get you a thesaurus next Christmas. You need to expand your vocabulary.”
“Some things are beyond redemption.”
“I thought anyone could get through the Pearly Gates if they repented.”
“No. Not everyone.”
“Maybe I should take back my fritter.”
Aelita sighs and looks out the window. She’d rather be having lunch in a volcano than sitting here with me.
“Not everyone deserves God’s grace, but everything in existence has a purpose and a use. Even the abhorrent. Given that, I’ve come here to ask you one more time, will you work for the righteous cause of the Golden Vigil?”
“When you ask so nicely, it makes me feel all nonabhorrent.”
“This is your chance to redeem yourself, if only just a little.”
“Sure. I’ll work for the Vigil. But on a freelance basis. And I want to be paid. In cash and in advance. I don’t exactly trust holy rollers.”
“You want money for doing God’s work?”
“Yes. A lot of money. You practically have Area 51 tucked away in your warehouse. You can afford it.”
“I didn’t think you could possibly be more vile, but you’ve managed to surprise me.”
“I know. I’m worse than the bogeyman and tooth decay. But the offer still stands. I don’t have a business card, but you know where to find me.”
I take my own apple fritter out of the bag and take a bite. The Kissi was right. It really is that good.
“Every day you’re alive is like someone spitting in the face of God. I showed you mercy when I let Eugène save you. You won’t get mercy from me again.”
“I saved your celestial ass the other night.”
“You put me in that awful place.”
“No. The Kissi did. Or did you forget about them?”
She pushes her fritter and coffee across the table.
“This food smells like death. I’m sure you love it. I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other. I’m leaving.”
“You going to hide and massacre me in the parking lot?”
“It’s tempting.”
“No, it’s not, and here’s why. I went to some people and I traded some things. Got myself a kill switch.”
“What is that?”
“They have them on trains. Tractors. Some other equipment. It’s a button the operator has to hold down for the machine to work. The operator has a heart attack and dies, he lets go of the button. The switch kills the engine and the machine stops. A kill switch.”
“Are you thinking of becoming a train conductor?”
“Better. I’m keeping an eye on this.” I take out a small wooden box I bought the day before, a pyx, and slide it across the table to her. “You know what that is. It’s usually for a consecrated host, but I put something better inside. Take a look.”
Aelita looks at me for a minute, and then touches the box. Probably doing some angel magic to see if it’s poison or a bomb or a poison bomb. Finally, she opens it and looks inside. There’s a tiny light on the bottom. So small, a human couldn’t see it.
“What is this?”
“Look closer, angel. Don’t you recognize it?”
She drops the box.
“A piece of the Mithras.”
“That’s right. A fragment of a fragment of a fragment. I put the rest in the Room of Thirteen Doors. As long as I’m alive, it’s safe. But if you ever run me through with that sword again, the glass holding the Mithras will break and burn its way out through all thirteen doors.”
“You’re lying.”
“You kill me and I’ll torch this whole little puppet show. Then, when Heaven itself is burning, you can explain to your boss how it’s all your fault.”
“Even you aren’t this mad.”
“There’s an easy way to find out.”
I put the pyx in my pocket and get up. Slide her pastry and mine into the paper bag and roll it closed.
“You don’t deserve a fritter.”
I leave Aelita there in the booth with the sun coming through the window, thinking about doughnuts and the end of everything.
I DIAL DOC Kinski’s number and he picks up.
“Damn. When did you start answering phones?”
“It’s a recent and very temporary development. What can I do for you?”
“How’s Candy doing?”
“Still a little overexcited. When someone falls off the murder wagon, it can take ’em a while to calm down.”
“That’s why some of us don’t ever stop.”
Silence. Nothing. Crickets.
“That was a joke,” I say.
“I’ll take your word for it. That’s not all you called about, is it?”
“No. I’m calling about the bullets. You said you’d take them out when things calmed down. Things have.”
“Okay. Come by today.”
“When?”
“How about right now?”
WHEN I PULL into the minimall, Kinski is outside smoking a cigarette. I park the stolen Mercedes SLR McLaren at the rear of lot, behind a pizza delivery van. The McLaren’s doors don’t open out. They flip up like insect wings.
Kinski drops his cigarette and grinds it out with his boot.
“You couldn’t find anything more conspicuous to drive over here? Maybe a blimp or an ocean liner?”
“No one can see it from the street.”
“I suppose. You ready for this?”
“Yeah. I’m sick of things banging around inside me every time I sneeze.”
“All right, then. Let’s get them out.”
He leads me back into the clinic. Nothing has changed in the reception area. Even the magazines are sitting exactly where they were the last time I was here. If this was anybody else’s office,
