The King of Plagues

Spaniard’s reaction was unexpectedly intense.

Not a confidant, then. Note to bloody self.

“What if Judas genuinely believed that Jesus was making a misstep?” he prodded. “I’ve heard a bunch of different theories. One is that Judas may have thought that Jesus was becoming a danger to his own cause and that Judas went through proper channels of the church—the Sanhedrin—to try and head him off at the pass before he got into worse trouble.”

Santoro said nothing. He listened, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed.

“Another theory is that Judas was a bit more ‘Old Testament’ than Jesus and he had him arrested in the hopes that once Jesus was in peril he would be forced to reveal all of his glory and power and kick Roman ass.”

The birds sang for a long time before Santoro answered. He studied Toys, but Toys was too practiced a hand at dissembling to allow anything that he felt to show on his face. He sipped his tea and waited.

Finally, Santoro said, “You ask troubling questions.”

“You asked me about Hitler.”

Santoro nodded, taking Toys’ point. “The question supposes that Jesus was fallible.”

“Are either of us that inflexible that we think that he wasn’t? Or couldn’t have been? After all, Jesus doubted. He lost his cool and trashed the moneylenders outside of the temple. Let’s face it—the whole point of his being here was to be human. To show that if he, locked in flesh and filled with the full roster of human emotions, can have faith and ultimately do the right thing, then so can we. That all falls down if he was infallible.”

Santoro nodded again. “Please do not be offended by this,” he said softly, “but you are smarter than you look.”

Toys gave him a charming smile. “Now why would I be offended at that?”

“I meant it as a compliment. You are deeper than you appear. People are often fooled by you, yes?”

Toys shrugged.

Then Santoro tried to blindside him. “Do you have doubts about what the King of Plagues is doing?”

Toys was expecting it and he kept his expression and body language casual, as if this were just another part of the same discussion.

“Sebastian is as fallible as any other man. I love and respect him, and I would kill anyone to keep harm from touching him. You understand that?”

“Of course.” Santoro’s eyes glittered.

“But I’m supposed to be his Conscience. His advisor. It’s not that I doubt Sebastian,” he lied. “It’s more that I need to make sure I’m doing my job in the way that best serves him and the Kings.”

“And the Goddess,” amended Santoro.

“Of course,” said Toys smoothly. “Sebastian loves her very much.”

“As do we all.”

“So … where does ‘conscience’ play into all this?”

Santoro relaxed slightly. “Conscience is what we choose to make it. The devil on your left shoulder and the angel on your right are slaves to your will.”

“Ah,” said Toys, as if he understood what that meant. And, with a sinking heart, he did. He stood and tossed the rest of the tea into the river. “This gives me a lot to think about, Rafael. Thanks … . I appreciate it.”

And may you have an aneurism next time you’re jerking off to a picture of the Goddess, you great freak.

Santoro inclined his head and sipped his tea.

Toys thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders in what he hoped would convey a posture of thoughtful introspection, and headed along the path toward the castle.

As he walked, however, he weighed Santoro’s words against the weight of the conflict within his heart. The devil on your left shoulder and the angel on your right are slaves to your will.

The cries of the gulls overhead sounded like the screams of drowning children.

If we were subject to the same laws we would have to own guilt for what we do, but we do not acknowledge the laws of any land. We maintain the conqueror’s point of view, which is self- justifying.

“Yes,” Toys murmured aloud. “Too bloody right we do.”

Chapter Forty-two

Strauss & Strauss Pharmaceuticals

Jenkintown, Pennsylvania

December 19, 10:57 A.M. EST

Amber Taylor sat like a robot in her office. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers like sticks of wet ice. Inside her chest her heart was beating too loudly and without rhythm.

His voice, his words, still echoed in her mind. Do it, he’d said. Do it today or … or …

Today.

She was supposed to die today.

She was supposed to kill today.

She would never see her babies again.

She would have to trust that they would keep their word and leave her family alone. He promised they would. If she did what they said. If she became a murderer.

He had made her swear. On the lives of her children. On the lives of her babies.

Amber slid open her top desk drawer and stared down at the horrible weapon of destruction that lay there among the pens and paper clips and pushpins.

A ring of keys.

They lay there, pretending innocence, looking like nothing. Keys to the lab, to the vault. The keys were right there. No one would think twice if she picked them up, walked out of her office, walked down the line of cubicles to the elevator. Took it to the basement. Opened the door to the lab. And the one to the vault.

The rest was a security code, and that was in her head.

Simple actions. Each one easy. Each one unobtrusive. So easy.

After that …

God.

Nothing existed beyond that thought except horror. Amber Taylor closed her eyes and prayed. She had not been to church since her husband died. Not even to take the kids. Religion and God were as dead to her as Charlie.

And then …

Something happened that had she possessed any faith she might have thought was divine intervention. But Amber lacked that belief, that optimism.

And yet.

There was a sound. Five beeps from the PA system and then a voice: “This is a security alert. This is a security alert. All employees are required to turn on your intranet. There is a critical news bulletin from Homeland Security. All employees are required to watch this bulletin. It will be broadcast in real time in sixty seconds. This is not a training exercise.”