"Yes, Mr. Hyatt. Can I call you Stan? My name is Frank."

Marina smiled. "And I'm Moon Kitten. It's very nice to meet you. Can we come in? It's a little cold out here."

"You're not tax collectors," Stan said. "Are you?"

Aaron shook his head. "G.o.d, no. I haven't paid taxes in ten years."

Stan grunted and opened the door. He wore a revolver on his hip, but the weapon was in poor condition.

Aaron went inside. He was hoping for warmth but the temperature wasn't much different than outside. Marina followed him in, and she frowned.

The interior of the home was so crowded that Aaron had to walk sideways. Books occupied half of the front room. They were stacked floor to ceiling in thick pillars with the t.i.tles facing outwards. A single chair and a floor lamp stood in the center of the library.

Gla.s.s display cases occupied much of the other half of the room. Aaron walked over to one case and examined its contents. Small chunks of rock, metal, and crystal were placed on gla.s.s shelves. The pieces were arranged neatly, like precious gems, and the case had a large padlock. The gla.s.s was thick and laminated.

"That's my collection of alien artifacts," Stan said.

"Really?" Aaron said. The "artifacts" looked like garbage to him, although some of the crystals were unusual.

"An a.s.sociate in Arizona supplies them to me."

"Where does he get them?"

Stan shrugged. "I don't ask. He doesn't tell. That's the arrangement."

Typical, Aaron thought. "I understand. We have to take precautions with the government watching all the time."

"You know it. Just yesterday I saw a black helicopter in the sky. Hey, do you want to see something?"

"Sure."

Stan led them into another room where racks of incandescent lamps illuminated a table. It was so bright Aaron had to shade his eyes. The air was at least ten degrees warmer and smelled like a swamp. He counted twenty fish tanks on a large table. Each contained a few inches of water with netting above. Tomato plants were growing on the nets, their roots dangling in the water.

"This is my hydroponic garden," Stan said.

"What's it for?" Marina asked.

"After the war, when the skies are filled with ash, there won't be enough sunlight for regular farming. We'll need this technology to survive."

"Oh!" She nodded. "That's really smart."

"Thanks." He put his palm on the b.u.t.t of his revolver and looked at her with a suspicious expression.

"This place is great," Aaron said. "Is there anything else we can see?"

"Later," Stan said. "Why did you come here?"

"We have questions. You might be the only guy on the planet who can answer them."

Stan stood up straighter. "Go on."

"We read your book..."

"How? It's been out of print for a decade."

"We found it in a used book store," Aaron said. "I think destiny placed it in our hands."

"Did you like it?"

"It was a revelation. In your book you talk about the three crowns of the Apocalypse."

"That's right." Stan smiled for the first time. "The first is the pa.s.sage of the cosmic giant."

"Comet McNaught in January, 2007."

"Yes! Exactly! I wrote that in my blog."

Which is why I mentioned it, Aaron thought. "And the second is the unmasking of the queen of lies."

"Mary Sarandon."

"Obviously. Anybody with a clue can see that. The third crown is why we came here. You called it the 'unnatural plague.' I believe I know what it is, and it's happening in your own back yard!"

"What?"

"The tuberculosis outbreak," Aaron said in the most ominous tone he could manage. "Have you been over there? The feds turned Saint Athanasius into a maximum security fortress. The whole thing smells like a giant cover-up."

Stan's eyes opened wide. "You're right! The third crown! I thought I would never live to see it." He rubbed his hands together and grinned.

Aaron put a hand on Stan's shoulder. "I'm glad you agree. Finally, somebody else who understands! What have you heard about this disease? We want the truth. It could be a matter of life or death for the whole world."

"I don't know anything." Stan shrugged. "I saw the reports on the news but the media always lies. I'll have to look through my books. I'll check Nostradamus first."

"You meet people, right? Have you heard rumors? This is huge. Everybody must be talking about it."

Stan frowned. "I don't get into town much these days. The cops..."

"We both know how important this is. The third crown! We have to prepare for the end. Think, man! Who should we talk to?"

"Well, if you're looking for rumors... Never mind. She's completely unreliable."

"Who?" Aaron said.

"Madame Shen. She's the queen of idiotic gossip in Naperville. She hears about absolutely everything."

"Then we should meet her. Where is she?"

"Madame Shen's beauty salon," Stan said, "but she won't see you. She never talks to strangers."

"I'm sure she'll make an exception for us," Marina said. "Thanks. If we learn anything useful, we'll get right back to you. You're a life saver."

Smythe dialed the number on the gray business card using a payphone in a gas station. Gum was stuck to the handset, so he had to hold it by the end. He stared at a pile of dried chewing tobacco in the corner so none of the customers would see his face.

