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“I’m all for comfort. If they would just leave it at that, but they never do. People always decide that everybody else has to get some comfort too, and it better be their version of comfort. And if it’s not, they generally make their point on the sharp end of a sword or the business end of a gun.”
Sharon jumped to her feet, her agitation evident in her writhing fingers as she clasped and unclasped her hands. “Perhaps we could take a walk in the night air and continue our talk, Mr. Cross.”
“All right.”
Cross tore off a hunk of bread and carried it with him as he escorted her to the front door. The retarded man scuttled out of the way. Behind him, the majordomo emitted gargling sounds that never fully resolved into words.
SHE LED HIM BEHIND THE HOUSE AND DOWN A PATH THAT FOLLOWED THE barbed-wire fence. The warm night air was filled with the soft lowing of cattle, and the smell of cow shit and dust. He began to mind where he stepped. Fireflies danced through the brown blades of grass like lost stars. The half moon had nearly set behind the hills.
Ahead, a sinuous line of trees marked a stream’s meandering path. They broke through into a clearing where a wooden footbridge crossed the slowflowing water. The wind shifted and Cross smelled the smoke of a campfire. There was a hobo jungle nearby. Sharon stared in that direction for a long time, then sank down on the edge of the bridge, legs swinging free, and stared down at the silver-tipped ripples passing beneath her.
Finally, she asked, “What do you do, sir? What’s your business?”
“I’m currently a private detective, ma’am,” he said.
She studied him for a long time. “So that means you help people.” Her voice was so soft he had to lean in to hear her. Her breath puffed softly against his cheek.
“Do you need help?”
She didn’t answer but turned her face away to contemplate the sky. “My husband is on his way to Chicago for the convention.”
Cross didn’t need to ask which convention. The Democrats had gathered to select a presidential candidate. The Republicans were sticking with the hapless Hoover, so it was critical that the Democrats pick wisely. Not fucking likely was Cross’s estimation.
“Marshall’s an alternate delegate, and he took Sean so he could see his government in action,” she continued. That gave Cross a twinge of unease. A preacher with an official position and the taint of an Old One could be a toxic brew.
“I stayed behind to mind the mission.” Sharon continued. She gave the ring a nervous twist. The shadow tentacles writhed. She sat silent for a moment, then turned to face him. “The Lord has given me the gift of Sight, and I can see that you are a good man. I think you were sent here to help me.”
“I couldn’t speak to the first part, ma’am, but if you’re in trouble I could probably help,” Cross said.
She presented him with her profile. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Why’s that?”
She thrust out her hand. “This ring,” she whispered. “My husband gave it to me, but I can’t take it off.”
“Let me see.” He extended his hand, and she laid her hand in his.
Power throbbed through the ring like a heartbeat. He gathered his own power, took a grip on the ring, and gave an experimental tug. There was a flare of violet light, something seemed to kick him in the chest, and the world went black.
The first impression was that he was wet. Then Sharon was there, pulling his head into her lap and stroking his forehead.
“Mr. Cross. Mr. Cross. Are you all right?”
He forced apart his eyelids. Even the faint moonlight felt like a spike being driven into his head. He was lying with the lower half of his body in the creek. The assault from the ring had knocked him clean off the footbridge.
The bonds that supported his human form were vibrating like a struck tuning fork. He swallowed bile, closed his eyes, and took slow, deep breaths. Don’t shatter. Don’t shatter. Not here. Not now. Not so soon after the last time. Slowly, he gained control over the body.
“Do you think you can walk?”
He nodded. A mistake, so he settled for a moan and hoped it sounded enough like yes to get across his meaning. He struggled, trying to regain his feet. Sharon helped, supporting him under one arm.
They limped back to the mission. “I’m going to put you to bed in Sean’s room. And get out of those wet clothes. If I hang them now they’ll be dry by morning.”
She took him upstairs to a narrow room with an equally narrow bed against one wall. There was a bookcase with schoolbooks and religious tracts. On top of the case was a collection of rocks, a crawfish in a tank, a football. A typical boy’s room. She left. Cross emptied his pockets and took off the gun rig. He stripped out of his clothes, and, half-opening the door, handed out the soggy bundle.
He had the presence of mind to remove the money belt and shove it beneath the pillow. He then eyed the bed and fell naked on top of the covers.
IT WAS THE WESTERING SUN, HOT ON HIS EYELIDS, THAT BROUGHT HIM awake. Cross found his clothes in a neatly folded stack on the foot of the bed. The incongruity puzzled him. Little Miss Goody Two Shoes had entered the bedroom of a naked man not her husband. He checked his wristwatch. The dark power in that ring had knocked him out for twenty-one hours. Cross shuddered; something had come through the veils between the dimensions here, and it appeared to be a shitload more powerful than he was.
