The Six Messiahs

chapter 14

FRANK WAITED UNTIL FIVE MINUTES PAST SUNRISE TO RIDE up to the gate; a man and woman wearing identical white shirts, both carrying Winchesters, stepped out of the guardhouse to meet him.

"Welcome to The New City," said the woman.

"Nice to be here," said Frank.

"Isn't it a glorious day?"

"Seen worse," said Frank.

"What is your business with us today, sir?" Both of them smiling.

"Figured on joinin' up," said Frank, grinning right back at (hem.

"Joining ... up?" asked the woman.

"Yup."

Their smiles wore down around the edges; they glanced at each other uneasily.

"Joining up," said the man.

"Yup."

"Excuse us a moment, please, sir," said the woman.

The two moved back into the guardhouse, whispering to each other; Frank could see the man through the window, working a telegraph key. Looking up, he traced the suspended wire following the road toward the distant town. He took out his field glasses and trained them east, where he'd seen the military maneuvers taking place during the night; looked like a firing range set up there, sandbags and targets.

Frank heard the telegraph key clicking; an answer coming back. He tucked the glasses away as the guards moved bac outside, all smiles again.

"You may ride on ahead, sir," the woman said to him "Please stay on the road at all times. When you reach The New City, someone will meet you with further instructions."

"Have a glorious day," said the man.

Frank tipped his hat and urged his horse forward. The gat closed behind him. The road was simple but well maintained " flat stones laid down in orderly rows, wide enough for a wagon, cutting straight through the shifting dunes. Smoke rising from chimneys in the distance. As he rode the five mile to the next gate, a black stain that came into view in the distance turned out to be a gigantic black tower. Once he realized what he was looking at, Frank stopped; he heard Molly's voice again:

Looks like you wandered into the middle of somebody's nightmare now, Frankie; don't know whose exactly—ain't yours, 'cause I'm not in it. What you gonna do?

You know me, Molly; in for a penny, in for a pound.

A vast shantytown spread out ahead of him. Surprising, from the outside he'd figured The New City would be all picket fences, shade trees, and freckle-faced kids; this looked more like one of those dirt-poor slums he'd seen squatting outside big cities in Mexico.

He moved on. Smiling faces waved him through a second gate. A pretty young girl met him on horseback at the guardhouse and escorted him to a stable just off the town's main street. Looking through an arch to a courtyard in back, Frank spotted the actors' wagons grouped against a wall.

He'd come to the right place, that much he could bank on.

A group of five smiling young people in white shirts, none of them older than eighteen, blacks and whites mixed together, eagerly greeting him as he climbed off his horse. A stable hand led the horse, and his Henry rifle in its saddle holster, away. They pressed a printed flier into his hands—"The New City Rules for Our Guests"—and asked him to surrender his sidearm.

"No weapons are allowed in The New City," said one of the shirts, pointing to Rule 14 on the sheet, which was nearly as long as his arm.

Frank saw no percentage in arguing and handed over his Colt.

"I'll keep the holster, if you don't mind," said Frank.

"We don't mind at all, sir," beamed one of them.

"Good," said Frank.

'Cause I'm probably gonna need those bullets for the gun I hid in my boot.

"Would you please take off your hat and put your hands over your head, sir?" asked another.

"Why?"

"So we can give you your shirt," said another.

Two of them opening one of the white shirts, ready to slip it over his head. Frank thought this over for a second and decided it pissed him off.

"No thanks," he said.

He handed back the list of rules and walked out of the stable. The welcoming committee trailed after him like a flock of anxious ducks.

"But everyone who wants to join us has to wear their shirt, sir...."

"It says so right here in the rules."

Frank turned onto Main Street and kept walking; the avenue and the planked sidewalks crowded with busy, smiling people, all wearing the same white shirt. More than a few Chinese faces in the mix, Frank noticed. None that answered right off to the Chinaman's description, but enough of them to encourage the idea that Chop-Chop might not be far off.

Frank stopped, struck a match off a pillar, and lit up a cheroot. The five shirts following him whispered among themselves, confused; finally one of them, a bespectacled black kid, stepped forward.

"I'm sorry, sir, there's no smoking allowed in The New—"

Frank turned and shut him up with a look.

"How much you kids want to go fishing?" asked Frank, reaching into his pocket for a handful of silver dollars. "A buck apiece, how 'bout it?"

The six stared at him and each other in shock.

"There's no money here in The New City, sir."

"We have everything we need."

"All our needs are provided for." "That figures," said Frank, putting the coins away.

"It's important for everyone to follow the rules."

"Sure it is, kid, or what you got is anarchy and that's no way to run a railroad, is it?"

They looked at him blankly until the somber, round-faced black kid, who was emerging as their leader, picked up the thread of their argument.

"Especially if a person wants to join. They told us you wanted to join."

"They did, did they?"

"You do want to join us, don't you, sir?"

"I'm thinkin' about it," said Frank, looking off up the street. A poster outside a large building ahead on the right caught his eye; bright colors, big print. He walked toward it.

"Because we have strict rules about people wanting to join us," said the black kid, continuing to tag along.

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

"We really need you to follow the—"

"What's your name, kid?"

"Clarence, sir," said the black kid.

"Tell you what, Clarence. Why don't you cut the crap and give it to me straight so I can make up my own mind? Who's running the show here?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who's the head honcho?"

"Our leader?"

"Who wrote the rules?"

"Our leader is the Reverend Day."

"Reverend A. Glorious Day," said another, enthusiastically.

