When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

I woke up before Tommy, and for a few seconds watched him snore on the pillows below. The Priest sat slumped in his chair. I wondered what had put the driven look on his face. Whatever had happened—the Change—it hadn’t been easy on the faithful. Greasetown sure looked like damnation to me and I only used the Bible to flatten cockroaches. What would the Change be like for a believer?

I tried to content myself by floating close to the rough stucco ceiling. I wasn’t sure, but I got the feeling it had been shaped and textured into an apostle or something. For a religion that warned against idolatry, they sure had a lot of idols. I couldn’t blame them. The human race needed idols—made idols of everything. I had read in an old magazine that at one point in history, however briefly, people had idolized and bought the musical recordings of talking and singing raisins. Was I going to fault the Christians for the odd saint? I looked down again and pondered. Tommy was exerting more and more influence during my possessions, a development that gave me pause to wonder. Was I losing my ability to overpower him? Not a pleasant prospect for someone who was little more than a puff of wind. I was in no position to be giving anything away.

To the best of my knowledge I was the only one of my kind. The only reason I believed this was that if there were others, one of them would have gone public by now. My old rule again, of believing in the inevitability of everything. If I was dissipating, what awaited me? Blacktime forever? That notion was less than inviting. The living worry about losing their bodies—hell, even the dead worry about the condition of their own. I had nothing left to lose but myself.

The universe would do the big Alzheimer’s on me. Poof, you’re nothing. A part of me had to ask the question. What’s wrong with that? I couldn’t answer it. I only knew that this was close to life, if it wasn’t life, and I was determined to hang onto it, since I had no guarantee there was anything more. The prospect of nothingness loses its attraction the closer you get to it. No wonder so many suicides died screaming. I had to keep focused. I knew I had to finish this case. Even though Tommy’s body was not mine I had a certain possessive nature towards it. The Handyman had been torturing me as much as my host. Someone had hired the Handyman. I wanted that someone on the loud end of my gun. Also, I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted to see some sort of justice done. Someone had to pay. It was still wrong to murder.

Review the case. Yes, simple enough. So far I had done nothing but bungle my way from mistake to mistake. I had paid dearly for allowing myself to be led by the players in the play. It was a gamble that I had almost lost. And it seemed that Tommy was working on something now, something that ran on a parallel course to my own case. Parallel, yes, but not the same case. Some strange twist of life had intertwined two ugly stories. I had stumbled upon something, just as Adrian and Van Reydner had stumbled upon something at the Morocco. But what?

A real baby would be big business, and it was obvious from Skullface’s discussion on Regenerics that Dr. Cotton would need a baby for his theories to work. The problem was, he wasn’t the only one who would jump at the chance to claim one. Every crackpot in the world would herald it as a messiah, or the great evil one. A baby in a world that no longer had them would be priceless. But there were no such things as babies.

Even with my ego, I found it difficult to inflate my career with Tommy to date. A few missing persons. A burglary, a host of cheating spouses. Nothing but stiffs, cheap diamonds and stiffs. Why would Billings come to me? I remembered writing the name down, the same that both Harker and Mrs. Cotton had mentioned. Inspector Borden of Authority. Funny, Borden told Billings to talk to me. He told Mrs. Cotton to be a good girl and don’t dig too deep into her husband’s death. As Harker told me, he was also the Authority contact for the phantom baby reports. There was a theme beginning to take shape and it smelled of dirty diapers. A baby cried late one night at the Morocco Hotel, and everyone who heard it died or disappeared. Now this Owen Grey character. Who was he? Some washed-out detective looking for a missing person. What the hell interested him in the baby? Whatever his involvement, he was gone too.

I looked down at Tommy and noticed that the covers were forming a fair-sized circus tent below his midriff. With little effort, I stepped into his head. My first impulse was to cry out. Pain and pleasure momentarily vied for dominance. I was always amazed at how alike the two sensations were. Pain won out. I gritted my teeth and hissed into a sitting position. The priest’s eyelids fluttered like doves. He looked at me with concern, and half-levered himself out of his chair.

“You shouldn’t…”

“Let’s not debate the right and wrong of it, Father.” My shoulder throbbed, my head throbbed, my neck—I hurt all over.

“But…” The priest stepped over to the bed.

“But I’m not going to get any better moving around. Don’t worry. I’ll stay put. I just want to sit up.” Fire lanced along my back as I pushed myself against the headboard.

“It’s strange…” His eyes squinted at me.

