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  “Just hold on!” Johnny caught up to him and grabbed his shoulder. “How do you know it’s them? You can’t just barge in there like you own it.”

  “I heard music, man. You know anyone else who would be listening to music in the Starlight?”

  “Just”—he nudged Roland to one side—“let me take a look.”

  He gripped the board by the bottom edge and lifted it.

  Nothing jumped out at him or bowled him over, and the board was loose enough, so he lifted it higher. The nails had been pulled. Whoever was in there had taken a hammer or a crowbar to the wall to get in.

  Together Roland and he shoved the board high, then eased their heads into the dark foot-wide gap.

  The first thing Johnny saw were the theater’s arching rafters, flickering with white light. Fire? Then he heard the music, pounding from somewhere inside. A wall stood between them and whoever was inside the main hall.

  “That’s Peter and Fred for sure,” Roland said.

  “Just stay behind me. And if I run, you run.”

  “Okay. Lighten up, sheesh.”

  Johnny squeezed through the opening. Roland followed. The board clunked closed. Protected from the howling wind, he could hear the music loudly now. An eerie, melancholic, thumping rock and roll. Gothic. Evil.

  He edged forward—stage door on the right. Carefully, fighting every ounce of good reason, Johnny turned the knob and pulled the door open a crack.

  The volume escalated. White light sputtered on the walls inside. No monsters. He pulled the door wider and eased his head through.

  Light flashed from a box set on the stage, splashing white across the auditorium in staccato pulses. Three figures jerked in the strobe.

  Dancing? More like writhing.

  Johnny’s heart climbed into his throat.

  The auditorium had been ransacked. The place was dirty when he last saw it, two years earlier, but not trashed like this. It took a few seconds for the images to register, because they came at him in flashes of light. The long curtains hanging on the walls were shredded from top to bottom, and the old wooden seats had been torn from their anchors and scattered like a box of spilled jacks. Bottles and cans littered the floor—dozens of them, spilling liquid that sparkled in the light. Someone had spray-painted haphazard lines across the walls and huge Gothic letters on the torn screen.

  Screw Hope!

  In the middle of it all, the three figures jerked about, like stoned teenagers in a mosh pit.

  Roland’s head pushed past his arm.

  The identity of the largest figure was clear. The bulky body teetering and twitching like a tortured penguin could only belong to Peter’s father, Claude Bowers. He faced the flashing box, which Johnny now saw was actually a television set. His hands swayed to the music, creating the strange illusion that his arms were electric cords delivering shocks that convulsed his body.

  Ten feet behind and to the left, the second man jerked back and forth like a bebopping bowling pin. He had an ax in his hands, and for one terrifying moment Johnny thought the man might be Roland’s father. But then a flash lit the face and Johnny saw Chris Ingles, smiling like a vampire with bulging eyes.

  He heard a gasp from Roland. Then he saw what Roland was looking at. The third figure was a boy his size, jumping up and down like a pogo stick.

  Peter.

  He tugged at Roland’s collar, jerked him back through the door.

  “You see that?” Roland whispered and stuck his head back in. Johnny hesitated a moment and then took another look.

  The whole scene looked like something he might expect from a dream—a nightmare or a scene from an MTV music video—but this wasn’t any of those. This was Peter and his father and Chris Ingles in the Starlight Theater in Paradise, Colorado, population 450. Writhing to headbanging music. And by the looks of it, they’d been at it awhile.

  The ax man, Chris Ingles, spun and let loose a scream. He jumped from the stage, swung his ax above his head like a tomahawk, and took a swipe at one of the toppled theater seats. The chair cracked and flew across the room. Chris let out another whoop and resumed his lurching dance in front of the stage.

  The smaller form—Peter—scooped up a bottle at his feet, cocked his arm back like a pitcher, and hurled the object at the television set. With a loud pop the tube exploded. Just like that, boom, and the room fell into darkness and total silence.

