"Right."
"Then you lifted Redbeard's wallet and he caught you."
"I was nine and I was overconfident."
"You're still overconfident," said Colarusso. "Redbeard must have liked that, though, bringing you home and everything." He dabbed at his upper lip with the handkerchief as Rakkim stayed silent. "Had to be a reason. Not like he thought a thief would be a good playmate for Sarah. Probably just wanted a son. Man needs a son."
"If that's what he wanted, he gave up on that idea soon enough. I think...maybe I was a project for him. See what he could teach me. What he could turn me into."
Colarusso laughed. "Well, fathers and sons...one way or the other, they always disappoint each other."
"I asked you a question before about Senator Chambers. Would it help if I bought you another hot dog? Maybe throw in a side of chili fries?"
"No." Colarusso patted his ample belly. "I'm watching my weight." He waited until a bus passed, the rumble of the diesel echoing. "Senator Chambers looks clean."
Rakkim tracked the security blimps drifting over the city, sunlight gleaming off their electronic arrays. "Looks?"
"Only thing that caught my eye was in the last eighteen months, two of his longtime servants retired." Colarusso blew his nose into his napkin. "Both of them are dead now. One had a heart attack. One drove his car into a bridge abutment at a high rate of speed." He put away the handkerchief as the bus pulled away in a cloud of black smoke. "Wouldn't have thought anything of it...except you're asking questions."
"How old was the servant who had the heart attack?"
"Forty-seven. They say the good die young. Guess you and me, we'll live forever."
"You have the details?"
Colarusso slid a datastick into Rakkim's hand. "Full run-down on both of them. Any chance you'll tell me what this is all about?"
"Did you cover your tracks?"
"No, I been gobbling pretty-colored paint chips so now I'm retarded," said Colarusso.
"Sorry."
"You and Sarah got plans for tonight? Marie's planning on ruining a piece of meat and you're welcome to share."
"Can't do it. Sarah's dragging me to the university for a meet-and-greet."
"Sounds painful."
"You want to go in my place, I'll gladly eat Marie's food."
"Hard decision, but I'll pass." Colarusso scratched at a dried blob of something on his suit jacket. "I appreciate your help with Anthony Junior."
"He did his duty. If he thinks it's time to come home, then that's what he should do."
"He wants to be a cop. You believe that?"
Rakkim shook his hand, lost in Colarusso's mitt. "That's great."
"Yeah..." Colarusso beamed, lightly ran his fingers over his badge. "He said he likes the discipline and the camaraderie of the department, reminds him of why he applied to become Fedayeen. He said he wanted to do something that would help people, but he worried about the killing part. I told him most cops go their whole career and never draw their sidearm...and the ones that have to, well, somebody's got to stop the bad guys." He nudged Rakkim in the ribs. "Although I did tell him to forget that nonsense about helping people. That kind of talk will get him laughed off the force."
CHAPTER 17
"Quarterback of the Atlanta Rednecks used to live here," said Deshane, pointing at the house on the hill as they turned off the country road, the Cadillac lurching over the potholes.
They had been escorted to the car by one of Crews's deacons, but Deshane, clearly under orders, drifted far back from the other vehicles in the entourage. Gravenholtz had threatened the driver, but the Old One interceded, told him to settle back and enjoy the ride. They had been driving for almost an hour now, out past the outskirts of Atlanta and into the pinewoods. They hadn't seen headlights or taillights in twenty minutes.
Deshane beeped the horn and the heavy steel gates slowly slid back from the entrance to the mansion. He waved at the guards flanking the private drive.
The guards waved back, assault rifles slung awkwardly across their shoulders, whiskey bottles in their hands.
"Great fucking security you got here," muttered Gravenholtz from the front seat.
"They's just bored," said Deshane, a young black man with cornrows and sad eyes. "Pastor Crews said they can't have whores visit the guardhouse anymore. That didn't sit well."
"Yes, I can imagine," said the Old One, seated in the back with Baby. "Not really much for them to do out here, I imagine."
"Yes, sir," said Deshane. "Nearest neighbors about four miles away."
