Showdown (11 page)

Steve turned his hand for Black to inspect.

The man's fingers were warm.“Pretty deep,” he said, digging in his pocket. He brought out one of those multipurpose pocketknives with small pliers.

“I think I can get it. Do you mind?”

Steve felt disconnected from the scene, despite the intensity of the pain and the sudden appearance of Black.

“Okay.”

Black opened the knife and gently worked at freeing the sliver. The stake. Steve turned his eyes away and let him work.

The moment wasn't awkward, something that surprised him.

“Everything will make sense to you soon, Steve,” Black said softly. A burst of pain made Steve flinch. When he looked at his hand, the sliver was gone. Black held it up in the pliers, smiling.

“You see, it hurts coming out, but in the end you wouldn't have it any other way.” He let the sliver fall to the grass. “Just like this town. After a bit of pain it will all make sense. My ways are a bit unconventional, but you'll thank me, Steve. The whole town will thank me.”

He lifted a hand and tipped his hat.

“Where are you going?” Steve asked.

“I was on my way to speak to the father when I saw you down here. I'm sure he's all messed up about now. It's not every day that someone comes into town and pulls the stunt I did yesterday. I think he deserves an explanation, don't you?”

Black walked away.

Steve wanted an explanation too, but he felt stupid calling out again.
What's that explanation, mister? And why did I dream what I dreamed?

He was talking before he could stop himself. “What about my dream?” he called out.

Black stopped and turned back. “What dream?”

It was clear by his blank stare the Black really didn't know of any dream.

“Never mind,” Steve said.

“Your dreams are your own, Steve.” Black tipped his hat again and left.

Steve rubbed his palm with a thumb, relieved that the pain was gone.He stuck his hands into his pockets and headed for the saloon.

His head felt heavy.

STEVE SPENT the first thirty minutes by himself, wandering aimlessly around the bar, setting up shop. Wiping the counters down. Putting out glasses. Setting out peanuts. All without a thought.

His thoughts were elsewhere, on the stakes.

Claude came in about eleven, shirt untucked but buttoned up tight around his neck. He grunted and sat down in his regular spot along the bar. Early for Claude, who often came in for lunch, but never before noon.

“You open today?” Steve asked.

The big Swede didn't seem to hear.

Steve looked out the window and saw that Katie and Mary were angling for the saloon from across the street. Early for them too. It meant that others would see them coming and join them. That's how it always worked. Word spread fast in a small town. The lunch crowd was coming in early today.

“Sure,” Claude said.

“Sure what?” Then Steve remembered his question.

“Sure I was open. Closed for lunch. Traffic's dead. Can I have a drink?”

“Lemonade?”

“Actually, I wouldn't mind something stronger if you have it.” Claude rubbed his temples. “Head's throbbing.”

“Beer?”

“Jack and Coke?”

Odd for a nondrinking man. Steve made the drink and served Claude.

His mind drifted again.

The door banged and Katie walked in with Mary. Both ordered drinks. They were as quiet as Claude. Others started wandering in then, each entry punctuated by the slam of his screen door.

In some ways the stupor that clouded Steve's mind felt like the effects of the strong painkiller prescribed to him after some fool tourist's Doberman tried to rip off his hand.

Steve was normally a controlled fellow, ask anyone. But that hadn't stopped him from hauling out his shotgun with his unshredded hand and sending the Doberman to mutt hell with enough buckshot to splatter its head over a ten-foot-square section of the back wall.

Paula walked in. She was dressed for Sunday in a navy blue cotton dress with white piping on the neckline and pockets. Black leather flats. Who was she trying to impress? She sat at the end of the bar, and Steve ignored her.

Two fans swished overhead, and no one bothered turning on the jukebox. Steve stopped whatever he'd been doing,which was already a distant memory, and looked around at the “in” crowd of Paradise, Colorado. Without counting, he'd say about twenty.

The silence grew uncomfortable. Awkward. Downright infuriating.

Steve slammed his fist on the bar. “What's the problem?”

Katie looked up at him, blinking. “What do you think you're doing?”

He wasn't rightly sure, actually. He just didn't like the silence. A person can hide in a cacophony of noise, but everyone stands out in this kind of melancholic silence, and Steve wasn't in the mood to stand out.

“You think he poisoned us?” someone asked.

Katie faced Bob, an older farmer who raised the question. “Right.”

Bob looked at one of his fingernails as if deciding whether it needed cleaning.

Once again silence stretched through the bar. A fly buzzed by Steve's ear.

“Could be,” Claude said after a while. “We all drank his communion. Could be he poisoned us. I feel . . .”He stopped, either distracted or unsure how he felt.

“Well, if he did poison us, bring it on, medicine man,” Katie said. “I feel pretty relaxed.”

“Don't be stupid,” Paula said. “The man's a devil, not a medicine man.”