  A flame from a lighter flickered to life, highlighting Claude Bower’s sweaty face. The three stood dumbstruck, arms hanging limp, chests rising and falling.

  “Who did that?” Claude asked with a heaving voice.

  Peter took a step back.

  “You do that, Peter?” Claude spoke as if the boy had just slapped him for no reason. “What . . . what you do that for?”

  Johnny could hear his own breathing now. He shut his mouth and drew air through his nose. They should have left already, but Johnny teetered in that awful place between must run and can’t run.

  Claude stared at his son through the wavering flame, and for a moment Johnny thought he might actually take after him.

  Then he did. He shrieked obscenities and lunged forward.

  Peter spun and let out a yelp. He took three steps before his father’s hand caught him and together they tumbled to the floor, crushing the lighter’s flame under them. The room went black. Piercing shrieks echoed through the theater.

  Roland bolted forward. “You sick son of . . .”

  Johnny swiped at him, grabbing shirt, then air.

  The room was too dark to see Roland running, and Peter’s wails covered the sound of his feet.

  Now Johnny was faced with another critical decision: to save Roland from sharing Peter’s fate or to make a quick escape now, while he could.

  He took off after Roland.

  Problem was, he couldn’t see.

  And then he could. Light flared from a rag Chris Ingles had stuffed into a bottle. Johnny heard the sound of swishing liquid.

  Johnny pulled up a third of the way down the right aisle. Roland took three more steps, placing him near the front. He slid to a stop.

  Claude must have seen the boy, because he froze, fist raised over Peter, head turned toward the auditorium.

  The intrusion seemed to disorient Claude. Chris Ingles was a statue—legs spread wide, torch licking the air beside his face, eyes ogling Roland.

  Johnny and Roland were rooted in the aisle.

  Peter wailed.

  Claude released his son and stood up. Peter was still screaming bloody murder. Claude slapped his head with an open hand. “Shut up.”

  Peter whimpered and then shut up. Out of obedience or unconsciousness, Johnny couldn’t tell.

  Claude stepped over his son’s body. “You guys bring anything?”

  What?

  “Yeah, we’re looking for more stuff,” Chris said.

  “You have a TV?” Claude asked.

  “Yeah, do you have a TV?” Ingles repeated.

  Claude looked at Roland. “How about the TV from your dad’s bar. You think he’d mind if we borrowed it?”

  Roland wasn’t responding.

  “Listen, you little creep!” Ingles snapped.“He’s asking you a question. It’s a simple question. Just answer the stupid question, you dope. If you don’t tell us, we’re going to come down there and slap some sense into you. So shut your trap and just tell us what—”

  “Shut up, Chris,” Claude said.

  Ingles looked at the big Swede. “I was just—”

  “I said, shut up!” He was yelling. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  Chris looked like he’d been slapped. He swallowed. “Sheesh. I’m trying to get us a TV. If you want—ahhh!” Ingles screamed and jerked his hand from the bottle which had evidently gotten hot enough to burn him. The flame blinked out when the bottle hit the floor.

  Darkness.

  Johnny ran forward, grabbed Roland by his shirt, and tugged. “Come on,” he whispered.

  “Get t
hat light back on!” Claude thundered.

  “I burned my hand.”

  “It’s dark,” Peter said.

  Johnny ran for the thin crack of light below the exit door. He slammed into the door. Yanked it open.

  Claude yelled behind them. “Hey!”

  They rushed through the service hall, crashed through the plank and out of the theater into the wind.

  Johnny rounded the corner and pulled up, panting.

  Roland looked back the way they’d come. “You see him hit Peter?” A crooked smile nudged his lips.

  “You find that funny?”

  “What are they doing?”

  Good question. Or rather, why were they trashing the theater and going nuts over that television? It was crazy, plain and simple.

  “What are we going to do?” Roland asked when Johnny didn’t respond.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should go get some help.”

  “How?”

