The God Hunter Read online

  Then she relaxed. She took another cigarette and lit it, as if nothing had happened. She inhaled once, twice. Flicked ash on the carpet.

  Shailer, though, had caught her look. He backed down rapidly. Too rapidly, I thought.

  “OK, OK. I lost it and I’m sorry, all right? This is very stressful for me. It’s been an important tour, I’m jet-­lagged, and I walk back into this. It’s very difficult for me. You understand?” A glance to her, a glance to me. “I’m trying to explain. But you don’t get it. You don’t want to get it. It is so important—­so important, now of all times—­we don’t get any bad publicity. Any criticism, anything that even looks bad. Not just for me, or the Registry—­for all of us. For all mankind.”

  I nodded to Anna, meaning her to let him talk.

  She said, “You have three minutes. I time.”

  “Christ! I can’t get this across in three minutes! It’s like, it’s like the history of the world, you know? Humanity’s in trouble, understand? We’ll lose everything—­”

  “Two forty-­five,” she said.

  Shailer turned to me for help. I shrugged.

  “Look. It’s a miracle the human race survived at all. Hunter-­gatherers. You know what kind of population that supports? About a million ­people, worldwide. Human beings aren’t survivors. We got lucky, that’s all, and we got lucky ’cause of one thing. We developed agriculture. We learned to farm and raise livestock.

  “So by the time the Roman Empire rolled around, there was a pop of maybe sixty million in the empire alone. Then the eighteenth, nineteenth centuries, Industrial Revolution, same kind of effect. The population in Europe didn’t just double, it quadrupled.

  “New technology,” he said. “That’s always been what’s saved us. And that’s what we’re doing. I—­look, I still can’t get used to this myself, it’s all so, I dunno, so Superman or something—­but we are going to save the world. Fact.

  “You,” he looked at me, “you better get this straight, too, while we’re at it: your time is over. You and all the other field ops. Everything is going to change. So I hope you’ve got some other trade to ply, ’cause man, your time is done.”

  “From what you’re saying,” I said, “sounds like my job’s the only one that really counts.”

  “Oh no. Oh no, no, no. I mean—­be honest—­have you ever thought how inefficient this all is? The Registry, the way we work? We send you out with your little bottles and your wires and your stupid little Geiger counter things, and you come back with a little handful of power we convert and plug into the grid, and then it’s gone. Poof!” He raised his hands, let them fall. “It’s a tradition, an industrial tradition—­use it till there’s nothing left.

  “Where we’re going next, though, it’s more like that first revolution, agricultural. And it will make you as redundant as the mammoth hunters, Chris. You see, what we’re doing—­and it’s already started, our plan to save the Earth—­we’re going to domesticate them, Chris. Like common cattle. Like pigs and sheep and hens. We’re going to domesticate the gods.”

  He grinned so wide that for a moment I was thinking that he’d made a joke, and wondering why I didn’t get it, why I didn’t find it funny in the least.

  CHAPTER 36

  A FAMILY REUNION

  “He is mad, I think. He has problem with the brain. He is crazy man.”

  We were standing in the back room, watching through the doorway. Shailer still sat on the sofa. I’d given him another whiskey. He was nursing it, head down and shoulders slumped. He looked beaten, but I reckoned he was shamming. Also, I couldn’t see he’d be alone here long. It wasn’t that I thought he might have friends—­somehow I doubted that—­but he’d have cronies of some kind, business associates, perhaps a girl who’d call. His cell phone in my pocket had already buzzed a dozen times. Sooner or later, somebody would get curious.

  “Maybe he’s right,” I said. “Maybe it’s true.”

  I remembered Seddon, stressing the need for good PR. So maybe, maybe . . .

  I hated this. I’d come in full of righ­teous anger, and he’d hit me with—­what? An ethical dilemma? I’d never thought it would have hurt so much.

  “Is waste of time,” said Anna. “We call Fantino. See what he has. Yes?”

  Something else was bothering me, too. I went back in to Shailer.

