Samson had always regretted that his small size kept him from driving one of Carnivale's trucks. Today he was thankful for the excuse to let Osgood do the driving...because his eyes kept filling up with tears.
The Usher is dead. So why are we left feelin' this is anythin' but a victory?
Unfortunately, he had to be in the lead truck, to make decisions on direction when they'd come to forks in the road. But they were only minutes out of New Canaan, and he was already agonizing over Ruthie, alone in the Management trailer with a possibly dying Ben Hawkins.
The plan was that if there was any change in Hawkins' condition, Ruthie would pound on the wall to get the attention of the truck driver pulling the trailer, and he'd honk his horn to bring the convoy to a stop. Unless, of course, the "change" was that Ben had come to, and he instructed her not to halt the convoy! It was understood that if he was conscious and lucid, he was the boss.
But Samson thought it more likely Ben would die in Ruthie's arms. And Ruthie, hopelessly in love with him, would be destroyed.
Why the hell didn't I leave him be, he chided himself, let him do things his own way? If I hadn't got him to try that damn-fool stunt o' healin' folks with Crowe's life-force, he woulda assassinated the bastard, plain an' simple. An' yeah, Crowe's henchmen woulda killed him. But he expected to die, an' it woulda been quick. Not like this. Ruthie woulda been spared seein' it.
An' there wouldn't o' been no innocents killed.
He'd never be able to forget what he'd seen in the healing tent. Wild-eyed adults trampling children in their desperation to escape...blood everywhere, a gusher drenching him...Norman Balthus's guts spilling out on the floor while the man was still conscious, trying to gather them up. He didn't know how he'd gotten out alive. But at times, last night and this morning, he'd wished he hadn't.
I caused all that.
'Course, it wouldn't o' happened if Jonesy hadn't stopped Hawkins from killin' Crowe the night before...
He shook his head, and cursed himself for having been tempted even momentarily to pin the blame on Jonesy. Dead now, he thought bleakly, I feel it in my bones. Prob'ly killed tryin' to rescue Sofie, an' her dead too.
No, it warn't Jonesy's fault. My guilt goes back farther'n that.
It's a sign o' how bad my mistake was that I never had the guts to tell Hawkins what I'd done.
The idea he'd had back in Creed had been good. Better, in fact, than he'd realized - he hadn't expected it to work at all, and it had.
The thug he now knew was named Varlyn Stroud actually had followed his suggestion, turned his attention away from Carnivale, and gone off to look for Scudder's son and his "midget" companion with Daily Brothers.
He'd learned they weren't there, of course. Furious at having been sent on a wild goose chase, he'd torched that inoffensive carnival, destroying the livelihood of a hundred or so people. Samson couldn't shake the suspicion he'd murdered the Dailys.
When Samson named Daily Brothers, he hadn't known either they or Carnivale would be heading for Damascus. But he'd unwittingly steered Stroud in a direction that would bring him right back into contact with Carnivale.
Bad as a boomerang. Not to mention takin' him almost to Scudder's door!
When he ran into Hawkins in Creed, Hawkins told him he didn't work for Carnivale. Stroud may o' been suspicious, but Hawkins coulda been hangin' around after hours to hook up with a woman he'd met. When Stroud spotted us again, though, an' saw the same kid with us, he knew for sure he'd found Scudder's son.
Givin' him the name of another carnival was good. But why didn't I have the brains to tell him Huggins an' Fisk - the one that'd just gone out o' business? By the time he done some checkin' an' found out they folded, he woulda lost track of us. He couldn't o' done Huggins an' Fisk no harm, an' he might still o' thought their outfit was the one Scudder's son had been with.
What might have happened if Stroud had been nowhere near Damascus? If Scudder hadn't been kidnapped and killed? If Hawkins hadn't had a trail to follow, that led him straight to the Usher?
The Avatars' fight was inevitable, Samson knew. But what if it could have been postponed for a year or two, while Hawkins matured and learned more about his and Crowe's capabilities?
I know what woulda happened, he thought wretchedly. He woulda been too wise a man to fall for the crackpot idea I had yesterday. He woulda killed Crowe without no one else bein' harmed. An he'd be safe an' sound, not about to die an' break Ruthie's heart.
