The Maze - The Lost Labyrinth Part 7

"I understand now!" I shouted to the minotaur, keeping a safe distance from Cerberus so that I wouldn't get caught up in the bloodshed.

I looked up at the throne of bones where Asterion sat and waited for some further instruction. He gave me a thumbs down sign. I knew what that meant: I had to kill Cerberus before the test was finished. I had already made it a lot further than I ever would have expected, and that fact alone made me hopeful. But I wasn't out of danger yet. Far from it, in fact.

The three heads were bloodied and mangled, but they were all still very angry. One of the heads had lost an eye. Another had the end of its snout ripped off, and the third looked like it had been fed into a meat grinder. None of the heads were focused on me anymore, and I took advantage of that fact. The axe blade was still where it had fallen. I grabbed the blade and summoned my courage as I faced Cerberus from behind.

The beast's heads moved back and forth, snapping and snarling and gnas.h.i.+ng their teeth, but the body of Cerberus basically stayed in one place. I knew I should act before I could think about everything that could go wrong, and I did. I leapt onto the back of the creature, holding tightly to the axe blade. My intentions were to use the blade to cut the beast's throat, but Cerberus antic.i.p.ated me and bucked me off like a cowboy from the back of an untamed bronco. The axe blade fell from my hand as I crashed into the ground. The bones in my shoulder ground against each other, sending shock waves of pain throughout my entire left side.

I groaned and managed to sit up, only to find myself looking up into the hate-filled eyes of three ferocious, gore-encrusted heads. The next thing I saw were three gaping maws with vicious teeth lunging toward me. Everything after that was a blur.

The pain seemed to come from everywhere at once. My arms, legs, chest, and face ached, and I felt the life leaking out of me in what felt like a hundred different places. Midnight jumped back into the fray and tried to hold Cerberus off so that I could get to my feet again. I cried out and attempted to stand, but my legs malfunctioned, and I fell back into the dust. I saw the axe handle nearby and crawled over to it, hoping to use it for a crutch.

Once the head closest to me caught a glimpse of the handle again, the three fought again, as one wanted to go where the other two did not. I pushed myself up, using the axe handle as a support and felt something wet on my hand. Midnight licked me, goading me on. I took some strength from the gesture and lifted the axe handle.

Only one of the heads saw me as I stood in front of the dog. The other two were busy biting each other and barking. With some effort, I picked the handle up, lifted it over my head and brought it down with all the strength I could muster. I thought it was the wood in my hand that cracked until I saw the head on the left sagging noticeably. There was a large, messy fracture over its eye. Somehow, I didn't think that this head was merely unconscious.

The other two paused for a second, noticing that something was different. Although I couldn't have been sure of anything, I thought I saw a glimmer of fear fill the eyes of the remaining two heads as they realized that I had just killed a part of them.

I lifted the axe handle again and finished the job.

Cerberus lay there, unmoving, as the dust around it settled. Asterion stood up from the throne of bones, obviously pleased with me.

All I could do was collapse, feeling like something that would normally be sc.r.a.ped off of a butcher's floor. As I drifted off into unconsciousness, I heard the minotaur say something that filled me with a brief glimmer of hope.

"You did well, and I will do as I said. Darrell Gene Rankin will receive a visitor today. Your wife will not receive that picture."

The world went black after that, and I relaxed.

Chapter 16.

The ache of Darrell Gene Rankin's broken heart was like a swampy blues tune played in a smoky club on the Louisiana bayou. It was a tune that might have seemed at home coming from a traveling man's dobro.

The Piper heard the jealousy snaking through Darrell Gene's veins like heroin, and it was enough to make him high. The noise that emotion made was rough and sandpapery like serpent skin as it traveled the highway of veins and arteries. It gave The Piper chills. He spread his wings and arched his back as the sound empowered him.

He stood in his makes.h.i.+ft palace amidst the rubble, the twisted music stands, the damp sheets of notation, and he filled the conservatory with his brand of diabolical music. He played his pipes and watched as Darrell Gene paced back and forth in his living room like a caged beast.

The tunes that came from the flute were familiar and painful. At times they manifested as voices, other times as memories.

The pipes played and--- ---Darrell Gene heard the voice of his mother whispering something illicit into the ear of Jasper Simmons, the deacon from their church who had torn the Rankin family apart.

---along came the shattering of gla.s.s as Darrell Gene's father hurled an empty liquor bottle against the wall.

---the music that flowed like muddy water was the sound of children taunting Darrell Gene over and over again.

---Darrell Gene cried as his father beat him over and over again, with the grief soon becoming rage.

The Piper held up his hand and beckoned to Darrell Gene, coaxing those feelings out of him with the skill of a master conductor. Darrell Gene Rankin was his instrument, and he wrung every ounce of emotion out of the poor man that he could.

