There were, at best,
three-hundred people. Perhaps in another few years, there would
be no one here at all. The possibility did not sadden him.
Jonas shuffled from foot to foot, listening to the complaints of the
timbers, wondering if today would be the day the antiquated stage
finally collapsed under its own weight. But it remained steadfast
in the cold morning while a biting wind slapped at his heavy robe.
A blanket of dark clouds
threatened, but the people seemed to take no notice as they toyed with
the sacks, black velvet purses emblazoned with purple crosses and laden
with outdated tradition. From the stage in the courtyard of the
palace, Jonas viewed a leviathan preparing to feed.
David, in white collar and gold
braids, appeared calm and assured, a leather-clad Testament tucked
under his left arm. Between them stood the naked prisoner, wrists
and ankles tied with thick rope, a gag trapped between blue lips, sweat
glistening on his shaved head. Goose pimpled and shivering, the
man defiantly met the gaze of the crowd. Jonas admired him.
This was a brave man--foolish perhaps--but brave none-the-less.
Scanning the undulating sea of
bodies, Jonas moved to the front, wishing this duty could be passed on,
or better, passed over, but that was not yet to be. It still
belonged to the Father President, and personal distaste would not stop
it. Perhaps some day that would change.
But not today.
Lifting his arms and tilting his
face to the sky, he closed his eyes, speaking the words that would
cause a man’s death on this bitterly cold spring morning. “We are
Brothers in the Church.”
“We are Brothers in the Church!” Hundreds of voices returned the greeting.
“And the Church serves the Lord.”
“And the Church serves the Lord!”
“The Church is our salvation.”
“The Church is our salvation!”
“Amen.”
Jonas lowered his arms and moved
toward the rear. His part was finished. David put a hand on
the prisoner’s shoulder and guided him forward. The man offered
no resistance. They stopped a few feet from the edge of the
stage. Now it was David’s turn to speak. “He has blasphemed
the Church.”
“He has blasphemed the Church!”
“He has blasphemed the Lord.”
“He has blasphemed the Lord!”
“Amen.” David slipped the
testament into a pocket and untied the gag, tossing it into the maw of
the ravenous beast. “The Church provides redemption, and if this
man repents, She will have mercy on his soul.”
The crowd salivated in hungry
silence. Jonas waited, knowing that despite the salvation offered
the man’s soul, his body would not escape what was to come. The
prisoner stepped to the edge, teeth chattering, cleared his throat, and
spoke.
“The Church is an abomination!”
Some people jeered, some gasped, others were stunned into silence.
“It does not serve the Lord. Vishnu will destroy it!”
Excited fingers played with the
sacks. Jonas sighed, sadly noting that the sky remained
unchanged. Vishnu did not part the black clouds, nor did He send
Surya on a golden chariot to lay waste to the palace. He only
provided a disappointing wind that numbed hands and sent David’s hair
flying as he reached into a pocket to produce another gag.
“He does not believe in the Church!” David secured the knot.
“He does not believe in the Church!”
For a moment, the clouds seemed
to draw in upon themselves, plunging the courtyard further into
darkness, and then lightning scorched the sky. A crack of thunder
shook the stage, and Jonas felt a drop of rain land on his cheek.
David brought the ceremony to a close. “He is a heretic.”
“He is a heretic!”
“And heretics must die.”
“And heretics must die!”
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
Another jagged spear of lightning
sliced through the clouds. With a familiar sickness in his
stomach, Jonas moved toward the stairs, and David followed.
Thunder growled again as they descended, following the cobblestone walk
toward the glass corridor surrounding the courtyard. The sliding doors closed behind them, drowning the wail of the north
tower bells. Jonas shivered despite the sudden warmth, refusing
to look back. There was no need. In his mind, he clearly
saw hundreds of sacks ripped open by hundreds of hands, and heard the
sound of each stone as it connected.
* * * * *
“That fat piece of shit.”
Lila threw her feet on the table and laced her fingers behind her neck,
staring at the ducts overhead. “He enjoys goddamned executions.”
“And you had to watch it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind.” Chris removed
his glasses, tossed them on a legal pad, and rubbed his eyes. It
would be nice to actually see sunlight again. He spent far too
much time in this basement. “I’m tired.”
He picked up the pencil and
pretended to study his notes. This was his own fault. He
should have known better than to provoke her. Making her way
through the stacks of cardboard boxes holding this week’s run of
pamphlets, she reached his desk, arms crossed, and glared down at him.
“You know I’m right, Lambeth.”
“No.” He tapped the pencil on the pad. “I do not.”
“You are so goddamned self-righteous, you know that?”
“Because I don’t want to kill anyone.”
“Daniels doesn’t seem to have a problem with it.”
“We’re never going to agree on
this.” He replaced his glasses and lifted a stack of computer
printouts, dropping them on the desktop. She had not been like
this originally. He thought she understood what they were doing
here.
“This is bullshit.” Lila
slapped the papers, spilling them to the floor. “This isn’t
accomplishing anything.”
