Earth's Final Kingdom

By Craige McMillan

The life of Randal Werner, U.S. SecDef, now depends on a shaky alliance between Dr. Phillips, a neurosurgeon, and Rhinehart, a doctor of silicon. "Who will he be, after the operation?" Dr. Phillips asks. "We don't know," Rhinehart responds.

Violet is assigned to assist in the SecDef's recovery programming. She's very involved w

• Language: English
• Publisher: Irresistible Press (Revelare)
• Release date: Feb 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781946047069

Craige McMillan

Craige McMillan is an American writer. He grew up in the rolling farmland and small towns of the Midwest, which served farmers and provided railroad transportation for their crops. His family later moved to southern California. There he finished high school and met the girl who would become his wife. They both attended college, where he studied history during the social turbulence of the early 1970s. He followed the same route to novel writing that many other authors have taken. He wrote articles, news stories, and later worked in signals intelligence overseas during the Cold War. When he returned to the United States, he worked in large-scale computer systems where he did programming, database design, computer security and disaster recovery. Craige now lives in what is still cowboy country, the high desert American West, with his wife of forty-some years, and a Belgian Shepherd, to whom he reads his first drafts.

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PART I: DARPA

CHAPTER 1

Good morning, Dr. Phillips. Bruce Fiskins, the DARPA chief extended his hand. Mr. Fiskins, Phillips said, reaching over to shake the outstretched hand.

"Dr. Rhinehart is already in the operatory with our patient. We have attended to all the necessary consents. The President has given his approval, as has Mrs. Werner. At the moment we are waiting for Dr. Brooks, your anesthesiologist.

Dr. Brooks will be here, said Phillips. If you don’t mind…may I review the consent forms?

Of course, said Fiskins. I have them over here in my briefcase.

Phillips glanced nervously through the glass wall separating them from the operatory. He wasn’t in the hospital; it was a DARPA facility. The operatory was small, but state-of-the-art. He glanced off to the side and watched Fiskins withdraw several sheets of paper from his briefcase, which sat on a bench seat along the wall. Fiskins walked back to Phillips and handed him the papers.

Dr. Phillips walked over to the glass wall separating them from

the operatory. Anesthesiology is in order, Phillips said. He read the brain surgery consent. Neuro is good. He looked at the third form.

That one is highly classified and will be stored separately, Fiskins said. But I wanted you to see that everything is in order and being done with full approval.

Phillips read the form labeled, Experimental Surgery. He compared Mrs. Werner’s signature on each sheet of paper to insure they matched. I’ll have to take your word that’s the president’s signature on the experimental surgery form, he said.

It is. He spoke personally with Mrs. Werner, Fiskins said. She is aware of her husband’s prognosis without the operation.

And with? Phillips asked.

That’s why the president spoke with her. We’ve assigned a sixty-five percent chance of success for the operation and implant itself. The final results are not known. Hence, experimental.

Everything is in order, Mr. Fiskins, Phillips said. I appreciate your candor.

This is only the beginning, Doctor. It is extremely valuable to have someone of your expertise and vision working with us. Thank you.

Dr. Brooks entered the room. We’re all here, Fiskins said. He nodded toward the operatory. Shall we?

Brooks is ready. You and I have to scrub up, Phillips said.

Of course. not my usual routine, Fiskins said.

Dr. Brooks slipped into the operatory with its slight, positive air pressure bleeding out though the glass door at the end of the wall. Phillips and Fiskins went to the other side of the room. I’ll help you, Phillips said. He demonstrated the proper hand washing technique. Next he withdrew protective clothing from a cabinet in the corner. Soon the two men were ready to enter the operatory. They passed through the same door that Dr. Brooks had.

Rhinehart was already suited up. He obviously knew the protocol. He also seemed to know his way around the operatory. The patient, U.S. Secretary of Defense, Randal Werner, was secured on the operating table. The restraints were probably unnecessary, said Rhinehart.

