Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  Blandings rose, his gray toupee slightly crooked on his head. “Be patient, Hannibal, and have faith in the Prophet, as you do in the Lord.”

  Caine walked him to the door. “By the way, you may have a new man for your special projects group soon.”

  “That kid that took the goat?”

  Caine nodded. “Justin Martin. Very smart, very ambitious. I’ve given him a test. If he passes it, I’ll send him to you.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “Yes,” Caine said. “He doesn’t want his parents to find out about the goat. He dissected it. Says he wants to be a doctor.”

  Eldo Blandings laughed. “Speaking of the Committee, I have a special project meeting to chair in a few minutes.”

  “The whore’s theater?” Caine raised his eyebrows.

  “Just going to throw a little fear of God into those devil-loving actors.” Blandings’s dishwater eyes nearly twinkled. “Care to join us?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things.” The theater project was purely Blandings’s baby: He thought all male actors were homosexual, and the passion of his hatred told Caine chapters about his fellow Elder. At first Caine had gently tried to talk him out of it, but Eldo had promised to keep it mild—a little paint was all—and after the UFO sightings, it seemed somehow more fitting. Also, Caine looked forward to springing his little surprise on Eldo and his merry band.

  “Okay, then, I’ll see you later.” He paused. “There’s someone else who deserves some censuring, too.”

  “There is?” Caine asked lightly. Blandings felt that anyone who looked at him sideways deserved retribution.

  “General manager of the park, tall man in cowboy clothes.” Eldo’s eyes were pinpricks of hatred. “He kicked us out and went out of his way to humiliate me. In front of my people.”

  Caine nodded. “We’ll discuss it later, Eldo.”

  Blandings started to leave, then turned back. “Remember, Hannibal, have faith in Prophet Sinclair.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Closing the door, Caine crossed to a cherry wood hutch, opened the inlaid glass doors, and withdrew a crystal decanter of brandy and a snifter. He poured more than a connoisseur would consider proper, then took the snifter to his creamy leather couch and sat down with a sigh.

  As soon as he’d heard that Sinclair wasn’t going to tape his sermon but give it live tonight, he’d gone to talk to the Prophet. But Sinclair wouldn’t see him, telling him they would speak in an hour in his office. Caine waited impatiently and when he was finally buzzed in, he was shocked to see James Robert Sinclair sitting behind his desk in trousers and a white button-down shirt without a jacket or tie. Sinclair never appeared in public wearing less than a full suit, even on the hottest August day.

  Even more shocking, the ponytail he kept hidden was outside his shirt.

  “James, your hair . . .” The words escaped before he could stop them.

  Sinclair only smiled. “I thought my hair was a vanity, Hannibal. But I’ve come to realize that my true vanity is in hiding it to maintain the proper image.”

  Caine could find no answer to that. Finally he spoke. “May I ask why you’re doing the broadcast live?”

  “I’ve seen God, Hannibal.” Sinclair, the ultimate actor, spoke with the voice of serenity. “And He has spoken to me.”

  “James, what did He say to you?”

  “He gave me news.”

  “What news?”

  “Joyous news, but that’s all I will say for now.” Sinclair smiled. “Rejoice, Hannibal. We are saved.”

  Caine nodded and excused himself, his gut as cold as ice.

  And now, despite the warm brandy in his belly, he felt another chill. He had been certain, certain, that Sinclair was going to disappear on the day of the Apocalypse. All of Caine’s own plans hinged on it.

  But now he saw that Sinclair either was insane or, more likely, had decided to further milk his ministry. He was going to cancel the Apocalypse with his “joyous news.” And that would ruin Caine’s plans. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Hannibal finished his brandy and poured a little more. Maybe Sinclair wasn’t tired of playing at religion, but he was tired of living in his shadow. Once he was sure that Sinclair was veering off his path, then he would take action.

  The world of Jim-Bob Sinclair was going to end, all right. Of that, Hannibal Caine had no doubt, because he intended to see that it happened.

