There was another burst of automatic weapon fire, followed by someone groaning in pain.
“Cripes, that hurts,” moaned Eddie, sticking his head out the window again. “Hang on, I’ll be right down.”
By the time Suzy had gotten to her feet, Eddie had appeared at the door of the apartment building. He was carrying a Spider-Man backpack, which seemed a little weird to Suzy. Not nearly as weird as the six bloody bullet holes torn in Eddie’s shirt though.
“Oh my God,” she cried, rushing to him. “You’ve been shot!”
“Only six times,” he said. “It’s—ow—not so bad. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
“You’re in shock,” she said, putting her arm around him to steady him, as if he were about to fall over at any second. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”
“I’m fine,” Eddie insisted. “Look.” He pulled up his shirt to reveal bullet holes that had already begun to close up.
“How… how is that possible?” she asked.
“Immortality, accelerated healing,” muttered Eddie. “Benefits of being an angel. Too bad Rosenfeld wasn’t so lucky.”
“Rosenfeld!” cried Suzy. “Where is he?”
“Boy, that’s the real question, isn’t it?” said Eddie. “Beats me.”
“What? Isn’t he upstairs?”
“His body is, but Rosenfeld isn’t home anymore. Poor bastard. I never should have dragged him into this.”
“He’s dead?” she gasped.
“Afraid so. My fault, too. I should have killed all those guys as soon as they walked in the door. This is what I get for trying to minimize violence.”
“So did you kill them?”
“No, they’re unconscious. Killing them actually would have been easier. Stop their hearts, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Anyway, we should get going. Where’s your car?”
“My car? Where are we going?”
“I thought you said Texas.”
“Oh. Right now?”
“Well, there will probably be about fifty more federal agents here in about two minutes. Probably three or four demons too, now that they know who they’re dealing with. So unless you want to be around for that, I’d suggest we leave now.”
“Gotcha,” said Suzy. “This way.”
Chapter Twelve
Boston; November 17, 1773
Mercury trudged up the narrow wooden steps to the meeting room he’d been told was above the tavern. Stopping at the top of the stairs, he knocked three times, paused, knocked again, paused a little longer, then knocked six more times.
The door opened and a young blond man peered out at him.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“My name,” said Mercury, “is Lord Quinton Squigglebottom, Earl of Northwest Halfordshire.”
“I see,” said the man. “And why do you knock in such an odd manner?”
Mercury shrugged. “I figured you guys had some kind of secret knock. Did I get it right?”
“Who is it?” called a voice from inside the room. “If it’s not Tobias with more beer, send him away.”
Mercury surreptitiously slipped his hand behind his back and then revealed it again, holding a pitcher of dark brown liquid.
“How did you…” gasped the man.
Mercury grinned and slid past the man into the room. The room was small and windowless, with just enough room for a table and a dozen chairs, in which sat a dozen men of greatly varying appearance, dress, and social station. Some were well-dressed and apparently affluent; a few looked like they had just gotten off work at the docks.
“Greetings, Sons of Liberty!” cried Mercury. “I am Lord Quinton Squigglebottom, Earl of Northwest Halfordshire. I have been moved by reports of the oppressive treatment of your people by the British government and have journeyed long across the sea to come to your aid.” He began refilling the men’s mugs. Several of the men grunted in appreciation.
“Northwest Halfordshire, you say,” said one of the better dressed men. “Where is that, exactly?”
“It’s in the north,” said Mercury. “Between East Blandwich and South Doorchester Croft. Ing. Ham.”
“Uh huh,” the man replied.
“Anyway,” Mercury went on, “After hearing of your plight, I’ve decided to commit the considerable resources of my estate to your cause. Starting by paying for your beer.”
The well-dressed man, whom Mercury took to be the leader of the group, seemed unconvinced, but he motioned for Mercury to take a seat. “My name is Samuel Adams,” he said. He motioned toward a dapper-looking gentlemen to his right. “This is John Hancock, whom you no doubt know by reputation.” He continued around the table: “Henry Bass, Thomas Chase, Everett Drake, Adam Johnson, Benjamin Edes, Patrick Henry, James Otis, Paul Revere, Benedict Arnold.”
