Mercury Falls Part 8

"Hey, you asked."

"So do you have a special Angel Band radio? Maybe a secret decoder ring?"

"Angels can hear things on what you might call a 'subplanar frequency.' Transmission of information by way of the manipulation of interplanar energy fluctuations."

"Don't suppose you'd be willing to demonstrate?"

"Better not. If they're looking for me, they'll latch on to me the second I tune in."

"Of course," said Christine. "We don't want them them to find you." to find you."

"So," said Mercury. "Where are we going?"

"I have to go see the Antichrist," Christine said, in a misguided attempt to put Mercury off balance. She was trying to think of a way to find out if he knew anything about the briefcase without tipping him off. Her rapidly fading hope that he might actually be the the Mercury was the only reason she hadn't kicked him out of the car five minutes outside Berkeley. Mercury was the only reason she hadn't kicked him out of the car five minutes outside Berkeley.

"Oh jeez," said Mercury. "Seriously? The Antichrist? Antichrist?" He said it as if she had announced she was going to a Nickelback concert.

"What do you have against the Antichrist?"

"He's an a.s.s, Christine. A real d.i.c.kweed."

"Well," said Christine. "He is the Antichrist Antichrist...."

"Hey, we all have our jobs to do. That's no excuse for being a d.i.c.kweed."

"You know," replied Christine coolly, "I didn't ask you to come along. This is my job. I'm a reporter. What do you do? Play ping-pong and eat Rice Krispy bars?"

"Trust me, Christine, if you knew what my job was, you'd be happy that I spend my time playing ping-pong."

"I thought you didn't even know what you were supposed to be doing. You missed that meeting, remember?"

"I have a general idea. SPAM."

"You're supposed to be sending spam?"

"Schedule of Plagues, Announcements and Miracles. SPAM. It gives the angels their a.s.signments."

"Oh, of course," said Christine. "That SPAM. I suppose they send updates over..." SPAM. I suppose they send updates over..."

"Angel Band, right."

Christine sighed heavily. "Anyway, you convinced me that this guy in Lodi, Kevin..."

"Karl. The Antichrist's name is Karl."

"Yeah, you convinced me that this Karl is the honest-to-goodness Antichrist, and I'm going to Lodi to ask him some questions about his plans. For example, does he plan to rule with an iron fist? Or does he prefer a more light-weight carbon fiber fist?"

"I think you're going to be disappointed," replied Mercury.

"Why? Is it because he only has five heads? Because between you and me, six-headed Antichrists are overrated."

"Nah, he's not very interesting," said Mercury. "Just, you know, a typical d.i.c.kweed. If it weren't for that contest...."

"Right, the contest Lucifer used to pick the best Antichrist," said Christine dryly.

"You're not a big Charlie Nyx fan, are you?"

"I'm indifferent to Charlie Nyx. Mostly, I'm just so sick of hearing about him that I change the channel whenever I hear the name. They're children's books, for Pete's sake. I couldn't even avoid him on the trip back to the States. That d.a.m.n movie with the magic and the trolls and the warlocks...."

"Personally, I love the books," said Mercury with apparent enthusiasm. "The way Katie Midford paints the subterranean realm underneath Anaheim stadium, I feel like I've been there."

For some reason, this comment unsettled Christine. "You do realize that there aren't really monsters living under Anaheim stadium?"

"Please, Christine," said Mercury. "I'm not crazy."

"Right, I forgot. You're a perfectly sane ping-pong playing cherub."

"Why the h.e.l.l would you want to interview that w.a.n.ker? You know who you should interview? Me."

"What do you know that anybody would care about?"

"Well, I know that the Antichrist is a big w.a.n.ker, for starters."

"Yeah, I got that. You're not a fan. So what do you know about David Isaakson?"

"The Israeli general?" said Mercury. "Not much. He's been a P.A.I. for some time. Like yourself."

"P.A.I.?"

"Person of Apocalyptic Interest."

"Really. I suppose you're a Person of Apoplectic Interest as well?"

"I'm an angel, Christine. That doesn't even make any sense. Your friend Karl the Antichrist has recently become a P.A.I. though."

"Of course."

"It's all connected, all of these events. It's going to get weirder. There are no such things as coincidences."

"Really?"

"No, not really. Of course there are coincidences. I was trying to sound deep."

Christine glared. "You're not a very convincing angel," she said.

"That's pretty much what the other angels tell me," Mercury agreed.

"So in your mind," said Christine, "Charlie Nyx, the Olive Branch War and Karl the Antichrist are all related somehow."

"Not in my mind. I'd keep them all separate if I could, but it's too late for that. Clock's ticking, you know. I have to say, Karl as the Antichrist was an unexpected casting choice. Wish I was in on that that meeting." meeting."

"I thought he was chosen randomly. In a contest."

"Random! G.o.d doesn't play dice with the Universe, Christine."

"I don't blame Him. The Universe cheats."

