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on efficient information gathering. You'd be surprised how well a confessional
works for purposes of extortion."
"Even those they don't literally blackmail get shaken down," Tom said through
a grin. "Who can resist throwing a few bucks toward someone who implies that
you'll roast in hell for an eternity if you don't pay up? Certainly a far
worse fate than any court or scandal sheet can threaten."
"Most people," I said, "seem willing to defer their punishment that long." I
pulled up a dirty folding chair to sit on. "Get to the point. You knew Joey.
Somehow he got dead in my office. What's that got to do with you and me?"
"Relax, Ammo," the guy on the altar said. "We're on the same side. I think."
He pointed a thick index finger at me. "You're trying to find a way to expose
religion as a hoax, and you're on some sort of a track that's got a certain
group of powers-behind-the-throne scared out of their gowns. Enough for them
to put a tail on Joey. Enough to kill him."
"So they kill him and don't wait around for me? As deduction, that stinks."
"Maybe something bigger scared them off. I was watching the news last night.
Some fun happenings around Hollywood. More than usual, wouldn't you agree?"
He slid off the altar to walk over to where I was sitting. We were nearly
eye-to-eye now. He looked me over, circling the chair. He peered at the scalp
showing below my hat. He nodded approval at the wounds.
"Maybe you are a tough guy after all. Not many people go up against the
Ecclesia and survive two warnings." He caught my frown of incomprehension.
"Ecclesia," he repeated, "with an impressively capital E. You won't find it in
any reference book, even the ones that are fairly replete with information
about Freemasons and the Bavarian Illuminati and other small-time
conspiracies. Anyone you ask either won't know or will deny its existence. In
religious circles, though, gossip circulates and leaks. They have their own
unique conspiracy theories."
"Do they?" I asked, as raptly interested as I could be without stifling a
yawn.
He poked at the still-swollen lump that served as a souvenir of my night
escapades outside Auberge. Something dull throbbed through my body to ache
against the newer bruises and slashes under my hat.
"The Ecclesia-" was about all he got out by the time my hand whipped around to
sweep up under his chin. I had to crouch in the chair to reach that low. He
sat with astonishing speed, landing on the floor with a thud that I thought
would bring us crashing down into the shops below. He stared blankly forward,
his hands useless by his sides.
I stood to look at Tom.
Adonis looked worried. It was an admirably beautiful worry. Michelangelo spent
years trying to sculpt that kind of worry.
"Fine way to treat one another," I said to Tom. "We haven't even been formally
introduced."
"Randolph Corbin," came a voice as thick as library paste. One hand massaged
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his jaw, the other extended upward, palm open. He leaned forward. I grasped
his hand and pulled. My knuckles were sore from the punch, and his grip didn't
help matters.
"Call me anything but Randy, and we won't cause each other trouble." He
shuffled unsteadily to the white cube and leaned his bulk against it. It
skidded a bit, dragging part of the rug with it. He shifted about to gaze up
at me. I must have scored a hit on the button the way his round chin was
getting rounder.
I felt bad about doing that. His face didn't need any more workouts.
"The Ecclesia," he continued, as though he'd just stopped for a breath, "is a
loose association of high-level bishops, rabbis, imams, roshis, and various
other shamans who have a vested interest in maintaining the power of religion.
Organized religion. The kind that accumulates revenue. They consider any
threat to the philosophical foundations of any faith to be a threat to all.
They leave the lip service concerning holy wars to the lower echelons. In the
same manner as the U.S. and the Soviet governments, they recognize that the
pretense of being enemies is necessary to justify their mutual existences.
Fear and hatred of the rival religion keeps the peons in line. The Ecclesia is
securely entrenched. They've got the wealth of a dozen faiths to play with,
and they're not interested in people who rock the boat."
He leaned toward me. "And you've got them worried, Ammo. Why?"
I smiled. Easing back in the chair, I pulled out another coffin nail and
tapped it against the pack. Silently.
"They're sure as hell not concerned about me," Corbin said. "And look what I'm
preaching." His arm swept about to encompass the room. "The Word of the Beast.
The heretical absurdity that a true Christian should labor to bring the
Antichrist to power so that God's prophecies can-finally-come to pass."
He frowned. "No one's ever so much as dropped me a nasty note. A couple of
decades ago, when some researchers proved that Jesus had been rescued from the
cross and lived to sire a child with Mary Magdalene, did the religious
establishment even sniff? The book was a best-seller. Did the faith of
millions come crashing?"
"Let me guess," I said. "No?"
"No. Even the revelation that the Death and Resurrection never happened
bothered no one. Yet you-you they kill for." His fist pounded against the
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