Showdown (15 page)

“Anything?” Roland asked.

“No. Were your parents around this afternoon?”

Roland hesitated.“My mom was. She forgot to make dinner.”

“But you didn't see your dad?”

Another hesitation.“He was probably busy. Are we going to do this? I'm getting a headache.”

Johnny took a deep breath. “Okay, we see if the preacher's over there. If he is, we watch him and see what he does. If we don't see him, we knock on the door and ask for Peter. That's the plan.”

“Sounds good.” Roland headed around the corner. He didn't seem bothered by the darkness, so Johnny followed, dismissing the inner voices that suggested caution.

A scrub-oak hedge surrounded the house. The barrier gave them perfect cover up to a height of three feet. They wedged themselves between the hedge and house, and Roland peered into the first dark window. After a moment, he shrugged and motioned them on.

Johnny began to settle. Seemed simple enough.

They crawled three quarters of the way around the house without seeing a single soul. The Bowerses had either left the house or occupied one of three remaining rooms—Claude Bowers's study, the master bedroom, or the main-floor bathroom.

Roland reached the study window and waited for Johnny to squat next to him. “Okay, you go up first this time,” Roland whispered.

“Me?” Roland had led thus far.

“Sure. Just go up slow and peek in.”

Johnny looked up. Seemed harmless enough, despite the fact that the window glowed faintly.

“You think he's going to poke your eyes out?” Roland asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

Johnny ignored the jab and slowly lifted his head to the window sill. He peered into the study, saw Claude sitting at his desk, and immediately jerked his head down.

“What?” Roland whispered. “They in there?”

“Claude.” First contact. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. They hadn't exactly snuck into Fort Knox or anything, but his heart didn't seem to know the difference.

“What's he doing?”

“I don't know.”

This time Roland eased up to the sill, held his nose there for a moment and then retreated. “He's . . . he's watching television.”

This time both Roland and Johnny eased up to the window.

The room began to flash with blinding white strobes that ignited scenes on a monitor that sat on Claude's desk. Johnny couldn't see the images, but they seemed to mesmerize Claude. His mouth hung open dumbly.

The white strobes yielded to red and blues that lit his face. Johnny could hear music now, the bass thudding low. A music video. An intense music video that had turned Claude into a useless lump of a man.

A bottle of booze slipped from Claude's fingers and fell on the floor with a
thump
. He didn't seem to notice.

Claude blinked. He swallowed and began to chuckle. But he still hadn't moved.

Johnny craned for a better view. He caught a fleeting image of Black's head on the set, flapping back and forth as if on a spring. Then a red image that Johnny couldn't make out.

Claude lunged forward, twisted a knob, and sat back. The music pounded louder. Metal, head-banging music. Claude bent for the fallen bottle on the carpet and chuckled again.

The images popped relentlessly without breaking cadence. Claude took a swig from the bottle, half of which dripped off his chin onto his stomach, and began to giggle.

Johnny felt a tug on his sleeve. “He's not in there. Come on.”

He dropped down. “You see that?”

“Lost his marbles. Black's not in there. Come on.”

Johnny followed Roland to the next window. Master bedroom.

“Go,” Roland whispered.

Johnny pulled himself up and looked through blinds that were closed but not properly, leaving slits he could see through if he pushed his eye flat against the glass.

A figure moved by the mirror above the double dresser. Katie was there, leaning into the mirror.

Johnny shifted for a better view.

“Anything?” Roland whispered.

She was dressed in a red skirt, too short and too tight, unless she was headed for a party. He could see Katie's face in the mirror, chin tilted up as she carefully applied a fresh coat of lipstick. She rubbed her lips together and turned her head for a side view. Maybe she and Claude were going to Delta. To a dance or something.

Roland's face came up next to his. Their breath fogged the glass, and Roland wiped the moisture off with his palm.

Johnny watched Katie fix something at the corner of her mouth. Satisfied, she tilted her head down and smiled into the mirror. She traced her freshly painted lips with a slow tongue.

