Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  He swung the Mustang around and cruised back to Cassie Halloway’s with his lights out. He passed the house and pulled the Mustang to a stop behind some mesquite bushes that partially hid the vehicle.

  Tugging on a pair of latex gloves, he grabbed a knapsack containing the items he would need, then locked the car and pocketed his keys. Everything remained quiet and dark. Pleased, he trotted across the road, then down to Halloway’s front door, and opened the screen, letting it rest against his back.

  He used his Swiss Army knife to pry the lid off a pint of red paint. This junk was a pain in the ass, and he’d wanted to use spray paint, but Caine, rightly, had told him that the police would write off the graffiti to high school punks if he did.

  He placed the paint lid on a paper towel, then wiped his knife off and slipped it back in his pocket. Finally he dipped a brush in the paint and slapped “666” down the door, one giant dripping “6” in each of the three panels. Finished, he wrapped the brush in the towels, capped the paint, and stuck it all back in the knapsack.

  Stepping back, he admired his work by the glow of his small penlight. At first glance, the numerals appeared to have been painted in blood.

  Slinging the pack over one shoulder, Justin walked up the side of the house, keeping to the shadows. About ten feet from the cottage’s back door, a narrow moonbeam highlighted a four-foot-high wood and wire fence enclosing a yard containing a tiny barn that was really nothing more than a large shed.

  Justin opened the gate and went into the yard, turning on the penlight as he entered the little barn. It only took a moment to locate the single white goat.

  “What to do, what to do, what to do?” he whispered, studying the goat. Caine wanted it killed and prominently displayed in front of the small Presbyterian church in New Madelyn, but Justin found the idea boring, unimaginative, not worth the risk.

  He took his coil of rope from the knapsack, made a slipknot, and dropped it over the animal’s head. There had to be something easy and imaginative he could do: something much better than leaving it on the church steps. Something with flair.

  A slow smile spread across Justin’s face. “Come on,” he whispered, and led the goat toward his car.

  52

  Alexandra Manderley

  THEY HAD PILED THEIR PLATES HIGH WITH RIBS, COLESLAW, BAKED beans, and sourdough bread, and now Alex Manderley sat back in the metal patio chair and patted her stomach. “I’ve never eaten so much in my life!”

  Cassie Halloway finished off her last rib. “Davy’s cooking has that effect.”

  She, Eve, Carlo, and Alex shared one of the tables, and in a way, Alex was grateful for that. Although she wanted to be alone with Carlo, she was afraid of getting involved. Just as had happened two days ago at his store, his eyes, the color of bittersweet chocolate, seemed to burn into hers with an almost unbearable intensity. She couldn’t look away, and didn’t really want to because his gaze aroused in her desires that she had repressed for many years. The force of those feelings had been terrifying yet exhilarating when Carlo had followed her to the table after they filled their plates. They had exchanged a few words, about what, she had no idea, then Cassie approached and asked if they’d like to share the table. In unison, Alex and Carlo had said yes.

  The fortune-teller had sounded as relieved as she felt, and that just served to make him all the more interesting. While they ate, Alex carefully avoided locking eyes with him, and the conversation stayed light as Cassie chattered about the new show opening at her theater. Now she pushed her plate back and excused Eve to go play, then leaned forward. “So how’d you like our UFO show last night?”

  “Spectacular,” Alex said.

  “You think they’re really from outer space?”

  Alex glanced at Carlo and saw one comer of his mouth crook in amusement.

  “Well,” Alex began slowly, “from a purely skeptical point of view, there’s a well-known weather phenomenon that occurs over Mount Shasta in Northern California. When hot and cold air flow together in a certain way, the results are saucer-shaped clouds the same blue-green color as we saw last night.”

  Cassie rubbed her chin. “You think they’re just clouds?”

  “No.” Alex smiled. “I’ve seen the infamous Shasta ‘saucers.’ They’re impressive, but they’re just clouds. Yours aren’t.” She paused. “In my opinion.”

