XIV. Dahl's Song

The cameras of Cell Block J-14 in the Julian O'Connor Memorial Prison recorded the same thing they had all week--nothing. Moonlight streamed through the barred windows, showing the placid prisoners. Their food contained sedatives to keep them under control; they routinely slept for 12 hours a day.

The closed-circuit camera system was backed up with a retractable machine gun turret in the ceiling of the hallway. Between the two, there was no reason for human guards to be present. Had they been, they would have seen something the cameras couldn't pick up.

A young man, perhaps twenty years old, came out of the door at the end of the hall. Despite this fact, the door was closed and remained so--he simply materialized out of the door itself, trailing his long black hair. He wore a long, black-and-red coat that swirled around his ankles as he strode purposefully toward cell 1482.

The man grabbed the cell door and the tumblers in the lock clicked open. He slid the heavy door open and strode in, shutting the bars behind him. He strode over to the cell's occupant and grabbed him by the shoulders, lifting the prisoner off the bed and then off the ground.

"Wake up." he said. The prisoner's eyes fluttered open as the sedatives in his bloodstream collapsed into their component chemicals.

"What--what's going on?" asked the dizzy prisoner. "Who are you?"

"My name is Dahl." said the intruder. "And you, not-so-Reverend Daniel Carter, have much to answer for."

Just then, the camera over cell 1482 experienced a technical error, bringing it offline.

"What do you want from me?" he asked Dahl.

Dahl threw Carter to the ground so that his head struck the barred wall of the cell. "Retribution."

"I don't understand--"

"My employer gave you an item of great power, with specific instructions on how to use it. You, however, stepped beyond your station, and decided to use it for other means." Dahl kicked Carter in the stomach. "And now you will return what you have taken."

"The...the blood?" Carter asked. "But I used it exactly as I was instructed!"

"Yes, you did. But then you took liberties with it. One specific liberty. You took that which was not yours and did so without permission. In this one act, you have reviled yourself before Earth--" Dahl slammed Carter's head into the bars. "Heaven--" Dahl kicked Carter in the shoulder. "--and Hell." Dahl threw Carter across the cell. His blood stained the concrete floor.

"But I thought--" whimpered Carter.

"Yes, you did. And Hell does not look kindly on free thought. I am curious, though. How did you rationalize this act? Drinking the blood of any creature is detestable, let alone the blood of one of the most evil beings in existence. It burned your mouth, am I correct?"

Carter knodded his head, obviously in pain.

"And yet you somehow thought that imbibing that liquid would make you more powerful? You were wrong. Your body cannot channel that sort of power. And so I have come..."

Carter heard the blade slide loose. He looked up to see a glittering sword in the demon's grip.

"...to take back what you stole."

Carter's screams echoed off the walls, accompanied by the Rhythm Blade's melodic slashes, playing out a symphony of pain. The rest of the prisoners remained in their drug-induced slumber. As such, no one noticed the other two men that emerged from closed cell doors down the aisle. The taller of the two held a cigarette cupped in his hand, concealing its glow. The other was mumbling to himself.

"He must've had a bad reaction to the sedative...temporary insanity...numerous precedents..." muttered the short one. The tall one remained silent, simply watching as Dahl gleefully cut into Carter long past the point where he had ceased screaming, his blade continuing its morbid song.

Finally, Dahl finished. He touched the tip of the Rhythm Blade to the concrete floor, the beam of light still dancing across its surfact. He turned the pommel, and the blood dripped off the blade, settling to the floor. In its place, a few droplets of slightly brighter blood coursed up the blade, settling at the base.

"Pleasure doing business with you, you bastard." Dahl leered at the corpse. With a satisfied smile on his face, Dahl walked through the door and went back to hell.

Down the hall, Rigel continued to peace together the logical conclusion the guards would come up with after making their morning rounds and discovering Carter. Darrus threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out.

"So much for being a good cop." he muttered.

THE END

XIII. Damnation Achieved

Dahl's eyes adjusted instantly to the light of the new chamber. He smelled cigarettes.

"You again?" he said.

"Who were you expecting?" Briggs replied, taking a drag. "The Devil himself?"

The room could have been a waiting room anywhere; its walls were blank, its floor a carpetted gray, its only furniture a set of institutional-style chairs. Briggs sat in the corner.

"So, what am I supposed to do here?" asked Dahl.

"Well, I'm going to show you how to tap into the Nexus, hell's overarching database. Normally they'd have someone else do it, but my superior wants me to oversee this personally. Go on, have a seat, this won't take long."

Dahl remained standing. "So, you were a demon all along?"

"Explains a lot, doesn't it?" said Briggs, focusing on his cigarette instead of at Dahl. "By the way, the name's not Briggs, not anymore at least. Call me Darrus."

"I'm Dahl."

"I know." he tapped his forehead. "Nexus."

Dahl sat.

"Remember that note I left on you, back at the church?" said Darrus, still not making eye contact.

"Yeah."

"Well, I think this should explain everything, as promised." With that, Darrus snapped his fingers.

Dahl braced himself, expecting another rush of unpleasantness. Instead, he felt a minor chill run down his spine, and then nothing.

"Congratulations, you are now officially a minion of the Pits of Hell." said Darrus, now standing in front of Dahl.

"But...nothing happened." he said.

"Think about that, why don't you." said Darrus, tossing away his cigarette and lighting another.

Dahl thought about his questions--and realized that he knew the answers. When Darrus had described the Nexus as a database, he had assumed it worked like the pre-Rehnquist computer search databases, hunting down specific data automatically and presenting it. Instead, it was more like memory--he simply knew what the answers were, as if remembering things that had never happened.

It all came to him at once. The red flask Darrus had retrieved from Hosanna of Bethany was a container of blood from a Fallen Angel, immensely powerful and exceedingly rare. Darrus had had to ask permission before entering Hosanna of Bethany because demons could not enter a holy place without permission. The Nexus had provided all of Darrus' information. Darrus smoked constantly to cover up the odor of sulphur that permiated his being. It all became so clear.

As for the training rooms, they were all connected but not connected. Hell wasn't bound to the same laws of time and space as the earth was--A and B could connected without ever touching the distances between them.

But the Nexus told him something else. He was a demon, and Reaver, but there was something more. He was a specific type of demon, a Doppelganger. He could take on the form of anything he could see.

Dahl looked up and Darrus, and simply understood the procedure. There was a sound like the shutter of a camera clicking open, and Dahl had changed forms.

"Impressive." said Darrus, looking at his own mirror image. "But you made a little flaw. You made a mirror image of me; everything backwards. Try it again."

Dahl focused harder this time, and the shutter clicked once more. This time the illusion was perfect.

