Roadtrip 41

By Douglas J. McGregor

You are about to go on a road trip to 1941 with the devil's dog and his good friend, the doc. Yes Jake McCluskie is back... Mohana, a soul-eating creature from Oblivion, has reached the Well of Souls and soulless babies are now being born. It's up to Jake McCluskie to stop it. Problem is: the only weapon that can kill the creature is not in his time period. It's also in pieces and scattered about the country. With the Arms-Keeper out to kill them at every turn. Jake and the doc time travel back to 1941 to find the gun pieces. They have seven stops to make, and it won't be easy, especially with two children tagging along, one of whom doesn't have long to live.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663236937

Douglas J. McGregor

Douglas J. McGregor is the author of nine action novels: Going Down Ugly; Limbo, Mississippi; That Special Knack; Killing Time till I Die; 8 Crazy Moments in Time; Off the Beaten Path; Itch; and most recently, Roadtrip 41. He is also the author and illustrator of the popular children’s book, Alphabet Town. A new children’s book entitled; Calvin Babysits the Zoo is due out in 2024.

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Copyright © 2022 Douglas J. McGregor.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-3694-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-3693-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022904265

iUniverse rev. date:  04/18/2022

CONTENTS

Preface

Prologue: Heaven Can Wait

Part 1     The Trinity Rides Again

Part 2     The Dead Letter Office

Part 3     Drinks With The Devil

Part 4     The Chinaman

Part 5     1941

Part 6     The Monday Morning Blues

Part 7     The Edge Of Damnation

Epilogue: Home Sweet Home

Notes & Acknowledgments

PREFACE

In December of 2015, Jake McCluskie accidentally released a monster imprisoned inside Oblivion. Once free, the soul-sucking creature named Mohana went on a killing rampage, tearing apart anyone in its path to thirstily consume their soul. Once it had gorged itself on innocent bystanders, it disappeared into the Adirondack Woods, perhaps feeding now on the wildlife.

Thankfully, the mortality number never reached triple digits, so local authorities were able to chalk-up all the gory deaths to nothing more than bear attacks. Ninety-eight bear attacks to be precise and maybe someone should call Guinness because that has to be a record. Yogi and the gang must have been ‘high’ on drugs that day to go on such a killing spree.

To be sure, the bear attack explanation raised a few eyebrows with the ‘common sense’ folk, and the absurdly of the blatant lie got worked into many late-night talk show host’s monologues. Soon the conspiracy theorists jumped into the fray with both feet, and blamed the deaths on either Big Foot or aliens from outer space.

The controversy hotly bickered on for days with sentiment running two to one toward the aliens. After all, Big Foot was never known as a killer. Only an alien would rip a man in half to consume his soul.

Time moved on of course as time always does, and with attention spans being what they are, the red-hot ambers of the story cooled off rather quickly and everyone forgot all about that time when over ninety people were savagely torn apart by a creature described by most witnesses as a hairy, black dump-truck-size ape with red eyes.

Jake McCluskie never forgot Mohana’s carnage, for even though it was an accident, he felt responsible for freeing the creature. God felt the same way because He had assigned McCluskie the task of disposing of the beast.

And that’s where we find ourselves now…

PROLOGUE

HEAVEN CAN WAIT

(1)

For those of you who know nothing about my crazy life, I have been to Hell twice and, like you might suspect, both trips were terrifying. Still, oddly enough, I was far less frightened in Hell then where I currently stood.

I shouldn’t be here was all I kept thinking. But it was too late. I was already past the barrier and inside. No matter what, I had to see this through.

Taking deep calming breaths didn’t help at all, and I looked around to get familiar with my new surroundings.

The hallway stretched out before me for as far as I could see. The ceiling glowed a soft white, the walls were white as well, and the floor tiles were the same color white but highlighted with flamboyant flecks of grey and red.

For some reason, I expected the place to look different. After all, it was a prison. This place looked more like a New Age office building owned by some rich guy in California.

I started forward, walking slow, and went straight down the hall, my arm extended out as a small white orb about the size of a cue ball tightly gripped in my hand tugged me along like an impatient dog. The orb was a gift from one of the most wonderful angels ever, the Angel Nathanial. He promised the orb would get me to Good-Game. He also promised the orb would point me to the exit. Both promises were pending.

As the orb tugged me along down the hall, I thought about my angel friend. I had asked him for help with the break-in. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here. I had made him an accessory to my crime. His existence, like mine, was on the line, and if anything happened to him, it would be my fault, and the sick fear of that kept sending waves of nervous terror through me.

As the orb pulled me along, other thoughts—none of them pleasant—gnawed away at my brain. I was here because of a Horseman, and putting it bluntly, Horsemen are an unscrupulous bunch.

