Seeing that his visitor intended no response, Joshua said, "Do you understand? Every morning I wake up on that pallet over there, eat some lentil porridge then put the sheep out to pasture. I can watch the sheep or I can visit the neighbors, but they're always doing and saying the same things.
"The first few days, I didn't notice. Then one day I decided I'd slaughter one of the yearling lambs and have a feast. I invited a few of the neighbors, and they brought some bread and wine and olives, and we had a good time. I saved a couple of honey-barley cakes for breakfast and went to bed. In the morning, the cakes were gone…" – he paused for effect – "but the lamb was back in the fold!"
Chesney nodded. "And when you tried leaving the village?"
"I took the Roman road that runs to Jerusalem. I walked all day. When evening came, I wrapped myself in my cloak and slept under a bush. When I woke up, I was right there!" He pointed at the rolled-up sleeping mat and shook his head. "Another time, I sat up all night. When morning came, I let the sheep out then went to visit Mordecai, over there. We had the same conversation we always have, but I couldn't tell if it was day repeating itself, or just him.
"I came back and took a nap. When I woke up…" His hand gestured at the pallet, and his shoulders executed an elegant shrug.
Chesney had seen enough. He stood up, Because he had been thoroughly trained by Letitia Arnstruther, he said, "Thank you for your hospitality. "We should be getting back."
"Stay and have another cup of wine," said the man. "Where is it you come from?" He seemed anxious to prolong the encounter, and even Chesney could understand why. "Not Heaven, or you wouldn't have that." He indicated the demon. "But you say you're not from Hell. So what does that leave?"
"The world," the young man said.
Puzzlement clouded Joshua's face. "But the world has ended," he said. "Not the way I expected, to be sure, but it has definitely come to an end."
Chesney did not want to have to explain. Despite the efforts of experts in his childhood, he had never become adept at anticipating other people's emotional reactions to the things he said and did. But even he could recognize that for Joshua to learn that he was trapped in a discarded draft of a divinely written book would not be a positive experience. On the other hand, he thought, the man would wake up tomorrow and probably put the whole thing down to a bad dream.
He sat down again and accepted the refilled wooden cup. "It's a long story," he said.
"Good," said the other man. He repositioned himself on the stool so that his back was against the table, crossed one knee over the other and interlinked his fingers on his lap. "Let's hear it."
Joshua was an intelligent and motivated listener. As a storyteller, Chesney was used to being told to skip over what most people thought of as too much detail, but Joshua kept interrupting him to have some event in the story amplified or put into context. It had been midafternoon when the young man and his demon had arrived in Nazareth; by the time he had told the full tale of his adventures and undertakings, the sun was disappearing behind the hill he had appeared on.
He finished with, "And so I had Xaphan bring me here so I could see for myself what had happened to you."
Joshua was silent for quite a while, chin sunk upon his chest, arms folded across the end of his beard. He extended his legs, crossed one ankle over the other and regarded his calloused feet as if they had become a disappointment to him. Finally, he heaved a sigh that contained more than a hint of dissatisfaction and said, "Another book. Well, that makes sense, I suppose. And this time some of you know what's going on. I wish that had been the case back when I was walking the roads."
"I think," said Chesney, "that at that point in the writing process, he wasn't ready to let the characters in on the nature of the story."
"Huh," said the other man. He looked at the demon, which had drifted out into the yard, then back to Chesney. "That thing had the power to bring you here?"
"Yes."
"And presumably the power to take you away again."
"Presumably."
Joshua looked around the darkening room, at the dying embers in the hearth, the rolled-up pallet in the alcove. "Then how about," he said, "you take me with you?"
And suddenly, Chesney was in a pool of light. He asked Joshua a question, and the prophet's answer was, "Why not? It beats what I'm doing now."
"Don't be a wise guy," said Xaphan, when they put the matter to the demon.
"Whatever I want you to do," Chesney said, "that's what your orders are."
"Long as you don't break the rules."
"This doesn't break a rule. Hell isn't fighting Hell."
"Yeah, but–"
"No yeah-buts," said the young man. The situation had become clear to him the moment Joshua of Nazareth had said, take me with you. "You're covered," he told the demon.
Xaphan subsided. "You're the boss." The fiend clamped its weasel jaws around its Churchill cigar and blew smoke out of its slitted nostrils.
"They didn't do that when I used to cast them out," said Joshua.
"It's another long story," said Chesney. "You'll see when we get there. The main thing is, do we have a deal?"
"Oh, yes," said the bearded man. "I'm happy to do it. It will be like old times."
"Not quite," said Chesney. "A lot has changed."
A sad smile appeared within the whiskers. "That's all right. So have I."
"Anything you want to bring with you?" Chesney said.
