He had created the Alchemists. They massed money, more than he might ever need, and power. Their tentacles had spread to virtually every corner of the globe. Of course he had a vast network, in law enforcement, politics, economics, merchant banking, but those people were passive: messengers of intel, nothing more. The Alchemists were an active group. Its members did what he directed them to do, when he directed them to do it. All save Greg Whitman. Much to Preach’s chagrin, life was not a block of marble. The future of which he was given glimpses was not a block of marble. Whitman, he had discovered, had a way of mucking up even his most meticulously laid plans. But then Whitman was special. He knew that the instant he pressed his fingertip to Whitman’s father’s breastbone. Moments later, the man died of a cerebral aneurism. Preach had had a moment of regret—one of the very few in his long, long life—but it was fleeting, and left no imprint on him. The death was necessary to remove the fork in the young Whitman’s life that would have led him away from Preach. He could not have that. Whitman was like Preach, he could have a familiar—like Crow—if he wished it. He might divine the future, as Preach did. He had mastered the resurrection technique almost as if he’d known it in his bones. And he might know more—he might—but he would have to unlock those secrets himself. Whitman was like a son to Preach, someone who might one day surpass even his own accomplishments. Like all of the people Preach brought into his orbit, Whitman had a streak of cruelty in him. It was others’ penchant for cruelty that Preach exploited, that bound his people to him. But Whitman’s cruelty was a reptilian thing, glimpsed in light, vanishing in shadow, one moment there, the next not, so that Preach could never be sure of it, never be certain of his hold over Whitman, even despite his pounding into Whitman the glory of the newer, better world to come. For there was a part of Whitman, Preach suspected, that rejected his own cruelty, was repulsed by it, while the others savored theirs like vintage wine.

It was in this reflective mood that Crow found him. The acolytes could not, of course, see Crow, but they felt his shade move across their bare shoulders like a sudden icefall, and they shuddered, pulling back to the far side of the tub, eyes glassy and, for the moment, fearful.

Crow brought him up to date on all the people in the net he had cast far and wide years ago. But as of this moment everyone was performing as planned—even, this time, Whitman. The future was still as Crow had envisioned it.

Chapter 28

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