“You think a devil got up there and turned water into wine?” Katie challenged, coming to life.

“What water into wine?”

“Okay, then an apple into wine. Whatever. You get my point.”

“No, Katie, I don't think I do. What is your point?”

“My point is if he wanted to kill us, he'd have done it last night.”

They stared at her, uncomprehending. Steve didn't know what she was driving at either. Maybe she'd had a dream like his about a killing.

“Who said anything about killing?” Claude asked. “He's off his rocker maybe. He might be playing us for some reason, but I doubt a killer would be so obvious.”

“What in the world are you all talking about?”Katie demanded.“He's no killer. He's a preacher.”

“Come to bring grace and hope to Paradise,”Bob said, still inspecting his fingernails.

“You're the one who brought up killer, Katie. And frankly it wouldn't surprise me.
Either way, he's a devil,” Paula said.“No man of God would talk the way he talked. I say we have our way with him before he has his way with us.”

“Has his way with you?”Mary asked. “You holding out on us?”

A lone voice spoke out loudly from the rear door. “Paula's right. You should get rid of him or call the cops in Delta.”

They turned as one to face Johnny Drake. The boy had come in the back and stood facing them with a fixed face.

“You eighteen, boy?” Steve asked. “Get out.”

Paula stood. “Shut up, Steve.” She walked toward the boy. “What makes you say that, Johnny?”

Johnny eyed them.“He may not be the devil, but he's not right.”He hesitated. “And he's a killer.”

Surprisingly, no one jumped on the boy. They were too lethargic to be jumping. Johnny seemed encouraged by this and continued.

“I watched him walk into town yesterday. Me and Cecil were on the bench. I know this may sound crazy, but Black killed Cecil.”

Steve wasn't sure what to think about that, except to notice that the notion didn't seem preposterous. On the other hand, he doubted the boy had a clue what he was talking about. Probably dreamed Black had killed Cecil, just like he'd dreamed Black kissed and skewered Paula.

“You saying he actually killed Cecil?” Steve asked. “Or that Cecil died when Black was there, which is what he said.”

“I mean he killed him.”

“And how was that?”

“He . . .” Johnny shifted on his feet. “He jabbed his fingers into Cecil's eyes. Deep,maybe into his brains. I watched the whole thing. He killed him, and last night he threatened the whole town.”

Did I hear that? I can't remember. I remember the stakes, but do I actually
remember Black threatening . . .

“I remember it,” a soft voice said. The rest of them were staring past Steve. He turned to the front door.

Marsuvees Black stood in the doorway, smiling at them. How'd he get in so quiet?

“It seems that Father Yordon has taken a leave of absence, so I suppose I should explain myself to the rest of you.”

The man walked up to the bar. “Smart boy, Johnny. The rest of you should listen to him.” He chuckled.

Black's sudden appearance had stunned them all. Steve had no doubt about his earlier judgment; there was something profoundly different about Black today. His eyes, though still blue, seemed a softer smiling blue rather than the drilling blue. His mouth had no mocking twist or angry snarl. He seemed almost earthy.

Black dug into his breast pocket and withdrew two objects, which he held, one in each hand.

“These look familiar?” he asked Johnny.

They were plastic or glass eyeballs, Steve saw. Smeared with paint to look like blood. Black rolled them down the bar toward Paula, who stepped back, repulsed. The eyeballs rolled off the bar and over to Johnny.

“Cecil's eyeballs,” Black said gently.

Johnny stared wide-eyed as the balls stopped three feet from his shoes. He looked up. “But . . . that's not what I—”

“You saw what I wanted you to see. You saw me stick my fingers into Cecil's eye sockets and pull those eyes from his face. But those eyes are glass. Go on, pick them up.”

Johnny bent, touched, then picked up the eyeballs. “Glass.”

“Glass,” Black said. “This, on the other hand”—he pulled an apple from his other breast pocket—“is a real apple. The same one you all saw last night. And this”—the preacher tossed the apple into the air, and when it landed in his hand it was a mug of lemonade—“is sleight of hand.”

Steve was sure he'd seen an extra movement in there somewhere. “An illusion,” he said. “You're a magician?”

“More than a magician. I'm a preacher who uses illusions to make a point, and I don't mind telling you that I've never had a town so wholly swallow my nonsense as this town did yesterday. You,my dear friends, have been like putty in the devil's hands.”

They stared.

“But Cecil's dead!” Johnny said.

The glint left Black's eyes. He looked at the bar. “Yes, that was unfortunate.” Eyes on Johnny. “Cecil had a heart attack, Johnny. Plain and simple. My trick sent him over the cliff he was already headed for. The only reason I didn't stop to pay him respects and administer rights was because I have been called to this town and I do have a message from God. I couldn't compromise for the sake of one man. I know it sounds crass, but doing anything else would have compromised my mission.”

He let the statement rest. No one challenged him.