Blood Sins (22 page)

Burnt flesh.

He didn't want to but forced himself to turn and look at what he only vaguely recognized as the outdoor amphitheater used by Samuel and his congregation. It was a charred and scorched place now, the large boulders intended to be seats blackened, stillsmoking. And among the rocks were other still-smoking shapes.

Human shapes.

They were twisted and contorted in mute agony, and it was obvious that many of the adults had tried in vain to protect children. But none of them had had a chance, Quentin realized sickly.

He heard a scream and pivoted sharply, finding himself looking up at the area of the granite "pulpit" where Samuel preached.

Samuel stood on the pulpit, staring down at his dead followers, his expression chillingly serene. His hands were smoking.

At his feet, staring up at him, sat a dark-haired little girl, her expression every bit as serene as his.

"Ruby!"

It was Tessa who had screamed, who cried out the little girl's name. She was . . . she was bound to a cross, one of four placed on either side of the pulpit. Ropes at her wrists and ankles would have held her securely; the monstrous iron spikes driven through her hands and feet were clearly intended to maim and torture. Two of the other three crosses held identically bound figures, but only Tessa was conscious; the others were unconscious--or dead. Hollis and Chief Cavenaugh hung motionless.

There was a lot of blood.

Samuel looked at the little girl, then smiled tenderly. He placed his left hand on the top of her head.

Before Quentin's horrified eyes, she began to smolder and, without a sound, she burst into flames.

Tessa screamed again. Samuel turned his head to look at her, his smile fading, replaced by a slight frown, just barely this side of indifference. He looked at her, Quentin thought, as one would look at a fly that annoyed with its buzzing. Then, with his left hand still on the head of the burning child, he extended his right hand, and a jagged bolt of pure energy shot from his fingers toward Tessa.

"Quentin."

Blinking, drawing in a gulp of blessedly normal air, Quentin looked down at the hand gripping his arm, then up to meet Bishop's concerned gaze. "Jesus. How do you and Miranda stand this?" The hoarse sound of his own voice startled him.

"Practice." Bishop helped him to his feet, and into a nearby chair. "What did you see?"

"I saw . . . hell. Listen, I need to get to the Gray house. Like ten minutes ago."

"Why?"

"Because they're about to make a very, very,
very
bad decision. Trust me on that. And I don't think anything short of an unexpected visit will dissuade them."

Bishop reached immediately for a phone. "The chopper can land in that clearing between the house and the road; that should get you close enough without alerting the farmhands."

"Can he get away this time of day?"

"He'll have to. I can't risk getting that close to the Compound, and we don't have another pilot available right now. Bring them back here."

"Sure?"

"Quentin, you're white as a sheet. I don't need it described to me to know you saw something we do
not
want to happen. So it's time we pool our resources.
All
of them."

S
AMUEL WAS ALWAYS
careful, when he used Ruth, not to drain her to the point of unconsciousness. Partly because he preferred to take the energy of younger women, and partly because Ruth's energy was . . . odd. He wasn't sure what was different about her, but over the years had come to understand that her role in his life and his ministry was different from the role other women played.

Perhaps it was because she had been with him longest and had known him through all the stages of his journey. Or perhaps it was simply that God had decreed she would stand with him in order to remind him, again and again, of the devil who had borne him.

Because he could never draw Ruth's energy without remembering--

He was nearly twenty before he truly began to master the gifts God had bestowed with that bolt of lightning years before. Until then, he was erratic, uncertain when he would be able to hold a congregation spellbound with his power and when he would be forced to rely on the knowledge and tricks he had gained when preaching had been merely a means to earn enough for a bed and a meal or two.

But that day, that particular day, had been one of the more frustrating he'd endured, with his gifts eluding his grasp, and in the dark night he had found himself walking the streets of a cold and dirty city a lot like the one in which he had last seen his mother alive.

Perhaps that was why.

The whores were easy to find, as they always were, and he chose one with little thought beyond the knowledge that she was cleaner than most and promised him a room.

