“And for a while I thought it was one of those stories,” said Abdul. “People grab at stuff like that because they want to know someone is out here who has his act together. Someone with a plan. Well, this guy, if he’s real, is like that. That’s one of the reasons my team came out here. We were hoping to hook up with him, see who he was, combine forces and like that.”

“But you said his name . . . ”

“Yeah, sure. They call him Old Man Church.”

I felt my whole body tense and my heart wanted to jump out of my mouth. “What does he look like?”

“What’s he look like?” Abdul thought that was a funny question. “I don’t know. Old, I guess. I never saw him. All I know is that a couple of travelers who said they met him talked about his gloves. He wears black gloves. Not work gloves or bike gloves, but silk. At least that’s what I was told.”

I closed my eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I breathed.

“Why? What’s wrong? Do you know this guy?”

I took a long time answering because I wanted everything he said to be real, and I was afraid of breaking the spell.

“I think maybe I used to work for him,” I said.

“Old Man Church?”

“We called him Mister Church. Or sometimes the Deacon,” I said. “If it’s him . . . if it’s really him . . . then I have to find him.”

“Why—” began Abdul, but a sudden fit of coughing punched its way out of his chest. Blood and something that looked like black oil spattered his hands and I instinctively moved away. Tiny threadlike white worms wriggled in the black stuff. The larvae of the parasite that was the base of Lucifer 113.

Abdul stared in horror at it, and any trace of peace that had been in his eyes vanished. He raised those eyes to me and they were filled with the total helpless pleading of the lost. Big tears rolled down his cheeks. Baskerville got up and backed away, growling low and deep.

“Down,” I snapped, and the dog moved ten feet away and sat, eyes hooded and menacing.

“I . . . I . . . ” Abdul began, then buried his face in his hands.

I got to my feet. “Tell me what you want me to do,” I said as kindly as I could. When he looked up he saw that I had my pistol in my hand.

“Now or later?” I asked.

It took him a long time and cost him so much of what he had left to spend, but he got to his feet. Not his knees. His feet. That mattered. He lifted a trembling hand and pointed to the sword I wore.

“That’s a samurai sword?”

“Yes. A katana.”

“I . . . I saw you with it. You didn’t just learn it . . . you know . . . since?” It came out as a question.