"He did his duty. If he thinks it's time to come home, then that's what he should do."

"He wants to be a cop. You believe that?"

Rakkim shook his hand, lost in Colarusso's mitt. "That's great."

"Yeah…" Colarusso beamed, lightly ran his fingers over his badge. "He said he likes the discipline and the camaraderie of the department, reminds him of why he applied to become Fedayeen. He said he wanted to do something that would help people, but he worried about the killing part. I told him most cops go their whole career and never draw their sidearm…and the ones that have to, well, somebody's got to stop the bad guys." He nudged Rakkim in the ribs. "Although I did tell him to forget that nonsense about helping people. That kind of talk will get him laughed off the force."

"Quarterback of the Atlanta Rednecks used to live here," said Deshane, pointing at the house on the hill as they turned off the country road, the Cadillac lurching over the potholes.

They had been escorted to the car by one of Crews's deacons, but Deshane, clearly under orders, drifted far back from the other vehicles in the entourage. Gravenholtz had threatened the driver, but the Old One interceded, told him to settle back and enjoy the ride. They had been driving for almost an hour now, out past the outskirts of Atlanta and into the pinewoods. They hadn't seen headlights or taillights in twenty minutes.

Deshane beeped the horn and the heavy steel gates slowly slid back from the entrance to the mansion. He waved at the guards flanking the private drive.

The guards waved back, assault rifles slung awkwardly across their shoulders, whiskey bottles in their hands.

"Great fucking security you got here," muttered Gravenholtz from the front seat.

"They's just bored," said Deshane, a young black man with cornrows and sad eyes. "Pastor Crews said they can't have whores visit the guardhouse anymore. That didn't sit well."

"Yes, I can imagine," said the Old One, seated in the back with Baby. "Not really much for them to do out here, I imagine."

"Yes, sir," said Deshane. "Nearest neighbors about four miles away."

Baby rolled down the window, inhaled. "Honeysuckle. I missed that smell." There were no lights in view other than those from the house on the hill.

Deshane sniffed. "If you say so, ma'am."

"Oh, I do," said Baby, stretching out her feet as the wind blew through her hair. She wiggled her toes. "I most definitely say so."

"Have you been with Pastor Crews long?" asked the Old One.

"Just a couple months, sir," said Deshane. "The rest of the boys…they been with him lots longer."

"They End-Times Army?" said the Old One.

"I'm not really supposed to talk about that, sir," said Deshane. He slowly guided the Cadillac up the winding drive toward the main house.

Baby could hear music through the open window, getting louder as they approached the house, one of those ticky-tacky fake mansions that new money bought, with plaster columns out front and a high peaked roof-Hollywood Southern Gothic, the Colonel had called it once, disgusted. The mansion might have started out white but it needed a fresh coat of paint and half the front windows were broken.

Deshane pulled up in front, parked behind four other vehicles. He hopped out, opened the door for Baby, then ran around and let the Old One out. Started up the steep steps toward the door. "I'll leave you in the foyer and go see if Pastor Crews will see you now." He cleared his throat, looked around. "Probably best if you don't converse with the deacons. They…they can be a little prickly with strangers."

Gravenholtz kicked open the front door, knocked it half off its hinges.

Baby took the Old One's hand, the two of them strolling past the startled Deshane as though they were going to a cotillion.

The deacons in the living room looked up at Baby, snaggletoothed louts with matted hair, black suits wrinkled. She didn't recognize any of them from the prayer service. They sprawled on couches that leaked stuffing, whiskey bottles in their hands. All of them were armed, pistols in their belts, rifles leaning against the walls. The room stank of dirt and tobacco, a sour, run-down odor like that of an old outhouse.

"I'll take it from here, Deshane, you scat now," said one of the deacons as he stood up, a hulking mountain man with a full gut and intelligent eyes.

"Y-yes, sir." Deshane backed away. He looked like he wanted to say something to Baby.

"Crews said company was coming, and I guess you're it." The mountain man glanced at Gravenholtz, then eyed Baby, taking his time. "My name is C.P."

"I'm Baby and these two gentlemen-"

"I don't give a shit about them," said C.P. A black dog rose from a pile of trash in the corner and padded closer, a huge mongrel with yellow eyes and a scarred muzzle. It growled at the Old One and C.P. kicked it, the dog skulking back to the corner. He snatched a mason jar from the lap of a man sleeping in a recliner. Offered it to Baby. "You want a pop? Fresh batch."

"No thanks," said Baby. "Moonshine makes me break out."

The deacon showed broken teeth. "No problem, sweetcheeks. I got me some cream I could rub on it."

Gravenholtz knocked C.P. against the wall so hard the plaster cracked. The other deacons jumped up, trained their weapons at Gravenholtz. Lester, God bless him, just stood there, massaging his crotch, daring them to do something, hoping they'd try.

Baby stepped forward, helped C.P. up, blood streaming down his scalp. "Just take us to Malcolm, before you get yourself in trouble. The rest of you boys go on about your business."

The deacons didn't lower their weapons.

"It's okay, fellas," said C.P., glaring at Gravenholtz. "No harm done. Me and this redheaded cocksucker will discuss the matter later." He wiped blood across his face with the back of his hand. "I'll let Malcolm know his guests done arrived."

"That's very cordial of you." The Old One kicked aside a half-eaten can of beef stew, the can rolling along the carpet, spinning out boiled carrots and mushy potatoes. "Tell him we're enjoying your wit and sparkling conversation, but we have business to attend to."

Baby watched C.P. stagger down the hall. The Colonel would have every one of these men scrubbed raw with pine tar soap and a bristle brush. Then he would have them clean the mansion from top to bottom, clean it so thoroughly that you could run your finger under a windowsill and not get it dirty.

C.P. knocked on the double doors at the end of the hall. Got a response and threw the doors open. He dabbed at his hair, wiped his bloody fingers on his pants. "Them city folks are waiting out here." He turned, beckoned.

Baby, the Old One and Gravenholtz walked down the hall and through the double doors.

Malcolm Crews stood with his back to them, stood facing a roaring fireplace, the room stifling. Thick red velvet curtains hung over the windows. Plush carpet underfoot. Overstuffed chairs and sofas had been pushed to the edges of the room, leaving a large empty space in the center. The walls were covered with Renaissance paintings in curlicue gilt frames, at least a dozen versions of the Madonna and Child. Most of them needed straightening. Whiskey bottles and money lay strewn across a desk that looked like it was built for some French king.

C.P. cleared his throat. "Pastor?"

"Close the door behind you as you leave, C.P.," Crews said gently.

"I can stay if you want," said C.P., one hand on the pistol stuffed into his belt.

"Go on now," said Crews, his back still to them. He waited until C.P. left, then turned. One of the burning logs in the fireplace collapsed in a cloud of sparks, the flames reflected off the walls and ceiling, framing him in fire.