“Something wrong?”
“I don’t even know where I’m going. We should have stayed there. The police…”
“…are going to be looking for someone to blame,” Mercury said. “Are you familiar with Walter Chatton?”
“No,” replied Christine, impatiently. “Should I be?”
“Walter Chatton devised a theory which states that when you’re trying to explain something, you should be prepared to keep adding to your explanation until whatever it is that you set out to explain is fully explained.”
“Fascinating.”
“The idea never really caught on.”
“Hard to imagine why,” Christine said irritably. “Wilbur Cheetham was clearly a misunderstood genius.”
“Actually, it’s a rather unhelpful theory, particularly for people who are paid poorly to explain a virtually unlimited number of nearly inexplicable incidents. It was the best response Walter Chatton could come up to another principle of limited usefulness, called Occam’s Razor. You know that one, I suppose?”
Christine was tiring of the lecture. “Something about not trusting an Italian woman who shaves more than twice a day?”
“Occam’s razor states that –”
“I know, I know. The simplest explanation is the best.”
“More or less. It might be better summarized as ‘Don’t needlessly complicate an explanation.’ You know who loves Occam’s Razor?”
“Kittens?” offered Christine, who was trying to focus on more pressing matters than a rivalry between medieval theologians.
“The police. The authorities. Right now, the simplest explanation is a natural gas explosion. The police aren’t going to trouble themselves to satisfy Walter Chatton. They’re going to go from point A, unexploded house, to point C, exploded house, and they’re going to pencil in “B, natural gas explosion,” between them. Unless, that is, you and I show up uninvited at point B with a look on our faces that says ‘Something far more troubling than a natural gas explosion.’ Understand?”
Christine hated to admit that this person, this clearly insane person listening to catchy early 1990s pop songs in the passenger seat of her rented Camry, was making sense. But of course he was. What would she tell the police? A pillar of fire descended from the heavens as divine retribution for a bungled card trick?
“So you screwed up a card trick, and now someone is trying to –”
“I executed the card trick flawlessly,” countered Mercury. “For a journalist, you’re not much of a listener. The card trick was foiled by an interloper. I didn’t figure a card trick would show up on Heaven’s radar, but somebody must have gotten a trace on me. Two somebodies, in fact. Not just anybody can authorize a Class Three pillar of fire, so that was presumably the work of my superiors. The people I work for aren’t known for issuing warnings, though, so the card thing must have been someone else, trying to get my attention. It’s a good thing they did, too, or we’d never have gotten out of the house in time. Lucky, huh?”
Christine took her eyes off the road to direct a pained glance in his direction.
Mercury began again. “You see, I can’t perform miracles without –”
“Oh, good lord,” Christine said. “I can’t believe I’m listening to this. You’re telling me that the card trick was a miracle?”
“What, you don’t believe in miracles?”
“I don’t believe that card tricks are miracles.”
“Well, most aren’t. Neither are most escapes from collapsed buildings.”
“You – How did you know about that?”
“Unauthorized miracles of that sort make it on the news.”
“The news? They haven’t even released the fact that General Isaakson…”
“Dead, I know,” said Mercury. “Possibly another minor miracle.”
“You’re happy he’s dead?”
“‘Happy?’ What does that have to do with anything?”
“You said it was a ‘minor miracle’ he was dead.”
“I said ‘possibly.’ That was one lucky rocket strike otherwise. Or unlucky, if you’re General Isaakson.”
“Or someone else in the house.”
“Well, to be fair,” Mercury mused, “that’s the second house in three days that’s blown up around you. You might consider the fate of the people who’ve been unfortunate enough to be in your vicinity.” Having evidently lost interest in the conversation, Mercury lapsed into singing along with the radio.
We…count…only blue cars…
It was true that up to this point, Christine hadn’t thought of it in quite that way. It was as if two sides of her brain had been arguing about how to process the input it had received over the past two days.
