the desert, and he would not fail.
He had spent his last nickel on the bus ticket and had not eaten at all during the ride. Somehow the hunger, the fasting, had sharpened his mind. But if he was to do God's will, he had to seek nourishment for his body.
His wanderings took him to a Salvation Army soup kitchen. He went in, waited in line, sat silently with the derelicts, and ate a bowl of macaroni and cheese with a couple slices of unbuttered Wonder bread and a cup of coffee. As he ate, he slipped the shabby paper out of his pocket and perused the soiled article yet again. It was God's message to him, and every time he read it he felt fortified, refreshed, determined. After his simple meal, he left and began walking again, a new spring in his step. He passed a newsstand and paused, his eye catching the headline of the New York Post .
THE END IS NIGH
Satanists, Pentecostals and Prophets of Doom Continue to Converge at Site of Devil Killing
He instinctively shoved his hand in his pocket before remembering he had no money. He paused. What to do? This headline was, without a doubt, another message from God. Nothing happened in this world without significance. Not even the slightest sparrow could fall from the tree .
He needed money. He needed a bed for the night. He needed a change of clothes. God clothed the lilies of the field; would He not clothe him? That had always been Buck's philosophy.
But sometimes God liked to see a little initiative.
Buck looked up. He was in front of a huge building, guarded by two massive stone lions-the New York Public Library, the legend said. A temple to Mammon, no doubt filled with pornography and immoral books. He hastened around the corner. There, beside a small but nicely manicured park, were a number of people with chessboards set up and ready for play. They weren't playing each other; they seemed to be waiting for passersby. He approached, curious.
'Play?' one of them asked.
Buck paused.
'Five dollars,' the man said.
'For what?'
'Game of ten-second chess. Five dollars.'
Buck almost walked on. It might be considered a form of gambling. But then he paused. Was this, too, a little help from God? Buck sensed these players were good; they had to be. But what did he have to lose?
He sat down. The man immediately moved his queen's pawn, and Buck countered, ten seconds for each move.
Ten minutes later Buck was sitting on a bench in the park behind the library, reading the Post . The article told of small gatherings of people in front of the building where the devil had taken the man named Cutforth. It even gave the address: 842 Fifth Avenue.
Fifth Avenue. The legendary Fifth Avenue. The Mephistophelean heart of New York City. It all fit together. He tore out the article and folded it up with the other, carefully slipping them into his shirt pocket
He would not go there now; that could wait. Like David, he needed to gird his loins, prepare himself spiritually. He had not come to preach: he had come to do battle for the world
He checked his pocket Four dollars and fifty cents. Not nearly enough to find a bed for the night. He wondered just how God might help him multiply that money, as Jesus had multiplied the loaves and the fishes.
There were still a few hours before sunset. Jesus would help him, Buck knew. Jesus would surely help him.
{ 46 }
Beckmann's last known place of residence, as listed on the death certificate, was not far from the potter's field in which he was buried. Pendergast drove slowly past the decrepit building and parked before a package store a few doors down. Three old alcoholics sat on the front stoop, watching as they got out of the car.
'Nice neighborhood,' said D'Agosta, looking around at the six-story brick tenements festooned with rusting fire escapes. Threadbare laundry hung from dozens of clotheslines strung between the buildings.
'Indeed.'
D'Agosta nodded in the direction of the three rummies, who had gone back to passing around a bottle of Night Train. 'Wonder if those three know anything.'
Pendergast gestured for him to proceed.
'What? Me?'
'Of course. You are a man of the street, you speak their language.'
'If you say so.' D'Agosta glanced around again, then headed into the package store. He returned a few minutes later with a bottle in a brown paper bag.
'A gift for the natives, I see.'
'I'm just taking a page from your book.'
Pendergast raised his eyebrows.
'Remember our little journey underground during the subway massacre case? You brought a bottle along as currency.'
