Mansard
Charlie Mansard lay flat on his back on the king-size bed, staring at Lynette working out on the La Lanne unit. She was bent forward in what he thought of as the doggy position, and all she had on was a pair of net stockings. Her eyes were closed, and her body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He had called Lynette earlier in the hope that a little sexplay might help to slow down the army of ideas that insisted on marching about in his head. But after three bottles of champagne, a doomer apiece, and some rather inconclusive dalliance, he still felt strange, in what he could describe only as a state of counter-excitement. His imagination simply would not quit; it also would not focus. He could not lose himself in Lynette's accommodating body, and he could not get drunk. Even when he admitted that he was physically exhausted and settled for the role of the passive voyeur, he could not concentrate on her moving flesh for any protracted period. His mind refused to stop jumping, and his whirling thoughts carried him along from one random point to the next.
His single consolation was that Lynette probably did not mind. Apart from anything else, Lynette was paid very well not to mind. Right at that moment, he was using her as a piece of living pornography, and he was not even able to give her his full attention. Still, she did not complain. Over the years they had maintained their strange relationship, he had given Lynette a great deal of money to tolerate his foibles and mood shifts. There were times when he felt almost paternal toward her. Back in the old days, before Faithful and his jackals had grabbed power, she probably would have been a lawyer, perhaps an actress, at least a corporate executive. Now all those options, with the exception of that of the actress, had gone. She had to settle for being the plaything of an alcoholic but highly paid sky designer. The worse condemnation of the times was that a woman in New York, alone and without money, could have done a great deal worse. He paid for her apartment; and he gave her ample pocket money. At the very least, she had time to read, to listen to music; she even had time to think, something that made him very envious now and then.
He had also given her one other thing that also explained why Lynette complained so little about what he did. He had had her fitted with illegal DNI plugs and set her up with a connection for bootlegged Japanese software. At that moment, as she pumped the La Lanne unit and sweated, she was jacked into one of the lastest erofeeds to be smuggled out of Tokyo. She was somewhere else, in some erotic wonderland of endorphins and microcurrents.
He had to admit that the sight of her bare buttocks, making frenzied coital movements as she half-consciously interacted with the machine, was close to arousing the beast in him. However, each time he was almost ready to get up and make a move, he became distracted. The last couple of days had produced more than enough to distract him.
Ron Cableman had turned out to be a smooth, third-generation Washington sharpie. He belonged in the Faithful White House. His daddy had survived the plot and counterplot of the last days of the Reagan administration, and his grandaddy had played poker with Richard Nixon. They had started drinking at the Skylounge, had a late lunch at 21, and from there they had gone downtown to Ruskin's. Cableman had matched Mansard drink for drink. As the happy hour had started to grow maudlin, Cableman had offered to call a couple of girls that he knew. Man-said had declined. He was fairly faithful to Lynette, although he did spend the rest of the evening wondering what if. Along the way, it had transpired that Larry Faithful was planning a major spectacular. Although it was not stated as such, the president and those around him thought that the country needed a major diversion. It had been decided that Larry Faithful would declare a special public holiday. In one month's time, there would be a Day of National Reconciliation. To mark the occasion, he would hold a special service at Liberty Island. The plan for the grand finale and crowning glory was to have four of Mansard's giant holograms moving up the Hudson. They wanted him to use the Four Horsemen again.
"Plus we want you to do the other figures from Revelations – the Beast, the Whore of Babylon, and Jesus himself, the Lamb of God. Storming up the river and terrifying the hell out of the sinners. It'll be on all the networks, plus it'll go out on satellite so it can be holostructured in all the major cities."
Mansard had put down his scotch and looked at Ron Cableman in blank amazement. "It's impossible. There's no way that my people could pull something like that together in the time."
Cableman had smiled blandly. "It'll be a rush job, but all of the country's resources will be at your disposal."
Mansard had firmly shaken his head. "That's the trouble, Ron. The country doesn't have the resources. The skywalker we put up last Sunday used state-of-the-art Japanese hardware that's subject to the full prohibitions of the embargo. The projectors themselves are close to impossible. I think we had all that there are on this side of the Pacific. And don't ask me how we got them. You wouldn't like the answer."
Cableman had laughed. "Listen, Charles, I'm pretty sure that the U.S. Government is quite capable of getting you a bunch of Sony DL-70s. I don't think we'd need to go through Chile, either."
Mansard had looked at him with considerably more respect. Ron Cableman had done his homework.
"Could you get me thirty of them?"
"I expect so."
"In two weeks?"
"If necessary."
"Then it might just be possible, if the money was right and everything else fell into place. I'm not saying I'll do it, but in theory…"
Cableman had raised an amused eyebrow. "This is the government, the price is always right."
"I'd also need a lot of trained, experienced riggers."
"We could get them from the military."
"I want good people."
"Believe it or not, there are people in the military who know what they're doing."
