Showdown (10 page)

If they only knew what lay in store for them. A part of him wanted to go down there, wake them all from their slumber, and tell them the truth, all of it. But he had to bide his time. If he rushed things, they might not understand, and that could get nasty.

He had to help them understand their true makeup. He had to help them feel the horror, just enough to understand the truth of who they really were. Too fast and the plan could backfire. Too slow and they might never reach the maturity required to face the truth.

His legs were tired, so he folded them under himself and sat on the rock ledge. Crossed his arms.

It had been a good day. An even better night. They bought the whole thing without hardly a protest. It was hard for Black not to feel pride in what he'd done, but that wasn't the point. Pride could lead to a mistake. When it was all done and he'd set this town free, then he'd grant himself pride.

Someone coughed behind and to his right. Black knew who it was, but he didn't feel the need to acknowledge the man.

A tall figure dressed in a long hooded robe stepped from the shadows and stood beside him. For a minute the sight of the sleeping town seemed to hold them in a trance. The others in the monastery would undoubtedly crawl out of their skins if they knew these two met here, and why.

Then again, depending on how this all turned out, they might shout their praises.

Black could feel the weight of the man's eyes on him now.

“How does it feel?” the man asked.

“Incredible,” Black said.

“Tell me what you did. I want to know everything.”

“I did what was expected.”

“Details.”

Black supposed he owed the man at least that much. The telling took fifteen minutes, interrupted occasionally by questions and requests for further elaboration.

When he finished, silence engulfed them. Above, the black clouds boiled, visible even in the night sky like a claw reaching down from the heavens to crush this little victim nestled in the Colorado mountains.

But the clouds didn't tell the whole story. Not even half of it.

“You've done well.”A hand settled on Black's shoulder, rested there for a moment, then withdrew.

“It's hard to believe we actually have this much power.”

“We aren't the only ones with power,” Black said.

“No. But we're ahead now. I think we will succeed.”

“Yes, we will.”

The wind howled.

“You need to rest.”

Black smiled softly in the darkness. “Do I?”

“A little power doesn't make you immortal, now does it?”

“No, I suppose it doesn't.”

The man turned and vanished into the black night behind them.

Marsuvees Black stared into the wind, barely breathing. Tomorrow was coming. He needed rest.

CHAPTER SIX

PARADISE

Thursday morning

REVEREND STANLEY Yordon crawled out of bed, surprised to find the little hand cocked past the ten.

Ten? Heavens, it had been years since he slept so late. Even when he drank with the boys, which he rarely did these days, he woke by eight at the latest. And here it was, past ten o'clock Thursday morning, the day after the big service.

The big service. The one in which a stranger had basically told the town to choose between his way or Stanley's way. By the looks of the flock after the meeting, they chose Black's way. They chose a message of so-called grace and hope that sounded more like the gospel according to Hugh Hefner than the gospel according to Luke.

Yordon walked into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. This cowboy preacher had waltzed into town and shown Paradise a party, all right. Forget bingo night, we're having us a real party. What'll you have? Some grace? Some hope? Let's throw in some magic to boot. We can grow and ungrow warts on demand.

They loved the entertainer! He'd have to talk to the bishop about this. Stanley shaved, dressed, ate a slice of dry toast. Hopefully, by the time he returned from Denver on Saturday, this fool would be gone and they could get back to church and the old reliable pig-roast potlucks that never failed to draw a crowd.

Yordon walked outside and immediately noticed the wind. A warm breeze blew down the road, almost hot. Dark clouds boiled overhead—the news had mentioned a coming rain storm, but here there was only wind. Wind and dust.

Main Street was deserted. At least Black wasn't holding a rally.

He walked briskly to the church, skirting a few dust devils as he went. The auditorium was still a mess from the previous night. Visitor cards and hymnals lay strewn about the pews and floor.
Those unchurched . . .
Yordon grunted. Wouldn't know respect if it hit them upside the head.

“Nancy?” He walked into the offices. “Nancy?”

