Darkness of the Soul (28 page)

This time, it was Parker who interrupted, with a harsh-sounding, “Bullshit.”

Damien shrugged and spread his palms. “Don’t believe me? Fine. Think of a number between one and fifty.”

Parker smirked at this.

Fine,
punk.
Try
three
million
and
twelve.
Point
five.
Parker had never considered anything of that sort to be real, just good guesses. Thinking outside the boundary was his way of testing the boy. He was at a stage by now where he believed it might be
possible
, but the thought that Woods had been hiding such a thing all along wasn’t one he was ready to accept.

Damien just smiled. “Thinking outside the box. Good deal. Three million and twelve, point five. Do I win a turkey?”

Parker’s jaw hit his chest, and then he shook his head. “Doesn’t prove a goddamn thing.”

“For someone who’s willing to accept that there’s someone out there running around and giving people heart attacks just by thinking about it and talking to them on the phone, you’re awfully skeptical, you know that, Vince?” Drakanis sounded slightly amused, though the expression on his face was almost blank as he rubbed his temple, like at the onset of a headache. From the look in his eyes, it was going to be a bad one.

Parker started to open his mouth, to try to defend his position, but Woods was already saying something else. “Look, man. Hold up that pen you’ve been playing with, or anything else. Hell, go get something from another desk, if you like.”

Goddamn.
Going
to
have
to
put
on
a
fucking
dog-and-pony
show
before
I
can
even
get
to
the
important
parts,
Damien thought. He wondered if there was some way, something he wasn’t seeing, to get Parker out of this. His skepticism was admirable, but it was liable to get him killed if he pulled that shit on the Warden. When Parker came back—he’d claimed a tennis ball from one of the drawers in an unoccupied desk—and held his prize aloft. Woods just shook his head.

“All right. Hold on tight then. Watch as the Amazing Creskin amuses all of you. Then shut up and listen.”

He turned his concentration on the ball, feeling it with what remained of his psychic senses. There wasn’t a lot of sensation to it, and Damien wasn’t sure he’d be able to move it, but as tight as Parker was holding the ball, he should be able to feel something at least. Then he felt his mind flex, the sensation similar to what he thought a bodybuilder might feel like if his biceps had suddenly atrophied.

The pain sank into his mind, ripping barbed wire across exposed tendons and dropping off a little tetanus for good measure. He felt his chest tighten, and his lungs cried out from the internal pressure. He hadn’t expected much, but his irritation with Parker had apparently given him a shove that pushed him just enough.

The ball didn’t come out of Parker’s hand; instead, Parker was yanked forward, ball and all, fighting to keep his feet and avoid tripping over the desk in front of him. His eyes widened in shock. Drakanis and Brokov both gasped, their eyes almost bugging out of the sockets as they tried to figure out how Woods had done it. Parker just stared, while Woods slumped back in his chair, groaning.

“How the
fuck
did you do that?” Parker demanded, his voice sounding unsteady.

Woods didn’t reply immediately, and when he did, his voice sounded far away, lacking much of its usual vigor. “Mind… over matter,” he mumbled, rubbing at his chest and trying to get his breath back. “Now… shut up… and listen.”

“Out of all of them…”

.
 
.
 
.
 
He
was
the
only
one
who
seemed
to
have
any
real
power,
any
real
inkling
of
what
was
going
on
in
the
world
the
rest
thought
was
just
a
hair’s
breadth
away
from
what
they
knew.
He
never
made
a
big
deal
about
it,
never
ribbed
them
about
it
or
boasted
about
it—what
was
the
big
deal
being
able
to
read
a
person’s
basic
vibe
or
slam
a
door
from
five
feet
away
anyway?
For
the
most
part,
they
really
weren’t
aware
that
there
was
anything
odd
about
him
at
all—except
for
Sheila,
of
course;
she
knew
and
noticed,
but
never
made
a
big
deal
about
it.
She
just
asked
him
once
not
to
snoop
in
her
head
if
he
could
help
it,
a
promise
he
quickly
made
and
faithfully
kept.

Then
came
the
day
the
other
members
of
their
group
got
it
in
their
heads
that
they
should
try
to
call
something
up.
One
of
them
had
found
the
name
of
some
goddamn
thing
or
another
in
a
book
he’d
gotten
off
an
old
lady
at
a
rummage
sale
for
fifty
cents
and
was
eager
to
try
it
out.
If
what
the
book
said
was
true,
he
told
them,
they
could
have
just
about
anything
they
wanted—money,
women,
fame—as
easily
as
saying,
“I
wish.”

Damien
had
been
outwardly
skeptical,
even
more
so
when
Sheila
had
bowed
out,
citing
a
headache.
Had
he
been
willing
to
break
his
promise,
he
would
have
known
that
she
had
noticed
the
look
dancing
in
Damien’s
eyes,
that
hungry
I-Want
look.
Here
it
was,
the
chance
to
make
everything
okay,
the
chance
to
not
have
to
worry
about
their
supervisors,
their
paychecks,
or
whether
they’d
have
to
share
the
cat’s
food
this
week
or
not.
Here
was
the
chance
to
forget
about
the
rest
of
the
world
and
just
have
each
other
in
perfect
harmony.
His
apparent
apathy
was
merely
masking
that
desire.

She’d
smiled
at
him
and
stroked
his
cheek,
calling
him
a
dreamer.
He
told
himself
over
and
over
that
she
couldn’t
have
known
what
was
going
to
happen,
hadn’t
seen
it
coming,
that
none
of
them
could
have
seen
it
coming.
So
when
she
sent
him
off
that
night
with
the
touch
of
her
hand
still
warm
on
his
cheek,
he
tried
to
ignore
the
pressure
in
his
chest,
the
sense
of
dread
blooming
in
the
back
of
his
head
where
he
wouldn’t
let
it
be
seen
by
his
conscious
mind.
He
told
himself
it
was
just
nerves
or
that
he
caught
a
bad
lunch
at
Jack
in
the
Box
that
day.
He
knew
the
lie
for
what
it
was
now,
but
it
had
taken
him
years
to
admit
it
to
himself.
Just a bad burger, not a premonition,
he
thought,
and
so
he
went
with
them.

The
black
sense
of
impending
doom
didn’t
dissipate
as
the
night
wore
on;
it
only
grew
stronger
as
they
donned
the
robes,
which
Michael
had
made
for
them,
stronger
yet
as
they
took
their
places
around
the
circle
that
Ted
had
carved
into
the
floor,
and
reaching
fever
pitch
when
they
began
to
chant
the
words
that
had
been
carefully
transcribed
and
translated
over
the
past
few
weeks.