“Yes, it is.” He
collected the scattered sheets and placed them back on the desk, then
stood to face her. “And I don’t see what killing the Father
President will do.”
“It’ll get you the attention you need.”
“That’s not the kind we want.”
Staring at her fists, for a
moment he thought she might strike him. He had no doubt that even
though he outweighed her by a good fifty pounds, she could cause
serious damage. He took what he thought to be a prudent step
sideways and bumped into a stack of magazines.
“You see this?” Lila rubbed
a knot on the bridge of her nose. “I got this when I was a
kid. I’m telling you, the only thing the Church understands is
violence.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You weren’t raised by them.”
The revelation took him by
surprise. He actually knew very little about her, only that she
had been Chief of Police in the capital, and then later, head of the
Federal Investigative Commission, the position from which she had been
dismissed almost a year ago. The rest was a mystery, although one
he had been willing to accept, given her unique qualifications.
But her attitude had changed, her fits of anger becoming more common,
and it was time to do something about it.
“I think you need to leave us, Lila.”
She raked her fingers through her short blonde hair. “You need me.”
“What we need are people who want change without bloodshed.”
“But without me--”
“It may be more difficult,
yes. But I don’t think you care about change, Lila. All you
seem to care about lately is revenge.”
“And you don’t?” She closed
the distance between them and slammed her palms against his
chest. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
He smashed into a file cabinet,
sending a cascade of videotapes to the floor as he raised his hands to
ward off another attack.
“What’s all this shit
about?” She caught a tape as it bounced off his shoulder and
shook it at his face. “The noble Christopher Lambeth tries to
save the world?”
“It’s not--”
“What a crock of shit!” The
tape exploded against the far wall. “Be honest with yourself for
once, Lambeth. This isn’t about trying to change the world.
It’s about what they did to your goddamned father. You’re no
different than me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, right.” She swiped a
hand across his desk and sent the papers flying again. “Such a
load of bullshit.”
Refusing to pick up the pile this
time, he returned her stare. “I believe I asked you to leave.”
“I could go to the Church and tell them where to find you.”
“You won’t.” It was an idle
threat. Turning him in would do nothing but implicate her, and
that would do nothing to further her plans. “Now collect your
things and go, please.”
“Fine.” She crushed a tape under her heel. “I don’t need your help anyways.”
“I’m sorry about this.”
“No you’re not.” She
stormed across the room to the bank of printers, grabbed her leather
jacket and suitcase, and moved toward the exit. “You’ll
see. With Daniels dead, you’ll get what you want a lot faster.”
And then she left, slamming the
metal door. He shook his head, rubbing the small of his back,
relieved it was finally over. Whatever she did now, at least
their organization would have no ties to it.
And whatever it was, it was probably going to get her killed.
* * * * *
He left the stage a step behind
the Father President as protocol demanded. Spring was late in
coming this year, and David was cold. At least the rain had
waited until they were off-camera. When they reached the
corridor, the doors opened and a guard waved them through.
Daniels started toward the north
wing. Apparently, they wouldn’t be watching the rest of the
ceremony. Out of view of the ignoble vulgas, they walked
side-by-side toward the marble staircase where a golden statue of St.
Francis of Assisi stood with arms outstretched. They started up.
David ran his fingers along the
handrail, admiring the way it reflected light from the crystal
chandelier anchored to the frescoed ceiling. At the top, thick
burgundy carpet muffled their footsteps. The President hadn’t
spoken since they left the stage, and David made no attempt to disturb
him as they made their way to the office.
Brenda looked up from her
desk. As usual, her makeup was applied too heavy, too much rouge
on her cheeks, eyebrows penciled in too perfectly. If she were
his secretary, he’d have someone take care of that.
“Good morning, Brother
Sams.” She smiled, pressing a button on her desk with a nail
painted a horrid shade of red. “And how are you today?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Wonderful. The ceremony was beautiful.”
He followed Daniels through the
massive walnut door into the inner office. The President moved
toward the large desk, and a leather chair let out a cacophony of
squeaks as he slid into it. David sat facing him, quiet for the
moment, admiring the room. The gold trimmed tapestries, the bay
window overlooking the courtyard, the hand painted ceiling--a good
upbringing had taught him appreciation for these things, but Daniels
seemed oblivious, or maybe after all those years in office, he simply
took them for granted.
After a minute or two, Daniels
walked to the hand-carved cherry bureau, took out two crystal snifters
and a bottle of brandy, and poured them both drinks. David took a
slow sip of the imported liquor, feeling it glide down his
throat. Daniels returned to his seat and lit a thick cigar.
“God, I hate executions.”
Exhaling a puff of smoke, Daniels studied it until it dissipated.
“It’s a centuries-old
tradition.” David set his brandy on a side table. “Hardly
something to be ashamed of.”
“Is that so?” Daniels blew
a perfect smoke ring. “I think it’s a tradition we’d be better
off without.”
“The people need traditions.”
“Tradition is nothing more than unexamined habit.”
“Tradition is the cornerstone of faith.”