Mercury nodded at the men in turn. “Lord Quinton Squigglebottom at your service, gentlemen. Please, call me Quinton. But I’ve interrupted your discussion.”
Samuel Adams nodded and gestured toward John Hancock.
“I was just saying,” said Hancock, “that we’ve received word that the King seems intent on enforcing the Tea Act—”
“Oh!” cried Mercury suddenly. Hancock frowned, and all eyes turned to Mercury.
“It’s nothing,” said Mercury. “Please, go on.”
“As I was saying,” Hancock went on, “if His Majesty insists on forcing the issue by sending ships laden with…”
Mercury had his hand clamped over his mouth, and he was bouncing up and down in his chair like a three-year-old with a secret.
“What is it, Lord Squigglebottom?” demanded Hancock.
“Quinton, please,” said Mercury. “It’s nothing, really. Well, not nothing. I didn’t want to interrupt your high-minded discussion of democratic ideals with mere facts.”
“To what facts are you referring,” said Paul Revere. “Speak plainly, sir!”
“Oh, just the three ships on their way to Boston right now, stacked to the jibs with British tea.”
Outraged groans and gasps escaped several men at the table.
“How do you know of this?” Hancock asked.
“They were loading the tea as my ship disembarked from Portsmouth. I’d expect them in a fortnight, at the latest.”
“Outrageous!” cried Patrick Henry. Several of the men murmured agreement. An animated discussion ensued about the proper response to the ship’s arrival, and quickly turned into a contest of who could suggest the most extreme action in the matter. At first it was suggested that the tea be unloaded and left in a padlocked warehouse to rot. Then someone suggested throwing the tea overboard and burning the ships. Finally, Mercury suggested that the Sons of Liberty should dress up as Indians, burn the ships, and slaughter the crews. This had the effect of both solidifying Mercury’s status as a patriot and horrifying the rest of the assembly.
“That seems… a bit extreme,” said Samuel Adams. Hancock, Revere, and several others nodded in agreement. Patrick Henry shrugged, as if he’d been willing to go along with it but wasn’t going to argue the point. Benedict Arnold remained silent. The man who had first suggested burning the ships, Everett Drake, was trying to get the floor back, but Adams wouldn’t yield.
“I think the most reasonable course of action is to leave the ships and crews alone, but to dump the tea into the water. That makes our point without resorting to unnecessary violence. After all, it isn’t the fault of the East India Company or its crews that the King is illegally taxing the tea.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Hancock and Revere.
Mercury seemed a bit put out. “Can we still dress like Indians?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m not sure I see the point of that,” replied Adams.
“Indians are bad ass,” answered Mercury.
“Pardon me?” asked Adams, puzzled.
“I just thought it would be neat,” mumbled Mercury quietly.
“It would be a good idea to conceal our identities,” noted Revere
. “Perhaps Quinton is on to something.”
“Really?” asked Mercury, a bit surprised to hear one of his ideas taken seriously.
“I agree that we should wear disguises,” said Revere. “But I don’t quite grasp the Indian angle. I was thinking we would wear sheets, with pillowcases for hoods.”
“That’s… not a good look,” said Mercury.
“I like the Indian idea,” said Hancock. “And it’s easy. Strip down to your pants, rub on some warpaint, grab a hatchet, and start whooping it up with war cries.”
Mercury winced. “Well, you’re not going to win any sensitivity awards, but yeah.”
“Plus,” said Thomas Chase, “we can use the hatchets to break open the crates.”
“Good point,” said Adams. “OK, then it’s agreed. When the ship arrives, we board it dressed as Indians and throw the tea into the water.”
