by Kay Hooper
“He had no one with any experience to run his security. Until recently, it hadn’t been a concern, but by the time I was recruited, he was growing more and more security-conscious.”
“Paranoid.”
DeMarco nodded. “I gather he felt he’d been making enemies, but whether he had already focused on the SCU then, I have no way of knowing.”
Hollis glanced at Bishop, then said, “We’re pretty sure he was focused on at least one of us as long as eighteen months ago.”
“He let us find those photographs with his pet monster,” Bishop said. “In fact, I believe he made sure we’d find them. He wanted us to know he’d been watching. Following. My bet is that the reason there were only pictures of you was because he wanted us to wonder just exactly what we are wondering. Was he tracking you as a potential victim or because you’re SCU?”
“And it could be either,” she agreed. “Considering where I wound up.”
“Which is?” Sawyer asked.
“Let’s just say that I got to meet the pet monster up close and personal.” Before anyone could comment, she frowned at DeMarco. “Does Samuel leave the Compound often? Because I had the sense he was pretty reclusive up there.”
“He is now. Has been since last fall. Before then he’d go off for a few days or a week now and then, with an especially long trip occasionally. Last summer he was gone the better part of six weeks, even though he came back here several times over that stretch. It was usual for him to come back with a new recruit or two and say he’d been a guest preacher at this church or that revival. We’d no reason to suspect he was doing anything else.”
“He wasn’t followed when he left here?”
“No. My instructions were to infiltrate the cult and do as much as I could to make myself indispensable to Samuel and his operations. That meant staying here and keeping things running whenever he left.”
“And fomenting a little rebellion?” Hollis suggested.
“I didn’t discourage it. In hindsight, I should have.” He wasn’t apologetic or regretful, merely matter-of-fact.
She nodded.
Sawyer said to DeMarco, “I gather you’re responsible for the electronic security up at the Compound?”
“Samuel wanted some state-of-the-art gadgets installed, and I know a bit about that sort of thing. I also have contacts. Military contacts. He liked that.”
Hollis said, “Which is all well and good, but how did you manage to convince him you’re a believer? Unless you are?” She was looking steadily at him, clearly bothered by that point. “You won’t see it,” DeMarco told her.
“See what?”
“My aura.”
When her blue eyes narrowed, sharpened, it was Quentin who said, “Give it up, Hollis, before you get a headache. Or have a stroke. Reese has a double shield.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like that before,” Hollis said, clearly dubious.
“I’m unique,” DeMarco drawled.
Half under his breath, Sawyer said, “Jesus, I’m the one getting the headache.”
Quentin offered him a faint smile. “Information overload? Well, the main thing you need to understand is that Reese, like Tessa, doesn’t read as psychic, but he has an uncanny ability to create a . . . persona that is readable when he allows it to be.”
“Convenient,” Hollis remarked.
“Useful,” Quentin corrected. “Any psychic who manages to get through his primary shield isn’t likely to look for a secondary one, especially when they discover that manufactured persona—in this case, the bitter ex-military guy entirely willing to kill for, or possibly die for, a charismatic pseudoreligious leader.”
Fifteen
THE “ROBE” WAS actually more like a dress—or a nightgown. It was long, so thin it was nearly transparent, and sleeveless. It was white.
“The color of purity,” Emma Campbell said softly as she stood back and smiled at Ruby.
Ruby shivered, wondering again if she would ever feel warm. “I can wear your cloak to the church, can’t I, Mama? It’s getting colder outside.”
“I suppose so. But you be sure to take it off once you’re inside.”
“Yes, Mama.” Ruby was grateful for the warmth of the ankle-length stark black cloak and even more grateful that it covered the thin robe, but despite that she always felt uneasy wearing it. She didn’t know for sure, but something told her that her mama had been wearing the cloak when she finally just . . . went away.
Smiling, Emma Campbell said, “You do as Ruth tells you, just like before. And do as Father tells you, of course. I’m so proud of you. Your daddy and I are both so proud of you.”
