It sounded all right. Howie just wondered if he had the nerve to do it. To stick around and wait for everything to die down. It’d take more guts than running off.
There was only one thing, or maybe two or three, thoughts that worried at the edge of his mind, and they mostly had to do with Ritcher Jones. The preacher had treated him right, and Howie felt bad about that. And killing Harriver Mason would mess up the peace talks for sure. Could he live with a thing like that, knowing that he’d maybe kept the war going on, and gotten a lot more folks killed? No, not if he thought there was even a chance in hell of the peace talks doing any good. He never had believed that. Ritcher Jones could spout off about love and the Light, but he didn’t know beans about war. He didn’t know men like Lathan, and Colonel. Jacob. Men like that didn’t have any Light in their hearts. They had an awful taste for power and for blood. They wouldn’t give that up because a bunch of folks in robes said peace would be a fine idea. Killing Mason. wouldn’t hurt anyone except Mason himself, and that bastard had it coming.
There was one other thing—a possible threat, but nothing he could do much about unless he called the thing off. Ritcher Jones knew he had been in Tallahassee when Slade, the other big hero of Silver Island, had gotten his throat cut. Would he think about that when Mason turned up dead? Maybe, and maybe not. Still, there was no reason Jones would connect one killing with the other. It was the preacher himself who’d said Rebel guerrillas from the ’glades had gotten Slade. If he’d blamed the Rebels then, he’d likely look to them again.
Howie told himself this was exactly how it would be. And if it wasn’t? If Jones just happened to think about him? Howie wondered if the preacher would want to tell old Lawrence that he, Ritcher Jones, was the man who’d brought a killer all the way across the country to High Sequoia. Most likely not. Ritcher Jones hadn’t gotten where he was by playing the fool.
Three hours of Ethics for the New Tomorrow put Howie fast asleep. Chan poked him awake now and then, but Howie simply drifted off again. Stuff like morality and sin, salvation and remorse, failed to compete with pleasant-visions of Lorene.
Finally, the seemingly endless lecture ground to a halt. More than one Brother and Sister glanced coolly at Howie as they left. The teacher, a white-haired Brother who had to be eighty, said nothing at all, for he had scarcely noticed Howie was there.
Chan seemed vaguely irritated at Howie’s classroom behavior.
“That was not a wise thing to do,” he told Howie. “I am certain you will be promptly reported. These people take themselves quite seriously, friend Cory. They do not appreciate signs of contempt.”
“I didn’t intend no contempt,” Howie said, stifling a yawn. “I just couldn’t stay awake, that’s all. What the hell was all that about, Chan? You got any idea?”
Chan tried to suppress a smile. “I think perhaps a stimulating beverage is in order. In my room I have a small but potent bottle from the East that will—”
Chan stopped. He stared past Howie, his broad smile vanishing at once.
Howie turned, and saw the somber figure of Brother James by the classroom door.
“May I speak u you a moment, young Cory?” James said. “I hope you’ll excuse us, Master Chan.”
Chan looked stricken. He glanced once at Howie, and vanished down the hall.
Howie hadn’t forgotten about James; he had simply hoped the sour-faced Brother had forgotten about him.
Well now,” James said, “I see that you are not greatly interested in the scholarly life.”
“I gave it a try,” Howie said. “Guess it didn’t take. I sure didn’t mean to offend no one.”
“No, certainly not,” James said. He stared absently at the ceiling. “I expect the, ah, ceremonial aspects of the Church are more to your liking.”
Howie ignored the remark. James was trying to, bait him, and Howie was determined not to let him get his way.
“You said you wanted to talk. What about?”
“We spoke, you and I. Before we left New Los Angeles” James paused. “About—obligations, as it were. The return of a certain favor.”
“I ain’t forgot.”
“I am pleased to hear you haven’t. Because I am asking you to repay that debt to me now.” James studied Howie a long moment. “It is a very small task, really. Very small indeed, considering what I have done for you. Withholding my knowledge of your most grievous offense against the Church.”