Mansard continued to put up objections, but he knew in his heart that he was going to try for the job. Cableman knew it, too. Another part of his homework had told him that Mansard had the kind of ego that would not be able to turn down a challenge of this size.
The program on the La Lanne unit had changed, and Lynette was doing a slow sinuous stretch. Mansard watched her for a while, then thoughtfully got up from the bed. He looked around the penthouse suite as if he had not seen it in days. The place was a mess. He had been working and sleeping there for weeks. A debris of beer cans, empty bottles, and Styrofoam food containers was beginning to bury the more permanent clutter of accumulated junk and toys with which he liked to surround himself. It was all mixed in with the professional litter of plans and drawings and scale models of work in progress. The six-foot thirteenth-century Buddha of which he was so proud seemed to be contemplating a slob's nirvana. The mess was his own fault. He was too paranoid to allow the cleaning people in to do their work. He had to get a grip on himself. The luxury squalor was verging on the disgusting and would probably soon be a health hazard. It was time to get it cleaned – or to move.
He stepped over a pile of foreign newspapers and magazines, mostly banned, which one day he would get around to reading, and gazed out the wraparound window that took up most of two walls. He flattened his hands on the curved expanse of glass and peered into the night. A steady rain was falling on the city. To the south and west, in the twenties and thirties, there were deep pools of darkness where power had yet to be restored. If this was the legacy of just one of his figures, what chaos would four of them create? There was little or no remorse riding his train of thought. Charlie Mansard had no illusions about himself. He would go on creating the biggest possible optical images for as long as they would let him and whatever the consequences.
In the distance he could see the river. He imagined the four giant figures moving majestically against the tide. Of course, it would be a nightmare to pull together, and despite Cableman's optimism, the odds were still against him. To sell it to his own people alone would be a major task. They would bitch like shit and demand triple overtime, but in the end, they would make it happen. If – when – those images went up, it would be a triumph. It might also convince half the crazies in the nation that the Day of Judgment had really come. If that happened, he wouldn't lose any sleep. In fact, he'd be secretly delighted. Scare the hell out of the sinners? Cableman and his bosses did not know the half of it. By the time he was through it would be the final fall of civilization. He had three weeks to create something that would have them begging for mercy.
He was starting to get excited. The huge project really wasn't going to be that hard. There was simply a great deal of work. No new systems had to be devised. The program they had developed to run the Horsemen was capable of adapting to the new designs. The designs themselves might take a little time, but that was Manny's department, and Mansard could bully Manny. If the army provided the barges on which to float the hardware and enough technicians to do the scut work, they could make it. His fingers were drumming on the glass. He had completely forgotten about Lynette.
A soft moaning reminded him. She had killed the La Lanne unit and rolled out of it onto the rug. She was still jacked in to the erofeed with leads trailing from the plugs in her neck. She was lying on her back, languidly caressing herself. When she spoke, her voice was slurred and husky.
"Charlie? What are you doing?"
He continued to stare out through the curved window. "Just designing the end of the world, honey."
"That's nice, Charlie. Real nice."
Carlisle
"Proverb's agreed to give himself up."
"Why should he give himself up? The warrants have been cancelled. He isn't a fugitive."
"He says, and I quote the statement, 'Although my own conscience is absolutely clear, I feel that unresolved questions remain that may prove an impediment to the normally cordial relations enjoyed between myself and the deacons of New York. Accordingly, I shall present myself at the main entrance of the CCC Astor Place complex at noon of Tuesday next, in the hope that any misunderstandings may be clarified.' "
"And he wants us to see that he gets in and out alive?"
"In a nutshell."
"He sounds like a very paranoid individual."
"He has every reason to be. The deacons want him dead."
Carlisle, Reeves, and Donahue were crowded in the captain's office: It was the latest in a series of grim meetings. Parnell was sitting behind his desk patiently fielding their questions. It was clear from the drift of the conversation that Carlisle and the others were less than happy about the situation.
"And we're expected to stand in the line of fire?"
"Where else should we be?"
Reeves grunted. "I don't recall signing on for some holy war."
Parnell was not amused. "Do you recall what you did sign on for?"
Reeves shrugged. "What I don't understand is why this has to be turned into a sideshow. Surely, whatever the problems are, they could all be settled in private? This high-noon grandstand seems like Proverb's just sticking it to the dekes one more time."
"It's not something that we were consulted about."
"Ours not to reason, right? "
The captain was starting to lose patience. "This is a delicate situation and there's pressure coming down on all sides. Washington feels that our deacons went too far with that mess at the Garden, and they want the appearance of reconciliation between them and Proverb. They've also put the block on their arresting any more Elvi, because that's making waves in the South. Proverb is obviously going to do his best to turn the whole thing into a media event, and that suits Washington because they need to do something to stop the rumors that are running loose in the rest of the country. When the real story of what happened at the Garden was censored out of existence, all kinds of weird tales started spreading. Half the country thinks that we're having nightly supernatural visitations.