"Better?" he asked, speaking in Darrus' smoke-ravaged baritone instead of his own voice.

"Passable, I think." said Darrus. "Now, you should also know how doors work. Any door for a demon connects to any other door. Now, you need to leave this room and come back out on earth. I think you know your first assignment, correct?"

Dahl thought for a moment, and understood. The Nexus told him everything he needed to know. With the camera sound, he reverted to his normal form and pulled out the shining sword--a Rhythm Blade, the Nexus called it.

"I understand." said Dahl. He turned to the door, and was gone.

"No, not really." Darrus said to the empty room. "You've lost that capacity. You don't have enough free will to really understand anything, anymore."

With that, Darrus left the room, and it ceased to exist.

XII. The Making of a Monster

The door to Barnum's chamber slid closed behind Dahl, putting him in a room altogether different. Grey steel plates made up the walls and ceiling, while the floor seemed to be made of loose dirt. A single flourescent light hung at the center of the room, its beam glaring and focused. The edges of the room were obscured by shadow, including a desk on the far side of the room. A figure sat at the desk, his features indistinct in the gloom.

Dahl squinted in the harsh light.

"What do I do now?" he asked.

"Just..." came a whispery voice from behind the desk. "...Do what comes naturally."

As Dahl watched, the walls of the room retreated, leaving him alone under the light in a space thousands of feet across, the edges somehow visible in the darkness. The desk had retreated with the wall behind it.

Without warning, a sword fell out of the ceiling, missing Dahl by inches. It landed with its blade stuck in the dirt. A beam of light glinted across the blade's surface.

"What the hell is going on--" Dahl started. Before he could finish his sentence, a barbed tentacle shot out of the ground and hit him in the face. It stung, but he tasted no blood. Confused, Dahl whirled around, only to be struck again by another tentacle.

"Go on!" came the voice again. "Defend yourself!"

Dahl grabbed the next tentacle as it struck. He pulled, trying to unearth whatever was connected to it. In response, five more tentacles hit him in the legs, knocking him onto his back. He lost his grip during the fall, and the tentacle slid back into the ground.

"You're doing it wrong!" called the voice.

Dahl's gaze landed on the sword. He pulled it from the ground and a tentacle came up to tear it from his grasp. He spun the sword like a veteran, chopping the tentacle off at the base. The ground shuddered.

"Now you're getting it." the whisper called to Dahl.

Four tentacles came at Dahl from every side. He spun on his heel, taking two of them off. He leapt over the other two, landing at the base of one and severing it. He leapt at the last tentacle and removed it.

"Now finish the job!" the voice instructed.

The sixth tentacle rose from the ground and Dahl grabbed it with his free hand. Bracing his feet into the dirt, he pulled with all his strength. Dahl forced the creature attached to the tentacles out of the soil, casting it onto the open ground. Five severed stumps and one tentacle joined beneath a lamprey-like head with no visible eyes or ears. With a confident blow, Dahl took the head off. The creature stopped thrashing.

Dahl felt wind and sensed movement. When he looked up from the creature, the walls and desk were back in their original places. The figure sat on the desk. His features were still shrouded in darkness, but there seemed to be something very wrong about him.

"You have passed the first test, Dahl." he said. "Keep it up and you shall become a true demon."

The figure stepped out into the light. Like Barnum, he was taller than any human had a right to be, but that was where the similarities ended. He was nearly eight feet tall, but this was mostly because his head was enormous, a foot wide by a foot-and-a-half tall. Large, sunken eyes stared out from beneath heavy lids. A nearly invisible nose was above an open mouth with teeth at least five inches long. His body was long and spindly, elongated and emaciated; Dahl guessed that his fingers were ten inches long. He wore the uniform of a World War II soldier.

"I am called Seurot." When he spoke, his teeth moved, but his lips were stationary. "And now for you second test...You must defend yourself against me."

Seurot slashed at Dahl with his long fingers. Dahl saw the blow coming and dodged. Seurot had left himself open, so Dahl went to attack his weak spot.

But couldn't. Somehow, Dahl could not bring himself to act. While he hesitated, Seurot clawed at him again. This time Dahl rolled to avoid him, intending to kick Seurot's legs out from under him. But again, his body refused his efforts. Dahl went to throw the sword at Seurot, but simply could not motivate himself to follow through. He yelled in frustration, and Seurot's attacks stopped.

"Now you understand." whispered Seurot's twisted form. "As a Reaver, there is nothing that you cannot kill. But as a demon, you are subservient to Hell's wishes. You can harm only that which Hell will let you. Now get up."

Dahl righted himself. "This isn't what I signed up for."

"Oh, but it is." said Seurot, returning to his desk. "I am done with you now, proceed to the next chamber."

One of the wall platings fell to the floor, flooding the room with light. Dahl threw down the sword and went towards the opening, only to have it slam closed as he approached. He turned to face Seurot.

"Take the weapon, it is yours now." rasped Seurot.

Dahl scowled and retrieved the blade. The door fell open again.

Muttering to himself, Dahl walked through the gate and into the light.

XI. Rebirth

The room was circular, with an ominous clear tube at its center. The walls were lined with buttons and dials, dutifully attended to by Barnum.

"So, you're to be a Reaver, then?" boomed Barnum. Everything about him was enormous, his voice included.

"Um, yes." hazarded Findhorn.

"We don't get too many Reavers anymore. Takes a certain kind of person, you know? To be a Reaver, you've gotta want to kill, but there's more to it than that. You have to have a respect for orders, of course--you can't just go bumpin' off everything you see. But there's more respect. You have to understand when you take a life. It can't just be something you enjoy--you have to know what about it gives you such a rush.

"These days, we get lots of souls that either understand what it means to kill or else just love killing. It's hard to find the ones that know both."

"So...there used to be more like me?"

"Hell, yeah. You'd be surprised how many Paladins from the Crusades are down here."

"Crusades? As in--"

"Yep. Holy warriors. From both sides. They believed in fighting for their God, but they didn't believe in thier Gods quite so much. All of that type wound up here, most of 'em as Reavers. Course, a few went for the burning, but by the time you're here, it's a bit late for righteousness.

"All right, get in that tube and I'll tell ya what's goin' on."

The tube split down the middle and one half swung open. Findhorn reluctantly stepped inside.

Barnum turned from the dials and face him. "It's like this. Just before you were born, you had a soul. That soul had a name and a shape. Once you were born, your shape was the shape of your body. Now, your soul knew what your body was going to look like, so it probably looks like your body did at one point--now that's no guarentee, because I can tell you I was 5'8" when I was alive. The name's not so sure, because it depended on who raised you what your name was gonna be.

