Blind Instinct

FOURTEEN

“Old army saying, Doctor,” Sharpe said in her ear, taking her arm and gaining access to the other side of the busy, downtown intersection. “If it moves, salute it. If it doesn't move, clean it.”

“Is that where you feel the investigation is? A standstill? Or are you saying that you've washed your hands of it?”

“I don't know a blind thing about it… The man on the street in bloody Bloomsbury knows more about the case than I do. Says so in the London Times. Damn all.”

“Isn't that Erin Culbertson's newspaper?”

“She's not to blame.”

“I've met her, you know.”

“Really?”

'Twice now.”

“She's bright.”

“Agreed, and pretty.”

“From Bloomsbury,” he finished.

“Bloomsbury?”

“West Central London. I should hang it all, go to the BM, perhaps.”

“The BM? As in bowel movement?”

He laughed. “British Museum. I should step out of it and leave it to the whole boiling lot of them, and place myself in a fucking museum is what.”

“What's happened?”

“They're after me, pure and simple.”

“The press you mean?”

“No, the department, the Yard. Boulte in particular. I'm certain of it now.”

She joked. “I hadn't noticed any animosity there.”

This made him laugh. “You realize that sometimes paranoia is dead on, but sometimes we do nothing about it for too long a period before heeding its advice, and intuition often knows more than we do, but then it's too late.”

“I'm sorry you're having problems, Richard.”

“Simple matter really. Boulte doesn't want to take responsibility for a botched job, and since I'm nearing retirement, why not put me on the outs? I should just bugger off to Brighton seashore and put my legs up a bit there. I swear, I didn't know that Stuart Copperwaite wore brothel-creepers.”

Jessica tried to slow him, to get him to explain, stopping him amid the bustle of the London streetcorner, asking, “ 'Brothel-creepers'? Copperwaite?”

“Sorry, they're crepe-soled suede shoes. No bubble or squeak to them. How to blindside a fellow inspector, all that, and when I think of how much I've taught that young pup…”

“Whatever did he do?”

“I have it on good authority that he's buttered his eggs with that bumble!”

“Bumble? Buttered eggs?”

“Bureaucrat, Boulte. They're having crumpets and tea together, and have been regularly. His put-downs against Boulte have been a ruse. He's been put on me from the beginning as a watchdog!”

She immediately realized that it had been Copperwaite then and not Erin Culbertson who had informed Boulte of their affair. “Have you talked to Copperwaite about it?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“He denies it, of course, but well, this may be a lot of bumf. but my theory is that Boulte and the public prosecutor-”

“The public prosecutor?”

“Lady you met when Boulte rammed Periwinkle and Hawkins down our collective throats.”

“Oh, yes… I recall.”

“Prosecutor and Boulte want to dispatch me from the Yard altogether, and they're mucking about the garbage to do so…”

“Perhaps, then, you should confront your superiors.”

“That's bloody candyfloss, and you know it.”

“Candyfloss?”

“A flimsy idea. Look, the cat's among the pigeons, and if the powers that be wish to catch you out, then they will manufacture it, if they must. In my case, they needn't manufacture a thing.”

“Thanks to me,” she muttered.

He immediately grasped her hands and shook his head in a vigorous denial of this. “No, not at all. Certainly it's hurt Boulte's ego to learn that you and I, that we… However, there's no law says we can't fraternize in the fashion of two consenting adults. There's no standing rules in the Yard against it, either. We modernized along with the Catholic church recently, you see. So he can't touch me there.”

“But he could put it out for the court of public opinion.”

“Yes, well, he may save that up as his trump card, but I rather doubt he'll take that gamble.”

Jessica looked past him, her head spinning until she finally focused on a chimney pot, a pipe added to the top of chimneys. They were everywhere, all over London, ubiquitous for city dwellers whose homes spewed the remnants of their coal-burning fires, in shops and in homes. But this particular one had a red-legged crow sitting atop it, and at first Jessica thought it an ornamentation, but then it cocked an eye at her, flapped its wings and gracefully, thoughdessly eased skyward.

Sharpe followed her gaze as she watched the bird, now a black dot in the distance. “A chough, we call them,” he informed her. “So, where shall we go for a bite?”

“I thought you had a place selected?”

