Feeling like there was an electric current running through me, I forced myself to go into Garth’s kitchen and make a pot of coffee, just to give myself something to do while I struggled to calm myself down. Then I sat at the kitchen table, sipped coffee, and tried to think. It didn’t take me long to reach a decision as to what I was going to do next, and it gave me a chill that the hot coffee couldn’t touch.
Still concentrating on calming and centering myself for what lay ahead of me in the day, I made myself eggs, bacon, and toast, ate slowly. By the time I had finished eating and cleaning up the dishes, the sun was coming up, glowing reddish-orange, lending some warmth to what looked from Garth’s kitchen window to be a very cold day. I went to the bank of windows in the living room and looked down on Fifty-sixth Street; the black limousine was there, parked across the street. I certainly hoped it was Tanker Thompson’s day off, and that whoever was manning this shift was no more than a third of the ex–football player’s size. I also fervently hoped there was only one.
I rummaged through Garth’s kitchen drawers until I found the item I wanted, put it in my pocket. Then I went upstairs to my own apartment. I hadn’t carried a gun for more than a year, since there hadn’t been any need. Now there was. I took out both my Beretta and my Seecamp; they had been carefully cleaned and oiled before I’d put them away, but I went through the same procedure all over again. I loaded both guns, strapped the Seecamp to my ankle, and put the Beretta in my shoulder holster. Then I put on my coat and went down to the basement garage.
I drove Beloved up and out of the garage at a leisurely pace, punched at the garage door control hanging on the visor as I turned left. I drove three blocks, just to make sure my tail was awake and taking care of business. He was. Still driving at a leisurely pace, I headed toward the West Side Highway. There was virtually no traffic on the streets on this early Sunday morning, so the limousine was always clearly in sight in my rearview mirror—and he wasn’t far behind. This total lack of guile made me suspect that the driver of the other car was none other than Tanker Thompson. Just what I needed for my nerves.
I went up the ramp onto the West Side Highway, heading north. The limousine came up right behind me, no more than two or three car lengths behind. I knew exactly where I wanted to go, and what I wanted to do when I got there, but the timing was going to be very tricky. The on-again, off-again Westway project, designed to replace the crumbling West Side Highway and Henry Hudson Drive with a six-lane expressway, had left in its wake a checkerboard of cleared areas and aborted projects in various stages of construction beneath the present highway, closer to the river. Four months before, in the course of acting as liaison in some very delicate negotiations between federal prosecutors and a certain Mafia don who was willing to inform on the family that had put out a contract on his life, I had met said Mafia don in an isolated, half-finished parking garage—really no more than a concrete slab with a corrugated steel roof—on a landfill jutting out into the river in the upper Eighties. That was where I was going.
Three-quarters of a mile from the exit, I stomped on Beloved’s accelerator, and the well-tuned 360 Mercedes-Benz engine under the Rabbit’s hood—a little indulgence I’d allowed myself in honor of my newfound wealth—roared to life. Beloved’s tires spun, gripped, and the black limousine began to recede rapidly in the distance. Perhaps too rapidly. I let up on the accelerator, watched in the rearview mirror as the Cadillac gained ground, then sped up again. I slowed slightly before the exit, turned off on it, went around a corner, and immediately braked hard. When I saw the nose of the limousine appear in the rearview mirror, I yanked the wheel to the right, sped around a wooden barrier, knocked over a NO EXIT sign, and bounced down a badly rutted road leading to the river and landfill. At the bottom was a concrete ramp with a hairpin turn leading onto the concrete platform that was to have been the first floor of the parking garage. I braked hard, skidded around the turn; Beloved skidded twenty feet sideways and came to rest across the entrance.
Perfect—I hoped.
Bidding good-bye to Beloved, assuring her that she was being sacrificed in a good cause, I jumped out and sprinted toward a concrete support column fifteen yards away, to the left of the entrance. I reached the column just as the air was filled with the tortured scream of brakes being applied full force—and too late. The driver of the limousine, not knowing where he was going, had—as I’d hoped—come speeding out of the blind turn, and by the time he saw Beloved it was too late to stop. The brakes continued to scream as the Cadillac, its rear tires billowing black smoke, slid across the concrete and rammed hard into Beloved, driving her like a billiard ball ten yards down the length of the platform and up against a support column, where she burst into flame.
I drew my Beretta from the shoulder holster and sprinted to the limousine. All of the car’s windows had exploded on impact in bursts of white powder, and I could see Tanker Thompson, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, slumped over the wheel. But Tanker Thompson was certain to have a hard head, and he was already beginning to mumble and stir by the time I reached the driver’s side. I shoved the Beretta into a pocket in my parka and took out the tube of Krazy Glue I had taken from Garth’s kitchen. Quickly, I squirted some of the liquid on Thompson’s left ear, reached around the back of his head and squirted more on the right ear. I reached in, threaded his left arm through the steering wheel, slapped the palm of his hand against his ear. I did the same to his right arm and palm.
Now we were ready to talk turkey.