"But now your body's gone, so you can forget whatever it taught you. This gizmo's gonna restore your soul back to what it used to be. Once that's done, you'll remember your real name. Then I'm done with you, and you go through that door to get you made into a proper demon."

"Will this hurt?" asked Findhorn.

"You're in Hell, boy." With that, Barnum threw a switch and the tube slammed shut.

Findhorn felt what he'd felt at Lyster's desk, but at a thousandfold the strength. To say it was agony would be an understatement. When his vision cleared, he looked down at a pair of hands that were not his own, but were oddly familiar. He felt hair on the back of his neck and followed it down to his waste. It was jet black...itself also familiar.

"Looks a bit familiar, don't it?" said Barnum. "Here, maybe this'll help."

Barnum hit a button and full-length mirror lowered itself from the ceiling. Findhorn saw his reflection and remembered it instantly--this was how he'd looked during his junior year of college, more than thirty years ago. He was tall and lean, with black hair that went down to his waste. He had dark brown eyes and light skin, and wore a long leather coat. He'd always considered this the peak of his physical condition. He felt that now--as if he could take on the world and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

"I can tell by that grin that you like you what you see." said Barnum.

"Hell, yes." said...no, not Findhorn. That had been his name, but not anymore.

"So, what shall I be callin' you?" asked Barnum.

"Dahl." said the former soul of Patrick Findhorn. "My name is Dahl."

X. Deal with the Devil

The other side of the gate reminded Findhorn more of a bank than what he'd expected of Hell. A row of desks stood before him, each with a more or lesshuman clerk seated behind it, negotiating with others Findhorn assumed were lost souls like himself.

"Mister Findhorn?" said one cleark, looking like a man in his thirties.

"That's me." said Findhorn.

"Please, take a seat. My name is Lyster, and it's time for us to negotiate your terms of service."

Findhorn sat. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Well, it's like this, Mister Findhorn. During your lifetime, you didn't hold yourself to the tenants of any of the sanctioned religions, so you wound up here. Now, I can see by the look on your face you're wondering what the sanctioned religions are. They are Islam, Christianity, and Judaism. All three worship the same God (albeit in different ways) and share the Old Testament. He is the real God--there are three different religions because He understood that humans can be rebellious by nature and if there were fewer options some would reject them out of course. That's why Heaven judged you three times--once by each sanctioned religion's standards.

"For most people, a triple failure means they're doomed to suffer in Hell for all eternity. You, however, are an exception. Hell feels that you have something to offer it."

"So I would be some sort of devil?" asked Findhorn.

"Well, 'demon' is the term we use, but yes, you would be a sort of working-class devil." said Lyster.

"What would I do?"

"That depends on your personal affinity. I can find that out for you right now if you'd like."

Findhorn hesitated. "...Sure."

"Just put your palm on that pad there in front of you." said Lyster, gesturing a gray pad on the desk in front of him.

Findhorn put his hand down on the pad. As soon as it made contact, his body became rigid and his vision tinted red. He felt as if he were being watched--no, scrutinized--from all sides at once--and that whatever was watching didn't like what it saw.

The feeling stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Findhorn's vision cleared and his body returned to normal.

"Interesting." said Lyster. "You've been chosen as a Reaver, the chosen assassins of Hell."

Deep down, you're a killer. Briggs' words echoed in Findhorn's mind.

"Now, then." said Lyster. "There are two kinds of terms, Releasers and Keepers. A Releaser is a demon who will reincarnate as a human after certain conditions are met, giving them a second chance to avoid damnation. If they fail again, they're not offered a second chance at demonhood--they burn for eternity. Keepers are demons who serve forever. Because they're permanent fixtures of Hell, Keepers are granted more potent abilities than Releasers, and are better trusted.

"In the case of Reavers, being a Keeper is mandatory."

"So my choice is to be a servant forever or a prisoner forever?"

"Essentially. However, you may ask for certain boons of your own choosing."

Findhorn thought for a moment. He looked down at his aging body, the lines on his hands, the veins on his arms. There was no denying it--age had slowed him down. But now...

Findhorn looked up.

"What is it you want, Mister Findhorn?" asked Lyster. For the first time, Findhorn noticed that Lyster's teeth came to points.

"I want...I want to never have to feel tired, or hurt. I want to be indestructible, to know that I can pick a fight with anyone and win. If I'm supposed to be a killer, make me one that kill anything without breaking a sweat."

"And is that all?"

"No, there's something else. I want to be more than just a killer. I want people to trust me, right until I crack them in half. Make me someone that can take out anything the world can throw at me."

"Your wish," said Lyster, "is my command."

He withdrew a paper from his desk and passed it across the table to Findhorn. "All you have to do is sign here."

Findhorn hesitated for a second, then nodded and signed his full name. Once he had finished, a pair of hands nearly as large as a torso clapped down onto Findhorn's shoulders. He looked up to see a head that was bigger than any he'd ever seen. Long ringlets of brown hair dangled down towards Findhorn's face. The face behind it seemed to be joviality itself behind a beard and moustache. The man's shoulders looked to be nearly five feet across.

Findhorn looked up in terror.

"Relax, man!" boomed the giant. "My name's Barnum, and I'll be taking what you are, and making it into what you will be! Now come on, time's a-wastin'!"

Findhorn looked to Lyster. "He's telling the truth Mister Findhorn, he'll transform you from a lost soul into a demon. Our business is concluded."

Barnum hoisted Findhorn out of the chair and placed him on the floor with surprising gentleness. Barnum was over nine feet tall.

"Come on, now! Don't look so glum! This is the first day of the rest of your death!" Barnum grinned with a massive mouth filled with pearly white teeth. "Come on, then, follow me!"

With a last glance at Lyster, Findhorn reluctantly followed Barnum into the next chamber.

IX. Pearls and Gold

Detective Paul Findhorn awoke from the nightmare to unfamiliar surroundings. The place looked like some sort of temple--marble floors, elaborate columns, the works. There were no visible lights or windows, but there were no shadows to be seen--it was if the structure itself was its own light source. He felt a compulsion to move toward something--he wasn't sure what.

Findhorn stumbled into a wide room with a dais at the far end. On the dais stood a podium with a hooded figure behind it, beckoning him closer. Findhorn felt the compulsion grow stronger. He approached the dais.

"Paul Findhorn." said the figure. The voice was firm, but calming. "Approach and judged."

Findhorn stepped onto the platform. "Judged for what?"

"For the doings of you life. You have died, Paul Findhorn, and you will be judged to decide your fate for eternity."

