Showdown Read online

  As soon as Johnny had completed the thought, Thomas said, “That’s it, Stanley, just let it all out.”

  He looked at Johnny and raised a brow.

  Johnny shook his head. No, Thomas, not cool.

  Yordon quieted. He backed away from Thomas, cleared his throat, and lifted his head. “Sorry.”He straightened his shirt. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You want to tell us who threw you in the cellar?” Thomas asked.

  “Claude,” he answered. “Claude Bowers, his son, Peter, and Chris Ingles.”

  “They’re the ones who gutted the theater,” Johnny said.

  “Okay. What say we go around this town and round up some crazies,” Thomas said with a wink. “It’s time to show them who’s boss.”

  Johnny grinned. He was feeling like a kid again.

  AFTER SENDING Stanley Yordon home to collect himself, Thomas demanded his partner—that would be Johnny—lead him to the Bowerses’ residence.

  Claude’s door was open, but the top floor was empty. Thomas headed for the basement with Johnny cautiously behind. The cop descended the stairs in silence, peering around the corner. A grin nudged his lips. He stepped into the basement, withdrawing both guns. Legs spread, guns cocked, Thomas faced the dim light beyond.

  Johnny eased down the steps and craned his neck around the corner for a view.

  Claude, Chris, Peter, and seven or eight other crazies were packed into the stuffy basement. They slouched like strung-out vampires, heads propped up, eyes drooping or closed. If they noticed the cop in the doorway, they didn’t show it.

  “Rise and shine!” Thomas yelled.“Morning is here.”

  Like a turtle watching a passing seagull, Claude Bowers turned his head toward the sound. His glassy, bloodshot eyes were only half-open.

  The thought processing slowly in that thick head must have registered the sum of the matter, because his eyelids snapped open and he sat up straight.

  “Hi, Claude,” Thomas said.

  The big man’s upper lip lifted in a snarl. The others rustled around him, like bats waking from their slumber.

  Thomas leveled his revolver at Claude’s head. Then he brought it back to his ear quickly, paused, and leveled it again. He repeated this twice. Why, Johnny had no idea.

  “Get up, Claude. Drop the bottle and put your hands on your head.” Thomas leveled his second gun. “The rest of you too. Hands on your heads.”

  Most rose slowly to their feet. Two remained slumped in their chairs.

  Claude eyed the gun without moving. Johnny watched his chest rise and fall. The man’s upper lip glistened with sweat and twitched periodically, as if his circuits might be shorting.

  And he wasn’t putting his hands on his head. On the contrary, Johnny thought he might throw himself at Thomas and beat him to a pulp. He was twice the cop’s size.

  Thomas motioned to the two crazies who hadn’t responded. “Rise and shine. Up.”

  Chris kicked his boot into the men’s sides. “Get up you lazy vomit bags.” A faint smile crossed his lips as the two men groaned. He didn’t seem bothered by Thomas’s interruption at all. Too wasted to realize what was happening, maybe.

  A grunt from the left signaled Claude’s charge. He moved quickly for a man his size.

  Thomas didn’t move. He’d offered half of his back to the Swede by turning to the two men who now struggled to their feet. Johnny watched the scene unfold with a knot in his throat.

  Claude thundered forward, a runaway train.

  Thomas still didn’t seem to notice.

  At the last possible instant, just before Claude’s lowered head reached Thomas’s, the cop dropped to a crouch and threw one leg forward for balance. He lifted his shoulders as Claude’s knees struck him, then stood and sent the Swede catapulting headlong over him.

  Claude struck the wall like a battering ram. The Swede dropped on the carpet, unconscious. Maybe dead.

  Thomas waved his gun at the others, still ignoring Claude. “The first man who lowers his hands gets a bullet in the knee. You all hear that? I want you to nod if you understand me. No need getting your knee blown off just because you’re too wasted to hear me.”

  They all nodded except for the two who’d just stood.“You two understand? You drop your hands and I’ll blow your kneecaps off. Nod if you understand.”

  They nodded.