"What about the deacons? Where do they stand in all this?"
Parnell half smiled. "They're madder than a bunch of wet cats."
"They're not crazy enough to try something against Proverb, are they?"
"Not officially, but we all know they've got their death squads."
"Yeah, but-"
"Yeah, but nothing. We can't afford to take any chances. There are deacons who might just be far enough over the edge to pull something. We also still have to take the Lefthand Path's death threat against Proverb seriously."
"So where do we figure in all this? Surely this is primarily a job for the uniforms."
"I want a large concentration of plainclothes officers in the crowd."
"Are we expecting a crowd?"
"There'll be TV cameras and the whole bit. I already told you that Proverb's going to make the biggest possible deal out of this. You can bet that he'll get his followers out on the street."
"So there's no way to screen everyone who's going to get close to him."
"None."
Carlisle shook his head. "I'm getting awfully tired of this nonsense."
Parnell had the look of a man who had heard it all too often. "We're all tired, Harry. It goes with the territory."
Parnell clearly wanted the meeting to move on and get down to details, but Carlisle was not ready to let it go.
"It does? It was only a couple of days ago that the deacons had a warrant out for me. Is that part of the territory? To get thrown in a camp for just doing your job?"
Parnell stared at him bleakly. "So what are you saying? You want to resign?"
Harry Carlisle sighed. "No, I don't want to resign."
Parnell nodded. He knew that Carlisle was not going to quit. The man was too damn stubborn.
"So, shall we get on with it?"
Winters
There was still an hour to go before Proverb was due to arrive, and the crowd was already causing traffic problems in the surrounding streets. Astor Place was completely closed off, but the mob that had turned out to see Alien Proverb had filled the square and was spilling out onto Broadway and Third Avenue. Winters could not imagine where they had all come from. Was Proverb's machine really that good? He would have thought that after the beating they took outside the Garden, Proverb's followers would have been content to lie low and lick their wounds. Like most of the junior deacons, Winters blamed it all on Washington. It was as if they were afraid of Proverb. As far as he and his colleagues were concerned, it was childishly simple. The STG had made the first move outside the Garden. All that had been needed was to follow it up with mass arrests. It had been done before, and there was no real question that Proverb was anything but a subversive. If Washington had not lost its nerve, the whole business would have been cleared up in a couple of weeks. As it was, Winters and the other disgruntled deacons had to content themselves with mixing in with the TV cnews and taping the faces of the crowd for future analysis. All they could tell themselves was that the day would come when they would be turned loose to round up Proverb's heretics, and they intended to be ready.
Winters' mood did not improve when he spotted Harry Carlisle in the middle of a group of plainclothes PDs. He had hoped that the man would be dead by now. Over a week had gone by, and he had heard nothing from the Magicians. He had wanted to say something to Rogers, but he had realized that any word would violate the oath that he had taken in the basement of the whorehouse. All he could do was wait and fume. It angered him to see Carlisle walking around safe and sound.
Winters raised the minicam to his eyes and ran tape on a bunch of Elvi who were holding a banner that read 'We Love You Aden'. The camera had the letters KGOD on its side. He was supposed to be a cameraman for the satellite feed, although everyone knew that KGOD was largely a deacon front. He was annoyed at the degree to which Proverb's arrival was being treated as some big-deal event. The four major networks had camera trucks there, as well as the local stations and two satellite news feeds. The PD was covering things as if it were the president arriving. He knew that there had to be Proverb sympathizers among the top brass who would have to be winkled out in the end. Uniforms in full helmets and armor stood three deep around the entrance to the CCC complex, and more manned the barricades blocking the roads that ran into and out of the square. Others were held in reserve, sitting in Pharaohs and armored buses parked at strategic points around the outside of the area. A podium and banks of speakers had been set up on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance to the building. It seemed that Proverb was going to be allowed to make some kind of speech – another example of how the people around the president were behaving like a bunch of gutless wimps, Winters thought.
There were fifteen minutes to go. Some teenagers in Aden Proverb sweatshirts and bowling jackets were climbing on the statue of John Wayne in the middle of the square. Winters pushed his way into the crowd to record them for posterity. They spotted the camera and the KGOD logo and started waving. Yeah, wave, you morons, you'll get yours in the end. He wished he were shooting a machine pistol and not a camcorder.
Noon came and went and there was no sign of Proverb. The bastard was going to milk the situation for all it was worth by showing up late. At twelve-thirteen, Winters' tracy started flashing.
"Winters."
"This is to all officers. The Proverb motorcade will be entering the square in three minutes."
"Winters, ten four."
