“Sheriff?” an elderly male voice said. “Sheriff of where?”
“Ravalli County, Montana. Who is this?”
“You called me last night. How did you get this number?”
“Tell me your name, then I’ll tell you how I got your number.”
The man was silent for a moment, then gave his name.
Dave couldn’t speak for a few seconds, trying to put the pieces together.
“Hello? Are you still there?” The voice rose in irritation.
“Uh, yes.” Dave cleared his throat. “Gwen Marcey, one of my reserve deputies, had your number. She wanted me to call you.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, she’s . . . no.”
“Did she give you anything?”
Dave described the article with his name in the margin. “Does any of this make sense to you?”
“Yes. Where is your deputy now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find her.”
Aynslee opened the stairwell door and stepped into the packed lobby. A man in a charcoal suit turned from three other businessmen. “What kind of dog is that?”
“Pyrenees.”
The man grinned. “Bet you could ride him like a horse.”
“Whatever.”
A girl in pigtails and yellow shorts stroked Winston’s head. Her mother guided the girl away with a firm pressure on her shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to feed him.”
A small boy with spiky hair and missing front teeth hugged Winston’s neck and kissed him on the muzzle. The Pyrenees gently waved his tail.
Aynslee just wanted to get outside. “He’s gotta go to the bathroom. Okay?”
She tugged the reluctant dog to the door and entered the street in front of the convention center.
A small crowd clapped around a steel band beating out a calypso tune while a snowy-haired man and a woman in a polkadot dress danced like they could read each other’s minds. The scent of baking bread, fried bacon, and coffee filled the air. A line of twelve first graders, six per side, walked toward the center, children holding on to a center rope with a teacher at each end, forming an engine and caboose. Two men wearing long black dresses and white collars waited in line for tickets behind a woman in tight jeans and tighter shirt pushing a baby carriage.
Girl and dog trooped past a street vendor with brown dreadlocks squatting on a blanket. “Come on, missy, get yourself a necklace!”
Aynslee shook her head and kept walking. Winston slowed to check out an open guitar case holding a few crumpled dollar bills, then greeted the wrinkled man with long gray hair crooning some old folk song.
Like fish swimming upstream, Winston and Aynslee sidled around several young families, a pod of giggling teens, two clowns making balloon animals, and a middle-aged women’s group wearing Mothers for Peace T-shirts.
Winston spotted the grassy patch at the end of the street and sprinted toward a tree.
My mind raced with alternatives. Screaming would indeed be the last sound I made. I was a wanted woman, and he’d make a good case that I’d tried to escape. I tugged my arm, but he dug his fingers into my flesh.
The pain brought tears to my eyes.
He marched me across the underground lot, passing close to Robert’s Porsche, and we climbed stairs that brought us to the street. A river of people poured toward the convention center. Mike slipped the gun between us and under my sweatshirt, then strolled forward.
Two teenage girls wearing halter tops and shorts passed, each texting on their phones, oblivious to the early-morning chill. A curly-haired man in a mime outfit and riding a unicycle wove through the chattering horde. Several monks with shaved heads and saffron-colored robes meandered, bobbling to an unheard rhythm. I tried to catch someone’s eye, but Mike jabbed the gun deeper into my side and pulled me closer. Steel drums kept time with our steps.
No curious glances came my way, no concerned inquiries.
Once clear of the stream of convention-goers, he forced me toward an eight-story skeleton structure. A tattered sign claiming the Osprey Condos would open soon was partially covered by a foreclosure notice. My feet barely touched the pavement. We walked through an opening in a graffiti-covered barrier, passing out of sight from the street. Gravel, trash, and a few straggling weeds lay between the barrier and structure. The stench of a dead animal floated in the air. If he shot me here, how long would my body remain undiscovered? We were only a handful of yards from the crowds, yet it seemed as if we were totally alone in this godforsaken stretch.