For those not familiar with the Bible, there are four Horsemen. As a group, they’re called The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. For some reason, and I can’t even take a guess as to why, they each ride different colored horses.

What colored horse did the Horseman Famine ride? I had no idea, but the question did come to mind when he paid me an unexpected visit this morning.

It was right about then, as I stared at him, sipping coffee from my New York Yankees mug, that I knew it was going to be a bad day, perhaps a bad week.

Time is running out, he began grimly. The problem has to be dealt with immediately.

Instead of asking what problem?, I asked, Hey, what color horse do you ride? War rides the red horse, that much I know, and Death rides the pale horse…What about you? I can’t remember.

He ignored my question and went on with, I have a transaction I’d like to discuss with you.

Transaction, huh? and I chuckled a bit. I don’t think so. I don’t do business with unrespectable clientele.

You do business with my brother Death all the time, he snapped back.

Yeah, but I like Death, I returned, my smile widening. He gave me the ability to see souls. He’s also a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy beneath his rough exterior. I chuckled and concluded with, Even though you gave me the original Mona Lisa—and I motioned to where it hung on the living room wall—and I thank you once again for that, I don’t like you, not in the least, and I sure as hell don’t trust you.

He scoffed at me, muttered, You’re far more evil and crooked than I am, and went on with, Your part is simple McCluskie, even someone like you, a middle-aged, marginally talented fiction writer, can do it.

I flipped him the finger and motioned for him to step aside of the TV. Do you mind? I’m watching the Simpsons.

He sighed with annoyance. You’re a grown man, he reminded me. Don’t you have better things to do at seven-thirty in the morning than watch cartoons?

Oddly enough, no, I told him. Us greatly talented fiction writers are a quirky bunch, and then my voice hardened and I got right to the point. What do you want?

You do something for me, and I’ll do something for you.

I’ll tell you what you can do for me right now, I returned with ire. You can stop hand-combing your long white scary hairdo—you’re leaving strains all over the place, and I hate vacuuming. With that complaint voiced, I asked the obvious question, What are you gonna do for me, Mr. Horseman?

After a short dramatic pause, a smile grew on his withered face, and he revealed, I will point you in the direction of the weapon you need to kill Mohana.

I picked up the remote and shut off the TV. The Horseman Famine now had my full attention.

In case you don’t know, he went on, Mohana has reached the Edge of Damnation.

After a shrug, I asked, Is that near the Land of Oz?

It is the location of the Well of Souls, he said, and if you don’t believe me, go see your doctor friend.

Famine didn’t have to ask twice, and once I was showered and dressed, I went directly to the 2nd Avenue Medical Clinic to see the doc.

Seeing the doc was great, but what I saw her carrying in her arms made this trip here all the more urgent.

The orb tugged me forward and I spotted a T-junction up ahead. Now my nerves were on fire. Anything could be hiding, waiting for me, and with my free hand, I reached into the kangaroo pouch of my grey hoodie and drew out my weapon.

The pistol was another gift from Nathanial. He had given it to me years ago when I needed to kill a demon who had hijacked a bus. It had done me great service over the years, and just holding the comfortable pistol grip put me more at ease.

I reached the T-junction, and the orb tugged me to the left. The hall ahead looked identical to the one I had just been in, and the orb tugged me harder forward. A few seconds later, I arrived at another T-junction—and that was where I encountered my first guard.

Nathanial had said there would be guards, and sure enough...

I clearly remembered the way Nathanial’s face had soured when he mentioned the guards. Sure, you’re faster than them because your neurological system is enhanced because of the Archangel Michael, but remember Jake, they’re still angels—badass angels.

The angel guard currently blocking my path was a bit shorter than me, and heavier, with a thicker frame. She wore tailored grey overalls that snugly clung to her body. Her face was model-attractive and, no lying, she wore wire rim glasses. I never expected to see an angel wearing glasses. Who knows? Maybe it was a fashion statement.

When she saw me, her brown eyes widened with such utter surprise, if not for the gravity of the situation, I would have keeled over laughing. Instead of laughing, I pulled the trigger, and as I did, a great deal of thoughts flashed through my mind. And I was back thinking of Nathanial.

An hour ago, I had met him at Giovanni’s, the Devil’s hangout. It was mid-morning, an hour before the lunch crowd would file in. The establishment’s proprietor, Giovanni, had told me the Devil was not due until four. I planned to be long gone by then.

When I drink with the Devil, no matter what the weather is like, we always sit outside on the terrace. Today I sat inside, tucked away in the last booth in the room with Nathanial seated across from me.

Giovanni had provided us with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two shot glasses. As you might expect, the angel tossed back a shot of Jack the moment I told him where I needed to go.

Famine said to see you, I told him. He said you can get me in and out—and get me to Good-Game. Then I asked, By the way, did you know Heaven has a prison?