“Here.”

“Where?”

“In the kitchen.”

He found his secretary with her head stuck in the church refrigerator. Her wide body all but obscured it. “I have to get going,” he said, reaching for a coffee mug.

Nancy straightened and looked at him. “Going where?”

“Denver. Bishop Fraiser? Quarterly meeting?”

“Oh.”

He poured hot coffee into his cup. “Frankly, it couldn't have come at a better time. With our mayor running off and that preacher coming in, I believe we have us a class-one mess on our hands.”

“Come on, Father, the preacher's harmless. It's good for the town to get a little spice now and then.”

Some of the coffee missed the cup. “A little spice? That's what you call last night? The man threatened me.”

“Please. You can't take that seriously. Do you know what we did with those leftover danishes?”

“What danishes? I'm worried about the church and you're worried about danishes?”

“The danishes from Sunday's potluck. The cherry-apple ones with frosting. There was a whole rack of them right here yesterday.”

Yordon sighed. “I'll be back Saturday.”

“Oh, here they are!”

Nancy grabbed a tin plate from the top of the refrigerator and dug at the shrink-wrap that covered the old danishes. She pried a gooey pastry out and took a large bite.

“Personally, I think you're overreacting, but you go right on ahead. We'll be here when you get back.” She smacked at the danish. “You're back Saturday? Why not tomorrow?”

“I always go for three days.”

She shoved the rest of the pastry into her mouth.

Yordon
wasn't sure what to think of this. Nancy lost fifty pounds in the last six months, thanks to a no-sugar diet. But here she was, stuffing her face with enough sugar to fuel the church for a week.

He thought about asking her but decided it would do more harm than good.

“I'll call you from Denver.”

She nodded and dug out another pastry.

Yordon left the church, walked to a blue Chevy Caprice parked in the church lot, slid behind the driver's wheel, started the engine, and was past the old theater before it occurred to him that he'd forgotten his shaving kit. Never mind, he would pick up the basics at a convenience store.

Honestly, he couldn't get out of town fast enough.

Ten minutes later he approached the highway and slowed the old Caprice to a stop. The road was empty—as quiet as the road leading up to Paradise behind him.

An image popped into his mind. An image of an old Buick—Marsuvees Black's '83 Buick—sitting on the shoulder with its front bumper stuck into a buckled road sign.
Funny thing happened to me this afternoon
, Black had said.

But there was no car.

The sign was there, but no '83 Buick. When a car broke down on this strip of highway, it usually remained on the roadside for at least four or five days before the cops towed it away.

Curious, Yordon climbed out and walked toward the sign. A ringing lodged in his ears, and he whacked the side of his head to no avail. The air was still and cool down here. Amazing how the mountains play with weather. Hot in one valley and cool in the next. Seemed like it should be the other way around though. Hot down here and cool higher up, in Paradise. His boots crunched on the gravel as he rounded the sign.

Go 2 Paradise
, Black had said.
Paradise 2 Miles
, drawing that stupid two in the air as if that was how to drive a point home.

Yordon shielded the sun from his eyes and gazed up at the green sign.
Paradise 3 Miles
.

That's what he thought. The sign read three, not two. The ringing in Stanley's ear grew a little louder. He looked down the road again. Three miles instead of two miles, and no car.

The man was a fake. But he already knew that.

He thought about turning the car around and heading back. The town had no mayor, no law enforcement. Only the Episcopal father. Stanley Yordon.

He slid into the Caprice, and with a last look down the deserted highway, he pulled the car into the road, bound for Denver, two hundred some-odd miles east.

JOHNNY AWOKE late Thursday morning, and for a full ten seconds he didn't think about the previous day's events. It was just another summer day after a sleepover.

He sat up. Mom was probably . . .

Mom was gone. Cecil had died. Marsuvees Black had poisoned the town.

He flung the covers off and stumbled into the hall.“Mom?”

But she was still in Junction, shopping—he already knew that. She wouldn't be home until noon at the earliest. And knowing her, it would be closer to late afternoon.

