Bits & Pieces (46 page)

“You don't know what I know,” said Iron Mike. He craned his head forward to speak. Drops of blood fell from his chin and spattered on the saint's clothes. “I know you. I know who you are, Saint John of the Knife. I know who you were before the Reaper Plague began eating the world.”

“Do you?”

The red eyes burned, and the mouth below them smiled. “I know. And even if I hadn't heard of the serial killer named Saint John in newspapers and books, all I have to do to know
you is to look into your eyes. You know the saying—the eyes are the windows of the soul. Do you want to know what I see when I look into your eyes?”

Saint John did not answer.

“You want me to tell you?” asked Mike in a tone only Saint John and Brother Marty could hear. “In front of your ‘flock'?”

The saint did not reply, but Marty raised his hand, snapped his fingers with a sound like a dry stick breaking, and waved the reapers back. He kept waving until they were well beyond earshot even of normal voices.

“You want me out of here, boss?” he asked.

Saint John nodded. “Question the last of the guards. Tear the truth from him if you must. Do it down the hill, but come when I call.”

Before he left, Brother Marty looked up into Iron Mike's face. “You are one very spooky guy, you know that?”

“It's come up in conversation.”

They smiled at each other for a moment.

“Be cool if you were on our side,” said Brother Marty.

Iron Mike's smile grew cold. “I'm not on anybody's side.”

Marty studied his eyes, then turned and moved quickly away.

When they were alone, Saint John said, “You try very hard to be impressive, Mr. Sweeney. Go ahead . . . impress me. Reveal your insights. What is it you think you know?”

“Seriously? You want to go there.”

“Seriously,” agreed the saint.

“Okay. Like I said, I know you. I look through the windows of your eyes and I know you. I can see what made you.”

“I doubt that . . .”

“I can see the little boy you used to be. The tortured one. The abused one. The humiliated one.”

“You'll have to do better than that. Before the Fall the newspapers ran all sorts of stories speculating about me. They trotted out FBI profilers who said that I was the product of an abusive home life. All very cliché.”

“All very true.”

“You're trying to buy your life back by teasing me with information anyone could have gotten.”

Mike slowly shook his head. “I know the secret word. . . .”

Saint John froze.

“I know what it is and where it is,” said Mike. “A word your father burned into your skin with cigarette butts. A word that he burned onto your mother's face right before she killed herself. Do you want me to tell you what that word is?”

The saint did not reply. His mouth went dry, and his heart beat with strange rhythms.

“I know what you did to your father,” continued Iron Mike. “I know what you did to try to stop the pain. The horror. The ugliness.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No . . . you can't know that. No one . . .” Saint John's voice died in his throat.

The prisoner shook his head slowly. “Look . . . you and I aren't as different as you might think. I did my own time in hell when I was a kid, and I have the scars to prove it. Inside and out. I know what it feels like to be turned from an innocent kid into a monster. Believe me . . . I know.”

“You don't know my life,” murmured the saint. “No one knows what happened. . . .”

“Look at me,” said Iron Mike quietly, “and tell me if I'm like anyone you ever met.”

Saint John shook his head.

“Look at me and tell me if you ever saw anyone like me except in the mirror.”

“No.”

Saint John tried to stare the man down, but the longer he looked into those burning red eyes, the more he felt the ground beneath him begin to melt, to turn to quicksand.

“What are you?” he demanded.

“I'm like you,” said Mike Sweeney. “I'm a monster. We were both born in a furnace, raised by predators, and then vomited out into the world.”

“Monster . . . ,” echoed Saint John. His knees wanted to buckle.

“You call yourself a saint of god,” mocked Mike Sweeney. “It's a front, it's a paint job you slap over bare stone walls. I know all about that. I wanted to remake myself too. I wanted to whitewash my soul. I couldn't do it before the world ended. Not really. But every day since, I've been trying to be a new person. Not the thing my father made me . . . no, I wanted to be the man I should have been if the old world had shown me even a splinter of grace.” He laughed, short and bitter, full of nails and broken glass. “But maybe people like us can't really ever escape who we are. I was a monster before the Fall and I'm a monster now. A different kind of monster, sure, but then again it's a different world.”