He nodded, filled his glass, downed the shot, and filled the glass again; this time, he left the drink alone, and with two fingers, gently stroked the rim of the shot glass.

This is not good, he declared after a long sigh.

Tell me about it.

Are you sure you want to do this?

I don’t have a choice. I have to take Famine’s deal—I have to break into Heaven.

No you don’t, he shot back, screw Famine and his deal—find another way to kill Mohana.

There is no other way, I returned, and even if there is another way to kill this thing, I don’t have time to go look for it. I shook my head wearily and sadly reported, I just came from seeing the doc.

And?

She just delivered a healthy baby boy.

Okay, and?

Beautiful child, I went on.

And?

The child is soulless.

…oh…

I should have told her the baby was soulless, and I silently cursed myself for not doing so. She was so happy, I reported, I couldn’t ruin her mood, so I made an excuse and got the hell out of there. She doesn’t even know what my plans are for this afternoon.

He looked down at his drink and stayed silent.

Mohana is in the Edge of Damnation, I continued. It’s standing over the Well of Souls slurping up the souls that bubble to the top. I downed my drink, waited for the burn in my throat to subside and added, As you can see, I don’t have a choice.

He nodded, and soon admitted with a tiny hint of hope that, If nothing else, you will have the element of surprise, because trust me on this, when the angels see you, their mouths are going to hang open.

Are you sure I’ll encounter guards?

It’s a prison, he reminded me, and then blatantly told me what he thought was going to happen. This is not going to go well—you’re taking on angels. And trust me on this Jake, you better not get captured.

Why? Once they interrogate me, I’m sure they’ll let me go. I’m a Christian after all, I’m one of the good guys.

He laughed until his cheeks redden. You’re not one of the good guys, and he downed a shot of Jack as though he really needed it. You’re breaking into Heaven, he continued, you’re not trespassing across your neighbor’s lawn. There is no ‘slap on the wrist’ for what you’re planning to do. Unless God intervenes to save you—and from what I’ve been told, He’s left Heaven for a while—the angels will most likely kill you right on the spot. Probably quite savagely.

This grim possibility had never entered my mind, and a silent pause ensued until Nathanial went on with, You have to remember, you’re Lucifer’s dog. I guess saying those words bothered him, for he refilled his drink. You’re the Devil’s mortal. Whether you like it or not, you’re an enemy in Heaven.

I couldn’t argue the point; I sure wanted to, but I couldn’t; and instead, I took another shot of Jack.

And remember why you’re there, he went on darkly. The information you get from Good-Game will most likely damage Mankind in some way. After all, there is a reason he’s in prison.

This was another good point, still…

I don’t have a choice, was all I could think of to say, and soon pushed on with, Famine said that’s what I had to do for him.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handful of bullets and set them down on the tabletop. There were seven bullets in all. I had hoped for more.

This is all I’ve got with me, he said, and instructed me to, Unload your weapon, because you don’t want to use the bullets you have loaded in your gun now. Those bullets will kill an angel—remember what happened to the Angel Destiny when you shot her. He motioned at the bullets he had placed on the tabletop. These bullets will only stun them.

Stun, huh? and my question became, Stunned for how long?

He looked away and played nervously with his earring before saying, It all depends on the angel. A powerful angel is going to get up a whole lot faster than a weaker one.

Now, as I pulled the trigger, I wondered if the bespectacled angel I was shooting was powerful or weak. I also wondered if where the bullet strikes made any difference to the extent of recovery time, for in all the excitement, my arm jerked a bit, and the shot went high, way high, and the shot hit her bull’s eye direct in the center of her face.

Her glasses went flying and she dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. I stared at what I had done, and watched in fascination as thick tendrils of green smoke wafted upwards from her face.

She looked dead. I felt terrible.

I’m really sorry, I apologized and, waving the gun about to help clear the green smoke pouring out the barrel, ran over to where her glasses had landed. I was happy to see the lenses remained intact. The wire arms, however, had not fared as well. The arms were as twisted and bent as a drunk man’s walk. She needed a new pair for sure, but since I was not in a position to help with that, I straightened out the arms the best I could and returned to the comatose angel.

After quickly polishing the lenses on the waistband of my hoodie, I knelt down and gently placed the glasses back on her face. Then I thought, what the hell? and I bent over and kissed her cheek. You can’t imagine how sorry I am. I was back on my feet, and I backed away, adding, Please forgive me.

The gun’s report had been surprisingly loud in Heaven’s confining prison walls and my ears buzzed as though I had just come from a rock concert. What worried me now was: You had to figure someone had heard the blast. Guards were coming—I had to get this over with quickly.

