“Wait a minute,” Ackroyd said. “The church?”
“Sure,” Jesus said confidently. “I am an obsequentus in the Allumbrados. We take our orders from the Cardinal. Directly.”
“You want to translate, that, please?” Ackroyd said.
Jesus shrugged. “Of course. Obsequentus—an ‘obedient’ in the Order of Allumbrados, The Enlightened Ones. That’s the middle rank in the Order, between credenti and perfecti,” Jesus added helpfully.
“You do this full time?” Yeoman asked in disbelief.
“Well, it’s more of a part-time thing—”
“Between drug sales,” Ray put in dryly. He had seen Jesus’ type often enough. He recognized his probable affiliation with the Colombians like a street-savvy cop could spot a pickpocket working the crowd in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
Jesus shrugged. “Hey, a man’s got to eat. But you guys, you ruined my chance. If I found the kid I would have been promoted to perfectus.”
“Enough,” Ackroyd said. “What’s all this about the church? You’re talking about the Catholic Church?”
“I’m not talking about crazy-ass Protestants,” Jesus said. “I’m talking Mother Church. Rome. The Vatican.”
“What do they want with John Fortune?” Ackroyd asked, obviously having a hard time believing all this.
“I’ll tell you,” Jesus said, leaning forwards conspiratorially. “Then maybe you let me go.”
Yeoman snorted. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Jesus made gestures for them all to come closer, and Ray found himself leaning forward as if Jesus were telling ghost stories around the campfire. They all did. “John Fortune ain’t no kid. He’s the Anti-Christ.”
“Anti-Christ?” Ackroyd repeated.
Jesus nodded. “It’s true. He’s the Devil.”
“Jesus Christ,” Yeoman said.
Jesus pointed at him. “Exactly. Jesus Christ is coming. The End Times are upon us. Jesus and Satan will battle for the fate of the Earth. Jesus will win of course, but the Allumbrados have been doing all they can to smooth his way for him.”
“Like... kidnapping... John... Fortune,” Ackroyd said slowly. He and Yeoman exchanged glances as if this was the first time they’d ever agreed on anything.
Ray himself would think the whole thing was nuts if he hadn’t Barnett’s solemn assurance that John Fortune was actually Jesus Christ in his Second Coming. He wasn’t sure that he believed Barnett, but at least he was on the side that was trying to rescue the boy, not the one trying to drag him in front of some inquisition. For now his seemed to be the right side in this crazy affair. For now.
Ackroyd and Yeoman looked at him, and he shrugged. Now was not the time, Ray decided, to open up. “Sounds nuts to me,” he said.
“Got any more questions?” Ackroyd asked, looking from Ray to Yeoman.
“How many teams are out looking for the boy?” Yeoman asked.
“Three others, as far as I know.” Jesus paused. “They’re not all Allumbrados, though. Most of the guys on my team weren’t, though a couple were credenti.”
“Running short on nutcases?” Ackroyd asked.
Jesus looked very badly like he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Bye-bye,” Ackroyd said, pointed, and popped.
Jesus had time for one startled, betrayed look, then he vanished.
“Where’d you send him?” Ray asked.
“Where he belonged. Bellevue.”
“Probably not a bad choice,” Ray said innocently.
Ackroyd sighed and looked around the forest clearing. “Not what do we do?”
“Pray we find the boy,” Yeoman said, “before these nutcases do.”
Amen, Ray thought, but just nodded.
New Hampton: The Snake Handlers’ Commune
Jerry and the Angel helped three of the commune members, Josaphat, Josiah, and Jehoram, carry the bushels of produce into the kitchen. It was hard to be so close to so much tempting food, because Jerry had a bad case of the munchies from the contact high he’d gotten off Mushroom Daddy. He didn’t think he could wait for dinner.
Hungry as he was, it was clear that Angel was hungrier. Ravenous, in fact. The boys left them in the capable hands of Hephzibah, an old woman who looked like an extra from The Grapes of Wrath, who ran the commune’s kitchen. When she learned that they were both hungry she put out a supply of leftovers—cold fried chicken, home-baked bread, mashed-potatoes, corn on the cob, green bean casserole, tomato and cucumber salad, and a couple of apple pies—and watched in awe as Angel packed away enough food to feed a platoon. Jerry was getting a little embarrassed by Angel’s gustatory display, but the food was so good and he was so munched out that he really wasn’t all that far behind her in the leftover demolition. To assuage his conscience he slipped Hephzibah a couple of twenties that Ackroyd had given him earlier to cover the cost of their generosity.
Jerry was so taken with the simply prepared, yet unbelievably fresh and tasty fare that he didn’t even think of pumping Hephzibah for information on John Fortune’s whereabouts. Neither did Angel. They were both surprised when the sounds of an electric guitar wafted through the air, penetrating even Jerry’s dazed consciousness that was threatening to slip into a digestive torpor after he’d polished off the last of the potato salad.
“That’s the call to worship,” Hephzibah said. “I hope you’re both satisfied for now.” She looked at Angel, who had glanced up disappointedly from the fragments of the apple pie she’d just devoured. “Supper will be after service. If you’re still hungry.”
A loud belch escaped Angel. “Excuse me. Please.”
At least, Jerry thought, she had the grace to look mortified
Hephzibah waved it away. “That’s all right, honey. Long as you enjoyed everything.”
Angel looked down guiltily at the empty platters and plates and pie tins, as if aware for the first time of the devastation they’d wrought. Jerry wondered if she actually enjoyed anything in life.
“It was great, all of it.” He looked at Angel. “I guess we should mosey on up to the, uh, services. Right, Angel? We have to thank Uzziah”—he was the commune’s leader—“for your generosity to a couple of strangers.”
“Friends of Daddy are friends of ours,” Hephzibah said. “Besides, the generosity you receive is equal to the generosity you give.”
Jerry frowned. “Wasn’t that a Beatles’ song?”
Hephzibah leaned forwards as if revealing a great confidence. “Close. You can learn much from the lyrics of Lennon and McCartney. Almost as much as from the Book itself.”
Jerry nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
Angel seemed sunken even deeper in a digestive stupor than Jerry. Not unlikely, Jerry thought, if this was the first time she’d experienced a marijuana high. Which was probable. First-time users usually didn’t get off much, but Jerry suspected that just as the Daddy’s vegetables were so tasty, his other produce, as it were, was probably as potent in its own particular way. Jerry took her by the arm and helped her step away from the table.
“See you at the service, then,” he said, steering Angel out of the kitchen.
Everyone seemed to be moseying towards a whitewashed structure set on a high point a little bit apart from the scatter of other structures. It was in better shape than most of the other buildings, with a fresh coat of whitewash and a well-maintained wood frame and shingled roof. The sounds of the guitar called to them.
“Say,” Jerry said. “Isn’t that ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Angel said. “It sounds like rock and roll and I know nothing about the Devil’s music.”
“Oh, lighten up for once, would you?”
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Angel said. “It will be dangerous for both our bodies and our souls.”