Big Damn Hero

14

It had been a long time since Book had piloted a shuttle, and it felt both odd and good to be in the driver’s seat. On Serenity he often served in what some might consider a passive capacity — as an observer, counselor, and father confessor, roles he had embraced willingly at Southdown Abbey and fulfilled on the ship in a somewhat more secular manner. He also prayed for everyone aboard, something Inara, when she’d found out about it, had advised him to conceal from the captain.

To a true believer such as Book, prayer was as active a pursuit as shooting a gun or repairing an engine. But for Mal Reynolds it was a reminder that, to his way of thinking, God had deserted him and all the people he had fought for, and would have willingly died for, during the most crucial part of the war. Believers, in Mal’s view, were deluded fools, and he made no secret of the fact.

It signified a profound loss of faith, and Book was very sorry for it. He was sorrier still that Mal was denied that source of strength and comfort in the trying times they lived in. The burdens the captain carried were heavy indeed.

As Book guided the shuttle into a slow, careful descent to Eavesdown Docks, he beseeched the Lord to protect the crew and the captain, and for a successful outcome to his mission. He added a sincere plea to soften Mal’s heart and to help him find a way back to the comforts of belief.

At least part of his prayer was answered as he completed his landing maneuvers at Guilder’s. The shipwrights seemed to buy his explanation that the missing shuttle was the result of a “family matter” and that that was why the authorities were not being called in. His clerical collar often eased his way, much as Inara’s status as a Registered Companion did for her. He knew Inara had some history, as did he — and like him, she kept her past to herself. He had always wondered why, if she had loved her home planet so much, she had left it. Had she done so willingly or had she been pressured to leave? He pondered on occasion if anyone was actively searching for her in the way that the Alliance was looking for the Tams. He would never bring it up — everyone had enough to worry about, and he wouldn’t want to put Inara on the spot — but he did cast a watchful eye on the waves and bulletins they received. When they spent time planetside, he stayed alert in case she might need assistance, but so far he hadn’t detected anything that could validate his concern.

He left the shuttle with his satchel slung on his back. Inside were a few toiletries, some coin, and a high-tech stun gun and a charger for it. Some of the money came from Mal, a cut of the profits from previous jobs, which the captain distributed among the crew in accordance with the traditional pirate custom of sharing spoils, and Book had supplemented the sum with cash of his own. He might have taken a vow of poverty, but it was difficult to bribe people for information just by appealing to their better natures.

“Hey, Shepherd,” Wash said through his comm link. “You down safe and sound?”

“That I am,” Book replied.

“You’re gonna find Mal, right?”

“If providence is on my side, yes.”

“When would providence not be on a Shepherd’s side?”

“Quite. Now you get that Firefly to Aberdeen in one piece, you hear me, Wash? And everyone on board, too. I’ll be praying for you.”

“Amen to that,” said Wash. “Be careful, Shepherd.”

“Never knowingly not.”

Ending the call, Book walked along the perimeter of the bustling, chaotic docks. Overhead, one of Persephone’s two moons, Renao, was riding high and bright. Its smaller counterpart, Hades, had yet to rise.

He found himself studying the sides of buildings and spacecraft wreckage for anything that might help him solve the mystery of their missing captain. Mika Wong would likelier than not prove useful in that regard, but Book was loath to call upon his old friend unless it was unavoidable. When mentioning Wong to the crew, he had shaded the true nature of their association. He knew his shipmates wondered about his past, but there was no benefit to be gained on either side by full disclosure, as yet. The time might come when Book could share his life story with them — a reverse confession, if you will; a preacher shriving himself of his sins to the members of the laity. Until then, his past and all its uncomfortable truths were better left buried.

A grizzled older man fell into step beside him. The newcomer walked using a steel crutch, dragging his left foot. His entire left leg seemed atrophied. A birth defect, if Book didn’t miss his guess. The man was deft with the crutch and evidently accustomed to the disability, since it barely slowed his pace.

“Can I be of help, Shepherd?” he offered. “If you’re looking to find the local abbey, be my pleasure to take you there.”

“No, thank you, friend,” Book said. He decided to chance his arm. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Although actually, you may be able to assist me in another regard. You strike me as a knowledgeable sort.”

“Some’d say.”

