Showdown (44 page)

In so many ways, he wasn't him.

It was odd how the progression of evil worked. It always went from bad to worse, no matter how much mind he'd ever applied to the matter. And in the progression was a line which, if crossed, offered no retreat. He reached that line seven years ago, while he still worked in Vegas, but he'd turned and run into the desert for solitude and repentance.

This time he'd crossed the line. Now there was no turning back, any fool could see that. The strange thing was, he really didn't have any ambition to rule the world or wipe out the country or even Las Vegas, that beautiful den of iniquity that spoiled his soul to start with.

He'd joined Project Showdown because of its fantastic promise to test good against evil in the most unusual way. David Abraham had essentially created an incubator for good in these children, believing that if properly protected, good would prevail.

His whole life had been a raging battle between good and evil, and as far as he could see, evil, not good, always ended up on top. The pig always returned to its sty; dogs always lapped up their vomit.

But then he'd found the blank books and discovered the inscription that destined them for the purposes of love. After three months of careful deliberation,Marsuvees could not ignore his one and only conclusion: the books had been found by him, as by David, because he was
meant
to use them.

And how? To test good versus evil, naturally. To test the rule of good and evil that had waged eternal war in his own heart. If by their own irrevocable rule the books would lead to the discovery of love, then he would force their hands, so to speak.

He embraced evil with abandon, knowing that in the end he was really embracing love. Isn't that what the rule meant? If by his embrace of evil he could produce love, didn't that make evil itself a kind of good?

Yes! And a good thing too, because in these last two weeks he'd been once again reminded how much he loved evil. How delicious each terrible, wonderful, delightful act really was.

Why did evil always feel so good? Because evil was in fact a kind of love. True or not, he swam in the hope that it was more true than all the nonsense thrown his way over the past forty years.

Marsuvees stared at his fictional counterpart, who stood on the edge of the greenbelt staring at the now-deserted church across town. The charred remains of the old theater smoldered in the waning light off to their left. Marsuvees wasn't sure what Black had done to Samuel after the meeting, but he knew what had to be done now.

He walked toward Black. In all honesty, if his gamble paid off and evil did turn out to be a kind of good, then he was obligated to flex
the muscle of evil as much as possible, wasn't he? And he would have no problem doing so.

In the meantime, there was only one thing that stood in his way.

“So you came after all,” Black said without turning to him.

“Was there ever a doubt?”Marsuvees said.

“I never needed you,” Black said. “I have this under control.”

Amazing how perfectly Billy had formed the character. Black had developed his own idiosyncrasies in the last week, but most of him came from Billy. Or more accurately, from Billy's understanding of the monk named Marsuvees Black. Him. The boy was perceptive, rendering him with surprising accuracy—the mischievous grins, the arching eyebrows, the curvature of his fingers, even his accent.

“Didn't need me? You are me,”Marsuvees said.

“You mean my flesh?” Black jerked his head around and flashed a searing smile. He lifted his arm, bit deeply, and pulled a chunk of flesh from his hand like a wolf might pull the flesh from a fresh deer kill. He spit the hunk of meat at Marsuvees.

“Have a bite.”

Marsuvees sidestepped the flying flesh. The child in Billy had become part of Black. At this very moment, he wasn't sure if Billy had suggested to Black that he bite his own arm, or if Black had done it on his own.

He stepped up beside the character and stared ahead. Dusk was coming fast. By morning this would all be finished.

“You're sure you can do this?”Marsuvees said.

“You're insulting me?” Black asked.

“No, I just want to know. We have a lot riding on it.”

“We? I think you're assuming too much.”

“Without me, you have nothing. I've made sure of that. Only I have the knowledge required to take this further. And tonight I will extend my own power by having Billy write several far-reaching statements into the books.”

Black pulled a book from his pocket and lifted it up. “You mean the books like this one?”

He had one of the blank books?

Black grunted, replaced the book in his pocket, and faced the town.

