The Switch

by Sandra Brown

  "I assume you're referring to the murder of the young woman in Dallas," Brother Gabriel said, returning his attention to the reason for the visit.

  "Unfortunately."

  "You spoke to the investigating officer?"

  "Just as you told me to. Soon as I got back to my office the other day."

  "You conveyed to him my regrets that a man claiming to be a follower of mine had been involved?"

  "I repeated your words verbatim."

  "You reported back to Mr. Hancock that the detective was satisfied with your explanation and that the case had been closed."

  "That's what I was told." He stopped fiddling with his hat and set it on his knee. "Then this afternoon I had a visit from that homicide detective, Lawson. He had an FBI agent with him."

  "Special Agent Tobias."

  Taken aback, Ritchey glanced quizzically at Hancock. The man could have been carved from marble. Turning back to Brother Gabriel, the sheriff asked, "How'd you know?" "Because he made an appointment with me for tomorrow.

  You don't see me in a panic, do you? Your urgency was uncalled for, and you've interrupted my evening for nothing." "They came here looking for the murder victim's twin." "Melina Lloyd," Brother Gabriel said blandly.

  Ritchey was surprised to learn that Brother Gabriel knew about her, too. As though reading his thoughts, the preacher added, "You aren't my only source of information, Sheriff Ritchey."

  "No, sir. Apparently not."

  "Now, what about Ms. Lloyd? What did Tobias tell you?"

  "He figures she's on her way here and that she might try something crazy. Get revenge, something like that."

  Brother Gabriel chuckled. "Revenge? On me? What for? Surely she doesn't hold me responsible for what a madman did to her sister."

  "She's been turning over a lot of rocks in Dallas hunting for answers. It appears that Dale Gordon didn't pick Gillian Lloyd at random. He knew her through an infertility clinic where she'd been artificially inseminated. And last night Gillian Lloyd's fiancé was shot and killed. To Tobias it looks like a professional job. Melina Lloyd is shook up about it all and thinks the answer lies in you, or with the ministry, be-cause both Gordon and Hennings, the fiancé, had connections to it."

  Brother Gabriel took several moments to digest all this. His long fingers stroked the sides of his cut-crystal snifter. Finally he said, "I'm curious as to why the FBI came to you first. If Tobias honestly thinks this woman is out to get me for her own illogical reasons, why didn't he come directly to me with the warning?"

  "Because..." Ritchey had dreaded this part of the meeting, and now that it was here, he felt himself sweating under his arms and around his testicles. He cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded thin. "Because he thinks her deductions may be right."

  Another long silence ensued. Brother Gabriel didn't move or show any outward signs of distress. Only the cold glint in his eyes revealed that he was experiencing some inner turmoil, and Ritchey figured it was rage. Millions of followers regarded him as a saint, a prophet, a savior. Allegations that he might be involved in several murders hadn't set well.

  "Tobias said that?"

  Ritchey felt it was safe to resume breathing. "Not directly. But he asked a lot of leading questions. It was easy to tell what he was getting at."

  Brother Gabriel propped his elbow on the padded arm of his chair, cupped his chin with his hand, and laid his index finger along his cheek. He was waiting, listening, and Ritchey took his cue. He repeated his conversation with Lawson and Tobias word for word.

  When he finished, he wet his lips anxiously. "I have to tell you, Brother Gabriel, with all due respect, that I'm a little nervous when it comes to the FBI."

  The preacher signaled his assistant to refill the snifter. Ritchey waited while Mr. Hancock retrieved the decanter, then watched the golden liquid trickle from decanter to snifter. It was so expertly poured, it didn't even splash.

  Brother Gabriel rolled the snifter between his palms to warm the brandy.

  "What exactly do you mean by that statement, Sheriff Ritchey? About being nervous when it comes to the FBI."

  "Well... what I mean is... that I can't go too far out on a limb without risk to myself. I can't be as... as vague with government agents as I've been with some other people who've come snooping around and asking questions about life inside the compound here."

  Brother Gabriel held the snifter up to the desk lamp and appreciated the color of the brandy with the light shining through it. "In other words, your loyalty to me would be tested."