“But faith needs no tangible
proof.” Daniels pointed the cigar, dropping ash on the
desktop. “So tell me, David. Why is it we need executions?”
“Bonis quod bene fit haud perit.”
“Yes.” Daniels sighed. “But who is the judge of whether it’s good or not?”
“It’s good if it teaches a lesson.”
“And it does. Of that, I have no doubt.”
Satisfied he’d won this
particular debate, David crossed his legs, giving Daniels time to
reflect on his words, and buffed at his left shoe. He needed to
change into a different pair and get these shined. They made him
look like a pauper.
“Things change, David.”
Daniels took a sip and set the cigar in a silver ashtray. “Sometimes
for better, sometimes for worse. We never know which is which at
the time. History is the judge.”
“I suppose it is.”
“At any rate, there’s no time for
an old fat man to wax philosophical this morning. I have a
meeting with Emit in a few minutes, so if you have any news to cheer me
up, you have about five minutes.”
Unfortunately, David had nothing
to offer. The low turnout at the ceremony was just another
indication of how bad the situation was becoming. Over the last
year, it seemed that every day brought another vandalized chapel or
government facility. Just yesterday, eight students had been
killed in a riot at Our Lady of Sorrows University, the third this
month, and in the south, terrorists holding hostages and power plants
down.
“Well, David? I’m waiting.”
“The college is back to normal.”
“Is that so? And all it took was eight dead kids.”
“That was...unfortunate.”
“That was shameful.”
Daniels unsnapped his collar, removed his robe, and tossed them on the
floor as he moved to the window. He placed his fingertips on the
glass. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“They were heretics.”
“They were kids.” Daniels
spun around and folded his arms across his chest. “And kids
question things. It’s their nature.”
The President’s sympathy for the
college students was more proof that it was time for change. The
Church needed a new leader, someone strong enough to take the necessary
steps to stop these insurrections.
“Anything else, David?”
“Lopez thinks he knows who’s
responsible for distributing propaganda here in the capital.” He
reached into the briefcase he’d left earlier and pulled out a
report. “You might find this interesting.”
“I don’t have time. Give me the abridged version.”
“His name is Christopher Lambeth.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
Daniels moved back to the desk, finished the last of his brandy, and
snuffed out the cigar. “Should I know him?”
“No. But I do, or did, rather.”
“Is that so? Care to enlighten me?”
“Well educated. B.A. in
History and M.A.’s in Sociology and Theology. He dropped out of
divinity school when his father was executed. He’s been missing
for almost eight years now.”
“And how did you say you know him?”
“We lived in the same dorm.”
“A fallen angel.” Daniels
slid into his chair and ran a thick finger along the snifter’s
rim. “You keep interesting company, David.”
“I always knew he was trouble.”
“I’m sure. Does Tony have any idea where he might be?”
“Somewhere in the capital,
probably.” Obviously, the President was not interested, so David
returned the papers to his case. “It would be impossible to
smuggle in so much printed material.”
Daniels squinted and rubbed his temples.
“Another headache?”
“No. I’m fine. So I
assume this is something I need not concern myself with, correct?”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“Good. Then there’s
something else before you go.” Daniels leaned on his elbows, chin
on his hands. “I’d like to know if you plan to continue opposing
me on my proposal.”
“My thoughts have not changed on the matter.”
“I was hoping, in light of recent events, you might have reconsidered.”
“Recent events have only served
to reaffirm my convictions.” There had been many questionable
changes under Jonas Daniels, but his latest proposal was simply
insanity. Eliminating the presidency and establishing senate rule
over the federal government undermined everything the Church stood
for. It could not survive without a Father President.
“You must do what you think is
right, David. I respect that, but I will continue to fight for
it. One-man rule is not healthy. It gives him too much
power. It’s too easy to abuse.”
“God would not permit that.”
“Perhaps not, but governments are
run by men, not by God, and men make mistakes. With or without
your support, I plan to be the last Father President.”
“I will continue to debate you on this.”
“I expect nothing less, but--” The intercom buzzed. “Yes Brenda?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,
Father, but there’s been an accident at one of the east side
chapels. Some kind of explosion.”
* * * * *
The hellhole orphanage was only
three blocks away, at St. Origen and Eucharist, and she always seemed
to come back. Pathetic.
After Lambeth kicked her out,
Lila walked around in the rain all morning, finally ducking into this
dive on St. Anthony. The sun was shining now.
Figures. From behind the plate glass window, she watched people
with folded umbrellas, shopping or heading for midday worship.
“More coffee?” The waitress
came back. Big tits, black hair, streaked, braces, perky, no more
than seventeen.
“Sure.” She pushed her cup
to the edge of the table and glanced at the TV over the register as it
zoomed in on Daniels, then on that little cocksucker, David Sams.
Grinding her teeth, she stabbed
at her pie. Daniels, Lambeth, David, Daniels, Lambeth,
David. She knew better than to trust men, and like a fucking
moron, she’d done it again, wasted six months of her life with another
self-absorbed ambitious prick.