It all came back. He'd come home with the intention of protecting Margaret from the violence Briggs had warned him about. Instead, he'd found her in bed--the bed that they shared--with another man. Rage overwhelmed him, and he shot the lover twice in the head. Margaret's screams of horror had only deepened his anger--she was cheating on him with this scumbag, and now she was crying out for him. He'd teach her a thing or two about loyalty. Caught up in the passion of the moment, he shot her right in her two-timing heart.

Then it sank in. Briggs had told him his wife would be shot, and he should take his time getting home to avoid the violence. Briggs had somehow known what would happen. If Findhorn had stayed out, the lover would have been gone by the time he came home. His wife would still have been unfaithful, but she would have been alive.

And he wouldn't have just committed a double homicide.

Briggs was right again. He was a born killer. But Findhorn decided one thing--he'd be damned before he'd let this happen again. Findhorn gritted his teeth, put the gun to his temple, and fired the last bullet.

He woke up here, thinking it had all been a nightmare.

"So, you're Saint Peter, huh?"

The figure nodded. Findhorn noticed that there were a pair of gates in the hall. To his right was a gate made of silver, inset with pearls. To his left was another, made of wrought iron gilded with gold.

As Findhorn stood on the dais, a white light flashed over him three times, followed by a red light flashing twice.

"You have been judged three times by Heaven and failed each time. Hell has judged you twice and both times have accepted you. This gives you a choice; you may accept your punishment of damnation and spend eternity as a victim in Hell, or you may make a deal with Hell and be its servant until the end of time."

Findhorn hadn't expected this. "If I decide to be punished, do I get another chance?"

"It is the will of the Lord that each man has but one chance to live, one chance to live by His Commandments and join him in Heaven." said Saint Peter.

Findhorn sighed. "Then...I guess I'll make a deal."

Peter turned to face the iron gate. It slowly ground open of its own accord. "Go forth, Paul Findhorn, and accept your fate."

Seeing no alternative, he went. The gate closed behind him.

VIII. Realtime Obituary

The Findhorn residence was a corner lot in the suburbs. At fifteen minutes to nine, the detective's car pulled into the drive next to a luxury car he didn't recognise. He didn't notice the two men standing on the opposite street corner.

One was a tall fortysomething with long, graying hair, smoking absent-mindedly. The other looked to be in his early sixties, short and broad with bushy hair and eyebrows of pure white. His large blue eyes swept up and down the street as he spoke.

"So you got the blood back?"

"Mm-hm." The tall man muttered as he took a drag. "I gave it to the boss, then came straight here."

"So you just left him unconscious?"

"Well, I left a note on his chest. It said, 'Remember to use any bargaining chip wisely. I'll explain everything the next time we meet,' then signed it 'Briggs.'"

"You told him your name was Briggs? I was expecting something a tad more creative from you, Darrus!"

"Creativity's your job. I'm just a problem solver, remember?"

"Is that him now?"

The tall one looked up. "Yeah, that's him. Damn, he should've followed my advice. Oh well--his loss." He turned to face the short one. "I'll tell you what's going on, then you tell me what the story that gets out is going to be, okay Nigel?"

"Just as we planned." said the short one.

The pair watched Findhorn's gaze sweep over the luxury car in his driveway.

"He's checking out the car." said the tall one. "He looks puzzled."

"The Detective surveyed the unfamiliar vehicle." said the short one. "Whose was this?"

Findhorn went to the door, found it locked, unlocked it and went inside. The house was dark.

"He's inside. The door was locked and the lights are off."

"The way had been barred; the Detective unlocked the door and entered his darkened home."

Findhorn unholstered his pistol and called out his wife's name.

"He pulled his gun and called to his wife."

"The house looked abandoned. His fear mounting, the Detective drew his weapon--a 9mm sidearm--and cautiously called Maggie's name."

Findhorn heard the floorboards above his head squeak and moved towards the stairs.

"He heard something on the second floor; he's going to investigate."

"Suddenly, he heard something above him. Fearing the worst, he mounted the stairs, heading for the bedroom he and Maggie shared. The stairs creaked beneath his feet as he rose."

The tall one rolled his eyes.

Findhorn reached the bedroom. The doorwas open a crack and he could hear breathing inside.

"He's at the door. He hears her and someone else."

"Coming close to the door, he heard Maggie breathing--and also another. Who was he--and what had he done to the Detective's wife?"

Findhorn pushed the door open and entered the room. A candle on the nightstand showed him everything.

"He's taking it in."

"No...not Maggie. It couldn't be. How could he let this happen?"

The tall one turned and faced his companion. "You don't have to sound so excited about it, you know."

"Just go on." pressed the short one.

Two flashes of light were visible in a second story window, each accompanied by a muffled boom.

A resigned smile spread over the tall one's face, as if he didn't approve of what was occurring but enjoyed it despite himself. "Two left."

The lights in the window came on. For a moment, the fuzzy silouette of a woman appeared, several feet from the closed curtain. With another burst of light and sound, she was gone. Something liquid splashed against the curtain.

"One left."

"Maggie was dead...he couldn't save her." continued the short one. "He resigned himself that he would never let this happen again."

There was one more boom.

"The final blast was brief; the silence lingered." said the tall one.

"Ooo, I like it. That's how I'll end it." said the short one, clapping his hands together. "You see, Darrus, that's the sort of high-calibre thinking I expect from you."

"That's not the end, you know." said the tall one, flicking his cigarette away and lighting another.

"It's all anyone around here will need to know."

"True enough. Go tell the neighbors you heard a fight and some gunfire. Be sure to sound frantic."

"Don't worry, I've done this a thousand times before. What about you?"

"I'm heading back. It's likely we'll have a new friend before sunup, if you get what I mean. I've got a promise to keep."

"Right then. Until next time, Darrus."

"Goodnight, Nigel."

VII. Three of Seven

"Holy shit." breathed Findhorn.

"No, I think it's been pretty well defiled." said Briggs. "Still think my theory is so absurd, Detective?"

"Hell, no. I have to report this." replied Findhorn, reaching for his radio.

"One favor, Detective. Give my another fifteen minutes to find what I'm looking for."

"No can do. It's my duty as a police officer to get a forensics team back here and identify this body."

"I'll trade you the time for some advice."

Findhorn hesitated.

"In fact, I'll give you some now and some more before I leave." Briggs offered.

Findhorn thought for a moment. Fifteen minutes wasn't long... "Deal."

"Right then." said Briggs, walking to the rack that held the remaining barrels. "The odds are against me choosing the only barrel with something to hide. My advice is to have your forensics teams examine each of these barrels.

"Now move, I'm going to see if there's anything behind this."

