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“I don’t get it,” Constantine said. We were back out on the sidewalk, in front of the Bookstore. “Is Q a guy or a book?”
“Both, I said, wishing I still had my Kools. “Neither. It’s just a label hung on an unknown. Same etymology, different context. Get it? Quelle? Source? Q?”
“Then Montavez wasn’t in Seattle looking for Q the Genetic Engineer, but Q, some frigging science fiction novel? All of which were burned by some Branch Davidian cult sixty years ago?”
“Mmm.” I was searching the sidewalk for the half a cigarette I’d discarded before stepping into the bookstore. I found it, still smoldering in the gutter and picked up the nub. I dusted it off and got a few last puffs out of it. “So much for a grand conspiracy,” I said, finishing off my smoke.
“That can’t be it,” Constantine said, looking back at the store. “That just can’t be all there is to it...”
“Maybe, maybe not, but we’re not going to learn anything else back in there.” I tossed the butt back into the gutter and stubbed it out. “Q or no Q, the girl is still dead, and her body is still missing.”
Constantine grunted, not caring at all for my answer.
That Nietzsche Thing Page 9
