Showdown Page 24

  Johnny blinked and the image vanished.

  A woman he recognized as Louise Timbers sat directly ahead of him in the last pew. Her blonde hair sat on her head like a twisted bird’s nest, complete with pieces of straw and clumps of sand. Streaks of dried mud ran down her neck, disappearing below a blouse torn at the collar to reveal half of her left shoulder. A gash already scabbed over glared rusty red on her white skin.

  They didn’t all look as bad as Louise, but a lot did. The bad ones were here and there throughout the church, wearing sores like a new fad.

  Johnny looked down the aisle where Claude Bowers sat next to Chris Ingles on the front pew. Peter and Fred sat on one side of them. Roland sat on the other. All five looked as if they had just engaged in hand-to-hand combat on a battlefield. Claude sagged in his seat, hands folded between his knees, mouth hanging open, spittle running down his chin.

  Steve Smither sat with blood-spattered cheeks. He’d butchered a cow or something and not bothered to clean up. His wife, Paula, sat five rows behind and to his right. Unlike the others, she was cleaned up pretty, smiling at the empty podium. And beside her . . .

  Sally. Even from this distance, Johnny could see that his mother was gone.

  Johnny began to tremble with fear.

  Crinkling paper disturbed the quiet, and Johnny glanced at the sound. Father Yordon’s secretary sat at the far left, carefully unwrapping a Twinkie, shifting her eyes to see if anyone had heard that first loud tear. She wore a beard of blood, dried and cracking over her lips and chin.

  The door to the church opened and a couple hurried in. The Jacksons, only they hardly looked like the Jacksons. They walked by Johnny without noticing him and entered the sanctuary.

  Johnny stood back from the sanctuary doors. Paradise was hell.

  But Black hadn’t taken the stage yet.

  Prophet Johnny.

  Now, Johnny. Do it now, before Black comes to feed them his lies.

  He had no choice. If someone didn’t do something . . .

  I’m with you, Johnny.

  He took a deep breath and moved toward the door.

  Another voice cackled in his mind. Wanna trip, boy? How about a stake between your toes? Or a new set of eyes?

  His Adam’s apple lodged in his throat, and he had to swallow to free it. He entered the sanctuary.

  The people were like wooden dolls. The pulpit still stood vacant. The clock on the wall read 6:55.

  I’m with you, Johnny.

  A rattling chuckle echoed through his mind. Billy? Or Black.

  Johnny forced his foot forward and lowered his head. He pushed himself up the aisle.

  I can do this—it’s just carpet passing under my feet, that’s all. The church is really empty and I’m just rehearsing graduation or something. And even if it isn’t really empty, the people in the pews aren’t really looking at me. People always think people are looking at them when they’re not.

  Then he reached the platform. He stepped up. The candles glowed bright in long rows—short candles, tall candles, some thin and some fat, all flickering on the platform.

  Any minute now someone’s going to yank me back by the shoulders. A dizzying weakness washed over him, and for a moment he thought he was falling, but he grabbed the pulpit and held himself upright.

  He pulled himself to the podium. Looked up.

  He expected to see a thousand black holes staring at him. Instead he saw their eyes, blank, drained, and drooping. But eyes, not holes. They were all there staring at him, as if wondering what he was doing there.

  Who is this interesting little boy in front of us? Some kid’s up at the podium. Isn’t that Sally’s kid? What’s he doing up at the podium?

  They looked half-dead, as if they’d all just spent two sleepless days harvesting fruit and hadn’t bothered to wash before coming to church. The candles lit their pupils, hundreds of miniature flames flickering in their skulls.

  Speak the truth, Johnny. Tell them.

  He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Hey.” He immediately realized that only those in the first few rows could hear him. He shifted to his left and bent the microphone down.

  “Hey”—his voice rang out over the speakers—“has anyone noticed that something strange is happening in Paradise?”

  Not a soul moved.

  “Has anybody noticed that the town is falling apart? The wind blowing without moving the clouds? The dust piled high like in a desert? People acting strange?”

