Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  “You make a good point. With all the minerals and magnetic ores around here, it’s a wonder we’re not all crazy already.”

  “Still,” Tom said wryly, “It’d be a real predicament if we started riding down Thunder Road and the real Horsemen came up behind us.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass?” Moss’s chuckle was genuine. “And if you pull this off, I’m sure that’s how you’ll tell the tale.” He clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Thanks. You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yeah, I do. I’ve been living my life so easy for so many years, never getting into arguments, never declaring for a woman, just sort of watching everything from the edges. I guess it’s time for a change.”

  Moss nodded, then solemnly shook his hand. “I’ll be back later. You and Marie take care, now, hear?”

  “Sure will.”

  131

  Carlo Pelegrine

  CARLO RODE THE HARLEY AS FAR AS HE COULD UP OLIVE MESA before giving up and hiding the bike among a trailside crop of boulders. Hampered by the pain in his side and a dying flashlight, it took him nearly an hour to climb to the top of the mesa.

  Normally, when there was even a crescent moon over the high desert, a flashlight was unnecessary, but tonight things were decidedly abnormal. A chill wind had partially cleared the overcast sky. High thin cirrus clouds framed the moon and dust lifted into the atmosphere by the earthquake, had turned the moon a muddy red, the color of old blood. The color of death.

  The first thing he did after gaining the plateau was examine it for openings, walking in concentric circles until the flashlight gave out near the center of the mesa. He found nothing.

  Now, exhausted, disheartened, his wound a persistent, throbbing ache, he sat down cross-legged to rest, but the sight of the dying embers in Madland and the enduring smell of smoke on the wind did anything but soothe him.

  Carlo shivered and pulled his jacket closer around him. What had seemed like a brilliant plan—finding an entrance to the compound here—had been an exercise in foolishness. He shoved his hand in his pocket and found the pack of tarot cards he’d rescued earlier. Drawing them out, he opened the box, let the cards fall into his hand. Even in darkness he recognized their smooth familiar feel, the warmth of the energy imbued in them through hundreds of readings. They gave comfort, and without thinking, he fanned through them, his fingers searching the invisible surfaces until he found one that felt right. He drew it out and placed it on the ground, then repeated the process twice more.

  A triad of cards, visible only as pale shadows against the darkness. The lower two represented the past and future, the topmost his significator, his part in the puzzle. Squinting, wishing he could make out the cards, he suddenly understood the desperation of many of his clients. They had given up on reality, on making their own destinies without guidance.

  Sinclair’s followers were much the same as his clients, as were, to varying degrees, the devout of most religions. People seemed to need reassurance, they needed a father figure to take care of them, to remind them to behave and to confess their secrets to; to reassure them that everything would be all right in the end. To assure them of their fate. And thus assured, they carried it out.

  He turned his head and gazed down at the Madelyn valley. Down by the interstate, a glow was visible from Ray’s Cafe. The only other lights tonight gleamed in the Apostles’ compound, a mile away, but appearing much closer in the clear desert air. Dim yellow lights dotted the compound, and the cross on the steeple shone brilliant white. As he looked at it, it blinked out, leaving an afterimage burning behind his eyelids. God has left the building, he thought with bitter amusement.

  God had left him long ago. After each murder, he had prayed to God for guidance, for help, but had received no answer, and he slowly learned that the only help could come from that little part of God within him. When John Lennon upset the world by saying, “We are all God,” Carlo had found enlightenment in the phrase. It explained fate. If enough people believed something would happen, it was likely to, in some form. God, the God who lived within all creatures, was a great power, made good or evil by the thoughts and actions of people. Prophecies came to pass because the believers made it so.

  The light in the steeple blinked out. Tomorrow, the Apostles believed, was the end of the world, and the flooding, the fire, the earthquake, even the red moon, bore the earmarks of biblical prophecy. Though intellectually Carlo could not see those things as anything but coincidence, at the core of his being, he couldn’t help but wonder if the power of a group of human minds hadn’t helped create them. Or perhaps, as Alex maintained, the UFOs somehow influenced human action, history, and myth. She said they’d been interpreted as angels, as devils. As God.