  “Okay, let’s all take a little trip together.”

  Thomas reached down, withdrew a smaller pistol from his boot, and handed it to Johnny. “Stand at the top of the stairs. If any of these men makes a move on me, you pull that trigger. Can you do that?”

  Johnny took the revolver carefully, feeling the cold stainless steel in his hands. He’d shot a gun plenty of times, but not like this. Did Thomas really expect him to kill someone? Samuel would never go for that.

  “You mean kill them?”

  “If you have to.”

  Samuel would never suggest he kill anyone. Which must mean that Thomas, although inspired and directed by Samuel, could work on his own as well. Did Samuel know this?

  Johnny looked at Claude. “What about him?”

  Claude’s face was turned to one side and his lips were smashed up into his cheeks. Thomas knelt and raised one of Claude’s eyelids. He slapped Claude’s cheek. The man groaned and moved his arms and legs, then lay still.

  “Wake up, Claude,” Thomas said. “Get your lard-self off the ground.”

  The big Swede struggled to his knees, then stood unsteadily.

  “Let’s go. Up the stairs. Hands high.”

  Johnny scrambled up the stairwell.

  The sun was out, the wind was down, and they were locking up the bad guys. It was going to be a good day.

  One by one they plodded past the cop and climbed the stairs. It took five minutes to march them single file to the church, where Thomas ushered them into the kitchen. He and Johnny removed the knives and other sharp instruments from the drawers and backed to the door.

  “Try not to kill each other in here. And get some sleep.” Thomas locked the door.

  “So you think that’ll hold them?”

  “It’s a steel door, it’ll hold them,” Thomas said.

  “Now what?”

  “More. We need more.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE MONASTERY

  Sunday afternoon

  SAMUEL SKIPPED down the hall, mouth spread in an open smile, taking in so much air with each breath that he thought he might choke on it. It had been a good day.

  He had to tell Christine and Tyler, who were waiting in the library. Everything was going to be okay now. He had written Thomas into Paradise, and he was sure that Paradise held the key to break the power that now gripped the other students’ minds. Billy didn’t seem to know what to do about Thomas, and Marsuvees Black was evidently frightened off by the presence of a real cop. This had to mean that neither was wise to the fact that Thomas was fictional.

  Samuel had shown his father the pages he wrote, and his father walked to the cupboard with a fresh excitement. He pulled out a tall flask, lifted it triumphantly into the air.

  “A toast!”

  “A bit premature, isn’t it?” Andrew said.

  “Every good thing is worthy of celebration,” his father said, pouring the liquid into crystal glasses. He winked at Samuel.

  It had been a good day indeed.

  Samuel rounded the corner into the library, heard sudden cries of rage, and stopped.

  Billy! Two thoughts collided: I must help Billy! Thank goodness he’s here. And Billy! Oh no, not Billy!

  The monastery’s main library was appropriately named The Field of Books. Scores of bookcases were arranged in a natural setting, complete with a grassy lawn, trees, and flower gardens. High above, a domed ceiling allowed light to flood the lawn.

  Samuel walked around the peripheral bookcases and saw seven or eight students by the tall oak tree arguing among themselves. He quickly scanned the library
—Christine and Tyler weren’t here.

  Billy and Darcy yelled and waved accusing arms at a group of six children who stood with slumped shoulders. Only Billy’s red hair and scratchy voice identified him clearly. Large red and blue blotches covered the boy’s puffy face. His bare arms were lumpy with sores. The disease was so advanced!

  Samuel was overcome by an urge to run down the hill and throw his arms around the boy. Come back, Billy, he would say. It’s okay, we love you, Billy.

  He leaned against the bookcase as grief swept over him. Tears slipped down his cheeks despite his best effort to hold them back.

  He took a deep breath, sniffed,wiped his sleeve across his eyes, and pushed off the bookcase. Well, Thomas had cleaned up Paradise. Now Samuel would clean up Billy.

  He was halfway to them when Billy saw him and stopped his arguing midsentence, right arm still outstretched toward one of the boys.

