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I was the one who brought it to Denver.
I didn’t know that I brought it. I took the test the day before the flight just like I’m supposed to. I swear that I did. I admit, I was in a hurry, so maybe I didn’t look at the results as close as I should of. But that’s what the chip in the test is for! If the test comes back positive, the chip alerts the authorities. I never should have been allowed on the flight!
Now I’m here, in a concrete cell under DIA, waiting for more news. Last they told me, there are 130 people dead. It’s been 14 hours.
I can hear them shuffling around outside the door. They’re trying to decide what to do with me. I can’t blame them. I don’t know what to do with me.
But I know what the law says. I won’t be going home to Charlotte.
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Rotella snorted in that disdainful way that the French have mastered, but he sat down. He order a coffee, both he and Simon, server and customer, treating each other with a dignity that I hadn’t seen until I arrived in France. I said nothing until they finished their exchange.
“I may be a liar,” I interjected while Simon was still in earshot, “but I wasn’t fooling about the food. It’s good and I’m happy to buy.”
“Perhaps later,” was Rotella’s cautious reply. But like some inverse of Pepe Le Pew, I could tell that the hunger-inducing odors from the kitchen were already beginning to work their charm on him.
“Not even a croissant? Simon doesn’t make them himself, but the bakery he gets them from is excellent.” For some reason I couldn’t resist trying to tempt him, perhaps remembering the wad of Euros in the trench coat pocket, the thousands given to me by Mitnick for the purposes of persuading the inspector.
He declined again and I shrugged. Rotella stared at me, conducting his own inspection as we waited for the coffee. It wasn’t long and only when he had the cup and saucer in front of him did Rotella ask, “What is it that you wish?”
“Marek Mitnick.” I said the name simply and clearly, loud enough that I might have been trying to summon the Devil.
Rotella fingered the rim of his coffee cup, his eyes resting on me in an expectant way. I realized then where the expectation was coming from – he was waiting for me to lie. Given his occupation, and how we met, I suppose I couldn’t blame him. When the pronunciation of the name wasn’t followed immediately by a falsehood, he asked, “What of him?”
Since it was established that I was a liar, I decided to veer into the truth. “You’re investigating him.”
If my knowledge of this statement was a surprise to Rotella, he kept it to himself. For whatever reason this made me want to jostle him. I pulled out the money roll, easily the size of my fist, and said, “He wants you to stop.”
The sheer amount of cash and its sudden appearance put a dent in Rotella’s European cool, his blue eyes wavering. However, even a dirty cop would have been an idiot to take a bribe right out in the open. And I already knew Rotella wasn’t an idiot, so I said, “But I don’t.”
I have to admit his confusion pleased me. His eyes moved from me to the wad and back again. After a few moments, they settled with, “I do not understand.”
I tapped the roll of currency. “Mitnick asked me to speak with you. To see if you could be made cooperative.” I chose those words suspecting they would grate against the stubborn nature I assumed Rotella shared with most cops. “He knows you’ve been investigating him and he wants to make friends with the local muckety-mucks. Being under police scrutiny tends to make that difficult.”
Rotella snorted again, with even more scorn than he had for Atwell. “I doubt the slight air of scandal would keep him from making friends in high places. Not in this town. Your friend –“
“He’s not my friend.” I elbowed the statement between us.
Clearly no stranger to the undercurrents of anger and violence, Rotella paused. He backed his chair away from the table slightly before continuing. It wasn’t fear – the extra space gave him room to maneuver. Or draw a pistol.
From across those safer inches his eyes dipped down to the currency. “And yet you are his emissary?”
“Mitnick thinks so.” I sipped of my coffee.
“That is a dangerous game.”
“All part of working for Uncle Sam.” I could practically hear Atwell’s cynical laugh at that, particularly as none of this was in the job description.
Rotella pursed his lips, then decided this was worth his time. “Mitnick is already buying up much property, investing in construction, lavishing gifts upon local politicians and what remains of the nobility.” There seemed to be an extra helping of contempt for that last one. “He is making friends of the developers, the realtors, the construction industry, the bankers. He does not need me.”
“He may not need you, but I want him to think he has you.”
“Why?”
“Mitnick may be plugged into the city, but there’s something else he wants. He wants the casino.”
