Nick reached down and picked up a heavy stick, whose end burned in the fire, and raised it like a torch. “You’re so smug, Hal. Everybody’s wrong but you. The only person worth listening to is yourself. Funny way to think, for a slobbering drunk.”
“You shut your mouth.”
“Of course, what really tickles me is that if you do have all my memories, then you must remember how pathetic you looked when I found you in the playground. Reeking of vomit and cheap liquor. Lying in the sand, red-eyed and drooling. I could have whizzed in your ear and you wouldn’t have even batted an eye.”
Hal went rigid and clenched his fists.
“And despite all that, despite being quite possibly the saddest excuse for a human being I’ve ever seen, you still have the gall to bully people, to treat them like they’re below you.” He laughed. “That takes balls, Hal. Real cojones. Either that, or you’re even more of a—what’s the word you like to use—dipstick than I thought.”
Hal charged, but Nick was waiting for it. He stepped aside and swung the stick like a bat, striking Hal in the back as he ran past and leaving scorch marks on his wet white shirt. Hal fell to the dirt in a heap.
Stone ran to intervene, but Hal held up a hand. “Stay back. This is between crybaby and me.”
He got up and Nick came at him with the stick. Hal ducked, and the stick struck a support beam instead. Hot ash and embers burst from its tip, falling among the rotting hay and, in a flash, igniting it.
With Nick now off balance, Hal kicked high and hard. There was a loud crack as ribs broke, and Nick flew backward, breaking through the wall of one stall and landing in another. The torch flew from his hand and fell against the wall. Even with moisture in the air, the timbers took to the flame. Fire shot up the barn’s interior like it’d been sprayed with kerosene.
Nick got to his feet, cracked his neck, and smiled. “All my best moves, but none of my good sense. I have to give you some credit, though, Hal. You were right about one thing. There can be only one prophet. But it certainly isn’t you.”
He ran at Hal, then launched himself in the air, feet first and together. He hit him with such force that Hal buckled and broke through the wall and fell flat on his back outside in the rain. Before he had even stopped sliding through the mud, Hal was struggling to get to his feet again. He ran back inside, his jaw set. Pine came in behind him, looking shocked.
“All my best moves indeed,” said Hal, grabbing another stick from the fire. He swung it repeatedly at Nick, who ducked and dodged every blow, then hit the stick away. It spun through the air and fell in the dirt, still burning.
“What do we do?” asked Lichen.
Stone stood frozen.
Frank crouched at the stall entrance and motioned the others to follow. “Come on.” He ran along the wall, keeping low, Wyatt on his back. They could make it out the back if they hurried.
Flames were spreading everywhere fast. Black smoke billowed up into the rafters.
“They’re getting away,” said Hal.
“Don’t let them get away,” said Nick simultaneously, pointing to Frank and the others as they scurried toward the back exit.
Several Healers, Lichen among them, took the order and ran ahead of Frank, blocking the exit. Frank stopped, Monica beside him.
Lichen swung down to grab them, but Frank pivoted and pushed Monica away so that Lichen grabbed nothing but air.
Wyatt’s arms tightened around Frank’s neck as he hung on for dear life.
“Go back,” Frank called over his shoulder. “Out the front.”
Byron and Dolores turned and ran in the opposite direction, toward the open barn doors.
Frank took Monica’s hand and tried retreating as well, but two Healers stepped behind them and blocked their path. They were surrounded.
Dolores saw them trapped and stopped.
Frank waved her on. “Go.”
Byron grabbed Dolores’s arm. “Come on!” He pulled her out the doors and into the rain.
Four Healers closed in on Frank, Wyatt, and Monica. The burning stick was at Frank’s feet. “Lock your feet around my waist,” he said to Wyatt.
Wyatt obeyed, and Frank was able to let go of Wyatt’s legs long enough to reach down and pick up the stick. He waved it threateningly at those around him.
“Fire does not hurt us,” said a Healer.
