down his cheeks. He’d murdered many times now, but none had been so hard as this man who had reminded him of the soul he’d lost. He cursed the devil for the weakness of his flesh and Andrew Kane for exploiting it, turning him into the monster he’d become.
The priest glanced one last time at Fey, whose face was bathed in the last beams of light from the nearly defeated sun. The old man seemed to be smiling ever so slightly. “I hope you find peace,” said the priest. Turning to leave, he left the garrote around Fey’s neck as he’d been instructed. The murder weapon was comprised of a set of rosary beads strung onto thin, tough wire from which dangled a gold medallion on which was embossed the image of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City.
Closing the door behind him, he walked rapidly toward his car, got in, and drove to the main gate.
“Take care of all the sinners, Padre?” the guard asked with a smile as he waved him through.
“Just one, my son,” he replied, rolling up the window. “Just one.”
8
At the sound of loud voices in his outer office, Karp glanced up from the political finance reports he had to sign off on and tapped his pen on the desk. He knew he should be irritated at the inevitable interruption. While the normal workday was just about over, he had hours’ more campaign work to do, which he did on his own time. Karp didn’t feel right soliciting votes on the taxpayers’ dollar. However, anything was better than dealing with minutiae of his campaign, so he got up from the big mahogany desk to see what was causing the ruckus.
Opening his door, he was confronted by the sight and smell of a filthy and wide-eyed individual in a stained and deteriorating tie-dyed T-shirt on which were stenciled the words Jerry Garcia Lives! With his wild mane of wiry gray hair and unkempt salt-and-pepper beard, the man reminded Karp of what Moses might have looked like coming down from the mountain after a particularly grueling session with God…. That is, if Moses had lived in Haight-Ashbury during the late 1960s. The man certainly sounded like a prophet, even if he smelled like bad wine, sweat, and cheap marijuana.
“JEHOVAH KNOWS HOW TO DELIVER PEOPLE OF GODLY DEVOTION OUT OF TRIAL,” the man thundered, “BUT TO RESERVE UNRIGHTEOUS PEOPLE TO BE CUT OFF ON THE DAY OF JUDGMENT!..SECOND PETER TWO!”
The preacher was not alone, however. Indeed, he was performing a spoken-word duet of sorts with Mrs. Milquetost, who was darting around to face the man no matter which way he turned, demanding that he leave the premises “or face the consequences.” Every time he shouted some new Biblical passage, she shouted back. But he ignored her until she finally gave up and hurried to her desk where she began to dial for security.
Karp reached out and gently took the receiver from her and hung it up. “That’s okay, Mrs. Milquetost,” he said, careful to pronounce her name as she insisted. “I know this man and will deal with this.” He turned to the intruder and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Treacher. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“ON THAT DAY A GREAT PANIC FROM THE LORD SHALL FALL ON THEM, SO THAT EACH WILL LAY HOLD ON THE HAND OF HIS FELLOW, AND THE HAND OF THE ONE WILL BE RAISED AGAINST THE OTHER! ZACHARIAH FOURTEEN, TWELVE!” The man’s voice boomed as if speaking to a multitude in an auditorium, not two people in a small room, but then he seemed to notice Karp for the first time. His jaundiced and red-rimmed eyes focused and he smiled. “Why, good afternoon, Mr. Karp, hail fellow and well met,” he said pleasantly and at a normal volume.
“Is there any particular reason for these rather forbidding quotations, Mr. Treacher?” Karp asked. “You’re frightening my receptionist.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Mrs. Milquetost hissed. “I just want him out. This is a place of business…not some street church.”
Edward Treacher bowed gallantly to the red-faced receptionist, who couldn’t seem to decide whether she resented the intruder more or Karp for stopping her from calling security. “I shall leave promptly, dear lady,” he said, “after I have delivered a very important message to your employer.”
