Golding seemed to be warming up again. He began to spit out snippets of historicity as if they were theological watermelon seeds. The outcome was about as intellectually tidy.

"Mount Sinai stood for centuries as a mountain holy to the moon god Sinn, long before Moses went there to speak to Yahveh. And this new god's burning bush was nothing more than a psychedelic substance called loranthus growing on acacia-a bush sacred to the Sun." He prattled on while getting the cups and saucers. "The story of Christ is a slipshod retelling of the Mithras and Osiris legends grafted to the clumsy attempt of an aggressive rabbi to be crowned King of Israel.

"They made this composite God of theirs an incomprehensible mishmash of conflicting traits. He was as rational as Apollo and as murderous as Typhon. The priests kept everyone on His good side-for a price. The same group-the same philosophical movement that devised and later refined the Judeo-Christian God-outlawed the older religions and slandered the Old Gods as devils and demons."

Golding made motions as if he were coming to an important point. I had long before lost interest and was more mesmerized by the coffeepot in his hand. It floated and dipped with his every gesture. The dark brew inside sloshed and swirled, never quite reaching the rim. My vision of having a hot cup of Java in the near future dimmed considerably.

"They reserved their greatest hate for witchcraft, though. They rightly recognized it as a primitive form of science, not merely a rival faith. Science-in any form-is anathema to faith. How much more skeptical is the one who experiments with herbs or symbols or rituals to pick what works best compared to the one who places absolute trust in a priest or rabbi or imam?"

"I suppose we could ask Elvis."

He wasn't about to be sidetracked. The coffeepot sloshed precariously with every jab of emphasis he made at me. "Why do you think chemists, astronomers, and mathematicians were branded as warlocks and sorcerers during the Dark Ages? Why were Galileo's discoveries slandered as the Devil's work? He and others were using the scientific method of observation, theorization, and experimentation that paralleled that of ancient forms of witchcraft!"

"Are you defending witchcraft, Mr. Golding?"

He looked at Ann as if she'd just stepped on his eyeglasses. Her question disconcerted him so much that he actually poured a cup of the coffee and handed it to her.

"No," he said. "Of course I'm not." He pointed to some jars on the counter. "Creamer and aspartame over there."

I raised an eyebrow. Aspartame had been banned shortly after the discovery that its use resulted in increased intelligence.

I took the cup he offered. It was lukewarm. One of the pitfalls of philosophy, I suppose.

Golding sounded almost defensive. "I'm merely saying that-historically-it's been downhill all the way, religionwise. Besides, witchcraft per se is a craft, not a religion. It's a primitive form of science conducted by members of a religion. In much the way Lysenkoism was a crude science conducted by members of the Marxist faith."

Ann lowered her cup to say softly, "Lysenko didn't follow the scientific method. Witches do."

Golding raised an ebon-and-grey eyebrow in her direction. "Yes. And unlike Judeo-Christianity or Marxism, the Old Religions had quite understandable deities. Gods and goddesses who didn't take as great a delight in slaughtering their creations. Even as scandalous a god as Zeus was outmatched by the murdering war god of the Old Testament or the nearly identical Allah or the manic-depressive masochist of the New Testament. The old ones didn't issue as many commandments and contradictory orders.

"But, of course, I'd rather not have anything to do with any of them at all. Which is why I'm an atheist, not a Druid or something. All right?"

Ann nodded. She seemed vaguely troubled by his speech, though she hid it behind her cup of coffee.

I yawned. "I am serious," I said, "about killing God."

"Oh, sure."

"Look at me, Golding."

He lowered his gaze to stare down on me. The kimono would have seemed ludicrous if it had been on anyone else this side of Christopher Lee. It gave him an air of imperious superiority.

"Do I look like a kidder, Golding?"

"You look like a hood."

Ann opened her mouth to protest. A motion of his hand silenced her.

"An educated hood, perhaps, but a hood nonetheless. You are a man who thinks he can change things through violence, even if it's the civilized violence of mockery. It's ideas that change the world, Mr. Ammo-not force or ridicule."

"So you can't help me." I swirled the remaining coffee around in my cup.

"Help you to do what? Actually kill God? The idea is absurd! Changing the way people think is the only way to improve the world."

I stared into my cup. Perhaps improving the world was not my client's intention. I knew that achieving a promised immortality was mine. I doubted that the drive to better the human condition had much bearing on the contract.

"I know I'm on the right track," I said. "People would just brush me off otherwise." I gazed up at him to add, "People have been trying to stop me."

"Then I wish you luck. The only good God is a dead God."

From the study drifted warm laughter. Raissa said, "Remember Spencer on freedom, Ted?"

Golding smiled sardonically. "Yes. Remember this, Dell-No god is dead so long as one person has faith. You'd have to convince everyone that God doesn't exist. That's the enormity of your mission."

"Enormousness," Raissa corrected, entering to pour some Java in her unwashed cup.

Golding laughed. "The usage would be correct from the theist's point of view. Few people can countenance their gods getting snuffed."

I slugged down the rest of the tepid jo and set the cup on the Formica countertop. An odd chill came over me that I attributed to the carbonremover I'd just swallowed. When I chanced to glance up past Golding, my spine took a trip to the Antarctic.

Blood dripped slowly down the wall.

It began at the ceiling and spread down and across the eggshelltoned paint. It flowed fanlike down the wall, glistening wet. Something throbbed in my head with a sick rushing sound.

"What's the deal, Golding?"

"Hm?" He stared at me as if I'd had a stroke. He turned to follow my gaze, swallowed a mouthful of coffee with calm ease, and shrugged. "That? I'm afraid the upstairs bathroom leaks. I haven't gotten around to-"

"A tub that leaks blood?" My hand edged toward my empty waistband holster.

"Blood?" Raissa looked up, mystified. "That's a water stain."

No one said a word for a long moment. I looked at the wall again. A semicircular rust stain discolored the paint. It didn't move. It looked dry. Like an ordinary water stain.

Ann gasped in shock. The cup fell from her fingers to shatter loudly against the linoleum. Coffee splashed against her ankles, dripping down to her shoes.

"It was blood!" she cried. "In my cup!" She rushed to my side and held on, suddenly terrified. Perhaps Father Beathan's fear imprinting had had some effect after all.

"It looks disturbingly like coffee," Raissa said, deadpan.

Ann trembled like a moth inside a fist. "Blood. It was. Red and salty. Thick. Clotted."

Golding cleared his throat. "I think you'd better take her home."

I didn't feel so grand either. "Yeah" was all I could muster. I guided her out the front door to the car.

They must have thought we were insane. The idea had crossed my mind, too.

"I saw blood, Dell."

"So did I, sweetheart."

"They didn't."

I nodded and put her in the passenger's seat. Her hands shook when she gave me the keys.

"Drive over to Hollywood Boulevard. Quick."

I climbed in and tried to start the engine. It growled without catching.