Book Deal

by Les Standiford

  Deal would have been happy to take the same route, but there was another problem. Something huge there, in his way, something impossible, an enormous frozen man…

  Then he realized, as he wrenched the Land Cruiser back onto the road. Not a man but a statue, a gigantic representation of a man in flowing robes, his arms upraised in a benedictory pose. The thing—a depiction of James Ray Willis, he supposed—was lying on its back in the snow now, its arms reaching toward the heavens. Until recently the statue must have presided over the entrance to the grounds, lending its blessing to everyone who came and went. Until Kittle had clipped its foundation, sent it tumbling down, that is.

  Ozymandias, Deal thought. There was a poem that even he could remember. Shelley, wasn’t it? “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair,” some tumbled statue in the desert, its legend proclaiming the enduring magnificence and everlasting power of its subject. He’d written a paper on it, had managed a B in that English class.

  He stomped the accelerator flat, hit the gate doing forty, snapped the brittle chain holding it as if it were glass. There’d be time to despair later on, he thought as the gate crashed open before him.

  The road had been graded inside the compound, but it was still snow-covered and treacherous, especially on the switchbacks that twisted down toward the valley floor. He was concentrating so hard on the road before him that he wasn’t aware of the vehicle behind him until the red flashers caught him in their glare.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror, startled. Another four-wheel-drive vehicle, big light bar affixed to its top, flashers spinning, headlights flashing high to dim, high to dim. Cops, he found himself thinking. Cavalry to the rescue. Then remembered where he was.

  He’d instinctively taken his foot from the gas, and the vehicle had closed the gap between them. “Pull over!” Deal heard the amplified voice cracking from behind him. “Pull over now.”

  Deal glanced ahead. One more turn, then a straight chute downhill past the lake, the big arena-like building and its parking lot beyond. He saw Kittle’s truck up there, crossing the snowbound lot.

  Hadn’t this cop seen Kittle, he wondered? And then a chilling answer occurred to him.

  The security vehicle was abreast of him now, a Chevy Blazer, he saw. The two oversized vehicles were taking the last curve in a precarious ballet. One slipup, Deal thought, one nudge, and he’d be over the side.

  He saw the passenger window of the Blazer slide down, caught sight of a man in a parka turned toward him.

  “Pull over!” The voice crackling again, echoing off the frozen hillside. Deal felt a thud, felt the wheel of the Toyota shudder in his hands. He stole a quick glance at the sheer drop-off on his right, glanced back at the man beside him. Were the bastards trying to kill him? He clutched the wheel with one freezing hand, sent his window down with the other, opening the perfect slipstream for the frigid blast outside.

  “Hey!” he shouted, struggling to make himself heard over the wind, over the straining engines. “Back off…” he added, then stopped.

  The man across from him had a pistol raised, had brought his other hand up to steady his aim. Deal didn’t wait to see what his intentions were.

  He slammed on the brakes of the Toyota and the Blazer hurtled forward. There was a muzzle flash and the popping sound of a pistol shot. He saw the brake lamps of the Blazer ignite, felt the wheels of the Toyota lock on the ice beneath him.

  The Blazer had slewed diagonally across the road in front of him and Deal ducked as another muzzle flash erupted from the passenger window. He still had his head down when the two vehicles collided.

  He came up in time to see the Blazer skid on the ice, then go over the side, barreling down the steep slope toward the frozen lake. The Toyota slid in the other direction, slammed off a projection of rock that jutted where the road had been cut, then spun to a halt a few feet downhill from where the Blazer had gone over.

  He watched the Blazer roll over once, then come up on its wheels again, skidding wildly out across the icy surface of the lake. It came to a stop finally, and for a moment, everything was still. Deal set the Toyota’s parking brake, stepped shakily down, stared out at the silent Blazer.

  A break, he was thinking. He’d finally caught a break.

  Then there was a blinding eruption of flashes from the Blazer and a hail of automatic fire that chewed into the Toyota’s grill. Deal dove for cover behind the fender, covering his head as metal screamed and hoses burst above him. He smelled brake fluid, antifreeze, scorched oil, all the fluids a dying car could leak.