  “OK,” I said. “There’s a killer out there. He’s got no reason to love you. But you’re genuinely just not worried, are you? Why is that?”

  “I told you. He’s not coming here. I’m not what he wants.”

  “He wanted those three guys last night. You’re saying you have some sort of . . . immunity? You’re—­I dunno, too pure or something?”

  “Pure . . . ?”

  “It was an adult theater. Porno. Where they died.”

  Shailer looked up. “Well, that fits,” he said.

  Anna said, “I am not amused by this.”

  “Nor me,” I said.

  Shailer leaned back. He took a gulp of his drink. It seemed the whiskey put that grin back on his face; that knowing, secretive, self-­confident display of fine capped teeth.

  I hated it.

  “And this,” he said, “is a perfect illustration of the problem with the Registry. And why, during my deeply unhappy fucking apprenticeship, I could not see the fucking point of Field Ops. Roughing it with a bunch of self-­important, self-­obsessive jerks who think they’re somewhere between saints and fucking Navy Seals. Your ignorance astounds me. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. And you hate the suits, ­people like me. You think you’re heroes. And you know jack shit.”

  I thought of hitting him again. Instead I stood there, waiting.

  “Anna—­Detective Ganz. You read the reports. You saw some of the bodies. Anal and vaginal penetrations. You didn’t get it. Not surprising, maybe. But Chris, you didn’t get it either, did you? It’s a fucking fertility spirit. Isn’t it obvious? It’s about sex and death and being reborn, and it’s certainly not here for me. Your three porno guys are only incidental, ’cause it knows where to go to get the right kind of energy. But they’re just fuel.”

  “I worked that out.”

  “Must say,” he stretched out, affecting nonchalance, “I’d have expected more by now. Know why?”

  “That’s obvious. He isn’t used to travelling. He’s recuperating from the exertion of the journey. Getting over jet lag, even . . .”

  “Hm. Maybe. Maybe. Though I’d say . . . more like he’s getting ready for what happens next.”

  I poured drinks for myself and Anna; no more for Shailer.

  The effects of the afternoon’s coffee were pressing on my bladder. But I wanted to hear this one out.

  He said, “You got a part of it. This . . . entity. Whatever. Bagged and boxed. The major part. Know what became of that?”

  “Six years? All used up by now, I’d think.”

  “No. I checked on this. It’s one of several specimens, all incarnates, we’ve kept intact, preserved and specially contained. You didn’t know this, did you? And now, I’d say it’s planning on a little family reunion. I’ll admit—­and this is to your credit—­I hadn’t worked it out myself, not when I saw you back in Buda. Thought it was an offshoot, just a cutting from the main stem. Things went well, you’d wipe it, clean it up, and we’d forget the whole thing. Then—­and this is yesterday, you know—­I found out it was here . . . Put two and two together. Found out what’s going on.

  “It’ll stay here for a few days, I’d guess. Build its power, and go.”

  “To where?” said Anna.

  He looked at her, weighing the urge to boast against the need to be discreet. The show-­off in him won.

  “We’ve a place out in the Midwest. It’ll be a welcome guest there. Very welcome. Give it a week or two, and this’ll all be over. So long as eve
ryone plays nice and keeps their mouths shut. There’ll be advantages—­for everyone. Including . . . well. The both of you. I guarantee it.”

  “You pig,” she said. ­“People will die. More ­people die. You say, fine, no problem. Is disgusting, I think.”

  “You’re missing the big picture here, as usual.”

  She sniffed.

  He said, “This thing—­this creature—­it’s fuel. OK? Think of that. It’s a natural resource. Think of the miners who die digging coal. Is that a worthwhile sacrifice? You may consider otherwise, Ms. Ganz, but society gives a resounding yes. And when it comes to nuclear power—­which is the best we’ve so far gotten, I remind you—­the track record is not exactly shining, is it? And do we ban nuclear power? We do not.”

