24

Faith.

That was what it all came down to. But what was faith? Belief in something that wasn't there, could not be tested, tasted, smelled, or touched? Hope in the powers of the invisible? Suspension of disbelief. Something that the senses knew was not measurable but nevertheless chose to allow. Faith was a chimera—an impossibly foolish idea. But one that the mind nevertheless accepted. Why?

Because it wanted to. Needed to.

Was that faith?

Without his being able to control them, tears had pushed themselves out of Jacob Beck's eyes. He clasped his hands in mock prayer, and began to sob. He pressed his head down against his fists.

What in hell is happening to me?

He didn't like the answer.

Around him, in the church, there were no echoes, only the sound of his own rational mind beating against itself inside his skull, and the hard rasp of a middle-aged man's crying.

It had fallen apart like a house of cards. All the new reasonings, the renewed hope, the rejuvenated feeling of purpose—all of it had collapsed and was gone. The place he had been before, the ledge of his crisis in faith, was so far above him he could barely see it from the pit he had dropped into. That had been a temporary loss, a questioning. This was the destruction of the temple.

I believe in nothing.

Man was garbage. He was a creature conceived in filth, destined for the ashcan. There was no reason for his existence. Whatever beauty man seemed to possess or create was all illusion, concealing the sewage underneath. How in God's name could man believe in anything? There was nothing to believe in. It all ended the same way—in a wood-walled room, with the worms and maggots tapping on the door and waiting for the dampness to do its work so they could enter and finish the job. It came down to white bones, and the grin that a skull showed because there was no more appropriate look for it than a fixed, mocking smile.

The sobbing fit passed, and Jacob sat up.

His hands, he saw, were red from clutching each other. The nails needed trimming. For a moment the shimmer of tears blurred his vision.

The night is dark, he thought, recalling his futile Saturday evening fights with himself over his sermons.

The day is dark, too, his mind told him, surveying the brightly lit church with its polished rows of oak pews, the red carpet, the clean, velvet-topped rail, the sturdy pulpit.

A passing cloud broke the sunlight in two, then let it come shining back with full force.

The day is dark.

What had been that sermon he had wrestled with that night Billy had come? Hate the evil, and love the good. And what puerile comments had he made? Something about loving good being the hard part. That hating evil was easy, but loving good was difficult. Pure garbage. Then again, maybe not. Loving good was hard, but that wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was finding good. Good was impossible to find.

Once more, self-pitying tears forced themselves up into his eyes. He held them back, but then they came in a flood and he was weeping into his clasped hands, remembering again the cold white body on the marble slab, the calm, lifeless mouth that would soon be a grinning skull.

They had called him at seven-thirty that morning. When he got there, they brought him down a long marble hallway, then down a wide stairway that led to another long hallway. All of the doors had windows set in them. There was a medicinal smell. The policeman with him opened one of the doors for him, then followed him in. He was the same young, nervous cop that had brought Christine home. He looked as though he had been through a lot in the last couple of days.

Jacob had a feeling the officer was waiting for him to say something.

"She had a note with my number on it?" The policeman said, "Yes, sir."

The attendant opened one of the doors and pulled out a slab. The woman was lying on it. Her face was relaxed, as if filled with a sorrow long suppressed but finally, at the end, resigned.

"You were expecting her today?" the young policeman asked, looking away as the attendant pushed the slab back into the wall.

Jacob replied distractedly, "She didn't tell me she'd be here this early."

"You say you've been taking care of her son?"

Jacob nodded.

They stood in silence. Jacob tried to keep the disturbing thoughts from forming in his head. He turned to the policeman and asked, "Did anyone see this happen?"

"There weren't any witnesses. The ticket seller heard some noises coming from the bathroom, but didn't investigate. The only other person around was a young boy."

The thoughts in Jacob Beck's head came together. As if a shower of ice had suddenly rained down upon him, he felt his blood turn cold. "A young boy?"

"I'd like to talk to him," the policeman said. "The ticket seller said the boy came up to the window and just stood there, staring at him. He said the kid's eyes were like copper pennies."

For Jacob Beck, the world disintegrated.

In the church, with the bright light of day streaming in through the windows, Jacob Beck wept. He had not hated the evil—he had embraced and loved it. He had embraced it as if it were his own, taken it to his heart and sought to strengthen it. What would Joe Marchini say now? What pious bullshit would his old friend the priest spout at him? Something about this only being a temporary setback? That God moves in mysterious ways? If they drank enough scotch, maybe Marchini would tell him about his own second testing and how the Lord watched over him and brought him through with flying colors.

Beck was convulsed by a sob. He had tried to find Billy when he returned from the morgue. He still hadn't wanted to believe what his mind was screaming at him. He wanted to talk to the boy, see if there could possibly be any mistake, hear what the boy had to say. He wanted to help him, if there was anything that could be done. But Billy was gone, the window in his room opened, his jacket missing, Mary's silent, sure stare telling him that what she had said had been right, that the boy was evil, that Jacob had been fooled.

Billy's face floated up before him, copper eyes darkening. The serious, determined look on his features dissolved into a sudden, vicious smile, teeth bared like an animal, willing to kill anyone.