  The firing abated, and he heard the whine of the Blazer’s engine come to life. He glanced around the Toyota’s fender, saw the Blazer, its top crushed down, its windows shattered, grinding inexorably toward him. Another blast of fire sent him down again.

  No point in trying to run, he thought. And even if the Toyota was still drivable, they’d cut him down before he got a hundred yards. But what to do? Fire some snowballs their way? Start an avalanche?

  Which led him to consider the next best thing, something he’d already learned in his brief time in frozen landscape. Not much, of course, but what were his options? He stood up cautiously, opened the door of the Toyota. He released the parking brake, slid the shift into neutral. Another hail of fire tore through what was left of the windshield, blew on through the back windows this time.

  He leaned heavily against the door frame and tried to find some decent purchase on the snowy ground. He felt the Toyota give slightly, and found a crevice where the pavement ended that he could dig both feet into. He gritted his teeth, felt a fire in his groin as he pushed with everything he had. Sorry, car, he thought. Last chance, it’s either you or me. And finally, the car gave way.

  He rolled aside, dodging another burst of fire as the Toyota slammed down onto the ice. He glanced up to see muzzle flashes erupting from both windows of the Blazer as the Land Cruiser slid crazily toward it.

  Slugs caromed off the Land Cruiser like tracer fire. Then there was a bright ball of flame as the gas tank went up. The Blazer swerved, would avoid this rolling fireball easily. And it would have. Would have dodged Deal’s last toss easily if that’s all he’d had in mind.

  The Blazer circled slowly toward the smoldering Land Cruiser, and a spotlight beam shot out, playing across the ruined carcass. Twenty feet, ten feet, five. Another hail of fire chewing into the already shattered driver’s side, they’d have to be sure…

  …and then he heard it, what he’d hoped for when he sent the heavy Land Cruiser out on the ice, a crack that echoed off the hillside at his back, then another, and another. The Land Cruiser went first. Its rear wheels seemed to drop a foot or so as though some giant hand had jerked its axle from below. Then, abruptly, its snout pitched forward and disappeared beneath the water.

  Inside the Blazer, they must have realized what was happening, Deal thought. He heard the big engine roar, the wheels whining furiously. It teetered on the edge of the sudden dark slash that was open water, the tires locked in a helpless spin on the fractured ice. And then, as if the driver had inexplicably thrown the vehicle into reverse, as if the wheels had found purchase at last, the Blazer shot backwards, vanishing into the dark water.

  ***

  There might have been screams from that broken place, but Deal, who was already up and running toward the big arena, willed himself not to hear them. By the time he’d crossed the huge parking lot and was edging along the shadows in front of the building where Kittle’s truck was parked, he had convinced himself it had been nothing more than the keening of the bitter wind.

  Though the snow had stopped, the wind had picked up and it seemed very nearly as bitter as when he’d been driving the windowless Land Cruiser. He longed to be inside, anywhere, no matter what the danger, so long as he could be warm again. Still, he approached the entrance slowly, cautiously, staying close to the thick shrubbery, praying no one was watching from the brightly lit foyer. With the vast bank o
f windows steamed as thickly as they were, it was hard to tell, but then, he told himself, it would be just as difficult for anyone to see out.

  He broke out of the shadows finally, headed for the open set of doors on a dead run, trying to keep his thoughts under control, praying he wouldn’t squander whatever chance he had.

  He stopped briefly at Kittle’s truck, glanced through the windshield, felt a surge of hope when he saw Janice’s bag tossed carelessly on the floorboards. He flung open the door to check the back, recoiled when an alarm Klaxon began to sound.

  Deal cursed, slamming the truck door, racing on toward the foyer of the building. He slid inside, wrenching the glass doors closed behind him, fighting against the drifted snow until they clicked shut and the wail of the truck’s alarm dimmed.

  A killer with an alarm on his goddamned pickup truck, Deal thought, leaning with his back against the glass to catch his breath. The guy probably had life and health insurance, a pension plan, too.

