7:53 a.m.

Church. A High Mass for the Pearl Harbor dead.

The Archbishop sermonized. He extolled goodness in a world gone mad. He cited statistics—lives lost and battleships sunk.

Parker sat in the fourth row. Dudley sat two rows up. The Archbishop assailed the madness of nations and men.

Parker smelled bourbon-doused tobacco. Parker saw Pierce Patchett at his shortwave radio. Parker heard civilian freighters explode.

He went by The House at dawn. He walked to the parkway and saw those cigarette butts. Saul Lesnick and Lin Chung killed time there.

The Archbishop sermonized. He preached to a full house. The Mass drew nonbelievers who showed up just for show. Fletch Bowron showed. Bill McPherson showed. Call-Me-Jack showed. Brenda Allen’s lipstick showed on his neck.

War. The will to atrocity. Invisible subversion. Detectable and eradicable. The duty of God-driven men.

Parker stared at Dudley. The Archbishop segued to patter. There’s a war-bond rally. Hollywood, tomorrow night. It’s star-studded and free. Here’s the cutie: a Catholic setter and Protestant spaniel fall in love at the pound.

The celebrants roared. Dudley roared—Your Eminence, that’s rich!

The Archbishop announced the “Gloria Patria.” The celebrants stood. Hideo Ashida entered the church.

He’s putting out rays. Jap, Jap, Jap. There’s the looks and whispers. He’s sliding down the second row. The Archbishop is miffed.

Ashida walked straight to the Dudster. Dudley draped an arm around him.

Now the gasps. Now the shudders. Now the big NO.

The Archbishop put the skids to it. The Archbishop closed the show.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginn—

Parker walked. He tripped out of the pew. He stumbled to the aisle and made the side door. An usher gulped and looked away.

He made the parking lot and his black-and-white. He kicked an empty pop bottle and shattered it. A flock of nuns crossed themselves.

Parker gunned it and took Wilshire west. The Miracle Mile and Beverly Hills were Sunday quiet. He cut north and ditched the car at Bedford and Dayton. He reached under the seat.

There—weighted sap gloves. The nightwatch man kept them stashed close.

The front door stood open. Parker walked through the lobby and took the hallway stairs. The second floor was quiet. Saul Lesnick’s door was shut. The 216 door stood open. Parker walked right in.

Patchett was sorting mail. He wore tennis garb. The shorts and cable sweater. The polo shirt.

“It’s the cop-lawyer. What’s with the gloves? They look too sexy for a guy like—”

Parker ran up and hit him. A tight uppercut snapped his chin and rocked him back. Parker came in behind glove weight. He stepped close and saw Patchett get fear.

He put his hands out. Don’t hit me—we can talk about this. Parker stepped in close and went for his face.

He hit him. Bones cracked. He had stitched lead in both fists. Patchett stumbled and crashed into the doorway. Parker pinned him there.

Parker hit him. He swung left-rights. He broke his nose. He broke his jaw. He sheared off one nostril and his lower lip.

There was all this blood. Bone showed white under it. Patchett screamed. Parker screamed over him. No Sabotage, No Prisons, No Parkway, No Eugenics.

Patchett’s eyes rolled back. Parker smelled his piss and sprayed shit.

He hit him. He got his nose. He hit him. He got his mouth. He hit him. He cracked his teeth gum-deep. There, one ear’s dangling. There, his scalp’s gone. There, he’s got no eyebrows. There, you’ve soaked your arms red.

There, he’s half-dead.

There, he’s eradicated.

There, you’re God-driven now.