Any Minute Now (41 page)

Silence between them. The wind rushing by outside and their ears clogging and clicking open as the plane slid down the flight path of its final approach. His hand sought hers, their fingers twining.

*   *   *

By dawn's early light, Preach saw the rolling hills of Virginia, wreathed in pearly mist, insubstantial as ghosts. That was fine by him; ghosts were as familiar to him as old friends at the dinner table.

Crow flew ahead of him, showing him seconds, minutes, an hour into the future, for in that state of being time had no meaning. Past, present, and future melded into one and ceased to have the meaning put on them by human beings in a vain attempt to draw order and structure out of chaos.

More blood, more death, this is what Crow saw. That was fine, too. In his long, long lifetime Preach had waded through blood and death more times than he could count. The transition was what interested him. Through Crow he had experienced what others called death, what he knew to be the metamorphosis from one state of being to another. Crow had assured him of this; through Crow's eyes he had peered into the world beyond, and found it worthy.

The countryside began to be populated, first by a house here and there, then by groups of houses, cheek by jowl, all looking like clones of one another. A blight upon the landscape is how Preach thought of these increasingly large communities sprawled like great spiders casting their evil webs, tearing down forests, leveling hills, building up valleys, making everything uniform for their drone dwellings. Preach was sickened unto his soul, and still he kept going, knowing, through Crow, he would make another stop before he came in sight of the place where Albin White stood, waiting patiently for him.

He did not dislike White; though he knew Whitman best, he knew White longer. But it was Whitman, his brother in fact if not in blood, he missed. He knew where Whitman was; he always knew where he was. They were connected as deeply as if they were twins, as if their heads had been fused at birth. The divine force that had caused this was beyond even Preach's ken, but that was to be expected. He was connected to so much more than human beings, but this only made him aware of how much more existed that he could not reach. It was his fervent hope that one day Whitman could attain what he had not. He was generous that way, with Whitman, at least, if not anyone else. His life in the bayous had taught him to withhold most of himself, to be an enigma, and therefore to engender fear in those who came in contact with him. They all feared him—all except Whitman, who knew better. Who understood the Nature of Things.

And so while looking forward to the highway patrolman waiting for him, he also looked backward, and saw Luther St. Vincent's death. He felt neither elation nor pity. St. Vincent's death at that precise moment was ordained the instant he came into Preach's orbit.

On the other hand, the highway patrolman had yet to make his appearance. Preach was driving the speed limit. Not that it would matter to the patrolman, whose job it was to flag down out-of-state motorists and give them tickets. Sometimes, Preach thought, a scam is just a scam.

Over a rise he jounced and there, on the far end of the downslope, was the highway patrol cruiser. It allowed him to pass, then turned on its flashing light and siren, took off after him. Preach didn't need to look at the oncoming image in his rearview mirror. He slowed and pulled over onto the verge of the highway, sat still as a statue, concentrated on his breath. He could feel Crow circling back toward him from somewhere in this world's future. He expected nothing less.

After some time, the patrolman emerged from his cruiser. He came toward Preach, one hand on the butt of his holstered pistol. The grim look on his face made Preach want to laugh.

“You know why I pulled you over, old timer?” the patrolman said.

“I do not, sir.”

“You were speeding.”

“All due respect, sir, but I was doing the limit. I checked my speedometer.”

“Why would you check it if you weren't speeding?”

Preach chose to say nothing.

The patrolman opened his book, started writing. “Guess you didn't know the fine for speeding in this area is two hundred dollars.”

“I don't have two hundred dollars, sir.”

“Too bad for you, old timer. I'll have to take you in.” The patrolman stopped writing, looked up. “You got a hundred on you?”

“That I do,” Preach said.

The patrolman showed his teeth. “Tell you what, then. Give me the hundred and I'll rip up this ticket.”

Preach nodded. “Sounds fair to me.”

“It's more than fair, old man. It's a fucking gift, is what it is.”