The men murmured agreement and then, having finished the pitcher of beer Mercury had miraculously produced, adjourned for the evening. Several of the Sons of Liberty proclaimed how happy they were to have such a prestigious and wealthy nobleman on their side, and Mercury, in return, expressed how lucky they were to have him. They said their goodbyes and Mercury walked off alone down the darkened cobblestone streets of Boston.
“Quite a performance in there, Lord Squigglebottom,” said a woman’s voice from the shadows.
Mercury shrank back. “Hawk your wares elsewhere, foul harlot!” he cried, “Unless you have change for a sixpence.”
The woman stepped out of the shadows, smirking wickedly at him.
“Oh,” said Mercury. “It’s you.”
“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” said the woman, affecting profound disappointment. “It’s been so long.”
“What do you want, Tiamat?” asked Mercury. “I’m working.”
“I know you are,” said Tiamat. “The question is, who are you working for? You’ve got Lucifer’s agents completely befuddled.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly difficult. Lucifer isn’t known for the intellectual caliber of his minions. Like that Everett Drake, or whatever his name really is.”
Tiamat smiled. “How long did it take you to pick him out?”
“I had my suspicions as soon as I walked in the room. He’s got that shifty, stupid look that characterizes so many of Lucifer’s agents. Like somebody who thinks he’s clever for figuring out a joke ten minutes after everybody else has stopped laughing. I knew for sure when he suggested burning the ships. Such an obvious Lucifer play. The guy has no sense for the big picture.”
“Exactly what I was just saying,” Tiamat said with a chuckle. “Unlike you.”
Mercury shrugged. “I just go with the flow.”
“You follow your instincts,” said Tiamat. “Everett Drake—his real name is Ramiel, by the way—comes up with a bad idea, and instead of arguing against it, you trump him with an absolutely terrible idea. Suddenly the rabble-rousers are split between two bad ideas, and the more sensible members realize they need to reassert control. So instead of burning the ships, the Sons of Liberty agree to just quietly toss the tea overboard. Understated but effective.”
“Hmm,” Mercury said. “So what’s your interest here? I thought you were busy eviscerating Huguenots.”
“I’m taking a break,” said Tiamat. “Doing a favor for Lucifer.”
“I thought you hated that guy.”
“I do. I suppose I should say that Lucifer thinks I’m doing him a favor. He’s frustrated that his agents haven’t been able to provoke more mindless violence in the colonies. So I told him I could start a war between Britain and America in less than two years.”
“What does war have to do with mindless violence?” Mercury asked. “War takes deliberate planning and organization. There’s no natural progression from mob violence to war.”
Tiamat sighed. “See, this is why I like you, Mercury. You get me. Lucifer doesn’t see any arbitrary, random violence going on, so he worries that war is never going to break out. He hasn’t grasped the fact that the bloodiest wars happen after resentments have simmered quietly for years.”
“You really think war is going to happen within two years?”
“It better. My plan to conquer France is riding on it.”
“Your what?”
“Never mind. Private business between me and Lucifer. Isn’t war what you want? I thought that’s why you’re here.”
Mercury sighed. “You know how Heaven is. I can’t get any straight answers. My assignment was to ‘stir up patriotic sentiment’ in the colonies. I don’t exactly know what that means. In any case, there’s plenty of patriotic sentiment already. Mostly I’m just trying to keep these guys from doing anything incredibly stupid.”
“Well, you seem to be doing a fine job, from what I can tell,” said Tiamat.
“So you aren’t going to interfere?”
“Of course not,” replied Tiamat. “I don’t care if the so-called Sons of Liberty have a little tea party. I just came here to confirm what I already suspected: war is going to break out, and it’s going to happen whether Sam Adams’ little band act like bloodthirsty brigands or the paragons of civilization.”
“Well, I guess that’s what Heaven wants too, so for once everybody’s in agreement.”
“Except you.”
Mercury shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of war, but the matter seems to be out of my hands. So I’ll just keep stirring up patriotic sentiment.”
“Have fun with that,” said Tiamat. “Well, I’d better go. Those Huguenots aren’t going to eviscerate themselves.”