“Yeah, but it leaves nasty scars,” said Frank. “You may not feel it, but I’ll make you ugly.”
Behind him, Monica said, “Can you heal faster than fire burns?”
“We do not want to you harm you, vessel,” said Lichen. He stepped forward, but then quickly retreated when Frank waved the flame. Monica’s question was having its effect.
For the moment Frank had them at bay. But he knew it wouldn’t last. Eventually one of them would get close enough. And then it would all be over.
Hal hit Nick with a blow that knocked him against one of the support beams. It cracked under Nick’s weight, and Nick cried out, bloody and broken.
Hal, sporting as many cuts and bruises, grabbed Nick by the collar before the younger prophet could counter and shoved him back into the beam a second time. The wood cracked again. Another shove. And another crack. The whole structure shivered from the blows.
Up in the burning rafters timbers crackled and snapped, weakening the roof supports and sending clouds of smoke up through the holes in the ceiling.
Desperate to get free, Nick reached out and took Hal by the throat. Then he lifted his knee and found Hal’s groin. Hal immediately stopped shoving, and his legs gave out beneath him. He hung limply in Nick’s hands as Nick squeezed his windpipe.
Hal’s face turned red, then purple. He waved frantically to Stone, “Help me,” he gasped.
Stone ran to him, grabbed Nick’s hands and tried prying them away. Nick didn’t budge. His face was set and determined. He wasn’t letting go. Hal would die.
Frank swung the flaming stick wide again, driving the Healers back. Monica stood behind him, her back to his and Wyatt’s, rotating with him so they moved as one.
Another Healer charged, and this was the one Frank was waiting for, the one with the dry cape, the one who hadn’t been out in the rain. Instead of swinging aimlessly, Frank lunged, stabbing the man in the side.
The Healer stumbled backward in a panic as his cape caught fire. He dropped to the ground and rolled frantically, trying to smother the fire. But all he accomplished was to spread the fire to the structure immediately around him.
The other Healers watched in horror and backed off Frank even more. Frank took advantage. He waved the stick in wide arcs and backed out of the center of the circle, clinging with one hand to Wyatt and keeping Monica protectively behind him.
“Help me,” said Stone, as he struggled to pry Nick’s hands from Hal’s neck.
Lichen ran to assist him, and the other Healers trying to seize Frank, Monica, and Wyatt followed after him.
Unimpeded, Frank, Wyatt, and Monica bolted out the back of the barn and into the rain. Byron and Dolores were out there waiting for them.
“This way,” said Frank, leading them toward the path he had taken up from the river.
“What about Nick?” asked Dolores.
“Nick isn’t Nick,” said Frank.
She stopped. “So we’re leaving him?”
In answer, Frank took her hand and pulled her until she was running again—with Monica right beside him and Byron close behind.
“Pull his hands away,” ordered Stone.
The Healer nearest him took Nick’s hands and with Stone’s help pried them free from Hal’s throat. Hal fell to the ground, gasping and coughing.
“Hold him back,” said Stone.
Nick pushed the Healers away. “Don’t touch me.”
Hal was up in an instant, knocking Stone to the side and tackling Nick. The Healers scrambled to separate them, but the two rolled away from them and disappeared into a cloud of black smoke.
“Find them,” sa
id Stone, coughing and covering his mouth with his cloak.
The Healers dispersed into the blackness, coughing and waving the smoke and cinders from their faces.
And then Hal appeared, soaring backward in the air and striking the support beam with such force that Stone wasn’t sure if the cracking sound had come from the wood or Hal’s spine.
A second later the beam snapped, and the burning roof collapsed, thick flaming timbers that crashed down into a massive raging heap.
Stone felt his body jerk to one side as a Healer pushed him clear of the falling debris.
Then, as if taking a cue from the roof, the rest of the structure crumbled, adding more timbers to the growing pile and throwing up a thick cloud of burning embers.
Stone rolled over and pushed aside the wood that covered him. “Galen!”
