The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [175]
The Reverend's awful shuddering subsided further, his tongue protruded from the side of his foaming lips. He moaned unconsciously.
Finish it, Jacob; put the wretched animal out of its misery.
Jacob edged closer to the man and raised the ball again. He paused, waiting for the Reverend's head to settle so he could bring the weight down squarely on his forehead.
The Reverend's eyes opened, instantly aware and alert, locking onto Jacob's, as if he'd been watching all along from the shadows of his fit.
Jacob looked away and struck at him with the ball.
Too late; a wave of pressure nudged his aim slightly to the side; the ball smashed harmlessly into the carpet an inch from the Reverend's skull.
Day's hand snapped up and grabbed Jacob's wrist in a vise, snapping a bone. With his other hand, he wagged a chiding finger in his face.
"Naughty, naughty," whispered Reverend Day, pale and frightful as a corpse.
He gestured sharply; the ball flew from Jacob's hands and crashed against a far wall, shattering, an explosion of glass.
Day gestured again; Jacob rolled back and fell against the desk, pinned there helplessly, unable to move a muscle.
"The Hindus have an interesting theory," said the Reverend, as he advanced on him. "They believe God speaks to them ... through the eyes."
chapter 15
ALTHOUGH DESTINED FOR A BRIGHT FUTURE ONCE THE north-south lines in the territory connected through its terminus, Prescott, Arizona, had still not grown beyond much more than a whistle-stop. Doyle's charter was the only train in the yard when it arrived late that afternoon.
Six sturdy horses and two pack mules waited for them at the supply depot, along with the supplies Innes had ordered: maps, rifles, ammunition, medical kit, and a week's stores of food and water. The retired prospector behind the counter had been outfitting mining expeditions for fifteen years, even an occasional Englishman or two among them—the Arthur Conan Doyle name meant nothing to the old man; he wasn't a reader—but he had never seen an odder or more purposeful bunch than the one doing business with him now.
A younger man, whittling a stick near the cracker barrel, watched them finish their transaction, then got up and walked slowly over to the telegraph office.
As Doyle left the depot, he saw Jack and Mary Williams stepping down, once again the last to leave the train. Her energies seemed to have revived, color returning to her face, and she had changed into riding clothes and boots. Jack still looked as blank as a slate. She left him sitting on a rock outside the corral, holding a blanket tight around his shoulders, Edison's suitcase between his feet, as she went about the bridling of their horses.
Seizing the opportunity to question her alone, Doyle stole up alongside and whispered, "How is he?"
"Too early to say," she said, not looking at him, strapping a canvas valise to her saddlebag.
"But do you think it worked?"
"The healing was difficult."
"I could see that. Takes a while to recover, does it?"
"Sometimes there is no recovery," she said, glancing at Jack, huddled under his blanket, staring at the ground.
"When will we know?"
"That is up to him," she said, trying to close the door on the subject.
"Awfully indistinct, finally, isn't it? Your medicine," said Doyle in a flush of irritation.
"No more than yours."
She turned to him; he saw the effort and strain so clearly etched on her face and felt instantly remorseful.
"Hope we didn't disturb you last night," said Doyle.
"When?"
"We heard a scream; we came into the compartment."
"I do not remember," she said, looking at him directly.
He decided she was telling the truth.
"Mary. Can you tell me any better now what you think was ... wrong with him?'' he asked.
"I do not know how to describe it in your terms."
"In yours, then."
She paused.
"His soul was lost," she said forthrightly.
"Can you tell how, exactly?"
"The soul is able to travel far but must then find its way back. The way back into his body had been blocked."