Showdown (37 page)

“And you know why they don't respect you. No? Then let's not waste time guessing—I'll tell you. They stopped respecting you the first year you were here, when you had your little fling with Sally Drake after she and Johnny came to town. You do remember that, don't you? You impregnated her, and then you forced her to put the boy up for adoption when she refused to terminate the pregnancy. Couldn't have a scandal in the town of Paradise, now could we?”

“How in the world do you know—”

“Shut up, Stan, I haven't finished. They would have forgiven you then; they always do. But your true indiscretion was sweeping the whole thing under the rug. You like secrets, Stan? You turned your back on your son, and on your lover, and on the
commandments for which you stand, all to protect your little secret. And guess what? It worked. The town made it their secret. They pretended that you had the right to do what you did. Why? Because they are no better than you.”

Yordon wasn't sure whether he was more terrified or outraged. It was that snake, Paula. Who else would make such a big deal out of something so small, so long ago?

“They played your game, Stanley, but they also lost their respect for you. Every time you stand up there and talk eloquently about the Word of God, half of this town is rolling their eyes and the other half is dead asleep. Not a single one of them believes a single word you have to say. Am I close?”

“How dare you accuse me!” Yordon's anger washed away his fear.

“I can give them back to you, Stanley,”Black said, moving to the window. “I'll do one better than give them back to you. I'll make you the talk of the town. Their guardian angel. More power than you ever thought possible, right here over your own flock. When I'm through, they'll do anything for you. Anything.”

The words ran into his mind like a hot steel rod.

He knew that, didn't he? And Stanley also knew that if Black could turn Claude into a blubbering fool, he could just as easily turn the man into an adoring fool.

“What about Sally? She's never stopped bad-mouthing me.”

Black faced him. “I can make Sally suck your toes, my friend.”

“What do I have to do?”

Black smiled thinly. “Give me Thomas.”

Figured. One weirdo wanted the other. If Thomas really was the cop he professed, maybe he could prove it now. A confrontation between the lawman and the healer.

A burning sensation stung behind his ears, and Yordon wondered if the flames of hell had ignited there at the base of his brain. He stared at Black, knowing that with that stare he was saying yes.

“Why don't you just do it yourself? You seem to have the power.”

“Much to my dismay, Thomas has more power over someone like me than he does over you. Amazing but true. That's half of it. The other half is that I want you to do it, my friend. I want to give you your power back.”

“And what makes you think that I can give you Thomas?”

“He's here to protect you from me, not kill you. He's asleep at the moment. If he wakes up while you're in there doing your dastardly deed, I'll get his attention and make things easier for you, but you have to deal with him. Follow?”

“How do you know so much about our town? My affair with Sally was over a decade ago.”

“Let's just say that I've been in a lot of people's minds lately. Think of it as one of my tricks.”

Yordon didn't trust the man, but his risk was minimal. If Black didn't come through, he could just abort. As for the promise of returning his respect and power . . .

“Okay.”

Black turned away. “You're a wise fool, Stanley. A very wise fool.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE MONASTERY

Sunday night

EVEN IN Billy's distorted mind, the wholesale transformation of the students in the library tunnel was surprising. The epidemic of boils had become a kind of accelerated leprosy. If not for the worm salve, most of the children would probably be incapacitated. As it was, when slabs of skin tore loose from scratching, they replaced it with the worm gel.

“Worm gel is better than skin anyway,” Paul kept saying.

Paul wandered the halls, all six of them, coaxing or dragging worms to the large library. In a show of reluctant good faith, he agreed to haul one worm to Billy's study for every five he hauled to the larger library. Billy had forced his authority with the agreement and reminded Paul of its terms each time he came huffing and puffing into the study, a slug in tow.

Most of the children devoted themselves to writing without complaint. Any grievances invariably centered on either the itching skin disease or the lack of dry writing spots. The itching came with an easy solution: “Get off your lazy butt and get your own gel!” The same advice could be heard given at least a dozen times each hour in precisely those terms. Another dozen in other terms.

But the gel itself gave rise to the second complaint. The more gel the children slapped around, the more of it landed on their books, which wouldn't be such a problem if it didn't cause the pages to stick together and the ink to smear. With so many children writing in the library, the dry nooks and crannies soon became gooey nooks and crannies.

Both Billy and Darcy noticed that everyone seemed happier when they ingested greater volumes of the gel. Together with the help of Paul, they agreed on the dungeon's first law:

To write in the lower levels, one is required to ingest six helpings of gel each
day. And by helpings we mean two hands, cupped together, full. And by each day
we mean every twenty-four-hour period, just in case there's any confusion.

They called it their first rule of writing. All of the children agreed that it was a good rule. It made things smooth. It helped them write. It kept them out of trouble.

Billy made his way back from the meeting in the sixth tunnel by himself, leaving Darcy to work out some details with Paul. The memory of his little encounter with Samuel earlier today made him sick. The business with Paul's worms and the new rule of writing distracted him for a few hours, but now the thought of Samuel lodged in his mind like a stubborn tick.

He started to jog. His teeth clacked together with every footfall, like cymbals punctuating the pounding of his heart. His muscles burned, and for a brief moment he wondered if some creatures, like ants maybe, were chewing on them. Maybe the boils housed little animals that fed on the worm ointment and burrowed.

He veered to the nearest wall, swiped his hand along a trail of gel, and slapped the salve on his stinging arms.

The fact was, he could hardly even remember what had happened upstairs, but he knew this: that last thing Samuel had done—that touching thing—that ridiculous display of feeling, that wasn't good. Bogus. Bogus, bogus, bogus! And he had stood there like a cornstalk, like a rebuked child afraid to move. Only he hadn't been rebuked by Samuel. Only touched and held. Man, that was disgusting!