“What a run of bad luck I’ve had,” said Side One.
“Ah, but how about all those people being killed? That was quite tragic, wasn’t it?” said Side Two.
We have… MA-ny questions…like children often do…
“Yes, but look at me. I’ve nearly been killed in two separate, highly unlikely explosions, and now my body is quite badly scraped up,” Side One responded.
“True, true. Terrible about the killings though, isn’t it?” Side Two replied.
“Indeed it is,” acknowledged Side One. “And ordinarily I’d be rather torn up about it, but at the moment I’m somewhat preoccupied by my own ill fortune.”
…all your thoughts on God, cuz I’d really like to meet Her…
But what had promised to be an amicable disagreement was now in danger of gelling into an unfavorably one-sided perception of the events. It was dawning on her that the deaths of General Isaakson, Ariel and however many others had one thing in common: her. The logical conclusion was that she was somehow the proximate cause of the explosions. Was someone trying to kill her? Was the Universe itself out to get her? If so, why? Hadn’t she done what the Universe wanted, following its cryptic signals to Mercury? The Universe, she was beginning to think, was something of a jerk.
There was no other explanation. Someone Up There was trying to kill her. The rocket strike could be explained as bad luck, but pillars of fire from the heavens didn’t just happen. On the other hand, if the Universe wanted her dead, presumably there were more effective – not to mention subtle – ways of bringing that about. So... if someone or something had it in for her, they were far from omnipotent, but they did seem to have access to information about her whereabouts. Did they find out from Harry? Or did they find out the same way that Mercury had?
…tell me am I very far…
“What news?” Christine asked.
am I very far now…
“Where did you hear about me and General Isaakson? You said that you heard it on the news. But they haven’t...”
ami VE-ry farnow…
“Mercury.”
Oooowamiveryfarnow…
“MERCURY!”
“What?”
“Shut up! For Pete’s sake. If this is what angelic choirs are like, remind me to take some cotton balls into heaven with me. Because I swear to God, if I have to hear the angelic host belting out Sheryl Crow songs…”
“No danger of that,” said Mercury.
“Thank God. Wait, are you saying…”
“Angel Band.”
“Huh?”
“You asked where I heard about you and General Isaakson. Angel Band.”
“Angel Band? Did you just say ‘Angel Band?’ How much time do you spend coming up with this stuff? Because honestly, it’s starting to sound like you’re making it up as you go along. If you’re going to be delusional, at least put some effort into it.”
“Hey, you asked.”
“So do you have a special Angel Band radio? Maybe a secret decoder ring?”
“Angels can hear things on what you might call a ‘subplanar frequency.’ Transmission of information by way of the manipulation of interplanar energy fluctuations.”
“Don’t suppose you’d be willing to demonstrate?”
“Better not.
If they’re looking for me, they’ll latch on to me the second I tune in.”
“Of course,” said Christine. “We don’t want them to find you.”
“So,” said Mercury. “Where are we going?”
“I have to go see the Antichrist,” Christine said, in a misguided attempt to put Mercury off balance. She was trying to think of a way to find out if he knew anything about the briefcase without tipping him off. Her rapidly fading hope that he might actually be the Mercury was the only reason she hadn’t kicked him out of the car five minutes outside Berkeley.
“Oh jeez,” said Mercury. “Seriously? The Antichrist?” He said it as if she had announced she was going to a Nickelback concert.
“What do you have against the Antichrist?”
“He’s an ass, Christine. A real dickweed.”
“Well,” said Christine. “He is the Antichrist….”
“Hey, we all have our jobs to do. That’s no excuse for being a dickweed.”
“You know,” replied Christine coolly, “I didn’t ask you to come along. This is my job. I’m a reporter. What do you do? Play ping-pong and eat Rice Krispy bars?”
“Trust me, Christine, if you knew what my job was, you’d be happy that I spend my time playing ping-pong.”
“I thought you didn’t even know what you were supposed to be doing. You missed that meeting, remember?”
