by Mary Eicher
*
Uberdorf was bored with the demonstrations although his mentor seemed to like them. They were expensive to manage, taking nearly all his resources, and time-consuming, more so since everything had to be done under the name Victims No More, a false front operation he had created on the internet. The demonstrators were just a bunch of useful idiots as Karl Marx used to refer to them, running around singing stupid slogans and burning an occasional police car. Okay, Jamil admitted he rather liked that last part. But he preferred tactical action to strategy. He was a hands-on guy itching to bust some heads and work off the funk he’d been in since Brandon blew up his plan for Osteen.
His mind kept centering on what the pope was no doubt going to do. What if the pope had the audacity to insinuate the Harbinger was the work of the devil and by implication the Servants of the Harbinger were evil? Uberdorf knew such a pronouncement would make his progress more difficult. He would of necessity be forced to consider that tantamount to a declaration of war. Jamil doubted he was ready to go to war with something as formidable as the entire Catholic Church. But skirmishes were something he could handle.
He took off his monk’s robe and donned a baseball cap to cover his tonsure. He should be able to catch the end of evening services at the cathedral if he hurried. The building would not be locked for the night until after vespers and he could pick up the current literature being put out by the papists.
It took longer to walk there than he had thought. He stood at the edge of the park across the street and watched the last people straggle out of the huge Gothic building. Much as he might like to, he accepted there was no way to attack the cathedral with his band of Servants. The building was enormous. He strolled across the intersection and walked through the immense open doors, squeezing past an ancient priest who was preparing to secure them. In the vestibule was a rack of information pamphlets available for the taking. He sorted through them until he happened upon one that showed promise.
There was going to be a fair to celebrate the feast of some saint or other: apparently a traditional event for the parish. It was scheduled for a Sunday three weeks hence. Uberdorf read the pamphlet and was pleased to see the fair would be held in the park across the street where he had just been standing. The park was large and opened on all sides. It was a perfect venue for his next escalation.
Pocketing the pamphlet, Uberdorf saluted the patient priest and exited the church. He strolled contentedly back to his headquarters, toying with plans as he walked. Fifteen maybe twenty men should do it. He had hundreds. He decided to make all the preparations before running the idea in front of his mentor for approval. The mentor had gone along with the new billboards displaying a capital “H” with a halo above it. They had approved the sale of T-shirts bearing the new logo. And his mentor was behind the demonstrations staged across the state. But they had been unhappy with the attack on churches and downright squeamish about people getting hurt. The mysterious mentor, who was known to Uberdorf only as a distorted voice on a phone or the writer of encrypted text messages and emails, had castigated Jamil about San Bernardino. Uberdorf had been forced to satisfy himself with burning empty churches for a time. He knew his mentor would need to be convinced to support this new escalation, and he would need to conceal the more violent details.
He put his hands in his pockets and took a detour through the slums south of downtown. His old neighborhood was just as it had been when he’d abandoned it decades ago. It looked precisely like he remembered it, familiar dingy storefronts with the same things for sale and the same lack of buyers. People loitered in corners or slept something off in filthy doorways. There were blocks of shabby tents and cardboard domiciles where the homeless had moved in. The Harbinger was nothing new here. Death had always been close, even frequently welcomed. He pulled the baseball cap low over his eyes and retreated to safer ground, whistling as he went.
*
Artemis browsed the full text of the encyclical Lucy had handed to her and frowned. Surprisingly, the pope’s proclamation was made ex cathedra. More than simply the man’s opinion, the pronouncement had the weight of a directive from God. The pope did not define the Harbinger as an unholy thing, and he did not label belief in the Harbinger as sin. But at the same time, he made it clear that the Harbinger was not from God and worship of it was forbidden. He emphasized that the cults associated with the Harbinger were not Christian whether they professed belief in Jesus Christ or not. After a long treatise on dogmatic pronouncements, he assured Catholics that the natural order of God’s creation had not changed.
