by Mich Moore
that the death penalty is too good for me. Crazy stuff, man. I'm just asking myself over and over, 'How in the hell did I get here?'"
A lightning bolt cracked over Avondale.
Broussard looked drained. "Okay, you got a bum rap. What's your point?"
"My point is that sometimes, when it's the farthest thing from your mind, you end up with dirty hands. It don't make you innocent, but it don't make you guilty either."
Broussard lifted his head to the skies. "It's different, Mike," he said quietly. "What happened to you was a terrible accident. I wanted those people dead. At the time, anyway."
"Well, did you ever stop to think that maybe those folks needed to be dead?"
Broussard stared straight ahead. The bell tower of the church that he had attended with Grace poked through the gathering fog. "I used to," he said quietly. "I don't know." He took a deep breath. "But now ... thinking back ... and knowing what I know now ... ." Black clouds noisily banged together and then closed over the church. "It wasn't my call."
"But you're the one who made it happen. It must have been God's will, man."
"Mike, I've already used the 'God-made-me-do-it' defense. Honestly, nobody ever bought it."
"That don't make it not true. You don't know God's plans."
Broussard stretched his legs. "Yeah? Well, maybe God should have just gotten them fired."
"That wasn't in the plan."
"Oh, you think?"
"Neal, ask yourself: Why am I here? Instead of rotting in lockup. Why am I here working for the government and getting paid piles of cash to do it? That's God. He's working in your life 'cause he's got great things waiting for you."
Hopelessness coated Broussard's next words. "Well, Mike, the good news is that we're still free to disagree."
It was still early evening, but the sky was growing darker by the minute. Every now and then the wind would blow over one of the metal chairs and push it screeching along the pavement. But cars full of laughing guests were still arriving, and their gaiety gave the mounting gloom stiff competition.
Bautista surveyed the scene. "Looks like everybody in Avondale is here."
The band must have taken a break because old, original tunes began to filter through the loudspeakers.
"It's been too hard living but I'm afraid to die
'Cause I don't know what's up there beyond the sky
It's been a long, a long time coming
But I know a change gonna come. Oh, yes it will."
Broussard finally raised his head. His eyes were red and bruised. Bautista watched him. It seemed to him that his friend had aged ten years during the last half hour.
The engineer shook his head. "I don't get it. This woman kills her husband and she's walking around like it's business as usual. Why isn't she in jail? Where is the damn law?"
Bautista laughed. "The law? Dude, in case you haven't noticed, we left 'the law' back at Lincoln Hills. We're living in the Jack Law now." He gave his knee a by-gum slap. "Sonny called it right." Lightning flashed in the distance, and a couple of fat drops of rain plopped onto their table. Bautista looked dismayed. "We gonna get some rain—Oh, hell!" Shadows fell upon them. "Look who's here."
Broussard looked around in time to see Patrik Jansen and Van Walters. Both men wore tuxedoes and smiles.
"Gentlemen! Good evening!" Walters greeted them effusively.
Bautista spat. "Who let you in?"
"I'm doing consulting for Dina and her husband now. Got my office right on the Soo Locks. And," he continued expansively, "Patrik here was nice enough to invite me."
Jansen flashed a faux smile.
Bautista grunted. "So I guess that makes you his date. I always knew you had it in you."
Walters ignored the barb and focused on Broussard. "Hey, Neal. I heard you were pulling double duty these days. Program manager for Archangel and official wet nurse for Mike here."
Bautista's upper lip curled. "Van, you've been itching to kiss my ass for months now. Here's your big chance."
Walters snorted. "I wouldn't touch that with a fishing pole. Even if I could bend down that low to look for it." He made a wet, smooching sound. "Neal, can I speak with you for a moment?"
Broussard sighed. "Sure. Why not?" He dragged himself out of his chair, and the two men walked a few paces away from the others.
Without warning, Walters placed his arm around Broussard's sagging shoulders. "Neal, I heard about what happened with your girl." He paused dramatically. "Something like this can make a man feel like the loneliest person in the world." He inhaled. "But it gets better, Neal."
A slight smile crept over Broussard's lips. "Thanks." He shrugged off the other man's arm.
Walters nodded. "And if you ever need to talk ... "
Broussard took a deep breath. The air felt oddly spicy in his lungs. "To be honest, I really don't feel that bad. Shocked is more like it. I mean ... I had no idea."
