by Victor Koman
My watch read 8:13. I was beginning to feel like a jerk. Maybe she was the sort who would say anything to get a crank off the line. Maybe I was still dying from the cancer and hallucinating everything.
And I was only on my second drink.
A short time later, Ann showed up carrying a fat grey attaché case. She saw me stand and came to the table.
"Sorry I'm late. I had to get this from Archives." She set the luggage against the side of her chair and sat down.
"What is it?"
"The corporation's library. In case you need to do research."
"I've got a plaque," I said.
"Do you want your information requests going through the library satellites? The airwaves aren't necessarily secure, you know."
The waitress drifted by again. Ann ordered tequila, Kahlua and milk-a Tall White Bull.
"You're taking this pretty seriously," I said.
"I'm an accountant-paranoia is an occupational requirement." She looked directly at me. "You want to find god. You might as well start by telling me what kind of god. Define him."
I hadn't considered that there might be more than one kind of God. "The usual run-of-the-mill God. Miracle maker. Controller of lives. Watcher over us all."
"Is this god-the one you've been hired to kill-is he different from man?" She frowned at her own question. "Excuse me for sounding like a prosecutor. I'm just trying to help."
"Sure. No problem." I took a drink. "Sure He's different. More powerful. More knowledgeable."
"The difference, though-is it one of kind or degree?"
"Huh?" She'd just gone beyond the limits of my self-education.
"Is this god a more powerful and intelligent
man
, or is his power of a different
nature?
Is his knowledge a nonhuman variety?"
She had me there. "Just the typical sort of unfathomable God that most people believe in."
"Well, if you can't understand god, you'll never be able to find him. And to use the term to mean anything less than a difference in
kind
is a misuse of the term. A more powerful man or alien may be godlike, but he wouldn't be a god."
I slugged down the rest of my drink. "Why are you bringing all this up?"
"I just want you to know what you're getting involved in. I think you've already started on the wrong foot. Have you looked through any books?"
"A lot of theology texts."
"You can't go to the people who believe already. They've made up their minds and want to convince you of their own personal heresy. Most theologians have no idea of what constitutes rational proof. Go to the antitheists."
"Who?"
"The disbelievers. At least they'll give you an idea of what god is not."
The waitress reappeared to deliver Ann's drink. She accepted it and covered the tab-and tip-without even thinking about it. I was growing fond of her already.
"You notice that I haven't asked you who wants god killed. I won't. I think the world would be better off without a god. And I don't think you're a mental case for believing that gods can literally die. Zeus is dead, after all."
"I thought he was simply doing time for rape."
She smiled at that and took a sip of her drink. "His worshippers are gone. Where does a god go then?"
"I think that was dealt with on a
Star Trek
episode."
Her eyes twinkled with laughter like northern lights. "
Star Trek
and
The Twilight Zone
both had a sophisticated grasp of theology."
"Are you old enough to remember them?"
She smiled like a debutante. "I have them on disc."
"And what TV show had the worst theology?"
"
Father Knows Best
, of course."
We both laughed. Then I heard someone behind me. Maybe
heard
isn't the right word. I had the same sort of crowded feeling I'd had the other night in the upstairs corridor. I turned around.
Fifty pounds of brat wrapped in hot pink velvet approached. She noticed me and changed her course to pass by, smiling wickedly. She strode up to Ann and whispered loud enough for the next three tables to hear.
"Don't worry about him trying to get into your skirt, lady. It ain't the meat, it's the tumidity."
"Cute," I said.
Ann eyed me, smiling dryly. "Friend of yours?"
"In no ways, shape, or form-all of which she lacks."
"Cute," said the tyke.
I tapped a cigarette out of my pack. "Couldn't you go find a Shriner's convention and leave us alone? We're discussing negative theology."
She smiled a girlish little grin and winked at me in an adorable, innocent manner that made me want to kick her. She turned quickly and, ladylike, sashayed to another table.
The balding man there smiled through fat lips and leaned forward to welcome her, speaking quietly.
"A pretty child," Ann said, suddenly stiff as a schoolteacher.
"Pretty screwed up. In more than one sense." I tossed down my drink and sat back to scan the bar.
The gazes of several men, young and old, drifted toward Ann, only to drift away as though they saw her and just as quickly forgot her. Ann ignored them without any effort. Her long fingers stroked the sides of her glass, picking up droplets of moisture. She parted her rowan-hued lips to say something. A voice behind me interrupted her.
"Call for Mr. Dell Ammo." The waiter had been walking up and down the lounge, his voice carrying just enough to reach the tables he passed.
I stood to catch his attention.
"Mr. Ammo?"
I nodded.
"A telephone call for you."
I followed him to the telephones and stepped into the booth that he indicated. I thanked him and crumpled a fiver into his hand. He looked at it, mentally converted it from last week's value to this week's, and smiled broadly.
I lifted the receiver to my ear.
"Ammo," I said.
The voice on the other end was as smooth as a mortician's slab.
"Ammo-get off this God caper of yours. Zacharias is one washedup preacher. Get wise-you're up against people who mean business."
