The Reality Conspiracy (24 page)

With that in mind, Captain Jerry Finny offered a little prayer to the Lord, asking for a safe delivery. Now, if he could make it to the captain's chair before the Deathdemon saw him, he could spend the next forty minutes touring the universe undisturbed. If she saw him, however, there'd be hell to pay.

Most of the crew and passengers had entered through the church's side door, which led downstairs to a lengthy corridor, lined on either side with classrooms. Jerry had long ago discovered that if he went directly into the church, then downstairs through a narrow door near the altar, he would end up at the back of his classroom. Today, if he was in luck, he could dash to one of the desks in the back row while the Deathdemon was looking away, or sharpening her claws on the blackboard.

At the bottom of the narrow stairway, Jerry peeked into the classroom and his heart sank like a stone in a frog pond. There she was, her blue hair fluffed out like rancid cotton candy, her pasty, puffy face knotted in wrinkles like a piece of chewed gum, her skeleton hand clutching that ever-present walking stick. She was using her stick to point out something on the blackboard.

To Jerry, the Deathdemon's voice always sounded like the last words of a strangled chicken. "Now, children," she squawked, "what we're really talking about is faith. Faith helps us to believe things, even if we can't prove them. No matter what scientists—or even your parents or your teachers—may say, there is no proof of the theory of evolution, not at all. There may be evidence, I don't say there isn't. But—and this is for certain, boys and girls—there is absolutely no proof, none whatsoever."

Smugly, the Deathdemon turned to the blackboard and underlined the word FAITH several times. The moment her eyes left the fifteen pupils, Jerry dashed to an end seat and slouched nonchalantly, as if he had been there long enough to get bored.

He watched her turn back toward the class, studying her eyes to see if she'd spotted him. Her expression revealed nothing.

"Now, boys and girls, faith is one of the most important of God's gifts to man. You don't have to study science to have faith. You don't have to be rich or famous to have faith. In fact, boys and girls"—here she contorted her face full of wrinkles into something resembling a smile—"if you have faith, real Christian faith, there is very little else you need."

Her gaze jumped from face to face as she clobbered everybody with her creepy false-toothed smile. "I've worked with Christian youngsters for almost fifty years. No one knows better than I how much children need faith. Not facts, boys and girls, faith. Yet scientists, yes, and even educators, continue to bombard your little heads with half-truths and radical opinions. All that chips away at your belief systems like ocean water eroding rock cliffs."

Wow
, thought Jerry
, she's really wigging out today
. He kept his Bible reader closed and his Marvel Universe cards in his pocket. Right now the Deathdemon was far more entertaining than either.

She went on: "Now, I believe you children are living in one of the worst times of all, a time of tribulation. We are living in a 'scientific' age, an age where unholy science tries to replace God's truth with its own half-truths, and its guesses, and its 'scientific demonstrations.'

"Each year hundreds—no, thousands—of young people just like you drift away from God's love. They sin, they blaspheme, some even say there can't be a God, there can't be a Heaven. They say they can't believe in these sacred things because there is no proof!

"That's where faith comes in handy, boys and girls. These poor dear wanderers have lost their faith. But they miss it; we can tell because they try to replace it with science, or rock and roll music, or, worst of all, drugs.

"Children, science teaches you to look for proof, it teaches you to need scientific truth, do you understand? Science teaches you that if something can't be proved, then it's not true. Now I'm not saying science is no good. Maybe it helps you keep your bodies healthy, perhaps learning about it even exercises your minds. But, children, science does nothing to strengthen the spirit. You may be healthy of mind and body, but if you're sick in spirit, Heaven will be lost to you."

Jerry scrunched down even farther in his seat as the Deathdemon's gaze darted from face to face, fast and random, like the metal bearing in a pinball machine. He kept his own eyes looking down, focused on his folded hands in his lap.

