Darkborn Page 6

  And he wondered: How much damage did I just do by ripping that page? Is the book worth less now?

  He read the first paragraph. It read like some long-winded preamble, something Thomas Paine might have written, working his way up to Common Sense .

  Then, in the second paragraph, Will read an amazing statement.

  “This work is constructed to aid the alchemist in his pursuit of that which the Lord of Light would deny us. For when the paths of time are open to us, there will be no gods.”

  Right, thought Will. Exactly my sentiments.

  “Will!” Kiff hissed again.

  Will started. Had Kiff whistled? Was someone coming? And then his fear was back. He felt surrounded by the bottles, the books, the twisted bed sheets of Scott, the smell of worn clothes strewn on the floor.

  He closed the book and put it back.

  He ran through the other titles until he came to a large black book. He found it on the bottom shelf.

  Yeah, Kiff had called it The Book of Enoch . The Black Bible.

  It wasn’t nearly as ancient as some of the other books.

  Will grabbed it, and he squirmed out of the narrow closet, shutting the light off as he left. He ran out to Kiff.

  “Got it,” he whispered.

  Kiff was at the window, pushing the blinds out, leaning close to the pane.

  “What the fuck were you doing in there?”

  “It was interesting. He’s got some really weird books —”

  “Okay-you come here, watch through the window. I’ll find the right page.” Kiff turned to Will, and Will saw that he wasn’t smiling anymore. His face was grim, worried.

  It wasn’t fun for Jim Kiff anymore. This was serious stuff now.

  Will handed him the book and went to the window.

  Kiff squatted on the floor. Will glanced at him and saw him take a piece of paper and pencil out of his pocket. Then Will went back to looking out the window.

  He saw an old lady coming up the block dragging a small wagon filled with groceries.

  Will paid no attention until she stopped and started coming up the steps to the stone house, to Scott’s building.

  “Someone’s coming!”

  Kiff got up and went beside Will. “It’s probably just the old lady who lives upstairs,” Kiff said. They both watched her drag her cart up the stone steps, slowly, struggling for every step. And then she disappeared, into the foyer. But they heard her now above them. The wheels of her cart squeaking, the sound of her feet moving on the wood floor.

  Kiff put a finger to his lips.

  They waited, listening to the rhythmic tattoo of the woman pulling her heavy load up the stairs.

  “Okay,” Kiff said.

  He went back to his sketch. Will took a quick look at it.

  He saw a star surrounded by a circle. And squiggly symbols outside and in the points. But he quickly looked back outside.

  And saw someone else walking up the block.

  A man, dressed in a raincoat, holding an umbrella. He wore a hat pulled down low.

  Will couldn’t be sure.

  But . . .

  The man came closer.

  And then, shit, the man looked up a bit . . . nearing his house. His home, and —

  Will knew it was Scott.

  “It’s Scott!” he said, not whispering. Will let the bent blind slap shut. “Oh, shit,” he said.

  But Kiff didn’t move.

  “Almost done, Will. Hang on . . . almost —”

  Will danced away from the window. Jeez, he thought he’d piss, he was so scared.

  He imagined where Scott was. On the bottom steps, right now! Maybe digging out his keys, walking down to the basement door. Getting close to the door.

  “C’mon, Kiff, get the fucking book back. Get it back!”

  Closing the umbrella. Opening the door to his apartment.

  Screw it, Will thought. He turned to run.

  And then, suddenly, Kiff, all gangly arms and legs, was up, his face still deadly serious.

  This is all real for him Will saw. This is a real fucking thing for him.

  Will backed into the kitchen. Thinking: I can get away. But if he gets Kiff and Kiff talks and —

  I should have heard the front door open by now, he thought.

  Kiff shot up.

  “Got it,” Kiff whispered, running into the bedroom to put the book back.

  The front door should have opened, Will thought, reaching for the back door. Sure, because —

  And then he knew that Scott wasn’t coming in through the front door.