“And what is that?” Karp asked. Treacher had once been a philosophy professor of some note at New York University during the Flower Power years. Legend had it that he’d taken too much LSD during one rock festival and had never quite returned to planet Earth. He’d certainly never returned to teaching or any other full-time employment, preferring to live homeless on the streets. He was full of doomsday quotations and had a habit of turning up at the most unusual times and places-in fact, he was a material witness in the murder of rap star ML Rex by a cop working for Andrew Kane. But otherwise he was harmless.
Leaning toward Karp conspiratorially so that Mrs. Milquetost, who strained to hear, was thwarted in the endeavor behind her desk, Treacher whispered as he winked, “Oh, just the usual end-of-the-world stuff, Mr. Karp. You know, if I keep it up long enough, I’m bound to be right; the world has got to end-sooner than later at our current pace…. However, I have been sent here on a more immediate mission and that is to warn you, and I quote, ‘Take care, Mr. Karp, the forces of evil are gathering and the pale rider is returning to Sodom’…otherwise known as our beloved Big Apple. ‘A harbinger of bad tidings will soon arrive from California as proof that what I say is true.’”
Treacher glanced suspiciously at Mrs. Milquetost, who narrowed her eyes and looked like she’d wanted to gouge his out. “On a personal note, I myself only just escaped an evisceration by one of their number before dawn this morning and was narrowly saved by our mutual friend Mr. Grale,” he said. “Apparently, Mr. Kane does not take kindly to those who interfered with his plans to take over the city. But I’m just a small fish in this pond, the attempt was unprofessional and halfhearted, and the would-be assassins are now rat meat beneath the city. Oh, and it was our Mr. Grale who asked me to deliver the warning.”
Karp grimaced inwardly at the thought of Grale dispatching yet more “demons,” though it sounded like it had been in defense of another. “All right, Mr. Treacher, I’ll certainly take it under advisement,” he replied.
In all honesty, he was growing tired of all the “forces of evil gathering” stuff. There are good people and bad people, he thought, not angels and demons. But Grale and his Mole People, of whom he figured Treacher was one, certainly had their ears to the ground when it came to word from the streets, and it paid to listen to what was being said beneath the mumbo jumbo.
Treacher reached out and clapped Karp on the shoulder. “Good…well, that’s about it, unless you have something to eat,” he said hopefully. His hopes were dashed by the stern countenance of Mrs. Milquetost. “I see you do not, so if you’ll excuse me, I have the Lord’s work to do; places to go, folks to warn about the end of the world…. Sort of like a spiritual Paul Revere, don’t you think? One if by land, two if by sea.”
“Wait,” Karp said. “If you’re in danger, maybe we can find a safe place for you to stay for a while? After all, I’ve got to keep my witnesses alive.”
Treacher chuckled. “Safe? For how long would you keep me a pampered prisoner? There won’t be a trial; the defendant has escaped and even now plots against you and others. No, I am as safe as you can be in New York City, and there are bigger fish in the pond that Mr. Kane is trying to land than me. Have a care, Mr. Karp.” With that he turned on his heel and strode purposefully from the office.
“Shall I call security to escort him from the building?” Mrs. Milquetost inquired, starting to reach for the telephone again.
Karp shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t think that will be necessary. He really doesn’t like to stay indoors any longer than he has to.”
Mrs. Milquetost was still muttering about “lax security” when Gilbert Murrow walked in a minute later and wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?” he asked. “The garbage union on strike again?”
“One of Mr. Karp’s friends came calling unannounced,” Mrs. Milquetost complained. The stench of Edward Treacher had a staying power that overwhelmed air fresheners and defied open windows.
Karp returned to his office and walked back to his desk, followed by Murrow. He looked down at the campaign finance papers and slumped into the seat, feeling the first storm clouds of a headache approaching. “Do I really need to know all this?” he complained. “Isn’t this why I pay you?”
“Yes and no,” Murrow replied, sitting down in the chair across from him and whipping out a PalmPilot day planner with the flourish of a matador drawing his sword from its scabbard. He began reading off the various upcoming speaking engagements, ribbon cuttings, fund-raising events, and black-tie parties Karp was expected to
