Showdown (31 page)

“It's my mom. She's . . .” He hesitated. “Black's after her.”

“You have to remember, we can't make people do things.”

“But can you help?”

He looked at the monastery and spoke as much to himself as to Johnny. “I'll talk to Christine and Tyler. They can help.” He slapped Johnny on the back. “Good idea. But you have to promise to talk to the whole town.”

“I will.”

Samuel grinned. “Prophet Johnny.”

“Trust me, I don't feel like a prophet.”

“I'll help you. Listen for me.”

“I'm counting on it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

PARADISE

Saturday night

TOTAL DARKNESS slid over Paradise early that night, before seven, which was abnormal this time of year. Clouds clamped down on the town like a blackened steel lid. Johnny looked for his mother when he stumbled into town at last light, but he couldn't find her.

He couldn't find anyone. No surprise.

He ran straight for the church with one thought on his mind: Black. He had to reach the church before Black did, so he could figure things out in his head before he did what he was about to do.

Which was what?

Johnny eased to a walk. Which was confronting Black head-on. Which was telling the whole town that they'd been deceived. Which was that the law was coming in force first thing in the morning.

Which was, having successfully completed his duties as prophet, to get to a safe place until morning.

He had rehearsed a hundred stinging one-liners while descending the mountain. He couldn't remember any at the moment, but they would come to him.

Johnny mounted the stairs, thankful that he'd beat the town to the service, assuming there was a service. If Billy found out what he and Samuel were up to, he might change things up on them.

He slid into the church and crept across the foyer to the auditorium doors. No sound. He nudged the doors open a crack, peered into the sanctuary, and caught his breath.

A sea of still heads faced an empty pulpit. Several dozen candles lined the stage. The sanctuary flickered in the shifting flames, absolutely silent.

Johnny felt his heart skip a beat and then knock into double time, just like that:
boom
, and then nothing, and then
boom-ba boom-ba boom!

All four-hundred-some residents sat in the pews, motionless, staring as though seated for a séance. He wanted to run from the church, but the scene glued his feet to the carpet. Nobody seemed to notice him. He craned for a better view.

Children sat obediently by their parents, legs hanging from the pews. No twitching here, much less running and screaming through the rows. For a brief moment Johnny wondered if they were all dead, stuck here in rows like trophies, forced to sit while Black force-fed them his twisted version of grace and hope.

He imagined Black standing tall behind the podium, a monk from Vegas doped up on worm sludge. His eyes were gone and his lips opened wide. His white face mouthed the word
hope
, only it came out long and raspy.

Hhouuuppe
.

His lower jaw fell from his face and gaped open to a black throat. His tongue wagged like a worm freshly yanked from the garden.

Johnny blinked and the image vanished.

A woman he recognized as Louise Timbers sat directly ahead of him in the last pew. Her blonde hair sat on her head like a twisted bird's nest, complete with pieces of straw and clumps of sand. Streaks of dried mud ran down her neck, disappearing below a blouse torn at the collar to reveal half of her left shoulder. A gash already scabbed over glared rusty red on her white skin.

They didn't all look as bad as Louise, but a lot did. The bad ones were here and there throughout the church, wearing sores like a new fad.

Johnny looked down the aisle where Claude Bowers sat next to Chris Ingles on the front pew. Peter and Fred sat on one side of them. Roland sat on the other. All five looked as if they had just engaged in hand-to-hand combat on a battlefield. Claude sagged in his seat, hands folded between his knees, mouth hanging open, spittle running down his chin.

Steve Smither sat with blood-spattered cheeks. He'd butchered a cow or something and not bothered to clean up. His wife, Paula, sat five rows behind and to his right. Unlike the others, she was cleaned up pretty, smiling at the empty podium. And beside her . . .

Sally. Even from this distance, Johnny could see that his mother was gone.

Johnny began to tremble with fear.