No, we’re in uncharted territory, Phillips said. Immobilizing him was a prudent step. Are there any changes from our briefing yesterday?

No, we’re good, Rhinehart said.

Phillips nodded toward the anesthesiologist. If you would, Doctor Brooks. Take him under.

Dr. Phillips kept his eye on the patient’s vitals as Dr. Brooks skillfully dropped him down toward the line between consciousness and whatever lay beneath that. His heartbeat and breathing were normal for a man in his condition making the journey. Brooks noted the approaching target vitals as the patient slipped into unconsciousness.

Patient is under and stable, Brooks said.

Dr. Phillips nodded to the surgical nurse who had joined them. Instruments were passed and Dr. Phillips opened the skin and tied it back on itself. The nurse applied suction to control the bleeding.

Next the nurse passed the doctor a tiny circular saw. Phillips positioned the saw against the now exposed bone. We are removing a three by three inch section of the cranial bone, to provide access to the right forebrain, Phillips said. We will assess the damage caused by the lobotomy and proceed accordingly.

Fiskins turned and walked away as the saw chewed down into the skull bone. Rhinehart seemed unaffected, other than watching intently. Fiskins returned when the saw noise stopped. He watched as Dr. Phillips slipped the three-by-three inch piece of bone out of the skull. The wavy, rolling contours of the brain were now exposed.

Dr. Phillips looked at Dr. Rhinehart. For the record, Phillips said, I am preserving the patient’s autonomic nervous function, which is found in the midbrain, hindbrain and lower brainstem. I will also preserve the cerebellum, to the extent possible. Dr. Rhinehart will then place an autonomous silicon unit, which will replace the higher-level human thought processes that were destroyed by the lobotomy.

Dr. Phillips slipped into his zone. He had studied the scans. He knew where the arteries and blood vessels were. He knew the extent and location of the damage done by the lobotomy. He began to remove surplus brain tissue, working around blood vessels, preserving the necessary nerve paths, insuring survival of the lower level, autonomic nervous functions.

Dr. Rhinehart and Mr. Fiskins watched as the pile of brain tissue being removed grew larger and larger on the operatory table. "That’s whatever was him," Fiskins whispered. He continued to watch the pile of material grow outside the patient’s head.

Fiskins wandered off again and sat on a stool, watching from the greatest distance possible in the small operatory. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard Dr. Phillips say, Now we are installing the titanium containment box for the silicon replacement unit.

Fiskins wandered back to watch. The box was placed inside the skull and secured to the bone with titanium screws. A cable was fixed along the inside of the cranium and a hole drilled to accommodate the computer interface plug. Dr. Phillips glanced at the vitals on the monitor. Excellent work, Dr. Brooks, he said. Then he looked at Rhinehart. Your patient, Doctor.

Thank you, Doctor, Rhinehart said. He walked to an area just beyond the operatory table and opened a package. He withdrew a device not all that different than the innards of a small computer. He walked back, took Dr. Phillips’ place, and fitted the device into the titanium box that Dr. Phillips had just installed in the patient’s head.

With the computing unit secured inside the box, Rhinehart inserted a battery panel along the only empty space in the box. Battery size and current drain have been adjusted to approximate body temperature, he noted. Next he fitted the inside cable connector that Dr. Phillips had installed onto the master plug on the device. Finally he connected the external cable to a large electronic device on a nearby stand.

We’re ready for power on, Rhinehart said. Phillips nodded. Vitals normal, Dr. Brooks said. Go ahead, Fiskins said.

Power on, Rhinehart said.

The external device went through its systems checks. Device function normal, the unit responded through a synthesizer after several minutes of testing.

Dr. Phillips reached over the patient and opened an eyelid. There’s no eye movement, he said. He snapped his fingers near one of Werner’s ears. No auditory response.

There’s no program uploaded yet, Dr. Rhinehart said. All that’s there is what you left us, Dr. Phillips.

He needs the recovery time we talked about, Phillips said. You have everything in order? I can close him up?

