Showdown Page 28

  The cop looked at Johnny. “No.”

  “Why can’t you go for help?”

  Thomas shifted in the seat. “You check the vehicles lately? Someone went to a lot of trouble putting everything with wheels out of commission. The distributor cap has been smashed on every car in town. Including yours, Stanley.”

  They’d discovered this universal damage several hours earlier. It had been Billy’s doing—had to be. He could write one sentence in his book and the damage would be done. Samuel could fix them all just as easily, now that he knew about it, but Johnny didn’t think he wanted to. That, just like bringing real cops into Paradise, could prove disastrous if Billy got smart to it.

  “What about your car?” Yordon asked.

  Thomas shook his head. “That won’t work.”

  “So you’ll spend the night?” Yordon asked.

  “If you don’t mind. I’d like to keep an eye on the prisoners.”

  “Sure,” Yordon said, but Johnny could swear he detected a hint of reluctance in the man’s voice.

  Yordon lifted a hand to his lips and wiped the sweat gathered on his upper lip. “Where is your car?” he asked, training his eyes on the cop’s face.

  “I came on foot,” the officer replied as though it were not only obvious but common in these parts.

  “You say that as if you always walk around the mountains without wheels. What exactly brought you to Paradise?”

  “I received a call,” the cop said.

  “How could you receive a call? The phones have been out for a while. Cell phones are even out.”

  The tone in Yordon’s voice had just changed from inquisitive to demanding, and Johnny felt a bead of sweat pop from his forehead.

  “My call didn’t come over the phone, Stanley.”

  “Is that right? Don’t tell me God told you to come.”

  Thomas just looked at the reverend. He was in a corner. Even if he wanted to lie, he would be hard-pressed for an explanation.

  Yordon arched a brow. “Did God tell you it was two miles?”He drew the number two in the air.

  “What does it matter?” Johnny asked. “He saved this town, didn’t he?”

  “No, Johnny, I want to hear this out. Sounds an awful lot like Black to me. What was that Black said? God told me to bring grace and hope to Paradise? Something like that if my memory serves me. You peddling grace and hope too?”

  “You think Thomas is anything like Black? He’s nothing like him.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd, Johnny, that our police officer here came into town on foot, just like Black, claims to hear from God, just like Black, even talks a bit like Black. And the only person we haven’t rounded up today is Black. Don’t you find that just a little strange?”

  Johnny blinked. “What’re you saying? That Thomas is Black?”

  “Did I say that?” Yordon still didn’t move his eyes, but now he wore a small grin. “Just stated the facts. You draw your own conclusion. Maybe we shouldn’t be so hasty.”

  Was that possible? Actually, Johnny didn’t have proof that Samuel had written Thomas into Paradise. What if something had happened to Samuel, and this was another scheme by Billy, like the story about the hallucinogenic sludge? Maybe he’d found out what was up and written Thomas himself.

  “I’m not Black,” Thomas said. “I’m the law. I’m the law come to set Paradise straight. Help her see the error of her ways. Consider these my commandments.”He slipped one of his six-guns from the holster and spun the chamber. “And these bullets my precepts. And if these aren’t enough, there’s an awful lot more where they come from. Enough firepower to make your head spin clean off. I suggest you pay them some respect, Stanley.”

  Yordon stood and walked from the room, leaving Johnny and Thomas in the guest chairs without a host.

  Thomas turned to Johnny and winked. “You okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “Too obvious?”

  “He’s wrong, right?”

  Thomas stared into his eyes for a long moment. “Believe, Johnny. Trust me, I am as un-Black as they come. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s good.” He sighed, then stood and ruffled Johnny’s hair. “Come on, son. Let’s get this place locked down for the evening. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  STANLEY YORDON slept in his house, alone. More alone than he’d felt in a long time. He’d lost his stomach for the shepherding game for the time being. He had lost his flock and with it his power.

  Now he had these voices about grace and hope—Black’s grace and hope—droning relentlessly in his mind. To make matters worse, his sheep had been reduced to blithering idiots who didn’t know how to blink much less think. There was nothing worse than a fixed stare, and this insipid bunch had perfected it.

  When he finally drifted off, his head filled with the voices. Time for church, Stan! Wake up, Stan the man. Suck up some grace-juice, Stan.

  Was he really hearing that?

  Wake up! Wake, wake, wake!

  Yordon’s eyes sprang open. He jerked his head toward the door. Marsuvees Black stood tall, alive and in the flesh, not five feet from him.

  “Am I your cowboy, Stan? I rather like that name. Endearing I think.” Black’s voice rasped as if he had a cold. He smelled musty—like a stale, damp dishrag.

  Yordon scrambled off the bed. “How . . . how did you get in here?”

  “You have a door, don’t you, Stan? Everybody has a door. There’s always a way in.”

  “But it was locked.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Your door has never been locked.”

  “What are you talking about? I swear I locked it just last night.”

  “Stanley, Stanley. You’re babbling about things that are meaningless. Powerless words. It is a bad habit with you. What does it matter how I came in? The fact is, I’m in.”

  Yordon felt the wall behind him. “So what do you want with me?”