  “Yeah,” a voice said.

  Johnny looked toward the back. Old Man Peterson stood. The man wasn’t like the others. “I’ve noticed all right,” the man croaked. “Someone did some damage all right.”

  “Shut up, Bo,” a woman said from across the auditorium. “Sit down and shut up.”

  A cackle rippled through the crowd. Old Man Peterson sat.

  I believe, Johnny. Shout it from the rooftops.

  In that moment, Johnny knew what he had to do. It didn’t make any sense to him, and it had nothing to do with Bo or his wife yelling at him to shut up.

  It was just for him. He needed strength.

  Johnny clenched his eyes shut. “I believe,” he said. Then again, “I believe.

  I believe.”

  Louder, Johnny.

  He felt a dam burst in his chest. “I believe!” He screamed it with all of his might. “I believe. I believe!” His voice reverberated through the room. He opened his eyes. The congregation just stared at him. But it didn’t matter now.

  “Bo’s right,” he said loudly. “Paradise is falling apart at the seams, and most of you are too blinded to see it.Wake up!”

  “Hello, boy.”

  Johnny froze. Black’s voice, ahead and on the left. He scanned the pews. Marsuvees Black sat next to Steve, arms folded across his chest, grinning at Johnny.

  Johnny gripped the podium to steady himself.

  Black stood. “You think anyone here cares what a whippersnapper rabble-rouser says?”

  Johnny spoke before he lost his nerve. “Say what you want, but you’re not a prophet from God with a message of hope and grace. You’re a monk from the Nevada desert full of death and destruction.”

  Black took that in, and Johnny could see him change strategy on the fly, watched a new approach register on his bronzed face. The man stepped up to the platform and smiled sweetly at Johnny. Johnny thought Black might take his hand and pat it condescendingly.

  “Death and destruction?”He swept a hand out at the crowd. “Do you see any death and destruction? No, you see a church full of souls who have tasted life and freedom like they’ve never tasted it before.”

  Johnny looked down at Claude Bowers sitting like an overstuffed mummy with drooping eyes. A half-empty bottle nestled in his crotch. He didn’t look a bit affected by Johnny’s accusations. Nor did anyone else.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Black said.“Let’s let the people tell us what they think.”

  Black brought his hands together. A thick finger of blazing white light crackled to life on the ceiling. Johnny watched in amazement as it slowly elongated, reaching down about six feet, as if God himself had stuck his finger through the roof and was now pointing at the congregation.

  The people craned their necks in wonder.

  Black chuckled. “Belieeeeeve,” he said in a low, soft voice. He clapped his hands again.

  A thunderclap shook the building from the inside out. The light ballooned and sent a jagged bolt of lightning to the floor. The lightning crashed into the aisle and was gone, leaving smoke from a six-foot hole in the carpet snaking toward a charred ceiling.

  Cries of alarm erupted. Those who’d been dozing or even thinking of dozing were now on their feet, shouting in startled terror.

  Marsuvees Black lifted both arms wide and pointed his chin to the ceiling. He sang one long note. The note grew and echoed and swallowed the church. The cries were overwhelmed and then silenced altogether. There was just Black on the stage with his one-note solo, i
nhumanly loud and deeply troubling.

  At least for Johnny.

  The rest seemed to find it calming.

  Black ended abruptly and lowered his head, keeping his hands outstretched. “Do I have your attention? I think I do. Are you right, Johnny? Am I a demon from hell come to kill your old men?”

  He snapped his fingers. Yellow flames hissed to life in each hand and licked six inches of air. “Or have I come to lick the fires of hell from your wounds with pleasure and grace, and with hope for more pleasure and grace?”

  Black kept his eyes on the congregation and brought both hands to his face. He began to lick the fire with a long pink tongue. Faster, ravenous, sucking his fingers. It reminded Johnny of a dog going after meat. Black jabbed his right hand into his mouth, past the knuckles. The fire hissed out. He did the same with his left hand.