Lambeth was an idiot. There
was only one thing that would ever make a difference, and it was
obviously going to take a woman to do it. She shoved aside the
mangled pie, scanning the drying street. These people needed her
help. What did Lambeth know? He was just another
full-of-shit, ineffective, useless man. Apparently, she was the
only one with any balls in this town.
The window rattled and she jerked her hand.
“Shit.” Grabbing a handful of napkins, she wiped up spilled coffee.
The sky started to get dark
again. Naturally. She threw the soaked napkins in a pile,
prepared to wait--she’d stay in this fucking booth all day if she had
to--then picked up the classifieds from this morning’s Daily Testimonial.
Exactly two minutes later, three ambulances raced by, then two ladder
rigs, three paramedic trucks, another ambulance, followed by four
pig-rides with overheads gone Christmastime. Jamming the
classifieds in her jeans, she tossed two fives on the table and booked
it outside.
She smelled fire. To the
north, not more than a block away, the sky was turning black.
Small pieces of ash fell on backed-up traffic, black-and-whites
fighting their way though, sirens and alarms blaring, horns honking,
people screaming. Moving toward the smoke, she elbowed her way
though people lured out of stores by the commotion.
A fat man wearing a striped vest
slammed into her, biting down on his fist, tears running down his
blackened cheeks. She shoved him aside and he didn’t even
notice. Neither did the woman in the red dress or the two
teenagers with eyebrow rings, or the terrified man in the torn
suit. Fighting her way to the end of the block, she finally
reached the corner, and stopped dead.
Our Mother the Church chapel was gone.
Just a burning pile of rubble
puking black smoke. Huge slabs of twisted wood and
concrete. Firefighters aiming streams of water that turned to
steam as soon as they hit. Grunts screaming into bullhorns,
people yanking bodies from the wreckage, waves of heat, stinging her
eyes and nose.
“Back off! Back off now!”
A dozen uniforms muscled people
aside, stretching yellow tape into a perimeter. Someone smashed
into her from behind. She fell, tearing the tape on her way down,
glass biting into the palm of her left hand as she landed.
“Back off now!” A kid barely out of diapers threatened with a club.
She got vertical, brushed blood
on her pants, and turned her face. Stupid. Even if this
rook made her, he was up to his ass in crowd control. Besides,
she had nothing to do with this, and it sure wasn’t Lambeth’s work.
“Back off!” The diaper’s face was red. “Everyone back!”
This was beautiful. Whoever
blasted this chapel just got more attention than Lambeth would ever
get. In a couple of minutes, this story would be on every station
across the province, and an hour from now it would be in every
newspaper. This was something the Church would notice. The
bomber knew exactly what he was doing. The place was loaded with
worshippers. No idea just how many, but dozens, probably more.
A timber collapsed into a black
pile that might have been the remains of a pew. Two grunts
heaved, hands protected by insulated gloves and faces covered with
oxygen masks. They reached for something. One of them
ripped off his mask and fell to his knees. The other just stood
there, holding a small arm attached to a piece of ribcage.
She stayed for maybe fifteen
minutes. When the TV vultures started interviewing witnesses, she
took it as her signal to leave. Besides, she’d seen enough.
Maybe Lambeth was right. Violence was messy and ugly.
Innocent people got hurt. This was a man’s way of doing things,
with a cannon instead of a gun.
Most people were harmless.
Leaders were the real problem. Lambeth could pass out propaganda
until he fucking turned blue in the face, but the real solution was
simple. Jonas Daniels had to die.
She suddenly realized she’d left her suitcase at the restaurant.
Damn. Hopefully, miss perky had kept it for her. She headed
back to get it.
* * * * *
He swirled the ice in his glass,
trying not to stare at the clock. Across the pub, Maggie was
leaning on the bar, long red hair pulled into a ponytail, and talking
to Percy. She smiled and waved. Bill waved back.
“How’s it going?” Jenny’s
gold tooth caught light from the candle on the table. “Another
pop?”
“No thanks. My back teeth are floating.”
“Mag gets off in a few.”
She wiped her hands on a towel. “She’s crazy about you, you know.”
“Is she?”
“Men are so dense.” Her eyes rolled. “You sure you don’t want another drink?”
He shook his head.
“Fine. But I still expect a good tip.”
She snapped the towel at his
chest and went to check on other customers. First Avaris, behind
the sports page as usual, then Brehanna, checking her makeup in a
mirror, the newlyweds, Abe and Julie, and then on to Cyndi
Bartlett. That’s why he liked it here. Everyone knew
him. Tonight it was busy and louder than usual. So far, at
least fifty-three people were dead. On the big screen TV, a reporter
interviewed a few witnesses and survivors, a young woman crying and
holding a baby, a teenage boy with a huge cut on his forehead, and a
middle-aged guy in burned clothes. Behind them, body bags were
being loaded into coroner’s wagons.
The TV flashed the purple cross,
and an announcer said the Father President was about to come on.
Of course, the President had to go on the tube offering condolences and
prayers, but Bill knew it would all be a bunch of lies. He knew
it for a fact.