The room turned out to be at a rundown motel that brought back too many ugly memories, and in a rage, in the middle of the furtive act for which he'd paid, Samuel put his hands on her throat and began to strangle her.

He probably wasn't the first john to like his sex rough, but she must have seen something on his face or in his eyes, because she choked out a quick protest before he could cut off her breath completely.

"Wait--don't! I can--do something for you. Something better--"

"You can die," he grunted, fingers tightening.

"No! I can--show you death."

That got his attention. And earned her a reprieve. But he finished with her first, his hands still at her throat, just tight enough so that the sight of her red, sweating face and panicked eyes brought him to orgasm.

He got off her once he was done, stripping the condom off and tossing it into a corner, then using his own handkerchief to clean himself. He straightened his clothing, then sat on the bed beside her and stared down at her. She was no longer gasping, but watched him warily, as if afraid to even move.

"What did you mean? That you could show me death?"

She licked her lips nervously. "It's just . . . my grandma could see spirits. So can I. Is there anybody you want to talk to, honey? Anybody from the other side? Because I can make it so's you can talk to them."

Disgusted, he said, "You really think I'm going to fall for that bullshit? Where do you keep your crystal ball?"

"It ain't like that, honey, I swear! I'm no phony. I think about it, about opening a door to the other side, and the spirits almost always come through. I can see them
and
hear them."

"Can you?" He laughed and, obeying an impulse, lunged to once again grip her throat. "I think I want to be able to do that,
honey.
I think you're going to give me that. Aren't you?"

This time, she couldn't answer, because he was strangling her in earnest. And as he choked the life out of her, he reached. Reached with his mind, thrusting into her as his body had thrust into her just minutes before. Thrust and thrust and thrust . . .

"
Sammy!
What're you up to now, you little bastard?"

He jerked his hands away from the whore, staring at her. But it wasn't she who had spoken. She was never going to speak again. Her face was so mottled it was almost blackened, her swollen tongue protruding between her lips, her eyes wide and so red they looked bloody.

Her body was stiff. Cold.

Time had passed. A lot of time.

Samuel pushed himself off the bed and scrambled to his feet. And it was only then that he saw her.

His mother.

She stood near the door, her smile the cruel one he remembered so well, looking every bit as real and alive as she had looked all those years before.

"You're still a bastard, Sammy," she said mockingly. "No matter how old you get, no matter how many people are stupid enough to believe you're God's little soldier, we both know the truth, don't we? We both know what you
really
are."

He stared at her, his head pounding, hands curling into fists at his sides. He wasn't . . .
couldn't . . .
let her destroy what he was building. He couldn't.

"I'll tell you a little secret, Sammy." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "God knows too. And the devil's waiting, with a seat for you that's right in the fire--"

"No.
Noooo!
" Terror shot through him, and with all his will, with every last ounce of strength and determination he could muster, Samuel slammed the door he had opened.

The spirit of his mother vanished, popping like a soap bubble.

He stood there for an endless time, swaying, exhausted, mumbling over and over, "I can't see spirits. I can't see spirits. I can't see spirits."

Ruth came when he called. She never told a soul about the dead whore. And he refused to see spirits. Ever again.

"H
ow do you propose we get her out of there?" Sawyer demanded. "I'm game to try something, but what? According to your list, Ruby Campbell has parents, both followers of Samuel, both living in the Compound. They're her legal guardians, and since we have squat in the way of evidence that she's at risk, no judge is going to issue an order allowing us to remove that child from her home and parents. I doubt very much the parents will consent. And taking her out of there any other way is kidnapping."

"I don't care," Tessa said. "That little girl reached out to me. I can't just stand by and do nothing."

"I know that. All I'm saying is that we need a plan. A reasonable plan with at least a reasonable chance of succeeding."

Hollis said, "I know someone who can get into the Compound at night, without being seen or detected by any of the monitors. And into any of the buildings, locked or not. But Sawyer has a good point, Tessa. We can't just go in there and snatch the girl." "We can't wait until night."