Joshua shook his head, then said, "On second thought." He picked up the shepherd's crook from beside the doorway. "In case I need to earn a living," he said. "Being a prophet never paid much."
"This time, you'll be able to write your own ticket," the young man said. He turned to the demon. "Is Hardacre in his study?" he said.
"Yep."
"Then take us there."
Their time in the grayness was shorter on the way back, and they didn't go by way of Hell. In a few moments, they were stepping out of nothingness into the preacher's study. Billy Lee looked up from where he was seated in an armchair, a lawyer's yellow pad on his lap and a pen in his hand. "What's this?" he said.
"You wanted a prophet," Chesney said. "I've brought you one."
Captain Denby called it a day at six in the evening. The Taxidermist paperwork was under control; he'd shanghaied a civilian clerk to help him – just walked into the pool on the third floor, pointed at a middle-aged woman he'd worked with before and knew to be competent, and said, "Madge, come with me." An hour later, she'd set him up a cross-referenced file system and arranged to come up to his office – he had also commandeered a space that had formerly belonged to a lieutenant who did press liaison, one of J. Edgar Hoople's stable of goalong, get-aheads. Denby had tossed the soft-bellied lieutenant out partly because he wanted the space, and partly to see if he would get away with it. Now it was the end of the day, and nobody with more brass on his collar than Denby had arrived to restore the evicted sycophant.
Denby turned off his desk lamp and closed the murder book – a three-ring binder in which he recorded all steps taken in the investigation of Wendell Throop's homicidal career. He looked at the phone one last time, hoping for coincidence, but its row of lights stayed dark. Still, he didn't rise and head for the door.
Denby was a reflective man. One thing he'd learned in his years on the force was that motivation was usually the key to solving major crimes; once you knew why somebody had ended up dead in a pool of blood, you had a pretty good chance of finding out who had done the deed. Occasionally, he turned the spotlight on himself, and went looking for the why behind his own actions.
What he'd done today – beating the chief and the commissioner at the power game, turfing out the PR lieutenant – didn't bother him. He was honest enough to admit that he enjoyed the ego-boost that came from being top dog, but he knew that the only thing he wanted out of the special-assignment captaincy and all that went with it was the chance to be a better cop. He was willing to cut himself a fair amount
of slack if the end result was more bad guys off the streets and in the pen.
But the business with the preacher's book bothered him. Yes, it had been a mystery and Denby couldn't have been a good cop if he didn't have that urge to get to the bottom of things. But he couldn't deny to himself that he'd stolen the damned thing, and not because he thought it was evidence of a crime – time travel was not illegal, at least not yet – but just because he'd had an itch he had to scratch. That wasn't the Denby he knew.
What got into me he wondered? Whatever it was, he knew that he'd acted on impulse, without thinking. Up until now, he would have bet on his impulses being those of a good cop. But the book business showed him that he was as capable as anybody else of doing the wrong thing, and not for the right reason.
I need to watch that, he told himself. Especially now that he was boldly going into regions where nobody had gone before. The nerd kid and his girlfriend were straight – his instincts would have rung a bell if they hadn't been. The guy in the costume, whatever weird futuristic concerns motivated him, also seemed to be trying to do some good. Now that Denby could bring him into the system, at least as far as making him a confidential informant, the captain wouldn't need to step too far over the line that divided solid police work from vigilantism.
He nodded to himself. That just left Billy Lee Hardacre. The reverend wouldn't be filing any official complaints; he had no evidence that Denby had stolen his book, and he probably wouldn't want to make public the nature of the purloined item. So there would be no repercussions. But still…
Denby consulted his notebook, found Hardacre's number and punched buttons on the phone. The preacher answered on the second ring. The captain identified himself and said, "It's about the book."
"What book?" said Hardacre.
Denby paused long enough to take in the implications of the man's response then said, "I just want you to know I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me."
"I bet I do."
"What?"
But Hardacre didn't add to the cryptic comment. After the silence had lengthened, the policeman said, "Well, I just wanted to say–"
"That you're sorry. I got that."
"So where do we go from here?"
"Nowhere," said Hardacre. "Just stay away from me and my home."
"I can do that."
"Then we're done." Denby heard a click and the line was dead.
The Reverend Billy Lee Hardacre had other troubles. After his wife's son had brought him a replacement prophet, it hadn't taken long to establish the newcomer's identity, even if Joshua didn't present an image the preacher might have expected. For one thing, the attire in which Joshua had arrived was different from what he'd been wearing when Chesney and Xaphan had found him. The demon had converted Chesney's jeans, short-sleeved shirt, and loafers into a robe and sandals to fit the look of first-century AD Judaea, then put him back in twenty-first century casuals for the return. It had also done the equivalent for Joshua, dressing him a lightweight summer suit, opennecked shirt, and suede lace-ups.
