The Shibboleth
Page 31
“Maybe you don’t care about yourself. You care about him,” she says, pointing the pistol at Booth’s chest, point-blank.
I freeze. I can still escape into the ether, but what happens next happens too fast for even me.
Quincrux, eyes streaming and face swollen, rises from where he’d lain, dissolute, on the floor. “You will not!” he cries, grappling for Ruark’s arm.
The gun discharges, incredibly loud in the big, empty room without the baffling of bodies to absorb the sound.
“You will not!” Quincrux screams.
“Shreve! Get down!” Jack yells. We’ve done this dance before.
I drop to the ground—catching a glimpse of Jack with his hand outstretched and fingers splayed—and both Quincrux and Ruark are lifted off their feet to rocket away and hit the plasma screens with an explosive crunch and a flurry of sparks and billows of noxious smoke.
I scramble up and race to Booth. He’s holding his chest.
“Damn,” he says. “Damn, boy. Always in trouble, ain’t you?”
“Booth—”
“Shut up, boy. He wants to talk.”
“Booth, don’t die.”
His eyes roll back in his head, but it isn’t in death throes, not yet. When his eyes open again, someone else stares out.
“Shreveport,” the voice says. “Justice.”
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Bring Hiram to me. Bring him to me. I must have the right … proximity.”
That word again. I nod, understanding. “Can you save Booth too?”
“No, he will be lost. I am sorry, child.”
“Then no deal.”
Booth’s face looks confused. “You must. The evil we have loosed upon the world … it must be stopped.”
“Not without Booth.”
“You are strong, child. I have watched you of old,” he says, and then he nods Booth’s head in acquiescence. “I will save what of him I can. But you must hurry!”
I jump up. Jack is standing a few paces away, eyes wide, staring at Quincrux and Ruark and the ruined screens, looking amazed that the destruction came from him. Everything old becomes new again.
“Jack, help me get Quincrux over here.”
I run to the wreckage. Quincrux bleeds from many gashes, and I feel his neck—strong pulse. Ruark is inert as a sack of flour.
We hook Quincrux under the arms and drag him to where Booth lies. As gently as we can, we place his body close enough for Booth to touch.
“That is well,” Booth says and reaches out with a hand and brushes Quincrux’s cheek.
It would be wholly unremarkable if I were watching it only with my eyes. But in the ether, that motion blooms with an eruption of color in the space/not space, like dye dropped into a vase of water. Blossoms of the shibboleth spill outward to coalesce and contract. And then it is gone.
Booth’s body shudders and stills. He is dead.
Quincrux stirs.
I allow myself tears.
Tears for all of us.
FORTY-FOUR
In the morning, the rain has changed over to a hard, remorseless sleet. The fog twines and twists and roils about, wreathing the ground like a shroud. The campus takes on a muddy, treacherous demeanor, and from where we wait on the assembly field, I can make out many people slipping and falling on their way down the hill.
The man who once was Hiram Quincrux waits for them. He looks out on the gathered souls and says, “My name is Armstead Lucius Priest. I created this home, this society, for all of you.”
He continues speaking. We will go to war with the entity. The collective flesh that wants only more flesh to join it. To conform to its design. We will take the fight to it. How? We’ll learn that in the coming days. We are strong, and it has only just awoken.
Slowly, one by one, the crowd begins to cheer.
I see someone standing off to the side, in the lee of a tree, shadowed and silent.
I leave Quincrux—it will take a long while for me to think of him as Priest—and push my way through the gathered crowd out into the sleet. Slipping, wheeling, I approach the man.
“Thank you, Mr. Negata.”
He blinks and then raises his shoulders fractionally, lets them fall.
“I did nothing,” he says. Each word separate, like bubbles rising in oil.
“Well, I appreciate what you didn’t do. Namely, killing me.”
He shakes his head. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was frowning. “I do not kill.”
“I’m glad of that.” He remains silent, so I say, “Will you stay?”
“For the moment.”
“We need you, I think.”
He nods, noncommittal.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, I’d like to thank the usual suspects: my wife for her constant support; my kids for their ceaseless queries as to when, exactly, will they be old enough to read the adventures of Shreve and Jack; my dogs for being cute and fluffy and always happy to see me; my agent for her diligence and patience with me; my editor Andrew Karre for having the sense to acquire The Twelve-Fingered Boy and then, when it turned out that my first title for this book—Incarcerado—would not work, providing me with the truly perfect title, the title it was meant to have, The Shibboleth.
I’d like to add someone to that list of regulars, Amy Fitzgerald, my copy editor at Carolrhoda Lab, who brought a level of fun to her insightful comments during the massaging and polishing of this manuscript for publication.
I’d like to thank all the folks at Lerner Publishing Group for their continued enthusiasm and support. Many thanks to Lindsay Matvick, a wonderful guide to publicity and tireless proponent of my work, and Laura Rinne, who designed both the cover for this book and the The Twelve-Fingered Boy. I can’t wait to see what Laura’s got planned for The Conformity.
Many thanks to Dr. Beth Storm Rule for providing me with information regarding the operation of mental wards and the treatment of the adolescent committed. When I described my plot, and the ubiquitous presence of Tasers, she told me that would never fly in a real ward. I responded by saying, “Luckily, my job entails lying for profit.”
Any and all errors regarding the mental health system (or anything else) depicted in this book are solely my responsibility.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Hornor Jacobs is the author of several novels, including The Twelve-Fingered Boy. He lives with his family in Arkansas. Visit him online at www.johnhornorjacobs.com.