around him was moving. He glanced left, glanced right, frowned at the teacher, who sat frozen, bending down to take something from a low bookshelf. And finally, he turned in his seat and saw us.
I donât know what he thought at that moment; wewere obviously not the police, but a guilty conscience is a powerful thing, so he leaped to his feet, scattering the test paper and pencils, and made a dash toward the door.
The door did not open. He tugged and twisted the knob, kicked at it, and finally, shoulders slumped, turned to face us.
âWho are you?â Barton demanded.
âBarton Jones,â Messenger said, âyou have done wrong. You must first acknowledge the wrong, and then you must atone.â
Bartonâs brown eyes darted to the left, then the right, and lingered on the windows, as if he might be preparing to jump. Out there the day was gray and overcast but must have looked like a better bet than standing around waiting for Messenger to explain. But in the end he calculated that it was hopeless and went back to asking belligerent questions.
âWho are you? What are you doing? What the hell, man?â
âThis wrong you have committed demands punishment. I offer you a game. If you win, you will go free, unbothered by me or my apprentice.â
Barton blinked. âWhat the hell? This is bull, man. This is not right. I donât even know what youâre talking about.â
âWeâre talking about murder,â I said.
That got his full and undivided attention. âYouâre crazy. I didnât murder anyone! You mean Mrs. Bayless, right? Yeah, well, that wasnât me, she wasnât even murdered, she just ate a bad shrimp.â
Messenger waited patiently as Barton denied with increasing vehemence and a lot of repetition, before saying, âI offer you a game. You must accept or reject the offer.â
âI donât must do a damn thing!â
âIf you do not answer, it will be assumed that you have rejected the game and are choosing to go ahead with punishment.â Messenger had, by this point in his life as a Messenger of Fear, encountered every kind of denial. He heard nothing unusual here. Barton started another round of angry denials and then Messenger said, âI give you seven seconds. Seven. Six.â
Barton looked imploringly at me. I suppose I looked less intimidating than Messenger. âWhat is this? You people have no right to go aroundââ
âFive. Four.â
âIf you say yes, you may escape punishment,â I said. I donât know why I urged him to play. I dreaded the appearance of the Master of the Game. And I harbored no goodwill toward Barton. He had been poorly used, abused indeed, exploited. But the punishment for molestation is not death. And if it were, then that punishment would have to come from a court of law.
Barton could have gone to his parents. He could have gone to a school counselor. He could have simply gone straight to the police by picking up a phone and calling 911.
He had done none of those things. Instead he had ruthlessly plotted murder.
âThree. Two.â
âIâll play!â he shouted. Then, almost as an afterthought, âWhat is the punishment supposed to be?â
âThe very worst thing you can imagine,â I said.
His eyes narrowed, and I knew he was running through a catalog of fears in his mind. But here is what I have learned: people are seldom consciously aware of their deepest fear. It is in the nature of most minds to avoid the worst fears, to wall them off, to ignore themand instead imagine that only more benign things can ever occur.
Barton did not know what he feared, but if he lost the game, I would know that fear. I would drag that fear into daylight.
âI summon the Master of the Game,â Messenger said.
He arrived preceded by a yellow mist, a mist the color of urine, a vile, sentient mist that can close around you, make it hard to