“I want to be democratic. That way is Fleet Street, where the pubs are filled with newspeople and photomakers. If we stay put, the pub we enter will be full of bankers. And that way”-he pointed in the opposite direction-”will take us to Grub Street. Just the opposite-where starving artists, actors, and writers live in garrets and fill the pubs by day. If we walk out of the City, this way”-again he pointed-”then we can go to where I had planned.”

“I'll risk your judgment.”

Jessica had learned that the City, as Londoners called the financial district, was roughly the equivalent of Wall Street in New York, with some five thousand residents during business hours scrunched into one square mile of territory.

“This is one hell of an unholy dog's breakfast. This thing with Copperwaite being sucked into becoming a stoolie for Boulte and our Miss Prosecutorial Bitch… A true unholy mess,” Sharpe muttered, as much to himself as to Jessica, as they picked their way through the crowd. He was holding her hand now, taking charge and going straight for the place of his choosing. “Doom perhaps for me and the case, unless you stand firm, Dr. Coran. Doom… how ironic. Did'ya know that the painting of the Last Judgment over here is called Doom!” He laughed hollowly at the thought. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me, Jessica?”

“Don't be silly.”

“He who sups with the Devil, must use a long spoon.”

They passed pedestrian walkways, went through lights, crossed into narrow lanes, rushing past fascinating, quaint little shops she would have loved to browse, until they found a lane so small that Jessica could not imagine how cars passed one another until she saw some do so.

Another step around a comer and they found a quiet, even peaceful shop-lined street with outdoor cafes and art galleries.

“Maybe it's Copperwaite that bothers me most. The fact someone you trust can so quickly be at your back with the cutlery.”

“I've had it happen to me. I know the feeling,” she commiserated, still wondering if it were true.

“Cupboard love's what we call it over here, Jessica-sucking up. Sucking one's way to the top. But perhaps the whole thing's a blessing in disguise, heh? A real curate's egg.”

She'd heard this expression before-something both good and bad at once.

“I'd been giving some thought to retirement anyway. Copperwaite can have the damned dead man's shoes. You know that's what Boulte feared most about me, that I'd run for his job. Well, now Copperwaite or some other fool can just wait to inherit it when Boulte kicks off.”

“Crumpet-getting any crumpet?” said a man lying in a vagrant's pose in a doorway to a vacant shop.

“Watch your vile tongue, rogue!” shouted Sharpe, just itching to thrash the man. Instead, he pulled Jessica past the hobo, saying, “Just a brainless come-day, go-day, that one. I pay him for information on the street from time to time, which explains his being so familiar.”

“Why would he take me for your whore, Richard?” she said and jabbed him in the ribs. “Lighten up, please,” she teased. “At least you are getting some crumpet.”

This made him laugh and kiss her there on the street.

Jessica felt the traffic in the small back lanes here lighter and more willing to give way to pedestrians. Something about London, its small streets and compact alleyways, made her feel comfortable and at home, made her feel like an oversized Alice in this wonderland, and even made her feel important, large, and of consequence. Jessica held on to Richard's arm as the traffic halted for them to cross.

“There's the pub. The one I think you'll find both quite colorful and authentic,” he said, pointing, but an entire array of pub signs stared back at Jessica from across the tiny street. They read: lion head, the silver cross, the roundtable INN, THE CAPTAIN'S GALLEY, and THE BOAR'S HEAD PUB. “I had thought Stuart a smart fellow, you know, and it's a shock to learn that a man you called friend turns out to be dim as a Toc-H lamp, which he is, but worse yet, he's betrayed our partnership.”

At the end of the street Jessica saw a flashing road sign which read in bold letters: DIVERSION, meaning detour. For some reason both sign and meaning stamped themselves on

BUND INSTINCT her brain with the force of a psychic vision, but she quickly dismissed the thought.

The unclean man who'd been lying in the street moments before suddenly limped up alongside them. “I got my leg banged up the other day, Inspector. Need some attention given it, but I got no green. I 'ave information for you. Can we do business? I got word on that Crucifier thing.”

This made Sharpe stop, and with him Jessica, who truly looked at the man for the first time.

“Dot'n Carry's what they call me, mum… Steve's the true name, Steve Savile. Family migrated here from Sweden. Made of me a Londoner without they give me a choice, what.”

“Whyever do they call you Dot and Carry?”

“Mostly on account-a-this game leg. When I walk, the wooden one goes dot, the other carries me. Got it in the war's what. It's why Sharpe and me can have some common ground, right, Colonel?”