“I'm not a monster,” said Saint John in a low, tight voice that was filled with menace. “I am a saint of god.”

Iron Mike studied him for a long moment, then sighed and nodded. “Maybe you are. Maybe even heaven's broken and the old gods are fighting over the scraps. One of them might need a man like you to be his garbage collector down here. What do I know? But if you're a saint of your god, then maybe I'm a hound of mine.”

Saint John's lips formed the words “hound of god.”

Mike grinned with red-streaked teeth and eyes the color of blood.

The saint said, “You speak of mysteries. You speak as if you know about me.”

“I do.”

“You can't.”

Iron Mike shrugged as best he could—a lift of muscular shoulders and a smile that seemed unable to acknowledge fear or the presence of death. Saint John searched the man's strange eyes, looking for a sliver of doubt, of fear, even of humanity. All he saw was something alien, something that did not fit into his world or his faith.

And that was an impossible thing.

That had never happened before.

Not once.

As if sensing his thoughts, Iron Mike gave a sad shake of his head. “You're looking in the wrong direction.”

“What do you mean? We know the towns are in—”

“No,” said the prisoner. “That's not what I mean. I'm talking about when you look at the world. All you can see is the world of machines and governments and science—all the
things your kind hate; and when you look into the future, all you see is the end of all pain and the simplicity of your darkness. Tell me I'm wrong.”

“What else is there?”

Iron Mike flexed his hands and gave a playful tug on his bonds. “You seem like a smart guy, educated. Ever read
Hamlet
? Remember the scene in the graveyard, that line everybody quotes? ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy?”

Saint John said nothing.

The prisoner nodded, however, as if the saint had acknowledged the quote and its meaning. “You treasure the darkness, and who knows, maybe you're really damaged enough to serve your version of the darkness with your whole heart, but—”

“My ‘version'?” cut in Saint John. “There is only the darkness.”

“Ah,” said Iron Mike, “you'd better hope not. You'd better hope that there are many kinds of darkness. That's what I believe. Hell, I bet we even see different stars when we look up at the night sky. I believe there are worlds within worlds, shadows within shadows.”

Saint John grunted with disgust. It was a dismissive sound. “What a pity,” he said, “after all of this it turns out that you are merely mad. For a moment there, I will admit, I believed that you had insight, that you were some kind of damaged prophet. But . . . no. Merely another person driven mad by having to endure endless days in this world of flesh.”

Something flickered in the prisoner's eyes, but Saint John could not accurately read it.

“It's okay if you believe that,” said Iron Mike. “Sometimes even I think I'm nuts. If you've seen the things I've seen, done the things I've done, saw the world through my eyes . . .” The prisoner laughed quietly and shook his head. “Being insane would be nice. It would be a kindness, and I can't remember the last time this universe threw me a bone. Everything I've ever loved has died or been torn away from me. Am I crazy? I wish to god—any god who will listen, even your god—that I was.”

“I pity you,” said Saint John, and he mostly meant it. This man disturbed him on so many levels. His words, as mad as they were, threatened to open doors in his head that had long since been nailed shut and bricked up. “Tell me where the Nine Towns are and I will end your pain and your suffering. I will send you on into the darkness.”

“Killing me would be a blessing,” said Iron Mike, “but not in the way you think.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing . . . but . . .”

“But what?”

Iron Mike looked up at the trees, above which the sun was a bright ball of fire. He closed his eyes and took in a long, deep breath.

“It's going to be a full moon tonight,” he said, eyes still closed. “Did you know that?”

“So what?”

Iron Mike opened his eyes, and they seemed to burn with palpable heat.