His vision was blurry again. So he was caught completely by surprise when Osgood slammed on the brake, screaming, "Omigod! What's that?"
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Samson had almost fallen off his seat. But he hitched himself up, wiped his eyes - and then, as he looked out the windshield, wiped them again, and yet a third time. "Christ on a crutch," he muttered.
As he gaped at the apparition in the road, other trucks came to screeching halts behind them. There were two loud thuds, and louder curses. He winced. Damn. I hope this jostlin' ain't finished the job o' killin' Hawkins.
"Wh-what is it?" Osgood's voice slid up the scale as he spoke. He was terrified. "A gh-ghost?"
"I ain't sure," Samson admitted.
A man, apparently, standing in the road. But almost every inch of him was covered with caked-on dirt, dried blood, or a mixture of the two.
Until a few weeks ago, Samson reflected, he wouldn't have recognized the substance that wasn't dirt as blood. The blue blood of an Avataric Prophet...
Scudder!
He was prepared to believe Scudder was a ghost - until the murdered Prophet walked up to the truck, spotted him, and stiffened, eyes widening in disbelief. "Samson?"
Samson had never seen a ghost, but he was willing to bet they didn't show surprise. "Yeah." Try to sound casual. Good-humored. "Is that you under all that dirt, Hack?"
He hoped Osgood wouldn't recognize the name as a dead man's, and would calm down enough that the explanation could wait. He himself was sure now that Hawkins had restored his father to life, just as he had Ruthie. Glad he explained that to me, or I'd be as scared as Osgood.
But Scudder was in no mood for chitchat. He leapt onto the running board and screamed through the window, "Tell me what's happened to Ben!"
Osgood let out a shriek.
"We got him with us," Samson said quickly. Clutching Osgood's jacket to keep him from fleeing, he told Hack, "In bad shape, but he's alive." I hope. "Just hold on a minute, an' I'll take you to him."
Then he turned to Osgood, who'd managed to open the driver's side door. Samson didn't know whether he was about to run back and spread panic through the troupe or just hightail it into the woods, but neither prospect was appealing. "Listen up," he said firmly. "This is Hawkins' pa. You've heard he was dead. Truth is, he was. But you know Hawkins ain't like us, right? He can bring the dead back to life. It ain't easy, not somethin' he can do often - but he did bring his pa back. So his pa ain't a ghost, he's just as much alive now as you an' me. Okay?"
"D-does he look like that 'cause he was b-buried?" Osgood had one foot out the door.
"Yeah, I reckon he does." Samson sighed. He could sympathize with the kid. "An' I may as well tell you before you ask, the blue stuff on him is blood. The same weird kind we saw on Hawkins.
"But you've known an' liked Hawkins for a year now, ain't you? His pa ain't no more a danger to us than he is."
After he'd said it, he hoped Osgood wouldn't think too deeply about that statement.
The young roustie pulled his foot back in. He was as white as a sheet. But he said in a dazed voice, "Okay. Yeah. I understand."
It seemed he wasn't going to bolt. So Samson got out of the truck - just in time to deal with a dozen other carnies who were coming up to see why they'd stopped. Forcing himself to put a chummy arm around Scudder's waist, he yelled, "Everythin's all right, folks! I know this guy. He's been in an accident - got all muddied up, but he ain't really hurt. Go back to your trucks, an' be ready to start whenever the lead truck pulls out. May be a few minutes."
To his relief, they retreated without asking any questions. That wasn't like them; they were all still stunned by their experience in New Canaan. Most of the carnies had been inside the healing tent, not during Brother Justin's rampage, but after it. They'd seen the mangled bodies. Seen Hawkins being carried out of the cornfield, frighteningly still. And they knew Jonesy was missing and presumed dead.
Scudder had been bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, hissing in frustration at the delay. Now Samson said quickly, "Okay, c'mon," and led him back toward the Management trailer. The distraught father looked terrible, and smelled worse; the stench was making Samson woozy. But I guess he smells like any man would who's got dirt an' blood all over him, an ain't had a chance to change his clothes or wash hisself since - well, since we left Damascus.