Findhorn stepped back and watched with muted fascination as Briggs dragged one end of the rack away from the wall. The structure easily weighed a ton--the metal screamed against the basement's concrete floor, leaving deep grooves in its passage. There was the sound of snapping joints as a mechanical contraption mounted behind the far barrel splintered into pieces.

"Ah ha." said Briggs, looking at the device's ruined pieces. "This must've been how they moved this rack. So there must be something back here..."

"How did you do that?" Findhorn asked, awestruck.

"It's all in the wrists." said Briggs, exploring the wall behind the rack. "What have we here?"

Findhorn edged around the rack and found Briggs holding a handle set into the wall. He pulled on it, revealing a door disguised among the wall panels. Briggs went inside and flipped on a light switch.

"Bingo." he said.

Beneath a single ceiling light stood a hexagonal altar with an inverted cross at its center that looked to be made of solid gold. In front of the altar was a white basin with gold inlays of inverted crosses and the number 666, dotted with pink smears. Atop the altar stood a small, transparent vial filled with a red fluid.

Briggs went up to the vial and picked it up. "This is what I've been looking for."

Briggs heard the sound of a gun cocking from the doorway.

"Put it down." Findhorn's voice wasn't loud, but it was forceful. "Gently. That's evidence."

Briggs turned to face Findhorn. The Detective's gun stayed trained on his skull.

"I see you remembered the safety this time." he said.

"Drop it or I swear I'll shoot."

"Oh, I know you will. Just like back in '22 when you shot that seventeen-year-old trying to break into your apartment. Or the two suspects fleeing from that convenience store robbery in '23. Or when you cracked open the skull of a would-be rapist with a tire-iron in '31. Not to mention the pet kitten you deliberately buried alive when you were just ten years old."

"Drop it. This is your last warning." Findhorn's voice didn't waver, but a tear had formed on his cheek.

"You like to think that being a good, uncorruptable cop makes up for it. But you know, deep down, that you're a killer. You like it, and you're damn good at it--"

Two shots echoed off the walls of the small chamber. Inexplicably, the lights went out.

Findhorn stepped back, trying to find the door. His heartbeat seemed so loud that it echoed; his breathing was all he could hear over it.

He grabbed the knob, but a hand clamped down on his wrist. Maybe it was Findhorn's own heightened body temperature, but the hand seemed too cold--room temperature, no more alive than the pickled boy in the next room.

"But you're not good enough to kill me." rasped Briggs.

As the smoke from the gun dissipated, Findhorn realized he could smell Briggs. For the first time, the scent of cigarette smoke had faded enough to smell what was underneath. It didn't smell like sweat, or breath, or skin. Briggs smelled awful, like rotting eggs.

Or sulphur.

"I have what I want, and I'm leaving. But a deal is a deal. The last piece of advice I have for you is this: there is a very good chance your wife will be shot dead before the sun comes up. You should take your time getting home, so you'll avoid the violence."

Findhorn raised his gun, guessed where Briggs' head would be, and fired.

"That's three shots fired. You have four left in your magazine." said Briggs. With that, another cold hand came down over Findhorn's face. For a moment, he saw a vision of a wall of fire--then everything went black.

VI. Earthly Remains

The setting sun framed the site of Hosanna of Bethany Church. The empty sign out front had "Went here K-4 You let us down" spray-painted on it.

A lone car pulled up to the yellow crime scene tape surrounding the building and two men got out. The taller of the two lit a cigarette as they approached the tape.

"So, this is the place." said Briggs. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"None other. Come on, I want to get this over with." said Findhorn, ducking under the tape.

Briggs hesitated. "Look, there are some...rules I have to follow. Just...invite me in."

Findhorn shook his head. "Look, this crime scene is two months cold. No cop in New Liberty is going to bother you for exploring it in the presence of a senior detective."

"It's not that...it's just, well, you know. Places like this...they deserve a certain amount of...respect. I'd really appreciate it if you'd invite me in."

Findhorn sighed. "Fine. I invite you to accompany me to this crime scene. No can we get on with this?"

"Invitation accepted." said Briggs. He climbed under the tape, holding his breath as if bracing for impact. He stood on the lawn for a moment, then let it out.

"Oh, and put that out." said Findhorn, gesturing to Briggs' cigarette. "No smoking on enclosed crime scenes."

"As you wish." Briggs flipped the cigarette onto the pavement beyond the car.

Findhorn noticed Briggs tense up as they walked inside, then let out another sigh of relief.

The foyer of Hosanna of Bethany looked normal enough. Briggs' hand went to his forehead once Findhorn had shut the door behind them.

"The altar. Where's the altar?" he asked.

"This way." Findhorn led Briggs through a pair of wooden door into what had once been the sanctuary.

The pews remained, but pentagrams had been carved into them. The edges of a mural were visible on the ceiling, beyond the edges of the numerous swathes of red paint that had been applied over it. The altar itself had been torn from its foundation behind the stained glass window at the far side of the sanctuary. It now sat at the center of the room, blocking the aisle. It had been turned to face away from the sanctuary doors, and a pewter pentagram a foot across sat at its center.

"No." said Briggs. "This is wrong."

Findhorn scoffed, looking around. "No kidding."

"No, I mean this is wrong for worship of the Devil. Altars of Christ face East, but there's no doctrine for which ways altars of Satan have to face, so it doesn't make sense to go to the effort of moving the altar. They wouldn't use pews, either; they kneel during their ceremonies. But the big thing is that Satani don't use this as a holy symbol!" Briggs knocked the pentagram on the altar over.

"I thought Satanists used pentagrams like a cross." said Findhorn.

Briggs blinked at Findhorn, then shook his head. "Satanists and Satani are not the same thing."

Findhorn simply looked perplexed. Briggs turned to face him.

"Look, during the 20th century, some guy--called himself Anton LaVey--founded a lifestyle called Satanism. Satanism is so named because its dogma is the opposite of Christianity--it emphasizes holding the self above all others, being completely selfish at every opportunity and never giving a care about the plight of others, versus the selflessness and subservience to Christ that Christians preach. He chose the name Satanism mostly to piss off the Christians of the day.

"Satanists use the pentagram as their symbol, but it's Pagan in origin. Popular culture likes to think that it's the symbol of the Devil, but religiously speaking, these," Briggs gestured to the overturned pentragram, "are about as significant as a men's room sign."

Briggs began to pace while he spoke. "Satani, on the other hand, have been around for millenia. They're normal, everyday people except when they pray. They're the ones who worship the Devil. Human and animal sacrifice, ritualistic abuse, you name it. A Satani sermon is always brutal. Their holy symbol is an inverted cross, not a pentragram. From what you told me about that tape, Carter and his lackeys were Satani."

"That tape showed them molested right here." said Findhorn.