Walters nodded sympathetically. "And how's the arm?"
Broussard's right hand subconsciously stroked his left arm and shoulder. "A lot better. Not much pain nowadays."
"Good. Glad to hear that," Walters enthused. Then he downshifted. "You know, back at Lincoln Hills, I always knew that I wasn't going to be there long." He stared off into the distance. "But I never dreamed that it would end up like this."
Broussard nodded.
"We're free. We're working. We're still young." He paused for dramatic effect. "Hell, it turned out good."
Broussard nodded and his black mood finally broke. "Archangel's going to kick righteous ass."
"Hell, yes, man!"
"And between that and the kids—"
Walters's expression turned from neutral to one of mild alarm. "Whose kids?"
"The children. Colleen, Connie, Vernon, Pete, Sharon, and Daniel."
"Right." Walters's face erupted into a big grin. "The DATs! Yes, that's right. They still belong to us."
A terrific juggernaut of wind blasted through the parking lot, uprooted a four-meter section of heavy-gauge steel fence that separated the parking lot from an open field, and hurled it towards them. It missed the Lincoln Hills engineers by a hair but fell on Jansen in a tangled mess. Suddenly the skies erupted into brilliant cracks of lightning. Bolts of electricity slammed into the ground like missiles, sending up cascades of sparks and setting afire anything that would burn. Screams of terror and shouts rose and reverberated against its high stone walls. A tornado siren began to wail forebodingly in the distance, pumping up the hysteria. While the partygoers instinctively swarmed around the various entrances into the buildings, trying to gain access to the basement floors, Walters, Broussard, and Bautista flew to the mangled heap of steel that now encased the still conscious scientist.
On the count of three the would-be rescuers pulled mightily at one corner of the fencing. It was incredibly heavy. The woven steel gave some and Jansen inched forward.
Thunder like sonic booms rattled bone and cement alike. Then Z and Kwolski appeared out of nowhere and took up corner positions at the fencing that would give the group even more traction. They heaved together as one and the fencing jerked up about thirty centimeters. Enough to allow Jansen to pull himself out on his belly and begin to crawl out. And then another rush of wind came straight at them and slammed all of them onto the hard ground. The fencing was ripped from their hands and fell back solidly onto the ground. Once again Jansen was caught and pinned down.
Walters called out to Broussard over the shrieking winds. "This won't work! We need more help!"
Bautista suddenly craned his neck at something and then whirled around, a look of raw terror on his face.
"WE'VE GOT TO GO!"
Broussard was vigorously shaking his head. "NO! WE NEED MORE HELP!"
Bautista stabbed a finger beyond the fallen Jansen, out to the vast field just beyond the parking lot. Not more than thirty meters from them, a single beam of billions of electrons had speared the ground. And it was on the move. It sliced through first di
rt and grass and then the blacktop like a buzz saw, throwing up grapefruit-sized chunks of asphalt and black soil. And it was coming straight for them.
Without thinking, Broussard grabbed a section of the fence and yanked on it with all of his might. The others joined him. It began to lift off the ground again. One centimeter. Two centimeters. Jansen began to ram his head and shoulders against the steel wires.
Suddenly the air grew unbearably dry and hot. The noise from the creep lightning was a loud snarling buzz, like that of a mechanical beast from Hades. The smell of burning tar blew up and began to choke the men.
"HARDER!!!" Broussard shouted.
But the hissing and sizzling noises assaulting their ears told them that it was too late.
Walters shouted. "LOOK OUT!!!
The unearthly torch was now inside the fencing with Jansen. The scientist turned around briefly and looked at it, and then began to tear at the fence with his hands, making desperate whimpering sounds. Small bits of blood and flesh began to stain the mesh.
Walters shouted to the others, "GET BACK! GET BACK!"
This time they had no choice. All of the men fell back.
The power from the thing seemed to surge and bulge. It was upon Jansen in a flash.
Jansen cried out once. "JESUS, HELP ME!!!"
And then it was over. The lightning was gone, and all that remained was a smoldering heap of melted metal and the charred form of what had once been a man. And the wind. A steel table, carried aloft on an invisible current of enraged air, whipped over their heads and just missed colliding with Walters's head.
Z began herding the men together. "YOU HAVE TO GET TO THE TUNNELS! NOW!"
The others
