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  Still no response. Steve felt his heart pick up its pace.

  “How about you there?” Marsuvees asked, nodding at Chris. “You sure you don’t have a wart behind your right ear?”

  Chris opened his mouth slowly, and Steve believed that the man had a wart precisely where the stranger suggested. He turned back to Black, who continued chewing on a peanut.

  “No? Well, I know it’s there. A redhead with a wart. That would be the sign. Now, if you’re not a redhead with a wart, I’ll eat my hat and walk right out of here.”

  Chris sat dumbfounded.

  “This is your day,” Black said. “Because there’s always two sides to a sign. My side and your side. For me to know that God did indeed bring me to Paradise, and for you to know that I was sent.” The man stood from his stool and strolled toward Chris.

  “Do you mind if I touch it?” Black asked softly.

  “Touch it?” Chris stammered.

  “Yes, touch it. Do you mind if I touch the wart behind your ear?”

  Chris swung his stricken eyes to Steve, but Steve felt just as much surprise. For a while they held their places, frozen in the scene, totally unprepared for this surreal script. All except the preacher. He seemed to know how this play would end.

  “It’s okay.”He placed a gentle hand on Chris’s right shoulder and brushed imaginary dandruff from the blue mechanic’s shirt that read Chris over the left pocket. “I can help you. A sign, remember?” And then he reached for Chris’s ear like a magician doing a disappearing coin trick. His fingers brushed the side of Chris’s skull, just behind his right ear. Black turned around, walked back to his stool, sat, and popped another peanut into his mouth.

  “Now we will see what God meant when he said bring grace and hope to Paradise,” Black said. “You ready, Chris?”

  The stranger faced the redhead. “Feel your head there, son.” Chris made no move.

  “Go ahead, feel the wart.”

  Now Chris raised a hand to his cheek and then let his fingers creep up behind his right ear, keeping his eyes on the preacher. He reached his ear. Felt behind.

  His fingers froze.

  “It’s . . .”

  Silence.

  “It’s what?” Steve asked.

  “It’s . . . it’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, it’s gone?” Steve said.

  “I swear. I had a wart here just like he said, and now it’s gone!” Chris stared at the preacher with wide eyes.

  Steve spun to the preacher, who was now grinning, big pearlies gleaming white. His front teeth gripped a single nut.

  The glass in Steve’s hand trembled. The brown knob between Black’s teeth looked somewhat like a peanut, but he knew it couldn’t be a peanut because peanuts did not bleed. And this thing was bleeding a thin trail of red down Black’s lower teeth while the preacher sat there with his lips peeled back and his eyes wide, proudly displaying his catch.

  To a person they all gaped at the man, slack-jawed.

  Then, like a gulping fish, Black sucked the wart into his mouth, crunched twice deliberately, and swallowed hard.

  He slowly surveyed the patrons, his eyes sparkling blue. Face the music, they were saying. This is how you do grace and hope. You got a problem with that? Well, suck it up. I’m the real thing, honey.

  And he was, wasn’t he? He had to be.

  “Am I getting through?” Black scanned the crowd.

  “God have mercy,” Katie Bowers muttered.

  “God is right, my sweetness. The rest we’ll see about. Now that I have your attention, I’m going to make a demand. With this kind of power comes great responsibility—I’m sure you understand. My responsibility is to make sure that each and every one of you, those here and those not here, attend tonight’s meeting.”

  What meeting?

  “Seven o’clock sharp, in the church,” Black said.“No excuses, no exceptions.”

  He snatched his hand up by his shoulder as if to keep everyone seated. He cocked his head to one side, faced the street outside.

  “Another sign,” he said, listening to the silence. “An old man. A deaf mute. Wasn’t going to come to the meeting tonight. Thought I was too pushy.”

  Black lowered his hand slowly and faced them. “Seems as though he’s dead now. Had a heart attack as I spoke.”

  Nancy gasped.