“I’m looking for somebody, name of Hunter Covington. Would you happen to know how I can contact him?”

The man’s bushy brows shot upward. “Hunter Covington, you say? You, ah, sure that’s who you want? The kinda line of work he’s in…” He smiled uneasily. “It ain’t what you might call holy.”

“What line of work might that be?” Book asked neutrally, without slowing his pace to accommodate the hobbling man. He swept the surroundings with a sharp eye, alert to the possibility that this apparently harmless fellow had a confederate or two and that he was trying to waylay Book so that they could rob him. What was that old Earth-That-Was saying? Trust Allah but tie up your camel.

“Well, not to speak ill of a fellow man, especially in this company, but some of what Covington gets up to is a little on the disreputable side.”

People tended to edit themselves around a man of the cloth. “Care to elaborate?” Book asked.

“Not really.”

“Well, how about the rest of his business? The more reputable side. What can you tell me about that?”

The man nodded, eager to ingratiate himself. “Whatever you need, I’ve heard Covington can get it for you. He’s connected.”

“Connected,” Book said.

“Knows everybody.”

“That’s good. Then he may well be whom I need.”

“May I be so bold as to inquire what you want Hunter Covington for?”

Sometimes you had to give a little to get a little. “As it happens, I’m trying to track down an old friend. I know he’s on Persephone and I have it on good authority that he’s somewhere in Eavesdown.”

“Well, now…” The man with the crutch scratched one of his prodigious eyebrows, causing the clustered gray and white hairs to spring out in all directions. “If your friend’s alive and in Eavesdown, Covington should know his whereabouts. And if he’s dead, Covington may well be able to tell you where he’s buried.”

“Sounds like the ideal man for the job, then. Where might I find him?”

“He’s got a few haunts, when he’s in the city. At the docks, you can find him at the quartermaster’s HQ, or in the Sea Wolf Tavern. Downtown, it’s Taggart’s Bar. I can take you there.”

Book stopped and turned to face his newfound companion, who halted too. “No need,” he said. “I’m not unfamiliar with Eavesdown. I know my way around. But I thank you for your time nonetheless.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a generous amount of platinum, which he held out to the man. “For your trouble.”

“Mighty kind of you, sir,” the man said, plucking the bounty out of Book’s grasp as if he feared the Shepherd would suddenly change his mind. A wave of relief came over his dirty, weather-seamed face and Book gave a quick, silent prayer for him to find an easier path.

“Might I have your name and a way to contact you if I need further assistance?” Book said.

The man bobbed his head. “I’m Charlie Dunwoody, sir. I, uh, you can just ask anyone around here to get a message to me.”

Book translated: Dunwoody had no comm link, nor any way to be waved.

The crippled man leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, holding his hand to the side of his mouth to keep from being overheard. “I like to move around a lot, the state of my leg notwithstanding. I stay loose.”

“Understood.” Book smiled at him. “I’ll be sure to get a message to you if the occasion should arise. And thanks again for your help.” He adjusted his satchel and moved on. To his surprise, Dunwoody started walking again, too, right on his heels.

“Yes?” Book said pleasantly, but inwardly steeling himself for a second dunning.

The man chewed the inside of his lip for a second, then appeared to come to a decision. “Ah, Shepherd, I feel it’s only fair to tell you that around these here parts Hunter Covington is a bit… well, feared.”

“As in violent?”

“Well, sir, since you put it that way, yes, violent is as good a word as any. Leastways, he employs people who’ll do violence on his behalf. Just make sure what you’re getting into, if you don’t mind my advice.”

The revelation was hardly a surprise, but Book affected apprehension. As far as Dunwoody was aware he was a mere Shepherd, with all the connotations of defenselessness and unworldliness that came with that.

“I appreciate your concern,” he said. “Now I’ll be on my way,” he added pointedly.

“Yes, yes of course.” On his open palm, Dunwoody mimicked running motions with two fingers. “You have things to do.”

“Yes. I’m on a bit of a timetable.”

“Yessir, of course, sir.” Dunwoody took a few steps away from Book and made a formal little bow.

Book began to walk on, leaving Dunwoody in his wake. Then he turned back and said, “You say you know where an abbey is.”

The man nodded. “All of ’em on-planet.”