  Then perhaps fate did exist in a way, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be altered. Were the cards merely symbols to awaken the mind to possibilities, or were they, as his clients believed, harbingers of something more? Perhaps it wasn’t so idiotic to throw them. In frustration, he turned back to the three invisible cards.

  And saw them. Clearly.

  His significator was Death. It might be literal, or it could mean metamorphosis, a phoenix rising from the ashes. Or both.

  Below Death, to the left, was the Tower, representing the past. The Tower signified destruction. Of Madland. Of the town. Of the world. It could also mean something more personal: the destruction of his existing beliefs. Enlightenment comes in the flash of lightning that hits the tower.

  The Moon was the future. A mysterious and ominous card, showing the moon illuminating a path leading out of murky water, a treacherous road guarded by dogs, bounded by towers, leading finally to open country. This card spoke of supernatural guidance, and the faith to follow the light out of darkness.

  The light.

  Slowly he looked up.

  “What are you?” He whispered the words to the glowing ball of bluish light hovering fifty feet above him, but like God, it didn’t answer. He rose, staring in awe at the globe, and as he did, it began to move slowly north. He followed it, staying just out of its glow, to the edge of the mesa, where it descended to perhaps twenty-five feet, bathing him in its cold light. Electricity filled the air, tugged at his hair. Carlo lowered his gaze to a mound of boulders to his right. Bathed in eerie blue light, they looked unnatural, a ten-foot-wide patch of stones, a rock garden, arranged with purpose. To hide something?

  That’s your imagination. Even as he entertained the thought, he put one foot on a low stone and began to climb, feeling the hum of electricity around him as the globe neared. He stepped onto the tallest rock—all of five feet—and looked down at a four-foot-wide space of bare ground in the middle of the mound. Suddenly there was a sliding sound and the earth slid away, revealing perfect darkness below.

  Carlo looked up at the globe, and as he did, it began a slow ascent. He thought of the cards, considered the nature of fate, then he climbed down to the opening. There was barely room to stand, so he lowered himself into a sitting position, his legs dangling into the black pit. One foot touched something solid. A step! Carefully he moved his other foot onto it and eased himself down, one step, two. Does this qualify as guidance by a supernatural being? He looked up once more, but the globe was gone.

  He didn’t know the answer, and he didn’t care as he descended fifty spiraling steps into complete darkness, because this meant he was going to get into the compound and find Alex. And Sinclair. He didn’t know why this seemed important, but he knew it was.

  Sensing he’d entered a larger space, he walked around it, hands extended, feeling its perimeters, until one hand touched something large and metallic—a jeep of some sort.

  He kept moving and soon came to an opening less than five feet in diameter. Fresh cool air wafted from its depths, and he knew this was what he had been searching for.

  132

  Hannibal Caine

  “HELLO, HANNIBAL.”

  Caine whirled as Jim-Bob entered the steeple observation area, w
alking so quietly around the catwalk surrounding the open shaft that he hadn’t heard a thing.

  “Hello, James,” he said, recovering himself. This is it! He had brought up two glasses of red wine, one doctored with sleeping pills, the other for himself, and he’d been staring out at the crimson moon as he waited for Sinclair to show up. “Here,” he said, turning to take one glass from a small silver tray. “A toast.”

  Sinclair took the glass and studied him with kind, sad eyes that gave Hannibal the creeps. He had never seen him like this before the last day or two. The man’s natural charisma had changed, grown stronger, quieter, and for an instant, Caine had an urge to knock against the wine, to spill it. No. Not after all you’ve worked for. Don’t be a coward!

  Although Sinclair seemed as healthy as ever, there had always been an exuberance to him, nervous energy that flowed around him like sparks. Now the man’s calmness was very nearly overwhelming. He really believes he’s the damned Living Savior, Caine reminded himself. He’s completely mad. There was no other explanation for the oddness of his behavior.

