The Book of Joby (44 page)

Joby continued calming and encouraging the crowd, and those who hadn’t already run began to grow quiet and grim, raising their signs and planting their feet against the coming confrontation. This, Gypsy thought, was how it felt to truly matter in the world! He had never felt so complete.

In eerie silence, the two columns of police came closer and closer, converging at last, and massing to a halt in lines across the intersection opposite the church. An officer raised his bullhorn and said, “This assembly has been declared disorderly, and is ordered to disperse immediately.”

No one moved. To Gypsy’s relief, no one even heckled the force. He suspected that, like himself, they were probably too scared to make a sound.

The tense silence continued as the two groups faced each other in frozen tableau, until the officer raised his bullhorn again. “Anyone refusing to disband now will be arrested. This is your last warning.”

“We’re on private property,” Joby said, his voice even, though pale beside
the amplified commands of the bullhorn. “The owners haven’t asked us to go. We’ve a legal right to free speech and peaceful assembly.”

“You are disobeying a direct order from a duly appointed officer of the law,” the policeman bullhorned back. “That is an illegal act. If you do not disperse now, you will be arrested.”

“Bullshit!”
Sundog roared, but Joby immediately waved him silent, and looked again at the crowd around him. “If we go, we’re finished,” he said just loudly enough to be heard. “I believe we’re in the right here, and if we have to prove it in court, I say, so be it. I’m willing to be arrested. But I respect anyone who feels different. If any of you wants to leave, I’ll understand completely. Go with our thanks for the support you’ve already given.” His face was guileless as his eyes swept the crowd.

For a moment, no one moved. Then the woman who’d spoken earlier said, “I’m so sorry, but my family needs me at home. I’m . . . I’m sorry.” She put her sign down and walked rapidly up Castor opposite the direction from which the officers had come. A few other protesters followed suit as the police force watched in disciplined silence. But most of the crowd stayed, and Gypsy felt his pride in Joby swell. His friend had never seemed more rock solid and heroic.

“Anyone else?” Joby asked.

Silence.

Turning back to the line of officers, Joby called, “We believe we have a right to be here, and we’re willing to test that right in court. I’m afraid you’ll have to arrest us.”

The officer in charge shook his head wearily, and turned to speak to someone behind him. When he turned back, Gypsy thought he heard the man heave a tired sigh.

Silverjack had been so quiet, Gypsy had forgotten he was there, so for an instant he was stunned motionless with everyone else when the madman screamed,
“Fucking alien shit!”
and raced from the crowd to charge the line of officers.

“Jack, you ass!” Sundog screamed. “Get back here!”

Damn crazy bastard!
Gypsy thought.

Shields were instantly raised, and nightsticks drawn, as Silverjack crashed into the barrier of officers. Then he was on the ground, being beaten by at least four men.

They’ll kill him!
Gypsy thought, barely aware that he’d started running forward. “Stop!” he yelled. “He’s harmless! Stop hitting him!” He heard several
voices, including Joby’s, call him back, but couldn’t seem to stop. There was blood on the pavement under Silverjack’s head. Nearly close enough now to yank the crazy fool away from them, he only vaguely registered the order to halt that came from somewhere in the mass of officers. When he saw the gun drawn, he thought, with an electric jolt, that they were actually going to shoot Silverjack!

“Noooo!”
he shouted, doubling his speed, and hadn’t even time to be surprised when the gun was raised on him instead. There was a shot.

Something hit his shoulder like a car at freeway speed. There was a second shot, and Gypsy fell back onto the pavement as if he’d hit an invisible wall. For a moment there was neither sound nor pain. Then he heard Sarina scream, and his chest seemed to explode in flames. He tried to call for help, but his throat was full of something that made him choke and the pain became unbearable. The street around him erupted into roaring voices, officers raising shields and rushing forward, closing ranks on people he knew, people who were now swinging signs like bludgeons. His vision began to gray, but to his relief, the pain receded some as well.

Then there was a man smiling down at him as if oblivious to the chaos all around them. He seemed about Gypsy’s age, with night-black hair, and beautiful dark eyes. In fact, he was the most beautiful person Gypsy had ever seen. In that smile, Gypsy found everything he’d ever wished for in a friend, a brother, a parent, even a lover. It was the strangest, most wonderful feeling.

“Hello, Matthew,” said the man.

“How . . . how . . .” Gypsy wanted to ask how the man knew his real name. But he still couldn’t talk without choking, which made the pain leap up again.

“I’m Gabe,” the man said, reaching down to touch Gypsy’s chest.

Suddenly, there was no pain at all. In fact, Gypsy felt incredible!

“What did you do?” Gypsy asked. “Who are you?”

“Come on, Matt,” Gabe said, looking up for the first time at the angry tumult around them. “This is no place to linger.”

“Where are we going?” Gypsy asked.