He maintained a purposeful stride. The solid barrier ended at a chain-link gate. He opened it and shoved me toward the soaring, glass-fronted office complex under construction.
He’d have to let go of me to open that door. I could make my move then.
As if reading my plan, at the door he spun me so I faced him, then punched me in the stomach, driving all the air from my lungs.
I doubled over, gasping. My legs collapsed.
Mike caught me before I fell, then shoved me against the building’s side. I slid down. He grabbed me again and yanked me through the open door. I tried to breathe as we dodged long sheets of plastic, raw beams, and stacks of two-by-fours. Dust burned my nose. Mike dragged me up a set of stairs. My knees banged on the raw concrete. I grabbed for the railing. Air trickled into my heaving lungs. The stairs seemed to last an eternity.
We stopped climbing. Mike hauled me down a long hall, turned left past a bank of elevators, then opened a solid mahogany door and shoved me into a room.
I faced him, one hand holding my stomach, the other outward toward him. Any gunfire wouldn’t be heard from the street.
I didn’t want to die. “You won’t get away with this. Those two agents, the one that followed me and—”
“Janice and Larry?” He grinned. “The police will find their bodies neatly laid out near your house. Along with your pistol.”
My legs suddenly wouldn’t hold me. I dropped to the floor. “I thought they were part of your remnant group—”
“They were. And real FBI agents as well. Loyal to the end. Sacrificial duty, as it were.” Mike’s expression didn’t change. Killing people he knew evoked no visible emotion.
I wasn’t going to die curled up on the floor like a dog. I struggled to my feet.
He pulled a ziplock bag from his pocket, crouched, and slipped a black object onto the floor without touching it. His gaze never wavered from me. “You’ve seen this before, Gwen.”
“You left it on my desk.” I stared at him. “It’s not a universal remote.”
He jabbed his finger at something behind me.
I looked.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
WINSTON TOOK HIS SWEET TIME SNIFFING THE patch of grass behind the hotel. Aynslee leaned against a tree and pulled out the package from her mom’s boyfriend, Ethan Scott. She might as well open it. Fumbling a bit, she finally unwrapped the box. Inside was an ancient, leather-bound journal.
Weird. She opened it. Written in faded ink on the inside cover were the words Joseph Smith, Jr., New Revelations from God.
She slowly turned the book over. Joseph Smith. That was the guy Mom had Beth look up on the Internet. Something to do with Mom’s work in Utah.
Not a gift from a boyfriend.
A warmth flushed her face.
Mom had acted strange since returning from Utah. She’d shut off the lights and closed the blinds in the studio. She’d made Beth spend the night. And she’d stayed behind instead of coming to the Peace Conference. Mom wasn’t trying to get rid of her. She was afraid.
But Mom is never afraid.
Aynslee’s hand trembled.
No one knew she had the book. She could just throw it away.
Or do they? The guy in the dog park was following her. He knew she was at the hotel. He was connected to the FBI.
She jerked her head up and looked around again. No one seemed to be watching her. For now.
Ideas bounc
ed around like Ping–Pong balls. She could call home. Say she was sorry. Mom would understand. For Pete’s sake, it was just an old book.
An old book that some bad people wanted.
Her legs felt like rubber, and a chill went up her spine. What had Mom and Beth said about Joseph Smith? She couldn’t remember. Flipping through the yellowed pages, she paused to read:
November 6, 1852
I know these things by the words of Jesus.
The Angel of Desolation will hear the wicked
And stop their hearts,
Yea their evil hearts.
But to those who hear the anointed one
Know the words of one mighty and strong.
This was seriously weird stuff. She needed to show it to Beth. She’d know what to do.
In front of me, a wall of glass overlooked Lake Washington. Across the alley, convention center windows showed an ocean of people slowly wandering, forming eddies, waving to each other, and pausing to point at my reconstruction mounted on a display stand.
The bomb.
I jumped to my feet, raced to the glass, and pounded with my fists. “Get away! It’s a bomb!”
