Mercury Rests (17 page)

Mercury smiled grimly as he remembered getting this message from Michelle in answer to his quest for answers about the Great Flood. He never did find out what the cryptic message was
supposed to mean. He set the card next to the paper and started writing, doing his best to mimic Michelle’s graceful but no-nonsense script.

“What are you doing?” Perp asked.

“Writing a note to myself.”

“Of course,” replied Perp dryly.

Mercury knew exactly what to write. He shivered as he experienced an eerie sense of déjà vu. When he was done, the note read:

Christine needs your help.
Turn yourself in.

- M.

He could have written something different, he supposed, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

“Why don’t you sign your own name?” asked Perp.

“Please,” replied Mercury. “I’m not exactly trustworthy, am I? I need myself to think the note is from Michelle. Then I’ll turn myself in, and I can get out of here.”

Perp’s face was twisted in confusion. “You’re lying to yourself?”

“I’m letting myself believe an untruth,” said Mercury. “If I fall for it, it’s my own fault for being gullible.”

Perp was speechless.

“OK,” Mercury said, folding the note and handing it to Perp. “I need you to deliver this to me. I’ll be at a bar called La Traviata on Santa Maria Island, in the Azores. Just give the note to the bartender and tell him to give it to me when I arrive. Make sure I don’t see you.”

“I don’t...” Perp started. “You’re going to be in a bar in the Azores?”

“Yes. In about five hours. I’m at a bullfight in Pamplona right now. I’d like to go back and tell myself not to bet on the matador with the eye patch, but sometimes you’ve got to let yourself make your own mistakes. Otherwise, how am I ever going to learn?”

Perp seemed to have reached some sort of mental overload threshold. Realizing he was never going to fully understand what Mercury was talking about, he focused on the instructions he had been given. “OK, so I give this to the bartender and tell him to give the note to you when you show up. Does he know your name?”

“Nope,” said Mercury. “Haven’t met him yet. Nice guy, Jorge. We talked about football together. American football, that is. Not a lot of Denver Broncos fans in the Azores. Just tell him that a tall guy with silver hair will be coming in.”

Perp nodded slowly. “And you’re sure you aren’t completely insane?”

Mercury considered this for a moment. “Can’t be one hundred percent sure,” he admitted. “But if you do this for me, I promise to sit here in this broom closet until you come back.”

“No turning yourself in?”

“None.”

“And then what?”

“You come back and help me get back to the Mundane Plane. I have to get to Kenya to stop a crazy billionaire from making me destroy the moon.”

“All right, then,” said Perp. “You realize this is going to take a while. I can’t get authorization for a temporary portal. I’ll have to use the Megiddo portal and fly to the Azores and back.”

“I know,” said Mercury. “We’ve got plenty of time. I’ll just hang out here until you get back.”

Perp opened the door and walked onto the concourse.

“If you see me, just play dumb,” Mercury said.

“Not a problem,” said Perp. “Zigzag to outrun a crocodile.”

“And you have to promise never to tell me that I did this. I’ll never forgive me for pulling such a dirty trick on myself.”

Perp sighed and closed the door behind him.

Lucifer sat in a waiting room reading a six-month-old copy of
Reader’s Digest
and listening to the somnambulant strains of Jack Johnson leeching out of speakers recessed in the acoustic ceiling tiles. He had been reading selections from “Humor in Uniform” to a dour-looking gentleman sitting across from him, deliberately misstating the punch lines to ratchet up the severity of the man’s torment.

“And then the corporal says, ‘I’ll wait as long as you need me to, but that’s not the general’s briefcase.’ Ha! Ha! Get it? That’s not the...Wait, there’s another line after that. Oh, then the sergeant says, ‘Then why are his pants in it?’ I suppose that’s the punch line there. ‘Why are his pants in it.’ I’m not sure I get that one. Ah, ‘Life in These United States’!”

The dour man flapped his newspaper loudly, holding it up like a ward against Lucifer’s insipid commentary.

“Anyhoo!” Lucifer exclaimed, making the man jump a little. “What are you in for, chief?”

“Excuse me?” said the man, lowering his paper to glare at Lucifer.

“Oh, that’s what I say when I’m stuck in a waiting room,” said Lucifer. “Sort of an icebreaker. ‘What are you in for, chief?’ As if we were in prison together.”

