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Just as I’m getting bored and cranky, Traven comes out of the Magistrate’s motor home.
He gestures and we head to his camper.
“You were in there for a while,” I say.
“These things take time.”
“Complaining that no one responded to his birthday Evite, was he?”
Traven nods to someone.
“I was taking his confession.”
“You’re back in the priest game?”
“I don’t think excommunication counts for a lot down here,” he says.
That actually makes me smile.
“Did you do the other thing?”
A bug-headed Hellion in a sombrero and dirty serape glowers at me. I smile like a dummy and keep walking.
“You want to know if I ate his sins,” Traven says.
“Did you?”
“Of course. It’s always been part of what I do.”
I look at him.
“Even in Hell? What does anyone care about sins down here?”
“It’s an individual thing. The Magistrate’s job is difficult.”
“Believe me, I know.”
Traven looks surprised.
“You know the Magistrate?”
I shake my head.
“I know a killer when I see one and he’s one cold Charlie Starkweather motherfucker.”
“It’s not that simple,” says Traven.
“That isn’t criticism. I’m just trying to figure out how things work down here.”
“I told you. It’s a crusade.”
“Because the Crusades worked out so well back home.”
“I’ve pointed that out, but he isn’t interested in mortal history.”
What a shock.
I look at him.