Crinkling paper disturbed the quiet, and Johnny glanced at the sound. Father Yordon's secretary sat at the far left, carefully unwrapping a Twinkie, shifting her eyes to see if anyone had heard that first loud tear. She wore a beard of blood, dried and cracking over her lips and chin.

The door to the church opened and a couple hurried in. The Jacksons, only they hardly looked
like the Jacksons. They walked by Johnny without noticing him and entered the sanctuary.

Johnny stood back from the sanctuary doors. Paradise was hell.

But Black hadn't taken the stage yet.

Prophet Johnny.

Now, Johnny. Do it now, before Black comes to feed them his lies
.

He had no choice. If someone didn't do something . . .

I'm with you, Johnny.

He took a deep breath and moved toward the door.

Another voice cackled in his mind.
Wanna trip, boy? How about a stake
between your toes? Or a new set of eyes?

His Adam's apple lodged in his throat, and he had to swallow to free it. He entered the sanctuary.

The people were like wooden dolls. The pulpit still stood vacant. The clock on the wall read 6:55.

I'm with you, Johnny.

A rattling chuckle echoed through his mind. Billy? Or Black.

Johnny forced his foot forward and lowered his head. He pushed himself up the aisle.

I can do this—it's just carpet passing under my feet, that's all. The church
is really empty and I'm just rehearsing graduation or something. And even if
it isn't really empty, the people in the pews aren't really looking at me. People
always think people are looking at them when they're not.

Then he reached the platform. He stepped up. The candles glowed bright in long rows—short candles, tall candles, some thin and some fat, all flickering on the platform.

Any minute now someone's going to yank me back by the shoulders.
A dizzying weakness washed over him, and for a moment he thought he was falling, but he grabbed the pulpit and held himself upright.

He pulled himself to the podium. Looked up.

He expected to see a thousand black holes staring at him. Instead he saw their eyes, blank, drained, and drooping. But eyes, not holes. They were all there staring at him, as if wondering what
he
was doing there.

Who is this interesting little boy in front of us? Some kid's up at the podium.
Isn't that Sally's kid? What's he doing up at the podium?

They looked half-dead, as if they'd all just spent two sleepless days harvesting fruit and hadn't bothered to wash before coming to church. The candles lit their pupils, hundreds of miniature flames flickering in their skulls.

Speak the truth, Johnny
.
Tell them.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Hey.” He immediately realized that only those in the first few rows could hear him. He shifted to his left and bent the microphone down.

“Hey”—his voice rang out over the speakers—“has anyone noticed that something strange is happening in Paradise?”

Not a soul moved.

“Has anybody noticed that the town is falling apart? The wind blowing without moving the clouds? The dust piled high like in a desert? People acting strange?”

“Yeah,” a voice said.

Johnny looked toward the back. Old Man Peterson stood. The man wasn't like the others. “I've noticed all right,” the man croaked. “Someone did some damage all right.”

“Shut up, Bo,” a woman said from across the auditorium. “Sit down and shut up.”

A cackle rippled through the crowd. Old Man Peterson sat.

I believe, Johnny. Shout it from the rooftops.

In that moment, Johnny knew what he had to do. It didn't make any sense to him, and it had nothing to do with Bo or his wife yelling at him to shut up.

It was just for him. He needed strength.

Johnny clenched his eyes shut. “I believe,” he said. Then again, “I believe.

I believe.”

Louder, Johnny
.

He felt a dam burst in his chest. “I believe!” He screamed it with all of his might. “I believe. I believe!” His voice reverberated through the room. He opened his eyes. The congregation just stared at him. But it didn't matter now.

“Bo's right,” he said loudly. “Paradise is falling apart at the seams, and most of you are too blinded to see it.Wake up!”

“Hello, boy.”

Johnny froze. Black's voice, ahead and on the left. He scanned the pews. Marsuvees Black sat next to Steve, arms folded across his chest, grinning at Johnny.

Johnny gripped the podium to steady himself.

Black stood. “You think anyone here cares what a whippersnapper rabble-rouser says?”

