The Falling Away (11 page)

“Purged?”

“Means it's been—”

“I know what purged means. I just graduated from high school, as you pointed out. What I don't know is what you mean by purged.”

“I mean, you've been bottling up these emotions, these feelings of disgust and self-hatred and, well, sometimes rage. Rage against yourself, rage against others. It's a disease, Quinn, and I've pulled that disease out of you.”

She eyed him, saying nothing. “And what's the second reason?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“You said there were two reasons why you knew so much about my life. What's the second reason?”

“Oh,” he said matter-of-factly. “God. God led me to you, and now He wants me to lead you to Him.” He stood, went to the sink, peeled off the surgeon's gloves he was wearing. He washed his hands, lathering up his arms to the elbows, dried them with a towel he selected out of an open suitcase on the floor, produced fresh gloves, and put them on. Then he returned.

“That's it?” she said. “All of this for some quick give-your-life-to-Jesus spiel? As if that explains everything?”

“It's not a spiel, Quinn. It's . . . it's an awakening. God's chosen you to be part of the Falling Away, and has been preparing you for it since . . . well, since you were born. Only now, you're ready to find out. To discover why. That's why I'm here.”

Quinn shook her head. She felt more tired than ever.

“You can't argue with the evidence inside you, Quinn. When I touched you, when I prayed for you, it drew out all that pain.”

She nodded, weakly. Yes, she did have to admit that. It was the one reason she was in this room now; she'd felt . . . something. Even before she'd asked what he was doing, she knew inside that he was praying for her. And she knew that it was working. It had been physical. Real.

“When I prayed,” Paul continued, “I drew that disease out of you, I drew it into me, you might say. And to help me cope with those thoughts, those emotions that were bottled up inside you, I have to go through my own . . . well, my own ritual.” He held up his gloved hands. “You've been wanting to ask me about the gloves, haven't you?”

She nodded. Even that took physical energy she didn't have.

“I'm what you might call a germophobe. A clean freak. I don't like physical contact—which, in a funny way, makes it hard for me to do what I do. But the irony is, it also makes it possible for me to do what I do.”

“And that is?”

“Ever read the Bible?”

“Not really.”

“You're not alone. You'll find the Falling Away in Second Thessalonians: ‘Let no one deceive you by any means; for that Day will not come unless the falling away comes first, and the man of sin is revealed, the son of perdition.' ”

“I don't get it.”

“Hang with me. That verse is talking about . . . well, it's talking about a lot of things. But the Day it refers to—the day that will not come unless the falling away comes first—is a right relationship with God. So the falling away, in the literal sense, is about us, as humanity, falling away from God. Falling away from what is right. Hitting bottom, if you will. That's happening all around us, and it's been happening since . . . really, since the beginning of mankind.”

“I still don't get it.”

“Okay, okay. The Falling Away is happening all around us, every day. Hatred, bitterness, pain: it's everywhere, because we live in a world that's cracked and broken. It's not meant to be this way. And we in the Falling Away are doing all we can to help repair those cracks and breaks.”

“By?”

He sighed. “Well, that's the other part of the phrase, the other meaning of the Falling Away. We want people to see the reality of what's around them, open their eyes to what they should be seeing: a world that's hurting and needs redemption. We want the illusions of hatred and suffering to fall away, in a sense. Because falling away from the lies that surround us means falling into the hands of God. That's from Hebrews—”

“Okay, okay. I get it. You're a religious wing nut, telling me I just need to pray and everything will be all right.”

“Oh, I didn't say everything will be all right. But let me finish. It's not what you're picturing; we don't lock arms and sing happy songs and talk platitudes. In the Falling Away, we're an army, down in the trenches. We're . . .” He paused, cleared his throat. “We're exorcists, in a sense.”

Quinn laughed. “Exorcists? You're crazier than I thought.”