“Hello, my children.” The
pub got quiet as the President’s face appeared. “I am deeply
saddened by what happened today. I offer my sympathy and prayers
to both the victims and to the families--”
Bill held up his glass and
whispered a toast. “To the great, ever-so-sad, Father President.”
“--and I want you all to rest assured that--”
“I can’t listen to this
crap.” He set a dollar on the table and walked to the bar, where
Maggie’s attention was glued to the TV.
“--not an accident, but an act of terrorism. An investigation is--”
“Hey, Maggie.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Shhh--I want to hear this.”
He tossed a handful of peanuts in
his mouth, admiring the fit of her black skirt and pink sweater.
She always looked so great.
“--having information that may
lead to the capture of a man named Christopher Lambeth, please call the
local authorities. There is a reward for--”
Maggie snuffed out her cigarette and turned to face him.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got to make a--” She
brushed at her apron. “I mean, it’s just so horrible, that’s
all.”
Reaching across the bar, she
squeezed his forearm while the color slowly returned to her
cheeks. It was just one of a million things he loved about
her--she cared about people. At thirty-five, she was twelve years
older than him, but you’d never know it by looking at her.
Besides, he didn’t care. She loved him.
“I’m sorry, Billy. I didn’t mean to be rude a minute ago.”
“No problem.” He grabbed
another handful of peanuts. “I was thinking we could catch a
movie or something.”
“Alright.” She took off her
apron and slid it under the counter. “I could use something to
get my mind off all this.”
“I’m your man then.”
“Yes, you are.” Sliding a
hand around the back of his neck, she pulled him to her. “My
knight in shining armor.”
Her lips brushed his. He
caught a whiff of her perfume and felt his pulse quicken. His
face suddenly felt warm.
“You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.” Smiling, she let go.
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“You are too.” She winked,
snapped open a barrette, and let down her hair. “And it’s
adorable.”
“You ready to go?”
“Just give me a second to make a phone call.”
They went to the theater down the
street. Afterwards, she didn’t seem to want to talk, so he kept
quiet as he walked her home. She lived in an older part of town,
with huge trees, antique streetlamps, and connected brick homes on both
sides of the road. It was a lot nicer than what he had. The
small stipend the Church paid barely covered the rent on his small
efficiency apartment. The only nice part was that he didn’t have
to share a room with his brothers anymore.
When they finally reached her
building, he stopped, holding her hand at the foot of the stairs.
Her place was on the third floor, but he’d never been there. Not
that she hadn’t invited him, but the thought of it made him
nervous. This evening, though, she asked him again.
Two hours later they were still
in bed, Maggie laying with her back to him. He traced the outline
of the tattoo on her shoulder, a winged horse with a white body and
silver wings. He didn’t have any tattoos. You had to be
brave to do that sort of thing.
“Did I do alright?” He curled an arm around her waist.
“Mmm...incredible.”
He gently kissed her neck,
smelling perfume and sweat. “So, when did you get the tattoo?”
“A long time ago. Do that again--the neck thing.”
“Like this?” He ran his teeth between her neck and shoulder.
“Oh yeah.” She
shivered. “I got it during a really bad time. I honestly
don’t remember much about it. Sometimes I wonder if maybe it’s
some kind of stigmata.”
“Does it bleed?”
“Not that I noticed.” She
reached behind and patted his hip. “It doesn’t mean
anything. It’s just a tattoo. Does it bother you?”
“No. I think it’s beautiful.”
“Sometimes God doesn’t make us
beautiful.” Her hand slid up his thigh. “So we have to do
it ourselves.”
“You are beautiful. The tattoo just makes you mysterious.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolled
over and slammed a pillow into his chest. “You’re the mysterious
one.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re a typical Cancer. You hide under this shell all the time.”
“And you’re a typical
Virgo.” He grabbed the pillow and tossed it against the wicker
headboard. “You have to know everything. A guy can’t have
any secrets around you.”
“That’s right. You can’t.”
It wasn’t like he was lying to
her. He just wasn’t allowed to talk about it. On the other
hand, she didn’t seem to have a problem being open with him.
She’d even explained Astrology a while back. The whole idea
seemed pretty ridiculous. It was hard to believe they bothered to
make it illegal.
“So what do you want to know?”
“Tell me about your job.”
“Promise not to dump me?”
“Promise.” She snuggled in
and put her head on his shoulder. “Unless you’re a serial killer
or something.”
“I’m not sure you really want to know.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“It’s not that.”
“Does it have anything to do with what I told you about a couple of weeks ago?”
“No.” After all, what was
worse, making one stupid mistake more than twelve years ago or doing
what he did? “It’s just not allowed, that’s all.”
“Talking about work or taking up with an ex-hooker?”
“You were desperate.” He stroked the top of her head.
“Because you know I’m not proud
of it.” She kissed his hand. “You can talk to me about
whatever you want. To hell with your job.”
Within a couple of seconds, he
was totally cracking up. Tears running down his cheeks, he
couldn’t even catch his breath long enough to explain. Maggie
rolled over and stared at him like he was crazy.
“What is it? What’s so funny?”
