Chastened by Bolinas and racked with guilt about his role in the plot with Irwin, Atwood had sworn off Martinis and banished his shaker to the temple storage room.

Determined to extricate himself from what he thought of as Irwin’s clutches, he had proposed a clandestine late-night meeting at an overlook on Highway 1, high above the Pacific Ocean. The spot was located south of Stinson Beach, and Atwood knew it would be deserted, because its night-time view was of unrelieved blackness.

He arrived early and parked behind a small hill, his car invisible from the highway. The night was overcast, and not even starlight cut the darkness surrounding him. A second car pulled into the lot, and Irwin got out.

The two priests moved to the far end of the overlook, next to the edge of the cliff. The sound of waves far below rose up around them.

“Things are ready at my end,” said Irwin, “so let’s make sure we’re on the same page.”

The details of the conspiracy no longer mattered to Atwood. “Wait …”

“You continue to paint the Apthorp as a center of corruption, while I publicly identify it as a threat. Right?”

“That’s what we said, but …”

“I’ve got the mercenary troops bivouacked on my olive ranch. When they move out, they’ll appear to threaten your worshipers. No real threat, I assure you. When they fall back, you’ll say Bolinas drove them off. You’ll raise lots of money from that, while I’ll say I’ve neutralized a grave threat to Olema. It’s a win-win, don’t you think?”

“Actually, I don’t,” said Atwood.

“Why not? It looks perfect to me.”

“I’m out.”

“You’re out? You can’t be out. At this point, there is no out.”

“It’s not working for me.”

“We’re in this together. It’s too late for second thoughts.”

“I don’t care.”

“Who cares whether you care?” said Irwin. “My mercenaries are going to attack, no matter what.”

“Don’t you dare attack me.”

“Right. What would you do about it, if I did?”

Atwood stepped closer, moving Irwin back toward the edge of the cliff. “I’d see to you. Personally.”

“You?” Laughing, Irwin pushed Atwood away.

“Don’t lay hands on me,” said Atwood, stepping back in until the two priests were almost touching. “Do that again, and you’ll regret it.”

“Oh, sure,” said Irwin, shoving Atwood’s chest.

“You forget who you’re dealing with.” Atwood gripped Irwin’s wrist and concentrated. “Maybe this will remind you.”

Irwin yanked his hand from Atwood’s grasp and tried to flex his fingers. They were paralyzed.

“Call it off,” said Atwood. “Otherwise, that’s just a taste of what you can expect.”

Almost immediately, Irwin moved his fingers through their full range of motion. “Pretty feeble. Let me show you something a little more profound. How about some arthritis?” He touched Atwood’s arm, and pain shot through Atwood’s wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

“Ah!” Atwood clutched his arm.

“Now,” said Irwin, “let me tell you what you’re going to do.”

“No, let me tell you what I’m going to do, you amateur. I’m giving you an ankle sprain.” Atwood kicked out, and his foot brushed Irwin’s leg.

Irwin cursed and reached down to grab his ankle. Bent over, he shuffled toward Atwood and touched Atwood’s stomach. “Here. Have some gastric reflux, you prick.”

Atwood gasped at the intensity of the pain spreading through his torso. It made him determined to show he was more powerful than his adversary. He reached over Irwin, who was still clutching his ankle, and laid his hand on Irwin’s spine. “Try some back pain on for size.”

Irwin jerked upright. “Agh! You maggot!” The pain radiating across his back, combined with the throbbing in his ankle, filled him with anger. “You asked for it,” he snarled, and placed his palm on Atwood’s chest. “A stroke. What do you think of that?”

Atwood reeled, one side of his face frozen in a rictus. Pain coursed through his body, and he could only think of dealing a devastating blow. He tottered forward and fell against Irwin’s chest. “I thin…, he mumbled, unable to pronounce the words fully. “I thin you nee a heart atta…” He wrapped his arms around Irwin and delivered it.

Irwin’s body arched in agony, and Atwood’s weight pressing against him buckled his sprained ankle. He staggered backward and, trying to regain his balance, stepped past the edge of the cliff. Feeling himself falling, he threw his arms around Atwood.

But Atwood, suffering from his stroke, could do nothing. The two priests hugged each other as they toppled off the cliff into black emptiness. Neither of them could find voice, even to scream. They clung together in silence all the way down to the Pacific.