"Yeah?" I retorted suavely. I couldn't place his accent. This was getting so overblown that I didn't even care about playing dumb. "What's it to you? If He exists, I'm no match for Him. If He doesn't, I'm only wasting my own time."
The voice spoke with slow amusement.
"Let's just say that the stakes in this particular game are high enough that it wouldn't even be worth your while to play."
The line clicked, followed by the buzzing silence of a disconnection. I hung up the receiver.
I hadn't figured anyone would take this whole affair seriously, let alone catch on to me so quickly. Now I had to plan more than a "killing" that would bring me a steady income. I had to protect myself from a second nut or gang of nuts. Great.
I mulled the problem over while walking back to the table.
Ann was gone.
The attaché case lay open on her table setting, its output screen alight. Bright orange letters glowed against a black background.
THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS IS HARD.
PROVERBS 13:15
I looked around and saw no clue.
I did see the kid, though. She was guiding her bloated sugar daddy toward the exit. I raced over to grab her arm.
"Where'd she go?"
The fat man bridled. "Let go of her, fellah," he said around the edge of his cigar.
I ignored him. The brat stared up at me defiantly. "You'd have been watching," I said with a genuinely angry growl. "Where'd she go?"
"You're hurting me!" She tried to twist away. "It was two men in black."
The fat man became bolder. "Let go of her, you drunken bastard!"
I tried a bluff. The wrong bluff.
"Vice sq
uad, mister." I reached up toward my breast pocket.
The man looked worried for an instant. Then he smiled broadly.
"Guards!"
I realized where I was and how the law was welcome. A neural interruptor field switched on, knocking me to my knees. Through a tingle of dulled sensation, I watched four arms seize me. They dragged me to an access tunnel separate from the corridors used by customers.
I tried another bluff. Another winner.
"I'm her father." Drool passed over my numbed lips. "I was just trying to talk to her."
"You should've given her a better home life, rummy." The voice spoke from far away. "She's got her freedom here."
A hatch whined open.
"Wait," I babbled. "I was with a woman. I think she's been kidnapped. The girl saw-"
"Right, pal. Kidnapped by a couple of priests. Tell us another."
The four arms propelled me from the hatch of the underhill city. Except that I was at the top of the hill.
The hatch slammed behind me, and I rolled. The field of insensitivity they'd hit me with still deadened my nerves. I was thankful for that.
Dry grass and dirt patches whisked past me. Something hard hit my waist. It stung. I bounced past it and slid face forward to a stop at the bottom of Bunker Hill.
It didn't take long for pain to overcome the effects of the neural interruptor beam. My body curled up in a convulsion of agony, then snapped back. Shoes scraped against grimy concrete. Hands slid over crumbling pavement. After long moments of struggle, I stood.
The world tilted like some crazy Disney ride. I clambered for a parking sign to lean against, grasping it like a long-lost brother.
Down the block, someone screamed. Someone familiar.
I looked up and down the dark street. My eyes had a little trouble focusing.
I saw her. Two men in dark clothing dragged her toward a car, an arm each around her shoulders. Behind them, the door of a lower level loading dock dropped shut slowly. She struggled, blond hair whipping about.
They were at the far end of the block. I started to run as fast as I could. Pain shot through my left leg up to the hip. I reached for my Colt to find an empty holster. It must have fallen out during the roll.
The car engine whined into life as they stuffed her inside. Tires squealed, and the car roared in my direction. I performed the usual stupid action of jumping in its path. Rubber shrieked again; the car swerved around me.
I jumped for the trunk, missed, and came up with bloody elbows and a scraped nose. Wiping the dust from my eyes, I watched the taillights recede into the night.
"Look out mister!"
I turned around. On top of the hill-in the hatchway I'd been launched from-stood the kid. Light poured out of the tunnel. Her giant shadow splashed down the hillside.
"Behind you, asshole!"
I whirled about just in time to enjoy the view of a blackjack zeroing in on my right temple. I didn't see stars. Just a lot of black that got blacker.
5
Pre Mortem
I woke up with a Rushmore-size headache in a dark little cell that made San Quentin look like the Biltmore. My bruises had been bandaged, and I was dressed in a light blue hospital gown. The smooth white walls teetered a bit as I sat up.
I eased my mistreated body up to walk around the cell. My shoulder intuitively sought the wall for support.
The smell of Formalin and acetone in the air forced the sluggishness out of my head. The phrase that most readily came to what mind I had was, what a sap. Ann and I both captured. They'd probably left one mug to cover their escape. And the call-a diversion.
I hadn't expected such a reaction to an insane proposition. Maybe the Big Man
was
worried.
Heavy footsteps approached, slow and ponderous. A series of latches clanked back. The door opened inward without so much as a Lugosian creak.
In the doorway stood the largest piece of beef I'd ever seen on less than four legs. He had to duck to pass under the doorframe, which hung a foot higher than my head. His ghost-sheet pallor brought out the tints of red in his thin, strawberry-blond hair. The whiteness also contrasted nicely with his black clerical frock.
"I'm not ready for last rites," I said.
"Shut yer trap, Ammo, and set down. You ain't going nowhere." He talked like a rock polisher.
"Sure, Demosthenes, sure." I sat. The bedsprings groaned.