The orb tugged me along. Now I was passing prison cells. Most were empty; some had figures curled up in blankets on the bed but the memory of those few is a bit fuzzy because I was running too fast at the time to take too much notice of things.

The orb led me to a dead-end hallway. At the end of the hall, the orb suddenly stopped tugging. I stood in front of a prison cell, a clear liquid-like substance covered the opening, and I called out to the creature huddled on the end of the bed with his back to me.

Hey! Are you Good-Game?

The entity slowly turned. His face was heavily lined, his head was as bald as a cucumber, and his double chin spilled over his collar like a messy omelet. He was short, a hair or two over three feet-tall, and well dressed in a white three-piece suit with a black shirt and a red tie.

He jumped off the bed, marched up to the clear barrier and stared up at me, saying nothing.

A few seconds ensued before I broke the silence with, Hey man, I gotta say, nice attire. And before he could answer, I asked once again, Are you Good-Game?

He nodded with the sharpness of a German solider during inspection, and then felt the need to tell me who I was. You’re Jacob McCluskie. You’re the Devil’s dog.

Thanks for reminding me, I said, and got down to business. Famine sent me. He wants the coordinates.

Does the Devil know you’re here?

Good-Game, I haven’t got time to chat with you.

I’m not saying a word until you answer my question. Does the Devil know you’re here—in Heaven?

I answered with, I haven’t seen him in a while.

So he doesn’t know.

Listen Good-Game, I’m not in the mood. I just shot an angel so you gotta figure a whole lot more angels are coming our way—so start talking.

I think the Devil is going to be mighty upset when he learns that you have attacked Heaven.

Yeah, maybe, I grumbled back. He’ll get over it. I’ll buy him a drink to smooth things over—now start talking.

With that said, I drew out my phone and pressed ‘play’ on the video app. Good-Game cleared his throat and got down to business.

He said a few phrases in what I guessed was Ancient Latin, (it could have been Martian for all I know) and then he switched to English. Purgatory burns brightly during the seventh moon, he said, his tone hard and serious. Then he rattled off seven numbers and went silent.

Is that it?

He nodded.

I turned off my phone, went to leave, but paused, for curiosity had struck me. What are those coordinates to?

Have you ever heard of the Book of Spells?

I shook my head.

It’s the most powerful book in existence.

Good to know.

He walked closer to the partition and mouthed, Take me with you. The bullets in your gun can crack the partition enough to get me out.

I backed up.

We’ll retrieve the book together, he promised. I’ll make you a billionaire. You can have anything you want.

Yeah…well, normally I’d say yes to such an offer, but you’re a demon, and well, fuck you. With that said, I flipped him the finger, turned, and took off running.

I had pocketed the orb to film Good-Game, but now, with the phone back in my pocket, I pulled out the orb. It tugged me down the hall, and I kept thinking, How far away is the closest exit?

I got to a T-junction and the orb steered me to the right. I was back running again, but I didn’t run for long because I saw an angel guard running toward me. The guard, a male this time, was dressed identical to the bespectacled angel. Just my luck, he looked deadly serious, like he wanted to kill me.

As I went to take aim, I heard a ‘swoosh’ behind me. I turned quickly and, like I had thought, there were two of them coming for me now, from opposite directions. Lucky me.

The orb was still tugging me forward, so that’s where my first shot went. The round struck the angel dead square in the chest and he flew backwards with the theatrical elegance seen on a Hollywood sound stage. He lay motionless on the floor with green smoking drifting off him.

With that angel down, I spun about with the speed given me by an archangel and fired at the other angel. This angel was larger than the others I had encountered, and quicker, and he dodged my first bullet. I was pissed because he had, and I quickly squeezed off another shot. This time I heard a ‘click’.

A great deal of swear words filled my head.

Here was the angel’s chance to run me down before I could reload, but he didn’t. Instead of attacking, he stood confidently in place with his fists resting on his hips, daring me to shoot again.

His head was bald and his round cheeks looked as thick as cement. His eyes were tiny and black, and he threw back his head and laughed evilly at me. You’re a dead man McCluskie.

If nothing else, I was certainly well known.

No scum of Lucifer will enter our holy domain.

I ignored him and hurriedly slid bullets into the empty chambers.

You’re nothing more than an immoral wicked human, he went on, your soul will rot in Hell for eternity.

Again, I ignored him and finished loading the gun. Once I finished, I clicked the cylinder back into position.

Prepare to die, the angel stated, and charged me.

I fired, and this time I hit him. He spun about, went down on one knee. He looked woozy, but he got back up. He was wounded but moving, so I fired again. This time I hit him dead square in the chest. The impact was loud, and he ended up on his back with green smoke lazily drifting upwards. He was hurt, sure, but…

Problem was: he was still moving around a bit, and sure, maybe my paranoia was running rampant at the time, but still, I was willing to bet this douche bag angel would be on his feet again before I even reached the end of the hall.