"What's the 'A' stand for?" asked Frank.

More blank stares.

"What's so all-fired special about this Reverend Day?" asked Frank.

"Reverend Day speaks to the Archangel," said Clarence.

"He brings us the Word of our Lord."

"Through the Reverend we see Him—"

"We commune with Him, Brother Tad," corrected Clarence.

That stopped Frank dead on the sidewalk. "You what?"

"We commune with the Archangel."

They were beaming at him again like lunatics.

"Which Archangel is that?" asked Frank.

"We don't know his name, sir."

"He's just the Archangel."

"He sits at the left hand of God," said Clarence.

"That's what this Reverend Day tells you?"

"Oh yes, he knows the Archangel well...."

"But we know Him, too, here, in our hearts," said Clarence. "When we have communion with Him."

"Whereabouts does all this communing take place?"

The white shirts smiled at each other like the answer was so obvious.

"All around."

"The Archangel is everywhere."

"We hear his voice wherever we go."

"We're never alone...."

"You mean to say that, right now for instance, you hear a voice telling you what to do?" asked Frank carefully.

"Yes, sir; through Reverend Day the Archangel is always with us."

"Praise the Lord."

"Hallelujah."

"Okay," said Frank, nodding slowly, looking at all the smiling white shirts passing by on the street, more wary now that he realized he'd wandered into an insane asylum.

"And you'll hear the Archangel, too, sir, once you join us."

"After you meet Reverend Day, you'll understand."

"All the people who want to join us meet Reverend Day...."

"What's the tower you're building over there for?" asked Frank.

"That's the Tabernacle of the Archangel, sir."

"So it's a church."

"Much much more than that, sir."

"When the Holy Work is finished, that's where the Archangel will appear," Clarence piped in eagerly.

"The Reverend says the Holy Work is near."

"It won't be long now."

"What a glorious day that will be!"

A chorus of hallelujahs followed.

Jesus Christ, thought Frank, they're crazier than a bunch of drunken monkeys at a taffy pull.

"Let me ask you something, Clarence," said Frank, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and pointing to a poster for the Penultimate Players beside them on the wall. "This play is being put on tonight; have I got that right?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"And the actors for this thing, are they staying here in town?"

"Yes, sir; they're over at the hotel," said the black kid.

"Where would that be?"

"Just down the street."

"That's where all our visitors stay."

"That's where you'll be staying, too, sir."

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place—"

Interrupting them, a commotion in the street: five men on horseback galloping up to a building across from them, scattering people out of their way. Unlike any other building on the street, a big adobe, like a ranchero's hacienda. A sign in front: The House of Hope.

Shouts from the riders; huge man in a gray duster coming down the steps of the House of Hope to meet them: the same man Frank had seen with the troops last night in the desert.

The five men well-dressed; dark clothes, covered with dust from a hard ride; one of them injured, the others helping him off his horse. Bloodstained bandage around what looked like a gunshot wound to his thigh. A tall, blond fella, the lead rider, hint of a foreign accent in his voice, shouting to the big man.

Something about a posse. Shit.

The big man barking instructions; white shirts leading their horses off. Others wearing all black running down from the House of Hope to help carry the wounded one inside. One of the riders, a smaller blond, lifting a briefcase from his saddle-bag before trailing the rest of them in. Over in less than a minute. Activity on the street returned instantly to normal; not a soul stopped to wonder or gossip about what they'd just seen.

Like no small town I've ever seen, thought Frank; a little excitement like that would set most folks off gabbing for an hour at least.

He watched the big man climb back up the stairs to the House of Hope and the realization nearly knocked off his hat.

He knew this fella from somewhere. Where was it?

Jesus, that was it: Cornelius Moncrief.

Head-buster deluxe for the railroad. Ten years ago, Moncrief came into Tombstone and nearly beat this poor little accountant fella to death in the middle of a full saloon. Claimed he'd run off after embezzling twenty thousand dollars from the home office. If it was true, Frank and the other deputies couldn't find any cash in the poor bastard's possession, but he refused to press charges so they couldn't stick Cornelius for the assault. And they could tell from Moncrief's attitude that he knew his position with the Southern Pacific brass made him untouchable.

Frank had escorted the big man to the edge of town on Wyatt's instructions and invited him to never set foot there again. Cornelius just laughed in his face and rode off; he was crazy and he liked to hurt people. That's why he lingered in the memory.

What the hell was he doing here?

"You'd better take me to the hotel," said Frank.

Kanazuchi slipped away from the workers' shacks after walking out to use the latrine. The guards weren't as sharp-eyed in the morning and they'd been busy doling out the workers' breakfasts, bowls of oatmeal and a crust of bread served in a mess hall between their huts.

Making his way through the shanties, Kanazuchi adopted the passive smiling face the white shirts wore and no one gave him a second glance. In the daylight, he saw that none of these buildings off the main street had been given paint or whitewash. No flowers or decoration. Only four thin walls and flat corrugated tin roofs. Filth and despair. The one attractive street served as a false display, to impress visitors. Or to keep the citizens in order.

His dream had told him he would find the Kojiki and the other holy books in the chamber below the church, but his mind had not found a way around the problem the church presented; how to search for an entrance with shifts of workers swarming over the area both night and day.

The rounded roof of a tall building to the south caught his eye and he moved in that direction. Along the way, he heard the sounds he had missed the night before:

Children's voices. Laughter.