Sharpe ground his teeth. “What've you got on the Crucifier, D.C.?”

But Dot'n Carry, or D.C., addressed Jessica instead, asking, “You must be that lady FBI woman Sharpe hired on for the case. Read about you in the papers. Think I can't read? I read good when I can find a paper left behind by somebody.”

Sharpe grabbed him up by the lapels, and he dropped a walking stick which had so become a part of the man that Jessica hadn't noticed it until it bounced on the sidewalk, making two distinct pings.

“Word is, the Crucifier's really a good guy, Sharpe. What they call a benign killer. Only kills people who are in suffering, kinna like Robinson Hood and Sherwood's Forest, you see. Only he don't rob from the rich and give to the poor, but takes troubled lives and frees 'em.”

“If that's so, then why hasn't he done a damned thing for your sorry ass, D.C.?”

“Must figure I don't 'ave it so bad. Still got my sense of humor. Ain't suicidal or depressed, Inspector.”

“Get outta here, D.C.”

“But Sharpe, Colonel, I need something. Please, man.” Sharpe tossed several bills down, grabbed Jessica's arm, and led her toward the Boar's Head, apologizing to her.

“What did he mean, Sharpe?”

“D.C.? He's full of it half the time and a no-opinion the other half. The man's double Dutch in his tongue and double-gaited elsewhere! Forget it. If you let him, D.C. will tell you everything opens that shuts and everything shuts that opens.”

Jessica guessed that Sharpe meant the other man spoke with “forked” tongue.

“Filth!” D.C. called out from across the street.

“Common term for cops in England,” explained Richard. “I think he knows I'm trying to get him on charges as a fire-raiser-an arsonist-even as I use him. Interesting past, the man has, actually. Just after returning from the service with his gimp leg, he tried white-collar crime. Was put away for his trouble.”

“Arrested for what exactly?”

“Got 'im for fluffing the books, accounts.”

She and Richard moved on, going right past the Boar's Head. They located a place called the Clockwork Arms, which Richard pointed out had been renovated from a building housing a clockworks and separately an armory. Now an eatery, the place made the most of the brick exterior and solid oak beams. “The weather this time of year? Is it always so balmy and beautiful?” she asked.“Luke's little summer,” he replied, smiling, helping with her chair.

“Luke's what?” the noise of the crowd and the music from a live flutist in one comer whose melodic Celtic music touched something in Jessica's core, running along her spine, made it difficult to focus on Richard's words.

“St. Luke's summer. I suspect you call it Indian summer where you're from,” he explained. “Look, if you don't mind, I have to see to the geography of the house,” he said, and promptly left the table, leaving Jessica to wonder whatever he meant. Then she remembered an earlier comment and realized that he was going to the men's room.

While alone, Jessica took in the sights and sounds of the pub. She caught snatches of conversation and found herself matching oddly strange Briticisms with the word or phrase that might be its counterpart in America. British English and American English proved two entirely different animals.

She overheard people in the pub referring to such things as “between whiles” at Billingsgate Market-a fish market, as famous for its foul language as its fish. She heard some men talking about her at the bar: one called her “an attractive bit of goods.” She heard multiple requests for what appeared the national drink-bitter beers. She heard one woman complaining she hadn't been to Blackpool in decades and wanted to go there to ride the switchback-the roller coaster.

Jessica found something fascinating in every small word and thing and person, and in all the quaint places and place names everywhere she went in London. Even what she'd learned from hanging about Scotland Yard fascinated her. Fingerprints were dabs, handcuffs darbies, police cars- which were blue and white in color had become jam sandwiches or panda cars, while extortion was demanding money with menaces, and rape or criminal assault was euphemistically called being interfered with. A police beat or patch in America here became a manor. To catch a packet meant to stop a bullet. Ever the stiff upper lip people, the British didn't get their walking papers, but rather their marching papers. While American cops were cited for bravery, British cops were mentioned in dispatches.

Gin was mother's ruin, and denatured alcohol in Britain became methylated spirits, and meths were the unappealing derelicts who drank it. While the Mets in America meant baseball in New York City, Mets in London referred to the London police. And a pedestrian walk equaled a pelican crossing. A speed bump posed in London as a sleeping policeman or rumble strip.

