Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  “Yes,” Carlo said, smiling into Caine’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Don’t dawdle, Apostle.” Caine led him back to the door and opened it. “Do this errand correctly and you won’t be forgotten.”

  “Thank you, Elder Caine,” Carlo said, and walked briskly out the door.

  As he returned to the church, Carlo wondered why the man had trusted him. Perhaps it was simply for the same reason he was successful at fortune-telling: Most people trusted him. He had that kind of face. Or maybe it was part of whatever brought him here. You’re reading too much into this.

  He let himself into the church. Faintly lit, it was starkly beautiful, with two large crosses on the wall to either side of the austere rostrum. The pews were simple golden oak, the central and side aisles carpeted in pale blue. The white walls were studded with tall arched windows, modern stained glass depicting the Apostles’ starburst crosses. The place looked like a normal church, not the den of cultists who kidnapped and murdered. Shaking his head, Carlo set out the Communion paraphernalia, then bent to put the box under the table. There he discovered several gallon jugs of cheap red wine. Kneeling, he examined them and found the screw-top lids untampered-with. He was surprised. If Sinclair was going to pull a mass suicide, he hadn’t poisoned the wine yet.

  Carlo stepped onto the rostrum, started to place the key on the lectern, then pocketed it instead. He walked to the rear and studied the crosses, no doubt the ones meant for Cassie and Alex. They were wooden, bleached oak, the horizontal and vertical wood heavy four-by-fours, the X-shaped starbursts behind them half that. There was a gently convex twelve-foot span between them, and approaching it, Carlo spotted an almost invisible white cable in its center. He looked up.

  Fifteen feet above was a circular opening lined with spotlights, off now, and beyond that, only darkness. A thrill of excitement coursed through him. He had to get into the tower.

  Accepting the urgent need without question, he trotted down the rostrum steps and followed a curved walkway behind it to a flight of carpeted stairs. He took them two at a time, found himself in a choir loft left of the rostrum, could see a matching one directly across it. At the far end of the loft, he found another flight of stairs and took those, coming up short at a closed door. This had to be the entrance.

  It was locked. There was no dead bolt, just a keyed knob, similar to the one outside.

  He jiggled the knob to no avail, then remembering Caine’s key, pulled it from his pocket. What the hell, it might work. After all, this was a church, not a bank. He inserted it in the lock. It fit tightly and wouldn’t turn. Then he tried lifting the knob, wiggling the key at the same time. Suddenly the key broke off in the lock. “Damn,” he whispered, his hand still on the knob. Frustrated, he twisted it, and the door opened. He stared at it in amazement for several seconds, then walked inside, shutting the door behind him. He found a light switch on the wall, flipped it, and saw a narrow spiral staircase built between the outer wall and the inner one that the main cross traveled in.

  He climbed the stairs, his stomach full of butterflies. At last he saw a ceiling above him with an opening for the stairs. Swallowing, he took the last few steps.

  It reminded him of a lighthouse. The tall, darkened room was lined with windows that let enough light in for him to see a low handrail around the bare outline of the twelve-foot cross that had disappeared from the top of the steeple. Carlo shivered and reached out to find a light switch.

  “No, lights, Charles. They’ll be seen.”

  Carlo couldn’t move, couldn’t find his voice.

  “Come here, Charles.”

  The soft voice, tinged with pain, broke his paralysis. He took slow steps around the catwalk, stopping when he faced the cross. Raising his eyes, he made out the figure of a crucified man. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could make out the nearly naked man’s long hair and beard, see the oversized nails in his hands and feet. “Dear God,” he whispered, almost feeling the man’s pain. He glanced at a small control panel on the railing. “I’ll get you down.”

  “No, that is not to be. Sit down, Charles.”

  “Why do you call me that?”

  “It’s your name.”

  “How do you know?” Carlo lowered himself to the floor, sat cross-legged, peering up in fascination at the man’s shadowy face.

  “God knows all.”

  “You’re telling me you’re God?”

  “I am the son of God.”

  “You’re Sinclair.”

  “I am that, but I am also the son of God.” Even in darkness, his eyes bored into Carlo’s. “Just as you are the son of God. We are all His children.”