  No.

  He was coming around the back.

  And I nearly went out there. I nearly ran right into him. Kiff was out of the bedroom, running into the kitchen.

  “No,” Will said, pulling Kiff away. “He’s coming this way.”

  And now they both ran, as fast as they could, to the front door.

  Kiff turned the handle. He yanked the door open. But a chain slapped it shut again.

  Will reached up and undid the chain. And then it flew open.

  He heard the back door open. He and Kiff slipped out the door.

  Then — oh so gently — Kiff closed it behind them.

  They stood there, listening a moment, as if to run outside would only get Scott’s attention.

  But then Kiff went out the front door of the brownstone building. He pulled up the collar of his trench coat.

  Will did the same thing.

  They went out, and up the steps from the basement apartment, running as fast as they could.

  And with each giant step Will felt as if he were getting younger, regressing back to ten, then nine, then eight years old, when he and his friends would ring people’s doorbells and then run away, laughing hysterically. As if that were the funniest thing in the world.

  And this time, he did the same thing, laughing, and gasping for air, following Kiff, who was yelping, spinning around in the rain, screaming . . . now that they were a good block away.

  “We did it, Will! We fucking did it!”

  And Will laughed some more, feeling that yes, they certainly had done something . . .

  * * *

  7

  By the time Will hit the subway, the IRT was filled with commuters, gray-faced, gray-suited men whose eyes darted left and right searching for a seat.

  Will found a vacant strap in the cattle car and held on. His wet clothes dried tight to his skin.

  But when he thought again of running from Scott’s apartment, and Kiff waving his precious piece of paper around as if it were a map to a gold mine, he had to smile again.

  It had been crazy . . . fun.

  The stations roared by until, when he saw the Church Avenue platform, the train emptied a bit and he got a seat. He thought of his homework. He had at least three hours ahead. Maybe more.

  Finally the train reached the end of the line.

  His stop.

  Flatbush Avenue.

  The doors whished open. The subway cars gave out a great pneumatic sigh of relief.

  And Will got up to walk the ten blocks to his house.

  He had to use his key to get in the front door.

  Mom started to keep it locked. Someone was robbed, she said. Only a few blocks away. She never had a name for the victim. No details. Just that — someone was robbed.

  He didn’t argue with her.

  The hall light was off as he went up the stairs to the top floor of the two-family home. And he stepped carefully on the carpeted stairs, quietly, remembering what he had been warned about ever since his first steps.

  Be careful of people’s heads! his mother said.

  Don’t make so much noise for the people downstairs.

  As a little kid he had imagined that the downstairs neighbors — a nice, quiet, old couple with grown children — somehow had their heads attached to the floor, the stairs. They felt every squeak, every wild leap Will made. .

  His mom worried about that kind of thing.

/>   She worried about lots of things.

  At the top of the stairs he saw a crack of light escaping from the kitchen. He pushed open the door.

  His mother turned. She smiled. He felt that she forced her smile. As if saying, I’m in terrible pain, but I’ll smile for you, sweetie. There you go . . .

  “Hi, Mom,” he said.

  “Will,” she said breathlessly, as if she were just about to collapse. Catching her breath. Her hands were clenched in a fist. They were always that way. She was just holding on. A metaphor for her life. It’s a white-knuckle flight, he thought.

  “You’re late, sweetie. What happened?”

  “A debate meeting,” he lied. It came easy.

  At this point in his life he knew that his parents had no real connection to his life. There were lots of things that they had no reason to know.

  They were in one world. And I’m in another.

  At least, he hoped he was.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  The woman’s face fell. Noticeably, almost theatrically. She nodded toward the living room, through another closed door. “He’s — he’s in there. Watching TV.”

  Will put his books down on the table. He smelled spaghetti sauce. That was good. Something Italian was in the offing. That would go down well. He nodded to the living room too. “Still no luck?” he asked.