At the briefing, he had been told that Proverb was going to be coming up along Eighth Street. Winters started moving in that direction, intending to get pictures of the crazies who actually mobbed the car. The other cameramen had also received the word and were going the same way. That, in turn, tipped off the crowd. A bottleneck was created at the entrance to Eighth Street, and the PD uniforms started pushing back the crowd. Despite all the hands-off warnings, the police were none too gentle in their treatment. Arms linked and batons held in front of them, they cleared a path by cutting the mass of people in half with a flying wedge that then opened out to push everyone back onto the sidewalk. There was scrabbling and shoving, and a sudden surge pushed a half-dozen bystanders through the plate-glass window of the diner on the corner. Even that incident, however, did not seem to spoil the general euphoria.
Winters' tracy was flashing again.
"This is to all officers. The Proverb motorcade is entering the area. You are now on full alert."
Four NYPD motorcyclists came first on big Harley Davidson Powerglides, gunning their engines and looking around warily for any sign of trouble. They were followed by a Jeep Seminole with four armed rentacops riding in it and a rack gun quad-mounted on the roll bar. Behind the Jeep was Proverb's white limousine, a custom armored stretch Cadillac, with more security walking beside it and riding on the running boards. A second Jeep with a full complement of rentacops brought up the rear.
The motorcade eased its way around the square at slightly less than walking pace. Winters found himself in the middle of the scrimmage in front of the car. The police gave no special treatment to the camera crews, and Winters found himself jostled and shoved around just like the ordinary spectators. A couple of cops seemed to take a particular delight in manhandling him, and he suspected that they knew he was a deacon by the KGOD logo on his camera. He looked for their badge numbers and cursed when he found that they had been covered up by electrical tape, common practice on crowd control details that were expected to turn hairy.
The parade finally came to a stop in front of the CCC building. The limo pulled up directly in front of the podium. The sidewalk had been cleared for ten yards in either direction; only cameramen, reporters, and a lot of men in dark suits who were either deacons or NYPD remained. The car door opened. The big cowboy bodyguard got out first and scanned the crowd. There was a roar of almost hysterical applause, and the uniforms had trouble holding back the struggling front rows of the mob. Seemingly satisfied that the situation was under control, the cowboy leaned into the car and beckoned. The big Muslim also got out, and uniformed cops moved in to surround them, struggling with the media who also wanted to get as close to their man as possible. A small figure in a white suit emerged from the car. Flanked by his bodyguards and the surrounding press of police and media, he moved quickly to the steps of the podium and the safety of its Plexiglas deflector screens. Then, at the foot of the steps, there was some sort of disturbance, followed by the sound of shots.
Kline
The TV in the C86 computer section was tuned to the pre-censor satellite feed for the arrival of Proverb in the square out front. Cynthia had quickly discovered that a posting to C86 was supposed to be something of a privilege. All the women there were exceedingly pretty and very free in their interpretations of the standard uniform. They also did very little except work on their nails and talk on the phone. C86 was a data access pool for a group of senior deacons, particularly senior deacons who liked to stop by, chat with pretty gills, and invite them to dinner. It was considered diplomatic to accept at least some of the invitations. Cynthia had decided to play that part by ear.
There was a ripple of interest as the motorcade made its way slowly through the crowd in front of the building. One of her colleagues, a petite blonde called Toni, with soap-opera hair and perfect makeup, looked up from her bootleg copy of Elle.
"They're really making a production out of all this."
Her friend Laura was well informed but tended to chew gun. She was reputed to be the mistress of Senior Deacon Spencer. She snapped her gum and looked up at the TV screen. "Proverb's got to work it for all he's worth. He's got his ass in a vise. It's only the president that's keeping him out of Joshua."
Cynthia was aware that Harry Carlisle was down in the crowd somewhere. He had called her a number of times and twice stopped by her apartment late at night. She knew that she was running an unreasonable risk by involving herself with someone, particularly someone with such a dubious political reputation, but she just could not bring herself to turn him away.
Proverb was getting out of the car. The camera was jostled by a uniformed cop, and the feed cut to a long shot from a helicopter. It came back to show a close-up of Proverb preparing to mount the steps to the podium that had been set up. Suddenly there was some sort of commotion and the sound of shots on the audio. The women's attention was riveted to the screen.
"My God, have they shot him?"
Carlisle
As the man lunged, there was a slow-motion moment of chaos. Confused hands reached out for him. The two bodyguards were the fastest to react. Rashid Murjeen dived to the floor, taking Proverb down with him. There were three shots. The crowd was screaming. The attacker was instantly buried under a pack of bodies. Everyone's gun was out, and an explosion of panicked firing threatened.
Carlisle was yelling as loud as he could, trying to cut through the confusion of voices. "Stay cool! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"
Cops were already clearing the area. Carlisle pulled out his lieutenant's shield and pushed his way through. Someone was shouting for paramedics.
"There's a man down here!"
