by Mary Eicher
“I’ve wanted to do that for a while now,” Artemis said with a crooked grin.
Resisting the embrace, Lucy gave her an apologetic smile. “You really are quite beautiful and…and I love what your kiss…”
“But…” Artemis slouched, retrieving her hand from behind Lucy. “But you’re not like that. Not a sister. Not…”
“No!” Lucy corrected her softly. “That isn’t it. I’m just not sure yet if what I feel is real.”
*
Brandon slammed his fist against his bedroom wall. His thin body shook with the effort. He was tired of always losing.
“Brandon, are you all right?” His mother’s voice drifted through the door.
“Yeah. I’m great. I just knocked over a chair. Go back to bed, Ma.” He ran his fingers through his short cropped hair and leaned back against the wall. His room was dark, the way he liked it. The dark was a box protecting him from the world. He put his face in his hands and held back tears. He didn’t see any way out.
Brandon couldn’t explain what had gone wrong. He had a system, and he always did his mental prep. He repeated the “winner words” until he believed them, and when he was at the peak of confidence, when he was truly ready, he’d driven to the card room.
It had worked so well at the beginning. He was a wonder at the game. He could read players so easily it was as if their intentions were transparent. He could divine their tells. He won. He made money. He had respect. All the things he had never found in the army. And believing he was protected by some mystical force, he had plans to go big on the tour. Then inexplicably it had all gone terribly wrong. He ran through his cache and had to borrow from his brother. Losing that, he had forged a check on his mother’s account. And he had lost that before he could settle his account with the card room.
He slid down the wall and spread his legs along the floor. He’d toyed with the idea of robbing a store. How hard could it be? The guys who worked at the corner Circle K were morons, and it wasn’t even their money. They wouldn’t risk a beating when all they had to do was hand him the money from the till. Simple enough. But he wasn’t like that really. He wasn’t a thief. Trying to be had got him kicked out of the army. He was going to pay his family back the money as soon as he could.
Brandon stared at the plastic bag of pain pills taken from the prescription bottle in his mother’s cabinet. She needed them, so he had left most of them for her. The eight he took should be enough to do what he needed to do. He reached up and grabbed a bottle of water from his nightstand.
It took him a little while to actually do it. He cried a little. He grew angry at the way life had treated him and he raged against the disappointments and failures that were all he could remember of his short existence. It seemed to him his life had been a horrifying ballet, and he had never learned to dance. Finally, accepting his inadequacy, he let go of the last vestiges of hope and took the pills from the plastic bag. He shoved them all in his mouth and guzzled water to wash them down. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the dark to take him.
He was alive when his mother found him thirty minutes later. She’d gone to his room to ask about the pills that were missing from her prescription bottle. Brandon had been in a fetal position on the floor beside his bed. His face a mess of tears and snot, and his head lolled to one side in a small pool of vomit. She had simply closed the door and called 9-1-1 to see if they could find a way to help her errant son.
The EMTs put him on a gurney and wheeled him to the ambulance. He had a chance of making it, they told his mother. The ambulance driver paused to ask a final question. Had Brandon heard the bells? His mother had no idea what the woman was talking about. In the back of the ambulance a semi-conscious Brandon began shaking his head from side to side.
Chapter Five
The text message was short and to the point. Jamil Uberdorf didn’t need to reread it to get the meaning. His mentor, known only by the signature SME, was a master of clarity. He tucked the phone in his pocket of his navy-blue suit coat and checked his appearance in the little mirror perched on the top of his dresser.
He combed back his hair and straightened his tie. He hated ties, but the mentor had told him precisely what to wear to the interview. He’d borrowed the suit from Jerry, his main man. They were the same size, short but well built, and the cheap blue suit fit him perfectly. Gazing into the mirror, Uberdorf decided he liked the look. It was business-like and professional. If looks alone could get him the gig, things were in the bag.