In fact the British, aside from being a nation of shopkeepers and the “pudding nation,” had come to be world renowned as the most euphemistic race on the planet. When speaking of being taxed, they put it as suffering an assessment. It appeared they would say anything to keep from cursing, even to abbreviating “God blind me” to blimey… and “God's truth” to 'struth! They much preferred a phrase such as “the best of British luck” said with irony. Even “bloody fool” was abbreviated to b.f. so as to avoid the cursing. She thought it rather hilarious. As a result of the euphemisms, many a word that passed British lips, while not a curse, stood in for one just as well. They had literally hundreds of words that kept them coming up short of calling God's name out in vain.

He's up for the high jump now formed a grim echo of the hanging days, and a mortician in London became a funeral furnisher.

Meanwhile, a penny dreadful, often called a shilling shocker stood in for a dime novel. The false issue of a red herring, ubiquitous and obligatory in any mystery story, here became a Norfolk capon. A literary hack such as the infamous Geoffrey Caine here might be called a nasty or a devil, but so, too were law apprentices.

When Richard returned to the table, he began a tirade about the two arrested as the Crucifying Duo. “A pair of comic book characters if ever there were,” he said, spouting venom.

Jessica tried to get him off the subject, off work altogether. She asked him about the British Museum, what she might find there, but he ignored her, going on about the twosome under arrest for the Crucifier's sins.

Giving in, she said, “I particularly hated the one who led the other by the nose.”

“Oh, that creep Periwinkle is a real Geordie.”

“Geordie? Explain that again, please.”

“A native of Tynsdale-raised with the pigs, maybe. A coal miner for sure.”

“A coal miner? That's rather coincidental.”

“Not at all. Everyone in Tynsdale goes to the mines for work. I've seen their like before. One is a Geordie, the partner a George.”

“A George?”

“Automatic pilot. One's the planner, and he's a weak-minded bastard if ever there was one, and the other goes about on automatic pilot. A Geordie and a George, true criminal masterminds those two, truly fit your profile of the killer, as well, wouldn't you agree?” he facetiously asked. “But then in dealing with Boulte, one must take in the Paddy factor.”

“Well, they are the right age, and they do live with their mothers.” Jessica had heard the term Paddy bandied about in police circles here, referring usually to IRA terrorists, but it had an ethnic edge to it. It meant that the criminal mind often meant the stupid mind, and Paddys-a common Irish name- were criminally stupid. “Is Boulte part Irish?”

“If he is, he wouldn't admit to it.”

London, despite its diverse population and the international flavor of its makeup, remained a haven for racial prejudice, just as Hawaii and other beautiful places around the globe Jessica had visited harbored racial disharmony. Sadly enough it appeared a global fact of life. Here a British racist was known as a racialist. Even now, she could hear Paid jokes being told at the table over her shoulder between calls for the waiter to answer the questions: “Where's the other half.”

“How 'bout the other half?” Both meant the speaker wanted another drink.

“Paki” formed an unpleasant racist connotation in its compactness. Hearing the term several dmes, Jessica asked Sharpe about it. His reply was off-handed, his shoulders shrugged as he said, “Paki-bashing. It's an extremely unpleasant activity here. At its most benign, it begins with jokes. At its most vicious, it ends with roaming gangs-usually a rat's nest of Paddys-looking for and usually finding Pakistanis to beat up.”

“Past a joke is another British expression, meaning something's not funny anymore, but rather intolerable. Most Mets in London simply don't want Paki-bashing on their little patches.”

Someone entering the pub and passing their table said hello to Richard, asking, “And how are you, Sharpe?”

“Not so dusty,” replied Sharpe. “And you?”

“Gain on swings, lose on rounds, you know? Take all due care.” And the man disappeared into the crowd at the bar.

“Drinking friends,” said Richard. “Cricket metaphors… Sorry, they're rather like your baseball metaphors in America. Endemic here, really…”

“You needn't apologize for it.”

“Everything in this blasted country has ties to the national sports. It's become part of our thinking and speech.”

“Like it hasn't happened in America?”

He shook his head and bit his lip at once, disagreeing. “Here we say at close of play, bat a brace, bat first, boundary, bowler, duck, cap, fieldsman, batsman, play a straight bat, knock for six, get one's eye in. maiden over, night watchman, off one's bat, off the mark, pitch, rot, run out, run up, sticky wicket, stump, take first knock.”

She laughed at his rendition.

