“It’s me,” said the Reverend.

I let him in. He took one look at Knight, sniffed the air, and said, “Hawaiian seedless?”

“A man of the cloth who knows his weed,” replied Knight. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Not anytime soon, from the looks of things.”

Knight stared at him. “Please don’t tell me Elvis just showed up.”

“I think he’d feel a little out of place with this crowd.”

“Is Billie Holiday really there?”

“She is.”

Knight shook his head. “Damn. I finally rate Billie. Wow.”

The Reverend closed the door. “Is it always the same bunch?”

“Some of them change. Depends on who I’ve been thinking about or listening to before the Mudman finds me.”

The Reverend did not ask who or what the Mudman was. One look at him, and I knew that he knew. Don’t ask me how, but the Reverend…knows things. Most of the time it’s pretty cool, but sometimes…sometimes it’s just creepy.

“What are we supposed to do?” he asked Knight.

“Damned if I know, but if I had to guess, I don’t think it’s up to you to do anything. Whatever’s gonna happen…it’s my call.” He rose from the cot, finished his brandy, and patted down his hair. “And what I’m gonna do, if it’s all right with you, is play in front of an audience one more time.”

The Reverend considered this for moment. “I think that would be wonderful.”

And Byron Knight smiled the last genuine smile of his life.

8

Everyone gathered around the center of the room as Knight situated himself on a stool.

Even Morrison and the others looked on him with a sad kind of respect.

“Any requests?” asked Knight.

It was Grant McCullers who spoke up. “I’ve always been partial to Bach’s ‘Sheep May Safely Graze.’ It’s kind of a Christmas tune, don’t you think?”

“I do.”

And Knight began to play it, smoothly, hauntingly. It was majestic and sad and melancholy and glorious, and yet there was something hesitant about the way Knight played the song; the notes brushed you once, softly, like a cattail or a ghost, then fell shyly toward the ground in some inner contemplation too sad to be touched by a tender thought or the delicate brush of another’s care.

It was perhaps the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

And then someone screamed from the basement.

Timmy was the first to respond, snapping his head in the direction of the scream and muttering, “Terrible, just terrible,” as he ran across the room and down the stairs. Linus hopped up on his cart and made a beeline across the floor, then pushed himself off and took the stairs with his hands as Beth, Lump, and the still-damp Kyle followed after him.

That’s when I realized that it had been the little girl, Missy, who’d screamed.

I reached the top of the stairs just as Timmy came around the corner, carrying Missy in his arms, her small, shuddering body wrapped in a towel.