Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  She entered and he followed, the entry bells jingling as the door closed behind them. “This is a lovely shop.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It smells delightful.”

  “Simmering potpourri. I make it with orange peels, cloves, and cinnamon sticks.”

  “Do you sell it?”

  “Actually, no. It all comes from the market.”

  “Fresh peels, then?”

  “Sure, why not? This way I get my vitamin C and my potpourri.”

  “You’re a practical man.” Her smile lit up the room. “I like that.” She hesitated, and the smile disappeared. “I’m running a little late. Perhaps I should come back another day.”

  “Well, at least tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll try to find it for you.”

  She nodded and sucked her lower lip into her mouth for an instant. Carlo realized she was as nervous as a cat. As nervous as I am.

  “I was hoping to find something on paranormal phenomena in the Mojave.”

  “Hauntings?”

  “I’d be more interested in physical anomalies. Geological oddities, magnetics, UFOs.” She slipped that last one in like a little boy trying to buy condoms. “Things of that nature.”

  “I believe I have several items here that might interest you.” He started toward one wall of books, but she stopped him instantly by laying her hand on his arm for a brief instant.

  “I can stop in tomorrow for them,” she said, heading for the door. “Or I might send my assistant. He’s a tall young man with red hair.”

  “Very well. I’ll put them aside for you. You can look through them and see which you want.” He hoped that would cause her to return in person.

  “Thank you, Mr. . . .”

  “Carlo Pelegrine. At your service.”

  The door closed behind her, and Carlo just stood there staring at it. Finally he slapped his forehead. “At your service?” he asked aloud. “At your service?” That was something you heard in movies fifty years old, something you said to clients like the Katz sisters, but definitely not something you said to a woman like Dr.—Dr. who? He didn’t even know her name, couldn’t even recall if she’d told him.

  He went to the door, turned the latch and the open sign to closed, then retreated to his reading room. In the last twelve hours or so, he’d begun to lose control of his life. Last night there was the skinned rabbit hanging on the door. It had to be a coincidence, but he couldn’t report it, couldn’t take the chance. He’d have to wait and see what happened next, and if it wasn’t an isolated incident, he’d have to deal with it.

  Perhaps his anxiety over that had contributed to the woman doctor’s effect on him. He had vowed never to touch female flesh—other than hands—again, yet here he was making a fool of himself, stammering, staring, and wishing his pants had pleats.

  Long ago he promised God his celibacy, but he no longer prayed. Instead, he drew his personal tarot deck, a gold-filigreed design with figures from the Italian Renaissance, from a cubby in the rolltop desk and absently shuffled them. He didn’t believe in spirits or guides or any of that nonsense, but he did believe in stimulating the subconscious with the images, and he also was forced to believe, because he’d seen it work so many times. He knew a reading shouldn’t make sense, but it usually did, and the more important the question, the stronger the answer.

  He continued to shuffle. There were cards that turned up all the time, both major and minor arcana. And there were cards that rarely turned up. When they did, it meant something. Synchronicity.

  Instead of using the King of Swords as his significator—he didn’t feel very kingly right now—he spread the deck out on the table and chose a card at random. He turned it over. The Hanged Man: sacrifice and idealism. Martyrdom. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled up as the image of the skinned rabbit flashed in his mind. Still, being represented as the Hanged Man was not usually considered a terrible thing. He chose another and placed it over the significator. “Hmmm.” The High Priestess covered him and meant that he was surrounded by a very strong feminine force, a guardian who brought strength and hope through her revelations. Some card readers described her as the woman all men see when they are in love. All Carlo could think of was the dark and beautiful woman he met today. Since he couldn’t get involved with a woman, this might be a forewarning of some kind, a caution not to be party to her influence.

  The third card, the influence that would cross his path, was the Devil—lust for power, bondage, evil. “Great, just great.”

  The next card he turned was one that signified the basis of his question, and told him what his subconscious was really trying to learn.