"The contest was a facade. Lucifer hand-picked this guy. G.o.d knows why."

Christine's curiosity about the extent of Mercury's delusion got the better of her. "So the author of the books, Katie Midford, she's an agent of Satan?"

"Not sure about Katie Midford. She may just be a prawn."

"A p.a.w.n."

"No, a prawn. You know, a little fish."

"Prawns aren't fish," said Christine irritably. "They're shrimp. I think you mean 'p.a.w.n.' Like the little pieces in chess that get sacrificed for the queen."

"I thought those were prawns."

"They're p.a.w.ns p.a.w.ns. Prawns are sh.e.l.lfish."

"Yeah, that's her alright. A greedy little prawn."

Christine resisted the urge to scream. Walnut Creek Walnut Creek, said a sign.

"How about I drop you off in Walnut Creek?" she said, trying to make it sound like an attractive option.

"Why, what's in Walnut Creek?"

"Cherub convention," Christine said. It was worth a shot.

"Really?" Mercury actually sounded excited. "American Cherub Society or North American Council of Cherubim?"

"Uh... the second one."

"Ha! There is no North American Council of Cherubim! They merged with the International Cherub a.s.sociation in 1994!"

"Seriously?"

"No, not seriously. Wow, are you gullible. So when were you going to tell me about the briefcase in the trunk?"

ELEVEN.

The Antichrist was clearly out of his element.

All that was really expected of him was to cut the ceremonial ribbon in front of the newest Charlie's Grill, but he was having difficulty with the giant ceremonial scissors. Finally, he bit into an edge with his teeth and tore the ribbon the rest of the way. Red-faced and drenched with sweat in the 100-degree heat, he muttered an obscenity and stomped off.

The crowd cheered this display of mildly Satanic behavior.

"The Antichrist, Karl Grissom!" shouted a diminutive man who had presumably been standing next to Karl the entire time.

The crowd clapped politely for the Antichrist and the man they a.s.sumed was the Antichrist's dwarf henchman, but was, in fact, the director of marketing for Charlie's Grill, Inc. The dwarf henchman marketing director proceeded to hand out free cheeseburgers while the Antichrist made his way to the parking lot. A local high school marching band began to play a jazzed up version of the Charlie Nyx movie theme.

Behind a line of police tape, in the parking lot of the Burger Giant next door, a group of several dozen protesters held signs with slogans like "Pray for Karl Grissom" and "Karl Grissom GO TO h.e.l.l." Despite their lack of both logical consistency and complimentary cheeseburgers, they were a spirited group.

Having fulfilled his contractual obligations as Antichrist, Karl plodded through the crowd toward his mother's Saturn. This whole business was getting a little old. He had half a mind just to call it quits. And at this point he didn't even know about the man with a high-powered rifle who was lying in wait on the roof of the Burger Giant across the street.

The man's name was Danny Pilvers, and he was a would-be a.s.sa.s.sin.

Would-be a.s.sa.s.sins are often virtually indistinguishable from actual a.s.sa.s.sins, the one vital difference being that the former are, generally speaking, far less dangerous. If anyone had seen Danny on the roof with his rifle, they would have a.s.sumed that he was an actual a.s.sa.s.sin. Even Danny himself thought he was an a.s.sa.s.sin.

Danny was wearing army camouflage and had his cross hairs trained on Karl Grissom, the Antichrist. As Danny was on the opposite side of the roof from the crowd and was making a point of being very still, no one seemed to have noticed him.

Danny's hands shook, not because he was afraid, but because he was angry. He was angry with Karl the Antichrist. He was angry with Katie Midford and her dwarf henchmen. He was angry with Charlie Nyx, despite the fact that Charlie Nyx was only a twelve-year-old boy, and a fictional one at that. Danny was angry at all of these people because he believed that they made a tapestry of religion. Hadn't the angels told him so?

The angels had not, in fact, told him so. What they had said was "travesty." In fact, they had repeated it several times. "A travesty," they said. "A travesty travesty of religion." Finally they had given up, satisfied that Danny understood the gist of what they were saying. of religion." Finally they had given up, satisfied that Danny understood the gist of what they were saying.

Despite having served three tours in Afghanistan, the only civilian employment Danny could find was as a fry cook at Burger Giant an injustice made no less severe in Danny's mind by the fact that his highest ranking position in the military was also that of fry cook. Danny was, in summary, a very angry person with a high-powered rifle and a fifth grade education. It had taken very little in the way of supernatural guidance to get him to direct both his anger and his rifle at Karl Grissom, the Antichrist.

Danny took a deep breath, trying to steady his hands. "A tapestry of religion," he muttered, and flicked off the gun's safety.

Across the street, Karl Grissom fumbled with his keys.

TWELVE.

Preternaturally dexterous fingers spun the tumblers.

6...6...6.

Click.

"I should have known," Christine said.

The case opened to reveal what appeared to be an ordinary notebook computer.