Tanker Thompson wasn’t going to be making any big moves now—not unless he wanted to end up holding his ears in his hands. Feeling rather smug with my cleverness, I casually ambled around to the other side of the car, where the passenger’s door was sprung off its hinges. I slid into the front seat over a glistening carpet of powdered glass, once again took out my Beretta, and tapped Tanker Thompson once, smartly, on the top of his shaved head. Acrid black smoke from the burning wreckage of Beloved swept through the shattered front windshield, making my eyes sting. I wasn’t sure how long it would be before police and fire trucks arrived, so I was in a bit of a hurry.
“You awake, Thompson?”
The giant with the mashed nose and bruise-colored face grunted, tried to sit up, grunted even louder when he discovered that his palms were securely glued to his ears. He raised his right elbow slightly, shifted in his seat, and studied me with small, black eyes that seemed oddly lifeless, like lumps of coal in the smear of blood that covered his face. I didn’t like those eyes; they belonged in an animal, not a human. He mumbled something, of which I understood only the words “fucking dwarf.”
“Tut-tut. That’s no way for a God-fearing man to talk.”
“What have you done to me?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling in his chest with the ominous sound of distant thunder.
“Nothing that I can’t undo. Just sit still and answer my questions. If I like what I hear, I’ll see if I can’t scare up some nail polish remover to dissolve that glue on your ears. Where are you keeping my brother?”
“What’s the matter with you two?” Tanker Thompson said with what sounded like genuine confusion and indignation. “Why are you so unreasonable?”
“Huh?” The question itself, and his injured tone of voice, took me completely by surprise. “Why are we so unreasonable?”
“Yes,” the huge man said in the same indignant tone. “You wanted to make sure that Vicky wasn’t going to be hurt anymore. She’s not. I saw to that. Then why are you continuing to try to thwart God’s will?”
I shook my head slightly. “You’re admitting you killed William Kenecky?”
“Yes. He was the spawn of Satan masquerading as a man of God. Men of God don’t abuse children like that. I love children, and so does God. God told me to kill him, and I did. Patton didn’t handle that right. He should have cooperated with you when you first went to him—at least he should have told you that he would make things all right for Vicky. Because of him, the
two of you could have caused trouble. He was a fool. God told me to kill him, too.”
“Jesus. You killed Patton?”
“Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Yes, I killed Patton. There is no room in God’s elite for fools. Why did you and your brother keep coming and trying to make trouble after you knew Kenecky was dead? I thought you’d be pleased.”
The wind had abruptly shifted and was carrying the smoke from Beloved’s wreckage in the opposite direction, out the other end of the half-finished garage, dissipating it over the ice-choked Hudson River. The flames of the wreck were dying down, and there was still no sound of sirens. It occurred to me that no one had even noticed the crash, or paid attention to the smoke; this was, after all, New York City. I released the hammer on the Beretta, lowered the gun to my lap. “You’ve certainly been a busy beaver, Tanker,” I said in amazement.
“I am Christ’s avatar on earth in the Final Days; I am His sword, and He has empowered me to make these decisions.” He paused, studied my face. When he spoke again, there was an almost childlike quality to his voice. “You know who I am, dwarf?”
“Of course, Tanker,” I replied evenly, speaking to that childlike quality, as well as his obvious madness. Tanker Thompson was not exactly what I had expected; I had anticipated having to deal with a mindless brute, and instead found myself talking to a man who sounded like he was waiting for me to ask him for his autograph. “I’m a big football fan, in a manner of speaking, and I remember when you played. It’s just too bad about that nasty little racist streak in you.”
Tanker Thompson sighed. “It’s true that I had evil in my heart. I killed a man because of the color of his skin, and I hated Jews.”
“You don’t feel that way any longer?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing with the company you’re keeping?”
“It is God’s will, part of God’s plan for His avatar. God spoke to me in prison. I was forgiven for my sins, and it was explained to me how Jews are God’s Chosen, and how they would play an important role in the Final Days. Kenecky and Patton had already prepared the way, but they did not have Jesus in their hearts. They had no further function in what is to come, and they were only complicating things; I was told to kill them.”
“Right,” I said, not understanding a word he was saying, and not caring. There was only one thing I cared about at the moment. I swallowed hard, found that my mouth was very dry. “Tanker, did God tell you to … kill Garth?”
“No. He is to be destroyed with all the others when the end comes.”
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until my chest and lungs began to ache. I slowly exhaled, passed a trembling hand over my eyes. “But you do have him?”
“Yes. But why did the two of you keep coming on? God wanted Kenecky killed so that you would know that Vicky is protected. I would never let anyone hurt a child, dwarf. That’s not what God wants.”
“Tanker, Garth and I kept coming because we still weren’t sure that the child was unharmed. We didn’t know that a decent man like you was watching out for her. Now we do, so there’s no need for us to continue with our investigation; all we ever cared about was the girl. If you’ll tell me where my brother is, I’ll go get him and we’ll be out of your hair.”
Again, the giant lifted his elbow, stared at me from under its crook. I didn’t like the look in his small eyes. “You lie, dwarf,” he said at last. “That’s a sin. You must think I’m a fool. I’m Christ’s avatar on earth; He lets me see into men’s hearts, and He tells me you’re lying.”
