Last of the Mighty (6 page)

The door Nurse Jackie had just slammed shut had been shouldered open by Uncle Will. But what could he possibly know about my dad? Guess he was my mom's brother. Maybe she'd told him something. But why would she tell him and not me?

Whatever Uncle Will had to tell me would have to wait. In forty minutes, I had a wrestling meet to attend and a demonic teammate to disable.

Yeah, yeah, I know what I said about feeling sorry for Tucker and that the whole deal with Merryn wasn't his fault. But come on, if someone battered your girl, the Old Testament called for an “eye for an eye,” “blood for blood.” Tucker had escaped justice via his cop buddies, Nightstick and Doughnut. Who was I to argue if God wanted to use me as His instrument of death? And I'd let Tucker off easy. In Bible times, he would've been strangled, stoned, hanged, burned, sawn in half, had his feet chopped off, or his beard hairs plucked out. I only wanted to bust up his face a bit, puncture a lung, rupture an organ. Kid stuff. As mad as I was, I still wasn't so heartless to do something as evil as plucking out his facial hair.

I arrived to the gym early. Though I wasn't going to wrestle, I suited up anyway. Team spirit and all. I also did it for Coach Burns. Knew he got a real “bang,” as he'd say, out of the other team gawking at Og, the fifteen-year-old giant. Especially since I was four inches taller than last year.

Tucker came in late and joined the team on the mat for warm-ups.

Just looking at that cockpit's face, it was all I could do to stop myself from stomping his brains out right then. To think what he had done to Merryn. I could see it all. The biting, kicking, and scratching… His fists pummeling her head, neck, and face. And I'm sure he had been wearing the same sleazy grin that was on his face right now.

My chest boiled and my teeth clamped. My hands went marble and my heart went fist. Blood crashed in my ears, squashing out every other sound from the room. As much as I yearned to unmake Tucker right this second, I'd have to wait till after his match. Too many people around to pull me off him. I'd catch him later in the locker room or parking lot.

I kind of wanted to watch Tucker wrestle anyway. Study his technique. Look for any chinks in his armor, things I could take advantage of in our next duel. It'd be a while, though. There were thirteen matches before Tucker would hit the mat.

We were ahead on points in the night's ninth match when Amos Booth and his denim overalls strode into the gym and took a seat halfway up in the home team's bleachers. He sat reading a newspaper through the next three weight classes. Didn't look away from the pages once.

Something told me to go and talk to him. Didn't sound like The Committee, but The Committee had been weird lately, yelling out my name and demanding me to do things like “listen.”

I hadn't spoken with Amos since the night he drove Merryn and me to the hospital. I put on my sweats and got permission from Coach Burns to say hi to an old friend of my mom's in the stands. Clambering over the crowd, I landed next to Amos.

I went with an old-school greeting. Staring straight ahead, I mumbled, “Amos.”

“Og.” He threw in a little bow of the chin to outdo me.

We sat in stoic, old-school silence, only the paper ruffling as Amos turned the newspaper pages.

I snuck a peek at his pockets to see if he was packing that nail again. Amos still made me nervous. Like the second I looked away, something sharp and rusty would be stabbing at the back of my head. And there was definitely something bulging in the chest pouch of his overalls.

Eventually, without lifting his eyes from the paper, Amos said, “Takin' apart tha' blond boy ain' gonna solve a thing.”

I didn't answer. Instead, I monitored him with my peripherals.

“Been watchin' the boy,” Amos went on. “Coupla weeks now. Ain' a bad kid, y'know.”

I didn't want to hear it. For once, I needed to know that bad guys didn't always get away with it. Needed to know that payback happened. For once, I wanted to be the Dispenser of Justice, the Consequence, Mr. Backlash. You do something wrong, and you face me.

“Boy's parents're worried sick about him, Og. Seen a definite change in his demeanor, due to them demons.”

“So whattaya want, Amos?” The words pushed themselves through my clenched teeth. “For me to let him go? You saw what he did to Merryn.”

“Roughin' him up ain' the answer.”

“Yes it is, and you can't stop me.”

Amos casually flipped the page. “Even if ya were to kill th' boy, those devils inside him…whadja call ‘em…Smiler and somethin'?” For the first time all night, his face wheeled slowly toward mine. He asked the question again with his eyes.

“Knock.”

“Tha's it. Smiler and Knock.” He grinned and nodded, as if he'd just learned an enemy secret. “Those two're jus' gonna take up with somebody else.” Finished with the paper, he folded it neatly and placed it beside him. “There is another way, though.”

I knew exactly what he was going to say.

“Exorcism.”

By the time the heavyweights reached the mat, Amos had convinced me not to pound Tucker to dust. In my heart, I'd known all along he was right. Slapping Tuck-hole around wouldn't do any good. Fact was, we had to deal with the demons. Bummer they didn't respond to spin-kicks and knee bombs. But they did respond to prayers and commands to depart in the name of Jesus, as well as the many other elements included in the rigid exorcism ritual of the Catholic Church.