  48

  Alexandra Manderley

  AT DUSK ALEXANDRA MANDERLEY PASSED THROUGH THE OPEN wrought-iron gates of El Dorado Ranch Road and drove the narrow mile-long private road to Tom Abernathy’s sprawling Spanish-style ranch house, cream-colored stucco with an adobe tile roof. The courtyard was enclosed by stuccoed pillars holding black iron fencing, and as she opened the gate and walked under the arch into the patio, she felt as if she were in the dry, hot desert no longer. The front courtyard was paved with flagstone and lined with potted palms and cacti. Low round adobe bowls filled with yellow and orange marigolds lined the walkway to the house.

  She stepped onto the veranda and rang the bell beside the carved wooden door, feeling guilty for leaving Eric behind; feeling guilty for being here at all.

  After the sighting at Olive Mesa, the pair had headed back down to the Old Madelyn Campground, where they took much-needed showers at the campground’s central facility. After that, refreshed, they drove to the new campsite and set up, or rather Eric did while she busied herself cleaning the equipment. Finally, leaving the cellular phone with Eric, she made him promise to call her if he spotted anything unusual overhead, and told him she’d be back by ten.

  “Why, howdy, Doc. Come on in.” Tom Abernathy pulled the door wide and stepped back, gesturing her inside. As always, he looked like a cowboy, in boots, jeans, and a light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up in deference to the balmy night.

  “What a beautiful home.” The sunken living room was open and airy with gleaming hardwood floors and Navajo rugs, while the white rough-textured walls were decorated with western art and native weavings that went perfectly with the heavy leather and wood furniture. An arched fireplace took up most of one wall. At the rear of the room, wagon-wheel-style railings separated this room from the rest of the house.

  “Everyone’s in back.” Tom hung her jacket on an old-fashioned bentwood coatrack and led her up the steps past the walkway, through an archway, and down a short hall lined with Remington prints. Despite the thick walls, she finally heard voices and a few guitar chords. Nervously she followed Tom around a corner, and found herself in a huge room with another fireplace, full of people and the heavenly odor of mesquite and ribs. Nearby, a long buffet table held covered dishes, some nestled in ice, others on warming trays. A stack of thick cobalt blue plates sat near a large empty expanse at one end, and at the other were condiments, utensils, napkins, a coffeepot, and an ice-filled cooler loaded with sodas, bottled waters, and beer.

  Tom nodded at a small dark man in jeans and a bleached denim shirt who sat by the fireplace brushing sauce on a rotating spit of ribs. “We turned the fireplace into the kind you can cook in because it’s just too dang hot here come summer to cook outside.”

  “It’s nice out now,” Alex said, glad no one had noticed their entrance. Sliding glass doors were wide open on a rear courtyard, this one lit with luminaria-style paper lanterns strung amidst a plethora of greenery. Small candlelit iron and glass tables with matching chairs were grouped close together under a redwood lattice woven with philodendron, and a tiered tile fountain bubbled invitingly nearby.

  “It’ll get cold in an hour or so,” Tom said. He pointed at the courtyard. “Plants like it better if we cook in here and eat out there. They don’t much care for the smoke, but they like the company.”

  Alex smiled at him. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Abernathy.”

  “Just Tom. Let me introduce you around, Doc.”

  “Alex,” she murmured as he took her arm and led he
r toward a conversation area at the far end of the room. Several easy chairs and a sectional couch were gathered around a bark-edged coffee table obviously hewn from a single huge tree. Tom saw her looking at it. “It’s better’n a century old. I didn’t kill any giant redwoods, don’t worry.”

  On the wall facing the conversation pit stood a massive oak entertainment center, which held a twenty-five-inch television, turned off, a stereo, and, behind the glass-front cabinets, row after row of videotapes, mostly westerns like Broken Arrow, El Dorado, and High Noon.

  “Folks,” Tom was saying to the people on the couch, “this here’s Dr. Alex Manderley. She’s here studying our UFOs.”

  At Tom’s voice, the two people on the couch turned around. One of them was Moss Baskerville. He rose, along with a copper-haired woman whose sleeveless cotton shirt revealed a number of colorful tattoos. “Cassie,” the cop said, “this is the lady I thought was my new officer.”

