Hot Water (13 page)

“I give him high marks for showmanship,” I whispered to Yancey.

He nodded and winked. “Hush now, the man’s communing with the Almighty.” A southern accent had crept into his voice—even though I knew full well he was from California.

The old woman stumbled. She was caught by the two assistants. Her face was twisted in fear, but Vincent bent down and whispered something in her ear and she nodded slowly. He waved off the assistants, who gingerly let go. She faltered. The crowd inhaled, a sound like the wind stirring the candle flames surrounding Vincent and the woman.

Then she stood. Unassisted. And she walked. One step, then another.

The crowd went wild. Hands raised to heaven, dancing in the aisle, women fainting, people chanting and speaking in tongues. Vincent rushed to the front of the stage—nicely timed to mask his assistants behind him catching the woman as she fell and hustling her out of sight beyond the curtains.

“Guess I don’t have to ask how a church can afford your fees,” I muttered to Yancey as the collection baskets began down the aisles once again.

“They don’t care about money,” he said, a hint of wonder in his voice. “They truly Believe with a capital B. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” He tugged me through the throng until we were face to face with Vincent as he came down the stage steps flanked by his two assistants. One of them was the angry young man from the protest earlier today.

Up close, Vincent was a lot younger than I’d thought—around my age, late twenties. His hair was matted with sweat and his shirt clung to his body, revealing a nicely toned musculature. Guess all that pacing and ranting made for a good workout.

Yancey made introductions. “Reverend Vincent, this is AJ Palladino.”

“Charmed, I’m sure, Ms. Palladino.” He bent his head over my hand as if bowing.

“Quite a show,” I nodded to the stage.

“All in the name of the good Lord.”

“Don’t mind her, Rev,” Yancey said. “She’s an unbeliever.”

“Fine with me, Brother Yancey. They make for the best converts. Look to St. Paul.”

His polite words and fine manners weren’t working on me. I’d met too many snake charmers like Vincent before. But he did remind me of someone—Owen Grandel.

“How much do you charge to cure someone?” I asked.

Yancey raised an eyebrow at my impudence but Vincent merely smiled. “How much would you pay for salvation? To not just believe but
know
you were destined to sit at the right hand of God come the Judgment? Faith is priceless, Ms. Palladino.”

One of his assistants, the guy from the protest, appeared ready to intervene, to whisk him away before I could further contaminate their holy-roller Kool-Aid.

Vincent shrugged him off. “I sense that you’re troubled, child,” he said, touching my left shoulder and pressing down, hard. “Let me take your troubles away, let me carry your burden. Rest, child, give it all to Jesus.”

It might have worked—if I didn’t understand what he was doing. “Nice try, Reverend Vincent. But Jesus and I haven’t been on speaking terms for a long time.”

He blinked as if surprised I hadn’t handed over my wallet along with my soul. Most folks—especially ones who already more than half-believed, like his audience—are susceptible to the tricks of persuasion. Too bad for him, the first lawyer I worked with taught me all about how a well-placed gesture, certain key words, and intonation can literally hypnotize a jury . . . or an audience.

To my surprise, Vincent let out a hearty laugh.

His left-hand assistant—the same man who had yelled at me when I tried to help the woman at the protest earlier today, blanched. His hands fluttered as if he was forcing himself not to make the sign of the cross or trying to ward off an evil spirit: me.

“Paul, would you escort Ms. Palladino to my office? I believe we should get to know each other better.”

“But, sir—” Paul looked aghast at Vincent’s request. He slid a fancy touch-screen phone from his pocket and tapped at it, using it as a shield between him and me. “Sir, we have scheduled—”

“Forget the schedule,” Vincent interrupted, glowering at Paul, who in turn glared at me, as if it was my fault, disrupting the Lord’s work.

Yancey intervened, smiling brightly. “I’ll take her, Rev. I know the way.”

