Thief of Souls Read Online Free PDF Page B

Weller’s sun-reddened ear, hitting him with a quiet blast of personal devastation in the form of a simple comment.
    â€œSergeant Weller,” he whispered, “no matter what everyone says . . . it was your fault. Your fault, and no one else’s.”
    A subtle hammer to glass. Dillon could feel the man’s mind shatter, even before there were any outward signs. Weller gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning as white as the cloud-covered sky. Dillon could hear the man’s teeth gnash like the grindstone of a mill, and then, with a sudden jolt, Weller jerked the wheel.
    The car lurched off the road and careened down a steep wooded slope. Pine branches whapped at the windshield, and a single trunk loomed before them. Then came the crunch of metal, and the sudden PFFFLAP! of the air bags deploying in the front seat, while in the backseat, Dillon’s seat belt dug into his gut and shoulder. The car caromed off the tree, skidded sideways another ten yards, until smashing into another tree hard enough to shatter the right-side windows before coming to rest.
    Dillon was stunned and bruised but he didn’t take time to check his own damage. He climbed through the broken window, falling into the thick, cold mud of the woods, and for once the deep, earthy smell was a welcome relief. He stood, and quickly pulled open the passenger door of the ruined car. Officer Laraby was pinned between the seat and the firm billow of the air bag. The bag had knocked the wind out of him, and his gasps filled the air like the blasts of a car alarm. Dillon pulled him out of the car, and he fell to the ground.
    Meanwhile, Sergeant Weller didn’t seem to care about any of it. He just sobbed and sobbed. Dillon didn’t dare catch his gaze now, for Dillon knew how his eyes would look. One pupil would be wide, the other shrunken to a pinpoint. They always looked like that when Dillon drove them insane.
    â€œIt’s my fault,” sobbed Weller, deep in a state of madness that went miles beyond mere guilt. “It’s my fault my fault my fault my fault . . . .”
    Laraby turned to Dillon, just beginning to recover his senses. “What’s his fault?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Dillon, “but it doesn’t matter now.” And he really didn’t know—all Dillon knew was that every pore of that man’s body breathed out guilt that he was trying to hide. Very old guilt, and very potent. All Dillon had to do was tweak it to shatter his mind.
    Up above, the other car, which had doubled back, had pulled to the side of the road. Doors opened and closed.
    â€œListen to me,” Dillon told Laraby. “The boy in the other car—he says his name is Carter, but it’s really Delbert. Delbert Morgan. You and your wife are going to take him in as a foster child. You’re going to volunteer to do it.”
    The officer squirmed. “But—”
    â€œYou will take him in, and take care of him until his father comes for him someday”—and then Dillon added—“or else.”
    â€œOr else what?”
    The answer came as another incoherent wail from the insane cop, still in the driver’s seat pounding his fist mindlessly against his air bag. It was evidence of the destruction Dillon was still capable of when he chose to destroy—his ability to create chaos still every bit as powerful as his ability to create order.
    Dillon could hear shouts on the hillside above them now, and people hurrying toward them. He tried to run, but Laraby, still on the ground, grabbed Dillon’s shirt as if he were sinking into quicksand.
    â€œCan you save my son?” asked the officer. “Can you fix his heart?”
    The look in Laraby’s eyes—a clashing combination between hope and terror—was something Dillon had seen before. In recent months, people would cling to him, asking him to fix things he hadn’t