair against the wall, her wrists strapped to its arms with duct tape. Her mouth was once more gagged. Vasquez stepped to her side, and ripped the tape from her mouth.

The woman grunted. Her eyes watered from pain.

"Martha David O'Donnell, you face the death penalty for conspiracy to use weapons of mass destruction against the people of the United States of America. Let's talk, girlfriend."

"Who are you?" the woman asked in a raspy, ill voice.

"You don't need to know."

"Hey, you know what?" Gary interrupted. "I think I'll go back to the big room, get a sandwich. This isn't my thing, anyway."

"Suit yourself," Vasquez said.

"Anybody want food?"

"Beat it, civilian," Banks snapped.

#

Ninety minutes later, nothing had changed. Gary slumped by the fire after three sandwiches and a couple of donuts, nursing a coffee to wash it down. His face twisted with each taste, but there wasn't anything else to drink. Not even the water fountains worked. He watched soldiers -- he had come to think of them as such -- come and go with the regularity of explicit instruction, reporting to Fox or any of several lieutenants around the lodge. Gary eavesdropped; it was hard not to in such an open venue. He heard logistics, training, and operations discussions, but understood few of the words.

After half an hour, Vasquez returned. She conferred with Fox and the Russians. Gary gathered that the prisoner refused to talk, that the Russians favored stronger methods, and that Vasquez rejected drugs as a tool of interrogation.

"That's bullshit," he heard her say. "The pheno gets you all kinds of stuff, little of which you can trust. We need real information, not dizzy fantasies brought on by suggestion."

"We need to speed this up," Fox objected. "You aren't getting anywhere. It's the drugs, or rougher methods."

"You won't abuse that prisoner. That isn't what we're here for. Is it?"

"We're here to prevent Washington, DC from becoming a smoking hole. It's seven o'clock, Vasquez. We only have five hours."

"Four," Gary said from his chair. Everyone looked toward him with the same unasked question. "Time zone difference. DC's an hour ahead."

"Shit!" Vasquez spat, and hurried back to the interrogation room.

An hour later, both Vasquez and Banks stood by the food table arguing with Fox. They wanted to wire the prisoner, without her knowledge, then release her in the hope that she'd contact her people and betray their plan. Fox thought it a crazy idea, especially after the trouble of getting the woman in the first place.

Gary thought they were all crazy. While they bickered, he rose unnoticed from his seat and walked down the hall to where the woman waited.

"What's up?" he said as he entered the room with all the ease he could muster.

He noticed her hands, bluish-white and limp. He pulled up a chair, sat in it backwards, and began to loosen her bonds. "They're ignoring you," he said. "No wonder you won't cooperate. Hear that? They're arguing whether to psych you out, drug you up, or beat you. How's that feel? Any sensation in your hands?"

The woman looked at him, wide-eyed. She saw only the others.

"I have no agenda," Gary continued, pretending not to notice her fear. "I'm just curious."

She looked to her hands, then moved her fingers stiffly.

"You can feel them?"

"Why?" she asked. Her voice was high, a girl's voice.

"Because I don't represent a government, or a cause. And I don't treat people like animals, no matter what they've done."

She looked at him again, suspicion clear on her face.

"I've seen what happens when people are dehumanized," Gary said. "That's what they're doing out there. That's what you've done; you just don't know it."

Her eyes were transparent, a storefront of fear, stubbornness, and uncertain purpose. She was clear to him; why did the others not see it? Mostly, though, her eyes showed him fear. Of Vasquez, of Banks, of Gary, and of every other thing in her life. Gary pitied her.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. "For Davidson? For Christ? For your own soul? Why?"

She stared at him, confusion polluting her fear. No one had bothered to ask her "why"; they only drilled at the "what". Her mouth opened, then closed again in a tight line.

"It doesn't matter," Gary told her. "There's no presumption of innocence here. In case you weren't sure, these people are not the government."

He waited. He expected nothing, but hoped for much. She didn't seem evil, and she didn't seem crazy, just very, very confused.

"You're supposed to be dead," he told her, "blown to dust by the bomb you set. You trusted it to work. It was the will of God. That's what they told you, anyway. That's why you were so careless, leaving behind your fingerprints, and all that stuff in your home. After all, everybody knew the bomb was foolproof, that it had to go off as arranged, or go off by accident when the cops tried to move it, or when you used the transmitter, or while you placed it. Guaranteed. Except, none of that happened. Everybody got lucky, except you." He eyed her critically. "You're no dummy, are you? You've had hours to think it over. What do you think happened? Did those people out there subvert the will of God, or did God allow them to thwart the will of Davidson?"

She looked at him, her lips trembling.

Gary showed her his palms. "Well, I was just curious. They'll be back in a minute, I guess. Better get that tape on your hands."

She jerked away as he reached for her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wish I didn't have to."

"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice cracking from the weight of her fear.

Gary's hands retreated. "I'm a Christian. Who are you?"

"I'm a soldier of God."

He nodded. "That gives us a problem. I mean, how can we both be Christians? You believe in blowing up cities, and I believe in loosening bonds. We can't both be right."

"You can't deny prophecy."

"No, but you can't put a schedule to it, either, especially the way you guys read your Bible. Are you aware of the mistakes--?"

"Scripture says 'Fallen is Babylon the Great! She has become a dwelling place for demons, she is a cage for unclean spirits, for every filthy and disgusting bird; for she has made all nations drink the poisoned wine of her lewdness. The kings of the earth fornicated with her and merchants grew rich on her wealth and wantonness. Depart from her for fear of sinning with her and sharing her plagues! Uh, uh, pay her back! Pay her back for her crimes. Pay her back as she has paid others! Pay her double for her deeds! Pour into her cup twice what she has concocted! Repay her in torment and grief! She shall be consumed by fire, for almighty is the Lord God who condemns her!'"

Gary waited until he knew she had finished. He saw the holes in her thinking. He thought to assail her history, highlight her misquotes, correct the context of her words. But he knew that would make no difference. It wasn't logic she asserted just then, but faith. He chose his response carefully, to be as simple and incontrovertible as she herself might expect.

"Sure," he said with delicate force. "But scripture also says 'Judge not, lest ye be judged.'"

She recoiled as if slapped.

"Don't be a drone, Mrs. O'Donnell. You tell me. What do you think is right?"

#

Banks walked away, disgusted. He didn't know why he was there. He wasn't one of those damned Russians. Discussing means of deception and torture just wasn't his kind of thing. And he hated to watch Rose barter with them, as if haggling in a flea market. He didn't know her anymore. Once she had been a policeman; where had she gone lost?

He walked down the hall toward the interrogation room, but stopped just short of the door. Voices came from inside, not the one-sided demands that still rang in his mind, but real conversation. He listened.

"You're so flippant about the teachings of Jesus. You -- you degenerate His wisdom into sound bites."

"That wasn't my intent. That one quote from Jesus is the heart of His testament, is all. It's what he was about, as far as I'm concerned. What about you, Mrs. O'Donnell? What's Jesus about to you?"

"God is loving to His friends and a terror to His enemies. Scripture says, 'They became proud and forgot me. I will be like a lion to them, like a panther by the road I will watch. I will attack them like a bear robbed of its young, and tear their hearts from their breasts.'"

"Yes, you're right. It does say that, but what does it mean?"

"The Reverend Da--"

"No, not him. What do you say? You know, for every revolutionary hell raiser in the Bible there's an opposite force for peace. You can't reconcile them; you have to decide which Christian you are. Davidson can't decide for you."

A silence.

"You know, you quote scary verse. Here's scary verse for you. Scripture says, 'Be compassionate, as your Father is compassionate. Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Pardon, and you shall be pardoned. Give, and it shall be given to you. Good measure pressed down, shaken together, running over will they pour into the fold of your garment. For the measure you measure with will be measured back to you.' Hear that, Mrs. O'Donnell? 'The measure you measure with will be measured back to you.' So, what did you measure today?"

Banks retreated.

"You know what they're doing in there?" he said as he rejoined the others.

"Who?" Fox asked.

"LaMonte. He's in there, with her. You know what they're doing? Debating the Bible."

It took a moment for his words to register.

"You mean," Vasquez asked, "she's talking?"

One of the Russians cursed, and started for the office. Banks blocked his way.

"Hold on, Ivan. Did you hear what I said? She's talking."

"Is she saying anything we want?" Fox asked. "Is Mr. LaMonte getting anything, or just flapping his gums?"

"LaMonte's part of our team," Banks said, amazed that it came from his mouth. "He knows what we need. We'll slip him marching orders just to make sure."

"Give him time," Vasquez said. "He's doing better than us."

The surly Russian spat something, and rapped the face of his watch.

"Uh, that is?" Banks asked.

"We're down to three hours," Fox translated.

#

Another thirty minutes in hell. Banks and Vasquez beaded with sweat as they stood between Gary and everyone else. Fox and the Russians were one, determined to strip the woman of knowledge and throw aside Gary to do so. They fingered their weapons often, restrained only by the bonds of diplomacy and pointed orders from Bennington.

Then the door to the back office opened, and Gary stepped into view. He drew the woman beside him and surveyed the face-off ahead. He put an arm around the woman and walked her slowly past the others, who parted in the face of his purpose. He sat her by the food table, put a sandwich in one of her hands and a coffee cup in the other. She tasted the coffee, licked her lips, then ate and drank mechanically, alert to the others as a deer is to lions.

"Washington National Cathedral," Gary said. "Upper level of the crossing tower."

The others looked at him doubtfully.

"We should have figured it," he said with a humorless chuckle. "Washington National Cathedral. It's an Episcopal church."

#

Within the hour, Bennington's people found the bomb. With more than two hours to spare, the firing mechanism and its nuclear bullet lay dismantled and harmless at its hiding place, the local police anonymously notified.

"Congratulations!" Bennington acclaimed over Skype. "We have de-clawed the tiger, and gained a final week."

"Are you sure?" Banks said. "He'll only be pissed. He has seven more nukes to cheer himself with."

"But he won't use them," Gary insisted. "If he retaliates, it'll be by conventional means. The nukes are too valuable to waste on temper."

"How do you know?" Banks continued. "I admit, your guesses have worked out pretty good, but what makes you think--"

"It's his thing. In Daniel and in Revelations, a ten-horned monster precedes the end of the world. Three of those horns are shriveled and replaced by a single, overarching horn, and the remaining seven are bent to its will. He'll keep the seven together. They'll go off together on the twenty-third."

"Exactly!" Bennington nodded. "That gives us a week to neutralize the weapons, and we already have a lead on that."

"And, that is?" Vasquez asked. She slumped in a chair across the room, wanting to sleep.

"I'll send for you, Agent Vasquez. Meantime, rest. I've arranged rooms in the city."

"What about this one?" Fox asked, nodding toward the prisoner. She sat small and helpless in the seat where Gary had placed her.

"Oh, I think we have enough out of her. Dispose of her in the usual manner."

Gary started. He looked from face to face around the room, unsure of his ears. Dispose of her? In the usual manner? The order went without a reaction, including from Banks and Vasquez. The Russians, their weapon found and defused, also paid no attention. Fox, on the other hand, stared at the prisoner, his lips forming a slow, cold smirk. The O'Donnell woman cringed away from him.

"Hey, whoa!" Gary shouted. He stepped forward to plant himself between Fox and the girl. "What was that? Just what the hell is the 'usual way?'"

Fox's eyes flared. "We have rules. This is a war, young man."

"What's that?" Gary roared. "I know I don't hear this!"

Vasquez, startled and rose from her chair. She looked for Banks, who moved, eyes narrowed, behind two of Fox's lieutenants. The Russians watched Gary as they would an unruly child.

"Mr. LaMonte," Bennington said from the laptop. "We know what we're doing. It's been done this way for centuries. You don't expect us to release the enemy? Allow them a chance to attack us again?"

"This is bullshit! Vasquez, did you hear that? They're going to kill this woman. What's the plan, Bennington, march her down to the river and put a bullet in her head?"

"Young man," and Bennington's voice was firm, "need I remind you that this woman would have murdered a million innocent souls? Do you think she won't try again?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. It doesn't matter what she does. What matters is what you do. You can't sanction murder out of convenience. Are you crazy? It makes you no more than the people you fight, no more than Davidson himself. It can't be allowed, I tell you. You do it, and you're just another god damned killer!"

"That is enough!" Fox bellowed, and grabbed at Gary's coat. Gary swung a fist, missed, and found himself sprawled on the floor when Fox paid him for the attempt. His jaw hurt where Fox had struck him. He tasted coppery blood.

Fox snatched up the woman and flung her screaming into his two waiting lieutenants.

Banks rolled his eyes at the ceiling, then raised his cane and brought both men down with a slam of its crook. One of the lieutenants struggled to rise, but Vasquez stepped into him, kicked back his face, and snatched the assault rifle from his shoulder. She stepped over the woman and charged the weapon, well aware that other guns were out. The Russians aimed Makarov pistols at her, and gladly.

"Nyet!" Bennington shouted, sending static through the computer speakers. "Hold fire!"

Weapons froze locked on their targets. Gary lay on the floor, not moving a muscle. The Russians threatened Vasquez, and she Fox.

"Nobody kills this prisoner," Vasquez said simply, though she realized the silliness of demands.

"So," Bennington said in a calmer voice, "what do you suggest we do with her?"

#

Fleming stood in the dark of Bellefontaine Park in Granite City, Missouri. Behind him, an agent leaned against their car, trying to suck warmth from the glow of his cigarette. The night was starry, and the thin blanket of snow looked blue-white under the moon.

"We leaving soon?" the agent asked. "With the bomb scare over, most everybody's packing for home."

"We aren't done yet."

"Well, if you don't mind saying, what exactly are we not done doing?"

"An errand," Fleming said. "I got a phone call."

They waited in silence another few minutes. From the river, a barge bellowed its warning horn.

"It's eleven," the agent complained. "Aren't we due in DC tomorrow?"

"Here it comes."

He heard the helicopter long before he saw it, a deep-throated pound of rotors against the air, then a black shadow descending, running without lights. The ship dropped within thirty feet of Fleming, but didn't land. It hovered just off the ground, waiting only seconds before reaching once more for the sky. It arced south, then dropped below the treetops to disguise its final direction.

Fleming ran to the hover zone now blown clear of snow. Something lay on the grass, a dark, still hump that hadn't been there before. "Bring the car!" he yelled, and knelt beside the human form. He turned her over. It was Martha David O'Connell.

"Christ," he mused, shaking his head. "Vasquez, what are you into?"

Chapter Twenty:

Isaiah 50:4-6

(Back to Table of Contents)

Gary started awake. He lay on his stomach, his arms stretching awkwardly along his flanks. His neck ached. He stretched, then turned his head to work out the kinks.

Vasquez slept beside him.

For a moment, he just lay there. He stared at her, watching her sleeping face, so close to his that he smelled her skin. Then he realized, with great relief, that they were still clothed from the night before, coats and all.

With that, he arose stiffly, trying not to wake the long, slender woman beside him. He almost bumped into Banks, who lay along the foot of the bed like a family dog. Vasquez had draped one curved calf over his chest, her shoe half off.

Gary slumped at the edge of the bed. He tried to reconstruct what had brought him to this place, to Sally's bed in Sally's house, with Vasquez lying beside him. Images came to him in snatches: the confrontation with Blackburn, the nightmare at the summer camp, and the impromptu delivery of a woman, a terrorist, back into federal custody. But, nothing placed him in bed with Vasquez, hundreds of miles from his last recalled location.

Light filtered through the bedroom window. He glanced at his watch. Three o'clock. Obviously, in the afternoon. When had he ever slept so late, in his clothes, no less? He yawned, and watched Vasquez. So angelic, she seemed, so beautiful, yet he knew the predatory vein that coursed beneath that feminine mask. She had, after all, argued the merits of drugs and torture to snatch what she wanted from a reticent prisoner. She had understood Bennington's argument for murder, even while she opposed it. What drove this woman? What poured her so cold upon the world?

His mind moved away from such disturbing thoughts, focusing instead on the sound of hushed conversation. Yawning again, he headed downstairs.

Three of Bennington's men sat in the living room, playing cards while the TV droned. One man nodded in Gary's direction. Gary nodded back, and turned into the kitchen. Bennington's crew unnerved him, especially after last night. Life seemed just a commodity to them. When might they find his worthless?

Then he remembered the missing details, how he and the others had refused Bennington's accommodations, had flown back to Indy after battling the crowds. And he realized with surprise that until they had fallen as a group into bed, they had hardly closed their eyes in fifty or sixty hours.

Eulie's chirping voice sounded from the porch. So did a banging screen door and quiet but firm adult admonitions.

"Watch what you're doing, young man. You'll break the house."

Brenda, he thought. But, where was Sally? Unless she slept, she would not be far from her son. He felt a sudden yearning for her voice, her smile, the look of her angular face. His body remembered the feel of her, and the smell of her hair. Gary loved Sally, but so much stood between them. He knew little of the knotty past that had burned the warmth from her eyes. He knew none of her family, or if they'd approve of her latest choice in men. And there was Gramma, who loved but disapproved. Of course, the greatest obstacle between them was nothing short of God Himself. God, who was nothing to her, just another bastard with whom to contend. To keep Gary's company, Sally condescended to tolerate his faith. But, the Lord had always enriched Gary's life, strengthened him when earthly strength deserted. Every joy, sorrow, and worldly blessing in life, including Sally, was a uniquely tailored blessing from God. How ironic, Gary thought, and frowned as he shook his head. He held more in common with that terrorist girl than with the woman he claimed to love. The thought further sobered his already melancholy spirit.