"Then it was a ruse. Satani rituals are between them and their master; there's no need to leave records of their deeds behind. I think this whole thing was planned, was a sham. They kept updating the camera so it looked authentic, putting just enough atrocities on film to leave a bad taste in everyone's mouth--just enough to make this an open-and-shut case, to keep anyone from figuring out what really went on here."

"Which is..?"

"I'm not sure. We'll have to find the real altar to figure that out."

"I hate to burst your bubble, but the forensics teams have already been over this place with a fine-tooth comb. This is the only altar on site."

"I seriously doubt it." said Briggs. "The best way to keep something to hidden is to make everyone think they know where it is. You didn't find the real altar because you thought you had it right here.

"Does this place have a second floor?"

"Just the balcony that held the organ and choir."

"What about a basement?"

"There's a storage room downstairs."

"It must be there." Briggs seemed to be getting excited. The change in his demeanor since their arrival at Hosanna of Bethany was making Findhorn uneasy.

"There are plenty of rooms on this floor, if you really want to make a search--"

"Offices. They'd be locked. Locks breed curiosity about what they're hiding that makes it worth being locked in. What I'm looking for will be hidden in a place that no one would think to investigate, not one that invites investigation."

Briggs quickly walked to the foyer. Findhorn followed, then led him to the stairs.

By his looks, Briggs couldn't be more than five years younger than Findhorn. Factoring in his heavy smoking, Findhorn couldn't understand how the tall man could move so quickly. He was at the bottom of the stair before Findhorn had even mounted them.

The basement's primary function looked to be storage. A haphazard stack of boxes filled a corner--they'd been searched and had contained nothing of use to the investigation. Two dozen barrels of sacramental wine lay in a metal wrack along the far wall.

"Has anyone checked inside these?" Briggs asked.

"We tapped a few of them. They're full of sacramental wine."

"So no one opened them up?"

Findhorn shrugged. "Wasn't necessary. Church records said they were full of wine and a tap proved it."

"I'm not debating they have wine in them." said Briggs, hand on his chin. "I'm just wondering if there might be something else in there."

"Like what?"

"One way to find out." said Briggs. He pulled one of the barrels off the rack and stood it up in front of him. Findhorn marvelled--the oversize barrel had to weigh more than 200 pounds, but Briggs had dragged it off the rack as if it were nothing.

"Detective, pass me that crowbar on the wall rack behind you."

Findhorn passed Briggs the crowbar, saying, "You're nuts, Briggs. Why would someone go to all that trouble just for a big fake? What could be worth all that time and effort?"

Briggs pried off the cover of the barrel and peered inside.

"Covering this up." he said.

Inside the barrel, the body of an adolescent boy floated, pickled by the wine.

V. The Distance

A few minutes past six, Findhorn made his way to his car. As he came near it, he smelled cigarettes. His hand went to his gun.

Briggs loomed like a gargoyle from the other side of Findhorn's car, a cigarette smouldering from his lower lip.

"What are you doing here?" Findhorn demanded.

"Just checking to see if you followed my advice." came the raspy reply.

"I did, and I think I figured out who you are."

Briggs chuckled in the gloom of the parking garage. "Did you, now?"

"First you told me where to find a prominent insurrectionist. Then you help me dodge a blast that all signs show was caused by a remote missile, piloted by insurrectionists. In fact, Raven Fist is one of the insurrectionist groups that's claimed responsibility for today's attack, and McAllister was one of their top guys.

"I think you're a higher-up in Raven Fist who wants out. You're helping me because we both want the top guys in Raven Fist out--me because I'm a cop and it's my job to bring 'em in, you so you can slip away in the chaos."

Briggs shrugged. "Not a bad guess, Detective. The thing is, there are a lot of variables in this equations that you haven't considered--or even realized are variables."

Briggs pulled the open the passenger's side door. Findhorn always kept it locked, yet it seemed to open for Briggs. Findhorn put it down to a lockpick.

"Let's go for a ride." said Briggs.

"Why should I take you anywhere?" demanded Findhorn.

"The way I see it, you owe me one. If I hadn't told you to head to the break room a little early, the Department would be replacing more than just your chair, if you catch my drift. Personally, I think a human life is worth a little more than some dirt on a child molester."

Findhorn sighed. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Where do you think?"

Findhorn's hand went for the door handle. Briggs started to get into the car. Seizing the opportunity, Findhorn pulled his gun and pointed it at Briggs' head.

He found himself staring down the barrel of another weapon. Findhorn had no idea how Briggs could have reacted so quickly.

"Your safety's on." said Briggs. "Now put that thing away, you're not impressing anybody."

Findhorn didn't budge, dumbfounded.

"My safety is off, Detective." prompted Briggs.

Findhorn blinked and lowered the weapon. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"What's wrong?" asked Briggs, tucking his own gun back into his coat.

Findhorn holstered his gun. "I could've sworn I heard screams, but way off in the distance. Lots of them, along with something roaring the background, like a bonfire."

Briggs took a drag from his cigarette. "Imagine that."

They got into the car and Findhorn pulled out. The smell of car exhaust lingered, mixing with the smoke from Briggs' cigarette and one more scent--sulfur.

IV. Blood, Honor, and Broken Glass

At 3:50PM, Findhorn's watch alarm went off. Briggs had been right about the grocery; as off a chance as it was, Findhorn was determined to follow the new advice. Besides, the worst case scenario was that he would recieve some minor chastisement for breaking too early.

Findhorn leafed through the Hosanna of Bethany file while he sat at the break room table, absent-mindedly sipping his coffee. There'd been a time in his life when he didn't need a caffeine boost to make it through the afternoon, but he was within a few months his fifty-second birthday, and had long ago come to terms with the fact that his body was not what it used to be. He was in reasonable shape for a man of his age, but there was no denying that he'd slowed down since those early days on the force.

Things were different then--he'd worked for the State of Ohio, not Lawrence Rehnquist's worldwide regime. He'd joined the force at the age of twenty-three, spent a few years as a beat cop. Then it all got shot to hell.

It was the fall of 2231. He and his wife, Margaret, were celebrating their anniversary with dinner at a five-star restaurant followed by a night at the opera house. The evening had gone well, but on the way home the rear left tire of the car went flat. Findhorn got out to fix it.

While he was behind the car, he heard shattering glass and Margaret's voice. Looking up, a man had broken open Margaret's window and was reached for her. Without thinking, Findhorn ran at the assailant and beat him with the tire iron.

Findhorn later found out that the man had a .38 revolver tucked under his coat. The would-be rapist never got to use it. Findhorn gave in to his rage, beating past arms that tried to protect a face he would eventually smash beyond recognition. He had stopped the attack, protected his wife, but at what cost? A man was not only dead but defiled at his hands.

