"Relocate?" Joby asked the pamphleteer. "Where would they relocate it to?"

" 'Relocate,' my rosy fuckin' ass," Sundog snarled before she could answer. "They'll just close us down and promise to find another place someday when we've all starved to death. That's what they always do. All those 'residents' pay taxes. We don't. End of story."

"No!" Joby said indignantly. "No! They can't keep doing this!" The after-school tutoring program for which he'd once volunteered had lost its funding two months later; the Refugee Assistance Network had been shut down on legal grounds weeks after he'd signed up to help; and Joby's "little brother" had been busted for selling a palmful of pot to two of his friends. Watching the once gentle boy harden during six months in juvenile custody while his permanent placement was arranged had filled Joby with despair. He was fed up with having his life shut down every time he found a bench to sit on. In fact, he was enraged! Sweeping his companions with an angry glare, he said, "We're going to that meeting, and we're going to show that commission we're as scary as any little clutch of housewives and accountants."

"Hell, yes!" Gypsy said, looking at Joby with a brand-new kind of light in his eyes.

12.

( Runaway ) Gypsy leaned forward, amazed by Joby's performance. The neighborhood's "legitimate" residents had been given so much time to vent that Gypsy hadn't been sure anyone from the Project's side would get to talk at all. When the planning commission's chairman had finally given Meal Project proponents their chance, a few dumb protests had been followed by an embarrassed silence as their side realized how outclassed they were at fancy speech-making; until Joby had gotten up and begun to speak, that was.

"I still haven't heard a shred of hard evidence it was us," Joby continued politely.

"A man of clearly vagrant appearance was seen vandalizing several neighborhood gardens," said the commissioner chairing the meeting, "and a Meal Project ticket was found inside one of the burglarized homes. That hardly constitutes 'no shred of evidence.' "

"If residents said they'd seen someone of 'clearly teacherish appearance' digging up their gardens," Joby asked, "would you be shutting down the nearest school?"

"We've told you repeatedly, Mr. Peterson, no one's proposing that anything be shut down, only a brief suspension of services during relocation."

"Then I'll rephrase my question. Would you relocate the nearest school to some as yet undetermined location?"

He's not even scared! Gypsy thought, in awe of Joby's composure.

"You're wasting our time with nonsense," said a second commissioner with wiry black hair severely pulled back from a pinched, unpleasant face. "There's no such thing as teacherish appearance, and schools are a basic service relied upon by the entire community."

"Not a frivolous service like feeding people their only daily meal," Joby replied, just short of scornfully.

Yeah! thought Gypsy. Joby scores!

The chairman looked bleak.

"All right." Joby shrugged. "Even if your suspect does eat at the Meal Project, this relocation proposal punishes an entire community of people for no crime but dressing vaguely like the offender. Has anyone dressed like you been arrested in this city lately? Should we relocate all men wearing ties?"

"Mr. Peterson, these residents have been subjected to real and intolerable offenses which-"

"Who hasn't?" Joby interrupted, gesturing toward his downtrodden compatriots in the audience. "I agree that the guilty party should be arrested and tried, but what's that got to do with exiling everyone who offends the aesthetic sensibilities of-"

"May I remind you," another commissioner angrily interjected, "that these residents are legitimate property owners, Mr. Peterson, while you and your constituency are merely guests in their neighborhood!"

"There it is!" roared Sundog, leaping to his feet. "I told you, Joby! Own a chunk, got rights! No chunk, no rights! There's the constitution they all follow!"

As Joby tried to wave him down, a short, wild-haired woman in tie-dye stood up and shouted, "The rich don't need no Meal Project! They just eat us!"

"The rich eat their own young!" bawled a man who looked like Santa Claus moonlighting as a chimney sweep.

Neighborhood residents in the audience began shouting and jeering insults of their own then, as the chairman banged his gavel. By the time order was restored, all five commissioners were clearly out of patience.

"Mr. Peterson, you have more than exhausted your turn to speak," the chairman said frostily, "and this meeting has run well over schedule. I call for a vote on the proposal to suspend operation of the Berkeley Public Meal Project at Castor Avenue Unitarian Church while an appropriate site for relocation is determined."

"I second," said the wire-haired woman to his left.

"In favor?" asked the chairman.

Five hands were raised.

"The motion is passed unanimously," said the chairman.

His last words were nearly drowned out by angry protests from the homeless audience, but Joby whirled around to wave them silent with such angry intensity that, to everyone's surprise, they obeyed him almost instantly. Then he turned to face the commission again, his tone no longer mild.

"For fifteen years, we who have our daily bread at the Meal Project have bothered no one," Joby said, his face a mask of contempt, "but-"

"This meeting is adjourned," the commissioner said, rising to leave along with the other commissioners.

