CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The two men kneeling in the cornfield weren’t scared, despite the hoods and the plasticuffs and the near certainty that they were about to die. The Vincent had gotten used to this stoicism by now. He’d been on the trail for two weeks and had interrogated so many of these pastors and deacons of the Church of the Hologrammatic God, each one calmer and more pain-resistant than the last, that he was getting bored. It was a necessary job, like branding cattle, but it wasn’t exactly rocket science.

The original assignment had been to follow Lyda Rose and engage in heavy conversation with whomever gave her the drug. That had led him to the first church and that Mexican pastor, then into the woods of Cornwall Island for the most confusing dead end of his career: fake cops, fake smugglers, and two teenage Afghan gangsters. A circus.

He’d been worried about Lyda’s ex-Special Forces, ex-SIGINT sidekick. He’d known a lot of those folks back when he worked with the government, and some of them were Goddamn nuts. He didn’t recognize the name or face of the woman—Olivia Skarsten was probably as fake as his own new name—but they’d probably known some of the same people. Those social circles weren’t all that damn big.

If he’d had his druthers he would have shot Rose and Skarsten both, just because they’d seen his face, but the employer had given him clear orders on how to handle them. He was forced to let them escape.

He had his own trail to follow. He found the second church in Toronto just by asking around. It wasn’t that hard; the thing about evangelicals is that they really wanted you to come to church. He also changed his interrogation method. He didn’t have to spend all night coercing some martyr who believed Jesus was perched on his shoulder. He just had to spend one hour coercing two guys.

That led him, eventually, to Detroit, the kookiest damn city he’d ever visited. It was the first time he’d seen abandoned homes and decrepit skyscrapers alongside acres of fresh farmland, all part of some inner-city rejuvenation project to turn the industrial revolution inside out. Hell, maybe even white people would come back to the city. That would take some doing, but it would happen. The government was broke, and there was plenty more cheap land to buy. A man could raise cattle out here. Of course that man would have to get over his agoraphobia and panic attacks, and maybe buy the upgraded bison that were as big as Saint Bernards, but it was doable. Perhaps even Vinnie and the Vincent could work together. Rancher and Gunslinger, working side by side.

The pair of true believers he was currently in dialog with were cut from the same cloth as the others he’d talked to. The senior pastor was another hardcore gangbanger with a long record. The Vincent bet that if he looked into it, the pastors had probably served time together. This one had gotten out of the federal prison only last year and moved to the Motor City. The sidekick was a local with tracks on his arm. That pattern held up, church to church. Ex-gangleaders in charge, with a congregation of junkies, prostitutes, bums, and lowlifes. It made a certain kind of sense; religion was most needed by the most desperate, and these folks were on the lowest rung of society, what his grandmother used to call “the least of these.”

Except that’s not what the Vincent’s employer expected. Someone, somewhere, was supposed to have a connection to a pharmaceutical company.

“You’re the one, aren’t you?” the senior pastor said. No trace of anger or fear. His name was Arun, and according to his prison records his religion was Nation of Islam. That file, obviously, was out of date. “You’re behind the disappearances.”

Rumors are spreading, the Vincent thought. He said, “Aw, you don’t want to know me, Arun. I take off them hoods then you know what I got to do.”

Both of them assured him that they would tell him nothing, regardless. Then the Vincent looped a cord around the young one’s neck and let the pastor listen to him gargle for a while. He released his grip before the boy expired.

This was his new method. These Holo-Jesus freaks were tough as nails alone, but they had an overreactive sense of empathy. Just crumbled when someone else was in pain. So you nabbed two of them and started slapping around the least knowledgeable one.

Right on cue, the pastor said, “Please, he doesn’t know anything.”

“But you do,” the Vincent said.

In a matter of minutes—and a few more strangulations—Arun was spilling details. That empathy is a bitch, the Vincent thought. Like a puppet show—put your hand on one, and the other one talks. The Vincent made him answer all the questions in his employer’s questionnaire, then they moved on to the important topics, like who was providing them with precursor packs and hardware.

