Blood Sins (2 page)

He slipped his hand underneath her shoulder, intending to turn her over and check her back for any wounds, but paused as he realized just how she was positioned. She had been returning to the Compound, and unless she had somehow gotten turned around and changed direction, it looked as though she had been knocked backward from an attack she had run into head-on.

And yet the frozen ground around her, crystals of frost glittering in the moonlight, was very clearly undisturbed by any sort of struggle and unmarked by any footprints except for his own and Sarah's. Their footprints--arriving at this point. And Sarah's footprints continuing on. But not returning.

It was as if she had been lifted off her feet yards farther along and thrown back to the center of the clearing with incredible force.

Galen wondered suddenly if a medical examiner would find her bones so shattered they were virtually crushed, as Ellen Hodges's bones had been.

He hesitated a moment longer, weighing the pros and cons of taking her back with them. It wasn't in his nature or training to leave a fallen comrade behind, but the incredibly high stakes in this situation forced him to reconsider. Someone had killed her, and that someone would expect to find her body here. If she didn't remain where she was expected to be . . .

"Shit," he breathed almost without sound, the curse a small cloud of cold mist. "Sorry, kid. I--"

It was his instinct to look someone in the eye when delivering a hard truth, and so he looked into Sarah Warren's dead eyes when he began to tell her he would have to leave her body here to be recovered by her murderers.

Her eyes were changing. As he watched, they slowly fogged over, the irises and pupils at first dimmed and finally completely obscured by white. And in the bright moonlight the angles of her face seemed sharper, the planes becoming hollows, as if more than her life had been--was being--sucked out of her.

Galen had seen many dying and dead over the years, but he had never seen anything like this before. And for one of the very few times in his adult life, he felt suddenly vulnerable. Nakedly vulnerable.

His gun couldn't protect him here. Couldn't even help him. Nothing could.

He found himself withdrawing his hand from under her shoulder and was conscious of an almost overwhelming urge to leave, now, to get as far away from this place as he could, as fast as he could.

But once again, he wasn't quite fast enough.

He was still rising, just beginning to turn, when he saw the three men only a few yards away, moving swiftly through the woods toward him with a silence that was uncanny.

The one in front, a tall man with wide shoulders and a stone-cold expression, already had his weapon out and raised and offered neither warning nor any chance at all. The big silver gun bucked in his hand.

Galen felt the bullet slam into his chest before he heard the muffled report, felt the frozen ground hard beneath him, and was dimly aware of his own weapon falling from nerveless fingers. He couldn't seem to breathe without a choking sensation, and blood bubbled up into his mouth, sharp and coppery.

Christ, what a cliche. I can't think of something better?

Apparently he could not. He had a mouth full of warm liquid metal, and he could literally feel his life ebbing from his body. Not sucked out as Sarah's had been but just leaving him, the way his blood flowed from the gaping wound in his chest and soaked into the cold ground. For a few brief seconds he looked at the bright moon, then the light was blocked out as the three men stood over him.

He focused with an effort on the taller one, the one whose stone-cold killer's face he could not now make out. Just a silhouette with gleaming eyes, silent, watching him.

"Son of a bitch," Galen managed thickly. "You sorry son of a--"

The big silver gun bucked again, hardly more than an almost apologetic sneeze of sound escaping the silencer, and a train slammed into Galen, and everything went black and silent.

"W
hat if he was a cop?"

"What if?" Reese DeMarco knelt briefly to pick up the automatic from the ground beside the outstretched arm of the man he had shot, adding in the same unemotional tone as he rose, "Search him. See if he's carrying I.D."

The man who had asked the question knelt down to gingerly but thoroughly search the body. "No I.D.," he reported. "No harness or holster for the gun. Not even a damn label in his shirt. Shit, you really nailed him. Two dead-center in the chest. I would've expected body armor and gone for the head shot."

"I doubt he expected armed opposition. Probably just a P.I.hired by one of the families with no idea what he was getting into." DeMarco thumbed the safety on the confiscated weapon and stuck it into his belt at the small of his back. "Amateurs."