"Tessa--"

Somebody banged on the front door, making them all jump.

Sawyer had his weapon in his hand and was at the diningroom window before either of the women could move. "No car. I can't see the porch from here, let alone the door."

Tessa frowned, closed her eyes for only a moment, then said, "Dammit," and headed for the foyer.

"Tessa--"

"It's okay. I know who's here." She pulled the front door open, aware as the others joined her that Sawyer still held his weapon and that Hollis had one hand behind her, undoubtedly holding her own gun.

"Quentin, what're you doing here?" Tessa demanded.

"Saving your ass," he responded politely. "
Believe
me. And not just yours."

Hollis said, "You do love to make an entrance, don't you?"

"Always. Chief Cavenaugh, I'm Special Agent Quentin Hayes. I know all this seems very abrupt, but if you wouldn't mind, my boss thinks it's time we all met up and talked about things."

"Quentin, there's a little girl--"

"Ruby. Yes, I know. You don't want to go charging up there right now to save her. You really, really don't."

"What did you see?" Hollis asked him.

"Something I don't want to see again. Ever. I'll explain, but right now we need to go. We don't have much time, because our pilot can't be AWOL more than an hour or so." He stepped back and gestured.

They exchanged glances, and Sawyer holstered his weapon, Tessa returned to the dining room long enough to pick up the bag that still held a sleepy poodle, and Hollis grabbed a jacket. Then they followed Quentin from the house.

After hearing that there would be a pilot, Sawyer wasn't all that surprised to find, awaiting them in a clearing no more than a couple hundred yards from the house, a sleek green and white helicopter. His first thought was that it was a M.A.M.A. chopper: one of the Mountain Area Medical Airlift choppers seen fairly often carrying patients from accidents and smaller hospitals to the major medical center that was Asheville.

His second thought was the recognition that this was a much more powerful and unusual machine, and also that it was a hell of a nifty idea to make the aircraft look like one residents in the area wouldn't think twice about if they looked up and saw it. Most people would make an idle mental note to check the news and see if there'd been an accident but wouldn't be surprised if no later news report was forthcoming--patients were regularly ferried from one hospital to another, and that seldom made the news.

He was surprised at the almost eerie quiet of the machine, though it explained why they'd heard nothing. The rotors beat the air rhythmically, but that was virtually the only sound, and even that was oddly muted.

"Military?" he asked Quentin.

"They wish. Let's go."

Sawyer was the last to climb aboard, and it wasn't until he settled into his seat and accepted the headphones Quentin gave himthat the pilot turned his head and offered a very faint smile.

It was Reese DeMarco.

Sawyer exchanged looks with Tessa, hoping that his eyes weren't as wide and baffled as he felt, and then hastily put on his headphones as the helicopter lifted into the air and headed north, so low it was practically skimming the treetops.

"What the hell?" Sawyer demanded. "He's on your team?"

"Afraid so." Quentin sounded amused. "I know he makes a rotten first impression, but given time you'll warm up to him."

"I doubt that," Sawyer snapped.

Tessa looked at Hollis, who merely shrugged.

"I've never met him," the agent told Tessa. "Knew we had somebody else on the inside, but that's as much as Bishop would tell me."

Through the headphones, Reese DeMarco's voice was cool. "And that was more than you needed to know."

Hollis shot him a none-too-friendly look, then shrugged again. "Looks like all the secrets are coming out today anyway."

After that, the passengers and pilot remained silent for what turned out to be about a ten-minute flight to a very large house perched high above Grace on the side of a mountain. What appeared to be a flat-roofed multicar garage sported a clear heliport, and DeMarco set the chopper down with a featherlight touch and switched off the engine.

Sawyer was in no mood to be impressed. He ignored their pilot as he helped Tessa out and then walked beside her across the landing pad, following Quentin, Hollis, and DeMarco into the building.