  “You sure about that?” Steve asked. He was surprised he even asked the question, as if this man had the power to heal and kill.What kind of spiritual power was that? A moment ago, he thought Black might be the real deal, but this talk about Cecil cast a shadow over that possibility.

  Black ignored his question. “This is serious business, my friends. I suggest you get back to your homes and wherever it is you waste away your lives and think hard and long about coming out tonight.”

  Tricks, tricks. He’s manipulating us with tricks. The monotony of Paradise has been interrupted by a traveling trickster.

  Black turned and drilled Steve with a stare. “You going to check outside, Steve, or are you going to just sit there thinking I’m nothing but a bag of tricks?”

  Steve blinked.

  Claude was up already, heading for the door. He shoved it open and stared outside.

  “Steve . . .”

  The big Swede stood gaping at the street. He faced them. “You’d better have a look. Something’s wrong with Cecil.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MONASTERY

  Wednesday

  DEEP IN a monastery hidden in the mountain canyons not so far from Paradise, Colorado, an orphaned boy named Billy hurried to class, letting his gaze wander over the bas-relief pictographs inscribed in the roughhewn stone around him. The pictures peered from their graven settings with fixed eyes. He could rarely look directly at the pictographs without it raising gooseflesh, and he wasn’t sure why. Now proved no exception.

  He pushed a heavy door open and squinted in the sunlight that filled the library. The monastery was laid out like an old wagon wheel, cut in half and buried into a wedge-shaped gap in the cliff so that its spokes ran into the mountain. At the center lay the one room that had a direct view of the sky through the top of the canyon—the hub of this half wheel, though it wasn’t quite symmetrical.

  A large, reinforced glass canopy bridged the opening—one of the only truly modern things about this otherwise ancient monastery. Sunlight poured into the expansive atrium. The library’s wood floors encircled a large lawn where three oak trees and a myriad of shrubs grew. A welcome half-acre of escape from the Gothic halls.

  Billy ran through the empty library and shuffled down a stone hallway leading to one of the monastery’s many classrooms. He was late for writing class. In fact, he might have missed it. Not that it really mattered. He’d made the rest of his classes this week—what was one small writing class out of twenty-one subjects? There was mathematics, there was history, there was theology, there was geography, there was a whole line of other disciplines, and Billy excelled in all of them, including writing. One missed class, although highly unusual, wouldn’t mar his record.

  He ran a hand through loose red curls and stopped to catch his breath before a door near the end of the hall. The soft whisper of voices floated through the oak door. And then a deep one, above the others.

  Raul?

  Yes, there it was again. Raul, the head overseer, was teaching this evening. A warm flutter ran through Billy’s gut. Then again, any of the twelve overseers would have triggered the same response.

  His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the door. He could handle this. He would just pull himself together and handle this like he’d handled everything else.

  He twisted the knob and stepped into the room.

  Raul stood at one end of the room next to a bubbling stone fountain. The other students—thirty-six in all if they were all here—sat at desks in two large semicircles with their backs to Billy, facing the tall, white-bloused overseer. A few glanced Billy’s way, but most seemed intent on w
hatever nugget of truth the teacher had just tossed out.

  Raul eyed him. You’re late. Most overseers had to restrain their pleasure with the students, easy as it was to pound their backs with accolades or lift them from their feet in big bear hugs. But Raul’s idea of a compliment was a slight nod.

  Billy took a seat behind the others.

  “Peace, my dear students, is the gateway to harmony,” Raul said, his eyes still on Billy. “It is also the gateway to destruction. War and peace. Darcy, remind us of our first rule in writing.”

  “Write an extraordinary story that will leave your reader gasping,” the pretty brunette said, taking liberty in paraphrasing the rules as they were all encouraged to do.

  The four rules of writing were as familiar to the students as milk was to a baby.

  1.Write to discover.

  2. There is no greater discovery than love.

  3. All love comes from the Creator.

  4.Write what you will.