The once-and-future prophet was intrigued by the garments. He kept running the zipper up and down until informed that it was necessary to keep it up in mixed company. He was also taken with the idea of pockets. "Very handy," he kept saying, as he investigated the jacket, pants and shirt for useful places to keep stuff. Then he pulled off one of the shoes to see if it had any hidden compartments.
During the couple of minutes the prophet spent exploring his clothing, Hardacre and Chesney were preoccupied with reviving Letitia and moving her from the carpet on which she had fainted and getting her settled in an armchair. Her son went to the kitchen to fetch a cool cloth for her forehead, while her husband took the more practical approach of pouring an ounce and a half of brandy down her throat.
She came to, spluttering, but when her eyes focused on the bearded man running his zipper up and down in front of her, she went away again. Another slug of liquor brought her back, and this time she took hold of the glass and drained it.
By now, Chesney had got the prophet seated and the bearded man was looking about the room with evident interest. "Not Rome?" he said to the young man.
"No. America. It hadn't been discovered when you were… active."
"America," said Joshua, pronouncing the word carefully. "Sounds Roman, though."
"It's a long story," Chesney said.
"Oh, good." Joshua folded his arms and waited attentively.
"Later," said Chesney. "Right now we need to settle a few things." He turned to the demon, which was sampling a single-malt Irish whiskey from Hardacre's cabinet. "Xaphan, would you bring Melda, please?"
The fiend nodded, then shimmered out of sight. It was back again a moment later with Chesney's girlfriend, who came into view in the act of striking the demon with a long, pale object that turned out to be a loofah bath sponge. The young woman then noticed the presence of the others, screamed, and attempted to cover strategic parts of herself with the sponge, because she was otherwise clad in nor more than a few widely scattered patches of bubbles.
"Xaphan!" said Chesney. "Fix this!"
A moment later, Melda was clothed, dry and bubblefree. Xaphan had chosen one of her favorite outfits: a green cotton blouse and denim skirt combo that she liked to wear when they went to the park for picnics. She still held the loofah, however, which she disposed of by throwing it at Chesney's assistant. The demon moved a finger and the sponge disappeared in mid-flight.
Joshua had had the good manners to avert his eyes and blush. When the embarrassment was over, he said to Chesney, "Are you sure you don't want me to rid you of that thing?"
"How about it?" the young man said to Xaphan. "Want to see how an exorcism feels?"
"Try it, and I'll just ankle on home."
"Not if I order you to stay."
"It was just a little joke," said the demon. "No need for all the brouhaha."
"Go somewhere else until I call you."
Letitia's eyes were the largest Chesney had ever seen them. His mother held out her glass, now empty, and said to Hardacre. "More."
As the preacher was returning with another brandy, and a Scotch for himself, the phone rang. He answered it and held up his end of a short conversation. When he'd hung up, he said, "Denby."
Chesney saw that Melda had gone from seething to a low simmer. "It was my fault," he told her, steering her toward a chair. "I should have thought of the possibilities." He watched her get a grip, and tried to help it by saying, "I've always liked you in those clothes."
"Enough," she said. "What's been going on?"
"I want to introduce you to Joshua," he said. He could hear, by the sound of his own voice, that he was speaking to her in ordinary American English so he worked at getting the pronunciation right. To the prophet, he said, hearing his voice take on the accent and cadence of Heaven, "This is Melda McCann, my girlfriend."
"Your betrothed?" said Joshua.
Chesney looked at the young woman and felt the heat of a blush creeping up his cheeks. "We haven't talked about…"
"His betrothed," said Melda.
Chesney's mother let out a noise somewhere between a squeak and a moan, then opened her mouth to say something more cogent. Hardacre stilled her by holding up both hands, as if placing a barrier between his wife and an unpleasant sight. "Later, Letty," he said. "Business first."
Chesney had something to say, and now was the time to say it. "Melda, I know we agreed that you would make the decision on this prophet thing. But now something's happened and I've worked it out for myself."
He did not know what to expect. He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd laid into him. He'd seen enough incidents at work of people having their responsibilities undercut by others – insurance was a competitive business, even for actuaries – and he knew it made people mad. Instead he saw forming between her brows the little line that meant she was thinking something through.
"How?" she said.
"I don't know," he said. "
It wasn't clear, but then I followed it anyway and then I saw… well, anyway, I figured out what was best."
The little line went away and she smiled. "That's fantastic!" she said. "I'm so proud of you."
He felt a warm glow, but it was edged by a little chill. "But you might not like what I've decided," he said.
"Try me."
He turned and addressed the others. "I'm not going to be a prophet," he said. "I've seen what happens," he gestured to indicate the bearded man, "and it's not going to happen to me."
Costume Not Included: To Hell and Back, Book 2 Page 16