  The willowy redhead grinned at her. “Pleased to meet you.” She poked Baskerville’s ribs companionably. “I’m glad you were wrong, Moss.” She stuck out her hand and shook Alex’s with a firm dry grip. “That’s Eve, over there with Davy,” she said, pointing at a little blond girl who had joined the man basting the ribs.

  Tom next introduced her to Michael Corey, a pleasant, timid-looking young priest who was picking “Home on the Range” out on a guitar, to Ray Vine, whose deep voice was just as commanding now as it had been when he’d told the truckers in the diner to back off, and his wife, Rosie, who had a pleasant open face and a marvelous laugh. At last he came to Davy Styles.

  “Ma’am,” Davy said, rising. His straight black hair was thick and brushed the back of his shirt collar. High cheekbones and a square jaw told her his heritage.

  “Alex,” she said. “Are you Cherokee?”

  The serious face split into a dimpled grin that made him look very young. “You’re only the second person to guess right the first time.”

  “I was the first,” Tom said proudly. He glanced at his watch. “A few more ought to be showing up any minute now. You might’ve met a couple of them already.”

  Immediately she thought of Carlo Pelegrine, and a little thrill of pleasure and fear coursed through her. Just then the door chimes rang. “Excuse me a minute.”

  49

  Tom Abernathy

  “I HOPE I’M NOT LATE, COWBOY.”

  Marie Lopez’s smile made the evening complete for Tom Abernathy. “Not at all. Davy’s still working on the ribs.” He hadn’t seen her since breakfast this morning, but it seemed much longer than that, and he had to control his urge to grab her up and give her a squeeze. As she passed him he caught a whiff of her; no lanolin tonight, only the clean scent of shampoo and a delicate flowery fragrance that reminded him of the star jasmine blooming in his back courtyard.

  “My goodness, Marie, look at you! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before.”

  She twirled, showing off the flowing turquoise dress belted with a striped sash. A teardrop of turquoise on a silver neck chain nestled just where Tom wished to do the same. “My aunt sent it to me for my birthday. Is it too much?” She began to look embarrassed. “Maybe I should go home and change.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s prettier than sunrise.” He paused, admiring her. “You never mentioned your birthday before.”

  She shook her head and smiled. “Everybody has them.”

  “When’s yours?”

  “I’m not gonna tell you, Tom, because I don’t want any fuss.”

  He grinned back. “Then how old are you?”

  She punched him in the arm, fairly gently. “I thought you were a gentleman, cowboy.”

  “I thought liberated women didn’t mind telling their ages.”

  “Touché. Let’s just put it this way: Aunt Carmen also sent a note saying that I was getting too old to be single and I should use this outfit to catch a man’s eye.” She hesitated, and even in the dim light, Tom caught her blush. “Aunt Carmen’s old-fashioned,” she added quickly, “and my legs are cold in this getup. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  Marie turned and made for the door, but Tom caught her elbow, turning her toward him. “Don’t leave, Marie,” he said softly, “please?” Amazed, he watched himself reach out and take her other hand. “That dress is real pretty, but you don’t need it to attract a man.”

  “What are you saying, Tom?” she asked, staring at their joined hands.

  His stomach did a flip-flop. He was more than a foot taller than her, and he wished he could see her eyes instead of her glossy dark hair. Hell, he might’ve even kissed her if she’d been in easy reach. “I’m just saying . . . well, what I mean is—”

  “Tom?” Alex Manderley hesitated in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  Tom and Marie let their hands drop. “No problem, Doc. What can I do for you?”

  She stepped forward. “I just wondered if it would be all right if I called Eric and left your number with him.”

  “Of course.” He pointed her in the direction of the kitchen. “Nearest phone’s right through there.”

  “Who’s that?” Marie asked after Alex disappeared.

  “Alex Manderley. She’s the UFO researcher I was telling you about.” He paused. “You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to tell her about the missing sheep. She’d be interested.”

  “Don’t start again, cowboy. I don’t care to be written up in some book or something.” She gestured down at her outfit. “I’ve already made a big enough fool of myself as it is.”