The painful lump rose in Ruby’s throat again, so she merely nodded and tried not to think about her daddy. Or about her mama. Instead, she walked through the house and to the front door beside the shell named Emma Campbell.
“Be good. Remember.”
“Yes, Mama.” She went out into the chilly afternoon, walking steadily toward the church, concentrating hard on making her protective shell so strong even Father wouldn’t be able to touch her through it.
Not the real her, at least.
And she didn’t look back because she knew Emma Campbell had already returned to her sewing room.
It’s needlework for her. And sewing for Amy’s mom. Theresa’s mom does quilts. Brooke’s mom has all those jigsaw puzzles . . . I know it all means something. Maybe he gives them things to do. So they don’t have time to think.
So they don’t want to think.
Maybe he found out what they like to do best and let them keep that.
Only that.
Ruby walked steadily to the church, seeing the other girls waiting on the steps for her. Seeing, with a catch inside, that Father had already replaced Brooke, as easily as though she had never existed.
Mara. Little Mara, only eleven, and visibly nervous at this, her first Ritual. And unlike the other two, she was wearing a long sweater over her robe.
Amy and Theresa, both thirteen, wore only the thin robes despite the cold.
They felt grown up in the robes, Ruby knew. They felt grown up, and special, and important to Father.
They felt Chosen.
“Hurry up, Ruby,” Amy called out to her impatiently.
“I’m coming,” Ruby responded, hearing the bright sparkle in her own voice, the sound of eagerness that was every bit as fake as the smile that curved her lips. She began to climb the steps to join her friends.
But she didn’t hurry.
“Sure that’s just a persona?” Hollis muttered. “Because the way I hear it, people who stay undercover for too long can get really . . . lost in their role-playing.”
DeMarco glanced at her, then looked at Sawyer. “That ability plus a few other characteristics make me an ideal candidate for undercover work. As Bishop discovered a few years ago.”
“So you’re SCU?”
It was Bishop who replied. “He’s not FBI. But we realized early on that having operatives . . . off the books would be helpful if not necessary in some situations.”
“I thought that’s why you helped found Haven,” Tessa said, speaking up finally. She looked at Bishop. “As a civilian offshoot of the SCU,” she added.
“A sister organization,” Bishop said. “But Haven was set up primarily to provide short-term support, with operatives called in for specific, usually brief periods of time, to assist in criminal investigations. Most lead perfectly ordinary, normal lives the majority of the time, with their Haven work more like a series of temp jobs than anything else.”
“True enough,” Tessa agreed. “On my last assignment, I didn’t even have to unpack. And in my normal life, I design Web sites. Easy to set my own hours, work from home or on the road with a laptop, and take time ‘off’ whenever I need to. Tailor-made for someone with a whole other life.”
Bishop nodded. “It’s different for those of us inside the FBI, and not just because it’s a full-time job. Being an SCU agent means we’
re employees of the federal government all the time, with laws, rules, and regulations we’re duty-bound to uphold.”
“Which can sometimes present problems,” Quentin murmured. “For some of us.”
Sawyer wondered if he was talking about himself but didn’t ask. On his long list of questions, that one seemed relatively unimportant.
Bishop didn’t comment on Quentin’s aside but continued, “It became obvious that we needed operatives able to bridge the gap between cop and civilian. Operatives trained in both law enforcement and military tactics, with strong investigative instincts and abilities—and with some kind of psychic edge. People capable of going undercover, possibly long term, with little or no backup, and not necessarily with government sanction.”
Hollis let out an odd little sound and said, “You do like to walk the edge, don’t you?”
“I have to sometimes. Whether I like it or not.” Bishop shrugged. “Reese, like a number of our civilian operatives, is a licensed private investigator—and his military background is legit.”
“And I like working alone,” DeMarco said.
“What about your normal life?” Hollis asked.
“Don’t really have one.”