"Get a hold of yourself," he said, and rummaged through the refrigerator for something to drink. He poured himself orange juice, then turned toward the porch and Eulie's motor noises.

Eulie lay on the concrete floor, pushing his trucks from Gary. Brenda watched him from the swing, Parker beside her. The porch was cold. They wore their coats.

Parker spoke into his cell phone. "Sure, I feel terrible, Fleming, but I'm really focused, too. Am I suspended? Did you rat me out? Good. I need my pension, man. Huh? No, I'll stay. The kid still needs protection. From what you say, protection from his bodyguards. No, that crew's packing up. They started for Chicago right after their eleven o'clock service..."

"Good morning," Gary said as he caught Brenda's eye. "I mean, good afternoon."

"Hi."

"Where's Sally?"

"Shopping."

"Excuse me? Shopping?" He couldn't picture Sally the domestic. Shopping? Shopping for what? And, where did she get the money to shop? "Groceries?"

"No, she went to the mall. It was hard getting her there, without Eulie, and all."

"Oh. I'm surprised she didn't take him with her."

Brenda smiled. "Well, we convinced her to get out of the house before she went crazy, and that it was too dangerous to move around with Eulie. We kind of snuck up on her."

"Wow. Shopping. I can't picture-- Well, anyway."

"Gary, I think you should know. She had some more of those nightmares last night."

Gary's heart sank. "About Davidson?"

"Yes. They really beat her up. Three times, whenever she tried to sleep. What are those dreams about?"

Gary looked away. Brenda knew only that Davidson hated Sally for her stories, and that the bodyguards were provided as a courtesy of Bennington, the rich benefactor. But, walking dead? Ancient curses? Nuclear terrorism and the end of the world? She didn't need that baggage just to babysit. "It's a long story," he said, and looked out across the snow-covered yard.

#

Sally returned with three hard-faced bodyguards in her wake. She waddled into the house behind an armload of bags, flashing her devastating smile at everyone in sight. "Mamma's home, presents all around! Come quick, before the night shift arrives, or you'll have to share. Eulie, honey, special for you!" She distributed wrapped presents with the air of Mrs. Claus. She was gregarious, thoughtful, very unlike herself, and she fascinated Gary. Eulie squealed over his present. The others accepted out of politeness, less thankful for the gifts than curious about their provider. None had ever seen her smile.

"Hey, Junior G-man," she said to Gary, waving a folded newspaper in his face, "you finally awake?"

"Excuse me? Finally?"

"Well, at four this morning, you and your partners stomped through the door like extras from a bad zombie movie. Then you commandeered my bed without so much as a grunt of apology. How long you been up? An hour?"

"Ten minutes."

"Gehey, wook! Peasent!" Eulie flagged the half-unwrapped box in Gary's direction.

"Not now, honey," Sally cooed. "Gary and I are talking. Miss Brenda will help you with your wrap, won't you, Miss Brenda?" She herded Gary into the kitchen.

"Man, you're a snoozer," she said, pinning him next to the sink. "Did you miss me? Hmmm?"

"Sally, what's gotten into you? Somebody put you on sunshine pills?"

"Can't a girl sigh at her boyfriend?"

"Well, most girls, sure."

She stretched up high and kissed him on the lips. "Gary," she said when she paused for air, "I sold a story. Big bucks. Not heat pump bucks, but mucho dinero, si, senior."

"Really? That's great. What's it about?"

She leaned back and snapped open the paper before his face. It was one of those supermarket tabloids. HOLY MAN IS UNHOLY DEMON, FINDS IDENTITY IN THE GRAVE! the headline shrilled.

"What?"

"It's Davidson," she explained. "It's all the stuff I got from Kevin before... Anyhow, it's all laid out. Davidson the two-thousand-year-old walking corpse, Davidson the architect of the pogroms, the Inquisition, the Holocaust. Hitler's best buddy. You know, he has Hitler hidden away somewhere, keeping him alive through invasive drug therapies and the replacement of precious bodily fluids." She winked when she said it, or Gary would have thought her insane.

"Are you kidding?" Gary exclaimed, horrified. "Did you clear this--"

"Parker didn't care. He figures Davidson will just roll his eyes. The story's ridiculous, no?"

"Sally, don't you think you've pricked that man enough?"

She turned suddenly, frighteningly serious. "No, Gary. Not enough." Then, in another dizzying swing, she looked astonished and took one of his hands over in hers. "I missed these," she murmured. Gary admired the contrast of their skins.

"I hear you're missing sleep," he ventured.

"Oh. You heard about that? It's nothing. Just your basic screaming meamies."

"I think we both need a break," he said. "Maybe, when this is over--"

"Or, maybe right this minute." She lowered his hand and stepped away. She reached into her coat and extracted a compact disc, holding it up in triumph. "I had to sing the song, an excruciating experience for all concerned, but the salesperson knew what I wanted."

"Earth, Wind and Fire. In the Name of Love."

"The song we danced to. At the pizza place. You know, a million years ago?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Now, where's my boom box? Hey, which one of you clowns out there--"

"Later," Gary said. He took the CD and placed it on the counter, then pulled her to him.

"Hey, Romeo. Don't start nothin' you can't finish."

He examined the dark circles around her bloodshot eyes. "Don't pretend with me. Are you afraid to sleep?"

Her eyes grew suddenly guarded, telling him more than the answer he sought.

"You can always talk to me," he said.

"You don't believe."

Gary sighed. "Sally, I don't know what I believe. But, I'll tell you this, since irony is playing so big in my life. It strikes me odd that I'm the one balking at this immortal witness to history thing, me, the one who believes in God. Then there's you, the virulent non-believer, buying it all at full retail price. Isn't that even a little bit strange?"

"No, it isn't." She disengaged from him, standing away. Steel walls poised around her, barely restrained from cutting him off. "No, Gary, it isn't. It seems so to you, because you aren't listening. I never said I don't believe in God. I just don't believe in yours. The God I know is more than capable of releasing a monster like Davidson into the world."

"Doesn't that sound just a little pat, like self-vindication?" The hurt on her face warned him away, but he braced to persist. He knew what it would cost, but the words needed saying.

"Self-vindication? I was there, Gary. I live this nightmare, not you. You delude yourself with carefully manicured faith. Me, I work from experience, the experience of my son being snatched, of Kevin, and what they did to him, of -- of that smell, and D--Davidson--"

"Okay, okay. I'm not the enemy."

"You don't believe me."

"No, but I don't disbelieve you, either. I just don't know."

"Well, I've had plenty of experience with Davidson lately. I do know."

"Yeah."

She looked at him curiously, brought away from herself. "What aren't you telling me, Gary?"

"It's nothing," he said, rubbing his hands. "But I've had experience with Bennington, so I know a few things, too."

"And, what the hell does that mean?" Sally demanded, suddenly frigid.

Gary sighed. He'd lost her. "Sally..."

"No. Don't 'Sally' me. You walk in here and disparage the one person -- the one person -- who sees any worth in my--"

"Oh, Sally, come on. You've only known him a couple of days."

"Long enough! You don't know what it's like. You don't know what it's like to live your whole life alone and on the defensive--"

"Yeah, you're right. I'm only black--"

"Don't try that on me; you know full well what I'm talking about. You've got your college degree. You have your doctoral work, your Professor Ikaru, your Gramma who loves you. You don't know what it's like to be abused by everyone, to be ridiculed and shunted away by your own mother, or terrorized by your husband, or demeaned, or raped, or--"

"That's enough!" Gary snapped. He could no longer abide her silly, self-destructive bullshit, as if she alone held a monopoly on pain. She knew about his parents. She knew about his constant fears in the neighborhood he called home. She knew it all; did she forget conveniently, or did it seem so trivial against her world of self-pity? He forgot where he was, forgot who listened. He failed to notice the living room's sudden quiet. He focused only on Sally, on battering down the battleship steel of her self-imposed isolation. It was time she grew up. "Sally, this is nuts. You're scared of living, that's what you are. Stop whining and take stock of your life. Stop dwelling on what you've lost and consider what you have."

"Have? Have? I thought I had you, Gary, but here you are, turning away from me, taking away from me, just like all the others. You -- you said you'd always be here for me!" Her voice shook, she stepped from one foot to the other and wrapped herself in her arms. Gary felt awful, but he had to continue, for her sake.

"I'm here for you, Sally. I never left, and I never will. But, it's your life. I can't hold your hand through it; I'm not your daddy--"

He froze at the serrated glare from her eyes, at the sudden, evil thrust of hate exploding toward him through shredded defenses. He tried to step away, slamming his foot against the kitchen cabinet.

"God damn you!" she shrilled. "Don't you ever--! You have no right--!" She surged forward and slammed him hard in the chest with her hands. "I loved him! Don't you mention him! He was the first! I loved him, and he-- he-- Damn you, Gary LaMonte!"

What in hell? What jar of worms had he inadvertently smashed? I can't hold your hand; I'm not your daddy- Her daddy? Her father? Where was Sally's father? Had she ever mentioned him? In all those diatribes about her mother, in those rare, curt stabs at ex-husbands and lovers, had she, even once- oh, shit!

"You're just like him, damn you! So confident in your childish faith, so defensive of your murdering God!"

"Sally, I'm sorry--"

"You'll leave me, too, just like he did, just like all the others. Just like all of them--"

"Sally, please--" He reached for her. She beat at his arms. Her strikes stung; anger had made her strong. He took her shoulders and refused to let go.

"--you'll love me, then you'll tear me apart, then you'll leave! All of you! All of you but Eulie! God dammit, let me go!"

"Sally, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about your father..."

She stopped struggling. She glared at him. Then, so suddenly that he released her and staggered, she slugged him right in the mouth.

"Shit!"

"You son of a bitch! You're all bastards! You and your God damned bastard of an all-powerful father figure God! You dish out bullshit just to get a fuck! You can't coax one, you take it! Then you beat me, then you desert me! You son of a bitch, you're just like all the others! I thought you were different! I thought you were different!" She swung at him again, but this time Gary deflected the blow. For the second time in a day, blood drained from his mouth.

"Stop," he said, dazed. She landed punch after punch, not aiming, hardly able to see through gushing tears. Gary grabbed her arms, spun her about and pinned her to him, her arms immobilized. "Stop," he repeated.

He held her quaking body and listened to her wretched sobs. He felt like a heel, wanting to make it up to her. He was sorry, but what about?

"Your father's dead, Sally. I'm sorry, I didn't know. Did it happen a long time ago?"

She responded with louder, more terrible sobs.

"When you were little? No, it wouldn't hurt so much, not this late, not now. You were a teenager, weren't you? You loved him very much. I realize that. But, it's done, okay? It's in the past. Think about what you have in the present, what you have for the future."

"Nothing," she managed in a ragged, miserable voice. "Only my broken Eulie."

"Wrong," Gary corrected. "You have me."

He held her to control her flailing violence, then to support her through wracking sobs. He held her a long time, until his arms ached, and then some. Then he led her onto the now deserted porch, and placed her gently on the swing. The day was old, the light a neutral gray striped orange and red in the west. They sat a long time in that dim wintry light, the swing creaking beneath them.

Gary touched his lip, wiping an insistent trickle of blood. He still wondered about his mistake, and the conclusions he had drawn from it. Sally's father was a festering wound in her trampled psyche. Gary could think of many reasons why, not a one of them wholesome. "Tell me about him," he asked, fearing another explosion.

Sally sat there, wrung out and silent, as if Gary didn't exist.

After a while, the porch fell to darkness. Gary heard the others inside, Eulie asking where Mommy was, Brenda and Vasquez making excuses. Gary's stomach, neglected since the previous night, complained of its emptiness. Still, he sat with Sally, hoping his presence helped her, however little.

When she spoke, her voice was low and bland, practically part of the background. "What about yours?" she asked, and Gary almost missed her meaning.

"My father? I don't know. I've told it all, I guess. He was just a hustler, and got a hustler's reward." He shivered against the cold, but continued, determined to cement this moment of trust. "I mainly remember my mother, though I was young when she died, too. I remember her as a sad woman, kind of distant. One day, Gramma picked me up at Headstart. I didn't know for years that Mamma killed herself."

Sally shook her head. She waved her hand in a gesture of disquiet. "You say that so impassively. I couldn't. My father -- my father was a great man." She said it as if defying all reality. "He wasn't rich, though he provided well for my mother and me. He wasn't the wisest man on earth, or the most virtuous. But he was a man of great faith in God. He argued in Temple. He demanded, if not faith itself, at least intelligent reflection on faith from his family. He was more a man of God than some rabbis I know. My father loved God. And God killed him."

Gary heard the crack in her voice. He held himself to silence so that she might collect her wits. After a moment of respectful quiet, he asked the necessary question. "How did he die?"

"What?"

"Your father. How did he die?"

He wished he could see her face, but darkness hid the depth of her pain. Her voice had a dreamy quality, full of regret and confusion. "He always came to me before he left for work. He'd kiss me, and promise to come home. One day, he just didn't. He didn't come home."

Gary waited.

"He was a doctor, an obstetrician. On Thursdays, he made visits. To women's health clinics." She leaned into the corner of the swing. "He didn't even do abortions. He didn't believe in them."

Gary needed no further clues. Attacks on abortion clinics were too common and violent. The attackers often quoted scripture when forced to defend their actions. In a way, Sally was right. God had killed her father.

"I'm sorry..." he murmured.

"Yeah, me too." He saw her hands moving, frustrated, saw her legs climb into the swing. "I never appreciated what he did. I thought it was lame, the way he'd look all over the house for me, just to say good-bye, just to promise that he'd come home again. I would avoid him. I mean, who wants their father kissing them?" She fell silent, and still, for a moment. "Sometimes, I imagine that he kisses me at night, promising to come home in the morning." The wistfulness drained from her voice, replaced by iron. "But, he isn't there. All that's there is Davidson."

They sat in the uncomfortable dark. An owl sounded somewhere far away. Colored lights appeared at a house across the football field.

"Gary, I -- I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You were upset."

"I'm sorry I punched you. I'm not like that. Really."

"Oh, yes you are." Gary smiled past his swelling lip. "That's one reason I love you."

She inched toward him, unsure of her status. She extended tentative hands to his waist. When he didn't reject her, she rushed against him, holding him fiercely, burrowing her body against his. Gary engulfed her in his arms. He stroked one shoulder tenderly.

"Don't worry," he said, "Don't worry. I'm here for you. Forever."

#

Trooper Emmans released a curt blast of smoke through his nostrils as he watched the back of the house. He and his partner had little to watch from their anonymous nest in an upper floor classroom of Chatard High School.

"Hell of a way to make a living, eh, Heacock?" Emmans said for something to do.

"Pay's good," the other man answered. He did not take his eye from the telephoto lens trained on Sally's back yard.

Emmans snorted. Single guys. Some of us had people at home. He wondered how long this job would continue. The boredom was killing him.

Chapter Twenty-one:

2 Thessalonians 2:8-10

(Back to Table of Contents)

Gary sat alone on the porch swing. He watched Christmas lights across the field. Vasquez appeared in the kitchen door. Something darted past her ankles to leap onto Gary's lap.

"Ghost! What's up, man?" Gary stroked the cat from head to haunches, feeling his ragged purrs.

"Staying the night?" Vasquez asked. The porch was dark. Gary saw only her silhouette.

"No, I'd better go home to Gramma. If you don't mind."

"Not a problem. Think we could go pretty soon? I've the next shift with the guards."

"That would be cool. Sit down, Rose. You're always so grim."

She lowered herself to the swing and pushed it off gently with her feet. Gary waited. By her mood, Vasquez had something to say. Sally sang upstairs as she gave Eulie a bath. The tune was ancient, dancing across the lower registers. She was probably unaware that she sang a Hebrew lullaby. She was very Jewish, Sally, without even knowing it.

"When I was little, I had a swing like this," Vasquez began. "I'd lie on my back along the seat, and look up into the stars. It was outside, on an A-frame, and the skies in Texas are so much clearer than here..."

"It's hard to imagine you as a kid. You're awfully, well, intense."

She laughed. "Really? I'm stunned."

Gary grinned and shook his head. Ghost climbed his chest and kissed his nose. "No, you aren't. Tall, athletic, a gun under your jacket. That automatically makes you imposing." He didn't mention gorgeous. "And, what have you accomplished the last few weeks? Saved all those people on the Airbus, saved all those people in St. Louis and DC? That girl in Bennington's camp?"

"Yeah. That girl. Why do they do it, Gary? If I only knew what made them tick..."

"You'd be just as confused. They do it out of fear, or longing, or exhaustion, maybe, with the world. Who knows? When comet Hale-Bopp came around in 1997, the Heaven's Gate cult committed ritual suicide. They thought they were freeing up their souls to transfer to a UFO they thought followed in the comet's wake. They all wore brand new Nikes. Go figure."

She sighed. "When I was a kid, I loved the Mass. The church awed me. It was like the stars as I lay on that swing. I had faith in the power of God, unshakable faith, more real than the life I lived. And I believed in the promise of redemption for those who followed Christ. Heaven, hell, purgatory, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, these were all so real to me." She shook her head. "I was kind of like those people, Davidson's people. But, as I grew up, I forgot more than I care to admit. Other things grew in importance, then crowded God away. Now, I need Him back, but I'm not so sure He ever really was."

"You've grown up," Gary offered. "Kids believe more easily than adults."

"You're no kid. You still have faith. How do you do it, Gary?"

"Well, I have my doubts from time to time. We're only human, you know."

The swing creaked beneath them. Ghost curled onto Gary's lap.

"I need a gift of faith," Vasquez said at last. "I've run dry of it, even the doubtful adult kind."

"It isn't something you're given. You go with what you got."

