One guy who supposedly could heal dies and then another guy in the same town develops a similar rep. Coincidence, or . . . ?

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

Abe bent again to his Newsday. “Thinking is good . . . to a point.”

Abe started on a second donut; Jack bit back a remark. He’d given it his best shot. Time to back off. He flipped toward the front of the paper and stopped when a column header caught his eye: CULTure WARS.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk. Looks like those mean old Kickers and Dormentalists are still at it.”

A photo of yesterday’s melee—Jack was relieved to see that he’d ducked out of frame before it was taken—was followed by an article on the ongoing conflict.

“So I read,” Abe said. “But the real war is online. The Kickers have been hacking all the Dormentalist sites and either crashing them or changing the content.”

“Changing the content how? Somehow having Dormentalism make sense?”

“No, more like posting pictures of naked adolescent boys.”

Jack frowned. “Ah. The Luther Brady connection.”

“Yes. It’s getting ugly. The Dormentalists are recruiting fewer and fewer new shnooks and keep on losing existing shlemiels to the Kickers, and the Kickers are rubbing their faces in it.”

Jack nodded. “And since the Kickers are far less centralized, they’re harder to strike back at.”

“Exactly. Especially since they’re anti-Internet.”

“Does anybody see a contradiction here? They say they’re anti-Internet, but they have hackers who can breach the Dormentalists’ firewalls. What’s up with that?”

“You want I should explain these people? Why they don’t like the Internet, I have no idea.”

“Well, according to the book, the Kicker goal is to become ‘dissimilated,’ which has something to do with ‘kicking free’ from society. Maybe they see the Internet as something that assimilates everything.”

“I don’t know about assimilating,” Abe said, “but it connects everything and everyone who wants to be connected. Even some people who don’t want to be connected, I imagine.”

Jack glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter. “Speaking of connecting, I’m supposed to meet some guy to tell him I can’t help him.”

“You could do that on the phone.”

“It’s more polite in person.”

“Polite? Since when you’re polite?”

Abe’s fingers were edging toward a third donut. Jack snatched it up before they could reach it.

“Uh-uh. Mine.”

Abe pouted. “See what I said about polite?”

“I need it more than you. I have blocks to walk. I need the fuel.”

“It’s not that far.”

Jack took a big bite and headed for the door.

2

“All hostilities must cease immediately,” the dude in the white three-piece suit said in his oh-so-lightly accented voice. Sounded like German.

Darryl stared at him in disbelief. Who did this guy think he was?

“Hey, you can’t come into our house and talk to Hank like that.”

Hank, seated beside him, gave him a rough elbow nudge. “This is his house, remember?”

Darryl suddenly felt like a fool. Right. The Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order owned this big old fortress of a building—their downtown lodge—but they’d been letting the Kickers use it since the winter. Couldn’t blame him too much for getting confused. He’d been living here lately. Only natural to think of it as home.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

The guy in white—Mr. Drexler—didn’t bother to look at him. Like Darryl wasn’t worth it. An older guy with an eagle-nosed face, black hair slicked straight back, and eyes like ice-blue lasers that could bore holes right through you.

Drexler was the point man for the leaders of the Order, the High Council of Seven that no one ever saw. Darryl wondered if even Drexler ever saw them. He’d called this meeting in the basement of the Lodge and Hank had dropped everything to make it. Darryl hated seeing Hank run whenever Drexler whistled. Hell, he was leader of the Kickers, man. Shouldn’t have to answer to nobody.

“I required the presence of you and Mister McCabe,” Drexler said to Hank. “I don’t recall authorizing anyone else.”

“Darryl’s okay,” Hank said. “Not much he doesn’t already know.” Darryl felt his chest puffing until Hank added, “Besides, we may need coffee or something.”

That’s me: trusted gofer.

Well, at least he got to hang with the Kicker Numero Uno.

His right arm started to itch. He scratched it. Damn rash.

The fourth guy at the table was Terry McCabe, the Kicker Evolution’s spinmeister. Drexler himself had brought him in, and McCabe was the guy responsible for the “hostilities” in the first place.

“They’ve provided a valuable distraction,” McCabe said. “Because of them, the press has forgotten our link to the horror show on Staten Island. As a result, so have most people. And the few who do remember think the Dormentalists were to blame.”

Drexler steepled his fingers and nodded. “Even though they were not involved in the least. All well and good, and rather entertaining in the short run. But the brawls and this ongoing Internet assault are beginning to have a deleterious effect on the Church’s abilities to fulfill its purpose.”

“ ‘Church’?” Hank said. “They’re a bunch of money-grubbing fucks whose ‘purpose’ is to fleece anyone they can grab. Their members are seeing the light and coming over to us.”

“Yes. Too many of them.”

Hank slammed his hand on the table. “Never too many! I won’t quit till every one of them becomes a Kicker.”

“You . . . will . . . stop . . . now,” Drexler said, his blue eyes glittering. “The Dormentalist Church is under our guidance and—”

“Yours? The Septimus Order’s connected to them?”

“The lower echelons do not realize it, but yes, we helped fund them in the early years until they became self-sufficient. They are involved in a project the Order had been guiding for millennia.”

McCabe frowned. “Millennia? As in thousands of years?”

“It’s called Opus Omega. You need know nothing beyond its name. I can tell you that it is near completion, but your too-successful assaults on the Church are distracting it and forcing it to direct its dwindling resources in directions other than Opus Omega. For that reason, you must back off.”

Scratching seemed only to worsen the itch on Darryl’s arm. He pulled up the sleeve of his black Polio T-shirt and examined the purple splotch. They’d been popping out on his skin for months. He had about a dozen now.

“What is that?” McCabe said, pointing to Darryl’s arm.

Darryl yanked down the sleeve. “Just a rash.”

“Well, get it looked at.” McCabe leaned away. “It looks kind of funky.”

“Funky?”

“Yeah. Like something catching. You—”

Drexler picked up his black cane and rapped it against the table. “Can we stick to the matter at hand?” He turned back to Hank. “Inform your followers to cease and desist, do you understand?”

Hank slouched and drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, we appreciate you letting us use this building and all, but we can’t let you Septimus people call the shots for Kickers. The reason for the Kicker Evolution is to get folks to break from the crowd and call their own shots.”

Darryl forgot the itch as he fought an urge to jump up and cheer.

You tell ’em, boss.

Drexler didn’t react. He simply kept his cold gaze fixed on Hank as he spoke. “On the night of your debacle in Staten Island, do you recall a visit from a rather unusual man?”

Hank jerked up straight in his chair. “How the hell do you know about that?”

Darryl’s gut twisted as he remembered that guy. He’d looked kind of wimpy at first, but his eyes . . . next to his, Drexler’s were like a warm, loving grandma’s. And he’d done something to Darryl and Hank that sort of paralyzed them.

Drexler’s thin lips twisted with what might have been amusement. “He is in contact with me from time to time. When he speaks, I listen. And when I relay word from him, you would be wise to listen.”