It seemed a simple enough plan.

On the way back down the dirt road, on the other side of the drawbridge, I saw the flatbed truck, with the conical loudspeakers welded on the roof, of the Reverend Oswald Flat, banging in the ruts and coming toward me in a cloud of dust. Crates of machinery or equipment of some kind were boomed down on the truck bed.

Oswald Flat recognized my pickup and clanked to a halt in the middle of the road. His pale eyes, which had the strange, nondescript color of water running over a pebbled streambed, stared at me from behind his large, rimless glasses. His wife sat next to him, eating pork rinds out of a brown bag.

'Where you running off to now?' he said.

'To New Orleans. I'm in a bit of a hurry, too.'

'Yeah, I can tell you're about to spot your drawers over something.'

'Today's not the day for it, Reverend.'

'Oh, I know that. I wouldn't want to hold you back from the next mess you're about to get yourself into. But my conscience requires that I talk to you, whether you like hit or not. Evidently you got the thinking powers of a turnip, son. Now, just stop wee-weeing in your britches a minute and pull onto the side of the road.'

'Os, I told you to stop talking to the man like he's a mo-ron,' his wife said, dabbing at the rings of fat under her chin with a handkerchief.

I parked in a wide spot and walked back toward his truck. Through the slats in one of the crates fastened to the flatbed with boomer chains I could see the round brass helmet, with glass windows and wing nuts, and the rubber and canvas folds of an ancient diving suit.

'I hate even to ask what you're doing with that,' I said.

'Bought hit at a shipyard outside Lake Charles-air hoses, compressor, weighted shoes, cutting torch, stuff I don't even know the name of. Now I got to get aholt of a boat.'

'You're going to try to find that sub?'

He smiled and didn't answer.

'Do you know what's in it?' I asked.

'I'd bet on a lot of Nazis ready for a breath of fresh air.'

'I think you're going to get hurt.'

'Hit's something they want. So I'll do everything I can to make sure they don't get hit.'

'Don't do this, sir.'

'I cain't fault you. You mean well. But you still don't get hit. You ain't chasing one man, or even a bunch of men. Hit's something wants to take over the earth and blot out the sun. Hit's evil on a scale the likes of ordinary people cain't imagine.'

His eyes searched in mine like those of a man who would never find words to adequately explain the enigmas that to him had the bright, clear shape of a dream.

'You lost your son to forces you couldn't control, Reverend,' I said. 'I lost my wife Annie in a similar way. I was full of anger, and after a while I came to believe the whole earth was a dark place.'

He was already shaking his head before I could finish.

'I was on a tanker got torpedoed. Right out yonder,' he said, and pointed toward the southern horizon. 'There ain't no way to describe hit for somebody ain't been there. Holding on to the life jacket of a man whose face is burnt off… Boilers blowing apart under the water… Men crawling around on the hull like ants just before she slips to the bottom… Somebody screaming out there inside an island of flaming oil. You don't never want to hear a sound like that, Mr. Robicheaux.'

'Sometimes you have to let things go, partner.'

'They got to make people afraid. That's the plan. Make 'em afraid of the coloreds, the dope addicts, the homeless, the homosexuals, hit don't matter. When they got enough people afraid, that's when they'll move.'

'Who?'

'The Book of Revelation says the Beast will come from the sea. In the Bible the sea means politics.'

'I think you're a decent man. But don't go down after that sub with this junk.'

'Just leave things alone… Don't be messin'… Let the law handle hit… You put me in mind of a woodpecker tapping away on a metal light pole.' He pursed his lips and began to whistle, then opened the door to the truck cab and reached behind the seat. 'Tell me what you make of this?'

'An iron rose.'

'Hit was probably tore off a tomb or a gate. But this morning hit was on my front porch. The stem was stuck through the heart on a valentine card.'

It was heavy in my palm, the iron black with age, the edges of the petals thin and serrated with rust.

'Have you given somebody reason to be upset with you?' I said.

'I been working down in the Desire Project for the last week.'

'You know how to pick them.'

'Jesus didn't spend a lot of time with bankers and the fellows at the Chamber of Commerce.'

I placed the iron rose back in his hand.

'Good luck to you, Reverend. Call me if I can help with anything,' I said.

I left him there, a good man out of sync with the world, the era, even the vocabulary of his countrymen. But I doubted if anyone would ever be able to accuse the Reverend Oswald Flat of mediocrity. His kind ended on crosses, forever the excoriated enemies of the obsequious. To him my words of caution bordered on insult and my most reasoned argument had the viability of a moth attempting to mold and shape a flame.

A narcotics sting sounds interesting. It's not. It usually involves what's called rolling over the most marginal players in the street trade-hypes, hookers, and part-time mules, and any of their demented friends and terrified family members who are unlucky enough to get nailed with them. As a rule, the mules, or couriers, are dumb and inept and spend lifetimes seeking out authority figures in the form of probation officers and social workers. In the normal world most of them couldn't make sandwiches without an instruction manual. They are almost always users themselves, dress as though they're color-blind, speak in slow motion, and wonder why cops can easily pick them out of a crowd at a shopping mall.

They scheme and labor on a daily basis at the bottom of the food chain. When they're busted in a sting, their choices are immediate and severe-they either roll over and give up somebody else, or they go straight to jail, sweat out withdrawal over a toilet bowl in a holding cell, then meditate upon their mistakes while hoeing soybeans for several years at Angola.

Shitsville in the street trade is when you're spiking six balloons a day and suddenly you're in custody and the Man can snap his fingers and turn you into a Judas Iscariot or a trembling bowl of Jell-O.

'You telling me you want to ride the beef, Albert?' the plainclothes says to the frightened black man, who sits on the edge of the motel bed, his wrists handcuffed behind him, his thin forearms lined with the infected tracks and gray scar tissue of his addiction.

'If I give you Bobby, he'll fuck me up, man,' Albert answers. 'Cat's got a blade. He did a guy in Houston with it.'

The plainclothes, a heavy, choleric man in a sweaty, long-sleeve white shirt, reaches out and taps Albert sharply on the cheek with his hand.

'Are you stupid, Albert?' he says. 'You're already fucked up. You're taking Bobby's fall. Bobby has kicked a two-by-four up your ass. Look at me, you stupid shit. Bobby told me your old lady whores for lepers. He laughs at both of you behind your back. He's got you copping his joint and you're too fucking dumb to know it.'

'He told you my old-'

'You want to go back to Angola? You want to get turned out again, made into a galboy, that's what you're telling me, Albert? You like those swinging dicks to turn you out? I heard they tore up your insides last time.'

'You gotta he'p me on this. I cain't go down again, man.'

'Get him out of my sight,' the plainclothes says to another cop.

'You gotta keep my name out of it, okay? The cat tole me to meet him in a pizza joint out in Metairie. He's gonna be there in an hour.'