Tucker took the mat and shook his opponent's hand. I'd wrestled the other guy before, pinned him in forty seconds. He was big, but a poor wrestler.

Tucker must have known how easily he was going to win because he was more interested in me than his challenger. His eyes wouldn't leave mine. There was a freaky gleam to them, and he kept smiling that same irritating smile. As if he was saying, Don't blink, Og, or you'll miss it.

The whistle blew. Tucker circled to his opponent's weak side. I could see his lips mouthing, “I will knock him.”

Then he glanced at me.

And winked.

“Augustine…” said Amos, trying to get me to unclench my jaw.

Tucker struck. In a split second, he had his arms bolted around the guy's legs. He lifted him off the mat.

Then jumped another three feet into the air.

All while carrying his two-hundred-and-sixty-pound foe.

At the apex of their flight, Tucker wedged his shoulder into the hollow at the bottom of the guy's ribs.

Down they came, Tucker working to get more vertical, like a nail. He seemed to float while fine-tuning the body position of his rag-doll victim to make sure his opponent's vulnerable spine would smash into the floor first.

Just before hitting the mat, Tucker drove his shoulder deeper into the guy's ribcage and kicked his legs upward. The booster thrust of a rocket.

The crowd went silent.

Impact.

A crack of bone. Like a gunshot.

A collective gasp of horror.

The ref, open-jawed, peered down at the motionless wrestler.

A woman screamed, “Call 911!”

Tucker crawled off the guy, smiling.

His eyes found mine again.

His hand turned palm side up.

His fingers motioned for me to join him on the mat.

I was already halfway there.

I bounded down the bleachers, weaving through the frenzied mob.

Tucker was waiting, shifting from foot to foot.

“Og!” It was Amos. “Stop!”

But nothing was going to hinder me from becoming tonight's Dispenser of Justice. Evil had pounced, and I was the counterblow.

As a growing throng gathered around the fallen wrestler, Tucker stepped a couple yards to the side to make room. Not once did my eyes unlock from his. Not once did Smiler's demonic grin change.

“Og!” Amos again.

I kept going. Didn't look back.

“Tha' boy'll kill ya.”

Maybe. I'd try my luck. Marching across the floor, I rolled my shoulder to loosen it, to see if my wound was going to hamper me like last time. Nope. Felt good.

Within ten feet now. The ball of my foot dug into the floor, traction for the hook kick that would cave in the side of Tucker's face.

A firm hand latched onto my forearm. Amos.

“Son,” he said. “Y' can't win.” He patted the chest pouch of his overalls. “But I can.”

“This's my fight, Amos! Not yours.”

“Knock them both!” Tucker took a stride toward us. “Paatiennnce, Knock,” said Smiler. “The time has not yet come, my friend.”

Amos nudged in front of me, glared at Tucker, and said, “Glory be t' the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” while making the sign of the cross.

He reached into the chest pouch of his overalls. Out came a crucifix.

Amos shoved it in Tucker's face. “Christus Iesus, verus—”

Tucker swatted the cross away and pushed Amos aside. He got up in my grill and said, “You wanna see your girlfriend alive again, be at the house on Hobbs Hill.”

I held Tucker's stare, firm, and he backed off. There was something different about his eyes. A humanity. A sadness I hadn't seen before.

“You know th-the one.” His voice was different, tinged with fear. Gone was the arrogance. “Be there…” He glanced away awkwardly. “At eleven.” He seemed ashamed, guilty, his lips trembling, hands shivering.

He looked to the unconscious kid on the mat. His foot rapped on the floor, nervous.

Tucker asked me, “Did I do that?” His voice broke.

Amos stepped forward again, crucifix ready. I put up a hand to let him know I had it covered. He, too, saw Tucker fighting for control. Saw the scared eyes of a child begging for help.

“And come alone,” Tucker murmured to me. “Or y-your girlfriend…” He looked away again. “Is…is dead.”

Compassion rose in me. Tucker was just another teenager. Demon-possessed, sure. But down deep, he was as confused and lonely as any of us.

I reached out, my comforting hand settling on his shoulder. My understanding nod and pursed lips told him he wasn't alone.

A glimmer of gratitude flashed in his eyes.

Right before he snatched my hand and threw it off him.

Smiler's grin had returned.

I parked in the driveway of the house at Hobbs Hill and shut off the headlights. I couldn't believe how willingly Amos had let me borrow his ride. I didn't even have a driver's license, just a permit. The car had to be a hundred years old, but he kept it up pretty good. The blue Ford Falcon station wagon had a shiny chrome roof rack, white-wall tires, and—get this—two doors. Small ones, too. Genius. A car that seated like thirty with only two doors. I liked the front grill, though. It had a resigned expression that made the wagon look like it was always just barely muddling through. Stuck in a terminal Monday. It was going to make it, but it wouldn't be easy.