"Go with what I got," she whispered, and fatigue groaned in her voice. "All I got left is hope."

#

"It's imperative that we meet," Bennington said over the phone from Chicago. "We have information bearing on Davidson's final gambit; we must act on it as soon as possible."

"Can you hint at the nature of this information?" Vasquez asked.

"Not on this line. My plane will land at Indianapolis Airport in two hours. You and the others should be there."

And, that was that. Parker complained, but Vasquez had decided to meet the plane even before she hung up. Parker refused to go to the airport, insisting that he stay with Sally, and especially with her son. Vasquez allowed him without much fuss, for she understood his obsession, so similar to her own. Parker worked less from sense these days than from hope, hope that he could redeem himself through protection of the boy. But, when stampedes of people swarmed in fear toward the cold dark of winter, when mousy intellectual women conspired to murder millions, when God became an excuse for the worst horrors imaginable, what possible good was hope? No good at all, Vasquez tried hard not to say, but hope was all she had.

She kept it to herself, but Vasquez was drowning. She drowned in obsession, in doubt, and in the desperate, desperate hope that something guided her in these days, something wiser and greater than herself. That hope sustained her exhausted soul as she gathered Banks and Gary and drove to the airport. She didn't take Sally, who was shielded by Parker and that formidable cadre of Bennington's guards. Besides, Sally was nearly useless. She was half-dead from nightmares and a pain in the ass with her dramatic mood swings and constant prattling about empty houses, frozen lakes, and maps on the wall. She had lately improved on those garbled, surreal dreams, adding the threat of rolling floors, explosions, and ancient figures draped in swastikas. As always, Davidson stalked her in the background. Really, Vasquez thought, they had all made due with too little sleep, but that woman was cracking up.

#

The chopper dropped onto white farmland amid a miniature snowstorm raised by its rotors. The crewman drew back the door and signaled his passengers to disembark. Vasquez dove into the whipping white fog. It cleared as she moved away from the ship, revealing a world that gripped her with unease.

Helicopters crouched in rows across a wide, flat expanse, at least ten ships attended by mechanics in heavy overalls. The aircraft stood white as snow sculptures, bare of markings. She recognized them as surplus military. Troop carriers. Some sported pylons for heavy weapons, which only increased her unease.

"So, which is it?" Gary asked above the rotors. "Is he invading a third world country, or starting his own airline?"

"Yeah," Banks huffed. "White Angel Air. 'I'm not just a passenger; I'm a door gunner, too!'"

"Shush!" Vasquez snapped. "Company."

A black Jeep Wrangler bounced toward them over the hard, snowy earth. It stopped in front of Vasquez, and the window rolled down. A woman leaned out to them, her face strikingly strong, with oval-rimmed glasses over gray eyes. Her brown hair hung loose to her shoulders.

"Reverend Bennington sent me to fetch you," she said in a British accent.

"Who the hell are you?" Banks asked.

"Your ride. The house is two clicks away." She smiled at them, the gesture more teasing than friendly.

They climbed into the Jeep, Banks with some grumbling. Because of his ankle, Vasquez insisted he take the front. She and Gary squeezed into the back. The minuscule padded bench was somewhat close for two.

#

Photos appeared on the laptop's screen with business-like regularity. Vasquez thought herself in a Mission: Impossible episode.

"These are all visitors to an isolated house on Michigan's western shore," Bennington's voice said. "This first, being unloaded from the ambulance, is an unknown factor we need defined. We believe he's high in the Davidson network, perhaps as dangerous as Davidson himself. Then there are these two. They are nuclear engineers, both from Pakistan."

"Davidson hired them to handle his bombs," Vasquez guessed.

Bennington nodded from the laptop's screen. "The man from the ambulance and those two engineers lead us to believe that the nukes are close by. The layout of the grounds--"

"You're planning to take the house," Banks said.

"Exactly. We intend to invade the house, secure the bombs, and turn them over to the proper authorities. We need you three to help us."

"Why us?" Gary asked. "We're only three people. You have an army out here."

The response came slowly. "We're used to more subtle activities, kidnapping and such. Paramilitary assaults are somewhat new in our repertoire. Your FBI partners, on the other hand, have planned and executed many such operations, albeit on much smaller scales. We need their expertise."

"Anyway," Bennington continued, "our timeframe is short. Davidson will use his nukes on December 23rd, the hysteric's deadline for the end of the world. That's two days from now. I'd like you to handle this mission, Vasquez, alongside my associates. After all, it can only--"

"Please, no speech. This is an assault, not a massacre. We take prisoners, not body counts, and deliver them to those 'proper authorities' you mentioned."

"Granted. Wendy, are you there?"

"Yes, John," the woman with the gray eyes responded. Everyone looked at her, she with that unprecedented first name. She stood in the background, her face serious. The white and gray camouflage uniform added redundant strength to her presence.

"Wendy Carlisle is a trusted friend," Bennington said with special emphasis. "She represents my authority. Please include her in all planning. She'll see to your needs, and blend you with the others. Does all this sound agreeable?"

It didn't. It was risky, muddled, and illegal in the extreme, but debate, Vasquez knew, was pointless. Bennington could do it without her, and would. At least she might impose some small control over matters. After a few trivialities, the three visitors followed "Wendy" from the farmhouse dining room into the bracing Indiana weather. Men and women in white battle dress crisscrossed the property on various untold missions, ignoring the clutch of strangers in their midst. Vasquez and company cut across the yard toward a tractor shed, a massive corrugated metal building with huge sliding doors and no windows. Vasquez paralleled Wendy, a little ahead of the others.

"So, how did you get involved in all this?" she asked with feigned affability. "A weekend crusader, like Fox in St. Louis?"

Carlisle didn't even look at her. "I have my reasons," she said, "and, I don't know any Fox." She pushed open a man-sized entrance cut into one shed door, and stepped over its threshold into the building. The others followed.

The interior glowered under harsh overhead lamps that cast deep shadows throughout much of the building. Gun racks filled with assault rifles, pistols, and machine guns marched in neat rows to the darkness. Faceless human shadows hunched in the aisles between the racks, hovering over cheap work tables loaded with weapons and cleaning supplies. Two tables stood away from the others, each spread with geodetic survey maps and homemade house schematics. Two men hunched over the papers, then straightened as Carlisle approached.

"Great," Banks groaned. "Deja vu."

"Two consultants," Carlisle said by way of introduction. "They represent the concerns--"

"--of the Russian Federation," Vasquez completed. "Hello, Boris. And you, Boris. Where's Boris?"

Both men sneered at the newcomers. "Boris couldn't make it," one of them said. "He had ... another appointment." He nodded his head at a puzzled Carlisle. "We've met," he explained.

#

"Bang, bang, and ... bang," the gunman said, and took his eye from the telescopic lens of his rifle. "Easy," he told Michael, who lay beside him on the high school's roof. "Why not pop 'em now?"

"They've security out front and inside the house," Michael said. He pivoted on his stomach and started crawling toward the ladder at the wall away from the house. "We'll coordinate you with the ground strike team. This thing goes down without any neighbors the wiser, got it?"

"Roger," the man said at his heels. "I'm just ready, that's all."

They started down the ladder, Michael first. Below, their official-looking electrician's van disguised their conspiracy to curious eyes. The rifle was wrapped in towels.

"It's been almost two days since the others took off," Michael said as they carried the extension ladder back to the vehicle. "I'd like to go faster, in case they return, but it's more important to get it right."

"I know. I was just saying--"

"Tomorrow," Michael interrupted.

"Cool. How about a burger?" The man climbed into the driver's seat, then leaned across to open Michael's door.

"Whatever. Got some business." Michael climbed in and took out his phone.

"They keep you busy, that's for sure," the man said.

Michael ignored him, and waited for a pickup on the other end.

"Hello?" a tinny, cautious voice answered.

"It's the Prince. Authentication Zulu-Echo. How's that shipment coming?" As he awaited password verification, Michael cataloged his tasks to do, and felt the weight of exhaustion upon him. The gunman was right: they had kept him busy. Michael hadn't slept well in at least five days. No matter. He recalled the parable of the ten bridesmaids, asleep and unprepared at the coming of the groom. For his part, Michael did not intend to snooze -- or be found without oil -- this close to the wedding. Only one more day, he thought, and sleep wouldn't matter anymore.

"Transfer's on schedule," the phone said. "The first cases went out this morning."

"Good. You know how to reach me." He clicked off the phone, and yawned.

"Let's do McDonald's," the driver said. "There's one down on Keystone."

"Yeah, whatever, as long as they have coffee."

#

"Alpha 3, contact! Small arms fire from the south wing! Engaging!"

"Alpha 1 confirming hostile fire. Lending assist."

Voices flooded over her headset, all excited, some stepping on others, but none with even a hint of panic. Vasquez leaned over her pilot's shoulder for a good look through the windscreen, but the night was a curtain that parted only slightly, in one faraway spot where the dark ignited with white, dancing searchlights. She stared at that spot of light, and listened to the jumbled radio traffic. She verified with her ears what her eyes could not conclude, that all units acted according to her plan.

"Charlie 2, contact! Heavy machine gun, southwest property line! Rockets! Engaging!"

"Control, Delta 1. Delta landing in progress. Come on in."

Vasquez tapped her pilot's shoulder, and watched his thumb's up. She turned back to the cargo area as the ship leaned into speed. She flagged one finger at the twelve soldiers crammed there, weapons bristling toward open cargo doors. They glowed like ghosts in their white camouflage. Vasquez felt strange in the getup, complete with combat boots, knife, pistol, and flak vest, as if warped into her distant past. Gary sat at her hip, his pistol under one arm, looking uncomfortable in the military gear.

"Prepare to dismount!" Vasquez shouted over the thrumming rotors. As the others positioned for rapid exit, she squatted next to Gary. "You okay?"

He showed her an upward pointing thumb.

"Great. Give me your weapon." She took his pistol, then turned it for him to see. "See this switch? This way, safety. This way, not. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Think you can handle the weapon?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Don't."

The deck wobbled. Vasquez held onto the pilot's seat back. The ship slapped ground with a rattle, and disgorged its passengers like marbles from a broken bag. Vasquez followed the last soldier out, Gary close at her side. She blinked in the glare of searchlights, scanning to gauge the action around her.

Six choppers faced the house, gripping the earth with their rotors turning. Soldiers lay prone around the aircraft, their weapons pointed mostly toward the house. Others ran toward the building, assault rifles leading. Helicopters screamed overhead like gulls, supported on improbable pillars of light. Somewhere, from the south it seemed, weapons barked impatiently.

"This is Control," Vasquez called as she jogged toward the house, her pistol held before her. "Kill those searchlights on my mark ... mark!"

The night suddenly reclaimed its own. Vasquez felt blind and helpless, but knew the effect was worse on the enemy. They, after all, had looked into the lights.

"Control, this is Bravo. Alpha and Charlie are taking hits south. Request permission--"

"Negative! Negative! Stick to the plan. You watch the lake. Nobody gets out by water."

"Wilco, Control."

Alpha and Charlie in contact, Vasquez thought. Rob was with Charlie. Hadn't they mentioned rockets?

As if on cue, a white vapor trail arced from an upstairs window, streaming for a helicopter.

"Missile! Missile! Missile! Upstairs, third from left!" Vasquez screamed.

Half a dozen assault rifles answered the rocket fire, shattering the suspect window frame.

The rocket impacted ten feet short of its target.

"Alpha Team One, inside kitchen!" Vasquez heard in her ear. Then she caught a movement behind and to the side, away from Gary. She glanced, halted, and dropped to one knee. The figure wore no camouflage, and his position threatened. Vasquez loosed four rounds into the shadowed form.

"Shit!" Gary yelled.

Bennington's weapons were well-zeroed. She got the target with all four rounds. "Watch your backs, people. They're outside, too."

Security crouched outside the kitchen door. Vasquez entered and found herself crowded by uniforms. "Report!"

"Four teams in, according to plan," the correct subordinate said.

"Okay, three with me. You, you, and you. Let's beef up the southwest insertion team."

"Cool!" a young man exclaimed, and fell in behind her.

They moved through the maze of halls, a man breaking off at each door to search the room behind it. The searches were fast, almost cursory, just to ensure no infiltration. Vasquez kept her pistol ahead. She felt Gary behind her and heard the excitement in his breathing. "Watch that weapon," she said without looking. "Don't you shoot me in the back."

"Sorry."

Twice they intercepted other teams and negotiated routes with rapid hand signals. Vasquez kept toward the weapons fire, deafening inside the house. After an elastic age of less than a minute, they reached a back staircase and scurried up it against the wall.

Two appeared at the first landing. Their weapons lit the staircase, and the wall and steps exploded like bombs. Vasquez pumped one aimed round and watched her target jerk facedown onto the stairs. The space beside her head erupted in sound and light as Gary threw slugs into walls, ceiling, and shadowy gunman.

"Whoa, Tex! I think you got him!" Vasquez yelled, and grabbed his wrist.

"Sorry!" Gary said.

I bet! Vasquez thought.

More gunfire sounded above, but not directed at them. Vasquez continued upward, moving quickly to bypass the bodies on the landing. "Don't look at them," she said to Gary. "You don't have time."

Sorry, she expected.

"Sorry," she got.

The room upstairs was a mess of shattered windows and punctured, blackened walls. Four dark shapes littered the floor, and eight ghostly figures stood over them.

"You're too helpless," Carlisle said as she recognized Vasquez. She angled her rifle away from the friendlies.

"Well, you know, I'm just a demure Catholic girl. Your search?"

"Negative. No bombs. Maybe somebody else..."

"I hope so. Continue your arc. Let's secure this place."

Gary turned in a slow circle, surveying Carlisle's work. Vasquez snatched him out of his shock, and across the room to another door.

"Did you see that?" he said too loudly. "She turned those guys into hamburger."

"It happens. Let's hope only to them."

"You said this wouldn't be a massacre--"

"That only works if the other guy cooperates. Snap out of it, civilian, or they'll do to you what you did on the stairs."

They continued through the house, careful with their weapons and signaling traffic controls to avoid concentrating forces. Each room searched was marked with chalk, and each was checked again, to be sure. Within a few minutes of the initial incursion, the expected reports began filtering in.

"Delta 3, clear."

"Delta 4, clear."

"Delta 1, clear."

Vasquez acknowledged each report, never slacking her pace through the house. Servants' quarters, clear. Storage rooms, clear. Garage area, clear. "Control here. Final checks, security out, and team leaders to the living room." Her men relaxed; she turned to them with a warning finger. "Not so fast. We'll loop through these last few areas on our way to the rendezvous."

#

They continued through the garage toward what they knew was the boathouse. From the marks on its door, it had been checked twice already.

They entered little more than a second garage, but with a higher ceiling and on the water side of the house. Beyond the two dinghies and the trailer-mounted speedboat, a concrete slip stretched to Lake Michigan. The assault had concentrated on the south and west, so the boathouse stood in comparable silence compared to the havoc of the last few minutes. A helicopter rattled by, its searchlight blazing across the slip and the water's edge.

"Nobody home," Gary hoped, prowling close to Vasquez.

Vasquez jerked a hand at him. Be quiet!

They moved through the boathouse, the three soldiers checking behind boxes, under worktables, and inside the boats. Finally, their sweep complete, they turned to Vasquez for direction.

She pointed up. A three-foot square of drywall was cut into the ceiling, a storage space among the rafters. A white powder dusted the floor beneath it.

Gary watched with dismay as Vasquez took a pair of night vision goggles from one of her soldiers and moved to the speedboat. Holstering her pistol, she climbed up the trailer and onto the boat's bow. The soldiers stood about the floor, their assault rifles aimed at the ceiling's rough-cut door. Vasquez balanced at the farthest reach of the bow, one foot hanging almost into space, but still she leaned far over the floor to reach the hatch. With one hand balancing her against the little door's molding, she used the other to strap on the goggles, then drew her weapon. She edged the hatch up into its compartment, the drywall square resting on the flat of her hand while her goggles and weapon aimed into the dark. Gary hoped she'd come up empty. There had been plenty of shooting already.

Staccato explosions coughed across the boathouse. Vasquez fell backwards onto the floor, her pistol flashing in the dark. The soldiers let loose a tremendous volley into the ceiling. It collapsed, dropping drywall chunks, boxes, and flailing figures in a dusty, chunky avalanche. Fire sprayed from the figures even as they fell. One of Bennington's men screamed. A wall stud splintered next to Gary's head.

Someone slammed into Gary and ran for the water. Gary glanced at Vasquez, who knelt on the floor, holding one arm. A soldier took an initial step toward her.

Nobody knew, Gary thought, and turned back to the escaped shadow, now caught in a helicopter's pillar of light. The figure ran to the water, waving an assault rifle in the aircraft's direction.

Gary drew his pistol and bolted down the slip. "Police!" he yelled. "FBI! Halt, or I'll fire!"

The figure swung the assault rifle toward his voice. A woman, Gary noted, blue-white under the searchlight, her face disfigured by hate. Her weapon barked, but the bullets flew wide. Gary kept his own weapon silent. He plowed into his assailant and knocked them both off their feet.

They tumbled onto the concrete. The woman grabbed Gary. She banged him with her weapon, uttering enraged sounds. They half-skidded, half-rolled down the slip and onto the ice of the lake. The woman struggled, still unintelligible, but Gary held her, deflecting her defenses as best he could.

Then, alarmed, they realized where they were. Gary heard a snap beneath them.

And together they crashed into the lake's freezing maw.

