"Our leader?"
"Who wrote the rules?"
"Our leader is the Reverend Day."
"Reverend A. Glorious Day," said another, enthusiastically.
"What's the 'A' stand for?" asked Frank.
More blank stares.
"What's so all-fired special about this Reverend Day?" asked Frank.
"Reverend Day speaks to the Archangel," said Clarence.
"He brings us the Word of our Lord."
"Through the Reverend we see Him—"
"We commune with Him, Brother Tad," corrected Clarence.
That stopped Frank dead on the sidewalk. "You what?"
"We commune with the Archangel."
They were beaming at him again like lunatics.
"Which Archangel is that?" asked Frank.
"We don't know his name, sir."
"He's just the Archangel."
"He sits at the left hand of God," said Clarence.
"That's what this Reverend Day tells you?"
"Oh yes, he knows the Archangel well...."
"But we know Him, too, here, in our hearts," said Clarence. "When we have communion with Him."
"Whereabouts does all this communing take place?"
The white shirts smiled at each other like the answer was so obvious.
"All around."
"The Archangel is everywhere."
"We hear his voice wherever we go."
"We're never alone...."
"You mean to say that, right now for instance, you hear a voice telling you what to do?" asked Frank carefully.
"Yes, sir; through Reverend Day the Archangel is always with us."
"Praise the Lord."
"Hallelujah."
"Okay," said Frank, nodding slowly, looking at all the smiling white shirts passing by on the street, more wary now that he realized he'd wandered into an insane asylum.
"And you'll hear the Archangel, too, sir, once you join us."
"After you meet Reverend Day, you'll understand."
"All the people who want to join us meet Reverend Day...."
"What's the tower you're building over there for?" asked Frank.
"That's the Tabernacle of the Archangel, sir."
"So it's a church."
"Much much more than that, sir."
"When the Holy Work is finished, that's where the Archangel will appear," Clarence piped in eagerly.
"The Reverend says the Holy Work is near."
"It won't be long now."
"What a glorious day that will be!"
A chorus of hallelujahs followed.
Jesus Christ, thought Frank, they're crazier than a bunch of drunken monkeys at a taffy pull.
"Let me ask you something, Clarence," said Frank, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and pointing to a poster for the Penultimate Players beside them on the wall. "This play is being put on tonight; have I got that right?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"And the actors for this thing, are they staying here in town?"
"Yes, sir; they're over at the hotel," said the black kid.
"Where would that be?"
"Just down the street."
"That's where all our visitors stay."
"That's where you'll be staying, too, sir."
"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place—"
Interrupting them, a commotion in the street: five men on horseback galloping up to a building across from them, scattering people out of their way. Unlike any other building on the street, a big adobe, like a ranchero's hacienda. A sign in front: The House of Hope.
Shouts from the riders; huge man in a gray duster coming down the steps of the House of Hope to meet them: the same man Frank had seen with the troops last night in the desert.
The five men well-dressed; dark clothes, covered with dust from a hard ride; one of them injured, the others helping him off his horse. Bloodstained bandage around what looked like a gunshot wound to his thigh. A tall, blond fella, the lead rider, hint of a foreign accent in his voice, shouting to the big man.
Something about a posse. Shit.
The big man barking instructions; white shirts leading their horses off. Others wearing all black running down from the House of Hope to help carry the wounded one inside. One of the riders, a smaller blond, lifting a briefcase from his saddle-bag before trailing the rest of them in. Over in less than a minute. Activity on the street returned instantly to normal; not a soul stopped to wonder or gossip about what they'd just seen.
Like no small town I've ever seen, thought Frank; a little excitement like that would set most folks off gabbing for an hour at least.
He watched the big man climb back up the stairs to the House of Hope and the realization nearly knocked off his hat.
He knew this fella from somewhere. Where was it?
Jesus, that was it: Cornelius Moncrief.
Head-buster deluxe for the railroad. Ten years ago, Moncrief came into Tombstone and nearly beat this poor little accountant fella to death in the middle of a full saloon. Claimed he'd run off after embezzling twenty thousand dollars from the home office. If it was true, Frank and the other deputies couldn't find any cash in the poor bastard's possession, but he refused to press charges so they couldn't stick Cornelius for the assault. And they could tell from Moncrief's attitude that he knew his position with the Southern Pacific brass made him untouchable.
Frank had escorted the big man to the edge of town on Wyatt's instructions and invited him to never set foot there again. Cornelius just laughed in his face and rode off; he was crazy and he liked to hurt people. That's why he lingered in the memory.
What the hell was he doing here?
"You'd better take me to the hotel," said Frank.
Kanazuchi slipped away from the workers' shacks after walking out to use the latrine. The guards weren't as sharp-eyed in the morning and they'd been busy doling out the workers' breakfasts, bowls of oatmeal and a crust of bread served in a mess hall between their huts.
Making his way through the shanties, Kanazuchi adopted the passive smiling face the white shirts wore and no one gave him a second glance. In the daylight, he saw that none of these buildings off the main street had been given paint or whitewash. No flowers or decoration. Only four thin walls and flat corrugated tin roofs. Filth and despair. The one attractive street served as a false display, to impress visitors. Or to keep the citizens in order.
His dream had told him he would find the Kojiki and the other holy books in the chamber below the church, but his mind had not found a way around the problem the church presented; how to search for an entrance with shifts of workers swarming over the area both night and day.
The rounded roof of a tall building to the south caught his eye and he moved in that direction. Along the way, he heard the sounds he had missed the night before:
Children's voices. Laughter.
He followed the sound to an enclosed compound, ringed by a fence of knotted barbed wire. Inside the circle, children were playing games in the dirt, over a hundred of them, running tossing balls back and forth. Boys and girls, different races None older than eight or nine. Low buildings lined the far side of the circle; their living quarters. A row of adults stood around the perimeter, not participating in the play, encouraging, or even supervising. Just watching.
Kanazuchi had seen enough now to realize the people in this city lived and moved under the most powerful form of mind control he'd ever witnessed; trying to probe beneath the surface of the workers' consciousness proved useless. How or why this group illusion gripped them so fiercely he could not determine; a blank, impenetrable wall had been built around their thoughts. But he sensed that the energy controlling these people was already beginning to decay.
And for some reason, these children were still free, even happy. Living together, apart from their families.
They are just waiting for them to reach the right age, Kanazuchi realized. Like ranchers raising a herd of livestock.