  It was the Tower, the most terrible card in the deck. Its meaning was catastrophe, usually physical and spiritual, and old-time readers usually interpreted it as having supernatural powers.

  The card of the recent past was the Fool, and self-explanatory. The card that crowned him was Death, and gave him another chill: It might be literal but usually only meant the death of a way of life. He didn’t care for it either way.

  The card of the near future was the Knight of Swords, reversed. It signified a young man, fierce but with little real power, who can cause great harm.

  Carlo stared at the cards, wondering who the young man was and if the High Priestess was his enemy also. Before he could throw another, he was saved by the rear doorbell. Someone rang it and yelled, “UPS.”

  “Coming!” He quickly turned the cards over and pushed them into the deck. It was time to get back to the real world.

  25

  James Robert Sinclair

  JAMES ROBERT SINCLAIR STEEPLED HIS FINGERS AND STARED down the rectangular meeting table at his top aides. The long meeting, mostly concerned with mundanities, was finally starting to wrap up. Elder Hannibal Caine sat to his right, along with Senior Apostles George Allbright and Lorraine Ferguson. Eldo Blandings was seated to his left, as were the two other Senior Apostles, Steve Clayman and Albert Cramer. They were all long-time and loyal followers, though Sinclair had been a bit uneasy about Eldo lately; he reminded him of a gun ready to go off. Sinclair had spoken to Hannibal about it, but his other Elder didn’t think it was anything to worry about, and he was no doubt correct.

  “My friends, before we adjourn, I do have one distasteful bit of business to discuss,” Sinclair said. “I hesitate to even bring this up, but I think it needs to be mentioned. I had a call from Madelyn’s chief of police concerning some acts of vandalism that occurred yesterday. A goat was killed, and a mailbox belonging to the goat’s owner was defaced. Also, sometime last night the Catholic church in the park was broken into and major damage was done.”

  “Why are they calling us about it?” Lorraine Ferguson asked.

  “The graffiti was religious. Six-six-sixes were painted in the church and on the mailbox.”

  “So they automatically ask us about it,” Eldo Blandings grumbled. “Why don’t they ask the damn Catholics? They probably did it themselves.”

  Sinclair smiled gently and shook his head. “I doubt that, Eldo.”

  “Are the police accusing us of vandalism?” Hannibal Caine asked in a disbelieving tone. The others’ expressions mirrored Hannibal’s righteous indignation.

  “We haven’t been accused of anything.” He searched the faces of his aides, letting his gaze come to rest on Eldo. “Do any of you know of any reason we might be accused?”

  There were a murmur of no’s, including Eldo’s. Then the old man cleared his throat. “James Robert, we all know that the Catholics are no better than devil worshipers. And the devil wants to subvert our mission. That papist Corey and his followers are doing the devil’s work.”

  Sinclair studied Blandings. Was the man really losing it, or was he just twisting Sinclair’s own words to fit his own narrow views? “We are fortunate,” Sinclair said finally, “in that we have found the one true path, and it’s our job to help others find the way, not condemn them for their past.”

 
Blandings kept his eyes lowered. “Yes, of course.” He looked up then. “In the last days there shall be war,” he quoted, his tone almost hopeful.

  Sinclair nodded. “And that’s why we have an armory.” Thoughtfully he looked around the room. “Perhaps Eldo sees something we’ve overlooked. We are in the last days. The very last, and now the police are asking us about these crimes. Perhaps it is beginning.”

  He shook his head. “Your prophet can be blind at times. I thought we might avoid violence, at least until the day the Horsemen ride, but it seems I am wrong.”

  “It’s a noble hope,” Hannibal said.

  “You’re a kind man. If any of you hear of any more incidents, please notify me immediately.”

  “Are you thinking of arming the guards?” Eldo asked.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Eldo Blandings smiled, and Sinclair knew that he hungered for the violence.

  “That’s all for now, everyone.” Sinclair rose. “Tomorrow at two, we’ll convene again.”

