Nightmare City Part 16

But no one answered. Only the wind stirred, sending the high clouds tumbling and turning.

Debris crunched under his sneakers as he moved farther into the monastery site. He stepped out from behind the chimney and came into a room. It was the only room left standing here-almost intact, as if the fire somehow hadn't touched it. It had been the monastery chapel. The roof had burned off and one wall had crumbled to charcoal rubble. But three walls remained standing, scorched though they were. Some of the pews had survived as well, some toppled, some still in their rows, all of them scarred. The chapel crucifix seemed to have been melted into the wall behind the altar, but the shape of the cross remained there. The stained gla.s.s was all gone, but the peaked shapes of the windows were still visible high on the wall, open to the sky.

Tom stepped farther into the chapel, the grit on the floor jabbing up through his sneaker soles. He had the weird feeling that some ghostly presence was watching him-and then he understood why. On one of the walls, a heavy gilt picture frame hung askew. The painting in the frame had been burned away-all of it except one small jagged patch that held part of a face, the part with the eyes.

Tom felt a little chill. The eyes really did seem to be gazing at him through the gathering dusk. They were gentle eyes but full of pain. There was a line of blood running down the temple beside them. Maybe this had once been a picture of Jesus on the cross, Tom thought, or one of the suffering saints. He didn't know.

"It's sad to see this place in ruins," said a voice behind him.

Surprised, Tom spun around. Dr. Cameron was standing at the opening of the chapel, the place where the fourth wall had been before the fire destroyed it. The silver-blond-haired man with that perfect face so much like his daughter's looked relaxed and casual. He was wearing jeans and a sports jacket over a sweater, as if he had stopped off here on his way to a dinner out with friends. He smiled easily as Tom stood staring.

"You should see the look on your face," he said with a laugh. "You don't have to be so amazed. It's not like I'm a ghost or anything."

It was a moment before Tom could answer. Then he said, "I was expecting Marie."

"Yeah, I'll bet you were," Dr. Cameron said with another laugh, a harder laugh. "But I'm afraid I'm the best you're going to get."

Tom understood right away. Marie's phone call had just been more lies.

You have to write about it in the paper. But you can't write about it until you know the whole story. Meet me at the monastery.

He should've known. None of what she had said was true. She had just been doing her father's bidding. Tricking him into coming up here where there was no one to hear them, no one to see. Tom had been a fool for her from the beginning. Nothing had changed.

"I was worried that Ms. Lee might not be able to keep her mouth shut," Dr. Cameron went on. His footsteps crunched over the dirty floor as he came forward. "I paid the receptionist a few bucks to keep an eye on her for me. She told me you came by. I knew why."

"So you had your daughter call me and lure me up here," said Tom.

Dr. Cameron gave a full laugh, his white teeth gleaming in the darkening twilight. "Lure you! That's a sinister phrase! What do you think I am, some kind of gangster?"

Tom decided not to answer that.

"I just wanted a private place where we could talk," said Dr. Cameron. "I wanted to reason with you before you did something that could hurt a lot of people-and that might make your own life pretty difficult as well." He stopped advancing and stood still a few yards away from Tom. The gilt picture frame was on the wall between them. The suffering eyes that were all that was left of the painting seemed to watch them both. "Your choice is pretty simple, my friend. On the one hand, you write a story in the newspaper about me. You'll be pulling a thread that will unravel relations.h.i.+ps throughout this town, throughout this state, even beyond that, and the repercussions will be enormous. You'll suffer. I'll suffer. A lot of important people will suffer. And Marie-Marie will suffer maybe more than anyone. If things go badly for me, her life will become"-he gestured at the burned-out walls around them-"a ruin, like this place. So that's one way you can go. The other way: you let me be your friend. I can help you-and your mom. There might be some money for you, for instance. You could use that, I'll bet. And I can help you get into a good college, get a good job. I have a lot of friends, Tom. Powerful friends. We can all help you."

Tom nodded. "If I agree to lie."

Dr. Cameron shrugged. "n.o.body's asking you to lie. Not at all. I'm just asking you to use some discretion. Hold back. Don't write about me in your newspaper. Don't give people information they don't need, information that'll only do harm."