He followed the sound to an enclosed compound, ringed by a fence of knotted barbed wire. Inside the circle, children were playing games in the dirt, over a hundred of them, running tossing balls back and forth. Boys and girls, different races None older than eight or nine. Low buildings lined the far side of the circle; their living quarters. A row of adults stood around the perimeter, not participating in the play, encouraging, or even supervising. Just watching.

Kanazuchi had seen enough now to realize the people in this city lived and moved under the most powerful form of mind control he'd ever witnessed; trying to probe beneath the surface of the workers' consciousness proved useless. How or why this group illusion gripped them so fiercely he could not determine; a blank, impenetrable wall had been built around their thoughts. But he sensed that the energy controlling these people was already beginning to decay.

And for some reason, these children were still free, even happy. Living together, apart from their families.

They are just waiting for them to reach the right age, Kanazuchi realized. Like ranchers raising a herd of livestock.

One of the children, a tiny curly-headed girl, chased a bright red ball to the edge of the fence. It rolled underneath the strands and stopped at Kanazuchi's feet; he picked up the ball and held it out to her. She looked at him coyly; he made the ball disappear with a deft sleight of hand, then reached through the fence and produced it from behind the girl's ear. She accepted it with a delighted gasp of astonishment and ran off laughing toward the others.

One of the adults inside the fence had noticed their inter action; Kanazuchi raised the dead smile back onto his face waved blandly, and walked away.

A two-story warehouse drew into sight, standing apart from the shanties in a clearing. He waited for the area to empty before crossing to its walls. Barn-style double front doors slightly open; two yawning whiteshirts patrolling with rifles Kanazuchi walked slowly around to the rear, where he found a single door. Tried the handle, twisted quietly with all his strength until it yielded, then slipped inside.

Stacked wooden crates covered with canvas and tied to the ground by rope occupied most of the open floor space. Kanazuchi walked between rows piled as high as his head. Out of sight of the front doors, he cut the rope holding one stack and wedged open the crate. A dozen rifles inside, his estimate, more than a thousand rifles in the room.

A row of irregular shrouded shapes stood across from him; he lifted the canvas. Four round-barreled guns mounted on sturdy tripods. Countless smaller boxes stenciled with the word GATLING and filled with coils of linked ammunition belts piled nearby. He had never seen one before, but he had heard of such weapons: machine guns. He had also heard it said that one man armed with' a machine gun in open ground could kill a hundred in less than a minute.

Sound nearby; a gentle rasp of snoring. He traced it to a white shirt sleeping on the ground three rows away, rifle beside him. An Asian face.

Chinese.

Kanazuchi picked up the rifle, reached down and tickled the man's nose with the tip of the barrel. He woke sluggishly, offering no reaction, even with the gun staring him in his face.

"Why are you sleeping on duty?" asked Kanazuchi in Mandarin.

"Will you report me?" the man answered flatly.

"What if I had been an intruder?"

"Don't talk in that language," the man said in English. "It is against the rules."

"I will report you if you do not answer my questions," said Kanazuchi in English.

"You should report me. I have broken the rules. I should be punished," the man said almost eagerly, the first emotion he'd exhibited. "That is your responsibility."

"Do you know what will happen to you?"

"I will be sent to the Reverend."

"What will the Reverend do to you?"

"I will be punished."

"How?"

"You must tell them what I have done. That is the rule. If you do not tell them, then you have broken the rules...."

Kanazuchi grabbed the man's throat, cutting him off.

"When did you come to this place?" Kanazuchi asked in a whisper.

The man stared at him, not even bothered by the constriction to his breathing.

"How long ago did you come here?" asked Kanazuchi.

"Two years."

"There were men here who worked with explosives, Chinese; did you know them?"

The man nodded.

"They worked for the railroad; did you work for the railroad, too?"

The man nodded again.

"Where are they now?"

"Gone."

"They built something here, a room underground, under that church, do you know where this room is?"

The man shook his head. He told the truth.

"Is the Reverend the man they have built this for?" asked Kanazuchi.

The man nodded again. "Everything is for the Reverend."

"Where is the Reverend now?"

The man shook his head.

"Tell me where he is or I will kill you."

The man shook his head again, a reptilian cold possessing i his eyes.

"You are not one of us ..." the man said.

He tried to cry out; Kanazuchi gripped his throat harder before a sound could escape and crushed his windpipe. The man collapsed like a broken puppet. Kanazuchi dragged the body to the edge of the room, emptied one of the rifle boxes, stuffed the dead man inside, and covered the box with canvas.

No movement from the front; the guards had not seen or heard him. He retraced his steps to the back door and left the warehouse.

His briefcase resting on his lap, Dante sat outside the office door and waited as Frederick had ordered him to do. The men they'd traveled with were elsewhere in the house attending to their wounded comrade, struck by a stray bullet as the last of the posse was going down. They'd ridden hard nearly two hours straight after that, all the way to The New City. Dante was still reeling from all he'd taken in since they arrived.

Through lace curtains, he could look down on Main Street; its clean white simplicity reminded him so much of the home he'd always wanted that he hoped he would never leave. He had nearly given up dreaming that such a nice friendly place could even exist. But this was the House of Hope, wasn't it?

He could smell pies baking in the house, apple and cherry both, his favorites. He wondered if they would give him vanilla ice cream with his pie; yes, probably so. He wondered when they would let him have one of the uncommonly attractive women he had seen in the street. The Voices in his head had never sounded so happy.

We want to eat everything, everything, everything.

He was startled out of his dreamy mood by angry voices coming from the office; the man he had heard them call the Reverend was yelling at Frederick, something about a book that Frederick had brought with them.