“Good. Liam, you go with them.” He nodded to his right-hand assistant, a stony-faced brick wall of a man who could have given the Buckingham Palace guards lessons on masking expressions.

Vincent’s smile softened the fact that he didn’t trust Yancey and me alone in his office, but I didn’t take it personally and I knew Yancey was used to worse slights on his character.

Liam walked us through the crowd, which was now singing a gospel song about Heaven’s wrath. People didn’t just make room for Liam, they got the heck out of his way fast, giving him a wide berth, eyes wide with fear. I had the feeling that of everyone crammed under this tent top, Liam was probably one of the few true believers, a fanatic who would do anything Vincent told him.

My fears were confirmed when Yancey made the mistake of trying to start a casual conversation. “Hey Liam, tell her how you got those scars on your hands.”

I glanced at Liam’s hands. They were covered with twisted scars clustered in unusual patterns.

“These two were rattlesnakes,” Liam said, his voice as expressionless as his face. “And these copperheads. Not sure what kind of snake this one was—but the good Lord wasn’t ready to take me that day.”

“Vincent said you’ve walked over coals to show your faith.”

Liam shrugged. “Reverend Vincent asks, I do. That’s how faith works.”

Seemed to me he was confusing faith with hero worship, but I wasn’t about to contradict three hundred pounds of muscle and sinew.

“I don’t suppose Reverend Vincent has ever asked you to do anything to maybe mess things up at the Colleton Landing facility? Anything that might make them shut the plant down?” I asked.

“Now why would I do that?” Vincent’s voice carried a fake-jovial edge as he walked up behind us, clamping his hands down like vice-grips on my shoulders. “Without that plant, my work here is done. And I like it here. Tons of heathens who need my intervention to save their souls.”

“You mean heathens like me.” I stood my ground, refusing to acknowledge Vincent’s invasion of my space.

Liam raised his eyebrows—I guessed that was anger, or as close as he came to registering anger. Of course, if he didn’t show his emotions, kept them bottled up inside, that didn’t bode well for anyone he unleashed them on.

Vincent finally released me—I was sure I’d have bruises in the morning. Any other time and place and I might have drawn the SOG sheathed in my boot. But I wasn’t among friends here, I was vastly outnumbered, and I had the feeling that violence was exactly what Vincent expected of me. I hated it when folks stereotyped me before they got to know me.

We arrived at a large RV parked in the shadows behind the tent. Liam unlocked the door, opened it and looked inside, then nodded to Vincent, who bounded up the steps past him. Yancey and I followed.

Inside was a cramped living/dining area with two large leather recliners parked in front of a wide-screen TV.

Yancey plopped down in one of the leather recliners, breaking the tension. “We’re all heathens here. Vincent, where’s the beer? I’m parched.”

Vincent nodded to Liam, who grabbed two beers from the refrigerator. He handed one to Yancey.

“No, thank you.” I not only wanted my head clear, but there was no way I was about to drink something that came from Vincent.

Liam didn’t change course, his look of scorn making it clear that he hadn’t intended the beer for me to start with. Vincent took the beer and settled himself in the second recliner, leaving Liam and me standing. Liam crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, looked like he could stand there all day and night without moving except to blink.

Lacking the powers or patience of a gargoyle—which was exactly what Liam reminded me of—I sat down on the edge of the banquette even though it meant I had to crane my head to make eye contact with Vincent and Yancey. It also put me a tad lower than them, and when Vincent gave me a look that brimmed over with satisfaction that I was in my place, I realized he’d manipulated me.

Talk about your men with control issues. Instead of bouncing back up to my feet, I lounged back and curled my legs up so I was sitting Indian style. Much more comfortable and a posture that looked anything but submissive.

“So, Reverend Vincent, what did you want from me?” I asked.

He chuckled again—I was really beginning to hate that smarmy half-laugh, it was even worse than his smirk. “Nothing, my dear. I want nothing from you. Except your soul.”