There was no answer, just the sizzle of the rain on the burning pile. He got up, wiped the soot from his eyes, and began making his way back to where Nick and Hal lay covered.
One by one other Healers came and helped him, but by the time they got the top third of the rubble away, Stone knew it would be too late.
When they finally reached them, the wood was all black and soaked from the rain. Hal and Nick were burned beyond recognition, lying beside each other, one still choking the other.
“The others have taken to the forest,” Lichen said. “Should we divide the men?”
Stone wiped the rain off his face, smearing some of the soot onto his checks. “No. We bury our dead.”
“But unless we move—”
“We show our master the respect he deserves,” Stone said. “Then we retrieve Byron and Dolores.”
“And Frank Hartman?” asked Lichen.
“He is not worthy of the office,” said Stone. “He has proved a threatening obstacle. He must be removed to prevent any further losses.”
“Then we should hurry,” said Lichen. “We may still be able to track them.
“There’s no need to track them,” said Stone, opening his cell phone. “We now know where he’s taking them.”
30
VESSELS
Runoff from the mountain had transformed the already fast-moving river into a violent torrent of rushing water. Frank staved a sate distance from the bank but always kept the water in sight. There was no trail here, and he couldn’t risk getting lost by venturing too far from the waterline.
They passed the spot where the felled tree had traversed the river, but the tree itself was gone, no doubt flushed downstream by the elevated current.
Wyatt clung to Frank’s neck, bouncing up and down as Frank carried him through the brush. Monica and Byron kept up, but Dolores lagged considerably. They had already stopped three times to wait for her.
“Don’t wait for me,” she had told them. “Keep moving. I’ll get there eventually.”
But they always waited. And during their last wait the rain stopped.
“Hey,” said Byron, looking up at the night sky. “It stopped.”
“What difference does it make?” said Monica. “We can’t get any wetter.”
It was true. Their clothes were soaked through, their hair wet and limp. Frank was just as wet now as he had been in the river.
“Look at the stars,” said Wyatt.
They looked up. The rain clouds had parted, revealing countless tiny lights against a sweeping black canvas.
“Wow,” said Monica. “You live in LA, you forget what real sky looks like.”
“It’s like this every night in Montana,” said Byron. “Nothing but stars.”
“How many are up there, you think?” asked Wyatt.
“Oh, about a bajillion,” said Byron.
Wyatt made a face. “A bajillion?”
“What, you never heard of a bajillion before? It’s one step above a trillion. You know, million billion trillion bajillion. And then of course there’s foobajillion.”
Wyatt looked skeptical. “Uh-uh.”
“No, it’s true. Ask Frank.”
They both looked at Frank. Byron winked.
“Um, yeah,” said Frank. “That’s right. Foobajillion. And after that is . . . oh, what do you call it?”
“Fooba-doobajillion,” said Byron, keeping a straight face.
“Right, fooba-doobajillion,” said Frank. “How could I forget fooba-doobajillion?”
“You’re making that up,” said Wyatt.
“Oh no,” said Frank. “In fact, I read recently that scientists have determined that there are exactly six fooba-doobajillion and one grains of sand on the earth.”
“Really?” said Byron.
“Yeah, scientific fact. Well, actually, that’s not completely accurate. Last time I was at the beach I accidentally swallowed a grain of sand, so now I guess there’s only six fooba-doobajillion even.”
Monica laughed.
“I knew you were teasing,” said Wyatt.
“Fooba-doobajillion?” she said. “Sounds like a Hawaiian fruit smoothie.”
They all laughed then, even Wyatt, who probably didn’t get the joke but knew it was one. It felt good to laugh; a release, almost, allowing them to forget for a moment what had happened at the barn. They were still laughing when Dolores arrived, tired and breathless.
“Y’all could wake the dead with all the noise you’re making. What’s going on? We celebrating? Healers decided to leave us alone or something?”
Mentioning the Healers dampened the mood in an instant.
“We should keep moving,” said Frank.