“What’s that?” I could barely hear over the jackhammer in my head.

“Oh, it’s strange, something, something. Don’t you mind just now! I’ll get you food. You need food.” He headed for the door. “You must be exhausted”

“I can wait. I just wanted to ask you a few questions first.” I tried to smile, but it hurt its way into a grimace. Suddenly, I realized I was without makeup. I slid a hand over my chin. Lovely feeling.

“I’m curious about…” I started, then my mind blanked. “Oh damn, it was right there. What the hell was it?”

“You have had a lot of strain put upon you,” the priest shook his head. “Rest, is what you need. Food, not questions.”

“Sure…” I said, puzzled. The priest walked to the door, smiled, and left. I ran my hand over my face again and relished the sweet familiarity. Fine stubble grew there. It had always been a nightmare to shave regularly. I was due. I looked at my bare chest, felt the shallow depression of the scars. The door opened, and Elmo entered. He had a small case in one hand and a tall Styrofoam coffee cup in the other. He smiled shyly, like he was a girl at a sock hop and I was a boy. Then his eyes went wide.

“You okay, Boss?” He set the bag on the bed and the coffee on the bedside table. “Father says it’s okay I come see you.” He looked hesitant.

“Yeah, Fatso. Aces. Good job you got me here. Did you have any more trouble?” I lifted the plastic lid on the coffee. My stomach fluttered.

“No, I just drove around all n-night, then stepped into the office quick, this mornin’.” He sat down in the chair by the bed. “The f-father said he’s makin’ you breakfast. Had to call somebody.” Then he frowned.

“What is it Fatso?”

He rubbed his chin. “Must be cause I never seen you in some time without no…” Elmo gestured to his face. No makeup. “And them b-bruises…but…”

“What about it?”

“You look different, I guess.” He rubbed his right forearm. I noticed the holes in his shirt. “I know you put on weight, but…”

“Christ, I almost forgot! You got shot last night. Are you all right? What happened?” I scanned my dead gunsel’s chest.

Elmo pushed his jacket away from his left side, and then absentmindedly drilled a finger into one of the three bullet wounds in his chest. I heard a sickening fibrous sound like old burlap. “I was waitin’ like you said, but then, I figured you was away for too long—and I thought anyway, I could check in with you and still cover your back, ‘cause the elevator was broke—and, and trouble would come up the stairs.” He shifted nervously. “I got up to the r-room, and you was—were gone. Then, I looked around and found a fire ‘scape sign, and a door. The door was open, so I knew you was either wanderin’ around outside, or there was some kinda trouble.

“I stepped quick out the door and saw two b-big fellas carryin’ you down the stairs. There was this other guy too, and he had a gun. Shot me three times. Small bullets though, so I ain’t too bad off. But I can feel them in there if I walk too fast. Need some duct tape is all.” He smiled.

“Christ, Elmo. I guess you’re lucky they didn’t torch you or something worse.”

“I guess they must’a figured I was a living p-person, ‘cause they didn’t check on me. I just got knocked down and I stayed down. Then, I followed them, when they forgot about me. They took you down to the basement through the service elevator. But a big guy, an Enforcer, he guarded the door. I had to sneak back up the stairs and find a way to the basement inside. I’m sorry I was kind of late.”

“Don’t worry about it, Elmo. An Enforcer?” My head was reeling. “Authority?”

“All rubber and steel, like.” Elmo traced a large block shape with his hands.

“Then you started a diversion to give me escape time.”

“No, Boss.” Elmo rubbed a forearm again, abashed. “I kinda surprised another Enforcer by m-mistake. We shot it out. But I got away.”

“Good work.” I rubbed my chin, then noticed Elmo’s mouth fall open—agog.

“Boss, things is looking different…”

“I know it’s different.” I was beginning to enjoy the sensation of a clean skin. I was also beginning to wonder why Tommy hadn’t run for the makeup, or thrown me out as he had done on other occasions when I’d attempted to take the damn stuff off. Unless he was unaware. “You’ve got the makeup, Elmo?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He reached over and patted the case. “And clothes.”

My mind suddenly clicked. I swung my legs off the bed. “You said the Father was going to make a call. Damn!” I winced as I struggled out of the bedding. “Elmo, he’ll probably call Authority. ‘I’ve got this poor abused guy at my church, see.’ You just said there was an Enforcer involved last night. Quick! Give me my clothes!” I struggled into a fresh coverall. This