Father Julius is gone now, but not dead. Almost nobody knows what really happened. Most expect that Julius simply died or drifted, or left with his followers to start another mission. The few who knew Gordy are—naturally—convinced he left with Gordy. Some of those who knew him best probably worry that the cardinals got him. But they need not worry about their old friend; though the limitations of Julius’s new form occasionally vex him, he is happy. He finally has what he always wanted, and that is a jewel worth more than limbs.
Goodness, dear. Listen to me go on. Your mother will be here soon. It’s just you’re such a patient listener is all, and I so seldom get a patient listener.
Father Julius, he listened to me for a long time, too, during the Loony Riot, as we kept safe in Donk’s hidey-hole. I told him my whole story, how me and Gordy had come to be in Loony Island in the first place. I thought Julius was the only one listening.
That’s what I thought.
Standing between bookshelves, unseen and unheard, Donk is changed, his face controlled, still, and watchful, drained of something vital, but alert, and very, very cunning. Gordy, intermittently visible to him now, remains on the stretcher, as unmoving as the priest. Father Julius lies supine on the billiard table. Tennessee once more grasps the priest’s shoulder and shakes. Julius’s eyes flutter open, and the man they’ve been calling “Tennessee” continues his confession again, a communion that the priest, half-conscious, is clearly receiving only in parts.
But next door, in the observatory, Donk hears it all.
Donk’s standing before the one-way glass. He’d watched impatiently as Bailey spoke too long with Morris, saw with trepidation she’d taken the Mossberg—Why do you have the shotgun, babe? He’d been about to go out himself to bring Morris back when he saw her turn and then saw the steel flick from some hidden scabbard, bite into her somewhere high on her back. He’d watched her go rag-doll, crumple to the ground, watched Morris lean down to her. He’d watched, frozen in shock and rage, as Morris had stalked through Ralph’s, peeking in corners, stopping right in front of him for a moment, and then at last moving on. He’d wanted to sneak out and grab Morris unaware. He’d wanted to spend every moment of his short remaining life smashing that hateful skull into pudding against the tile. But even in his rage Donk remained pragmatic and calm. He knows his limitations—he’s not the muscle. Besides, that would be too quick a fate for Morris. You need to find something else for him, Donk thinks. Something new. An oubliette may be punishment enough for Ralph, but it’s not enough for the son of a bitch who made them.
He stares through the window at the place where Bailey had been lying before they took her away. There’s a pool of blood, but not a large one. Occasionally he glances to the small screen in his hand, but there’s nothing new, only dispatches from various loons as they link into the network. Morris had been right; they learn fast. Soon he’ll make his screen go permanently dark. He’ll dump water on it until it fizzles; it’s the only way he can plausibly continue ignoring Morris’s frantic attempts to contact him. He practices his lie, honing it to perfection—What can I tell you, boss, one of those idiot loonies came by with a water gun, soaked me for a prank. Fried it right out. Water gun, more like a fire hose. Thing had a backpack on it.
Tennessee pontificates as Julius drifts in and out. He speaks of the fountain of Pigeon Forge, and of infernal atrocity stacked beneath, of oubliettes and of what they can do—what they have done—of the man who rose from them, draped in power; of the one who fled and the one who followed, of the storm that came along with both, and of the ticket that fuels the chase.
An eye on the clock; soon he needs to step out of the dark. Even a soaked device won’t serve as a cover for long. He estimates less than an hour before he must rush to rendezvous with Morris, for whom he’s coordinated this new tribe of lunatics. He’ll need to be sharp and polite. He’ll need to give no part of himself away. It’s a sick joke; every obfuscation he’s practiced over the years in his dealings with Ralph he’ll have to employ now with Morris, and for the same reasons. An even greater hate but a far more dangerous target. He’ll need to paper over the time he’s spent here, learning from Tennessee and staring through the one-way at the dark patch on the ground where Bailey had been. Soon he and Morris will have a meeting with Ralph. Soon he’ll enjoy alone the revenge they’ve worked for, and after, he knows, he must begin enacting an even worse revenge. They’ve taken her away—the loonies. Borne her away on his orders toward the perimeter of authorities now converging on the Island to shut down the destruction. The bluebirds have riot gear and rubber bullets and real bullets and tear gas and shields, but they’ll have access to EMT and ambulances, too. Perhaps there’s a slim hope for her there, but Donk is ever-calculating, and in the abacus of his mind she stands subtracted already. For him, there is now only deeper and deeper with no escape, with nothing but a final retribution, yet as Tennessee talks, he begins to see a hope here, also, a chance at exactly the power he needs. The longest of all long shots. Like landing a hard rubber ball into a coffee mug from across a room.
The ticket. Yes.
His hands curl and relax, curl and relax.