Gethsemane Hall (24 page)

Meacham watched the guests arrive. She had given up trying to stop them or make them turn back or take her out with them. Sturghill hadn’t surrendered yet. Meacham could see her still running from one new arrival to another, to another, to another. She didn’t think Sturghill had any more hope than she did. The magician simply couldn’t stop going through the motions. Meacham couldn’t see Hudson. He was inside, she assumed, in default mode: pleading with Gray. She didn’t have to guess what he was saying. She knew. He wanted Gray to stop what had been set in motion. He wouldn’t accept that it was too late. Or at least, like Sturghill, he was unable to stop engaging in futile gestures.

Meacham was standing in a small, circular garden across from the courtyard entrance to the hall. There was an elevation of four small steps above the drive that kept the greenery free of the gravel. The garden was twenty feet across and laid out in concentric circles. Low yew hedges marked the outer perimeter. A walkway of finely crushed stone was the next circle, followed by a ring of hedges trimmed into small, rounded pyramids about two feet high, separated by short rows of euphorbia. Then another walkway, and finally a small pond. At its centre was a fountain. It was a moss-covered stone pile, mirroring the shape of the hedges. Water spouted up about six inches. The gurgle was very peaceful.

Meacham blotted out the white noise of the crowd’s conversations. She listened to the water. She looked away from assembled sheep and watched the water flow. She could almost believe in such a thing as peace. She knew, too, how easy it was to believe in comforting illusions. Over the course of her career, she had manufactured her fair share. The purpose of such illusions was to draw attention and energy away from effective action. They lulled. She could, she thought, let herself go. Be lulled. She could sit down here, stare at the water, listen to it murmur to itself, and wait for the end to come. That would be much easier than fighting. Wasn’t the comforting illusion even more necessary, she thought, when there was no effective action to be taken? Sometimes, there really was no fighting to be done. Sometimes, the quiet lie of
there, there, it’s all right
was necessary to see you more easily through your death.

What about it, then?

She sighed. No. Not in her nature. She was just as bad as Sturghill and Hudson. She would go through her own futile motions of struggle, different in kind but not in effect from theirs. She would tell herself that she would find a way out, even as she damned herself as a poor liar.

She looked away from the water and faced the broader prospect of the gardens again. She considered the options. They still had the petrol bombs. She should think of the townspeople not as fodder for Rose, but as possible allies. Some of them might be useful. Porter, maybe. The police.
Come on, then. Work to do.

She found Kate Boulter in the tent. Porter and staff were dispensing tall glasses of Pimms with sprigs of mint. Gray’s menu, it seemed. The drinks were being snatched up as quickly as they were poured. The gathering looked like a party. Sounded like a party. The faces, though, were all strained. Boulter was standing just inside the shade of the tent, looking around with an expression Meacham thought was the same as had been on her own face a few moments before: depressed speculation. “Welcome to the party,” she said to Boulter.

The detective grimaced. “Couldn’t have missed it,” she said. Subtext:
though I tried
.

“Would you believe I was hoping the police might put a stop to this?”

Boulter chuckled. “I think I do believe you.” She sighed, swept her gaze around. “What a piss-up.”

“I’m looking for a few good pyromaniacs.” When Boulter cocked an eyebrow, Meacham told her what she had in mind.

“What, now?”

Meacham shook her head. “We can’t. Too many people still arriving.”

“Nice to know the CIA has some concerns about collateral damage.”

“Never said it did. I do. Fair enough?”

Boulter nodded, signing the peace treaty. “When, then?”

“Not much choice. Once everybody’s here. Before full dark, I hope.”

Boulter checked her watch, then looked at the steady stream of people still being emerging from the forest. “Good luck on that.”

Meacham knew it. The ghost had blocked her move. The daylight grew more brittle, and still the late arrivals flowed in. Meacham pictured throwing the bottles, setting the forest on fire, burning families to death in her bid to run. She shook the image away. It was blood she would not have on her hands. She might not save anyone tonight. But she wouldn’t kill anyone, either.