"Leaving stuff out is lying, too," said Tom. "Not telling the whole truth is lying."

Dr. Cameron smiled again. Looked down at his loafers. Shook his head. Looked up at Tom. "Have it your way. But here's how it is. If you tell the whole truth about me, you'll cause yourself and everyone else around you pain. If you . . . lie, as you say, I can give you so much. Money, contacts, success. The keys to the world. Don't be a fool, Tom. It's a good offer. It's everything. All you have to do is keep silent."

Tom hesitated for a moment before he answered. He knew Dr. Cameron was right. It was a good offer, as these things go. And maybe he should have felt tempted. But he didn't, not really. Money, contacts, success-sure, he wanted all that. But to lie in bed every night knowing he was nothing but a liar and a coward and a man who could be bought off-well, that didn't sound like having the keys to the world. That sounded like h.e.l.l on earth.

A memory flitted through his mind then. Something Burt had told him once. Just a goofy piece of big brothertype advice he'd given him when they were both a lot younger, something about playing what Burt called the "bigger game." It was a long time ago now, one of Tom's birthdays. Burt had given him a baseball bat, Tom remembered, a Louisville Slugger Warrior. He still had that bat in his closet somewhere. Even though he never used it anymore, he wouldn't let his mother give it away . . .

"Tom?" said Dr. Cameron, breaking into his thoughts. "It's getting dark. I have a dinner engagement. I need an answer. Now."

"You know, my brother died in Afghanistan about six months ago," Tom said. It hurt him even now just to mention it. "He was helping evacuate some kids from a school that was in a danger zone. He was getting them to safety when a sniper shot him."

Dr. Cameron gave a puzzled gesture. "Yes, I heard. Too bad. But what's that got to do with anything?"

"It's just . . . He didn't have to be there, you know. He volunteered. He didn't have to. He could've gotten a job. Earned some money. Become a success in the world. He wanted that. He wanted all that stuff. All he had to do was stay home. Just stay home. But he was playing a bigger game."

"You're not making any sense," said Dr. Cameron.

"I'm not as brave as he was," Tom said, and his eyes got misty as he said it. "I'm not a hero like he was. But I'm playing that game, too. And you can keep your money, Dr. Cameron. And you can keep your important friends. And you can keep your daughter, if it comes to that. Because I'm going to write the truth about you, and nothing's going to stop me."

Dr. Cameron shook his head one more time. Then he put his hand in his jacket-and when he brought it out, he was holding a gun. The relaxed smile was gone from his face, and even in the growing darkness, his eyes gleamed with fury and hatred.

When Tom first saw the gun, he was surprised and frightened. Then he was not surprised. What was surprising about it? This was who Dr. Cameron was. This was what he had made himself. Tom stared into the weapon's deadly black bore and knew the doctor would pull the trigger without hesitation and that his life was over.

"You have a lot to learn, son," Dr. Cameron said. "Too bad you'll never get a chance to learn it. You want the truth? Here's the truth: this is what happens to people who can't keep their mouths shut."

It flashed through Tom's mind that he had to rush the man, had to try to get that gun from him-but there was no time for more than the thought. Because indeed Dr. Cameron did not hesitate. He pulled the trigger without conscience or remorse.

Tom never heard the explosion. He only felt the jolt of the bullet ripping into his flesh.

Then there was nothing but agony and darkness.

THE LAST INTERLUDE: THE WARRIOR.

It was Tom's eleventh birthday. It had been a great day, a perfect spring day. He had had some friends over to the house for a party. Then, when the party was over, Burt had given him his last present. It was an aluminum baseball bat. A Louisville Slugger Warrior. Burt had wrapped it up in some red paper, but of course he couldn't disguise the shape of it. It was obvious what it was. Burt handed the long cylinder to Tom and said, "Here, kid. It's a sweater." Which had seemed hilarious at the time.

The next day was a Sunday. In the afternoon after church, Burt took him to the park and pitched to him. He gave him some tips on his swing, told him how to choke up late in the count. After about an hour, Tom could tell that the lesson had worked. He was whacking the ball better than he ever had, hitting solid singles right over Burt's head, plus a couple of blasts that would have definitely earned him extra bases in a real game.