Yes, Rhinehart responded. Go ahead, Fiskins said.

OK, Phillips said. He looked at the surgical nurse. The nurse passed the three-by-three inch piece of cranial bone to Dr. Phillips, who inserted it into the skull. He secured the bone piece to the cranium with a dissolvable adhesive. Then he returned the skin to its original location over the bone.

When the sutures in the skin were complete, Phillips looked at Rhinehart and Fiskins. He needs to rest, he said.

He has a private room here in the DARPA recovery center, Fiskins said. He vitals will be monitored 24/7. Is there anything else you need, Dr. Phillips?

No, that will be fine, Phillips said. I’d like to stop by and check on him.

You’re welcome anytime, Dr. Phillips. I’ll get you a security pass.

CHAPTER 2

Dr. Phillips stood at the head of Randal Werner’s bed—or what was left of the man. He had been in recovery at DARPA for three days. Vitals were strong. His body was healing from the operation. But there was nothing there.

Phillips was still conflicted. First, do no harm, he muttered. He looked at the body of the Secretary of Defense. I removed who he was. There’s nothing here, he thought.

Phillips placed his fingers over the man’s eyes. He spread the eyelid open on one side. Phillips emitted a stifled gasp! The eye was focused, unmoving, staring at him!

Dr. Phillips moved his other hand into the man’s field of vision, noting the transfer of attention to it. He moved the hand back and forth across the field of vision. The eye tracked it. Phillips placed his hand on the other eye and spread the eyelid open. That eye was tracking as well.

Good morning, Dr. Phillips! Dr. Rhinehart spoke gently from where he stood behind Phillips.

His eyes are tracking, Phillips said.

I uploaded vision and auditory early this morning, Rhinehart said. Three days somehow seemed about right.

What about speech? Phillips asked.

That comes tomorrow, Rhinehart said. How long do you think he needs…I’d like to experiment with mobility.

His vitals are surprisingly strong, Phillips said. Muscular control could take a toll on him, however. We need to begin cautiously.

It’s not going to be anything approaching the fluidity of human motion, Rhinehart said. But from our primate experiments, I’m confident he will be able to get around, within certain limits.

It’s astonishing, Phillips said.

It’s also highly classified, Rhinehart said. You’re in, but this is strictly need-to-know.

Phillips nodded his head, agreeing. His hands carefully felt Werner’s arms. There was no muscle tension at all. Phillips turned his attention to Rhinehart. When you finish loading software…who is he going to be?

Rhinehart smiled. We are optimistic that he will be Randal Werner, Secretary of Defense.

Phillips stared at Rhinehart. How is that possible? he asked.

His software algorithms have been highly biased toward learning, Rhinehart said. "He has been Secretary of Defense for five years. There is an extensive body of knowledge about the problems he has faced and the solutions he crafted.

Phase one is reconstruction of his thought processes by studying the inputs in the record. We have access to the classified record as well. Phase two is simulating prior circumstances and tweaking his cognitive responses to match the record.

What’s phase three? Phillips asked.

He will be on his own. But we’re a ways away from that, Rhinehart said.

You actually believe… Phillips said.

Rhinehart shook his head. I know, he said. His retention is perfect. It’s all been done several times before with primates. He’s the first human.

CHAPTER 3

United States Secretary of Defense, Randal Werner, sat in a wheelchair across a table from Drs. Phillips and Rhinehart. His eye movements are pretty good, said Dr. Phillips. There is only a very brief lag beyond what I would expect, when he looks at me.

Most of the computing horsepower is reserved for his thought processes, said Dr. Rhinehart. Secretary Werner turned his eyes toward Rhinehart, also just a tiny bit too late. He’s learning, though. I think the lag will mostly disappear.

The wheelchair works, said Phillips. I think others, even those who know him, will accept his being confined to a wheelchair.