  "No. No, sir. You've got my loyalty. You know that. But... He squirmed beneath Brother Gabriel's searing gaze. "But what?"

  "But we're talking the Federal Bureau of Investigation here. Those guys don't mess around. If they thought I was protecting... What I'm saying is, if push comes to shove, I'd have to protect my own interests. I'm sure you understand that."

  Brother Gabriel smiled. "Of course I do. I understand that very well. Because I have my own interests to protect." He looked over at Hancock, who immediately responded to a silent order. He crossed the room and entered Brother Gabriel's chamber through the golden double doors.

  "Tell me about Tobias," Brother Gabriel said conversationally. "Is he a smart fellow or a dullard?"

  "Very smart, I'd say. Soft-spoken. Observant. Snazzy dresser."

  "And Lawson?"

  "Looks and acts like a retired boxer. Not as refined as Tobias."

  Smiling complacently, the preacher stroked his chin. "I'll bet they're fit to be tied, wondering where Melina Lloyd will pop up."

  "They seemed anxious about her, all right. I've got my deputies checking every motel in the county to see if she checks in anywhere."

  "She's incredibly bright. She'll be in the last place you'd expect. Did Tobias and Lawson mention Colonel Hart?"

  Ritchey shook his head. "Who's that?"

  "Aw, Mary," Brother Gabriel said. His gaze had moved to a spot beyond Ritchey's shoulder. "Come here, sweetheart."

  CHAPTER 36

  Turning, Sheriff Ritchey recognized her instantly—the same girl he'd seen earlier in the week. It was clear that she'd come straight from Brother Gabriel's bed. Also evident was that she was the reason the preacher had retired so early this evening. Her dark curly hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed. Her robe was white, much plainer than the one Brother Gabriel was wearing, but it was apparent that she was just as naked as he underneath.

  The robe made her pregnancy more obvious than it had been in the school uniform she was wearing when he was last here. Her breasts were heavy. Her stomach was so stretched that her navel was distended and made an impression against the cloth.

  Brother Gabriel drew her down onto his lap. "You see why I was reluctant to leave my bed tonight, Sheriff."

  Ritchey couldn't respond. Not even a nod. The girl's lewd appearance and what it suggested appalled him. He wanted to bolt. He desperately wanted to cling to his illusions about Brother Gabriel. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to experience this total destruction of his self-delusion.

  Brother Gabriel stroked the girl's rosy cheek. "Because Mary came to me when she was so young, I was able to train her properly. It's paid off for both of us. Hasn't it, Mary?" "Yes, Brother Gabriel."

  "Actually, she got a little upset with me tonight." Playfully he tapped her sulky lips. "I had to be very careful with her, very gentle, because the pregnancy is so far advanced. Nothing must endanger the child. Isn't that right, Mary?" He smiled beatifically at the girl. "Of course, Mary wasn't her original name. I gave her the name Mary after she came to the Temple. What was your name before that?"

  She raised her shoulders.

  "Mr. Hancock, do you remember?"

  "Oleta."

  "Oleta?" Brother Gabriel barked an ugly laugh. "A hillbilly name. An unpleasant reminder of my youth. No wonder I changed it to something more fitting." He played with one of the girl's dark curls, then his stroking fingers moved down to her chest. "Can you imagi
ne what a lovely sight it'll be to watch the baby suck at these breasts?"

  Ritchey was incapable of speaking. His hat had fallen to the floor, but he hadn't retrieved it because he hadn't even noticed. With rising revulsion, he watched Gabriel fondle the girl. Blindly obedient, she never protested or showed any sense of shame. In fact, she purred like a kitten. He and Mr. Hancock might just as well not have been there. She had acknowledged neither of them, centering all her attention on Brother Gabriel.

  "Of course, there is a drawback to Mary's being here for so long," Brother Gabriel remarked casually. "Her life in the Temple would be misunderstood by the unenlightened. They would revile her. Who would comprehend the life she's had here? I look at her and see a sacred vessel that should be cherished and honored.