He tried to sit up, felt his
stomach muscles cramp, and fell back. And then Maggie started
laughing too. For the next couple of minutes, every time they
looked at each other, they’d start all over again, giggling like a
couple of kids.
Finally, she climbed on top of
him. Her hair fell over her breasts, and the warmth of her skin
slowly stopped his laughing. God, was she beautiful.
“So are you going to tell
me?” She stuck out her tongue. “Or do I have to beat it out
of you?”
This wasn’t fair. She would
never betray him, and it would feel so good to finally get it off his
chest. He told her.
* * * * *
“Ugly in the extreme.” Armat scratched his head.
“I’ve had more pleasant
conversations.” Chris studied the newspapers and empty coffee
cups covering his desk.
“You knew it was coming, boss.”
“I realize that.” He moved
aside a half-eaten slice of pizza and massaged his temples. The pain in
his lower back was insignificant compared to what was going on in his
head. He still wished there could have been an alternative, but
Lila had left him no choice.
That was not, however, what was
really on his mind. “So what do you think? Is she right
about me?”
“You mean about your father? Probably.”
“Just what I need. My own personal Judas.”
“You asked.” Armat shrugged
and reached for a bag of popcorn. “Nothing is that black and
white, boss. Even if it’s revenge you’re after, if something good
comes out of it, it doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
“So the end justifies the means?”
“Sometimes.”
“And how do I know this is one of those times?”
“You don’t.” Armat winked. “That’s the beauty of it.”
“It’s a good thing you work with
computers. You’d make a lousy therapist.” He stood and
picked up a few Styrofoam containers and tossed them into the
trashcan. Leaning against a stack of boxes, he slid his hands
into the pockets of his slacks. “It’s just that sometimes I
wonder.”
“You want to know if you’ve
achieved Bodhisattva?” Armat crumbled the empty bag and tossed it
to him. “Sorry, but neither of us is that noble.”
“So remind me why we’re doing this.” He dropped the bag in with the cups.
“You know why.” Armat faced
the computer. “For people like my folks. My whole family’s
been terrified for generations. It shouldn’t be like that.”
“At least they’re still alive.”
“Sure they are. But what’s
worse--dying for what you believe in or living in fear because of it?”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Me too.” Armat’s fingers
tapped the keyboard. “I don’t buy into Islam, but I know they
shouldn’t have to live like that. Who cares if your motivation
isn’t armor-plated? There’s always more than one way to solve a
problem.”
“Your situation’s a little different.”
“Are you sure?” Armat
rubbed his chin and then let out a long whistle. “You better
check this out, boss.”
“Alright.” He stepped
stiffly away from the boxes and leaned over Armat’s shoulder, looking
at the monitor. “What is this?”
“I didn’t know you were on the
volleyball team.” Armat cocked his head. “Are you keeping
secrets from me?”
“We’re not married.” He
pointed to a line about a third of the way down. “This is
wrong. I was given four scholarships, not three. I turned
one down. What am I looking at?”
“Your FIC file.”
“This must be about the bomb today.”
“Maybe.” Armat pulled up
another screen. “They’ve got an awful lot of data on you.”
The dossier contained almost
everything anyone could want to know about him. It made no sense,
though. Their propaganda had flooded the capital for almost three
years, and anyone who read it, including the Church, should know that
he did not advocate violence.
“By the way, Maggie called today.”
“It looks like they know everything except my sexual preference.”
“Give me a minute. I’m sure
it’s here somewhere.” Armat tapped the keys. “Let’s
see...keyword, pedophile...”
Chris rammed a knee into the back of the chair.
“Hey, be nice.”
“What did she want?”
“She’s just worried about you.” Another file came up.
“Jesus.” Three more screens
of information flashed by. “This is almost embarrassing.”
“They need a scapegoat.”
Armat pushed away from the desk and grabbed a candy bar from a
drawer. “And you’re it. More than half the force has been
assigned to finding you. They’re searching electronically,
too. They got the big irons out.”
“Are we safe?”
“Bulletproof.” Chewing
noisily, Armat continued to stare at the screen. “We don’t have
anyone topside that would give us away. But we need to lay low
for a while. Give them time to find the real people who did this.”
“They will.”
“No doubt.” Armat took
another bite. “I’m more worried about Lila. She could be a
realtime blivit.”
“I don’t think we need to
worry. She has her own agenda, and it doesn’t have anything to do
with us.”
“Hope so.” Rolling the
wrapper in a ball, Armat sent it sailing across the room, missing the
trashcan.
“I think we need to contact them.”
“Dangerful.”
“Got a better suggestion?”
“No, but it’s going to be pretty
difficult to find a way to hop around so we won’t get caught.”
“I’ll go up and use a phone.”
“Bad thing, boss.”
It had taken them almost a year
to smuggle in all their equipment. Until now, this place had been
relatively safe, but the odds of continuing to work undiscovered did
not look good. Short of turning himself in, he could not come up
with any alternative. If he called, the FIC would know for
certain he was in the city, but perhaps it would divert people toward
the search for the real bomber.
