"Myah-myah-myah-myah-MYAH-myah!"

"Karl, are you mocking me?!"

"No, Ma."

"You'd better not! Now get down here!"

"This s.h.i.t is hard to get on, ma! Give me a second."

"Don't you curse at me, young man!"

Karl let out a torrent of profanity.

"Karl!"

Karl Grissom was a 37-year-old film school dropout and part-time pizza delivery guy who was still acclimating to his role as the Antichrist. If it were up to him, he'd have stuck with just the pizza delivery gig, but his Ma wouldn't have it. "A great opportunity," she called it. And it was, for her her: an opportunity for her to get her hair styled and her toenails painted and her eyebrows plucked. Her eyebrows had been so spa.r.s.e and uneven that the poor stylist had ended up removing them completely in a futile effort to produce something like a definitive line. Ma had been outraged at first, but she took it as an opportunity to have new eyebrows tattooed just above the originals, so that her face now ironically seemed to be expressing the exact horrified surprise felt by anyone who was unfortunate enough to meet her.

Karl hated his mother, which was one thing he had in common with everyone else, whom he also hated, but not as much as he hated his mother. He hated her first of all because every day for the past nineteen years she had nagged him to stop playing with his "toys" and do the laundry, despite the fact that not once in his life had he ever done done the laundry. He couldn't fathom why she still thought he might some day break down and wash his own clothes. He certainly never gave her any reason to believe that he would. Ten years ago this week, in fact, he had stopped picking up his underwear from the bathroom floor in an attempt to convince her that her nagging was causing him to regress developmentally, but this tactic had had no noticeable effect on her behavior. He was still planning his next escalation in their little power struggle. the laundry. He couldn't fathom why she still thought he might some day break down and wash his own clothes. He certainly never gave her any reason to believe that he would. Ten years ago this week, in fact, he had stopped picking up his underwear from the bathroom floor in an attempt to convince her that her nagging was causing him to regress developmentally, but this tactic had had no noticeable effect on her behavior. He was still planning his next escalation in their little power struggle.

Karl had become the Antichrist quite by chance, at least as far as any human being knew. [7] [7] It was very important for legal reasons that his selection appear random. For this purpose, Karl had been a good choice, because anyone looking at him could only a.s.sume that he had come into the position through sheer unadulterated luck. It was very important for legal reasons that his selection appear random. For this purpose, Karl had been a good choice, because anyone looking at him could only a.s.sume that he had come into the position through sheer unadulterated luck.

Like most 37-year-olds who lived in their mother's attic, Karl was a fan of teen warlock Charlie Nyx.

The Charlie Nyx books were extremely popular with those who had read them and extremely unpopular with those who had not. Despite their understandable lack of familiarity with the finer points, it was, surprisingly, the latter group that was able to discern that the true mission of Charlie Nyx was not to defend the great city of Anaheim from troglodytes, nor even to generate truckloads of money for Katie Midford, but rather to promote the diabolical interests of Lucifer himself.

Everybody figured the Antichrist promotion was a joke, of course. Even the Mundane Observation Corps didn't take it particularly seriously. The applicants were more interested in money or fame than being conscientious servants of the Evil One. The only ones who took the gimmick seriously were the anti-Charlie Nyx activists. And Lucifer, it turns out.

Karl Grissom was not, by most accounts, the ideal Antichrist. Christian fundamentalists would have preferred someone a little more threatening, and the publisher of the Charlie Nyx books would have preferred someone with substantially less neck stubble. For his part, Karl would have preferred someone else had been selected as well, because he felt that he had better things to do.

Karl would bristle at the suggestion, occasionally made by neighbors and his mother's canasta circle, that he was just an unmotivated loser living in his mother's attic. Karl had ambitions. Karl was a musician musician.

This claim would have surprised everyone who had ever met Karl (including his mother), as Karl didn't play any instruments, had never learned to read music, and didn't own any alb.u.ms. He did, however, have a library of 26,923 illegally downloaded songs on his computer, and had thus far incorporated samples from 327 of them into an epic rock opera he was writing ent.i.tled Shakkara the Dragonslayer Shakkara the Dragonslayer. He had been working on it for seventeen years, although his first real breakthrough hadn't occurred until the release of Flat Pack's dance remix of "Sweet Child o' Mine."

All of this Antichrist stuff was, in Karl's opinion, a big distraction from his art. He was getting very close to calling it quits with the whole business. If it weren't for the free publicity, he'd never have agreed in the first place. His mother was thrilled with the money he had won, but Karl never paid much attention to financial matters. He had never wanted to win win the contest; he had been hoping to be one of the runners-up who got ten grand and an autographed copy of the latest Charlie Nyx book. the contest; he had been hoping to be one of the runners-up who got ten grand and an autographed copy of the latest Charlie Nyx book.