Change. Artemis folded the document in half and set it on the table between her and Lucy. “That’s irrational. The pope takes both sides. The Harbinger is not bad, but don’t you dare pray to it.” She gave a little chuckle as she pressed the document beneath her hand. “Did you learn anything from your interviews?”
Lucy shrugged. “Enough to write a piece on the fine points of the proclamation. But what I really discovered is that the church hierarchy is terrified the Harbinger will make them obsolete. People won’t need guidance to lead a good life once everyone realizes they can do whatever they want and wait to repent when they get a visit from the Harbinger.” She made a whooshing sound and splayed her fingers. “Everyone goes directly to heaven. Who needs ten commandments and a grouchy old pope?”
Artemis laughed out loud. “Who indeed! Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one is quite ready to make the trip.”
They ordered cappuccinos from the waiter, who left them with a smile and a flip of his napkin. Lucy squirmed in her seat. “Why do I feel like he’s about to pinch my butt every time he comes over here?”
“Must have been something I said.” Artemis smiled.
The afternoon sun had a pretty pink cast to it. People were emerging from their work to stroll about the piazza and gather at benches surrounding a central fountain to enjoy the noonday meal. Lucy watched them fascinated by the casual yet sophisticated manner of the people who were dressed to the nines. Rome is completely different than home, she thought, feeling it unfortunate that her European ancestors had left such elegant traditions behind when they’d come to the new world.
“I prefer this world. One without a Harbinger,” she said sounding wistful.
Artemis cocked her head to see what had captured Lucy’s interest. “The Harbinger hasn’t been detected here. But there is a sense of apprehension. It’s just that in Rome people are more loath to confront the pope than the possibility of the Harbinger.”
She could sense the malaise all around them. She could hear the whispers and read the veiled alarm in peoples’ eyes. The Harbinger hadn’t arrived in Italy, but Artemis knew that it would. Change.
Artemis spied the small shopping bag Lucy had set on the table. “What did you get?”
Lucy withdrew a jewelry box and opened it to reveal a rosary made of silver and garnet.
“Nice.” Artemis leaned forward to give it a good look.
“For my mother. She’s Catholic although she hasn’t been a practicing one since my father died. Dad was the religious one. Garnets are her favorites, and it seemed, I don’t know, Italian.”
She pulled up a bag that had been on the floor beside her chair and took out a pretty little dress, a pair of pink boots, and a bracelet with six Roman-themed charms.
“I see what you mean about Angie being spoiled,” Artemis said, holding up the charm bracelet. “I didn’t know five-year-olds wore jewelry. The boots are adorable. But what’s left for her favorite aunt, namely me, to bring her?”
Lucy put her hand on Artemis’s arm. “That’s easy: me. She told me when I called this morning. Tell Temmie to bring you home now, Mommy.”
“Her wish is my command. We leave tomorrow. But we have half a day to sightsee. Where would you like to go?” She placed a few Euros on the table, secured them with her saucer, and gathered all the items into the bigger bag.
“Is the Trevi fountain near?”
Lucy had that
tourist sparkle in her eyes, and her hands clasped like a child at Christmas.
Artemis took out a map on which she’d drawn a tour line for them to follow. They headed to the Pantheon first and then went to catch the Colosseum and the Roman forum before closing. Artemis pointed out the Temple of Vesta and made a few remarks about vestal virgins which earned her an elbow to the ribs. They found a road where Caesar was said to have given a speech and visited the Arch of Titus and the place where Saint Stephen was martyred. With the sun having set, they walked down the broad Spanish Steps and hiked to the Trevi fountain. Lucy turned her back, closed her eyes, and tossed a coin over her shoulder.
“Aren’t you going to make a wish?” she asked Artemis when she finished.
“Naw.” Artemis ran her hands down Lucy’s arms. “I have everything I want right here.”
“I’d kiss you,” Lucy teased. “But the pope might be watching.”
Artemis leaned down, ready to kiss her anyway. “He’s in Vatican City. We’re safe.”