  “What do you think they are?” Carlo asked softly.

  She tried to focus on the dark curl of hair that had strayed onto his forehead when she turned to him. “I don’t know.”

  “Sometimes it’s the not knowing that’s best.”

  His soft-spoken words sent heat to her cheeks, but when she let her gaze meet his, his dark liquid eyes were guileless. She blushed again. “I agree.” Clearing her throat, she looked at Cassie. “That’s the beauty of life, I think. The more you learn, the more there is to learn.”

  “The possibilities are endless,” Carlo responded.

  Tom Abernathy chose that moment to stroll over to the table. “Folks, some of us are going inside to see if the end of the world is still scheduled for Sunday. Care to join us?”

  “What?” Alex asked.

  “It’s almost time for Jim-Bob Sinclair’s radio sermon,” Cassie explained, rising. “He’s a hoot.”

  Alex nodded. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

  She watched the others drift into the house, acutely aware that Carlo Pelegrine remained seated. His neatly manicured hands, folded before him, were long-fingered with a sprinkling of short dark hairs between the first and second knuckles. On his right index finger, he wore a silver ring with an unusual onyx and carnelian inlaid setting.

  “Your ring,” she ventured. “Is it handmade?”

  A slow smile gave him a boyish look. “Yes. It’s Navajo. It means ‘He who walks alone.’ Before I came here, I spent a little time in Santa Fe and I met a medicine man. He taught me something about Navajo occult traditions,” he explained. “Just before I left, he blessed the ring and gave it to me.” He paused, spreading his hand to better show the ring. “A shaman’s ring, very old.” Chuckling self-deprecatingly, he added, “He told me I had the calling. In a way, I suppose he was right.”

  “What a lovely story.” Alex reached out to touch it, then pulled back self-consciously. “And are you?”

  Carlo raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “A man who walks alone?”

  He stared off into the night for a long moment. “Yes,” he said sadly. “I suppose I am.”

  “I understand,” Alex murmured.

  “I believe you do.” He gazed at her intently until goose bumps rose on her flesh.

  The quiet between them was comfortable but charged with electricity. She remembered the force of a pubescent crush, and the force of raw desire, but this was different, almost as if she could read his mind if she dared to touch his hand. As if he might read hers. The thought frightened her.

  “Sinclair,” she said quickly, “must be something special for people to drop everything to listen to his sermon.”

  Carlo chuckled. “He’s charismatic and outrageous, but there’s more to it than that.” He told her about Cassie’s goat and the vandalism at Michael Corey’s chapel.

  “Tom mentioned the Apostles are suspect.”

  “Yes, particularly by Tom. He doesn’t care for them. The Apostles’ land butts up to his and he worries about his horses.”

  “They’re nowhere near his stables, are they?” Alex had noticed the outbuildings south of the ranch house when she arrived.

  “No. It’s not the purebreds he’s worried about. He’s adopted quite a few wild mustangs and burros, and they have shelter and feed out that way.”

  “Does he think they’ll steal them?”

  “No. Marie Lopez has a small sheep ranch that also backs up to the Apostles’ land. She’s lost some sheep under mysterious circumstances recently.”

  “Lost?”

  “Killed. And mutilated.”


  “Mutilated?” Alex asked, her interest sparked. “Were any photos taken?”

  “I don’t know. You could ask Moss.” He smiled. “Are you thinking the UFOs might be involved?”

  “Not necessarily, but UFOs are often sighted in the vicinity of animal mutilations. I’d like to talk to Marie.”

  Carlo nodded. “She insists it’s a mountain lion, but it can’t hurt to ask.”

  Alex laughed. “And she’s probably right.”

  Inside the house, organ music swelled, then a man’s distant voice clearly asked, “Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?”

  “Shall we hear what the man has to say?” he asked, rising and extending his arm to her.