I had to inflict more damage on this guy while I could, and ignoring all instincts to flee, I walked back to where the angel lay and blasted him in the head executioner style. He stopped moaning and rolling back and forth. He lay still. He looked dead. I certainly didn’t need to shoot him again, so I took off running, realizing I needed to reload.

Problem was, I had only one shell left that would stun them; the rest of my ammo consisted of real bullets, bullets that could kill them. The situation was turning from bad to worse, and for some reason, I felt the exit was a long way away. So the decision was easy: load the gun with real bullets.

It took only a few seconds to reload, and once I had, the orb was back in my hand. I raced forward, the weapon at my side belching out thick green smoke from the barrel.

At the end of the hall, the orb tugged me to the right. I sprinted ahead, and was running at near top speed when, out of nowhere, an entity suddenly appeared in front of me. I couldn’t stop in time, I was running way too fast, and I ran straight into him.

It felt like running full steam into a steel girder, and I landed on my ass with a bone-jarring impact, nearly losing my grip on both the orb and my weapon.

I stared up at the entity.

As you know by now, the Angel of Death gave me the ability to see souls, to see energy patterns, so I knew at once this entity wasn’t an angel—he glowed differently. To be more precise, his energy pattern was similar to Lucifer’s; which meant an archangel hovered over top of me.

But which one?

(2)

Tall and lanky, the archangel was dressed as though it was casual Friday day at work: comfortable loafers, loose-fitting tan slacks, a light blue dress shirt opened at the collar and a thin grey blazer.

He looked twenty-five, with stylish long blonde hair and a model’s face. He belonged in Hollywood making movies, not in Heaven bothering me.

Your weapon won’t work on me, he said flatly.

I didn’t argue the point and shoved the smoking gun into my kangaroo pouch.

McCluskie, he sang out in surprise, do you realize you’re in Heaven?

I got separated from the tour, I explained with a growing smile. I’m trying to find the gift shop.

I laughed at my joke; the archangel didn’t.

If we had a gift shop, you’d probably rob it or set it on fire.

I laughed again, and started to climb to my feet. Before I could, he seized my wrists and lifted me into a standing position.

You’re under weight for your height, he declared as though I might have been unaware. You should eat more.

I have no appetite—it’s all the stress I’m under.

This time he laughed, and to think, I wasn’t trying to be funny.

When his laughing dried up, he got right to the point, Did Lucifer send you?

I shook my head. The Devil knows nothing about my visit.

Visit? he questioned. Are we calling it a ‘visit’?

Well, I’m calling it a visit—you know, a friendly ‘drop in’.

Friendly? and he laughed before going on with, It seems to me like more of an armed assault.

Potato Potahto.

He grinned, and went on with, Who sent you in? Who are you working for?

The Horseman Famine, I answered without hesitation.

A look of concern shone in his bright blue eyes. For a long moment he said nothing and walked around me, gently stroking his chin in thought.

I smell the Angel Nathanial on you, he said suddenly, and looked me in the eye. Did he get you in?

At this point, lying was not an option. He told me not to rat him out.

The handsome entity laughed again. You’re quite funny McCluskie. Does my brother Lucifer enjoy your wit?

Sometimes.

I understand he’s drinking more now that he’s tethered to you, the archangel went on, and laughed at his own humor. I also heard he just purchased a keg of Napoleon’s private stock Cognac for over a half a billion dollars.

It’s news to me, I said with a shrug, but I’m hardly surprised, he does like to throw them back. And before the archangel could respond, I asked, Oh, by the way, what’s your name?

I’m the Archangel Uriel, and he paused for half a second before asking, Tell me something McCluskie, have you ever heard of me?

I decided I wasn’t going to start lying. No. And I shook my head.

He looked hurt, a bit anyway, and I quickly followed up my words with, I knew Lucifer had more brothers than Michael and Gabriel. I just didn’t know their names. Sorry. I’ll Google it when I get home.

I never got written up much in the scriptures, he explained with a sad shake of his head.

You need an agent, I told him, that’s what everyone tells me. You need someone to handle your public relations. I’d make twice the amount of money as I do now if I had an agent.

Maybe you’re right, and he smiled and boastfully informed, I’m currently in charge of Heaven, and no one knows but the angels and you.

I’ll spread the word around town if you want, I said, and jerked my thumb behind me. You know, I’m not the bad guy in this—so let me go.

He ignored my request, and asked, Okay, so Famine gets Good-Game’s information, what do you get?

A possible way to kill Mohana, I answered, and pushed on with, In case you don’t know, your Father assigned me the job of eliminating Mohana. So I had to take Famine’s deal.

He sternly shook his head. You didn’t have to.