Jamil Uberdorf wasn’t worried. Everything the anonymous mentor had told him to do had worked out perfectly. He’d opened an office in Studio City with the money the mentor had provided. He’d been able to stop his Harbinger of Death street gig since he didn’t need the donations now he was funded. He’d built a website for his new business, Servants of the Harbinger, just as the mentor had told him, and he was getting volunteers. The Harbinger billboards had helped immensely; he’d give the mentor credit for that brilliant idea.
But Jamil believed he was brilliant in his own right. He had coined the name Harbinger, and the idea to dress in monk’s robes had been all his. The idea of doing something associated with religion appealed to him. Going on television was also something he’d suggested. As far as he could see, all televangelists were conmen, and no one was better at a con than he. Besides, he thought, looking once again at the image in the mirror, he was a handsome fellow with his wavy hair and sharp brown eyes. And he had a smile to light up an auditorium.
The mentor had taken the idea and run with it. Somehow they’d arranged for Uberdorf to meet with a studio executive and set up the time for a weekly broadcast. He was excited about the whole idea. Uberdorf sensed his ship had come in. He smiled at the fella in the mirror. “You are a winner, man,” he said to the grinning reflection.
He spun on the heels of his new shoes and snapped his fingers. Then he walked out and climbed into his ten-year-old Honda and drove to the studio where a future he’d never thought possible waited for him.
*
A week later, the Right Reverend Uberdorf prepared for his first of what were to be weekly broadcasts. He had two points to make: the Harbinger is the voice of God, and all other religions are false. He also intended to spur his audience to make donations, but asking for money was a constant, not a preachable idea. He pulled the brown monk’s robe down over his shirt and slacks. Checking his appearance in the mirror, he patted the freshly bald circle at the crown of his head. He liked the look. It was pious and humble, attributing those traits to a man who did not actually possess them. He swiveled, and the robe billowed as he moved. He could use that, he thought. It was dramatic, even energetic. He considered adding a length of prayer beads but dismissed them in favor of a simple silver bell which hung around his neck on a chain. The clapper had been removed, but it was still a useful prop, designed to remind viewers of the Harbinger.
He swilled a bit of mouthwash and spit it into a cup. He was ready to perform. The orchestra was starting his entrance music, and he stepped out of the green room and sauntered toward the stage. He could hear the audience clapping as his prep team worked them up. Then the stage lights went down, and the announcer’s voice came up. When the lights came back on, Jamil Uberdorf stood with his head bowed in prayer. The audience applauded.
He lifted his head slowly and clasped his hands. “My dearest friends!” he began with his carefully selected opening. “Thank you for joining us today.” His voice carried past the two hundred people in attendance to what he imagined were millions watching in their homes. “This blessed day in which we celebrate the Harbinger, the voice of God Himself, who gives us peace.”
He pranced and swirled while he preached. He spoke of God’s will, of salvation, of the call to serve mankind. He was moved to tears as he spoke of those who had been sinners only to be saved when the Harbinger came to them.
“Jesus rose from the dead after three days. Now by means of a wondrous miracle, the Son of God has giv
en those three sacred days to each of us. We are blessed with the voice of the Harbinger in our final hours. The Harbinger gives us three days to repent the sins of this world and rise again to be with God in heaven.”
The audience gave him a thunderous ovation. He raised his arms and basked in their approval. “Hear me, my dearest friends. And through me, hear eternity itself. Shed your fear and your sinful ways. Welcome the miracle of the Harbinger with open hearts. If circumstance prevents you from joining our order of servants, then send us what you can to support our cause. We are asked by the Almighty to bring comfort to the world in this time of miracles. Look in your hearts and you will find that you, too, are called to this noble task.”
Donation addresses flashed at the bottom of the screen as he spoke. Stage lights danced around the reverend, giving the impression that he was receiving the approval of heaven itself.
*
Lucy thought the Right Reverend Jamil Uberdorf could preen so ostentatiously even his words took on color. She watched his choreographed performance while she and Angie sat huddled on the couch paging through The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
“Do you think Grandma will get the harbells soon?” the little girl asked. “She’s real, real old.”
