'Reporter from the Post .'
'No kidding.'
'Take my picture!'
To pay my respects to the Man in Red. There was his quote. Time to wrap it up. 'Name? Spell it.'
'Shawn O'Connor.'
'Age?'
'Fourteen.'
Unbelievable.” Okay, Shawn, one last question. Why the devil? What's so important about the devil?'
'He's the man !' he whooped, and his friends took up the cry, high-fiving each other. 'The man !'
Harriman moved off. God, the world was full of morons; they were breeding like rabbits, especially in New Jersey. Now he needed a contrast, someone who took all this seriously. A priest-he needed a priest. Just his luck: there were two men with collars, quiet, standing not far away.
'Excuse me!' he called out, forcing his way toward them through the growing crowd. As the two turned to him, Harriman was taken aback by the expressions on their faces. Fear, real fear, mingled with the sorrow and pain.
'Harriman with the Post . May I ask what you're doing here?'
The older of the two men stepped forward. He had a lot of dignity; he really seemed out of place in this hysteria. 'We're bearing witness.'
'Witness to what?'
'The last earthly days.' The way the man said it sent a flurry of goose bumps along Harriman's spine.
'You really think the world's coming to an end?'
The man quoted solemnly: ''Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit.''
The other, younger man nodded. ''She shall be utterly burned with fire: for strong is the Lord God who judgeth her. And the kings of the earth, who have committed fornication and lived deliciously with her, shall bewail her, and lament for her, when they shall see the smoke of her burning.''
''Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city!'' the first priest went on. ''For in one hour is thy judgment come.''
Harriman had drawn out his pad and was scribbling to get this down, but the first priest laid a gentle hand over his. 'Revelation, chapter 18.'
'Right, thanks. What church are you from?'
'Our Lady of Long Island City.'
'Thanks.' Harriman got their names and backed away hastily, tucking his notebook into his pocket. Their calmness, their certitude, spooked him more than all the hysteria around him.
There was a stirring along one edge of the crowd. A small convoy of police cars was approaching, lights flashing. There was a sudden eruption of flashes and television lights. He pushed forward, brutally shoving his way through a group of soundmen: he was Harriman of the Post , he wasn't going to sit at the back of the class. But the crowd itself was now surging forward, desperate for news.
A woman had stepped out of an unmarked cruiser at the rear of the convoy, dressed in a suit but with a shield riding shotgun on what looked like an amazing set of knockers: a really good-looking young woman, with a bunch of men now falling into place behind her. Young, but clearly in charge. It looked to Harriman like she didn't want to talk to the crowd at all, but needed to take charge before things grew any uglier.
She positioned herself behind a barricade of uniformed cops and held up her hand against the clamor of the press.
'Five minutes for questions. Then this crowd is going to have to disband.'
More incoherent yelling as a thicket of boom microphones was thrust forward.
She waited, surveying the crowd, while the shouting continued. Finally she checked her watch and spoke again. 'Four minutes.'
That shut up the rows of press. The rest-the party people, the witches and satanists, the weirdos with crystals or perfumes-realized something interesting was about to happen and quieted down a little as well.
'I'm Captain Laura Hayward of NYPD Homicide.' She spoke in a clear but soft voice, which forced the crowd to quiet further, straining to listen. 'The deceased is Nigel Cutforth, who died at approximately 11:15 last night. Cause of death is unknown at this point, but homicide is suspected.'
Tell me something new, Harriman said to himself.
'I'll take a few questions now,' she said. There was an eruption of shouting, and she pointed at one frantically waving journalist.
The questions tumbled out. 'Have the police noted connections between this and the death of Jeremy Grove? Are there similarities? Differences?'
A wry smile appeared on her lips. 'We have. Yes and yes. Next?'
'Any suspects?'
'Not at this point.'
