Brimstone

The park was bedlam: kids and adults scattered across the ground, cowering and screaming. D'Agosta rushed to where Pendergast had fallen, relieved beyond measure when he saw the FBI agent was sitting up. The two Chinese were dead, and the cameraman, who'd practically been torn in half, was obviously on his way out, too. But no civilians had been so much as scratched. It seemed a miracle.

D'Agosta knelt in the grass. "Pendergast, you all right?"

Pendergast waved, face ashen, temporarily unable to speak.

One of the other FBI agents came ru

"Agent Pendergast. The cameraman's beyond help."

"Backup and medical are on the way." And, in fact, D'Agosta could now hear sirens converging on the park.

Pendergast helped one of the children he'd protected-a boy of about eight-to a standing position. His father rushed over and clasped the child in his arms. "You saved his life," he said. "You saved his life."

D'Agosta helped Pendergast up. Blood was soaking through one side of his dirty shirt.

"That fellow winged me," Pendergast said. "It's nothing, a flesh wound. I lost my wind, that's all."

Slowly, hesitantly, people began converging on the park from the surrounding houses, crowding around the burning hulk of the Mercedes and the nearby corpse. Newly arrived cops were shouting, covering the corners, setting up a cordon, yelling at the gathering crowd to keep back.

"Damn," said D'Agosta. "Those fuckers from BAI were expecting a firefight."

"Indeed they were. And no wonder."

"What do you mean?"

"I overheard just enough to learn Bullard's men were calling the deal off."

"Calling the deal off ?"

"On the very eve of success, apparently. Now you can see the reason for the elaborate setup-the park, the children. They knew the Chinese would not be pleased. This was their attempt to avoid being shot to pieces."

D'Agosta glanced around at the carnage. "Hayward's go

"She should. If we hadn't run that wiretap and been here to take down those shooters, I hate to think what might have happened."

D'Agosta shook his head and looked at the burning Mercedes, now being hosed down by a fire truck. "You know what? This case just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

{ 36 }

The Reverend Wayne P. Buck Jr. sat at the counter of the Last Gasp truck stop in Yuma, Arizona, stirring skim milk into his coffee. Before him lay the remains of his usual breakfast: white toast with a little marmalade, oatmeal without milk or sugar. Outside, beyond the flyspecked window, there was a grinding of gears: a large semi pulled off the apron, its steel tank flashing in the brilliant sun, heading west toward Barstow.

Reverend Buck-the title was honorary-took a sip of the coffee. Then, methodical in everything he did, he finished his breakfast, carefully cleaning the bowl with the edge of his spoon before setting it aside. He took another sip of coffee, replaced the cup gently in its saucer. And then at last he turned to his morning reading: the ten-inch stack of periodicals that lay tied in heavy twine on the far end of the counter.

As Buck cut the twine with a pocketknife, he was aware of a sense of anticipation. His morning reading was always a high point of the day: a trucker, whom he'd cured of fits at a camp revival several months before, always left a bundle of outdated newspapers for him outside the truck stop every morning. The papers varied from day to day, and Buck never knew what he'd find. Yesterday there'd been a copy of the New Orleans Times-Picayune in among the more common Phoenix Sun and Los Angeles Times . But his tingle of anticipation, he knew, extended beyond the selection of reading material.

Reverend Buck had been in the vicinity of Yuma almost a year now, ministering to the truckers, the waitresses and busboys, the migrant workers, the broken and wandering and uncertain souls that passed through on their way to some place and rarely lingering long. The work was its own reward, and he never complained. The reason there were so many si

But he'd been here in Yuma a long spell now. There were other places, so many others, that needed to hear. Every day that went by meant there would be less time. For truly I tell you, you will not have gone through all the towns of Israel before the Son of Man comes.

Buck was a firm believer in signs. Nothing that happened on this earth happened by accident. It was a sign that carried him from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, to Borrego Springs, California, last year; another sign that had brought him from Borrego Springs here to Yuma a few months later. One of these days-maybe next week, maybe next month-there would be another sign. He might find it here in these stacks of newspapers. Or he might find it in the story of a passing trucker. But the sign would come, and he'd be gone, gone to some other remote spot with its full share of those in need of the balm of salvation.

Reverend Buck plucked the first newspaper from the pile: the previous Sunday’s Sacramento Bee . He leafed rather quickly through the national and local pages-big cities like Sacramento could always be counted on for stories of murder, rape, corruption, vice, corporate greed. Buck had read enough such stories for a thousand cautionary sermons. He was more interested in the squibs and sidebars, the news bites taken off the wire feeds and recounted in odd corners of the paper for reader amusement. The tiny town where two brothers hadn't spoken to each other in forty years. The trailer park where every single child had left, a runaway. These were the stories that spoke to him; these were the signs that impelled him and his message.

The Bee completed, Buck turned to the next: USA Today. Laverne, the waitress, came over with coffeepot in hand. "Another cup, Reverend?"

"Just one more, thank you kindly." Buck practiced moderation in all things. One cup of coffee was a blessing; two cups was an indulgence; three cups, a sin. He perused the paper, put it aside, and picked up a third: a day-old copy of the New York Post . Buck came across this tabloid only rarely, and he had nothing but scorn for it: the brazen mouthpiece of the world's most dissipated, sin-ridden city held no interest for him. He was about to put it aside when the headline caught his attention:

DESTRUCTION

Renowned Scientist Claims Recent Deaths Signal End of Days

by Bryce Harriman

More slowly, Buck turned the page and began to read.

October 25, 2004-A respected scientist yesterday predicted imminent destruction for New York City and possibly much of the world.