At first he thought the victim was Proverb. But, though blood covered the preacher's white suit, Proverb was being helped to his feet by Joe Don Cutler. Rashid Murjeen was stretched out on the sidewalk. A uniform was bending over him, gloves off, feeling for his pulse.
"He's dead," the man announced.
Carlisle looked quickly around. Two uniforms and two plain-clothes men had the gunman pinned to the ground; a cameraman was down on his knees shooting into the killer's face. A half-dozen more officers stood around him with their guns out. Carlisle hurried over to the group.
"Don't hurt him! We want him alive!" he ordered.
"Do we move him?"
"Take him to one of our holding cells. Do everything you can to keep the deacons away from him."
The assassin was picked up and taken into the building at a run.
Carlisle shouted to Reeves. "Go in with them and do your best to head off the deacons."
He turned his attention to Proverb. With Cutler standing protectively over him, the preacher was kneeling on the sidewalk in an attitude of prayer. The cameras were working overtime. Carlisle could not believe that the man could be that cool. He held out his badge.
"Lieutenant Harry Carlisle, Reverend Proverb. I think we should get you inside."
"I think it's more important that I talk to the people and calm their fears. There must not be another riot."
Carlisle had to admit that Proverb was right. He just could not believe that the man could be so composed so soon after an assassination attempt and with one of his bodyguards dead on the ground. He glanced at Cutler.
"So, shall we get him onto the podium?"
Cutler looked worried. "Are you sure you want to do this, chief? There might be other shooters out there."
Proverb nodded. "We have to do it. There must be no more trouble."
"If you're certain."
Carlisle rounded up a small squad of PD detectives and started for the stage. They formed a worried, watchful knot around Proverb as he stepped up to the microphone. There were shouts from the crowd as they saw the blood on his clothes. He quickly held up a hand.
"There's no need to panic. I'm okay. There was an attempt on my life but it wasn't successful. The man has been arrested. The police have him."
Carlisle had to admit that even without the special effects, the preacher had immediate control of the crowd. He talked to them, and they listened. It was a simple but powerful rapport.
"I guess I should be thanking the good Lord for my deliverance from the assassin's bullet, but my heart is heavy. Rashid Murjeen, my good friend and loyal employee, is dead. He was killed by the bullet that was meant for me."
A hush spread through the crowd. They seemed unsure about how to react. Proverb was safe, but there was still death in the air.
"These are terrible times, my friends. Terrible times. My heart is full, and I can hardly talk."
Carlisle observed that Proverb had no visible difficulty in talking. The cops around him had started to relax a little now that no second gunman had appeared. Carlisle wondered how long the man intended to speak. He would be a lot happier when the whole thing was over.
"Remember one thing, though. No matter how dark the clouds may seem, do not lose heart. The Lord is with us. He has not forsaken us. The forces of evil sorely try us, but we must have courage and we must have faith. We know that we will triumph in the end and come to our promised reward."
There were shouts of 'amen' from the crowd. Proverb had certainly calmed them down. It was little wonder that the deacons and the hierarchy were frightened of him. He seemed to be able to do anything with a mass of people, no matter what the circumstances.
Proverb pointed to the CCC building behind him. "I have to enter this place and talk with the people inside." He made it sound as if he were about to brave the portals of hell. "Before I go, however, let us share a moment of silent prayer. Let us pray for the soul of Rashid Murjeen."
Proverb clasped his hands and bowed his head. The crowd followed suit. Some of the cops did the same, while others maintained their watchful vigil. After about a minute, Proverb raised his head and blessed the crowd. Carlisle could imagine the TV images: Proverb in his bloodstained suit surrounded by praying cops in full armor. There was even enough of a breeze to ruffle his hair. The footage was going to be classic.
"May the Lord be with you and keep you from harm."
Proverb turned to Joe Don Cutler, instantly businesslike. "Shall we get moving?"
Cutler nodded, and they started toward the steps. Carlisle was part of the immediate escort that followed them down. At the foot of the steps, Rashid Murjeen's body was being loaded into the morgue wagon. Proverb glanced back at Carlisle.
"Do we have a name on the gunman?"
"We don't, but they should have run something on him inside by now."
"Do the deacons have him?"
Carlisle shook his head. "I certainly hope not. Officially, it's still a police department case, and I gave orders that the deacons should not be allowed to question him. The deacons, unfortunately, have ways of overriding PD orders."
Proverb looked grim. "I want to know all about the man as soon as possible."
"Where will you be?"
Proverb gave him a hard look. "That remains to be seen."
Carlisle realized that Proverb was frightened. Although perfectly understandable, it came as a complete surprise. Up to that point, the man had seemed so totally in control.
They entered the building. The big hall was a scene of tension and confusion. The steel shutters were down on all but one pair of doors, and the covers were off the concealed gun emplacements from which robot ultralight machine guns could sweep the entire area. Squads of guards, both police and deacon, looked as if they were expecting the mob to storm the citadel at any moment. Carlisle had not noticed them around when the shooting had gone down. Steel boots clattered on the marble floor and echoed around the high white dome of the ceiling that was supposed to symbolize judicial purity. Other officers simply milled about.