  “What shall we toast?” Sinclair asked.

  “The end of the world?”

  “No, Hannibal. The beginning of a new life.”

  They touched glasses. His unnerving gaze never wavering, Sinclair slowly drained his glass. “What did you want to talk about?”

  The pills would kick in very soon; all Hannibal had to do was bullshit for a few minutes. “About tomorrow morning. What music would you like the choir to perform?”

  A gentle smile creased Sinclair’s face. His features had taken on a gaunt look in the last few days, and now, with the wavy golden brown hair, the beard, and his white robe, he looked more than ever like a Jesus on black velvet. All he needed, thought Caine, was a crown of thorns. And he’d have one soon. “Hannibal, you didn’t ask me to meet you here to talk about music. Please be honest with me. Tell me why.” His eyes unfocused for an instant, then he regained control.

  “James, I don’t understand.”

  “Have courage and tell me why you drugged the wine.”

  Shocked, Caine stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I knew it was drugged before I drank it, Hannibal. God told me this was to be. He told me other things as well.” Sinclair leaned against the wall, then began to slide gracefully to the floor, finally coming to rest in a sitting position, propped against the wall. He stared up at Caine. “You are forgiven, Hannibal,” he whispered. “You were chosen to be the Judas this time.” He smiled again and his eyes closed. With painful slowness, the Prophet’s body collapsed completely.

  Caine stared at him, shocked. The insane often seemed to have superhuman powers of observation, and Sinclair was an artist to begin with. A magician. Don’t worry about it now.

  He opened a small control panel in the wall and switched off the lights on the cross on the steeple, then, after finishing his wine, he punched another button. A sphincter opened above them, and slowly the cross descended, the cable in the middle of the steeple disappearing below.

  When it was entirely in the room, Caine switched off the elevator mechanism, halting the cross’s descent into the church. Swallowing hard, he opened a small storage area built into the wall and withdrew the spikes and mallet. He brought out a coil of rope as well, then stood, staring at Sinclair’s supine body, at the mallet and spikes, at Sinclair again. Get this over with, Hannibal, and you’re home free. But he had no taste for blood. He never had.

  He began his work, not thinking about what was to come. First he stripped Sinclair and used cloth from the white robe to wrap around the man’s pelvis in the biblical manner. The next thing he had to do was tie Sinclair in place on the cross.

  It took an hour, and Caine was sweating by the time he was finished. He stared at the body, its positioning so perfect that it might be a statue. Perhaps the spikes weren’t necessary. This was authentic enough.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered as tears rolled unheeded over his plump cheeks. You are forgiven, Hannibal. You were chosen to be the Judas this time. Caine shook his head. The ravings of a madman. He let himself sink to the floor in front of the man on the cross. Beside him, on one side, the hammer and nails waited. On the other side, a crown of thorns. He wasn’t even sure that he had the stomach to put that over Sinclair’s head. He put his head in his hands, lost in thought.

  “Elder Caine!”

  Shocked, he looked up to see Justin Martin, dressed in black from the tips of his Reeboks to his turtleneck collar. The boy grinned down at him, then glanced at Sinclair’s body. “Whatcha doing?”

  “How did you find me?” Caine demanded, scrambling to his feet as panic shot through him. “How did you get in here?”

  Justin shrugged, his blue eyes bright. “The Voice in the sky.”

  “What is that?”

  “The Prophet calls it the voice of God.”

  “What does this voice tell you to do?” Caine stared at the boy, at a loss.

  The barest sneer crossed Justin’s features. “It doesn’t tell me to do anything. Nobody orders me around.” He paused, studying Caine as if he were brain-damaged. “It just tells me things. Like how to find you. How’s Alex?”

  “She’s fine. The deal stands.” Caine was at a loss as he stared at the boy. Could he and Sinclair possibly both be under the same influence? It didn’t seem possible. One was insufferably peaceful and pacifistic, the other—

  “Satan’s own,” said Sinclair, impossibly.

