“I had to leave Schiller’s little indoctrination session in a hurry. It wasn’t a teach-in, Mr. Howard; he was making converts. He has helpers—”
“Silver carapace, too many legs?” She tenses as I stick my tongue out at her, then the penny drops. She wiggles her tongue back at me, unsmiling: it’s pinkish and she can roll it. “I caught one,” I tell her. “It’s in my bag. In a grid.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Really.”
“I was thinking of taking it home to see what the boffins in cryptozoology can make of it.” I pause expectantly. “What about that bible?”
“I took it from the nurse I stole the truck from. Believe me, the clinic she worked in—it would give you nightmares. It’s her bible and she is one of them, a true believer, not an involuntary convert.” She leafs through it, looking for something. “The first two sections are from the King James Version, I believe. Vanilla Protestant: Old Testament, New Testament. Then there are the Apocrypha, in a separate section. That’s not too unusual, even if it contains some rather dubious extras. But then there’s this.”
She points to a page near the back, open recto, a fancy border surrounding a title: The Final Codex. Then she turns the page. The Apocalypse of St Enoch the Divine.
“Uh—”
She stabs at the page with a finger: “‘This is the Revelation of Enoch, Seventh from Adam, which God gave unto him through his son Jesus Christ, to show unto his true servants the things which must be made to pass in the latter days—’”
“Hang on.” I rub my forehead. “Enoch is pre-Christian, right? I mean, really pre-Christian.”
She looks at me slightly pityingly. “Adam’s get were peculiarly long-lived, according to the mythos. So the contradiction you’re fishing for isn’t there.”
“Bugger.” I focus on the page. “‘Must be made to pass in the latter days’?”
“Yes.” She reads aloud: “‘And that the elect of the true creed shall listen and heed, for blessed is he that hears the words of this prophecy and law and sets his hand to building the kingdom of God on Earth. And grace be unto you, and peace, from him which is, and which was, and which is to come. And when the time is as prophesied and the son of God rises from his deathbed in the pyramid of the Black Pharaoh, all men shall bow before him, but first among them shall be the elect of the true creed, who shall be taken up bodily into the seven heavens of the pillars of law…’” She stops. “Want me to go on?”
“Please tell me this is a hoax?” Like the fakes titled Necronomicon that come out every couple of years and force the poor bloody sods in Records to run around like headless chickens making sure that nobody’s got their hands on something they shouldn’t (and don’t get me started on the full-dress fire drill the first time somebody brought a made-in-China plush Cthulhu doll to the office)…
“No.” She closes the book. “It’s no hoax. But it’s best not to overstate things. This is evidence that Schiller’s congregation march to a different drumbeat from the other Christian churches. Like all such, they believe in the literal truth of their holy book.”
“So they’re Pentecostalists with special sauce?”
She nods. “The question is, what do these extra apocrypha mean? What beliefs do they add to the mix?”
“The communion hosts…” I stare at the Bible. “That passage. The Apocalypse of St Enoch. Isn’t it a bit heavy on the thou shalt do this and that?”
“Yes. I didn’t have time to read further; I have other worries. But where the Revelation of St John is descriptive, this book is prescriptive. A road map for opening the way and speeding the return of Jesus Christ.”
I close my eyes. That dream. The skin in the small of my back crawls. “The Sleeper in the Pyramid.” The giant step pyramid on a waterless plateau, baked beneath the ruddy glow of a dying star, surrounded by its picket fence of necromantic sacrifices—
“Of course, the trouble with following occult texts blindly is that there is no guarantee that the thing the ritual summons is what it says on the label.”
“But they’re Christians. If you want to get them to raise something from the dungeon dimensions, of course you tell them it’s Jesus Christ. I mean, who else would they enthusiastically dive into necromantic demonology on behalf of?”
“I believe the KGB have a term for people like that. They call them ‘useful idiots.’” Her expression hardens. “I want to know who is behind them. Or what. Johnny had a theory. I think I discounted it too soon.”
“I’d be interested to hear it.”
She looks at me oddly. “Why are you still here? You said Lockhart ordered you home.”
“He did.” I peer at the doorway of the Dunkin’ Donuts. “But I don’t leave people behind. It’s a personal habit.” I try to explain: “Lockhart should have known that. He’s got my transcript. He could have asked Angleton—my regular boss.”
(It’s not quite that simple, but some years ago I was leaned on to leave someone behind—and refused. Which worked out for the best, insofar as when a subsequent job went wrong she returned the favor, and we’ve been happily married for some years now; and if that’s not positive endorsement for the idea of not leaving anyone behind, I don’t know what is.)
“Hmm. This is your first time working for Mr. Lockhart, isn’t it? Mr. Howard, Bob, you are working for External Assets. I think Mr. Lockhart regards everyone as disposable—including, ultimately, himself.”
“You’ve worked with him before?”
She shrugs and changes the subject: “I suggest we pick up Johnny and try to drive out. But if the airport is closed and more than one highway is blocked, that could be very difficult, don’t you think? We might be trapped here.”
I sigh. “I’ve been trying not to think of that.” I start the engine. “Next stop, Denver.”
RAYMOND SCHILLER SLUMPS IN THE BIG EXECUTIVE CHAIR behind his desk. The skin below his eyes form dark pouches in his face, wrinkled and tired. Joe Brooks studies him, concerned. Ray is powerful, but Joe’s seen him perform miracles before, understands the toll that God’s work exacts from his latter-day prophet. Please, Lord, let him be all right this time, he prays. The last thing the mission needs is for its shepherd to take to his sick bed for a week just now.
“Father.” Roseanne—now decently veiled and gowned—sounds as concerned as Joe feels. “Can I get you anything? Coffee and a Danish for your blood sugar? I can call one of Doctor Jensen’s residents if it’s your sciatica again—”
“Coffee and pastries all round.” Ray dismisses his handmaid with a tired wave. He yawns, then focusses on Joe: “I reckon we’re going to be here a long while, son.”
“Yessir.” Joe pauses. “You were right about the Hazard woman. I fed her fingerprints to our local FBI office. And her associate, the McTavish guy. They got back to me half an hour ago.” He wrings his hands together in his lap, fighting the urge to hold his face in them. “It’s not looking good.”
“Don’t blame me!” Pastor Holt is indignant: “How was I meant to know she’s some sort of witch—”
Schiller closes his eyes again. “Brothers. No use crying after spilled milk.” He raises a hand. “The Holy Spirit showed me what was in her mind. A black and evil faithless one, loyal to the Whore of Srebrenica—Babylon. An apostate and practicing witch. I should have warned you to hold her under guard until the communion service.” He opens his eyes and looks at Alex. “What do the FBI say?”
Alex swallows. “The name is genuine. British citizen, naturalized a few years ago. But there’s stuff that doesn’t add up. She’s tagged as a person of interest by a, a bureau in DC that I’ve never heard of. That’s a bad sign; when I asked agents Brooks and O’Neil they’d never heard of it either, so I called Sam Erikson in Denver and he just about shat a brick. Apparently nobody’s supposed to know that this, uh, Operational Phenomenology Agency even exists. Sam says they call it the Black Chamber, and what goes in never comes back out, and he can’t protect us if we draw their attention. And this Hazard woman is of interest to them. She shouldn’t be underestimated.”