Mary felt her throat go dry. She reached out with her left hand, hoping to steady herself. Bandra grabbed her arm. “Mare, are you okay?”

Mary forced a small nod.

“Jesus!” shouted the woman again.

But Mary shook her head.

“No,” she said, ever so softly.

No, it wasn’t Jesus.

It was Mary.

It was the blessed Virgin Mary!

“Ponter,” said Mary, her voice shaking. “Ponter, do you see her? Do you see her?”

“Who?” said Ponter.

“She’s right there,” said Mary, pointing—and then, almost at once, she drew her hand back and used it to cross herself. “She’s right there!”

“Mare, there are half a million people here…”

“But she’s glowing,” said Mary softly.

Ponter turned to Louise, and Mary forced herself to look in that direction for a second. Louise’s brown eyes were wide and she was whispering over and over again, too softly for Mary to hear, but she could read Louise’s lips: “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu… ”

“See!” said Mary. “Louise sees her, too!” But even as she said that, Mary had her doubts; the Virgin was indeed holy, but one did not greet her with “My God, my God, my God…”

Mary found her gaze drawn back to the perfect illuminated form in front of her, flanked by towering buildings.

Bandra was still holding on to Mary’s arm. The woman on the other side of Bandra had dropped to her knees. “Mary!” she exclaimed. “The Blessed Virgin Mary!” But she was facing in completely the wrong direction…

“Look,” shouted a voice—just one of tens of thousands of shouts going up now, but one that Mary happened to pick out from the background. “The mothership!”

Mary tilted her head up. Searchlights were crisscrossing the black, empty sky.

“Mare!” It was Ponter’s voice. “Mare, are you okay? What’s happening?”

A man in front of Mary had turned around and was reaching into his coat. For half a second Mary thought he was going for a gun, but what he brought out was a fat wallet, filled with cash. He opened it. “Here,” he said, shoving some bills at Mary. “Here, take it! Take it!” He turned to Ponter and shoved some money at him, too. “Take it! Take it! I’ve got too much…”

From behind Mary came a loud cry of “Allah-o-akbar! Allah-o-akbar! ”

And from in front: “The Messiah! At last! ”

And off to her left: “Yes, yes! Take me, Lord! ”

And to her right, someone singing: “Hallelujah! ”

Mary wished she had her rosary. The Virgin was here—right here!—beckoning her to come forward.

“Mare!” shouted Ponter. “Mare!”

Behind Mary, someone was weeping. In front of her, someone else was laughing uncontrollably. Others were burying their faces in their hands, or clapping their hands together, or raising their hands to heaven.

A man was shouting, “Who’s that? Who’s there?”

And a woman was shouting, “Go away! Go away!”

And yet another person was shouting, “Welcome to Planet Earth!”

A few feet away, Mary saw a man faint, but the crowd was too closely packed for him to fall over.

“It’s judgment day!” shouted a voice.

“It’s first contact!” shouted another.

“Mahdi! Mahdi! ” shouted a third.

Nearby, a woman was intoning, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name…”

And next to her a man was saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry…”

And somebody else was shouting emphatically, “This cannot be happening! This cannot be real!”

“Mare!” said Ponter, taking her by the shoulders and swinging her around, away from the Blessed Virgin. “Mare!”

“No,” Mary managed to say. “No, let me go. She’s here…”

“Mare, the crowd is going wild. We have to get out of here!”

Mary twisted away, finding strength she never knew she had. She’d do anything to be with the Virgin…

“Adikor, Bandra, hurry!” Ponter’s voice, translated, bursting into her brain, drowning out the words of Our Lady. Mary reached up her hands, bending her fingers into claws, trying to tear out the cochlear implants. Ponter continued: “We’ve got to get Mare and Lou out of here!”

The white light—the perfect white light—was shimmering now, prismatic scintillations along its edges. Mary felt her heart expanding, her soul soaring, her—

Gunshots!

Mary looked off to her right. A white man of about forty had a pistol out and was firing it at some unseen demon, his face contorted in terror. In front of him, people were dying, but Times Square was too crowded for them to fall. Mary saw the faces of first one person, then another, as bullets tore into them.

Screams went up, rivaling the shouts of rapture.

“Bandra,” yelled Ponter. “Clear the way! I’ll get Mare. Adikor, get Lou!”

Mary felt sweat pouring down her face, despite the cold. Ponter was going to try to take her away from—

No, thought the rational part of Mary, fighting its way to the front of her consciousness. The Virgin is not here.

Yes! screamed another part of her. Yes, she is!

No—no. There is no Virgin! There is no—

But there was—there must be!—for suddenly, Mary felt herself rising up off the ground, flying up…

Because Ponter was lifting her, high, higher still, swinging her up on his broad shoulders. Bandra, in front of them, was pushing people aside as though they were bowling pins, parting the sea, forcing an opening in the crowd. Ponter barreled forward, occupying the space Bandra was clearing before it was filled again by the crushing humanity. There were still a few areas of lower density—what was left of the lanes that had originally been set aside for emergency vehicles—and Bandra was heading for one of them.

Mary looked left and right, trying to spot the light of the Virgin again—and saw that Louise was now high up on Adikor’s shoulders, and that the two of them were right behind, following Mary and Ponter.

A man came toward them, a crazed look on his face. He swung at Ponter, who easily deflected the blow. But then another man came at Ponter, shouting, “Begone, demon!”

Ponter tried to deflect his blows, as well, but it was no use. The attacker was like—exactly like, Mary realized—a man possessed. He smashed a fist into Ponter’s broad jaw, and Ponter finally struck back, lashing out with the flat of his hand, connecting in the middle of the man’s chest. Even over the cacophony, Mary heard the sound of ribs cracking, and the man went down. The crowd surged in to fill the space cleared by Bandra, and it looked as though the attacker was being trampled, but within seconds Ponter had pushed far enough ahead that Mary could no longer see what was happening to the fallen man.

Mary’s perspective was bouncing wildly as Ponter surged ahead, but suddenly she caught sight of the giant lighted ball starting its descent down the flagpole—a geodesic sphere, six feet wide, covered with Waterford crystal, lit from within and without. Mary couldn’t imagine that anyone had had the presence of mind to send it on its way down; there must have been a computer controlling it.

Strobe lights. Searchlights. Lasers crisscrossing through dry-ice clouds.

More screams. More gunshots. Shattering glass. Alarms wailing. An NYPD officer being bucked by his horse.

“Mary!” shouted Mary. “Save us!”

“Ponter!” Adikor’s voice, from behind them. “Look out!”

Mary could feel Ponter swinging his head. Another crazed person was pushing toward him, this one brandishing a crowbar. Ponter moved to his right, knocking people over as he did so, to avoid being brained.

Bandra turned around and seized the man’s wrist, closing her hand. Again, Mary heard the ricochet crack of breaking bone, and the crowbar crashed to the pavement.

Mary swung her head, searching for the Virgin. The giant ball was almost all the way down—and they were almost out of Times Square, making their way east on 42nd Street.