“No, Quinn. It's the world that's crazier than you think. What I just did to you was, very literally, an exorcism: you've been carrying around your guilt and your pain and your suffering and your longing for your mother. Those are all symptoms of a spiritual disease. People get coughs and aches and pains, they're perfectly willing to take medicine to heal their physical bodies. But when they start having symptoms of spiritual disease, they ignore them. Because the world believes the lie that there's no such thing as spiritual disease.”

“So how do you get this spiritual disease?”

“It's from the evil that's leaking into our world. It's from demonic activity—which is why I'm talking about exorcism.”

“So I was possessed by demons?” She laughed; she couldn't help it.

“No. Possession is a whole other level. I'm saying the disease is spread by demonic activity. The demons are the source of the original infection, but they don't hop from human to human, possessing them. That's not the way it works. Especially because humans themselves are so good at spreading the infection.”

“So you're saying demons are all around us.”

“No, I'm not. I'm telling you we're surrounded by the spiritual disease they create. People think of angels versus demons as some kind of war going on, and that's not right at all. It's more like a virus, and you can be infected without ever coming into contact with a demon itself.”

“I'm not buying.”

“It's a lot to take in, I'll give you that. It seems so foreign, so wrong, so unbelievable. But that's because we live in a world that doesn't want to believe those things are possible. Which makes the disease so easy to spread.”

“I think you've taken your germophobe thing to a whole new level. You need to talk to a psychiatrist or something.”

“See, that's why I'm talking to you.” He held up his gloved hands again. “These gloves, the germophobe thing you talk about—that's my compulsion. That's how I control the thoughts that try to take hold. That's how I ward off the disease. And you're the same. But you don't wash to relieve the pressure. You cut.”

“I'm not immune; you just said it.”

“No one's immune. But you can learn to control it, like I did. All of us in the Falling Away, we have these compulsions that help us filter out the evil, once we learn how to use them. It's that odd dichotomy, really: we're almost magnets for pain and suffering, but because we have ways to control it, there's a design to it all. Think of yourself: You've been homeless for four years. Your father walked out on you and your mother, and then your mother disappeared. That's more pain than most people go through in a lifetime. But once again: you're a magnet for it, because you were built to handle it. It might seem impossible, but—”

“But with God, all things are possible. Blah, blah, blah.”

Paul smiled. “Matthew 19:26. And you said you never read the Bible.”

18

Dylan found the phone, a giant
JOE SUX
scratched into the black metal of its faceplate, and dialed his contact number for Krunk.

“Yeah?”

“Krunk. It's . . . uh . . . Dylan.”

“Dylan. Where are you?”

Dylan closed his eyes, leaned against the cold metal surface of the phone. Was there an edge in Krunk's voice, or was he just being paranoid?

Probably just being paranoid. And OCD.

The plan had been for him and Webb to call Krunk when they were an hour outside Billings and arrange delivery of the drugs. Of course, that plan had been shot full of holes since it was made. Literally.

“I'm sorry, Krunk, but I'm having to improvise here.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Dylan thought he could hear Krunk breathing, but it might have been the static of an old analog connection on an ancient pay phone.

“Improvise? You been reading a thesaurus?”

“We had a little problem on the exchange.”

“Define ‘little problem.' ”

“Big.”

“I'm listening.”

“Our two—” Dylan paused, unsure how to continue. Did Krunk record his conversations? Possible. If not, it was also certainly possible the DEA or some other government agency was tapping his calls. Not that Dylan had any evidence of this, but the guy was probably the biggest mover of scrip drugs in the whole state of Montana. A fish that big, well, even the government would start smelling it after a time.

He backed up, started again. “Our friends from up north decided to change the terms of the deal at the last minute.” He listened to the wheezy breathing for a few more seconds. Or static.

“What were their new terms?”

“Their new terms were, they wanted to take our money and keep their merchandise.”

Dylan heard Krunk mutter something he didn't quite catch, followed by: “So what happened?”

