"Centuries of persecution have made us heretics a surly lot. Vivit post funera virtus."
"My deeds may survive the grave but I question if they will survive the bishop."
Lang's ribs ached when he chuckled but it felt good anyway. The fact Francis would give shelter to a mad dog rather than see it put down wouldn't stop him from complaining about being bitten.
He became serious again.
The stove. He hadn't used it the night before he left and he surely would have smelled gas when he came home that night if it had been on.
Then…?
"You were lucky," Francis observed. "For reasons I can't imagine, the angels were watching over you. Somehow you managed to get the apartment door between you and most of the blast. That kept you from burns that would have been fatal. You wound up with surprisingly few burns, but significant internal injuries and broken bones. Happily your skull was too thick to fracture, saving possible brain damage."
Lang smiled weakly. "I'm not sure if I'm being diagnosed or insulted."
The priest glanced at his watch. "I've got a midday prayer service to do but I'll be back this evening."
"That a threat or promise?"
This time Francis chuckled. "Careful or I'll have the folks at Manuel's cater you a meal."
Manuel's Tavern. Quite possibly the funkiest bar in town, the pair's favorite watering hole despite spectacularly bad food. It was a place the Zagat's people would hire Michael Shumacher to drive them past.
"I'll bet the chow here makes Manuel's taste good."
Francis opened the door. "A true miracle."
"Oh, Francis?"
The doorknob in his hand, the priest turned, a question on his face.
"Gurt. I dreamed of Dawn and Janet and Jeff, a number of people who… who aren't here anymore. But Gurt… she seemed real enough. Did she…?"
Francis face became immobile, the expression of someone unwilling to speak. "She's real enough." "But…?"
"I'll see you later."
Francis was gone.
More of a retreat than an exit.
V.
Two Days Later
The White Angel propped Lang up enough to eat the equally unappetizing and unrecognizable meal from his bed tray. Its mere appearance made Lang nostalgic for the feeding tube that had been removed just that morning. With totally unjustifiable enthusiasm, she set it before him: there was some sort of mystery meat, into the origins of which Lang feared to inquire, green goo that might at one time have been string beans and a sickly sweet red mass he guessed was Jell-O.
He had discovered a cuisine to rank below airline food.
But it was food, the first he could actually eat rather than absorb through a plastic line.
"Doctor will be so pleased when he makes his rounds," she cooed. "You've really made a remarkable recovery."
"Doctor" was spoken in the same tone as she might have referred to the Deity.
Lang shoved the tray away, surprised at how much of the stuff he had eaten. "That mean I'm going home?"
She looked almost hurt at the suggestion. "Home?"
"You know, the place we sleep at night, keep our stuff. Usually a house or apartment."
She took the tray. "I'd guess you'll be moved out of the trauma and burn ward, probably to a private hospital."
Grady was publicly funded. Unlike most institutions in which the Atlanta/Fulton County government had a hand, it somehow managed to accomplish its function despite continual budget overruns, accusations of racism from both sides, scandals, mismanagement that would make Larry, Curly and Moe look like geniuses and a bureaucracy that could stifle a hurricane.
It did, however, have the area's premier trauma and burn centers and provided practical experience to the residents of both Emory and Morehouse medical schools.
No matter what its qualities, Lang didn't intend to remain a guest any longer than he had to. And he certainly didn't plan a lengthy convalescence at a private hospital. "But I need to…"
The White Angel exited, tray in hand, leaving him to stare at the open door.
It seemed almost preplanned. Seconds after her exit a slender black man in a suit walked in. "Unnerstan' you doin' much better, Mr. Reilly."
Franklin Morse, Detective Franklin Morse, Atlanta Police Department. He and Lang had a history.
"Who snitched, the nurse?"
Morse made himself at home in the chair Francis had occupied. "Now, that ain' a friendly way to start a conversation, Mr. Reilly."
"I don't recall any of our conversations being particularly friendly, Detective."
Morse sprung out of the chair and began inspecting a list of regulations posted on the back of the door. The man rarely sat still, Lang remembered. His age was at best a guess but he had the build of one of those African marathon runners. Lang would have bet he had run more than one felon down on foot.
Morse spun around to face the bed. "You prolly don' recall any time we had a conversation when there wasn't some sorta mayhem goin' on. Folks jumpin' outta your condo, gettin' murdered, blowin' up your car, stuff like that. Take a whole precinct to keep up with you, Mr. Reilly. Now yo' condo's exploded."
Lang knew the man was perfectly capable of speaking English instead of the dialect he usually chose. "Gas. They say I left the gas on."
The detective flopped back into the chair. "Thass what they say. Question I got, you leave the gas on, why wire a fire starter to the latch?"
Lang stared wide-eyed. "Fire starter?"
"Y'know, one of them gadgets you get what you pull the trigger an' it lights up to start yo' charcoal or fire. Get 'em in any hardware store."
Lang didn't have to think long about the implications of that.
"You found the fire starter?"
"Arson 'vestigator did. What was left of it. Sum'bitch fixed up so's you turns a key and disengage the lock, it clicks. Time you push the door open… Boom! A blast furnace. 'Fraid everythin you had in there is so much ash."
"So you think someone's trying to kill me."
"Don' think it's an April Fool's prank. Lucky it didn't take out none o' your neighbors."
"No one was hurt?"
" 'Cept you. Made dust outta the crystal collection the lady 'bove you had, though. Like usual, I don' s'pose you got even a guess who the perp might be."
Lang shook his head. "You're right."
Morse was on his feet again. "This ain' no game, Mr. Reilly. Whoever done that, he gonna try again. Nex' time you might not be the only person hurt."
Lang gestured around the room. "If they were going to try again, this would be the perfect time and place. I've been pretty helpless."
The detective had his back to the room, staring out of the window. From somewhere below, an ambulance's siren wailed. He could hear the mechanical grinding of a garbage truck's insatiable appetite. "Thass why I had a coupla men stationed on this floor."
"I appreciate that, Detective."
Morse turned to face him. "Wasn't you I was worried 'bout, Mr. Reilly. I jes' wanted to make sure nobody here got kilt."
Lang sank back into the embrace of the pillows. "How thoughtful."
Morse shook his head. "Sumpthin' 'bout you. Mr. Reilly, you piss off the wrong people. I jus' wanna find out who 'fore the next body arrives."
"I'm truly touched."
Morse shot a glance Lang couldn't read. "Jus' 'member, Mr. Reilly, this ain' Dodge City. I catch you even spittin' on the street, you are so busted." "I'll bear that in mind"
"Be sure you do, Mr. Reilly"
Morse didn't look back as he left.
With extra effort, Lang reached the TV remote on the table beside his bed. Reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond and Seinfeld. Silliness met with canned laughter. A game show and a cooking lesson. The two twenty-four-hour news channels were recounting the latest episode in the life of a movie star Lang had never heard of.
He turned it off.
He'd been right: he hadn't left the gas on. Someone had tried to kill him. Whoever had kidnapped and killed Eon would be a likely culprit. They had moved quickly, putting a plan into play within twenty-four hours and across an ocean. Whoever they were, they had international ties. The thought didn't make him feel any better.