“No,” Lucy said, holding back a smile. “The Harbinger bells don’t want your grandma, sweetheart. She’ll be fine.” She gave her daughter a hug and told her to go brush her teeth.
“Hell’s bells, the tempest is surely upon us,” the right reverend was expounding. “The Harbinger of death is destroying the wicked. He is cutting a mighty swath through the ignorant and the blasphemers.” He pointed a stubby finger directly at the camera. “Do not be in their number. Before the Harbinger comes to claim you, reach out to us.” A nine hundred number blinked at the bottom of the screen. “And we will lead you to salvation.”
Lucy turned off the television and tucked Angie into bed. The house seemed unusually quiet. The whole city had gradually grown silent with only the swoosh of traffic to break the silence. There were no more sirens, or loud music. It felt peaceful but strangely sterile.
She picked up the latest issue of the Riverside Messenger and paged to her article on gardening. At least she was still being paid to write even if it was mostly drivel. The real story she kept writing kept continuing to be rejected by Jake. Her phone hummed, and she was surprised to see who was calling.
“Temmie!” she answered sounding as delighted as she felt. “You’re still talking to me.”
“Of course,” Artemis said matter-of-factly. “You don’t have to be my lover to be my friend. I was wondering how you’re doing. I just loved the article on gardening.”
“It was a doozy, wasn’t it? You know how we reporter types like to dish the dirt.”
“Oh, that was bad, Lucy. Puns are not your forte.”
“Neither is gardening,” Lucy admitted. “How are things going for you, Temmie? I’ll bet you’re busier than ever.”
Artemis confessed the workload continued to grow beyond her capacity. She had taken on staff to deal with it; but that aside, she had called with a specific set of questions.
“Is there any indication this Harbinger thing is going to end?” she asked.
Lucy laughed. “Are you kidding? It’s spreading across the state. The Messenger has had inquiries from as far north as Hollister, and I’ve heard some of the politicians are jumping in.”
“Probably just fundraising. What can they do? The Harbinger doesn’t kill anyone. It just appears to warn them death is imminent. Some people see it as a blessing letting them get their affairs in order.”
“Spoken like a probate attorney.” Lucy chuckled. “I don’t know too many people who feel good about it.”
“A very weary attorney.” Artemis sighed. “So let me ask you this. People still die without being visited by the Harbinger, right?”
“Oh gods, yes.” Lucy confirmed. “The Harbinger appears to be involved in less than a fifth of the deaths, although we can’t really know. Lots of people aren’t forthcoming about hearing the Harbinger. And lots of people are too scared to admit they’ve heard the bells even to themselves.”
“Copy that. I’ve seen it myself. People come in to get their wills updated. They have an aspect about them even when they don’t mention the Harbinger. I’m getting pretty good at picking them out. The next thing I hear, they’ve passed.”
“All of your clients?” Lucy sounded surprised.
“No. No. But enough to make me wonder.”
They both fell silent for a moment. Then Lucy asked a question along a different line. “Could we have lunch tomorrow?”
Artemis felt herself smile at the suggestion. “Sure. There’s a café down the street from my office. You want to come by around one, and we can go get lunch?”
*
Artemis greeted Lucy in the foyer and bent to accept a platonic hug. Lucy looked happy, if a bit shy, in a pair of navy slacks and a pretty lemon blouse. Artemis wore a dark-gray business suit with a slit up the side of the short skirt and a low-cut blue blouse that highlighted the cast of her eyes. They found a table on the patio and ordered salads.
“How’s Angie?” Artemis asked.
“She’s good. She’s into books lately. We read the same ones every night before she goes to bed.” Lucy shook her head. “She’s memorized them, but she thinks she’s reading while she turns the pages and tells me what they say. It’s really cute.”
“I bet it is. I love kids. I was hoping to be an aunt, but well, you know. I’d like to meet Angie one day.”
