The Book of Joby (49 page)

Kallaystra surged after him, but stopped with an obscene exclamation as Williamson screamed in torment, and began to stretch into attenuated fragments, his face drawn taught in silent agony. Then even the fragments of his substance blew apart like smoke on a puff of wind.

Malcephalon hovered in stunned astonishment. He had not seen this for many, many centuries, but he knew now what it was that filled the very fabric of this place, becoming more and more intolerable with each step farther into Taubolt. Being full demons, he and Kallaystra might have gotten much closer and survived, but a frail wisp like Williamson had been too vulnerable.

“The fucking Cup!” Kallaystra hissed. “That’s what this place stinks of!”

“We are indeed betrayed,” Malcephalon murmured palely. “If the boy is in its presence, we will never reach him.”

“Come!” Kallaystra snapped. “There is nothing more we can do here. Lucifer must know of this immediately.”

“Father Crombie?”
Joby asked in astonishment.

“Yes?” the priest said, taking the one small step down off the altar with difficulty. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. It’s so dark, and I cannot place the voice. Let me come a little closer.” He shuffled forward, pulling a pair of wire-framed glasses from his shirt pocket, and setting them carefully in place. “I’m sorry,” Father Crombie smiled, as he came abreast of Joby’s pew, peering down through thick lenses, “but I still can’t place your face. Are you a visitor to Taubolt?”

“I’m Joby Peterson,” he said, struggling not to laugh aloud at the sheer impossibility of what was happening. Suddenly the world seemed full of unlikely coincidences. “You wouldn’t remember me. We only met once, a very long time ago, when you were still at St. Albee’s.”

“St. Albee’s?” Father Crombie exclaimed softly. “My! That
was
a long time ago!”

“Ben Vierra introduced us.”

“I certainly remember Ben! A delightful boy. What’s your name again?”

“Joby.” He held his hand out, and Father Crombie shook it with a strength
that belied his frail gate. “We came to see you one day after church about . . . well, silly kid things, really,” he said, abashed.

Crombie’s grip tightened convulsively as he leaned forward to stare intently at Joby’s face. “Joby Peterson?” he asked, astonished in his turn. “The boy who wished to fight the devil?”

Immediately, Joby was filled with shame.
No,
he thought.
The bum who’s looking for a handout on Christmas Eve.

“Have I got it wrong then?” Crombie asked, mistaking his silence.

“No,” Joby sighed. “That was me.”

“Well I’m astonished!” said the priest. “And delighted! I’ve never forgotten our meeting, you know. You made such an impression on me! How is Ben? He’s not here with you in Taubolt, is he?”

“No,” Joby said. “We haven’t really seen each other . . . for a long time.”

“Ah. Well, of course,” Father Crombie said, sounding disappointed. “People grow and drift apart.” He smiled again. “You’re not boys anymore, are you. Probably have families now, and lives of your own, eh?”

Before this could become even more humiliating, Joby said, “I’m kind of stranded here, Father Crombie. I have nowhere to stay tonight, and I was hoping I might get something to eat.” His face felt like stone. He imagined it crumbling off in shards as Father Crombie’s smile gave way to a sad, half-stricken look.

“You’ve clearly a story to tell,” Father Crombie said, “and I’d like to hear it, if you’ll do me that honor. Would you consider coming back to the rectory and having dinner with me tonight?”

“That’s very kind,” Joby said, startled by the priest’s generosity, though he dreaded such a conversation with this kind old man who’d thought so highly of him.

A cheerful blaze already crackled in the rectory hearth as they entered. A modest meal was laid out on the table. The old priest went to fetch a second set of dishes, insisting that Joby sit and warm himself. Moments later they were at the table, heads bowed, while Father Crombie thanked God for reuniting them.

It was just a hearty soup, a warm and fragrant loaf of bread, a simple salad, and a bottle of white wine, but it seemed tastier than any meal Joby could recall. Hoping to deflect Crombie’s impending questions, Joby quickly asked the priest where he’d gone off to so suddenly all those years ago.

“Oh, that was a sad affair,” the priest replied. “Seems the bishop had been finding some of my
liberal views
a bit offensive.” He took a spoonful of soup.
“I was sent off to a poor urban parish in Chicago where I spent more time burying parishioners than preaching to them.” He shook his head sadly, and spooned more soup. “Those were hard days. I did the best I could, though, as did they.”

Joby shook his head in empathy. “I’ve gotten fired that way. Not a clue you’re in trouble, then, bam! You’re out the door.”

“Really?” Father Crombie said. “When was that?”

“It’s a boring story,” Joby said, regretting his carelessness. “How’d you get here?”

“Oh, that’s a long and boring story too.” Crombie smiled. “It seems I had detractors in Chicago as well. The superior who sent me to Taubolt had, happily, never been here and clearly imagined it nothing but the furthest outpost of un-civilization. Said he
feared
the damp air and rough rural life might be hard on my arthritic hips, which perhaps they have been, but the joke has been on him, Joby. I regard this place and its marvelous people as my life’s reward.” His bemused gaze wandered toward the fire.

“But enough of me,” Crombie said at last. “I am eager to hear of your life. I sense it may not be an easy tale, but I think you’ll find me a sympathetic listener.”