The voices speaking to Darrell Gene were becoming one. It was like the vertical hold controlling the voices was being adjusted to dial in a precise frequency. He wasn't being torn in a bunch of different directions now. His purpose was clearly defined. All he heard now was the voice of The Piper, and The Piper had big plans for him.

He knew his role in life, and if there was any moment of doubt, any second where he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, The Piper rea.s.sured him. Darrell Gene thought this was so much easier than trying to find his own way. If only he'd listened a little sooner.

He was just having a conversation with the toaster about what life would be like when The Piper gave him a family when he heard a knock at the door. He scowled and headed toward the front of the house, wondering who could possibly be here to see him.

He didn't normally receive visitors. n.o.body wanted to spend time with him. He had no friends, and no family. This could only mean bad news.

Cautiously, he peered through the curtains, hoping it wasn't a repo man or a bill collector. The man standing at his door didn't seem like either. The visitor looked to be in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair. Dressed in khakis and a b.u.t.ton down s.h.i.+rt, his appearance could have been described as guidance counselor chic or retail manager suave. He was a salesman perhaps, or a politician wanting to shake hands, introduce himself, and leave a card with his name.

Darrell Gene wasn't sure whether to open the door or not. The man knocked again before pus.h.i.+ng his wire-framed gla.s.ses up on his nose. The visitor had a very casual demeanor that made Darrell Gene feel a little more at ease about the whole situation.

"Stop worrying," the television whispered. "You've got at least sixty pounds on the guy."

And it was true. Darrell Gene carried two-hundred and sixty solid pounds on a five-foot eight-inch frame. He wasn't muscular by any stretch of the imagination, but he was imposing, beefy. Years spent in various sweatshops doing manual labor had made sure of that. If the man was here to make life hard, Darrell Gene knew he could straighten things out on his own.

It had been a while since he'd gotten into a fight of any sort, but, somehow he didn't think that would be much of a problem.

After weighing his options and sizing up the man on the front porch, Darrell Gene decided to see what the visitor wanted, but only because he didn't want to spend the next week wondering if the man had come with good news of some sort. It was unlikely, sure, but Darrell Gene was always hoping for a miracle, even if one never occurred.

Maybe this was one of those guys from Publisher's Clearing House here to inform him that his name had been drawn at random as the winner of a multi-million dollar prize. Darrell Gene wondered if cameramen would swarm at him the minute he opened the door, if the doors of a van would open up to release hundreds of multi-colored balloons into the air, if a beautiful newswoman was waiting in the wings to interview him after the man on the porch presented him with his check.

He opened the door and the man smiled. It wasn't a forced smile but rather one that seemed relaxed and at home on a jovial face. There were no cameramen, no balloons, no newswoman. Much to his chagrin, Darrell Gene didn't see anything to suggest that a new life was waiting around the corner for him. He sighed with disappointment and then cleared his throat, wanting to cut to the chase. "Yeah? Can I help you?"

"Mr. Rankin?" The man extended his hand. "I'm Carl Beckett from the River of Life Baptist Church. I hope I'm not disturbing you. Do you have a minute?"

Darrell Gene froze, wondering how he could have been so stupid. This man was here to preach to him. His first instinct was to slam the door in the missionary's face, but the man had taken a step forward, buying a few precious seconds of additional time with which to spread his propaganda. It was one of their tactics. He had dealt with this kind before.

"Um, I'm really kind of busy right now." Darrell Gene stammered out an answer. "And church doesn't interest me much."

"I understand," Carl said. "I don't want to seem pushy. I just thought I'd stop by for a moment and see if you went to church anywhere."

Darrell Gene thought back to that Sunday so many years ago when his mother left him and his father..

"I know all I need to know about the church." He didn't bother to hide his bitterness and resentment.

"I take it you've had a bad experience of some sort."

"You could say that. My mother ran off when I was seven. She left my father and me for a deacon. They got married the day after the divorce was final."

It was obvious from the look of shock on Carl Beckett's face that he hadn't been prepared for a curveball like that. "Um, I see."

"No, I don't think you do."

Carl s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot, a little nervous now. "This is going to sound strange," he began, "but someone told me that I should visit you. It even sounded strange to me at the time."

"Who?" Darrell Gene thrust both hands into his pockets and fingered the loose change that rested there. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of a loner. Not too many people care about me, and there aren't too many people I care about in return."

"To be honest, I'm not sure." Carl forced a smile. "But it sure does seem like someone wants to see you saved. I found a note in my mailbox with your name on it and a message that said 'Visit Him.' And so I'm here."

"A note?" Darrell Gene shuddered involuntarily as a chill raced across the back of his neck.

"Yep. It was written on a little sc.r.a.p of paper. Someone had dropped it into my mailbox."

"Your mailbox?"