Karl finally got the costume on, except for the helmet, and plodded downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother waited.

"People are counting on you, Karl."

"Whatever," Karl said. Like his mother gave a c.r.a.p about other people. All she cared about was maintaining the steady stream of checks that Karl signed over to her. He got in his mother's Saturn and drove to the Charlie's Grill in Lodi, where the fans of Charlie Nyx waited impatiently for the Antichrist to appear.

TEN.

"Natural gas explosion."

"Excuse me?"

"That's what they'll blame it on. The authorities."

Christine tried to sigh, but it came out as a series of short huffs. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. They were on the highway, heading east. She was vaguely aware that she was going the wrong direction; she would need to head south at her first opportunity to get on a highway that would take her back to Los Angeles. She wasn't sure what she'd do when she got back to Southern California; some small part of her was trying to pretend that she could leave all of this insanity behind her in Berkeley. That illusion would be easier to entertain, of course, if the cherubic lunatic weren't sitting next to her, fiddling with the radio. Mercury had simply gotten into the car, without even bothering to ask for permission. She had been too shaken to make an issue of it.

"You have no idea how much divine retribution is blamed on natural gas explosions," Mercury was saying. "It's criminal, really. Natural gas is quite safe, generally speaking."

"Natural gas explosion..." Christine mumbled, trying to airbrush the image in her mind until that caption fit. But every time she replayed the scene, the fire always started out above above the house. the house.

"Should have gotten a Mundanity Enhancement Field. A pillar of fire won't work in an M.E.F. Disrupts the interplanar energy channels. Of course, my card tricks wouldn't work either." He sighed. "The interplanar energy channels are a harsh mistress." He finally took his hand off the radio's tuner k.n.o.b, having settled on Dishwalla's "Counting Blue Cars." "Ooh, I love this song," he said.

"You... blew up... that house..." sputtered Christine. It was a series of unconnected thoughts that had somehow come out as a sentence.

"I blew it up? Hardly. I don't have the authority to call down a Cla.s.s Three pillar of fire, even if I wanted to. Which, of course, I didn't. My ping-pong table was in there." blew it up? Hardly. I don't have the authority to call down a Cla.s.s Three pillar of fire, even if I wanted to. Which, of course, I didn't. My ping-pong table was in there."

"But you knew...."

"The card trick was the tip-off. Ace of spades. Somebody's idea of a joke."

"So the house blew up because you screwed up a card trick?"

"No, the card trick got screwed up because the house was going to be blown up. You see, I can't perform miracles without "

"Dammit," Christine spat.

"Something wrong?"

"I don't even know where I'm going. We should have stayed there. The police..."

"...are going to be looking for someone to blame," Mercury said. "Are you familiar with Walter Chatton?"

"No," replied Christine, impatiently. "Should I be?"

"Walter Chatton devised a theory which states that when you're trying to explain something, you should be prepared to keep adding to your explanation until whatever it is that you set out to explain is fully explained."

"Fascinating."

"The idea never really caught on."

"Hard to imagine why," Christine said irritably. "Wilbur Cheetham was clearly a misunderstood genius."

"Actually, it's a rather unhelpful theory, particularly for people who are paid poorly to explain a virtually unlimited number of nearly inexplicable incidents. It was the best response Walter Chatton could come up to another principle of limited usefulness, called Occam's Razor. You know that one, I suppose?"

Christine was tiring of the lecture. "Something about not trusting an Italian woman who shaves more than twice a day?"

"Occam's razor states that "

"I know, I know. The simplest explanation is the best."

"More or less. It might be better summarized as 'Don't needlessly complicate an explanation.' You know who loves Occam's Razor?"

"Kittens?" offered Christine, who was trying to focus on more pressing matters than a rivalry between medieval theologians.

"The police. The authorities. Right now, the simplest explanation is a natural gas explosion. The police aren't going to trouble themselves to satisfy Walter Chatton. They're going to go from point A, unexploded house unexploded house, to point C, exploded house exploded house, and they're going to pencil in "B, natural gas explosion natural gas explosion," between them. Unless, that is, you and I show up uninvited at point B with a look on our faces that says 'Something far more troubling than a natural gas explosion.' Understand?"

Christine hated to admit that this person, this clearly insane person listening to catchy early 1990s pop songs in the pa.s.senger seat of her rented Camry, was making sense. But of course he was. What would would she tell the police? A pillar of fire descended from the heavens as divine retribution for a bungled card trick? she tell the police? A pillar of fire descended from the heavens as divine retribution for a bungled card trick?