  "But enemies of the ministry would see her in a totally different light. They would call her ugly names. Horrible things would be said of her. After being here for so long, she would be

  an outcast anywhere else." He interrupted his preoccupation with Mary's engorged breast to look across his desk at Ritchey. "Would you have this lovely girl thrown to the wolves? Think about that the next time you're stricken with conscience or feel an obligation to assist the FBI."

  He splayed his hand over the girl's stomach and caressed it affectionately, but his eyes never drifted off Ritchey. "You said you must protect your interests. I promise you, Sheriff, that I shall protect mine."

  Then he tilted Mary's chin up and kissed her passionately. The girl's tongue darted in and out of the man's mouth. Her small hand disappeared between the folds of his silk robe and began to caress him vigorously.

  Chuckling, Brother Gabriel removed her hand and kissed it. "Off you go, now back to bed. I'll be in momentarily. Tell the sheriff bye-bye, then scoot."

  She slid off Brother Gabriel's lap. "Bye-bye, Sheriff," she repeated mechanically. Then she turned and walked back into the bedroom.

  Ritchey was in the grip of nausea. He had broken a cold, clammy sweat, and his head was loudly buzzing. He was thoroughly revolted but incapable of registering his revulsion. And even if he were inclined to, the preacher obviously didn't give a whit about his opinion. If he had, he wouldn't have flaunted his sexual relationship with the girl.

  Brother Gabriel, watching her go, sighed. "Such an adorable child. Such a sweet disposition. And such a talent for fellatio." He then rubbed his hands together briskly. "Now, what were we talking about? Oh, yes. The pesky Melina Lloyd. Let me assure you, Sheriff Ritchey, that there's nothing for you to fear on that account. As we speak, that problem is being resolved."

  The car topped the rise, then decelerated and coasted down the hill.

  Dexter Longtree had been waiting and watching. Melina and Hart had feared that the transceiver would bring the bad men here. Apparently they had arrived. Only an occasional vehicle traveled this lonely stretch of road after dark. And who coasted downhill with their headlights off?

  The Army had sent Longtree to Vietnam when it was still referred to as a conflict and battles were called skirmishes. He'd seen combat and, although he deplored the idea of war, he had been a good soldier. A decade later, he'd fought stateside in a different kind of battle, participating in American Indian Movement demonstrations against the federal government. He'd been arrested and jailed many times for his participation in protests that had started out peacefully before turning ugly.

  Now he felt the familiar adrenaline boost he'd felt during battle, either in the jungles of Southeast Asia or in the halls of U.S. government buildings. It wasn't fear. He was too old to fear death. He didn't want to embrace it, particularly. But when it came, he wouldn't resist overmuch. Death was only a passing, not an ending. Besides, as he had told Melina, his destiny wasn't in the hands of hired killers.

  His heartbeat increased slightly. He had missed this tingling sense of anticipation, he realized now. Old men were rarely allowed to take part in contests of valor. Even if one proved to be a good strategist, he was relegated to the role of advisor. Hand-to-hand combat was reserved for the younger and stronger. It felt good to be on the battlefield again. These men may have high-tech equipment. They may have the razor-sharp instincts and skills required to be professional assassins.

  But he was an Indian. Sometimes it really paid to think like one.

  The car slowed down as it approached his gate, then drove past. "Good tactic," he murmured.

  The car went approximately a quarter mile past his gate before it came to a stop. Longtree could no longer see it, but he heard the motor die. There was no wind tonight to mask the sound. But even if it had been blowing a gale, it wouldn't have mattered. He had lived on this property all his life. He knew the night sounds and could distinguish them.

  He waited with the patience of eroding rock. He was gifted with excellent night vision, a definite asset on a night when the moon was a mere sliver. In a matter of minutes, he saw shadows shift near his gate. He focused sharply and made out two men. They hesitated, then ran in a crouch, darting from shadow to shadow to conceal their approach to the house. Longtree had left every light inside burning. The cold electric light coming through the windows in the living room indicated that the TV was on. He could hear the muffled sound track of a medical drama.