"Useless! This is useless!"

The book they'd brought with them came flying through the doorway; its spine cracked as it hit the far wall.

"How could you be so blind? How can I finish my Work without the real book? What do you expect me to use in its place?"

Dante couldn't make out Frederick's response, only the more reasonable tone of his voice.

"Oh, really? Left a trail of crumbs, have you? And how can you be so bloody certain they'll bring the real one with them?" said the Reverend. "How can you be sure they'll even follow you?"

Another smooth reply from Frederick.

"NO!" the Reverend screamed. "You'll not collect one penny until that book is in my hands."

Again Frederick replied in the same soothing manner; over some minutes the Reverend's anger subsided and his voice calmed to Frederick's level. Dante felt relieved; he didn't like the idea of anyone being so angry at Frederick; it made his new world feel as brittle as a hard-boiled egg.

Moments later the door opened; Frederick smiling, waving him inside. Dante entered the office.

The Reverend Day stood in front of his desk, smiling too, anger gone, holding his arms out to welcome Dante.

Frederick walked him across the room, gripped Dante by the hands, rolled up his left sleeve, and showed his brand to the Reverend, who nodded in kind approval.

"Why don't you show the Reverend your new tools, Mr. Scruggs?" Frederick whispered in his ear.

Dante opened his briefcase; he felt a twinge of embarrassment when he realized he hadn't had time to clean off all the blades after they'd finished with the posse. Halfway through, he realized he didn't like working on men nearly as much, remembering with a thrill the chubby blond girl from the train—in a jar in his suitcase he'd saved two choice pieces of her that he hadn't even had time to appreciate yet—but he guessed it was still better than dumb animals or insects. Men were better than nothing.

Somehow when Dante looked into the Reverend's eyes, he felt all of his secrets were understood. No need to explain himself or feel ashamed. This was the man in charge, their general, and he was more bighearted than any soldier could ever hope for. Just as Frederick had said he would be.

And the Voices liked this man even more than they'd liked Frederick.

"You know, it's so interesting, I believe we have a first," said the Reverend to Frederick, still gazing at Dante.

"What is that, sir?" asked Frederick.

"This one doesn't even need to be Baptized," said Reverend Day, reaching out and lightly stroking Dante's fuzzy cheek.

"We agreed you were not to work your 'sacraments' on any of my men," said Frederick tensely. "That was our arrangement."

"Don't work yourself into a state, Frederick," said Reverend Day, his eyes caressing Dante. "When the boy's already been so touched by grace it would only be gilding the lily."

Their train pulled into Flagstaff, Arizona, ten minutes ahead of schedule; when Doyle, Innes, Presto, and Lionel hurried onto the platform, they found two officials of the Santa Fe line waiting to escort them three tracks over to their chartered express; an engine and tender pulling a single passenger car, bound for Prescott.

Walks Alone held on to Jack's arm, lagging behind the others. They were the last to step down from the train. She had not left his compartment once since Doyle and Innes had burst in on them the night before. None of the others exchanged a word with either of them, and even now, transferring to the other train, neither of them met anyone else's eye.

Blistering heat from the noonday sun. Jack looked pale and depleted, hardly enough strength to put one foot in front of the other, all his energy directed inward. She appeared to be equally exhausted and her focus centered solely on moving luck to the second train.

If she followed the procedure she described to me, then she's invited his illness into her body, thought Doyle as he watched her. If that was true, he shuddered to think what she was fighting against now. He noticed she still carried the stick topped by the eagle feather in her hand.

What if she's failed? What if they're both incapacitated? What do I do then? I can't slay another man's dragons.

"Not the most advantageous time for romance, wouldn't you say?" whispered Presto to Doyle.

"Good God, man, what makes you say that?"

"She was in his compartment all night. At one point I thought I heard a ... cry of amour."

"You did hear a cry. Amour had nothing to do with it," said Doyle.

Love, maybe, but not passion. And the indescribable way in which he had seen that power being employed was not something he felt willing to share with anyone.

Innes broke in to hand Doyle another wire confirming all the supplies he had requisitioned would be waiting when they arrived in Prescott. After supervising the storing of their luggage, Innes climbed on last in time to see Jack and Walks Alone disappear into one of the car's closed compartments.

"Hasn't pulled any more strawberry shortcakes out of his ribs today, has she?" he asked Doyle quietly.

"Let's hope the one was sufficient," whispered Doyle, raising his finger to his lips again.

Five minutes later their train was steaming its way south.

Two hours to Prescott.

"I don't like the idea of you going there alone," said Eileen.

"I tend to agree, my dear, but it didn't sound like an invitation I could reasonably turn down," said Jacob.

"You're not well; you should be resting."

"Now you're sounding like my late wife: Jacob, come to bed, you'll ruin your eyes reading in that light."

"You probably didn't listen to her, either."

Jacob stopped by the door in the lobby and took her by the | hand.

"I always listened. So far I've outlived her six years."

"Don't go," she said quietly.

"This is what I've come for. I should make such an effort only to turn back at the threshold?"

"Then let me come with you."

"But my dearest Eileen, you weren't invited."

"I'm sure the Reverend won't mind."

"No. I mean, by the dream."

She looked into his eyes, saw the joy and determination shining through; no trace of fear. A tear formed in her own eye.

"Please. Don't die," she whispered.

He smiled, gently kissed her hand, turned, and pushed out ] onto the street through the swinging doors.

Just like a cowboy, he thought, as he straightened up and headed toward the House of Hope.

