strand.
The part of your hair
, he considered.
Koster slipped down the back stairs toward the beach. The sounds of music and laughter slowly faded, replaced by the pulsing of waves and the dull trudge of his loafers as he tore up the sand. He walked and he walked, then he started to run, until the light from theClub House was just a dull aching glow, until the wind carved up his blazer and shirt, and the tide nipped at his feet. He stopped at the lip of the jetty. The pier jutted out from the beach into darkness and the bottomless sea. Koster reached into his jacket and plucked out a cigarette case. The joint was perfectly rolled. He stuck it between his lips. The tip glowed rhapsodically within his cupped hands as he set it ablaze with his lighter. He sucked in the smoke, held his breath and exhaled.
Who died in that basement in France?
Koster laughed. He took another hit off the joint and felt something tear deep inside him.
Who died?
He wondered sometimes. Perhaps Nick was right.
Rain pelted his face. Koster looked up just as the night sky burst into light. Lightning shattered the heavens.
Who died in that basement?
He had been sleepwalking his way through his life for more than a decade. Ever since France. Since Mariane's death. Only the death of his son had scratched him as deeply.
Koster came to the end of the pier and looked out to sea. The storm was upon him. Great sheets of water fell from the heavens. Lightning bolts fissured the sky. He would be crazy, he thought, to get involved in one of Nick Robinson's schemes once again. And yet he found the notion strangely appealing. He owed Nick a great deal. But it wasn't his loyalty, or the idea of unearthing the Gospel of Judas, a text of great age and religious significance. Nor was it because it had once been the property of Benjamin Franklin, though that helped. No, Koster thought, as he stared at the water glimmering and churning at his feet. Instead of running away, he was desperate to rush back into chaos. Was he just bored? Or did he still blame himself for Mariane's murder? Koster looked up at the sky, letting the rain wash like tearsdown his face. Mariane! He tossed what was left of the joint in the waves.
To wake up. To live, for a moment, like life mattered again. To feel like he actually cared.
Koster put his hands in his pockets. Then he turned and made his way back down the pier toward the beach.
Chapter 8
Present Day
Los Angeles
F ROM THIS ANGLE, MICHAEL ROSE WAS IN THE PERFECT POSITION to watch his penis as it plunged into the black whore kneeling on the bed right in front of him. A big man in his thirties, with thinning blond hair, thick red lips and transparent blue eyes, Michael thrust into the girl once again, and again, mindful not to tip the mirror balanced precariously on her back.
“‘Watch out that no one deceives you,’” he said, as he picked up a tightly furled bill from the glass. A Franklin. A hundred. “‘For many will come in my name… You will hear of wars and rumors of wars… Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.’” He stuffed the furled bill in his nose. Then, careful not to let his penis slip out of the girl, he snorted a line. “‘There will be famines and earthquakes in various places.’” He shivered and thrust, and came with a groan. “‘The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light…’ Say ‘Amen!’” He slapped the girl's ass.
“Amen,” she obeyed, her face pressed to the sheets.
“‘… the stars will fall from the sky, and the heavenly bodies will be shaken.’ Say ‘Amen!’”
“Amen!”
Michael pulled himself out of the girl. He fell back on the bed. He snorted the rest of the crank still lodged in his nostril. He watched as the girl reached around for the mirror, as she placed it before her and snorted a line.
“Why then,” Michael asked, “should we study the End-Times?”
The girl was barely eighteen, probably younger, he thought. She
The part of your hair
, he considered.
Koster slipped down the back stairs toward the beach. The sounds of music and laughter slowly faded, replaced by the pulsing of waves and the dull trudge of his loafers as he tore up the sand. He walked and he walked, then he started to run, until the light from theClub House was just a dull aching glow, until the wind carved up his blazer and shirt, and the tide nipped at his feet. He stopped at the lip of the jetty. The pier jutted out from the beach into darkness and the bottomless sea. Koster reached into his jacket and plucked out a cigarette case. The joint was perfectly rolled. He stuck it between his lips. The tip glowed rhapsodically within his cupped hands as he set it ablaze with his lighter. He sucked in the smoke, held his breath and exhaled.
Who died in that basement in France?
Koster laughed. He took another hit off the joint and felt something tear deep inside him.
Who died?
He wondered sometimes. Perhaps Nick was right.
Rain pelted his face. Koster looked up just as the night sky burst into light. Lightning shattered the heavens.
Who died in that basement?
He had been sleepwalking his way through his life for more than a decade. Ever since France. Since Mariane's death. Only the death of his son had scratched him as deeply.
Koster came to the end of the pier and looked out to sea. The storm was upon him. Great sheets of water fell from the heavens. Lightning bolts fissured the sky. He would be crazy, he thought, to get involved in one of Nick Robinson's schemes once again. And yet he found the notion strangely appealing. He owed Nick a great deal. But it wasn't his loyalty, or the idea of unearthing the Gospel of Judas, a text of great age and religious significance. Nor was it because it had once been the property of Benjamin Franklin, though that helped. No, Koster thought, as he stared at the water glimmering and churning at his feet. Instead of running away, he was desperate to rush back into chaos. Was he just bored? Or did he still blame himself for Mariane's murder? Koster looked up at the sky, letting the rain wash like tearsdown his face. Mariane! He tossed what was left of the joint in the waves.
To wake up. To live, for a moment, like life mattered again. To feel like he actually cared.
Koster put his hands in his pockets. Then he turned and made his way back down the pier toward the beach.
Chapter 8
Present Day
Los Angeles
F ROM THIS ANGLE, MICHAEL ROSE WAS IN THE PERFECT POSITION to watch his penis as it plunged into the black whore kneeling on the bed right in front of him. A big man in his thirties, with thinning blond hair, thick red lips and transparent blue eyes, Michael thrust into the girl once again, and again, mindful not to tip the mirror balanced precariously on her back.
“‘Watch out that no one deceives you,’” he said, as he picked up a tightly furled bill from the glass. A Franklin. A hundred. “‘For many will come in my name… You will hear of wars and rumors of wars… Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom.’” He stuffed the furled bill in his nose. Then, careful not to let his penis slip out of the girl, he snorted a line. “‘There will be famines and earthquakes in various places.’” He shivered and thrust, and came with a groan. “‘The sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light…’ Say ‘Amen!’” He slapped the girl's ass.
“Amen,” she obeyed, her face pressed to the sheets.
“‘… the stars will fall from the sky, and the heavenly bodies will be shaken.’ Say ‘Amen!’”
“Amen!”
Michael pulled himself out of the girl. He fell back on the bed. He snorted the rest of the crank still lodged in his nostril. He watched as the girl reached around for the mirror, as she placed it before her and snorted a line.
“Why then,” Michael asked, “should we study the End-Times?”
The girl was barely eighteen, probably younger, he thought. She
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