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The only sound in the room at that point was the pleasant clinking of solid gold coins being tossed into
the center of the table in answer to Igor s bet.
The Pope saw something on the television, which had been playing with the sound off.  Brother Fong,
turn up the TV would ya& that looks like Delaware my home state.
Fuquois gave the go signal to Quiferelli.  I ll call and raise you twenty-five francs Suisse.
The young Benedictine found the remote, pointed it at the television and the sound came up.
 This is Clyde Moran reporting for CNN from a crossroads just outside Harriston, Delaware. An amazing
phenomenon is occurring here. Tens of thousands of Catholic peasants have journeyed from the Central American nation
of Malagua to shower gifts and adulation upon a local man, who has visions of the sacred image of the Holy Mother
while staring at a grease spot in the middle of Route 16.
 The nature of these visions is unusual. He claims to see a woman who is covered in feathers.
 His visions of a feathered Madonna strike a resonant chord with the Malaguans ancient Mayan traditions, which
they have incorporated into their practice of Catholicism. They believe that when the second coming occurs, Jesus will
return in the form of the feathered serpent, Quetzalcoatl. And this appearance of his mother is a harbinger of his
return.
 Is this some kind of scam? I don t know, but this reporter can confirm that the pilgrims, who stand in line for
hours to meet the visionary, are presenting a king s ransom to him in offerings.
Fuquois instantly recognized the opportunity.  Carpe diem.
 Seize the day? Sylvester asked.
 Why, this is heresy, Your Holiness! Feathers, indeed, Quiferelli added.
 Heresy? Sylvester questioned, unsure of the significance.
 Imagine showering gifts on some mountebank  Quiferelli caught Fuquois eye  instead of a
proper churchman.
As they watched the television, the camera zoomed in on the front door of Hector, Jorge, and
Martin s trailer. Hector was standing to one side of the doorway dressed in his good clothes. His hair was
meticulously brushed and his smile beamed from the radiance of his Chiclet-like teeth. He stood on the
ramshackle deck and like a seasoned television personality waited for Clyde s cue. One of the neighbor s
dogs sat in the over-stuffed orange chair that rested on bricks at the corner of the porch. There was no rail
or steps. There were several more dogs lying under the porch and one lifting its leg on a derelict
avocado-colored refrigerator near the bottom of the steps as Clyde spoke off camera.
 The pilgrims here have traveled thousands of miles. Upon meeting the prophet, they generally make an offering of
liquor and some native artifacts and baubles. This is Hector de la Vega, who is one of the founders of the shrine. He and
his associates have been storing these offerings in their trailer.
This was the cue to open the door, so Hector turned the knob, swung open the door, and stepped
back again to one side.
 This is Tomas, our guard dog.
As the lens zoomed in close the dog growled at the intrusion, but settled down when he saw Hector
nearby. The floor was covered a foot deep in pre-Columbian treasures: gold and silver chains, bracelets
and statues, masks and ceremonial weapons studded with glimmering jewels, jaguar hides, rare feathers,
ancient skulls, stone tablets, conquistador helmets and breastplates, and in the middle of the room, just in
front of Tomas, laid a huge emerald.
 Jesus fucking Christ! Sylvester shouted as he jumped up from his seat.  That thing s the size of a
goose egg.
The Pope was now showing sincere concern for the plight of the poor pilgrims, who were so
obviously in need of the Church s protection. Sylvester said,  Feathers or not, when you talk about the
Madonna, you re on our turf. These Malaguans are entitled to our protection.
 But what about the heresy? The feathered Madonna? Quiferelli asked.
 We ll take care of that, too, said Fuquois.  This could be the test of your new Inquisitor, Holiness.
Fuquois pulled out his cell-phone.  I ll summon him.
 Finish the hand, first, Quiferelli groused.
Chapter 17
Pardoe Farms, Delaware
April 21, 2008
Choking the Chicken
CheeBah was troubled. It seemed as if MurGhoo had not only forgotten about his promise, but he
didn t even seem to know her. He had promised to awaken her before the rest of the crew, so that they
could resume their lifelong tryst in new bodies.
MurGhoo had never before kept anything secret from her, for she had always been his closest
confidant; now she wondered why he had forsaken their intimacy.
One day while Franklin was in town, CheeBah resolved to investigate the hatchery. She wondered
why her old lover had been so secretive about the tool room, going so far as to forbid anyone from
entering it. She hated to go against his wishes, but here she was trying to jimmy the combination lock that
sealed the room.
She was having no luck with the lock, but the old hatchery had been crudely built and the door to the
tool room was no exception. Comprised of two-by-sixes that were sawn unevenly, she was able to slip
through the space below the door s ragged bottom after a little digging in the hard-packed dirt floor.
Once inside, she saw a functioning cryochamber. She punched the buttons that released the hatch.
She was shocked to see a familiar form seated in the chamber. A being who was only in partial
stasis mostly asleep but slowly dying from inadequate life support and the fact that one of his appendages
had been recently and crudely removed. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]