Eileen dried her tears, not wanting the actors gathering in the lobby to see her in such a state. They were already moving toward the theater, a scheduled rehearsal only a few minutes off.

A man stood up across the lobby and strode toward her, taking off his hat. Wearing a fringed yellow leather jacket, boots, chaps on his pants; he looked like an actor in a wester melodrama. At least he wasn't wearing a white shirt. But five? worried youngsters in white shirts immediately followed the man over to her.

"Ma'am, might I have a word with you?"

A tall one. And handsome wasn't the word for it. And go Lord, what a voice, like a low note on a cello. She instantly revised her first impression; she'd been spending far too much time in the company of actors. The way he moved, the way he carried himself; this man was a real cowboy.

She pulled out a cigarette, her favorite stalling technique; he had a match struck off his thumbnail before she could pull one from her purse.

"What about?"

"Would you mind stepping outside a moment?" he said, with an explanatory shrug in the direction of the five white shirts.

"Gladly."

He held the door for her as she exited, then turned to block the shirts when they tried to follow.

"You kids stay put," he said.

"But we're supposed to see you to your room...."

"Here's a buck," he said, flipping them a coin. "Go buy Mime lollipops."

"But, sir—"

"Clarence, if I catch you trailing after me one more time, I will personally kick your rear ends into the middle of next

July."

Frank shut the swinging door firmly in their faces, put on his hat, and fell into step beside Eileen on the sidewalk.

"You're name's Eileen, isn't it, miss?"

"Yes."

"Mine's Frank."

"Frank, I have a feeling you're not interested in my autograph."

"No, ma'am. Could I ask how long you planned on staying in this booby hatch?"

"The play's scheduled to run for a week; why?"

"To put it plain, we're sitting on top of a powder keg and it's about to blow."

They were drawing stares—two tall, attractive, nonconforming strangers—from white shirts passing on the street.

"Keep smiling at 'em," whispered Frank.

"Makes you wonder what they're so damn happy about," she said, smiling and nodding pleasantly. "They've kept us under lock and key since the moment we arrived. Not that that's such a bad idea with actors. How long have you been here?"

"About an hour."

"Do you have any idea what the hell is going on?"

"They're stealing rifles from the U.S. Army, for starters."

"Rifles? For these people?"

"And every last one of 'em's a few shovels short of a funeral."

A stout middle-aged black woman approached and planted herself in their way, holding out a copy of the printed regulations. "Excuse me, friends," she said with a deranged grimace, "but it is against the rules for visitors to walk around The New City without an escort."

"Thank you, ma'am; the Reverend told us it was okay," said Frank, smiling right back at her.

"We just spoke with him," said Eileen, grinning like an idiot. "He sends his love."

The woman stopped in her tracks, poleaxed; they stepped, around her and continued on.

"No smoking, either," the woman called after them, less confidently.

Eileen waved and flicked her cigarette over her shoulder.

"So I wanted to suggest," said Frank, "that if you had a mind to remove yourself from the premises before Uncle Sam comes looking for his guns and the shit starts flying—excuse the expression—I'd be more than pleased to get you the hell out of here."

She stopped to look at him. Yes; genuine American sincerity.

"That's a very kind offer, Frank."

"My pleasure."

"But I'm afraid I can't leave at the moment. Not without Jacob."

"The old man."

"He's not that old. Does he look that old to you?"

"He's not your husband, is he?"

"No."

"Good," he said, with the first authentic grin she'd seen since they'd left the hotel. "Then we'll bring Jacob along."

"I'm afraid it's not going to be as simple as that," she said.

He looked at her. "Not for me either, exactly."

She glanced around at the white shirts on the street, gestured discreetly, and they moved around a corner into an empty alley.

"You start," she said.

Frank pushed his hat back and hooked his thumbs on his belt. "I'm gonna have to ask you about the Chinaman."

She squinted her eyes and studied him again; for such a good-looking man, she had to admit, his character didn't seem all that deficient.

"Have you had any unusual dreams lately, Frank?"

Frank thought for a moment. "No, ma'am."

"Then first I have to tell you a very strange story."

"Come in, come in, Rabbi Jacob Stern," said the Reverend, waving an arm toward a velvet sofa in the corner of his office. "Delighted to see that you could join me today."

"I was able to find time in my busy schedule," said Jacob.

The Reverend did not rise from the desk or offer to shake his hand; Jacob took a seat on the sofa beside a large globe resting on an oak stand. Aside from a gilded Byzantine icon on the wall behind the Reverend's desk and a King James Bible lying open on a reading stand, nothing suggested that this served as the office of a cleric. Furnishings plush, even opulent, like a picture Jacob had seen of John D. Rockefeller's study. The air felt heavy and cool. Thin strands of brilliant white light cutting through wooden window blinds into the shadowy room were the only reminder that the house rested in the middle of a desert. Motes of dust spiraled up from the heavy Persian carpet and danced in the beams. His eyes adjusting to the half-light, Jacob couldn't see the Reverend distinctly in the darkness behind his desk.

"A very comfortable room," said Jacob.

"Do you like it? I had them build my House with the thick adobe walls that are such a characteristic feature of the local architecture; it keeps the heat at bay until well into the afternoon. The furniture is all donated, by the way, gifts from my more generously endowed followers. I don't believe a man of the cloth should receive a regular salary, do you, Rabbi? I think it violates the sacred trust between God and his ... representatives."

"All very well for God, but a man's got to eat."