Gabriel smiled again, and Gypsy felt a kind of happiness he didn’t think he’d ever be able to explain to Sarina. “First, to the absolute best birthday party you’ve
ever
had. After that, it’s up to you.” The man shrugged and grinned. “Sky’s the limit.”

Gypsy’s heart swelled with excitement as his mind filled with so many, many possibilities he’d never even thought of before. Getting to his feet, he
saw that the police lines had fallen back, drawing the struggle away from the church by half a block. Silverjack had dragged himself to the curb, where he lay holding his bloodied head, whimpering but alive. Someone else nearby was crying much harder though. Wailing, in fact. Gypsy turned to find Sarina rocking his own body against her breast, sobbing hysterically. Joby was beside her, holding them both in a crushing embrace, tears streaming down his face. The chest of Gypsy’s shirt was soaked nearly black with blood. Only Gypsy wasn’t in it anymore. It was the strangest thing.

“Can Sarina come?” he asked Gabe, hopeful.

“Not yet, Matt.” The angel turned to smile at him again. “We’d really better go.”

After guiding Matthew home, Gabe had spent the night and morning helplessly at Joby’s side as he lay in his cell alternately sobbing and staring vacantly into the darkness. Having decided that pressing charges against the demonstrators might not be politic given current public sentiment, they were letting Joby go now. Clearly he had no intention of going quietly.

“Not pressing charges?” Joby snapped at the officer handling his release from behind a wire-reinforced glass window. “An innocent boy is dead, a dozen more of us are in the hospital, and
you’re
not pressing charges? God, am I impressed! Maybe
we’re
pressing charges! That cross your mind?”

“Your acquaintance ran at officers under attack, Mr. Peterson,” the officer intoned from behind his thick portal, “and disobeyed a clear order to halt.”

“So you
killed him
!” Joby yelled, his voice trembling again, as it did whenever the moment of Gypsy’s death came too clearly to memory. “He was twenty years old!” Joby rasped. “He was engaged to be married!” As his fury collapsed again into hopeless grief, Joby grabbed himself in a kind of spastic hug, and began to cry. “He worked for the goddamn church. He was just trying to save . . . We just wanted a place to eat. Why did . . .” Joby slumped onto a bench and shook with sobs.

“How do you suppose the officer who shot that man feels, Mr. Peterson?” the policeman asked coldly. “People like you should think about what their do-gooding might cost before they get everyone stirred up. It’s not all just heroic poses, is it?”

Joby’s sobbing ceased abruptly, and the unrestrained rage in his eyes when he looked up eclipsed any hope left in Gabriel’s heart.

“There are laws in this state,” the officer pressed, “holding the instigator of
a lethal situation responsible for resulting deaths. You could still be charged with murder, Mr. Peterson. If I were you, I’d be grateful to get off with nothing but a painful lesson about stirring up trouble you can’t control. I’d suggest you go now and behave yourself before someone loses patience and presses charges after all.”

Joby shot to his feet and stormed down the hall toward the doorway. But as he reached to pull it open, he turned and shouted,
“I hate you! I hate what you stand for! And if there’s any justice in this whole goddamn world, this fucking city will pay for every last minute of the life you stole!”

He threw the door open hard enough to shake its frame, then stalked through the precinct lobby. Outside, Gabriel watched him storm down the street, kicking at garbage cans and slapping at parking meters as he passed.

The angel looked up at the crisp winter sky, dotted with small clouds. He watched the remnants of last summer’s leaves skitter across the street on a chilly breeze. He watched people walking toward him, away from him, oblivious of his presence, each one unique, worlds unto themselves. He took in the brilliant flashes of sunlit color reflected from passing cars, the twinkle of tinsel and Christmas lights on all the lampposts, the sounds of traffic and laughter, birdsong, and music from a boom box at the corner.

Gabe laid his invisible hand against the cold granite facing of the precinct building. Every layer of wonder and sensation led to yet another, on and on, a million deep, even here, in this most unremarkable corner of the world. He let it all fill him, as he contemplated the end of everything. After what he’d seen so clearly in Joby’s eyes, heard so unmistakably in his voice, Gabe doubted that Lucifer’s victory could be long in coming.

“Definitely soup,” Malcephalon told the expectant assembly, managing to gloat somehow, despite his eternally drawn expression. “When his rage has given birth to action, he will lose any claim to conscience. After that, our victory is assured.”

“Let’s not sink all the lifeboats just yet,” Lucifer drawled, barely able to rein in his own giddy anticipation, given the week’s achievements. “Our plan does seem to have unfolded perfectly for once, but let’s not get careless with self-congratulation.” He stared pointedly at Malcephalon. “To win, we must prove ‘brazen defiance’ and ‘great wickedness,’ remember, not just some half-baked little lapse in judgment. I want no risk of losing another one of these things on some tawdry technicality. Our Enemy’s very big on that sort of thing, remember. So let’s keep whispering in his ear until his rage has come
to full fruition, and please, let’s make sure that he’s not caught or, God forbid, killed somehow before he’s done all that is required of him.”