“I have a general idea. SPAM.”
“You’re supposed to be sending spam?”
“Schedule of Plagues, Announcements and Miracles. SPAM. It gives the angels their assignments.”
“Oh, of course,” said Christine. “That SPAM. I suppose they send updates over…”
“Angel Band, right.”
Christine sighed heavily. “Anyway, you convinced me that this guy in Lodi, Kevin…”
“Karl. The Antichrist’s name is Karl.”
“Yeah, you convinced me that this Karl is the honest-to-goodness Antichrist, and I’m going to Lodi to ask him some questions about his plans. For example, does he plan to rule with an iron fist? Or does he prefer a more light-weight carbon fiber fist?”
“I think you’re going to be disappointed,” replied Mercury.
“Why? Is it because he only has five heads? Because between you and me, six-headed Antichrists are overrated.”
“Nah, he’s not very interesting,” said Mercury. “Just, you know, a typical dickweed. If it weren’t for that contest….”
“Right, the contest Lucifer used to pick the best Antichrist,” said Christine dryly.
“You’re not a big Charlie Nyx fan, are you?”
“I’m indifferent to Charlie Nyx. Mostly, I’m just so sick of hearing about him that I change the channel whenever I hear the name. They’re children’s books, for Pete’s sake. I couldn’t even avoid him on the trip back to the States. That damn movie with the magic and the trolls and the warlocks….”
“Personally, I love the books,” said Mercury with apparent enthusiasm. “The way Katie Midford paints the subterranean realm underneath Anaheim stadium, I feel like I’ve been there.”
For some reason, this comment unsettled Christine. “You do realize that there aren’t really monsters living under Anaheim stadium?”
“Please, Christine,” said Mercury. “I’m not crazy.”
“Right, I forgot. You’re a perfectly sane ping-pong playing cherub.”
“Why the hell would you want to interview that wanker? You know who you should interview? Me.”
“What do you know that anybody would care about?”
“Well, I know that the Antichrist is a big wanker, for starters.”
“Yeah, I got that. You’re not a fan. So what do you know about David Isaakson?”
“The Israeli general?” said Mercury. “Not much. He’s been a P.A.I. for some time. Like yourself.”
“P.A.I.?”
“Person of Apocalyptic Interest.”
“Really. I suppose you’re a Person of Apoplectic Interest as well?”
“I’m an angel, Christine. That doesn’t even make any sense. Your friend Karl the Antichrist has recently become a P.A.I. though.”
“Of course.”
“It’s all connected, all of these events. It’s going to get weirder. There are no such things as coincidences.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. Of course there are coincidences. I was trying to sound deep.”
Christine glared. “You’re not a very convincing angel,” she said.
“That’s pretty much what the other angels tell me,” Mercury agreed.
“So in your mind,” said Christine, “Charlie Nyx, the Olive Branch War and Karl the Antichrist are all related somehow.”
“Not in my mind. I’d keep them all separate if I could, but it’s too late for that. Clock’s ticking, you know. I have to say, Karl as the Antichrist was an unexpected casting choice. Wish I was in on that meeting.”
“I thought he was chosen randomly. In a contest.”
“Random! God doesn’t play dice with the Universe, Christine.”
“I don’t blame Him. The Universe cheats.”
“The contest was a façade. Lucifer hand-picked this guy. God knows why.”
Christine’s curiosity about the extent of Mercury’s delusion got the better of her. “So the author of the books, Katie Midford, she’s an agent of Satan?”
“Not sure about Katie Midford. She may just be a prawn.”
“A pawn.”
“No, a prawn. You know, a little fish.”
“Prawns aren’t fish,” said Christine irritably. “They’re shrimp. I think you mean ‘pawn.’ Like the little pieces in chess that get sacrificed for the queen.”
“I thought those were prawns.”
“They’re pawns. Prawns are shellfish.”