"Tithing; that's the answer, and of course, like most common sensible ideas, it's been with us for hundreds of years. Everyone in the community making the same sacrifice—or shall we say contribution—setting aside a portion of their earnings to support the shepherd of their spiritual flock, be it preacher, priest, or rabbi."

"Ten percent is the usual figure," said Jacob.

"I've made the tiniest innovation," said the Reverend, leaning forward into a scallop of light. "I take one hundred percent."

Day's eyes crept into view for the first time in the hot slice of sunlight. Jacob felt them reaching out at him like oiled tentacles and looked away. He swallowed hard. His heart skipped a beat.

"I had the great fortune to baptize a steady stream of millionaires into our church early on in my ecclesiastical career. I can't tell you the tithing was entirely their idea, but once the suggestion entered their minds it met a remarkable degree of receptivity. And I discovered there is an extraordinary surplus of wealth in these western states; shipping, cash crops, silver, oil. Millionaires are hardly the rare bird you find in the East— to be blunt, out here they are practically a dime a dozen. And despite all this talk about camels and the eyes of needles, I have found that a rich man is just as desperately in need of salvation as any destitute sinner."

"They're still with you, these former millionaires."

"Oh, yes. Right here, in The New City," said Day, neglecting to mention how the sight of these former captains of industry and their pampered wives mucking out the latrines still filled him with happiness. "And if you were to ask them, well, I'd be shocked if to a man they didn't say that their lives were one hundred percent richer today."

"One hundred percent."

"So much senseless heartache, the strictly material life. So much disquiet and worry about holding on to what you've accumulated. Straining to make its value grow beyond any reasonable fulfillment of one's needs. And what a powerful joy to be released from that suffering and rededicate oneself to a life of spiritual simplicity."

"Must be a terrible burden, all that money," said Jacob, looking around at the riches in the room. "Tell me, how do you manage it so well?"

"I consider myself blessed, I really do." Reverend Day stood and limped slowly around his desk toward Jacob ' 'Enormous wealth seems to place no untoward weight upon my soul whatsoever. It rests on my broken shoulders like a hummingbird." He waved his hand through a ray of light and the dust ducked and swirled.

"What's your secret?"

"I claim nothing for myself. I am a servant, not a master. I live to fulfill my obligation to God, and what earthly goods pass through my hands leave no stain. Ask what all this money means to me and I would tell you truly, Jacob Stern, that I cannot tell a silver dollar from a buzz saw. Money is merely a tool given to me to complete the Holy Work."

"The Holy Work..."

"Why, The New City. Our cathedral. Everything you see around you."

"And its purpose?"

"To bring man closer to God. Or should I say to bring Him closer to man...." The Reverend stopped himself and smiled curiously. "You're filled with questions, aren't you? Why don't we speak more ... directly?"

"What about?"

"I know you, Jacob Stern," said Day, taking a seat across from him. "I admit I could not place you at first; you've shaved your beard, old man. The Parliament of Religion, last year in Chicago, yes?"

Jacob felt the throbbing in his chest approach like the footsteps of a giant. He nodded.

"You are no pleasure-touring retiree. You are a scholar in Kabbalah, as I recall, and one of the foremost. Kabbalah is one of the holy books I've been attempting to decipher since I began my serious collecting. So naturally I am very curious to know. Rabbi Stern, just exactly ... what... you are doing here?"

Jacob felt a wave of energy slide around his head and chest like a slick spineless insect, probing for a weakness. He summoned his strength, erecting a barrier of thought to hold off the gnawing insinuations. His life felt as fragile and indefensible as the dust drifting in the mottled air.

"I believe I asked you first," said Jacob.

"Fair enough," said Reverend Day. "We have time; you don't have anywhere you have to be." He laughed, a first hint of cruelty.

"I'm listening," said Jacob.

Reverend Day leaned forward and spoke in a theatrical whisper, like an adult telling a child a bedtime story. "One day, a man awakens and discovers burning inside himself a light. A tremendous well of Power. Call it a spark of the divine, whatever you prefer; he has been touched by grace."

"It's been known to happen," said Jacob.

"In time he learns to use the Power—no, that's not right: He learns how to enable the Power to perform its sacred work through him; a more modest way of putting it. From that moment, the Light guides his every thought and action, directing the man to gather about him a congregation and lead his people away from the corrupted world of man. Into the desert. To build a new Jerusalem. The Power provides him with a Vision to show how and where they should remove themselves; a dream about a black tower, his church, rising from the sand."

"You've had a dream like this?" asked Jacob, looking up in surprise, then willing his eyes back down to stay focused on the dust.

"Nine years," said the Reverend. "Since the day I woke and found myself lying in a filthy ditch by the side of a river. In Switzerland, of all places. No memory of who I was or any single detail of what my life might have been before. All I possessed was this dream. This Vision. And I paid a terrible price for my enlightenment. My body crippled, many times worse than you see the poor self now: a year to heal, two before I could walk. Was it worth it? Without hesitation I would have to tell you: yes.

"Go to America, my Vision commanded, and plant your seed in the sand. Who was I to argue with such an authoritative voice? Nothing, a speck of dust. And so, without benefit of clergy, I took up the cloth," said Day, gripping his frock coat by the lapels. "Actually I took it off a Baptist preacher I killed in Charleston, South Carolina. A perfect fit, not a single alteration, and I'm not such an easy man to dress what with my various ... irregularities. Clothes do make the man, in the end. What do you think, Rabbi? Am I not the very model of a modern evangelical?" He hummed a snatch of Gilbert and Sullivan and laughed.