Rotella laughed, an unpleasant sound. “You have not been here long enough to have known many men like Mitnick. He does not want ‘something else’ – he wants it all.”
I thought about Mitnick and the Avoritet. It wasn’t just Mitnick’s greed we were dealing with. I didn’t want to dive into the murky waters of international conspiracy, though, so I replied, “Maybe so, but his designs on the casino are bringing him into conflict with the Night Governor.”
Rotella touched the bridge of his nose as if he were still wearing his sunglasses. Unhidden, I could see him process everything that statement contained – my demonstration of the knowledge of the city’s underworld, the grey area the casino occupied, the dangers of a gang war. “I came because you said you had something that would interest me, ” Rotella pushed for my promised information.
“Mitnick is pushing into Sartre’s territory. And like you said, Mitnick wants it all – smuggling, money laundering, gambling. And he gets two of those if he gets control of the casino.”
Rotella nodded, polite listening stretching out into a non-response, so I continued with, “One of those rackets is human trafficking. He’s been bringing in women, mostly refugees from Ukraine. I think he was originally cooperating with Sartre, providing him girls, but lately he’s been setting up his own shops.” Pause for dramatic effect. “I think its part of his power grab. He’s claiming territory for his own outside partners.”
Rotella drank his coffee, making a show of being unimpressed. “You said what you had would interest me.”
“So if I’m right, it could lead to gang war from Paris to Marseilles. You want shootouts in the street?” At the thought of street fighting, the memory of a bullet whizzed past me and I felt the desert heat. I hoped Rotella couldn’t see the fire behind my eyes, the part of me that still lived in that violence.
Rotella’s pretend indifference, tempered by years of hard cop work, wasn’t quite enough to stay intact in the face of that idea. “And what would you do to stop it?”
I smiled, pretending that I was glad to have his interest, but found holding the grin to be painful. “I have reason to believe that Mitnick is holding someone in his house against their will.”
Rotella’s eyes snapped to me with that statement – I could almost hear his irises narrowing. “How do you know this?”
“I don’t know it,” I admitted that truth to keep spinning my lies. “But I do know there’s a woman named Nika in his house, under guard, that never officially entered the country. She’s got no passport, no papers, nowhere to go without Mitnick’s permission.” I wasn’t sure if I was describing Nika or the women from the cathouse at that point, but I went with it.
“If it could be proven that Mitnick was holding someone prisoner,” Rotella nodded, enthusiasm increasing with each word.
“Then none of his friends in high places could help him, he’d go to prison or be deported, and there’s no gang war.” I shrugged, leaning back into my chair. “Or at least it’s a rain day.” Rotella looked at me quizzically and I clarified with, “At least it’s delayed.”
Rotella nodded again, then did the cop thing and asked the obvious question, “How would we prove this?”
I smiled, feeling the repercussions of my statement before I made it. “I ask her.”
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What was the legendary Mothman doing in Ohio? In the 60 plus years of its reported existence it had never crossed the river. Why had the West Virginia myth started showing up in a different state? And why in a used car lot?
Charnese asked a lot of questions. It had gotten her into trouble her entire life and now it had landed her here, the location of the last reported sighting of the legendary creature. And it looked like it was going to get her killed.
Yes, the protests in Cincinnati were getting all of the press, but the persistent rumors that the Mothman had been spotted here, at PATRIOT CARS, had drawn her miles away and compelled her to bring Martin, the only photographer on staff. Her own personal reasons for asking him along might have included the fact that he was devastatingly handsome, but that wasn’t anyone’s business. They had known each other for years, from their time at Regent until they had both ended up working the city desk, and that had given her enough leverage to get him to come with her on what was, most likely, a wild goose chase.
Not surprisingly, waiting for a rarely spotted cryptid to show took some hours, giving her and Martin time to discuss many things, but the primary focus of these discussions became the fires they could see in the distance. They knew the protests had turned into riots at night, some say by clashes between police and protestors who refused to obey the curfew. Others saying the violence was sparked by criminals taking advantage of the civil confusion to loot whatever they could get their hands on. Others even saying bad actors had been planted in the protestors’ midst to provide cops with an excuse to use violence against them. As twilight turned to full dark, though, one thing was clear – the fires were headed this way.
