The Night Parade(56)

David didn’t bother to shake it; he simple tossed the plastic die across the table, where it tap-danced along the lacquered surface and ultimately fell to the carpet.

“A six,” both Bronwyn and Cooper said at the same time.

“Evens,” Pauline said. She held her son against her, her hands draped like a harness over Sam’s meaty chest. “He’s evens.” She began to pray softly under her breath.

“Which means you, little miss,” Cooper said, cocking his head at Ellie, “are odds.”

“You’re odd,” Ellie said.

“Nice.” Cooper’s cadaverous grin widened. “Real nice. Some mouth on this kid.”

Turk clapped his hands, causing David to jump. “So,” Turk said. “Let’s meet Solomon, shall we?”

At first, it seemed like no one moved. But then David noticed Tre at the back of the room sliding the backpack strap from his shoulder. He stepped between Cooper and Turk and set the backpack down on the coffee table. When he unzipped it, David could see fireworks packaged in cellophane inside, along with a slender bottle of whiskey and what looked like a propane torch. David’s eyes cut back toward Cooper, who was still staring down at him. The mouth of Cooper’s gun looked about as big as the Harbor Tunnel.

Tre lifted something out of the backpack—grayish-yellow, somewhat circular, approximately the size of a bowling ball. It wasn’t until Tre set it down on the table that David saw it for what it was . . . and even then, his mind was slow to compute what his eyes were seeing. He processed it in pieces rather than a single whole—the twin hollows of its eye sockets, the dual rows of yellowed teeth, the triangular nasal cavity. It was a skull. Printed in block letters just above its empty eye sockets in brownish-red was the name SOLOMON.

“Jesus,” David breathed.

“We’re all just pawns,” Turk announced. “It’s Solomon who decides who must be sacrificed.”

“Sacrificed for what?” David managed. He looked to Ellie, who stared without emotion at the grinning skull on the coffee table.

“For the sake of my son,” Turk said. “For Jimmy. It’s why we’ve been able to keep him with us for so long, despite his worsening condition.”

“Amen,” Pauline said.

“Amen,” murmured the rest of them.

“You’re insane,” David said. He reached over and grabbed Ellie’s hand. Her skin was cool to the touch. “All of you.”

“It’s what we must do to keep my boy alive,” Turk said.

It was then that the ultimate horror dawned on David—a blood sacrifice to appease a vengeful god. How many innocents had fallen victim to this archaic ritual already? What had really happened to those who ignored the evacuation and stayed behind in Goodwin? Undesirables . . .

As if in response to these unasked questions, two resounding thumps echoed from the floor above. Everyone glanced up at the ceiling. A second later, a pained sob filtered down through the air ducts and filled the room.

“Jimmy,” Pauline said, her voice reverent.

Turk stepped up to the coffee table. He picked up the skull, then bent down and gathered the die up off the floor. When he stood again, he looked like a man who had suddenly realized he held the power of the whole world in his hands.

“Now Solomon will decide who lives and who dies,” Turk said. He upended the skull so that it faced the ceiling. Then he dropped the die into the right eye socket. David heard a muted click as it dropped into the hollow cranium. Turk shook the skull gently, both of his big hands on either side of it as if to protect it from hearing something inappropriate. Then he extended his arms and rotated the skull so that those sightless eyeholes now faced the grubby carpet of the Powells’ living room. David registered a single thought—Whose skull is that, anyway?—just moments before the die dropped from the eye socket and bounced to the carpet.

It tumbled, finally coming to rest against the leg of the coffee table.

Four black dots faced the ceiling.

“Evens,” Turks said.

“Evens,” Cooper echoed. He grinned around the room, though everyone else’s face was somber.

“Amen,” said Pauline.

“Amen,” said the others.

Turk slipped his thumbs into the pockets of his pants and looked almost sympathetically down at David. “It’s you, old hoss. Good news is, your daughter’s safe. We’ll keep her here with us for a time. No worries about that at all. Seems like she and Sam get along just fine, way I see it. And you’re a big fella. Should hold us off for a while.”

Bronwyn cleared her throat and said, “Should we—”

But she was cut off as another series of loud thumps—much more agitated than the previous two—reverberated down through the ceiling. This was followed by a piercing shriek that caused Turk’s son, Sam, to slam both meaty hands over his ears.

“Jesus,” Tre whispered, staring at the ceiling. It was the first thing David had heard him utter.

Jimmy’s agonized howls funneled through the vents.

“He’s worse, Turk,” Pauline said, obviously concerned. Turk held a hand up, silencing her. He cocked his head, as if to listen for the faintest sound, but there was no need to strain himself: Jimmy’s cries came again, the wails of a banshee, causing Pauline’s eyes to moisten and Sam to groan as if in pain himself.