  Don’t run, Billy. Please don’t run.

  Billy did not run, maybe could not run. If the sores didn’t hamper his movement, the shock at seeing Samuel must have, because he didn’t even find the presence of mind to drop his arm.

  The others faced Samuel, one by one. Their faces were as disfigured by boils as Billy’s. They’d smeared that gel over their entire bodies, including hair and clothes. Darcy stood by Billy’s side staring at Samuel, hands on hips.

  He came within ten feet of the group and stopped. An odor that reminded him of sewer water wafted through the air, and he shortened his breathing to keep from blanching in front of them.

  “Hey, Billy.”

  The redhead dropped his arm and narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond.

  “What are you doing here?” Darcy asked.

  Samuel wondered if she had assumed leadership of the group. “I live here, remember, Darcy?” He paused. “You guys getting enough to eat?”

  It sounded dumb really, pretending nutrition was a matter of concern considering their present condition. Asking whether they had taken a bath lately might be more appropriate. “We have plenty to eat in the cafeteria, you know.”

  “Shut up, Samuel!” Darcy snapped. “Billy won the debate, not you.”

  Billy just stood there, lost.

  “How about you, Billy? Is there anything I can get for you?” Sure it sounded ridiculous, but he meant it. “Those sores look like they hurt. Maybe we should get you some medical help. I’m sure we have some medicine in the infirmary that would help.”

  “Shut up, Samuel!” Darcy said again. “Just shut up!”

  Billy finally broke his stare and glanced at Darcy. “Yeah, shut up, Samuel.”

  Samuel nodded and felt pity rising in his throat again. “We miss you, Billy,” he said. “I miss you. I wish you would just come back before anything really bad happens.”

  “Anything really bad?” Billy said. “And what’s really bad, Samuel?”

  “Lots of things. You don’t look so good. The whole project is being threatened. Paradise is having some problems.”

  “Paradise is having some problems,” Darcy mocked, wagging her head. “What do you know about Paradise anyway?”

  He shouldn’t have brought it up. “Then let’s talk about you. You look like you’re in a lot of pain.”

  “Who said anything about pain?” Billy asked. “We have everything we need, and if you were smart you would quit bugging us here and have a look yourself.”

  “What kind of salve is that, Billy?”

  Darcy answered again. “None of your business. This is our worm paste, and it’s none of your stinking business what it is, you understand? So quit bugging us!”

  “Worm paste? Does it help the pain?”

  “No, we’re just wearing the stinking stuff ’cause we can’t find our coats. Of course it does! So just quit bugging us.” The eloquent, polished Darcy he once knew so well had regressed. She was speaking like a seven-year-old brat. But at least she was talking.

  “It comes from worms?” Samuel asked.

  “It comes from the worms,” a young boy said to Samuel’s left.

  The boy’s eyes were nearly swollen shut. Samuel didn’t even recognize the student.

  “What’s your name?”

  The boy glanced at Billy and answered. “Bob,” he said.

  Bob? This was Bob? “Do your sores hurt, Bob?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the salve helps the pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like the pain, Bob?”

  “No.”

  “Shut up, Samuel,” Darcy said.

  “Did you have pain like this before you went into the tunnels, Bob?”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  A single, soft sob broke the silence. Samuel spotted the thin girl behind Darcy.

  “Shut up, Shannon,” Darcy said, but her voice was less demanding.

  The young girl tilted her face into her hands and started to cry softly.

  Samuel glanced at Billy and saw the boy staring at Shannon with tender eyes. And then another child on Shannon’s left began to cry.

  Billy lowered his eyes and nudged the grass with his shoe. So, the boy’s heart still pumped red blood and swelled with real emotions.

  A gentle hand on his shoulder startled Samuel. He turned to find Christine and Tyler standing there, smiling. Samuel acknowledged them with a nod and faced Billy again.

  Billy was horribly deformed, bleeding, and covered in a disgusting salve. But Samuel saw a lost, lonely orphan, confused and dejected, mortally wounded and desperately wanting love. Emotion swelled in his chest. He felt his legs moving under him, carrying him to his old friend. He knew it was crazy, but he couldn’t stop himself. And to make matters worse, he began to cry.

