Showdown (3 page)

The man wiped his own eyes as if brushing away tears and adjusted his collar. “Now I have their eyes,” he mumbled. He turned to his left and strode toward Steve Smither's saloon.

The black-clad stranger had taken three steps when he stopped and turned back to Johnny, who was still fixed in shock. For one horrifying moment Cecil believed the stranger was considering another victim.

“You ever see a trick like that, boy?”

Johnny couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to.

The stranger winked, spun on his heels, and walked toward the saloon.

The pain was back. It washed over Cecil's cranium and spread like a fire, first through his eyes and then directly down his back.

Oh, God Almighty, help me!

Cecil's world began to spin in crazy circles. From somewhere in the dark he heard a
thump
echo through his mind.
My book
, he thought
. I've dropped
my book again.

JOHNNY CRINGED in horror. He gaped at the stranger, who appeared frozen on the steps to Smither's Saloon. Everything had stopped. Everything except for his heart, which was crashing in his ears.

The saloon door slammed.

He tore himself from the bench, tripped on a rock, and sprawled to the dirt. Pain knifed into his palm. He scrambled to his feet and spun. The old man was slumped on the bench, eyes closed, mouth open.

“Cecil?” Johnny whispered. Nothing. A little louder. “Cecil!”

He stepped forward cautiously, put a hand on Cecil's knee, and shook it. Still nothing.

Johnny lifted a trembling thumb to the old man's left eye and pulled up the eyelid. Cecil's blue eyes, not the stranger's black eyes.
And there was no blood.

He released the eyelid and stood back. It occurred to him that Cecil's chest wasn't moving. He leaned forward and put his ear against his shirt. No heartbeat.

He bolted, nearly toppling again, and ran for home, ignoring the pain in his leg.

CHAPTER TWO

PARADISE

Wednesday

STEVE SMITHER stood behind his cherry bar and polished a tall Budweiser glass. Paula Smither, his wife, sat at the end of the bar, next to Katie Bowers and the minister's secretary, Nancy. Behind the women, Chris Ingles and his friend Mark had herded six others into a poker game. Waylon Jennings's mournful baritone leaked out from the old jukebox. But it wasn't the poker or the beer or the music that had brought the crowd today.

It was the fact that the town's one and only mayor/marshal, Frank Marsh, had run off with his “secretary” three days ago.

Katie Bowers pulled a string of gum from her mouth, balled it into a wad, and dropped it into the ashtray. She lifted her beer and glared at Steve. Strange how a pretty valley girl like Katie, who wore her makeup loud and talked even louder, could be so unattractive.

Katie set her bottle down. “Lighten up, Paula. It's not like we haven't been here before.”

“That was different,” Paula shot back.

“Was it?” Katie glanced at Steve. “Be a doll and give us some peanuts.”

“She's right, that was different,” he said, reaching under the counter for the Planters tin. The air had thickened with the last exchange.

Katie's husband, Claude Bowers, spoke without looking at his wife. “Go easy, Katie. It's not like
nothing
happened here.” The huge Swede sat at the bar, running his forefinger around the rim of his mug.

“Oh, lighten up. I'm not actually endorsing what he did. I'm just saying that it's not that big a deal, and I think most of us agree. Last I heard, 50 percent of marriages in this country end in divorce. So that's the world we live in. We might as well get used to it.” She took another sip of her beer and dipped her hand into the peanut bowl.

Steve caught his wife's eyes and winked. She might not be as slender as Katie, or have her magazine looks, but to him Paula was the prettier woman by far. They met in high school, two immigrants trying to make their way in a country insensitive to both of them. The Colorado mountains proved to be the perfect refuge for their wild romance.

“Frank didn't do anything right by Cynthia,” Steve said.

That silenced them for a moment.

“Well, as far as I'm concerned, it takes two,”Katie said. “I doubt Cynthia's totally innocent in all this. What goes around, comes around.”

Paula stared Katie down. “How can you say that? Cynthia's only crime is that she's twenty years older than that bimbo Frank ran off with. And what about little Bobby? He's seven, for heaven's sake! What did he do to deserve this?”

“What did Johnny Drake do to deserve the scandal his mother caused?”