The experiments revealed there was no way we could deal with mobility issues at this point, Rhinehart said. The primate experiments were promising, but… He paused, watching Secretary Werner. The man simply stared back at him, expressionless. It’s hard to believe, Rhinehart continued, but the higher-level though processes are actually easier to reproduce than walking across the room.

There’s a lot we just don’t know, Phillips said. He looked at Rhinehart. What about speech?

That will be synthetic, said Rhinehart. I think people will accept that.

I agree, said Phillips. An idea had just occurred to him. You mentioned that he would have perfect recall. What if he regurgitates one of our conversations about him out in public? Phillips’ voice betrayed concern.

"He hears us, but he never remembers our voices. He has voice recognition. Just think of it as automatic forgetting when it comes to those involved in the project."

So his wife…I know they are estranged. Phillips said.

He has to start over, but yes, he will retain everything he is exposed to. He will process everything. He will build a new world. We hope it will be like the one he left behind, but we just don’t know.

Phillips looked at Werner, but was speaking to Rhinehart. Ethically, this still makes me queasy. But intellectually…it’s fascinating, Doctor.

Thank you, Doctor. That’s a high compliment. We’re very grateful for your involvement.

It was the third night in a row. It had happened at precisely two in the morning. Dr. Phillips was in his bed, alone, his wife away at a week long convention. He knew there was someone in the room. Or some thing. It felt more like a presence than a person. The previous two nights it had simply observed, then left after fifteen minutes. Those had been the longest fifteen-minute intervals of Phillips’ life.

The clock at his bedside indicated two-thirteen. He watched the seconds tick by. Finally the minute hand changed to two-fourteen. Another eternity, then two-fifteen. Whatever it was, it was still here. Two-twenty-five rolled around. Phillips wasn’t sure he could make it past two-thirty. He waited. Two-thirty-one, thirty-two. Who are you? he yelled out!

The figure of an older gentlemen with silver hair and a neatly trimmed gray beard, dressed entirely in black became visible. I’m deeply troubled, Son, the voice said. Deeply troubled at your decision.

He recognized the voice immediately. You’re my grandfather, he said. The tone of awe and respect was still present in his voice. Mickelson Phillips had been one of the renowned, pioneering neurosurgeons of his era. This was the man whose name had opened the door to a medical school his grandson would never have had a chance to otherwise attend.

You’re a spirit…or a dream, he said.

Then put your hand through me, said his grandfather.

Reluctantly, but with determination, Dr. Phillips reached out to run his hand through the apparition in front of him. His hand’s travel stopped at the figure’s waist. Then his grandfather’s hand grabbed hold of his hand. There’s a lot of things you don’t know about, Son, his grandfather said. I understand the temptation, but you should have said, ‘no.’ The man’s hand squeezed Phillips hand. I’m sorry it had to be you, Son.

Phillips watched as his grandfather dissolved away before him in the darkened room. A single shaft of light had illuminated him through the window. Phillips’ hand that his grandfather had been holding dropped to the mattress. The presence was gone.

Phillips knew there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. He lay on his bed, his mind racing. He saw himself reach across the table and grasp Dr. Rhinehart’s hand that first time. One small step for man. One giant step for mankind.

What’s done is done, Phillips muttered. He got up and walked out onto the back porch. The dawn would soon break. The cherry blossoms in Washington, D.C. were everywhere, their scent pervasive. It’s springtime for humanity, he said. Times and things change, Grandfather. The words came into his mind, but he didn’t vocalize them. First, do no harm.

PART II: OLD SPOOK REUNION

CHAPTER 4

Mr. Miranski, said the admiral, rising from a chair behind the desk in his stateroom. He extended his hand across the desk toward Miranski.

Sir! Miranski said. He gripped and shook the offered hand. As the two men released their handshake, Miranski’s fingers brushed the scar on the top of the admiral’s hand. Something buried deep within his mind flickered, but extinguished before it became a thought.

Please, be seated, the admiral said. He motioned to either of the chairs in front of his desk, then sat back down behind the desk.