Howie was wary at once. “Maybe I better just hear how small this favor of yours is.”
“I simply want you to tell me something, young Cory. Nothing more than that. You have the honor of meeting Lawrence tonight. There will be a Brother Michael at this gathering. A short, rather obese, person with, ah, very little hair. I merely wish to know what Brother Michael says and does during the evening. I am especially interested in what he might say to Lawrence.”
Howie frowned. “That’s all? Just what this Michael feller says?”
“Particularly to Lawrence. I hope I have made that clear.”
“All right. If that’s all.” Howie didn’t care for the business, but didn’t see how he could refuse.
“Good. Then we are agreed.” James tried to smile. As ever, the result didn’t seem worth the effort. “We can trust each other now, boy. I shall not betray you, and you will not betray me. There would be no advantage in that, now would there?”
Before Howie could answer, Brother James turned and quickly walked away. Not for the first time, Howie cursed himself for pulling such a damn fool stunt back in New Los Angeles. Peeking in a window like a kid. Now he was chained to Brother James, and he didn’t need that. Not now. He wondered for a moment what the business with Brother Michael was all about, and decided that he didn’t want to know.
Chan was waiting in his room, and it was clear he had already started on his mysterious Asian drink. There was a glass bottle of straw-colored liquid on the table, and a third of it was gone. Chan was slightly flushed, and his eyes didn’t seem to work right.
“Whatever that is,” Howie said, “think I’ll have me a cup. Maybe two.”
Chan stared suspiciously at Howie. “I do not like that man. How is it that you know him? What is he to you, Cory?”
Howie was getting tired of answering questions. “I met him down at the house ’fore we left New. Los Angeles. He isn’t nothing to me at all.”
Chan leaned forward. “Do you know who he is, what he does? No, I think that you do not. I can see that is so.” He poured himself a generous drink, and one for Howie. “This Brother James that you know and yet do not appear to know is a Church enforcer. This, in fact, is his official title. He is the Grand Enforcer for High Sequoia.”
Howie felt a slight chill at the back of his neck. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means he is the law in this place. In effect, the head of the Church’s police. All the armed guards are under his command. The security of High Sequoia is his responsibility. But he is far more than that, I assure you. I am not so poor a spy as you might imagine. I know that this James is a dangerous man. He watches his own people as closely as he watches visitors such as ourselves.”
Chan paused, and nervously wet his lips. “I would ask what it is he wants of you, friend Cory. Of course, I cannot demand that you answer. But it might be wise to tell me. It may be that I can help.”
Howie was taken aback by Chan’s words, and the very real fear in his eyes. It was an effort to show he wasn’t concerned at all.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I don’t know what he wants. What he said out there was it didn’t look like I was going to take to learning. I said I figured he was right.’
“And that is all?”
“He kinds give me the idea I wasn’t acting the way I should, That I ought to least try and stay awake, and not go insultin’ the Church.”
“Nothing more. Just that.”
Howie looked pained. “For God’s sake, Chan, you’re worrying about no
thing, you ask me. James has been eyeing me since I got to California. Now that you tell me what he is, I figure I know the reason why. If he’s a snoop for the Church, lookin’ is what he’s likely going to do. I don’t like him much either, but I’m not goin’ to let him get me down. I haven’t got anything to hide.”
Chan clearly wasn’t convinced. “He is not to be trusted. Have nothing to do with the man.”
“Well, that’s sure up to him, not me.” Howie wondered just what the hell he’d gotten himself into with James, and how he could get himself out. He poured himself another drink. The stuff tasted a little like wine, only better, and seemed to have an immediate effect. The fumes were as potent as the liquid itself.
“What do you call this drink?” he asked Chan. “It damn sure packs a punch.”
“Sake,” Chan said. “It is from the Japans. There is no such place anymore since the war, but fortunately, the drink has survived.”
Howie set down his cup. “Sounds like you’ve learned a whole lot ’bout High Sequoia,” he said. “This James and all, what goes on around here.”
“No. I know very little.” Chan’s answer came too quickly.
“No offense, friend, but I don’t believe that.”