Gray moved away quickly. Hudson ran to catch up, then stopped. No point. At long last, time to admit that. He’d done his stuck record routine, and maybe now he could admit that there was no point in haranguing stone. That’s what he might as well have been doing, for all the reaction he provoked in Gray. His friend had listened. Had smiled. Had spoken quietly, asking a few questions. Had not shown the slightest emotion. Hadn’t even countered his arguments. Hudson had grown desperate for some kind of kind of response. He’d begun deliberately to stab at buttons, no longer really trying to win Gray over. He’d invoked God a lot. Even that had flatlined.

Now Gray moved into the crowd. Hudson stood at the courtyard entrance and watched his friend move from person to person. After a minute, Hudson lost sight of him.
Is he really still my friend?
he wondered. He wasn’t asking himself whether Gray had had a change of heart. He was asking if Gray had gone away, leaving a shell animated by something else.

No. That was the easy answer. It was an easy out that would allow him to view Gray as an enemy, as a thing beyond help. It was also not true. Gray had changed. He was cold, closed. He was still Gray, though. He needed saving as much as Hudson did, if not more. If the worst happened, Hudson still had the comforting knowledge that death wasn’t the end.

Oh, there were still doubts. He was only human. Absolute certainty wasn’t possible. What he’d seen here was irrefutable proof of some form of afterlife, though. The tapestries in the cave disturbed him, but the fact that it was Christianity that was specifically targeted could be seen, he thought, as a sign that it was the threat to the evil in the house. A delusional belief could hardly be a worthy opponent, now could it? He didn’t think it could be.

So, what now? He might have failed with Gray, but he hadn’t given up on him. If Meacham was still set on burning her way out of here, he would drag Gray along by main force. For now, though, there were other people to think about. Before him was a large-scale garden party in mourning. People were well-dressed. They mingled. They carried drinks. They were scared. Hudson spotted John Woodhead. The Rector of St. Rose’s had his arm around Melody Searwood’s shoulder. She was clutching his other hand in a death grip. Woodhead was speaking quietly. Searwood was nodding as if taking comfort. She was crying, too. Hudson moved forward to help as he could.

Gray smiled, shook hands, welcomed. He chatted. He couldn’t remember what he said from one second to the next. He wasn’t listening to himself. He was taking in the scene of a gathered, concentrated Roseminster.
You have done this,
he thought.
All these people are here because you asked them to come.
Meacham’s inquisition bounced around his mind, rattled uncomfortably now that it was too late to rescind the invitations. Why had he done this? The truth, that was why. So everybody could share in it. The answer didn’t satisfy the way it had even a few minutes ago, when he had been speaking to Hudson.
The truth is coming whether they’re here or not
, he thought.
Then what difference does it make?
The voice was small, accusatory, hurt. Why take an active hand in this?
Inaction isn’t mercy,
he responded.
This way, maybe, just maybe, they’ll understand.
That would be a gift,
he thought. Given the scale of understanding, he didn’t think it was a small one.

“Hello,” he said to the next clump of guests. “Thank you for coming.” They looked at him with frightened eyes. He smiled his smile, the one that said
all is normal, all is well, relax and enjoy yourselves
. He moved on, said hello again, said thanks again, and smiled the smile.

The daylight grew more brittle still. At last, it snapped. The sun dropped behind the trees. A few minutes later, it touched the hidden horizon. The sky bled. There had been thunderheads all day, but in the sunlight, they were bright and white, impressive but unthreatening. Now they picked up the glow of the sunset, radiated blinding crimson, then drew strength and darkened quickly. They became suspended anvils. The wind began to pick up. Before, it had been just enough to flap the tent’s material. It had cooled the day. Now it was an insinuation. It wanted to be heard. It had things to say, to whisper in the ear. As the light retreated, the wind spoke louder. It blew in the face. It chilled. It commanded attention.

The garden party staggered on. All the guests had arrived now. Some, mostly those who had spoken to Sturghill, tried to leave. Word that they could not spread fast. Everyone else thought it best to preserve the illusion of normalcy and not try to escape. The guests of Gethsemane Hall herded together. They sought comfort and warmth. The spoke with Hudson and Woodhead. Some wept. Some held each other. A few contemplated struggle. They were the ones who spoke to Meacham. They eyed the forest, looked at the sad little collection of incendiary devices, and tried hard to hold on to hope. Above them, the thunderheads turned into night and mockery.