With that, Tiamat disappeared into the night. Mercury shook his head and continued on down the street. Having no need of sleep, he planned to fly to New Hampshire overnight and do some reconnaissance to gauge the level of support in that area for declaring independence from British rule. First, though, he had to get out of Boston. It wouldn’t do for some nosy shopkeeper to see him taking flight.
As he neared the end of the cobblestone street, he heard what sounded like a footfall behind him. He spun around, peering down the dark street, but saw nothing but the dark outlines of rooftops against the night sky. Even with his preternaturally acute angelic vision, he saw no sign of anyone.
“Tiamat?” he asked, uncertainly. But there was no answer. He doubted it was Tiamat anyway; she wasn’t known for slinking around—and certainly not after making one of her dramatic exits.
After a moment, Mercury shrugged and continued walking. Whoever it was, they were unlikely to be a threat to Mercury. Even if one of the locals did see him leaving the ground, he’d be dismissed as a lunatic by his peers if he said anything about it. Mercury walked a ways onto the muddy ground beyond the cobblestones, took another look around, and leaped into the air.
As he arced to the south, he took a glance behind him again. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a lone figure leaning out from behind a building, watching him.
Chapter Thirteen
Somewhere in Idaho; August 2016
Suzy held her breath as the Tercel struggled up the steep, winding mountain road. The inside of the car was silent except for the whine of the motor and the barely audible strains of Duran Duran’s “Rio” squawking from the radio. Neither she nor Eddie had said a word for at least a hundred miles, neither of them wanting to put voice to the worry that was going through both of their heads.
“What if it’s not him?” Suzy asked at last.
Eddie sighed. “What if it is him?” he replied. After walking around Milhaus, Texas for a couple of hours, they found a bartender who recognized Mercury by Eddie’s description. The bartender said the man had expressed a disconcerting amount of interest in the remote cabin previously occupied by crazed bomber Chris Finlan.
Suzy’s brow furrowed and she looked over at Eddie in the passenger’s seat. “What does that mean?”
“It means don’t borrow trouble from the future. Or be careful what you wish for. Something like that.
Anyway, let’s just concentrate on getting this rust bucket to the cabin.”
“I thought you could perform miracles,” Suzy said. “Or do they only work on domestic autos?”
“I don’t know anything about cars,” Eddie said defensively. “I can use interplanar energy to push a car up a hill, but it’s not like I can miraculously fix your carburetor.”
“You think something is wrong with my carburetor?” asked Suzy, suddenly worried.
“I have no idea!” exclaimed Eddie, irritably. “I wouldn’t know a carburetor from Carmen Sandiego. And frankly I’d have better luck finding the latter.”
“Usually it’s not too hard,” she said. “If you pay attention to the clues.”
“Slow down,” said Eddie. “The turn should be just ahead. There.”
Suzy braked and turned down the dirt track. “Are you sure this is it? It doesn’t even look like a driveway.”
“What are you expecting, a remote mountain cabin with an expressway up to the front door? This is it.”
They drove another three miles down the track, mostly in first gear. The ground was uneven and peppered with rocks and potholes. After nearly an hour of punishing conditions, the Tercel groaned to a halt in a small clearing. On a small ridge overlooking them was a tiny, crude wooden structure that looked vaguely like a chicken coop.
“That can’t be it,” Suzy said.
“I think that’s it,” replied Eddie.
“Chris Finlan lived in that thing? No wonder he went crazy.”
“He was crazy before he moved in.”
“He’d have to be.”
They left the car and made their way up a steep path leading toward the cabin. Two minutes later they were standing in front of it.
“We’re here,” said Eddie.
“I thought it was farther away,” replied Suzy.
The cabin was even smaller than it seemed at first sight, and in worse repair. Suzy doubted any self-respecting chicken would voluntarily live there.
“So what now?” asked Suzy.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is there some kind of special angel greeting?”
“Yeah, it’s called knocking.”
Mercury Revolts: (Book Four of the Mercury Series) Page 9