  “There is difference. Fossil fuel, nuclear plants, the death is accident. Workers know the risks. That is not murder—­”

  “No? Well, I think you’ll find that when you check out the statistics, our plans are safer, cleaner, and by far—­”

  I said, “Tell me where it’s going.”

  “Indiana.” He said it straight out, no hesitating. “There’s a town out there called Wabash. Boasts itself as the first town lighted by electric power. We intend another first: the first town lighted by divinity. When ­people start to grasp what this is all about—­well, any reservations will be gone, forgotten. We can write our own ticket. You get it now?”

  He watched me. He looked into my eyes. I was Registry; I’d understand, I’d see the sense of it. And probably I would have, too, if I hadn’t seen the bodies first.

  I said, “There’s a monster. It should be stopped.”

  “Jesus! Are you even listening to me?” He shook his head. “That was fine in Budapest. If you butt in now, it’ll say Registry all over it. This is the USA, for God’s sake, not some backwater Third World shithole—­and sorry, ma’am, but there you are. We can’t be seen to be involved. And so we sit back, let it all blow over. And make sure we’re nowhere near, OK?”

  Anna said, “How many more will die?”

  “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t know.” He spread his hands, pursed his lips. Tried to look serious. “He’s weak, we know, needs to sustain himself. So, what? Three, four more? Maybe six? What do you think, Chris? You’ve probably got some idea?”

  Anna said, “Acceptable casualties.”

  “Yes, if you like.”

  Her gaze was level. She watched him steadily.

  “That’s how it goes. All through history. Any big change, any big advance—­there’s casualties. We sit back, wait, we’re all gonna be fine. OK?”

  She said to me, “Cell phone.”

  I handed her my phone.

  He said, “Now wait one minute. Do not speak to anyone. Do not—­”

  “Mike? Is Anna. You are busy? We have something, some person you should speak to, I think. He has information I think you must hear. Yes.”

  To me, in hushed, urgent tones, Shailer said, “Is that police? You’ve got to stop her, Chris. She’ll screw the whole thing up. I’m trying to explain. Doesn’t she listen?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “It isn’t just for me—­or you. Or the Registry. If we get trouble now, it’ll set us back so far—­this could be fucking catastrophic, you know? I’ve been trying to share with you, dude, telling you the truth, and now—­”

  “I think she’s right,” I said. “Someone else should deal with this.”

  “What? ’Cause you’re not man enough? That right?”

  “ ’Cause that’s the way it’s done.”

  Anna said, “He will send car.”

  Shailer groaned. He said, “Oh, great! Oh, fucking great! So let a bunch of dumb-­ass cops try and sort this out. All ’cause you”—­he looked at me—­“cannot think any higher than the low-­grade fucking wage-­slave that you are, right?”

  I said nothing, but I felt my face grow warm.

  “Can’t you—­I mean, just once in your whole life—­can’t you make a decision based on facts, not on some stupid chain of command? Huh?”

  I looked at Anna. “You OK with him a minute?”

  She just shrugged. “Is my job. He is not hard.”

  “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

  “In back,” he sneered, singsonging. “Turn right. If you think the little lady can look after me while you’re gone.”

  “Playing with fire, Shailer.”

  I stepped through into the back room. An elegant wood table, barstools, pictures on the walls. I picked a door, opened it, went on through. And knew at once that I was not alone. It wasn’t that I’d heard someone, more just an awareness; a knowledge, sudden, and so strong I felt the hairs on my neck prickle. Without my touching it, the door swung shut behind me. I spun around. And I was looking at my own face: younger, fuller, hair a little darker, worn a little longer . . .

  “Hello, Chris,” my own face said. “Do you remember yet? Has it begun?”

  He took a sideways step, but somehow he was hard to follow, as if the light fell off him at an odd angle.

  “Do you remember? Because I remember. Yes, I do.”