“Hm,” grunted the man, returning to his paper.

“We’re not, of course,” added Lucifer.

“What?” asked the man irritably.

“Not in prison,” clarified Lucifer. “We can leave whenever we want.”

“Hm,” grunted the man.

“Why, you could leave right now if you wanted to,” Lucifer went on.

The man made no response.

“If I’m bothering you, I mean. You could
leave right now
.”

The man muttered something under his breath.

“What’s that?” asked Lucifer.

“I could leave right now,” the man repeated.

“Yes!” Lucifer agreed. “You could! Leave right now!”

The man folded up his newspaper and walked out the door without a sound.

Lucifer chuckled to himself. “Still got it,” he said. He loved pulling this Jedi mind trick shit.

The receptionist, a dumpy old broad with dishwater-colored hair, announced, “Mr. Thomason. Director Lubbers is ready for you.”

Lucifer stood and approached the woman. “Mr. Thomason had to leave for an emergency meeting. I’ll be taking his place.”

“And you are?”

“My name is Rezon. R-E-Z-O-N. Lawrence Rezon. You can call me Larry.”

“Well, Mr. Rezon,” she replied, “you’re not on Mr. Lubbers’s schedule. I’m afraid I can’t—”

“Don’t be afraid!” Lucifer exclaimed. “There’s no need to be afraid of anything. Rules, procedures, et cetera. These things are just guidelines, correct?”

The receptionist nodded dumbly.

“We shouldn’t substitute the tyranny of the bureaucracy for good old-fashioned common sense. If Director Lubbers is expecting Mr. Thomason, and if Mr. Thomason has selected me to act in his stead, then it stands to reason that Director Lubbers should be allowed to see me. Correct?”

“Correct,” the receptionist mumbled.

“Listen to reason!” exclaimed Lucifer.

“Reason,” the receptionist repeated.

“Yes?” Lucifer asked.

“Um, I’m sorry?”

“You called my name. Mr. Rezon. R-E-Z-O-N. I’m here to see Director Lubbers?”

“Oh,” replied the receptionist, confused. “Oh, um, I suppose you can go in, then.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Lucifer, bowing slightly at the woman. She blushed and looked away.

He strolled down the hall to a door that read:

DEPUTY ASSISTANT DIRECTOR DIRK LUBBERS

He opened the door to find Deputy Assistant Director Lubbers scowling at a stack of papers on his desk. He looked up with a start as Lucifer entered.

“Who the hell...?” he began.

“Director Lubbers,” cooed Lucifer. “It’s an honor to meet you. My name is Mr. Rezon. R-E-Z-O-N. Lawrence Rezon. You can call me Larry.”

“I’m ten seconds from calling a security escort to haul your ass out on the street,
Larry
,” growled Lubbers, his right hand reaching for something under his desk. “How’d you get in here?”

“No need for that,” said Lucifer. “I’m here because we have mutual interests.”

“Speak plainly,” said Lubbers, waving a .38 caliber revolver. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Fine,” said Lucifer. “I happen to know that you’ve just lost your best leads into Black Monday and the Anaheim Event. You let two very troublesome individuals, Christine Temetri and Jacob Slater, slip through your fingers. I also know that this puts you in a precarious position, career-wise. Fortunately for you, I’m in a position to help.”

“How’s that?” asked Lubbers dubiously.

“I have information,” Lucifer said coolly, “regarding a certain extradimensional portal in Southern California.”

Lubbers glared at Lucifer for a moment and then put the pistol away. “Close the door,” he said. Lucifer shut the door and took a seat.

Lubbers studied him thoughtfully. “Who are you, Mr. Rezon? How do you know about this portal?”

Lucifer’s eyes lit up as he saw the cover sheet of the papers Lubbers had been reading. The first line read: “To Your Holiness the High Council of the Seraphim.” So, somehow Lubbers had gotten a hold of one of the MOC’s reports. Clearly Lubbers was smarter than Lucifer had given him credit for. He wondered how much Lubbers already knew about Heaven.

“Who I am is immaterial,” replied Lucifer. “The important thing is that I know how dangerous these supposed ‘angels’ are. You see, I’m one of them. Used to be, anyway.”

“You expect me to believe—”

“I expect you to use your head, Director Lubbers. You know as well as I do that there are no such things as angels. Angels are mythical creatures, the stuff of fairy tales, correct?”