"Watch yer language, geezer. It ain't reverent fer a man yer age."
He leaned against the doorframe, blocking my exit as well as most of the door.
I knew any punch that I could throw would only tickle him and would split my knuckles open. So we waited.
For ten minutes he stood there, staring at me with calm green eyes that conveyed intelligence greater than his words communicated. I met his gaze, striving not to reveal my intentions through any involuntary motions.
I broke the silence first.
"Look, Demosthenes, why don't you go bite open a few coconuts while I toddle along? Kidnapping isn't the best way to gain converts."
"Ammo-" his cement-mixer voice rumbled. "Whyn't you close your mouth so Brother Bannister don't have to come in and wire it shut to keep it from danglin'?"
He turned upon hearing distant footsteps. The creak of bedsprings when I stood brought him spinning around.
"Siddown, brother. Father Beathan's coming."
I swallowed a crude rejoinder and stood as tall as I could, wishing I had a cigarette. My nose itched madly under its bandage.
The steps grew louder, echoing down the corridor.
Demosthenes crossed himself and genuflected quickly. Through the door entered a man about half the lummox's height and a quarter of his weight. Old and withered, he carried an equally aged doctor's satchel in one wrinkled hand. He eyed me with a pair of pale greys that seemed too large for his small head. His gaze darted around the cell.
A second man followed him in. He wore a black frock and white collar the same as the other two. He stared past the old man at me and scowled.
"This won't do at all," he said to no one in particular.
"What's wrong this time, Father?" The old man scratched at his ear with impatience.
"Brother Matheny, how many times must I repeat?
Setting
. Setting is as important as set and dosage. This is a science, not some crude torture."
From the way he used the word
science
, I might have preferred crude torture.
Brother Matheny parted his desiccated lips, looked at me as though it were my fault, and turned to the Hulk.
"Brother O'Rourke. Find out where Father Beathan wants the sinner taken and take him there. And this, too." The satchel landed on the marble floor with a clatter. The little man stormed past Beathan and the ox.
It was a pitiably small storm.
Demosthenes stared dully at the departing Brother Matheny. Beathan stooped over to pick up the bag. He had a couple of inches height on me, though I outweighed his trim, athletic form. Thinning hair the color of an old battleship lay straight back, close to his scalp. His gaunt face was that of a dedicated Jesuit scientist-strong features; a calm, inquiring gaze; thin, tight lips.
He produced a hypo from his bag, filled it partially from an ampoule. Clean fingernails tapped the syringe to loosen a stray bubble that he subsequently squeezed out.
"If that's how I'm getting the holy water," I said, "I don't want to stick around for Communion."
"You won't be around, Mr. Ammo." Beathan smiled wearily. "I'm afraid we'll have to...
sedate
you for transportation. Brother O'Rourke." He turned to the walking sequoia.
Demosthenes cracked his knuckles and reached for me.
They wanted me alive for some reason, so I felt I could risk my next move. Sitting down on the bed, I braced against the wall and kicked both feet into O'Rourke's crotch.
He huffed like a bull and backed off to raise
his fists.
"Easy, Frank!" Beathan reached out to calm the big man.
The fists unclenched. "I forgive you," the rumbling voice said, "as even Jesus forgives you." He moved in again.
I kicked him harder.
In an effort to gain my attention, Beathan tapped me on the side of the head with a double fist. This time I saw stars.
Through a minor galaxy of multicolored lights and throbbing noise, I saw Demosthenes rolling on the floor clutching his groin. A needle approached my neck. Voices faded in and out and buzzed a million miles away.
"JesusJesusJesus damn him to hell..."
"Shut up and get him to Dissection."
"Make `im
burn
Godalmighty it
hurts!
"
"Get
up!
"
Something eventually reached through the fluffy cloud of fuzzed sensation that enveloped me. I was dragged from the bed. Something stung in my neck again, and the constellations collapsed into black holes.
The universe vanished like God waking up.
God started dreaming again, and I awoke in a dark place. I wasn't sure I was completely awake, though. Something felt very wrong.
For starters, the floor rumpled and wiggled beneath me. The single light bulb hanging over me grew and shrank, pulsating opalescent colors. The ceiling squirmed like boiling pudding in slow motion. I tried to stand.
And watched my feet melt into the floor.
At first, I thought I'd slipped and fallen. When I grabbed for a nearby table and watched it twist away from me, I knew something wasn't straight, and it was I.
Blotchy hands, horribly withered, hung from my wrists. Beneath the hospital robe my body swelled and contracted. So did everything else. The whole room behaved as if it were hideously alive.
What Beathan had said about set, setting, and dosage suddenly came back to me in a thousand tiny voices. Something black and red flickered the word
stoned
. I knew it then and there. And the most frightening realization was that there was nothing I could do about it. I had to ride it wherever it would take me.
Somewhere deep back in what was left of my mind, I guessed that they'd drugged me to imprint something on my consciousness. Psychedelics-such as the one currently making me see the skeleton under my skin-have the effect of opening the mind to suggestion. The thought slithered through my mind and vanished the instant I laid my hand on the table. And put my fingers into someone's liver.