Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

“And that I’m dangerous?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I never would have made love to you if I hadn’t wanted you so badly. Alex, there’s a reason I’ve been celibate for twenty years. Something happened . . .”

  “Whatever it was, twenty years is a long time. You were little more than a child.”

  “Seventeen. Old enough.”

  “You were a rapist?” she asked, eyes wide.

  He laughed bitterly. “No. Worse.”

  “Tell me.” She leaned across the table and put her hands over his.

  “Alex, you’ll hate me. By making love to you, I put your life in grave danger.” He hesitated. “And by making love to you, I learned that whatever beast was within me is gone now.” Finally he looked into her eyes. His own were full, tears brimming at the edges. “But I gambled with your life, and there’s no excuse for that. I used to black out when I became too excited. It happened three times. Each time . . .” Dear God, I’m telling her! The realization was too much and he pulled his hands away. “Justin knows. I don’t know how, but he knows.”

  Alex stared at him. “Tell me.”

  “I promised myself three things: that I’d remain celibate the rest of my life, that I would never again harm another living creature for any reason, and that I would help everyone I could. In atonement. Now I’ve broken one of the promises.”

  “You’ve helped me, Carlo, by breaking that promise. You showed me I could live again.” She smiled gently. “Besides, I didn’t give you a chance to refuse. Now, please tell me what you did.”

  He smiled sadly. His world was crumbling around him and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Except kill Justin. But he couldn’t do that either: He wouldn’t break another vow.

  “You killed someone, didn’t you?”

  Her words, spoken in a near whisper, struck cold into his heart, and he couldn’t reply for a long time. Finally he spoke. “Have you ever heard of the Peeler?”

  Alex gasped. “You’re not . . .” She paused, shaking her head. “The skin fetish . . . The Peeler skinned his victims. Justin brought you skin.” Her face bleached white in the dim light.

  “There’s little truth to the stories that are told now. Not that that excuses anything. I took far less skin than Justin brought here.” He paused, staring uncomfortably at a point beyond Alex. “I don’t remember much about the first two times. The third time, I was aware, although I felt like a spectator, watching while someone else used my hands to strangle the girl. I regained control just as he began to cut a tattoo from her breast.”

  “Carlo,” she whispered. “No.”

  “I graduated from high school, went to Europe, and let my family think I’d died in an accident. I knew I was sort of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and I never let Hyde out again. Never even risked it until I met you.”

  Alex stared at him. “And no one has ever figured out who you were.”

  “No. Not until now. He could be bluffing, but I can’t take the chance. He said voices told him. He’s dangerous and I have to do something. He admitted to killing animals. I’m sure he’s killing people as well.”

  “People?” Alex’s eyes widened.

  “He didn’t say so outright, but I know he did. Madge Marquay and the others who disappeared are his victims, I’m certain.”

  “Do you think he has Eric?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We should call the police.” As soon as the words were out, she stopped and stared at him. “That endangers you.”

  “I deserve to be behind bars.”

  “From what you’ve said, you suffered some sort of temporary insanity. And you’ve certainly served your time, far better than you would have in prison.” She paused.

  “Eric,” Carlo began.

  “I doubt Justin did anything with Eric,” she interrupted. “I think Dole’s responsible.”

  Carlo felt his mouth open, but at first, no words came out. “How can you accept me so easily?”

  “I’m in the business of accepting,” she said, all business. “But,” she added, studying him, “I’ll have to think about it. Meanwhile, what should we do?”

  “I’ll call Tom Abernathy. He’s got a four-wheel-drive pickup truck with oversized tires. I’m sure he can get up here and take you back to his place tonight.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “Carlo, we have to handle this ourselves. We have to handle Justin ourselves, whatever it takes. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” Taking his hand, she led him upstairs. Wonderingly, he followed.