"So your vision led you to this place," said Jacob, struggling to concentrate and keep the man on track.

"With the aid of the millionaires I won to my side between Charleston and here—New Orleans proved particularly fertile ground, by the way; combine dissolute living with new money and they practically beg you for absolution. With their generous contributions, before long The New City brought life to (his barren plain. You can well imagine the attention to detail required to birth such a child of the imagination; architecture, social organization, supply lines, local government. Years Hashed by with hardly a spare moment for the theological.

"Until one day I looked up to see our little town coming along so splendidly; nearly a thousand of us, more flocking to our side as I toured the western coast, preaching from the back of a wagon ... and I realized how thoroughly I had neglected to develop the scriptural foundation of our community. Our spirit was willing but the flesh was ... ignorant.

"So I made a pilgrimage. Chicago, last year, to mingle with my fellow clergy. What an assembly of knowledge, what an inspiration! I can tell you truthfully, Rabbi, the Parliament of Religions changed my life. My path was revealed to me and it was a daunting one: I needed to study and root out the prima materia of all the religions of the world, then unite their separate truths in the name of the one true Vision which I already possessed but lacked the ability to articulate.

"So I began my collection of the world's great holy books and the study of their secrets. One of the first ideas you acquire is that there is no such thing as coincidence. And I must tell you, Jacob Stern, that your appearing in The New City at this moment is remarkably fortuitous."

"Why is that?"

The relentless pounding in Jacob's head nearly drowned out the sound of Reverend Day as the man drew his chair closer. A nauseatingly ripe smell of lush rotting flowers blossomed in the air.

"Because I believe you have been sent to me so that we can complete this great Holy Work together. That is why you are here. That is why you have shared my dream about our church."

"What makes you so sure I've had the same dream?" asked Jacob.

"Please, let's not be disingenuous; I know many things about you and I have no doubt you are a wise enough man to figure out the 'why' of it."

The Reverend casually waved his arm; Jacob felt hot liquid running from his nose and raised his hand to it: blood, he looked up, feeling dizzy, narrowly avoiding the Reverend's eyes. But he saw it, there, trickling down the man's lip, his own blood as well.

Jacob nodded again; the "why" didn't matter. The only important question was "how": how to stop him.

"You can see that with all my responsibilities here I have found it impossible to consider any of these people colleagues," said Reverend Day, voice rising with excitement, oblivious to his own bleeding. "I knew you would come; it was foretold in the dream."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"So long since I've sat with anyone qualified to appreciate my discoveries. I hardly know where to begin. Let me share with you what I've concluded from my studies and tell me if you agree."

"All right."

Rotting flowers permeated the air; Jacob breathed through his mouth, staring at the floor, feeling the Reverend's eyes slowly pick apart his defenses.

"In Hebrew scriptures there is no direct mention of God; many other names are given Him, but the Ain Sof, the Godhead, the source of all creation, is never named directly, because its identity lies beyond human comprehension. Correct me if I'm wrong."

Jacob nodded in agreement; the pain increasing dreadfully. He put his hands to the side of his head, focused on the dust swirling in the wake of the man's gestures.

"The absence of God is darkness. Darkness is considered Evil. Before light came into the world, before good existed— because God is good—there was only darkness. We know God gave man a free will because He wanted us to live freely upon the earth. But to be truly free means that we must defy what is traditionally called God's will; do you see? By defying God we become more godlike. That was his original intention in creating us. And in order for man to live the way God intended, Evil had to exist in the heart of man from the beginning, because without the possibility of Evil, of choosing between these two paths, he has no free will to exercise.

"Therefore . .. Evil was God's original gift to man. Are you with me so far, Rabbi?"

Somehow Jacob found the strength to shake his head, the pounding now joined by a grating rattle in his ears that obliterated everything but the Reverend Day's voice.

"Evil has a purpose, yes," said Jacob, "but only so man can struggle with his brokenness. Move himself towards becoming whole again."

"Yes, that is one way open to us, I agree. But clearly there is another path to godliness; through the pursuit of this power we call Evil," the Reverend continued feverishly. "I grant you, not one for most men to follow. Only for those few that have fallen into darkness, been corrupted by it, and found the strength to rise again ..."

"This is not a path for human beings," said Jacob, his voice sounding distant and tinny.

"My point exactly," said the Reverend, with a broad smile, blood running down between his teeth. "This less-traveled way is the path of emulating God, not obeying Him. To become godlike by seeking Power and moving beyond consideration of Good and Evil. To move closer to God than man has ever dared by challenging and combating His authority."

"You cannot defeat God," said Jacob, feeling an immense weight crushing his limbs, pressing down on the back of his neck.

"Oh, do you think so? Then let me ask you this; in order to follow the path of good, the path of God, the path most human beings blindly follow, this is why the great holy books came into the world. That is the common wisdom, yes? Given to us as the Word of God; a series of manuals for living, spiritual handbooks detailing the Laws of God, handed down to man through the prophets of the world religions."

"Yes, yes."

"Then we may say that God is in those books, is He not? God appears to us in His words and His Laws which limit and define us. This is the way God comes closest to manifesting in our physical world."

"Agreed."

Reverend Day leaned in, only an inch away from Jacob's face. "Rabbi, how can we be so certain that man's destiny is—not to obey God's will—but to free ourselves from Him? Why should we continue to live under the unquestioned assumption that the plan God outlined for us in these books was the right one?"

"That lies beyond our capacity—"

"But He gifted us with free will; how can we be sure His true intention isn't for us to rid the world of His influence and by so doing evolve into gods one day ourselves? What if this liberation turns out to be the true function of the Messiah that the books refer to?"