  The rules reflected the students’ purpose in their studies, certainly, but even more so in their lives as a whole. They were often encouraged to substitute the word live for the word write. Live to discover, as long as discovery leads to a love that comes from the Creator. One could only write what one knew, because to write well one must know well, as the teachers said, and to know well you must live well. None of the students’ other classes made much sense without writing, because in this monastery, writing was the mirror of life.

  Billy glanced at Darcy and saw that she looked his way. He winked at her. You leave me gasping. She smiled and he turned back to Raul, hoping the teacher hadn’t caught the exchange.

  “That’s right,” Raul said. “Forget the foolish notion that there are really only a handful of stories to be told. Write new stories and new characters, embarking on grand, unique journeys with twists and turns that will leave the reader wondering.”

  The overseer paused.“Now does that sound like peace? Twists and turns and gasping? Not really, does it?”

  Except for the water’s gurgling, the room fell silent. Students who were gazing at the lifelike murals surrounding the room brought their focus back to Raul. Billy felt a small twinge of excitement at the base of his neck.

  “How can there be peace unless there is first conflict?” Raul dropped the statement like a small seed into the freshly tilled ground of thirty-seven young minds.

  “Hear, hear,” one of the students said. “We could use a little more twisting and turning around here.”

  Several chuckled.

  A boy to Billy’s left cleared his throat, and a dozen heads turned his way. The blond-haired boy with blue eyes had long ago earned the right to be heard. At thirteen Samuel was perhaps the most accomplished student in the monastery. Besides Billy, of course. They could both discuss most subjects with any teacher on any day and do it well. At one time Billy would have considered Samuel his best friend. Birds of a feather flock together, as the old cliché said. Until a month ago.

  “Or how can there be conflict unless there is first peace?” Samuel returned in a light, polite voice. “We’ve always known that peace precedes conflict, that conflict disturbs the discovery of love, which is the heart of the second rule.”

  Approval rumbled through the class.

  “Very good, Samuel.” Raul stroked his chin. “But how can you write about peace or love unless you first subject the reader to ugly conflict? Wouldn’t you minimize peace by minimizing conflict?”

  “Unless the reader begins with the knowledge of peace. Why should we demonstrate peace through conflict if the reader already knows peace?”

  Raul nodded. “But wouldn’t you want to heighten the reader’s understanding of peace by drawing him into conflict?”

  “Conflict can just as easily compromise peace as amplify it,” Samuel said.

  The two volleyed as if in a tennis match. Though Raul was four times Samuel’s elder, the boy was no ordinary thirteen-year-old. Like the rest of them, he had never been beyond the monastery’s walls, where the world waited with all of its compromise. They’d been sequestered their whole lives, learning of virtue and love and all that threatened both. The teachers said they had developed the intellects of adults.

  “Yes, but such a story can amplify peace, can’t it?” Raul said. “It can make one’s understanding of peace as vivid as the conflict. That is the point, isn’t it?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Dan, a short Hungarian boy, said.

  Billy smiled. He wasn’t surprised that Raul’s argument made sense to many of the students, whose questions had grown increasingly bold this year thanks to the teachings of Marsuvees Black. It was difficult to tell exactly where Raul stood on the issue, however, because the overseers often taught with questions. He was either secretly laughing or sweating bullets, depending on who he really was under that Socratic mask of his.

  “Would you need to place your hand in a fire to understand a cool breeze?” Samuel asked.

  “No, but you might appreciate a cool breeze much more after standing in the fire for a day. What is a cool breeze unless there is also heat?”

  “And why not avoid the heat altogether? Move to a milder climate, say. Or stay out of the sun. There’s no use in exposing yourself to a lot of hot air when you already have the cool truth.”

  Raul smiled as laughter erupted around the room. He dipped his head in respect. “Yes, of course, Samuel. Well said. Well said, indeed. And I think on that note we will end our session.”

  The students began to rise and chatter about the discussion.

  Billy snatched up his writing book.