Yes, I did, I fired back. Soulless babies are being born because Mohana is at the Well of Souls. I have to stop this creature as fast as possible.

He sighed with indecision. I can’t let you go, he muttered, and decided to list off some of my crimes. You broke into Heaven—and you’re a killer.

Killer? I held up my hands in defense. I’m no killer. I haven’t killed anything.

That was my first lie, and he caught me on it at once. You killed the Horseman Pestilence.

Oh, that, I said, trying to make light of it. You know, your brother helped.

He didn’t seem to care about my accomplice in the Horseman’s liquidation, and moved on with, You also ruthlessly killed an angel—Destiny was a good friend of mine.

Uh-oh, I thought, and continued on with the truth. She was my enemy. She was out to kill me. It was either her or me. I decided it would be her. Besides, she killed my cat.

My words didn’t seem to help any, and he somberly pushed on with his sad recollection of past events, You killed her days before Christmas.

She had it coming.

He went on with, I went to the scene of the crime, I went to the Brooklyn bar where you murdered her, I helped collect her remains.

I refused to yield any sympathy. If you’re waiting for an apology, you’ll be waiting a long time, because I’m in the right on this one.

You’re not in the right now, he fired back. What you’re doing now is a serious crime—you have violated the hallowed Palace of Heaven. He paused, and then lashed out with, And you shot three angels!

I wanted to say What’s the big deal?, but decided that might come off as sounding a tad insensitive. Instead, I quietly offered up, They’ll recover quickly.

He ignored my lame response and continued with, You have extracted information from a prisoner.

I had no defense to the accusation and I merely muttered out the truth, It sure sounds bad when you say it like that.

In the wrong hands, he pushed on, Good-Game’s information will spell dire consequences for mortals and deities alike.

He sure had me on that point, and all I could think of to say was, If there’s a mess because of it, then I’ll clean that up too. With that said, I jerked my thumb down the hall. Let me go, Uriel—I’m the good guy in this, and you know it.

Good guy? And he laughed hard and pointed out, You’re a cold-blooded assassin. You stood over top of the Angel Gog when he was down and shot him hitman style.

He had me on that violation as well, and even though I thought the Angel Gog was an asshole who deserved getting blasted, I kept quiet and waited for the archangel to continue. I didn’t wait long.

I don’t know if I can let you go, he said, looking off as though he was talking to himself. You’ve done too much. Then he suddenly theorized, Maybe this is the reason my Father left.

Uh…listen, I don’t think your Father would leave for any reason other than…I don’t know? Maybe He wants a vacation.

He pushed on as though I hadn’t even spoken. Perhaps God wishes to test me on this decision.

I’m sure He wants you to let me go, I suggested strongly.

I should kill you, he stated. Killing you would be a reasonable decision…but is it the right decision?

He looked like he was leaning towards killing me, and I backed up a step, reached into my kangaroo pouch, and wrapped my fingers around my weapon’s pistol grip.

I should stop you right here, he said, and nodded at his words. I should hand you over to Gog.

I sure hope you decide not to do that, I said, and stepped back a few more feet, the demon gun now at my side.

I told you before, your weapon won’t work on me.

Maybe not, but I’ve got three shots, and I shrugged and promised, You’re gonna get all three.

I’m awfully fast, he boasted, I’m a lot quicker than you.

I’m awfully fast too, I warned him. Your brother Michael jazzed up my neurological system. I shook the gun a bit. I’m the underdog, sure, but you never know, sometimes long shots come in.

You can lower your weapon McCluskie, he said. I have decided to remain neutral in this fight.

This was music to my ears and the word Neutral, slipped from my mouth, followed by, Like Switzerland?

He causally stepped forward a few steps, waving about the tendrils of green smoke coasting like lazy clouds in the air, and said, I like the fact that you stood up to me. I will have to let Lucifer know.

He would expect me to act with proper decorum, I returned with a firm nod, and told him what I thought, Thanks for not taking my gun off me, and I smiled.

He flashed me a picture-taking smile and said, I will give you a pass out the door.

Okay, great, and as I went to go by him, he stopped me with a raised hand.

I will also give you a one hour head start.

Excuse me. And I leaned forward a bit. Head start?

I’ll give you an hour, he went on as though I hadn’t spoken. I feel that amount of time is fair. But that’s all the time I’m willing to give you. Even though I’m rooting for you in this fight, I can’t play favorites. He smiled. Remember McCluskie, I’m staying neutral in this fight, like Switzerland.

Okay, so what I’m gathering here is, these douche bags I just shot are so vengeful they’re going to come after me on earth?

They’re called angels, McCluskie, and yes, the angels have no qualms whatsoever about visiting New York City to kill you. He shrugged with indifference. They may even take in a Broadway show after they finish you off.

You gotta stop this.