Then there were the others. They were the majority. They drank, drank some more, and waited for the main event.

one sentence

Meacham. Sturghill. Boulter. Porter. Keith Walker. They gathered the cocktails at the point where the drive was blocked by the yew trees. They knew no further guests were coming. None had arrived in the last fifteen minutes. Darkness had come thirty minutes before. Not the timetable Meacham preferred. She wasn’t surprised. Time to go ahead. March into doom, probably, but fighting all the way.

Hudson joined them as she was picking up one of the jars. “Ready for this?” she asked him.

“Wait until I find Richard. I’m not leaving without him.”

She shook her head. “First we get this started. Then you can drag him along. I don’t trust him. He might try to stop us.”

“Stop what?” It was Gray. He was a shadow coming up behind Hudson. The visibility in the gardens was very poor. There was no light from the windows of the Hall. The only illumination came from the tent. Art Gifford had brought along a generator and lighting. People were clustering like moths around the glow. The rest of the grounds were disappearing as the night pressed its weight down.

Meacham took Porter’s lighter and lit it. Gray’s features flickered into view. He looked at the jar she was holding, at the rag that hung down, waiting for the flame. Meacham held the lighter close to the rag, watched for sudden movement on Gray’s part. If he lunged, a twitch was all she needed to light the fuse.

“Oh,” Gray said, unconcerned. “I see.”

“Is there a problem?” Meacham asked.

“Not at all. Feel free. Before you do, though,” he said, and Meacham thought,
here it comes
, “could I borrow you and Patrick?”

“Why?”

“There’s something I think you should see.”

“Is it that important?”

“Yes.” He didn’t say anything else. He just waited.

She didn’t have to look at Hudson to know that he was already willing to go along with whatever Gray wanted. Anything to win back the favour, and perhaps ultimately the soul, of his friend. She hesitated. Pointlessly. Goddamn her curiosity and need for information. If Gray wanted her to see something, she wanted to see it, too. Shit. “All right,” she said. She handed the jar and lighter to Sturghill. Gray turned around and walked toward the Hall. Hudson followed.

Sturghill said, “How long should we wait?”

“Don’t,” Meacham answered. “As soon as we’re out of sight, do it.”

“What about you?”

“If I’m dumb enough to walk away now from a possible way out, I deserve whatever happens.” She hurried to catch up with Hudson.

She hoped she would hear the shattering of glass and eruption of flames behind her. By the time she reached the courtyard, there had still been nothing.

Kate Boulter said, “So seriously, how long do we give them?”

“Ten minutes,” Sturghill answered. “Agreed?”

Porter shifted uneasily. “Can you make it five? I don’t mean to seem heartless, but ...”

“Five,” Sturghill said.

They followed him. Gray didn’t turn the lights on as they entered the Hall. He was walking the path of an internal radar. That, or his every step was predetermined, and not a one could go wrong. Meacham didn’t have that luxury. She flicked on switches as they entered rooms and grabbed a flashlight from the equipment table when they reached the crypt. Hudson did, too. Gray walked on. He never paused. There was grace in his movements. He was a man, Meacham thought, who knew
exactly
where he was going and was satisfied at last to be going there.

Down again.
Let this be the last time,
Meacham thought.
One way or the other.
The route was not becoming comfortable through familiarity. The sense of dropping into a serpent’s throat was stronger than ever. A slight breeze blew Meacham’s hair forward as they descended. It was a bit stronger when they reached the caverns. It pushed down the tunnels, showing the way. Meacham thought of a huge intake of breath, very slow and steady, building to a dragon’s exhalation.

At the cave-in, Meacham blinked. For a moment, she thought she had seen Gray walk right over the collapse. She shone her flashlight at his feet. He was walking on solid stone. He must have sidestepped the gap. She hoped he had.

Down. Into the throat. The air grew colder. It was more than the damp and dank of caves. It was the touch of the cold spot, spreading its influence, reaching into her bones this far up. Strength had been gathering. It was ready to pounce.

And down. Through the false tomb. The walls on either side of the stairs reached up to enclose her as she descended. She was being held in a stone fist, and it was closing tight. The wind was strong, now. It whistled rough and hollow over giant lungs. In the sanctum, it whirled around the periphery of the room, flapping the tapestries. The figures writhed. Their movements hurt Meacham’s head. The figures weren’t moving in synch with the tapestries themselves. They were mercury on plastic, unfixed, running and flowing to no other rhythm than that of pain.

