A late model limo had parked just long enough to let out its passenger. Leroy waved to the geezer climbing out of the back seat and motioned him toward a bench under a tree. Of course, there was no shade since the branches were bare but sitting near the trunk did cut the wind some. Hunt got to the bench first and sat down.
Abraham Metcalf, prophet and diviner of the Blessed Nephilim, took his sweet time hobbling over. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt,” the old man said stiffly.
“Boss.” Leroy tipped his Stetson hat. “Set yourself down and take a load off.” The cowboy marveled at the change that had come over his employer in the three months since they’d met last. Although the old man was in his seventies, he’d always carried his age well. Now it looked as if the years had piled onto him like a pack of coon hounds on a cottontail. His eyes were sunken, and the bags underneath them had sprouted little bags of their own. Both his beard and mane of white hair were shaggy. The black overcoat that covered his funeral suit hung on him like a sack.
Leroy tried not to show his reaction to this transformation. “How you doin’, Mr. Metcalf?” he asked jauntily, setting the coffee cup down on the bench between them.
Metcalf shrugged off the question. “I’ve had better years.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” Hunt agreed sententiously. “Must be hard for you with your Missus still missin’ and all.”
Metcalf winced at the reference. “Yes, that’s the reason I wished to speak to you. Have you had any luck finding her yet?”
Leroy thought back to his fruitless search for Metcalf’s fourteen year old runaway bride. The trail had gone cold at an antique shop in the city. Of course, he knew she’d made her getaway with the help of Metcalf’s son Daniel, but he couldn’t afford to tell the old man that. Daniel was Leroy’s meal ticket—the one person in the world who could find those blasted gewgaws that Metcalf had such a powerful urge to collect and that Leroy had an equally powerful urge to steal afterward. The last thing Hunt wanted was for the old coot to catch wind of the fact that his own son helped his wife to give him the heave ho. Metcalf would kill the relic hunt and his son, not necessarily in that order.
Shielding Daniel wasn’t Hunt’s only concern. He had to make sure he got to Hannah before any of the Nephilim did. That way she couldn’t get chatty with anybody at the compound about who helped her get away. The mercenary’s face betrayed none of these worries. Instead, he replied blandly,” I’m sorry to say, I ain’t had no luck findin’ the little gal yet. I’m guessin’ your own crew ain’t done much better?”
Metcalf sighed deeply. “The devil has taken her. Mark my words, this was no ordinary disappearance.”
“You don’t say,” Leroy drawled, sporting an expression of innocent surprise. He knew the devil had nothing to do with it—unless the devil had taken to disguising himself as a pasty-faced runt named Daniel.
“She was only a child. The devil led her astray and spirited her beyond our reach. None of the brotherhood can find her. I had hoped that one of the Fallen, such as yourself, might have had a better chance.”
It always rubbed Leroy the wrong way whenever one of the Bible thumpers referred to outsiders as “Fallen” but he couldn’t very well let the old man see his annoyance. Instead, he asked, “How much time I got left before your son and me need to hit the road to find that next doodad?”
Metcalf sighed even more deeply than before. “Daniel spends all his days at the library in this city.” He looked around the plaza with distaste. “I don’t like the amount of time he is forced to toil in the land of the Fallen.”
Leroy ignored the “F” word again. “Now you don’t need to worry about Daniel none. He’s true blue.”
Metcalf shot him a grateful look. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt, for that reassurance. I believe he is. He says he’s approaching a breakthrough—that within the month he should know where to search for the next relic.”
“That suits me just fine,” Hunt agreed, picking up the coffee cup to thaw his fingers. “Can’t stand much more of this northern air. Them folks that hid the doodads a couple thousand years back seem to favor your warm and sandy lands. I’ll take a hot desert over this iceberg any day of the week.” He glared at the Picasso as if it was somehow responsible for the misty drizzle that was freezing his face off.
“Since you came back from your last mission, surely you’ve discovered some small scrap of evidence that might lead to my Hannah,” Metcalf persisted bleakly.
Leroy wasn’t about to tell him that he’d spent every day since their return three months ago tailing Daniel. He figured that Miss Hannah might try to
