"You're hurting me!" She tried to twist away. "It was two men in black."

The fat man became bolder. "Let go of her, you drunken bastard!"

I tried a bluff. The wrong bluff.

"Vice squad, mister." I reached up toward my breast pocket.

The man looked worried for an instant. Then he smiled broadly.

"Guards!"

I realized where I was and how the law was welcome. A neural interruptor field switched on, knocking me to my knees. Through a tingle of dulled sensation, I watched four arms seize me. They dragged me to an access tunnel separate from the corridors used by customers.

I tried another bluff. Another winner.

"I'm her father." Drool passed over my numbed lips. "I was just trying to talk to her."

"You should've given her a better home life, rummy." The voice spoke from far away. "She's got her freedom here."

A hatch whined open.

"Wait," I babbled. "I was with a woman. I think she's been kidnapped. The girl saw-"

"Right, pal. Kidnapped by a couple of priests. Tell us another."

The four arms propelled me from the hatch of the underhill city. Except that I was at the top of the hill.

The hatch slammed behind me, and I rolled. The field of insensitivity they'd hit me with still deadened my nerves. I was thankful for that.

Dry grass and dirt patches whisked past me. Something hard hit my waist. It stung. I bounced past it and slid face forward to a stop at the bottom of Bunker Hill.

It didn't take long for pain to overcome the effects of the neural interruptor beam. My body curled up in a convulsion of agony, then snapped back. Shoes scraped against grimy concrete. Hands slid over crumbling pavement. After long moments of struggle, I stood.

The world tilted like some crazy Disney ride. I clambered for a parking sign to lean against, grasping it like a long-lost brother.

Down the block, someone screamed. Someone familiar.

I looked up and down the dark street. My eyes had a little trouble focusing.

I saw her. Two men in dark clothing dragged her toward a car, an arm each around her shoulders. Behind them, the door of a lower level loading dock dropped shut slowly. She struggled, blond hair whipping about.

They were at the far end of the block. I started to run as fast as I could. Pain shot through my left leg up to the hip. I reached for my Colt to find an empty holster. It must have fallen out during the roll.

The car engine whined into life as they stuffed her inside. Tires squealed, and the car roared in my direction. I performed the usual stupid action of jumping in its path. Rubber shrieked again; the car swerved around me.

I jumped for the trunk, missed, and came up with bloody elbows and a scraped nose. Wiping the dust from my eyes, I watched the taillights recede into the night.

"Look out mister!"

I turned around. On top of the hill-in the hatchway I'd been launched from-stood the kid. Light poured out of the tunnel. Her giant shadow splashed down the hillside.

"Behind you, asshole!"

I whirled about just in time to enjoy the view of a blackjack zeroing in on my right temple. I didn't see stars. Just a lot of black that got blacker.

I woke up with a Rushmore-size headache in a dark little cell that made San Quentin look like the Biltmore. My bruises had been bandaged, and I was dressed in a light blue hospital gown. The smooth white walls teetered a bit as I sat up.

I eased my mistreated body up to walk around the cell. My shoulder intuitively sought the wall for support.

The smell of Formalin and acetone in the air forced the sluggishness out of my head. The phrase that most readily came to what mind I had was, what a sap. Ann and I both captured. They'd probably left one mug to cover their escape. And the call-a diversion.

I hadn't expected such a reaction to an insane proposition. Maybe the Big Man was worried.

Heavy footsteps approached, slow and ponderous. A series of latches clanked back. The door opened inward without so much as a Lugosian creak.

In the doorway stood the largest piece of beef I'd ever seen on less than four legs. He had to duck to pass under the doorframe, which hung a foot higher than my head. His ghost-sheet pallor brought out the tints of red in his thin, strawberry-blond hair. The whiteness also contrasted nicely with his black clerical frock.

"I'm not ready for last rites," I said.

"Shut yer trap, Ammo, and set down. You ain't going nowhere." He talked like a rock polisher.

"Sure, Demosthenes, sure." I sat. The bedsprings groaned.

"Watch yer language, geezer. It ain't reverent fer a man yer age."

He leaned against the doorframe, blocking my exit as well as most of the door.

I knew any punch that I could throw would only tickle him and would split my knuckles open. So we waited.

For ten minutes he stood there, staring at me with calm green eyes that conveyed intelligence greater than his words communicated. I met his gaze, striving not to reveal my intentions through any involuntary motions.

I broke the silence first.

"Look, Demosthenes, why don't you go bite open a few coconuts while I toddle along? Kidnapping isn't the best way to gain converts."

"Ammo-" his cement-mixer voice rumbled. "Whyn't you close your mouth so Brother Bannister don't have to come in and wire it shut to keep it from danglin'?"

He turned upon hearing distant footsteps. The creak of bedsprings when I stood brought him spinning around.

"Siddown, brother. Father Beathan's coming."

I swallowed a crude rejoinder and stood as tall as I could, wishing I had a cigarette. My nose itched madly under its bandage.

The steps grew louder, echoing down the corridor.

Demosthenes crossed himself and genuflected quickly. Through the door entered a man about half the lummox's height and a quarter of his weight. Old and withered, he carried an equally aged doctor's satchel in one wrinkled hand. He eyed me with a pair of pale greys that seemed too large for his small head. His gaze darted around the cell.

A second man followed him in. He wore a black frock and white collar the same as the other two. He stared past the old man at me and scowled.

"This won't do at all," he said to no one in particular.

"What's wrong this time, Father?" The old man scratched at his ear with impatience.

"Brother Matheny, how many times must I repeat? Setting. Setting is as important as set and dosage. This is a science, not some crude torture."

From the way he used the word science, I might have preferred crude torture.

Brother Matheny parted his desiccated lips, looked at me as though it were my fault, and turned to the Hulk.

"Brother O'Rourke. Find out where Father Beathan wants the sinner taken and take him there. And this, too." The satchel landed on the marble floor with a clatter. The little man stormed past Beathan and the ox.

It was a pitiably small storm.

Demosthenes stared dully at the departing Brother Matheny. Beathan stooped over to pick up the bag. He had a couple of inches height on me, though I outweighed his trim, athletic form. Thinning hair the color of an old battleship lay straight back, close to his scalp. His gaunt face was that of a dedicated Jesuit scientist-strong features; a calm, inquiring gaze; thin, tight lips.

He produced a hypo from his bag, filled it partially from an ampoule. Clean fingernails tapped the syringe to loosen a stray bubble that he subsequently squeezed out.

"If that's how I'm getting the holy water," I said, "I don't want to stick around for Communion."

"You won't be around, Mr. Ammo." Beathan smiled wearily. "I'm afraid we'll have to… sedate you for transportation. Brother O'Rourke." He turned to the walking sequoia.