  But these men wouldn't be going to the house. Not at first. Not if their tracking device was as sophisticated as Hart suspected it was. They would be looking for Melina in the shed about two hundred yards beyond the house.

  As Longtree watched from his hiding place, they conferred quietly in the shadow of a water trough just inside the horse corral, then moved off in the direction of the shed where he'd left the transceiver. Thoughtfully, he'd left a lantern burning inside the shed to help them locate it in the darkness.

  They moved within ten yards of him, never knowing he was there, but he got a better look at them. One was black, the other white. These were the men. When they were well past him, he crept from his hiding place behind the cord of firewood and set out after them.

  Because of their stealth, it took them almost five minutes to cover the distance from the house to the shed. Longtree was short of breath by the time he reached the spot he'd chosen earlier for his vantage point. But as he leaned against the boulder, he'd never felt more alive. He breathed deeply but quietly.

  He watched the two men flatten themselves against the exterior walls of the shed and scoot along them until they were flanking the door. At a signal from one, the other kicked open the door, then, with pistols in hand, they barged inside.

  Their surprised exclamations and shouted profanities filled the quiet night. They had expected to find Melina Lloyd and Christopher Hart inside the shed—not ripe piles of manure that Longtree kept stored there before selling it for fertilizer.

  Choking and gagging, trying to stamp the manure off their shoes, they stumbled back outside, where they were leapt upon by the men who'd been lying flat on the roof of the shed, waiting for the opportunity to pounce.

  The black man managed to get off a few aimless rounds from his semiautomatic handgun before he was knocked to the ground by a young man emitting a bloodcurdling yell that startled even Longtree. Another fired his rifle into the night sky as he landed hard on the white man.

  The boys were having fun.

  Once the two were disarmed, they were jerked upright. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs and they were shoved forward. A lance sailed out of the darkness and found earth inches away from their feet. It swayed menacingly before coming to rest.

  "Holy shit," the white man said in a quavering voice. "Shut up," ordered the black man.

  Longtree stepped from behind his boulder and strode forward. He'd put on his ceremonial war bonnet. Just for show. Just for the hell of it. As he approached, he saw that the intimidation had worked. Even the black man had lost some bravado.

  Longtree stood before the pair, saying nothing for an impossibly long time. Eventually the black man guffawed. "Who the fuck're you supposed to be, Geronimo?"

&nb
sp; One of the boys jabbed him in the kidney with the stock of his rifle, not hard enough to do any real damage, but hard enough to get his attention and let him know that they would tolerate no disrespect.

  Longtree spoke to them in his native tongue. He repeated the sentence three times.

  "What's he saying?" the white one asked his partner in a high-pitched, frantic whisper. "What's he saying?"

  Longtree glanced down at their soiled shoes. "I said, 'You're in deep shit."

  Most of the children in the dormitory were already asleep, but Brother Gabriel enjoyed touring the facility when they were in bed. Tonight he had elected to visit the nursery. Being with Mary, delighting in her ripe body, had put him in the mood to make contact with his babies.

  The nursery was as sterile as a science laboratory, but nothing had been spared to make it a cozy, comfortable environment. The temperature and humidity were constantly regulated. Brightly colored prints illustrating nursery rhymes decorated the walls. Mobiles and other interactive toys were attached to the cribs. Classical music wafted from hidden speakers. He had entrusted the children's mental development to experts who knew best how to stimulate their young minds and increase their learning capacities.

  But he personally oversaw every aspect of it and was pleased to note that occasionally the music was interrupted by his voice. Tapes were played of him reading a nursery rhyme or singing a lullaby. A brilliant touch, he thought. He wanted each baby to grow up with his voice being an integral part of its subconscious.

  Unfortunately, despite his best planning and the meticulous screening process each mother was put through, an occasional genetic deficiency would manifest itself in a child who proved to be not as brilliant or physically superior as hoped.

  Coincidentally, those children also had a propensity to contract pneumonia, to which all had tragically succumbed.

  But he didn't dwell on those misfortunes any more than he mourned the deaths of Dale Gordon or Jem Hennings. When someone's usefulness to him had expired, he expunged that person from his mind.