Showdown (40 page)

He turned to the book's first page. An entry about Thomas Hunter stared up at him. Next page.

Christopher's childish handwriting. Several entries. One about a desk and one about a cat and a dozen others that looked like experimental entries testing the book's limitations.

Next page. The entry about the books going into hiding.

Another page. Here. Two entries in his own, though much younger, handwriting.

The first entry limited the books to the residents of the monastery and clarified the way the books must lead to love. . . .
which is written by any person
not currently residing in the monastery at this time, and/or which does not
lead to the discovery of love will be powerless. This rule is irrevocable.

The second entry. He read it quickly.

Samuel settled into his father's chair. He reread the entry. Again. And he knew he'd found the key.

Samuel returned the volume to its place on the upper shelf. He set the chair as he'd found it and left the office.

He could hear Raul's voice at the conference-room door when he laid his hand on the doorknob. He paused and listened, calming his nerves.

“You have to call the authorities, David. The project has failed! Samuel could write ten Thomases into Paradise without a guarantee that Black wouldn't string up every single one of them. It's over!”

“We're beyond the authorities,” his father said.“How
do you suppose they'll deal with Marsuvees Black? He's beyond the reach of ordinary mortals!”

“Then what?”

“We have to trust the books.”

“There's no one left to write in the books! The rest of the children have fallen.”

“There is
Samuel
to write in the books!” his father's voice boomed. They were desperate—all of them. Even his father. Especially his father.

Samuel pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Seven of the overseers were gathered around his father. All turned to look at him when the door opened.

He shut the door and faced them.“Marsuvees Black is in the dungeons,” he said.

“He's left Paradise?” Andrew asked.

“He never left the monastery. At least not for long. The one in Paradise is Billy's creation, inspired by the real Marsuvees Black.”

Raul struck the table with his fist. “I knew it! Billy would never have gone below without being lured down by that monster!”

“You're sure about this, Samuel?” his father asked.

“I'm sure.”

“Then we have to stop him!” Raul said. “That could be the key!”

“It's the students who are writing, not Marsuvees,” David said. “I'm not sure stopping him a week ago would have helped. Billy made his own choice. He's the one who holds the power.”

Raul stood and paced behind his chair. “What was the man thinking? What does he stand to gain by doing this?”

“That should be obvious,”Andrew answered.“He found David's journal and learned about the history books' power. God only knows how long he walked these halls with that knowledge before deciding to use the books. But to do so he needed the children. I argued six months ago that he should be replaced. As I recall, Raul, you stood with David in suggesting that the students were old enough to consider a few alternative ways of thinking.”

“Marsuvees never suggested open rebellion!” Raul said. “The children had to start drawing lines for themselves—better here than out there!” He threw his hand toward the window.

“Enough,” David said. “This gets us nowhere. We'll deal with Marsuvees later. The students are our concern now. And Paradise.”

“But knowing that Marsuvees has been complicit may help us to determine their objective,” Raul said. “Where does Billy hope to take this story of his?”

Andrew shook his head slowly. “Can you imagine the power someone like Marsuvees Black would have if he could control the books?”

“You can't control the books,” Raul said. “It's the children you have to control. Where's Billy taking this story?”

“I don't think Billy knows,” Samuel said, moving to his father's end of the table. “Marsuvees may, but Billy and the others are writing for the thrill of it. If you had any idea how it feels . . .”He looked at them, wondering if they could understand. “The power to do what you want is nearly irresistible,” he said. “Pure free will, with the power to back it up. It's like a drug.”

Several of them nodded.

“Then you're saying that Billy writes just because he can,” Andrew said. “Literally. He has no ambition except to write until the desire for it begins to burn him. If that's the case, his passions will be insatiable. He'll go from destroying things to killing things. People. And when he's done with Paradise, he'll move on. To what town? Or what country? We must stop him!”

Mark Anthony spoke. “As I see it, there is no way to stop him.”

No one argued this time, not even David.

“I have a plan.”

They all looked at Samuel.

“We have to get to Billy, or you're right, he won't stop. The key to Paradise is Billy. Are we agreed to that?”

“Go on,” David said.

“The key to Paradise is Billy, but the key to Billy is Paradise. Or more precisely, the key to Billy is defeating him in Paradise. The only way to change Billy may be from within the story itself. That's why I sent Thomas, but Thomas failed because his power was limited to skills given to him by me. You're right, for every character that I write into Paradise, Billy can just write another character with the power to outwit or overpower my character.”

They watched him.

“But what if I could write another kind of character who has more power than any character Billy can ever write?”

“What do you mean?” Raul said. “You already tried that with Thomas.”

Samuel placed his hands on the back of a chair. “Thomas was fictional. A fictional character is once removed. I doubt he can act or feel on his own. But I think I can write a character who has the power to love and to affect love.”

“What kind of character?” his father asked.

“Me,” Samuel said. “I can write myself into Paradise, and I can give myself a power that not even Billy can overcome.”

They stared at him.

David stood. “You?”

Samuel exchanged a long look with his father.“A character based completely on me. A character that is a perfect representation of me in every way.”

“I still don't see how that is so different from Thomas,” Andrew said.

“Samuel will be a character that will do exactly what I would do, equipped with my feelings because I know myself and am myself,” Samuel said.“But he will also be more than me, because I'll give him a special power to blow Black back into the hole he came from.”He paused. “A superhero.”

“Do we know what happens if such a character is hurt?”

“What do you mean?”

“Could it backfire?”Andrew clarified. “If Marsuvees Black were killed in Paradise, would the real Marsuvees die here?”