Hollis looked curious, but before she could ask the obvious question, Tessa lost patience with the lot of them.
“Ruby,” she said in the tone of one who was not going to be ignored. “That little girl is in trouble.”
“Ruby isn’t in immediate danger,” DeMarco told her.
“But you know she is in danger?”
He looked at her, those pale blue eyes not warming at all. “They’re all in danger. Samuel’s Prophecy, remember?”
“Armageddon.” Quentin’s voice was wry. “All the best prophecies seem to predict Armageddon.”
“Yes,” DeMarco said. “But the difference is that Samuel, unlike all the prophets of the past, might actually have a shot at seeing his vision, his Prophecy, come true. Even if he has to light the conflagration with his own hands. Or his own mind.” “You don’t mean literally?” Sawyer said. “That he could create—with his mind—destruction on a scale that could be even loosely termed apocalyptic?”
“Afraid so.”
“But you said—Wait. The lightning?”
“Why not? He’s used it to kill on a small scale. Who’s to say he can’t eventually gain or channel enough energy to be able to destroy on a truly massive scale?”
Quentin murmured, “Welcome to our world.”
“Shit,” Sawyer said. “No offense, but I’m finding it very difficult to think in apocalyptic terms. That was never a brand of religion I bought into.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Quentin told him. “I’ve been having trouble with it myself. And I saw it. I think.”
“That was your vision?” Tessa stared at him. “That Samuel destroyed the world?”
“Well, a goodly piece of this part of the world. All his followers. And Ruby. You, the chief, Hollis. Maybe only the beginning of his apocalypse, because my sense was that he was just getting started. There was sure as hell nobody stopping him.”
Bishop spoke suddenly. “And Ruby.”
Quentin lifted a brow at his boss. “Yeah. So?”
“You aren’t including Ruby as one of his followers. Why not?”
Considering the question, Quentin said, “I have no idea. From all appearances, she was one of his followers. At least . . . she was sitting at his feet, almost like an acolyte. But he killed her too.”
Bishop was frowning. “Are you sure that’s what you saw?” “No. I mean, the visions are new to me, we both know that. They only last a few seconds, and I’m trying to see as much as I can, remember what I see, because so far everything’s been literal rather than symbolic.”
“So what did you see?” Hollis asked.
Since Quentin hadn’t yet given Bishop the actual details of his vision, he tried to remember and relate every one; if he’d learned anything in his years with the SCU, it was that details could be and often were very important in their understanding of abilities and events.
“It was that outside pulpit of his, energy crackling in the air, hellish storm clouds overhead—and smoldering bodies everywhere. Samuel standing on that ledge of granite, his hands smoking, Ruby kneeling at his feet. And behind him . . .”
“Behind him?”
Quentin looked at Hollis, Tessa, and Sawyer in turn and grimaced. “You three, crucified.”
“Literally?” Sawyer wondered how many times he had asked that incredulous question.
“Yeah. Crosses, ropes, iron spikes. The works. Everything but Roman centurions. Four crosses, three occupied. You and Hollis weren’t conscious. Tessa was. Tessa cried out Ruby’s name. Samuel looked down at Ruby, smiled, put his hand on her head—and she burst into flames. Tessa screamed. Samuel turned his head and looked at her, then stretched out his free hand toward her, and what looked like a blast of pure energy shot out of his fingers. That was it. All I saw.”
Ruth took Mara’s sweater and Ruby’s cloak as soon as the girls entered the church. She hung both garments in the cloakroom, then rejoined the girls in the vestibule. “Your shoes, girls.”
Obediently, they removed their shoes, lining them up just outside the cloakroom. Mara had to remove socks as well.
The giggling had quieted by now. All the girls were solemn as Ruth made sure everything was as it should be. That robes were clean and pressed, hair tidy, nails trimmed and neat.