FIFTEEN

I decided to play along. “Who says I haven’t already sold my soul?”

“Well now, that would be most unfortunate. Because I believe you can help me with a problem. Something that would be mutually beneficial.”

“I’m already getting paid by Grandel.”

He took a long sip of beer. I’d never seen a man drink beer from a bottle so delicately. As if it were a vice he savored in secret. Given the conservative leanings of his congregation, maybe it was. Yancey guzzled his and motioned to Liam for another. Liam waited for permission from Vincent—a simple nod—before retrieving it.

I sat there and watched. More than one power-game was being played out here, but I didn’t know enough to put any of them in context.

Vincent lowered his bottle, licked his lips, and sighed appreciatively. It was just Yuengling, for chrissakes, I wanted to shout. But for once I stayed silent. I could play the waiting game, too.

“I’ll double whatever Grandel’s paying. All I need you to do is report back to me. Share a little information, that’s all.”

“What kind of information?” Could Vincent and his people be behind the incidents at Colleton Landing? Maybe they’d found a way around the security and had fooled the investigators into labeling the radiation leaks as accidents.

“Just the date of their next isotope shipment. It’s a matter of public record—or it will be. I’d just like a little advance warning, that’s all.”

Right. A little advance warning that could lead to people dying if a shipment of medical isotopes went astray. I kept my face friendly—it took an effort. Men like Vincent and Grandel who played games with people’s futures made me furious. But I played it cool—must be Elizabeth’s influence on me.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, getting to my feet.

Liam blocked my way for one hard moment. But Vincent gave the nod and he stepped aside, even opened the door for me, well-trained Neanderthal that he was.

Elizabeth finally bribed David into taking the other patient bed by allowing him to stay up reading. Of course, his reading was different than any other kid’s she’d known. Or most adults, for that matter. David shared Flora’s fondness for audio books. He’d fallen asleep listening to Steven Hawkings’s
A Brief History of Time
while reading
Godel, Escher, Bach
—a book Elizabeth had once attempted to read in order to impress a guy she’d dated in college but had quickly given up on.

David was almost the entire way through the eight-hundred-page book—and he’d just started it the day before.

Spooky, having a kid so smart around. Like the way he’d breezed through all the research material Grandel had left. During dinner he’d given them an impromptu lesson on the history of nuclear disasters, including several that had happened here in the US that she’d never heard of, probably because they were in government installations.

She shifted in her “sleeping” chair—the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever devised. And supposedly designed to allow loved ones to grab some sleep while holding vigil? Not likely. The most she could achieve was a light doze, and as soon as her body relaxed, one of the infernal chair’s wretchedly placed springs would poke her awake again.

The nurses came in every few hours to check Flora’s IV and blood sugar, but other than that, they left her alone. Finally, after the last one pricked Flora’s finger and left without even acknowledging Elizabeth’s presence, Flora stirred.

“Jeremy? Where—”

“Shhh,” Elizabeth sprang to her side and took her hand. “It’s Elizabeth. You’re in the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Flora pushed herself up on her pillows. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Whatever did they keep me for? I feel fine. Except for a headache. And my arm’s cold from this damn thing.” She wiggled her hand with the IV fluids flowing through it.

“What happened?” Elizabeth asked. Although Flora had been awake at the house and fairly coherent, she hadn’t explained her view of the events. If Elizabeth was going to help Jeremy, she needed to know everything—even if it was the worst.

Flora frowned, her entire face folding in an attempt to concentrate. “I fell asleep in my chair. Woke up feeling kinda funny, so I headed up to bed. Made it to the stairs when I got dizzy and everything went black. I don’t remember anything else.”

“Do you remember Jeremy giving you your evening insulin?”

“But he wouldn’t have—the doctor changed the schedule since I’ve been eating dinner later. Now Jeremy comes up when he goes to bed and gives me the last injection right around eleven.”