Preach dug out his wallet. The patrolman snatched the two fifties greedily.

“Okay then,” the patrolman said. “We're done here.”

“Not quite.” Preach leaned out the window. Crow was close, very close. He felt the shimmer, as if the air itself trembled. “You're looking a bit pale, if I may say. Do you have a headache, perchance?”

“What?” The patrolman put fingertips to his temple. “Now that you mention it…” He winced, one eye closing.

“Sir, I do believe you're having a cerebral aneurism.”

“A what?” But the patrolman was already slurring his words. “Hey,” he said. His eyes opened wide, then rolled up in his head as he collapsed onto the tarmac.

Preach got out of the truck cab, took the two fifties out of the patrolman's clutches, and a moment later was on his way to the summoning.

 

47

“This is going to be the last act,” Trey Hartwell said as he joined Albin White.

White nodded. “Down and dirty.”

The Colonial-style porch of the property's original hunting lodge, across from the entrance to the Well, was where they sat in side-by-side rocking chairs, like old friends chewing the fat. All that was missing were corncob pipes and a packet of loose Virginia tobacco.

“There was no other way,” White said.

“None,” Hartwell affirmed, “according to the
Peranomicon
.” He placed the book that he had tucked beneath his arm onto the top railing. It was small, no larger than Trey's hand with his fingers spread. It was the book he touched before every meeting of the Alchemists.

It was very old. It had come into his possession from one of his sources in Turkey, who had discovered it in a dusty antiques shop in Tevfikiye, a crumbling stone village near the site of the ruins of Ilium—Homer's Troy. But its true origins lay in ancient Persia. It was written in the Old Persian cuneiform of the Achaemenid dynasty, dating it to around 500 BC, long before the Muslim armies conquered the empire. The cuneiform also positioned the composition of the
Peranomicon
somewhere in Persis, in the southwest of the country, which was known for its magus's pursuit of the more arcane aspects of the Zoroastrian religion. Possibly the
Peranomicon
was a part of a vastly powerful magus's private library; it did not appear in any compendium of the Avesta, the Zoroastrian collection of sacred texts, that Hartwell had studied.

“It was this book that told us who and what Preach is,” White said, “though part of me still doesn't believe it.”

“And yet it was through the
Peranomicon
that I was able to summon him.” Hartwell drummed his delicate fingertips in the complex rhythm prescribed in the text. For an instant, a shadow flickered midway between them and the kitchens building, then was gone.

“Crow,” Hartwell said. “We must be mindful of the bird's shade at all times. It's a good part of Preach's power to divine the future, what he and the
Peranomicon
called
Haxāmaniš
, ‘to see a friend's mind.'” Trey threw a sideways glance at White. He was intimately familiar with
Haxāmaniš
, if not in the actuality of Preach's power, then in the theory, which he had put to good use ever since reading about it in researching the
Peranomicon
. “To see a friend's mind,” though
friend
could mean many things, as the text had revealed to him. That was a revelation he had not shared with White, nor any other member of the Alchemists, for that matter. The theory had led him to a conversation with White in which he had maneuvered White into asking to make the summons himself. Trey had had a good laugh at that one. He had had no intention of summoning Preach himself—that would have placed him squarely in Preach's crosshairs. Preach could not touch him, nor any of the Alchemists—passages in the
Peranomicon
had ensured that, making them invulnerable to retaliation for the ways in which they used Preach. The book ensured that he was in their power—enslaved, in the same way the genie was bound inside his brass lamp. However, Preach had a long memory. He was fiendishly clever, and Trey had no doubt that there surely would come a time of reckoning. He intended to be on the sidelines when that future was conjured out of thin air and shadows.

*   *   *

As soon as the plane had taxied to a stop, Whitman grabbed Edmond Dantès and Flix, and they offloaded the poppies into the back of a waiting jeep. There was no driver; that was part of Dantès's job. But Whitman didn't need him; he knew the way to the Well.