“Shit!” Armat jumped as an
alarm screamed and the screen flashed red. “What the heck…”
“What is it?”
“Incoming.”
“From who?”
“Don’t know, but it’s not one of
us.” Armat killed the alarm. “Whoever it is has a macro
clever hamster.”
“They can’t have found us already.”
“Just about…got it.”
“The police?”
“No. They wouldn’t scramble.”
“Fine, then.” He cleaned
his glasses on his shirttail and put them back on. A face slowly
formed on the screen, a man with a full beard and long black hair
graying at the temples. “Let’s see who it is.”
“Have I the honor of addressing
the great Christopher Lambeth?” The deep voice reverberated from
the speakers, slightly out of sync with the movement of the man’s
lips. “For it is he with whom I wish to speak.”
“And you are?” He tapped
Armat in the shin with a toe. His friend moved aside.
“Thou art a difficult man to find, my brother.”
“I asked you a question.”
“I wish you to join with me. We are brothers in a great crusade.”
“You’re responsible for the bomb this morning.”
The man smiled and nodded. “Glorious, was it not?”
“Do you realize that I’m being blamed for it?”
“Of course.”
* * * * *
The east side. Dumping
ground for drug-dealers, nutcases, the poor, the strung-out. A
perfect place to lay low. Lila put a foot on the first concrete
step outside the old brick building, grabbed the wobbly iron rail, and
started up.
On the third floor, peeling doors
lined a trash-filled balcony smelling like rot and piss.
Squeezing by an old sofa covered in rusted bicycle parts, she headed
for the last apartment. A red door, freshly painted, lighted
doorbell. She pushed it.
The sound of a lock, and then a
man appeared. Buffed, dark skin, a flash of white teeth, cut-off
jeans. A silver charm bracelet.
“Welcome.” He bowed. “I have been expecting you.”
“You must be Kegh.”
“I am.” He stepped back as
she entered, took her suitcase, and closed the door. “But you may
call me Watcher.”
The apartment was smoky.
Black curtains covered the windows, light bouncing off the ceiling and
walls. Eight TV’s and a computer, all running at the same
time.
“You got a repair shop up here?”
“No, simply a hobby. Your room is this way.”
She followed him past a black
leather couch and a coffee table with cards laid out on it, to a short
hallway lit by a single purple bulb, doors on each end, both closed.
“How do you follow all that shit?”
“If it were only one, would it
make more sense?” He reached for the door on the left and turned
the handle. “Pieces of the puzzle, Lila. You can focus on
one at a time or study all and learn how each relates to the whole.”
Sunlight poured into the
hallway. She squinted and followed him into the room. White
walls, varnished floor, a window with a view of a brick building a
dozen feet away. She walked over and peered down into the narrow
alley. Three bums were huddled in the cold, sharing a
bottle. Charming.
“This should pay for the first
month.” She planted her ass on the windowsill, pulled out a stack
of bills, and peeled off a few.
He took them without counting,
dropped the suitcase, and headed back toward the door, sandals slapping
against the floor.
“So, Watcher.” She shoved
the rest of the cash back in her pocket. “Why do you need a
roommate?”
“I do not need one. You do.”
“I suppose your gizmos told you that.”
“Not exactly. But I knew this day would come.”
“Right. And just how did you know?”
“The cards, Lila. I observe everything, then ask the cards to help me understand.”
* * * * *
He played with a small ankh, thinking of Egypt, the most powerful
nation of the ancient world, and of the last Pharaoh, watching his
civilization die. Had he prayed for wisdom to Hathor, or had he
bowed to the inevitable? Jonas had spent most of the day reviewing reports, all bad, all
horribly bad. The only potentially good news he had received was
the discovery of this Christopher Lambeth, but David seemed far too
eager to deliver his head on a plate. Wrapping the long chain around his fingers, he kneaded the back of his
neck, trying to remember what it was like to not have a headache.
The throbbing in his skull had become a constant unwanted
companion. He set the ankh on the desk, opened a bottle and
swallowed three pills, washed them down with a glass of water, and
walked to the bay window.
Rain snaked its way down the dark glass. It had drizzled
on-and-off all day, but night had brought a deluge--a cold rain unusual
for this time of year. And yet, somehow it felt
appropriate. He dropped his forehead to the cold windowpane,
breath slowly fogging the glass.
A few minutes later, the pain held at a distance, he heard the
door. Erin stormed in unannounced, wearing a long white lab coat,
black bag in hand, hair pulled into a bun. Imkotep, the god of
healing. “Brenda let me in.” Without ceremony and quite ungodlike,
she dumped her bag on the desk. “I told her to go home an hour ago. Remind me to fire her.” “No chance.” She opened the bag. “Someone has to keep
an eye on you.” “I thought that was your job.” “Yeah, well, that’s a little difficult when you keep ignoring
your appointments.” “Sorry about that. I’ve been busy.” “I know.” She pulled out a stethoscope and slipped it
around her neck. “That’s why I’m here. You’re obviously not
going to make it to my office.” “As I said--” “Sit down.” She pointed to his chair. “And take off
your shirt.” With all the bad news she had delivered over the last few months,
if he were a Pharaoh, he would have been within his rights to have her
killed, but it was not her fault that none of the treatments had been
successful. For now the pills were still working, although not as
well as they had been. He removed his shirt, draped it over the
back of his chair, and took a seat. “Can we make this quick?” “I ought to make it slow and painful, but I’m not sure you could
handle it.” “I appreciate that.”