Samuel hadn't thought about that. It didn't matter. He looked at his father, who was now staring at him with round eyes.

“We must trust the books, Father. You said it yourself. This story
will
lead to the discovery of love. If I can't affect Paradise this way . . . I'm not sure there
is
another way.”

“You realize you're the last student with the power to write love,” Raul said. “It is critical that nothing happen to you.”

Nausea stirred Samuel's stomach.

“Nothing will.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

PARADISE

Monday

JOHNNY REVIEWED the simple plan he and Samuel hatched before he left the monastery. Johnny would go to Paradise, take complete stock of the situation, and wait for the Samuel that Samuel would write behind the old theater.

Showdown at noon.

That was it. Johnny wanted more, but Samuel couldn't or didn't want to give him more. Johnny also wanted to wait for Samuel so they could go down together, but as Samuel pointed out, someone needed to make sure that Sally's life wasn't in danger.

Johnny would be the eyes on the ground. Again.

He reached the overlook and pulled up, panting. The sky was dark, very dark. Black was definitely back.

He looked down into Paradise.
The first thing he saw was the smoke, boiling to the sky. Not at an angle, whipped by wind, but straight up. That meant no wind. But this wasn't necessarily a good thing. It was more likely a condition that Billy needed to move his story forward.

His eyes followed the smoke down to a huge ring of fire on the ground, twice as wide as Main Street. It took Johnny a second to make out people through the cloud of smoke, but they were present, maybe half the town, standing around in no particular pattern, watching the fire.

Johnny dropped to one knee to give his right leg a rest. He didn't know what they were doing but one thing was clear—Billy's story was changing. Today was a day of firsts. First time for no wind while Black was in town, assuming Black still was in town. First time any of them had gathered outside around a ring of fire. First time they'd killed a man.

Johnny looked past the smoke toward the church. He could see the oak behind. No body. They'd taken the cop down.

A figure ran toward the fire. Too hard to see who. Johnny watched him cross the line of flame, take something from . . .

He saw the black-clad man in the middle of the ring for the first time. Marsuvees Black.

He handed a blazing torch to the runner, who then sprinted to the south. Toward the old theater. Smoke rose from the building twenty seconds later. They were torching the town?

Johnny stood to his feet. Was Samuel catching this?

The old Starlight Theater began to burn quickly. Flames licked at the roof and spread down the east wall. Johnny watched in wonder as the wood blazed with orange flames that rose three times the height of the building.

This was it. They were reducing Paradise to ashes. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn't just go down there and throw water on the fire.

Something on the theater's roof caught his eyes. It was something wrapped up, strapped to the top. Something the size of a body. Something like Thomas.

This was their funeral pyre!

Marsuvees Black was burning the cop's body and doing it with enough overkill to permanently impress the town.
Mess with me and I'll burn you
bad. Real bad. Real, real bad
.

In that case, they probably wouldn't burn the rest of the town. Indiscriminate burning would be too simpleminded for Billy. Then again, in his doped-up state, simpleminded might be just his ticket.

Johnny thought about turning around and running back up the mountain, but the only way he could really help Samuel was to stay here and take stock, as planned. It would be awhile before he could meet Samuel at the theater.

Johnny sat down, pulled his knees to his chest, and watched the Starlight burn.

Black was the first to leave, about twenty minutes later. He walked straight to the church, flung open the door, and entered. The people began to disperse then, in small groups, headed back to their homes or to various buildings to do only God knew what.

In the end only one small group remained. Had to be Claude and company. They hauled a car into the middle of Black's ring of fire, which had now smoldered to the east of the still-blazing theater. One of them threw something—a homemade bomb?—at the car. It burst into flames to the delight of several smaller figures in the group. Fred, Peter, Roland, and another kid.

Ten minutes later, they all left.

Johnny finally stood. He couldn't tell the time by the black sky, but if he figured things right—an hour up at daybreak, an hour at the monastery, a half hour to this point, another hour here—it was about midmorning. Samuel would come in two hours. Johnny gave himself a full sixty minutes to reach the town—no need to rush.

He could hear the dying flames crackling when he was still a good fifty yards this side of the meadow behind the old theater.

Then he was there, at the tree line, staring at the charred and burning remains of what used to be the old theater. No sign of anyone.

He hurried around the south edge of town, toward the alley that led to his house. Still no one. And still no wind. The trees were stripped bare of leaves, and the sand was still piled against the buildings. But something felt different.

Johnny stopped fifty feet from the convenience store. It was the sky. The sky wasn't as dark as it had been when he left the overlook.

Samuel?

Johnny felt a burst of courage and headed up the alley, watching left and right like a hawk.

Still not a soul.

He was supposed to be taking stock. There was nothing to take stock of. At least no people. Thank God.

Someone yelled somewhere, and Johnny dove behind someone's house. But it was distant, he quickly realized. Coming from inside a house where an argument had broken out. Maybe from the saloon. He hurried on.

Johnny entered his house from the back, listened for a moment, and sighed with relief. Not that he was safe here, but the familiar hall with its familiar silence was at least a good sign.

He checked his mother's room and found it empty. He donned the socks he'd left behind and found his shoes. Put them on.

Now what? The church? Not a chance. Black was in there.

Johnny stood in the hall for a full five minutes, trying to think things through, but he really didn't know what he could do short of running out into the street and yelling for Black to come and get him.

His vision blurred. The wall moved.

Billy.

Johnny pressed his palms against his temples and focused on an image of Samuel. The wall became still. Someone, maybe Billy himself, was sitting in that damp dungeon below the monastery, trying to break into his mind. He didn't know how it worked, but he knew enough for it to terrify him.