You wanna die, boy?
A voice rose above the melee in his mind.
You
wanna die?

Yeah, I wanna die. What's it to ya?

The salve wasn't working so well just now. He grunted and attacked his left forearm with an open claw, wincing as a slab of skin stuck to his fingernails.

No, fool! You can't die yet.

No? What's it to ya?

There's a story to write, boy. A story about grace and hope in Paradise. You
know about grace and hope, don't you?

The thought of writing awakened Billy's desire. He saw the study looming ahead in the darkness, glowing. Darcy must have forgotten to take her torch.

The outline of a dozen large worms pulsed in the shadows. He stumbled into the study.

The monk stood in the torchlight.

The monk. He'd almost forgotten about the monk and his black mask. This cloak-and-dagger routine no longer impressed Billy. What did the man care if anyone knew who he was?

Billy cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I've come to clarify a few things for you.”

“Be my guest, clarify.”

“I'll start with the book you're writing in. They're blank history
books discovered by Thomas Hunter. You do remember Thomas Hunter and the Raison Strain.”

“He saved the world. Who wouldn't know about him?”

“In these books the word becomes flesh. Literally. Whatever is written in them actually happens. It becomes fact. History, thus the books of history.”

Billy nodded. “And?” He knew the man expected him to be stunned by this revelation, but he relished sounding informed. Besides, it hardly surprised him.
Good. I hope you're right.

“Have you noticed that the characters seem to have a mind of their own?”

“'Course I have.”

“You can't force them, but your influence over them is powerful. Your words are flesh in their minds. Thanks to you, the little town has been coming apart at the seams.”

“Good. I've only started.” The monk's revelation made everything clear. At least as clear as Billy's foggy mind would allow.

Billy could see the man's eyes glistening in the torchlight through the two slits cut in the ceramic mask.

“Do you know about Thomas?”

“You just told me.”

“The other Thomas.”

“The cop,” Billy said. “Yes, I'm working on that problem.”

“Do you know he's not a real cop?”

“What do you mean? Of course he's real.”

“He's written by Samuel.”

It was the first stunning thing the man had said in days.

“Samuel? He's . . . he's writing into Paradise?”

“He's been writing for four days. If the people weren't so predisposed to listen to you, they'd be walking around in robes of white.”

“And Thomas, that stupid kung-fu cop—”

“—has changed the balance of power. Aside from Johnny, he's the only real enemy you have down there. You handled Johnny stupidly by showing him Black's true character in the beginning. Now he's a problem. I suggest you handle Thomas with more skill.”

“I couldn't resist giving him a scare. And I've handled myself just fine since then, so have some respect.” Billy paused, irritated. “I can kill him, right? I mean, I can kill Thomas. If he's not real, then Black won't get into any trouble if the real law shows up.”

The monk didn't answer. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced. “Did the students in the library touch the mucus?”

“Touch it? They're covered in it.”

“I mean Samuel and his friends, when they touched you in the upper library.”

“Yes.”

“Well then. It's worth a try.”

“The salve will turn them?” Billy asked.

“Soften them.”

Billy couldn't imagine Tyler or Christine or Samuel entering the tunnels, salve or no salve. “There's no way they'll agree.”

“No? Do they have greater resolve than you?”

“Of course not. They're just slower.”

“Well then, it's time you brought them up to speed.”

“What about the story?”

“The story is the point. Christine, Tyler, and Samuel are writing into Paradise too. Remove their influence and you'll be free to write your heart's desire. Your writing is far more concentrated than the others', something I'm still trying to understand. They're writing what you've told them to write, but half of it is conflicting mush that does nothing to achieve our primary objective. Yours and Darcy's is more focused and to the point. It's better to eliminate the opposition above and focus your own writing than to devote time to the others down here.”

“What about the cop?” Billy asked.

“Go after Samuel and his friends, then write. And when you write, you can be as obvious as you want. You've already let the thread about the gel die—that's good, there's no need to pretend that a little hallucinogenic gel caused the people to see things. Your writing has seduced them already. It's time to go for their throats.” He paused.

“I have some specific statements that I want you to write into your book. I'm working on the wording now. We've just begun,my friend. What I have in mind for this world will blow your mind.”

He walked to the gate.

“And what about you? Why won't you show me your face?”

The monk turned back. He stared at Billy for a long time, then he casually raised his hand and lifted the mask off his face.

Billy blinked. How was this possible?

“How did you . . .”

“I didn't, Billy. You did.”

IN THE wake of the monk's visit, Billy applied himself to his task with a new urgency.

He and Darcy found Christine and Tyler less than an hour later, walking from the dining room. They probably visited the cafeteria three times a day, like they all used to.

“Let me do the talking,” he mumbled to Darcy.

“Yeah.”

Christine and Tyler stopped talking and slowed when they were still twenty yards off.

“Hey, Billy,” Christine said. She was trying to sound natural, but Billy heard the tightness in her throat, as if she had just swallowed a mouse in that dining room of theirs.

“Hey.”

The pair stopped ten feet away. “You okay?” Christine asked.

Am I okay? Well now, that's ridiculous. Do I look okay? Of course I'm okay.
Of course not.

“I beat you handily in the debate. Did I strike you as not being okay?”

She nodded. “Yes, you did. It was good to see you earlier.”

Oh, quit the mushy stuff, like you're the one to be big here
.

“Where's Samuel?”

“He's sleeping.”

Honestly, Billy was more relieved than disappointed.“We have a problem,” he said. “Down below.”

Christine tilted her head in interest and waited for him to continue. He shifted on his feet, wishing he were in his study writing instead of up here playing tiddlywinks with Christine.