“Tell me,” said Goat.
“It was because those women knew something the men didn’t. They had secret knowledge, and that knowledge didn’t come from the men. The men didn’t own it and they couldn?
?t control it. Those women were out there using this secret knowledge and they didn’t need jack squat from the men, and that really scared the men. You only got power if someone needs something from you and you have a leash on it. You understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Those men … they knew that the women weren’t fucking around with the Devil or any of that shit. That’s not why they got mad. They got mad because the secrets the women had were starting to matter to the people. The common folk. Those men saw their stranglehold over everyone starting to slip, and that meant they’d lose money and they’d lose power. And they couldn’t have that. So they said that those women, those witches, were monsters. And since most people are just dumb fucks, they went along with it and soon they were burning chicks at the stake and drowning them and crushing them under rocks. That’s how the men kept their power. It’s how scared people always keep their power. That’s why they killed Jesus. That’s why they killed that little Indian guy, Gandhi.” He pronounced it Gan-dee. “It’s probably why they killed John Lennon, too, ’cause that sonofabitch definitely knew some of the real secrets.” Homer nodded to himself. “He sings to me in my head sometimes, did you know that?”
“No. What does he sing?”
“I don’t know the names of the songs. New stuff that he wrote after he died.”
“Oh,” said Goat, and felt vaguely disappointed. He couldn’t quite understand why.
“My point,” continued Homer, “is that people throw out the word ‘monster’ before they know what something is. And it’s stupid, it’s an insult, because that word is so … so small, and sometimes what they’re trying to describe is way bigger than they know, bigger than they can even imagine.”
“And you feel that the way in which they used it to describe you is the same kind of error? The same kind of small thinking? That it’s them being—what? Blind or simply unable to understand what they are seeing?”
Homer took a long time with that, and as he drove he kept looking at Goat, as if reappraising him. He nodded a few times to himself.
“Now I’m wondering,” he said slowly, “whether you’re one of those smart-ass fellows who know how to feed someone enough of a line of bullshit so he can save his own ass.”
Goat said nothing.
“Or if maybe you’re starting to see what the Black Eye wants you to see. And maybe hear what the Red Mouth is whispering. Tell me, son … which is it?”
There was no way to know how to respond, because Goat could imagine how either response might spark something nasty. If he admitted that he was stringing Homer along, then the killer might simply pull over and finish what he almost started back at Starbucks. On the other hand, if Goat came off like a willing convert, would there be a price to pay to join Homer’s church?
In the end he told Homer a version of the truth. And he meant every word.
“I don’t know what to believe,” he admitted, “but I’m sitting here with you and that means I am twenty inches away from the biggest and most important story any reporter has ever heard. This is the kind of story that will change the world. You know that already, Homer. I know it, too. Who knows, maybe I really will start hearing what the Red Mouth says. I probably will, because I think I’m starting to get you, to see things the way you see them. However, right now, at this moment, I’m trying to understand the whole story. That’s what I want from you, Homer. I want you to tell me everything so I can report the biggest story in history. That’s the truth, Homer. That’s the God’s honest truth.”
It was five whole miles before Homer spoke.
Up ahead, barely visible in the rain, was a 7-Eleven with its lights on. Homer drummed his fingers on the knobbed leather of the steering wheel.
“You want to understand me, son? Fine, that makes sense to me. You saw some of my truth back there at the Starbucks. Now bear witness to more of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the Red Mouth is hungry and it will not be denied.” Homer pulled the Escalade off the road and slid into a slot. There were two cars outside. One was a beat-up old Chevy, the other was a Lexus SUV.
“What? I mean … Jesus, are you … are you…?”
Homer laughed.
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. How’s that for a big news story?”
He got out and took the keys with him, then leaned in through the open door.
“Make sure you film it, too. Every damn bit of it.”
Homer slammed the door and headed toward the store.
Goat did not try to run. He never even opened the door. Instead he raised the camera, adjusted the zoom, rolled down the window, and filmed everything as Homer Gibbon opened the front door of the convenience store, strode in, and showed everyone what the Black Eye saw, and let them hear the secrets whispered by the Red Mouth.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX