Route 666

we'll be in a pretty pickle, 'cause I reckon any man who can haul a bunch of candy-ass resettlers a couple of thousand bloodstained miles through the Des wouldn't be no pushover.'

Tyree looked from Quincannon to Elder Seth, comparing the Quince's expressiveness, making handsigns as he spoke as if communicating with an Indian, and the Elder's almost mechanical impassivity. If the Josephite was offended, he gave no indication of displeasure. Indeed, Tyree thought that she could make out a real expression on his face, like the ghost of a smile around the very edges of his thin lips.

…and, in her mind, she had funny pictures. She thought she saw reflections in Elder Seth's eyes, but not the reflections of the saloon and its patrons. Under an open sky, in Elder Seth's pupils, red-smeared savages ran riot, hacking at fleeing men. Flaming arrows struck home, red knives did their work, kids fell under horses' hooves, women's hair came bloodily loose. Tyree thought she heard the echoes of screams and whoops and shouts. And, in the midst of the carnage he had wrought stood Elder Seth, dressed all in black with red on his face, a long rifle in his hands. The ground under his boots was bloodied…

'Leona?'

She snapped out of it. 'Sergeant Quincannon?'

'Leona, you were dreaming.'

Elder Seth walked further into the saloon, until he was standing directly across from Quincannon.

'No, I…'

The Elder's shadow fell on the sergeant. Quincannon looked up at the man. He held a fork of mule kidney up at Elder Seth, then popped into his mouth.

'I am given to understand the raiders who attacked us on the road are in this town,' Elder Seth said, evenly, 'staying at the motel. These people have stolen from the Brethren of Joseph. They have important relics. You will help me secure their return.'

The Quince chewed slowly. 'Hold on a moment. How many of these raiders are there?'

'That's of no matter. Sister Ciccone has already been assaulted by one of their number.'

'It may not matter to you, Elder, but I've got a troop strength of four.'

'My people will help.'

Quincannon swallowed and stood up. He wasn't quite as tall as the Elder but he did his best to look the man in the eye.

'That's a comfort. If it comes to preachin' the crap out of the 'Pomps, I'm sure you'll be a big help.'

That shadow smile was back. 'In the Bible,' Elder Seth began, 'it says there is a time to every purpose under Heaven.'

'So, now it's fightin' time.'

'If needs be.'

Quincannon shrugged, and hauled up his shotgun. 'OK, Elder, lead the way to the motel. I'll call Yorke in for backup with the cruiser.'

Tyree and Burnside stood up, leaving unfinished meals, and unflapped their holsters. Tyree knew her piece was up to standard. She'd cleaned it twice since the patrol began.

'Sergeant, I said the raiders were staying at the motel. I did not say they were there at this moment.'

Quincannon had been halfway to the door. He turned, looking highly fed up. Somehow, the Elder had made a fool of him.

One of the gaudy girls turned on her barstool. She had an eyepatch.

'Hello preacherman,' she said to Elder Seth, 'come for your shades?'

VI

12 June 1995

So, she was back here again, facing the preachie. She had his glasses on a thong around her neck. She was horribly tempted to look at him through the shades, but terror prevented her. She remembered Herman Katz's shrivelled skull and the bloody hoofprints If inoffensive things were made horrible, what would be revealed of Elder Seth through his magic mirrorshades? The circuits of her optic implant buzzed, and she had the feeling it was too late, that having looked through the glasses, she would forever see more than she should.

'Hands away from those guns, yellowlegs,' she said, pulling the rainbow scarf away from her semi-automatic pistol, 'or I'll redecorate the saloon with your insides.'

The sergeant and the two troopers held their hands out in front of them and looked at each other. The sergeant carefully set his shotgun down between plates of half-finished food and stood away. Jazzbeaux would rather not fight all three, since she knew a little about the Cav weapons training. Everyone else in the saloon was quiet. The jukebox was running down, some Kenny Rogers number slowing to a growl. The barman was backing away.

'And keep those pretty-pretty fingers off that scattergun you got down in the slops, darlin' dear.'

The barkeep slapped his hands on the bar and left them there. Jazzbeaux nodded appreciation and blew him a kiss. He flinched. She turned back to the Elder.

'If you want the shades, you'll have to take them, lover.'

Elder Seth walked across the room. Jazzbeaux felt the Psychopomps with her – Andrew Jean, Sleepy Jane, Sweet-cheeks – edge away, leaving her alone at the bar. It was between her and the preacherman. She flipped the safety and chambered a round.

The Elder stood in front of her now. If she exerted just a hint of pressure on the hairtrigger, she'd fill his chest with explosive bullets. He'd be cut clean in two. She had the unhealthy feeling that his face still wouldn't move.

She flicked her tongue in and out. 'Come on, preachie!'

He was as close to her as a dancing partner now, the barrel of her gun resting on his sternum. Jazzbeaux felt she was alone in the universe with the man.

His hands came up and he took the shades. She was sure he would rip them away, but he merely lifted them to her own face and eased the bars over her ears. She shut her eye but felt silly, then looked through the glass.

The Elder's face changed in a second. The features became liquid, flowed into each other, and became features again. But different features. He had her daddy's face, she realised. Bruno Bonney's face when he was hopped up on zonk, and pulling his studded leather belt out of his jeans, mishkin drool on his chin, pain in his brain, death on his breath.

'Jessa-myn,' Elder Seth said with her dead daddy's voice, 'gimme the scav. Gimme the scav now, or it'll go harsh with you.'

Her forefinger had gone to sleep on the trigger. She tried to fire the gun but her godrotted finger was stone. It wouldn't move. The gun shook and she tried to gouge into the preacherman's chest with the barrel. His hands were on her now, fingers digging into her waist.

'Jessa-myn!'

Her cheek was wet, she knew. She was crying. No, her optic was leaking biofluid. She tried to singe through the patch, to blast the preacher's hat off. The amendment wouldn't burn and she had a feedback headache.

She had ripped out her daddy's throat when he had tried once too often to take things out on her. That had been her first, and she had done it with just claw-gauntlets. Now, when she needed to kill him again, she had a fine piece of high-precision deathware ready and couldn't bring herself to exert the pull you'd need to open a tube of Pivo.

Elder Seth had his own face back but her Daddy's hung just behind his skin, ready to peer through at her.

Bruno Bonney wasn't done with her yet.

Elder Seth took the gun away from her and put it on the bar, between shot glasses. His other hand crept up her side, sliding through her armpit, reaching around her back, pulling her to him.

He leaned his face close to hers. She thought he was going to kiss her and shuddered at the anticipation of his