He shook his head. All I have to do is give you a chance. He stepped forward and put his hand on my shoulder. Listen, McCluskie, I like you, I like you a lot, so I’ve got some sage advice for you: go find an archangel to hang out with, because once Gog recovers from his assault, he will form a posse of a hundred angels or more to hunt you down.

Oh this is not good, was all I could think of to say.

He ignored my comment and continued with, Please pass along my regards to Lucifer. Oh, and tell him to cut down on the drinking. I’m becoming concerned.

Before I could comment, he waved his hand over me and, in an instant, I was back in the alley I had entered Heaven from. I was back in Queens.

It was raining hard; you could barely see ten feet ahead of you. According to my cell phone it was 12:34 pm.

I had one hour to find an archangel.

PART ONE

THE TRINITY RIDES AGAIN

(1)

It felt great to be home, and if not for the sharp pangs of fear shooting through me, I probably would have found a bar to celebrate. But no. I had an hour. One lousy hour, and well, I suddenly didn’t feel that was much time.

The Devil always warns me to stay out of alleys, so I hurried out onto 2nd Avenue as though I was being chased and stood on the corner in the pouring rain trying to decide what to do first.

My options were limited. I had no app on my phone that could hook me up with an archangel for the afternoon, still, since I had my phone in my hand, I called Giovanni’s.

The receptionist in the lobby remembered me from this morning and was nice enough to transfer my call to the kitchen. The raucous sounds of a kitchen in full-out lunch time operation swirled around Giovanni’s huffy, What’s wrong Mr. McCluskie?

I’m in a bit of trouble.

He didn’t seem concerned in the least. …And?

I need the boss.

The Master is not due until 4:00. I told you that this morning.

I don’t think I’m gonna be alive by then, I reported grimly. Can you get in touch with Gabriel?

A slight pause ensued. I couldn’t imagine what was going on inside his head. Eventually, he asked, What have you done now?

You know, it’s not always my fault.

Is it your fault this time?

…well, I muttered, and told him the truth in one rambling sentence, emphasizing the word ‘Heaven’ several times before finishing up with, and now the angels are pissed and coming to kill me.

A pause ensued.

Finally, I said, I’m not lying.

Oh, I know that, Mr. McCluskie, he said as though my fibbing had never entered his mind. I know you quite well. I have a front row seat to your shenanigans.

I don’t know if I’d call them shenanigans.

I can’t help you, he went on. The boss is not due until 4:00 and I have no way to contact him or Gabriel. In fact, I haven’t seen Gabriel in months.

I tried not to sound too disappointed, and said, Okay, I’ll work it out. I disconnected the call as Giovanni wished me Good luck.

I stuffed the phone in my pocket, walked north along 2nd Avenue and tried to devise some sort of feasible plan to this terrifying madness.

The only other archangel close by was Michael. He owned a luxurious brownstone on the Upper East Side.

As most of you know, Manhattan is a long way away from my present location in Queens, still, what choice did I have? As far as I could tell, getting to Michael was my only conceivable hope of surviving the afternoon. And I only had an hour to do it. Even less now.

If I took the subway, and if there were no problems in the tunnels and all the trains were running on time (a minor possibility, I guess), I felt I could possibly get to Michael’s house within an hour. The question was: would Michael be home?

He could be anywhere, and now I was thinking of the doc. The doc and Michael are quite chummy and who knows? Maybe the doc knew where he was.

I drew out my phone, shielded it from the rain the best I could and, within a few seconds was listening to ringing. A few ‘rings’ later, her sweet voice instructed me to: Please leave a message. I considered doing just that, but in the end disconnected the call. I had another idea.

I’ll go see her, I muttered aloud, committed to the decision even though I truly hated wasting the valuable time it would take to track her down in the hospital.

The thing was, I needed to see her in person anyway because I now had an important video on my phone. Sure, I could text her the video, but I felt an explanation was in order. To do that, we had to be face to face.

I cursed under my breath thinking about how much time that would cost me, and stepped out into the water-clogged gutter, searching for a cab. At the best of times, flagging down a taxi in this city is hard. It’s even harder on a Wednesday afternoon when it was pouring so heavily I was having thoughts about the time I time-traveled to 1938 and got stuck in a hurricane. The weather now was almost as bad.

As I thought about this, I caught the attention of a turban-wearing cabbie in the far lane. He looked young, mid to late twenties, with a pleasant face and dark brown eager eyes. The eagerness I liked, for maybe he would drive fast.

He nodded at me to confirm he was coming, and then zipped his yellow taxi across two lanes of traffic as though he was the wheelman in a bank heist. He cut off a minivan, returned the angry ‘honk’ he got for doing so, drove at breakneck speed through the deep puddle in front of me and slammed on the brakes.