Watching the flames light the sky with their approach made Charnese think that maybe now would be a good time to tell Martin how she felt about him. Over the years, she had watched his dedication, patience, and perseverance and she had found, even through the blinders of her own professional ambitions, that she had grown fond of him. Watching his face slowly become illuminated by the ashy orange coloring the sky, she couldn’t help but admit that it had become more than fondness and there was a limited time for such truths. Paradoxically, though, the dangers of the riots brought on a tightness in her throat that made it harder. Martin, as always, made jokes and, to anyone else, would have looked like Mr. Cool, but she could detect the slightly higher pitch in his laughs, a sure sign that he, too, was afraid.
So when the shot rang out, puncturing the windshield of a Ford with a spiderweb hole, Charnese and Martin were already in a heightened state of awareness. Trained by years of conflict, she didn’t drop her recorder nor he his cameras, but both ducked, hiding together between cars. The zinging echo of the bullet died away to be replaced with an incoherent yelling, garbled by the echoing of punctured glass and the bullet’s passing. Charnese tried to yell back, to explain their presence, that she had gotten permission from the owner to be here. This only elicited a response of more yells and the report of more shots.
Ducking and crouching between cars, they fled from the shooter, but snaking around the lot was like trying to find the way through a Halloween corn maze. Whoever was shooting and yelling only kept getting closer no matter which way Charnese and Martin turned.
They ducked through tunnels made by the metal of cars and the threat of bullets. Crawling and sweating, they tried to zigzag away from the shooter and towards any exit. The shooter’s increasing proximity was marked by his yelling becoming louder and more distinct, ordering them to stop. Which, to Charnese, was more insane than the concept of the Mothman – why would they stop when he had already started shooting?
She and Martin froze between a pair of Hummers when the beam of a flashlight fell on them and the same voice ordered them to, “Freeze!” In one of the few lights that lit the car lot at night, Charnese got her first and only good look at the shooter, who she could have passed on any street in any city and never given him any mind. She couldn’t help but think how young he was, even as his yells distorted his face with fear and anger.
In the muzzle of the raised rifle, Charnese saw the emptiness of all their lost tomorrows as the shooter took aim at her and Martin. Trapped between the tall SUVs, she could feel Martin shuffle backward but stop, unwilling to abandon her.
Which surely would have been the end of them if it weren’t for the weird, owlish call that sounded loud throughout the night. So uncanny was the cry that all three of them, the shooter, Charnese, and Martin, stopped and stared up into the empty sky. A long moment passed, at the end of which the shooter remembered his purpose and re-aimed the rifle, but both of his eyes opened as a pool of darkness, deeper than any night, fell on him from above. Burning red eyes hypnotized all them as a thin humanoid descended on pillowy, curved wings to fall onto the shooter, his yells turning into screams as he fired more shots into the sky.
There was the briefest of struggles that Charnese heard more than saw, the wings of the creature having completely enveloped the man. Then with three billows of its wings, it ascended into the air, the man only a pair of legs that dangled from the departing shadow. Watching it go, it became only a brief silhouette against the orange sky, and for a moment Charnese could have sworn she saw a pair of silvery, muscular buttocks reflect the briefest of lights as the creature disappeared to wherever it had come from, there would-be murderer in hand.
A surreal silence permeated the car lot. Charnese, breathing deep, turned to Martin who was vainly attempting to snap pictures of the receding flyer. When it vanished, he dropped the lens and turned to stare at her with his own questions. Charnese was so happy to know that he would live another day, she kissed him.
When that blissful embrace erased any fear that Martin might reject her, Charnese let it linger a little longer before she broke the kiss. “Tell me you got a picture of its butt.”
To start at the beginning go here.To hear an audio reading of the chapter, hit the play button above.
Simon knew something was different the moment I walked into his cafe. He was invariably the same – bald head, white shirt, cigarillo in breast pocket, waist covered with an apron. His eyes, though, narrowed as I strode in. It might have been that I was dressed differently than most days – I wasn’t worried about making a shift at the casino, so the black trousers had been exchanged for jeans and I didn’t bother tucking in the Oxford shirt. I don’t think that was it, though.
He smiled at me in a way that he hadn’t before, like he might at a mischievous child that he caught doing something he didn’t necessarily disapprove of. He took the rag out of his apron strings and smacked it into his other hand, as if considering spanking me.
I found my internal landscape being plainly apparent to the outside world wholly irritating, though, and I gave him a gruff, “What?” That I had to suppress grinning back at him only made it worse.
