“Where are we going?”

“I-I parked on the second floor.”

“Go back downstairs with me.”

They returned to the ground level. A Latino family chattering in Spanish pushed past them and went up the staircase. The Harlequin turned quickly, looking in every direction. Nothing.

They went back upstairs and Vicki walked over to a Chevrolet sedan with a bumper sticker in the rear window: “Learn the Truth! Isaac T. Jones Died for YOU!”

“Where’s my shotgun?” the woman asked.

“What shotgun?”

“You were supposed to supply me with weapons, money, and American identification. That’s standard procedure.”

“I’m sorry Miss-Miss Harlequin. Shepherd didn’t say anything about that. He just told me to carry a diamond shape and meet you at the terminal. My mother didn’t want me to do this, but I came anyway.”

“Open the boot-the trunk-whatever you call it.”

Vicki fumbled with her keys and opened the trunk. It was filled with aluminum cans and plastic bottles that she was taking to a recycling station. She felt embarrassed that the Harlequin had seen them.

The young woman placed her camera case and tripod inside the trunk. She glanced around. No one was looking. Without a word of explanation, she snapped open the hiding places in the tripod and pulled out two knives and a sword. All of this was much too harsh. Vicki remembered the imaginary Harlequins in her dreams who carried golden swords and swung through the air on ropes. The weapon in front of her was a real sword that looked very sharp. Not knowing what to say, she remembered a passage of scripture from The Collected Letters of Isaac T. Jones.

“When the Final Messenger comes, the Evil One will fall into the Darkest Realm and swords will be transformed into Light.”

“Sounds wonderful.” The Harlequin slipped her sword into a carrying tube. “But until that happens, I’m keeping my own blade sharp.”

They got into the car and the Harlequin adjusted the right side mirror so that she could see if anyone was behind them. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “We need to go someplace where there aren’t any cameras.”

They left the parking structure, followed the airport traffic circle, and turned onto Sepulveda Boulevard. It was November, but the air was warm and sunlight was reflected off every windshield and pane of glass. They were driving through a commercial district of two- and three-story structures, modern office buildings facing immigrant grocery stores, and fingernail salons. Only a few people were on the sidewalk: the poor, the elderly, and a crazy man with matted hair who looked like John the Baptist.

“There’s a park a few miles from here,” Vicki said. “It doesn’t have surveillance cameras.”

“Are your sure about that or just guessing?” The Harlequin kept looking at the side mirror.

“Guessing. But it’s a logical guess.”

Her answer seemed to amuse the young woman. “All right. Let’s see if logic works any better in America.”

The park was a small strip of land with a few trees across the street from Loyola University. No one was in the parking lot and there didn’t appear to be any surveillance cameras. The Harlequin examined the area carefully, and then removed her sunglasses, tinted contact lenses, and brown wig. The young woman’s real hair was thick and black, and her eyes were very pale-with only a hint of blue color. Her puffy appearance came from some kind of drug. As it began to wear off, she looked much stronger and even more aggressive.

Vicki tried not to stare at the sword case. “Are you hungry, Miss Harlequin?”

The young woman stuffed the wig into her travel bag. Once again, she glanced at the side mirror. “My name is Maya.”

“My church name is Victory From Sin Fraser. But I ask most people to just call me Vicki.”

“That’s a wise choice.”

“Are you hungry, Maya?”

Instead of answering her, Maya reached into her shoulder purse and took out a small electronic device about the size of a matchbox. She pressed a button and numbers flashed on a narrow screen. Vicki didn’t understand what the numbers meant, but the Harlequin used them to make a decision. “Okay. Let’s have lunch,” Maya said. “Take me to a place where we can buy food and eat in the car. Park facing out, toward the street.”

They ended up at a Mexican-food stand called Tito’s Tacos. Vicki carried sodas and burritos back to the car. Maya remained silent and picked at the beef filling with a little plastic fork. Not knowing what else to do, Vicki watched the people come and go in the parking lot. An old woman with the stocky physique and Indian features of a Guatemalan peasant. A middle-aged Filipino husband and wife. Two young Asian men-probably Korean-wearing the flashy clothes and gold jewelry of black rappers.

Vicki faced the Harlequin and tried to sound confident. “Can you tell me why you’re in Los Angeles?”

“No.”

“Is this about a Traveler? The pastor of my church says that the Travelers don’t exist anymore. They’ve all been hunted down and killed.”

Maya lowered her can of soda. “Why didn’t your mother want you to meet me?”

“The Divine Church of Isaac T. Jones doesn’t believe in violence. Everyone in the church knows that Harlequins…” Vicki stopped talking and looked embarrassed.

“Kill people?”

“I’m sure that the people you fight are wicked and cruel.” Vicki dumped the rest of her food into a paper bag and looked straight at Maya. “Unlike my mother and her friends, I believe in the Debt Not Paid. We must never forget that the Lion of the Temple was the only person brave enough to defend the Prophet on the night of his martyrdom. He died with the Prophet and was burned in the same fire.”

Maya rattled the ice in her cup. “So what do you do when you’re not picking up strange people at airports?”

“I graduated from high school this summer and now Mother wants me to take the exam for the post office. Many of the Faithful here in Los Angeles are postal carriers. It’s a good job with lots of benefits. At least, that’s what they say.”

“And what do you want to do?”

“It would be wonderful to travel around the world. There are so many places I’ve only seen in books or on television.”

“So do it.”

“I don’t have money and plane tickets like you. I’ve never even been to a nice restaurant or a nightclub. Harlequins are the freest people in the world.”

Maya shook her head. “You don’t want to be a Harlequin. If I was free, I wouldn’t be in this city.”

The cell phone in Vicki’s purse began playing the theme from Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. Vicki hesitated, then answered the phone and heard Shepherd’s cheerful voice.

“Did you get the package at the airport?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me talk to her.”

Vicki passed the phone over to Maya and listened to the Harlequin say “yes” three times. She switched off the phone and dropped it on the seat of the car.

“Shepherd has my weapons and identification. You’re supposed to go to 489 Southwest-whatever that means.”

“It’s a code. He told me to be careful talking on the cell phone.”

Vicki got a Los Angeles phone book from the backseat and turned to page 489. In the lower left corner-the southwest section of the page-she found an ad for a business called Resurrection Auto Parts. The address was in Marina del Rey, a few miles from the ocean. They left the parking lot and drove west on Washington Boulevard. Maya stared out the window as if she were trying to find landmarks that she could remember.

“Where’s the center of Los Angeles?”

“Downtown, I guess. But not really. There’s no center here, just little communities.”

The Harlequin reached beneath the sleeve of her sweater and adjusted one of her knives. “Sometimes my father would recite a poem by Yeats when we were walking around London.” She hesitated, then spoke softly: “Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart, the centre cannot hold…”