"But these mean-spirited property owners," Joby continued unfazed, "may have a lot more noise to deal with now. You can turn your backs on justice, but don't think we'll go quietly!"

There was loud cheering from the homeless contingent, as neighborhood residents in the audience fled the chamber in unconcealed apprehension. The commissioners continued to file through their side door without acknowledging the upheaval at all.

As Joby stood with stormy dignity watching them go, Gypsy stared at him in openmouthed admiration. Here, at last, was just the someone he'd left home so many years ago to find. Someone he could follow clear to Hell and back, if that's where this fight took them.

Hell NO! We won't GO! Hell NO! We won't GO!

For all its unoriginality, everyone had conceded that the phrase would likely serve their interests better than "Eat ME!," which Sundog had suggested to much laughter. As he carried his BREAD, NOT BUNKERS! picket sign that morning, Gypsy thought that it had never felt so good to be alive! After nearly two weeks of marching in rain and drizzle, the sun had come out at last. They'd been on television too! The mobile news trucks were becoming a daily source of embarrassment to the "neighbors" and their commissioners. Public opinion seemed to be swinging their way. Lots of people passing by were offering their support these days. Normal people! Some of them had even joined the marching! Though it made him feel guilty to admit it, Gypsy half-hoped it didn't all end too soon. After a pointless life of suburban obscurity followed by an even more disgraceful life on the street, Gypsy was feeling proud of himself for the first time in many years. He'd even written his parents a letter telling them how well everything was going for him now.

Gypsy's happy reverie was shattered by a burst of shouting from behind him, and he turned to see other protesters pointing down Hearst at two police cars that had turned across traffic to block the street. An instant later, someone else was shouting and pointing down Castor, where a column of officers in riot gear was coming slowly toward the church.

Jesus! Gypsy thought. Where are the fucking news trucks when you need them?

"I knew it!" Sundog bellowed. "I knew the bastards'd fuck us over!"

"But we're not doing anything illegal!" protested one of the newer marchers, a woman who might have been anybody's mother.

"You're with us, lady," said someone else. "That's wrong enough."

A few of the latest recruits dropped their signs and ran up Castor away from the advancing police force.

"She's right!" Joby yelled, climbing onto the bumper of a car to be seen over the crowd. "We haven't broken any laws! We've just embarrassed city hall, so they're trying to scare us off! But we don't have to let them do it!"

"Yeah!" Sundog called. "Just stay peaceful! They want you to give 'em an excuse, so don't be stupid. We stay peaceful, those tin soldiers'll just have to go right back to their little toy box!"

"Look! There's more!" someone shouted.

Everyone turned to see a second force of riot police coming slowly up Hearst from behind the patrol car barricade.

Most of the crowd was clearly on the edge of fleeing.

"This is what we've been marching for!" Joby shouted. "To make them pay attention! Well, now they are, so let's show them what we're about! Do just what Sundog said! Stay peaceful! If they arrest you, let them arrest you, but do nothing to make it seem right! If this city wants to shame itself, let's not give them any cover!"

It was true, Gypsy realized with excitement. This, right now, was their moment! His heart swelled with pride in all of them who were standing up for what was right.

Joby continued calming and encouraging the crowd, and those who hadn't already run began to grow quiet and grim, raising their signs and planting their feet against the coming confrontation. This, Gypsy thought, was how it felt to truly matter in the world! He had never felt so complete.

In eerie silence, the two columns of police came closer and closer, converging at last, and massing to a halt in lines across the intersection opposite the church. An officer raised his bullhorn and said, "This assembly has been declared disorderly, and is ordered to disperse immediately."

No one moved. To Gypsy's relief, no one even heckled the force. He suspected that, like himself, they were probably too scared to make a sound.

The tense silence continued as the two groups faced each other in frozen tableau, until the officer raised his bullhorn again. "Anyone refusing to disband now will be arrested. This is your last warning."

"We're on private property," Joby said, his voice even, though pale beside the amplified commands of the bullhorn. "The owners haven't asked us to go. We've a legal right to free speech and peaceful assembly."

"You are disobeying a direct order from a duly appointed officer of the law," the policeman bullhorned back. "That is an illegal act. If you do not disperse now, you will be arrested."

"Bullshit!" Sundog roared, but Joby immediately waved him silent, and looked again at the crowd around him. "If we go, we're finished," he said just loudly enough to be heard. "I believe we're in the right here, and if we have to prove it in court, I say, so be it. I'm willing to be arrested. But I respect anyone who feels different. If any of you wants to leave, I'll understand completely. Go with our thanks for the support you've already given." His face was guileless as his eyes swept the crowd.