I climbed into the backseat, thanked him for soaking the lower half of my already wet jeans and told him to drive me to the medical center.

Since I had stopped at the ATM machine before going to Heaven, (if only there had been a gift shop), I decided to lower my thrifty-natured tendencies and not be so cheap. There’s an extra ten bucks in it for you if you get me there real quick.

Are you trying to bribe me to drive over the speed limit? he asked, his voice resonating with a slight trace of an East Indian accent.

Is this your first day on the job? I fired back, and quickly reminded him, You’re a New York City cab driver. You should have asked me the second I got into your cab if there would be a little something extra for a quicker arrival time.

I will take no part in that kind of mischief. I obey the law. Besides, you offered only ten dollars? and he chuckled, his thick and wiry eyebrows hedged upwards with mirth and his mangy, out-of-control black beard, dusted now with white donut powder, bunched up into a coy smile. With that sudden windfall, I’ll be able to retire early.

I raised a cynical brow at him. I think ten bucks is a good tip. No one ever tips me.

What do you do for a living?

I write novels—fiction.

Fiction? and he laughed hard. So what you’re telling me is, you’re unemployed.

You’re quite a comedian.

Thank you for saying so, he replied, and glanced back at me, a smile brewing on his hairy face. It’s what I want to do professionally. I go to open mic night at the comedy club all the time, and I get great laughs. He then shrugged sadly and told me, My parents are dead set against it. They think it’s a stupid profession, not dignified for a Sikh.

I see, I began, pretending to be interested in his life. Tell me? Do Sikhs know how to drive? And I motioned ahead.

He faced forward at once, engaged the meter (which already stood at 2:50$) and drove out into traffic. I hoped he would stay quiet, allowing me time to think. He didn’t.

Less than ten seconds into the ride, he reminded me about the weather. Awful bad storm. It’s raining cats and dogs—and I just drove through a poodle.

He waited for me to laugh; I didn’t.

I leaned in between the seats. I’m not in the mood for your act, I grumbled. Now get me to the medical center.

I’m just trying to brighten your day.

Trust me on this, there is nothing you can do to brighten my day other than getting me to the medical center as fast as you can.

Okay, he replied with a serious nod, and looked at me in the rearview mirror. Are you sick?

Do I look sick?

You look nervous.

I thought you were going to say handsome, I said with a dark chuckle, and then decided to be entirely frank with my comedian wannabe Sikh cabbie because he might be the last person I ever talk to. The reason I’m looking a bit nervous, the reason I’m a bit on edge, is because I just broke into Heaven and shot a bunch of angels. And then I added, The angels are now pissed and coming to kill me.

His stunned pause lasted a few seconds, and soon his smile returned. No offense sir, but I can tell right now that you’re a lousy fiction writer.

Why would you think that?

He glanced back at me. Stories, even fictional stories, have to be built on some sort of a solid foundation of what your audience knows. He faced forward again and added, Shooting angels? and he laughed some more, The story is too outlandish to be believed.

Who said it was a story?

As those words left my mouth, traffic slowed for the red light and, like magic, a tall dark figure appeared in front of the cab.

That sure caught the cabbie’s attention. He gasped as though he’d seen a ghost, and stammered, That man just appeared…out of nowhere.

The cabbie was right. Except it was no man, it was the Angel Nathanial, my coconspirator to my latest crime.

Don’t worry about him, I assured the cabbie, he’s with me. He’s an angel.

Angel? the cabbie questioned. He looks more like an aging hippy who just staggered stoned and drunk out of a rock and roll festival.

It had taken a few minutes, but the cabbie finally had me laughing. And as I laughed, Nathanial appeared inside the cab.

The cabbie gasped in fright, and the angel, seated in the passenger’s seat, nestled into a comfortable sitting position. He nodded a friendly greeting at our driver, apologized for getting the seat wet, and ended his sentence with, …it sure is raining hard.

Yeah, I know, I spoke up for our cabbie, who seemed to be having a hard time finding his voice right then. According to our driver, it’s raining cats and dogs, and we just drove through a poodle.

A puzzled expression creased Nathanial’s face and as he went to respond, our cabbie found his voice, Are you a real angel?

Nathanial gestured at himself. Don’t I look like an angel?

You don’t want to know what he thinks you look like, I said, and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder, pointing ahead. C’mon man, get going. The light is green.

He drove ahead, and Nathanial turned to me. So? How did it go?

How do you think it went?

I think it went bad.

I smiled at him.

Oh… he breathed out with dread, so it did go bad?

That would be a gross understatement.

You met up with resistance?

I nodded. I met up with a whole lot of resistance.

…And?

As you said this morning, I’m faster than them.

…And?

I shot three of them.

You killed three angels? the cabbie asked with such shocking outrage