The other cops never looked at him the same after that. It had been ruled that his actions had been in self-defense, but the lengths he had gone to were considered extreme by many and dangerous by most. It seemed that his superior's were afraid that he might release this violence again. Findhorn had been assigned to one desk job after another, kept off the streets.

Four months later, the United States of America faced demands to surrender it sovereignty to the regime of Lawrence Rehnquist. After they refused, synthetic plagues ravaged the country's major cities, destroying the economic infrastructure and sending the country's leadership into disarray. Washington DC and New York City had been wiped off the map during World War III, seventy years before, but the three largest remaining cities--Los Angeles, Chicago, and the new capital of Seattle, Washington--were so devastated that they became ghost towns. This time, the US surrendered--the greatest country the world had ever known fell without a shot fired.

Once his new superiors were installed, no one much cared about what Findhorn had done to some scumbag in a back alley one night.

Findhorn was knocked from his reverie by the building shaking. Alarm bells rang and the radio came alive as dozens of voices shouted over one another.

"Detonation confirmed--"
"Identified as a remote projectile--"
"Stay calm--"
"Paramedics inbound--"
"Repeat, impact and detonation, Sector 4, level 3--"
"Office of Lieutenant Ramirez totally destroyed--"

Cold sweat appeared on Findhorn's brow. His office was on the third floor of Sector 4, right across the compound from Ramirez's office. He walked past the place everyday.

As he approached his office, debris and dust filled the air. A chot barred his path, but when he explained his office was near the blast, he was allowed to pass.

Findhorn unlocked the door and stepped into his office. The blast hadn't touched his wall of the building, but the force from the blast had shattered his window and sent shards of glass flying into the room. Dozens of them had pierced his desk chair, some of them as large as six inches long. They were exactly where he would have been sitting, had he not gone on break.

Just then, his watch beeped for the hour--his usual cue to go on break.

III. The Believer

At 2:30 Wednesday afternoon, the thick scent of cigarette smoke wafted into Detective Findhorn's nose. He looked up.

"I understand you followed my advice." said Briggs.

"Yeah." said Findhorn, letting no emotion into his voice. "There was a sale."

"Not to mention a wanted fugitive."

"Coincidence. Interrogation of McAllister showed he had never met anyone of your description."

"That only proves that I know more than he does."

Findhorn studied the tall man. Briggs lit a cigarette as he watched. After a few moments of contemplation, Findhorn beckoned for him to sit. Again leaving his coat on, Briggs sat, staring across the desk at Findhorn as if he expected something. Finally, Findhorn spoke.

"All right then, how did you know McAllister would be there, vulnerable?"

"Ah, that information isn't free. Perhaps we can trade?"

Findhorn took out the file on Hosanna of Bethany. There was a time when it would have been kept on a computer database, but mass communication had been crippled to the edge of extinction during Rehnquist's takeover.

"Tell me this, then; why are you so interested in this case?" Findhorn demanded.

"The Reverend Carter made a deal with one I work for. In return for services rendered in the past and those pending in the future, Carter was loaned an item of considerably worth and function. Since Reverend Carter is now incarcerated and unable to perform any future services, my employer has declared the bargain to be void, and sent me in to retrieve his possession." explained Briggs.

"Who is it you work for?" asked Findhorn.

Briggs scoffed. "I'd have more than just a scolding on my hands if I told you."

"For someone in search of information, you give precious little in return."

Briggs leaned over the table. The smell of cigarette smoke was overpowering. "I can give you some more advice, in exchange for more information on Hosanna of Bethany. Better advice." Briggs leaned back.

Findhorn caved. "All right. Upon investigation of the church site, we found video recordings of seven people--including Carter Jr., Klepacki, Brainard, and four others--ritualistically molesting as many children.

Briggs looked surprised. "Video recordings? How did they get a camera?"

"It was an old model, probably thirty years old. They must've hidden it during the transfer of power, when the ban on private video equipment was instituted. The thing had a big enough memory card that it could have been running continuously since coming off the assembly line and wouldn't be full yet."

"And IDs on the victims?"

"The footage goes back eight years, according to the camera's date recorder. Some of the kids are adults by now."

"Really?" Briggs paused. "Some of them were older, then?"

"As far as we can tell through ID checks, the victims ranged in age from 6 to 13." said Findhorn.

"One last thing." Briggs threw his cigarette out the window. "What happened to the victim's you've been able to identify?"

Findhorn sighed. "Two of them are in the New Liberty Hospital for the Mentally Ill, dealing with the psychological damage of their ordeal. Four others are missing, most of them from a time shortly before being recorded at Hosanna of Bethany. We suspect foul play."

Briggs held a freshly lit cigarette next to his ear. "And the last?"

"Bill Hayden was the first child on the tape, age thirteen at the time of the incident. He was also the last abuser recorded. He would have been twenty-one at time; he's twenty-two now."

"A believer." muttered Briggs.

"Excuse me?"

"Hayden believes whatever the Reverend taught him. Why else would he come back? Now, where can I find him?"

"He goes to court tomorrow. He's in a holding cell until then."

"How would I go about setting up a meeting with him?"

"You don't. He's not allowed visitors. Considering they've got him doing the act on video, he'll be convicted by noon tomorrow. They've already reserved a slot for him at the penal colony for a 7PM execution."

"Justice is swift in New Liberty."

"Only if you can't pull any strings." Findhorn conceded. "Now, I've fulfilled my part of the bargain."

"Of course, of course." said Briggs. "My advice is to take your four o'clock coffee break ten minutes early."

Findhorn waited for more, but Briggs rose to leave.

"Wait, that's it?" he demanded.

"That's it." said Briggs, straightening his coat.

"How could that possibly be worth what I told you?" Findhorn demanded, feeling cheated.

"It's about equal in value to the benefit of stopping at a grocery store instead of a pharmacy."

II. Advice

The rain had slowed down by the time Detective Findhorn left the station. The chilly March night around him was pierced in a thousand places by the lights of New Liberty. As Findhorn passed the grocery store Briggs had mentioned earlier, he noticed a prominent sign in the window, advertising that 2% Milk was on sale.

"Hell of a marketing ploy." Findhorn muttered as he pulled into the parking lot.

Within a few minutes, Findhorn was waiting at the checkout. While he waited, he scanned the faces in line around him, and did a double-take when he recognised one--he'd seen it every day for the past six months as he passed the Wanted poster board on his way to his office. Kevin McAllister, lieutenant in the Raven Fist insurgency group, suspected in numerous terrorist bombings that had loft twenty people dead between them. McAllister had a scar over his forehead that wasn't in the Wanted poster, and had died his hair black, but there was no mistaking him.

