“You’re not a parent. Don’t tell me how to raise my family.”

“I don’t know if she has Electra complex or Oedipus complex or diaper rash, but she really wants you dead. You need to get her some Prozac.”

We walk all the way around the roof. The sky remains a solid mass of smoke. Earthquakes rumble on the horizon.

“I knew that Lucifer was a troublemaker, but I also knew he’d grown out of it. But I never saw this coming with Aelita. I’ve tried talking to her, but she might be a lost cause.”

“You could always kill me. That’s what she really wants.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it. And that’s not what she wants. You’re just a symptom of what she sees as a larger condition.”

“Sounds like she’s gone Gnostic on you and thinks Daddy’s the demiurge, too.”

He turns and looks me in the eye.

“Who the hell are you to talk about misbehaving kids? Your whole life has been about breaking things. You’re not a dumb kid. Why do you go looking for trouble?”

“ ’Cause one of your angels ruined my mother and father’s lives and made me an Abomination. When I finally found my real father, he told me that all I was and ever will be is a killer. Not exactly Leave It to Beaver, is it?”

“We’ve all got our troubles. Look at this mess.”

Neshamah leans his elbows on the low wall. I do the same.

“Some of those old Greeks thought that the world couldn’t be such a cruel mess without it being on purpose. They said that who or whatever made it deep down inside had to be evil.”

“What do you think?” he asks.

I feel in my pocket for a cigarette my brain knows isn’t there, but my body has to check for it anyway. I flex my new hand and run it over the concrete, feeling the rough surface.

I say, “I’m not a hundred percent either way. But off the top of my head, I don’t really think you’re evil. Just out of your depth. Or like a kid who gets a note on his report card. ‘If Chet applied himself, I’m sure he could do better in class.’ ”

“Funny, that’s how we feel about you.”

“I’m a nephilim and a killer. Do you think I’m evil?”

“I’m not a hundred percent either way. Besides, there are worse things to be than a killer.”

“What about ‘Thou shall not kill’?”

“What about the Egyptian army Moses drowned when he closed the Red Sea on them? Do you think he could have turned them around with a few kind words? Do you think I could do that here?” He points to the city below. “Do you want to know the difference between a killer and a murderer?”

“Sure.”

“It’s where you aim the gun.”

That sounds more like the Old Testament guy I was looking for.

“Well, chatting has been a little slice of heaven,” I say, “but I have to figure out how to get up that hill so I can do a couple of miracles and save the universe. You wouldn’t be in the mood to help or anything?”

He looks into the distance and smiles.

“I think you have it in hand.”

“Was that a fucking joke?”

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

I take a couple of steps to go when I hear him clear his throat.

“I think you have something of mine.”

“Oh, right.”

I walk over and give him the crystal.

“Muninn says that’s your insurance policy. If everything ends, you can start over again.”

“Is that what he told you? The truth is no one knows what it will be, but something is better than nothing.”

“You and Muninn, it’s like Jesus and Lucifer, isn’t it? One’s all heart and one’s all head.”

He puts the crystal in a pocket of his red waistcoat. It’s a tight fit.

“He’s the youngest. I’m the oldest. You do the math.”

“What happens if Aelita kills one of you?”

He leans over the wall and looks down at the street.

“See that manhole down there? I have a feeling if you went down inside and walked exactly three hundred and thirty-three paces west, you’ll find where you want to go.”

“Seriously? Why that number?”

“Because that’s how many it is. Not three hundred and thirty-two or three hundred and thirty-four. Count off three hundred and thirty-three and look around. You’ll be there.”

“Seriously? Thanks, man. And after all the things I’ve said about you over the years.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve said the same about you.”

“Will you be here when I’m done up the hill?”

He shrugs.

“Hard to say. I work in mysterious ways.”

I start for the ramp wondering if I’ll need something to pry up the manhole cover.

“Nice meeting you, Spider-Man!”

I look back. Neshamah is waving, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. I have no choice. I start an old tune my mother used to belt out when she had just the right number of martinis.At the Devil’s ballIn the Devil’s hallI saw the funniest devil that I ever sawDancing with the DevilOh, you little devilDancing at the Devil’s ball

He turns back to the city.

“Yeah, fuck you, too, kid.”

THERE’S A KID’S game that goes something like this: “Don’t think of a white bear for half an hour and you win a dollar.” No one ever wins because the moment anyone says “white bear,” that’s all you can think about. Being told your life depends on walking exactly 333 steps is a lot like that. You count on your fingers, but what if you get distracted and drop a number? What if you repeat one? How do you know each step you’re taking is the same distance as all the others? I should have a calculator, a tape measure, and Rain Man as a guide. If I count wrong and don’t find a way out, maybe I should keep on walking. No. I could end up in here forever, and if it’s only one Apocalypse per customer I don’t want to miss it.

330. 331. 332. 333.

I stop and look around. Light comes through a crack in the wall to my left. I dig a finger into the crack. It feels like a service door that’s been welded shut but it was a sloppy job and the dampness in the tunnels has been working on the joins ever since. I push my new hand into the crack, gouging out layers of corroded iron and faded paint. The new hand works pretty well. It feels the shape and roughness of the metal, be tthe metut it doesn’t bleed or register pain. I might just have to keep it.

When there’s a clean clear crack an inch wide in the door, I brace my feet and put my shoulder and body into it. The metal slides away, scattering sewer fungus and oak-leaf-size sheets of rust.

Ragged lunatics are asleep on the floor and dirty mattresses dragged down from the wards upstairs. They don’t look so different from the ones I saw on the street. Maybe these are a little farther down the road to Candy Land. The others managed to run away, but these bedlam sheep never left the pasture. They drool and stare at me as I step through the old service door.

I’m in the lobby of what back home is the Griffith Park Observatory. This version doesn’t look like Galileo would stop by for a piss. The floors and walls are bare cement. A large open ward and single cells in a circle are around the bottom floor. All the cell doors are unlocked or have been smashed open.

The loons over here watch a couple of old souls, maybe witches, spin a dust of tiny emerald pyramids into orbit around crystal glass cubes like imaginary constellations.

The second floor is for more impressive head cases. Jack said there were Hellions in the asylum and for once he wasn’t lying. There are several, mixed in with the human souls. They’re playing games that only they can possibly understand, tossing potion bottles and human or animal bones, then drawing symbols on the floor in blood and shit. When the drawing is done everyone takes a step and contorts into a strange new position. Dungeons & Dragons for actual monsters in an actual dungeon.

The third floor is the old-fashioned black-and-white Boris Karloff Bedlam I’ve been looking for. Dim, wet, and stinking. This is where they keep the one-percenters. All the cells on the lower two floors are open, but these have double-thick bars surrounded by bonding hexes. And they’re working because most of the cells are still occupied.