“I . . . uh . . . couldn't accept those terms. So I did a bit of on-the-spot renegotiating. Unfortunately, Webb got caught in the negotiations, but he'll be fine.” He winced, realizing he'd used his real name and Webb's real name on a phone call that was possibly being recorded. So much for his cloak-and-dagger skills. That's why he'd been an EOD tech in the army; he was better at working with his hands.

“So where are you now?”

“Ah . . . I'd prefer not to say.”

“You'd prefer not to say, because . . .”

“You know why, Krunk. A deal like this goes sour, I end up with the money and the merch, a guy like you might start to suspect I was planning this all along.”

“And were you?”

“I didn't want to do this, remember. I just tagged along to keep an eye on Webb.”

Krunk drew in a deep breath. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Even worse, your—ah—counterpart up north is probably going to assume the same. Think his boys were golden, no way they'd be trying to rock the boat. So he's gonna be looking for us. Which is why it's best not to be found.”

“But if you really didn't do it, just come in and give me the money and the merch. I can smooth this over.”

“Which is why I'm calling. I told you I didn't want any of this. So here's what's happening. There's a bar about five miles west of Malta, called the—” He turned, looked at the guy reading his paper behind the bar. Above the shelves holding bottles of liquor was a sign saying Liquid Lennie's: Free Drinks Tomorrow.

Dylan cleared his throat. “There's a bar called Liquid Lennie's. Ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“Well, you aren't alone. It's a little clapboard shack alongside Highway 2 on the Highline. One of those places for the local yokels and the hunters when they're in the field.”

“Malta? What are you doing in Malta?”

“I'm not in Malta. But I was. Just shut up and listen.”

Dylan could almost hear the wheels spinning inside Krunk's head. Good. If Krunk thought he was past Malta, he would likely think Dylan was heading east—maybe to the Dakotas. But Dylan wasn't going to continue to Malta or anywhere else east of here; after this call, he would double back and head west. With any luck, Krunk would start casting his nets in the wrong direction.

“You go ask the guy behind the counter at Liquid Lennie's. He's keeping Webb's rucksack with your money, and the backpack.”

“What's the guy's name?”

“Which guy?”

“The guy at Liquid Larry's.”

“Liquid Lennie's. Don't know. Just have your guy tell him he's picking up something left by Dylan. He'll know what's happening.”

“Okay.”

“Now, Webb and I agreed to the delivery for two-and-a-half each. I took that out of the . . . uh . . . proceeds. Also, five hundred for some stuff I had to take care of with Webb, and a grand for the guy at Liquid Lennie's. But the rest is there, in Webb's rucksack.”

Dylan paused, knowing Krunk was calculating in his mind; if he was any good with math (and Dylan was pretty sure Krunk knew his math), he knew there'd still be $43,500 left in the rucksack.

“Okay. I also took some merch—five packages total—to get me by.” Five bottles of Percocet would be a typical five-month supply. It might last him four weeks, if he conserved. “But everything else, you're gonna find at Liquid Lennie's.”

Krunk exhaled loudly, obviously not pleased with recent developments. “And you just left all this with the guy at Liquid Lennie's? Maybe Lennie himself? Who's to say he's not gonna run with it?”

“Guy's not stupid. You think he wants in the middle of this?” Dylan had no idea this was the case, not having talked to the guy behind the bar.

“You already brought him into the middle.”

“I gave him a thousand bucks to hold on to a couple packages. That's how involved he is.”

“He Indian?”

Dylan's turn to sigh. “Yeah, he's an Indian. Why, does it make a difference?”

“Not really.”

Dylan waited, but Krunk had nothing else to add, so he continued. “I'll call you in a week, make sure we're square.”

Krunk grunted on the other end of the line.

Dylan shifted, his injured leg getting sore from standing. “Look, Krunk, I didn't want any part of this. You know that.”

“Yeah.”

“And I went out of my way to make this drop, to call and let you know before you found out from—other people.”