  Black sighed with satisfaction, and then motioned to the people with his wet hands.“You tell me. Have I come to kill you, or have I come to heal your wounds?”

  “You’ve come to heal our wounds!” a voice called from Johnny’s right. Katie stood. She looked as though she were going to a dance, all made up and pretty except for a few scratches on her face.

  She winked at Black. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve never felt more alive in all my life.”

  But look at you, Katie! You’re dying! Johnny opened his mouth to say it when Steve jumped to his feet.

  “We’re being set free!” Steve yelled. “We’re learning what it means to be alive. Nobody’s going to take that from us. No one!”

  A dozen excited parishioners stood to their feet with Steve, all speaking at once, shouting out their agreement in a muddled mess of noise.

  Sally watched the whole thing with wide eyes. She seemed confused, caught between Black and her own son.

  Johnny could hear Peter Bowers’s high-pitched voice through the chorus of objections. “What do you know, Johnny, you little spineless wimp. We should chop off your thumbs, boy! Black’s cool.”

  “He’s a liar!” Johnny shouted.

  The room shut down. They seemed surprised that he was still up there, much less yelling at them.

  Johnny forged ahead, as forcefully as he could. “The police are coming in the morning. I mean it; when they come, they’ll put this all straight.”

  “You lie, boy,” Black said in a low voice.

  “If I’m wrong and they don’t come, then string me up, for all I care. Chop off my thumbs, Peter. But I’m not wrong! You’ll see. Thomas is coming. I promise you that.”

  Black looked amused.

  Outrage broke out again.

  “Silence!” Black shouted. Those standing took their seats.

  Black eyed Johnny, still amused. He stepped toward the podium. Johnny stepped back. The man reached into his trench coat, calmly removed a book, and laid it on the pulpit as if it were a Bible.

  But this was no Bible. It was a leather-bound book that reminded Johnny of the books that Samuel had described. A book from the monastery, the ones Billy was writing in.

  Black rubbed his hands together slowly and lifted his eyes to the people. He seemed to be considering his next move. Johnny knew his. It was time to leave.

  But he was momentarily fascinated by Black’s disorientation. The news about Thomas had thrown Black for a loop. The man had a weak side after—

  Black lifted his arm high and brought it down on the pulpit with a tremendous crack. The podium split in two. Black stood, trembling from head to foot. His right hand began to bleed.

  “We will only be so tolerant of deceit!” Black said. “Continue down this road and you will end up like Billy.”

  A few scattered amens sounded to Johnny like the whispers of aimless ghosts.

  Johnny ran for the door. He leapt off the platform, ran straight down the aisle over the carpet still smoldering from the lightning strike, smacked through the swinging doors, and staggered out into the howling wind. He doubled over there. Swirling dust filled his throat, and he coughed.

  Exactly what had Black meant there at the end? Billy? He really didn’t want to try to figure that out.

  He believed that what Samuel told him was true, and he’d done what Samuel had asked. And that was that.

  He believed. The rest did not.

  Johnny headed into the wind to find a safe haven until morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

  PARADISE

  Sunday morning

  STANLEY YORDON sped down Highway 50 before sunrise Sunday morning filled with a sense of terrible unease. Not because he feared returning to Paradise—on the contrary, because he had not come back sooner. Four days ago the idea of staying in Denver for an extra day seemed inviting, a well-deserved break and, more importantly, some time away.

  Time healed wounds, they said. He’d decided to give Paradise a little time. Time to come to their collective senses. Time for Marsuvees Black to move on.

  But he tried repeatedly to raise someone in Paradise last night, and no one answered. For all he knew, they were all down at the church swaying to the tunes of Marsuvees Black.

  Unable to sleep, he left Denver at two in the morning. It was now five a.m. The drive had given him the time to flesh out the sermon he intended to preach. No mercy this time. Not an ounce. Just the right mixture of authority and compassion, the thundering voice of reprimand, the gentle words of empathy. And in the end they would have to listen.

  The air was still and quiet when he drove through Delta. It was blowing hard and hazy twenty miles later when he passed the sign that read Paradise 3 Miles.