Ugh.
At least he don't smell like somethin' dead.
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Samson gave a sharp rap on the trailer door, which he knew was locked. "Ruthie? It's me. Open up!"
He heard her footsteps coming from the inner apartment. How the hell am I gonna explain -
He didn't get a chance. Ruthie opened the door, looked beyond him - and let out a shriek that put Osgood's to shame.
She stumbled backward. He followed her, knowing Hack would bowl him over if he blocked the doorway. "Ruthie, it ain't -"
She wasn't listening. Pointing, she screamed at him, "Samson! Hack Scudder's ghost is right behind you!"
"No, Ruthie -"
But she ran back through the open half-door of the inner room and flung herself on the floor, where Hawkins still lay prostrate on a mat. Trying to cover his body with her own, she screamed hysterically, "No, Hack! You can't have him! I won't let you take him!"
Samson was frozen in place, stunned. But a frantic Scudder rushed past him. "Oh my God - Ruthie, I'm not a ghost! And I'm not some kind of angel of death come to claim Ben! I want him to live as much as you do!"
She's never heard a ghost speak, Samson remembered...
And then, suddenly, she was on her feet, and she and Scudder were embracing, both wracked by sobs. Samson wasn't sure which of them was holding the other up.
They clung together for a few seconds. Then Ruthie backed off, and Scudder dropped to his knees beside Ben. Keening, grief-stricken - but taking care not to touch him. 'Cause he knows how dirty he is, Samson realized, with a bemused shake of his head.
For the moment, Ruthie seemed willing to accept that Hack was alive, and not question it. But later, there would have to be explanations. What she believed now was that Ben had "healed" her of that snakebite. When she learned he could restore the dead to life - and how it was done - she might well remember the timing of Lodz's disappearance, and put two and two together.
But she'll be strong enough to cope with that, Samson told himself. If we ain't lost Hawkins.
The youth still lay silent and motionless. From a distance, Samson couldn't tell whether he was breathing. There was no fresh blood on his bandaged belly; that might be a good sign, indicating the jostling hadn't caused further injury. But his not having been roused by all this commotion was a bad sign.
Samson couldn't take the suspense. "Hack! Is he still alive?"
Scudder needed a few seconds to pull himself together. But then he said in a choked voice, "Yes. Sorry - I thought you knew."
"I wasn't sure."
Scudder settled down to sit on the floor. As Ruthie followed suit, he looked at Samson and said bitterly, "He risked his life to save humanity, and you couldn't spare a bed to put him in?"
It was Samson's turn to say, "Sorry." He offered what he knew was a feeble excuse. "We got rid o' Belyakov's bed weeks ago, an' mine is sized for me. We were rushin' to leave New Canaan, didn't have time to think of a better place to put him."
"Huh." Scudder shrugged that off, and went on to say, "He's in a deep coma. That's why I couldn't pick up any mental activity from a distance. But" - he took Ruthie's hand and squeezed it - "I don't think he's going to die. Not when he's survived this many hours."
She heaved a sigh of relief. A thought was forming in Samson's mind, but Ruthie put it into words before he could. "Hack, can you heal him?"
Samson hadn't been sure a Dark Avatar had that power. But Scudder clearly wasn't surprised by the question. A hand strayed to one of his pockets, and he muttered, "He didn't say I shouldn't do that..." Then he looked at Samson and asked, "How exactly was he wounded? Beaten by a mob, shot by Alexei's bodyguards - I mean, Crowe's bodyguards?"
"I understand 'bout the name." In a quick aside, Samson told Ruthie, "Crowe's real name was Alexei Belyakov." Then he explained to Scudder, "It warn't neither o' them things. Him an' Crowe fought in a cornfield. At night, with no one else knowin' exactly where they were. Crowe cut him bad - two slash wounds, his belly an' his left arm - before he got a killin' strike in. We didn't find them till mornin'. I reckon the only reason Hawkins didn't bleed to death was that he'd passed out on top o' Crowe, an' his worst wound was pressin' on Crowe's body."
