cardinal? They crying blasphemy, too?”
Babcock took a deep breath and rocked back in his chair. “Mr. Pace, let’s just say that ours is a radical theology, and one that’s not subscribed to by the diocese or the local cardinal or the so-called Holy See. And it’s their fundamental failing. Our fraternity stands firmly on the true teachings of the Lord and to true Roman Catholicism. And if others don’t subscribe or persecute us, then it only confirms that we’re the elect, the true defenders of the Church. Period.”
“Did you know the Kashian kid’s father was one of their test subjects?”
“What?”
“A few years back, they ran him through the same tests. Seems he was some kind of lay brother. I guess he had the same hot God lobe the kid has.”
“So what?”
“Well, they put the kid on TV saying he merged with his dead father, channeling him or whatever, and they show all their fancy neuroimages and stuff and the brain images overlapping and all, back-to-back with his talking Jesus video—the kid’s gonna be bigger than the pope and all the saints put together.”
Babcock looked as if someone had stuck his finger in a light socket. He glared at the computer monitor with a split screen of Zack’s brain and the A&W root beer logo. He muttered something to himself. Then he turned to Roman. “What are you proposing?”
“To take care of him. To take out the Kashian kid.”
His head bobbed. “Yes. Except he’s fallen off the face of the earth.”
“I have an idea where he is.”
“How do you know?”
Roman said nothing, just stared at Babcock.
When Babcock got the message, he said, “Are you sure you can do it?”
“Have I let you down?”
“No, but I want him dead and untraceable.”
“No problem.”
“But I want hard evidence.”
“How about his head?”
Babcock blinked a few times, then said, “That’ll do.”
“Okay. Which brings up the question of how desirable.”
“What are you asking?”
“One million dollars.”
“
“Is it? I’m offering you a threefer.”
“What threefer?”
“Father, son, and unholy ghost.”
Babcock put his hand to his head, flustered. “I can’t make a decision on that kind of money just like that. I have to talk to people.”
Roman looked at the expensive furniture and statuary around the room. The building itself had to be worth three or four million. “Fine. But the longer you take, the deeper in hiding the kid goes. And the cooler I get.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you have four hours to talk to your associates and raise the cash.”
“Cash?”
“Five hundred up front, five hundred for his head.”
Babcock leaned back in his chair. After a long pause, he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No, by three forty-five this afternoon.”
“I can’t raise that kind of money in four hours.”
“You’re the true defender of the Church. Bet you can.”
Babcock was speechless.
But Roman could hear thoughts churn in his head. He glanced at his watch. “Three forty-five, and I call and tell you where.”
Babcock stood up. The meeting was over.
Roman extended his hand. Babcock hesitated at first, then extended his, which felt like a damp puff of fat. “The Lord be with you.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Roman was riding down Storrow Drive toward Boston. It was a beautiful day, and dozens of sailboats were cutting down the river in bright white sails. Across the river, the Cambridge skyline seemed to stand out in high-def clarity.
The way he looked at it, the Kashian kid was either divine or the Antichrist. Either way, Roman won. If, as Babcock claimed, the kid was some kind of talking head for the devil, killing him would not only fatten Roman’s bank account but would help win his way into God’s graces. That was how warriors of God were rewarded, right? On the other hand, if the kid was divine, then protecting him would be Roman’s service to God.
Faith was all. But faith could swing both ways. The same with service to God.
What Luria, Stern, and company had created was some kind of religious Manhattan Project. The project was dead. But Roman wanted that bomb.
78
“What the hell were you doing in there?” Zack said when Sarah emerged from the store.
She tossed two bags into the rear and handed him a coffee. “What’s the problem?”
He put the coffee in the holder and pulled the car out of the slot with a jerk. “The problem is we’re running out of time.”
“It was crowded. And a line for the coffee.” She turned her face out the window.
He pulled back onto Route 1, thinking that she was probably regretting she had come with him. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, hoping to clear the air. “What did you get?”
“A change of clothes.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You brought sleeping bags. I’m not overnighting in the woods.”
“We’ll be fine.” They drove without saying any more, but a prickly silence filled the car. He pulled back onto the turnpike.
“You have a compass?” she asked.
“What for?”
“If we’re going to be walking in the woods, we’ll need one.”
“Yes, I have a compass.”
She glanced in the direction of his duffel bag. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He merged with the turnpike traffic, which was heavy with weekend beach traffic.
The sun was still high in the sky. It hadn’t begun to tilt to the western tree line yet. But it would soon enough. Then night would fall.
79
A little after twelve-thirty, Warren Gladstone entered the bar at the Taj, and Roman recognized him instantly. Except that he wore a gray blazer over a white shirt instead of the sky blue robe in his broadcasts.
Earlier, Roman had left a message for Gladstone at the Taj desk to call him for important information
