Matt thought back to his arrival. The people of the town had clustered around him, and then drawn back when he'd taken off his helmet. He'd assumed it was because they saw he wasn't the one they'd been waiting for. But Joan had spoken in his ear seconds afterwards. Was it possible that it was her arrival that had caused them to back away from him?
"We lived with that thing for a long time," the old woman said unapologetically. "We knew her rules, and we knew what would happen if we violated them."
"And we knew you were the one who was going to free us," the girl added. "We knew you were our hero."
"I'm no one's hero," Matt said.
But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he began to wonder if that was true. He had been wandering, lost, through his life since he'd been brought back from the dead, searching for his purpose. And while he'd had no idea of what he'd been doing, every step he took had brought him one step closer to Heaven. What had made him buy that motorcycle, head out on that particular highway? What had impelled him to take the exit that led him to this cursed town? Was it possible that this was the reason he'd been reborn?
Standing in the middle of the street, muscles aching, ribs cracked, head pounding, he'd never felt less like a hero. But they'd known he was coming. Known when he hadn't. They'd been waiting for him to liberate them. And he'd done it.
The old woman spat on the street. "Call yourself what you want," she said. "You got the job done, I figure you we owe you."
"I told you," the little girl said. "I told you he'd come."
Ignoring her, the old woman turned back to the open door of the general store. "Time to stop hiding and come on out," she barked. "All of you, come out. The time for cowering's over." She turned back to Matt. "This town owes you. You'll see we repay our debts."
Matt had a vision of himself seated on a golden throne, still clutching his axe, like Conan the Barbarian crowned king on one of those Frank Frazetta paperback covers. It was so absurd he had to suppress a smile.
"You don't owe me anything," Matt said.
"Orfamay Vetch knows something about debts," the old woman said. "This town's books balance. Always have, and as long as I'm in charge, always will. We owe you, and we will repay you."
Behind Orfamay, the street was beginning to fill with people. They all kept their distance, but Matt could see they all had the same expression in their eyes. It was a look of awe.
"All I want is a ride back to the highway," Matt said.
"A ride?" Orfamay said. "The Pingree mule died last winter. Not much here to ride on since it hit the stew pot."
"I was thinking about maybe a car," Matt said, looking for any sign she had been joking. "A truck would be fine. I'm not fussy."
The old woman's eyes narrowed. "A car?" she said. "A private car?"
"I don't really care who owns it," Matt said. "I just need a ride."
"You must think we're all Carnegies around here," she said. "You come to supper tonight, and we'll talk about what we owe you."
Before Matt could say anything, she turned and walked back to the crowd that was still assembling down the street. As he watched her go, baffled, he felt a tugging at his hand.
"Don't worry about her, Matt." It was the little girl, and she was staring up at him with unabashed worship. "Whatever you need, you'll get. The whole town is yours now."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Matt was ten years old, his father had taken him to a travelling carnival where he'd spent two hours and uncountable quarters trying to land a set of plastic rings over a bunch of milk bottles. When he'd finally won – or when the carny behind the counter had gotten sick of seeing his face and declared him the winner – he was granted his prize: a plastic pencil sharpener in the shape of a cartoon bear. When the carny handed it to him, Matt had burst into tears. He couldn't believe that so much time and effort – not to mention so much of his father's money – had earned him such a pathetic prize.
If he'd believed the little girl about the whole town being his, he might have felt the same way about today's prize.
He spent a long chunk of his expected lifespan meeting what he assumed was the town's entire population, shaking hands and exchanging rough embraces with an endless stream of well-wishers. He tried to attach names to people, and family members to each other, but after a couple of minutes all the hardscrabble hands and weathered faces began to blur together.
What he did notice is that most of the people from the town shared one of two last names. There were probably eighty men, women and children who introduced themselves as Something Vetch, and another seventy or so who were Gilhoolies. The rest of the population seemed to belong either to the Runcible family or clan Hoggins. Matt couldn't be sure, because everyone kept moving around and there were no clear lines, but it seemed to him that the Vetches and the Runcibles stayed on one side of the street while the Gilhoolies and Hogginses clustered together on the other.
After what felt like an eternity of meeting and greeting, Matt found himself facing Orfamay Vetch again. "Supper's at six tonight," she snarled at him. "It's going to be at the Grange. You'll be needing someplace to stay. The old Delaney place is yours by right."
The thought of stepping foot back in that house sent a shudder of horror through him. "I'll pass," he said.
"Then you can take my place for as long as you need it," she said. A confession extracted through torture might have sounded more gracious. "Need someone to show you the way, or can you handle simple directions?"
"I'll take him, Orfamay." It was the little girl, who had showed up at his side again.
"That's very generous," Matt said. "But I don't need to throw you out of your home. I just need to get back to the highway."
"Mouse will show you around," Orfamay said. She turned back to the crowd of Vetches and Gilhoolies, Runcibles and Hogginses. "You going to stand around staring like a bunch of dead sheep? There's work to do preparing for tonight."
She clapped her hands sharply and the crowd immediately started to dissipate. "Six o'clock sharp," she said, and Matt couldn't tell if she was addressing the little girl or him. "We're punctual in these parts."
Orfamay Vetch gave Matt one last, penetrating look and then marched off with the rest of the crowd. The girl slipped her hand into his and pulled him toward a side street.
"I'm so glad you're here," she said. "I knew you'd come if I summ – if I prayed hard enough."
"I can't stay," Matt said. "But thank you. Did she call you Mouse?"
The girl smiled happily at the sound of her name coming from his lips. "My real name is Mary Elizabeth Gilhoolie, but my brother Vern, he's called me Mouse since forever, because I'm little and I can creep around without anyone hearing me. We're going this way."
The road she led him toward ran out of asphalt about six feet from the main street. It was pocked with small, dark, crumbling houses lurking behind rotting picket fences. Between them chicken coops and hog wallows sent clouds of foul dust into the hot air. Matt had grown up in one of the Northwest's dying lumber towns, but he'd never seen any place that looked as poor and miserable as this.
"You prayed for me to come," Matt said, giving into the questions that had been pounding at his brain. "How did you know my name?"
"I dreamed it," she said proudly. "You came to me riding that motorcycle and told me your name was Matt and that you were coming to save us."
Again, Matt flashed on that Frazetta image of himself as King Conan. He tried to laugh it out of his head, but it wouldn't go. Maybe he had been brought back to be some kind of hero.
"Do you often have dreams like that?" Matt said.
"The Book tells me how -" she broke off again.
"The Book?"