The Vincent’s pen buzzed. He flicked it open. “Hey there, boss.”

His employer was not happy. The Vincent was taking too long, and he still hadn’t found out where the chemjets were being made, and what pharmaceutical company was supplying them.

“I’ve got some good news and bad news on that front,” the Vincent said. “I’m staring at a couple of guys who were building a printer.” In the basement of the church the Vincent had found not one printer, but three of them, and the second two only partly assembled. There were stacks of new machine parts still in their packing, and tools and soldering irons on the workbench. “They had enough to build four, maybe five of them.

“The bad news is that there’s no way they could be building all of ’em, not even all the ones I’ve found. Strictly a small-scale operation. So that means other people are making them, too.”

His employer wanted to know whether he’d found the assembly instructions, and the Vincent said they were on the pastor’s phone. “I’m working on tracking down where that came from, too. But like I told you, these guys are organized like terrorists cells—they don’t know much but the one or two fellas they talk to in the other churches. I think we got to consider the possibility that there ain’t no factory, and there ain’t no central leadership. I just don’t think there’s a Big Pharm company pulling the strings.”

The employer started yelling then, and the Vincent pulled the pen away from his ear. When his tone finally changed the Vincent said, “Sorry, what were you saying?”

More yelling. The Vincent didn’t let it bother him. Finally the employer settled down and gave him an address. The Vincent thought, New Mexico?

The rest of the instructions were explicit. “Just to be clear,” the Vincent said. “No restrictions on Rose and Skarsten?” He was surprised at the change, but relieved. He wouldn’t have to go behind his employer’s back to get rid of witnesses.

“One more thing,” the Vincent said. “I’m running a mite low.” He did not have to say its name aloud; the employer understood that when the Vincent brought up amounts he was talking about not cash but Evanimex. There were several knockoff street drugs—Brick, Darwin, HooDoo—that purported to provide the same effect and that he could have purchased himself. But he’d tried all those, and there was no comparison; Evanimex, the pure pharmaceutical product, was the only guaranteed solution. He’d first tried it several years ago when the government treated him for PTSD. It had worked well—so well that he never wanted to go back to his old self.

The problem, of course, was tolerance. Take the drug too often and it wouldn’t have any effect at all. So, he rationed. He used it for work first and daily phobia-management second. The rest of the time he tried to distract himself with his hobby.

His employer told him that he’d already shipped the latest package of pills.

“That doesn’t do me much good out here on the road,” the Vincent said. “I’ve got enough for about a week, then—”

The employer told him he’d be done in a week, and hung up.

The Vincent stared at the pen for a moment, imagining a few things he would like to do to his employer.

“I’d like you to consider something,” Arun said. Again, calm as a houseplant. He was a smart guy; he knew that now that he’d heard the Vincent’s conversation, and heard those names, there was no way he was living through the next fifteen minutes. Still he didn’t lose his composure.

“And what would that be?” the Vincent asked. He reached into his pocket for another set of plasticuffs.

“You have our printers; you have our paper,” the pastor said. “After you’re done here, find a quiet place, and just try one of the Logos pages.”

“I will give it to you boys,” the Vincent said. “Every one of ya’s tried to witness to me.”

“Just consider it,” the pastor said. “You’ll thank me for it.”

“I sure do appreciate your concern, Arun,” the Vincent said. He looped the cuff around the man’s neck and cinched it tight. Arun fell onto his stomach and began to flop around. The sidekick heard all this and started crying. “Arun? Arun?” The Vincent lassoed him too and put him down.

No restrictions, the Vincent thought. Maybe he really would be home in a week. It sure would be good to get out of all these shitty hotel rooms. And Vinnie would be happy to get another turn at the wheel. Jesus, he loved those stinking little buffalos.