“If you’re looking for work, you might go to Southdown. It’s not far. Ask for the head abbot. Tell him Shepherd Book recommended you. The brethren are often in need of an extra set of hands.”

“Oh.” Dunwoody’s face lit up. “Thank you. I will do that, Shepherd Book.”

Book realized at once that it might have been a better idea to keep his identity concealed, but what was done was done, and if it benefited this poor man, then the risk was to a good purpose.

With that, Book moved on, increasing his speed in order to guarantee that he left Dunwoody behind this time. He melted into the haze of smoke and dust, into the boisterous crowd that packed the street alongside the landing field. The Alliance Day celebrations were still ongoing, although to Book’s way of thinking they were starting to simmer down. The hour was approaching midnight, after all, and there was only so much roistering a body could handle before it began to flag.

Some folks tipped their hats or pulled their forelocks when they saw his collar; others glared; most simply ignored him. Book was just an ant in a swarm of ants, some dark-complexioned, some light, some practically naked, some decked out in smothering layers of silk brocade.

He made his first stop at the quartermaster’s office, passing two armed guards to gain entry into the single-story aluminum-clad building. The office itself consisted of a large main room without any seating. It was busy at this late hour, even on Alliance Day. Everyone stood in line to reach windows protected by metal bars and transaction drawers. A stocky woman towards the front was bellowing about being charged twice for her docking fees.

All the clerks were occupied and the lines weren’t moving, so Book passed some time scanning the various flyers, advertisements and notices tacked on a large bulletin board along the wall. There were a plethora of recruitment posters urging youth to join the Alliance galactic military force. PATRIOTISM! ADVENTURE! OPPORTUNITY! Words chosen carefully to stir young women and men to enlist, without spelling out the inherent risks, both to their own physical and psychological well-being and to those people whom the Alliance, in its infinite wisdom, turned them loose on. Nothing had changed in all these years.

Then, in their midst, Book spied a WANTED poster. It was several months old, to judge by the brittleness of the paper and how deep it was buried among the others. What stood out on it, what had caught his eye, was a name: Hunter Covington.

Book snatched the poster off its pins and studied it. The wanted person in question was not Covington himself, but a woman named Elmira Atadema. She was lovely, with coffee-colored skin, dark hair that curled around her shoulders, and striking gray-green eyes. The poster listed her vital statistics and last-seen location and date. She hadn’t been missing long at the time the poster had been issued, but from the bounty being offered, someone was taking her absence very seriously. And that someone was named on the poster as Hunter Covington.

Book recalled Zoë’s description of the woman who had accompanied Covington on his meeting with Harlow. Zoë had intuited that she might have been a bondswoman, and lo and behold, Elmira Atadema was indeed an escaped bondswoman, according to the poster. She had run away from Covington, her bondholder, six months ago. The reward for her return—“alive and unharmed”—was substantial. For a lot of folk it was equivalent to a year’s wages.

Maybe someone had ratted on Elmira, or Covington had lived up to his given name and hunted her down. Either way, he must have got her back, if she was the one who had been with him for the meet at Taggart’s two days ago.

There was a proud set to Elmira’s posture that spoke of someone who had not been beaten down by her position in life. Being a bondsperson meant someone “owned” you for however long your contract stated, to do with as they pleased. Mal had masqueraded as Inara’s bondsman on Regina, when they had stolen some cargo from a train for Adelai Niska. As soon as they had realized what they’d taken — all that stood between the folk of Regina and a slow, agonizing death — they had returned it, earning the wrath of Niska. That they had dealt with, but word got around that the crew of Serenity had somehow botched a job and they had yet to fully restore trust among some that hired ships for transport.

The line moved, and within a few more minutes Book was stepping up to one of the service windows. A pasty-faced man wearing metal-framed glasses was seated behind the barred opening. The clerk wore a white shirt, garters on the sleeves, and a plasma visor across which the docks’ arrivals and departures scrolled.

“How may I help you, sir?” the man asked.

Book glanced down at his plastic name tag. “Hello, Mr. Smotrich,” he said. “I’m looking for a man named Covington. Hunter Covington. A gentleman I just met at the docks suggested I look for him here.”

Smotrich blinked, then his eyes narrowed. “Mr. Covington has not been in of late,” he replied.