Baby rolled down the window, inhaled. "Honeysuckle. I missed that smell." There were no lights in view other than those from the house on the hill.
Deshane sniffed. "If you say so, ma'am."
"Oh, I do," said Baby, stretching out her feet as the wind blew through her hair. She wiggled her toes. "I most definitely say so."
"Have you been with Pastor Crews long?" asked the Old One.
"Just a couple months, sir," said Deshane. "The rest of the boys...they been with him lots longer."
"They End-Times Army?" said the Old One.
"I'm not really supposed to talk about that, sir," said Deshane. He slowly guided the Cadillac up the winding drive toward the main house.
Baby could hear music through the open window, getting louder as they approached the house, one of those ticky-tacky fake mansions that new money bought, with plaster columns out front and a high peaked roof--Hollywood Southern Gothic, the Colonel had called it once, disgusted. The mansion might have started out white but it needed a fresh coat of paint and half the front windows were broken.
Deshane pulled up in front, parked behind four other vehicles. He hopped out, opened the door for Baby, then ran around and let the Old One out. Started up the steep steps toward the door. "I'll leave you in the foyer and go see if Pastor Crews will see you now." He cleared his throat, looked around. "Probably best if you don't converse with the deacons. They...they can be a little prickly with strangers."
Gravenholtz kicked open the front door, knocked it half off its hinges.
Baby took the Old One's hand, the two of them strolling past the startled Deshane as though they were going to a cotillion.
The deacons in the living room looked up at Baby, snaggletoothed louts with matted hair, black suits wrinkled. She didn't recognize any of them from the prayer service. They sprawled on couches that leaked stuffing, whiskey bottles in their hands. All of them were armed, pistols in their belts, rifles leaning against the walls. The room stank of dirt and tobacco, a sour, run-down odor like that of an old outhouse.
"I'll take it from here, Deshane, you scat now," said one of the deacons as he stood up, a hulking mountain man with a full gut and intelligent eyes.
"Y-yes, sir." Deshane backed away. He looked like he wanted to say something to Baby.
"Crews said company was coming, and I guess you're it." The mountain man glanced at Gravenholtz, then eyed Baby, taking his time. "My name is C.P."
"I'm Baby and these two gentlemen--"
"I don't give a shit about them," said C.P. A black dog rose from a pile of trash in the corner and padded closer, a huge mongrel with yellow eyes and a scarred muzzle. It growled at the Old One and C.P. kicked it, the dog skulking back to the corner. He snatched a mason jar from the lap of a man sleeping in a recliner. Offered it to Baby. "You want a pop? Fresh batch."
"No thanks," said Baby. "Moonshine makes me break out."
The deacon showed broken teeth. "No problem, sweetcheeks. I got me some cream I could rub on it."
Gravenholtz knocked C.P. against the wall so hard the plaster cracked. The other deacons jumped up, trained their weapons at Gravenholtz. Lester, God bless him, just stood there, massaging his crotch, daring them to do something, hoping they'd try.
Baby stepped forward, helped C.P. up, blood streaming down his scalp. "Just take us to Malcolm, before you get yourself in trouble. The rest of you boys go on about your business."
"It's okay, fellas," said C.P., glaring at Gravenholtz. "No harm done. Me and this redheaded cocksucker will discuss the matter later." He wiped blood across his face with the back of his hand. "I'll let Malcolm know his guests done arrived."
"That's very cordial of you." The Old One kicked aside a half-eaten can of beef stew, the can rolling along the carpet, spinning out boiled carrots and mushy potatoes. "Tell him we're enjoying your wit and sparkling conversation, but we have business to attend to."
Baby watched C.P. stagger down the hall. The Colonel would have every one of these men scrubbed raw with pine tar soap and a bristle brush. Then he would have them clean the mansion from top to bottom, clean it so thoroughly that you could run your finger under a windowsill and not get it dirty.
C.P. knocked on the double doors at the end of the hall. Got a response and threw the doors open. He dabbed at his hair, wiped his bloody fingers on his pants. "Them city folks are waiting out here." He turned, beckoned.
Baby, the Old One and Gravenholtz walked down the hall and through the double doors.