  She shook her head. And then, as if digging up some strength from deep inside herself, she said, “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  Will nodded. And, reluctantly, he walked in to see his father.

  The man sat in his chair, a faded easy chair perfectly positioned to see the color TV. They had bought the big RCA set just three years ago. It was one of the first color sets on the block. His father was so proud, even if some of the shows did turn up with purple people and grass that glowed an unhealthy green.

  That was way before he lost his job.

  Before the Best Foods chain sold out to Western International. The new chain was based in Seattle.

  And poof! He was out of a job.

  It had been five months now.

  “Dad . . .” Will said.

  The TV was on. The man was there. But there was no light on.

  “Oh. Will,” he said, turning in his seat. The words came out slurred — just a bit — but enough to tell Will that today’s edge had already been shaved off.

  Then he heard his father’s hand fiddling with the lamp, searching for the switch.

  “Wait a second . . . where the hell — ?”

  The light came on. And Will saw him, unshaved, dressed in casual clothes that looked like a suit of defeat. Here was a man that belonged in a crisp suit, with his Journal-American tucked under his arm.

  The shot glass on the lamp table still carried a glistening smear. The tracks weren’t old.

  He probably killed it before I came upstairs.

  “How are you, son? How was school?”

  Will smiled. “Great, Dad. Just super. Mom said it’s almost dinner.”

  At the word “Mom” Will watched his father’s face fall.

  I wouldn’t have wanted to be here today, Will knew. In fact, things might still get pretty bad tonight. A few more shots, a few funny faces from Mom, and it could be one of those nights.

  Will looked over at the TV. The news was on. Color footage from Vietnam — wherever the hell that was.

  A stupid police action. Some unlucky G.I.s dodging bullets in a rice paddy.

  And that’s the top news story? Will thought.

  He looked back to his father. “C’mon, Dad. C’mon, let’s eat.”

  And Will was tempted to go over and help his father up.

  * * *

  The next day, the subways ran slow and Will got to school late — missing everyone at the luncheonette.

  So it wasn’t until just before physical science, with Father Ouskoop, that he heard Tim’s idea.

  “If I’m going to give up getting laid,” he said to Will, “then I want to pick the place where we try this horseshit.”

  “You saw Kiff’s sketch?” Will asked.

  Tim screwed up his face. “Yeah. It looks like something my kid brother would draw. It has to be a pretty retarded spirit that would respond to that invitation.” Then, as they walked into the classroom, Tim leaned close. “But what the hell. Kiff can get some booze and we’ll get loaded.”

  Will smiled.

  They found seats together.

  “And I’ve got the perfect place. You won’t believe it.”

  “Yeah?” Will said.

  The classroom was constructed like an amphitheater. The seats curved around the lecture platform where Ouskoop displayed the wonders of the world of science, without even a hint of the showmanship of Mr. Wizard. Mostly, Ouskoop scrawled incomprehensible equations on a blackboard. It was definitely grade-B science. It was a known fact the St. Jerry’s kids didn’t do so well at science and technical schools. Too much religious mumbo jumbo, not enough test tubes.

  But Will was going to try — that spring — by applying to MIT.

  Ouskoop waited for the class to settle down.

  Will plopped down and Tim sat next to him.

  “Where?” Will said.

  Tim turned, shielding his mouth with his hand, about to answer.

  But Ouskoop, despite glasses with Coke-bottle lenses, quickly spotted Tim talking.

  “Mr. Hanna,” the science teacher called out in a whiney, singsong voice, “I think you’ll get more out of this class if you find another seat — away from Mr. Dunnigan.”

  Ouskoop grinned.

  “Groan,” Tim whispered. He got up and moved away from Will.

  “There,” Ouskoop said. “Now, we are attempting to deal with the problem of inertia. Does anybody remember the first law of thermodynamics?”