An' all that night, I'd been afraid he might o' been so sure Crowe would die on Colossus that he'd been caught unarmed. Even now, that memory made him break out in a cold sweat.
Scudder had been shaking his head in disbelief from the moment he heard the word "cornfield."
"My God," he whispered. "The cornfield! I've seen it in nightmares all my life. After Ben was born, I was never sure whether it was in my future or his. But...this is important." He sat up straighter, and Samson got the impression he'd remembered a need for haste. "What sort of weapon did Crowe use? A blade, obviously, but can you describe it?"
Samson grimaced. "I'll never forget it. Some kind o' sickle, scythe - I ain't sure what to call it. But it looked like that thing you see in pictures o' the Grim Reaper."
"Damn! That's what I was afraid of. Just a gardening tool, but it's what he'd used to kill me." Scudder shot an anxious glance at Ruthie. "Uh, sorry..."
"That's okay," she said weakly. "I knew you'd been dead at some point. You're flesh an' blood now, that's all that matters."
"All right." Looking back and forth between them, Scudder said earnestly, "I could perform a healing, but there are reasons why I don't think I should. At least not now.
"To begin with, we'd be stalled here for hours. If either of you doesn't know, healing requires taking life-force from somewhere. To avoid harming humans, I'd have to carry Ben deep into the woods. Actually, several people would be needed to carry him. More time would be lost while they got a safe distance away from Ben and me. And later, still more time while we got together again - because he'd have to be carried back."
Two voices echoed, "Carried back?" Ruthie went on to demand, "Why?"
"That's the next problem. Because Crowe slashed him with a blade that had killed another Avatar, the wounds will never completely heal." Scudder paused to let that sobering revelation sink in. Then he said quietly, "I'd only be able to perform a partial healing. And in the short term, I might not be doing Ben any favor. As it is, he's not suffering. An attempt to heal him might just result in his being conscious - and in agony."
Ruthie gave a soft whimper.
"So I think it will be better if I wait, and not use my powers any time soon unless...unless he really seems about to die."
Samson managed a nod, and Ruthie made a small sound that could be taken for assent.
Scudder wasn't through. "And I think you should get the carnival moving quickly - because I learned something, a few minutes before I met up with you, that made me realize Ben is still in danger. Extreme danger."
"From Crowe's followers?" Samson asked dubiously. Ruthie added, "From the law?"
Scudder shook his head. "Worse, much worse. The source of the danger may or may not be Crowe's base - Canaan, did you call the place? - but since we can't be sure, we should get away from it.
"Samson, I'm going to ask you a question that will sound crazy. Believe me, I know better than anyone else how crazy it is! But...are you absolutely sure Crowe is dead?"
Samson met his gaze without flinching. "Absolutely. I saw him, an' he'd been dead for hours. Rigor mortis had set in. Hell, there was no way I woulda left him alive in that cornfield! I was prepared to kill him myself, if we found him unconscious an' Hawkins in no condition to finish him off."
Scudder nodded. "All right. I didn't really think he could be alive. But that means there must be another explanation of what happened to me. Take a look." He pulled up his right pants leg, displaying a shin that appeared at first glance merely to be as dirty as the rest of him. "Take a close look. I tripped and scraped my leg on a tree stump, drew a little blood."
"Shit," Samson said softly. "The fresh blood is red."
"That's right."
"But..." Samson was puzzled. "When Crowe killed you, he became Prophet. He got the blue blood. So don't it make sense that yours has turned back to red?"
"It would," Scudder acknowledged, "if we were both somehow alive. Normally, when the Prophethood and its special blood pass from one generation to the next, that passage is permanent. If Ben had killed someone else - not Crowe - to restore me to life, Crowe would still be Prophet, and my blood should be red.
"But if I was the only living Dark Avatar, generation notwithstanding, I would have become Prophet again by default."
By now Ruthie looked lost. But Samson felt his own blood drain from his face. "You mean..."
"I mean there's another, younger generation," Scudder said grimly. "A son of Crowe's, maybe a grown man - who could be anywhere, using any name.
"Ben may be maimed for life. And somewhere out there, lying in wait for him, is a new Dark Prophet!"
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The End