Marsuvees would take care of the book later. The last thing he needed was this monstrosity running around with a book in his possession.

“When we're finished here, we'll hand the monks in the monastery the same fate and start over,”Marsuvees said. “Only this time it won't be a small town sitting conveniently at the bottom of the mountain.”

“It's been a real drag working with you,” Black said. Billy talking. “I have to be honest, although I had some respect for you in the beginning, I've come to hate you. Maybe it was the mask you insisted on wearing. Maybe it's the fact that you look like . . .” Black faced him, eyeball to eyeball, not a foot away. “Black.”

“Just remember who the real flesh is around here,”Marsuvees said.

“I'm not sure I like real flesh.” There was a glint in his eyes. If Marsuvees didn't know Billy's dependence on him better, he might suspect a foolish streak of murder in there.

Black sniffed. “Do I smell like that?”

“You smell like the sewer that you came . . .”

Black's right hand shot forward. Marsuvees felt the intense pressure before he felt the pain. He looked down, stunned.

Billy's character had thrust his hand through his midsection. The man's black-sleeved arm was buried up to the elbow in Marsuvees' gut.

Pain overtook him like a tsunami. He felt his body start to fold over the arm and it occurred to him that Black had shoved his hand right through his spine. It had to be broken.

Billy had knifed him with Black's arm! Or Black had done it on his own. Marsuvees tried to speak, but his facial nerves were paralyzed, and his head felt like it might explode. He could hear a loud thumping and then splashing. Blood, from the exit wound.

Black jerked his arm free.

Marsuvees buckled. He heard a chuckle.

Then his world went black.

CHAPTER FORTY

THE MONASTERY

Tuesday morning

GASPING FOR breath from the climb, Raul banged on David's door and then barged in without waiting for a response.

The rising sunlight burst through the window across the room. David lay on the bed, raising to his elbows, eyes wide and lost. Raul's banging had obviously aroused him from deep slumber.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I have news.”

David swung his legs to the floor. “News? Well, tell me.”

Raul hesitated. How could he say—

“Tell me!”

“I'm afraid it's not so—”

“Just tell me, man!”

Raul paused, terrified to speak. “Samuel has been taken. Or should I say the character that Samuel has written has been taken.”

“Taken? What do you mean,
taken
?”

“They have him. I . . . I don't know how. I can't seem to find Samuel in the—”

“Have they hurt him?” David stood.

Raul stepped back. “They used force. They had to restrain him.”

David's face washed white with shock.“My . . . my boy would never resist them!” He swallowed. “Did . . . did they hurt him?”

“Pardon me for saying, but he wasn't—”

“He's my son! Samuel didn't write a character. It's him down there!”

Raul stared at the director, aghast. Samuel himself had gone down? “How could . . .”

“It was the only way! He had to go himself. Have they hurt him?” David demanded.

David's erratic behavior earlier now made perfect sense. Raul wanted to fall down and beg David to end this madness, to save his son, to yank Billy from his tunnels and punish him so that he would never forget. But he knew they were past all that.

So, instead he nodded. Once.

For a moment David stood like stone. His face flushed and he began to quiver. His eyes glassed with tears that dripped straight down his cheeks and to the floor.

Then the father threw his hands to his face and wailed. “Oh, my son! Dear Father, have mercy on my son!”

He stepped across the room, blind to his steps, smothering his face with large hands. “No, no, no!”

Raul could hardly bear the sight.

“Jesus, our blessed Savior, have mercy. My son! How could they hurt you? How . . .”

He whirled to Raul, who jerked in fright. David's face twisted into a furious snarl.

“If they hurt a single hair on his body, I'll kill them!” he roared. “You hear me, man? I'll kill them all!”

Raul settled to one knee, waiting for David to collect himself.

David looked through the open door, hesitated, and then bolted past Raul into the outer hall.

“David! You can't . . .”