Miranski settled into the chair to his left. It was extravagant by military standards, but rather ordinary compared to some that Miranski had occupied in high-level government offices. His eyes studied the admiral’s face, while he waited politely for the superior officer to speak.

Miranda will be very happy that her daddy has returned, said the admiral.

The remark was so completely out of context, and yet so obviously true, that it disarmed Miranski’s thought processes. He focused on the words just spoken.

Yes, thank you for letting me come back, Miranski said. Second chances… his words drifted off and his gaze focused on the window behind the admiral. The Bering Sea, Miranski added.

The admiral nodded in quiet agreement.

A carrier group that no one knows exists, Miranski said, softly.

Very few, the admiral said, gently correcting him.

Miranski looked at him, curiously. The admiral gave no further information. Instead, he said, Tell me briefly about your background.

Miranski allowed himself a stifled laugh. Mostly the intelligence world, he said. "It began in the navy; signals intelligence collection onboard a ship. After my navy experience I was tapped by the National Security Agency, primarily as a liaison in various foreign countries. Usually stationed at naval outposts.

I did a brief stint with the CIA, human intelligence. Back to the NSA. Then pretty much military liaison for signals intelligence. Navy and Marines.

Could you work with an air force officer? asked the admiral.

Don’t see why not, said Miranski. They all collect the same stuff; just use it differently.

Do you know Colonel Markenson? asked the admiral.

Miranski’s face betrayed his surprise. "I know of him, he said. The man is a legend!"

I’m gong to send you to meet him, said the admiral. I want you to work in his shadow, doing things he can’t be directly involved in. The admiral smiled as Miranski smiled.

You do know me, Miranski said.

If the two of you agree, I will assign you to work together.

Then I will report to him? Miranski asked.

No. You will report directly to me, the admiral said. He let that sink in for a few moments. Then he added, You may need a calling card of sorts when you first meet together. Ask the colonel if he enjoyed meeting his friends from Vietnam.

Vietnam, Miranski said, as he noted the single word in a small pocket notebook he kept. How will I meet him?

The admiral smiled. I think the private jet I had fueled this morning would be suitable transportation for you to San Diego, he said.

Miranski chuckled. I do remember, he said. Thank you, Sir.

CHAPTER 5

The telephone conversation was brief. The old fellow had seemed pleasant enough when Miranski called him at the naval base. But the mention of friends from Vietnam had altered the tone of the call.

There’s a Denny’s, three blocks straight out the east entrance to the base. Let’s have lunch. I have a thick, graying mustache, and I’m way too old to play games. I’ll be there at noon. Click. The call was ended.

The private jet deposited Miranski at one of the general aviation airports. The fixed base operator there had reserved a rental car for him over the long weekend. When he opened his wallet to pay, there was a credit card in his name, and bearing his signature on the back. He couldn’t remember ever having received the card. The rental clerk had no trouble with it.

She called a ramp rat to find his car and bring it to the entrance. Miranski carried one small travel bag to the building’s entrance. He glanced at the jet that had brought him here. A few moments later a tan Land Rover rolled around from behind the building and stopped in front of him. A young college-aged kid exited. They did a walk-around together. Looks good, Miranski said. Thank you.

We’ll see you at noon on Monday, sir, the kid said.

Miranski remembered his previous trip to Los Angeles, as he followed the route the rental car girl had given him. He had scraped together the money for the plane ticket and rented the orange bomb, as Odessa had later called it. He remembered the Vital Records office, the long wait near the take-a-number machine for the death certificates he knew he would be given. Then, staring at them, he noticed the woman seated next to him staring at him. Then came her words, You always told me, especially near the end, not to believe everything the government said. I’m in the world, Miranski thought, but I’m no longer bound by it.

The wait at the Denny’s was longer than Miranski expected, but not uncomfortably so. Finally an elderly gentlemen in civilian clothes with a heavy, graying mustache approached him, and wondered if he might like to reminisce about Vietnam.