He added between sips of dark beer, “For a time I played with the Marylebone Cricket Club, but I must admit, the game's become a fantastic obsession for the population here.”

“In America we've got sports metaphors all over the language map, too. We talk about bush-leaguers, rookies, getting to first base, stepping up to bat, having something on the ball, making a hit, being off base, stealing home, pinch hitting, rain checks, check swing, strike outs, curve balls, and so…” She stopped to stare into his eye and to raise her own pint to her lips. “Anything you've got in the way of problem clichds from being cricket-obsessed, we've got tenfold in the Colonies with baseball-and basketball-and football-obsessing fans. Trust me.”

“Even the police jargon uses cricket terms,” he countered. “We play in a witness or a suspect before any serious interrogation begins. As we did with the rat brothers back there today. We began with the weather, the cursed traffic, the latest on the Royal Family and the current political crisis. Then the suspect plays himself in, as it were.”

“We do the same where I come from. It's called reeling him in, from fishing expedition to having baited your hook to landing the big one.”

He challenged on another front, a smile lurking behind his countenance. “At least your government has its house in order,” he said, making her instantly laugh.

“Are you kidding?”

'To some degree, yes, but look here, our government can make a far greater muckery of statesmanship than yours any calendar day of the week.”

“A muckery? Do you mean mockery?”

“I said muckery, and I mean muckery. The British government makes a muck of everything it touches.”

“In about the same way the U.S. government makes a mess of things?”

“I hope you're not suggesting there's any room for comparison? Your American politicians might mess around, but ours muck about. They muck in places they have no business mucking. They pretend the exercise is a mental one, but we know what total mucks they are, despite the cloak of words they spew forth. They need to muck out Parliament and start over. They need to put every single one of those Parliamentarians in a muck to sweat and off their duffs. They spend their lives on the never-never. The whole business of government here has become an idle nonsense like… as in Alice's Wonderland.”

“Are you through mucking over Parliament?”

“Aye, I mean, yes.”

“What's a never-never?”

“An installment plan, and in the case of politicians, a never-never is a committee to study the problem. They have a committee to form committees. Lewis Carroll was right, you know, about us, aye.”

She laughed. She knew he felt relaxed. He used “aye” instead of yes when he relaxed, reverting back to the “sound of Bow Bells”-the easy slang of his upbringing. She liked knowing he could relax around her.

“They have a saying in Ireland: 'Will the last person leaving the country please switch off the politicians?' “

She laughed uproariously in response. She then asked, “You seem to be coping with divorce well? Copperwaite tells me it hasn't been that long.” He laughed hollowly in response, shook his head, sat up taller, and took in a deep breath. “Well, I do have a potted lecture on the subject, anyone cares to listen. Frankly, I had so many inquiries about the divorce, the children, how I was holding up, how she was holding up, that the standard talk had to be formulated, as defense. I mucked the divorce up as I mucked the marriage up, I suppose. Very parliamentary of me, really. Spent some time in therapy, and while it's now off the boil, as they say, at the time, I felt parboiled. I felt pain in my being so intense, a depression so deep, I fear going near that part of me ever again.”

She laid her hand over his. “I'm sorry. Didn't mean to open old wounds or to stick my nose in.”

“Oh, you've hardly opened any wounds, and as for being a prodnose, well, that's another term here for detectives. And since I work with the lot at the Yard, there's little hope for privacy on the issue, really.”

“But you still have wounds. A divorce is a war no one walks away from unscathed.”

He nodded, but stiffly. “Wounds remain. Tell you one thing about a divorce…”

“Yes?”

“Only one who wins is the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.”

“Threadneedle who?”

“Bank of England. It's on Threadneedle Street.” His eyes shifted. He brought her into focus and suddenly changed the subject entirely. “Copperwaite's somewhat upset with us- the two of us-but mostly me. He believes me over the moon about you, in raptures.”

She blushed and lifted the menu to cover her face, pretending hunger and thirst, but asking, “Is Copperwaite right?”

“Right? I can't say. just yet.”

She quickly returned to her menu and asked of a drink, “What's a pink gin?”

“Gin and bitters with water added. Would you care to indulge?”

“Only if you'll join me. But perhaps another beer, or a pint as you call it over here, would be wiser?”

“I'm off the ticker. Either way is fine with me. As for a pint, if a Briton asks for a pint, he means a pint of bitter. It's a unit of liquid measure, the pint in question is an Imperial pint, twenty ounces.”