"You can be a big hitter if you work at it," Burt said as they walked home from the park. The light of the long day was dying as the sun went down toward the ocean.

Tom shrugged. "We play in school sometimes, but it's not much fun."

"What do you mean?" Burt asked, surprised. "You don't like baseball?"

"Not the way Mrs. Lerner plays it. She won't let us keep score."

"Oh yeah," said Burt with a laugh, "I remember Mrs. Lerner." He did a comical, high-pitched Mrs. Lerner voice that made Tom laugh, too. "'It doesn't matter who wins, children. If you don't try to win, you won't feel bad when you lose.'"

"That's her, all right," said Tom. "She makes the game boring."

"Well, yeah. 'Cause, I mean, that's what a game is all about, right? It's about trying to win. When you're in a game, you should try to win with everything you've got or else there's no point in playing. You just have to play the bigger game at the same time, that's all."

"What do you mean? What bigger game?"

"Well, let's say you're playing baseball, right? You want to win, right? You want to win more than anything in the world."

Tom nodded. That was the way he felt, no matter what Mrs. Lerner said. No matter what Mrs. Lerner said, he was always keeping score in his head, trying to win.

"So you play as hard as you can," Burt went on. "You practice. You get excellent. You work. You sweat. You play and try to win with everything you have in you."

"Right."

"But do you cheat?"

Tom laughed again. "No."

"Well, why not?" said Burt, giving his eleven-year-old little brother a friendly clap on the back of the head. "I thought you wanted to win more than anything in the world."

"I do."

"So why don't you cheat, if that's what it takes to win?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know. 'Cause I don't want to be a cheater, that's why."

"Exactly. G.o.d didn't make you to be a cheater. He made you to be the most excellent Tom Hardingtype guy in the universe. Being that guy he made you-that's the bigger game. So you play to win the game of baseball with everything you got, but if you lose . . ." He shrugged. "You feel bad for a while, but so what? Feelings are just feelings. The important thing is you keep working at being the excellent Tom Harding. Then even when you lose, even when you feel bad for a while, you can feel good, too, because you're still winning the bigger game."

They walked home the rest of the way in silence, as the light continued to die and the air turned a deeper blue and the first stars began to s.h.i.+ne.

Tom's eyes fluttered open. At first he saw nothing but a blurred darkness. Then the indigo evening world swam into focus. He saw the sky. He saw the charred timbers of the chapel ceiling. The blackened walls. He remembered.

The monastery. Dr. Cameron. He'd been shot. He was dying.

Already he didn't have the strength to move. He didn't even have the strength to breathe. He could almost feel his life draining out of him-just as his blood was draining out of him, spreading around him over the chapel floor.

He let his eyes fall closed. He lay still, waiting for the end. At least it doesn't hurt, he thought. He didn't even feel scared or sorry. He was just tired, that's all. He just wanted it all to end.

Dear G.o.d, he thought in a farewell prayer, please comfort my mother. Please give her strength.

A sunset wind moved over him. It felt refres.h.i.+ng on his face. He heard it whisper in the burned-out branches around him. In his fogged mind, it almost sounded like a voice.

With an effort he opened his eyes again. Was someone there with him in the dusk? Yes. Someone was standing above him, looking down at him. Tom squinted, trying to see through the gloom. Then he realized: no. It was just that painting on the wall. Those painted eyes with the line of blood trickling down beside them.

The eyes gazed at him with enormous sorrow and compa.s.sion. Tom tried to smile at them.

Bad day, he thought up at them. It seems I've been murdered.

Yes, the eyes responded at once. That happens sometimes when you insist on telling the truth. People don't always appreciate it.

Tom nodded slightly. He wondered whose voice that was. Was it Burt's? It sounded a little like Burt. Maybe that's why there was blood on him. From where the sniper got him.

It's not so bad really, Tom told the eyes. Maybe I'll get to see you in heaven.

But when the eyes spoke again, the voice sounded more like Lisa's voice than Burt's.

The road to heaven isn't death, Tommy. It's life.

Tom peered up at the eyes through the darkness. His consciousness fading, he thought he saw the whole painting restored in its frame: Christ crucified, the rivulets of blood streaming down from under his crown of thorns.