#

The great bowl of the heavens arced majestically above, but Sally paid it no mind. She moved toward the altar a few feet away, toward its ancient, crumbling bulk and its radiating horror of stink. Encroaching water sloshed all around. It seeped from the door standing free to one side, like a prop from the Twilight Zone. The water spoke, its voice familiar, but its message was drowned by the altar's insistent summons. Cautiously, she answered that call, an unkind, anxious demand weighted with power and hidden expectation. It wanted her. To lure her it promised such wonderful things. It offered oblivion, an end to a lifetime of suffering. She had only to approach, to ignore the water and the door.

The seven attendants of dreams past had resolved into horrid hazzanim, ritual prayer cantors from her childhood. But these hazzanim were silent. Sores and burns engulfed their bodies. They stared down at the map draping the altar's surface, at the lone black box positioned at a confluence of blue and gray, at the red concentric circles radiating over the image like ripples over a pond. What did it mean? The old man, where had he gone? The map was familiar, and so, she knew, were the altar boys. But, the putrid air muddled her thoughts, keeping her from the truth. She felt lost and ill, but still she refused to surrender. She choked back bile and pushed past the hazzanim, then leaned far over the map--

It was then that the cold struck her, a sudden, shattering attack that propelled her out of sleep. She bolted upright in bed, gasping.

"Gary?"

Sally blinked. Her eyes darted about the room. What was it? Was Gary-- Then she realized her revelation, and threw off her covers. She tossed on her robe and propelled herself downstairs.

Parker stood in the living room with one of Bennington's guards. They both stared as if at a lunatic. Sally dismissed them, cinched her robe tighter, and landed in the chair at her laptop.

"A boat," she said as the machine beeped to life. "It's a boat, on Lake Michigan."

#

Gary shivered within the thermal blanket and clutched the heat packs close to his body. The living room swarmed with uniforms, some escorting prisoners from one part of the house to another. A foot away, Vasquez sat on the sofa, her flak vest and outer shirt removed as one of the soldiers inspected her arm.

"Not broken," he said. "You've had some bruising recently; the flesh is sensitive, is all."

"Thank goodness," Vasquez responded. "I've damaged my quota of body parts. It's somebody else's turn. Speaking of which, how is he?"

"He's all right. His flak vest took most of it. He just has a few cosmetic facial wounds."

"Good. Thanks, Doc. I'm glad you've a skimpy workload."

"Me, too," the man said as he took up his weapon and left the room.

Gary and Vasquez sat quietly, letting their tensions dissipate. They let their eyes roam the thinly furnished environment with its dark, coffered paneling and elegant formal dining room. The scene chilled them, for it matched Sally's terrible dreams.

Bennington blew in a few minutes later on a roar of multiple helicopter rotors. "Well!" he called out as he walked into the living room. "A lot of work for nothing, eh?" Carlisle followed in his wake.

"Nothing indeed!" she said. She stopped in front of Vasquez, holding her rifle loose in one hand. If anyone looked as powerful as Vasquez, this one was it, Gary thought. "Preliminary searches turn up no bombs, no records, no maps, no nothing. I think we seriously misread this thing."

"Except for the bozos with rocket launchers and automatic weapons," Vasquez reminded her.

"The point is, there aren't any bombs," Carlisle said.

"Now, Wendy," Bennington soothed, "that isn't Vasquez's fault. The enemy is a step ahead, that's all. They've taken the bombs to wherever they plan to use them."

"So, what do we do?" Carlisle demanded. Gary supposed she didn't sooth easily. "We've got assault ships scattered all over this property, bodies stacked like cordwood and prisoners by the bushel. And in, what, eighteen hours Davidson's people will set off those bombs and crater a portion of the human race? What do you propose, John, we sit around with our fingers up our bums?"

"First of all, dear, you needn't worry about being discovered. I brought in thirty men in Michigan National Guard uniforms and have scattered them along the perimeter. Anyone nosing about will learn that a field training exercise is underway here. It will all be very convincing. As for the rest, we'll just have to interview that bounty of prisoners to find out what they know."

"I'd love to," Carlisle sneered, and turned her hard eyes full upon Vasquez.

Bennington glanced from woman to woman.

Vasquez wet her lips and sank deep into the sofa. Her face was made blank by lack of sleep. "I told your little friend that I'd kill her if any harm came to those people. That goes for you, too."

#

Sally didn't eat. She barely left her seat for the bathroom. She bulled through the Internet, hardly recognizing Brenda when she arrived that morning, hardly acknowledging Eulie when he arose an hour later. Her research consumed her. She knew she had uncovered some germ of the truth. It had to do with the water, and the boat. She'd find Davidson on the boat, if only she knew which one. But the water, why did it tease her so? The water offered some answer, but what? She recalled her discussion with Gary that day on the campus quadrangle, when she had invited the cold to swallow up her life. Was it the coldness of the water? The thought chilled her. Did she sleep with dreams of suicide?

By lunch, she broke down and dressed. Brenda had bothered her to no end, commenting on their Peeping Tom bodyguards. Sally didn't give a damn what the bodyguards saw; she just wanted Brenda off her case. She took only the barest moments to slip into jeans and a sweatshirt, then she was back at the laptop, shooting up dead alleys and poorly marked interchanges on the information superhighway.

By dinnertime, she had it. Amazing how much data was available on the web! All one needed was persistence, and Sally had bags of the stuff.

"What do you mean?" she said with annoyance after asking Parker to call Vasquez.

"Just what I said," he answered. "If she has a number, I don't have it. She doesn't have a phone, anymore."

Upset but not discouraged, Sally returned to the net. Armed with what she knew of the case and what she recalled of her dreams, she solved her latest problem in less than an hour.

#

"The prisoners aren't talking," Carlisle said. They were back in the living room, her, Bennington, Vasquez and Gary. Vasquez and Gary hadn't moved from the couch for anything more than a stretch of their legs. It had been a long several hours. Carlisle's voice quavered from suppressed rage. "I'm sure a few know the frequency of the detonator, and maybe the whole damned plan, but they aren't telling us and she won't let us ask."

"Perhaps," Bennington suggested as he took off his camouflaged jacket, "they need more forceful persuasion."

Vasquez didn't even look at him. She didn't seem to care anymore.

"I hate to say it," the preacher continued, leaning companionably over Vasquez, "but we need that information any way it comes. It's time to stop playing, Vasquez. We have less than seven hours."

His confidence chilled Gary. Was there anything he wouldn't do?

Gary looked at his watch. Thirteen hours since the assault began. He tuned out the others. He felt alien to their discussion. It had become, as had the whole situation, too military, too cold-blooded. No longer a mystery, no longer a game of cat-and-mouse between psychotic terrorists and a defending government, the thing had degenerated into factional war. Worse, the armies in this war were fluid, defending nothing, attacking everything, heedless of anyone luckless enough to get in their way. It was Armageddon. Davidson had done it, after all.

Bennington straightened and clapped his hands together. "So! Wendy, start with the engineers."

Vasquez reached for her pistol. Her hand froze on the grip at the sound of many metallic clicks. Carlisle and six or so soldiers aimed their rifles in her direction.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, prayed Gary.

"I'm sorry." Bennington shook his head. "But we have a mission..."

"The lawless one will be revealed," Gary intoned, and Bennington froze at the words. "He will come accompanied by all the power of lies, by seductions for those who do not see the truth, and cannot be saved."

Bennington stared at him, his eyes hardening. "Your point being, Mr. LaMonte?"

"I believe those words," Gary said. "Thing is, do they apply to Davidson, or to you?"

"You'd insult me like that? Calling me the Antichrist?"

"I'm saying that I believe in the Bible and what it teaches, and I'm not even a famous TV preacher. One of those things I believe is Exodus 20:13. You know. Thou shalt not kill."

Bennington nodded. "I see. Strange comment, after having done some killing yourself."

"Yeah. I did some. The difference is, I feel guilty, where you feel nothing at all."

No one moved, unsure what to do. Vasquez kept her hand on her pistol, though she might have been asleep, she seemed so relaxed. Carlisle aimed a rifle at Vasquez's chest, still and hard as a stone sculpture. Bennington watched Gary with scientific interest.

The phone rang.

Everyone jumped at the sound. Nobody even knew where a phone might be.

It rang again.

"Wendy," Bennington said, turning away from Gary, "please, find that thing and answer it." He signaled his men to lower their weapons.

Gary tried not to throw up.

Carlisle stooped beside the sofa and pulled a phone from beneath it. "What do I do, John? It's the enemy, you know."

"Then, a little acting might yield what we need," Bennington answered.

Carlisle looked at the phone. She touched the handset and took a deep breath. The phone continued to ring, demanding attention.

She picked up the handset and put it to her ear. Then, puzzled, she handed it to Gary.

"It's for you," she said.

#

Sally paced her living room, more or less alone. Sounds drifted from Eulie's room where Brenda changed his diaper, but all the others patrolled outside. "He's on a boat," she said into her laptop, her voice bursting with focused energy. "It came up from Florida and through the locks to Lake Michigan, a loaner from one of Davidson's millionaire sponsors. He'll be on it tonight."

"Hey, whoa!" Gary insisted. "Sally? How did you get this number? How did you know we were here?"

"I'm a researcher, Gary. The bombs are together, on the boat--"

"Sally, how did you know we were even in this state?"

"Damn it, Gary, I'm trying to tell you something! Won't you listen?"

A short silence over the computer's speakers. "Okay, go ahead."

"He's on the boat. I can tell you which one. The bombs are with him. He'll use a kind of remote control, like a garage door opener, to detonate them during his midnight worship service. He's gonna blow up Chicago, Gary."

Gary was silent. Sally heard muffled discussion in the background. Eulie giggled upstairs. Someone knocked on the front door.

A new voice spoke from the laptop. "Miss Reiser, John Bennington here. You're puzzling my colleagues. They're skeptical about the information you offer, and even about how you found us. Could you put us all at ease?"

"No. I can't." She wished that bonehead would lay off the door! "But, I did find you, didn't I? You said I could see the works of God? Well, I'm seeing plenty tonight."

She imagined his nod. "Okay. Please give us what you have. You mentioned a boat?"

"Right," she said, turning toward the front door. She continued, yelling over her shoulder. "It's a four-hundred-foot car ferry. I can give you the name--"

"Davidson's crusade finale is on a car ferry off Chicago. I know where to find it."

"Awesome! Just let me answer this door, and we'll talk."

She grabbed the doorknob, ready to lambaste the goon on her porch. She knew it was a guard; with them out front, nobody else would approach the house. They practically owned her place as it was; why bother to knock?

She yanked open the door, insult ready.

Michael Adams elbowed past her, dragging Parker behind him.

Chapter Twenty-two:

Isaiah 26:20-21

(Back to Table of Contents)

Emmans and Heacock glanced at the ceiling.

"What was that?" Emmans asked, not sure he wanted to know. He had come to appreciate his mission's routine, and hoped not to disturb it.

"Dunno," Heacock said. "Sounded like somebody banging a drum."

"A very small drum."

"Came from the roof."

Emmans agreed. The roof was six feet above his head, and the sound, though muffled, was a certainty. He rose from his chair at the camera and picked up his coat from the floor. "I'll check it out. Be back in a minute."

"Probably a raccoon."

"Yeah, probably."

Still, he left his coat unzipped to free up his holster. He approached the door to the roof with caution, and opened it just a crack before stepping onto the tarpaper surface.

At first, he saw nothing but the sprinkled lights of windows across the football field. Then he stiffened as his eyes caught a shadow against the tarpaper, the still shape of a prone man. Worse, the ugly shape of a rifle extended from the shadow's shoulder, a rifle with an unusually long barrel. A silencer.

Emmans slipped out his pistol in two fluid movements. "State police! Don't--"

The figure scrambled upright, then bolted across the roof. Emmans wasn't surprised. They always ran. He pursued, but the intruder made it to the wall first.

So, that's how he did it, the cop thought as the figure went over the wall. A ladder. "Halt! State Police!"

He skidded to a stop at the wall and grabbed an arm vanishing below the roofline. The figure struggled against his hold. The bulky rifle clattered to the ground. The ladder shook, lost its perch, and slid like a clock hand along the building's flank. Emmans clutched at empty air, watching frustrated as his quarry, holding tight to the ladder, rode it along its downward trajectory.

The ladder struck a windowsill and bounced away from the wall. The shadow let go, arms flailing, and fell two stories to the concrete drive. The ladder crashed atop him. He didn't move.

"Shit!"

Emmans turned to the roof access. Heacock met him there, looking disturbed.

"Sniper!" Emmans spat. "He had a rifle with a silencer. What's going on at the house?"

"That's why I'm here. Nobody's on guard. There are bodies in the yard."

"Shit!" Emmans said again, and glanced the city block to the Reiser house.

"We gotta get over there," Heacock said. "We gotta get over there now."

#

"Your boyfriend went over like a bag of rocks," Michael said. He dropped Parker face down, and stretched.

"Michael?" Sally said, her eyes hurting, they were opened so wide. Three other men pushed into the house. One shoved her against a wall for no apparent reason.

"That's right," Michael said. "Honey, I'm home, and all that crap. Check the rooms upstairs," he told the men.

Sally blinked. Her mind reeled, unable to focus. She saw Parker's limp form, and went to him. "Parker? Are you hurt?"

Michael stifled a laugh. "Dense as ever. You just don't get the point."

She rolled Parker over. His face and chest glistened with blood. Blood smeared his staring eyes.

Sally choked. She scooted clear of the body. Terror leapt at her. She beat it away, her hands flailing the air.

"All of them," Michael promised her. "I'm your security now."

She trembled on her knees, looking stupidly from him to the corpse, and back.

Michael turned away to the computer, which anguished with the sounds of many voices on top of each other. He listened for sounds from upstairs. A female protest was quickly silenced. A keening whine drifted through the house.

"You son of a bitch!" Sally growled, rage finally welling within her. "You killed him! You killed this man, and I bet you killed Ke--"

Michael wound back and punched her hard in the face. She staggered against the wall, her impact shaking pictures to the floor. "Speak when spoken to!" Michael commanded, his face reddening.

Sally sank to the floor, but started up again as soon as she found balance. She hadn't cowered to this bastard in years, and she wasn't about to renew old habits.

Then a wave of nausea struck her, kicking the room from beneath her feet. An animal horror gripped her as a terrible smell rammed up her nose. Polished shoes stepped in front of her; she dared not look up.

"Sally! What the hell--?" Gary's voice, distant and useless, coming from the computer.

"Please, Mr. LaMonte, I'll handle this. Get hold of yourself."

An evil snigger, then a familiar voice, like dry leaves in the wind. Sally recoiled, her ears seeking other sounds: a crashing on the stairs, Eulie's frightened mewling. Eulie. She clamped shut her mouth, purposefully breathed streams of foul air. She had to steel herself, strengthen herself for Eulie.

"Good evening, John," the horrible voice said. "We seem to have missed each other. Perhaps I'll stop by your place some day."

"Please," Bennington responded, "wait for an invitation. We seem to have a quandary here, Arthur. I have your people, and you have mine. Care to trade?"

"Oh, no!" Davidson laughed. "Keep them, as a present. Some cultures do that, don't they? Exchange gifts between enemies? Besides, I have more than a person here, don't I?"

"I wish you'd leave her alone, Arthur. She's pointless now, this close to the end. It's me you need to worry about."

"I'm not so sure on either count, John. These seers have this trick for getting in the way, so I think I'll deal with this one."

"Don't touch her, man! You hurt her, I'll hunt you down if it takes a lifetime!"

"Mr. LaMonte, please," Bennington begged.

Davidson laughed.

Sally raised her face. She suffered Davidson's grisly sight in quick glances. Her fingernails dug at the carpet. She gritted her teeth.

Eulie stood next to Parker's lifeless form, his sitter clutching his hand. Brenda looked terrified, but she wouldn't desert Eulie. She wouldn't because she loved him, Sally finally realized.

Davidson stood before the child, his hands on his knees. "Such a beautiful boy," he said for the laptop to hear. "I'll take this young man along. He'll stand with me in my glorification. Though his mother must die, he will enter into Heaven alongside a servant of Christ. It's the just thing, after all. A child such as this is surely without sin." He stooped, held out his hands to Eulie. "Come, boy. Come to your protector."

Brenda tightened her grip. The three voiceless guards moved away from her.

Davidson frowned at Brenda, his first stark face of evil. "This one," he said, "is superfluous."

Michael drew a long-barreled pistol, and shot Brenda through the head.

There was almost no sound. The gore spattered against Sally's bureau. Brenda stiffened, took one reflexive step back, then collapsed into a heap. Eulie lost her hand as if it were a mist. He looked at his empty fingers in confusion, then turned to see where Brenda had gone. When he saw her mangled body, he erupted in piercing wails.

"Shut the kid up," Michael commanded, pointing the pistol at Eulie's head. "Shut him up, or he's dead."

"Eulie!" Sally screamed. "Come here, Eulie! Come to Mommy!"

He ran into her arms, his face contorted in terror. She grabbed him, heedless of the blood that streaked from her face to his. She held him tight in her arms. "Stop crying, Eulie. Please, stop. Stop crying, and we're safe. That's right, be a brave boy. Mommy won't let them hurt you."

"So touching," Michael sneered. "And I hoped he'd carry on."

"What have you done?" Bennington asked.

"Just a payback, John. You'd better send a clean-up crew. They'll find it rather messy." Davidson nodded to Michael.

The younger man moved to the laptop, and clicked their audience away.

#

Bennington stared at the phone. The dial tone sounded frantic in the room.

Gary broke the stillness with a groan, and slapped his head repeatedly. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!" he yelled. "We need a helicopter! We have to get there as soon as possible!"

"We can't," Bennington said.

