Showdown (18 page)

A thought occurred to him. The streetlight was out. What about the phones?

Johnny ran to the kitchen and picked up the phone. If they were going to call . . .

No dial tone. Not even a hiss.

He tapped the disconnect twice.

Nothing. The wind had blown over one of the poles or something. Unless it was Black.

Johnny stood in the kitchen, phone in hand, mind numb. Black was either an angel or the devil, and Johnny was completely confused about which. Or why. Or what, if anything, he could do about it. Or if he even
should
do anything about it. He didn't know how to drive, and with the storm blowing . . .

A bang sounded at the back of the house. Roland. He dropped the phone into the cradle and ran to his bedroom.

Roland stood at his window, freckled face pressed against the glass. Johnny hurried to the window, flung it open. His friend looked at him over bags that darkened his eyes.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

Roland climbed inside and looked around.“A bit . . . tired maybe but okay.”

Johnny shut the window. “You look sick.”

Roland faced him. “Peter came by. You should have seen what
he
looked like.”

“Peter? What did he say?”

“He said we had to meet him and Fred at the theater.”

“What for?”

“He didn't say. Just said to come.”

“I don't know.”

“You got a better idea?”

Johnny didn't have a better idea, because he didn't have any ideas.

“When? Now?”

“Sure, now.”

Johnny looked at the dark clouds. “Okay,” he finally said.

THEY HEADED out into the wind five minutes later. The trees bent under strong gusts, and Johnny had to cover his eyes to keep the dust out. They walked down the alley behind All Right Convenience
,
toward the Starlight.

They rounded the theater, glad to be out of the wind. “Man, this stuff 's really blowing,” Roland said.

“So where are Peter and Fred?”

Roland looked around—no sign of them.

“Maybe they already left.”

A
thump
sounded on the wind, close.

Johnny spun. “What was that?”

“Something probably blew into the building.”

Another thud shook the wall.

“That . . . that came from the far end.”

“Or inside,” Roland said. His own suggestion dawned on him belatedly and his eyes grew round. He ran to the wall and pressed his ear flat.

“Someone's inside!” He spun around and ran for the corner.

“Where you going?”

“Come on!”

Johnny rounded the corner cautiously. Knee-high grass swayed like a shifting sea. The carcasses of several rusty cars rose from the grass. A dilapidated wooden windmill leaned against the wall, creaking in the wind.

The wind gusted and lifted a board from the wall, then dropped it with a loud
thud
.

Roland strode for the loose siding. He was going in.

Now Johnny was confronted with a decision. On one hand, he knew without a doubt that whatever waited inside the old theater couldn't be good. On the other hand, he couldn't just run from whatever was happening to this town. Particularly not when he had nowhere to run to.

“Hold on.”

“They're in there, I heard them.”

“Just hold on!” Johnny caught up to him and grabbed his shoulder. “How do you know it's them? You can't just barge in there like you own it.”

“I heard music, man. You know anyone else who would be listening to music in the Starlight?”

“Just”—he nudged Roland to one side—“let me take a look.”

He gripped the board by the bottom edge and lifted it.

Nothing jumped out at him or bowled him over, and the board was loose enough, so he lifted it higher. The nails had been pulled. Whoever was in there had taken a hammer or a crowbar to the wall to get in.

Together Roland and he shoved the board high, then eased their heads into the dark foot-wide gap.

The first thing Johnny saw were the theater's arching rafters, flickering with white light. Fire? Then he heard the music, pounding from somewhere inside. A wall stood between them and whoever was inside the main hall.

“That's Peter and Fred for sure,” Roland said.

“Just stay behind me. And if I run, you run.”

“Okay. Lighten up, sheesh.”

Johnny squeezed through the opening. Roland followed. The board clunked closed. Protected from the howling wind, he could hear the music loudly now. An eerie, melancholic, thumping rock and roll. Gothic. Evil.

He edged forward—stage door on the right. Carefully, fighting every ounce
of good reason, Johnny turned the knob and pulled the door open a crack.

