“I, uh … what?”

“I said, I hope your meeting went well. That you accomplished all you wanted.”

Owsley gave Nautilus a distracted nod and they headed to the airport, Owsley making a phone call to his wife. Nautilus had long ago stopped feeling guilty about eavesdropping, simple human curiosity, and pretended to be absorbed in his driving as Owsley made the twenty-second call.

“It’s everything we’ve wanted,” the preacher said, his voice a mix of fear and elation. “And something you won’t believe.”

28

The head was encased in a gray Fiberglass shell, the eyes hidden behind a rectangular screen the size of a pack of cigarettes, hard and shiny and as black as black is allowed to become. Every few seconds the screen filled with sizzling white light, like angry comets were trapped inside.

The screen turned black for several seconds. Then again burst into sparking comets.

“Joe!” a voice yelled. “JOE!”

The comets died in the black visor as Joe Grabowski snapped off the welding torch and pushed back the helmet, turning to see Walt Hillenbrandt, his supervisor on the project. Hillenbrandt was in his early fifties, thick in the waist, with a round face and thinning red hair.

“Yeah, Walt?”

“It’s 1025-M. We gotta finish the project ASAP. Can you work tonight? Pull double shifts the next week?”

Grabowski pulled a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, lit one. “Tonight’s my monthly poker game, Joe. You know how I like my—”

“Triple pay for overtime, Joe. Instead of waiting for all the sub-assemblies to finish, we’re gonna ship them out the second they’re ready. This one goes out soon as you’re done. The semi’s in the yard, set to go. Driver’s supposed to drive all night.”

“Jesus … what’s the sudden rush?”

Hillenbrandt shrugged. “They haven’t said shit about hurrying, now they want the project last week.”

“Triple overtime, you said?”

“Plus a thousand-buck bonus for each day we beat the deadline.”

“Fuck poker.” Grabowski leaned back and studied the long sleek tube. “What the hell is this thing, Walt … 1025-M? You been told?”

The alphanumeric was the project’s designation, all anyone knew about the assignment, outside of exact specifications. The project had arrived at Chicago Metal Fabrications as no more than a blueprint.

Hillenbrandt shrugged heavy shoulders. “I’m a fuckin’ mushroom, Joe. Kept in the dark and fed bullshit. But by my thinking, we’re not the only ones working on 1025-M.”

Grabowski sucked in a lungful of smoke. “What makes you think that?” he said, a blue plume following his words from his mouth.

“’Cus even when you put the parts together, the fucking thing just ends, but something has to go there. A base of some kind, maybe.”

“Or an engine, you think? The goddamn thing looks like it’s ready for a mission to Mars.” He paused, assembling the parts in his mind. “Jesus, Walt … you think it’s some kind of weapon? A missile, a bomb?”

Hillenbrandt chuckled. “I checked the freight bill for yesterday’s shipment. I think we can rule that one out, given the destination.”

“Where’s it going?”

“That bible park down in Florida. Hallelujah Jubilee.”

29

Jeremy Ryder continued through the neighborhood for another hour, holding his excitement in check. He’d never met the man, but had heard the stories – all that Carson had chosen to tell. All Jeremy had to go on was a mental picture bolstered by a few grainy shots in newspapers.

Which was a good place to start looking.

He blew a speck from his crisp Panama Borsalino and flicked it a dozen feet to the hat rack where it caught on a hook, spun twice, and stayed. He smiled to himself and hung his jacket carefully in the closet before climbing the stairs to his office in the third floor of the tower. It was a spare setting, a large desk rounded at back to fit the curved wall, polished-oak floors, a circular and red-intensive Oriental carpet on the floor, the stubby round telescope on its eye-height tripod, currently aimed out the wide window toward the Schrum home.

Jeremy sat in his Hermann Miller chair. The Bloomberg terminals on his desk danced with an array of facts and figures from the global markets but he ignored them to turn on his personal computer, tapping into the archives of the Mobile Press-Register and inserting a name into the Search field.

Searching … the screen said as the word appeared with ellipses blinking behind. Searching … Searching … A list of hits filled the screen, seven in all. Jeremy scanned the descriptions, finding one titled MPD Names “Officers of the Year”. It was eight years old but how much could a man change? Jeremy tapped the link.

Searching …

After several moments an article appeared, Jeremy was after a photograph. The article jumped to the side and an empty box appeared, words beneath the box, the original caption from the newspaper.

OFFICERS OF THE YEAR HONORED – Mayor Lyle Edmunds presents Mobile Police detectives Carson Ryder (left) and Harry Nautilus (right) with Officers of the Year awards at the Mayor’s annual Recognition Breakfast …

The photograph began to load, slowly filling the box from left to right. Five seconds later Jeremy saw the face of his brother, Carson, dark hair overly long and looking like his barber preferred tin-snips to shears, the knot of his tie an inch below the unbuttoned collar, his false smile more akin to a deer in headlights. He was holding some ridiculous plaque, sideways of course, being Carson. At least it wasn’t upside-down.

He sighed as the second human image filled in, an older gray-haired man in a dark suit behind a dais, his mouth wide with vaporous natterings, a politician, naturally. The Mayor.

The third form began appearing, a large man, black, shoulders at the height of Carson’s nose, heavy arms bunching the fabric of a tan suit. Jeremy turned away to let the image arrive, counting down as he waited for the entire photo.

… three … two … one …

He turned back to the picture to see the third figure, clutching its own plaque – right-side up, thankfully – looking into the camera with an expression that read This is all bullshit but I’ll play along. He had a large, square head. Intelligent eyes holding a touch of dare, wide forehead, a trim square mustache.

Harry Nautilus. Carson’s partner for years … And the man who, minutes ago, had been reading a newspaper behind the Schrum house.

Jeremy picked up his phone, tapping the first number on speed dial. Carson answered on the third ring.

“Can’t talk now, Jeremy. I’m on the road and heading into work.”

“I thought I’d deliver an update on the Schrum death festival. I’m thinking about renting a cart and selling hot dogs. Or do you think loaves and fishes might be more appropriate?”

“Busy here, Jeremy.”

“Don’t be snippy, it’s discourteous. I’m organizing my drawers. Not pants, the one where I keep memorabilia. I have several articles about your career over the years, newspaper stories. Your manly, thrilling exploits. I’m making copies. Would you like a set?”

“Uh … sure.”

“Some make mention of your old partner, Harry Nautilus …” Jeremy paused as if stifling a yawn. “Whatever became of him, by the way?”

“Harry just retired. He’s in Mobile and I saw him only last weekend.”

“Mobile?” Jeremy said. “You’re sure he’s not gotten religion and is traipsing around Florida looking for holy sites?”

“Religion? What are you babbling about? Listen, Jeremy, I’m really—”

“Busy, yes, I know. I’ll drop these things off next time I’m by your place, probably soon.”

“Soon?” An anxious pause. “What? When?”

Jeremy hung up, crossed his arms and stared out the window. Carson had no idea his old pal was right now in Key West, leaning against a big bright Hummer and chatting with passers-by.