  A bang sounded inside the theater. Johnny glanced back. Coast was still clear. He headed for the street.

  “Where you going?”

  “Home. I have to get my mom up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE MONASTERY

  Friday morning

  SAMUEL STARED out of his father’s study window at the black clouds roiling over the small town far below. “All because of one silly boy,” he said.

  “Not one silly boy,” his father said.

  Samuel turned, arms clasped behind his back. “Billy and Darcy. Two.”

  Dark rings circled his father’s eyes, and his flesh seemed to sag around his cheeks. Samuel had never seen his father in such a state. He wanted to run over and hug him.

  “Billy’s called for a debate.”

  His father exposed his true concern, something he would guard even from the teachers. But he trusted his son, which made Samuel proud. “You yourself said that you expected it, Father. You told me that a month ago and again, last week, when Marsuvees Black left us. But you were sure that the power we have would all play to our advantage. You still believe that, don’t you?”

  David stared past him, his gaze distant and aimless. Samuel noticed that they were both standing with hands clasped behind their backs. Like father, like son.

  “Yes,” David said. “I’ve staked everything on that belief. You’re right, the power in this place has always threatened to wreak havoc. And I’ve always believed good would prevail—it’s why I left the university after your mother’s death. But what if I’m wrong? And if I’m right, what will the cost be?”

  Samuel walked up to his father and took his hand. When David had taken him for a long walk behind the monastery three days earlier and told him what was happening, without even the teachers’ knowledge, Samuel thought his father was playing some sort of game with him. It took a full twenty-four hours for the implications to settle in. Billy had no real idea what he’d done.

  But Samuel had the same power. An incredible fact. Then again, all of the children had the same power. And that was a bit frightening.

  His father’s eyes were glassy. “Can you imagine what would happen if this got out to the world, Samuel?”

  “But it won’t! We won’t let it.”

  “It’s not something we can control. Not now.”

  “My whole life you’ve taught me the power of Christ’s love to overthrow evil. I know this is difficult for you, Father, but you have to believe what you’ve taught me.”

  David looked at his son. “Evil can be very powerful, Samuel.”

  “And so can love.”

  The door behind them opened. Samuel held his father’s eyes one moment longer, then released his hand. He wasn’t used to being the encourager in their relationship, but it felt right now. He was becoming a man, and his father needed him. The realization was both daunting and satisfying.

  Two teachers and two students walked into the study. Raul and Andrew ushered the children through the door.

  “Hey, Tyler. Hey, Christine.”

  “Hey, Samuel.” They’d both been here before, but a trip to the director’s study was an unusual occurrence. Their eyes took in the setting.

  David smiled, cloaking all traces of concern. “Thank you for coming. Have a seat, please.” He indicated the chairs around the redwood table.

  “Thank you, sir,” Christine said.

  Tyler let Christine sit first. “Thank you, sir.”

  They grinned at Samuel. Tyler and Christine were both orphans from India and they, like some of the others, had taken to speaking in accents from their mother countries.

  “Excuse us for just a moment.” David walked toward the adjacent conference room. “Raul, Andrew, please follow me.”

  They walked into the room and closed the door.

  Samuel sat and looked at his friends. Were they strong enough to stand up to Billy? No doubt. His father’s concerns were overstated. “You guys eat already?”

  “Yes,”Tyler said.“Have you guys noticed how quickly they shut down the cafeteria these last two days?”

  “No,” Christine said. “Two o’clock like always.”

  “But two sharp?” Tyler snuck a look at the conference-room door and lowered his voice. “The overseers just seem a bit rushed. In fact, I’m not sure they aren’t a bit uptight in general. I snapped Christian’s boxers in the bathroom this morning, and Andrew happened to be walking by. He told me to grow up. That sound like Andrew to you?”

  “Boys,” Christine said, rolling her eyes. “How does snapping boxers translate to fun in that lofty mind of yours?”