"What do you mean we can't? We have half the US Air Force on the lawn! You put a pilot in one of those birds--"

"We can't," Carlisle repeated unkindly. "Aren't you listening?"

Gary focused on her. His eyes squinted in desperate anger. "I'm done listening!" he shouted. "I'm only on this ride for her sake! To protect her, you understand? God damn you, you have the means! Why won't you use it?"

He flinched at a touch on his arm. Vasquez held him. She turned his twisted face to hers. "Because we can't, Gary. Because--"

"Bullshit! I don't want to hear it! You of all people--"

"Gary, listen. The choppers don't have the range. They can't make it to Indy. Even if they could, they'd be hours going."

His nostrils flared. His brow tightened. The muscles of his jaw quaked. But she saw him trying to understand, trying to control himself. Tears flowed from his eyes. "We can't just leave her," he moaned. "We can't just desert her..."

"No, we can't. Isn't that right, Reverend?"

"Of course," Bennington acknowledged. "I'll send someone immediately. They can be there in..." He sighed. "They can be there in half an hour."

#

But someone was already there. Emmans had sprinted across the field while Heacock went for the car. He jumped Sally's fence. He sidled onto the porch and glanced into a window, then snatched back his face as he stared into Michael Adams's eyes.

"All set," Adams said. "The hard drive's wiped, and she didn't make any printouts. We can leave any time."

Good. He didn't see me, Emmans thought.

He heard the sounds of departure, of jostling the girl and her kid, of threats against attempted escape. He hurried around the house, but missed identifying anyone but Adams. The murderers departed in a caravan of one limousine and two sedans. Emmans ran to the street to locate his partner.

Many minutes later, they followed the limousine as it left the Indianapolis bypass and merged onto State Road 37 toward Bloomington. The sedans had peeled off earlier for other destinations, and the policemen had stuck with the primary car.

"We'd better call in," Heacock advised. "We're in trouble enough as it is, leaving all those bodies back there."

"We have called," Emmans snapped. "He told us to follow them, no matter what."

"I meant the cops, you dummy. We got a mass murder and kidnapping here. Some reason we don't ask for backup?"

"Yeah, because Tuttle told us not to. We do as he says."

Heacock shook his head. "Better call him again. Hell, we're leaving the city."

They drove south into the night, the limousine just in their headlights.

#

The limo left SR 37 just north of Bloomington. It turned west on an empty bypass, then onto a gravel trail that quickly degenerated to dirt and snow. Tree branches slapped the top of the car and potholes bounced the passengers. Sally ignored the rough ride. She thought only of soothing her child. But her eyes watered from putrid fumes and she breathed filth shallowly into her lungs. She tasted roadkill on her tongue. The sensations pressed at her, enveloping her, their source the man sitting languidly across the cabin from her. Eulie clutched her, burying his face in her chest.

The car stopped. The driver and shotgun rider got out first, then held open the doors. Davidson climbed from the car along with a second guard. Michael watched Sally, waiting. She rocked Eulie gently, returning her ex-husband's stare.

"What are you doing, Michael?"

"After you," he answered.

She scooted to the door, then stepped into the cold dark. Neither she nor Eulie wore a coat.

The limo hid among trees. A dull, ancient trailer stood twenty meters away at the edge of a cliff. More cliffs rose beyond a wide, rocky depression. A quarry. Davidson walked toward the trailer, his bodyguards spread around him.

"Go," Michael insisted, and pushed his ex-wife along.

Sally carried Eulie in her arms, whispering him comforts that she didn't feel herself.

The trailer had power. Davidson switched on a light as he entered, and stood away from the door as Michael herded Sally over the threshold.

"This is where we part," Davidson said. "Finally, I'm rid of your ilk. I believe, as does your sponsor, that you are the last of your bothersome clan. From now on, I am free of your infernal interference."

"I don't understand," Sally said, trying to steady her voice. She cowered into the opposite end of the trailer.

"Oh, come now. Surely, John told you of the ancient order, and the prophecy, and all the rest?" Davidson shook his wormy head. "His father was much more efficient. If not for his technology, John Bennington would be nothing." The marble eyes turned on her. The fleshless mouth opened. "Did he tell you I killed his father? Well, I did. With my own hands. That was before I hired out such chores. He was a challenging kill, much more so than your great uncle Reiser."

"You're an animal," Sally whined, but she didn't believe it. He was worse.

"Well, you're entitled to your opinion, for what few minutes you'll own it. Make no mistake, Miss Reiser, you are about to die. I tell you this out of respect for your race, and because I'm curious about the woman who so befuddles my aid, Mr. Adams. Oh, I see that surprises you. But, believe me, it's true. I sent him to kill you days ago, and he comes back with some cock-and-bull story about delivering you a message. Can you believe that?"

Sally's eyes darted to Michael, who waited at the door. Him. He had invaded her house, had typed the threatening message on her laptop.

"So, you didn't know that, either?" Davidson sounded incredulous. "Well, maybe we went to all this trouble for nothing. You see, in deference to the trouble you've caused me, and equally in deference to your family line, soon to be extinct, I have brought you here to purge your immortal soul, to offer you reconciliation in Christ."

Sally stared at him. He was insane.

"You may confess your sins to me, a representative of Christ. I will then forgive you, and assign penance. The penance will be death, but your soul needn't burn for your life's crimes. Go ahead, Miss Reiser, confess all that you've done to offend the spirit of God. You'll feel better afterwards."

"You brought me to Bloomington to hear my confession and kill me in a quarry?"

"It's on the way." Davidson shrugged. "Bloomington Airport. We couldn't land at Indianapolis. That was too obvious. Anyway: I'm listening, not talking." He waited a full thirty seconds. "Well?"

"Please, don't hurt my child."

"That isn't a confession."

"Please, don't hurt him. If you promise to release him, I'll do whatever you want."

"You don't understand." Davidson tried again. "You are already doing whatever I want. The only question is, will you do so with a clean conscience?"

"He's everything to me." Sally choked, tears breaking onto her face. "I couldn't live without him..."

"Don't worry," Davidson said, his face taking on empathy, "you won't."

#

Vasquez found him at a chopper. He sat slumped in the doorway of the cargo bay, a silent, stationary ghost among a bustling, inspecting crew.

"Gary," she murmured. "Are you all right?" She wanted to hold him, sooth him, heal his hurt, but she hardly knew how to comfort Gary; she needed comfort herself. She had lost Sally, had lost Parker. Their fates, the boy's, and the deaths of all those people stabbed at her soul. She had made that house in Indy a tomb. Action had kept her from breaking down completely, but there was precious little of that now. She clung instead to the smallest germ of hope. Or, perhaps, delusion.

Gary caught her with wounded eyes. She reached for him, held him by the shoulders. "We have word," she whispered into his ear. "Sally's alive. Eulie, too. Bennington has a tail on them."

Gary's voice was dead. "Davidson has them, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but they're still alive, and our people are on them. There's hope, Gary."

"If Davidson has them, there's no hope at all." He rose from his perch in the helicopter hatchway. He moved like an old man, by careful, painful stages. He took a few steps, then sank to his knees.

"Are you okay?"

"I go to church a lot. I believe a lot. But I don't do this a lot."

"Gary, I don't understand."

"I'm praying."

#

Emmans and Heacock lay in the snow. They had parked on the bypass, far off the shoulder, and had hiked across jagged, rocky terrain to arrive at a spot across from Davidson's car. They watched the limousine and three guards, and could see suggestions of figures in the trailer. Heacock watched with binoculars.

Emmans stole a glance at the quarry bottom, a great black pool of iced-over water, the jagged teeth of limestone jutting from it. No sneaking over that, he thought.

"So, what do we do?" Heacock asked.

"I dunno," Emmans answered, "but if it amounts to watching that girl get killed, then Tuttle can eat his rules and orders."

Heacock only nodded.

#

"Sir," Michael began after clearing his throat, "we have a schedule. The plane..."

"Yes, yes, I know. Well, Miss Reiser? Do you wish to reconcile with Christ?"

"You're the one who needs confessing!" Sally shouted through a veil of tears. "You're the murderer! You're the one who plans to kill all those people, an entire city!"

Davidson shook his head. "You're so misinformed," he complained, "so very misinformed. Why do you believe John, but not me? I'm the anointed one of Christ. I'm the one sent to do Christ's work."

"By murdering millions of people? Me? My baby?"

Again, he shook his head. "I've no intention of killing those people. Try to release yourself from Bennington's propaganda. You see this flesh? It's nothing." He pinched his arm. Sally saw bubbles of puss burst under the pressure, and moaned. "The flesh is merely a shell for our souls. I plan to deliver those millions of souls. For tonight they will see the Son of Man coming on a white cloud, and will be swept up in the sickle of his Rapture. All those who follow me will see the face of the Lord, and rejoice. You, too, can see his majesty without fear of damnation. Repent now, and welcome a death cleansed of sin."

"Go to fucking hell!"

Davidson's face went deadpan. "Well, I suppose that's it then. Michael, I call on you to redeem your loyalty. See to her needs, and bring me the boy." He left the trailer relaxed, unhurried.

Michael snatched Eulie away from his mother.

"No!" Sally wailed, and scrabbled for her son. Michael kicked her hard in the stomach, buckling her to the floor. Eulie bawled. Michael handed him through the door.

"Put him in the car!" Sally heard him yell. "If he keeps squawking, toss him in the trunk!"

Then he stood over Sally, pulling her up by her shirt and her hair.

"Please. Michael. Don't. Save my baby. Kill me, if you want. Save my baby..."

"You never did know when to shut your hole," Michael complained as he dragged her out the door. "I thought I'd enjoy this, but it feels too much like marriage."

#

"That's him," Heacock said.

"Davidson."

"Shit! Hear that? Look! They're dragging out the boy!"

Emmans dropped his binoculars. "That's it," he said. "I don't like this at all."

"Where's the girl?" Heacock wondered. "There. Adams is bringing her out."

"There's a foot approach over there, around the north side." Emmans checked the load of his pistol. "Let's move."

#

Sally struggled, but Michael was stronger. He dragged her around the trailer and toward the cliff.

"I have had enough of you," he huffed. "You embarrass me for twelve fucking years. You show up out of the blue and get me in dutch with my boss. And you won't stop. You keep showing up. You're the Energizer fucking bunny!"

He heaved her to the precipice, planting her feet almost into space. He filled his fist with her shirt, and leaned her over the edge. Realizing his intention, Sally redoubled her struggles. She snatched at his arms, but he easily batted her hands away. Holding tight, Michael kicked her feet with calculated force until only her toes touched earth.

Sally abruptly stopped fighting, afraid to loosen his grip on her shirt.

"Please, Michael. Don't..."

"Got you in the shithouse now, don't I?" he said. "Won't break away this time, will you? Look down."

Her eyes pleaded him not to.

"I said, look!"

She turned her head and peered past her shoulder with wide eyes.

"Forty-five feet, straight down. Ice and rocks at the bottom. I looked for someplace higher, but I ran out of time. Hope you appreciate the thought."

"I was wrong," Sally moaned, and trembled from sobs. She meant about the water, but Michael misunderstood.

"A confession? Sorry, offer expired." He shoved her over the side.

Sally screamed. Michael leaned over the edge. He watched elated as she flailed for a miracle that refused to come.

Chapter Twenty-three:

1 Corinthians 13:8-13

(Back to Table of Contents)

"Jesus!" Heacock gasped. The two policemen watched in horror as Sally plunged to the bottom.

#

She hit with a slap, then a loud cracking of ice. A spider web of lines erupted around her, widened, and the ice shattered around her body. Michael watched as she floated for a moment, then slowly began to sink.

"Rot in hell," he whispered, and turned back to the car.

#

"They threw her off a cliff!" Emmans told the phone as he tripped down the slope to the water. "They still have the boy. Going back to the road right now. We need someone to pick up the car, and we need medical assistance. Of course, she's dead! But, just in case, y'know? Okay. Okay, we're on it now." He shoved the phone into a pocket.

Below, the rocky ground leveled out. It continued into a black pool of frigid water fifty meters across. The pool's skin of ice had shattered at Sally's impact. Already, the inky surface glassed over, forgetting its recent disturbance.

"What'd he say?" Heacock asked as they reached the bottom. He panned a flashlight over the pool, finding nothing.

"He said he'd handle it," Emmans said with bile.

#

Death wasn't the terror she had thought it would be. A moment of free fall, an impact so sharp it had stunned all her senses, and Sally knew she was done. Her lungs emptied as she struck the ice. Reflexively, she took a breath, but drew in only water. That was it. No instinctive denial. No animal panic in the face of the obvious. She was broken, and she drowned. She observed with odd detachment the details of her death, felt the cold filling her, deadening her inside and out. She felt heavy, and accepted gravity without resistance. It was done. She watched with wonder as the world grew dim, infinitely cold, then absent altogether.

So, this is what it is to die, she thought. Had God always planned that she drown in ice? Was that the point of her dreams? A fitting punishment for her frosty dismissal of His place in her life? If so, it wasn't so bad, almost like falling asleep. She sighed within herself, gathering her soul for what awaited beyond her frozen, bloated body. She considered the undone, even the most mundane of chores. She hadn't played with Eulie that day, but had shrugged him off whenever he approached. Would he remember that slight? Would it forever color his memory of her? And who would feed Ghost tonight? She lamented the waste of her life. Everything was failure. She had especially failed Eulie, the only life truly dependent upon her, and to whom she had sworn her protection. She could never imagine the terror he now endured. But, she was helpless to defend him. He was now, irrevocably, left to himself.

You must return to him.

Yes, if only she could. If only she could negate her crushing fall and her icy embalming. But, she was gone, and Eulie lost because of her. Maybe Gary would save him. Maybe he couldn't be saved.

No, You must return to him.

Who the hell? Somehow, she wasn't alone.

No, you never are. No child of God is ever alone.

Daddy?

You must return to Eulie. This place is not yet yours.

I'm dead.

The water isn't your grave; the water is your salvation.

I don't understand.

You never have. Go back to Eulie. It's your calling to do so.

I can't! she insisted. I've already died. I've already drowned. Everything's cold.

Your soul was never cold. The cold you feel is the last thread of life. Clutch it. Pull along it. Return to where you belong.

I can't, she repeated, wishing her father away. She really was cold, and very, very tired.

The cold is your ally. You've traveled with it a good many years.

I can't.

Then take my hand. I'll help.

#

Her hand cleared the water with hardly a ripple, as if she surfaced in oil. Weak and benumbed, she struggled, the inches of liquid above her head heavy and pressing as concrete. Her mouth found air. She opened it, but only belched thick, bilious water. Then the pool closed on her again. She could not stay afloat.

Do it. You're almost there.

I can't...

Do it!

She made another sluggish effort, got one arm and most of her face into the winter night, but to no discernible point. No strong arms reached in to save her. No one drew her out into warm, dry blankets. Her numbed skin felt none of the breeze that touched it. She vomited more water, received no air in return. Defeated, her limbs drained of purpose and, ignoring the urgings of that coach alongside her, Sally sank again into the blackness of death.

On the way down, her arm slapped the water.

#

"There!" Heacock pointed.

Emmans saw the ripple and what might have been a curve of flesh. Without thought, he kicked off his shoes and stripped off his coat, then plunged with a yelp into the vicious pool. He swam hard, grunting and gritting his teeth against the cold, then dived where he thought the object had been. Too dark.

He surfaced in a violent spray. "Throw me the light!"

The flashlight splashed beyond his reach. He kicked to it, grabbed it, and dived again.

She sank slowly, ten or more feet below. Emmans hooked the fingers of one hand into the cloth of her shirt, and kicked to the surface once more. He exploded into the night air, his body convulsing against the cold. He kicked, pushing his body toward shore and the cold toward the back of his mind. The girl, he thought, concentrate on the girl. Then he felt mud shifting under his feet, saw Heacock reaching toward him. He half-crawled, half-staggered from the pool, dragging Sally behind him.

"Jesus!" Heacock yelled. "That water could've killed you, man! Hypothermia!"

"Ch-ch-check t-the girl..."

"I'll check her. You get this coat on. Jesus!"

Heacock took Sally's wrists and dragged her farther away from the water, into the crunching snow. She felt like ice, and her skin was white. He couldn't see her extremities in the dark, but he knew they'd be blue from death. He checked for a pulse and for breathing, and found indications of neither.

"L-lights," he heard his partner stutter, and he looked up at the sparking radiance of blue and red strobes a hundred meters away on the road.

"Hey! Down here!" Heacock bellowed. "Bring the heat blankets!"

He turned again to Sally. He rolled her onto her chest and pressed her ribs, was alarmed at the water that gushed from her mouth and nose. He rolled her again, and administered CPR.

"How you doing, buddy?" he asked Emmans, worried at his partner's stillness.

"D-don't worry b-bout me."

"Put that coat over your head, man."

Heacock alternated from CPR to pumping the water from Sally's lungs. By the time the troopers arrived, he swooned from exhaustion. The officers crowded him aside and immediately draped Sally in silvery thermal space blankets, then took over resuscitation. Heacock covered his partner with another shiny blanket, and dropped to the ground beside him.

How's she doing? Emmans asked with his eyes.

"She's dead," Heacock answered.

#

The EMTs arrived a minute later. They scurried down from the bypass carrying cases of equipment and a nylon stretcher.

"How long down?" the primary tech asked no one in particular.

"Not sure," Heacock answered. "Three minutes, maybe five."

"Too long," the EMT groaned as he and his partner hunched over Sally. "Run up the defib. I'll get a tube in her, put some heat down her gut. Keep working, officers. It'll take a second."