  Black wagged a finger.“Wrong question, Stan. I want nothing with a pitiful soul like you. I’m here because I can do something for you.”

  Yordon swallowed. Black’s thin black hair snaked past his thick neck. He still wore that blasted hat. What did he have to hide up there, a hole? The wind howled past the window behind Yordon—a storm rode on the air again.

  “What can you do for me?” he asked.

  “I can give you what you want, that’s what.”

  “What?”

  “What, what, what? Power! You want power. I’ve got it. I want to give it to you.”

  “Power?”

  “What’s the matter? You can’t speak more than one word at a time now?” Black raised his hand in the air and brought them together in a booming clap. “Power!”

  Yordon jumped. “You take me for an idiot? Stop patronizing me.”

  “Now that’s more like it,” Black said. “Show some spine. You’re going to need it.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve always wanted to have power over people, Stanley. It’s why you went to seminary in the first place. You weren’t about to be a lowly butcher like your father, now were you? No, the idea of a hundred or so lost sheep licking at your hands was far more appealing. And in a small town like Paradise even the pagans respect you, don’t they?”

  Black clasped his hands behind his back and spread his legs. “But we have a problem in Paradise, Yordon. A very bad problem. The people no longer like you. You are powerless. Let’s face it, the only power a preacher really possesses over any flock is bound up with their minds.”

  Black walked to the desk. He picked up a picture of Yordon standing outside the church during his first week. A large sign that hung over the front doors read,Welcome to Paradise, Father. We Love You.

  “And you know why they don’t respect you. No? Then let’s not waste time guessing—I’ll tell you. They stopped respecting you the first year you were here, when you had your little fling with Sally Drake after she and Johnny came to town. You do remember th
at, don’t you? You impregnated her, and then you forced her to put the boy up for adoption when she refused to terminate the pregnancy. Couldn’t have a scandal in the town of Paradise, now could we?”

  “How in the world do you know—”

  “Shut up, Stan, I haven’t finished. They would have forgiven you then; they always do. But your true indiscretion was sweeping the whole thing under the rug. You like secrets, Stan? You turned your back on your son, and on your lover, and on the commandments for which you stand, all to protect your little secret. And guess what? It worked. The town made it their secret. They pretended that you had the right to do what you did. Why? Because they are no better than you.”

  Yordon wasn’t sure whether he was more terrified or outraged. It was that snake, Paula. Who else would make such a big deal out of something so small, so long ago?

  “They played your game, Stanley, but they also lost their respect for you. Every time you stand up there and talk eloquently about the Word of God, half of this town is rolling their eyes and the other half is dead asleep. Not a single one of them believes a single word you have to say. Am I close?”

  “How dare you accuse me!” Yordon’s anger washed away his fear.

  “I can give them back to you, Stanley,”Black said, moving to the window. “I’ll do one better than give them back to you. I’ll make you the talk of the town. Their guardian angel. More power than you ever thought possible, right here over your own flock. When I’m through, they’ll do anything for you. Anything.”

  The words ran into his mind like a hot steel rod.

  He knew that, didn’t he? And Stanley also knew that if Black could turn Claude into a blubbering fool, he could just as easily turn the man into an adoring fool.

  “What about Sally? She’s never stopped bad-mouthing me.”

  Black faced him. “I can make Sally suck your toes, my friend.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  Black smiled thinly. “Give me Thomas.”

  Figured. One weirdo wanted the other. If Thomas really was the cop he professed, maybe he could prove it now. A confrontation between the lawman and the healer.

  A burning sensation stung behind his ears, and Yordon wondered if the flames of hell had ignited there at the base of his brain. He stared at Black, knowing that with that stare he was saying yes.

  “Why don’t you just do it yourself? You seem to have the power.”

  “Much to my dismay, Thomas has more power over someone like me than he does over you. Amazing but true. That’s half of it. The other half is that I want you to do it, my friend. I want to give you your power back.”

  “And what makes you think that I can give you Thomas?”

  “He’s here to protect you from me, not kill you. He’s asleep at the moment. If he wakes up while you’re in there doing your dastardly deed, I’ll get his attention and make things easier for you, but you have to deal with him. Follow?”

  “How do you know so much about our town? My affair with Sally was over a decade ago.”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve been in a lot of people’s minds lately. Think of it as one of my tricks.”

  Yordon didn’t trust the man, but his risk was minimal. If Black didn’t come through, he could just abort. As for the promise of returning his respect and power . . .

  “Okay.”

  Black turned away. “You’re a wise fool, Stanley. A very wise fool.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  THE MONASTERY

  Sunday night

  EVEN IN Billy’s distorted mind, the wholesale transformation of the students in the library tunnel was surprising. The epidemic of boils had become a kind of accelerated leprosy. If not for the worm salve, most of the children would probably be incapacitated. As it was, when slabs of skin tore loose from scratching, they replaced it with the worm gel.

  “Worm gel is better than skin anyway,” Paul kept saying.

  Paul wandered the halls, all six of them, coaxing or dragging worms to the large library. In a show of reluctant good faith, he agreed to haul one worm to Billy’s study for every five he hauled to the larger library. Billy had forced his authority with the agreement and reminded Paul of its terms each time he came huffing and puffing into the study, a slug in tow.