  “It translates as easily as pinning back your hair or painting your nails,” Tyler said.

  “I paint my nails for beauty. Beauty is intrinsically valuable.”

  “And I snapped Christian’s boxers for humor. Humor’s also intrinsically valuable.”

  Christine thought about that. “Point made.”

  “I still think the overseers need to lighten up a bit.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention this to the director the moment he steps back in,” Christine said with a smirk. “All overseers to ease up on the fun-seekers of our cherished clan.”

  She turned to Samuel. “So what’s this all about?”

  The enormity of her ignorance struck him as tragic. This was about the end of all things as they knew it. About the beginning of something either very good or very bad. How could he explain this to two kids who were for the moment preoccupied with snapping shorts and painting nails?

  The door opened, saving Samuel from an answer. One look at Andrew and Samuel’s gut tightened. The man’s face was white. Raul looked concerned as well, but not like Andrew. Perhaps Raul had more faith in Christine than Andrew did.

  They crossed the room and sat opposite Christine and Tyler. His father regarded them with unusual gravity.

  Christine glanced at Samuel, any trace of a smile now gone. “What’s wrong?”

  “At least that much is obvious,” David said. He drew a deep breath. “Christine, Tyler . . . We are very proud of you both. In fact it’s my confidence in you that brings you here. I’ve watched you both and I see that your character is strong.” He smiled.

  Christine folded her hands. “Thank you, sir.”

  Tyler followed her example. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good. Then let me tell you what I just told Andrew and Raul. Billy has challenged the school’s prevailing rule of love in the first debate of its kind in the history of Project Showdown.” He let the statement settle in.

  “A debate?” Tyler asked. “Billy’s arguing against love? What on earth would make him do that?”

  “He and Darcy have entered the forbidden tunnels below the monastery,” David said.

  “They’ve what?” Christine demanded. “How could they do that?”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple, really. There’s no lock on the door. Billy was the first to go in. He convinced Darcy to follow. This morning Billy issued his challenge. He’ll argue against our assertion th
at love leads to the Creator and that the discovery of love is the point of our lives. It seems he’s found something besides love to satisfy him. The debate will be held tomorrow before all the students. In the end, a two-thirds vote by the students will determine the course we will take. If Billy wins, he will determine what is taught here and who teaches it. He will also establish new rules, which can be overthrown only by a similar challenge and a two-thirds vote.”

  Christine jumped up. “He’s a fool!” She relaxed her fists and sat.“Forgive me, I meant no disrespect, but he’s the biggest fool. Not only for entering the tunnels, but for thinking that he can persuade two or three much less two-thirds of us to side with any twisted philosophy he tosses out.”

  “Why can’t we just lock Billy up?” Tyler asked.

  Samuel watched his father. Not even the teachers knew the real reason, though what the overseers accepted as truth was compelling enough. What good would it do to create a monastery full of noble savages with the potential to reshape society, and then, having failed, to lock them up? If they ultimately failed, then they would be put back into society to continue with the rest of spoiled humankind.

  But if the children survived tests like this one, they would be even stronger in their faith, and their impact on society would be even greater. This is what the teachers believed. And part of it was true.

  But only part of it.

  Samuel’s father finally spoke. “We can’t, Tyler. You’ll have to trust me on that. No one is forced here. The effects of forcing Billy’s hand could be far more devastating than any of us imagines.”

  Samuel wondered if the two teachers caught his father’s insinuation that the stakes were higher than they knew. Andrew stared at him with searching eyes. Raul looked at the bookshelf, expression blank.

  “Who will he debate?” Christine asked.

  “By rule it has to be a student. I have—”

  “What kind of rule is that? Excuse the interruption.”

  “Not only a student, but one of five that he chooses,” David said. “It’s a rule that places the ultimate responsibility in any one of the students’ hands. We are only as strong as our weakest links, both in life and in here. Billy put five students’ names forward. I have chosen you, Christine.”