Smile unswerving, Simon responded with a, “Bonjour,” and bowed slightly, hands indicating the table at the rear. Walking to it, I saw myself in the mirror on the wall above and even I had to admit it was obvious something had changed. Despite having to keep an eye out for wayward Russians on the way to the cafe I had heard a slight tune in my head, some little ditty that now, in the safety of the cafe, I remembered Cheryl humming when at mundane tasks that made her happy. This conjured an image of her painting, the summer light of a Colorado afternoon surrounding her as she worked in the spare room we were going to make a nursery. It came so clear and so suddenly into my mind that I had to grab the back of a chair to keep my balance.
This banished Simon’s grin and he stepped closer, asking if I was alright. I nodded, moving to sit while making faint, reassuring gestures. Simon swiveled his head as he said, “Where is your lady friend?”
“She’s sleeping,” I answered without thinking.
This caused his grin to reappear, so bright it shined through the years of smoker’s grit on his teeth. The impish expression suggested that he thought my weakened state might have something to do with Sophie. “Did you tire her out?”
That was welcome as a playful elbow to the ribs, bringing my irritation to its feet. In a fit of rudeness I asked for the mobile before even ordering coffee.
That flipped Simon’s switch instantaneously, moving him from comrade to curmudgeon. I returned his stare, waiting for the judgment to pass and, when it didn’t, saying, “The world doesn’t change in day.” I think it pleased him that I said it in French.
Still unhappy, though, Simon stood up straight and shuffled himself back into his kitchen. A few minutes later he came back with an espresso, setting the mobile down next to it. Rather than join me he walked away to sit down on one of his stools and opened the morning paper. He could have been a part of the furniture, if furniture fumed.
I sipped my coffee and picked up the phone, staring at it until the caffeine overcame my inertia and I dialed the number for Rotella. It buzzed in the high, European way, enough times that I began to doubt anyone would answer. Just as I thought I might escape dragging anyone else into this, the line picked up. “This is Inspecteur Rotella.” Whether it was the early morning or just Rotella’s constant state, the voice echoed with fatigue as if issuing from a deep cave.
I had practiced what I was going to say, but found that the subterranean and honest voice at the end of the line caused me to lose all of that. Instead I stupidly repeated his name back to him and said, “Atwell gave me your number. He said we should talk. I have some information that might interest you.”
Rotella gave a low growl that told me his opinion of the local representative of the American intelligence community. “I hope you are more useful than that supine.”
“I’m a journalist from the Kansas City Star.Why don’t you let me buy you breakfast and I can tell you all about it?”
I was gambling that, like most French civil servants, Rotella wouldn’t be adverse to the idea of a free meal. Nonetheless, he grumbled, “What would an American know about food?”
“I didn’t say I was going to cook for you, Inspector,” I replied and gave him the address. He grunted dubiously, perhaps recognizing it as being in Les Moulins, but I assured him it’d be worth his time, even if just for the chow.
When I hung up I decided I couldn’t wait for breakfast and I ordered my usual. Simon separated from his stool to disappear into the kitchen. While I waited, a young couple walked in, looked around, saw me, thought better of it, and left.
When Simon brought breakfast, he set the plate of eggs galette in front of me without giving any indication he had seen or cared about the backpackers. The food was good enough that my eyes kept trying to wander from the cafe’s entrance to the ceiling. I thanked Simon and he moved to sit with me, lighting a cigarillo as he watched me enjoy his creation. We sat in silence while I tried not to shovel the food into my face like this was a mess hall. I told him, in French, I was waiting for someone and we turned that into my morning French lesson, talking around the participles of time, point of origin, and other things I answered in a vaguely French way.
The second espresso had begun to work its caffeinated wonder when I spotted a mop of black hair on top of a French frame enter the cafe. The aviator sunglasses and mustache screamed cop. His shirt and tie were disheveled, and I would swear he was wearing cowboy boots. The bell above the door jingled at his arrival, causing Simon to glance up to the mirror. Confirming, I’m sure, what he already suspected, I said, “That must be him.”
Simon rose from his seat, clearing off whatever imaginary dust he had left behind with a few smacks of his towel, acting as if he had just been keeping it warm. He smiled at the inspector, crossing the cafe to welcome him in a much friendlier way than I would have expected anyone to get.