“Yeah, that’s her alright. A greedy little prawn.”
Christine resisted the urge to scream. Walnut Creek, said a sign.
“How about I drop you off in Walnut Creek?” she said, trying to make it sound like an attractive option.
“Why, what’s in Walnut Creek?”
“Cherub convention,” Christine said. It was worth a shot.
“Really?” Mercury actually sounded excited. “American Cherub Society or North American Council of Cherubim?”
“Uh… the second one.”
“Ha! There is no North American Council of Cherubim! They merged with the International Cherub Association in 1994!”
“Seriously?”
“No, not seriously. Wow, are you gullible. So when were you going to tell me about the briefcase in the trunk?”
ELEVEN
The Antichrist was clearly out of his element.
All that was really expected of him was to cut the ceremonial ribbon in front of the newest Charlie’s Grill, but he was having difficulty with the giant ceremonial scissors. Finally, he bit into an edge with his teeth and tore the ribbon the rest of the way. Red-faced and drenched with sweat in the 100-degree heat, he muttered an obscenity and stomped off.
The crowd cheered this display of mildly Satanic behavior.
“The Antichrist, Karl Grissom!” shouted a diminutive man who had presumably been standing next to Karl the entire time.
The crowd clapped politely for the Antichrist and the man they assumed was the Antichrist’s dwarf henchman, but was, in fact, the director of marketing for Charlie’s Grill, Inc. The dwarf henchman marketing director proceeded to hand out free cheeseburgers while the Antichrist made his way to the parking lot. A local high school marching band began to play a jazzed up version of the Charlie Nyx movie theme.
Behind a line of police tape, in the parking lot of the Burger Giant next door, a group of several dozen protesters held signs with slogans like “Pray for Karl Grissom” and “Karl Grissom GO TO HELL.” Despite their lack of both logical consistency and complimentary cheeseburgers, they were a spirited group.
Having fulfilled his contractual obligations as Antichr
ist, Karl plodded through the crowd toward his mother’s Saturn. This whole business was getting a little old. He had half a mind just to call it quits. And at this point he didn’t even know about the man with a high-powered rifle who was lying in wait on the roof of the Burger Giant across the street.
The man’s name was Danny Pilvers, and he was a would-be assassin.
Would-be assassins are often virtually indistinguishable from actual assassins, the one vital difference being that the former are, generally speaking, far less dangerous. If anyone had seen Danny on the roof with his rifle, they would have assumed that he was an actual assassin. Even Danny himself thought he was an assassin.
Danny was wearing army camouflage and had his cross hairs trained on Karl Grissom, the Antichrist. As Danny was on the opposite side of the roof from the crowd and was making a point of being very still, no one seemed to have noticed him.
Danny’s hands shook, not because he was afraid, but because he was angry. He was angry with Karl the Antichrist. He was angry with Katie Midford and her dwarf henchmen. He was angry with Charlie Nyx, despite the fact that Charlie Nyx was only a twelve-year-old boy, and a fictional one at that. Danny was angry at all of these people because he believed that they made a tapestry of religion. Hadn’t the angels told him so?
The angels had not, in fact, told him so. What they had said was “travesty.” In fact, they had repeated it several times. “A travesty,” they said. “A travesty of religion.” Finally they had given up, satisfied that Danny understood the gist of what they were saying.
Despite having served three tours in Afghanistan, the only civilian employment Danny could find was as a fry cook at Burger Giant – an injustice made no less severe in Danny’s mind by the fact that his highest ranking position in the military was also that of fry cook. Danny was, in summary, a very angry person with a high-powered rifle and a fifth grade education. It had taken very little in the way of supernatural guidance to get him to direct both his anger and his rifle at Karl Grissom, the Antichrist.
Danny took a deep breath, trying to steady his hands. “A tapestry of religion,” he muttered, and flicked off the gun’s safety.
Across the street, Karl Grissom fumbled with his keys.
Mercury Falls Page 9