The third man, who had stood silently scanning the woods, said, "I don't see any sign of the kid. Think she ran off?"

"I think she was carried off." The words had barely left DeMarco's lips when, faintly, they all heard the sound of a car's engine revving and then fading within seconds into silence.

"Amateurs," DeMarco repeated.

"And heartless, not to come back for their dead." It was said with absolutely no sense of irony, and the man still kneeling beside the bodies looked down at them sorrowfully for a moment before lifting his gaze again to DeMarco. "I didn't hear Father say--does he want these two brought back?"

DeMarco shook his head. "Dump the bodies in the river, Brian. Fisk, help him. It's nearly dawn; we need to get back."

They obeyed the clear order, holstering their weapons and bending to the task of lifting the large, heavy man from the frozen ground.

"Over a shoulder would be easier," Carl Fisk panted as they struggled to manage the dead weight. "Fireman's carry."

"You can if you want to," Brian Seymour told him. "Not me. I go back covered in this guy's blood and my wife is gonna ask all
kinds
of questions."

"All right, all right. Just lift your share, will you? Shit, Brian--"

DeMarco looked after the two men for a long moment until they disappeared into the forest and he could measure their progress only by the continuing complaints and fading grunts of effort. Finally he returned his weapon to the shoulder holster he wore and knelt beside the body of Sarah Warren.

He didn't have to check for a pulse but did it anyway, then gently closed her eyes so the frosty whiteness was no longer visible. Only then did he methodically search her to make certain she wasn't carrying identification--or anything else that might cause problems.

It was a very thorough search, which was why he found the silver medallion hidden in her left shoe. It was small, nearly flat, and on its polished surface was carved a lightning bolt.

DeMarco held it in his palm, watching the moonlight shimmer off the talisman as he moved his hand. Finally, becoming aware of the not-exactly-silent return of his men, he replaced Sarah's shoe, got to his feet, and slipped the medallion into his pocket.

"That bastard weighed a ton," Brian informed DeMarco as they joined him in the clearing, still huffing from the effort.

"I doubt you'll have the same problem with her," DeMarco told him.

Fisk said, "We're lucky that the river's deep and the current moving fast right now, but is it smart to keep using it for disposal?"

"No, the smart thing would be to make sure disposal isn't necessary," DeMarco told him, his tone not so much critical as it was icy.

Brian sent him a wary look, then said quickly to Fisk, "You get her legs and I'll get her shoulders."

Fisk, who had locked eyes with DeMarco, didn't respond for a moment. Then he said, "Just help me get her over my shoulder. She's not bloody and I can manage her alone."

Brian didn't argue. He didn't, in fact, say another word until Fisk was on his way back to the river, the small, limp body over his shoulder clearly not a burden.

"Reese, he's a good man," Brian said then.

"Is he? We lost Ellen under his watch. Now Sarah and the girl. And I don't believe in coincidence, Brian."

"Look, I'm sure Father doesn't blame Carl."

"Father has other things to occupy his mind these days. My job is to protect him and the congregation. My job is to worry about anomalies. And Fisk is a . . . worry."

Unhappily, Brian said, "Okay, I get you. I'll keep an eye on him, Reese."

"Do that. And report anything unusual. Anything, Brian." "Right. Right. Copy that."

They waited in silence for Fisk to return, with DeMarco staring down at the dark glimmer of blood slowly freezing on the cold ground.

"Want me to cover that up?" Brian ventured finally.

"Not now. The weather service reports a front moving in, bringing rain by dawn. In a few hours there'll be nothing left here for anyone to see."

"And the questions we'll get? About Sarah and the kid?"

"When we get back to the Compound, go to Sarah's room and pack up all her things. Quietly. Bring them to me. I'll take care of the child's belongings. Refer any questions about either of them to me."

"Will it interfere with Father's plans? Losing the kid, I mean."

"I don't know."

"Oh. Well, I just thought if anybody would know, it'd be you."

DeMarco turned his head and looked at his companion. "If you have a question, ask it."

