It was unlikely the work of terrorists and Updike’s forces were too far away to work any treachery ahead of the coming battle. The City was in a state of high-security and Archangel Tower had been in lockdown for days. Powers were loose but he went to considerable effort and expense to have allies and soldiers and functionaries for security around things like that. The Prime warned himself about such micromanaging blinding him to the big picture. He would be alerted if his attention were required.
At the moment, he was having fun.
The dead traitor’s lungs labored. His ribcage heaved. The corpse was behaving like he truly needed air and his discomfort couldn’t have made the Prime happier. Stoneworthy had spent the first few minutes after his arrival looking around the Prime’s office. He reached out with gray fingers to stroke the wall, then a windowsill, as though the architecture was the body of a long lost lover. The minister closed his eyes, and dipped his chin in silent prayer before taking a chair opposite the Prime’s. The dead man’s chest continued to convulse.
“Are you quite all right?” The Prime hoped he wasn’t quite. Stoneworthy and the grave robber Updike had caused him nothing but trouble over the last forty-eight hours: loss of life, equipment and the bottom line, dollars, lots of dollars spent on public relations and advertising to convince the City’s populace that fighting the army of the walking dead was their only option. All while he could have just…
Little did the bastards know that for the last twenty-four hours they were one order away from nuclear annihilation. The Prime had decided against it in the end. Two things: his Final Solution was ready. On his word everything for fifty square miles around the city would burn; and he knew it was just a matter of time before the Powers got involved. Nuking the southern zombie force was enough of a demonstration of his commitment—that was for competing Prime’s overseas. Look what I can do. But that was war; that was foreign affairs.
His Final Solution was in place if he ran out of options. If he were losing the coming battle, he’d scorch the earth. And that would only work if the Angelic and Demonic hordes were in range when the rockets flew. He wouldn’t waste more nukes on zombies alone. Perish the thought. His Final Solution ended all the games. And, he’d pop up some fifty miles away with food, money and an all-girl crew.
He looked back to Stoneworthy, who continued to struggle. Typically, it would be better to force the minister to open the discussion—he was the traitor begging forgiveness after all—but the Prime was pressed for time. He had a civil war to win and an international war to start.
The minister blinked—wiped a cold hand against his brow.
“I’m sorry.” Stoneworthy’s voice had grown hollow in death. “I had at times determined that my new state was a curse. But I see, it has given me one last opportunity to see—to touch a project that so shaped the life I lived.” He looked over at the Prime. “Please forgive me.”
The leader of Westprime was shocked to see a tear on the dead man’s cheek. I’ll give you something to cry about.
“Of course, Reverend Stoneworthy, you have every right to be proud. Archangel Tower not only represents one of the greatest architectural feats in human history, it has come to be a beacon of hope for people the world over.”
“And so it is. So it has become.” The dead minister glanced at the Prime, and then locked stares with him. “And so you can understand how terrible it would be to see it destroyed in needless conflict.”
The Prime masked his dismay at this pointed turn of conversation. So the zombie had more on the ball than he was letting on. Okay, Jelly Bean…you want to get tough? The leader of Westprime had perhaps incorrectly written the man off as an absentminded theologian. Gawky. Blushing at girls. True, the man had built the Tower, but he had lots of help. It was possible his strength was in talking a good talk—he was a preacher. Now he was showing off his mental dexterity. The Prime had met thousands like him over the years, and buried hundreds. And the Prime was no slouch when it came to talking either.
“Agreed,” the Prime announced. He had long ago realized the power of agreement. “And this is exactly why I cannot understand your actions, Reverend Stoneworthy. You disappear under strange circumstances then reappear later—dead and in the presence of the rebel Updike, making incredible demands of Mayor Barnstable and the good people of this city. Frankly, posing the greatest threat that your Tower has ever faced.” The Prime paused, he had to work up the strength to say: “Redistribute wealth?” He resisted the urge to pound the table. Instead, he traced its edge. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”
“We must distribute things of value in such an equitable fashion so people can be as equal in life as they become in death.” The minister’s face made quiet crackling sounds as he spoke. “So that it does not matter whether you live on Zero or occupy a penthouse on Level Seven. All citizens have equal value.” The minister got up and took two hesitant steps across the deep pile carpet. “Power is equated with wealth and people are deluded into believing that equation. It is our mission. It is God’s mission to clear away that illusion. The only power is God’s. You have it in you.” He clawed at his chest. “It is in me.”
