Deathgrip Page 28

  The final leg of Donny’s crusade tour, those five revivals in which Paul had taken part, could not have gone more successfully. Cataracts disappeared. Cancer cells died, to be voided with the rest of bodily wastes. Asthmatics were assured of a life of easy breathing. Clubfeet were reformed. Sufferers of scoliosis felt their spines painlessly straightened. The Donny Dawson miracle machine had gone where it had never gone before, and not one person was kept away from the stage if that was what they had come for.

  A lot was getting accomplished onstage that Paul knew he would be credited for if his were the only hands on the one being healed. This required innovation, a new twist for whenever the ailment was noticeably physical. The prayer circle, eight hands latching onto the wreck of a body: Donny’s, Paul’s, and those of Ricky and Robby. Misdirection, a classic magician’s trick. Paul could live with it. Healing was the only thing to justify his existence. Sole redemption for the harm he had already caused.

  Five revivals, averaging one every other night. Living out of a suitcase, on tour, a very rock and roll phrase, he liked the sound of it. Hellhounds on my trail, but I can outrun them, and it had all been very agreeable.

  Yet over and done with all too quickly. He was settled again, and would those hellhounds think to sniff around here? Dear God, please let them pass on by.

  Home was on the second — and top — floor of a long, narrow building with two wings. They called it a dormitory, but it was more upscale than that. Private rooms, carpeted, well-apportioned, and every three shared a bathroom with a shower. In some ways, it was a throwback to the pre-apartment days of college, warehoused with a few dozen other rowdies who swapped skin magazines and smoked dope and smuggled in cases of beer and triggered seismic wars with their stereos and boasted of impossible sexual exploits. Except, in this place, there was none of that. These residents were polite, quiet, studious. The little rock and roll they did listen to was cheerily upbeat, blandly wholesome. Music for lobotomies, and Paul realized he would be spending a lot of time wearing headphones.

  He had no problem with his room itself, twice the size of standard dorm rooms he had seen, and no roommate with whom to halve things up. Plenty of room for his stereo and TV and books. A small alcove hung off one side, a tiny kitchenette with a half-size fridge and sink and two-burner hotplate. Enough to scrounge together a meal when he didn’t feel like the cafeteria. To personalize the place, he slapped up a few posters that nobody could condemn as being too objectionable, and it helped, but not enough.

  He sat in their midst, and they surrounded him, avatars of other days. Tear them down? He couldn’t bring himself to do so, it would be the final admission that he could never live like a normal man again. Nearly twenty-eight years old, and he was having a tough enough time getting used to the idea as it was.

  Sanctuary. Gilded prison of his own construction, enter at your own risk, and beware of wild mood swings.

  But, on the plus side, there had been no sudden deaths, no sproutings of ghastly disease beneath his hands. Time would restore balance to even the shakiest objectivity. He would grow used to it here, hopefully before he grew old.

  He strolled onward, the moon fresh and chilly looking as it rose and gazed upon him like a forlorn eye. Dorms behind him, main offices and production studios ahead. The broad sidewalk in between, a solid creek, all tributaries branched from here. Paul saw someone walking it, a dark silhouette some twenty yards ahead, and he shifted himself so their paths wouldn’t cross. Call it shyness, call it antisocial, call it honest.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”

  Had his game plan been that obvious? Gabe Matthews’s voice, out of the evening gloom. Matters could be worse. At least with Gabe, there was no fear of some uncomfortable buddy-buddy routine being thrust upon you.

  “Where are you headed?” Gabe asked.

  Paul drew closer, sidewalk now. “Nowhere. Just walking. Aimless.”

  “Better not let Donny hear that. He’ll think you’ve strayed from the straight and narrow path.” Spoken with a snicker.

  And what was this, a joke, out of Gabe? Lame, agreed, but so far, Paul had gotten the feeling that Gabe’s sense of humor had been left behind at his last known address. A joke, and at Donny’s expense, no less. Closer still, and Paul could see how casually Gabe was dressed, another rarity. Jeans and a light flannel shirt.