  “But God told you my name?”

  “He speaks to me, yes.”

  The man seemed to be a lunatic, but Carlo couldn’t quite dismiss his ravings as delusions brought on by psychosis or pain. As Moss had mentioned, there was something about him, something defying definition, that went far beyond simple charisma. How could this man be nothing but a money-grubbing evangelist and give off such peace, such love, even after being stripped and nailed to a cross?

  “He spoke to you as well. He guided you here.”

  “Something pointed the way.”

  Despite the dim light, Carlo saw Sinclair’s gentle smile. “You’ve lost your faith.”

  “I used to pray. I needed help.” He paused. “I prayed for self control.”

  “And you have it now, don’t you? It doesn’t matter what you call Him, God exists. Some believe He is an external force, but He is internal. He is your conscience. He is love.”

  Shakily Carlo got to his feet. “It doesn’t undo the past.”

  “You are truly repentant for the murders.”

  In shock, Carlo backed against the wall. “How?”

  Again the gentle smile. “It has been given to me to know these things. You are acutely aware of your past. In atonement, you have spent your life giving help to others. You are forgiven.”

  Tears streamed freely down Carlo’s cheeks. “I can’t forgive myself.”

  “I know,” Sinclair said softly. “But consider the joy you have given others. Ask yourself why you were guided here this night.”

  He wiped the tears away. “I am here to rescue my friends.”

  “And?”

  “To see you. But I don’t know why.”

  “It will become clear. Charles, there is great evil in the world. There are people here who have exorcised the divine spark within them, people who have no love, no empathy. They are not quite human. There is one among us now. He has already caused great pain, and he will continue to do so until he is stopped.”

  “Hannibal Caine?”

  “No. His plans must be altered, but the one I am speaking of is pure evil, not merely greedy and misguided.”

  “Justin.”

  “Yes.” Sinclair’s voice was softer now, weaker, and Carlo had to strain to hear him.

  “I’ll turn him over to the police.”

  “No. This goes beyond earthly law. He is empty, devoid of the things which make us human. If you were a devout Catholic, I would tell you he is a demon, the son of Lucifer. He has killed his own soul, his spark. You are prepared to give your own life, and so you must deal with him. If you don’t, he will kill many more tomorrow.” His voice trailed off in a pain-filled sigh, his eyes closing.

  “Let me get you down.”

  The eyes fluttered open. “No. It is my destiny to bring new hope, as it is yours to destroy the evil present here.”

  “You’re telling me to kill Justin Martin? But I vowed never to kill again.”

  “Listen to your soul and you will know what to do.” Sinclair’s eyes closed and his body shivered, then became still. Carlo watched him, was relieved to see that he was still breathing. He turned away to gaze out the windows facing Olive Mesa, wondering what would happen tomorrow, wondering if he would ever see Alex again, and if he would ever see another sunset.

  Carlo had spent the rest of the
night hidden in the only place he could find: under the long Communion table. Its underside was completely hidden by a floor-length white tablecloth, and if anyone happened to look beneath it, he hoped that his white robe would make him invisible.

  About dawn, the church’s side door opened, and carefully parting two edges of the cloth at a table corner, Carlo watched Hannibal Caine, carrying the large silver carafe he’d seen last night, strut into the church, followed by two guards supporting Cassie Halloway between them. Apparently unconscious, she was dressed only in a small white toga, and it was everything he could do not to jump out as the guards stood on stepladders and tied her to the left-hand cross. He didn’t know how he could have stood it if they had driven spikes through her hands. Thank God they hadn’t.

  While they worked, Caine set the silver carafe on the table, then picked up the bottles of wine and poured them into the empty pitchers. From the sound of things, by the time the guards finished tying Cassie, Hannibal Caine had laid out a table to make Miss Manners proud. The Elder dismissed the guards, then disappeared upstairs for a few minutes, no doubt checking on Sinclair.

  As he returned to the rostrum, the side door opened again. “Elder Caine?” said Justin Martin in his treacly voice. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Justin,” Caine said as Justin came into view. The boy, like Caine, wasn’t wearing a robe. “I have some disturbing news, and I think you’re just the person to help handle the situation.”