Lubbers nodded.

“However,” Lucifer went on, “alternate dimensions are quite real. Your scientists have long suspected as much. And some of those dimensions are populated by intelligent beings. In some cases, beings who possess technology and military capabilities that dwarf those of even the great United States of America. For example, destructive devices in the form of glass apples that make your most powerful nuclear warheads look like children’s toys. But I know their weaknesses. I can hand them over to you.”

Lubbers appraised Lucifer skeptically. It certainly did sound like he knew what he was talking about.

“You find this troubling, yes?” Lucifer asked.

“Find what troubling?”

“The idea that there’s somebody out there who is more powerful than you.”

Lubbers snorted. “Of course I find it troubling!” he spat. “We’re the big kid on the block. Our whole foreign policy—hell, our whole worldview—is based on the idea that nobody can tell us what to do. And now we find out that we’re at the mercy of an alien race from another dimension? Alien beings who have no compunction about blowing up entire cities or even planets? Hell yes, I’m troubled.”

“Ah,” said Lucifer, smiling beatifically. “But surely you don’t mean
nobody
can tell you what to do?”

Lubbers frowned. “I’m not following you.”

“Nor should you be,” said Lucifer. “But I was under the impression that...well, isn’t America a
Christian
nation?”

Lubbers scowled. “I don’t know about all that. My job is to protect the American people from all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

“Indeed,” said Lucifer. “But you must understand something. Although I am a traitor to my race, I am not without principles. It is, in fact, my principles that prompted me to rebel against my superiors. What happened in Anaheim is an absolute atrocity, and I am very eager to help you prevent something like that from happening again. But before I can enter into any sort of agreement with you, I need to know that you are on the right side. The side of good.”

“Of course we’re on the side of good!” barked Lubbers. “We’re the United States of America, goddammit. We’re a beacon of freedom and justice!”

“So you would say that the United States is a Christian nation?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Please do.”

“Do what?”

“Say it.”

“Jesus Christ,” grumbled Lubbers. “What are you, some sort of zealot?”

Lucifer leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Far from it,” he said. “Just someone who wants to make sure he’s picked the right man for the job. The United States government is a vast entity, Director Lubbers. I could have gone to the secretary of defense or Homeland Security. I could have approached the president directly, if I had wanted to. I’m a very persuasive man with a lot of connections. But I chose you, because I believed you are the right man for the job. Was I mistaken?”

Lubbers regarded the man for a moment. Damned if this guy doesn’t know just what buttons to push, he thought. “What’s in this for you?” he asked.

Lucifer shrugged. “In a narrow sense, nothing. It would be far easier for me to sit back and see how things play out. But I have a soft spot for underdogs. I’d really like to see what humanity is capable of without the interference of our race. It’s time for humanity to seize its destiny, to free itself from the shackles of belief in gods and angels. Do you agree?”

“Absolutely,” said Lubbers.

“Then would you say it for me?”

“Fine,” said Lubbers. What difference did it make? “The United States is a Christian nation.”

“Wonderful,” said Lucifer, barely able to control his glee. He felt like doing a little jig—like he did that time Pontius Pilate asked him for a towel.

“Now,” said Lubbers, “tell me how to kick some angel ass.”

“I have a plan to do just that,” replied Lucifer. “However, I’m afraid that the resources of the FBI are not going to be sufficient for the task. We’re going to need some serious firepower.”

“Like what? Artillery? Tanks? I can pull some strings, get whatever it takes to do the job.”

Lucifer shook his head. “Artillery, tanks, fighter jets...these are all worthless. Worse than worthless; they would use them against you. No, what we need is something far more dangerous and far more subtle. As far as I know, President Babcock is the only one with the power to deliver the weapon you would need to defeat my people.”

Lubbers smiled. “Well, let’s go talk to him then.”

“What?” Lucifer asked, seemingly impressed. “You can get a meeting with the president of the United States, just like that?”

“They put me in charge of the Anaheim Event, and since this moon thing is obviously related to what happened in Anaheim, it sort of fell in my lap too. Since Black Monday I’ve had a direct line to the president himself. Hell, I’ve actually been dodging his calls, because I haven’t had much to report. But I’d say this is worth a meeting, wouldn’t you, Mr. Rezon?”