By now Joby saw that Father Crombie might know more about disappointment and disgrace than he’d expected. Still, he felt unprepared to answer.

“Tell me about Ben,” Crombie said, as if sensing his difficulty. “I was very fond of him, you know. You said it’s been a long time, but you’d still know more than I.”

“Ben liked you too,” Joby said. “I don’t think he cared for church much after you left.”

“Ah. That’s unfortunate.”

“I haven’t seen him since my freshman year at Berkeley.” Even now, the memory hurt. “He came out from school in Colorado to visit during spring break, but things weren’t going too well for me then.” Joby found himself drawn up short by the irony of this statement, given his current circumstances. “I was pretty lousy company, I guess.” In truth, he’d been
worse
than lousy company from the moment Ben had told him about Laura leaving school to marry some guy she’d supposedly met at an off-campus bar.

“What did you study there?” Father Crombie asked when the silence stretched.

Joby shrugged, and took a long pull of wine. He was going to have to do
this. Why put a polish on it? “I studied expulsion, Father,” he said without meeting the old priest’s eyes. “I went through some bad depression my first year and flunked out of school. Ben came right in the middle of that, and wasn’t up for any second helpings, I guess. We wrote a few times afterward, and then just . . .” He fluttered his hands stupidly.

“And after your departure from Berkeley?” Crombie asked, unfazed.

What would it take to make him get it?
Joby wondered.
And then, Father,
he imagined saying,
I became an unemployed bum who’s accomplished nothing but getting a few good people killed—before coming here to beg for charity, that is.

“I got a degree in English at Hayward State,” he said instead.

Crombie watched him for a moment with the same kindly expression Joby remembered from their other conversation twenty years before. “And then things grew even harder, I take it,” he said at last.

Biting down hard on a sudden swarm of cynical responses, Joby nodded without looking up, trying to seem engrossed in his food.

“What brought you to Taubolt?” Crombie asked, refilling Joby’s wineglass.

“I ran away,” he said quietly, startled at his own candor. Then he set down his fork and looked Father Crombie in the eyes for the first time since he’d started talking. “A friend of mine was killed in Berkeley last week, Father, by policemen. . . . It was my fault.” He looked away, suddenly feeling only empty and exhausted. “I was so angry, if I’d stayed in Berkeley, I think I’d have done something terrible. . . . I meant to . . . do something terrible.”

He braced himself for a barrage of well-meaning questions, but all Father Crombie said was, “Taubolt seems a rather unusual place to run away to. Most people haven’t heard of it.”

“I came here with my family once as a kid,” Joby said, surprised and grateful to be released without interrogation. “My grandfather grew up here.”

Crombie, who had hardly blinked all evening, even at Joby’s reference to Gypsy’s death, suddenly looked startled. “Your grandfather is from Taubolt? What’s his name?”

“His name was Emery Emerson,” Joby said. “He died when I was five.”

Crombie shook his head, looking pensive. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“You wouldn’t have. He left a very long time ago. Just after high school, I think.”

“Ah,” Crombie said, as if Joby’s answer explained nothing at all. “Well, I admire him for having the good sense to be born here, and for his part in bringing you to us, Joby.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “Though you seem to think otherwise, I have a strong sense that your arrival here had
nothing at all to do with failure. This place has a strange way of attracting those it wants. If you’d like me to, I’m sure I can find you a place to stay until you find some work. I’ve someone in mind whom I’m sure would be delighted with your company. I’ll call her after dinner. She may need some odd jobs done until you find better employment.”

“That’s . . . Thank you, Father,” Joby said, startled by the sudden scope of Father Crombie’s hospitality. “That’s much more than I ever expected. . . . But, I hope you won’t pressure her. I went looking for work today, and I think it’s going to take a while. I don’t want anyone feeling stuck with me.”

“Where did you look? The stores?” Crombie smiled. “On the day before Christmas?” He shook his head and chuckled. “That’s not the place. No, I’m sure we’ll have no trouble finding something for a bright, good-hearted boy like you to do around here. Just let me ask around a bit.”

To be called good-hearted by a man like Crombie filled Joby with an utterly unlooked-for warmth. Would the old priest have thought so, he wondered, if he knew that Joby had been planning bombings and shooting sprees a day before? Probably not, but Joby couldn’t seem to fill the objection with any real conviction. The old man’s kindness was too large to fight, and Joby suddenly allowed himself to feel gratitude. He’d needed help, and here it was, like a miracle. When had that last happened? Feeling Mary’s charm under his shirt, soft against his chest, he sent a grateful thought her way as well, for the wise and patient shove she’d given him. How the world could change, in just a day!

Lucifer had done nothing but pace his office in frightening silence since Kallaystra had informed him that Taubolt harbored the Cup. She was beginning to wonder if he might actually have forgotten Malcephalon and she were present when Lucifer stopped without turning to face them and said, “So, my esteemed colleague, you’ve wasted twenty-four years of precious opportunity, only to lose the whole game in one spectacular lapse of judgment.” He did turn then, to gaze at Malcephalon with a look that made Kallaystra wince. “And now, it seems, you’ve denied me even the consolation of punishing Williamson. Have you yet some other brilliant plan to salvage this catastrophic cavalcade of blunders?”