The Six Messiahs

impressive.'

'Pay no attention to it. The red man is a relic of the Stone Age and his so-called innate nobility is no match for the march of progress. History never stops turning its wheels out of pity; those unable to move from its path are crushed. This is the fate God has in store for the Indian, and their refusal to adapt to the changing world around them makes them complicit in its execution.'

Unexpectedly, Roosevelt reached out and applied another crushing squeeze on Doyle's tender hand.

'Greatly enjoyed your stories,' he said. 'Holmes. Watson. Splendid stuff. Too bad you had to kill him off. Think of the money you could have made. Bully for you, Arthur. Enjoy your stay in America.'

With a compact, commanding gesture to his waiting courtiers, Roosevelt strode off, and the entire group fell into lock-step behind him. Innes stepped into the void left by their wake.

'What was that all about?' asked Innes.

'A shocking example of the species Homo Americanus. They could stuff and mount him in the museum.'

'Quite a right bunch of toffs, isn't it? Real balmy gaffer over here,' said Innes, nodding toward a willowy man in a top hat, swallowtail coat, black cape, and flowing white silk scarf, engaged in conversation but regularly glancing then-way. His face was dusky, fine-featured, an East Indian cast to the eyes and an almost feminine delicacy to his lips and nose. A mane of long black hair flowed into a leonine ponytail. He appeared to be in his early thirties and carried himself with the flamboyant confidence of a lionized maestro.

'Started telling me about this concert he plans to give where every instrument in the orchestra's represented by a different smell that he pumps into the auditorium with a machine whenever they start to play....'

'Different smells?'

'You heard me correctly; rose for the strings, sandalwood for the brass, jasmine for the flute, and so on. Each scent pouring out of a different nozzle hooked up to and activated by that particular instrument.'

'Good Christ.'

'Says he already owns a patent. Smell-A-Rama: Symphony of Scents.'

'You could knock me over with a feather.'

'Only in America.'

Innes moved off.

A tall, blond, good-looking man in a dinner jacket emerged from the crowd and walked steadily toward Doyle's back, a hand slipping inside his jacket. Seeing him approach, the elegant, swarthy man in the silk scarf turned and made a direct line to Doyle, took him firmly by the arm, and led him deeper into the crowd.

'Mr. Conan Doyle, the honor is entirely mine, sir,' said the swarthy man, in rounded tones of upper-class Oxfordian English. 'I have just enjoyed the delightful pleasure of your brother's company and thought perhaps I would seize the liberty of introducing myself to you.'

And so you have, thought Doyle. Mr. Smell-A-Rama.

Behind them, the tall, blond gentleman stopped and hung back at the edge of the room.

'My name is Preston Peregrine Raipur but everyone calls me Presto. We are fellow countrymen. I am an Oxford man; Trinity, class of '84,' said the dandy; then in a quiet, deadly serious tone with no corresponding change of expression: 'Please continue to glance towards the gathering from time to time, if you would, sir, and smile politely as if I had said something of mild amusement to you.'

'What?'

'We are being observed. It would be best if our conversation remained brief and appeared to be of an entirely superficial nature,' said Presto, the frivolousness entirely gone from his voice, replaced by an earnest, intelligent sincerity.

'What is this about, sir?' said Doyle, smiling, complying with the man's request to mask the discussion's true intent.

'Another time and place is more appropriate for an elaboration. You are in danger. You must leave this place at once,' said Presto, grinning and nodding to a passing couple.

Doyle hesitated; a casual glance around revealed no danger.

'And would it be convenient if I were to call at your hotel tomorrow morning, say, at nine o'clock?' asked Presto.

'Not without my first hearing some idea of what this is about.'

Raipur waved to someone over Doyle's shoulder and laughed like a nincompoop; then, under his breath: 'Someone is stealing the great holy books of the world, Mr. Conan Doyle; I believe you are already aware of this. Surely such a subject warrants an hour of your time, if only to satisfy your native inquisitiveness.'

Doyle took the man's measure; he stood up to the test 'Nine o'clock tomorrow morning at the Waldorf Hotel.'

The man bowed slightly. 'I shall now create a diversion; take your brother and go immediately,' said Presto, producing a calling card for Doyle with a deft sleight of hand. 'We shall meet again tomorrow.'

Doyle glanced at the card; under the name Preston Peregrine Raipur was printed a title: 'Maharaja of Berar.' Maharaja?

'Ever so grateful,' said Presto, then raising his voice back into the social butterfly register he had earlier employed. 'And I can't wait to read more of your fantastic stories, Mr. Conan Doyle: Bravo! Bra-vo! The greatest pleasure to meet you, sir. Best wishes always!'

With that, Preston Peregrine Raipur, the Maharaja of Berar, bowed low and glided off. As Innes made his way back to Doyle, Presto lifted his black gleaming walking stick high in the air:

'Voila!' said Presto.

The stick erupted into a cloud of billowing white smoke and a flashing column of fire. People around him and throughout the room scattered in every direction.

'What the devil...' said Innes.

'Follow me,' said Doyle, taking Innes by the arm. 'Quickly.'

The brothers moved through the agitated crowd, losing themselves in a cluster of others heading out the doors. Behind them the smoke cleared, revealing that Presto had disappeared from sight.

The tall, blond man spotted Doyle and Innes just as they left the museum and hurried to follow them.

Outside, Doyle hustled Innes to their waiting coach at the Fifth Avenue curb, glancing behind in time to see the tall, blond man appear at the doors.

'What's going on?' asked Innes.

'I'll explain in a moment,' said Doyle.

They hopped into the cab.

'Where to?' asked the driver.

It was Jack.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

She climbed off the train at the station, standing on the same platform that had held Jacob Stern a few nights before. Wearing a blue gingham dress that concealed the hard lines of her body and a bonnet over her jet hair, she looked more like a visiting country cousin or a rural school teacher than an Indian woman who had skipped the reservation. She kept her face behind the bonnet and her eyes low, submissive, attracting no attention to herself.

The dream had come again that night on the reserve, as the owl medicine had said it would: She found herself wandering alone through a city of tall buildings and wide, empty streets. Waiting for someone in front of a pale castle with thin, fingery towers. She had seen this place in the medicine dream many times, but it had appeared black before, more threatening, and it always stood surrounded by desert, not in the middle of a modern city. That was as much as this new dream could reveal before the Black Crow Man—she never saw his face, only a twisted humpback and long, scraggly hair—swooped down and washed everything away with fire.

She recognized the city as Chicago; it was the only big city she had ever seen. She did not remember seeing this pale tower during her only previous visit; a school outing twelve years ago, one of a group of reservation high school graduates trotted out to impress white politicians. The city had felt like a place of great anger, confusion,