  He reached Billy, completely not caring about the smell and the sores and the salve, and he encircled the boy’s body with his arms and held him gently.

  Billy froze.

  “I’m sorry, Billy,” Samuel said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Christine and Tyler walked behind Billy and gently laid their hands on him. They stood in silence for several seconds.

  And then the beautiful, awkward moment ended, and Samuel dropped his arms. Billy stood still for a moment, his head bowed. He nudged the grass with his toe again.

  Then he turned and walked away. Darcy hurried to catch up. As a unit the others followed.

  Samuel tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but he couldn’t because of the salve on his hands and arms.

  “Boy, do they need a bath,” Christine said, sniffing her hand.

  “And now I suppose we do too,” Samuel said. “As soon as possible. I think this stuff messes with the mind.”

  Samuel watched the students exit the library. A few short days ago they would have been laughing at someone’s joke, or talking in urgent tones about a theory raised in class.

  But they’d chosen Billy’s path. A path to freedom, they claimed, to the discovery of their true selves—to the creator in all of them. Well, they had discovered something all right, but it resembled slavery more than freedom.

  “How’s Paradise?” Christine asked.

  “Good,” Samuel said with a sigh. “Paradise is good.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  PARADISE

  Sunday night

  BY THE end of the day Thomas had two dozen troublemakers in custody, including Steve Smither, who had evidently taken to putting the neighbors’ pets out of their misery.

  Thomas focused exclusively on those that Johnny considered dangerous. There was no way to round up the whole town, and no reason to do so. The plan was to eliminate Black’s front guard before confronting him directly the next time he showed up. If there was a next time. If they were lucky, Thomas had already scared him off.

  Good plan.

  Only one, the owner of the feedlot, Burt Larson, put up any real fight. But Thomas put him on his back quicker than a heartbeat when the rabble-rouser went for a gun under the counter.

  By nightfall they had all the instigators
secured.

  All but Marsuvees Black.

  There was no sign of Black anywhere in Paradise. If any of the others had the slightest clue as to his whereabouts, they weren’t saying. A search of the business district turned up nothing but empty buildings. Thomas inspected each of the ringleaders’ homes and each time came away empty-handed. Marsuvees Black was simply nowhere to be found.

  The only real challenge surfaced late that afternoon, after Thomas and Johnny returned to the church. Stanley Yordon, preacher-turned-jailer, met them at the top of the stairs.

  “I’m not an expert on the law,” he said, “but doesn’t someone have to press charges for you to legally hold these prisoners?”

  “Press charges? After what they’ve done, no.”

  “Well, actually, that could be a problem.”Yordon led them into his office and turned around. “I can’t seem to find anyone to press charges.”

  “Like I said, Reverend. No need.”

  Yordon continued as if he hadn’t heard Thomas. “I could press charges, but I’m not sure I should.Most of the townsfolk are still behind Black.”He shook his head. “God knows I’m not. But I have a certain responsibility to keep my people’s confidence. I can’t just turn against them. What would that do to their faith in me?”

  “They kidnapped you,” Johnny said. “They destroyed your church.”

  “They also paid for that church. And when this is over, I’ll need their loyalty. I think you’ll have to find someone else to press charges. And I hope you do, but I’m afraid I face a conflict of interest here.”

  “We don’t need to press charges,” Thomas said. “Is it just me, or am I repeating myself here?”

  “All I’m saying is that I don’t want to be associated with what you’ve done here. It wasn’t my idea. I’ve only been doing what you’ve made me do. And I find it strange that there aren’t more policemen here. I’d feel a lot better if there was a stronger law-enforcement presence to take the heat off me, if you catch my meaning.”

  Thomas pulled out a chair and sat down. “Fine, Stanley. With the phones out, I can’t get help here tonight, but we’ll bring the cavalry in at first light.”

  “What about your cruiser? Can’t you call on your radio?”