Each man worked in rhythm with the others, not daring to interfere with any one job. The EMTs moved efficiently, pumping heat-radiating fluid into their patient's stomach while squeezing water from her lungs. Then they removed the tubes, sealed an oxygen mask over her face, and used their portable defibrillator to restart her heart.

It didn't work. Sally's torso jumped from the shock, then settled again into lifelessness. They tried again, raising the amperage, and again.

Finally, they got a rhythm.

"Okay, we're in business," the primary tech nodded. "Who broke her nose?"

"She fell from the freakin' cliff," Heacock said.

The tech looked to the cliff, then back to Sally, and shook his head. "No, you're mistaken. No appreciable physical trauma. She didn't fall from that cliff."

"I'm telling you, she fell from the cliff. We thought she was done for, man."

They boosted her onto the stretcher. "No broken bones," the EMT countered. "Nothing, except for her nose. Of course, there could be internal trauma. Let's get her out of here." He directed them hastily, expecting their fortune to sour any time. Drowners were good for that sort of thing.

#

Sally's heart continued to beat. Half way back to the road, her eyes blinked, then slowly opened and closed as she climbed toward consciousness. No one noticed. Within twenty meters of the road, she groggily turned her head, wondering at the flashing lights and the blaring squawks of radios. Four state police cars waited on the shoulder, and an ambulance from Bloomington Hospital. By the time they had her up the slope and approaching the ambulance, she had begun to shiver.

As they loaded her onto the ambulance, Sally reached up and removed the oxygen. "No..."

"It's all right, miss," one of the troopers soothed. "You're gonna be okay. We're taking you to the hospital."

"No ... Bloomington..."

"That's right," an EMT responded. "Bloomington Hospital, miss."

Sally threw out a dazed hand and grabbed the doorframe with surprising strength. "No ... airport..."

Emmans, already ensconced in the ambulance as close to the heater as practical, took notice. "Bloomington Airport?" he said in a loud, tremulous voice. "Is t-that where they're going?"

Heacock blinked from out on the street. An EMT had loosened Sally's hand from the doorframe, and lifted her inside the ambulance. Heacock grabbed a rail of the stretcher. "Hold up! Miss, is that what you mean? The men who did this are headed to the airport?"

"Yes," Sally croaked. "They have ... my son..."

"H-H-Heacock..." Emmans stuttered.

"I'm on it, man. You troopers! We need units at Bloomington Airport. Look for a limousine, license number--"

The ambulance doors slammed shut, and Sally departed to the white keening world of emergency gear and sirens.

#

A state police helicopter alighted on the hospital helipad ten minutes after Sally's arrival. Its single passenger disembarked, but the ship waited, its rotors chopping the hard, cold air with abounding force and impatience.

Two men greeted the erstwhile passenger, the hospital administrator and a doctor in scrubs. "How is she?" the man asked as he shook the administrator's hand.

"Fantastic," the doctor answered as they hurried toward the emergency room. "That's what bothers us. Drowners often make miraculous recoveries, but this one shows no ill effects at all. And those policemen insist she fell from a forty-five foot cliff onto ice, but her only physical injuries are a broken nose and blunt trauma to her abdomen, both likely derived from a beating."

"You complain too much," the man said. "From what I've heard, she could have been killed."

Indiana University accounted for half the town's population. With its students on Christmas vacation, the emergency room was eerily quiet. Staff watched with mute interest as the three men marched along the broad hall past recessed compartments turned out with gurneys and medical machinery. They stopped at one such alcove, its curtain drawn, then knocked at the wall before flinging the thin cloth aside.

Sally steamed in a paper hospital gown. Her legs dangled, ankles crossed, and her arms were braced like boards as she clutched the edge of her gurney. "I want my clothes," she said.

The doctor edged past the others and scooped up the thermal blankets flung to the floor. "Your clothes are soaking wet," he said, and tried to drape a blanket around her. Sally slapped it away.

"I want my clothes, and I want out," Sally insisted. "There's nothing wrong with me. Can't you see that?"

"You've suffered sever hypothermia," the doctor explained. "You've suffered worse than that. No one expected you to live. We have to get your temperature back to normal, or--"

"Yeah, you've taken my temperature, all right. You come near me again with that thing, and you're likely to lose your arm." She glared at the man in the overcoat as he stepped resolutely toward her.

"Miss Reiser, I'm Lawrence Tuttle, of the state attorney general's office. I'm also an associate of the Reverend John Bennington, whom you know."

The doctor and the administrator marveled at the change in her attitude.

"My baby. Did they get those men? At the airport?"

"No, I'm afraid not. The jet was gone when our troopers arrived. An unauthorized pickup, no flight plan."

"You've got to find them. They have my little boy."

"We're looking, Miss Reiser, but we need your help. There was certain information you intended to give us, about an event to take place tonight..."

She looked blank, then her eyes widened in understanding. "Yes. They'll take him there." She looked hard at Tuttle. "I need my clothes. I need to be there."

"The doctors say--"

"No. If you work with Bennington, you'll understand. I need to be there."

It was Tuttle's turn for comprehension. His mouth thinned to a grim line, and he nodded. "Get her clothes. She's coming with me."

"I don't think that's sound," the doctor protested. "Her condition--"

"--is fantastic, I think you said. Clothes, please."

"They're soaking wet," the administrator warned. "To put her into them, in this weather, after what she's been through..."

"I have to be there," Sally insisted.

Tuttle grunted. He pulled a cell phone from his coat. "What size do you wear?" he asked.

#

Sally rocked in her seat, impatient, as ground lights raced past her windscreen. She sat with Tuttle in the back of the state police chopper, feeling uncomfortable in her crisp hodgepodge of trooper uniform items. The blue shirt fit, but the dark trousers and black oxford shoes were a little too big. All the clothes, straight off the quartermaster's rack, scratched and rubbed in the wrong places, and Sally's underwear was with her other stuff. At least the heavy jacket was warm, as were the heat packs stuffed in all her pockets.

"Sorry," Tuttle said, watching her squirm. "It's nearly midnight. All the stores are closed."

"When do we get there?" Sally asked.

"'We' don't," Tuttle informed her. "I've no rights in Michigan, and this bird could never make it there. I hand you off to the Reverend's crew just north of Crawfordsville."

"Are you in the network, one of Bennington's moles?"

"No," he said. "I'm a lawyer."

#

The two aircraft rendezvoused at a campground outside Crawfordsville.

"That's a Blackhawk," Tuttle's pilot said over the intercom. "Is this a military thing?"

"More than you'd guess," Tuttle replied.

The white shape of the trooplifter landed a hundred feet from the state police helicopter. Tuttle opened his door and stepped to the snowy ground. Sally followed with surprising vigor for someone so recently dead.

Tuttle, clutching his coat closed, shouted above the turbines. "You won't embarrass me? You'll get up there and kick this Davidson's ass?"

Sally didn't answer. She cared nothing for Davidson. She only wanted Eulie.

"Keep the jacket," Tuttle offered. "You look good in it."

Sally tramped to the other aircraft.

"Wherever you say," the lone pilot informed her once she was on the intercom. "The Reverend's orders."

"Chicago," she demanded.

#

Bennington stood on the trampled lawn and witnessed the awesome power of God. A half dozen helicopters leapt from the grass and tacked over the water, whipping up snow and dirt in their wakes. Bennington shook his head at the sight. His father had never commanded such might. A terrorist against terrorists, he had plied his mission with stealth and trickery. Those days were past. It was now open war.

"They're up," Vasquez said as she approached, Gary at her side. "Only leaders to go."

"Mr. Banks and Wendy?"

"In the air, waiting on us. It's time, Mr. Bennington."

The old man beamed with excitement. "This is a night we won't soon forget. With the faith, hope, and the skills we employ, nothing can keep us from victory."

"Except seven nuclear bombs," Vasquez reminded him. "Our plan is crazy, Reverend. But, it's the only plan we have. We strike fast, or the Great Lakes burn in exactly thirty minutes."

"Don't be so negative," Bennington laughed as they followed him toward his aircraft. "Scripture describes us with perfect allegory. All our projections are nothing on this night. Mr. LaMonte and I have faith in the Lord. You hold hope for victory and salvation. Perhaps that's enough, more important than all our guns and aircraft. Tonight, prophecies come to fruition." His voice took on a sonorous quality. He reached into the air as he walked, as if praying. 'We are blind now, children, but we will soon see with wisdom, face to face with God. Soon we'll know our place in His plan, but live or die, we will be victorious. We have what the Lord requires; we are the perfect weapon at the perfect time in the perfect place in history. For there are, in the end, only three things that last: faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these is love."

"I 'hope' you're right," Vasquez said sourly, "except that we're fresh out of love."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Bennington laughed. They parted, Gary and Vasquez to one ship, Bennington to another. The Reverend's laughter continued, but its sound was drowned by the rotors.

Chapter Twenty-four:

Mark 13:24-27

(Back to Table of Contents)

Michael rocked in a sea of fiberglass, thousands of boats of all sizes and descriptions, pressing, surrounding, hailing his ship like groupies. Helicopters orbited closely, their TV news cameras searching. A police cruiser pushed among the boats. Unable to control the mob by action, it sought control through presence. But, no one paid it an ounce of attention. The Chicago shore was one great blister of hooting horns, blaring stereos, and illegal fireworks rocketing toward the metal gnats above. The sight awed Michael; the scale of it humbled him. The human race crowded for miles.

And, Michael reminded himself, the mania also ruled on land. Hundreds of thousands crowded the streets to the lakeshore, partying in the bitter cold of Grant Park, or on the breakwater's sculpted promenade. The Reverend was king in this city, as in every city before.

This town, though, was different.

#

"Twenty minutes," the production supervisor said, and left the warm cabin for the blustery, freezing deck.

"Almost time," Davidson said, and dropped the script of his homily on a table. "This is our moment, Michael. Our enemies are destroyed or befuddled. Our destiny is at hand, almost as we planned it." He stood beside his younger assistant, watching the calamity of ships through the window. "What are your thoughts, Michael? Are you ready to meet the Lord?"

"It's all I ever wanted," Michael answered.

"Good. You'll soon get your wish. When I go out there to address those millions through their TVs and radios, they, too, will come to meet the Lord. But, you, Michael will be honored among men. The Lord knows His friends, and you have been especially faithful."

"Thank-you, sir." Michael's lips tightened a moment. "Sir, what about ... him? What about the old man?"

Davidson touched the younger man's shoulder. "He, too, has served the Lord. Tonight, he receives his reward."

"Yes, sir, but isn't his reward somewhat harsher than most?"

Davidson nodded. "Yes, it is, but that's his fate. He must suffer that others might live. And, let's not forget. Though he has helped bring home the Lord, he has earned his reward in no uncertain terms."

"Yes, sir."

A crewman grunted behind them. He stood half in, half out of the cabin, a stream of wintry air swirling around his frame.

"Close the door," Davidson urged.

"Sorry, sir. A message. From the bridge." The man seemed agitated, even frightened, to carry his news to the Reverend.

"Well?" Davidson asked.

"Umm, it's from the launch, sir. A guest requests to come aboard. Her name is Sally Reiser."

Davidson recoiled at the name. Michael stood perfectly still.

"What should we tell her, sir?"

Davidson collected himself with an effort. "Why, of course," he said, clearing his throat. "Of course. She's come to collect her son, I imagine. Please, show her aboard." Then, in a voice more leaden with gravity, "Mr. Adams will meet her."

The crewman nodded, then backed out onto the windy deck.

Michael contained himself for perhaps four seconds. Then a droning, frustrated sound welled up from within him, building into a bellicose roar.

"Damn her!" he shouted. "That bitch! Why can't she leave me alone?"

"It seems," Davidson said with careful understatement, "that your method of disposal was ineffective."

"I threw her off a fucking cliff!"

"You didn't throw her quite far enough, I'd say."

#

Michael waited above as she climbed the companionway from the launch. He looked stony, devoid of emotion, though she knew he seethed within. When she stepped onto deck, she just stood there, matching his stare with her own practiced severity.

After a moment, Michael turned away. He walked up the deck and stepped through a cabin hatchway, Sally following far out of reach. One of many guards held the hatch open.

Sally smelled the stench, but clamped her jaw against it. He was inconvenient, a source of disgust and physical discomfort, but if dealing with monsters helped in her purpose, she'd handle it. She stepped into the cabin.

"We meet again," Davidson said from across the room. "This is unexpected, Miss Reiser. I don't know what to say." He surveyed her ill-fitting clothes. "Except that you should have worn a tie for this affair."

"I've come for my son," Sally said past shallow breaths. "I don't care what you're doing. I just want my son."

"Oh." Davidson circled, hugging the cabin walls. "Sorry, but I don't think that's possible. You see, he's mine, now. The Lord has taken him from you, and placed him in my care."

"I want my son, you bastard."

"Or what?" he asked with exaggerated interest. "I don't think you've thought this through, Miss Reiser. After all, even if I gave you the boy, where did you plan to go with him?"

Sally stared at his grisly face. Of course, she had no plan. Her love for Eulie had negated all plans.

Davidson took an overcoat from the back of a chair and worked it over his suit. "A little education might be in order," he said. "Michael. The door."

Davidson gestured Sally out onto deck. When she, he and Michael stood in the biting wind, surrounded by the lake's cacophony of merrymaking, Davidson had to shout to make himself heard. "All these people, they come to see me! They come in the hope that they might ride my coat tails into the bosom of God. Understand? Well, also understand that some of those boats are mine, and armed against the attack your incompetent friends plan to launch tonight. What do you think of that, Miss Reiser? Feel any less secure?"

"I don't know any plans, and I don't really care. I just want my son."

Davidson laughed. Then he took her arm, clamping harder when she flinched away, and shoved her to the gunwale. "There," he directed, pointing toward the stern. "Look what's leaving."

The launch nosed its way through the jungle of boats, headed to shore.

"Tight spot you're in now, Miss Reiser. Stuck out here on the water, no transportation, the water too cold to swim. It's really hilarious, don't you think? No, I guess you wouldn't."

"Please, my baby..."

Davidson huffed. He pushed her toward the bow. "Move along, young lady. I'll make one more attempt to impress a brain of clay. Coming, Michael?"

Davidson walked up the deck, passing ahead of Sally. Michael grabbed his ex-wife's neck and pushed her along. They passed crewmen in heavy coats unzipped despite the wind. Sally knew from experience what hid beneath those coats, and anguished at the thought. Did Bennington plan some sort of attack? Did he know his enemy expected him? Was Gary with him? She shook her head, expelling such thoughts from the forefront of her mind. Eulie, she reminded herself. She had to stay focused on Eulie.

Davidson spoke over his shoulder, ignoring shouted adulations from the small boats skirting the ship. "It amazes me sometimes what dimwits rise up against me. It's less a challenge than a chore to root out your kind, like squashing roaches. But then, my ally is Jesus Christ, while yours is sin, and the evil of disbelief." He turned at the wide-open foredeck, keeping close to the wall so as not to interfere with the broadcast crew's preparations. The place seethed with activity, with cables strung, sound checks, lighting adjustments, and prop arrangements. The focus of it all was obvious, impaled as it was by blinding television arc lamps.

Sally gasped. She wobbled on suddenly weakened legs. Michael snatched her up by an arm and shoved her onto the foredeck. She stumbled, but managed to maintain her footing. She stared gape-mouthed at something so unexpected that it threw everything -- everything -- into a jumbled whirlwind of doubt.

A platform. Seven gray cylinders in a semi-circle before an altar draped in blue. The world of reality and the world of dreams collided and fused into one. Sally's only anchor was the production crew crossing the set, and their TV cameras and lights.

Centered on the altar between an oversized goblet of wine and a wide disk of unleavened bread stood a squat silver reliquary, about the size of a firebox and beautifully carved. Sally knew exactly what it held.

"There," Davidson gestured as he stopped along the wall. "There is the thing that punctuates your failure." He waited a moment, grinning at Sally's stunned expression. Then he turned along the wall again and descended a centrally located companionway. Michael herded Sally after him.

Sally dropped into a narrow passage curving left and right from the companionway. Davidson moved to the right and Michael continued to force Sally after him. The passageway flowed ahead in white, white walls and white ceiling, painted metal pierced by white metal doors. Only the floor broke the color scheme with its watery blue linoleum.

Davidson stopped at the fourth door on the right. The close space concentrated his stink. The bright overhead lighting only clarified the ghastly details of his decomposing form.

"Out there," he said, "is my triumph. But, without this, it all falls to nothing. I'd like you to meet a friend of mine."

He turned the doorknob and opened the room. Michael hustled Sally into the cabin.

Two attendants held an old man, lifting him from a hospital bed into a waiting wheelchair. He was dressed in a neat gray suit, his sparse wisps of white hair carefully brushed. The makeover hardly improved his appearance from the scarecrow of Sally's dreams. He seemed as fragile as glass, and pitifully inert. A third man held the wheelchair, watching the transfer with professional apprehension. He fiddled with an intravenous line looped from a reddish bag at the wheelchair's back. With Sally and Michael also in the cabin, and Davidson in the door, the scene was close, and frightening.

"Adolph Hitler," Sally surmised. The altar boys were the bombs. The trigger hid in the reliquary.

"Very good," Davidson said. "Doctor, how is our patient?"

The man behind the wheelchair showed no discernible expression. "He lives, but only in the clinical sense. He is very advanced in age."

"Yes, he is," Davidson agreed. He addressed Sally while the wasted skeleton was propped into the chair. "I go on the air in just a few minutes. Two hundred Christian television stations, 1500 Christian radio stations, plus all the major networks, including CNN, taping sound bites for their morning shows, clips they will never use. In less than fifteen minutes, this world you covet will end. You will receive the damnation you deserve. I will be vindicated and glorified. And this," he pointed at the listless, shriveled old man, "is the tool that has made it happen."