A loud argument was taking place in front of the main bank of elevators. Reeves and a solid block of stone-faced uniforms were refusing to let a gang of deacons, led by a senior deacon called Spencer, into the elevator that went directly to the basement holding cells. Carlisle was glad to see that his boys were holding their own.
As soon as Spencer spotted Proverb, he pulled his team away from the potential Mexican standoff with Reeves and his uniforms and hurried to intercept. He waved excitedly to the men around him, pointing at Proverb. "Arrest that man! Arrest him!"
Carlisle and Cutler moved as one. Both had their hands on their guns.
"Nobody arrests anybody!" Carlisle dragged out the old.357 and waved it at the nearest deacon. "This man is under my protection, and I'll shoot anyone who lays a hand on him."
That produced a much-needed pause. Spencer was glaring at him with the outrage of a shark that had just been deprived of lunch.
"Have you gone insane, Carlisle?"
"Maybe."
"I order you to turn that man over to me and then instruct your men to let me interview the assassin you have in custody."
Carlisle gave the senior deacon a long hard look and slowly shook his head. Reeves and his men were there providing backup. Carlisle had the edge if any of the deacons wanted to go the distance.
"I was given the responsibility of keeping this man alive, and until I'm told otherwise by someone a good deal more convincing than you, I intend to go on doing exactly that. As for the assassin, he's the suspect in my investigation, and nobody gets him until I'm through. There's going to be no coverup on this business. That's the official stance. Unofficially, I don't trust you bastards farther than I can spit."
"Very well put, Lieutenant, although I don't think it'll make you many friends."
Carlisle knew that voice. He turned. Deacon Matthew Dreisler, with his inevitable entourage, had made another of his entrances. Carlisle's eyes were cold. "You're not having him, either."
Dreisler laughed. "You're good, Carlisle. You're really good. You're like something out of the twentieth century."
"You're not getting him."
Dreisler lowered his dark glasses and peered at Carlisle over the black rims. "I suggest you ask the Reverend Proverb about that."
Carlisle looked at Proverb. "What's he talking about?"
Proverb hesitated before he answered."I think I should probably go with Deacon Dreisler."
Carlisle's jaw dropped. "With him? Do you know who he is? He's the top deacon headhunted."
"I think, in this situation, Deacon Dreisler could provide me with a certain… how shall I put it… a neutral corner?"
Carlisle smelled a rat. "What's going on here?"
Dreisler quickly glanced at Spencer. "I don't think we need detain you any further, Deacon Spencer."
Spencer was not ready to be summarily dismissed just like that. He was so angry that he seemed to have forgotten with whom he was dealing. "If you think I'm letting Carlisle – "
"I'll deal with Lieutenant Carlisle." Dreisler's voice was as smooth as silk.
Again Spencer missed the point. "He threatened me with a gun, damn it."
"I said that I'd deal with Lieutenant Carlisle."
The hint of steel in Dreisler's voice was not wasted on Spencer. He stiffened and his voice became clipped and curt. "I'll take my men back to the twenty-third floor."
Dreisler smiled. "That's a good idea. I'll stop by your office later and we'll talk."
Spencer looked as if that was the last thing he wanted. He contented himself with barking at his men as they passed Reeves and his squad on their way to the elevators. Once they were gone, Dreisler turned his attention to Carlisle.
"What are we going to do with you, Harry? You seem to be a born troublemaker."
"I try to avoid it."
"Some of my brother officers were ready to nail you a few days ago."
"Fortunately they didn't."
"They'll try again."
"I'll face that when the time comes."
"You shouldn't fight with me, Harry. I could be a valuable ally."
Carlisle's face was blank. He was growing more and more certain that Dreisler was up to something exceedingly devious. He had had that feeling when they had met in the house on Fifteenth Street, and now it was stronger than ever. For some bizarre and probably unwholesome reason, Dreisler seemed to be trying to befriend him.
"I'll remember that," he told the deacon.
It was Carlisle's turn to be treated to the Dreisler smile. "Please do that."
With that, Dreisler seemed to have finished with Carlisle. He directed a half bow to Proverb. "Perhaps we should be going."
Proverb offered his hand to Carlisle. His grip was firm and assured. The professional TV smile came on.
"I really am grateful for all the care you've taken of me, Lieutenant Carlisle, but I do think it would solve a lot of problems if I went with Deacon Dreisler."
Carlisle could not figure what the two of them were up to, and he was deeply suspicious. "What is this? Protective custody?"
"I think I'll merely be Deacon Dreisler's guest."
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Lieutenant, I know what I'm doing."