"So you screwed up a card trick, and now someone is trying to"

"I executed the card trick flawlessly," countered Mercury. "For a journalist, you're not much of a listener. The card trick was foiled by an interloper. I didn't figure a card trick would show up on Heaven's radar, but somebody must have gotten a trace on me. Two somebodies, in fact. Not just anybody can authorize a Cla.s.s Three pillar of fire, so that was presumably the work of my superiors. The people I work for aren't known for issuing warnings, though, so the card thing must have been someone else, trying to get my attention. It's a good thing they did, too, or we'd never have gotten out of the house in time. Lucky, huh?"

Christine took her eyes off the road to direct a pained glance in his direction.

Mercury began again. "You see, I can't perform miracles without "

"Oh, good lord," Christine said. "I can't believe I'm listening to this. You're telling me that the card trick was a miracle miracle?"

"What, you don't believe in miracles?"

"I don't believe that card tricks are miracles."

"Well, most aren't. Neither are most escapes from collapsed buildings."

"You How did you know about that?"

"Unauthorized miracles of that sort make it on the news."

"The news? They haven't even released the fact that General Isaakson..."

"Dead, I know," said Mercury. "Possibly another minor miracle."

"You're happy he's dead?"

"'Happy?' What does that have to do with anything?"

"You said it was a 'minor miracle' he was dead."

"I said 'possibly.' That was one lucky rocket strike otherwise. Or unlucky, if you're General Isaakson."

"Or someone else in the house."

"Well, to be fair," Mercury mused, "that's the second house in three days that's blown up around you. You might consider the fate of the people who've been unfortunate enough to be in your vicinity." Having evidently lost interest in the conversation, Mercury lapsed into singing along with the radio.

We...count...only blue cars...

It was true that up to this point, Christine hadn't thought of it in quite that way. It was as if two sides of her brain had been arguing about how to process the input it had received over the past two days.

"What a run of bad luck I've had," said Side One.

"Ah, but how about all those people being killed? That was quite tragic, wasn't it?" said Side Two.

We have... MA-ny questions...like children often do...

"Yes, but look at me. I've nearly been killed in two separate, highly unlikely explosions, and now my body is quite badly sc.r.a.ped up," Side One responded.

"True, true. Terrible about the killings though, isn't it?" Side Two replied.

"Indeed it is," acknowledged Side One. "And ordinarily I'd be rather torn up about it, but at the moment I'm somewhat preoccupied by my own ill fortune."

...all your thoughts on G.o.d, cuz I'd really like to meet Her...

But what had promised to be an amicable disagreement was now in danger of gelling into an unfavorably one-sided perception of the events. It was dawning on her that the deaths of General Isaakson, Ariel and however many others had one thing in common: her. The logical conclusion was that she was somehow the proximate cause of the explosions. Was someone trying to kill her? Was the Universe itself out to get her? If so, why? Hadn't she done what the Universe wanted, following its cryptic signals to Mercury? The Universe, she was beginning to think, was something of a jerk.

There was no other explanation. Someone Up There was trying to kill her. The rocket strike could be explained as bad luck, but pillars of fire from the heavens didn't just happen. On the other hand, if the Universe wanted her dead, presumably there were more effective not to mention subtle ways of bringing that about. So... if someone or something had it in for her, they were far from omnipotent, but they did seem to have access to information about her whereabouts. Did they find out from Harry? Or did they find out the same way that Mercury had? had it in for her, they were far from omnipotent, but they did seem to have access to information about her whereabouts. Did they find out from Harry? Or did they find out the same way that Mercury had?

...tell me am I very far...

"What news?" Christine asked.

am I very far now...

"Where did you hear about me and General Isaakson? You said that you heard it on the news. But they haven't..."

ami VE-ry farnow...

"Mercury."

Oooowamiveryfarnow...

"MERCURY!"

"What?"

"Shut up! up! For Pete's sake. If this is what angelic choirs are like, remind me to take some cotton b.a.l.l.s into heaven with me. Because I swear to G.o.d, if I have to hear the angelic host belting out Sheryl Crow songs..." For Pete's sake. If this is what angelic choirs are like, remind me to take some cotton b.a.l.l.s into heaven with me. Because I swear to G.o.d, if I have to hear the angelic host belting out Sheryl Crow songs..."

"No danger of that," said Mercury.

"Thank G.o.d. Wait, are you saying..."

"Angel Band."

"Huh?"

"You asked where I heard about you and General Isaakson. Angel Band."

"Angel Band? Did you just say 'Angel Band?' How much time do you spend coming up with this stuff? Because honestly, it's starting to sound like you're making it up as you go along. If you're going to be delusional, at least put some effort into it."