  “Don’t you ever take a break from this place?” Paul said.

  “I always mean to, but…” He hunched his shoulders, palms up, what’s a guy to do? “I’ve got to run by Donny’s. Why don’t you keep me company? It’s a long walk when you’re not driving one of the golf carts.”

  Oh, why not, and Paul fell into step beside him, west, toward the darkness of a thousand trees. Enchanted forest.

  “Do you live on the grounds here?” Paul said.

  “No, I’ve got an apartment a couple miles away. It seems like I only use the place to sleep, anymore. I’m hardly ever there.”

  “A workaholic.”

  “Yeah, Donny’s used that word to describe me.”

  Paul shook his head. “He’ll never use it to describe me. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do around here. I mean, I’ll be around for the regular taped services, which takes care of Thursday nights, but all we’re talking about there is a six-hour work week. What about the rest of the time?”

  A wry smile. “You don’t feel you’re earning your twenty-five thousand per year?”

  “You know my salary?”

  “I know just about everything that goes on around here. Sometimes I think I know more of what goes on than Donny does.”

  “Doesn’t he resent that?”

  Gabe shook his head. “It’s what he pays me for. To free his mind so he can concentrate on other things. Higher things.”

  Paul nodded, scuffed alongside Gabe in contemplative silence, chew on that last one awhile. What Gabe had said made perfect sense, but it seemed so distinctly worldly to have to delegate so many responsibilities to someone else. As if, within the ministry that bore his name, Donny Dawson were merely a ceremonial head of state. Celestial royalty.

  “You know, Paul,” Gabe seeming to sense his thoughts, “if you understand one thing from the beginning, I think you’ll find everything else a lot more agreeable here.”

  Paul turned, looked at him in profile: set face, tight jaw. “What’s that?”

  “This is a business.” Gabe turned as well, measuring Paul with his eyes, then went on, smooth sailing. “It’s a calling we all share, of course. We genuinely want to work good in peoples’ lives, that should go without saying. But the ministry has no choice but to exist within twentieth-century American economics. We employ a lot of people, most of whom have families depending on them. We have to run things as efficiently as possible, and if we don’t, then it all could break down and nothing would get done. That’s where I fit in, making sure things run efficiently. For the good of all.” A faint smile, almost with apology. “I hope you can understand that. Or at least accept it. And I hope it doesn’t make me sound mercenary.”

  Paul shook his head; perhaps too readily, in retrospect. “No. It doesn’t. It’s just an eye-opener.”

  “I’d be a little worried about you if it weren’t. But you have to remember: This isn’t Camelot.”

  They walked in silence again, but it was no longer the uncomfortable silence of strangers. The hallmark of true rapport. This was the straightest anyone had dealt with him since coming aboard, and he appreciated it. No one enjoyed being kept in the dark regarding attitudes, policies, priorities. Might as well be a circus freak then; do your trick, make it good, then back up with the tarp to hide you from view.

  “Are you okay on this?” Gabe asked, and Paul said yes, he was. Then, “How are you liking it in the dorm so far?”

  The hesitation must have given him away, and Paul knew he would have to remember one thing: Gabe was undoubtedly one sharp guy, skilled at reading every nonverbal nuance. Unease turned to relief whe
n Gabe broke into rich laughter.

  “Be honest, now,” Gabe was teasing. “Thou shalt not lie, and all that shit.”

  Paul never knew he could squirm and walk so well at the same time. “It’s not quite what I thought it would be.”

  “Now there’s diplomacy in action.” Another chuckle. “I don’t blame you. Between the two of us? I think there are more anal-retentives back there than Freud saw in his entire career. But you didn’t hear that from me, all right?”

  Paul laughed, quite loudly, and oh how good it felt. To cut loose like that, unexpectedly, surrendering to the grand guffaw. Laughter, the best medicine, he had needed this badly.

  They passed beneath a shadow canopy of overhanging branches. The trees were getting thicker this far back, dark and hulking, guardians of sylvan secrets with the patience of generations. Spears of moonlight lanced through, dappled by trembling leaves. The enchanted forest indeed. But if you believed in enchantment, you also had to believe in the darker corners of the world; there was no escaping that. The two must, by necessity, coexist.