  “Marie, I—” But the moment was gone. “You’re as far from fool as I’ve ever seen,” he finished weakly.

  “Thanks.” She fixed him with a look. “Not a word about the sheep. Promise.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  Finally, assuaged, she gave him a little bitty smile. “The smell of Davy’s cooking’s making my mouth water. Let’s go take a look.”

  Tom followed her into the den, feeling just a little shaky. He didn’t know why he was so sure Marie would turn him down if he declared himself; after all, he’d never had trouble of that nature back in his youth. Maybe, he thought as he watched her go up to Davy and exchange hugs, it was because he’d never fallen in love before.

  Marie moved through the room hugging everyone hello; Cassie, Moss, Eve, Mike Corey. He was the only one she never hugged, but then again, he wasn’t the huggy type, and maybe she realized that and was just respecting his style. The way she hadn’t drawn away when he took her hand, though, made him hope it was possible she was timid around him for the same reason he was shy with her.

  50

  Carlo Pelegrine

  THE SCIENTIFIC NAME WAS DORAPHILIA, A TERM THAT CARLO Pelegrine thought sounded more like a preoccupation with women of a certain name than a fetish for skin.

  Carlo stood under the shower’s hot spray, scrubbing his own skin with a soapy loofah. He’d had a last-minute appointment with Ann Quigley, a frail, middle-aged resident of New Madelyn. She was a sweet woman who had had an unbearably sad life, and when she called, Carlo couldn’t turn her down, even though it meant he’d be late for Tom’s barbecue. All Ann wanted was a little sympathy from someone who would listen to her and reassure her that she hadn’t been a bad wife because her husband had died of a heart attack ten years before, or that she hadn’t been a bad mother because one of her children drowned in a neighbor’s pool shortly thereafter, or because her other had been killed last year by a hit-and-run driver. Then there were the dogs. Having lost her family, she lost one cocker spaniel after another. Some disappeared, others met with accidents. The woman was so full of guilt, yet she was guiltless.

  He had sat with her in his reading room for over an hour, listening, comforting, finally reading her palm. Rinsing the shampoo from his hair, he thought about her skin. It was very light and fine-pored with a light sprinkling of freckles. She had a scar like a crescent moon on one index finger that fascinated him.
When he asked her about it, she told him that when she was ten, she and her best friend used a jackknife to cut themselves so that they could become blood sisters. So romantic in its way. Nostalgic. That was something one couldn’t do anymore. He’d run his own finger over the scar once more than he should have, and still felt guilty for it.

  He turned off the shower and stepped out onto a terry bath mat, then began drying with a thick white towel. He rubbed hard, just as he scrubbed hard, a neurotic habit that had begun after the murders twenty years ago. In the first years, he’d had something of a hand-washing compulsion, but recognizing it helped him overcome it. Now he was merely a little obsessive about cleanliness in general, and that, he could live with.

  He tossed the towel in the hamper, then padded into his bedroom to dress in the clothes he’d already laid out. His choice of clothing amused him because it harkened back to his Brooklyn youth: tight jeans over ankle-high black boots, a white long-sleeved shirt, and a black leather bomber jacket. It was close enough to what everyone else wore to allow him to fit in, but personal enough to make him comfortable.

  He buttoned the shirt up to the neck, as he always did, to prevent his chest hair from showing. He rarely looked at himself shirtless because he disliked the hair: It detracted from his skin. At least there wasn’t any on his back. There his light olive skin was as smooth as it had been before he hit puberty.

  As far as Carlo Pelegrine knew, he had been born with his skin fetish. Try as he might, he could find no psychological cause, though he had no doubt one existed. But the obvious one, that he hadn’t been touched or cuddled enough as a child, was certainly not the problem: His entire family hugged and kissed one another in totally normal, familial ways.

  He had been no different. Little Charles Pilgrim, named for his grandfather (who had been Carlo Pellegrino before coming to America), had hugged and kissed his mother and father, roughhoused with his brother and friends. But then he began to sense something about himself, some difference between him and his family and friends.