  “What?” Justin asked suspiciously.

  “I’m afraid Alex Manderley has escaped.”

  Silence, then Justin exploded. “Escaped? How could you let her escape? After all the trouble I went to! You promised I’d get her. You promised!” That last, the voice of a petulant child.

  You bastard! In his hiding place, Carlo clenched his hands so hard that his nails drew blood. You filthy bastard! I’ll see you in your grave!

  “Listen to me!” Caine ordered as Justin continued to rant. “Be quiet and listen!”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Justin growled after a pause.

  “She’s in the compound, Justin. There’s no way she can escape, and chances are, we’ll find her soon. She can’t hide forever. You’ll still have her, don’t worry about that.” Caine paused. “Meanwhile, would you like to punish the person responsible for the escape?”

  “You better believe it. I’ll skin him alive.”

  Carlo wondered if Hannibal Caine had any idea that Justin meant that literally.

  “I have something else in mind. If we don’t find Miss Manderley in time for the services, we’ll need a substitute. I want you to go to Elder Blandings’s apartment and tell him I need to speak with him here, immediately. When you get him in here, shut the door and knock him out.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve brought some chloroform and a rag. Whatever you do, don’t mark him or kill him. Remember, Justin, he needs to suffer for his sins.” Caine checked his watch. “It’s six o’clock now. I’ll return at six-thirty, and I expect to find him unconscious. Then you and I will prepare him and put him on the cross.”

  “Nail him,” Justin said firmly.

  “That would detract from the main show, don’t you think?”

  Justin considered, then spoke in a sly tone. “I watched you last night, Elder Caine. You don’t like blood, do you? It bothers you. That’s why you don’t want to spike him.” He nodded toward Cassie. “Or her.”

  “It’s not your place to question, Justin. Will you do it?”

  “On one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “Whether you find Alex or not, I want her, too.” He pointed at Cassie’s limp body.

  “For?”

  “For whatever I want. Aren’t you going to kill her after the service anyway?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “You lie. Give her to me and I’ll do Blandings.”

  “I suppose that’s reasonable.”

  The two moved onto the rostrum, still talking, then Justin left. A moment later, Caine followed. As soon as the door shut, Carlo climbed out from under the table and approached Cassie.

  “Cassie?” he asked, his voice echoing through the vast room. “Cassie, it’s Carlo!”

  Her chest rose and fell softly, but she didn’t respond. He tried for another minute, then, wary of the time, returned to his hiding place. He hoped that what Sinclair had told him last night was true: that when the time came, he would know what to do. Right now he didn’t have a clue.

  137

  Moss Baskerville

  THE MORNING HAD DAWNED RED IN THE EAST, WITH BLUE SKY above and black clouds hanging low over the mountains far to the south. At first light, Moss Baskerville had toured New Madelyn, cringing at the sight of houses with their roofs fallen in and homes tipped and twisted on their foundations. The volunteer fire department had put out three small fires during the night, and that damage, at least, was minimal.

  The park hadn’t been so lucky. Main Street had burned to the ground, and most of the remaining buildings would have to be bulldozed, even though they were untouched by flames. The rides were a shambles; Ferris wheel seats were tossed everywhere, and the wheel itself had fallen on its side. The octopus ride’s arms had cracked and broken like twigs, and carousel horses faced one another or hung sideways on their poles. The Haunted Mine Ride had fallen in on itself, and that was one attraction that couldn’t possibly be rebuilt.

  So far, six fatalities had been discovered in the Madelyns, New and Old, and thirty-six more people were still missing.

  After Alex Manderley had shown up at Tom’s sometime after midnight, Moss had driven up to the compound, but it was heavily guarded, just as it was at dawn, when he returned. Knowing Cassie was alive was a great relief; knowing she was there terrified Moss. Between those times, they had discussed going in through the tunnel, but Alex discouraged it, citing the maze of buildings and the presence of armed Apostles, and the difficulty of getting out again safely. Hopefully Carlo would appear with good news soon. Unfortunately, he had to agree with her. They would only enter through the tunnel if Tom’s plan didn’t work.