Let’s do it, Miranski said. He followed the man to a table where he had already been seated—and, Miranski noted—where those waiting to be seated could be observed.

Colonel Markenson, the man said, nodding at Miranski as he sat down in the booth.

Miranski, he said, offering a handshake over the table. The man’s grasp was firm, his hand warm.

Did you meet my friends from Vietnam, also? asked Markenson, as he sipped coffee.

No. Miranski said. The admiral gave me that as a calling card.

Well, it worked, Markenson said. But I needed lunch, anyway.

Miranski chuckled, as did Markenson. The old Colonel continued, He told me there was something I needed to do, but nothing about what or when it was.

He asked me to meet with you, and see if we could work together, Miranski said.

The waitress approached, poured coffee for Miranski, topped up the colonel’s, and then took their lunch orders. I suppose, said the old Colonel, that we could start with what we did, back in the day…

Anyone who had contact with the military knows that your name is legendary, Colonel Markenson, said Miranski.

Which branch were you in? Markenson asked.

Navy, Miranski said. But only peripherally…

Intelligence services, then, Markenson said. Liaison?

Primarily as cover, Miranski said. A sub might take me someplace. Another ship might take something back home. Sometimes the navy got me out. Other times I had to find my own way home.

"Was some thing ever someone?" Markenson asked.

Yes, Miranski said.

The colonel looked thoughtful, assessing the lights in the ceiling, or perhaps studying the tiles. Finally, without looking at Miranski, he asked, Does Liechtenstein mean anything to you?

It was a removal operation, from the Kamchatka Peninsula, in Siberia, Miranski said.

Was that you? Markenson asked.

Yes.

Markenson leaned back and studied the younger man’s face. Miranski made no attempt to avoid the scrutiny. Yes, Markenson said. We can work together.

The waitress returned with their food. The two men ate mostly in silence. It was a language they were both comfortable with. They were perhaps halfway through their meals when Markenson asked, What do you suppose is the next step?

I don’t know, Miranski said. I suppose…he sent me here in a private jet. Take it back to the carrier, I would guess.

Huh, and I had to fly myself, Markenson said, just the hint of a smile on his face.

You landed on the carrier? Miranski asked.

Materialized out of nowhere just before I would have cut the autopilot, Markenson said. Biggest ship I have ever seen in my life.

There’s an entire battle group around it, Miranski said. I saw it from the air.

Welcome aboard, Mr. Miranski, Colonel Markenson said. I just wish I had some idea what we are in for.

I do uncertainty pretty well, Sir, Miranski said. Maybe that’s why he plugged us in together.

CHAPTER 6

The make-work reports that O’Riley was required to fill out every week, along with a desolate Alaskan winter at Shemya Air Force base, had given him some much needed perspective. It had also allowed for more introspection than O’Riley was comfortable with.

In his mind, O’Riley still saw Miranski’s young daughter seated in front of the gigantic man on the equally gigantic horse, which glimmered like the sun. But time, distance, a long summer of daylight and then a winter of frozen darkness, had convinced him it had all been a dream. Horses simply didn’t fly, except in dreams.

O’Riley had also suppressed the orders he had received to make certain that Miranski was not around to tell anyone what he knew about the Agency’s work here at home. Collateral damage was, well, sometimes unavoidable. The crew that had come to sanitize the fishing boat had done their job, and giving O’Riley a sedative early on had been a part of that job.

Yeah, it was rotten to have to do that to a friend, but there had to have been a good reason. It was time to move forward with his life. O’Riley included a short letter in this week’s batch of reports, which would go, as all the others had, to his old section chief.

A month later O’Riley was rewarded with a real job. He was no longer testing snow samples for radioactivity and measuring the size of polar bear droppings in support of the global warming initiative.

The new job wasn’t much, it didn’t require a security clearance, but the information would actually be of some value, provided O’Riley could obtain any. He was simply to go to a variety of fishing harbors along the coast and determine if a ship with particular markings had been noticed by anyone. If it had, when and where? O’Riley was once again in the human intelligence business.

