“Now, my crew might get him through pure investigation, but the Oracle would need to make a mistake for us to find him, andit’s all different now that he’s got money. Sometimes that helps—money leaves a trail. But it also lets you hire people whocan help you hide your tracks. Either way, detective work takes time. You’ve made it clear that we don’t have that time, andI am inclined to agree.”
Leuchten exhaled, a long plume of breath steaming out in the winter air.
“Explain why I’m still standing here listening to you, Jim. I mean, if I wanted to freeze my balls off, I’d fuck your wife.”
Franklin smiled at Anthony Leuchten. It was a very thin smile.
“I’m getting to it, Tony,” Franklin said, then paused, forcing himself back to calm. “I know someone who could find the Oracle.Maybe.”
Leuchten frowned.
“Alone?”
“Not exactly. There are usually teams of specialists involved.”
Franklin hesitated. He considered, thinking about the rat’s nest his next few words would kick open, deciding whether theOracle was worth it.
He considered . . . and then he told Leuchten about the Coach.
Chapter 7
Reverend Hosiah Branson sat in his living room, staring moodily at a television displaying footage of his own home.
Jonas Block stood at the entrance to the room, directed there a few moments earlier via a curt sentence or two from MariaBranson. The reverend’s wife normally affected the personality of a cheerful talking animal in a Disney cartoon, but thisevening she seemed grayed out, drained. The stresses affecting the Ministry since the Oracle’s prediction three days earlierhad clearly made their way home.
Jonas cleared his throat. Branson turned his head, and his expression flipped over completely, surging from morose frustrationinto a confident, welcoming grin.
Branson stood and walked over to Jonas, clasping his hand and shaking it in welcome. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, his hairwas unkempt, and his face was covered with a rough layer of stubble, but his smile . . . it was like the neon cross atop theMinistry headquarters, lit every day at sundown and visible for miles.
“Thank you for coming, Brother Jonas,” the reverend said.
“Of course, sir. I’m just glad you called. We were all very worried. But you should know, we’ve been getting calls from . . .well, everyone. About the Oracle’s prediction. We haven’t been sure what to do.”
Branson gestured at the television, which now featured a reporter breathlessly speculating as to why the reverend’s personalsecretary might have been summoned to his home this evening.
“I’m aware of the media’s surge of interest,” Branson said. “It’s abundantly clear every time I look out my front window.”
Jonas nodded.
“Have you been praying on this?” he asked. “Asking for a solution?”
Branson reached for a remote control and clicked off the television.
“In a sense,” he said.
He walked across the living room, passing a large, heavy, wooden door, out of place against the Crate & Barrel chic that characterizedthe rest of the room, and the vibe of mild, inoffensive comfort that suffused the house in general. It looked like a teleporteraccident had partially fused the reverend’s living room with an old English country estate. The door seemed purposely designedto generate inquiry as to what was behind it.
Branson arrived at a side table holding a number of bottles, with glasses and other various drink-making paraphernalia arrayednext to them. He took a decanter filled with an amber liquid and poured two generous portions. He handed one over, then raisedhis own in a silent toast and took a sip. He raised an eyebrow at the younger man, holding it until Jonas lifted the glassto his own lips.
“Delicious, isn’t it?” Branson said. “This is the Byass Apostoles. I don’t think there’s a better Palo Cortado to be found.”
Jonas nodded politely.
“It’s very good, Reverend. I’m not much of a drinker, but this is very tasty.”
He watched Branson, waiting for him to explain why he’d been summoned, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming. The reverendlifted his half-empty glass, swirling it in the air, his expression turning pensive—but only for a moment, until the broadsmile returned, right on the edge of unsettling.
Jonas found himself getting annoyed.
It was as if the man had no idea what was happening outside his home. In his church. His people left leaderless while he boozedit up in his living room. The congregation was asking questions. They thought the reverend was frightened.
“Sir, I realize that the Oracle naming you on the Site must have come as a shock, but please, we need to know what to do.We need a plan.”
“Oh, I have one, Jonas. After all, it’s been three days. Time for me to rise again, eh?”
Branson turned toward the heavy wooden door, considering. He took another long sip of his sherry, then looked back at Jonas.
“Do you think I’m a good man?” he asked.
To this question, Jonas knew, there could only be one response.
“Yes,” he said.
“Good,” Branson said. “I’m glad. I do too. The Branson Ministry brought in over a hundred and thirty million dollars lastyear, and a lot of that went right back out. The clean water initiative in Africa. The schools. The drug outreach work. I’mnot one of those huckster preachers taking his flock for every penny and spending it on Ferraris and plastic surgery.”
He glanced at the wooden door again for a moment, then back to Jonas.
“To put it another way, would you agree that this Ministry is valuable, and it would be a great loss to the world if it wereto disappear?”
“Well, of course, Reverend. I’m not sure anyone could say otherwise.”
“I agree with you,” Branson said. “Therefore, we’ve established that I’m a good man, and that everything I’ve built is important.”
He rubbed the side of his face, causing a distinct, weary scratching noise as his palm was abraded by his stubble. He staredinto the middle distance for a long moment.
“I’ve got a secret,” he said.
Branson