“Reverend Stoneworthy, you are an idealist, and I am as always impressed. Idealism is fool’s gold polished by the poor—and the overly educated.” The Prime almost snickered. “Truth is wealth. It is no illusion—and once truth is realized, idealism falls to the wayside.”
“Truth is love.” The minister’s eyes gleamed. “Wealth is corruption”
“But how can you say that Reverend Stoneworthy when occupying Sunsight offices that were constructed by your church, using wealth collected through donations from the poor. Or is some wealth good?”
“It is not wealth that builds a church.” Stoneworthy’s face was blank. “Or a monument to faith. It is a gift of faith. It is a need to belong. It is belief.” The minister had crossed the floor, and now stood directly opposite the Prime’s desk. “But, you are right. I feel in hindsight that the Tower was a mistake. The funds could have been better used. And I believe we are all close to punishment for our errors.”
Dead man, you have no idea! The Prime drifted a moment, caught on a wave of pleasurable power. He had agreed to the deal with Balg. The Demon’s legions were preparing for the coming conflict. The Prime’s second organ flexed snakelike between his legs at the prospect. But he turned back to Stoneworthy; caution was necessary when an opponent surrendered a point. Something else was coming. He sat quietly before the dead man bleeding away the impact of his statement by ignoring it.
“As judgment draws near, “ Stoneworthy said, pushing the point. His voice had an unpleasant, reedy quality that would bother the Prime if he had more than one conversation to endure. “We should not compound our errors. The wealth I speak of is the richness of the human spirit. The separation between the living and the dead has come back to haunt us, now the division between the rich and the poor returns to exact justice.” His eyes held the Prime’s unblinking. “Have you read the Bible, sir?”
“Uh, yes, Reverend, I have a passing knowledge. I could hardly occupy offices in Archangel Tower without giving it a glance.” The Prime knew the Bible very well, in fact. But he knew that feigned ignorance caused others to show their own.
“Wickedness proceeds from the wicked,” Stoneworthy pronounced. “Greed today will be answered by greed in the future.” He looked up, sadness in his eyes. “And Prime, I feel our future is ending.”
The Prime was way ahead of Stoneworthy on that one. He could quote from memory coordinates that he had ordered fed into nuclear missiles—coordinates that would explode those devices a quarter mile above their heads—collapse the City’s Levels like some gargantuan house of cards. He knew all about Judgment Day; he was a major player in it now. Not like this grimy little foot soldier—this tattered marionette. “Reverend, are you familiar with the International Credit Company?”
The minister nodded. Revulsion pinched his eyes and nose.
“The International Credit Company owns Westprime, and I own the corporation.” The Prime could feel passion growing rigid in him like sex. “The City of Light, your city leases property and services from my corporation. These are paid for with various taxes—just like a government, except for one important thing. This municipal land, like so much land in Westprime, is my land.” A red wave swam over the Prime’s vision. “Your zombies are trespassing. I have already dealt with one group of traitors, and stand poised to do the same to those that remain.” The Prime walked around his desk. The minister stood there like a broken puppet. The leader of Westprime loomed over him. He thrust his face close enough to the dead man to smell preservatives. Creosote?
“Listen to me, you arrogant little corpse. I thank you for the Tower. I will enjoy its many conveniences. But, you have your nerve coming here and giving ultimatums still!” His tone was suddenly volcanic—spit flew from him like magma. “Here’s an ultimatum. Get those rotting piles of bones off my property or I will burn them utterly with every destructive technology at my disposal!” Primitive lust flickered along the Prime’s nerves. He could tear the dead preacher limb from limb if he wanted. “Now this offer expires in…oh, the hell with it. It’s already expired!” He laughed grimly. “I’m sorry Reverend, that you were unable to comply with my demands. But, I do thank you for supplying me with a climate of dialogue from which I can launch a surprise attack!”