Back inside the plane, he saw that Charlie had already breached the cockpit, brought the pilot and navigator back to the passenger section, sat them down with the flight attendant so there was no chance they could use the plane's radio. She had taken possession of their mobile phones long enough to remove the batteries before handing them back to their respective owners.

Whitman took Flix aside. “
Compadre
, you're going to stay here with the crew and Dantès.”

“But—”

“No buts. Someone has to keep them incommunicado for the time being. Besides, after what you've been through I don't want to—”

“I'm fine,
compadre
. Have the girl babysit.”

Charlie advanced on him. “¿
No qué
no, eh?
” Really? “After everything?”

Immediately Flix looked abashed. “Sure, sure.
Lo siento
.” Sorry. “It's just … I wanted to be in on the last act.”

“And you are.”

“You don't trust me now, because of—” He tapped the side of his head. “You saw what I did back there.”

“I saw what happened to you,” Whitman said, “and I took care of it. I trust you like I've always trusted you.” He squeezed Flix's shoulder. “Red Rover's a trio. It always was; it always will be. Okay?” He smiled at Flix, who nodded, smiling back.

“
Orale pues
.” Okay then. “
Todo se vale, guei
.”

“That's right,” Whitman said, signaling to Charlie. “It's all good, dude.”

“See you on the other side, Charlie,” Flix said as they exited the plane.

*   *   *

Albin White was waiting for Preach when his rattletrap truck pulled up outside the complex of buildings in rural Virginia. The beginning of the summoning was a ritual in and of itself, and Hartwell played no part in it. White had a bottle of White Lightnin' corn likker in one hand, two shot glasses in the other.

The moment Preach climbed down from the truck's cab, White poured the drinks, handed one of the glasses to Preach, and they drank.

“I trust your journey north was without incident,” White said, as they headed toward the Well.

“Why have you summoned me?” But of course he knew. He had created the knowing. Acceleration was the name of the game now. Lindstrom had to die in order for Trey Hartwell to use his book, the
Peranomicon
, to “summon” Preach. That was a joke in and of itself. Preach had created the book. What fun it had been to write it with a Persian scholar of a contact's acquaintance! He had discovered that ancient shamanism around the world was remarkably similar, so much so that he now believed the underlying principles must have originated in one place, with one people. Not the Old Ones, of course, but perhaps folk like them.

After they had finished, he had a talented forger in his employ create the cuneiform pages as an ancient tome. He had shipped it overseas. He had made painstakingly sure Hartwell believed in the book's ethos, rites, and rituals. It served his purpose to have the Alchemists believe that he was under their control instead of the other way around. It made manipulating them so much easier.

“The Mobius Project.”

“Do tell.” Preach made a face. Sometimes knowing everything could be a bore. “You have a—what do you call him—a
scientific researcher
working on that.”

“He's dead.”

“My condolences.” Preach shrugged. “But life must continue.”

“The man discovered an alkaloid distilled from
Papaver laciniatum
. Now he's dead, we want you to take over creating the soldiers.”

Preach threw a sideways glance in White's direction. “I'm at your service, Albin, always have been.”

White pushed open the door to the Well, and they went through into the dim, noxious interior. “We're in a bind. The serum works, but has … undesirable side effects.” He led Preach around another of a seemingly endless number of corners. “Ah, here we are.”

He unlocked an iron door, and they stepped into one of the Well's vertiginous rooms, the curving walls seeming about to cave in from the top.

“You really do have a fucked-up sense of humor, Albin.”

“What sense of humor I once had was burned out of me long ago.” White pointed to a man kneeling on the floor. He was hooded and his wrists were bound at the small of his back. “We kept this one for you. He's already been injected with Lindstrom's serum, but it's too early for any side effects to be presenting.”

“I wouldn't worry about side effects now.” Preach crossed to where the man knelt, took out a switchblade, and cut through the plastic that bound his wrists. Then he helped the man to his feet, drew off his hood. The man blinked, trembling from hours in the same agonizing position.