Chan flushed, a slight hint of anger in his eyes. “You must forgive me. I have things I must do. I—” Chan looked at the floor, then at Howie “I am sorry, I do not mean to be rude. I am certain, you are my friend. It is simply not—wise, to be discussing such things.”
“If we’re friends, like you say, why’s that, Chan? I thought friends were supposed to help each other. That’s what you were telling me a while ago.” Howie knew he ought to stop, but didn’t want to do that. “You ever hear any talk about how High Sequoia was-before? I know for a fact it wasn’t the same place ’fore Lawrence took over. Even Ritcher Jones says that. And I knew someone who was here. A girl name of Kari. She got away from High Sequoia when it wasn’t near as holy as it is now—”
Chan, came halfway out of his chair and stared at Howie. “You must never—speak of such things! Not to me or anyone else. Whatever you may have heard, put it out of your mind at once.”
Chan’s reaction took him totally by surprise. The man was flat scared, and Howie couldn’t say why.
“Well, thanks for the drink,” Howie said at the door, but Chan clearly didn’t hear a word he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
At seven, two brothers led him to his appointment with Lawrence. Howie figured he was supposed to be impressed; instead, the appearance of the pair made him angry all over again. He was still irritated an incident that had occurred an hour before, and the “escort” merely added new fuel to the fire. Close to six, a boy in a yellow novice robe had knocked on the door, handed Howie several neatly wrapped packages, and left. The packages contained brand-new trousers, the finest cotton shirt he’d ever seen, a black jacket with metal buttons, and new boots. Howie spread the items out on his bed and simply stared. The clothes were far better than any he’d ever worn, and he knew why Ritcher Jones had sent them: The preacher didn’t think
Howie looked good enough to meet the great high and mighty Lawrence.
The idea filled him with sudden rage. He knew it was a damn fool thing to even care what Jones thought about, but that did little to curb his anger. For an irrational moment or so, he thought about wearing the worn-out shirt and pants he had, and seeing how Lawrence liked that. He knew at once that it would be a stupid thing to do. He’d come to High Sequoia to get Mason. Riling up Jones wouldn’t bring him any closer to that.
Howie’s escorts turned him over to two armed Brothers at Lawrence’s door. One of the guards knocked and stepped in, then came back shortly with Ritcher Jones. Jones beamed and shook Howie’s hand.
“Well now, this is certainly a fine occasion,” Jones said. “Lawrence is looking forward to meeting you, Cory. I’ve told hen all about you.”
“Thanks for the clothes,” Howie said. The words tasted awful in his mouth. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“No, no, nothing at all.” Jones looked at Howie. They stood in a narrow hallway with polished walls.
“There are several things you should know about, ah-being in Lawrence’s presence,” Jones said. “Although you are not a member of the Order, there are courtesies to be observed. Lawrence is a Holy Person. This may not be your belief, Cory, but you will be expected to act as though it were while you are here. Speak to Lawrence only when he addresses you. Answer him plainly and without undue elaboration. But—and please remember this—do not initiate a conversation yourself. That’s important. If you feel you have something you’d like to say, tell it to me. I will decide if it is something Lawrence might care to hear. When you speak, address Lawrence simply as Lawrence. Nothing more. We consider that as both his title and his name.”
Jones spread his hands. “It’s very easy, really. Just remember what I’ve said. I’m certain you’ll do quite well.”
“I guess so,” Howie said. He wanted to ask Jones if it was all right to breathe inside, then recalled the preacher liked his own jokes, but didn’t much care for other folks’ attempts at humor.
Jones led the way, past a beaded curtain and through another wooden doer. Howie took the room in at a glance. There, wasn’t much to see. The floor was sanded wood, walls painted white. The room was stark, with no decoration at all. People were seated at a long dining table, and they all looked up as Jones and Howie entered. There were two men from the Chinese delegation. And Lorene, and an attractive brunette Howie hadn’t seen before. Harmon was there too, next to the good-looking girl. Howie recognized Michael at once, from James’s description.