“So what’s that thing?” She
nodded toward the ankh as she wrapped a monitor around his arm.
“A good luck charm?”
“If it is, it doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Maybe you forgot to wind
it.” She placed the cold end of the stethoscope underneath the
band. “Now be quiet.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Erin squeezed the ball
a few times, released the pressure, frowned at the gauge, and repeated
the process. “How are the headaches?” She placed a
thumb and finger to either side of his neck. “Fine.” Even the light pressing of her thin fingers
increased the pounding in his head.
“You’re lying.” She pulled out a flashlight and shined it
into his eyes. “But at least you’re good at it.”
“So, what’s the prognosis, doctor?”
“Not good.” Removing the monitor, she
placed it next to the amulet. “And you’re not helping the
situation any.”
He could see in her eyes that she was building up for another one of
her monumental sermons. Saul of Tarsus preaching to a wayward
youth. How old was she anyway? Certainly a good ten or
fifteen years older than him. Which made her, what?
Seventy-five? Eighty? He had never asked because she would
probably have bitten his head off. Then again, that might be an
improvement. “I don’t have time for a lecture, Erin.” He pressed a
button and a screen came to life across the room. Erin turned it
back off. “What do you think--” “Obviously what I think isn’t important to you.” “Of course it is, but my health is--”
“Getting worse. Now shut up and hold out your arm.” She
swabbed the inside of his elbow and emptied a syringe into him, placing
a piece of gauze over the wound. “Keep pressure on that.” He pressed his thumb on it while she put away her
equipment. She moved to a chair facing his desk and dropped the
bag beside her.
“So give me the good news, doctor.” “There is no good news.” Removing a manila envelope, she
tossed it on his desk. “Want to guess what those say?” “The Church worked a miracle and I’m cured?” He did not
bother to look at the x-rays. “The Church doesn’t work miracles, and neither can I.” She
returned the envelope to her bag. “The tumor is still growing,
and your headaches are getting worse, and I can’t raise the dosage any
higher.” “I can handle it.” “No, you can’t, Jonas. It’s growing faster than I
predicted. We can’t slow it down, we can’t operate, and your
blood pressure is putting unpredictable stresses on it. To be
honest, I don’t know if you’ll even make it to the end of the year.” “That’s no good. That’s just not enough time.” “Then work with me.” She grabbed the bag and slowly
rose. “Lose some weight and lay off the cigars and brandy.
Maybe you can buy yourself a little more time.” “You know, I think I read somewhere that the Egyptians used to
remove the brain through the nose.” He picked up the amulet,
swinging it back and forth. “We haven’t tried that yet.”
“It might come to that. All I know is that I can’t hold you
together for much longer. You don’t have much time left to save
the world. After that, it’s up to God, and we both know how
likely that is.” “That’s blasphemy.” He stood up and pulled on his shirt. “That’s just plain old common sense.” Erin turned and walked out.
When he was certain she was not coming back, he reached into the bottom
drawer and grabbed a cigar, ran it under his nose, then sighed and put
it away.
* * * * *
“Bring it over here.”
One of the perks of an apartment in the palace was having supper
delivered at ten in the evening. The boy pushed the cart across
the oak floor to the desk and opened the wine. David waved aside
the cork and motioned for him to pour. The boy’s coat was
stained, something to mention to the head chef later. “Will there be anything else, Brother Sams?” A white napkin
dropped in his lap. “Come get the cart in an hour.” The last time David saw Lambeth was just before the clemency bid
for his father, which was understandably denied. There was talk
of suicide, but David had never believed that, and even then, he
suspected Lambeth would resurface one day. It came as no surprise
that he had been able to hide for eight years, distributing propaganda
right under their noses for the last three. If anyone could do
that, Lambeth could.
“In vino veritas.” He lifted his goblet and turned to his meal.
While he dined on filet minion, he pictured Lambeth in some dark hole,
eating cold pork and beans from a can. The irony of the situation
was too perfect. Not only did he now have the opportunity to
watch the man fall, but assisting with his capture might serve his
long-term goal. An artichoke smothered in white sauce melted on his tongue.
His grandfather’s full-time kitchen staff had served elegant dinners
like this, gourmet meals on fine china in the huge dining room, before
his father had lost it all. David had come a long way toward
redeeming the family name in a very short time, and he was certain his
grandfather would have been proud of him. Veni, vidi, vici. The phone rang.
Startled, he dropped the fork on his lap and grabbed the receiver. “Sams here.” “It’s been a long time, Dave.” “Who is this?” He couldn’t quite place the voice.
“We need to talk.”
Thanks for Visiting!