“They can’t hear you. Or see you. That’s one-way glass.”
I stopped pounding and faced Mike. My gaze dropped to the black object. A hot flash surged up my neck.
“I can see the light of understanding on your face, Gwen. Yes, a detonator. One you handled, covered with your fingerprints. You’ll be the one blamed for the bombing. Your name will be right up there with Timothy McVeigh and Osama bin Laden.”
The bomb would kill hundreds, if not thousands, and blow out the side of the building. The force of the blast would destroy the glass wall in front of me. They’d find me in the rubble, along with the detonator.
But if that were the case . . . in order for that plan to work . . . my body couldn’t have bullet holes in it.
A glimmer of hope seeped into my brain. Maybe I could reason with him, delay him if he had a timetable.
He shifted slightly and readjusted his earpiece. His impeccably cut navy suit, starched white shirt, and maroon tie screamed FBI.
“Won’t the other agents be suspicious? You did arrange for the reconstruction to be put on display.”
“Larry did. He’s in no position to point a finger.”
What about his other identity? “You don’t want to kill all those people. You’re a member of the remnant. Maybe a prophet.” I stumbled over the word prophet.
He lifted his chin slightly. “Not a prophet. I’m the prophet.”
“The prophet? I thought Adam was the leader.”
“I am.”
“You?”
“My full name is Adam Michael Brown.”
The blood drained from my face, leaving me faint. I put out my arms to steady myself. He’d been there all along. Mary Allen’s murder. Then George. Ethan Scott. “So you cut off George’s hand?” I stared at him.
He waved his arm as if swatting at a fly.
“You shot Dave,” I said softly. He’d been in the mountains, surrounding the old men. He’d started the shootout. He’d transported me to Zion. “Why are you doing all this?”
“I’m fulfilling the prophecy. Joseph’s name being, ‘had for good and evil among all nations, kindreds, and tongues.’ ” Mike’s voice rose. “The gospel was returned, and the keys restored, but the church has fallen away, as the scriptures stated. You were there. You saw Zion gathered and flourishing upon the hills. They await the cleansing. They have brought their rich treasures to the children of Ephraim.”
I pictured the huge food storage buildings in Zion. “All those families coming together in one place?”
Mike nodded. “ ‘For behold, the day cometh that shall burn as an oven, and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly shall burn as stubble; for they that come shall burn them, saith the Lord of Hosts, that it shall leave them neither root nor branch.’ ”
My skin prickled across my shoulders. “Burn? What—”
“Before the Lord destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, He removed Lot and his family.”
I looked at the reconstruction across the street. “And this is your idea of God’s destruction?”
“ ‘Fear God and give glory to Him; for the hour of His judgment is come.’ ”
I pointed. “But you created that bomb!”
He shrugged.
“And all this is in preparation for . . . ?”
He opened his arms to form a cross and chuckled. “The second coming of Christ, of course.”
The hairs on my arms stood. “You figure blowing up a bunch of innocent people will send an invitation to Christ? Hey, Jesus, come ooon down!”
“ ‘The destruction of the wicked. Christ will rule with His holy priesthood for the millennium.’ ” The words were memorized, delivered in a sing-song voice. He gave me a sardonic grin.
“You don’t believe any of it, do you?” I said slowly.
“No. But they do.” Mike waved one hand in the air. “They are truly sheep in need of a shepherd.” He leaned against the wall. “Do you know how wealthy the Mormon Church is?”
My face felt numb, my mouth unable to form words.
“They rake in billions. Every year,” he whispered, then glanced at his watch. “I’ve enjoyed our little chitchat, but it’s almost time—”
“Time for what?”
“In two minutes, I’ll call in a bomb threat in a parked car. The police will use dogs to sweep the cars. I, of course, have been in charge of security arrangements—”
“Ah. Perfect. Who knows better about—”
“—safety than a domestic terrorism expert?”
