'But what other explanation is there?' Mauricio said, rising and pacing along the shelf. 'You are The One. The device is for your use. Why would the Otherness direct it to anyone else? Unless…'
'Unless?'
'Never mind. It was a fleeting, ridiculous thought.'
'Say it.'
'Very well: Unless you are not The One.'
The words staggered Roma. His terror-clenched jaw blocked speech. He locked his knees to keep from sagging. Not The One? Unthinkable! He had been preparing for ages! It could be no one else. There
'You can see why I might think that,' Mauricio said quickly. 'After being prevented from killing the stranger, I had to wonder: Could he be The One? But of course that is impossible. I would not have been sent to you if you were not The One. The stranger has been marked by the Otherness, but he is not The One.'
Mauricio was right. He had to be. The Otherness was not capricious. It was infinitely patient and glacially deliberate. It would not suddenly designate another over him without sufficient cause. And he had given it no cause.
Roma felt his muscles relax as the terror oozed away. Still, it left him feeling strangely weak.
'I believe the Otherness has plans for the stranger. In good time we will know. If it has delivered the device to him, it is no doubt for a good reason. We will not interfere.'
'Your faith is admirable,' Mauricio said. 'But the Otherness is not infallible. It has made mistakes before, as you well know.'
Roma nodded. 'Mostly by underestimating the opposition.' And he had often paid the price for those mistakes. 'But these are different times. The opposition is all but non-existent these days.'
'Let us hope you are right,' Mauricio said.
Yes, Roma thought with a sharp pang of uneasiness. Let us fervently hope so.
SATURDAY
THE 1ST ANNUAL CONFERENCE OF THE SOCIETY FOR THE EXPOSURE OF SECRET ORGANIZATIONS AND UNACKNOWLEDGED PHENOMENA
SCHEDULE OF EVENTS SATURDAY
Registration Desk Open: 8.00 A.M.-8:00 P.M.
Exhibits Open: 8:00 A.M.-8:00 P.M.
8:00-9:20 A.M. : Experiencers' Panel
9:30-10:20 A.M.: Horns of Abuse: A former FBI agent (now a Capuchin monk) tells how the Bureau is covering up evidence of a widespread Satanic cult underground
10:30-NOON: MK-ULTRA Is Not Dead: A survivor of CIA mind control experiments tells of the harrowing story of his dangerous corrective surgery, and demonstrates the control devices removed from his brain
NOON-1:30 P.M. : Lunch Break
1:30-2:50 P.M.: El Nino: A natural phenomenon? Or the result of UFO exhaust?
3:00-5:00 P.M.: The 666 Chip—how it is implanted during ritual abuse, how to locate it, how to deactivate it.
5:00-7:00 P.M.: Cocktail Reception—meet the panelists
9:00 P.M.-??? Films:
1
Still a little shaky and unsettled from the night before, Jack balanced his cup of coffee atop the lobby pay phone and dialed Gia. Everything was fine there. No signs of anyone lurking about. That was a relief. Next he checked his voice mail. Only one call and—cheers—not from his father. Oscar Schaffer had left him a terse message.
Jack dialed the number and Schaffer picked up.
'Good morning. It's Jack.'
'Oh. Where do you want me leave the money?'
And a gracious good morning to you too, Jack thought, wondering at Schaffer's tight, brusque tone. Go back to bed and get up on the other side.
'Drop it off at Julio's this morning. What's the story with—?'
'You going to be there?'
'Probably not.'
'Good. 'Cause I don't even want to be in the same building as you, you sick, perverted bastard. I'll drop off your money, and then I don't want to see or hear or even think of you again!'
And then he hung up.
What's his problem? Jack wondered as he cradled the receiver. Schaffer should be one happy guy this morning. His sicko brother-in-law was in the hospital by now, and his sister was on vacation from her job as part- time punching bag.
Jack got a sour feeling in his stomach. Had Gus come to and managed to hurt Ceil worse than he had before? Jack couldn't see how—not with two broken legs. Had to be something else. He decided to hang out at Julio's this morning and find out firsthand what was bugging Oscar Schaffer.
He was almost to the lobby door when a familiar gangly figure limped through.
Lew. Jeez, he'd almost forgotten about him. Sometimes Jack became so immersed in a job that he lost sight of why he'd got involved in the first place. This missing Melanie thing wasn't the first gig that had taken on a life of its own, engulfing and carrying him along.
Lew looked terrible—pale, bags under his eyes, clothes wrinkled enough to look like he'd slept in them, except Jack had a feeling the guy wasn't sleeping much. Or showering much either: He needed a shave and his