"Now, children," said the Deathdemon, gearing up again, "I want to talk to you about the value of prayer. I can promise you—without proof—that God understands perfectly well that Miss Beth Damon is a most loyal servant. He understands that my entire Christian life has been devoted to strengthening the spirits of His young people. I prayed, boys and girls, I prayed and I asked God, 'What do I do, Lord? They're drifting away from me . . . all those lovely little lambs, Lord. I watch them drifting, more and more of them, year after year. They've learned to want proof, dear Lord, proof of the things they need faith to understand.'"

The Deathdemon took five short tottering steps away from the blackboard. She moved around the teacher's desk and stood directly in front of Diane Bixby, who always sat, back straight, hands folded, right up in the front row.

Then the Deathdemon tucked her walking stick under her arm and stood unassisted. She picked up the Bible from Diane's desk, licked her fingers, and began flipping pages.

She whispered now, apparently confident she had everyone's attention, "And God spoke to me in my heart, boys and girls. He said to me, 'Miss Damon, the lambs need a sign.'

"And, just like any time when I need an answer, I riffled through the pages of my Holy Book, and when it felt just right, I dropped my index finger onto the page"—she acted this out as she spoke—"and do you know what that finger pointed to, boys and girls?"

No one answered.

"No? Well, I shouldn't wonder. Listen now; I'll read it to you."

She read:

"Then Moses answered, 'But behold, they will not believe me or listen to my voice, for they will say, "The Lord did not appear to you." The Lord said to Moses, 'What is that in your hand?' Moses said, 'A rod.' And God said, 'Cast it on the ground.' So Moses cast it on the ground, and—"

In deep concentration she looked from face to face, and whispered hoarsely, "Moses cast his rod onto the ground, and it became . . . a serpent!"

Jerry heard someone giggle as Miss Damon lifted her walking stick high above her head. The lights in the classroom seemed to dim, just a bit, hardly enough to notice, but Jerry was sure the room had suddenly become just a shade darker.

The Deathdemon held the walking stick above her head, one hand on each end. With her eyes squeezed shut, she began to speak faster than Jerry had ever heard before. "And I know you young people don't believe me so the Lord has said he'll give you a sign so you will believe what Miss Damon tells you and so you'll go home and tell your parents and you'll tell your teachers and you'll tell your friends and other little boys and girls who would stray away from the Holy Spirit of the Lord . . . ."

Jerry gripped the edge of his desk with both hands until his knuckles whitened. He gritted his teeth and looked up, openmouthed, as Miss Damon continued.

"You'll tell them all that you have seen and all you have learned." She bowed her head, dropping her chin to her chest, and she said, "God told me, 'Miss Beth Damon, you cast your rod away," and with that she flung her walking stick, pushing it away from her with both hands. It sailed over the heads of the motionless children.

Jerry heard his classmates gasp. He saw the stick stop in midair, directly over the head of Dickie Laymon and parallel with the floor. It hung there for a moment, suspended from nothing, until it began to rotate. Slowly at first, then the speed of rotation increased, gathering force, like the blade of a helicopter revving up.

Kids made noise. Frightened sounds. One of the girls, Linda Allen, began to cry. Miss Damon remained at the front of the room, eyes pinched shut, arms over her head, palms toward the class. "Quiet, children, quiet in the presence of the Lord."

Jerry couldn't pull his eyes from that magical stick; it righted itself now, turning like the wheel of fortune at the firemen's carnival.

The Deathdemon pointed. "Look, children! There is your proof! There is your proof of the Lord!"

Joey Arnold shrieked and ran for the door. The stick sailed like a javelin leaving an athlete's hand. It connected with the back of Joey's head—
Thwap!
'—knocking the boy against the wall beside the coat rack. Joey lay on the floor, scrunched into an "S" shape, hands and arms trying to protect his bloody head from further assault.

Now the stick righted itself and stood in front of the exit, weaving ever so slightly back and forth. No visible hand held it, but it stood there just the same.