Stoneworthy’s eyes widened, his shoulders sagged. He stepped back and almost lost his balance.
“You know.” The Prime couldn’t resist pressing the issue. “I think the Bible errs in this. Rather than speak in terms of good and evil—it should break the argument down the middle between losers and winners. Let me tell you something.” His teeth flared reflexively in a snarl. “I’m only interested in things winners have to say.”
“May God have mercy on your soul,” Stoneworthy said, defeated.
“And may I have mercy on yours.” He turned away, momentarily sickened by the dead man’s resignation—then a thought: “Stoneworthy, since you’ll be my guest until the end, I wonder if you could help? Someone’s trying to sell me a nun and you might be able to identify her for me.”
78 – Dealmaker
Tiny was nervous enough to sweat cats and dogs. At least that was the way Driver would have put it. He felt naked after the grim-faced Central Authority Operatives took his .38 snub nose.
The salesman was taken to the top floor of Archangel Tower and shown into a luxurious boardroom. They barely got the doors open when the whole building shook. The Prime’s men looked at each other, told him to fix a drink, then left in a hurry. Tiny sauntered up to the enormous lacquered bar. Stools topped with shiny red leather marched along its face beneath an oak valance that held every kind of glass.
Tiny stepped behind it and turned to mix something. He needed a drink to break the tension so searched for his favorite under the bar. He had never sold a nun before and the deal had him on edge.
There was a large fireplace beside the entrance. Four armchairs and a long couch—all cowhide, flanked its flickering orange flames. A long table with many chairs stretched away from the doors. A pink stone patio opened beyond.
“There you are!” Tiny found a gallon-sized bottle of Grand Marnier. “Class all the way round.” The salesman poured, took a sip. He set the glass down and lit a cigarette.
The whole deal was fluttering along on a wing and a prayer. It was on the elevator he started questioning his choices. If he hadn’t seen those Eyesore things he wouldn’t have believed half the other shit that had happened. “Barter what you have,” Lucifer had said. Bartering usually didn’t involve money, but Tiny would see about that.
One phone call to the Central Authority Offices in the Tower had told Tiny that the Prime was looking for Sister Cawood. The Prime would be happy to discuss your claim.
But why did the Prime want her? Generally, men didn’t fuck nuns. Though rich men fucked whatever they wanted.
Tiny had ruled out going to the Catholic Church with her. Those bastards weren’t likely to deal. And what did they have that he wanted?
“She’s worth something…Balg was going to kidnap her,” he said to himself and wished he paid more attention to the news. Felon said she was a Tower Builder—whatever that was—important at least, but how do you put a price on her?
With Felon gone to Davy Jones’ Locker, the nun became a fallback position for him and the boys. At the moment she was in a safe location with Driver and Bloody playing bank guards. Driver had been concerned about Tiny making the deal without body armor, but the salesman insisted that just encouraged gunplay. His job was to get prices flying, not bullets. The Prime owned International Credit Co. and just about everything else. Maybe that was why he wanted to own a nun. It was the only thing he hadn’t sewn his name on.
But the deal could get sticky. Tiny knew he was selling a product with uncertain value to a man he desperately needed to be friends with. He couldn’t be inflexible, but he couldn’t show a single sign of weakness. Tiny drank off the rest of his drink, and had just finished refilling it when the Prime entered.
He was a big buffalo of a man, as Driver would say, with black hair in a bang cut gun barrel straight. His cheeks were puffy and red, but looked heavier than soft. The Prime wore a black suit, white shirt and pencil-thin tie. His dark eyes roved the room, before fixing on Tiny behind the bar.
“Drink, Mr. Prime?” Tiny’s voice was a cool and calm baritone. “I’m mixing!”
