Reliquary

depth report of the event, written literally at the right hand of Mrs. Wisher, but naturally with his own special slant. Then a series of profiles, interviews, and puff pieces, leading up to his book. Figure half a million bucks in royalties for domestic hardcover sales, perhaps twice that for the paperback, and with foreign rights bringing in at least—

His calculations were interrupted by a strange rumbling noise. It stopped, then came again, so deep it seemed more vibration than sound. The noise level around him dropped for a moment: apparently, others had heard it, too. Suddenly, two blocks down the long empty length of Broadway, Smithback saw a manhole cover lift from the asphalt and fall back onto the street. A cloud of what appeared to be steam drifted skyward; then an impossibly dirty man clambered up, sneezing and coughing in the glare of the streetlight, filthy rags of clothes fluttering loosely around his limbs. For a moment, Smithback thought it was Tail Gunner, the haunted-looking man that had taken him to Mephisto. Then another figure emerged from the manhole, blood flowing freely from a cut on his temple; another followed him, then another.

There was an audible intake of breath at Smithback’s side. He turned and saw that Mrs. Wisher had faltered, staring in the direction of the wild-looking men. He quickly drew alongside her.

“What is this?” she said, almost in a whisper.

Suddenly, another manhole cover popped free closer to the march, and a series of gaunt figures clambered out, disoriented and coughing. Smithback stared in disbelief at the bedraggled group, unable to tell age or even sex beneath the matted hair and crusted dirt. Some held pipes or ragged pieces of rebar; others carried bats and broken police batons. One was wearing what looked like a brand-new police cap. The crowd of marchers nearest Broadway had stopped and were staring at the spectacle. Smithback could hear a low undercurrent of sound: worried muttering from the older, elegantly dressed people, scoffs and hoots of derision from the young white-collar turks and desk jockeys. A cloud of green mist sighed out of the IRT station beneath the Circle, and more homeless emerged, scurrying up the steps. As additional bodies clambered out of manholes and the subway, a ragged army began to form, looks of blinking bewilderment quickly turning to hostility.

One of the ragged men stepped forward, glaring at the front rank of marchers. Then he opened his mouth in an inarticulate roar of frustration and rage, a long piece of rebar held over his head like a staff.

A great cry arose from the throats of the homeless, who raised their hands in answer. Smithback could see that every hand held something—rocks, chunks of cement, pieces of iron. Many had cuts and bruises. It looked like they were preparing for a battle—or had just come from one.

What the hell is this? Smithback thought. Where have all these guys come from? For a moment he wondered if it was some kind of organized mass-scale robbery. Then he remembered what Mephisto had told him as he’d crouched down there in the dark: we will find other ways to make our voices heard. Not now, he thought. This is the worst possible time.

A wisp of smoke drifted closer, and several of the nearest marchers began to choke and gasp. In an instant, Smithback’s eyes began to sting painfully, and he realized that what he’d thought was steam was actually tear gas. Farther down the empty stretch of Broadway, Smithback saw what looked like a small group of policemen—their blue uniforms torn and grimy—stumble up a subway staircase, then stagger in the direction of the distant squad cars. Shit, something big’s happened down there, he thought.

“Where’s Mephisto?” one of the homeless yelled out.

Another voice rose up. “I heard he was paddied!”

The mob grew increasingly agitated. “Goddamn cops!” someone shouted. “I bet they beat his ass!”

“What are these scumbags doing, anyway?” Smithback heard a young voice behind him ask.

“Don’t know,” came an answer. “Too late at night to cash a welfare check.” There was scattered laughter and hooting.

“Mephisto!” The chant began to rise among the ragged crowd before them. “Where’s Mephisto?”

“The mothers probably murdered him!”

There was a sudden commotion among the Wisher marchers on the side of the street nearest the Park, and Smithback turned to see a large subway grating being forced open, and more homeless boiling up from below.

“Murdered!” one of the ragged army was screaming. “The bastards murdered him!”

The man who had stepped to the front pumped his rebar. “They won’t get away with it! Not this time, they won’t!”

He held up his arms. “The mothers gassed us!” he cried.

The tattered mob screamed wildly in response.

“They destroyed our homes!”

Another roar came from the mob.

“Now we’ll destroy theirs!” He flung the piece of rebar at the glass facade of a nearby bank branch. There was a splintering crash as it burst through the window and fell into the lobby. An alarm began to whine, quickly drowned out in the ocean of noise.

“Hey!” somebody beside Smithback yelled out. “Did you see what that asshole did?”

The homeless mob, screaming, poured a rain of missiles toward the buildings lining Broadway. Smithback, glancing up and down the avenue, watched as more and more homeless persons rose from manholes, vents, and subway exits, filling Broadway and Central Park West with their incoherent rage. Over their cries, he could make out the faint, insistent blatting of emergency vehicles. The dark pavement glittered brightly with countless shards of broken glass.

He jumped in surprise as he heard Mrs. Wisher’s amplified voice ring out. She had taken the microphone and turned to address the marchers. “Do you see this?” she cried, her voice echoing off the tall facades and rolling into the dark, silent Park beyond. “These people are intent on destroying the very thing we’re here to preserve!”

Angry cries began to arise from around her. Smithback looked around. He could see large groups of older marchers—Mrs. Wisher’s original followers—talking amongst themselves, pointing back toward Fifth Avenue or Central Park West, moving hurriedly away from the approaching confrontation. Others—the younger, brusquer element—were shouting angrily, moving toward the front.