"I don't understand," said Jacob, clinging to consciousness, darkness closing around the edges of his sight, tears falling from his eyes.

"This will sound like a blasphemy to you; imagine that our so-called Deity is, by cosmic standards, nothing more than a foolish, undeveloped pup, as plagued by doubt, as troubled and unsure of His own intentions, as any man on earth. Imagine a being like this, no longer able or willing to reliably guide us, a parent losing control of its children as we outgrow the need for His protection...."

"That is not for us to know."

"But I disagree. Look at the evidence, Jacob. Look at the wickedness of this world: sin, violence, corruption, warfare. Would you call the 'Creator' of such a hellish inferno infallible? Are His ways and methods so beyond our reproach? I think not."

"Those are the works of man, not God..." Jacob protested; his heart raced dangerously, tripping out of control.

No longer listening, Reverend Day reached out and gripped Jacob's wrists, his voice digging in like a knife.

"I believe that it is man's true purpose to eradicate God's Laws on earth, to free ourselves from the limitations He imposed a thousand ages ago. The irony is this so-called God knows He's failed, even if He won't admit the thought into His own mind. And I have come to realize that this final act of rebellion, casting God out of our world, is the very reason why God himself created man—to defeat and surpass Him— even if He won't acknowledge it."

"How?"

"By destroying God's presence on this earth," said the Reverend in a violent whisper.

"But how would you—"

"The plan for destroying Him has been lying hidden in His books from the beginning. He put it there Himself, I've decoded the information: and I've built a chamber beneath my church according to His sacred specifications, to amplify the Power of the action."

"What action?"

"It's so simple, Jacob: He wants us to burn the books."

Jacob stared at the ground, shaking his head, trying to shield himself against the madness.

"Burn the books! Destroy His Laws, erase His presence from the earth! That's the great Holy Work for which God created man in the beginning. And doing it will set free the Messiah who can lead us the rest of the way to our final freedom. The one, true Messiah."

"You?"

Reverend Day laughed, blood running from his ears, his nostrils, red flecks forming in the corners of his eyes. "Heavens no; I'm just a messenger. Our Messiah is the one angel too pure and selfless for the likes of God; the Archangel He bound in chains, cast out of heaven, and consigned to the pit, for fear that in his righteousness he would one day reveal to man his real and higher destiny.

"We will complete the Archangel's work here, that's the purpose of our City. We will destroy the books and break the chains that bind our Messiah in darkness. That's the divinity of the dream, why we've been gifted with the Vision. That's why ... we ... we ..."

Reverend Day rose abruptly to his feet, severe shaking agitating his limbs. Jacob felt as if his own skull were about to burst, the smell of rot sickening him.

He looked at the Reverend; the man's eyes rolled back in his head, a harsh gibbering burst out of his throat, his body stiffened, and he fell hard to the carpeted floor, dust exploding into the light, his arms and legs flailing like a landed fish, blood streaming from every orifice in his face.

The pressure in Jacob's head let up as if a valve had been shut off. His eyesight returned to normal, the throbbing relented, and he registered the sight of the Reverend on the floor before him.

A grand mal seizure, realized Jacob. The man's an epileptic.

And his power can't penetrate the veil of the attack.

Jacob gripped the edge of the sofa as he realized what he must do. Where would he find the strength? The man had nearly killed him without even looking him directly in the eye.

Jacob wobbled to his feet; the seizure showed no sign of abating, but there was no telling how much time he had.

He searched the room and his eyes settled on a crystal paperweight, an orb wrapped in vines of glass resting on the desk. Jacob staggered to the desk, gasping for breath. He hefted the crystal with both hands; yes, heavy enough. About the size of the steel balls the Italians bowl with on the Greenwich Village green.

Two steps back, standing over the Reverend, looking down at him; a lessening in the attack's intensity. Jacob frantically tried to find his balance, took a deep breath, and lifted the crystal over his head.

A rush of vertigo; too much effort. Vision darkened alarmingly, he lowered the ball, dropped painfully to his knees. Blood and sweat pouring down his face; he rested the ball on the floor, wiped his brow with his sleeve.

Keep breathing, old man; if it's the last thing you ever do, make your life count for something and wipe this abominable insult to God's grace off the face of the earth.

The Reverend's awful shuddering subsided further, his tongue protruded from the side of his foaming lips. He moaned unconsciously.

Finish it, Jacob; put the wretched animal out of its misery.

Jacob edged closer to the man and raised the ball again. He paused, waiting for the Reverend's head to settle so he could bring the weight down squarely on his forehead.

The Reverend's eyes opened, instantly aware and alert, locking onto Jacob's, as if he'd been watching all along from the shadows of his fit.

Jacob looked away and struck at him with the ball.

Too late; a wave of pressure nudged his aim slightly to the side; the ball smashed harmlessly into the carpet an inch from the Reverend's skull.

Day's hand snapped up and grabbed Jacob's wrist in a vise, snapping a bone. With his other hand, he wagged a chiding finger in his face.

"Naughty, naughty," whispered Reverend Day, pale and frightful as a corpse.

He gestured sharply; the ball flew from Jacob's hands and crashed against a far wall, shattering, an explosion of glass.

Day gestured again; Jacob rolled back and fell against the desk, pinned there helplessly, unable to move a muscle.

"The Hindus have an interesting theory," said the Reverend, as he advanced on him. "They believe God speaks to them ... through the eyes."