Carlisle sighed. "I'll still need to talk to you about the murder of Rashid Murjeen. "
"That can be arranged through my office."
Carlisle faced Dreisler. "And do you want the hit man as your guest, as well?"
Dreisler laughed. "No, I'd rather you conducted the interrogation. My people can get a little impatient. Torture gets confessions; I think you might get the truth."
Carlisle stood and watched them go. Was there really an alliance between Proverb and Dreisler? It hardly seemed possible. Was Dreisler really so sure of his power that he would embrace a man that most of the other deacons would be happy to hang?
Reeves stepped up beside him. "What was that all about?"
Carlisle shook his head. "I'm damned if I know."
"So what do you want me to do?"
It was time to get on with business.
"Stick with me. We'll go and talk to our assassin."
Kline
What the hell was going on down there? After the shooting, the unedited TV pictures became a confused jumble of fleeting images. There were the panicking spectators, the running police, the big Muslim bodyguard stretched out on the sidewalk, a mass of men wrestling someone to the ground, and Arlen Proverb being helped to his feet with blood all over his clothes. The camera work was jerky, unsteady, and fragmented as the crews, completely taken by surprise, desperately tried to focus on what was really happening. Suddenly, for almost a minute, the screen went dead, as if the satellite feed had been killed. During that time all the women in C86 talked at once. It seemed that everyone knew someone who was on duty down there. How many shots had there been? Was it only the bodyguard that had been hit? Was Harry all right?
Then the picture came back. Aden Proverb was speaking from the podium, still in his bloody white suit, calming the crowd. Cynthia spotted Harry standing right behind him. At least Harry was not hurt. Proverb seemed to have a calming effect even on the women in C86. They watched the screen, looking for any last snippet of information.
"Seems like only the black was killed."
"There were a lot of shots."
"Surely he'd say if anyone else was hit."
"I don't trust that Proverb."
There was a full close-up of Harry as the party was coming down from the podium. Despite telling herself that it was insane for a woman in her situation to act girlish about a man, Cynthia felt a distinct thrill seeing him on the screen.
"They're coming back into the building."
Some of the women left to see what was going on. Cynthia sat tight. She would wait for ten minutes and then try to get Harry on the phone. Then Senior Deacon Spencer stormed into the section. He seemed furious. He whispered angrily to Laura. In the middle of the conversation, he looked up and spotted Cynthia. He glared at her.
"Are you Kline?"
"Yes, sir. I'm Kline."
"The one who shot those rioters awhile back and got on television?"
"That's right, sir."
"You've been seeing that bastard Carlisle, right?"
Cynthia did not like this at all. "I dated him a couple of times. It was nothing serious."
"If you see him again, tell him something from me, will you?"
"If I see him, sir."
"Tell him he's dead meat. I mean it. Tell him he's history."
"Just tell him."
After he left, Cynthia sat looking at the phone. This was starting to get dangerous. She had to distance herself from Harry Carlisle. Finally she picked up the phone and entered Harry's code. First it rang his office. There was no answer. It beeped and went on auto-search. She hung up. If he was in the building, his tracy would tell him to call her.
It took seven minutes for the phone to ring. She answered it with a neutral, official voice. "CA Kline."
"This is Harry. You wanted me to call you."
The idea of distance quickly melted. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, although things have started to turn decidedly weird."
"What happened down there?"
"This guy tried to kill Proverb. We're questioning him now. He missed Proverb, but he wasted one of the bodyguards."
"We saw some of it on TV."
"Then you probably know as much as I do."
"Harry, there was this senior deacon here. Spencer. He was very angry."
"I had a run-in with him just now."
"He's really mad at you."
"I can imagine."
"I mean really mad."
There were voices in the background at his end.
"Listen, Cynthia, let me call you at home later. I'm really up to my ass in it right now."
"Harry?"
"Yeah."
"Be careful, will you?"
"I'll be careful."
He hung up. She put down the handset.
"Damn."
He would call her later, then he would probably come over, and she would not do anything to stop him.
Carlisle
"Goddamn it to hell! I don't believe this. Are you telling me we've got an Oswald here?"
Reeves looked extremely unhappy. "He checks out as the most perfect lone gunman you could imagine."
"It's not right," Carlisle said. "It's too convenient. It's too perfect. I hate the whole thing. It's like the Reichstag fire or the Ortega assassination. This guy's timing is too perfect for a lone nut."
"You can't build a conspiracy on nothing."
"That's exactly what a perfect conspiracy leaves behind. It's watertight." Carlisle stared angrily through the one-way glass. "Wallace Jay Bums. A ten-year history of mental problems but never previously violent. Hospitalized on four occasions. Dropped out of sight fourteen months ago. Told doctors he was going to hermit out in the wilderness to prepare for the coming of the Apocalypse. Shows up today showered and shaved, in a brand-new suit from Barney's and nothing in his pockets but a plastic .50 Sterling. Does that about sum it up?"