The volume escalated. White light sputtered on the walls inside. No monsters. He pulled the door wider and eased his head through.

Light flashed from a box set on the stage, splashing white across the auditorium in staccato pulses. Three figures jerked in the strobe.

Dancing? More like writhing.

Johnny's heart climbed into his throat.

The auditorium had been ransacked. The place was dirty when he last saw it, two years earlier, but not trashed like this. It took a few seconds for the images to register, because they came at him in flashes of light. The long curtains hanging on the walls were shredded from top to bottom, and the old wooden seats had been torn from their anchors and scattered like a box of spilled jacks. Bottles and cans littered the floor—dozens of them, spilling liquid that sparkled in the light. Someone had spray-painted haphazard lines across the walls and huge Gothic letters on the torn screen.

Screw Hope!

In the middle of it all, the three figures jerked about, like stoned teenagers in a mosh pit.

Roland's head pushed past his arm.

The identity of the largest figure was clear. The bulky body teetering and twitching like a tortured penguin could only belong to Peter's father, Claude Bowers. He faced the flashing box, which Johnny now saw was actually a television set. His hands swayed to the music, creating the strange illusion that his arms were electric cords delivering shocks that convulsed his body.

Ten feet behind and to the left, the second man jerked back and forth like a bebopping bowling pin. He had an ax in his hands, and for one terrifying moment Johnny thought the man might be Roland's father. But then a flash lit the face and Johnny saw Chris Ingles, smiling like a vampire with bulging eyes.

He heard a gasp from Roland. Then he saw what Roland was looking at. The third figure was a boy his size, jumping up and down like a pogo stick.

Peter.

He tugged at Roland's collar, jerked him back through the door.

“You see that?” Roland whispered and stuck his head back in. Johnny hesitated a moment and then took another look.

The whole scene looked like something he might expect from a dream—a nightmare or a scene from an MTV music video—but this wasn't any of those. This was Peter and his father and Chris Ingles in the Starlight Theater in Paradise, Colorado, population 450. Writhing to headbanging music. And by the looks of it, they'd been at it awhile.

The ax man, Chris Ingles, spun and let loose a scream. He jumped from the stage, swung his ax above his head like a tomahawk, and took a swipe at one of the toppled theater seats. The chair cracked and flew across the room. Chris let out another whoop and resumed his lurching dance in front of the stage.

The smaller form—Peter—scooped up a bottle at his feet, cocked his arm back like a pitcher, and hurled the object at the television set. With a loud pop the tube exploded. Just like that,
boom
, and the room fell into darkness and total silence.

A flame from a lighter flickered to life, highlighting Claude Bower's sweaty face. The three stood dumbstruck, arms hanging limp, chests rising and falling.

“Who did that?” Claude asked with a heaving voice.

Peter took a step back.

“You do that, Peter?” Claude spoke as if the boy had just slapped him for no reason. “What . . . what you do that for?”

Johnny could hear his own breathing now. He shut his mouth and drew air through his nose. They should have left already, but Johnny teetered in that awful place between
must
run and
can't
run.

Claude stared at his son through the wavering flame, and for a moment Johnny thought he might actually take after him.

Then he did. He shrieked obscenities and lunged forward.

Peter spun and let out a yelp. He took three steps before his father's hand caught him and together they tumbled to the floor, crushing the lighter's flame under them. The room went black. Piercing shrieks echoed through the theater.

Roland bolted forward. “You sick son of . . .”

Johnny swiped at him, grabbing shirt, then air.

The room was too dark to see Roland running, and Peter's wails covered the sound of his feet.

Now Johnny was faced with another critical decision: to save Roland from sharing Peter's fate or to make a quick escape now, while he could.

He took off after Roland.

Problem was, he couldn't see.

And then he could. Light flared from a rag Chris Ingles had stuffed into a bottle. Johnny heard the sound of swishing liquid.