  Startled, Caine looked up, saw Jim-Bob unconscious, hanging from the cross. He glanced at Justin, thought he caught a fleeting look of surprise instantly masked beneath the boy’s arrogance. You only imagined he spoke. If you’re not careful, you’ll catch their disease.

  “Something wrong, Elder Caine?” Justin sounded like Eddie Haskell on “Leave it to Beaver.”

  “No.”

  “Do you need some help?” Justin asked, looking down at the mallet and spikes.

  “What?”

  “Help. Do you want me to help you with that?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m great with a hammer and nails.”

  It was such an easy way out of a delicate situation that Caine couldn’t believe his ears. “What do you think you’re supposed to do with them, Justin?”

  The youth chuckled. “Drive ’em home,” he said, bending and picking up the mallet and one spike. He approached the low guardrail around the shaft and studied Sinclair. “We should do the hands first. Can you lower him a little?”

  Numbly Caine pushed a button and slowly brought the cross down so that Sinclair’s left hand was even with Justin. He could see the strange red scars on the palms that had appeared a day before, and he shivered, reminding himself that this was nothing otherworldly. Jim-Bob Sinclair was a magician; he knew how to make things appear to be what they were not.

  Justin held a spike up to Sinclair’s palm. “X marks the spot.” Holding the iron spike in place, he brought the mallet back. Caine looked away as he struck.

  “Want to hand me another spike?” Justin asked as he walked around to the other hand.

  Hand shaking, he gave one to the boy, who pounded it through Sinclair’s hand into the smooth wood with the skill of a carpenter.

  “Raise him up and I’ll do the feet.”

  Caine did so, his eyes on Justin. The youth’s eyes glittered with a mad light, one even more unnerving than the expression he sometimes saw in Eldo Blandings’s eyes. Justin Martin was a sadist who put old Eldo to shame.

  Caine heard the crunch of bone as the third spike drove through Sinclair’s feet, heard Justin’s heavy breathing and a soft, pleasurable laugh. If he had this to do all over again, would he have gone this route? You were chosen to be the Judas this time. Yes, he thought, he probably would.

  “All done,” Justin said. “Oh, we forgot the crown. Lower him again, please, Elder Caine.”

  Dully Caine did so.

  Justin picked up the sharp
thorny crown and examined it, then thrust it toward Caine. “You should do this.”

  He stared at it, not wanting to touch it. You have to or he’ll know you’re a coward. Caine forced himself to take the crown, then approach Sinclair. He’d avoided looking at him, but now he did, seeing the blood dripping from the hands, seeing the smooth unconscious features of the Prophet. Of the Living Christ. No, that was foolish. Steeling himself, he bent over the railing and pressed the crown onto Sinclair’s head.

  Despite the sleeping pills, Sinclair moaned and tears ran silently down his face. Abruptly his eyes fluttered open, which was impossible, given the amount of drug he’d ingested. “You are forgiven, Hannibal,” he whispered, then the eyes shut once more.

  “Let’s go,” Caine said quickly. Obediently Justin led the way down the circular stairs. At the bottom Caine locked the door and checked it twice. He turned to Justin. “This is our secret.”

  Justin’s eyes shone. “Of course. Elder Caine?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you want me to do Cassie Halloway and Alex, too? I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I know you wouldn’t, and if we decide to do them the same way, then you’ll be the one we ask.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Perhaps Elder Blandings can find you something enjoyable to do. Thank you for your help.”

  Justin grinned and disappeared out the church doors. Satan’s own. Ridiculous. Hannibal Caine sat heavily in a front pew. He thought he had given Sinclair enough sleeping pills to put him in a deep coma and, eventually, kill him. Very little time has passed, he thought, reassuring himself that a bit more time was all that was necessary, and turned his mind to other things.

  In the morning he would begin the service, and bring the cross down into the church. By then, Sinclair would be comatose, and what would be left would be the miraculous sight of Jesus on the cross. The two women were merely window dressing, and a good way to hide his real plans.