Katie tried another look, this one with one finger on her cheek and her hip cocked as if to say,
Hey there, stranger
. She shifted into another look, this one tracing her open mouth with her tongue and a single finger along her neckline.

Roland dropped down and Johnny followed.

“You see that?” Roland whispered through his cockeyed smile.

“Well, it is Katie.” Johnny glanced back at the office window, still glowing from the lighted computer screen inside. “Pretty weird, though. Both Claude and Katie. I wonder where Black is.”

“Basement? We haven't tried the window wells.”

“And where's Peter? Maybe we should just knock on the door and ask for Peter.”

“Try the next window,” Roland said.

Roland edged his way around the corner toward the bathroom window, waited for Johnny to catch up, then rose slowly. Wind howled through the eaves. Light seeped past the blinds, illuminating the hazy dust that filled the air. Johnny shielded his eyes and followed Roland to the windowsill.

The low blind provided only a three-inch gap at the bottom. Something blocked their view—a towel or something that made the window dark. Maybe a closet or . . .

The darkness shifted. He squinted. And then the darkness walked away from the window.

Johnny flinched. He stood there staring at Marsuvees Black's polyester trousers, less than three feet away.

The preacher had been leaning against the window. Right in front of Johnny's face, a pane of glass separating them. Now Black stood at the mirror.

A black, coverless DVD case rested on the white sink. Maybe for the DVD that Claude was watching this very moment in his office.

Johnny couldn't see what Black was doing, because the bottom of the blinds cut the man off at the shoulders. He would have to crouch a little to see Black's face and that meant moving. If he moved, Black might see him.

Roland breathed heavily. The window started to fog. Not good.

Johnny pulled back a fraction to allow circulation between his lips and the glass. Then down a little so that his eyes cleared the blinds.

Black was picking his teeth.

The man's fingernails were long, but well shaped, as if he recently had a manicure. The preacher valued cleanliness. He retracted his lips and studied his large white teeth.

He began rubbing a section of his lower teeth with his tongue. Unsuccessful with a mere tongue, the man's lips attacked his teeth. They moved furiously around his lower jaw. If lips could be double-jointed, the preacher owned a pair.

Still aggravated by something in his teeth, Black went after them with his fingernail. Johnny could see his clean-shaven jaw jutting out toward the mirror as he angled for whatever it was.

Roland had moved down for a better view and was breathing harder. Seeing the man go to work on his teeth was a mesmerizing sight. Not exactly the kind of evidence that revealed anything good or bad about him, but fascinating, nonetheless. The man really was getting worked up about whatever was stuck in his—

Black howled with rage.

The man lost his cool so suddenly that both Johnny and Roland yelped. If not for Black's own howl, he would've heard them for sure.

The preacher grabbed his lower lip with his right hand and yanked it down hard. It peeled cleanly off his jaw as if it were a mask. Long white teeth buried in three inches of pink flesh jutted into a gaping mouth. His lower lip slipped a good four or five inches below his chin.

With his other hand, Black wrenched a single tooth from his jaw and spit angrily into the mirror. A small chunk of white meat stuck to the glass.

The stranger shoved his tooth down into place. He released his lower lip. It snapped up over his teeth, and he rubbed his jaw like a man who'd just been slapped, but no worse for the wear.

Johnny's eyes dried in the wind. And then Black straightened his coat and turned toward the door.

Now, Johnny. Move now, while his back's turned.
He dropped to his knees. The jar must have started his stalled heart, because he could hear the blood rushing through his ears now. He was hyperventilating.

Roland was beside him, also on his knees. “You . . . you see that?” He stared up at the window, stupefied.

Johnny tore through the hedge. He ran for the Starlight, across the street, a hundred yards off. His leg was bothering him, but adrenaline pushed him beyond the pain. He ran fast, maybe faster than he had in his life. Thankfully, the streetlight was out.

He broke into the clearing behind the theater and doubled over, wheezing. Roland slid to a stop beside him.

“You see that?” Roland said, panting. “Man, did we really see that?”