Johnny pulled up a third of the way down the right aisle. Roland took three more steps, placing him near the front. He slid to a stop.

Claude must have seen the boy, because he froze, fist raised over Peter, head turned toward the auditorium.

The intrusion seemed to disorient Claude. Chris Ingles was a statue—legs spread wide, torch licking the air beside his face, eyes ogling Roland.

Johnny and Roland were rooted in the aisle.

Peter wailed.

Claude released his son and stood up. Peter was still screaming bloody murder. Claude slapped his head with an open hand. “Shut up.”

Peter whimpered and then shut up. Out of obedience or unconsciousness, Johnny couldn't tell.

Claude stepped over his son's body. “You guys bring anything?”

What?

“Yeah, we're looking for more stuff,” Chris said.

“You have a TV?” Claude asked.

“Yeah, do you have a TV?” Ingles repeated.

Claude looked at Roland. “How about the TV from your dad's bar. You think he'd mind if we borrowed it?”

Roland wasn't responding.

“Listen, you little creep!” Ingles snapped.“He's asking you a question. It's a simple question. Just answer the stupid question, you dope. If you don't tell us, we're going to come down there and slap some sense into you. So shut your trap and just tell us what—”

“Shut up, Chris,” Claude said.

Ingles looked at the big Swede. “I was just—”

“I said, shut up!” He was yelling. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Chris looked like he'd been slapped. He swallowed. “Sheesh. I'm trying to get us a TV. If you want—ahhh!” Ingles screamed and jerked his hand from the bottle which had evidently gotten hot enough to burn him. The flame blinked out when the bottle hit the floor.

Darkness.

Johnny ran forward, grabbed Roland by his shirt, and tugged. “Come on,” he whispered.

“Get that light back on!” Claude thundered.

“I burned my hand.”

“It's dark,” Peter said.

Johnny ran for the thin crack of light below the exit door. He slammed into the door. Yanked it open.

Claude yelled behind them. “Hey!”

They rushed through the service hall, crashed through the plank and out of the theater into the wind.

Johnny rounded the corner and pulled up, panting.

Roland looked back the way they'd come. “You see him hit Peter?” A crooked smile nudged his lips.

“You find that funny?”

“What
are they doing?”

Good question. Or rather, why were they trashing the theater and going nuts over that television? It was crazy, plain and simple.

“What are we going to do?” Roland asked when Johnny didn't respond.

“I don't know. Maybe we should go get some help.”

“How?”

A bang sounded inside the theater. Johnny glanced back. Coast was still clear. He headed for the street.

“Where you going?”

“Home. I have to get my mom up.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE MONASTERY

Friday morning

SAMUEL STARED out of his father's study window at the black clouds roiling over the small town far below. “All because of one silly boy,” he said.

“Not one silly boy,” his father said.

Samuel turned, arms clasped behind his back. “Billy and Darcy. Two.”

Dark rings circled his father's eyes, and his flesh seemed to sag around his cheeks. Samuel had never seen his father in such a state. He wanted to run over and hug him.

“Billy's called for a debate.”

His father exposed his true concern, something he would guard even from the teachers. But he trusted his son, which made Samuel proud. “You yourself said that you expected it, Father. You told me that a month ago and again, last week, when Marsuvees Black left us. But you were sure that the power we have would all play to our advantage. You still believe that, don't you?”

David stared past him, his gaze distant and aimless. Samuel noticed that they were both standing with hands clasped behind their backs. Like father, like son.

“Yes,” David said. “I've staked everything on that belief. You're right, the power in this place has always threatened to wreak havoc. And I've always believed good would prevail—it's why I left the university after your mother's death. But what if I'm wrong? And if I'm right, what will the cost be?”

Samuel walked up to his father and took his hand. When David had taken him for a long walk behind the monastery three days earlier and told him what was happening, without even the teachers' knowledge, Samuel thought his father was playing some sort of game with him. It took a full twenty-four hours for the implications to settle in. Billy had no real idea what he'd done.