“Why are we here?” Hudson asked.

Gray paused before the table on which were laid out the implements of creative surgery. He ran his fingers over the blades. “Because I want you to see,” he said.

“See what?”

“The truth. Everyone will, but you should see it at its source.” He moved away from the table, approached the throne.

“Richard ...” Hudson began.

“Patrick,” Gray responded, quick and sharp.

“No,” Hudson pleaded.

Gray smiled and sat down heavily in the chair. Meacham heard fabric tear. She heard a sound like teeth biting into raw steak. Gray didn’t wince. His smile didn’t falter. It became more savage. After a moment, blood began a steady drip onto the floor. It came from the arms of the chair and from behind Gray’s legs.

“What are you doing?” Hudson moaned.

Meacham said nothing. She watched Gray closely. There was no flicker of pain on his face. There was something almost like relief in his expression, as a long-bottled emotion was finally set free. His features darkened with anger. The smile became a snarl. “What am I doing?” he hissed. “I’m putting an end to lies.”

“Five minutes,” Boulter said.

They might come back,
Sturghill thought.
What if they come back and can’t make it out because we abandoned them? What if nobody makes it out because we waited too long?
She lit the cloth. If the burn worked, Meacham and Hudson would be able to follow. Trail-blazing, wasn’t that what it was called? No metaphor this time. “Stand back,” she said. They each held a bomb. Porter had a paint can of gasoline in each hand. Splash damage would be major bad. Ten steps back, then. The rag flamed. Sturghill aimed at the network of roots and branches that blocked the path. She threw the jar. It traced a comet-tail arc in the night. It landed on the roots. Glass shattered. Flaming petrol bloomed. It spread slick and bright. The flames billowed high. The explosion was lovely. Sturghill grinned. The crowd stirred. She heard a noise that sounded like the birth of hope.

Boulter followed up with her jar.
Whoomp
. Fires overlapped. The light was blinding. Sturghill shouted, giddy with warrior blood. She was fighting back, goddamn it, for the first time since she’d arrived at the Hall. She roared her hate for the place, yelled the flames higher. The fire pooled. It dimmed.

“
No!
” Sturghill shouted. “Don’t let it die!”

Porter ran forward with his cans. He put one on the ground, hefted the other like a water bucket and tossed the gas onto the flames. He stumbled back from the flare-up, arm up to shield his eyes from the glare. He grabbed the other can, added its fuel to the blaze. Sturghill quailed at how quickly they were burning through their ammunition. Maybe, if the fire caught properly, it would take on its own life. Burn the whole wretched forest to ash.

The flames receded even faster this time, disappearing like a wave withdrawing from sand. Sturghill grabbed the wine bottle. One more jar after this, and two paint cans. She felt like crying as she lit the fuse and tossed it, wouldn’t give the trees that satisfaction. “
Fuuuuck
,” she muttered, teeth clenched tight as a vise clamp. She threw the bomb into the guttering remains of the fire. Porter had the last jar coming in right behind. Boulter and Walker ran forward with the paint cans. Double-impact and double reinforcement. The fire rasped in effort, and died. That was it. No more bombs.

“Make more.” It was Gifford. He had joined them when Sturghill had thrown the first jar, and had cheered as loudly as anyone.

Porter said. “I have plenty of bottles.”

“Lots of petrol in our vehicles,” Gifford added.

“Hang on,” Sturghill said.
Right
, she thought,
go through the same exercise in futility.
She approached the forest. Throat dry, she reached out to touch the trunk of a tree she had napalmed. The bark was still mossy, still damp. Like nothing had happened. She had dreamed an incendiary attack, but the tree hadn’t shared the dream. She backed off. “I don’t think more of the same is going to do any good.”

“I’m not giving up,” Boulter said.

“I didn’t say I was.” So much fuel, she thought, looking at Porter’s van. Inspiration. She pointed at the vehicle. “
That’s
our bottle,” she said. She picked up a rag.

“What?” Porter asked.

She took him by the sleeve, pulled him toward the van. “Get it into position,” she said. “Your van’s going to be a big bomb.”
See you shrug that off,
she told the trees.
My greatest and last trick. It’ll blow your mind.