But you died, Tom said to him. You died and went to heaven.

No, the eyes answered, sounding more like Burt again. I lived. That's the whole point. I lived. And now you have to live, Tom.

Tom did not think there was any energy left inside him, any strength with which he could feel anything. But at the words that came down to him from the painting on the wall, he felt something inside him tremble and break open. He felt something rush out of his center and spread through the rest of him, something dark and heavy that he had been keeping inside, keeping secret, secret even from himself, for a long time.

I can't live! he confessed to the painting. That's the truth.

I don't know how to live anymore! He gazed up desperately into the compa.s.sionate eyes and his whole soul cried out to them: I don't know how to live! I'm so sad! I lost my brother! I've lost all my friends! I've lost my girl! My heart is broken! I don't care if I die! I want to die! I don't know how to live anymore!

Tom thought the eyes would grow stern and angry now. He thought they would flash like lightning. What a horrible thing to think, after all. I want to die. What an awful thing.

But the eyes, gazing back at him with all his own pain inside them, said only, Remember the Warrior. Play the bigger game. Tom did not know whose voice this was anymore. Lisa's or Burt's or some other's or all of them together. That's what I was trying to tell you, it went on. That's your mission. Live. And don't just live. Live in joy. Even in your sorrow, Tom, live in joy. That's what I made you for. Remember the Warrior. Play the bigger game.

As he grew weaker, Tom's eyes sank shut again. But strangely, he felt relieved. He felt better. He had told the eyes the worst thing in his heart, and the eyes had not condemned him. Not at all. And really, he knew they were right. Deep down, he did want to live. Even with Burt gone, even with everything that had happened, he wanted to feel joy again. It was just that he was so weak, so tired . . .

Something touched his face. Something cold. Wet.

He's crying for me, Tom thought hazily.

But it was the rain. It had started again. It spilled down lightly out of the evening sky through the chapel roof and washed over his cheeks, refres.h.i.+ng him a little, giving him a little strength.

Maybe I can still do something, he thought. Maybe I can reach my phone, anyway. Maybe I can call for help.

He felt awfully bad, awfully tired. But he might be able to do that. Just get his phone out of his pocket. Just dial 911. That couldn't be so hard, he thought.

He was wrong, though. It was hard. It was fantastically, amazingly, unbelievably hard. Moving his arm even a little bit required an effort of will greater than any he had ever made. He had to focus every bit of his energy on getting his hand to lift off the floor. Using all his strength, he lifted it-lifted it-then dropped it onto his waist. Now, slowly, slowly, he began to push the hand down toward his pants pocket. The work made him cough weakly. He felt the blood boil and gurgle in his chest. He thought for sure he would collapse and die before he managed actually to reach into the pocket, to get a grip on the edge of his phone. But he did it. He caught the slippery little rectangle of plastic between the tips of his fingers. He began to draw the phone out-and then he lost his hold on it. It slipped from his grasp.

He let out a noise of frustration. He gazed up into the eyes watching him. The rain pattered down on him gently. He gathered his strength again and willed his hand back down into his pocket. He willed his fingers to pincer the phone again. To work the phone-slowly, ever so slowly-out onto his belt buckle . . .

He had to rest a moment after that. He lay on the floor in the pool of his own blood, gasping and coughing. The eyes watched him sorrowfully from the frame on the wall.

I know, I know, he told them. My mission. Right. Live.

He went back to work. He willed his hand to his phone again. He picked it up off his s.h.i.+rtfront. He lifted it until he could see it there in his hand. He pressed the numbers for the police: 9 . . . 1 . . . 1 . . .

And the readout said: No service.

Tom lost what little breath he had and his hand fell back onto his belly, the phone still grasped in his fingers.

No service.

Sure, of course. He was in the middle of the woods. No cell tower nearby. Trees all around him. The chapel walls around him. No way to get a signal here unless he . . .

Tom nearly laughed in despair at the thought. Yes, he might get a signal if he could move out of the chapel, if he could make it out to that jutting ledge of rock at the edge of the monastery, that natural balcony overlooking the town below. He might get a signal out on the ledge, but how was he supposed to get there? Fly? He could barely move his hand to his pocket.