  She took it, fighting down a swarm of butterflies. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  53

  James Robert Sinclair

  “ARE YOU WASHED IN THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB?” JAMES SINCLAIR thundered as he stood at the pulpit and looked out upon his white-gowned flock. He raised his arms, and the organist played several full chords as the lighted cross on the church steeple began its slow descent into the church. Normally the ten-foot cross was only lowered on Sunday, but tonight was special, and now it settled between two permanent smaller crosses, its adjustable lamps lowered to a soft level that made Sinclair, standing some twelve feet in front of it, appear to be surrounded by a glowing nimbus. At the end of the service, when Sinclair raised his hands and cried “Hallelujah,” that would signal the operator to make the lights blaze, half blinding the audience, as the cross disappeared back up into the sky. Now it seemed very nearly a cheap trick, and that surprised him: He’d never felt that way before. Live and learn. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Before the Lamb’s blood is spilled once more, you must give yourselves to Him that you may be allowed to enter Paradise!”

  He motioned the choir to rise as the organist played the first chords of “Onward Sinclair’s Apostles.” This had always been Sinclair’s favorite song, but now it sounded cheap, a tawdry ode to himself, not a praising of God.

  Normally he relished the moments of rest the choir’s performances gave him, but tonight he waited impatiently, filled with urgency. He glanced at the notes for the sermon he had planned. It was days-old rhetoric, and disgusted, he ripped the notes in half and let them drift to the floor. In the front row of the church, Hannibal Caine stared in surprise at the fluttering papers, and perversely, Sinclair enjoyed the shock in his face. He searched in vain for Eldo Blandings, curious about his reaction, but the older man was not in his accustomed place next to Hannibal in the front row. Sinclair realized that Elder Blandings had missed many of the sermons, and he resolved to ask him why. At a time when he felt the most control, he also felt the least, and he couldn’t help but wonder about the loyalty of one of his highest-ranking men. He had seen a certain hunger in the man’s eye.

  The organist played the ending notes and the choir sat down. Sinclair gripped the edges of the pulpit and, for a long moment, remained silent despite the sound engineer’s urgent gestures. At last Sinclair cleared his throat and leaned toward the microphone.

  “I have seen the Angel of God,” he said softly. “I have seen the Angel of God!” he thundered. “And I have spoken with God Himself!”

  Adrenaline filled him until he thought he might burst. “And do you know what God said to me?”

  He waited, one beat, two, listening to the silence. “He told me that I have been chosen to lead you through the Apocalypse and unto Heaven!”

  Softly now. “He told me that I am the Light.” Again he paused. “In a few days’ time the true signs shall begin. Fire! Floods! The earth beneath your feet will shake and the moon will turn to blood. And when the sun is blotted from the sky, the Four Horsemen shall ride!

  “And when they ride, Armageddon will be at hand. Salvation shall not be possible.” He grabbed the mike and took it with him as he strode across the rostrum, his gold-trimmed white robe billowing around him. “My friends, it is up to you to save the souls who have yet to give themselves, to God. To help them find their salvation. Go forth in your robes, that they might know you, for there is no more time for subtlety. Hundreds and thousands—no, millions—of souls are depending on you to save them!”

  54

  Alexandra Manderley

  “INCITING A RIOT,” MOSS BASKERVILLE SAID GRUFFLY AS TOM Abernathy turned off the radio, the sermon barely begun. “Sinclair’s inciting a riot.”

  “Moss,” Cassie soothed. “He’s always spouting that stuff.”

  Moss shook his head. “Not like this. He obviously knows about the run-in Tom and I had with those damned Apostles in the park today, and he’s telling them to go out and do it again.”

  “Well, at least you hired another deputy,” Mike Corey said. “Didn’t you?”

  Baskerville’s laugh was harsh. “Yes and no. She can’t start until Monday. We’re going to have to ride those bastards without an extra hand until then, and that doesn’t leave any time for real police work.”

  “Well, don’t worry about the park,” Tom said. “The stunt people loved playing posse today and they’ll love it tomorrow.”

  Moss cocked an eyebrow. “Abernathy, I do believe you’re enjoying this. How about I deputize you?”