Steve glanced at Nancy and rolled his eyes. “What's Stanley saying about this?”

“Yeah,”Katie said with a twinkle in her eye. “What's good old Stanley say about all this?”

Nancy shrugged, making her heavyset body jiggle. “Not much. Life can be rough.”

Steve could have told them that much. It was a stupid question, all things considered.

“All I'm saying is we shouldn't get our panties in a wad as if this thing's the black plague sent by God to punish our little village,” Katie said.

Chris and Mark both broke into a chuckle.

Steve walked over to Paula and kissed her on the forehead. “It'll be okay,” he said softly. Their eyes met and Paula softened. She always defended victims and underdogs, regardless of the cause.

The screen door creaked open and then slammed shut.

Steve turned, grateful for the interruption. A stranger stood at the door, eyeing the room.

“Afternoon,” Steve said.

The stranger was dressed in a crisp black getup that looked like it had come off a Macy's rack only this morning. Clean-cut. A bit like Johnny Cash. Waylon Jennings ended his song on a sad note, and the jukebox hissed silently.

The man removed his hat and shed his coat. What was he doing wearing a coat in the middle of summer anyway? And a black coat at that.

The man threw his coat over a chair and stepped up to the bar. Strong, sharp, tanned face. “You wouldn't happen to have a drink in this place, would you?”

“Last time I checked,” Steve said with a grin.

The stranger slid onto a stool two down from Claude and smiled warmly. “Good. Soda water will be fine.”

Steve dug a bottle from the ice chest, popped its cap under the bar, and slid it to the man. “One dollar,” he said.

The others stared at the stranger, and although the poker game continued, Steve doubted the players were as fixed on their cards as a moment ago. It wasn't every day that a character like this walked into town.

A pool ball clicked across the room. The stranger tossed a silver dollar onto the counter. “So. This is Paradise.” He shoved a hand toward Steve. “Name's Black,” he said.“Marsuvees Black. You can call me Preacher if you want.”

Steve took the hand. A preacher, huh? Figured. A preacher named Black dressed like an urban cowboy. A cowboy with blue eyes rimmed in red as if they hadn't slept in a while.

“Smither. Steve Smither. So where you headed, Preacher?”

The preacher took a sip of the water and followed it with a satisfied
aaahh.

“Well, I'm headed here, Steve. Right here to Paradise, Colorado.” He set the bottle on the bar. “Funny thing happened to me this afternoon.”

Black looked at Paula and Katie for a moment and then shifted his gaze to the poker players, who ignored the cards for the moment and returned his stare.

“I was coasting down the highway with my window rolled down, enjoying the mountain air, thinking how blessed I was to have a life filled with hope and grace when,
pow
, the engine bangs in front of me and the front wheels lock up solid. By the time I get Mr. Buick over to the shoulder, she's smokin' like hell's gateway. Motor was gone.”

The preacher took another swig from the bottle of soda and swallowed hard. The room listened. No one bothered to restart the jukebox.

“Soon as I climbed out, I knew it was God,” Black said.

Steve felt a burning in his ear at the word. Not that there was anything unusual about the word
God
in Paradise. Practically the whole town packed the Episcopal church every Sunday. But the way the theatrical man
said
the word sent waves of heat through Steve's ears. Formal and hollow, like it came from a deep drum.
Gauuwwdd.

“God?” Steve said.

The preacher nodded. “God. God was saying something. And the second I saw the sign that my '78 Buick had nearly run over, I knew what he was saying.”

Black lifted the bottle to his lips again. Steve glanced at Claude and smiled one of those can-you-believe-this-guy smiles. “And what was that?”

“The sign said,
Paradise 2 Miles
. And then the voice popped in my head.
Go 2 Paradise
, it said.” Black drew a two in the air as he spoke. “Bring grace and hope to the lost town of Paradise.”

Steve picked up another glass and rubbed it with the towel at his waist. Grace and
hope. Paradise had enough religion for a town twenty times its size. The church already dominated the community's social life.

The man named Marsuvees Black drilled Steve with a blue stare. “But there was more,” he said.

Steve felt his gut tighten at the look and stopped rubbing the glass.