  Someone had erected a barricade across the turnoff to Paradise. A large orange sign leaned against it.

  Road Damage. Road Closed Ahead.

  Yordon came to a stop. Road damage?

  An image of Black drawing that ridiculous two in the air flashed through his mind. He gunned the motor, steered around the barricade, and headed up the road.

  No sign of road damage.

  The sun was trying to rise, but weather smothered the mountains. Dark clouds socked in Paradise valley like a cork between the mountains. Mountain storms were notorious for coming up fast and furious. But this . . .

  He frowned and drove on, cautiously. Thin wisps of sand whirled across the road through his beams. Quite a wind.

  His thoughts returned to his meeting with Bishop Fraiser in Denver. The bishop was smiling at him, telling him he’d better start believing what he was teaching if he wanted to hold on to his congregation. And if there were any hidden sins in his heart, he’d best bring them into the light.

  “What you do mean?” he asked, wary.

  “Secrets, Stanley.”

  “We all have our secrets.”

  “Yes, we do. And some secrets are meant to be secrets, while others will eat away at your heart like a cancer. I’ve seen whole churches crumble over a single indiscretion that was swept under the rug. But the rug can only cover so much, Stanley.”

  He left the meeting assuring himself that the bishop had spoken in broad, general terms. He’d swept a hundred small indiscretions under the rug in his time, but nothing worthy of the glint in the bishop’s eyes when he said “secrets.” There was Sally, of course. There was a possibility that some fool said something out of turn about Sally. But that had been fourteen years ago.

  Welcome to Paradise, Population . . .

  The sign was missing. Wind?

  Yordon turned the corner into Paradise and immediately pumped the brake. Blowing dust blasted by, nearly obscuring the small valley. Now this was a dust storm. That must be why they’d closed the road. Stanley couldn’t recall a wind so heavily concentrated in the valley like this.

  He dropped his eyes to the road’s yellow lines to guide him in the early-morning light. The road leveled out and ran straight through the town without a bend. By the time Yordon passed the first outlying house, his orientation began to fail him. Following the yellow line made him dizzy.

  The theater loomed o
n his right. He followed its outline. Looked different somehow. He couldn’t see worth a darn, but he—

  The car slammed into something. A joint-wrenching crash, shattering glass. His head snapped forward and hit the steering wheel. The fact that he’d been creeping along at under ten miles an hour saved him from any serious injury.

  Yordon cursed, something he could only do alone in his car. He shoved his door open, climbed out, and staggered around to the hood. The Starlight sign lay smashed on the blacktop. His bumper had hit one of the support poles, buckling the chrome under the car. The pole must have ripped a hose from the radiator, because it whistled with the wind.

  Yordon stared unbelieving at the ruined landmark. His eyes followed the poles back to where they had been chopped.

  He swore again.

  Past the poles, the theater’s front wall had been stripped of its siding, slashed to ribbons. As far as he could see, which wasn’t terribly far, the buildings had taken a beating. Telephone poles, shattered doors, branches, and an assortment of broken-beyond-recognition appliances littered the place.

  He saw the silhouette of the church like a ghost in the wind and wondered about its condition. He turned toward it, squinting through the whipping sand. Leaves blasted by—brown fall leaves in the middle of summer. Yordon began to run.

  “Hello?”

  No use in this wind. The streets were vacant, but that wasn’t surprising considering the storm.

  It’s more than a storm, Stanley. He fought a surge of panic.

  A selfish little thought crossed his mind—conditions like these would undoubtedly keep a few farmers from attending the morning service. But a much bigger voice chased that possibility. Not a soul, Stanley! Not a single soul will come to hear your pathetic sermon!

  For all he knew, they were all dead.

  No, not possible.

  To his right the black sky framed Claude’s store—a store that should have a large blue sign along the length of the building three feet above the door.

  One side of the large sign banged against the wall in the wind. Stubborn fragments of broken glass jutted from wooden window frames like frozen claws. The door was gone.