There was a hobo jungle nearby. Sharon stared in that direction for a long time, then sank down on the edge of the bridge, legs swinging free, and stared down at the silver-tipped ripples passing beneath her.
Finally, she asked, “What do you do, sir? What’s your business?”
“I’m currently a private detective, ma’am,” he said.
She studied him for a long time. “So that means you help people.” Her voice was so soft he had to lean in to hear her. Her breath puffed softly against his cheek.
“Do you need help?”
She didn’t answer but turned her face away to contemplate the sky. “My husband is on his way to Chicago for the convention.”
Cross didn’t need to ask which convention. The Democrats had gathered to select a presidential candidate. The Republicans were sticking with the hapless Hoover, so it was critical that the Democrats pick wisely.
“Marshall’s an alternate delegate, and he took Sean so he could see his government in action,” she continued. That gave Cross a twinge of unease. A preacher with an official position and the taint of an Old One could be a toxic brew.
“I stayed behind to mind the mission.” Sharon continued. She gave the ring a nervous twist. The shadow tentacles writhed. She sat silent for a moment, then turned to face him. “The Lord has given me the gift of Sight, and I can see that you are a good man. I think you were sent here to help me.”
“I couldn’t speak to the first part, ma’am, but if you’re in trouble I could probably help,” Cross said.
She presented him with her profile. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Why’s that?”
She thrust out her hand. “This ring,” she whispered. “My husband gave it to me, but I can’t take it off.”
“Let me see.” He extended his hand, and she laid her hand in his.
Power throbbed through the ring like a heartbeat. He gathered his own power, took a grip on the ring, and gave an experimental tug. There was a flare of violet light, something seemed to kick him in the chest, and the world went black.
The first impression was that he was wet. Then Sharon was there, pulling his head into her lap and stroking his forehead.
“Mr. Cross. Mr. Cross. Are you all right?”
He forced apart his eyelids. Even the faint moonlight felt like a spike being driven into his head. He was lying with the lower half of his body in the creek. The assault from the ring had knocked him clean off the footbridge.
The bonds that supported his human form were vibrating like a struck tuning fork. He swallowed bile, closed his eyes, and took slow, deep breaths.
“Do you think you can walk?”
He nodded. A mistake, so he settled for a moan and hoped it sounded enough like
They limped back to the mission. “I’m going to put you to bed in Sean’s room. And get out of those wet clothes. If I hang them now they’ll be dry by morning.”
She took him upstairs to a narrow room with an equally narrow bed against one wall. There was a bookcase with schoolbooks and religious tracts. On top of the case was a collection of rocks, a crawfish in a tank, a football. A typical boy’s room. She left. Cross emptied his pockets and took off the gun rig. He stripped out of his clothes, and, half-opening the door, handed out the soggy bundle.
He had the presence of mind to remove the money belt and shove it beneath the pillow. He then eyed the bed and fell naked on top of the covers.
IT WAS THE WESTERING SUN, HOT ON HIS EYELIDS, THAT BROUGHT HIM awake. Cross found his clothes in a neatly folded stack on the foot of the bed. The incongruity puzzled him. Little Miss Goody Two Shoes had entered the bedroom of a naked man not her husband. He checked his wristwatch. The dark power in that ring had knocked him out for twenty-one hours. Cross shuddered; something had come through the veils between the dimensions here, and it appeared to be a shitload more powerful than he was.
None of his possessions had been molested, not even the Webley. Dressed, he took a moment to quickly open the doors of the two other rooms on the upper floor. One was a study, the other a bedroom with a double bed covered with a patchwork quilt and redolent with the smell of perfume. And he found what he’d sought. Not the actual opening between the dimensions, but proof that an Old One had been resident in this house. The mirror on the dresser was gray and occluded, the result of contact with an Old One.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and considered. One of his kind had entered the world here. Which meant that there was a hole in reality. He couldn’t deal with the tear; only a paladin using the weapon could close it. He needed to inform his boss and warn him it had moved on, probably to Chicago. He should head for Chicago too. Fight the Old One and maybe win. Even considering the coming battle had him shaking. On the other hand, Conoscenza had only told him to locate the source. Cross had done that. He could use the money in his belt, buy a ticket on the first train heading east, and make his report in person.
Cross went to the top of the stairs and heard the rumble of male voices from the mess hall. This evening, the Blood of the Lamb Mission had customers. Entering the converted living room, he studied the situation. Stubble adorned all the faces because razors and soap were expensive. Most of the men wore coveralls. A few, like Cross, sported suits, the material worn down to a poverty shine. The room smelled of hash, scrambled eggs, freshly baked bread, and coffee cut heavily with chicory. Beneath the good smells was the stink of body odor, halitosis, and stale cigarette smoke.
Sharon moved through the crowd doling out plates. The mongoloid staggered along behind her, carrying the plate-stacked tray. Usually the people afflicted with the condition were happy, loving people. This one was working his mouth and kept casting nervous glances at Sharon.
Cross settled onto the end of a bench. The man next to him grunted a greeting. “Big crowd,” Cross remarked.
“Yeah, we were camped down by the grain elevator. The twist came over and rounded us up.” The man gave Cross a grin that revealed too much gum and too few teeth. “Guess she was lonely.”
Sharon reached his table. She gave him her flashing smile and deposited a plate in front of him. “How are you feeling? Better?” she asked.
“Yeah. How do you afford a spread like this?”
She gave him a pouting smile and placed a finger against her lips. “The Lord doth provide.”
“Not in my experience.”
She patted him on the shoulder. She then plucked a strand of her long brown hair off his shoulder and wrapped it around her finger. “Well, perhaps I’ll make a believer of you yet.”
“Oh, I believe,” Cross said. “Never doubt that I believe.”
She moved on, and he ate. The texture and flavors of food was one human experience he really enjoyed. He mopped up the dregs of the hash with a piece of bread, slurped down the last of the coffee, gusted a sigh, and pulled out a package of Lucky Strikes. The men at the table with him gazed at the green box with the name in its red bull’s-eye with avaricious eyes. Cross had barely gotten the fag between his lips when the self-important little man rushed over, wagging a forefinger.
“Sister Sharon don’t hold with smoking. Take it outside.”
It wasn’t worth a fight; Cross shrugged and headed out onto the screened porch. Wood bees, as big as the end of his thumb, droned around the eaves, and the breathless heat of the dying day had his shirt clinging wetly to his back. That was a human experience he didn’t enjoy. He adjusted the body and the sweat vanished. As he watched, the sun, bloated and red, sank beneath the horizon.
Behind him, the screen door slammed shut. Cross glanced around. A group of men, led by a hard-faced man