  He glanced around, hoping to see a coatroom entrance, a bank of phones, but he’d stepped into something that looked more like an arboretum than a foyer: He heard the sound of running water, glanced across the room at a sculpted rock formation, a tumbling waterfall that fed a meandering artificial stream, little signs posted here and there: FOUNTAIN OF EVERLASTING HOPE. ETERNAL STREAM OF MERCY. GLADE OF PEACE AND BROTHERHOOD. The water was steaming in the blast of cold air that Kittle had let in, and the place had the surreal look of a movie set or some theme area out of Disney World. He didn’t have to look to know that the fountains and the waterways would be lined with the glittering coins of the faithful.

  He pushed away from the glass then, hearing muffled sounds from inside the chapel, the heavy bass rumble and echo of a PA system. He approached one pair of the inner doors, thick wood slabs with little portal windows, checked inside, tried the latch. The first set was locked, but he moved aside and found another set where the latch gave with a soft click. He pushed inside, found himself in a short passage that led to an inner set of doors.

  Good architecture, he thought, the sort of anteroom quality movie houses used to have but had thrown over years ago. The Reverend James Ray Willis wanted to make sure nothing would disturb the assembled parishioners, apparently.

  Deal moved on to the second set of doors, glanced through the tiny window, was startled at the immensity of what he saw inside. “Church” was a misnomer, certainly. “Arena” was more like it. Maybe “coliseum.” The place, a sea of empty seats, dimly lit in the reflection of exit lights and row markers, could hold thousands.

  Far down an aisle wide enough to have driven the Land Cruiser along was a nearly darkened stage, illuminated only at a pulpit raised off to one side. Someone was standing at the lectern there, bellowing into a microphone. Deal couldn’t make out the face, but the form was unmistakable, even at this distance. Kittle, his gaunt frame bent over the top of the lectern, one hand clutching the microphone, his voice booming. There was a dark form on the floor of the stage beside him. Anyone else might have taken it for stage property, might have missed the shape altogether, but not Deal. He felt his heart give, felt gratitude, and fury, and desperation.

  “Reverend!” Deal heard as he slipped inside the cavernous hall. “Reverend!”

  Deal thought he saw Janice stirring groggily on the stage floor at Kittle’s feet, had to hold himself back from a mad rush down the long aisle. He gazed over the bank of seats at his right, glimpsed another aisle running between the last bank of seats and the building’s wall. The seats themselves were the type that folded up when no one was sitting, and that would give him a clear track, he thought. He dropped to his hands and knees, scurrying off over the concrete surface like a theater rat toward the far aisle, Kittle’s pleas booming through the air above him.

  When he felt his palms reach the carpet of the far aisle, he straightened a bit, began an awkward crab walk that would take him down to the stage, opposite the end where Kittle stood, craning his neck, looking out into the darkness for his blessed reverend to save him.

  If he could just make it up into the wings without being seen, Deal thought. Make his way directly behind Kittle, surprise him with a rush…

  But Deal hadn’t gone a dozen yards when he froze, his heart thudding in his chest. Someone was standing in an alcove, he realized, close enough to reach out and touch. Someone with a weapon raised, about to put an end to this, a burly, bearded man wearing sandals. And a tunic?

  In the next moment, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Deal felt his breath release. His gaze traveled on up the lifelike statue, to another of the little plaques mounted above the alcove.

  “SOLDIER OF THE CROSS,” he read. Further down the aisle, another alcove, a beseeching Madonna, her hands lifted toward the heavens in supplication. A series of the things all over the hall, he saw now. Seven deadly sins, Christ bearing his Cross, all the iconography of his childhood Bible class, and then some.

  He stood carefully, ducked into the soldier’s nook, reached out to the sword. A short blade, and carefully dulled, but a seemingly authentic reproduction otherwise. He tugged on the blade, but the statue’s hand held fast. He jiggled the thing a bit, felt some give. He waited for Kittle to repeat his call, and then, as the sound echoed across the great room, he grasped the blade firmly and twisted with all he had.

