Zamba Boukman had his suspicions, and he doubted that this time would be any different from the others. Either Nano was a fool, or he was playing them for fools. Perhaps both. But thus far it had all been a colossal waste of time, and time was quickly running out. In any case, the man was doomed.
Zamba stood in the shadows of the alley across the street from the Church of the Rebirth, watching the cluster of weather-beaten buildings for any signs of life. He always thought it was best to know as much as they could before they acted, but in the final analysis it didn’t matter that much to Devlin, and Zamba knew that it shouldn’t have mattered that much to him, either. Not at this late date.
Besides, they were unstoppable and they both knew it. Zamba didn’t mind making a mess; he just didn’t like sloppy work. There was a difference. Power without control was simply force, and force wasn’t much of anything to be proud of. Power, on the other hand, was golden. That was what he admired most about his master; the execution of power.
And the power of execution, he quipped darkly to himself as Devlin appeared beside him, smoking one of his infernal cigarettes. They stood together in silence for a moment, observing the church across the street.
“So this is The One?” Zamba asked him. “At long last?”
Devlin took a long, slow drag. His smoking had become a habit, and that concerned Zamba. It was a bad sign, a weakness. But he said nothing. Zamba kept his eyes on the church and his opinions to himself.
Devlin took another satisfying drag and exhaled through his nostrils. “Father Jean Paul... Eden,” he breathed, savoring the last name, letting it roll off his tongue in a cloud of languid smoke.
“Fitting, isn’t it?” Devlin asked, and they swapped delicious grins.
“Born on the bayou – at the Bayou Memorial Clinic – on Christmas morning in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and seventy-six,” Devlin told him, and took another drag.
“Taken in by a Catholic orphanage, after mommy died in childbirth.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Devlin’s features. “Sounds too good to be true,” he grumbled.
“And if he is The One?” Zamba asked.
Devlin looked at him and grinned, and then he flicked his cigarette away. It hissed in a puddle, flaming bloody crimson, and the butt vanished in a wisp of smoke.
They stepped into the street without looking, heading for the front doors of the old church across the way. A car swerved wildly to miss Zamba, and passed right through Devlin as if he weren’t even there. The engine sputtered from a sudden loss of oxygen, and the entire electrical system shorted out.
Sister Nancy heard knocking on the big church door and turned her head, slightly aggravated. The door was always open; why didn’t they just come in? She was kneeling in prayer before the statue of St. Anthony and a rack of votive candles that she lit for Father Eden. The knock made her lose her place on her rosary. As she fumbled with it and tried to recall where she was, her mind went to what she was praying about, rather than getting back to the act of prayer.
The person knocked again. Nancy glanced coolly at the doors, but thought it best to be polite. She crossed herself, and glanced up to the statue of St. Anthony.
“Pardon me,” she said in a sardonic whisper, and carefully got up from the kneeler and made her way down the side aisle, feeling the circulation in her legs returning. At seventy-two, she prided herself in being able to kneel for an entire hour in prayer. She knew that pride was a sin, but it gave her a good excuse to get down on her knees and pray. Her Buddhist nun friend across town told her to see it as a karmic circle of sin, penance and redemption, and realize there was nothing vicious about it. Recalling the woman’s whimsy made Nancy smile, so that by the time she got to the door, she was in a good mood.
She opened the big oak door, and looked up. An enormous, muscular black gentleman was standing alone on the front steps, smiling down at her. Sister Nancy smiled back.
Zamba was dressed in a conservative three-piece business suit instead of his usual Caribbean clothes. He said nothing, but he made the sign of the cross, indicating that he wanted to come in and pray.
He probably didn’t speak English, Nancy thought, or perhaps he was mute. Those who can’t speak tend to be shy; no wonder he knocked. She felt ashamed for her earlier annoyance, and opened the door wider to invite the gentleman inside.