I was going to say, “Fanaticism than a crazy megalomaniac,” but changed my mind. Who knew what kind of response I’d get if I poked at his obsessions.
“I made sure at least one of the bomb dogs was cross-trained for drugs,” he continued. “Then placed marijuana in a van. The dog will respond. Security measures implemented.”
“The vice president has Secret Service agents. They’ll pull her out—”
“That’s why this is a perfect location. Essentially a deadend street. Water on one side. They’ll conclude the safest place will be in the conference center for now.”
“Snipers posted on the roofs—”
“Ah, yes. A good time to be politically correct, don’t you think? Snipers aren’t friendly. Their appearance wouldn’t look good at a peace gathering.” He checked off on his fingers. “Threat noted. Lockdown on the conference. No one in, no one out. Call in the bomb unit. Before they can figure out it’s nothing more than a bag of marijuana, time will be up. On the hour, boom!”
“But what will mass murder achieve?”
Instead of answering, he studied the peach fuzz on my head. “Everything always works out for the best.” Mike leveled the pistol at my midsection. “I never lose.” He leisurely pulled a pen out of a breast pocket, then leaned over and used the pen to click a button on top of the detonator. He straightened, then backed from the room, closing the door between us.
I charged to the door and turned the knob. Locked.
The detonator, a black box the size of a deck of cards, now flashed with a digital readout of glowing crimson numbers rapidly winding down.
A hot flash raced up my throat and burned my face. Sweat dampened my shirt. I turned. My gaze darted from the detonator to the bomb across the street. After wiping my hands on my pants, I gingerly reached for the mechanism.
What if my touching it sets off the bomb?
I froze.
He had it in his pocket. If it were motion activated, it would have gone off already.
Gently lifting the object, I turned it over in my hand. On the back was a screw-down cover over a battery compartment. If I had the right tool, I could open it and remove the batteries.
But it could be booby-trapped. Set to go off if I tampered with it.
The red numbers counted down. 20:00 . . . 19:59 . . . 19:58 .
. .
Aynslee tucked the book into her backpack and headed for the hotel entrance. She’d drop off Winston in their room, then find Beth.
Sirens in the distance grew louder. Winston perked up his ears. She stopped. Two police cars roared past, lights and sirens blaring, then stopped in front of her and blocked the street. A uniformed officer jumped out and held up his hand. “Sorry. Road closed.”
“Why?”
“Bomb threat.”
“But my friend’s at the conference—”
“You have to stay away until we’ve cleared the area.”
Cops are all pigs. She’d find another way in. She trotted up the block, then turned right. She was out of sight of the cop. She could go through the hotel from the parking garage. A metal fence with horizontal bars enclosed the garage, with the floor a six-foot drop below. Aynslee slowly scanned the vehicles next to the wall until she found what she was looking for: a pickup truck parked backward.
She slipped through the bars and jumped, landing lightly on the metal surface. Winston hesitated, then followed, causing the truck to bounce with his weight. After unlatching the tailgate, she leaped to the concrete floor, Winston hot on her heels.
Red, white, and blue strobes alternately lit up the walls.
She sucked in a big breath of air. Okay, get going.
Hunched below the line of cars and trucks, she worked her way to the side of the building nearest the conference center. The wall was lower on this side, barely three feet high. She’d almost made it when Winston jerked to a stop and raised his tail on alert. She gazed in the same direction he was looking and spotted the dog.
A black German shepherd. At the other end of the leash was a cop.
Aynslee crouched and waited until the dog and cop moved away, then crept to the wall and peeked. Up the street to her right was a second bomb dog, a yellow lab. The dog was sniffing a van. Suddenly the dog sat.
Aynslee knew what that meant.
The dog had found the bomb.
The sound of distant sirens penetrated my brain. Police. Mike’s plan had gone into effect. I ran to the glass. Whatever was happening, I couldn’t see it from my angle. I banged and screamed, but no one was looking in my direction.
A Cry from the Dust Page 26