  There was a puff of plaster as several of the soldier’s fingers flew away into the darkness, and suddenly Deal was holding a freely swinging sword by its blade. He turned the thing around, slipped his hand inside the guard. As he’d hoped, the thing had a heft to it. It might not cut butter, but it would have to do. Just holding it made him feel better, almost a soldier himself. He ducked out of the alcove past the shattered arm of the statue, hurried on down the plaster-strewn aisle toward the stage.

  He found a set of stairs there, blocked by a low gate that he simply stepped over, a hurdler’s move, but in slow motion. He ducked back down, came up the steps on his hands and knees, pausing when his gaze cleared stage level. He glanced at Kittle, whose gaze was directed straight ahead, then turned, gauging the distance across the neck of stage before him until he’d reach the cover of the curtains.

  When Kittle bent to the microphone once again, Deal made his break. One step, two steps, three…no more than a dozen feet, but it seemed endless…

  He dropped to his knees, grasped the weighted bottom of the heavy drapery, was rolling under its protective hem, when there was a sudden blaze of light that enveloped him, enveloped everything. Deal tumbled on beneath the curtain, on his back and gasping. He found himself in a fly gallery now, staring up into the upper recesses above the stage, where ropes and guys twined crazily, where banks of lights had suddenly sprung into life.

  Had Kittle spotted him, thrown these lights on? he wondered. He urged himself up, turned toward center stage, holding his dull sword at the ready, waiting for Kittle to burst through the drapes, make his final charge. But the moments passed and still no one came.

  “What in God’s name are you doing, buddy?” Deal heard then. The voice boomed about the arena, echoing even louder than Kittle’s had, sending the stage curtains themselves into a tremble. Deal gave an involuntary glance up into the flies.

  Deal waited a moment, but heard no further sounds. He edged quickly along the backside of the curtains, until he thought he’d reached a spot behind the podium. He found a gap where two sections overlapped, glanced quickly out, caught sight of a figure out there bathed in bright light now, a light so bright it nearly blinded him.

  But there was no time to hesitate, Deal thought, already making his charge. If Kittle chanced to turn, his butter knife of a sword wasn’t going to do much good against a gun.

  He was up over the back of the pulpit, still fighting the incredible glare from the stage lights, and thank God Kittle hadn’t seemed to hear him still, though that seemed rather strange, didn’t it? And even odder, Deal thought, as he dove for the man who stood motionless
at the podium, staring out over the empty auditorium, his arms raised in that familiar pose of benediction, it wasn’t Kittle standing there at all. It was Willis, he realized, in that brief fraction of a second that he left his feet. Willis, who’d come to take Kittle’s place.

  Deal’s arms reached out to close about the neck of the Reverend James Ray Willis, then, but somehow, impossibly, he caught nothing but air. Deal sailed off the edge of the pulpit and crashed to the floor of the stage below, his shoulder crumpling painfully beneath him. He came up on his hands and knees, groggy, the sword still clutched in his hand. He stared up dumbstruck at the unwavering image above him. It was James Ray Willis, all right, down to the last glittering detail, but there was something wrong with that picture.

  “Wait for me right where you are, buddy.”

  Willis’s voice boomed off the walls about them, and the lips of the image moved. But the facial movement was generic, devoid of expression, that of a ventriloquist’s dummy. The realization came slowly to Deal, partly because it seemed so bizarre, so impossible.

  A hologram, he thought. He’d tried to tackle a goddamned hologram.

  “Deal?” he heard. And turned, still dazed, to see Janice a dozen yards away. She had struggled to one elbow, was reaching out for him…then she collapsed again. Deal pushed himself to his feet, started for her.

  He might have taken two strides, no more, when he sensed movement behind him. He turned, caught a glimpse of Kittle advancing upon him, already too close, he thought.

  Deal felt a stunning blow at the base of his skull, felt himself tumbling forward, his chin bouncing off the wooden surface of the stage. Odd that there wasn’t more pain, he was thinking. His dull sword spun away across the black-painted wood, its phony jewels and golden paint firing off glints and glitter as it went.