Mystery Walk

and contained within the box—which still smelled vaguely of cheroots—were Billy's earthly treasures.

He could use the paper sack to carry his clothes in, he decided, and now he sat on the cot with the cigar box on his lap and opened the lid.

Inside were several green cat's-eye marbles, smooth brown creek stones, a rock with the faint impression of a skeletal leaf pressed on it, a Duncan yo-yo that whistled, twenty-five Civil War bubble-gum cards with gory battle pictures on them, and . . .

Billy tilted the cigar box toward the light. He stared into the box, his eyes slowly widening; then he turned the lamp's wick up, because suddenly the room had seemed too dark by far.

A small piece of coal, glittering in the orange light, lay half buried under the Civil War cards. I didn't put that in there, Billy thought; or did I? He couldn't remember; no, no he was sure he hadn't. At first it looked only like a bulbous black lump, but as he stared at it he found himself recalling Will Booker's face in great detail, and he could remember the good times they'd had together He picked it up and held it close to his face, studying the dark ridges.

He didn't know how the coal had gotten there, but he knew there was a purpose behind it. Will was dead, yes, Billy knew, but something of the boy lived on in Billy's memories; and if you could remember—truly remember, Billy thought—then you could stop time, and nothing ever died. His fist slowly closed around the coal, a sensation of warmth spreading up his arm to his elbow.

His mind went back to the night before. He frowned, recalling the way that young evangelist, Wayne Falconer, had stared at him. He didn't understand what his mother had said about the healing being 'akin to murder,' but he knew she'd sensed something strange about them as he had, something that he couldn't fully perceive.

Nightsounds pressed in on the house. Billy sat listening for the sound of his father's car pulling up in front, but it didn't come. The image of a beast in a truck's headlights came at him with no warning. He shuddered, then finally replaced the piece of coal in the cigar box and put his clothes down into the paper sack, getting ready for tomorrow's journey.

15

Jimmy Jed Falconer awakened in the soft blue light before dawn, brought out of sleep by Toby's barking in the meadow. He lay awake, his pretty blond wife Camille sleeping at his side, and listened to Toby. Chasin' rabbits, he mused, as the barking faded in the direction of the woods. When he thought of the dog, he naturally thought of the miracle.

It had happened on that day in April. Cammy had been washing dishes in the kitchen when she'd heard Wayne scream, and she'd raced out of the house to see what had happened. Wayne was running toward her with the bloody bag of dogflesh in his arms, and his mouth was open and straining to cry out again. He'd stumbled and fallen to the ground, and when Cammy had reached him she'd seen that Toby was already almost dead, the breath coming in whining hitches from its crushed chest. The big dog's sinewy body was a mess of shattered bones, its head crooked at an awful angle and blood dripping from its floppy ears. Wayne had screamed, 'Truck hit him, Momma! I saw it happen! Get somebody to make Toby well!'

But Cammy hadn't known what to do, and all the leaking blood had repulsed her. She'd stepped back, dazed, and her son—the tears streaming down his livid, dusty face—had shrieked at her, 'GET SOMEBODY!' in a voice that had shaken her to her soul. She'd started running for the phone to call Jimmy Jed in Birmingham at his advertising meeting, but she knew that Toby wouldn't last more than a few minutes longer. At the front door she'd looked over her shoulder and seen Wayne bent down over the dog, his new jeans filthy with dust and blood.

The long-distance operator had just answered when she'd heard Wayne's voice rise in a blood-curdling shout that stretched on for several seconds: 'TOOOOOBBBBBYYYYYY!' She'd dropped the receiver, and was so startled her hair had almost stood on end. She had gone to calm Wayne down, then stopped on the porch, watching Wayne lift Toby, stumble and almost fall again, and then come walking slowly toward her, dust puffing off the driveway around his shoes.

And he was grinning. Ear to ear His eyes were red and tear-swollen, but they'd burned with an electric power that was like nothing Cammy had ever seen before. She'd actually felt herself shrinking backward, against the white porch railing. He'd said in a hoarse voice, 'Toby's all better now. ...'

Wayne had put Toby down, and Cammy had almost swooned. The dog's bones had been mended as if by a mad scientist or a frantic child. The head was frighteningly crooked, the front legs splayed and the back ones turned inward, the spine twisted and humped like a camel's. It was something that had stepped out of a freak show; but the dog's breathing wasn't labored anymore, and though it staggered for balance and its eyes were dazed, Camille could see that Toby was no longer near death. Then she'd gotten her feet uprooted from the porch floor, and somehow she'd made that call to Birmingham.

Falconer grinned to himself. He'd seen the X rays Dr. Considine had taken; the bones were a mess, jigsawed together haphazardly, but they were firmly cemented and showed only faint signs of having been snapped or crushed. The vet was frankly amazed at Toby's condition, telling Falconer that this was beyond science . . . way beyond. Toby's movement was limited, so his legs had to be rebroken and properly set, but now the dog had gotten used to its crimped spine and crooked neck and could run through the meadows of the Falconer estate like blue blazes again. And the question had begun ticking in Falconer's brain: if his son could heal an animal, what could he do for human beings?

The answer came in the shape of a beatup blue Ford pickup, carrying a grim-faced man and woman and a little girl with the perfect face of a doll. Their names were Gantt, they lived on the other side of Fayette, and they'd heard talk about J.J. Falconer's son from a friend, who'd heard the story in a direct line from the mouth of a certain veterinarian. The little girl couldn't walk; her father had told Falconer that her legs had 'gone to sleep and never woked up.'

'Who, Daddy?'

'A man and woman and their little girl. She's seven, and her name's Cheryl. Do you want to know why they're here?'

He nodded, carefully gluing a wing into place.

'Because of how you fixed Toby. Remember what you told me, that when you saw Toby about to die your head started aching so bad you thought it was going to explode, and then you felt that you had to lay your hands on Toby, and you wanted Toby to be fixed more than anything in the world?'

Wayne had put down his work and stared at his father, his eyes bright blue and puzzled. 'Yes sir.'

'And you said that in your mind you thought very hard of Toby's bones coming back together again, that your hands were tingling like they do when they've gone to sleep, and everywhere you touched you could feel the bones move?'

Wayne had nodded.

Falconer had gingerly touched his son's shoulder 'Cheryl and her folks have come here to ask for you help, son. Her legs are asleep, and they need to be fixed.'

Wayne looked bewildered. 'Did a truck hit her?'

'No. I think this is a sickness in her mind and her nerves. But she needs . . . whatever it is you used before, to fix Toby. Do you think you can do that again?'

'I don't know. It's . . . it's different. Maybe I can't ever do it again, maybe I used all of it up the first time because I thought so hard. It made my head hurt so bad, Daddy. . . .'

'Yes, I know. But didn't it make you feel good too? Didn't it set you on fire, couldn't you hear the voice of God and feel His Power at work inside you?'

'I guess, but ...'

'You're a healer, son. A living, breathing miracle-working healer.' He'd placed one of his large rough hands over his son's. 'You've got the power in you, and it's been given to you for a very special purpose. Cheryl and her folks are waitin' downstairs, right now. What shall I tell 'em?'

'I . . . I did it because I love Toby so much, Daddy. I don't even know this little girl!'

Falconer had leaned close to him, and lowered his voice. 'Do it because you love me.'

A sheet was draped over the dining-room table, and Cheryl Gantt was laid on her back by her father. The