Book noted the sudden redness in his cheeks. Either Smotrich was lying or the subject of Hunter Covington was upsetting in some way. It might well be both. He pressed the clerk further. “Do you happen to know where else I might begin to look for him?”

“No,” Smotrich snapped back. He looked down at some papers and began shuffling them.

“I see.” Book held up the WANTED poster. “Well, perhaps you could help me with another matter. I presume the lady in this poster is no longer at large.”

“You know her?” the clerk said in a tone that bordered on accusatory. “Or are you chasing that reward? Didn’t think Shepherds cared much about earning coin.”

The question had clearly hit a nerve. Book knew he had to proceed carefully.

“As a Shepherd, I’m naturally concerned for her welfare,” Book told him. “I’ll pray for her safe recovery if she has not been found.”

“Well, sir, can’t say she has,” he said. “Or leastwise, I haven’t heard if she has. I don’t know anything more about that.” He nervously examined his paperwork for a second, then croaked out, “Sorry, sir, I have to close this window. It’s past the end of my shift.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you for your—”

Time, Book had planned to say, but Smotrich yanked down a hunter-green shade, effectively ending their conversation.

Book considered engaging another clerk with the same questions, but they were all occupied with customers and he would have had to start over at the back of the line. The stocky woman was demanding to speak to the quartermaster himself. Someone else was complaining that the utilities weren’t functioning at their docking site. Business as usual — the clamor and struggle of everyday life, which Book had eschewed for the peace of the abbey. Sometimes he wondered why the still, small voice inside him had urged him to emerge from that place of serenity and board a ship of that name.

He turned and left the building. “Peace be with you,” he said to the two guards outside. One of them nodded in acknowledgement; the other scowled.

From the quartermaster’s office, Book plunged headlong into the seamier depths of the city, which bordered the space dock. Threading his way through the crowds in the street, he graciously declined the offers from the sidewalk hawkers of food, drink, jewelry, housewares, mood-altering substances, and temporary companionship.

The exterior of the Sea Wolf Tavern was as he had remembered it. A pseudo-antique mermaid masthead overhung the entrance, arms flung wide as if to take to her ample bosom all those seeking a certain kind of shelter. When he entered the crowded bar, he could barely hear himself think over the din of voices and music. The Sea Wolf fancied itself one of Eavesdown’s classier joints, but there was still plenty of Alliance Day rambunctiousness in evidence, from boozy singalongs to raucous toasts where the clinking together of glasses was more like a contact sport.

He took an empty seat at a table near the bar. A Zulian spider monkey squatted on the bartender’s bare shoulder. The furry little creature appeared to be drunk, eyes half closed, mouth hanging slack, nearly falling off its perch again and again, catching itself at the last possible instant by coiling its long tail around its master’s neck, then promptly letting go as the bartender swatted at it.

Book’s religious order forbade the drinking of alcohol so he asked a harried server for some water. Unfortunately, it tasted even rustier than what he made do with on Serenity. He had offered to do Kaylee’s share of the dishwashing for a month if she could upgrade the filtration system, but even that had not helped. He thought wistfully of the fresh artesian spring at Southdown Abbey. He was slipping into nostalgia, probably because the abbey lay close by and civilization, such as it was, demanded different things from him than did a life of contemplation.

He sipped gingerly, getting the lay of the tavern as he sat alone at a dirty, rickety table. Orange lamps glared all around, catching dust motes and revealing long strands of cobwebs among the fishing floats and nets that adorned the low ceiling. He scanned around the room, on the off-chance Covington was here. He hadn’t seen Covington’s wave to Serenity but he had seen the screen-cap picture, so he had a fair idea of who he was looking for. No luck.

“Can I get you another drink, preacher?” a passing waitress asked. She was wearing as much makeup as a singer in the Chinese Opera and a highly abbreviated pirate costume including a low-cut, frill-edged blouse. Her figure was the right amount of voluptuous.

“Sorry for the mess,” she said. “This should have been cleaned before you sat down. We’re short-handed.”

“Thanks, I’m still working on this drink. But I wonder if I might ask you a question. Is Hunter Covington in here tonight?”

Straightening and folding her dish rag, the waitress looked wary. “Not as I know of.”

