Brother Marty merely sighed. “While that would make for an interesting little film back in the day when making interesting little films was how I earned a buck, I don’t think your suggestion gets us very far. It doesn’t open a dialogue.”
Iron Mike said nothing.
One of the reapers, a big man marked with the tattoo of a red hand on his face, stepped close and whispered into Brother Marty’s ear. The smaller man nodded and waved him away.
“Ah,” said Brother Marty. “If I’m hearing this right, you’re known as Iron Mike Sweeney. Also known as Big Mike Sweeney and Bloody Mike Sweeney.”
Iron Mike said nothing.
“‘Iron’ Mike,” said Brother Marty, putting the name out there to taste it. “Talk about truth in advertising.” He glanced at Saint John. “He’s as tough as iron, that’s no joke.”
The saint pursed his lips but did not comment.
To Iron Mike, Marty said, “On behalf of the Night Church and our Honored One, Saint John of the Knife, I got to say that you are one bad mamba-jamba, and we admire that. You got the stuff, man, you got that X factor that sets you apart from other men. You know how rare that is? Especially in these times? You could’ve been a star back in the day. The Rock, Bruce Willis, Clint Eastwood, Schwarzenegger — they had it, but I don’t know how many of them could spend the kind of afternoon you’re having without so much as a peep. I’m really impressed. You know how many reapers you killed? Between arrows, guns, and that horse? Thirty-four. Thirty-four. I couldn’t sell a body count like that even in a summer blockbuster.”
Iron Mike smiled at him. It was not a nice smile, and it erased the grin from Brother Marty’s face.
Marty cleared his throat. “Okay, don’t do that again, because it creeps me the heck out. And what’s with the eyes? Red eyes? Really? And those aren’t contact lenses?”
“I have my father’s eyes,” said Mike.
There was something in the way he said it that made Brother Marty want to run and hide. It did not make him want to ask who Mike’s father had been. Or indeed what Mike’s father had been. The world was too big and too scary already without exploring any new territory.
“Enough,” said Saint John, and as he stepped forward Marty was more than happy to retreat. He faded to the edge of the clearing and watched the saint.
“You’re boring me,” said Iron Mike. There was no hint of pain or discomfort in his voice. That scared Marty too. “Say your piece. If you want to kill me, then go for it. If you have a deal, pitch it.”
“Let’s start with a deal, Mr. Sweeney,” said Saint John. “And it’s a simple deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“We want some information. The location of nine towns.”
The prisoner snorted. “This is California, friend. Used to be the most populous state. There are a lot of towns here. Take your pick.”
“We’re looking for the town of Mountainside. It won’t be on any map made before the Fall.”
Iron Mike said nothing.
Saint John leaned closer to him. “As dear Brother Marty said, we are impressed with your strength. Of body and of will. But I am a saint abroad in a world of sin, and I am charged by god to cleanse the earth of the infection of life. This town of Mountainside is one of a group of towns that represent the largest population west of the Rockies. Its existence is an affront to god.”
“Whose god?”
“The only god. Lord Thanatos.”
“All praise to his darkness,” chanted the reapers.
“Thanatos, huh? Minor Greek god of death,” mused Mike. “Known as Mors to the Romans. Son of Nyx, the Night, and Erebos, the Darkness.”
“You know your history,” said Saint John, “but you don’t understand the truth behind the historical propaganda.”
“You don’t know what I know,” said Iron Mike. He craned his head forward to speak. Drops of blood fell from his chin and spattered on the saint’s clothes. “I know you. I know who you are, Saint John of the Knife. I know who you were before the Reaper Plague began eating the world.”
“Do you?”
The red eyes burned, and the mouth below them smiled. “I know. And even if I hadn’t heard of the serial killer named Saint John in newspapers and books, all I have to do to know you is to look into your eyes. You know the saying — the eyes are the windows of the soul. Do you want to know what I see when I look into your eyes?”
Saint John did not answer.
“You want me to tell you?” asked Mike in a tone only Saint John and Brother Marty could hear. “In front of your ‘flock’?”
The saint did not reply, but Marty raised his hand, snapped his fingers with a sound like a dry stick breaking, and waved the reapers back. He kept waving until they were well beyond earshot even of normal voices.
“You want me out of here, boss?” he asked.
Saint John nodded. “Question the last of the guards. Tear the truth from him if you must. Do it down the hill, but come when I call.”
Before he left, Brother Marty looked up into Iron Mike’s face. “You are one very spooky guy, you know that?”
“It’s come up in conversation.”
They smiled at each other for a moment.
“Be cool if you were on our side,” said Brother Marty.
Iron Mike’s smile grew cold. “I’m not on anybody’s side.”
Marty studied his eyes, then turned and moved quickly away.
When they were alone, Saint John said, “You try very hard to be impressive, Mr. Sweeney. Go ahead… impress me. Reveal your insights. What is it you think you know?”
“Seriously? You want to go there.”
“Seriously,” agreed the saint.
“Okay. Like I said, I know you. I look through the windows of your eyes and I know you. I can see what made you.”
“I doubt that…”
“I can see the little boy you used to be. The tortured one. The abused one. The humiliated one.”
“You’ll have to do better than that. Before the Fall the newspapers ran all sorts of stories speculating about me. They trotted out FBI profilers who said that I was the product of an abusive home life. All very cliché.”
“All very true.”
“You’re trying to buy your life back by teasing me with information anyone could have gotten.”
Mike slowly shook his head. “I know the secret word….”
Saint John froze.
“I know what it is and where it is,” said Mike. “A word your father burned into your skin with cigarette butts. A word that he burned onto your mother’s face right before she killed herself. Do you want me to tell you what that word is?”
The saint did not reply. His mouth went dry, and his heart beat with strange rhythms.
“I know what you did to your father,” continued Iron Mike. “I know what you did to try and stop the pain. The horror. The ugliness.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No… you can’t know that. No one…” Saint John’s voice died in his throat.
The prisoner shook his head slowly. “Look… you and I aren’t as different as you might think. I did my own time in hell when I was a kid, and I have the scars to prove it. Inside and out. I know what it feels like to be turned from an innocent kid into a monster. Believe me… I know.”
“You don’t know my life,” murmured the saint. “No one knows what happened….”
“Look at me,” said Iron Mike quietly, “and tell me if I’m like anyone you ever met.”
Saint John shook his head.
“Look at me and tell me if you ever saw anyone like me except in the mirror.”
“No.”
Saint John tried to stare the man down, but the longer he looked into those burning red eyes, the more he felt the ground beneath him begin to melt, to turn to quicksand.
“What are you?” he demanded.