The Prime stared. The salesman’s heart rate surged waiting for a response. He had to keep the proceedings friendly. After all, the Prime had the right to order the woman’s return. As the leader of Westprime he had ultimate authority, and Tiny had nothing to back him up. He had the nun stashed, that was it; but Tiny knew he’d give her up if he had to.
Finally the Prime smiled—the lines around his eyes were crimson. “Rusty Nail.” His voice was husky.
“I’ll get the hammer!” A mountain lifted off the salesman’s shoulders. Tiny chuckled and grabbed the Drambuie and Scotch, keeping one eye on the man. The Prime had a plain set of features that were somehow arranged to disturb. It was probably their unremarkable qualities set on the shoulders of a man with ultimate power. That, and the way he jigged his weight from leg to leg, nothing ridiculous, just a nervous background twitch that hinted at the man’s inner state. He had his steam up.
“You act very familiar, but you’re not.” The Prime moved toward the bar, his dark eyes showed green in the light.
“Friends call me Tiny.” The salesman poured Drambuie over ice.
The Prime frowned, looked him over. “You’re almost average height, why Tiny?” He slid his bulk onto a barstool.
“Irony, Mr. Prime.” Tiny stirred the drink, laid out a napkin, set the glass on it. “I’m taller when I’m lying on my back.” He covered his apprehension with a laugh.
The Prime sipped his drink, fidgeted on the barstool and watched him. A shadow of humor quivered at the corner of his mouth.
“I noticed there were road blocks.” Tiny tasted the Grand Marnier. “You expecting trouble?” Something flashed in the Prime’s eye. “Or have you got it?”
The Prime looked at his drink. Something flickered behind the man’s features; a hint of red soaked his cheeks.
“This is a great little boardroom you’ve got here. First class all the way.” Tiny pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to the Prime, who declined. “I guess this is where you do all of your…”
“Mr. Tiny,” the Prime said, cutting him off. His expression held dangerous possibilities. “You have Sister Cawood and want payment for her return. If you don’t like blackmail, pick another line of work.”
“I admire plain talk, Mr. Prime.” Tiny smiled, shrugged his shoulders and lit one of his cigarettes. He rattled a small ceramic barrel full of toothpicks. “But I’m shocked. If I were to discuss money at all it would only be in regards to any out-of-poc
ket expenses incurred during our expedition to retrieve Sister Cawood from her prior bondage.”
The Prime leveled his gaze. “How did you do it? Or did you do it? What happened at Towerview Terrace? What made the burn marks?” A gleam lit the Prime’s eyes. “Why’d you take her?”
“Hold on there.” Tiny threw up his hands. “You’re getting ahead of ourselves. What are you talking about?”
“Murder. City Authority found a dead woman there, and only recently, Reverend Able Stoneworthy returned—dead! Last seen alive at Towerview Terrace in Cawood’s company.”
Murder? Well shit. Tiny recoiled from the idea. He should have known someone died if Felon was involved.
“I don’t know about murder.” Tiny leaned against the bar. Cigarette smoke made a bitter shape in the air. “But I believe the killer kidnapped Sister Cawood. Last I saw the him a bunch of dead guys were dragging him into a sewer.”
“You said earlier that you were recovering expenses incurred during ‘our’ expedition.” The Prime snorted.
“Partners.” Tiny smiled hesitantly, proceeding with care. “Gentlemen looking to Sister Cawood’s needs for the duration of our negotiations.”
“How much do you want?” The Prime’s face gleamed with sweat.
“Whoa there, Mr. Prime.” Tiny shook his head, smiling. “I’m not here to sell anything. I want you to have the nun, free of charge!”
“Free?” The Prime frowned. “Why?”
“Well we went to considerable trouble to get her. And I’m not about to try to sell you something that you can take.” For impact, Tiny squinted his eyes. “But, I’ve always wanted to meet one of the big players in the world. Those I’ve met are ants compared to you.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Mr. Prime, you got the weight of the world on your shoulders, but I want you to consider something.” The salesman set his palms flat on the bar top. “We can help you out.”
The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two Page 41