“You know firsthand what Preach is capable of; you’re one of the few people who’ve seen it and lived to tell about it,” St. Vincent pressed on. “Imagine what he could do if we gave him access to the triptyne.”

“I am imagining it. It’s something Hartwell proposed some time ago.”

“Hartwell,” Luther scoffed. “He has no firsthand knowledge … Giving Preach access to triptyne is too dangerous.”

“That’s your assessment,” Albin said. “It’s time to come clean, Luther. We both knew Lindstrom wasn’t going to cut it—no pure scientist could. We’re off the map here, in a place where it takes more than theory, equations, and patient titration. Mobius was in Preach’s territory from the get-go. Now, at last, we’ll get what we want.”

“You mean what he wants.”

“Same thing.”

“Is it? What if the outcome isn’t what we imagined it to be?”

“No one can predict the future, Luther. We can only summon it.”

There ensued a very long silence, while out in the corridor Lucy continued her private prayer.

“This is madness,” Luther said at last. “Once you let the genie out of the bottle there’s no stuffing him back in.”

“Your fear of Preach is elemental, Luther. It isn’t rational; it’s personal. And it isn’t really about Preach at all. It’s about Gregory Whitman.” Albin grunted. “You and Whitman have a score to settle. This confrontation has been a long time coming.

“Now that Preach has been summoned, the end, as they say, is nigh. One of you—you or Gregory—is going to make his last stand.”

Chapter 41

41

Julie sat beside Hemingway as he drove along the interstate.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said.

“No. When we get back to D.C. I’ll give you directions to where I want to go and you can drop me off.”

He shot her a glance. “You sure?” Then, seeing the determination in her face, he shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t disappear off the grid, okay?”

She nodded, but there was a desire inside her to stay on the road all the way to Santa Monica or Portland. She felt as if nothing could reach her if only she kept on the move, following the now tarnished American dream that led west, always west. As far from D.C. as she could get without boarding a plane or a ship.

“As for St. Vincent,” Julie said, just for the hell of it, and because she was coming to like taking control of her conversations with Hemingway, “I’ve had an unofficial investigation opened on him at the attorney general’s office.”

This pronouncement almost caused Hemingway to drive off the road. “You did what?” A squeal of protesting rubber, a blaring bouquet of horns brought the car back in lane. He risked a sideways glance. “How could you possibly?”

She told him about Orrin.