For a moment, no one moved. Then the woman who'd spoken earlier said, "I'm so sorry, but my family needs me at home. I'm . . . I'm sorry." She put her sign down and walked rapidly up Castor opposite the direction from which the officers had come. A few other protesters followed suit as the police force watched in disciplined silence. But most of the crowd stayed, and Gypsy felt his pride in Joby swell. His friend had never seemed more rock solid and heroic.

"Anyone else?" Joby asked.

Silence.

Turning back to the line of officers, Joby called, "We believe we have a right to be here, and we're willing to test that right in court. I'm afraid you'll have to arrest us."

The officer in charge shook his head wearily, and turned to speak to someone behind him. When he turned back, Gypsy thought he heard the man heave a tired sigh.

Silverjack had been so quiet, Gypsy had forgotten he was there, so for an instant he was stunned motionless with everyone else when the madman screamed, "Fucking alien shit!" and raced from the crowd to charge the line of officers.

"Jack, you ass!" Sundog screamed. "Get back here!"

Damn crazy bastard! Gypsy thought.

Shields were instantly raised, and nightsticks drawn, as Silverjack crashed into the barrier of officers. Then he was on the ground, being beaten by at least four men.

They'll kill him! Gypsy thought, barely aware that he'd started running forward. "Stop!" he yelled. "He's harmless! Stop hitting him!" He heard several voices, including Joby's, call him back, but couldn't seem to stop. There was blood on the pavement under Silverjack's head. Nearly close enough now to yank the crazy fool away from them, he only vaguely registered the order to halt that came from somewhere in the mass of officers. When he saw the gun drawn, he thought, with an electric jolt, that they were actually going to shoot Silverjack!

"Noooo!" he shouted, doubling his speed, and hadn't even time to be surprised when the gun was raised on him instead. There was a shot.

Something hit his shoulder like a car at freeway speed. There was a second shot, and Gypsy fell back onto the pavement as if he'd hit an invisible wall. For a moment there was neither sound nor pain. Then he heard Sarina scream, and his chest seemed to explode in flames. He tried to call for help, but his throat was full of something that made him choke and the pain became unbearable. The street around him erupted into roaring voices, officers raising shields and rushing forward, closing ranks on people he knew, people who were now swinging signs like bludgeons. His vision began to gray, but to his relief, the pain receded some as well.

Then there was a man smiling down at him as if oblivious to the chaos all around them. He seemed about Gypsy's age, with night-black hair, and beautiful dark eyes. In fact, he was the most beautiful person Gypsy had ever seen. In that smile, Gypsy found everything he'd ever wished for in a friend, a brother, a parent, even a lover. It was the strangest, most wonderful feeling.

"Hello, Matthew," said the man.

"How . . . how . . ." Gypsy wanted to ask how the man knew his real name. But he still couldn't talk without choking, which made the pain leap up again.

"I'm Gabe," the man said, reaching down to touch Gypsy's chest.

Suddenly, there was no pain at all. In fact, Gypsy felt incredible!

"What did you do?" Gypsy asked. "Who are you?"

"Come on, Matt," Gabe said, looking up for the first time at the angry tumult around them. "This is no place to linger."

"Where are we going?" Gypsy asked.

Gabriel smiled again, and Gypsy felt a kind of happiness he didn't think he'd ever be able to explain to Sarina. "First, to the absolute best birthday party you've ever had. After that, it's up to you." The man shrugged and grinned. "Sky's the limit."

Gypsy's heart swelled with excitement as his mind filled with so many, many possibilities he'd never even thought of before. Getting to his feet, he saw that the police lines had fallen back, drawing the struggle away from the church by half a block. Silverjack had dragged himself to the curb, where he lay holding his bloodied head, whimpering but alive. Someone else nearby was crying much harder though. Wailing, in fact. Gypsy turned to find Sarina rocking his own body against her breast, sobbing hysterically. Joby was beside her, holding them both in a crushing embrace, tears streaming down his face. The chest of Gypsy's shirt was soaked nearly black with blood. Only Gypsy wasn't in it anymore. It was the strangest thing.

"Can Sarina come?" he asked Gabe, hopeful.

"Not yet, Matt." The angel turned to smile at him again. "We'd really better go."

After guiding Matthew home, Gabe had spent the night and morning helplessly at Joby's side as he lay in his cell alternately sobbing and staring vacantly into the darkness. Having decided that pressing charges against the demonstrators might not be politic given current public sentiment, they were letting Joby go now. Clearly he had no intention of going quietly.

"Not pressing charges?" Joby snapped at the officer handling his release from behind a wire-reinforced glass window. "An innocent boy is dead, a dozen more of us are in the hospital, and you're not pressing charges? God, am I impressed! Maybe we're pressing charges! That cross your mind?"

