It took meeting Persephone all those years ago to show Johnny that he was not, in fact, insane: the visions and nightmares in the corners of his vision were, in fact, really there, and that his ranting elders with their taste for spiritual warfare and their ancestral skeletons in a very watery closet were barking up the wrong tree.
Johnny drives.
There is a pricking in his fingertips and an itching in his left buttock that tells him where to point the pickup. Patrick didn’t exactly hand him a business card, but they’ve broken bread and shared a meal: the symbolism is not wasted. Johnny doesn’t have much in the way of natural magical aptitude, though like Persephone he has vastly more than most of the arid theory-driven paper-pushers of the Laundry. What he
But he has a bad feeling about Patrick.
His itches and hunches take him off the freeway and onto a leisurely cruise around the back streets of Denver. They’re drawing him north, into a subdivision dominated by low houses behind rusting chain-link fences, untidy yards showing the detritus of suburbia—dirty plastic slides and paddling pools, aging cars. Patrick and (What was her name? Morag? Moira?) live cheaply and frugally, in one of these houses. Yes, this street, that house—with the black Suburban with blacked-out windows parked casually asprawl the sidewalk fronting it.
Johnny pulls over and backs up until his tailgate is up against the radiator of the big SUV. Then he climbs out and walks up the garden path to the front porch and the door, drawing the pair of knives as he goes and holding them point-down. The door is ajar and there is an itching in his nose, and the skin on the nape of his neck wants to stand on end. A powerful geas surrounds the house, making eyes drift by and ears misinterpret noises. Johnny, however, is immune to such distractions. He kicks the door open and breathes in the stink of death.
He counts two corpses and two bodies that still breathe. Heads turn to look at him, eyes glowing the green of luminous watch dials in the shadows. He raises his knives and they shrink backwards. Two bodies: one male, pretty much headless, a sawn-off shotgun lying to one side. Another…
“Awright,” he snarls, “so whose smart idea was
One of the breathing bodies—clad in a dark suit, with a spreading stain of sticky blood drenching the front of its white shirt around the handle of a carving knife—slobbers incoherently at him. The other is less far gone. In fact, by born-again zombie standards he’s positively eloquent: “The sinner summoned up a demon from hell, which shot his wife before turning his weapon on himself. You are Johnny McTavish. We have a message for you.”
“You do, do you?” Johnny stares at the speaker. He
The missionary stares at him. Writhing shadows in the shape of worms twirl endlessly in the depths of the missionary’s eyes. Then it slowly opens its mouth, revealing a laminated silver carapace. Johnny stares at it. After a moment, it extends eye stalks and stares right back.
“I should kill you right now. Like the others.”
The missionary retracts what passes for its tongue. “Then you would not find it so easy to reach your destination.”
The other missionary’s slobbering quiets. It’s nearly out of blood; even a cymothoan mind parasite can’t get much mileage out of a body that’s no longer capable of supporting aerobic respiration.
“What destination?” Johnny keeps his knife aimed at the thing’s throat. He can feel the knife quivering, eager to carry out its task. He actually has to hold it back, to prevent it from flying out of his hand. It’s difficult to hold back, not least because of the black nucleus of rage burning at the back of his mind over what they have done here to Patrick, who was, if not an old friend, then at least a sometime brother in arms.
The surviving missionary isn’t wasting energy animating its facial muscles: the hosts do not have much use for human body language. It is as unconcerned as a corpse. “We are instructed to bring you to the High Priest, if that is your wish.”
Johnny can’t help himself: he laughs incredulously. “You
“Our master ordered us to serve his High Priest. The High Priest desires your presence at the service of dedication of the masses. You should come with us.” The dying missionary twitches slightly. “You must come with me.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“Come with me,” says the walking corpse. “Please, elder. Your brother commands it.”
Johnny hesitates for a moment, but curiosity finally makes up his mind for him. “All right. But you’re driving,” he says.
14. APPOINTMENT IN SAMARRA
IT’S 11 A.M. AND THE FIRST TRICKLE OF CHURCHGOERS ARE arriving at the New Life Church for today’s extravaganza organized by the Golden Promise Ministries. Pastor Bob Dawes is up front on the stage in the big sanctuary, fronting a team—there’s a light Christian rock band to get the audience energized, a couple of fire eaters with some fun parables to get across, and a bunch of other distractions to keep the audience focussed while the show builds up momentum.
They’ll have help, of course: among the fresh meat will be sitting about five or six hundred of the Saved, those who have already entered fully into the doctrine of the holy ministry and who will live forever in His Glory when the light bringer returns. They’re primed to cheer and clap at the right points; nothing will be allowed to fall flat.
It’s been a huge project to bring forward at very short notice. Schiller’s people have dropped everything, thrown themselves at the job to bring in food and refreshment stands, mobile catering kits, and a mountain of supplies. When you’re getting ten thousand warm bodies through the door you’ve got to keep them fed and irrigated. Luckily New Life expect thousands to show up for peak draws; they’ve got the sanitation and toilet arrangements to handle it, and the first aid support. They’ve had advertising airtime playing every hour for the past couple of days on all five of Colorado Springs’ Christian radio stations—begging, borrowing, and blackmailing to buy up airtime at short notice—and less frequently on the talk and music channels and the Christian stations with coverage in Denver; all this on top of the continuous roadside advertising campaign they’ve been running for the past few months. The message is urgent: “Get off your couch and dance with Jesus!” Ray has personally authorized a million-dollar spend on this project at very short notice, and another million on the support infrastructure.
They’ve even rearranged the main sanctuary for it, brought in additional seating, and laid down red carpet runners on all the aisles.
It is the most expensive birthday party Alex Lockey has ever been invited to. Only he isn’t going to be taking time to enjoy the scene—as security chief he’s going to be spending the whole session in the control room.
“Not too glossy, hon,” Ray tells Judy, his makeup girl. “I need
“Yes. They’ve found Elder McTavish. He’s en route.” He pauses. “There was some trouble with a spy working for the Operational Phenomenology Agency, but he’s been dealt with. McTavish led our men to him.”
“Excellent.” Schiller does not smile—not while Judy is working on his forehead with a brush: the artist is not
