Lucy sat over the remains of her sundae, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach pinwheeling as if she were on a roller coaster. Preach had crawled right into her mind. As always. But, she thought, what if Preach was telling the truth? What if he had arranged everything so that she would be taken to his church of fire and sex? Was it even possible? And even if it were, why would he do such a thing? Who was she that he wanted her so badly?

She heard his voice, as clearly as if he were still beside her: “You’re a death-dealer.” What could he mean by…?

And then of course she saw herself, as if from an odd angle, above and almost beyond, killing the failed clinical trial patients, the victims, whatever you chose to call them, one after another, boom! boom! boom! all in a row. Then filling their mouths with stones, watching them slide into the cenote headfirst without a care or an iota of remorse.

Preach was right about her. She was a death-dealer. Then it stood to reason he was telling the truth about everything. Ev-ry-thing. Including her coming back to him of her own free will.

With a sudden, violent motion, she swept the bowl and utensils off the table, felt a kind of satisfaction hearing the pottery shatter. And then she wept. It was such a tiny victory—and so terribly petty, meaningless even.

Free will. What a joke! As if she had had free will, manipulated every step of the way by Preach until she lay beneath his thrusting hips, feeling his sperm gush into her depths, burning her insides, turning them black as night, black as death.

Christ, no, she thought, as she pushed herself back from the table and rose. Christ, no. Never. Even hell had to be better than being his creature.

Chapter 50

50

“While you two have been jawing,” Preach called out, “your nemesis is on his way.”

Hartwell snatched the Peranomicon off the porch railing, stashed it away on his person. “What’s he talking about?” he said to White.

“I’m talking about Whitman.” Preach strode toward them. “He’s on his way here with a load of poppies.”

Hartwell and White exchanged concerned looks.

“How on earth did Whitman, of all people, get his hands on our Przemko poppies?” Trey whispered.

“Obviously St. Vincent’s measures failed to deter him,” White said.

“Are either of you really surprised?”

“Is that why Whitman is here?” Hartwell asked. “Because of a bouquet of fucking poppies?”

Preach laughed.

“He’s here,” White said, ignoring Preach as best he could, “because Luther abducted one of his people and had Dr. Lindstrom administer the Mobius serum to him.”

Hartwell’s eyes widened and his nose twitched like a rabbit scenting its own death. “So he knows everything.”

“Presumably,” White said.

“Definitely,” Preach said.