Rotella’s entrance was as rigid as the door handle, but he relaxed as Simon’s approach introduced a domestic familiarity into this strange and unexpected rendezvous. He waggled his mustache and removed his sunglasses, inquiring to Simon in words I didn’t hear. I’m certain this was out of politeness – Rotella had already spotted the lone American at the back of the cafe.
Simon indicated the rear table. As Rotella closed the distance I noted that I was right – he was wearing cowboy boots. I decided this was a good sign.
I stayed where I was, giving the inspector all the time he needed. His stride slowed in the last few yards, stopping completely a few feet from the table. “You are not from The Kansas City Star.”
“No.” I thought to stand and then didn’t, the tension coming from Rotella holding me in place. “I work with Atwell. I think you can understand why I might not want to admit that.”
Sitting in Taggart’s presbytery later Aggie explained, “His name is Cordell Hull.” Aggie smiled with an unmistakeable ridicule, “He’s a “deputy wizard” in a hate group called the Silver Shirt Brigade.”
Taggart blinked at the weird combination of words. “A what?”
“A deputy wizard. You would think that ‘wizard’ was a holdover from the KKK, but the deputy part probably came from some “Wild West” bullshit mythology.”
“Wait,” Taggart shook his head. “Are you saying my church is being targeted by the Klu Klux Klan?”
The ridicule dropped away from Aggie’s face to leave a hard mask. “I’m afraid it’s much worse than that. The Silver Shirt Brigade has a history going back to before World War II. They had ties to Nazi Germany, and acted as a fifth column in the United States. They were continually thwarted by Jewish citizens, led by a man named Leon Lewis. So Der Fuhrer sent a Gestapo agent and his foremost occultist, a man named Gyssling Deatherage who inducted the Silver Shirts into the Nazi’s esoteric teachings of the Dragon. The idea was that Gyssling, as Hitler’s foremost expert on the occult, would teach the Silver Shirts enough magic that they could lead an uprising and make sure America didn’t enter the war.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“Any more so than a lycanthrope leading a church in the middle of the City?”
Taggart, like most people, didn’t consider his own existence particularly strange, but after a moment of thought, replied, “I suppose not.”
Aggie shrugged off the interruption. “Part of that plan was recruiting special individuals such as yourself.” Aggie paused. “I mean, you know, the ‘aryan’ ones. Even so, you can imagine how well that went.”
Taggart thought about his grandmother and her strong loyalty to all her family, regardless of color, size, or creed. “Not well,” he replied.
“No. When attempts at recruitment only led to Silver Shirts being slaughtered, they placed them on their list of ‘racial enemies.’ They’ve been hunting loup-garou every since. Fortunately, they’ve been spectacularly bad it. For years they’ve been led by an incompetent named Yars Schwinn, who was as delusional as he was charismatic.”
The corner of Aggie’s mouth twitched downward, its minuteness causing an inverse amount of dread in Taggart. “Unfortunately, Yars died not long ago and the Silver Shirts have been taken over by a man named Haddo.”
“Haddo who?
“Just Haddo as far as I can tell. Which is impressive. I can find out most things I put my mind to it. But he’s clearly more dangerous.”
“Why do you say that?”
Out of her coat, Aggie took a long root, preserved in a plastic bag so its many dry, small bristles stuck to it like tributaries. It reminded Taggart of the broom his mother had disciplined him with, but being near it caused him a pain that forced him reflexively take a step back.
Aggie frowned again, as if Taggart’s reaction confirmed a grim hypothesis. “It’s wolfsbane. If Haddo has been having the Silver Shirts somehow slip this to you, and I can’t imagine any other reason they’d have it, it would explain your –” Aggie stopped, her expression softening as she diplomatically recalled Taggart’s own words, “The impulse control issues you’ve been experiencing of late.”
At this proximity, Taggart found the smell of the root overwhelming and he could only gesture for Aggie to put it away. She returned it to the large zip-bag she had taken it from. When his mind had cleared of pain and he could breathe again, Taggart asked, “So what do we do?” For the first time since the conversation began Aggie gave Taggart what he felt was a genuine smile, one that said, ‘I’m so glad you asked.’
“Well, the police can’t do anything. There was no bomb (obviously) and nothing illegal about the arsenal thatCordell had in his van. So the police won’t be able to act until there’s a verifiable crime.”