Johnny spoke before he lost his nerve. “Say what you want, but you're not a prophet from God with a message of hope and grace. You're a monk from the Nevada desert full of death and destruction.”

Black took that in, and Johnny could see him change strategy on the fly, watched a new approach register on his bronzed face. The man stepped up to the platform and smiled sweetly at Johnny. Johnny thought Black might take his hand and pat it condescendingly.

“Death and destruction?”He swept a hand out at the crowd. “Do you see any death and destruction? No, you see a church full of souls who have tasted life and freedom like they've never tasted it before.”

Johnny looked down at Claude Bowers sitting like an overstuffed mummy with drooping eyes. A half-empty bottle nestled in his crotch. He didn't look a bit affected by Johnny's accusations. Nor did anyone else.

“I'll tell you what,” Black said.“Let's let the people tell us what they think.”

Black brought his hands together. A thick finger of blazing white light crackled to life on the ceiling. Johnny watched in amazement as it slowly elongated, reaching down about six feet, as if God himself had stuck his finger through the roof and was now pointing at the congregation.

The people craned their necks in wonder.

Black chuckled. “Belieeeeeve,” he said in a low, soft voice. He clapped his hands again.

A thunderclap shook the building from the inside out. The light ballooned and sent a jagged bolt of lightning to the floor. The lightning crashed into the aisle and was gone, leaving smoke from a six-foot hole in the carpet snaking toward a charred ceiling.

Cries of alarm erupted. Those who'd been dozing or even thinking of dozing were now on their feet, shouting in startled terror.

Marsuvees Black lifted both arms wide and pointed his chin to the ceiling. He sang one long note. The note grew and echoed and swallowed the church. The cries were overwhelmed and then silenced altogether. There was just Black on the stage with his one-note solo, inhumanly loud and deeply troubling.

At least for Johnny.

The rest seemed to find it calming.

Black ended abruptly and lowered his head, keeping his hands outstretched. “Do I have your attention? I think I do. Are you right, Johnny? Am I a demon from hell come to kill your old men?”

He snapped his fingers. Yellow flames hissed to life in each hand and licked six inches of air. “Or have I come to lick the fires of hell from your wounds with pleasure and grace, and with hope for more pleasure and grace?”

Black kept his eyes on the congregation and brought both hands to his face. He began to lick the fire with a long pink tongue. Faster, ravenous, sucking his fingers. It reminded Johnny of a dog going after meat. Black jabbed his right hand into his mouth, past the knuckles. The fire hissed out. He did the same with his left hand.

Black sighed with satisfaction, and then motioned
to the people with his wet hands.“You tell me. Have I come to kill you, or have I come to heal your wounds?”

“You've come to heal our wounds!” a voice called from Johnny's right. Katie stood. She looked as though she were going to a dance, all made up and pretty except for a few scratches on her face.

She winked at Black. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I've never felt more alive in all my life.”

But look at you, Katie! You're dying!
Johnny opened his mouth to say it when Steve jumped to his feet.

“We're being set free!” Steve yelled. “We're learning what it means to be alive. Nobody's going to take that from us. No one!”

A dozen excited parishioners stood to their feet with Steve, all speaking at once, shouting out their agreement in a muddled mess of noise.

Sally watched the whole thing with wide eyes. She seemed confused, caught between Black and her own son.

Johnny could hear Peter Bowers's high-pitched voice through the chorus of objections. “What do you know, Johnny, you little spineless wimp. We should chop off your thumbs, boy! Black's cool.”

“He's a liar!” Johnny shouted.

The room shut down. They seemed surprised that he was still up there, much less yelling at them.

Johnny forged ahead, as forcefully as he could. “The police are coming in the morning. I mean it; when they come, they'll put this all straight.”

“You lie, boy,” Black said in a low voice.

“If I'm wrong and they don't come, then string me up, for all I care. Chop off my thumbs, Peter. But I'm not wrong! You'll see. Thomas is coming. I promise you that.”

Black looked amused.

Outrage broke out again.

“Silence!” Black shouted. Those standing took their seats.