Maddox put his hand on Samuel’s shoulder and gripped it for a moment. Hard. Addressing the murmuring crowd, he said, “Come back tomorrow, folks. Come tomorrow and listen to more of what this very special young man has to tell us. Come tomorrow, and bring your friends.”
As the people began to back away and turn toward the exits, Maddox nodded to a thin dark girl who was perhaps a few years older than Samuel, a girl he hadn’t even noticed until then. Silent, she picked up one of the offering baskets and moved among those leaving, collecting dollar bills and even a few tens and twenties.
“Son, you and me need to talk,” Maddox said as soon as they were alone.
“What happened?” Samuel demanded.
Maddox pointed to the ground.
Samuel looked down, surprised to find a sort of hourglass-shaped area of blackened earth and burned grass. Exactly where he had been standing. “I don’t understand.”
Maddox pointed up.
Above their heads and several feet from the center tent pole was a perfectly round hole in the canvas. It was, perhaps, six or eight inches across, and the edges were blackened.
“So hot it didn’t even start a fire,” Maddox told him. “Just punched right through the tent. Then through you and into the ground.”
“What did?”
“A bolt of lightning, son.” Maddox grinned, revealing large yellowed teeth. “You’ve been touched by God.”
Samuel thought about that for a moment, absently watching as the dark girl returned with the basket of cash. He didn’t feel different, really, except . . . stronger. And the air around him seemed clearer, not so heavy and oppressive.
“So what do I do now?” he asked, curious to hear the old man’s answer.
Maddox grinned again. “You’re going to come with Ruth and me. This is Ruth—my daughter.”
Samuel looked at her for a moment, nodded absently, then looked back at Maddox. “Why would I come with you?”
“Because we’re going to start ourselves a real church, son. I’ve got the know-how, and you, well, you’ve been touched by God, haven’t you? Touched—and given the gift of Sight.” He reached out and again put his hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “You know we’re walking the path together now, don’t you, son?”
Samuel studied that grinning face, the greedy gleam in those intense eyes, and wondered idly if Maddox had any idea at all that his path would end in blood and agony.
Not that it mattered.
That was at least a few years down the path.
“So when do we start?” he asked.
Samuel didn’t come all the way out of his meditative trance as that particular memory faded from his mind. Other memories flashed by, like the pages of a book blown by a steady breeze, pages showing other tent revivals and small churches that were all but shacks slowly giving way to bigger, better churches. Until finally the church in Los Angeles, where everything had really begun coming together.
As his sermons had grown stronger, more powerful.
As he had grown stronger and more powerful.
As God had shown him the path he had to walk.
He meditated on that, going over it in his mind as he always did, until finally he was ready.
He was tired now, too tired, really, to do what he needed to do.
But he had no choice, because she was here. She was here, and he needed to reach out to her. Needed to touch her mind and find out if she was one of his Chosen few.
Or his enemy.
Eleven
TESSA LOOKED AT Sawyer steadily for a moment, then said, “We should probably move from here. Walk around. Take advantage of our . . . presumed solitude.”
Sawyer got up from the boulder seat as she did, but said, “Avoiding an answer?”
“No, I think you’re probably right. I also think Samuel can do a lot of damage before he finally destroys himself, even if that’s the way this is going. I asked you once before, but can’t you feel the energy of this place? How strange it is?”
They had turned with tacit agreement away from the natural church to continue down the slope, and Sawyer walked beside her for several steps in silence before answering. He still felt that wary sense of danger, but it was oddly unfocused.
It’s not this place. It’s more than that. Different. There’s something else now.
It made him want to reach for his gun.
“I feel it,” he answered finally. “Sets my teeth on edge. But it wasn’t always like this. Years ago, I mean. It’s only been in the last few months that I really noticed a difference up here in the way the air felt. The way I felt when I was here.”
“Before then it was normal?”
“As far as that goes, yeah. What changed?”
“Him, probably.”
“Do you know why?”
“Not really. Psychic abilities tend to evolve, or do when they’re used. And they can be affected by everything from the person’s mental and emotional state to a summer storm or other strong electromagnetic field.”
“That’s a wide range of possibilities.”
“I don’t have any easy answers, Sawyer.” She sent him a look that was a little wry and more than a little reluctant. “Most of this is new to me too. Until about a year ago, all I knew about psychic abilities was what I was coping with myself.”
“Alone?”
“Pretty much. No family to speak of, and I’ve been on my own since college.” A frown flitted across her face and then vanished. “It wasn’t until college that I really built my shields, and then it was from necessity. I kept picking up test answers, responses the professors wanted from us, stuff like that. It was cheating, and I didn’t like it. So I learned to shut it out.”
“What’s wrong?” Sawyer asked.
“Well, cheating—”
“Not that. You winced. What is it?”
Tessa wasn’t at all sure she was comfortable being observed so closely even though a part of her was keenly aware of his every move and expression , but heard herself replying, “A little headache, that’s all.”
“Starting when?”