Porter climbed into the cab and started the engine. He manoeuvred it onto the drive, aiming it at the forest. Sturghill unscrewed the gas cap, stuck the rag in. Gifford ran up with a toolbox. Porter put the stick in neutral, yanked the handbrake on, and wedged the toolbox on the accelerator. The van roared, anxious to be off. Kamikaze. He came around the back, rooted through the supplies until he found a case of beer. He took it up front and used it to jam to the clutch to the floor. He put the van into first. “Ready,” he called.

Sturghill lit the rag. She jumped back. “Go!” she yelled.

Porter released the handbrake and knocked the case off the clutch. The van leaped forward, its engine screaming as it over-revved madly. It rumbled up the drive and slammed into the trees. It skewed to the side, wheels still turning as its way was blocked. The flames raced up the rag and into the tank. “Abracadabra,” Sturghill muttered.

The explosion lifted the van off its wheels. It somersaulted against the trees. The fireball raced upwards in the triumph of freedom. Sturghill winced. The radiant heat was a sharp pain on her forehead. Something in the forest shouted in answer. Rage filled the shadows beyond the flames.
Now you’re hurting
, Sturghill thought.

Metal screamed. The van didn’t right itself. It stayed vertical. At first, Sturghill thought the wreckage had tangled itself in the trunks and branches. She waited to see trees topple. None did. The van seemed to shrink. It shook. More shrieks. The first dazzling brightness of the flames passed, and the forest became more than an indistinct black mass. In the fading light of the fire, Sturghill saw that the van wasn’t tangled. It was held. Branches were wrapped around its middle. They squeezed. The van crumpled. The branches tightened, a fist around a soft drink can. Death cries from the vehicle. It shrank in on itself. The fire died with it. The forest stood, unbroken but angry now. Wood creaked. Big things rustled in the darkness. Sturghill looked at the barrier of yew trees. She saw branches begin to wave like Medusa snakes. She knew she’d lost. A huge sound, then. It was the sound of a vast movement, big enough to be an ocean in storm, bigger. It was a terrible uncoiling of strength. A wave was coming. A tsunami was coming. But the sound was not water. It was wood. Wood had never made that sound before. It had never been angered and strong with truth before.

“Run,” Sturghill tried to say, and suddenly she was dreaming awake. She was trapped in nightmare paralysis. Her lips barely formed the word. Her lungs were weak and sluggish. She couldn’t make any noise at all, much less one that might be heard over the sound of the forest. She didn’t have to shout a warning. She was aware of the others running fast, as if from judgment. She hitched a chest-shaking sigh. She tried to say, “Run,” again. She was speaking to herself, to her motionless body. The word came out as a lazy, drawn-out whisper, shamed by anaesthetized tongue and lips. She still couldn’t move. “Help,” she tried. The word was weaker than a tear. There was no one to hear.

The forest was upon her. The trees were size and rage. Their roots did not move, but they advanced all the same. They were strong with age and history. They had seen centuries and knew what that time had to hide. The smell of moss and bark filled Sturghill’s nostrils. Her eardrums burst with the pressure of the noise. Branches swept towards her, a rigid writhing. She closed her eyes, but she was still dreaming, and so she still saw everything. Right up to the end, as the wood crushed her and filled her.

And after that, there was still more to see.

“What lies?” Meacham asked. She wanted to know. She wanted to stall. She didn’t know what else to do.

Gray’s snarl almost turned into a laugh. “That’s nicely disingenuous, coming from you. All lies. Two lies in particular.” He shook his head. “No. It doesn’t matter which lies. It’s their opposite that’s important.”

“If you’re worried about a cover-up,” Meacham began, knowing, even as she forged on, that this was the most trivial and stupid thing she would ever say in her life, “I can promise to —”

“Oh, shut up.” Gray was rightly contemptuous.

“What lies?” Hudson asked. His voice was a pale tremble. In his tone, there was a terror of answers.

“Yours,” Gray said softly. “And hers.”

“I never lied to you.” Hudson was shocked.

“You don’t think you did, because you were telling yourself the same lie.” Gray’s eyes were shining anticipation. The moment was his, and he was stretching it. He was living the culmination of something that Meacham didn’t understand. Gray pointed at her, but he never stopped looking at Hudson. “She said there was no God.” The finger shifted. “You said there was an all-loving one.”