Showdown (35 page)

“Call out to them,” Thomas said.

“Just call out?”

“Don't tell them I'm here. Just try to get a response so we know who we're dealing with.”

Pretty smart. “Anybody in there?”

“Down here! Help me!” a muffled voice cried. Johnny could swear he'd heard that voice a thousand times.

Thomas cocked an eyebrow.

“I'm not sure,” Johnny said.

“Try again.”

He did. This time he knew the voice. Knew it because he
had
heard it a thousand times. Stanley Yordon was back in town.

“It's . . . I'm pretty sure it's the preacher.”

“Black?”

“No, Father Yordon. He must have come back last night.”

Thomas twirled his gun. Caught it snug. He shot without aiming.

The gun boomed and bucked in his hand. Johnny flinched.

When he looked back, the Master lock was gone. It lay twisted and broken on the floor near the back door.

Thomas raised his foot and nudged the burnt door. It creaked inward.

Stanley Yordon bolted from the dark pit. His foot caught on a burnt two-by-four, and he sprawled across the floor with a loud grunt.

Yordon pushed himself up and attempted to brush himself off. Soot streaked the man's face. And his hand . . .

Yordon followed Johnny's stare to his right hand. A single splinter the size of a ball-point ink refill ran out from under his index fingernail.

The man's hand began to tremble and he grabbed it to hold it still. “Oh, dear God!”

Thomas reached out and placed a comforting arm on Yordon's shoulder. “Tell you what, Father.” He took Yordon's hand in his own. “I'm going to have to”—before the trembling man knew what was happening, the cop yanked the stick—“pull this out.”

Yordon stared at his hand in shock. Then he did a strange thing for someone as uptight and highbrow as he tried to make himself out to be. He rested his head on the cop's shoulder and began to cry in earnest. For a full minute he sobbed into the officer's uniform, and Thomas just patted his back, like a father comforting a baby. No soothing words, thank goodness. That would definitely be out of character.

As soon as Johnny had completed the thought, Thomas said, “That's it, Stanley, just let it all out.”

He looked at Johnny and raised a brow.

Johnny shook his head.
No, Thomas, not cool.

Yordon quieted. He backed away from Thomas, cleared his throat, and lifted his head. “Sorry.”He straightened his shirt. “Sorry, I don't know what came over me.”

“You want to tell us who threw you in the cellar?” Thomas asked.

“Claude,” he answered. “Claude Bowers, his son, Peter, and Chris Ingles.”

“They're the ones who gutted the theater,” Johnny said.

“Okay. What say we go around this town and round up some crazies,” Thomas said with a wink. “It's time to show them who's boss.”

Johnny grinned. He was feeling like a kid again.

AFTER SENDING Stanley Yordon home to collect himself, Thomas demanded his partner—that would be Johnny—lead him to the Bowerses' residence.

Claude's door was open, but the top floor was empty. Thomas headed for the basement with Johnny cautiously behind. The cop descended the stairs in silence, peering around the corner. A grin nudged his lips. He stepped into the basement, withdrawing both guns. Legs spread, guns cocked, Thomas faced the dim light beyond.

Johnny eased down the steps and craned his neck around the corner for a view.

Claude, Chris, Peter, and seven or eight other crazies were packed into the stuffy basement. They slouched like strung-out vampires, heads propped up, eyes drooping or closed. If they noticed the cop in the doorway, they didn't show it.

“Rise and shine!” Thomas yelled.“Morning is here.”

Like a turtle watching a passing seagull, Claude Bowers turned his head toward the sound. His glassy, bloodshot eyes were only half-open.

The thought processing slowly in that thick head must have registered the sum of the matter, because his eyelids snapped open and he sat up straight.

“Hi, Claude,” Thomas said.

The big man's upper lip lifted in a snarl. The others rustled around him, like bats waking from their slumber.

Thomas leveled his revolver at Claude's head. Then he brought it back to his ear quickly, paused, and leveled it again. He repeated this twice. Why, Johnny had no idea.

“Get up, Claude. Drop the bottle and put your hands on your head.” Thomas leveled his second gun. “The rest of you too. Hands on your heads.”