“Do you think he might be in later?”

She shrugged and gave Book a forced smile. “You never know with Mr. Covington. He comes and goes.”

“Thank you. I’m wondering if you know where else I might look for him. I’ve tried the quartermaster’s, and here.”

“Taggart’s,” she said without hesitation.

That was the same thing Dunwoody had told him. It was also where Covington had arranged to meet with Mal. Probably it was going to have to be Book’s next port of call. And if he struck out there, then — and only then — would he try Mika Wong.

“That’s his home base,” the waitress explained.

“Thank you,” Book said again. Then he reached into his pocket, took out the folded paper, opened it, and showed it to her. “And by any chance, do you know anything about this woman, Elmira Atadema?”

The waitress drew back slightly, then shook her head and clicked her teeth. “Be careful, preacher,” she said. “The wrong person overhears you asking them kind of questions and you could get yourself dispatched to meet your Maker afore your time, that there fancy dog collar notwithstanding.”

Book raised an eyebrow, and the waitress glanced from side to side so as to make sure no one was listening. She leaned over the table again. He leaned to meet her halfway.

“I will tell you this,” the waitress said. “People around here are saying that woman got herself mixed up in something way over her head. Not that she wasn’t already mixed up with criminals, professionally speaking, being a bondswoman and all. But this time she got her own hands bloody. Her bondholder — Hunter Covington, no less, but you know that from the poster — dragged her into it. People are saying Mr. Covington might even have gotten her murdered.”

Book cocked his head. “Murdered. Good heavens above. Why?” This situation was getting murkier by the second.

The waitress ran her fingertips along her white sash, not provocatively, but as a way to collect her thoughts. “I don’t know why. Maybe because the others involved were afraid she was going to give them up?”

“What was the nature of this supposed crime?”

She lowered her voice. “Something they were planning. Kidnap with violence, that’s what I’ve heard.”

He kept his face neutral. “Whom were they supposed to be kidnapping?” Was it Mal? Almost certainly it was.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “It was an organized thing, that’s all as I know.”

“A gang of criminals, you mean?”

She nodded.

“Who are they?”

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I work three jobs and I still can’t get all the bills paid. I don’t have the energy to keep track of all the idle gossip that’s swirling around, know what I’m saying?”

He decided to take a chance at revealing that he might know something himself. “Have you heard anything about people taking the law into their own hands because of things that happened during the war? People whose violent endeavors might be directed against—” he lowered his voice practically to a whisper “—Browncoats?”

“Some folks aren’t willing to forget about the war,” the waitress said. “They say wrongs were done, and they want to right them.”

It sounded as if she might agree with that notion. “And can you provide me with any information on these folks?” Book said. “Or the nature of the wrongs they want to right?”

“I might be able to.” She shrugged and toyed with the sash again.

Book pulled out a heavy coin and waved it at her. She took it from him, and after depositing it safely into her cleavage, she nodded. “Yeah, there’s a group of guys around here who seem like they want to stir up trouble. Rake up the past. Can’t tell you their names or where they hang out. Don’t know. They keep themselves to themselves. But they’re definitely active.”

“Is that all you have on them?” He was exaggerating his disappointment, but not by much.

“I’d name names if I could, Shepherd, I swear to you, but I can’t. Now can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

She raised one penciled brow. “Why is a man of the cloth so interested in Elmira Atadema? And in Hunter Covington for that matter.”

“I’m asking about Elmira because one of the brethren is a relation of hers,” he lied smoothly. “I promised him I’d look into her disappearance. So, I suppose you could say I’m interested for his sake.”

She smirked. “Well, doesn’t that just take the gorramn cake. Imagine two grown men both connected to Elmira, both asking me where she is on the same day.”

Book was an expert on maintaining an empathetic but otherwise neutral expression, a requirement for someone whose life’s calling entailed listening to the often-grisly confessions of others. But it was also a skill he had honed from his earlier, less honorable life. Though it was anything but the case, he appeared only moderately interested.

“May I ask what the other man looked like? Maybe you caught his name?”

All at once she looked stricken. “Oh,” she said. “No. I, uh, I made a mistake.” She was spooked, just like Smotrich. Clearly she had said more than she felt she ought to.