“She’d love you, just like I…” Lucy stopped and looked away.
Artemis took a few bites of her salad. “Do you have access to any nonpublic information, Lucy? I mean working at the Messenger, a lot of data must come into your office. The news media hasn’t provided much in the way of facts about the Harbinger. It’s almost as if there’s been an information blackout.”
“Well, it’s not a blackout anymore.” Lucy looked frustrated. “The governor rescinded his executive order weeks ago. But the print media is still avoiding any analysis of the Harbinger. I’m beginning to believe someone is paying Jake to keep us from writing about it at all.”
“At first I thought it some sort of temporary aberration. I just wanted to know what it was and why it picked Cab.” Artemis used her fork to toy with bits of lettuce on her plate. She wasn’t hungry, and the topic of discussion didn’t help. “But given the spread, it’s beginning to feel permanent—possibly even evolutionary.”
“Like when early humans discovered how to make fire.” Lucy missed the point. “They burned their fingers, but they got cooked food.”
“Something like that.” Artemis smiled. “Maybe Cab was more evolved than me, and he picked up a warning I couldn’t. But if it was a warning, why did he die?” She wiped her mouth with a napkin and, catching a hint of sympathy in Lucy’s eyes, changed the subject.
“Anyway, I got a call from the governor’s office. They like the system my office has set up to help people who want to get their affairs in order. We call it ‘Instant Estate.’ They didn’t actually mention the Harbinger, but it was clear that’s what was behind their request. They want to talk to me about visiting law firms statewide and training a ton of people.”
“That’s terrific.” Lucy took a sip of water. “You’d be great at that.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’m not a people person, remember?” Artemis pushed the plate aside so the waiter would know she was finished. “I still wonder if this whole thing is going to turn out to be a temporary phenomenon.” She gave Lucy a sarcastic grin. “Unlike the Promethean gift of fire.”
A commotion arose on the sidewalk in front of the café. Seated on the patio, they had an unobstructed view of what was happening. A man clad in a long brown monk’s robe was calling out to the busy lunch-hour foot traffic. The top of his head was shaven, and he carried a placard that read “Servants of the Harbinger.” Unhappy about being ignored, he began har
assing people. He was belligerent and loud. and he was making a scene.
“I recognize that cult,” Lucy said, disgusted at the display and sliding her plate away. “They are led by the Right Reverend Jamil Uberdorf, a local TV evangelist currently making a splash. They preach about love and peace and then beat the shit out of anyone who ignores them.”
As if on cue, the Harbinger servant took a mighty swing, venting his frustration by decking a man who tried to walk past him without making a donation. A group of passersby gave the servant a wide berth, but no one acted to help the poor victim. The servant stood over the man and began taunting him as he again delivered a vicious kick.
Artemis felt a rush of long repressed anger rise from the depths of her grief. It was anger that had been unable to find a target suitable for release; anger not just for the bully she was watching, but a rage at a world that had lost its decency. As she watched, her icy-blue eyes darkened and flashes of golden light sparkled about the irises.
She bolted from her chair and cleared the low patio surround in a leap to aid the man on the ground. Lucy rose and followed albeit much more leisurely. Artemis grabbed the servant by the front of his robe with one hand and broke his nose with the other. He cried out in surprise as much as pain and cradled his face in his hands, blood dripping through his fingers.
She released her grip on his robe and shoved him back on his heels. The handful of people watching started to applaud. Lucy helped the original victim to his feet and placed a hand gingerly on her friend’s back.
“Fuck! I’m going to press charges,” the servant growled.
Artemis responded with a hostile grin and a stare that promised further pain. “You do that. I’ll be easy to find. I’m the lawyer for this guy who’s going to sue your ass.”
The man who had been pummeled by the monk stood shakily and straightened his tie. “That’s right. You people are leeches, and it’s time someone stood up to you.” He asked Artemis for a business card and thanked her before walking off, nursing his ribs and promising to be in touch.