“I’m grateful to you for not killing Garth, Tanker, but I don’t understand why you want to keep holding him. We’re not your enemies.”
“You’re God’s enemies.”
“No, Tanker. It’s certainly true that we don’t share your religious beliefs, but that doesn’t make us God’s enemies. We don’t care what you believe. And it turns out that we shared the same concern. It was because of us that you found out that Kenecky was abusing the girl, and then you … put a stop to it. That’s all we wanted. On that piece of business, we were on the same side. That must mean we were on God’s side, since you’re God’s avatar.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me. Why can’t you let us be? For that matter, why does Christ need an avatar on earth in the first place? It seems to me that He’s been taking care of His own business quite nicely for upwards of two thousand years.”
“This is different; these are the Final Days. Satan’s demons are already arriving, in human form. Kenecky and Patton were demons.”
“Then why were you working for them?”
“I’ve already explained that to you. God had put evil in my heart so that the demons would come to me, think I was one of them. Even they were part of God’s plan, since they had the power to bring on the Final Days. But then God cleansed my heart so that I could see that they were demons, and that He had no further use for them.”
“Do you think Garth and I are demons?”
“No. But you’re not among God’s elite, either. Neither of you will be Raptured next week.”
“Next week? You believe the world is going to end next week?”
“The world will begin to end; the battle of Armageddon will begin. These are the Final Days. I and the others will be Raptured up to the heavens to wait with Jesus for seven years. Those who are left behind, those who survive the first minutes, will be tormented by the armies of Satan. When the seven years have passed, Jesus and those He has Raptured will descend to rule the earth in His kingdom.”
“Uh, when next week is all this business supposed to start happening, Tanker?”
“The beginning of the new year.”
“You mean Friday?”
“Yes.”
“Got it. But after that, those of us who haven’t been Raptured will be taking our lumps with Satan and his demons, right?”
“You mock, dwarf. But you’ll see. All of you unbelievers will see.”
“I don’t mean to mock, Tanker; I’m just trying to make an argument. If Garth and I are going to be going through so much suffering, don’t you, as Christ’s avatar, think it only fitting that we should suffer together? And if the Final Days are here anyway, what does it matter if Garth and I are together? Where’s the sense of hanging on to him if Satan and his demons are coming around in another five days to make us all miserable? What’s the point?”
“Neither you nor your brother will suffer at the hands of the demons, dwarf,” Tanker Thompson said in a low voice that had a particularly chilling effect on me. “Not everyone will be around to suffer the years of Tribulation.”
“Uh, why is that, Tanker?”
“Because you’ll be dead.”
“Garth and I will be dead?”
“Yes. The two of you, and millions of others, will die at the beginning of the Tribulation.”
“How do you know we’re going to die?”
“Because it is prophesied.”
“All the more reason for brothers to be together, no? What do you care if we’re together for the last five days of our lives?”
There was no reply, and I found myself growing even colder.
“I don’t understand what’s happening, Tanker,” I continued. “What’s the story? Are you punishing Garth by holding him?”
“No.”
“Then why not free him so that he and I can be together for the last five days before Satan arrives?”
Again, there was no reply. And then I realized why I felt cold as I recalled some things a few of the zanier zealots, including William Kenecky, had spoken and written about on a number of occasions; the same things had even been alluded to by a few of the zanier politicians looking to curry favor with the religious right.
Nuclear war with Russia, their line of insane reasoning went, could well be the Armageddon referred to in the Bible. Consequently, not only would it be moral to start such a war, but the people la
unching it would be carrying out an act of Divine Providence. These chiliasts believed that it was God’s will that millions should die in order to bring on Armageddon and the eventual Kingdom of God on earth. These people didn’t fear nuclear holocaust; indeed, they couldn’t wait for the bombs to start falling.
I could well be talking to such a man. Tanker Thompson, Craig Valley, Floyd and Baxter Small, William Kenecky, Peter Patton, and Henry Blaisdel—lovers of death, all of them, men who viewed their own and everyone else’s extermination with what could only be described as a kind of sexual frenzy.
“Tanker,” I said softly, “you people are doing more than just hanging around waiting for the Rapture and Tribulation to begin Thursday at midnight, aren’t you? You’ve got something cooked up to start the ball rolling, right? That’s why you’re so certain Garth and I are going to die.”
Tanker Thompson smiled, nodded. “It’s God’s will.”
“It’s the ultimate in necrophilia, is what it is,” I said tersely, feeling my heart start to pound. “What’s going to happen? How many other people are going to escape the Tribulation because they’ll be dead, Tanker?”
“Many. It will be a blessing. What’s necrophilia, dwarf?”
“You killed Peter Patton. Who’s in charge now? Henry Blaisdel?”
Tanker Thompson laughed softly. “God is in charge. It can’t be stopped now. Praise the Lord. Jesus is coming.”
“If it can’t be stopped, why hang on to Garth? If it’s God’s will that the Tribulation should come, then no human should be able to stop it.”
“No human must be allowed to try. That’s why I’m here.”
“Then it can be stopped?”
“Not by you.”
“Where’s Garth, Tanker? Is he where Vicky Brown is?”
Second Horseman Out of Eden Page 15