  90

  Eric Watson

  COUGHING UP RAINWATER, ERIC WATSON RETURNED TO consciousness. His head throbbed painfully, and for a moment he couldn’t remember anything: where he was, what had happened, or even who he was. His right leg was ablaze with agonizing pain. There was dirt in his mouth, and he spat it out, then tried to raise his hand to push wet hair from his eyes, but met resistance; the arm was stuck in sucking mud. panicky, he tried the other arm, but found it similarly trapped. After two hard pulls, his left arm came free. He could feel grit and sand all over his hand, under his shirtsleeve, so he held it out and let the rain wash it. It took only seconds. Calmer, he pulled his other hand free.

  Justin! Suddenly it came back to him. The kid had hit him over the head, and the next thing he vaguely recalled was being dragged from a dark place—the car trunk!—then rolled down the side of a hill. His leg had snapped then. He remembered the horrifying sound and feel of bone crunching.

  After that, he was barely conscious, but he had heard the steady sound of a shovel digging into the earth. Each time a mound of wet dirt was thrown over him, he thought he was going to suffocate.

  Then there was nothing, not until now. The rain had saved him, he realized, by washing the dirt off his face. His head lay slightly higher than his feet, and he was lucky the kid hadn’t thought to turn him around, because he’d be dead now. Slowly he sat up, the mud sucking at him as he moved. He looked around, but it was too dark, too rainy, to see, so he began scooping his hands into the mud covering his hips and legs, helping the rain do its job. After only a few moments, dizziness overtook him again, and he had to rest.

  SATURDAY

  91

  James Robert Sinclair

  JAMES ROBERT SINCLAIR AWAKENED AND LAY IN HIS BED FOR A long moment, looking about the room with wonder. And then the dream came back to him. The dream of Christ. The feelings of peace and love, of overwhelming calm, still filled him.

  Naked, he rose from the bed, saw his white robe, stained red with mud, in a puddle on the floor. This was no dream! He looked at his palms and saw the new red scars, peered at his feet and saw those scars as well.

  He walked across the room to the dresser mirror and leaned forward, and gazed into the eyes of the New Christ.

  92

  Eldo Blandings

  “CAMPBELL, YOU TAKE THE BACK DOOR WITH FERGUSON. CLAYMAN and I will take the front. Deitz, you keep watch.” Eldo Blandings consulted his watch. “Move in at oh four hundred.”

  He finished speaking and the Special Projects Committee moved into position. This kidnapping was the first offensive action of many they would undertake today. He had chosen the shepherdess partly because she had repeatedly sent the church’s missionaries away, with no grace whatsoever, and primarily because she lived in isolation so nearby. Capturing her would be relatively simple, and a good trial run for what was to come.

  Mel Campbell and Lorraine Ferguson disappeared around the back of the trailer, and Marie Lopez’s remaining dog went into a frenzy of barks and yelps as it scratched at the barn door. He wished they’d killed it last night when they had the chance. The rain had slowed to a drizzle for the moment, allowing him to hear the sheep bleating in response to the dog.

  “Five,” he whispered, gazing at his watch. “Four. Three. Two. One!”

  Clayman and Deitz bashed in the flimsy mobile home door, almost tripping on one another in their eagerness. He followed t
hem into the trailer, hearing Campbell and Ferguson enter the rear door.

  A rifle blasted so close, he felt the wind of the bullet.

  “Hold it right there, both of you. Hands up. Now, turn around.” Marie Lopez, dressed in black sweats, hair tousled from sleep, didn’t look sleepy at all as she leveled the rifle. “What the hell are you supposed to be?” she asked, taking in their cammies. “Survivalists?”

  “We’re Apostles,” Eldo said proudly.

  “Scum suckers,” Marie spat. “Get over there into that corner by the door. That’s right.” Keeping the rifle trained on them, she reached for the phone.

  Suddenly Lorraine Ferguson appeared in the doorway behind Lopez. The six-foot, two-hundred-pound Amazon leaped suddenly into the air and came crashing down on the tiny shepherdess, who struggled like a wildcat, twisting around to face Ferguson. She spat in the Apostle’s face and Lorraine’s grip loosened momentarily. Lopez clawed at her eyes, but Ferguson’s fist came down, punching Marie Lopez in the temple, stunning her.

  “You fucking bitch,” Ferguson growled, wiping saliva from her face. “You’re gonna pay for that, you goddamn stinking bitch!”