He said, “I won’t tell anyone that you told me.” When the silence dragged on with no end in sight, it became clear the pump required more priming. He fished out another coin and she, after a moment’s hesitation, took it.

“Guess if you can’t trust a man of the cloth…” she said. “He’s retired Alliance. He comes in now and then, goes in the back room with the manager, comes out smug. I think…” She lowered her voice. “I think we’re paying him protection money.” She swallowed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s all right. It will go no further. I promise.” Book waited a beat and then he asked again, “Can you tell me his name?”

She squeezed the coin in her fist, deliberating. “His name,” she said eventually, “is Mika Wong.”

Book managed to mask his astonishment, just about. Wong? Protection money?

“Do you know where I might find Mr. Wong?” He readied another coin. It was like feeding money into a slot machine. You pulled the lever, the reels turned, but you never knew what combo was going to result.

The waitress hesitated, and then she shook her head. “No, I can’t shake you down for that,” she said. “I really don’t know where he is. But he was in here not two hours ago.”

The facts were starting to dovetail and the trail was heating up. Book wondered if Mika Wong was somehow mixed up in Mal’s disappearance. Might a ransom demand come in shortly?

“Thank you. You have been an invaluable help,” he said.

Silently, she nodded. It was clear that she regretted confiding in him.

He gently pushed the water away and rose. “I should be going.” He gave her the last coin, even though she had failed to fully earn it, and she deposited it with the rest. Her cleavage was nothing if not capacious.

“Bless you,” he said, and the waitress nodded without looking at him. He patted her shoulder and took his leave.

He saw himself out, and once in the street, he scanned the sidewalks. His eye fell on the man Dunwoody, who was standing at the mouth of a narrow passageway to his left. The crippled fellow was holding himself up with one hand on the passageway wall and waving weakly at Book with the other. His mouth was bloodied and he looked dazed.

“Dear Lord,” Book said, dashing over to him. He put his arm around Dunwoody’s shoulder, peeling him away from the support of the rough brickwork. “What happened?”

“Oh, Shepherd Book,” he moaned, “hide me. Hide me quick.” He tugged at Book’s arm, urging him back into the passageway, which was barely wide enough to walk down two abreast. “This man, he saw my money — like a fool I was counting it in plain sight — and he came at me.”

“Robbed you?” Book asked, and Dunwoody nodded.

“Yes, but only after he sucker-punched me a good one. Then I got mad and I gave ’im a piece of my mind, and he’s gone back to get some others, and he said they’re going to beat the living tar out of me and make me lame in both legs.”

“No, they won’t,” Book said. “There’s two of us now, my friend.”

Dunwoody grabbed onto Book’s jacket and with a surprising turn of strength pulled him deeper into the shadows inside the mouth of the passageway. At their feet, a rat squeaked and darted away.

“Please, Shepherd, don’t let them see us,” he begged. “They’ll beat me black and blue.”

“They won’t,” Book promised. “I’ll protect you.”

Dunwoody glanced round into the street. Suddenly he jolted, his eyes widened, and he stuffed his fist in his mouth.

“They’re coming, oh, they’re coming,” he whispered around his hand. “Oh, dear God, they’re going to hurt me bad.”

Book turned, hand digging into his bag for his weapon. As his fingers closed on it, something hard slammed down on his shoulder from behind and pain shot down his arm and back. He staggered in a half circle.

Dunwoody stood with his crutch aloft. He had just hit him with the implement.

Book raised a hand to defend himself, but not in time. The crutch came down again, hard. He managed to twist sideways, so that the blow was a glancing one. Nonetheless it caught him on the side of the head, staggering him. Sudden pain cast a veil over his vision. His ears rang.

Now there were three more men, rushing up along the passageway to join Dunwoody. Accomplices. This was all an artfully staged con. The blood on Dunwoody’s mouth, his dazed look, his panic — all designed to get Book to lower his guard. And Book, like a perfect idiot, had allowed himself to fall for it.

“I’m sorry about this, Shepherd,” Dunwoody said to the still dazed Book. “Truly I am. But I got me this bum leg, and Southdown Abbey is just too far a walk. I wish you hadn’t flashed your coin so freely. It caused a mighty temptation in my heart, I’m sure you understand.” He wiped his gory mouth with his hand, then licked at his fingers. “Yum,” he said. “Plum sauce.”