  Most of the children devoted themselves to writing without complaint. Any grievances invariably centered on either the itching skin disease or the lack of dry writing spots. The itching came with an easy solution: “Get off your lazy butt and get your own gel!” The same advice could be heard given at least a dozen times each hour in precisely those terms. Another dozen in other terms.

  But the gel itself gave rise to the second complaint. The more gel the children slapped around, the more of it landed on their books, which wouldn’t be such a problem if it didn’t cause the pages to stick together and the ink to smear. With so many children writing in the library, the dry nooks and crannies soon became gooey nooks and crannies.

  Both Billy and Darcy noticed that everyone seemed happier when they ingested greater volumes of the gel. Together with the help of Paul, they agreed on the dungeon’s first law:

  To write in the lower levels, one is required to ingest six helpings of gel each day. And by helpings we mean two hands, cupped together, full. And by each day we mean every twenty-four-hour period, just in case there’s any confusion.

  They called it their first rule of writing. All of the children agreed that it was a good rule. It made things smooth. It helped them write. It kept them out of trouble.

  Billy made his way back from the meeting in the sixth tunnel by himself, leaving Darcy to work out some details with Paul. The memory of his little encounter with Samuel earlier today made him sick. The business with Paul’s worms and the new rule of writing distracted him for a few hours, but now the thought of Samuel lodged in his mind like a stubborn tick.

  He started to jog. His teeth clacked together with every footfall, like cymbals punctuating the pounding of his heart. His muscles burned, and for a brief moment he wondered if some creatures, like ants maybe, were chewing on them. Maybe the boils housed little animals that fed on the worm ointment and burrowed.

  He veered to the nearest wall, swiped his hand along a trail of gel, and slapped the salve on his stinging arms.

  The fact was, he could hardly even remember what had happened upstairs, but he knew this: that last thing Samuel had done—that touching thing—that ridiculous display of feeling, that wasn’t good. Bogus. Bogus, bogus, bogus! And he had stood there like a cornstalk, like a rebuked child afraid to move. Only he hadn’t been rebuked by Samuel. Only touched and held. Man, that was disgusting!

  You wanna die, boy? A voice rose above the melee in his mind. You wanna die?

  Yeah, I wanna die. What’s it to ya?

  The salve wasn’t working so well just now. He grunted and attacked his left forearm with an open claw, wincing as a slab of skin stuck to his fingernails.

  No, fool! You can’t die yet.

  No? What’s it to ya?

  There’s a story to write, boy. A story about grace and hope in Paradise. You know about grace and hope, don’t you?

  The thought of writing awakened Billy’s desire. He saw the study looming ahead in the darkness, glowing. Darcy must have forgotten to take her torch.

  The outline of a dozen large worms pulsed in the shadows. He stumbled into the study.

  The monk stood in the torchlight.

  The monk. He’d almost forgotten about the monk and his black mask. This cloak-and-dagger routine no longer impressed Billy. What did the man care if anyone knew who he was?

  Billy cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to clarify a few things for you.”

  “Be my guest, clarify.”

  “I’ll start with the book you’re writing in. They’re blank history books discovered by Thomas Hunter. You do remember Thomas Hunter and the Raison Strain.”

  “He saved the world. Who would
n’t know about him?”

  “In these books the word becomes flesh. Literally. Whatever is written in them actually happens. It becomes fact. History, thus the books of history.”

  Billy nodded. “And?” He knew the man expected him to be stunned by this revelation, but he relished sounding informed. Besides, it hardly surprised him. Good. I hope you’re right.

  “Have you noticed that the characters seem to have a mind of their own?”

  “’Course I have.”

  “You can’t force them, but your influence over them is powerful. Your words are flesh in their minds. Thanks to you, the little town has been coming apart at the seams.”

  “Good. I’ve only started.” The monk’s revelation made everything clear. At least as clear as Billy’s foggy mind would allow.

  Billy could see the man’s eyes glistening in the torchlight through the two slits cut in the ceramic mask.

  “Do you know about Thomas?”

  “You just told me.”

  “The other Thomas.”

  “The cop,” Billy said. “Yes, I’m working on that problem.”

  “Do you know he’s not a real cop?”

  “What do you mean? Of course he’s real.”

  “He’s written by Samuel.”

  It was the first stunning thing the man had said in days.

  “Samuel? He’s . . . he’s writing into Paradise?”

  “He’s been writing for four days. If the people weren’t so predisposed to listen to you, they’d be walking around in robes of white.”

  “And Thomas, that stupid kung-fu cop—”

  “—has changed the balance of power. Aside from Johnny, he’s the only real enemy you have down there. You handled Johnny stupidly by showing him Black’s true character in the beginning. Now he’s a problem. I suggest you handle Thomas with more skill.”

  “I couldn’t resist giving him a scare. And I’ve handled myself just fine since then, so have some respect.” Billy paused, irritated. “I can kill him, right? I mean, I can kill Thomas. If he’s not real, then Black won’t get into any trouble if the real law shows up.”

  The monk didn’t answer. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced. “Did the students in the library touch the mucus?”