  Sinclair watched them file out, and wondered again about Eldo Blandings. The man was an old soldier, one who had led men into battle. He took a hard line and understood the art of strategy, which was why Sinclair had chosen him as an Elder in the first place. The man’s loyalty to the Apostles was fierce, and although he was extremely prejudiced against anyone or anything that didn’t agree with him, Sinclair thought he had enough common sense not to perform acts of vandalism, even if he applauded them.

  The preacher smoothed his navy pinstripe jacket and straightened his red tie, then clasped his hands loosely behind his back and walked away from the table. The conference room’s walls were decorated with framed photographs showing the history of the Apostles, and Sinclair never tired of looking at them.

  The earliest showed him, a youth of twenty-four, preaching at one of his first tent meetings. His arms were raised, his smile brilliant, eyes fiery. The sight of the tacky white suit made Sinclair wince a little now, but it was part of the circus atmosphere back then. The tent was filled with the first faithful, some of whom now lived here at the compound, like Eldo and Hannibal and two of the Senior Apostles, Albert Cramer and George Allbright. Some were still members, others had gone searching for something else.

  Today the Church of the Prophet’s Apostles boasted two million dues-paying members, though only three hundred lived at the compound. These, the most faithful, were the ones who ran his booming audiotape and publishing businesses, and performed a vast array of office and clerical work required to keep the church going and growing. They donated their time in return for room, board, enlightenment, and the knowledge that they would be the masters of heaven when the Apocalypse came. They knew this because the Prophet had told them so.

  Sinclair turned away from the photo, a headache starting to tighten in a band around his head. He had chosen the date of the Apocalypse over a decade ago: May 5, on the day of the last full eclipse of the sun visible in this region in the twentieth century. When he established his church and compound shortly thereafter, he told the faithful it was because the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would ride down Thunder Road. The truth was, his funds were modest, the land dirt-cheap, and he knew the remote location would serve him well because he intended to make the most of his fortune through the mail-order business.

  The first years were hard, but not too hard. Sinclair had gone out of his way to attract the people who could help get his compound built. He had an architect, plus several other Apostles versed in different phases of the construction business. Under the professionals’ direction, the Apostles carried out the work, and very little had to be hired out or paid for outright.

  While the compound was under construction, Sinclair held many tent meetings in the West and Southwest, giving the people what they wanted to hear and, in return, fueling the building fund. At first, everyone lived in temporary structures, tents and discards from California school districts acquired at auction for a song. For a sermon, he amended. After the church was completed, a huge second structure was built behind the church. Known as the Fellowship House, it contained a cafeteria, utility rooms, schoolrooms, gym, and infirmary.

  It adjoined the church via underground passages. In fact, the church’s basement was not only accessible from Sinclair’s private office and living quarters, but also held entrances to a honeycomb of passages built beneath the compound. Some led out into the desert. The biggest—an actual road—led into an underground garage where several jeeps and an old army tank—in working order thanks to old army man Eldo Blandings and his band of mechanics—were stored. This, in turn, was adjacent to the underground armory, where an impressive collection of large and small arms and various incendiary devices was stored. These were, in Sinclair’s mind, insurance against attack by angry outsiders, and although he had, in the past, preached the kind of aggressive missionary work Eldo preferred, he had gradually ceased talking about actual physical battles.

  When he had sermonized about battles, the fire in the eyes of the faithful had shocked him, and at those moments, he had felt true power because he knew his followers would wipe out Madelyn, and more, if he gave the order. For the same reason, he felt fear, especially since the Waco incident.

  And so he had played down the Christian soldier angle, although he reluctantly continued to sanction arms training as well as keep a heavy guard on the compound because he recognized that doing so was common sense.