I checked the time. Ten fifty-six. A few minutes to chat with my hosts before eleven—when the bell would sound and the fisticuffs would begin. I got out of the Falcon and approached the house.

It was one of those wannabe Italian jobs with two stories, earth-toned stucco, entry fountain, tiled roof, and a few twisty-branched olive trees. Larger than most homes and a long way from any neighbors. If it came to guns, no one would hear them.

The Committee buzzed in my head, as it had been doing all night. In the past three hours, I'd heard “Gibborim” twice, the “Might One” three times, and “Mighty Man” once. (Gibborin was Hebrew for Mighty.) They were talking about me. Yet, when I'd tried to concentrate on a couple of voices and zero in, I couldn't do it. My mind was too preoccupied with the likelihood of facing defeat tonight.

An hour ago, I had been an invincible street fighter swaggering with bravado, and confidence. Now, I was a mouse, jittery with self-doubt. Tucker had destroyed me on the mat a few weeks back. He was stronger, faster, more vicious. Willing to do anything to win. Odds were, tonight's battle would put me in a body bag. At least I had the assurance that Merryn was okay. I'd talked to her only a half-hour ago.

I arrived at the door and knocked. Heavy footsteps came from inside, and the smell of a cigar. The door opened.

Chool. As cute as ever. In a lopsided kind of way.

“Evening, Mighty One.” His misshapen lips played with the cigar in his mouth. “Welcome.” His scratchy voice strove to be pleasant, his fashionable blazer and open-collared shirt an attempt to put me at ease.

I relaxed. Not a trace of hostility about him. Sure, I would've loved to throw down with him right there, but Tucker was target number one now.

“Boyfriend here?” I asked. “Y'know, Tucker? Got a delivery.” My chin motioned to Amos's wagon. “Big order from BedWetter dot com.”

Chool's lumpy face tried on a smile. It didn't quite fit. “Come on.” He turned and walked into the home.

I followed, heart drumming. What other choice was there? Smiler had made a direct threat on Merryn's life. Whatever the price for her safety, I would pay it.

The place was clean and well-lit. Twenty-foot ceilings. Polished stone floors. Persian rugs and tasteful paintings in the style of the Sistine Chapel. Classical music from hidden speakers. Smell of potpourri. Dark wood, leather chairs, silver trays…that kind of thing. Stylish, but not overdone.

I wondered who owned the joint. Was Chool a closet sophisticate or were Tucker's parents on vacation at the Louvre?

We took three steps down into a large room where Chool invited me to take a seat on an overstuffed couch in front of the cozy flames of a marble fireplace.

“Cigar?” he offered, and opened a wooden box full of them.

“No. But thank you.” I hoped my good manners would help lessen the beating I was sure to receive in about two minutes.

“Augustine Caffrey.” An eight-and-a-half-foot-tall school bus smiled at me from the hall. “Welcome.” Gracious and engaging, he wore a short-sleeved silk shirt the size of a circus tent and loose linen slacks. Casual, elegant. He swirled the red wine in his glass and looked me up and down with something like admiration. “What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

I stood as he came toward me, a seven-foot twig in his presence. He had the glow of a movie star, his face all symmetry, cheekbones, and jaw line, softened by a friendly smile and caring eyes. Even with such overwhelming height and width, he was approachable and in no way threatening, chummy even.

He came at me with a tree trunk arm extended. On his other arm, the left one, a thick gold tube ran from wrist to elbow—it was exactly like the one worn by the tunic-clad, lavender-eyed guy from Merryn's hospital room.

We shook hands and he introduced himself. “Shemja-za.”

Shemja-za? A popular name, I know, but I tampered with the idea that this may be the Fallen Watcher Shemja-za. The Chool's father Shemja-za.

“Come again?” Maybe I'd heard it wrong.

“Now don't tell me you haven't heard of me, Og.” He winked and patted me on the shoulder with a ham-sized fist and banana fingers.

At least it wasn't Azazel. He was the one, according to Merryn, who posed the much bigger threat.

The resemblance between Shemja-za and my hospital visitor was remarkable. This gigantor was a good foot taller with brown hair instead of black and green eyes, yet the kindness of his face, the sparkle of his smile, the athletic build, charm, and whole aura were identical to Mr. Lavender's.

I smiled at him, calm and warm, hypnotized by the emerald lakes that were his eyes. The colors were wet rainforest leaves, parrot feathers, stained glass, and—

I caught myself and rattled free from his hypnotic gaze. Asked, “What am I doin' here anyway? And where's Tucker?”

“I am here.”

Tucker, in full demon voice, came out from behind a column.

“And you are here so I can knock you!”