"h.e.l.lo?" Ethel said. Her voice was calm, a stark contrast to Smythe's distressed emotional state.

"This is Timothy Smythe."

"You're all over the news! Infamous murderer and desperate fugitive from justice."

"I didn't kill Woods," Smythe said through clenched teeth. "It was an accident."

"That's irrelevant."

"You ruined my life."

"It wasn't me," Ethel said. "You chose to pursue Woods instead of letting the proper authorities deal with him. You made it a personal mission. You became so obsessed you lost perspective."

He squeezed the phone so hard it hurt his hand.

"I've read the reports on you," she said, "and this behavior is typical. Instead of following the rules as written, you follow the rules in your head."

"I..." He took a breath. "I did what I had to do."

"That's my point. You don't have to explain why you called. I'm your absolute last chance. n.o.body else will help you in this situation. Even so, you're having second thoughts about this phone call. You're not sure if joining my team is better than life in prison, and you're questioning your own sanity. You still don't believe what happened last night."

He closed his eyes. She had seen straight through him.

"Have you slept?" she asked. "You must be exhausted."

"I am." He was running on fumes.

"Hold on." She was silent for a long moment. "It looks like you're calling from an Ultra Fast Gas in Oswego. We have a safe house in the area. Do you want to use it?"

"Sounds like a trap."

"You are paranoid. I like that! When you arrive at the house, don't just go in. There is a security system that will fry you if you don't follow my instructions."

"Uh..."

"Pay close attention," she said. "Here is the address..."

Smythe turned into the driveway of a yellow, two-story house. Ethel had explained that the top story was a separate apartment, and that was his destination. He drove around the house and parked in a garage in back.

He looked around carefully before getting out of the car. The only movement was the fluttering of fallen leaves on the ground. The quiet made him suspicious.

He stepped out of his warm car into the chilly, evening air. The shock of sudden cold failed to make him less drowsy. If he didn't sleep soon, he would collapse.

An exterior staircase led directly up to a door on the second floor. The staircase creaked under his weight as he slowly climbed. Ethel had told him emphatically not to touch the wooden railings. They were painted white and appeared ordinary enough, but he didn't want to take any chances. He kept his hands in his pockets.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he looked under the welcome mat and found a gold colored key. He examined the deadbolt lock critically. Instead of putting the key in, he pressed against the lock with the palm of his hand. Nothing happened at first, so he leaned into it. Suddenly, the lock released and slid half an inch into the door. That actually worked, he thought. Amazing.

Now he used the key. He turned it clockwise exactly one half turn, then counter-clockwise one full turn. The lock clicked softly like the dial on a safe.

He took a deep breath. The moment of truth. He grabbed the door handle and opened the door. Ten thousand volts didn't electrocute him, and neither did a shotgun blast him. His trust in Ethel went up one tiny notch.

He entered the apartment. There was a green couch with overstuffed pillows, facing an antiquated television. Open doors led to three other rooms: a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. The place was small.

A portable phone was on top of the television, and he used it to call Ethel.

"I'm in," he said.

"I know," she said. "The security system told us. What do you think?"

"It's better than sleeping in an alley," he muttered. He still wasn't excited about staying here.

"You're welcome. The kitchen is stocked with bottled water, soda, and canned goods. There are no perishables, of course, but you can make a meal. Go into the bedroom and look in the closet."

He went into the bedroom, which had a queen sized bed. He opened the door of the large closet and found it filled with clothes, both men's and women's.

"What are the clothes for?" he said.

"For you. Take what you need. I expect you could use a fresh outfit."

"That's an understatement."

"There is a false wall at the back of the closet," she said. "Feel around for two latches at chest height on the left and right sides. It's important to press both latches at exactly the same time."

He ran his fingers along the back wall until he found two square depressions. They were practically invisible to the naked eye. He pressed both at once, heard a click, and suddenly, the wall slid upwards.

He stepped into an unfinished room beyond. The angled ceiling and exposed beams indicated it was part of the attic.

There were two tall bookcases. The one in front of him held fake beards, mustaches, eye gla.s.ses, wigs, makeup, and other disguise components. I can look like anybody with this stuff, he thought.

The bookcase on his left was the armory. There were guns ranging from dainty .22 caliber pistols to .44 magnum revolvers that could "blow a man's head clean off." Boxes of bullets were placed next to each gun. A crate of fragmentation grenades sat on the floor.

"I like the weapons," Smythe said into the phone.

"Take what you need," Ethel said.

There was a footlocker to his right. He opened it and discovered that it was packed full of cash. "Whoa!"

"Sounds like you found the money."

"How much is here?"