Johnny didn't answer.

“We have to tell someone.” Roland began to pace.

“We could talk to our parents.”

“They'll just say we're seeing things. That's what everyone'll say now.”

Johnny hesitated, thinking. “And maybe they're right.”

Roland scratched his head. “Man, that looked real. I wonder what Fred and Peter saw.”

“Maybe we should go to the cops,” Johnny said.

“Cops? In Delta? Now you think it was real?”

“I don't know what to think anymore.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE MONASTERY

Thursday night

BILLY WAS having a difficult time remembering exactly how many times he'd been to the dungeons in the last couple days. Well, yes, he knew, of course. Three times. Roughly. No, closer to five times. His memory was foggy.

His fascination with the dungeons, on the other hand, was less foggy. Crystal clear, in fact. Like a shaft of light in a pitch-black room, except that the tunnels were actually black, so if you could have a shaft of darkness in a room full of light . . .

Billy left the class in which
Paul spouted off as if he owned wisdom itself, and he spent an hour easing his way closer to the east side of the monastery, past the library, to the dark hall. He didn't think he cared whether the others knew what he was up to, but he skirted the students and the teachers with great care anyway.

Raul knew, he thought. He hadn't run into the masked monk again, but upon rather fuzzy reflection, he narrowed the man's identity further. Yesterday he was confident it was either Raul or Marsuvees Black or David Abraham. Now he was quite sure it was either Raul or David Abraham, because the man had spoken about Marsuvees Black as if he was a third party.

The man could have been tricking him, of course. He could be Marsuvees Black, living in the tunnels, driven mad by the worm gel. But why would he wear a mask? He lacked the same motivation as Raul, an active teacher, and David, the director, both of whom would need to conceal their identity to continue their activities.

Simple deduction. The kind of simple deduction Darcy and Paul obviously lacked, at least when it came to considering the tunnels.

Billy took a deep breath, satisfied himself that the coast was clear, stepped into the staircase, grabbed a torch, and ran down the steps with the ease of familiarity. When he stepped up to the blackened doors he was breathing as hard from the excitement of what lay ahead as from the rapid descent.

The dead silence down here was broken only by a faint crackling from the torch. Billy stared at the tunnel doors, and in that moment he didn't care if Darcy or Paul or anybody followed him into the caverns. As long as he could enter himself.

Billy stepped forward and was reaching for the door when the unmistakable sound of a shoe scraping on stone filtered down the stairwell behind him. He jerked his hand back and scanned the room quickly, looking for a place to hide. Nothing.

Feet rounded the staircase. White tennis shoes, the kind students wore. A girl descended into view. Her skirt hung above trembling knees and her eyes were round like saucers.

“Darcy?” His voice echoed around the chamber.

“Billy?” Her voice trembled.

“You . . . you came.”

Darcy looked around in dazed wonderment. Billy was too stunned to move. So then he wasn't the only one to come to his senses when presented with the right argument.

“It's . . . it's so gloomy,” she said.

She needed encouragement. Billy walked up to her and reached out his hand. This was almost too good to be true.“Don't worry, you'll get used to it.”

She took his hand, but her eyes remained on the walls. Throbbing flame light cast an eerie orange hue on the mossy rock walls; the black door seemed to absorb and swallow the light. It
was
rather gloomy.

“Wait till you see the inside.”

She looked at him with some astonishment. “I'm not going inside. I just wanted to see what it looks like.”

“Okay, but this is not
it. It
is through that door.”He motioned toward the black doors. “You have to go in there to see
it
.”

She shook her head. “No. I can't go in there.” She paused. “Aren't you frightened?”

Billy released her hand and walked to the door. When the torch's circle of light moved with him, Darcy followed. He turned to her. “Frightened, Darcy? Tell me, what do you feel like right now?”

“I'm frightened.”

“Yes, frightened. But what does frightened
feel
like? Tell me how you feel without using those old words. Say something a writer might write, like
I
feel a chill down my spine
or something. Tell me exactly how you
feel
.”