“Thank you,” says Amanda, grabbing my hand. I pull it away when she pulls it to her mouth like she’s going to kiss it. She helps Luke to the back of the clock.
Muttonchops makes several small bows on his way out.
“Praise you, Lucifer.”
I shut the door behind them and take the attaché case to where Traven is sitting. Pop the locks.
“Are those what you were hoping for?” Traven asks.
“Oh yeah.”
What’s in the case is a bit like the buffet. A smorgasbord of firepower. It’s good stuff too. Not as flashy as I was afraid it might be. There’s a silver Sig Sauer .45 and a little .38 Special derringer. A nice pistol to have in your pocket for when you’re feeling not so fresh. There’s also a Desert Eagle .50, a gun I hate even more than the Glock. It’s a pistol you see in movies because it’s as big as a turkey leg and shiny as a silver dollar polishing a mirror. When we see it we’re supposed to admire the guy who has it because he can handle something so manly and powerful. What we should be thinking is that unless he’s whale-hunting, the only reason anyone has a gun that size is because he can’t aim worth a damn, so he has to blow garbage-can-size holes everywhere hoping he hits something important. I set the Desert Eagle aside.
There’s a completely impractical but heartwarming .40 mare’s-leg pistol. It’s like a short rifle with a lever action to chamber each shot. I don’t know if I’ll carry it but I’ll definitely keep it around. The last gun is a Swiss 9mm folding pistol. It’s the flashiest piece in the case but still semipractical. When it’s closed, the folder looks like a black lunch box, but hit a switch and it springs open into a 9mm pistol with a rifle stock. Candy would die and go to Heaven and Houston and back if I gave it to her. I might do it but I’m not sure I’m going to give her any bullets. She might like the bang-bang sound too much to be trusted. I’ll take her shooting and see how it goes.
I get the Glock out of the duffel and put it on the table with the pistols.
“Want a gun, Father? These are troubled times.”
“We’re always living in troubled times. It’s why we have religion.”
“Is that why? I thought it was so I could get rid of all the change people gave me that week.”
“You have a very practical view of the divine.”
“I’ve seen how the sausage is made.”
Traven picks up the Sig, weighs it in his hand, and sets it down gently.
“Is that boy really going to be tortured in Hell?”
I shrug.
“I was just giving them something to think about. I can send anyone anywhere I want. And don’t get too weepy about the kid. Everyone has a lousy time Downtown. Even Lucifer. I’ll tell you about my recurring lost-toner-cartridge nightmare sometime.”
Traven sips his mineral water. I probably shouldn’t have said that last part. I spooked the poor guy again.
“I guess I finally saw the famous Via Dolorosa.”
“Yes. After you returned to Hell, I decided I couldn’t just read about all this arcane knowledge and do nothing with it. I had to act. I had to learn to make use of it. How do you think I did?”
“You freaked out the Devil groupies pretty well, so good choice of ways to be scary. Just don’t try it on crackheads knocking over a gas station. It’s a little slow for that.”
Traven smiles his tired smile.
“I’ll remember that.”
“Where does a nice academic like you pick up tips about something like the Dolorosa?”
He hesitates. He runs a hand through his hair.
“I found it in a sixteenth-century book of Baleful magic.”
I nod.
“You know that’s illegal, right? You’re an outlaw. Jesse James with a dog collar.”
“Thank you,” he says. “What are you going to do now?”