Most rose slowly to their feet. Two remained slumped in their chairs.

Claude eyed the gun without moving. Johnny watched his chest rise and fall. The man's upper lip glistened with sweat and twitched periodically, as if his circuits might be shorting.

And he wasn't putting his hands on his head. On the contrary, Johnny thought he might throw himself at Thomas and beat him to a pulp. He was twice the cop's size.

Thomas motioned to the two crazies who hadn't responded. “Rise and shine. Up.”

Chris kicked his boot into the men's sides. “Get up you lazy vomit bags.” A faint smile crossed his lips as the two men groaned. He didn't seem bothered by Thomas's interruption at all. Too wasted to realize what was happening, maybe.

A grunt from the left signaled Claude's charge. He moved quickly for a man his size.

Thomas didn't move. He'd offered half of his back to the Swede by turning to the two men who now struggled to their feet. Johnny watched the scene unfold with a knot in his throat.

Claude thundered forward, a runaway train.

Thomas still didn't seem to notice.

At the last possible instant, just before Claude's lowered head reached Thomas's, the cop dropped to a crouch and threw one leg forward for balance. He lifted his shoulders as Claude's knees struck him, then stood and sent the Swede catapulting headlong over him.

Claude struck the wall like a battering ram. The Swede dropped on the carpet, unconscious. Maybe dead.

Thomas waved his gun at the others, still ignoring Claude. “The first man who lowers his hands gets a bullet in the knee. You all hear that? I want you to nod if you understand me. No need getting your knee blown off just because you're too wasted to hear me.”

They all nodded except for the two who'd just stood.“You two understand? You drop your hands and I'll blow your kneecaps off. Nod if you understand.”

They nodded.

“Okay, let's all take a little trip together.”

Thomas reached down, withdrew a smaller pistol from his boot, and handed it to Johnny. “Stand at the top of the stairs. If any of these men makes a move on me, you pull that trigger. Can you do that?”

Johnny took the revolver carefully, feeling the cold stainless steel in his hands. He'd shot a gun plenty of times, but not like this. Did Thomas really expect him to kill someone? Samuel would never go for that.

“You mean kill them?”

“If you have to.”

Samuel would never suggest he kill anyone. Which must mean that Thomas, although inspired and directed by Samuel, could work on his own as well. Did Samuel know this?

Johnny looked at Claude. “What about him?”

Claude's face was turned to one side and his lips were smashed up into his cheeks. Thomas knelt and raised one of Claude's eyelids. He slapped Claude's cheek. The man groaned and moved his arms and legs, then lay still.

“Wake
up, Claude,” Thomas said. “Get your lard-self off the ground.”

The big Swede struggled to his knees, then stood unsteadily.

“Let's go. Up the stairs. Hands high.”

Johnny scrambled up the stairwell.

The sun was out, the wind was down, and they were locking up the bad guys. It was going to be a good day.

One by one they plodded past the cop and climbed the stairs. It took five minutes to march them single file to the church, where Thomas ushered them into the kitchen. He and Johnny removed the knives and other sharp instruments from the drawers and backed to the door.

“Try not to kill each other in here. And get some sleep.” Thomas locked the door.

“So you think that'll hold them?”

“It's a steel door, it'll hold them,” Thomas said.

“Now what?”

“More. We need more.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE MONASTERY

Sunday afternoon

SAMUEL SKIPPED down the hall, mouth spread in an open smile, taking in so much air with each breath that he thought he might choke on it. It had been a good day.

He had to tell Christine and Tyler, who were waiting in the library. Everything was going to be okay now. He had written Thomas into Paradise, and he was sure that Paradise held the key to break the power that now gripped the other students' minds. Billy didn't seem to know what to do about Thomas, and Marsuvees Black was evidently frightened off by the presence of a real cop. This had to mean that neither was wise to the fact that Thomas was fictional.

Samuel had shown his father the pages he wrote, and his father walked to the cupboard with a fresh excitement. He pulled out a tall flask, lifted it triumphantly into the air.

“A toast!”

“A bit premature, isn't it?” Andrew said.