  Tom shook his head. “No, thanks. I just like playing sheriff. The shopkeepers are all set to phone over to the arena at the first sign of trouble. The posse will herd up and escort out any stray Apostles, and we sure as heck don’t need any real deputies for that, Chief.”

  “The park is private property,” Cassie chimed in. “We have every right to kick them out.”

  Moss eyed Tom. “So I guess you’re saying you don’t need no stinkin’ badges, is that it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know.” Moss shook his head. “I just don’t know. You and your cowboys seem to think this is a game.”

  “Life’s a game,” Tom said, and everyone in the conversation pit laughed except Moss Baskerville.

  “Those people are getting crazy.”

  “Zealots,” Ray Vine added somberly.

  Baskerville nodded. “What are you going to do if they go after you?”

  “A showdown at the Madelyn Corral?” Again Tom’s face spread in a slow, calculated grin. “You saying they’re gonna be fool enough to attack a bunch of big tough wranglers? Why, Mad Dog Steinberg could scare them all out of town with just one of those snake-eyed looks of his. Besides, we all carry pieces. Those Apostles can’t be sure they’re loaded with blanks.”

  “Which gives them reason to go ahead and shoot at you, if they get good and rabid.” Moss glared at him, but it didn’t faze the cowboy.

  “Moss,” Carlo said quietly. “I agree, the Apostles are a problem, but I don’t think you have to worry. If several stunt people approach them at once, they’ll go quietly.”

  Baskerville still looked unhappy, but he finally nodded. “Well, I guess we’ll do it your way, but I’ll cruise through every hour or two just to keep the fear of the real law in them. And you’d better call the station at the first whiff of real trouble.”

  “You betcha, Chief.” Tom looked around. “Any of you want to hear any more of Jim-Bob’s preaching?”

  After a chorus of no’s, Moss looked around. “I sure wish old Joe Huxley would drag his sorry ass back into town so we’d have a night watchman again.”

  “It’s looking like he’s not coming back.” Cassie shook her head. “Not him nor Kyla, nor Madge.”

  “How’s Henry holding up?” Ray asked.

  “Not too good,” Cassie said. “On top of everything else, he’s been sick as a hound with stomach flu. It’s a good thing he’s got that high school kid working for him.”

  “You mean Justin?” Alex asked.

  Cassie nodded, showing surprise. “You know him?”

  “He led Eric and me into Spirit Canyon when we arrived, and came back to visit us the next day.”

  “He also introduced Alex an
d me in town,” Carlo said, then paused. “He drove into the park after closing tonight, heading toward the mine.”

  “He drove into the park?” Moss asked.

  “I’m sure he was making a delivery at the mine for Henry.”

  “He sure gets around,” Ray observed. “He’s courting one of my waitresses.” He chuckled. “He’s not getting very far, though.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing Henry’s got him,” Cassie said, then turned to Alex. “So. What do you think of Jim-Bob Sinclair? Think those UFOs are some of his so-called signs that the world’s about to end?”

  “We had a couple little shakers a few days ago,” Tom added, grinning. “And that strong one last night, while the flying saucers were doing the two-step up there. Maybe Jim-Bob thinks they go together.”

  “Earthquake lights are fairly common,” Alex said. “They’re usually flashes of light accompanied by a cracking sound, rather like thunder and lightning. Last night’s phenomena might have something to do with the atmospheric conditions surrounding the quake.” She hesitated, then saw that everyone was watching her eagerly. “The thing about UFOs is, they aren’t anything new. We just think they are because we’re in an age where every mystery is interpreted technologically. Today’s flying saucers are yesterday’s chariots of fire. Aliens used to be called angels. Or devils”

  “Really?” Cassie asked.

  Alex nodded. “And it goes back much farther than biblical times. There are stories about flying disks hat date back to China three thousand years before Christ. And that probably means the sightings go back as far as man. Or farther.”

  “And you folks accuse me of telling tales,” Tom id.