James Axler – Stoneface

Near the top of the mural stood God, smiling beatifically as he beckoned his second only begotten son with widespread arms.

“Blasphemy,” Doc muttered. “Sick. Depraved.”

“Who the hell is Charles Manson supposed to be?” J.B. demanded impatiently.

“Our spiritual savior,” a soft, hollow voice replied. “He who shaped Deathlands into the image of paradise he foresaw over a century ago.”

The vision of the mural had taken everyone aback for a moment, so they hadn’t immediately noticed the man sitting against the north wall. He was a vision almost as startling as the mural.

The man’s body was lanky, and very thin. Beneath a thick shock of upstanding jet black hair, rose a remarkably high forehead. It was impossible to gauge his age. He had one of those smooth, unlined faces that would always look the same between the ages of twenty-five and sixty-five. His eyes were in shadow, but there was something, some force swimming in them that raised the fine hairs on Ryan’s nape. It was a spark of self-centered dedication to a single goal, a single-minded drive to attain an inexplicable objective.

The man’s hands were very long, and he had them steepled before his pursed mouth. He was dressed completely in whitewhite blazer, white shirt, white tie, white trousers and shoes. There wasn’t a single speck of color anywhere on him. He was sitting in a large fan-backed wicker chair.

“Shades of Somerset Maugham,” Doc whispered to Mildred.

Phil stepped up to the white-suited man and ducked his head. He spoke to him rapidly in a low whisper for quite awhile, then gestured to Ryan.

The leader of the companions approached the chair and the man suddenly waved a hand. “Far enough, kindly,” he said. “You are covered with road dust and exude a frightful odor.”

Ryan didn’t bother to swallow his irritation. “If I’d known we’d be meeting, I’d have bathed in rose water and disinfectant.”

The thin man eyed him broodily. “You’ve an intrusive tongue. Did I ask you a question? No matter. Phil tells me your name is Cawdor.”

“That is true.”

” Ryan Cawdor, I presume.”

“Yeah.”

“He tells me you’ve brought Zadfrak back to us.”

“True again.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked us. He’s sick.”

The thin man stirred. “I know that, Ryan Cawdor. I also know that I cast Zadfrak out of the Family. Disowned him, stripped him of his rights and set him loose in Deathlands to die. Returning him here is a great affront.”

“Zadfrak didn’t mention that. We owed him a debt, and he wanted to be returned to Helskel. That’s all there is to it.”

The man smiled in an odd, cold way. “I don’t think I believe you. I think you came here to make mischief.”

Ryan returned the cold smile. “Oh?”

“There could be no other reason.”

There was a shuffling behind Ryan, then a barely audible click. He spun, hand darting to his blaster. In a jagged fragment of a second he saw that the entire wall backing the jukebox had swiveled open, disgorging seven of the shaven-headed X-scarred men, all aiming large-caliber handblasters. Some were automatics, some were revolvers, but all looked brand-new.

The cold tip of a gun touched the back of Ryan’s neck. He heard the sound of a round being jacked into a chamber and froze, hand on the butt of the SIG-Sauer.

The thin man held up one narrow hand. “That bloodies the floor, much as you’d enjoy it. There are other ways.”

The white-clad man stared at him with shadow-pooled eyes. Ryan’s mind sensed a whispering touch, like an invisible, wispy cobweb brushing him with ectoplasmic tentacles. His heart began to pound. The man was a psionic, a line-of-sight telepath. He wasn’t necessarily a mutie, but norms with true telepathic abilities were extremely rare. Extrasensory and precognitive perceptions were the most typical abilities possessed by muties who appeared to be normal.

The vague touch disappeared, and he heard Krysty draw in her breath sharply. The man in the white suit suddenly stiffened, and Ryan guessed that the mind probe had been directed at Krysty and met unexpected resistance.

“Your woman is a telepath?” the man demanded. He paused, then added in a meditative tone, “No, an empath. A doomseer. But with formidable abilities.”