  And Will started taking notes on the laws of the universe, instead of wondering about where Tim planned to have their séance, or summoning, or beer blast, or whatever the hell it was going to be.

  Ouskoop went quickly, too fast for Will to understand what he was talking about. The teacher flew right past the second law of thermodynamics, erasing sketches from the board that Will had only half copied. Nothing stopped the mad professor-priest.

  Nothing, that is, until he spotted something odd — at the back of the room.

  Will barely noticed that Ouskoop had stopped lecturing, so fast was he scribbling notes.

  Ouskoop just stood there, down below, in the arena.

  His bald head had just a few wispy strands of hair that were uncombed, as if unnoticed. Ouskoop grinned some more and pushed his thick glasses back on his nose.

  By now nearly everyone knew that the priest had stopped teaching. And Will looked back in the direction Ouskoop was studying.

  And Will could easily see who he was looking at.

  Jim Kiff was in the last row, near the comer of the room where the top row curved to the door. He was out of the way, almost out of sight, slumped down in his chair. And Kiff had his physical science book open wide in front of him.

  As if it were the best damnedest thing he’d ever read.

  Ouskoop didn’t say anything.

  Someone hissed in Kiff’s direction. A few kids laughed and Ouskoop looked around at them, as if saying: It’s okay to laugh.

  This is funny.

  Until finally, like a sub coming up for air, Kiff looked up, his eyes just peering over the edge of his book.

  Then he looked left and right, as if wondering what everyone was doing looking at him.

  “Mr. Kiff,” Ouskoop sang out.

  Tim looked over at Will. His face mouthed the words: What the fuck is going on?

  Will shrugged.

  But he guessed whatever it was, it probably wasn’t good. Kiff started to sit up straight in his chair. He started to close his science book. But it didn’t seem to want to close.

  “Mr. Kiff . . . you seem terribly engrossed in what you’re reading back there.”

  A few more laughs i
n the class.

  Ouskoop looked around at his audience. He took a step off his platform heading toward the bleachers.

  “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind sharing whatever wonderful thing you’re reading there?”

  Kiff sat up.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Well, Mr. Kiff, would you?”

  Kiff cleared his throat again. “No, Father,” he said.

  Everyone laughed. Except, this time, Ouskoop. “What do you mean, ‘No, Father’?” Ouskoop took another step. He placed a foot on the first step leading up. “It wasn’t a request, Kiff. What are you reading” — a bit of grin returned —”up there?”

  Will looked left and right, knowing that nearly everyone was enjoying this, grateful that Kiff had derailed Ouskoop’s train of thought. Already this had been good for a solid five minutes of wasted time. And it was still going strong.

  Except Will was surprised to see that he felt worried for Kiff.

  After yesterday, Will knew that Kiff didn’t work the way normal people did. As Tim might say, Kiff just didn’t give a fuck.

  So why should I give a damn? he wondered.

  “Mr. Kiff, I will come up there and take whatever it is you’re hiding behind your science book. Now — what is it you’re reading?”

  And Ouskoop started up the steps slowly.

  Shoot-out at Black Gulch.

  And Will knew who’d win. In this place, such competitions weren’t even close.

  “Er, Father,” Kiff said, with an altar-boy politeness that sounded completely out of character. “I was reading a novel.”

  Kiff had closed the science book, and Will thought he saw Kiff slide something onto his lap.

  Ouskoop kept moving up the steps.

  “Well, I’d like to see that novel anyway, Mr. Kiff.”

  Kiff looked around.

  As if he were searching for a fire escape.

  Kiff sniffed the air. Rubbed his red hair, redistributing the fiery-red strands in yet another random manner.

  “Hand it over, Kiff,” Ouskoop said, his voice hard, demanding.

  You don’t screw with the Jesuits, Will thought. These soldiers of Christ were trained in the Inquisition.

  Kiff looked real uncomfortable.

  His face was beet red. His freckles vanished, lost in the glow.