He leaped to his feet and ran after David.
He's going down there! He's
going down to Paradise to rescue Samuel!
He'd seen the look in those inflamed eyes—that desperate love of
a father willing to cast his own head on the block for the sake of his son.

But if Samuel couldn't stop them, neither could David. For the first time since Raul had learned the truth about the books, he knew they had to trust their power or suffer even more harm. He was suddenly certain that if David ran into Paradise, they would kill him along with his son.

The tail of David's nightshirt disappeared into the stairwell.

“David!”

Raul flew down the stairs in threes, hand on the rail to keep from tumbling headlong into the stone walls. David was taking the stairs even faster. The slapping of his bare feet echoed up to Raul. Only once did he see David, and then only his heel.

When Raul burst into the atrium, the large doors were already swinging closed.

“David!”

Raul ran for the doors, yanked them open, and sprinted into the canyon. His sandals slipped in the soft sand as he rounded the first corner. The canyon gaped, a dry riverbed littered with large stones. Now a full fifty yards ahead David sprinted, his arms and legs pumping like a world-class athlete.

Surely he didn't intend to run all the way down to Paradise. But wouldn't Raul do the same? What kind of good sense could overcome blind passion for a son?

On the other hand, if David was right about the books, interfering with them might be the undoing of them all! In trying to save his son, David might condemn him.

Raul ran hard, panting through burning lungs, praying that David would come to his senses. There had to be a way, but it wouldn't be up to a man like David, who had no power. Samuel was a strong boy. He had more power than the lot of them. Including Black. Samuel would find a way.

Raul lost sight of David at the canyon's mouth. If David stopped, it would be at the overlook.

Falling more than running, Raul stumbled down to the overlook. He burst from the brush fifteen minutes later and doubled over, gasping. David knelt at the ledge, silhouetted against the overcast sky. The town of Paradise lay like charred sugar cubes two miles beyond him.

“Sir.”

Raul approached carefully. David faced the town and rocked back and forth on his knees, wind whipping at his thin cotton shirt. His body shook with sobs, Raul now saw.

A lump rose into his throat. He knelt beside David and placed a gentle hand on his back. “I'm sorry,” he said, feeling the words inadequate. Possibly even insensitive. But he said them anyway, over and over.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

PARADISE

Tuesday morning

JOHNNY AWOKE with the smell of onions and earth in his nostrils. At first he thought his mother had let him sleep late and was out in the kitchen preparing dinner, but then the image of four hundred crazies sitting in church pews filled his mind, and he jerked his head off the cellar's dirt floor.

His temples throbbed and he groaned. He rolled on his back and tried to focus on his dark surroundings. He'd put potatoes in the cellar for Steve on occasion—on the wood shelves lining the walls. Their roots grew like long white tentacles.

“Pretty smart, eh?” Steve had said once when Johnny pointed them out. “They only grow toward the light. Like snakes trying to escape.” He'd chuckled and Johnny decided then that he didn't like root cellars with hairy potatoes.

A distant sound drifted into the cellar, something like a whistle at a soccer match.

Johnny rolled toward the wall—the one made of wood with the crack near the top above ground level. He saw it now, tangled with a dozen roots reaching through. If he remembered right, the crazies had thrown him in here at night, but now daylight glowed through the small crack.

The whistle came again. But it sounded more human this time—a high-pitched shriek, the kind made by placing a thumb and a forefinger in your mouth. Johnny never could whistle that way. Who could possibly be whistling out there?

Samuel.

The boy's face filled his mind. That blond head and those blue eyes, smiling softly.

The whistle came again, a little sharper now. But it wasn't a whistle, was it? It didn't have that piercing, harsh quality. Had more of a throat . . .

Johnny caught his breath and snapped to a sitting position. A scream! It was a scream!

The sound reached his ears again, only this time with a word.

“Pleeeeeease!”

It was Samuel's voice. Johnny scrambled to his feet, ignoring the raging headache.