"The Reader's Digest version."
"It's like he was newly delivered."
"With a cannon like that, it was lucky that the slug didn't go right through the bodyguard and take out Proverb, as well."
"He had the right piece."
Reeves suddenly grinned. "There was one thing that wasn't perfect."
"Yeah, that's true. He didn't get his man."
On the other side of the one-way glass, Wallace Jay Burns faced the wall with a Norman Bates stare. When he had first been brought in, he had been howling and screaming, holy-rolling stuff about how Proverb was the Antichrist and how killing him would break the Master Lock and free the Motion of the Universe so the Rapture could begin. He had been yelling over and over.
"I am the designated of the Lord, the slayer of the Antichrist. I come with vengeance and a sword."
"Can somebody shut him up before we all go nuts?" someone had asked.
After the serious questioning had started, however, he not only shut up but suddenly came to a cosmic full stop. His eyeballs rolled up, and the lights went out. From that point on, no one was home in the mind of Wallace Jay Burns.
Reeves peered through the glass at Burns. There were blackening bruises down one side of the assassin's face, and his right eye was closing up. The men who had disarmed him had not been particularly gentle.
"Maybe we should play the tapes of him raving again."
"We've heard it all," Carlisle said. "That Damien stuff gives me the creeps."
"We could get Dr. Feelgood down here to try to wake him up chemically."
Carlisle shook his head. "I don't want to load any drugs into him yet. It could well be drugs that put him where he is now."
"Nothing showed on the bloodscan."
"Microdelics wouldn't show on a bloodscan. They could have used a binary or maybe some three-tier, precision time-release deal. First layer makes him calm and lucid so he can make the hit. The second, maybe triggered by his own natural adrenaline, starts him raving."
"And the third turns him into an eggplant."
"Can you think of a better scenario?"
Reeves shook his head. "I think you'd be better off if you stopped thinking of a mysterious 'them.' "
Carlisle rubbed his eyes. "Maybe. It just bugs me. It's too pat."
He knew that he was approaching exhaustion. He needed food, coffee, cigarettes, and most of all sleep. He stood up and stretched. "I don't know. Maybe I'm not thinking straight. Did we get anything on the gun yet?"
"It's clean as a whistle. It was part of a batch shipped to a Dallas gun store eighteen months ago. There's no record of the purchase."
"There wouldn't be in Texas. Guns come from God down there."
"So where do we go from here? We can't keep the deacons at bay forever."
"I suppose we can run some routine stuff on him. Hook him up to a polygraph and run the Schultz-Dixon Image Test on him, see if we get a response. After that, there's nothing left but to start with the drugs."
Reeves picked up the phone. "Get an S-D kit down here, will you?" He glanced at Carlisle. "I gotta tell you, Lieutenant, I think we've lost this one."
Carlisle leaned against the one-way glass. "I hate to admit it, but you're probably right."
The door opened and a technician wheeled in a steel trolley with the Schultz-Dixon polygraph kit on it.
"You want me to wire him?" the technician asked.
Reeves opened the connecting door that led to Burns' observation cell. "Yeah, go right ahead."
The technician went to work on Burns while Reeves and Carlisle watched from behind the glass. Burns did not react in any way as his shirt was pulled off and contact points stuck to his torso.
Carlisle turned away as if not expecting to get any results. Suddenly he clapped a hand to his forehead. "Goddamn it, I'm getting stupid."
"You thought of something."
"Not exactly. I've just been forgetting one of the first things I was taught. Deal with reality, not supposition."
Reeves blinked. "Say what?"
"So far we've been treating this as an attempted hit on Arlen Proverb."
"What else could it be? You're not saying that Burns had a beef with the bodyguard?"
"No, I'm not. I'm just saying that we ought to look at what we have. First question in any crime. Has anyone benefited by what happened?"
Reeves was starting to look concerned, as if he were worried that Carlisle was finally losing it.
"The bodyguard's dead and the shooter's a veggie. What benefit?"
The tech stuck his head around the connecting door. "I've run the preliminary. This Burns is a full-scale what-me-worry. It's just like something wiped his synapses. I ran the first set of shock images, sex, violence, religious symbols. Nothing but background motor functions. No response to concept that I can find. Do you want me to go on?"
Carlisle looked down at Burns. The man was festooned with wires attached to his head and body by contact clamps.
"Yeah, run the whole deal, if only for the record." He turned back to Reeves. "Did it occur to you that, as things stand, Arlen Proverb has had a very good day? Most of the TV images from today will get through, and he looks like the man they couldn't silence. Now he's the center of attention again."
Reeves put a hand on Carlisle's shoulder. "Listen to me, Lieutenant. If you're thinking in the deeply weird direction I think you're thinking, they are going to kill you. This is now, boss. They're not going to let you crack the world open with this case. They're just going to take you out and hang you."