“Just now. Probably this place.”
With his own senses or instincts still nagging at him, Sawyer said, “Is the hair on the back of your neck standing up? Because mine is.”
She looked at him, then looked around them. “The cameras. Probably. They’re all over the place.”
“And if it’s not the cameras? Tessa, you told me Samuel can kill without touching someone. Without even being near them. So how would you know if you were a target? How would you know that sort of attack was coming?”
Tessa thought about the report of Sarah’s death, of how quickly she had died, without warning, and drew a deep breath, aware now of building tension inside her. “I don’t know,” she replied.
“Could it start with a headache?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tessa—”
“He has no reason to consider me a threat. So why would he feel the need to kill me?”
“You don’t know he doesn’t consider you a threat,” Sawyer countered. “He could have been . . . delving into your mind this whole time.”
“He hasn’t been. I’d know.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.” She thought so. She hoped so. But a chill stole over her, and it had nothing to do with the crisp winter day.
Sounding a little frustrated, Sawyer said, “So I guess that means I can’t talk you into leaving right now?”
“I can’t leave yet. Do you have any idea how difficult it’s been to get someone inside the Compound, let alone the church?”
“Does it have to be you?”
“I’m here. The universe opens doors for a reason.”
Sawyer quite abruptly took her hand, his fingers twining with hers.
Surprised, Tessa said, “Why did you—”
“You’re not going through this door alone,” he told her. “Whether you like it or not, I’m here too. That open door is as muc
h mine as it is yours. And I’m a stubborn man.”
She thought about protesting, but his hand was surprisingly warm, and surprisingly comforting. She liked it. She liked it too much. And all she could think of to say was “Better be careful. One thing I’ve learned is that when two psychics . . . make a connection, even a simple one . . . odd things can happen.”
“Odd things are already happening,” Sawyer said, sounding calmer now. “For instance, have you noticed there’s no livestock here in the Compound? No pets visible?”
Tessa followed his lead obediently, even as she wondered if he meant this as a distraction—or if he was just able to keep his mind on business a lot easier than she could. “I noticed yesterday. Kept hoping today I’d see a few cows or horses, but no luck. There were once pets and livestock, I take it?”
“There were last fall.”
“And they disappeared suddenly?”
“Well, sometime since late September. That was the last time I was up here until we pulled the first body from the river almost two weeks ago.”
“What are you thinking?”
Sawyer didn’t hesitate. “Sacrifice.”
Tessa glanced at him, then allowed her gaze to roam around as they walked, for all the world as if she were mildly curious about her surroundings. Not that there was much to see except a large, unnervingly vacant pasture. She definitely had a sense of being watched but had to assume it was a camera somewhere nearby. Needed to assume that.
Because the alternative was a lot more unnerving than the empty pasture. And, potentially, a lot more dangerous.
I see you.
Samuel reached out further, harder, irritated by his own weakness. He was tired, yes, but this should have been easy.
Relatively easy, at any rate. Because she was just a woman, and women were, after all, designed by nature to let men in.
This one was stubborn, though. Well guarded. He could sense an open door there but couldn’t seem to find it. He forced himself to draw back a bit, to probe more delicately, even though it meant fighting his own instincts.
He always wanted to break them. To reach inside and crush, rewarded by the incredible burst of energy they released when death took them.
But that was for his enemies and for those who wanted to leave him and leave God’s grace, not his Chosen.
And he wasn’t yet sure which this one was.
So he used up precious energy by testing her defenses with all the delicacy of years of practice, probing, searching for the door he could sense was already opening for him . . .
That simple statement again in her mind. Just that—and a sense of a presence that was incredibly strong but not threatening.
Still, Tessa felt a strong urge to shore up her shields, to protect herself. To close the door she had edged open in an effort to sense this place, to figure it out. Because she wasn’t here to protect herself. She was here to gather information about the church and/or Samuel. And she was here to try to figure out who or what had made a connection with her yesterday.
I see you.
She looked down at their clasped hands and for just a moment wondered if Sawyer had made the connection. But almost immediately she knew it wasn’t him. Hadn’t been him yesterday, at any rate; she wasn’t at all sure a connection of some kind wasn’t being made right this moment. Because his hand was warm and she liked it. Because he smelled of some spicy soap or aftershave, and she liked that.
Tessa pushed that away, not ready to deal with either her own feelings or some very basic emotions she could feel in Sawyer.
Man, he has a lousy sense of timing.
Or maybe it was her timing that was off. Way off. Or . . . was being affected?
Yesterday, and just now—who or what had connected with her? Was even now there, as though waiting for something. And even though she was conscious of no threat from it, why was she still unsure whether that connection was a good thing or a bad one?
It brought you back here. And maybe not for a good reason. Probably not for a good reason.
“Tessa?”
“Are you thinking ritual sacrifice?” she asked, trying to focus thoughts that were becoming more scattered.
“No. I’m thinking that maybe it was an unexpected or at least unintended consequence of something else. Is that possible?”