“A beer in America is only sixteen ounces!”

“Half a pint is ten ounces. That may be what you want to order. It's what I carried over here for you.” He indicated the now empty glass in front of her.

“I see, I think…”

Jessica gave him a bemused smile which he took to mean “go on,” which he did. “As for whiskey or scotch, when you want a decent drink in London, you must ask for a double, but not even the bravest or thirstiest lad would dare ask a British bartender for a triple.”

She laughed loud enough to alert the tables around them. He continued on, “If you want to go easy on yourself, you might try our vintage cider. Goes down too easily, actually.”

“Really?”

“With the consistency of good sherry and at least as strong.”

Row after row of glasses in two sizes, pint and half pint, gleamed in the light just above the bar, tethered upside down on hooks like crystal bats.

“Next,” Richard continued, “you must decide between ordinary bitter and best bitter, when ordering a pint.”

“What's the difference? Which do you prefer?”

“The best, of course. It's stronger, aged longer.”

“Is that what we've had already? It was delicious.”

“Yes. So what will it be?” She settled for the pink gin. He called for two.

“So, I take it that Boulte doesn't like you. Inspector.” Already, the half pint of bitters worked to slur her words and thoughts.

“Boulte would like to make me a points man.”

“Meaning?”

“A policeman on point duty is a traffic cop.”

She asked him about his time in the military. He evaded the question, beginning a spiel on England's pubs instead, pointing about the place as he did so. “Pubs-public houses- like this one are an institution in England. Everyone in Britain has his pub. Some call it the local. Each pub has two bars, generally, the public bar and the private or saloon bar where you're apt to find a carpet on the floor and linen tablecloths on the tables. Drinks in the private room are a bit pricier, of course, but the dartboard, the billiard table, and the shove-half penny board you'll always find out here. If you want, tonight, we could do a pub crawl, that is make the rounds as you Yanks say. In fact, we could go to Clubland.”

“Clubland?”

“St. James's-an area of London that includes the palace of the same name. Houses many of London's most famous clubs.”

“And you wish to do this for me? With the express purpose of getting the both of us loaded?”

“Stinking. Boulte and the public prosecutor would love to learn of it. They might well have one of the Q-Division staring at me right this moment for all I know.”

“Public prosecutor? Q-Division?”i

“A division of the Yard, internal affairs. As for the P.P., that'd be Ellen Sturgeon, what you would call the district attorney. You met her briefly at the meeting of all the citywide officers, didn't you?”

“No, I didn't. No one formally introduced us, but I do recall a stem-looking broomstick in the comer.”

“That's her. She's moving so fast on the rat brothers, you'd imagine the Thames is at Floodgate Street. Boulte and she have it all worked out, you see, and if they can control me, then they haven't a bother. Typical upper-level thinking usually means no-thinking.”

“Then perhaps we should go to a museum instead of doing a pub crawl, is it?”

“I say we rave-up. Take in some dancing. Either that or a drive into the regions?”

“The regions?”

“Home counties, the provinces. See the countryside.”

“Sounds lovely. I'd like that.”

“So, what looks good on the menu?”

She stared down at a list of sandwiches, soups, and meat pies. Coming across one called Spotted-Dog Pie gave her the strangest image of Dalmations all skinned and cooked in a stew. She pointed it out to Richard in a half-singing voice, “See spot ran, see spot die, see spot as a Christmas pie.”

“The dog is rather tasty, actually, a dessert pudding. It's a roly-poly pudding with suet, raisins, and currants, and not a Dalmatian, I assure you. May I suggest number thirteen, however?”

She glanced quickly to the number and read aloud, “Resurrection Pie…”

“Apropos, I should think,” he finished.

“What is it?”

“Resurrection… created from leftovers, you see.” She flashed on a mental image of the leftover lives of the many victims of the Crucifier, wondering if the rat brothers could be considered vicdms in this bizarre case as well. “Suddenly, I'm not so hungry,” she pleaded.

“Fine, then let's have at the shove-halfpenny.”

“But I don't know how to play.”

“You're quite better off not knowing. It's quite possibly the most frustrating game in the world.”

Soon they were shoving well-polished old halfpennies with the flat of the hand along a board separated into horizontal secdons, each with numerical value, a kind of miniature shuffleboard. With each halfpenny came laughter from them both.

