“If you say so.” Stevenson sipped his whiskey. “Always a market for a Brainiac. Don’t matter whether it’s here or in your neck of the woods, there’s never enough smart folks. Not when being smart can get you in trouble. Asking questions…that’s dangerous in the best of times, and these ain’t the best of-Would you take your cotton-picking hands off my things?” he barked at Leo.

Leo jerked, dropped the view globe of the sunken city of New Orleans. It rolled across the desk. Rakkim grabbed it just as it was about to fall.

“What do you want from me?” said Stevenson.

“I’m taking him to Tennessee, and wanted to get the lay of the land. That warlord still running G-Burg? What’s his name? The one growing opium for the South Americans.”

“Name was Bates, but he’s dead now. Him and all his troops.” Stevenson swirled his whiskey. “Gatlinburg’s deserted, not a soul left. The new honcho runs a ragtag outfit called the ETA. End-Times Army. Bunch of psychos living in the woods like savages.”

“What’s their game? They want to take over the dope trade?”

“Hell, no. They burned every poppy they could find. Burned every opium farmer too, roasted them on bonfires like ears of sweet corn. Their boss is a lunatic named Malcolm Crews. Pastor Malcolm Crews. A full-on born-again, and crazier than a shithouse rat.” Stevenson took another swallow of whiskey. “I heard Crews survived a night in the Stone Hills, and got the brand to prove it.”

Rakkim was impressed with that, if it was true. “I think we should let all these messiahs duke it out. Your guys, my guys, put them all in a steel-cage death match, and the one who walks out alive gets the crown of creation.”

Stevenson laughed. “Not used to you talking like this.”

“A few years ago I killed a man. A Fedayeen assassin.” Rakkim shook his head. “I haven’t been right since.”

“You killed an assassin?” Stevenson squinted over the rim of his glass. “By yourself?”

“No…I had help.”

“I thought so. Must have taken a whole strike force unit.”

“It was an angel,” said Rakkim. “An angel, close enough that I could feel its wings against me. Softest thing imaginable…” He stopped, embarrassed. “You believe me?”

“You say an angel buddied up, I got no problem with that.” Stevenson grinned, shook his head. “It’s you killing an assassin that I’m having a hard time with.”

“I’m having a hard time with it too.”“Angels?” Leo snorted. “The only god I see is the infinite elegance of mathematics.”

“The kids’s smart, but he’s got a lot of stupid in him too,” said Rakkim.

“It’s good to see you, Rikki.” Stevenson chewed his lip. “Things here are going to shit.”

“You seem to be doing okay.”

“Man like me, you set me down on a desert island buck naked, come back in two years and I’ll have hot and cold running water and a machine that gives hand jobs for a couple seashells. I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about the rest of these peckerwoods. Enough people get miserable enough, we all got problems.”

Rakkim watched Leo unscrew the base of the army tank with a bent paper clip.

“You heard what the Mexicans done?” asked Stevenson.

“I know they’ve put in all kinds of land claims.”

“Claims?” snapped Stevenson. “They’re way past claims. They diverted the damn Rio Grande six months ago, used the runoff to turn the desert into farmland. Meanwhile, South Texas is about to dry up and blow away. Governor bitched and moaned, president called in the Mexican ambassador, who laughed right in his face.” He shook his head. “Never would have happened before. Before the war.”

“You sound like my wife.”

“Your wife sounds like the brains of the family.”

Rakkim turned at the sound of screaming from outside.

“Let’s get on the roof,” said Stevenson, crossing to a small door in the corner of the room. “It’s showtime.”

Chapter 13

Caught in the last rusty light of the sunset, the tanks idled fifty yards from Mount Carmel, diesel engines belching gritty exhaust as the engines revved. The deep, throaty sound almost drowned out the screaming from the nearby sound trucks.

“The noise went on for weeks,” said Stevenson over the din. “Feds brought in loudspeakers that blasted the Davidians around the clock for the whole fifty-one-day siege. Evidently the agent-in-charge’s personal favorite was the sound of rabbits being slaughtered.” He nodded. “If David Koresh wasn’t nuts when it started, he sure as fuck was when Janet Reno finally ordered in the tanks.”

Stevenson had led them up the stairs from his office to the top floor, the three of them stepping out onto the flat roof. From their vantage point, they had a perfect view of the nearby replica of Mount Carmel, a rambling structure of unpainted boards topped by a steeple. It looked as much like a prison as a church, an impression only strengthened by the presence of a half-dozen tanks, cannons pointed at the front door. Hundreds of tourists clustered around the viewing areas, hands clasped over their ears. Leo stood near the edge of the roof, mesmerized, his fingers taking apart the toy tank without even looking.

The lead tank churned across the flat Texas terrain, kicking up dust. The barrel of its 55-millimeter main gun punched through the flimsy walls of the citadel. FBI sappers in black jumpsuits zigzagged in, attached hoses from the tanks into Mount Carmel, started pumping in CS, a convulsive tear gas. The crowd booed. Children on the viewing areas started crying, their mothers carrying them away.

Rakkim’s attention wandered from the assault on Mount Carmel; he had seen the reenactment before and it always turned out the same. Once the little guy drew the attention of the big guy, it was all over. The little guy might fight, might even draw blood, but sooner or later there was going to be a big boot coming down hard on him. Sarah said it was more complicated than that. She said that Koresh bore responsibility for what had happened. Said he could have surrendered. Submitted to a higher authority. Right. Problem was that Koresh thought he was the higher authority and was willing to die to prove it. The Belt was filled with people who agreed with him.

“So what are you really here for?” asked Stevenson. “Man like you could find out what was waiting for him in Tennessee a lot easier than coming here to ask me.”

“Maybe I came for the company.”

“Yeah, and I’m in business for the betterment of mankind,” said Stevenson. “So?”

Rakkim turned back to the battle. “I need that thousand-dollar gold piece of yours.”

“Why not just ask for my left ventricle?”

“I don’t need your heart. I need the gold piece.”

“That’s the pride of my collection.”

“That’s why I need it,” said Rakkim.

The U.S. Mint had produced thousand-dollar gold pieces just before the Civil War started, but had never distributed any of them. A few prototypes had been released, but the rest were stored in Fort Knox along with the nation’s supply of gold bullion. When the army of the Bible Belt over-ran Fort Knox, they found the vaults completely empty. Not a single gold coin or gold bar in the place. Men had been searching for the treasure trove for the last thirty years.

“Never should have told you I had that thing,” Stevenson said. “My own damned fault…” He squinted at Rakkim. “I get it.” He hitched up his jeans. “My gold piece isn’t going to do you any good. Might have been a good plan if Bates was still warlord; he was a greedy bastard, but like I told you, this Malcolm Crews ain’t like any normal man. Money don’t mean shit to him, it’s all about heaven and hell.”

“You don’t have to look so happy.”

“Don’t have to, but why resist the impulse?”

Rakkim watched the two Texas Rangers he had noticed earlier clutching a couple of longnecks as they passed effortlessly through the crowd. Their Stetsons seemed to float above the throng as they ambled along, ignoring the people who scuttled out of the way. A father dragged his two children aside, but he was a step too slow, a kick in the ass from the white Ranger sending him sprawling. The children stared up at the Rangers before their father gathered them in his arms, limping away.