  Marie’s arms came up weakly, then dropped, the blow having done its job. A moment later, Ferguson and Campbell had her bound and gagged.

  93

  Hannibal Caine

  HANNIBAL CAINE GASPED WHEN JIM-BOB SINCLAIR WALKED INTO his office looking for all the world like Jesus H. Christ Himself. He’d finally donned a robe, as he’d ordered his followers to do, and his hair flowed loosely around his shoulders. That, combined with his customary beard, was a shock: Hannibal had never thought the handsome prophet looked anything like someone who was supposed to be humble.

  “Hannibal,” Sinclair said in a calm, reassuring voice, “I have come to tell you what I know.”

  Caine had thought Sinclair had a charming smile and charismatic eyes ever since they’d first met, but with this change in dress and hair, the man looked downright beatific. Frighteningly so.

  “James,” he invited, “please sit down.”

  Sinclair nodded, and as he sat, Caine was shocked to see that the man was barefoot.

  “Groups of Apostles will be out today, spreading the word,” Caine said.

  “I want no violence,” Sinclair responded. “Give the word, but there must be absolutely no violence.”

  “James, may I ask a question?”

  “Anything you like.” There was that disconcerting smile again.

  “Until a short time ago, you wanted us to use weapons, even take prisoners. You said it was the first phase of the final battle, and that the second would take place after the Horsemen ride. You had us learn to handle the weapons. Why the change?”

  “I was filled with greed and grandiosity then, my dear friend. I had forsaken God for my own glory. I sinned, but now I am repentant, and God has seen fit to use me as His vessel.”

  “I don’t understand, James.”

  “I am the Lamb of God, Hannibal.” Sinclair turned his palms upward on the desk, revealing shiny red stigmata. He touched his breast. “The Living Savior is here, in me.” So saying, Sinclair rose. “Have the Apostles preach today. Until supper, I will be in retreat, and after the sermon I shall return to my room to pray until tomorrow morning at six. I’m putting you in charge until then. Good luck, Hannibal. I love you.” With that, he left the office.

  Not believing his good fortune, Caine was euphoric for several minutes before reality set in. “Crazy as a loon,” he murmured. “Stark staring mad.” Madness made it all the easier. Sinclair’s retreat would keep him out of the way while Hannibal and Eldo Blandings oversaw the invasion—he smiled—not the conversion, of Madelyn.

  During the night, Caine had planned the final service, from the abduction of sinners to poison-laced wine for those high up in the church. The plan was complete from every angle, except one: The wild card was Sinclair himself, and while his self-imposed retreat greatly eased the problem, underestimating the Prophet, insane or not, could be a grave error.

  When Sinclair was normal—greedy and selfish—these plans would not have been necessary. Sinclair would have left and given Caine the reins of the church. But it was time for action: Caine no longer had any doubt that Sinclair was canceling Armageddon and sticking around. He intended Sinclair, along with Eldo, to take the blame for the violence and the deaths of the upper echelon of Apostles, for the atrocities committed by the Special Projects Committee, and for the abductions. The only problem was keeping Sinclair under control. Perhaps something in the dispensary or in their store of illegally acquired drugs might do the trick. Caine smiled to himself. A dash of Valium, a pinch of Thorazine.

  There was a knock on the door. “Come,” he called.

  Eldo Blandings, a little soggy, his toupee askew, but as happy as Hannibal had ever seen him, entered. “We got the shepherdess.” Behind him, Mel Campbell, Corky Deitz, and Steve Clayman all came in and shut the door.

  Hannibal nodded. “Where is she?”

  “The choir room. She’s tied up and locked in. Lorraine Ferguson’s on guard detail.”

  “Very good, Hannibal. What’s next?”

  Blandings grinned, an expression that made him look like a demon. “We go after the other prisoners.”

  “Very good.”

  Blandings nodded. “We’d best be on our way.”

  “You kids have fun,” Hannibal called softly as the four marched out of his office.