Malcolm Crews stood with his back to them, stood facing a roaring fireplace, the room stifling. Thick red velvet curtains hung over the windows. Plush carpet underfoot. Overstuffed chairs and sofas had been pushed to the edges of the room, leaving a large empty space in the center. The walls were covered with Renaissance paintings in curlicue gilt frames, at least a dozen versions of the Madonna and Child. Most of them needed straightening. Whiskey bottles and money lay strewn across a desk that looked like it was built for some French king.
C.P. cleared his throat. "Pastor?"
"Close the door behind you as you leave, C.P.," Crews said gently.
"I can stay if you want," said C.P., one hand on the pistol stuffed into his belt.
"Go on now," said Crews, his back still to them. He waited until C.P. left, then turned. One of the burning logs in the fireplace collapsed in a cloud of sparks, the flames reflected off the walls and ceiling, framing him in fire.
"Well, Malcolm Crews, aren't you just the cutest thing," said Baby.
Crews stared at her, expressionless, his gaunt face crosshatched with wrinkles.
"I'm Albert Mesta," said the Old One, inclining his head.
"Sure you are, buddy," said Crews, hands on his hips. "You don't look anything like your pictures, but I know who you are. I know who all of you are." He nodded at Gravenholtz. "I recognized this fella right off. Hard to hide a face like that."
"What makes you think I'd want to hide it?" growled Gravenholtz.
"Exactly," said Crews. "I say, flaunt the horror show."
"Sit down, Lester," said the Old One, seeing the look on Gravenholtz's face. "Baby and I have business with Mr. Crews."
Gravenholtz sank into one of the overstuffed chairs, the wood creaking under his weight. He tugged at his collar in the heat.
"You've certainly moved up in the world, Mr. Crews," said the Old One. "Last year at this time you were living in a muddy shack, attended by murderous cretins." He spread his hands. "Now look at you. You're living in a run-down mansion, attended by murderous cretins."
Baby laughed first, and the Old One and Crews joined in. Gravenholtz stayed silent.
"Nice suit you got there," Crews said to the Old One. "Little flashy but I like that."
"Indeed." The Old One fingered his checkerboard jacket, eyes lidded. "I'm feeling rather...wild these days."
"The Belt will do that to you." Crews dragged the sofa over, gallantly waited for Baby and the Old One to sit before he set himself down on the arm. "I guess I should thank you, seeing as how you helped me with the president's brat, little Todd...little Turd, that's what I call him." He raised his palm--"Heal!"--tried to strike Baby in the forehead, but she was too quick. "What was that stuff you had me put on my hand, anyway?"
"Contact poison for Janice Rae, contact antidote for you," said Baby.
"Janice Rae? That the first lady's girlfriend? Well, it did the job. Yes, indeedy." Crews looked from the Old One to Baby. "So...why did you do it?"
"Baby thought you might be useful," said the Old One.
"Useful?" Crews threw back his head. "I ain't never been called that before."
"Then no one's ever truly appreciated your gifts," said the Old One.
Crews hardened. "If I wanted to be jacked off, mister, I'd give the job to her."
"Sit down, Lester," the Old One said gently as Gravenholtz leapt out of his chair. "It was a metaphor, correct, Mr. Crews? Just a metaphor from a former professor of English."
Crews waited until Gravenholtz sat back down. "You're taking quite a chance coming here, mister. Lester there might be bad medicine where you come from, but my boys have handled worse."
"I rather doubt that," said the Old One.
Crews smoothed the lapels of his black suit--he looked like an enormous crow preening. "So what are you doing here?" He looked down his nose at the Old One. "You come to get saved?"
"No. I don't need saving," said the Old One. "Lester?" He didn't take his eyes off Crews. "Why don't you give us some privacy?"
"You sure?" said Gravenholtz.
"Go on, Lester," said the Old One. "Go play with the other boys."
Crews waited until Lester closed the door. "Can I get you folks something to drink? Got everything from corn liquor to twenty-year-old bourbon to soft drinks."
The Old One shook his head.
"I'm good," said Baby.
"Oh, you're more than good, lady," said Crews.
Loud sounds came from outside the door. Shouts and screams. Glass breaking.