“What's up?” Roland asked, leaning out of the room. “You yelling?”

“Nothing. Just seeing if my mom's back.”

Roland turned back into the room, dropped facedown on Johnny's bed.

Johnny walked past him and peered out the window. Wind howled. Roland lay as if dead.

“You okay?” Johnny asked.

Roland groaned, pushed himself up on both elbows. “How late did we stay up?”

“Midnight. You want to see what's happening?”

Roland glanced at the clock, rolled off the bed, and grabbed his jeans. “Sheesh, it's ten o'clock! I have to mow. I'll see you at the Starlight later.”

“You sure you don't want to see what's up?”

“What do mean, what's up? Nothing's up.”

“After what happened last night? Trust me, something's up.”

“My mom's going to kill me if I don't mow this morning,” Roland said, pulling a worn yellow T-shirt over his head.

“In this wind?”

“Gotta go, trust me. See ya.”

Roland left. Except for the wind moaning occasionally through the rafters, the house was quiet.

Too quiet for Johnny's peace of mind.

STEVE SMITHER pulled himself from a groggy sleep late Thursday morning, dressed in blue jeans and a red plaid shirt, and headed out to the kitchen.

Not until he passed the picture window that looked over the back lawn did he remember the dream.

The details fell into his mind. Black, stakes, Paula,
stakes
, shed,
STAKES
, screaming. A gust of wind whipped at the shed—no sign of Black or Paula. He had half a mind to check behind it. For stakes.

Steve swallowed, unnerved by the strong impulse. Then he remembered the stake in his hand. He ran back into the room and scanned the bed, the floor.

No bloody stake. That had been part of the dream too?

He headed back into the living room. Where was Paula?

Maybe he was still in the dream. Or maybe it
hadn't
been a dream.

He took a step toward the back door.

“Steve?”

“Hmm?” Steve stopped and turned toward Paula's voice. His head swam and for a second he thought he might fall, but the dizziness passed, leaving him with a headache.

And a lingering case of grogginess.

Paula leaned against the kitchen door frame, arms crossed. She looked a bit fuzzy to him. A bit loose. Her bathrobe draped over her body, untied, and her hair hung in tangles, straddling that terrible-looking white streak—God only knew why she'd let Katie do that to her.

Looked like a worn-out mutt.

He chided himself for the thought.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He headed for the front door. “What does it look like I'm doing? The saloon doesn't open by itself.”

She let him go without comment.

Steve paused in the wind, noticing it only as a faint distraction from an uncommon drive to check out the shed. Just to be sure. He had a dream, sure, but this feeling wasn't a dream. He had to check out the shed.

Steve rounded the house, approached the shed, and stopped three feet from the corner. His heart was hammering with an almost palpable desire to turn the corner and find the very stakes Black had used in his dream. Maybe even with blood on them.
Why?

He took a deep breath and stuck his head around the corner.

Nothing.

“For the love of . . .” He clenched his teeth. “I can't believe he'd do this.”

Do what, Steve? Who would do what?

What was he thinking? He put his hand on the fence, patted it once, and turned to leave.

Pain shot through his palm. He swore and jerked his hand away from the fence. A splinter the size of his little finger had sliced into the heel of his palm. He stared at it, speechless. Pain throbbed and his hand began to tremble. The thing was in deep, buried at an angle.

Steve dug at it with his fingernails but couldn't get a grip on the wood. He gripped his wrist and held his hand for a better view.

A stake. There was a stake in his palm. For crying—

“Hello, Steve.”

Steve
spun. Black stood by the shed, smiling warmly. His eyes dropped to Steve's hand, and his smile faded, replaced by a shadow of concern.

“You okay?”

Black moved forward, seemingly intent on examining him. But Steve wasn't sure he wanted the man to examine him.

“Do you mind?” Black asked, searching his eyes. Blue eyes. Comforting eyes. Genuinely concerned. The man looked different today than he had looked yesterday. He looked . . . kind.