  94

  Eric Watson

  ERIC WATSON OPENED HIS EYES ON A DRIZZLY GRAY DAWN. HIS leg tortured him, but he was alive, and very grateful for that. Craning his neck, he saw a huge boulder just behind his head, and realized that it had deflected most of the water and kept him from drowning.

  Low dark rain clouds were massed in the sky, but what fell now was light, almost refreshing. Eric knew he should be freezing, but not burning up, and he knew he needed help before the fever grew fiercer.

  He sat up, stiff and sore, a mass of contusions and bruises, and looked down at his body. He lay in a low depression in the ground, the shallowest of graves. Twenty feet below, water filled the narrow valley between the hills.

  He saw that the depression surrounding his body held two or three inches of water. A deformed bulge pushed against his pant leg, halfway to his shin. The material wasn’t torn, although there was a bloodstain on it: The skin had broken —hence the fever—but blessedly not enough to let him bleed to death.

  He turned his head, wincing as the knot on the back of his skull protested the movement. Far ahead, a hundred feet or more, Eric thought he would find the road.

  Scanning left and right, he saw nothing he could brace his leg with: just muddy dirt and rocks. He was going to have to drag himself to the top. He grunted, rolling over, his leg screaming in agony, and put one arm out, and then the other, dragging himself around the boulder, his clawed hands sinking into the mud, pulling it away, instead of pulling him up.

  After twenty minutes, he’d moved a total of six feet, but at least he was resting on top of the boulder instead of beneath it.

  The rain had ceased and there was enough daylight now to return color to his vision. Hearing raucous cawing, he looked up in time to see a dozen large black crows fly overhead.

  And then everything fell silent. Not a drip of water, not a whisper of wind. Everything waited, and Eric did as well.

  Then it began.

  The deep rumbling was not quite a sound, the vibration not quite movement. A whip-crack followed and the boulder bucked underneath him as the ground moved in one sharp jolt. To his left, a patch of water-sodden earth broke free, crashing down into the water below.

  Silence again, and Eric clung to the rock, waiting. Another sharp jolt hit twenty seconds later and his boulder seemed to settle deeper into the muddy earth. But it didn’t slide. “Thank you, Lord,” Eric whispered as he watched a layer of the sodden mountainside to his left slip down into the water below.

  95 />
  Tom Abernathy

  TOM ABERNATHY LOWERED THE BRIM OF HIS HAT AND PULLED HIS slicker closed. “I shouldn’t be too long,” he told Davy Styles as he swung onto Belle’s saddle.

  “Going to check on Marie?”

  “Yep. Tried to call her, but the phones are out. I want to make sure she didn’t float away last night or get knocked off her foundations this morning. After I make sure she’s okay, I’m going to check on the mustangs.”

  He rode out into the light but steady rain, feeling just a little guilty about leaving Davy with all the morning chores. But he was more worried than guilty.

  “Come on, girl, we’ll go cross-country instead of taking the road.” Old Madelyn Highway was always a mess when it rained, and going across the ranch land would probably be easier, faster, and if another deluge hit, far safer. Whole pickup trucks had washed off Old Madelyn in lesser storms than this.

  Belle, a surefooted animal, seemed to enjoy picking her way across the land, and when Tom glanced toward the highway, he was very glad he’d chosen this way: Several groups of white-robed figures, clustered under their umbrellas, were walking toward town, no doubt under the impression that they could walk on water. “What do you think they’re up to, Belle? No good, I’ll wager.”

  They kept moving, Belle stepping carefully around rodent holes. Tom wished he’d been able to connect with Moss Baskerville last night to tell him about the new vandalism and mutilations, but both he and Al Gonzales were out on calls. Ken Landry took the report and promised to give it to Moss first thing, but Tom hadn’t heard a peep. He’d tried him again this morning, but the quake had taken out the phones and the electricity. The early morning temblor hadn’t felt like much at Tom’s reinforced home, but it sure had played hell with the utilities.

  Finally Marie’s outbuildings became visible, gray on gray. Reaching the stable, Tom found that the barn was still padlocked. Inside, Dorsey barked and the sheep bleated. Alarmed, he rode up to the mobile home.