  As without, so within, and why ruin this perfectly pleasant walk with such introspection, anyway? He had a lifetime to fret over his own yin and yang.

  “Back at the dorms?” Paul said. “I’ve been wondering, where did they all come from? They can’t all be like me, I know that. And it’s not like they’re going to classes.”

  Gabe shook his head. He stooped to pick up a Styrofoam coffee cup, flattened on the sidewalk. Spotless place, this was certain.

  “They all have their own stories, and they all work for us in some capacity. A lot of them, both men and women, are ushers. Some work in the cafeteria, a few in the mailroom. Some in the production studios or with the camera crews, or they just work on the grounds themselves, custodial staff. A lot goes into keeping this place running, and they’re a big part of it. As far as why they’re here, instead of on their own someplace, well — again, they each have their own reasons, I’m sure. Some have come from unstable homes … mostly the younger ones. A few are into some communal living ideal, and this is the closest they’ve found that agrees with their religious values. Some of the older ones, maybe around your age, have had trouble adjusting to full-fledged adult responsibilities. They’re easing themselves into it.”

  “You think I belong in that category?” Paul asked.

  Gabe stopped for this one, peering at Paul through the gloom. Leaves whispered above, beside, behind. “Not at all,” he said a firm shake of his head. “Besides. Your circumstances are more than a little extraordinary.”

  Paul grinned crookedly. “Just checking.”

  “And some of them,” Gabe said, continuing, “came entirely because of Donny himself. You’ve met the Durbin brothers over there by now, Dougie and Terry?”

  “Oh yeah, those two.” Paul grinned, shaking his head. The Durbin brothers were blond hulks, from hill country someplace east. Living endorsements for prenatal care and amniocentesis, here’s what happens if you ignore them. Not the brightest of lads.

  “Dougie’s a cable puller for one of the cameras, and Terry works in the mailroom, but they are fanatics on the subject of Donny Dawson.”

  And as long as they were on the subject, denizens of Dawson Ministries, why not, go ahead: “Can I ask you about someone else, in specific?”

  A cocked eyebrow. “Who?”

  “Laurel Pryce. Why is she here?”

  “Aaaaah, Laurel. Our Laurel.” Gabe teased out the name, and he sounded light enough, but had he stiffened for just an instant? Maybe. Maybe he had. Designs on her himself, or something else? “She went through some personal tragedies a little over a year ago. She’s very committed to her music. We’re what she needs right now, and we’ll help her however we can, she’s extremely talented. Beyond that — maybe you should ask her yourself. It’s not really my place to talk. Why? Are you interested?”

  “Just checking. Again.”

  Gabe nodded, said nothing; a tacit approval in Paul’s estimation. Ministry grounds or not, hormones would be as active here as anywhere, though not necessarily acted upon quite as frequently. Paul saw nothing wrong with upholding his quota, so long as his intentions were reasonably honorable.

  He walked with Gabe until the back of Donny’s house came into unobstructed view. And by the time they split to go their separate ways and Paul began to backtrack, he was feeling that perhaps he had severely misjudged Gabriel Matthews. First impressions may have been lasting, but it didn’t mean they were always correct. Gabe’s initial impression had been one of aloof excellence, steeled by self-confidence and no need for humor.

  He still wasn’t the loosest of guys, but neither was he so tight-assed he squeaked. Probably just very guarded, one of those people you had to know awhile before he would relax and open up a little. And while he obviously took his duties seriously, it appeared, surprise, that he regarded the whole situation with just a sprinkling of irreverence.

  Which would keep one, more often than not, from developing an accelerated case of megalomania.

  This isn’t Camelot.

  No. It was not, and exactly what it was, Paul couldn’t begin to say. But whatever it might turn out to be, it was good to have finally found a friend.

  Chapter 25

  After he left Paul, Gabe continued on toward Donny’s house. Paul’s footsteps faded into the background, his silhouette consumed by path, trees, darkness.