  Back in the early years, it had all seemed grand and glorious, from the weapons to the sparkling white cross topping the church. At night it blazed with white light—they called it God’s Beacon. He’d had a hard time coming up with an original form that wasn’t too original, but he’d finally used a traditional crucifix, then added two more short arms crossed diagonally so that the upper portion was more starburst than Christian. Theirs was not a cross-of crucifixion, he told his flock, but of rebirth. It represented the new Star of Bethlehem, and it would shine across the desert as a beacon for the Horsemen and to announce the return of the Living Savior on the Day of Reckoning.

  Which would be this Sunday. “So soon,” he murmured.

  Eight years ago, when the last buildings, the dormitories, were completed, his prophesied Armageddon had seemed an eternity away. In those years, when compound residency grew from twenty-five to two hundred and finally to today’s three hundred, he had looked forward to the day he could leave this desert prison behind.

  Under another identity, he acquired a large portion of a tiny island in the Caribbean five years ago and, in that time, had a home built and furnished. Not even his Elder Apostles knew that on the day of the Apocalypse he planned to depart the compound via a long passage that ran directly from the bedroom of his luxurious apartment within the church, north to Olive Mesa. They didn’t even know the passage existed: He had brought in outside labor. It was a mile-long tunnel, simple and low, but just within the opening was a storage space that held a small electric-powered cart that would take him to Olive Mesa. He smiled. To be reborn.

  An old jeep was stored in a hidden garage on the north side, and it was the reason he had instituted his morning meditations—twice a week he traveled out to keep the vehicle in running order.

  When the Horsemen were supposed to ride, only Sinclair would be taking a trip. He would drive across an old trail that ran east behind the Madelyn Mountains until it joined with Highway 127 near the California-Nevada border. From there he would return to Interstate 15 and travel on to Las Vegas, hop a flight, and be on the first leg of his journey to his island paradise.

  He looked forward to his tropical retirement, though not with the zest he once did. His own sentimentality amused him: He’d grown fond of his church and many of the people in it. He would miss giving the sermons, miss the counseling sessions he held.

  He’d changed over the last ten years, there was no doubt about that, and though it amused him, it troubled him as well. He had always possessed the gift of appearing concerned, even empathetic
, as well as the glibness to dispense advice, but it used to mean nothing: It was just part of the act. But in the last year or two, he’d actually developed some interest in the things he heard. He’d developed a weakness: He’d come to care about these people, whereas he once thought of them as nothing more than mindless sheep.

  You’re developing a conscience, my friend, and that’s not healthy in your line of work. At least he felt no guilt. People who followed, followed, and if it wasn’t he who led them, it would be someone else. At least I give them something for their money. Perhaps, after all, there was a hint of guilt, a bit of remorse.

  But he wouldn’t leave the church destitute after the Apocalypse. Hannibal Caine would inherit control of the organization and would have to explain that the date of the Apocalypse had been wrongly prophesied. Although he didn’t have Sinclair’s charisma, he had the business sense to keep the ball rolling, and Sinclair was leaving plenty in the church accounts to keep the compound running, its people fed and clothed.

  It was something he had never intended to do. What did he care about a group of neurotic, grasping people who couldn’t think for themselves?

  But over time, the actor had taken on a few of the traits of his character. First he stopped letting women followers seduce him. Now, as humiliating as it was for him to admit, sometimes he felt like he had a paternal obligation to watch over his flock. “You’re getting out just in time,” he murmured to himself. “Just in time.”

  26

  Alexandra Manderley

  DURING THE DAY, ERIC WATSON HAD SET UP A CAMPSITE FOR A king, then at dusk, prepared a meal that tasted fit for one as well. Using the groceries Alex brought back from the market, he had roasted foil-wrapped potatoes and fresh corn on the cob to go with the pair of tenderloins he’d grilled to perfection.

  A little later, as they’d sat roasting marshmallows over the glowing embers of the fire, they heard a car pull to a stop up at the roadside, and a minute later, Justin Martin walked into their camp. He said he was on his way to a youth fellowship group at the Church of the Prophet’s Apostles and that he’d just stopped by to make sure that everything was going well. Alex thought he was a nice boy, though Eric sat back behind the firelight and watched him, saying very little.