“I suppose so.”
She felt an odd tugging, an almost physical sensation, as real as Sawyer’s hand holding hers. But it wasn’t him. Something else tugged, pulled as though to get her attention. Tessa looked around, and immediately a flash, as though from sunlight off something metallic, caught her eye. It had originated, she thought, from just inside the woods that edged this pasture to the west.
“What is it?”
“Over there.” She had turned in that direction without even thinking about it. “I saw something flash.”
Since he hadn’t released her hand, Sawyer also turned, remaining by her side as he lowered his voice to say, “It might be another damn camera.”
“I don’t think so.” Tessa realized they were following a very faint path through the pasture and had a sudden almost overpowering sense of many feet walking it before them.
Small feet.
Be careful. He wants in. You mustn’t let him.
“Tessa?”
She frowned but continued along the path. “This way.”
“You’re beginning to scare me,” he said, following.
That was an odd thing to say. “I can’t imagine why. I’m not very scary.” She thought he swore beneath his breath, but her attention was fixed on the woods that lay just ahead.
Be careful, Tessa.
It was only a patch of sparse woods, maybe an acre in size, and in the center was a clearing that probably occupied half of that acre. Tessa stopped only a few feet inside the clearing, staring down at a cross that had been roughly fashioned from two sticks, a little crooked because of the weight on one arm of the cross.
She bent down and then straightened, holding a leather collar in her free hand. It had a rabies tag and a second, boneshaped tag with the name Buddy engraved on it. As she moved the collar, the silvery tag caught a glint of sunlight and flashed, as it must have done to catch her attention in the field.
Vaguely aware of Sawyer standing just behind her, Tessa looked across the clearing at countless small mounds of dirt, most of them with a pile of stones or a rough stick-cross at one end, and almost all of them boasting a collar of some kind, either on the ground or draped over crosses and stones. There were bright plastic flowers here and there, stuck down into chipped, handleless coffee cups or in the ground, some of them faded by time but quite a lot of them not. There were even bedraggled toys and rawhide chews.
“It’s a pet cemetery,” Sawyer said. “But an awful lot of graves for a community that didn’t exist barely a decade ago. And a lot of them look to be fairly recent.”
Tessa hadn’t intended to open the door in her mind wider, to open herself up. The opposite, if anything. But as she stood there holding the collar, she was abruptly conscious of sounds, of barks and meows and children laughing. The sounds grew louder and louder inside her head, and as they did, waves of pain and grief swept over her. And fear. Desperate fear.
“Tessa?”
“They thought it was an act of God,” she whispered, trying in vain to close down her senses, to protect herself from the assault. “An act of their God. He was . . . there was a storm, and . . . he was angry. They had sinned. And their God punished them.”
He killed them. He killed them all.
Tessa felt the agony of that, the grief, and tried to cope, tried to ride out the ferocious emotions.
Stop it. He uses feelings to get in, don’t you understand? He makes you feel things, and that opens the door for him. Don’t feel, Tessa. Don’t let him in—
She swayed on her feet, the collar dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers. As a wave of darkness swept abruptly over her, Tessa wasn’t even aware of Sawyer catchi
ng her before she could fall and lifting her into his arms.
Reese DeMarco opened his eyes slowly and for a moment stared across his office at nothing. He finally pushed his chair back from the desk and rose, absently rubbing the nape of his neck as he crossed the spacious room to the door and unlocked it.
He made his way silently down the short, carpeted hallway that separated his office from the living quarters of Reverend Samuel, encountering no one else. It wasn’t quite lunchtime, and everyone knew and respected Samuel’s habit of meditating in mid-morning and mid-afternoon, so the upper floor of the church tended to be all but deserted at those times.
DeMarco reached a big, paneled wooden door and opened it without knocking. He passed through the familiar foyer—spare and simple, as all these rooms were—and through the living room, notable only for the colorful light splashed all about from the stained-glass windows.
Off to the right, two more closed doors offered access to a study and a bedroom suite. DeMarco paused at the study door for a moment, then quietly opened it and stepped into the room.
This room, too, was alive with color from three large stained-glass windows, but the decor otherwise was very plain. Simple shelves held scores of books—not elegant leather-bound volumes but once brightly colored dust-jacketed books, obviously collected over time. A big desk sat with its back to the center window, and two low-backed visitor’s chairs sat on the worn old rug before it. A leather sofa and matching chair and ottoman were positioned opposite the windows.
Samuel occupied the chair. He sat with his feet flat on the floor, hands relaxed in his lap, head slightly bowed. Eyes closed. DeMarco waited silently.
It was at least a couple of minutes before Samuel finally opened his eyes and lifted his head. He didn’t look like a man who had been meditating, resting; he looked like a man on the edge of exhaustion. His face was pale, haggard, and there were deep shadows beneath his dull eyes. When he drew a breath to speak, it appeared to require a tremendous effort.
“They’re leaving,” he said.
“Yes.”