more than two or three car lengths behind. I knew exactly where I wanted to go, and what I wanted to do when I got there, but the timing was going to be very tricky. The on-again, off-again Westway project, designed to replace the crumbling West Side Highway and Henry Hudson Drive with a six-lane expressway, had left in its wake a checkerboard of cleared areas and aborted projects in various stages of construction beneath the present highway, closer to the river. Four months before, in the course of acting as liaison in some very delicate negotiations between federal prosecutors and a certain Mafia don who was willing to inform on the family that had put out a contract on his life, I had met said Mafia don in an isolated, half-finished parking garage-really no more than a concrete slab with a corrugated steel roof-on a landfill jutting out into the river in the upper Eighties. That was where I was going.
Three-quarters of a mile from the exit, I stomped on Beloved's accelerator, and the well-tuned 360 Mercedes-Benz engine under the Rabbit's hood-a little indulgence I'd allowed myself in honor of my newfound wealth-roared to life. Beloved's tires spun, gripped, and the black limousine began to recede rapidly in the distance. Perhaps too rapidly. I let up on the accelerator, watched in the rearview mirror as the Cadillac gained ground, then sped up again. I slowed slightly before the exit, turned off on it, went around a corner, and immediately braked hard. When I saw the nose of the limousine appear in the rearview mirror, I yanked the wheel to the right, sped around a wooden barrier, knocked over a no exit sign, and bounced down a badly rutted road leading to the river and landfill. At the bottom was a concrete ramp with a hairpin turn leading onto the concrete platform that was to have been the first floor of the parking garage. I braked hard, skidded around the turn; Beloved skidded twenty feet sideways and came to rest across the entrance.
Perfect-I hoped.
Bidding good-bye to Beloved, assuring her that she was being sacrificed in a good cause, I jumped out and sprinted toward a concrete support column fifteen yards away, to the left of the entrance. I reached the column just as the air was filled with the tortured scream of brakes being applied full force-and too late. The driver of the limousine, not knowing where he was going, had-as I'd hoped-come speeding out of the blind turn, and by the time he saw Beloved it was too late to stop. The brakes continued to scream as the Cadillac, its rear tires billowing black smoke, slid across the concrete and rammed hard into Beloved, driving her like a billiard ball ten yards down the length of the platform and up against a support column, where she burst into flame.
I drew my Beretta from the shoulder holster and sprinted to the limousine. All of the car's windows had exploded on impact in bursts of white powder, and I could see Tanker Thompson, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, slumped over the wheel. But Tanker Thompson was certain to have a hard head, and he was already beginning to mumble and stir by the time I reached the driver's side. I shoved the Beretta into a pocket in my parka and took out the tube of Krazy Glue I had taken from Garth's kitchen. Quickly, I squirted some of the liquid on Thompson's left ear, reached around the back of his head and squirted more on the right ear. I reached in, threaded his left arm through the steering wheel, slapped the palm of his hand against his ear. I did the same to his right arm and palm.
Now we were ready to talk turkey.
Tanker Thompson wasn't going to be making any big moves now-not unless he wanted to end up holding his ears in his hands. Feeling rather smug with my cleverness, I casually ambled around to the other side of the car, where the passenger's door was sprung off its hinges. I slid into the front seat over a glistening carpet of powdered glass, once again took out my Beretta, and tapped Tanker Thompson once, smartly, on the top of his shaved head. Acrid black smoke from the burning wreckage of Beloved swept through the shattered front windshield, making my eyes sting. I wasn't sure how long it would be before police and fire trucks arrived, so I was in a bit of a hurry.
'You awake, Thompson?'
The giant with the mashed nose and bruise-colored face grunted, tried to sit up, grunted even louder when he discovered that his palms were securely glued to his ears. He raised his right elbow slightly, shifted in his seat, and studied me with small, black eyes that seemed oddly lifeless, like lumps of coal in the smear of blood that covered his face. I didn't like those eyes; they belonged in an animal, not a human. He mumbled something, of which I understood only the words 'fucking dwarf.'
'Tut-tut. That's no way for a God-fearing man to talk.'
'What have you done to me?' he asked, his deep voice rumbling in his chest with the ominous sound of distant thunder.
'Nothing that I can't undo. Just sit still and answer my questions. If I like what I hear, I'll see if I can't scare up some nail polish remover to dissolve that glue on your ears. Where are you keeping my brother?'
'What's the matter with you two?' Tanker Thompson said with what sounded like genuine confusion and indignation. 'Why are you so unreasonable?'
'Huh?' The question itself, and his injured tone of voice, took me completely by surprise. 'Why are
'Yes,' the huge man said in the same indignant tone. 'You wanted to make sure that Vicky wasn't going to be hurt anymore. She's not. I saw to that. Then why are you continuing to try to thwart God's will?'
I shook my head slightly. 'You're admitting you killed William Kenecky?'
'Yes. He was the spawn of Satan masquerading as a man of God. Men of God don't abuse children like that. I love children, and so does God. God told me to kill him, and I did. Patton didn't handle that right. He should have cooperated with you when you first went to him-at least he should have told you that he would make things all right for Vicky. Because of him, the two of you could have caused trouble. He was a fool. God told me to kill him, too.'
'Jesus. You killed
'Please don't take the Lord's name in vain. Yes, I killed Patton. There is no room in God's elite for fools. Why did you and your brother keep coming and trying to make trouble after you knew Kenecky was dead? I thought you'd be pleased.'
The wind had abruptly shifted and was carrying the smoke from Beloved's wreckage in the opposite direction, out the other end of the half-finished garage, dissipating it over the ice-choked Hudson River. The flames of the wreck were dying down, and there was still no sound of sirens. It occurred to me that no one had even noticed the crash, or paid attention to the smoke; this was, after all, New York City. I released the hammer on the Beretta, lowered the gun to my lap. 'You've certainly been a busy beaver, Tanker,' I said in amazement.
'I am Christ's avatar on earth in the Final Days; I am His sword, and He has empowered me to make these decisions.' He paused, studied my face. When he spoke again, there was an almost childlike quality to his voice. 'You know who I am, dwarf?'
'Of course, Tanker,' I replied evenly, speaking to that childlike quality, as well as his obvious madness. Tanker Thompson was not exactly what I had expected; I had anticipated having to deal with a mindless brute, and instead found myself talking to a man who sounded like he was waiting for me to ask him for his autograph. 'I'm a big football fan, in a manner of speaking, and I remember when you played. It's just too bad about that nasty little racist streak in you.'
Tanker Thompson sighed. 'It's true that I had evil in my heart. I killed a man because of the color of his skin, and I hated Jews.'
'You don't feel that way any longer?'
'No.'
'Then what are you doing with the company you're keeping?'
'It is God's will, part of God's plan for His avatar. God spoke to me in prison. I was forgiven for my sins, and it was explained to me how Jews are God's Chosen, and how they would play an important role in the Final Days. Kenecky and Patton had already prepared the way, but they did not have Jesus in their hearts. They had no further function in what is to come, and they were only complicating things; I was told to kill them.'
'Right,' I said, not understanding a word he was saying, and not caring. There was only one thing I cared about at the moment. I swallowed hard, found that my mouth was very dry. 'Tanker, did God tell you to. . kill Garth?'
'No. He is to be destroyed with all the others when the end comes.'
I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until my chest and lungs began to ache. I slowly exhaled, passed a trembling hand over my eyes. 'But you do have him?'
'Yes. But why did the two of you keep coming on? God wanted Kenecky killed so that you would know that Vicky is protected. I would never let anyone hurt a child, dwarf. That's not what God wants.'