A mime arrayed in black dungarees and white face tapped Artemis on the shoulder and made her turn around. He put up his hands and opened his mouth in mock shock. Then he grabbed her about the torso, bent her backward, and planted a faux kiss on her lips. He pulled her up and, releasing his hold, pointed to Lucy with one hand and motioned Artemis with the other. Then, making a dramatic bow, he covered his mouth to conceal a silent giggle.
Artemis got the gist. She pulled Lucy into her arms, bent her back, and gave her a passionate kiss. The mime’s animated face erupted in pantomimed joy. He danced and clapped silently, showing his approval as he skipped away. They watched him go, joined hands, and headed back to the hotel.
In the lobby, Lucy picked up a newspaper to take to the room. Artemis shook her head. “You don’t read Italian, Lucy.” She pushed the elevator button and chuckled.
Lucy looked stricken. “I don’t have to, Temmie. I understand this.”
She held up the paper and showed her the inch-high headline: ANNUNZIATORE! The Harbinger had arrived in Rome. Un messaggero di morte was spreading its dark wings over Europe.
*
Lieutenant Randall inspected the barracks and found them adequate. They were clean if somewhat sterile and better than the temporary fencing that had gone up along the perimeter. Barbed wire worked fine for cattle or curious desert critters but was not a dependable barrier when humans were involved. The desert itself would have to provide the real barrier and prevent the detainees from wandering off either by chance or purpose.
The camp could hold two thousand detainees, and he had a force of thirty men to contain them. He would try again to get more suitable fencing allocated. Until he got it, the wire would have to hold off the curious should any stumble upon the isolated camp. It was deliberately located in the vast emptiness of the Arizona flatlands. There was even a no-fly zone to keep it hidden. Rumor had it, this was not the only camp being constructed.
His first sergeant made a lazy salute as he approached. “The latrines and mess hall are nearly finished, sir.”
“Thank you, Ryan. I am aware of the schedule.” Lieutenant Randall made a quick survey of the compound and found all in order. “We have plenty of time to get things finished. I just don’t believe our government is really going to put citizens in a place like this.”
The sergeant relaxed. “I hope like hell you’re right about that. The men think this is for the immigrant overflow. I don’t think they’d much like the real purpose.” He scratched his chin. “What do you think about it, sir?”
The lieutenant shrugged. “I think this whole exercise is a feint.”
He had left the more unpleasant construction projects to the end so as to not arouse more curiosity. The medical building and cemetery were going to be difficult to explain. He knew he would have to eventually. Word would get out. It would only enflame the demonstrators more, and he’d be damned before he’d allow his men to be used to squelch a bunch of angry citizens. Then he stared at Ryan and came up with a more honest answer.
“I think this whole business is un-American.”
The sergeant had one more question. “This is about that Harbinger thing, isn’t it? It’s beyond California now.”
“Yep. This place is for the walking dead.” He nodded at Ryan and drifted away.
*
Two men watched the soldiers from a low knoll to the south. The men pressed flat against the sandy ground as the soldiers appeared to have a brief conversation. Pablo squinted against the bright sun as he peered into the binoculars. His companion, whom he referred to as Gringo, finding it amusing to do so, rolled onto his back.
“What are they doing now?” Gringo asked his handler.
“Nada. They just walked off.” He lowered the binoculars and frowned. “You’ll have to go around. I didn’t know this place was here. We should have come in further down.”
“How far around?” the American asked. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
Pablo shrugged. “You have enough.”
Gringo wasn’t so sure. The headache had happened nearly two days ago. He bit his fingernails. “Look, man. If I drop dead in the desert, no one will ever find your precious package.”
“And your family will never receive the money,” his handler threatened. “You agreed to do this, Gringo. I have taken you this far. Either you do what I say, or I leave you here. You can just die. It is no problem for me. The next mule will find your body and my cargo.”
