George Chesbro: Second Horseman Out of Eden

I looked at Garth. "You want to talk to Shannon?"

He shook his head. "Not at the moment."

Lippitt smiled thinly. "You're still angry with him over the Archangel business, aren't you?"

Garth said, "Mongo and I are still angry with a lot of people over the Archangel business, Lippitt. But not you."

"Hmm. Well, anyway, he wants to mount a very big White House dinner to honor the two of you with the Medal of Freedom; your second, I believe. But these won't be awarded in secret. There'll be a lot of publicity. I suggested to him that he consult with you before he starts making a lot of plans for your futures-he sometimes neglects these little niceties, as you're aware. And so he delegated me to ask if you would accept the honor, and agree to the publicity. My opinion is that it would be good for you to accept. I know you don't much care for the president, but he likes and respects the two of you very much. I also know that you think he's amoral, but in this case I think much benefit could come from the publicity surrounding the story; perhaps it could serve as a warning to others about the kinds of religious charlatans and zealots exemplified by the people who built Eden."

I thought about it, and almost laughed when a most diabolical thought occurred to me. I looked at Garth-and could tell by the look on his face that the same thought had occurred to him. He raised his eyebrows mischievously, grinned, and nodded to me.

"You tell him, Mongo."

"Garth and I accept, Lippitt-but there are conditions."

"And what would they be?"

"There are two other men who have to be similarly honored-one in particular."

"Who are they?"

"One is Lieutenant Malachy McCloskey of the NYPD, now retired. The other is Frank Palorino, another cop. If it weren't for McCloskey, Garth and I would have been vaporized hours ago-along with New York City and those millions of people you mentioned. We'll tell you all about it when we're feeling a bit more chipper."

"I'll look forward to it," Lippitt said evenly, his eyes, if not his voice, mirroring his interest. "And I don't see that there would be a problem in honoring the other two. In fact, I suspect the president might feel it would be to his political advantage to honor the common man, so to speak."

"Another thing, Lippitt," my brother said.

"What is it, Garth?"

"Palorino will advance very quickly in the department. It's McCloskey we want really taken care of-the full treatment; that's as it should be. We want him to get the full honors and publicity treatment. Like Mongo said, he's retired now, and he'll be looking for a decent job to while away his retirement years."

"In short, Lippitt," I said, "Garth and I want Malachy McCloskey to suddenly find himself very famous and very rich."

Mr. Lippitt narrowed his eyes as he looked back and forth between my brother and me. "Somehow, I get the impression that there are things you're not telling me."

"We'll tell you all about it, Lippitt," I said. "Later. There are also two pilots from British Airways-"

"Of course."

"For now, you give Shannon the message about our conditions. If he wants our help in getting political mileage out of the Eden business, he has to take care of those other people-especially McCloskey. And McCloskey can't know that we had anything to do with it."

Lippitt merely shrugged. "Politics, patronage, and influence aren't within my jurisdiction. But if I tell the president that the Frederickson brothers would like to see a retired police lieutenant become rich and famous, I wouldn't be at all surprised if such a thing came to pass."

"Hot damn," I said.

"I love it," Garth said, grinning at me.

A soldier wearing general's stars came up to Lippitt and whispered something in his ear. Lippitt nodded.

"Excuse me," the old man said. "I have to take care of some matters. Mongo, take your medicine."

I took the purple pills Garth handed me, washed them down with the last of the chicken broth. As far as I was concerned, it was time to go to sleep. I lay back on the bed, sighed, closed my eyes-and felt Garth gently nudge me.

"One more thing, Mongo," Garth said in an oddly stern tone of voice.

"Mm."

"Did you tell Vicky you were one of Santa's helpers?"

Thoroughly puzzled by such a question, I opened one eye-and was startled to see that Garth was, if not angry, at least upset. "Yeah. As a matter of fact, I did."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because it seemed like a good idea at the time, that's why. What's the problem. Garth?"

Garth raised his arm over me and pointed out the window to the bright lights, the emergency vehicles, the dense, poisonous mist oozing out of Eden's door and rising into the night sky. " That's the problem. Human superstition is the problem, and feeding little kids all that shit about Santa Claus sows the first seeds. You start off by filling kids' heads with fantasies, no matter how harmless they may seem, don't be surprised if a lot of them grow up with some very twisted fantasies about God, death, and you name it."

"You're putting me on, right?"

"I want you to tell her the truth. She's already got enough shit in her head that's going to have to be flushed out. She doesn't need any more."

I said nothing. Garth abruptly turned, walked across the hold to where the medic had just finished adjusting the sling on Vicky's arm and was rewarding her with a large red lollipop. My brother spoke to the man, who nodded. Then he bent over, whispered something in the little girl's ear, took her hand, and led her back to my bedside.

"Tell her, Mongo."

"Hey, brother," I mumbled, now desperately wanting nothing more than to sleep for a very long time, "you want to be Scrooge, you tell her."

"Tell her the truth, Mongo."

"You tell her."

"Sweetheart," Garth said, kneeling down next to the girl, "I have some things to say to you." I turned my head, looked down, and saw that his features had softened; his eyes glowed with a degree of gentleness and kindness I saw only when he spoke to children, or those in great need. "First, I'm certain that other people who care a lot about little kids won't want you to live with your mommy and daddy until they go to doctors who will make them feel better so they'll never try to hurt themselves again. If that happens, would you like to live with Mongo and me until they get well?"

The child looked across the hold at her forlorn parents, then back at Garth. "I love my mommy and daddy, Garth."

"And they love you," my brother answered. Tears had begun to roll down his cheeks, and he made no move to brush them away. "It's because they love you that I think they'll want to go for treatment so that they'll be better able to take care of themselves and you."

The child thought about it, nodded. "Then I'd like to live with you and Mr. Mongo until they're better. Are we going to live at the North Pole?"

Garth slowly but firmly shook his head. "No, Vicky. We don't live at the North Pole. You'll be getting your puppy, but it won't be coming from any Santa Claus. Mongo and I are going to give you a puppy, because we love you and we want you to be happy. But Mongo isn't Santa Claus's helper. He's a fine man with a lot of love in his heart, but he doesn't work for Santa Claus. There is no such person as Santa Claus. Children should learn to have love for all other people in their hearts, but they shouldn't be told things that aren't true. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The child was silent for some time, sucking thoughtfully on her lollipop. Finally she nodded. Garth kissed her forehead, then straightened up, realigned me on the bed and pulled the covers up to my chin.

"Sleep well, my brother," Garth said softly. "You've earned it."

I heard Garth walk away, then felt a child's hand patting my forearm.