As they played, Jessica began telling Sharpe of her last visit to Luc Sante and their conversation. She felt inept, however, in restating the man's words. She feared her retelling of his remarks on the Crucifier fell flat.

“Slut's wool,” he replied.

Taken aback by this, she asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

“It's the stuff collects under the bed, behind the bureau, and other hard-to-reach places. Half or more what the old shrink says is slut's wool. I know. I went to him when I'd become depressed over my divorce.”

“Really?”

“I had worked with him on many occasions. I learned that he was good with divorce, and he was, but he also likes to hear himself talk.”

“But I thought you thought him of excellent reputation and help in police matters.”

“Of course he is, but I'm on my way to being smashed tonight, so there you have it.” Freshly cleaned and scrubbed and prayed over, the holy cross awaited its next supplicant. All about it and all around the pulpit placed here by their leader, the followers of the Church of the New Millennia and the Second Coming, bowed their heads in prayer and supplication. They did so amid the squalor and degradation of a church that must shun the light of a society that condemned it, in a place where rats infested, where an ancient floor lay buried, and where a long forgotten mine shaft and a putrid, unclean canal sat dormant for generations.

The unclean water meant they had to take the bodies elsewhere for cleansing, which was part of the ritual. They had to be cleansed in God's lakes, ponds, and rivers.

Below their feet, Roman stone floors reminded them with each footfall of the persecution they would face, should they too soon make known their teachings and practices, should they step forth into the light without the Son of God clearly beside them.

At the moment, however, they felt a collective and profound disappointment. It proved so deep that for some time they in sum felt a sense of loss: loss of direction, loss of identity, loss of purpose, loss of rationale, loss of meaning, loss of self and God. All they had done, they had done in the name of Christ for the greater glory of God. So why had they failed?

“It's a test, a cosmic quiz, my friends. Not unlike God to create His own brand of dark humor, now is it? His design, we cannot know, cannot ever hope to touch or so much as stand near. He is inscrutable, the enigma of all enigmas, a mystery within a mystery within a mystery added to a grand mystery more complex than any puzzle mankind can ever hope to piece together. There we shall not attempt. There we shall not go. We know only what His Son gave us in His word. That He would send His Son once again to purge this horrid world we ourselves have created, purge it of all the evil, all the ugliness, all the inhumanity, and all the humanity required to cleanse this Earth.”

The leader wore the heavy ancient robes of the early church, something one might expect to see dangling from a wax dummy in the historical fashion section of the Victoria and Albert Museum. The heavy vestments, dark and grim, gave their leader the image of large and powerful shoulders, a straight and tall appearance, and a solidness he would not otherwise have had. The coat made him appear stout and oaken, wooden like the huge cross beside him. “We must not fail. To give in to despair now is certain to lead to failure, assuring that the Second Coming simply will not be in this millennium, and then what is mankind left with but another thousand years of darkness and ruin? We must not lose sight of our collective will and purpose.”

“But we've sent four innocent people over. We've crucified the wrong people. We've made mistakes fourfold!” replied the most vocal of the followers. An Iranian named Kahilli who had brought Burton, one of his patients, and more of the Brevital they required.

“None are innocent, and all who went before our final choice went as sacrifices to a greater good. Burnt offerings, you might say,” countered their leader from on high at his enormous oak pulpit, where he stood above them all.

“Their sins washed clean,” muttered another of the fold, a weak old woman.

“When do we make our next selection?” asked another elderly female.

“Soon, very soon, this temple shall come into the light, and soon, very soon, a new history of mankind will begin and this world will never be the same after…” replied their leader where he stood in the hidden cathedral where stagnant water stood unmoving like a snake without life.

One of their fold, no longer with them now, had once asked where the water came from. No one could tell him. Then he asked where the water might be leading to. No one could tell him this, either. But their minister had assured him that what must be most important is the here and the now of a thing, that their concern must be on the small strip of water in their temple, and not its source or its confluence. “God grants us but one view of the whole,” their leader had said to the wayward member whose questions seemed never ending-until he was silenced altogether.

Others in the fold recalled those questions now, because a sudden rumble and gurgle and bubble below the surface of the water rose up, and the silent strip of green liquid, like ancient lacing around a giant Christmas package, rippled and belched almost on cue to what their minister spoke.

“It is time,” their leader pronounced. “It is time to select a fifth Chosen One.”