They crept back down the small rise and stood up. The American straightened the backpack straps and pointed west. “You want me to go that way and then north?”
Pablo pushed up his hat and considered the options. “Sí. If you head west for three miles there is a dry channel you can follow north. The arroyo will give you good cover. You should make up time then and reach the drop point by morning.”
“It’s hard to go fast in this terrain,” Gringo pointed out. “It’s hot, and I don’t like snakes. I heard there are rattlesnakes everywhere.”
“What choice do you have, amigo? You are already dead.” A wide grin appeared beneath the handler’s dusty mustache. “Pretend you are a real mule, eh.” He laughed and slapped the backpack on Gringo’s back. “You have a saddlebag.” He laughed again. “Only do not be stubborn like a stupid mule.” He laughed loudly at his bad joke. “A stupid mule would make mistakes.”
Gringo shifted the backpack and began trudging west. He was carrying a million dollars’ worth of fentanyl, and if he had time, he would think of a way to disappear with it. A million was a hundred times what the cartel was paying his family for his services. But he had no time. The Harbinger had seen to that.
Chapter Twelve
They were somewhere above Canada when it happened. Lucy had fallen asleep with her head leaning against Artemis’s shoulder. Sitting on the aisle, Artemis was watching the inflight movie while sucking ice chips from an empty cup of juice. The cabin lights were low, and the sun was behind them as they journeyed west. The dim cabin was quiet except for the drone of the engines. Artemis closed her eyes and tried to rest to fend off the time-zone change they would experience, but an undefined agitation gripped her as if something was about to go wrong. Whispers clawed at her mind. Prepare.
She moved Lucy gently to the side and headed down the aisle in search of a fresh drink.
“I don’t suppose you have a bit of wine?” Artemis asked the steward who was busy putting items into tiny cupboards.
“Yeah, I do.” He produced two small bottles of Italian wine and offered them to her. “Can’t rest?”
She shook her head. “Wish I could.”
“Well, the wine should help,” the friendly steward assured her. “There’s more if you need it.” He handed her a plastic cup.
Artemis made her way down the aisle and settled back into her seat. The wine did little to dispel the sense of foreboding creeping catlike in her mind. Sensing her return, Lucy leaned back against Artemis’s shoulder without wak
ing.
Artemis leaned her head against her partner’s side. Things were too perfect, she thought. That’s when the fates appear—when things are perfect. She poured the second bottle of wine into her cup and begged the fates to leave them alone. But Artemis knew they wouldn’t. Not once in her life had she been spared their wrath.
*
Ready for school and happy that her mother would be home by the time the school day ended, Angie climbed onto a chair and took a few bites of breakfast. Her grandmother was singing as she tended to the dishes, and Angie laughed at the words of the silly song. She picked up a glass of milk and dropped it with a crash to the tile floor. She grabbed her head and fell from the chair, landing on shards from the shattered glass.
Claire rushed over to help the child. She knelt and pulled the little girl into her lap to examine her. Angie had a cut on her arm from the broken glass, and the front of her pretty blue dress was drenched in milk, but Angie wasn’t crying. Her little body was limp, and she stared with fixed eyes. Suddenly frantic Claire put her hand on her granddaughter’s chest to be sure the child was breathing. She retrieved her phone from her apron pocket and dialed 9-1-1. Jumbling her words between a rush of sobs, Claire begged for help. “Yes, she’s breathing,” she responded to the operator. “She’s breathing. Dear God, she’s breathing.”
Claire sat on the floor and held Angie in her arms, talking softly and stroking the little girl’s curly blonde hair. The EMTs arrived seven minutes later and moved Angie to a gurney to work on her. Claire sent a text to Lucy as Angie was loaded into the ambulance and driven to the closest emergency room, never having regained consciousness.
*
Their flight arrived the day before it had left due to the weirdness of time zones. Artemis hefted both carry-ons and felt the silence of the new California culture cloistering them as they made their way to the Uber loading site.
“Well, you can tell we’re home.”