“You really don't understand this world,” he said in a voice that was not at all human. It was low and wild and wrong. “There's darkness and then there's darkness. Real darkness.
You think you understand what's on the other side? You want to go into the darkness? You crave it. Keep thinking that, keep bringing pain to people who aren't as strong or as crazy as you. But when it's your time, when you step through the door into the big black . . . I'll be waiting there for you. And I'll show you what darkness really means.”

In a flash, before he knew he was going to do it, Saint John drew a knife and buried the blade in Mike Sweeney's chest.

The big man made a single sound. It was not a grunt of pain. Not even of surprise.

It sounded more like a snort of mocking laughter.

Saint John tore his knife free and stared numbly at the bloody blade, watching in detached fascination as the red dripped down onto his hand. With a cry he flung the knife into the woods.

Then he spun away and fled.

When he reached his bodyguards, he waved them away and hurried toward the road where the army waited. Brother Marty followed at a run.

“Honored one,” panted Marty, “what happened down there? What did he say to you?”

Saint John suddenly wheeled, and one bloody hand darted out and caught Marty by the front of his shirt. He lifted the smaller man to his toes, pulled him so close that spit flecked Marty's face as the saint spoke in a fierce whisper.

“We will never speak of this again. Never. I will personally flay the skin from anyone who mentions that man's name. I will cut his tongue out and nail it to his—”

“Honored one,” croaked Marty, “please, please . . . it's okay, it's all cool. We don't need that freak.”

Saint John's eyes blazed at him, and it took a visible effort of will to stop the flow of his words and respond with a modicum of calm. “What do you mean?”

“Look at this.” Marty reached into his pocket and removed a folded paper and, with a flick of his wrist, shook it out. He held it up to show the saint. It was an old AAA road map of California. Dozens of notations had been handwritten onto the map. “The wagon driver had this under the seat. Look there . . . see? Haven, Mountainside, New Town . . . and six others. All nine towns are marked clear as day.”

Slowly, slowly . . . Saint John eased the force of his grip on Brother Marty's shirt, letting the smaller man settle back onto his feet. Marty held the map out like it was an offering, or a shield. Saint John snatched it from him and stared at it.

Saint John closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. When he opened them, the look of wild panic in the saint's eyes scared Marty more than anything had since the dead rose. This was not a man who was ever frightened. Not of the living or the dead.

The map seemed to work some magic on Saint John. Calming him, driving the wildness from his eyes. The saint took another breath and let it out slowly.

“There is great evil all around us, my friend,” he said in a ragged voice. “The sooner this world is destroyed, the safer all our souls will be.”

He turned and walked away.

Brother Marty stood there, quivering, bathed in cold sweat.

Marty cast a nervous look down the slope to where the red-haired man hung between two trees. Even now, even slumped in death, there was something about the prisoner.

Something deeply, deeply wrong.

Marty backed away, spun, and ran to catch up with Saint John.

Area 51

Benny whirled and saw more reapers emerge from points of concealment. Six of them.

No . . . seven.

His mouth went instantly dry, and his heart sank all the way to his feet.

“Oh God . . . ,” he whispered.

One reaper, a tall man with a hook nose and tattooed beetles and scorpions covering every inch of his shaved head, pointed at Benny with a two-handed field scythe, but spoke to the other reapers. “You see, my brothers and sisters? He calls on a false god when confronted by the servants of the only true god. All hail Thanatos.”

“Praise be to his darkness,” intoned the others in unison.

Benny licked his lips, which were so dry it felt like they were covered with sand. “I don't want any trouble.”

It sounded as lame as it was, and the reapers smiled.

“Unless you accept the darkness, you are lost in a world of trouble.”

Benny looked quickly around. There were five men and two women, all of them lean and hard-looking, all of them armed with knives and swords. Their white angel wings seemed to glow with inner light on their chests, as if the intensity of their strange beliefs burned with real fire.