"Nothing to worry about, Mr. Crews," said the Old One.
"Oh, I ain't worried," said Crews.
More screams. Gunshots. Rapid-fire.
"Poor Lester," said Crews. "My boys...I seen them do things you wouldn't believe human beings were capable of...." He grinned. "Butlet's talk about us." He put his arm around Baby. "You look familiar, honey-pie. Not just 'cause I used to see you on TV with the Colonel...we ever met before?"
Baby shrugged off his arm. "Malcolm Crews...you've hurt my feelings."
"I have met you before," said Crews. "I just can't..." He shook his head.
"I saw you in action when I was a girl," said Baby. "My mama took me to see you preach in a barn outside of Dawson. I was twelve at the time, and I thought you were really something, stalking across the floor like a ringmaster cracking a whip."
"That's right," said Crews.
"We were in the third row," said Baby. "You were looking at my mama during the whole sermon, and I didn't see a bit of the Lord in your eyes."
"Wasn't your mama I was looking at," said Crews. "I was sizing you up, sitting there in your Sunday best, Bible in your lap, fresh faced but already with back-door eyes. I remember looking at you and thinking I'd give you another year to marinate in your own juices. Old enough to bleed, you're old enough to butcher. I come back to Dawson a year later but you was nowhere in sight. Next time I saw you was on a news video, you and the Colonel getting married, but I didn't connect you with that sweet young thing." He stared into the fire for a moment, turned back to her. "I can still see the Colonel standing there in his dress uniform, stiff as a ramrod with you beside him holding a bouquet of wildflowers. How old were you?"
"Just turned sixteen."
"Sixteen." Crews nodded. "You must about killed that old fart."
"You'd be surprised," said Baby.
The doors to the study creaked open and Gravenholtz walked in, a little out of breath, dragging C.P. by his hair.
Crews eased himself off the couch. Never said a word. Which was pretty impressive, if you asked Baby.
"Everything okay, Lester?" asked the Old One.
"Feel like I just took a good dump." Gravenholtz was bleeding from a dozen gunshot wounds, a flap of scalp over his ear hanging down. He hoisted C.P up, and the man groaned. "He's the last one. What do you want me to do with him?"
<
br /> The Old One glanced over to where Crews was edging toward a side door. "Don't go, Mr. Crews, we still have so much to discuss. Please?" He turned back to Gravenholtz. "You took care of all of them? Even the guards at the entrance?"
"I said so, didn't I?" said Gravenholtz.
"What is he?" said Crews. "Some kind of...robot or something."
"It's rather complicated," said the Old One. "Let's just say Lester is hard to kill."
CHAPTER 18
"I know what you're here for," said the history professor, wagging her finger at Rakkim. "You can't fool me."
"I can see that." Rakkim looked around the faculty annex trying to see Sarah. Probably fifty people there, arts and sciences instructors and their spouses. He spotted her on the far side of the room, near some trays of wilting vegetables. He waved but she was busy talking to a group of young women who clustered around her.
"Look at her," said the professor, standing too close. She patted her frizzy home perm. "She wants back in, doesn't she? Who can blame her?"
"Back in where?"
"Don't play innocent with me." The professor drank from her cracked teacup, sloshed some on his trousers, started to wipe it off. Another finger wag. "Don't get your hopes up. I may be Catholic, but I'm married...happily married."
"It's been good talking with you." Rakkim started to leave, but she blocked his path.
"She walks off the job five years ago, hardly a word to anyone," said the professor. "Now she suddenly shows up at the monthly tea and thinks she can get her old job back?"
"Sarah's not interested in her old job."
"She was always too good for us warhorses. Redbeard's niece. Youngest Ph.D." The professor's face reddened. "Famous for that book...which was not...not well researched. Popular, that's all she was."
Rakkim stepped around her, working his way through the crowd.
"Are you the husband?" asked an older man in a flared corduroy jacket. He smelled of the orange blossom incense burned at the Muhammad Ali mosque, one of the more prestigious modern mosques. "You're Sarah's husband, aren't you?" He stuck out his hand. "Dr. Ron Wallis, chairman of the history department."
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