  Alex seemed to think it would. When Tom told Alex his plan, she declared him brilliant, talking about the power of belief and the element of surprise, just as Father Mike had. She volunteered to ride—insisted on it—and Tom finally agreed.

  Moss kept busy the rest of the night, cruising the mangled streets, watching for looters, stopping at Ray’s for coffee and at Tom’s for hope. Cassie was on his mind constantly, and rest was out of the question.

  It was now ten in the morning, and Moss was following Tom’s truck across Ghost Town Road to the far side of Spirit Canyon. Tom was hauling his four-stall horse trailer, and from the moment they met up this morning, he had a determined look that Moss had never before seen on that easygoing man. Perhaps he meant it last night when he said it was time for a change. Moss figured his near loss of Marie had a lot to do with that.

  Tom pulled to a halt near the end of the buckled asphalt in an area camouflaged by a small grove of Joshua trees. Moss parked just ahead of the trailer, parallel to the truck bed, where Mad Dog, Alex, and Davy were riding, along with those damned costumes. He turned off the ignition and got out.

  “You’re sure you all want to do this?” he asked as Tom and Marie got out of the truck.

  “We’re doing it, Chief,” Marie told him. “And if we don’t get in, we’ll go straight up the mesa to the tunnel.”

  “Too bad we can’t call in the FBI.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Moss regretted them. “Forget I said that,” he muttered.

  Mad Dog tried to talk Alex into letting him go in her place, but she wasn’t having any of it, arguing that if necessary, she had the best chance of finding the tunnel from Sinclair’s room again.

  Giving up, Mad Dog went to unload the horses while the others began putting on their costumes. Moss, feeling unnecessary, stood back and watched the show. “You’re
about the most ridiculous-looking bunch of critters I’ve ever seen,” he said in a kindly tone. In truth, the costumes were terrific. “You people have to forgive me. This isn’t normal police procedure,” he added as Marie pulled a box of makeup from the cab and handed it to Alex. She and Davy carried it to the far side of the truck and went to work.

  “I guess I’m lucky I don’t have to put that stuff on my face,” Tom said, looking at his mask. He wore a black cowled robe with wide sleeves. He’d blushed and refused the black leotard Marie tried to get him to wear beneath it, opting instead for black boots, Levi’s, and shirt. He’d told her that if he had those tights on and lost the robe, he’d have to shoot himself because he’d be too humiliated to live. They’d fitted the skull mask with the portable microphone and polished up the long-handled scythe he would carry. In addition to that, he had his revolver and his ever-present lariat. Like the other riders, he also had smoke bombs, grenades, and some fireworks Moss had scared up in the police station’s vault. All had little bags of dry ice attached to their shoes. They would tear the plastic off the bags before they got to the compound, and hopefully the ice would add a nice ethereal touch as it vaporized into white smoke. These things, along with the automatic weapons Marie had taken from the compound, were hooked to the saddles and would be hidden by their flowing robes.

  Moss had found a set of balances in town, and Marie set them on the hood of the trunk. She, too, wore a black cowled robe, with a gray leotard beneath and thin gray gloves on her hands. Instead of makeup or a mask, she had opted for a gray nylon stocking. Now she pulled her hair back and rolled the stocking down over her head. It was a creepy faceless look, and she disappeared behind the truck with Alex and Davy, then reappeared a moment later with dark gray shadows brushed on at mouth, cheekbones, and eyes, making her Famine a horrifying creature.

  “Well, what do you think?” Alex stepped out from behind the truck, Davy trailing self-consciously behind her. Alex, who would ride as War, wore a black robe trimmed in red. Her gloves were black, and gold piping crisscrossed her breast. She had stuffed her hair up under the coppery knight’s helmet and made up her face with a bronze-red base, using highlighter the color of dried blood to accentuate her high cheekbones and eyes. She was by far the most frightening-looking one. The sword hanging from her hip wasn’t the stage prop Tom had brought in last night, but one Moss had borrowed from Ray Vine, who liked to collect such things. This double-sided antique was his pride and joy, and he had insisted she use it. He claimed it had been lucky to all who wielded it, and Moss hoped it would be for Alex as well.