"Lord knows your sins, boys and girls. You can't hide anything from the Lord!" Miss Damon was screeching now. Linda Allen and her friend Rose sat on the floor, hugging each other and wailing. Dickie Laymon hid under his desk. Johnny Coon, Coon the goon, had his arms folded on his desktop and his face buried in the folds.

Jerry watched the cane. Now it was jumping up and down. It looked like a pogo stick with an invisible rider as it bounced down the aisle. Occasionally it paused, snapping to the right or left to whack some kid in the head.

Most of the kids were crying. Some pressed their palms tightly against their eyes and shook their heads left and right. A girl, Debbie Swale, was chanting "Nonononono."

Jerry watched the stick make its way up the center aisle, tapping loudly on the floor tiles like Long John Silver's crutch. It stopped, still standing under its own mysterious power, right beside Diane Bixby, directly in front of Miss Damon.

Diane leaned to the left, trying to get as far away as possible, yet not daring to leave her seat.

Miss Damon's fingers were linked together, pressing tightly against her solar plexus. With eyes closed, her lips moved rapidly in silent prayer.

The walking stick stopped swaying, snapped to rigid attention.

Jerry couldn't tear his eyes away. He held his breath while all the other kids got quiet at the same time.

The stick leapt into the air and started spinning like a majorette's baton. Three times in rapid succession, faster than she could move away, it struck Diane in the face.

"Sinner!" screeched Miss Damon as Diane, her nose and mouth red with blood, slumped to the floor. Jerry couldn't tell; he thought she might be dead.

The stick did cartwheels from desktop to desktop, tapping rhythmically, dancing, pausing unpredictably to rap someone in the temple.

Kids cried, screamed for their parents.

Without leaving his seat, Jerry pushed his entire desk backward a few inches at a time. Its metal legs scratched loudly on the tile floor. He could feel the vibration, but knew no one could hear it above the cries of his terrified classmates.

Now the stick had stopped whirling. It hovered parallel with the floor, a ropeless trapeze, gliding over the heads of the cowering children. It seemed to dare them to move.

Jerry pushed his desk back another inch.

Miss Damon dropped to her knees in the aisle, clenched hands against her mouth, her eyes tightly closed'. "Thank you, dear Lord, for all your gifts, and for rewarding me with this magnificent display of your majesty. Thank you for the children, Lord. And thank you for your love—"

The rubber sole of Jerry's sneaker squeaked on the floor as he retreated another inch. Now he could almost make it to the rear stairway. Almost . . .

The horizontal walking stick floated toward Miss Damon. "Thank you for your love—"

Ever so gently, almost like a caress, the stick placed itself under her chin.

And leapt upward, lifting the old woman into the air, dropping her on her back atop the teacher's desk.

Jerry wasn't sure what happened next. When Miss Damon went down, he jumped up. Two rapid steps brought him to the bottom of the stairs. He risked a quick look back, just to be sure the stick wasn't following him.

What he saw was to be a puzzle etched forever on his memory.

Either the stick was lying beside Miss Damon on the desktop, resting against her leg, and partially hidden within the folds of her clothing, or—and Jerry didn't hazard a second look to make sure—it had actually transformed itself into a snake and was crawling underneath Miss Damon's skirt.

The confusing picture was vivid in his mind as he raced up the back steps and into the church.

Burlington, Vermont

Monday, June 27

"K
aren, your ten o'clock is here," said Laura Welsh as she peeked through the slightly opened door to Dr. Bradley's office.

Karen looked up from her newspaper. "My ten o'clock?" She glanced at her calendar. "I don't have anybody written in for ten o'clock."

Laura stepped through the door and closed it. "Oh-oh, my fault: I forgot to put it in your book, sorry. It's a Mr. Earl King. He called first thing this morning: said you'd asked him to come in."

"I'd asked him? I don't remember any Earl King."

"Oh boy!" Laura rolled her eyes. "What shall I do?"