Sally wasn't impressed. This was Adolph Hitler, who had nearly brought her people to extinction? This enervated, half-emptied bag of bones?

"He came into his time at the end of empires," Davidson continued. "He brought down all the great kingdoms, collapsed them into rubble. Everything since is his legacy."

"He died in the forties," Sally protested, knowing she was wrong. "He was defeated."

"Yes. He was defeated, but his purpose was not. Our entire modern history is written because of him. He is the domino who started all others falling. The United Nations, NATO, the cold war, wars in Africa, the Middle-east, and Central America. It was all set loose by his grand reach for power. Seventy years, give or take, since it started. Now comes the time for his star to set."

Sally blinked. She recalled something she had read, or that Gary had told her. "You're deluded. The Bible says seventy weeks--"

"Yes. Yes. The Bible sets seventy weeks as the time of tribulation. But that's in response to Daniel's plea to understand the seventy years of ruin for Israel. Which, I might add, culminates now, a little more than seventy years after the Wannsee Conference at which this man's people planned the Holocaust of the Jews. One must interpret these things correctly, young lady. Sometimes, in biblical parlance, weeks can mean years, years eons. Also, there are minor... setbacks... like your father, like John Bennington. These are the result of human frailty, but their delays are nothing in the timetable of God. Anyway, the math works out, more or less. Notice what prophecy has come to past in the seventy years since this one's rush for power. I only had to keep him alive and things kept falling into place."

The attendants had lowered the ancient into his chair, had strapped him there at the legs, arms, and chest. A brace held his neck to prevent a lolling head. The doctor slipped an intravenous needle into the man's left wrist. The hand quivered.

"You're forcing him to live," Sally accused, nauseated.

"Yes. It has become necessary, as it has become necessary to nurture prophecy. This man cannot die before the Son of Man returns. That would be disastrous." Davidson shrugged. "Why should you care? He is forced to live as he forced your people to die."

Sally struggled in Michael's grasp. "You did that, you bastard. The Holocaust was your idea. You dreamed it up. You son of a bitch, if there really is an Antichrist, you're it, not this pitiful man."

"Tsk, tsk. You haven't studied your Bible."

Neither have you, Sally thought, at least according to Gary.

At a signal from Davidson, Michael dragged Sally into the passageway to make way for the chair. The doctor wheeled the old man out, then further down the long, almost interminable hall. The attendants trailed behind.

Davidson leaned into Sally's view, and she cringed at the sight and stink of him. "I wish you wouldn't do that," he chastised. "It's bad for my self-esteem. Anyway, don't you think our former dictator deserves a place of honor tonight? The upper deck bar, perhaps, where he can meet his destroyer directly? With all he's made possible, I think he deserves that privilege. Daniel 9:24-27." He watched her expectantly, then rolled his marble eyes. "Your Mr. LaMonte would make a far more interesting foil." He waved a hand, and Michael herded her back above deck.

The technicians had vacated the foredeck, which was pristinely arranged and lighted. A crew of camera and sound men spread out far from the altar, relaxed as they awaited the fruit of their efforts.

"I've shown you these things for a reason," Davidson said, leaning toward Sally with sudden intensity. "You're like me, a tool of the Most High. You see that the portents are true, that the Word comes rapidly to fruition." He took her arm in a fierce grip. Sally's skin crawled. Her heavy trooper's jacket failed to insulate her from nausea. "Won't you allow me to hear your confession, to forgive you your sins? Don't you wish to rejoice in the Kingdom? Do you still pine to enter Hell?"

Sally wrenched her arm from his grasp. "You're crazy!" she shouted. "Where's Eulie? I want my son!"

Davidson sagged. He looked at her, dead eyes in puss-filled sockets, but Sally thought she saw disappointment. "Why does He send you to me?" he asked. "Why send you to me if you won't submit. The Lord calls you to him, girl."

What could Sally say to him? He almost couldn't hear her from the blare of his cockeyed faith. She backed away, but met an obstacle in Michael.

Davidson sighed, then straightened. "Well, that's it then. You cannot have the boy. He is saved."

"Please..."

"Only a few minutes, Miss Reiser. The Son of Man will come, the Antichrist will meet defeat, and I will finally find my rest. No one can stop it; all of it's foretold. The end of your world, the beginning of mine." Davidson ran a desiccated palm along her cheek. Sally thought she would vomit. "Too bad, dear, you will meet these times in fire."

#

Vasquez pulled hard on Gary's harness and found its tightness adequate. "There," she said. "All set. You're sure you want to do this? You could always stay on the bird."

Gary clicked the latch on his snap link, the thin metal loop that would support him on his rappel. "The rope goes here? Looped?"

"Don't sweat it. The jumpmaster will tie you in. Just remember the brake. The more you press, the faster you fall. Don't release it until you're almost to the deck." She slapped the knife harnessed to his side. "You get into trouble down below, cut yourself free with this."

"Okay, but twenty feet of free fall? It still sounds dangerous."

"It is," she agreed, noticing the soldiers poised in the starboard door, "but so is getting shot down like a big, white piñata."

#

"Reverend," the director interrupted, "it's time."

Davidson waved to him. "Michael, dispose of her," the old man said. "And, this time, try to be thorough."

Michael grabbed Sally's jacket and shoved her down the deck, away from the cameras and their lights. If she fell, he jerked her up by an arm, or kicked her until she rose on her own. Crewmen stood aside as they passed.

"Michael, please!" Sally begged. "I don't care what you do, I only want my son! Please, give him back to me!"

Michael snatched her around and held her by the face. He held her with such strength she thought her skull would crack. "Shut the fuck up!" he screamed. "I have had enough of you!" Then he threw her once more along the deck, his fury by no means vented.

#

The WGN cameraman sat in the back of his ship, tweaking the gyro controls of his aircraft's nose-mounted camera. He had directed the pilot for over ninety minutes, sending him here and there to improve the picture he composed on his monitor. Now, he heard the pilot's unbidden voice.

"What the hell? Look out to starboard. Who the hell are they?"

The cameraman took a moment to remember which way was starboard, then leaned away from his monitor to glance at the real world. His pupils had contracted from artificial light, so at first he saw nothing. Then he noticed the pale glow of white from several large bodies, like clouds. But, they weren't clouds. They were much more solid than that. "Shit, man!" he shouted. "It's getting too crowded up here!"

#

The guests arrived from the lounge below, about three dozen rich contributors, some of them celebrities. They were there for the exposure, for the drinks, for the anticipated view of the midnight fireworks. Some were even there for the coming of Christ. Davidson welcomed them from the altar, his arms raised in prayer.

Three, two, one... the director signaled, and Davidson launched into his life's last homily. "Welcome, brothers and sisters, here and over the whole of this world! 'I come to praise my Lord Jesus Christ. For his sake, I have forfeited everything; I have accounted all else rubbish so that Christ may be my wealth and I may be in Him. I wish to know Christ and the power of resurrection; likewise to know how to share in His sufferings by being formed into the pattern of His death. Thus do I hope to arrive at resurrection from the dead!'"

There was more, but no chance to speak. Someone looked to the skies, and pointed.

"It's happening! Look! He's come!"

A white cloud hammered toward them, its approach beating the air like thunder. Dozens of white jets spewed from the cloud, snaking toward the ferry and splashing against its deck. Instantly, the boat was engulfed in smoke. The first choppers roared overhead, and beyond.

Davidson stood invisible on his platform. He was supremely pissed.

#

Michael held Sally by the neck while he groped under his coat for a pistol. Half-collapsed to the foredeck, Sally clawed at him in a desperate fight for breath. He had just freed his weapon when the choppers stormed overhead. Suddenly, at least four white aircraft hovered over the ship, and men rappelled from their doors. The first invaders came face first, their weapons extended and searching for targets. Then the smoke washed over the deck, obscuring everything.

#

"That's Sally!" Gary yelled, then she was gone, hidden in the smoke. A loud rattle sounded against the fuselage. Something sparked on the doorframe, and the quilted insulation behind Gary's head exploded into dusty fibers. A man in the door screamed, released his rope, and plummeted gracelessly into the smoke below. Vasquez saw him drop, saw the vacant space at the rope. She grabbed the whipping line and looped her own harness through it, then cast herself after him into space.

#

Sally lunged. Michael staggered, and released his grip. He never got the chance to raise his pistol. Sally fell back, braced her back against the deck, and kicked him hard in the groin.

#

A dozen soldiers rappelled to the deck. Six others lay dead on the boards, and two had fallen to the frigid lake. Only twelve seconds in, and the cost was high. The invaders put down fire to protect those who followed, and these overwhelmed the yacht's routed crew.

In the third wave, after fifteen seconds hover time, the jumpmaster finally slapped Gary's arm. "Stand in the door!" he directed.

Gary complied, adrenalin sluicing all fear aside. The jumpmaster grabbed his snap link, looped it through a rope, and slapped Gary's hand onto the brake, a curious contraption that looked like a stapler.

"Go!" the jumpmaster ordered.

Gary looked at him blankly. The jumpmaster threw out a big, splayed palm and pushed him from the aircraft.

Gary barely remembered the brake in time. He applied it so forcefully his harness jolted. Then his feet touched steel decking, and he tried to recall the quick release drill. Before he could think, he was airborne again, then thrashed to the deck. The helicopter bobbed in its hover, bouncing him like a badly played yo-yo. He finally worked himself free of the line, but not before swatting the deck twice more.

On firm footing, he drew his pistol and scanned the smoke. Which way to Sally? Where had she been? Then he heard footfalls through the din of shouts, rotors, and weapons fire, and tumbled forward as someone slammed into him from behind. The attacker gripped Gary's flak vest as they slid over the deck, and flashed a knife from one gloved hand.

#

Sally ran pell-mell toward the foredeck, ignoring the anarchy erupting around her. She wanted Eulie, and she knew who held him.

#

"Down on the deck! Now!" they shouted. The saucer-eyed guests complied as quickly as shock allowed, but bullets buzzed like bees over them, and innocents fell along with the armed. Davidson stood at the altar, darkly unmoved by the mayhem.

Damn that Michael Adams, he thought. He had defended against a water-borne assault. You just couldn't get good help anymore.

He looked at his watch. Not midnight, but it couldn't be helped. Time to rush things along.

He opened the silver reliquary and reached for the remote control, the trigger for his bombs.

#

The crew never knew who hit them. Tracers exploded upward from a nearby boat, guiding hundreds of bullets into the chopper. The pilot was killed, and an essential hydraulic line failed just as the copilot tried to take control. The helicopter wobbled, banked, and fell with gory results into three unfortunate sailboats.

"Bravo 2, taking fire! Bravo 3 is down! Request immediate assistance!"

"This is Charlie, on our way," said Banks's controlled voice. "ID the target, Bravo 2."

"It's a cabin cruiser, man! Now they're after us!"

"ID the boat, Bravo 2. We can't shoot at everybody..."

The staccato burping of machine gun fire traveled over the airwaves. "Cannot ID boat! Cannot ID! Evading!"

"Mark with smoke, Bravo 2."

"Wilco!"

#

Bravo 2 banked hard. The pilot heard his machine gunner throwing lead downstairs, but the target window was short, and they were taking rounds at a terrifying rate. With so many impacts so closely spaced, the ship sounded like a popcorn popper. They needed Charlie's gunships, and they needed them right away.

"Dropping green smoke!" the crew chief yelled via intercom.

The pilot watched aghast as the green trail dropped, and landed on the wrong boat!

"Charlie, Bravo 2! We marked the wrong boat! I say again, wrong target!"

"We're on the run. Talk us in."

"Left of the smoke! Left! Shit!" He showed the incoming tracers his thicker belly armor. "Hit the tracers, man!"

"Got 'em. Charlie, engage."

The cabin cruiser vanished in a hemorrhage of flame and splinters. A second blast of minigun rounds streaked through a target that no longer existed and continued on to the ferry. They vaporized a seven-foot section of the hull, right at the waterline. The lake surged through with a vengeance.

#

"Control, this is Charlie. It just got bad. Get done and get off that ship. It's sinking."

"Wilco," Vasquez responded. She threw her assailant off her and into the gunwale, then planted two rounds in his chest. "Consolidate!" she shouted into her headset transmitter. "Sweep the deck!"

#

Carlisle had planned her drop precisely. She fell face-first toward the upper deck aft, spraying any upturned face with bullets. She hit her brake, slapped the deck with her boots, snapped open the brake and released the rope. Immediately, she pummeled an attacker with her rifle, then turned the weapon's muzzle on three other men near the wheelchair. In a second, she stood alone with the man in the chair.

She crossed the few yards to the wheelchair, then leaned within a breath of that impossibly lined face.

"I've come home, you son of a bitch."

The old man trembled, but not from fear, as Carlisle had hoped. He did so from the effort of life. Carlisle frowned in disappointment. He didn't recognize her; maybe he didn't even see her.

She turned away, retreating a few steps. She heard none of the riot of combat around her, none of the ships overhead. For a moment, she fell years into the past, into strident times and ruined opportunities. Then, because she was a professional and circumstance required it, she returned to her gritty reality.

She turned to face the ancient invalid.

"Good-bye, grandfather," she said huskily, and shot Hitler dead.

#

Sally attacked him with desperate fury. Davidson staggered, planted his feet, and tried to shrug her off. Sally grabbed for the remote in his skeletal hands. She felt his elbow jab her stomach. She drew away just enough to wind back her arm, then hammered rapid blows onto his head and neck. She was beyond fear, beyond senses. She had to get that remote. All else was nothing. If the Golem pressed that button, Eulie, her Eulie, was dead.

Davidson outweighed her, but he was old, and driven by madness rather than love. The remote slipped from his hand, clattered to the altar, and Sally snatched it up.

#

The man raged, an incoherent berserker. Gary held the knife arm at bay, but endured a flurry of vicious punches he couldn't block or return. A helicopter crashed, a boat exploded, and the deck shuddered in a shorthand earthquake, but still the man raged, wanting nothing more than to murder a perfect stranger.

Gary saw a rifle butt slam into his assailant's head. The man grunted, rolled away, and thrashed to get to his feet. Someone straddled Gary, swung the rifle around, and directed a burst of metal through the berserker's chest.

"Jesus! You wasted him!"

"You're welcome," Carlisle said.

#

"You see this? It's mine now! Where's Eulie? Tell me where he is right now!"

"Or what?" Davidson sneered. "Or you won't let me have my toy? I could kick those bombs and set them off. I'm surprised your friends haven't done so already."

"Damn you, where's Eulie?"

He said nothing, just looked at her. No, he looked through her, his eyes darting, darting ... past her. She turned, but too late. Michael grabbed her neck, and the arm that held the remote. He shoved her against the altar, spilling the wine. His fingers tightened, choking her. He seemed oblivious to the all-important device in her hand.

Sally punched at him, trying to throw him off. Then, with Davidson reaching toward the remote, she arced it back as far as she could.

The water is your salvation.

She wanted to throw it, but she couldn't get an angle.

"Hey!"

Michael jerked away from her. Gary had him. Gary had him! Sally straightened. She looked at the plastic box in her hand. It'll float, she thought. She slapped away Davidson's scrabbling hands and grabbed for the reliquary askew on the altar. Davidson was on her again, his stink pungent, his flesh on hers. She shoved the remote into the reliquary, latched shut its lid, then hammered the silver box hard against Davidson's restraining arms. He howled, and recoiled. Sally heaved the reliquary over the gunwale and into the icy lake.

#

Gary shoved Michael beyond arm's length. He brought up his pistol, and jerked back the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Michael lashed out, his fists driving Gary to the deck. He wrenched the gun from the shaken man's hand, then grabbed a fistful of flak vest as he pushed the pistol into Gary's face. "Next time, unlatch the safety," he said.

#

Vasquez mounted the foredeck right behind Carlisle. Forty-five seconds into the assault, weapons still burped across the prone civilians. Chaos reigned in a half dozen battles, none joined to another.

The women saw Sally at the same time. "Protect the cylinders!" they heard her yell.

Davidson shuffled around the altar, making for the nearest of seven gray cylinders arranged--

Seven cylinders.

Both women raised their weapons at once. Then Vasquez noticed the others: Michael Adams threatening Gary, Sally moving to stop him, but too slow to count. Vasquez shifted her aim.

Both weapons fired at the same moment, Carlisle's with a long burst of tracers, Vasquez's with a single tenor crack. Michael flinched away from Gary, but did not drop his pistol. He seemed incredulous at his fate, right to the moment when Vasquez drilled him again. Davidson convulsed under Carlisle's spray of metal. He staggered to the gunwale. Miraculously, he still kept his footing.

A loyal acolyte ran to his side, scattering tracers over the deck. He hit nothing, but brought return fire from three directions. Both he and Davidson took multiple hits. The acolyte fell against the older man, who caught him, snatched away his weapon, and hurled him to the deck. Davidson aimed his rifle at the nearest cylinder.

Carlisle brought up her weapon again. A dry click. Out of ammo.

Vasquez had just dropped Adams. Her pistol arm pivoted. She took aim, and pumped bullets into Davidson's body until her slide froze open on an empty chamber. Davidson stiffened, dropped the rifle, and pitched backward over the gunwale.

"Thanks," Carlisle shouted as they both reloaded.

"Any time," Vasquez said. "Now, call EOD before this boat sinks from under us."

#

Gary collapsed to his knees. He saw Michael crash to the deck beside him, the pistol clattering between them. He did not pick it up. It just wasn't him.