Lawrence himself was a surprise. He sat at the head of the table, and looked for all the world like an ordinary man. Middle-aged and gaunt, with hollow cheeks and thinning hair. Howie looked for shining lights, and didn’t see anything at all.
“Lawrence, may I present Master Cory,” Jones said, stopping a respectful distance from Lawrence’s chair.
Lawrence looked up, staring for a moment, as if he hadn’t noticed Howie before.
Welcome to our table,” Lawrence said simply. His voice was a weary monotone.
“Thank you, sir,” Howie said. Ritcher Jones didn’t pass out cold or anything, so it must have been the right thing to say.
Jones took a seat next to Lawrence, across from Brother Michael. Howie sat next to Jones, directly across from Lorene. Jones introduced him to Brother Michael, Sister Marie, and Mr. Wang and Mr. Chen.
“Of course you know Sister Lorene and Brother Harmon,” Jones added.
Lorene smiled politely. Harmon scowled at Howie and filled his mouth with food. Howie let his eyes linger on Marie a second or two longer than he should. Marie blushed and looked away.
Howie couldn’t take his eye off Marie. She was pretty, but that wasn’t it. He realized then that she reminded him of Camille, Lorene’s friend who’d died of a bandit’s bullet on the way. They didn’t look all that much alike, but they were both dark-haired, with the same sharp features and liquid eyes. Howie felt a little guilty. He’d meant to say something to Lorene and Ritcher Jones when they got to High Sequoia, but there had never seemed to be a right time. It was the polite thing to do; they hadn’t brought it up either, so maybe they were waiting for him.
“I believe you are acquainted with our Mr. Chan.”
Howie turned, and saw the Chinese by his side watching him with curious eyes. He wasn’t real surprised to hear the man spoke English, with hardly any accent at all. He’d guessed Chan wasn’t the only member of his party who knew the language. Howie decided he was Wang, and the other one was Chen.
“We’ve talked a couple of times,” Howie said “Off and on.”
“Yes. I have seen this.” Wang looked about sixty; his head was perfectly bald. The skin stretched tight across his face was the color and texture of old paper.
“Chan is a very able young man,” Wang said. “Most intelligent and alert. We a
re expecting much of his abilities.”
I heard some different, Howie thought. “He’s a real fine person, all right,” he said aloud. “Interesting feller to talk to. I didn’t know nothing about China. Sounds like a real nice place.”
Wang looked up from his plate. “Indeed it is. And what did young Chan tell you about China?”
Howie took a bite of melon while he tried to think what he ought to say. What Chan might have said that he shouldn’t.
“Mostly, he talked about the country. Rivers and lakes and such. Trees and birds. Sounded right pretty.”
“Yes, I see. Wang was clearly disappointed. “China is a beautiful place. And a most progressive nation as well. Many things have been accomplished there that have not yet appeared in the West. I imagine Chan told you of such things.
“No, not a thing,” Howie said. “I’d sure like to hear about ’em, though.
“Yes. Perhaps we will talk sometime.” Wang nodded curtly, and showed a sudden interest in his food.
By God, Chan was right, Howie decided. For whatever reason, his friends were trying to bring him down.
“Cory …” Jones poked Howie sharply in the ribs.
“Uh, what?” Howie turned. Jones was staring at him, plainly irritated.
“Lawrence is speaking to you, Cory.”
“Oh.” Howie looked at Lawrence. “I’m real sorry, sir.”
Lawrence didn’t smile. “I understand you were in the war.”
“Yes, sir. I was.”
“You lost an eye. How did this occur?”
Howie tried to remember the story he’d told before. “A cannon exploded. A piece of hot metal caught me right in the eye. The other fellers there was killed outright. Guess I was lucky.”
Lawrence turned to Brother Michael. “I think this un-fortunate incident must be dealt with at once. I see no other alternative.”
“Yes, I am afraid this is so, Michael said.” I shall see to it, Lawrence.”
“As soon as possible, Michael. No delays.”
“Yes, of course.”
Neal Barrett Jr. Page 21