"I just . . . I wonder, that's all. About Father's plans. He talks about the Prophecy, he talks about the End Times, says we're almost there. So why aren't we getting ready?"

"We are."

"Reese, we barely have enough guns to arm security for the Compound."

"Guns won't stop an apocalypse," DeMarco replied dryly.

"But . . . we survive. More than survive--we prosper. Father promised."

"Yes. And he's doing everything in his power to make sure that happens. You believe it, don't you?"

"Sure. Sure. I mean, he's never lied to us. All his visions have come true." Brian shivered unconsciously. "And the things he can do . . . The power he can tap in to whenever he wants . . . He's been touched by God, we all know that."

"Then why are you worried?"

Brian shifted in obvious uncertainty and discomfort. "It's just . . . the women, I guess. You aren't a married man, so I don't know if you could understand."

"Perhaps not."

Encouraged by that neutral response, Brian went on carefully. "I know it's important to strengthen Father's gifts. I get that, I do. And I understand--well, sort of understand--why he can draw what he needs from the women but not from us."

"Women were created to sustain men," DeMarco said, his voice still neutral, almost indifferent.

"Yes, of course. And I know it doesn't harm them--the opposite, if anything." He sounded faintly dissatisfied about that, even to himself, and hurried on before DeMarco could comment. "But not every woman is able or willing, Reese. Ellen, Sarah. The others. Should they be forced against their will?"

"Have you seen any force employed?"

Brian didn't look away, even though he could feel more than see those cold, cold eyes stabbing him through the moonlit night. "No. But I've heard things. And those who aren't willing, who aren't . . . flattered by serving Father's needs, they always seem to turn up missing, eventually. Or turn up the way Ellen and Sarah did."

DeMarco allowed the silence to stretch until Brian shifted again beneath his stare, then he said deliberately, "If you don't like the way Father runs things, Brian, if you aren't happy here, then perhaps you should talk to him about it."

Brian wavered for only a moment and then took a physical step back as he shook his head. "No. No, I've no complaint. Father's been nothing but good to me and mine. I believe in him."

"I'm glad to hear that." DeMarco turned his head as they both heard the noisy footsteps of their returning comrade. "Very glad. Remind me, will you, to have a talk with Fisk about maintaining quiet whether we're tracking or not, especially when we're outside the Compound."

"Sure." Brian was glad those cold hawk eyes were focused on someone else. "But whoever took the kid is long gone, right? I mean, you don't suspect someone else is out there, listening? Watching?"

"Someone's always out there, Brian. Always. You'd be wise not to forget that."

T
ESSA GRAY
looked at the two earnest women sitting in chairs on the other side of her coffee table and summoned a smile. "You're both very kind," she said. "But I really don't think--"

"It isn't easy for a woman left all alone," the younger one said. "People want to take advantage. You've had offers for this house, haven't you? Offers for the land?"

Tessa nodded slowly.

"And they were below fair market value," the older woman said.

It wasn't a question.

Again, Tessa nodded. "According to the appraisal. Even so, I've been tempted. This place is too much for me. And with land around here going for low prices--"

"That's what
they
say." The younger woman's eyes all but burned with righteous indignation. "What they want you to believe. But it isn't true. Land here is worth a lot, and even more when people who know what they're doing work it and handle crops and livestock as they should be handled."

"I don't know what I'm doing," Tessa confessed. "I mean, I'm glad the farm has a manager to run things for me just the way he did for--The land and business belonged to my husband's family, as I'm sure you know, and he wasn't interested in any of it himself. He hadn't even been back here in years, since high school, I believe. It's just a fluke that he inherited and . . .I was left with it all."

The older woman, who had introduced herself simply as Ruth, said, "The church can remove that burden, Tessa. Take over the running of this place for you, even the ranch in Florida. So you wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. It would all still be yours, of course; our laws forbid any member to turn over property to the church even if they want to. We're asked only to tithe, in money or in goods or services. If our properties and businesses make more than enough for us, for our needs, and we choose to donate the extra to the church, well, that's fine. It's a gift to help Father take care of us."