"Gary!" Sally cried, and fell to the deck beside him. Her arms cradled his back and neck. "Gary, are you all right?"

"Sorry taste in ex-husbands," he croaked.

A new crop of helicopters thundered overhead. Troops dropped from their open doors, each with a large bag strapped to his chest. They moved to the semi-circle of cylinders.

"Everyone, listen!" Vasquez shouted from the dais. "This ship is sinking. It must be evacuated. There are helicopters--" She jerked her pistol to port, but an assault rifle dropped the hidden assailant first. "There are helicopters coming to ferry you to shore. Please, do as we say."

"Come on," Gary grunted and staggered to his feet. "Let's get a taxi."

"No! Eulie! I have to find him!"

Gary stiffened. "Where?"

"I don't know. Davidson wouldn't tell me!"

Gary's eyes darted. He tried to picture the ship's layout as described in the pre-attack briefing. It was a big-assed ship. He pulled her toward the cabin area and the companionway below. He never thought to leave her on deck. She would never have stayed.

#

The ladder bottomed out in a foot of water.

"Shit! This is cold!" Gary yelled. He looked left and right up the passageway, which tilted down to the right. Did the water flood in from that direction? He wanted to know. He didn't want to drown down there.

"Eulie!" Sally cried. "It's Mommy! Where are you?"

"This way," Gary urged her, and started left into the shallower water.

"No!" Sally pointed the other direction. "The old man was this way. They would keep everything together!"

"Of course they would," Gary groaned, and splashed into the deepening hall. The water rose with each step. In seconds, the cold turned hollow, backing away toward numbness. Gary was alarmed by the speed at which he froze.

"Eulie!" Sally cried. "Where are you, honey?"

They tried all the doors they passed. The first two, to starboard, opened into dry rooms, a video arcade and a small movie theater.

The third door stood to port, and refused to budge as Gary shoved against it.

"Look," Sally warned, and showed him the water seeping past the doorframe. The jambs leaked in rivulets from half way up the door all the way to the swamped deck.

"Better leave it be," Gary thought aloud, and backed away.

"But, what if he's in there? Eulie! Eulie, it's Mommy!"

Gary watched her with heightened anxiety. Her face was bloody, her nose a little askew. She spoke, but she didn't make sense. Was Eulie really on board?

"Sally, if he's in there... I mean, really..."

She ignored him. She leaned against the door, panting. She groaned, a sound of intense frustration. She beat her hands against the door. "Then where is he? Where? I've done what you wanted!" she screamed at the ceiling. "Give me back my baby!"

"Come on," Gary said, "the lounge is farther on." But no hope to speak of. The water ran at their thighs, and chose a path to the stern. If Eulie was there...

Gary slogged to Sally, his teeth beginning to chatter. His icy hands tugged at her, urging her along. He recalled a ladder a little farther back. It led both below to the engines, and above to the upper cabins and the bridge, all already searched by now.

"Eulie! Where are you, man? Give us a yell!"

Sally wasn't there anymore. She waded back to the blocked door, screaming with almost hysterical fervor. "He's in there! He's in there! I know he is!"

Gary pursued her. That was it, he thought. He had to get her out. She'd never forgive him, but otherwise they were dead.

"He's in there, Gary! It's the same door!"

"What?"

"Eulie! Talk to me! Open the door, Gary!"

"Are you crazy? We open that door, we'll drown!"

"I did what he wanted! I threw the thing in! Now, he's showing me my baby! Gary, please!"

She was so distraught, her face so anguished, that he simply couldn't deny her.

"Sally, I can't. I've nothing to-" The knife. He released it from its sheaf under one arm. Not knowing what else to do, he thrust it into the door molding, and pried.

"I hear something!" Sally said.

"You don't hear jack!" Gary grunted. "Now, get over there, on the upstream side." He worked the molding. They couldn't stay there another full minute. The water ran, numbing his fingers. He held onto the knife by shear force of will. At first, the water trickled, then flowed, then gushed. "Shit!" he yelled. "It's cold!"

"I'm sorry, Gary." Her voice trembled to stutters.

"It's all right," he called to her. "God didn't put me through this just to become a popsic--"

The jamb snapped. With a sound of ripping hinges, the door crashed outward, slamming Gary's side. He wasn't as numb as he thought; the pain was terrific.

A deluge crashed into the passageway, foamed off the opposite wall, and turned to careen toward the stern.

It took Gary with it.

#

Vasquez staggered. The ship quaked, then groaned as it tilted to an alarming angle.

"Rose! Get the hell off that thing!" Banks yelled in her pickup. "It's gonna roll!"

But, Vasquez couldn't leave, and was helpless to speed things up. The EOD geeks still worked the bombs. Choppers dropped to dangerous hovers inches above the shuddering deck, loading passengers for shore. The birds alit and departed at a rate of one every twenty seconds or so, but nearly a hundred people remained aboard, and the aircraft were built for ten.

"Pack 'em in!" she shouted over her mike. "At least fifteen per ship!"

"That's way overloading!" someone came back. "Too dangerous!"

"Staying here is dangerous! Pack 'em in tight!" Gary, she reminded herself. Where were Gary and Sally?

#

He scrabbled for a handhold, anything at all. Icy water entered his mouth. For a moment, his head submerged. Then his fingers closed on something, the plastic "egg crate" grid that diffused the overhead lights. He gripped the tiny square openings with intensity just short of panic, and pulled himself back toward the still-gushing doorway. It wasn't far, but fighting the stream was drudgery. All of Lake Michigan rushed past his body.

Sally clung to the doorframe, trying to force herself into the room. Her teeth gritted, and her face, though white from exposure, projected inspiring strength.

Gary commanded his body, though it heard him only in whisper through the water's numbing embrace. He finally got back to the doorway. He walked his legs across the wall and hooked them over the doorframe above the torrent. Then he reached for the frame with his arms, and, after a few stiff tries, hung from the doorframe like some strange gray sloth.

"He's there!" Sally forced past chattering teeth. "Do you see?"

No place to hide, Gary thought. A gaping hole in the wall, spewing gushers of water, and the anchored furniture foaming and submerged. No place for a boy to hide.

Except the refrigerator.

"I got it!" Gary yelled, and dived into the room to one side of the door. The water snatched at him, but he clamped onto a cabinet shelf and resisted the eager assault. He dragged himself along the wall, pulling from one piece of furniture to another, always toward the refrigerator. His muscles ached from strain, but he welcomed the sensation, so different was it from the cold.

The refrigerator and bed stood next to each other. Gary latched the snap link of his rappelling harness onto a thin metal bar of the submerged bed frame, then released his desperate hold against the flood. The water grabbed at his waist, but could not snatch him out of his harness.

Okay, he thought, this is it. If he isn't in here, we have to leave.

He reached into the water to his shoulder, for the refrigerator stood submerged. He clicked the latch on the handle and tugged open the door.

The water seized Eulie, but Gary was prepared. He snatched the boy's arm as he washed by, then jerked him to the surface. "Hold on, little man! You're in for a ride!"

He held Eulie close and released the snap link. The water whisked them pell-mell toward the door.

"Go!" Gary shouted. He grabbed the doorframe as the water rushed them through, then swung out of the worst of the stream. He and Sally slogged back up the passageway, the water angry at their escape, pursuing with knives of cold.

Eulie shivered in violent quakes, and Gary thanked God for the little boy's sufferings. Suffering was good. It pointed toward life. He held him tighter and willed himself up the passage.

A lone helicopter hovered at the bow when they reached the top of the companionway. Vasquez stood with her hand on the aircraft's skid as if to prevent its desertion. Gary stumbled over the listing deck, Eulie held in one arm, the other pulling a wasted Sally by the shoulder of her jacket. He wondered if they would make it after the water, the cold, and the mayhem of guns. Parker hadn't made it. Brenda hadn't made it. Michael Adams and Davidson hadn't made it; nor had so many people Gary didn't know. What whim of God insisted that he, and Sally, and a little retarded boy survive where so many others had not? Spontaneously, a snippet of verse welled in his mind, a germ of an ancient prayer: Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.

Vasquez took the boy. She boosted him to the aircraft and into waiting arms. She helped Sally while someone dragged Gary in by his harness. In a moment, they were aboard, and the helicopter angled away from the drowning ship.

"Blankets!" Vasquez demanded, then spoke into her radio link. "All units, this is Control. Scatter. We'll rendezvous at the farm in twenty-four hours."

Sally held her son in a fiercely protective embrace. She cooed in his ear, and warmed him with her love. The first droning wails of distress seeped from Eulie's body, and everyone aboard felt relief at his cries. Sally turned to Gary, who slumped exhausted and shivering beside her. They took in each other's faces, just then noticed the ice crystals sheathing their eyebrows and hair, and couldn't help but laugh.

"Nice to see a sense of humor," John Bennington said as he squeezed toward them in the crowded ship. He stood over them with fatherly authority, leaning around the soldiers who covered them with blankets and stuffed those blankets with heat packs. "We disarmed all the weapons, you'll be glad to hear, and we've dropped the noncombatants at Shedd Aquarium, where a considerable crowd has gathered. At Vasquez's insistence, we even fished a few from the lake."

"I'm glad you had such a very good day," Sally said, trying not to stutter.

"Good, yes, but make no mistake. No power on earth can destroy Arthur Davidson unless God wills it so. He'll be back, Miss Reiser. We'll have to confront him again."

"Sounds like a crappy sequel," Gary muttered.

"Sounds like a job offer," Bennington countered. "I want you both in the network. Banks and Vasquez, too. No, no, think about it, please. Vasquez has already voiced her first impressions, and they were more than a little ... colorful."

Gary looked to Sally again. Even frosted over, her face smeared with blood, she was beautiful, powerful, and inviting. "We'll think about it," he said, "but first, we need to think about each other."

#

Vasquez watched as the arena of her redemption retreated to the horizon. She felt uplifted, as the crusaders must have felt in reclaiming land for God. But hers was a far more personal victory, independent of deeds, or mores, or the honors bestowed by men. For the first time in years, she felt at one with the faith of her fathers.

She watched through the windscreen to the drowning fire of Davidson's reach for glory. She recalled Bennington's words not an hour ago, that there are, in the end, only three things that last: faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these is love. Sally.

The horizon erupted in fireworks. It was midnight in Chicago, an epoch ended, a new day begun.

THE END.

Connect with the Author at:

stephanloy.com

Afterword:

(Back to Table of Contents)

Help!

The author here, good friends, sloughing off my frantic narrator voice to offer you a hearty thanks for reading Last Days and Times. I hope you enjoyed it, and I suppose you probably did, if you got this far. Rest assured, this is not the last story in Gary and Sally's adventures. They, their friends, and their worst enemies have other disasters to avert, other hives of fanaticism to challenge. In the sequel, Redemption Song, they find themselves challenged by the network itself! That sequel is on the Kindle store right now. If you liked Last Days, go get Redemption Song. It's full to the brim with old axes to grind, angels, madmen, and world-threatening conspiracies. Also, a tie-in with my scifi-spy book, Fiona Street. Could anything make you happier?

Now, to business. You and I, reader, can do one another a favor. Writing is an artistic mission, and I'd much rather be writing books than marketing the ones I've released. Many pundits insist today's writers must also be marketers, that they must blog, podcast, email, Facebook, tweet and otherwise promote, promote, promote if they hope to be successful. These people make me ask, "So, if I'm doing all that, when am I supposed to write a new story?" My answer is: right now. The marketing still has to get done, though, or Last Days and Times and all the others drown in a sea of millions of other books, undiscovered and therefore unappreciated. So, I've devised a fiendish plan to make that marketing happen.

I'm asking you to do it.

If you liked Last Days and Times, I want you to return post haste to the venue at which you purchased it and put up a review of the book. It doesn't have to be long, but do include a star rating. Give the rating you feel the book merits, of course, though I prefer five stars to any other number, hint, hint.

I'm hoping for your help in ticking off a series of great reviews for Last Days and Times. The more and more positive the reviews, the higher Last Days will rank in the lists, the more readers will find it, and the more stories I can get into willing, excited hands. Last Days and Times is a kind of non-vision of the end times. Let's let those end times last.

Thanks in advance,

Steve.

### MORE BOOKS BY

STEPHAN MICHAEL LOY

(Back to Table of Contents)

REDEMPTION SONG

When Sally Reiser joined the mysterious network, she did so to protect her handicapped child. But the network that kept them safe has been infiltrated, its communications disrupted, trust compromised and people replaced with invisible agents. The organization has taken up a sinister new purpose, to murder Sally, the seer of God, and also her eight-year-old autistic son. How far and fast will this mother run to escape a fate fueled by fanaticism and decreed a thousand years before she was born? With her academic boyfriend Gary LaMonte, Sally flees across Europe, uncertain how to set right her life or keep her son from the grasp of killers. To steer through her trials, she must forge new alliances, repudiate old convictions and trust in powers beyond Man's comprehension.

In this sequel to Last Days and Times, Stephan Michael Loy paints an intense picture of power gone mad. A fantasy thriller traversing the world from Lake Michigan to the deserts of Israel, Redemption Song is a fast-paced, gripping tale of soldiers and terrorists, philosophers and sociopaths, of angels and monsters. Sally Reiser is blessed -- or cursed -- to see the works of God, no matter how beautiful or terrible. But can she see her way from darkness to light and bring with her the people she loves?

Redemption Song. Book two in Last Days and Times. Book three in the Nightwatch series.

SHINING STAR

We killed Earth. Thousands of years later, the survivors, having fled their dead planet in great generation ships, eke out a tenuous existence among the local group of stars. This could have been the end for the last dregs of humanity, but for the rise of a dictatorial church that draws humankind under its wing and flogs it to prosperity. Now, Miranda St. Billiart, a soldier for the Community of God, seeks to escape the power that made her in the first place. With her sister Ilyanya, she uncovers the corruption that made the Church possible. The two of them fight to expose the truth, to redress the evils heaped upon their people and to discover within the wreckage of their universe who they are and why they matter.

ISIS WEPT

Egypt, 8000 years ago. The gods walk among men as titans, powerful beings with passions that move mountains, fix stars in the heavens and master the forces of life and death. Within this world, the evil god Set betrays his brother Osiris, king of rich and respected Abydos. Set kills his kin, then steals all that was his, including the queen, Isis, the goddess of life and beauty. Isis survives defilement by her monstrous conqueror to escape and bend her powers toward finding her love and bringing him back from the blackness of death. In the course of this quest, kingdoms fall, armies clash and the balance of power between gods and men is altered forever. Who holds the high ground in such a cataclysmic conflict? Is it those who define power, or those who define themselves?

CONQUEROR'S REALM

In the mid-twenty-first century, the United States goes through a fundamental change. White people are now only the largest minority in America. Will they surrender power to the coalition to follow, or fight "to keep what's theirs"? So begins a terrible, violent game of chess played for the heart and soul of a nation.

Welcome to the world of Steve Tallman, the driven producer of a celebrated news program watched by avid millions over TV, the Net and cellular. He comes across a document that cannot be believed but is frighteningly true, a database of organizations intent on destroying the basic freedoms Americans take for granted. The perpetrators of this conspiracy push a bill through Congress, an "Equal Opportunity in Government" law that would, if enacted, smother democracy under a new form of apartheid.

When he goes up against them, Steve discovers that the shadow rulers of the American republic are entities not to be trifled with. They lash out at Tallman, destroying not only his access to media, but everything and everyone touching on his life.

But Steve's cowardly enemy underestimates who they've attempted to crush. A journalist, a war hero, a man who lives by razor-sharp virtues, Steve Tallman rallies to risk all, including his life and the lives of all around him, for he is a patriot in the truest sense of the word.

The question remains, can Tallman defeat a far more powerful and organized political beast? Even more important: succeed or fail, can he survive the effort?

Stephan Michael Loy presents a stone-hard parable of the American Dream gone nightmare. Conqueror's Realm is a deft warning that there can be no justice unless justice is for all.

FIONA STREET

The singularity, the merging of man and machine. Take one NSA black ops commando. Take one ordinary alley cat. Merge their minds through advanced digital electronics and cutting-edge neuroscience. What do you get? Fiona Street, the most feared and efficient intelligence agent on the face of the Earth. But what does she risk to command her game? Is she truly human anymore?

The singularity is here, and it ain't pretty.

GALACTIC GEOGRAPHIC

Meet Charlese Tilbrenner, corn-fed romantic from the Kansas plains. She's always wanted something greater in life, something exciting, something filled with adventure. That's why she ran off to join the Galactic Marines after the Grays, those little, big-headed aliens you see on all the Roswell posters, apologized to Earth for a millennium of abductions and anal probes. The Marines didn't work out. Now Charlese has jumped to what she hopes will be a celebrated career as a journalist with Galactic Geographic, the universe's premier news, lifestyle, and feature magazine. You might imagine that Charlese is in for a surprise, but you'd be wrong. She's in for several. From the slums and gated communities of Mars to the ice-bound hell of Jupiter's Europa to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, Charlese and her mentor Bernie Oldman will bring you the greatest stories of the stars, from restaurant reviews, farm reports, and fish stories to organized crime, terrorism, and war. A humorous look at science fiction, fantasy, and romance, Galactic Geographic is the world's first Military Sci-fi Romantic Comedy Satirical Travelogue. Yep, that's our story and we're stickin' to it. Explore the stars. Explore popular culture. Explore the painful, knotted relationships between men and women. That's the universe of Galactic Geographic, asking the question, "What's in YOUR world?"

Learn about all of Stephan Michael Loy's books at stephanloy.com.

Collect all of his works at

Amazon.com, Smashwords.com and Lulu.com.