“Every good thing is worthy of celebration,” his father said, pouring the liquid into crystal glasses. He winked at Samuel.

It had been a good day indeed.

Samuel rounded the corner into the library, heard sudden cries of rage, and stopped.

Billy!
Two thoughts collided:
I must help Billy! Thank goodness he's here
. And
Billy! Oh no, not Billy!

The monastery's main library was appropriately named
The Field of
Books
. Scores of bookcases were arranged in a natural setting, complete with a grassy lawn, trees, and flower gardens. High above, a domed ceiling allowed light to flood the lawn.

Samuel walked around the peripheral bookcases and saw seven or eight students by the tall oak tree arguing among themselves. He quickly scanned the library—Christine and Tyler weren't here.

Billy and Darcy yelled and waved accusing arms at a group of six children who stood with slumped shoulders. Only Billy's red hair and scratchy voice identified him clearly. Large red and blue blotches covered the boy's puffy face. His bare arms were lumpy with sores. The disease was so advanced!

Samuel was overcome by an urge to run down the hill and throw his arms around the boy.
Come back, Billy
, he would say.
It's okay, we love you, Billy.

He leaned against the bookcase as grief swept over him. Tears slipped down his cheeks despite his best effort to hold them back.

He took a deep breath, sniffed,wiped his sleeve across his eyes, and pushed off the bookcase. Well, Thomas had cleaned up Paradise. Now Samuel would clean up Billy.

He was halfway to them when Billy saw him and stopped his arguing midsentence, right arm still outstretched toward one of the boys.

Don't run, Billy. Please don't run
.

Billy did not run, maybe could not run. If the sores didn't hamper his movement, the shock at seeing Samuel must have, because he didn't even find the presence of mind to drop his arm.

The others faced Samuel, one by one. Their faces were as disfigured by boils as Billy's. They'd smeared that gel over their entire bodies, including hair and clothes. Darcy stood by Billy's side staring at Samuel, hands on hips.

He came within ten feet of the group and stopped. An odor that reminded him of sewer water wafted through the air, and he shortened his breathing to keep from blanching in front of them.

“Hey, Billy.”

The redhead dropped his arm and narrowed his eyes but didn't respond.

“What are you doing here?” Darcy asked.

Samuel wondered if she had assumed leadership of the group. “I live here, remember, Darcy?” He paused. “You guys getting enough to eat?”

It sounded dumb really, pretending nutrition was a matter of concern considering their present condition. Asking whether they had taken a bath lately might be more appropriate. “We have plenty to eat in the cafeteria, you know.”

“Shut up, Samuel!” Darcy snapped. “Billy won the debate, not you.”

Billy just stood there, lost.

“How about you, Billy? Is there anything I can get for you?” Sure it sounded ridiculous, but he meant it. “Those sores look like they hurt. Maybe we should get you some medical help. I'm sure we have some medicine in the infirmary that would help.”

“Shut up, Samuel!” Darcy said again. “Just shut up!”

Billy finally broke his stare and glanced at Darcy. “Yeah, shut up, Samuel.”

Samuel nodded and felt pity rising in his throat again. “We miss you, Billy,” he said. “I miss you. I wish you would just come back before anything really bad happens.”

“Anything really bad?” Billy said. “And what's really bad, Samuel?”

“Lots of things. You don't look so good. The whole project is being threatened. Paradise is having some problems.”

“Paradise is having some problems,” Darcy mocked, wagging her head. “What do you know about Paradise anyway?”

He shouldn't have brought it up. “Then let's talk about you. You look like you're in a lot of pain.”

“Who said anything about pain?” Billy asked. “We have everything we need, and if you were smart you would quit bugging us here and have a look yourself.”

“What kind of salve is that, Billy?”

Darcy answered again. “None of your business. This is our worm paste, and it's none of your stinking business what it is, you understand? So quit bugging us!”

“Worm paste? Does it help the pain?”

“No, we're just wearing the stinking stuff 'cause we can't find our coats. Of course it does! So just quit bugging us.” The eloquent, polished Darcy he once knew so well had regressed. She was speaking like a seven-year-old brat. But at least she was talking.