Blood Test

“What the fuck!” exclaimed Graffius, chin whiskers trembling like charged filaments.

The procession stopped.

From that point on everything seemed to happen in fast-forward.

The sky filled with thunder. Whirring blades and blinking lights assaulted the gathering dusk. A pair of helicopters circled overhead. From one of them boomed an amplified voice:

“This is Agent Siegel of the Federal Drug Enforcement Agency. The shots were a warning. You are surrounded. Release Dr. Delaware and lie face down on the ground.”

The message was repeated. Over and over.

Graffius started screaming unintelligibly. The rest of the cultists stood rooted in place, looking up to the heavens, as baffled as primitives discovering a new god.

The helicopters swooped low, rustling the trees.

Agent Siegel continued to reiterate his command. The cultists didn’t comply — out of shock, not defiance.

One of the helicopters aimed a high-intensity beacon on the group. The light was blinding. As the cultists shielded their eyes, the invasion began.

Scores of men, flak-jacketed and wielding automatic weapons, converged on the grounds with the silent efficiency of soldier ants.

One group of raiders materialized from beneath the viaduct. Seconds later another emerged from behind the main building transporting a downcast herd of shackled cultists. A third swept in from the fields and stormed the cathedral.

I tried to break loose but Blackbeard and Snaggletooth held catatonically firm. Graffius pointed at me and jibbered like a monkey on speed. He ran over and raised his fist. I kicked out with my right foot and caught him hard in the center of kneecap. He yelped and did a one-legged rain dance. The big men looked at each other idiotically, unsure of how to react. Within seconds the decision had been taken out of their hands.

We were surrounded. The raiders from the viaduct had formed a concentric ring around the circle of cultists. They were a mixed group — D.E.A. agents, state police, county sheriffs, and at least one L.A. detective whom I recognized — but functioned with the smoothness of a seasoned unit.

A Hispanic officer with a Zapata mustache barked the order to lie down. This time compliance was immediate. The big men released my arms as if they were electrified. I stepped away and observed the action.

The raiders made the cultists spread their legs and frisked them, two officers for every captive. Once searched, they were handcuffed, removed from the group one by one like beads pulled off a string, read their rights, and taken into custody at gunpoint.

With the exception of Graffius, who was dragged away kicking and screaming, the men and women of the Touch offered no resistance. Numb with fear and disorientation, they submitted passively to police procedure and shambled off to captivity in a forlorn procession periodically spotlit by the circling helicopters.

The heavy door to the main building swung open and disgorged another parade of captors and captives. The last to exit was Matthias, guarded by a phalanx of agents. He walked woodenly and his mouth worked frantically. From a distance it looked like one hell of a closing statement but the din from the copters blotted out the sound. Not that anyone was listening.

I watched his departure and, when the grounds were still, became once more aware of the heat. I removed my jacket and tossed it to the side, and was unbuttoning my shirt when Milo came over in the company of a hatchet-faced man with a five o’clock shadow. The man wore a gray suit, white shirt, and dark tie under his flak jacket and walked with a military stride. This morning, I’d found him humorless but reassuringly thorough. The boss D.E.A. agent, Severin Fleming.

“Great performance, Alex.” My friend patted my back.

“Let me help you with that, Doctor,” said Fleming, untaping the Nagra body recorder from my chest. “I hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“As a matter of fact it itched like crazy.”

“Sorry about that. You must have sensitive skin.”

“He’s a very sensitive guy, Sev.”

Fleming conceded a smile and concentrated on checking the Nagra.

“Everything looks in order,” he announced, returning the machine to its case. “Reception in the van was excellent — we got a first-rate copy. An attorney from Justice was sitting in and she’s of the opinion there’s plenty to work with. Once again, Doctor, thanks. Be seeing you, Milo.”

He shook our hands, gave a small salute, and walked away, cradling the Nagra like a newborn.

“Well,” said Milo, “You keep revealing new talents. Hollywood’s bound to be knocking on your door.”

“Right,” I said, rubbing my chest. “Call my agent. We’ll take a meeting at the Polo Lounge.”

He laughed and undid his flak jacket.

“Feel like the Michelin tire man in this thing.”

“You should be so cute.”