PART III: TIME DEVELOPS A WRINKLE

CHAPTER 7

Pastor Rawlins paced the office in his downtown Denver church. It was late at night; he should be home with his wife, Elena. He stopped in front of the window, bars on the outside to prevent break-ins. His old mahogany desk, which had been with him since he had been a student at seminary, stood silently before him.

Pastor Rawlins pealed open the fingers of one hand, attaching a name to each. Zantos, fourteen years old. Twila, twelve. Sanchez, sixteen. Damn it! he yelled. His fist slammed down on the faithful old desk, which absorbed his anger without a complaint. I’ve buried three children from our community this month! When is it gonna stop?

Rawlins got to his knees and leaned his head and arms on the desk. I’m sorry, God. But I have to know. When is it gonna stop? When is it enough? Rawlins buried his face against his arms, which were folded atop the desk, next to his Bible. He cried. His tears were just like when he was a little boy and his mother had died in the hospital. His poor father, left to raise a rebellious young boy, stuck on angry.

When the tears had finished, Rawlins looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty at night. Sorry, Jacobs, he said. I gotta talk to somebody. He picked up the old desk-style telephone receiver and dialed Jacobs’ number in Los Angeles. Through the years both men had supported each other; they knew the other man’s telephone number better then their own home number.

Pastor Jacobs, the weary voice on the other end of the line mumbled.

Sorry, Rawlins said. I gotta talk.

Let me go pickup in the other room, Jacobs said. I’ve got you covered.

The conversation resumed in Jacobs’ small home study. I buried three kids this month, Rawlins said. I got pretty angry at God. I pounded the desk and asked him when it was gonna stop.

Let me know if He tells you, Jacobs said. A dozen children from our church alone, and we’re only a few months into the year. Jacobs paused. Maybe it stops when all the children are gone.

No, no, no! Rawlins wailed. It can’t go on!

Why don’t you come and see me? Jacobs asked.

I got a church to preach to this Sunday, Rawlins said.

Get Elena to cook lunch for everybody. You’ll probably double your attendance.

Rawlins laughed. Then he said, I’m gonna do just that. Yeah, I’m gonna come and see you.

You flying or driving? Jacobs asked

Driving, Rawlins said.

Why don’t you pray about it on the drive over. I’ll pray about it here. See you when you get here, Jacobs said.

Pastor Jacobs’ had left word with his wife, Ashina, that he and Pastor Rawlins were not to be disturbed. Nevertheless, her gentle knock on his door was insistent. He opened it and looked at her. Another one… she said, holding back the tears. He’s still alive, Children’s Hospital, the one with the bridge over Sunset Boulevard. The family is there. They asked for you.

I’ll go, Jacobs said.

I’ll come along, Rawlins said.

The family met them outside the emergency room doors. He’s gone, said the crying mother. Fifteen minutes ago.

No! Pastor Rawlins shouted at the glass doors leading into the emergency room. No! It’s enough God! Do you hear me! It’s enough!

Rawlins felt a shock of energy cut through him. Two male orderlies from the emergency room came out and asked them to leave. Rawlins addressed both of them. Where’s the boy—the one that goes with this family? he asked.

He’s still on the gurney, one of the men said. But the morgue—

You take me to him, Rawlins said. I’m a pastor.

I don’t care who you are, the other man said. The boy is dead. You have to leave.

Rawlins grabbed each man by his shirt up near the neck and picked one up in each hand. Their feet dangled six inches off the ground. He addressed them together, face to face. You’re gonna take me to the boy. You’re gonna get down on your knees. You’re gonna pray with me. Do you understand?

Rawlins set the two men back down on their feet. I’ll take you there, gasped the first man. Rawlins followed him inside.

The police have to be called, the second man said to Jacobs. The pastor fished a business card out of his shirt pocket. Captain Onswald, he said. Here’s his card and number. Tell him the Reverend is here, dealing with it.

The orderly handed the card back to