  CHAPTER 37

  THE METAL EDGE

  I was in the kitchen. Small, neat, everything squared off at right angles, everything black and chrome; a bachelor’s room, geared for looks, takeout, and binned packaging. There was a door diagonally across from me, and it was open; beyond, a small, unlit yard. I caught a scent and thought for a moment that it must have come from outside, but no, it was closer, much closer: a moist, earth smell, a smell of dirt and rotting vegetation, of bodies, slick with sweat . . . A flurry of impressions passed across my mind, not images or scenes or anything that I could clearly grasp, yet the rush of them unbalanced me. I clutched the countertop, straining to support myself. I called to Anna but my throat was dry, the words just dying in my mouth.

  Another voice spoke then, instead of mine.

  “ . . . and the rain, falling till the soil swells and the seed aches, filling with it, splitting from the belly to the head . . .”

  He was close to me. I smelled his breath like a mudbank in a river, harsh and rich and sickly almost beyond bearing; and his eyes were dark like mine but full of something too intense for them to hold, and I was trying to back away, my feet still moving even when I knew I’d backed against the wall. He was by the open door, three or four feet distant, yet it seemed that he was at my throat. Again I called for Anna, but my voice just seemed to vanish, swallowed by some strange twist of the air.

  “The red, the red . . . the taste of it, your tongue against the metal edge—­remember, Chris? Remember that?”

  He did not seem to move but he was everywhere, all around me, anywhere I looked. In the stark, functional elegance of Shailer’s kitchen he became a whirl of light, scrambling through the thin, constricted air. Yet his presence displaced nothing: not the brightly colored towels draped along the rail, the fragile glasses on the tray atop the fridge—­it was a sleight of hand, a dream of motion. It did not exist. He was everywhere, but only insofar as my own gaze fixed on him; as if by looking I could somehow pin him down, first here, then there, as if he were the air itself. He whispered in my ear, “An edge of metal. For a moment you feel nothing, nothing at all; as if the incident has never happened. You breathe in. Relieved. Then taste the blood, the iron. Taste it. Sacrificed to earth, to air . . .”

  I pushed at him, and I was pushing nothing. The force of my own effort dropped me to the floor. Bright blossoms scattered over me; I had pulled down the rail of vivid hand towels.

  “I am the edge of metal, Chris. I am the blade you press against, and the more you press, the deeper down I go. I am the sharpness where you scratch your itch. You touch me and I open you to air and earth. I make you part of it. I am in you, you in me, Chris. Red as blood. Red as rain. The metal edge agai
nst your tongue.”

  There was a face above me, but not his, and the light had changed. It was a cold, electric light. Anna was kneeling over me. She shook me lightly at the shoulder, then her fingers pressed against my neck, seeking a pulse. I knew time must have passed, although I had no sense of it.

  “Chris? Chris?”

  I raised a hand, indicating urgently. “Here—­here—­”

  “Is OK. You faint, we hear you. Is OK, yes? You know me? Say my name, Chris. Say my name.”

  “He was—­was—­”

  “Say my name.”

  I did. Then I said, “How long . . . ?”

  “I come when I hear. No time. A moment, is all.”

  “No—­how long was I in here?”

  “I tell you. Moment. You close door, then we hear big crash-­bang. Here I am.”

  I pushed myself up on my hands. “Who else?”

  The kitchen door was open.

  “No one else.”

  “He’s out there. I saw him. He’s here—­”

  I struggled to my feet, dragged myself up by the countertop. I staggered to the door. The steps dropped sharply from the doorway, and the yard was like a narrow pit. I couldn’t see into it.

  Anna came up behind, hooked her arm in mine to hold me up.

  “You must sit.”

  Slowly, she steered me back towards the lounge. Shailer was still there, on the sofa where I’d left him. He must have seen the look on my face, because he said, “Surprised? Don’t think I’m planning to compound your own stupidity by ending up a fugitive from justice.”

  “Good,” I muttered.

  “Oh, I’m good, all right. In fact, I plan to have a little chat with your police friends, make a ­couple of calls, then leave you to your little games. OK?”

  I said, “I saw him. Just now. Here.”

  “Oh, bullshit.”

  “How long was I out there?”