Then Ruth led the way from the vestibule and down into one of the side hallways that ran the length of the church, just below ground level. The hallway was rather institutional, with plain walls, plain carpet, and rather ugly wall sconces. At the end of the hallway was a locked door. Ruth produced a ring of keys and unlocked the door, revealing another set of stairs that led down to yet another level.
The girls went ahead of Ruth down the stairs, all of them hearing the sounds of the door being closed and once again locked behind them. She joined them at the foot of the stairs, and the girls stood silently as the older woman, with the deliberation of ceremony, unlocked a small room just past the stairs. The interior of the room was lined with cabinetry, everything metal and frosted glass so that only vague shapes could be seen inside.
Why? Because it has to seem mysterious to us? Or is there something here in the Ceremony Room that’s really important?
Ruby didn’t know. But she hated this level of the church, where there were only hushed rituals and secrecy. Where she had to fight so hard to protect herself.
Using another key, Ruth unlocked a big stainless-steel cooler. Inside, on a glass shelf, they could all see four white roses in individual crystal vases. One at a time, Ruth brought out a rose and fastened it into a girl’s hair, just above the left ear. Each girl bowed her head as the rose was affixed.
Ruby was last and bowed her head obediently while the rose was placed in her hair. Perfect roses. Except that they have no scent. Not that it mattered today, since Ruby could still smell the sickly-sweet fake rose perfume from the soap she had used.
Ruth didn’t appear to notice. She went back into the Ceremony Room, opened another cabinet, and emerged with four white candles, which she gave to them. Each girl held a candle in both hands while Ruth ceremoniously lit them—with a plastic disposable lighter.
Ruby almost giggled. Ridiculous. It’s all so ridiculous.
And yet she was so afraid. Her hands were cold, her bare feet were cold, and her head was pounding because she was trying so hard to keep her protective shell in place. She was afraid she’d made a mistake in sending Lexie away to be safe, afraid Father would know about that, that he’d know she’d been hiding Lexie.
Afraid that he would know all the secrets she had done her best to keep from him.
There was nothing at all funny about that.
“Ready, girls?”
Ruby looked up fleetingly, and for an instant she saw the empty shell behind Ruth Hardin’s solemn, serene face. That
hard, ugly, scorched shell holding so much emptiness there couldn’t have been much of Ruth left in there.
If any of her was left.
Ruby fixed her gaze on the flame of her candle and, along with the other girls, murmured, “Yes, Ruth.”
Ruth led them single file down the hallway. Unlike the level above, this one was thickly carpeted, the plush wool soft against their bare feet. The walls were covered with fabric rather than paint or wallpaper, and the wall sconces were alight with dripping beads of crystal.
For the first time, it occurred to Ruby that the room they were nearing, the Ritual Room, was directly beneath the pulpit area of the church. She wondered why she had never realized that before, and even as she did, she understood.
Because her shell was stronger. She’d been making it stronger, concentrating harder—and without Lexie to protect, without Lexie needing to be unseen, all Ruby’s energy had been able to focus on protecting herself.
And inside her shell, she was able to think clearly now, more clearly than she had ever been able to before. To wonder about things. She didn’t have to see the faces of the girls ahead of her to know that they were becoming slack and expressionless, that their eyes were going dark and dazed.
Because it was always like that.
They didn’t have shells. They couldn’t protect themselves.
She felt a jab of guilt that she could protect herself and they couldn’t, but she pushed that aside because she had to. She could only do so much; even protecting just Lexie had taken nearly everything she had, so she couldn’t help her friends.
At least, she couldn’t help them right now. She couldn’t fold them inside her shell with her. But maybe she could do something else. Maybe she could bring help to them.
Maybe.
She wasn’t sure how she could do that, not exactly. She wasn’t even sure if she could. But she knew she was still connected to Tessa Gray. Not as strongly as she had been before she drew Tessa back here to the Compound so she could rescue Lexie, not as strong as she had been when she had warned Tessa not to feel so much out at the pet cemetery, but the tie was still there.