"Your acquaintance ran at officers under attack, Mr. Peterson," the officer intoned from behind his thick portal, "and disobeyed a clear order to halt."

"So you killed him!" Joby yelled, his voice trembling again, as it did whenever the moment of Gypsy's death came too clearly to memory. "He was twenty years old!" Joby rasped. "He was engaged to be married!" As his fury collapsed again into hopeless grief, Joby grabbed himself in a kind of spastic hug, and began to cry. "He worked for the goddamn church. He was just trying to save . . . We just wanted a place to eat. Why did . . ." Joby slumped onto a bench and shook with sobs.

"How do you suppose the officer who shot that man feels, Mr. Peterson?" the policeman asked coldly. "People like you should think about what their do-gooding might cost before they get everyone stirred up. It's not all just heroic poses, is it?"

Joby's sobbing ceased abruptly, and the unrestrained rage in his eyes when he looked up eclipsed any hope left in Gabriel's heart.

"There are laws in this state," the officer pressed, "holding the instigator of a lethal situation responsible for resulting deaths. You could still be charged with murder, Mr. Peterson. If I were you, I'd be grateful to get off with nothing but a painful lesson about stirring up trouble you can't control. I'd suggest you go now and behave yourself before someone loses patience and presses charges after all."

Joby shot to his feet and stormed down the hall toward the doorway. But as he reached to pull it open, he turned and shouted, "I hate you! I hate what you stand for! And if there's any justice in this whole goddamn world, this fucking city will pay for every last minute of the life you stole!"

He threw the door open hard enough to shake its frame, then stalked through the precinct lobby. Outside, Gabriel watched him storm down the street, kicking at garbage cans and slapping at parking meters as he passed.

The angel looked up at the crisp winter sky, dotted with small clouds. He watched the remnants of last summer's leaves skitter across the street on a chilly breeze. He watched people walking toward him, away from him, oblivious of his presence, each one unique, worlds unto themselves. He took in the brilliant flashes of sunlit color reflected from passing cars, the twinkle of tinsel and Christmas lights on all the lampposts, the sounds of traffic and laughter, birdsong, and music from a boom box at the corner.

Gabe laid his invisible hand against the cold granite facing of the precinct building. Every layer of wonder and sensation led to yet another, on and on, a million deep, even here, in this most unremarkable corner of the world. He let it all fill him, as he contemplated the end of everything. After what he'd seen so clearly in Joby's eyes, heard so unmistakably in his voice, Gabe doubted that Lucifer's victory could be long in coming.

"Definitely soup," Malcephalon told the expectant assembly, managing to gloat somehow, despite his eternally drawn expression. "When his rage has given birth to action, he will lose any claim to conscience. After that, our victory is assured."

"Let's not sink all the lifeboats just yet," Lucifer drawled, barely able to rein in his own giddy anticipation, given the week's achievements. "Our plan does seem to have unfolded perfectly for once, but let's not get careless with self-congratulation." He stared pointedly at Malcephalon. "To win, we must prove 'brazen defiance' and 'great wickedness,' remember, not just some half-baked little lapse in judgment. I want no risk of losing another one of these things on some tawdry technicality. Our Enemy's very big on that sort of thing, remember. So let's keep whispering in his ear until his rage has come to full fruition, and please, let's make sure that he's not caught or, God forbid, killed somehow before he's done all that is required of him."

The Christmas decorations and choral music hailing Joby from every store-front seemed a vicious mockery as he strode down street after street lacking any destination. Two days ago he'd ripped out his answering machine to stop the frantic messages left by his parents, who'd apparently seen his picture on the evening news. He ignored the uncertain greetings received from acquaintances he passed on his manic walkabout. He did not want to see them, or be seen, by anyone ever again. He wouldn't have left his apartment at all had he not been driven by a desperate need to move-move and think.

By night he dreamed of grief and guilt. By day he dreamed only of rage and revenge. The papers were full of Gypsy's death, and the city's defensive explanations. Public outrage had stirred demands for outside investigation and immediate reopening of the Meal Project, but Joby didn't care. That officer had been right. All Joby's moronic candles in the darkness were a useless, wicked fraud! Nothing anyone did now could bring Gypsy back. When the city's detractors had squeezed sufficient political capital from the scandal of Gypsy's murder, it would be quickly forgotten and unavenged. Any real justice was up to Joby. In this one last thing, he did not intend to fail his martyred friend.

He had no care for consequences now. He hated his life, had always hated it, and would happily see it end, so long as justice was served first. How did one learn to build a bomb? he wondered. How many would it take to level city hall? Who most deserved to die? Could he get enough of them with just a gun before being stopped?