After another mile they found a paved road. They followed it for a few hundred yards and came to a privately owned campground. The sign by the gate said Closed, but they went in anyway.
The office was locked. Frank looked in through the window but didn’t see a phone.
They went around back and saw that most of the campsites were empty. Either it was off-season or people had left when the rain hit.
A small cinder-block building nearby turned out to be a laundromat for campers. Nobody was inside, but two of the dryers were spinning and filled with clothes. Frank ushered everyone in and locked the door behind them; he couldn’t risk someone coming in unexpectedly.
The clothes in the dryers were dry and hot to the touch. Frank took everything out and threw it onto the counter. It all belonged to a couple, it seemed, a man and a woman of medium build and height. There was enough for everyone to have a new shirt. And everyone but Frank got new pants.
“Where do we change?” asked Monica.
“We’ll turn around,” said Frank. “Women change first. Put your wet clothes in a pile here.”
“If you think I can fit in these pants,” said Dolores, holding up the ones Frank had given her, “you’re smoking something green and illegal. Ain’t no way in heaven my butt is getting in these. Not unless you take out all the other organs inside me.”
Frank took them and tore slits in the waistline. “Here.”
She took them back but still looked doubtful. “Well, turn around, then. A woman needs her privacy.”
The boys sat down on the floor behind the washers. After a minute, Dolores reappeared. “What do you think?”
“Dashing,” said Byron. “Definitely better than a man’s suit.”
She grinned. “Thought so myself. You all can change now.”
When the boys got up to get their clothes, Monica was towel-drying her hair and wearing a long-sleeved pullover and a khaki pair of capri pants. She saw Frank watching her and stopped toweling.
“Done with that?” he asked quickly.
She tossed it to him.
“Thanks.”
Wyatt put on a sweatshirt that hung to his knees and a pair of men’s shorts that hung to his ankles. Dolores gave him her belt, and Frank made a hole in it so that it fit Wyatt snugly.
“I look stupid,” he said.
“No you don’t,” said Frank. “You look cool. Baggy is in.”
“This isn’t baggy,” he said. “This is a bedsheet.”
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“Hey, too big is better than too small,” said Byron. “I can hardly breathe in this thing.”
Dolores took one look at Byron’s T-shirt and smiled. “You look like one of those muscle guys on Venice Beach.”
“Except without the muscles,” he said.
“Please. You got muscle. Just not toned, is all. Ten push-ups a day for a week and you’ll be turning heads.”
Byron smiled. “You’re a physical trainer all of a sudden?”
“Ha. That would be the day. Me with a job.”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Cause I’m a homeless woman, that’s why.”
“Whatever you think you are, you’re right.”
She made a face. “Who said that? The president? Please, thinking you’re somebody and being somebody is two different things. Just because I think I’m a supermodel doesn’t make me one.”
He made a face of disbelief. “You mean you’re not a supermodel?”
She shoved him.
“I’m serious. There’s got to be a job out there for someone as stubborn as you.”
“There ain’t. I got nothing nobody wants.”
“Ever tried to get a job?”
She put her hands on her hips. “What is this? Oprah? Homeless people can’t get a job. What’s the first thing they ask for on a job application? Huh? I bet you don’t even know. You’ve probably never had to fill one out before.”
“I’m going out on a limb on this one . . . uh, name.”
“Right. And after that I got nothing to write down. No address.”
“What about family?” Byron asked. “Is there a relative you could stay with?”
She smacked her forehead. “Now, why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just pick up the phone and call my rich brother in Beverly Hills. I’m sure he’s got an extra room in that mansion of his.”
“Sorry. I just meant—”
“Nobody chooses to be homeless, Byron. If you’re homeless, it means you got nobody, or at least nobody who claims you. Only friend I got is Jesus. And he does me just fine.”
“You sure he’s your only friend?”
“He’s never forgotten me. When I’m hungry he feeds me, when I’m naked, he clothes me.” She motioned to her new outfit. “See?”
Invasive Procedures Page 30