Findhorn slid away from the checkout, trying to act nonchalant. McAllister was fourth in line; Findhorn had time, but not much. Kneeling behind an aisle display, Findhorn called for backup and explained the situation to dispatch through his radio. He was assured that a patrol of eight Loyalty Monitors--chemically controlled cybernetic officers commonly known as "Chots"--would be on site within two minutes. McAllister would likely realize what was going on if that was allowed to happen--Findhorn would have to get the jump on McAllister without delay.

Findhorn held his gun in one hand and his badge in the other, hands concealed in the pockets of his jacket. One thing that twenty-six years of police work had taught him was that people were rarely noticed if they looked like they knew what they were doing. Walking with false purpose, Findhorn made his way towards the Customer Service desk, giving him an excuse to pass McAllister.

As he did so he pulled his hands from his pockets and caught the unsuspecting insurrectionist in a headlock.

"NLPD!" he yelled, pressing the barrell of his gun to McAllister's forehead. "Empty your pockets!"

McAllister dropped a handgun from his left jacket pocket, not saying a word. Customers around the pair pushed back in fear. As luck would have it, there was a moment of shocked silence amongs the crowd that enable Findhorn to hear someone cocking a gun.

"Drop it! If I don't see a gun hit the floor in five seconds, I'll blow him away!" Findhorn yelled. In other times, such a display from a law enforcement officer would have been unacceptable. Those times were over.

Behind Findhorn, eight chots entered the store, weapons raised. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the ground past the crowd. A pair of hands went up in the same general direction. Outnumbered and captured, McAllister and his accomplice were brought in without a struggle.

Findhorn came home after eight o'clock that evening. He told his wife and children about the sale that had drawn him into the store, and how it had led to the arrest of the one of the 100 most wanted fugitives in New Liberty.

He didn't mention the tall stranger.

I. Smoke Signal

Detective Findhorn of New Liberty Police Station #137 looked up from the files on his desk when the tall man entered his office.

"May I help you?" asked the detective.

"The name is Briggs." said the tall stranger. He looked to be somewhere in his forties, with shoulder-length hair streaked with gray and a voice that spoke of many decades of chain smoking. The smell of cigarettes hung around him like an aura. "I made an appointment with you a few days ago."

Findhorn flipped through his day planner. Sure enough, the name "Briggs" was pencilled in for 2 to 3 PM. "So you are. Please, have a seat, take your coat off."

"I'd rather not, if don't mind." said Briggs, leaving his coat on as he sat.

"Detective, I know your time is valuable, so I'll cut to the chase. I'm looking for information regarding the Hosanna of Bethany Church and the nature of the crimes committed there."

"There's not much I can tell you that hasn't already been leaked to the media." said Findhorn. "Sick place, that was. A generation ago they were a respected congregation, one of the biggest in the city." He passed Briggs a picture of Hosanna of Bethany Church across the table. It was a panaramic shot. Hundreds of practitioners clustered around the mid-twenty-first century-era church. Right beside the church sign stood the minister and his family--a wife, two daughters, and a son. The words "Hosanna of Bethany Baptist Church of Columbus, Ohio, 2207 A.D." were written in white lettering at the top of the picture.

"In 2219," Findhorn continued, "the Minister, William Carter, had a stroke and was replaced by his son, Daniel Carter.

"Daniel didn't take to the congregation too well. Over the next twenty years, the church's membership dwindled from roughly one thousand to..." Findhorn consulted a file. "Thirty-two. There were a few complaint to police stations in the area regarding the church, the most noteworthy being six separate allegation of child molestation against Carter and two church elders, Frank Klepacki and Deborah Brainard."

"Any convictions?" asked Briggs, reviewing photos of each of the three.

"Carter defeated two of the cases in court, then settled a third privately. Klepacki settled one suit and spent two years of a six year sentence behind bars before being released on good behavior. Brainard got 18 months house arrest in a plea bargain."

"Interesting. Go on."

"On the 22nd of November, 2241, we got a call from a former memeber of the church telling us when to set up a bust to catch the elders in the act. It seems that she'd fled to Indiana after her own daughter was slated to be next in line for some sort of ritualistic molestation."

Briggs chuckled without any sign of humor. "Doesn't sound like a Baptist tradtion to me."

Findhorn scoffed. "That wasn't the half of it. However, the rest of the information on this case requires security clearance, so I'm afraid that's all the details I can give you."

Briggs sighed, withdrawing a lighter and cigarette from his coat. He lit up, took a drag, and looked at Findhorn's fingers. "They say there are no straight cops left in New Liberty. How much would security clearance cost me?"

"Forget it. I don't know who you think you are, but I know there's at least one good cop left in New Liberty who refuses to be corrupted, and you're looking at him."

Briggs smiled, letting smoke drift through his teeth. "Very good. I'd heard that you're one of the few who are unmoved by loose money and quick power. Which is why I chose to speak with you; you're someone who deserves to be rewarded for compliance."

"One word from me and you'll be locked up for trying to bribe me." said Findhorn.

"Come now, the only people who go to jail for corruption these days are the ones too stupid to leave funds available to bribe the judge.

"And I know your principles mean more to you than money. I need help from someone close to the case; I chose you as most worthy of recieving what I have to give as compensation."

Findhorn rose. "Get out."

Briggs stood up. "Fine. But I will make you an offer. I will give my advice in return for an appointment tomorrow."

"What advice could a corrupt slimeball like you give to me?"

"Just this. From what I understand, your wife wanted you to pick up some milk on your way home from work tonight, correct?"

"I'm not even married." said Findhorn.

Briggs tossed his cigarette through Findhorn's open window. "Don't lie to me. I know you have a wife and two kids, a brother and sisters living on the West coast. Your mother lives with the older sister and your father's been dead for 30 years. Rest assured, praying on innocents is below me; no harm will come to them by my hands, whether you help me or not. Now answer me--did your wife ask you to pick up milk on your way home?"

The gravity--and accuracy--of Briggs' information seemed a bizarre contrast with the frivolity of his question. Findhorn knew there was more going on here than he could see. After collecting himself for a moment, he responded. "Yes. Yes, she did."

"Then my advice is to stop at the grocery store on 29th Street, instead of the pharmacy on Park Avenue you usually stop at. Heed my advice, and I'll see tomorrow at 2:30."

Before Findhorn could reply, Briggs was out the door.

The cold rain outside began to pick up. Shaking his head over the strangeness of the encounter, Detective Findhorn got up and shut the window. In his preoccupation, he failed to notice that there no cigarette butts in the gravel courtyard beyond it.