Then he turned to hail the three new arrivals.

“Coin bag’s in his pants pocket,” he said. “Plenty there.”

“Let’s soften him up a little first,” said one of the others. He was carrying a baseball bat.

“Yeah,” said another, this one armed with a cudgel. “I went to one of them schools run by priests. The strict kind. Don’t got me no love for religious types.”

Nor for grammar, Book thought. Your education was clearly wasted on you.

As one, the four men set about belaboring Book. They got in several good licks, until the apparently cowed Book surprised them by giving the cudgel wielder a solid punch to the gut. The man doubled over, winded, gasping for breath. Book managed to wrest the cudgel out of his hand and brandished it at the man with the baseball bat.

The man stepped back, out of Book’s range, and whirled the bat. Whether by accident or by design, he clouted the cudgel out of Book’s grasp, leaving him weaponless again.

“Put the guy out of action, somebody!” Dunwoody declared. “Come on, there’s only one of him, and he’s just a preacher.”

Yet the ferocity with which Book fought back was anything but cleric-like, and in the close confines of the passageway there wasn’t room for more than two of his assailants to attack him at once, which evened the odds somewhat. Grunting furiously, he dove at Dunwoody, head down like a linebacker. Dunwoody slammed into the passageway wall, his grip on his crutch loosening. Book snatched the walking aid from him and drove it ferrule-first into Dunwoody’s groin like a lance. Crutch met crotch, and Dunwoody let out an agonized whoof of air, sinking to his knees with his hands clasped around his private parts. He looked about fit to vomit.

Then the baseball bat slammed into the backs of Book’s legs, and all at once Book, too, was on the ground. From the thighs down he had lost all feeling and his legs were as supportive as two rubber bands.

The bat whirled at him a second time, on a collision course with his head. Book blocked the attack with the crutch but not as solidly as he would have liked. The bat transferred much of its momentum to the crutch, which then crashed into his temple with brain-jarring force. For a second time Book’s vision became unfocused and his ears sang like a tabernacle choir.

The fourth attacker now lunged for Book’s pants pocket, determined to get what they had arranged this elaborate setup for. Book was woozy, all but powerless to prevent him.

Then, abruptly, the man with the baseball bat was screaming. “Get off! Get your gorramn hands off of me!”

This was followed by a series of sickening pops and cracks, the sound of several small bones breaking in swift succession. The bat fell to the ground and bounced away, making a noise like a rapid tattoo of notes on a xylophone, while the man who had been holding it stared down at his right hand. The fingers were twisted every which way like a bunch of mangled bananas. He looked at the appendage as though unable to believe that it belonged to him. His face was riven with agony.

A figure slipped past him, a blur of motion, and all of a sudden the man who had been going for Book’s money was flying backwards, propelled by a flat-palmed punch to the sternum. It was as though he had had a rope lashed around his waist, the other end tethered to a horse, and someone had whipped the steed into a gallop. He hurtled all the way out into the street, coming to land on his front in the gutter. He attempted to rise but fell back with a strangulated groan, his face plunging into what was either a puddle of spilled liquor or, more likely, the spot where a drunken reveler had recently relieved himself. Book, although the thought was uncharitable, rather hoped it was the latter.

The man whose hand had been injured was in too much pain to do anything but whimper and mewl. This left just Dunwoody and the cudgel man still standing. Thanks to Book, neither had much fight in him, but that didn’t prevent the fast-moving figure — a savior, it seemed — dealing with them as decisively as he had their compadres. Dunwoody went down like a collapsing house of cards, victim of a savagely forthright closed-fist knockout punch. The cudgel man’s turn was next. The figure shot out a leg, toes catching him under the chin. His head snapped back, his eyes rolled white, and he was out cold even before he hit the ground.

Gradually Book’s head cleared. He looked up to see a hand reaching for him, not in aggression but with the obvious intent of helping him to his feet. Blindly, faithfully, he took it.

As his eyeline drew level with his savior’s, a bemused smile spread across Book’s face.

“As I live and breathe,” he said huskily. “Can it really be?”

The man opposite reciprocated the smile. “Mika Wong, at your service. Long time no see, Derrial.”