"Yeah, it seemed a little unorthodox, but I figured there must have been a good reason why the author of the note did things that way."

"And you came here based on that?"

"That's why I'm here." Carl s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot impatiently.

"But you have no idea who left the note?" Darrell Gene got the strangest sense of deja vu.

"No," Carl said. "I came here because I know the Lord works in mysterious ways. I figured this must be one of them."

"Weird." Darrell Gene thought this couldn't be simple coincidence. "But it doesn't prove anything. I'm sure you take it as a sign from Heaven that you're meant to witness to me and lead me to G.o.d. It's written in the stars or something like that. That's the way you holy rollers think."

"I'm just doing what I feel in my heart. I'm sure you're doing the same."

"I don't think I am," Darrell Gene said. "Somehow, I don't think you'd like it very much if I did what was in my heart."

"Oh." Carl took a step back. For the first time, it seemed like he saw Darrell Gene as more of a potential threat than a potential convert.

"I'm sure you have a very specific idea about the kind of heart I have. You probably think it's black and corrupted by sin."

"It's not my place to judge," Carl said. "That's not why I'm here at all."

"No, it's not your place to judge."

"I just came here to offer my friends.h.i.+p, to invite you to church. I meant no harm. Please don't a.s.sume that."

"I don't a.s.sume anything about people, and I sure don't trust 'em. Just when you think you know a guy, he turns out to be a liar, a fraud, or a backstabber."

"I'm sure you've experienced a lot of things in your life that would lead you to believe that. But not everyone lives that way."

"I guess you're referring to yourself."

"Not at all," Carl replied. "I've got faults just like everyone else. But I try to live right. I try to become a better person every day."

"It sounds good in theory, but I'm not interested. Go tell it on the mountain or something. Just get out of my face."

"Do you attend church anywhere, Mr. Rankin?" Carl asked persistently.

"h.e.l.lo? Where have you been for the last five minutes? Haven't you heard anything I've said. No, never been big on church, especially not after what happened to my family. Besides, I'm not the kind of guy who fits in at a place like that. People take one look at me, and immediately the first thing they feel is pity. They think they need to take up a love offering or collect canned goods. They think I'm a charity case or a danger to society. Take those people across the street for example." Darrell Gene immediately realized he'd said too much.

"The Burroughs? You wouldn't find a sweeter bunch of people."

"I see the way they look at me. It's like they think I'm a pervert or white trash or a criminal."

"They're good folks," Carl said. "I'm sure they don't mean to come off the way they do."

"Well, if those are the kind of people that go to your church then I don't want to hear about it. I definitely don't want to be part of a group like that."

"You'd fit in fine," Carl insisted. "Everyone does. We welcome anyone who wants to be included. Why don't you try it once and see? What could it hurt?"

"Why don't you get a clue?" The world seemed to s.h.i.+ft under Darrell Gene's feet. He tried to think of an excuse that sounded plausible. "I've got to work this Sunday anyway."

"I know what it's like to feel left out of things." Carl ignored Darrell Gene's protest. "I used to be a shy, introverted guy who would barely speak two words to anyone. I'm still shy to a point, but the church is the one placed where I feel accepted, wanted, needed. The people there love me."

"I don't need love," Darrell Gene said. "I've made it all these years without."

"There are people praying for you," Carl explained. "I firmly believe that. Otherwise, that note would have never made its way into my mailbox, and I wouldn't be here now. I'm praying for you too."

That stopped Darrell Gene where he stood. "I want you to go away."

Although he didn't want to admit it, something stirred inside him, and reacted to what Carl was saying. More than anything else, he wanted to shut the door and leave this nut job standing out in the cold, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not even when he heard the microwave cursing from the kitchen and ordering him to close the door.

Carl held up both hands. "I understand. I don't want to try and pressure you into anything. I think I've said enough for now. I can go now and come back some other time that's more convenient."

"That might be for the best," Darrell Gene admitted. "My head feels a little muddled."

"Conviction sometimes works that way. Why don't I stop by later on in the week?"

"Just go!" Darrell Gene shut the door in Carl's face. "Now!"

"It's all a big lie," the appliances told him once the door was closed again. "If G.o.d is love, then why did He allow your family to fall apart?"

It was a fair question. "You tell me," Darrell Gene said. "You seem to be a regular fount of information."

"I would think the answer to be an obvious one. Your life certainly hasn't been filled with a lot of love."

"No, it hasn't."

"So you know we're telling you the truth. We're leveling with you, not trying to fill you with a bunch of false hope."

"But the things I'm doing---they're helping you. Isn't that right? Tormenting the family across the street hasn't changed my life one little bit."

"Not yet."

Darrell Gene's head snapped up at the implied promise. "What do you mean?"

"Just trust us. You wouldn't question us, now would you?"