  Twenty minutes, had it been, since running into each other back there? Twenty, maybe twenty-five. Gavin would have been proud of the speed with which he had operated. Successfully. Gabe knew it, could see inside Paul’s head, that revision of opinion that made all the difference in the world. He trusts me now. He’d come to me with a problem before he would Donny.

  Gabe had spent the days contemplating Paul, studying him from afar, this fellow who was anything but typical Dawson Ministries material. Paul may very well have been moral, spiritual in his own way, but his spirituality seemed far less restrictively conservative. Which meant he didn’t quite fit in with the atmosphere of the dorm. Square peg, round hole, and while the square pegs generally will not have it any other way, they still needed a little acceptance now and then to soothe their souls.

  And when someone hovered in that lonely realm of self, it wasn’t difficult to draw him in. Level with him in a way no one else does. Make a joke or two at the expense of the nearest sacred cow. Nurture a few laughs with conspiratorial overtones. And he would look upon you as a kindred soul.

  Yes, it had been manipulative, but it had not been unkind. This had been no charade, no painted smile given to someone Gabe could only despise. It had merely been a shortcut. Paul had no idea what he needed, and someday Paul would thank him. Profusely.

  From the dogpen beyond the swimming pool, Adam and Eve yapped their fool heads off at Gabe’s approach. They’d always hated him. An essentially stupid breed, the Irish setter, but they were brighter than their master. You see through me, don’t you? Donny never has. You see the person, not the role he plays. Yet if he were to throw them steaks, tenderized with a rubdown of strychnine, they would eat. He could never do it, of course, too much respect for their insight. What good fortune they couldn’t speak.

  Gabe keyed the lock of Donny’s back door, just off the porch, and let himself in. In the kitchen he found the waste can, tossed the flat Styrofoam cup picked up earlier, and then tracked Donny to the TV room. Charlton Heston on the six-foot Sony, forever young and righteous while leading the children of Israel out of Pharoah’s bondage. The Ten Commandments, predictably, one of Donny’s favorite tapes. Gabe saw it as an interesting curiosity.

  Before entering, drawing Donny’s attention, Gabe touched the small envelope in his shirt pocket. A few tiny lumps met his fingertips, nothing more. It would never be noticed.

  Donny cut the sound by half when Gabe entered — he was expected, had called a while ago. Gabe sat. Small talk, minor daily trivialities, most ministry-related. Donny spoke of Juliette
Sullivan, the replacement nurse Irv Preston had hired to take over for Edie Carson, missing in action. Donny couldn’t figure this one out, so strange, so unexpected. Alice Ward had assured them that the girl had relieved her that Wednesday a couple weeks back, on time as usual. What had transpired later would probably remain a mystery. Maybe, Donny mused, she wasn’t nearly as reliable as she’d appeared and had cleared out for greener pastures. At least she’d stolen nothing but trust.

  Frankly, this was uncomfortable, and Gabe forged ahead. He was pumped, primed, get this moving while resolve was strong.

  “Guess who I walked over here with,” he said.

  Slumped into the sofa, Donny wasted little thought. “Who?”

  “Paul.”

  Immediate attention. “Is anything wrong?”

  Oh sure, worry about this latest acquisition only as he pertains to the ministry, a commodity, no idea he’s the most miraculous human being you will ever hope to meet. The anger rippled, and Gabe held it in with a gentle smile.

  “No. Nothing. He was just lonely, I think.” Gabe thoughtfully touched a finger to one corner of his mouth. “My guess is he’s feeling some culture shock in being here. It’s not helped by the fact that he has so little to keep him busy.”

  “Well. That makes sense, doesn’t it?” Donny grabbed a glass from his end table, tipped it to his lips for a trickle of melted ice. “We’ll just have to find something for him to do, then. I suppose I should spend a little more time with him, too, now that we’re home again.”

  “I think he’d appreciate that.” Gabe watched Donny suck on ice. Please, just for once in your life see beyond the surface. But no, no, better for your sake if you don’t. “When are you planning to approach him about Mandy?”