CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Chaz:
Ia€?m supposed to be a big-picture guy, supposed to see all the angles from front to back, inside and out. Details, theya€?re supposed to come later. Ia€?m supposed to keep both eyes focused on how Fresh Start relates to everybody else, watch as the angst of the world pours into a silver bowl, drips over the edges. Fire, brimstone, ash. Watch it all catch fire, people turn to pillars of salt. Dead. Unmoving.
Nine-Timers, frozen in their footsteps, right in the middle of their last life.
Watch, complacent while the Hindus use resurrection in their unending search for Nirvana, for better placement in the caste-system directory. Watch as the Muslims seek a greater piece of Paradise, more virgins, a greater reward; turn my head when terrorism goes up and One-Timer razzle-dazzle redemption goes down.
Turn the other cheek whenever somebody asks the million-dollar question.
Why dona€?t born-agains want to be born again?
Like a stone dropped in a pond of water, concentric circles were going to widen and grow, until we were faced with a tidal wave of cause and effect that would erode the economic and spiritual shoreline of our country, of the entire world, if we didna€?t do something soon.
But it was really too late to save the world.
Thata€?s what my big-picture vision told me right now. At best, I might be able to salvage a tiny piece.
A little dark-haired girl. Five, almost six years old.
One child, if I could save onea€”this onea€”then that was all that mattered.
The rest of it could burn. In fact, it was probably already on fire.
I could taste revenge in the back of my throat as I waited for Neville. Like water in the desert, it both satisfied and made me thirst for more.
?
a€?Whata€?re you doina€?, Domingue?a€?
Part of me was wondering that myself.
Skellara€?s voice sizzled through my brain, he was waiting for my answer.
a€?I already have guys lined up, ready to surround Nevillea€?s hideout. Whya€?d ya go and change the plan?a€?
Because I dona€?t trust your boys. Because I think somebody on your side isna€?t really on your side.
a€?Can you hear me, or do I need to come down there anda€”a€?
a€?Stay right where you are, Skellar,a€? I answered. Angelique was leaning against a tomb, arms wrapped around herself from the chill that had come on us suddenly. Overhead the clouds moved and darkened, swirled tempestuously. The wind swept leaves from nearby trees, cast them at us like funeral prayer cards, like there was a message somebody was trying to tell us.
But I refused to listen to anything but the thundering rage in my heart.