Taggart brought his eyebrows together, which had become slightly bushier since the wolfsbane’s appearance. “So why are you smiling?”
“Feel like getting your claws wet, Reverend?”
“Excuse me?”
Aggie explained. “The Silver Shirts have a headquarters, a clubhouse really, outside the City, called Bundhaus. A place where they get together, drink and sing songs to the superiority of pure bloods. They have a member’s meeting every month that almost all of them attend, especially Haddo.”
Aggie paused, and Taggart’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What are you suggesting?”
“They tried to expose you and killed dozens of people in the process. I say you return the favor.” Aggie spread her hands, the brightness of her smile never dimming.
Taggert stood up straight, feeling his shadow gain strength. “You’re suggesting I go to this Bundhaus, during one of these meetings, and murder everyone there?”
Aggie brought her eyes back to Taggart. “Well, how many you murder is up to you.”
Taggert leaned forward so his eyes were level with the shorter woman’s and growled, “Are you serious?”
Aggie’s smile fell away and she leaned forward to be inches from Taggart. “Yes.”
Taggart stepped back. “Ms. McPherson, what you’re suggesting is literally against everything that I teach in my church. It stands against the most important teachings of Christ.”
Aggie cocked her head slightly, violet eyes narrowing on Taggart. After a long consideration she replied, “Isn’t there something in there about protecting your flock, Reverend?” Taggart opened his mouth to reply, but Aggie continued, “They used you in a terrorist attack. Do you think they’re going to let you alone now that they know you’re still alive? That van up the street says otherwise. And the next people you slaughter may be your own congregation.”
Taggart straightened himself. “I will not murder fellow human beings because they make threats to me and mine.To grant us that we, being rescued from the hand of our enemies, Might serve Him without fear. Luke 1:74.”
“Is it murder if it means justice for all those people that were died on Flight 247? Even if getting rid of these fascist assholes makes the world a better place? Guarantees the safety of your congregation?”
“If Haddo provoked a transformation from you once, he can do it again.”
“There are members of my flock that know the truth about me. All of me. Now that we know how they did it, we can be watchful about any trespasses in the future.”
“Taggart,” Aggie said his name deliberately, making certain she had his attention. “People are dead. They’re dead because of what the Silver Shirts did to you. And Hull’s presence shows they aren’t going to give up. Unless we do something to stop them, they will come for you.
“Are you willing to accept the consequences of how many people might suffer when that happens?”
“I will not violate the teachings of Christ, the teachings I live by, because they are difficult. It’s because they’re difficult that makes them worth living.” Taggart stared at the door of his office. “And teaching.”
“And what if they attack your church directly? What if someone like Hull walks in with a semi-automatic rifle and just starts plugging people? Are you just going to stand there and preach?”
“That is a very different situation than premeditated murder.”
“Not to the people on Flight 247.”
“Ms –” Taggart stopped himself and breathed deep. “Aggie, unless you have an alternative to offer, this conversation is over.”
Aggie mirrored the Reverend, taking in a long inhalation and holding it while closing her eyes, only to open them with a series of quick blinks. “OK,” she said. “I’ve done what I can.”
Reluctant to let someone who had helped him leave unsatisfied, Taggart asked, “We never discussed your fee?”
Aggie paused, a quick calculation in her eyes. That passed, though. “Keep it. Use it for additional security. I know a brujah in The Hill district that can help set up some wards that might keep Haddo’s tricks away.”
“That would be very useful. Thank you.” Taggart bowed slightly, humbled by the generosity of someone that disagreed with him.
Aggie sighed heavily, expelling a dissatisfaction Taggart could practically smell. “And get some wolves around here.”
Taggart almost laughed at that. “Excuse me?”
“Some armed security. The police will keep an eye on things for awhile, but Haddo will be smart enough not to have the Silver Shirts do anything until their attention goes elsewhere.” Almost as an admonishment, Aggie added, “Get some wolves around here. You’ve got too many sheep.”
At the door, Aggie paused. Hand on the doorknob, she stared at the floor. From having had several difficult conversations in his office, Taggart recognized the expression of someone struggling to find something more persuasive to say, something that might make a change.
Instead, though, she lifted her gaze to look Taggart in the eye and said, “May God bless you, Reverend Taggart.” Then she was gone.