  “Billy.” Raul motioned for him to wait.

  As the last student filed out, Raul donned a long brown cloak with a hood. He lifted the hood to cover his head.

  “Having interests outside of class gives you no excuse for being late.”

  He knew? No, not necessarily. The interests Raul spoke of could be an innocent reference to almost anything. Unless Raul was the masked man from the dungeons. Billy couldn’t tell by the voice alone—not distorted as it was by the mask down below.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  The teacher acknowledged the apology with a nod. But his eyes pierced Billy’s conscience.

  Billy slipped from the room, shivering. Raul’s look had seemed too knowing, as if he meant to say, “I know you’ve been below, boy. I know that you’re going there now. The dungeons will kill you.”

  Maybe I want to die, Raul. Maybe I just want to die.

  THE ROUTE to the dungeons took Billy back past the library into a dark hall lit only by the flaming torch that he carried. He’d been down the hall a hundred times, but he’d entered the staircase only once, not twelve hours ago.

  The memory was fresh enough to send a chill through his bones as he approached the forbidden door. He couldn’t possibly resist it—not after his first exploration last night. The dungeon was dark and it was evil, but it was also wonderful, something he’d never dreamed of before, much less experienced.

  His cryptic and overcautious journey from the classroom to this remote place had taken him at least thirty minutes. No one had seen him, he was sure of it.

  Billy looked up and down the hall one last time, twisted the door’s corroded handle, and pulled. The hinges squealed in protest. He slipped in, eased the heavy door shut, and stood breathless on the stone landing.

  Before him, a winding stone stairway descended into shadows that moved in the torchlight. Billy walked to the edge of the landing, paused to still his heart, and stepped down. One step at a time.

  A single question echoed through his skull. Was the monk here?

  Billy assumed the masked man was a monk, having narrowed his identity down to three possibilities. If he was right, this person who’d lured him here earlier was either Raul, the head overseer whose class he left not half an hour ago, or the director himself, David Abraham.

  Both were the right height. Both had low bass voices. Both spoke with the same
accent and used similar verbiage.

  Whomever it was, Billy took comfort in knowing that he wasn’t the instigator of this dark sin. And he had no illusion that what he was doing was anything less than evil. Thirteen years under the tutelage of a dozen kind and faithful monks had made their intended impression. He did indeed know the difference between good and evil, love and hate, obedience and sin. And this was an irresistibly dark sin.

  But he also now knew that he’d been created for this sin. He’d been born into evil, and now evil insisted that he understand it. For thirteen years the monks did their best to shield him from the truth of his nature, but his God-given desire to explore had won the battle.

  Never mind that his decision might cost him the war.

  The last thought surprised him. He was in a war between good and evil, and what lay ahead was evil, wasn’t it? Yes, it had to be. And yet, if Marsuvees Black was right, he was destined to explore it.

  Billy descended slowly, aware now of the flame’s faint crackle. He eased off the last stair and stepped into the lower level’s ten-by-twelve vestibule.

  The black door that led into the dungeons was open! He was sure he’d closed—

  “Hello, Billy.”

  He spun with a whoosh of flame. A tall hooded man emerged from the corner shadows, face obscured by the shiny black mask.

  The room smelled mossy and wet. Billy felt an urge to run back up the stairs and slam the door shut on whoever hid in the brown cloak. But he couldn’t. The tunnels on the other side of the black door called.

  Billy swallowed. “Are you Raul?”

  “Who I am is of no concern to you. What I offer you, on the other hand, is. I take it you went in last night?”

  Billy didn’t answer.

  “How far did you get?”

  “Just inside the door.”

  “You didn’t enter the tunnels?”

  “No.”

  Billy couldn’t see the man’s eyes, couldn’t make any judgment about his emotions. He didn’t know what frightened him more, the tunnels or the man.

  “I see you found the desk.”

  It was the only piece of furniture outside the six tunnel entrances. How the man knew he’d spent some time at the desk was beyond him.