Armageddon - By James Patterson Page 0,30

Is the universe somehow trying to keep things even-steven by tossing in one creator and one destroyer?

Xanthos shook his head. No, my yute. Abbadon has been around for a long, long year—stirring up trouble, fomenting chaos, turning humans against one another.

I remembered the people mauling one another in New York City. The street gang in Moscow. The Chinese stampeding to board the subway trains. All those humans were seriously lacking in kindness, compassion, and goodwill. In other words, Abbadon had successfully stripped them of anything resembling humanity.

I stood up, dusted straw off my jeans.

Okay—what do we do next? How do we destroy The Destroyer?

Xanthos closed his eyes. This time when he sighed, I felt his sadness. Why do you wish to do as the evil one has done? Don’t bury your thoughts under his vision. Flee from hate, mischief, and—

Wait a second. So far, this Abbadon has totally wiped out New York, Washington, London, Moscow, Beijing, and just about everywhere in between! And you want me to flee?

No, Daniel. I want you to be true to who you are: Create where others destroy. Build up what they tear down.

Fine. I’ll work on that, right after I tear down this Abbadon.

Very well. It is your river to cross, brudda.

Suddenly I had a thought. Is this why The List is so sketchy on Number 2? Did Abbadon destroy all the intel we’d gathered on him during his centuries of troublemaking here on Earth?

Perhaps.

Thanks. That’s really, really helpful. I was being sarcastic. Some advisor you turned out to be.

For your spirit, Daniel. Your soul. We each have our role and must play it as written.

I took a deep breath. Counted to ten, then to twenty. I knew I was letting my anger get the best of me, and when I’m about to lose my temper I can’t create anything, not even those cheap, flavorless globules that cost a quarter in gumball machines.

Truth is, I was mad at the situation, not at Xanthos.

Okay. As my spiritual advisor, what would you suggest I do next?

Xanthos rose up on his sturdy legs. When he whinnied merrily, I knew we were still “bredren”—brothers in unity.

Perhaps dinner with your friends, yah, mon?

What? Number 2 or Abbadon or whatever he calls himself is still out there, still knocking down skyscrapers, and you want me to sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight?

Abbadon has gone underground.

You’re sure?

Do not worry, Daniel. You will face him again. When the time comes.

And when’s that?

Ah, this I do not know. However, the next time you will have no need to hunt Abbadon down. When all is in readiness, he will come for you!

Chapter 41

I DID AS Xanthos advised: I sat down to dinner that night with Mel, Agent Judge, Joe, Emma, Willy, and Dana.

And by “Willy and Dana” I mean Willy-n-Dana, like you’d see carved into the bark of a tree or graffitied on a small-town water tower.

They were sitting side by side, their chairs pushed a little closer together than all the others around the knotty-pine farmhouse table. From the grin on Dana’s face and the giddy bewilderment on Willy’s, I think they might have been playing footsie under the table, too.

As if that weren’t bad enough, I once again noticed the slender white line running from Dana’s eye to her chin. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make that scar disappear!

Mel reached over to touch my hand. I guess she’d been watching me watching them.

“Is everything okay, Daniel?”

“Hmm?”

“You look like you’re here but your mind is off somewhere else.”

“Yeah, buddy,” said Joe. “You look a little out to lunch, which is too bad, because this dinner is awesome. What do you call this soup, Agent Judge?”

“That’s Kentucky Burgoo,” replied Mel’s dad.

“It’s so thick, I could stand my spoon up in it—if I wasn’t busy using my spoon to eat it. What’s in it?”

“Mixed meat. Beef, lamb, pork, chicken. Tomatoes and celery and a couple of potatoes. Spices and Worcestershire sauce.”

“Don’t worry,” Mel said to Emma. “I made yours and mine with just the vegetables, and none of the chicken or beef stock.”

“I appreciate it,” said Emma. “As do the cows, the lambs, the pigs, and the chickens.”

We all had a chuckle over that.

“Well, don’t blame me, Emma,” said Agent Judge. “It’s my late wife’s recipe.” When he said that, his eyes looked a little sad.

“So, Daniel,” asked Willy, “what did your horse say we should do next?”

I gestured toward the dinner table, laden with plates and serving dishes. “This.”

“You’re kidding,”