“God said he'd give us a sign.” Black reached over to the peanut bowl without removing his eyes from Steve and brought a nut to his lips.

“A sign?”

“A sign. A wart. A man with a wart. Said there's something ugly hidden under this town's skin. Said I was to bring grace and hope with a capital
G
and a capital
H
.”

Steve looked at the others. They were no longer smiling, which was odd, because he figured Chris at least would be snickering. But there was something in Black's voice. Something like Freon, chilling to the bone. Paula and Katie sat wide-eyed now. Claude fidgeted. By the pool table, Case Donner leaned on his stick and stared at Chris.

Black looked at the poker table. “Any of you have a wart?”

Mark smiled and uttered a nervous chuckle. He shifted his gaze to Chris, wooden next to him.

“No?” The preacher popped another peanut into his mouth and crunched down. “None of you has a wart over there?”

Still no response. Steve felt his heart pick up its pace.

“How about you there?” Marsuvees asked, nodding at Chris. “You sure you don't have a wart behind your right ear?”

Chris opened his mouth slowly, and Steve believed that the man had a wart precisely where the stranger suggested. He turned back to Black, who continued chewing on a peanut.

“No? Well, I know it's there. A redhead with a wart. That would be the sign. Now, if you're not a redhead with a wart, I'll eat my hat and walk right out of here.”

Chris sat dumbfounded.

“This is your day,” Black said. “Because there's always two sides to a sign. My side and your side. For me to know that God did indeed bring me to Paradise, and for you to know that I was sent.” The man stood from his stool and strolled toward Chris.

“Do you mind if I touch it?” Black asked softly.

“Touch it?” Chris stammered.

“Yes, touch it. Do you mind if I touch the wart behind your ear?”

Chris swung his stricken eyes to Steve, but Steve felt just as much surprise. For a while they held their places, frozen in the scene, totally unprepared for this surreal script. All except the preacher. He seemed to know how this play would end.

“It's okay.”He placed a gentle hand on Chris's right shoulder and brushed imaginary dandruff from the blue mechanic's shirt that read
Chris
over the left pocket. “I can help you. A sign, remember?” And then he reached for Chris's ear like a magician doing a disappearing coin trick. His fingers brushed the side of Chris's skull, just behind his right ear. Black turned around, walked back to his stool, sat, and popped another peanut into his mouth.

“Now we will see what God meant when he said bring grace and hope to Paradise,” Black said. “You ready, Chris?”

The stranger faced the redhead. “Feel your head there, son.” Chris made no move.

“Go ahead, feel the wart.”

Now Chris raised a hand to his cheek and then let his fingers creep up behind his right ear, keeping his eyes on the preacher. He reached his ear. Felt behind.

His fingers froze.

“It's . . .”

Silence.

“It's what?” Steve asked.

“It's . . . it's gone.”

“What do you mean, it's gone?” Steve said.

“I swear. I had a wart here just like he said, and now it's gone!” Chris stared at the preacher with wide eyes.

Steve spun to the preacher, who was now grinning, big pearlies gleaming white. His front teeth gripped a single nut.

The glass in Steve's hand trembled. The brown knob between Black's teeth looked somewhat like a peanut, but he knew it couldn't be a peanut because peanuts did not bleed. And this thing was bleeding a thin trail of red down Black's lower teeth while the preacher sat there with his lips peeled back and his eyes wide, proudly displaying his catch.

To a person they all gaped at the man, slack-jawed.

Then, like a gulping fish, Black sucked the wart into his mouth, crunched twice deliberately, and swallowed hard.

He slowly surveyed the patrons, his eyes sparkling blue.
Face the music,
they were saying.
This is how you do grace and hope. You got a problem with
that? Well, suck it up. I'm the real thing, honey.

And he was, wasn't he? He had to be.

“Am I getting through?” Black scanned the crowd.

“God have mercy,” Katie Bowers muttered.

“
God
is right, my sweetness. The rest we'll see about. Now that I have your attention, I'm going to make a demand. With this kind of power comes great responsibility—I'm sure you understand. My responsibility is to make sure that each and every one of you, those here and those not here, attend tonight's meeting.”