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 ceremon
ial 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?"
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 a
t 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.
He moved from crib to crib, dispensing love and caring to each child. Actually, he chose to tour the nursery when he was certain that most of the babies would be asleep. He liked them best when they were clean and silent and he wasn't being subjected to dirty diapers or spit-up or wailing for no logical reason.
He enjoyed watching them while they slept. Moving up and down the rows of cribs, he lovingly touched each one, reminding himself of the Sistine Chapel ceiling fresco that depicted God extending his hand to his most awesome creation, Adam.
He liked to feel the softness of their baby skin, to compare the size of his hand to their small bodies, and to envision them growing into youths with strong limbs and handsome faces.
He liked thinking of them growing up to be reproductions of him.
When he came to an empty crib, he turned to the attendant nurse, who'd been hovering ever since he came in. "It's for Mary's baby," Dorothy Pugh explained in a reverential tone. "She's having a girl. She's due in two weeks."
"So I hear."
"This crib is ready for the baby whenever she's delivered."
Dorothy Pugh had been serving as a nurse for a South Dakota school district when Brother Gabriel heard of her devotion to his ministry. Her mission work was impressive; she'd brought in numerous converts. He contacted her and offered to finance her advanced training in neonatal care. She'd leapt at the chance to live and work at the Temple. After her training, when she heard that her job would be overseeing the care of the babies born to the Program, her gratitude had been so effusive it had embarrassed him. At least to the others present he had pretended it had.
Her dedication to the Program was unquestioned. He felt comfortable leaving his children in her care until they graduated to the next level, joining those who could crawl and toddle.
"I want to be notified as soon as Mary goes into labor." "Of course, Brother Gabriel."
"And should you have to evacuate the children's dormitory in a hurry—"
"We've rehearsed many times, Brother Gabriel. If ever our enemies threatened to invade us, the children could be relocated immediately."
"You're doing an excellent job." He stroked her cheek. She blushed, her eyes radiating naked adoration and making her look prettier than she actually was. She was too old for the Program, but perhaps he should reward her loyalty and thereby instill even more. He must remember to have Mr. Hancock send for her one evening soon. She would be desperately anxious to please him. The thought made him smile.
"Brother Gabriel." Mr. Hancock had approached in his usual unobtrusive manner. "Forgive me. I know you dislike having your rare time with the children interrupted, but I thought this was important."
Reading the strain in Mr. Hancock's voice, all thoughts of an erotic evening with the nurse vanished. He motioned his assistant out into the corridor. During the day, the wide hallway was bright with sunlight streaming in through the ceiling skylight. It echoed with the sounds of children and the voices of the staff who nurtured their bodies as well as their minds. Now it was dim and deserted.
Mr. Hancock had a two-way radio in his hand. "Was it your understanding that Sheriff Ritchey was leaving the compound?"
"Of course. I gave him his marching orders. He's supposed to be keeping an eye on Tobias and Lawson, as well as watching for Melina Lloyd and Hart to show up." Joshua had already informed him that they were indeed on New Mexican soil. He was awaiting word of their containment and wondered now what was taking Joshua and his partner so long.
Mr. Hancock frowned. "The sheriff's patrol car is still in the parking area."
"But he left at least an hour ago."
"He left your quarters. He never passed the guard at the lobby desk."
"Then where is he?"
"Security guards are checking all the men's rooms."
"Men's rooms?" Brother Gabriel exclaimed with increasing acrimony. "It doesn't require an hour to take a leak. Besides, there are cameras in all of them. They could tell at a glance if he's using a men's room."
"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."
"Of course there's something to worry about," he snapped. "What's the matter with you, Hancock?"
"All I'm saying is that—"
"An armed man is unaccounted for."
He wasn't afraid of Ritchey. The man was a coward, a snail. He had no backbone whatsoever. He wouldn't know the meaning of pride if it bit him in the ass, and he had proven himself corruptible when he accepted Brother Gabriel's deal. But he had picked a damned inconvenient time to pull a disappearing act when he had important duties to attend to.
"I want him found."
"Yes, sir." Hancoc
k motioned two guards forward. "
Just as a precaution, I've ordered these men to stay with you and not to let you out of their sight."
"That's not necessary."
"Please, Brother Gabriel. Indulge me."
"Oh, all right," he agreed impatiently.
He headed back toward his private quarters with the two burly guards flanking him. He was in a thunderous mood. Alvin Medford Conway was on the brink of achieving greatness. He was going to make history. His name would be immortalized, and he didn't have to be martyred to achieve it.
An entity of his stature shouldn't have to be worrying about crackpots with grudges against him. He was beyond the
Melina Lloyds of the world. Even homicide detectives and FBI agents and astronauts were pissants, flyspecks, compared to him and what he would mean to the future of mankind.
Sheriff Max Ritchey was so low on the food chain as to be negligible. But he had managed to spoil Brother Gabriel's evening, and that was untenable.
CHAPTER 37
They hadn't made their deadline to reach Lamesa before dark, but there wasn't that much to see. Downtown was comprised of a few commercial buildings strung like laundry on a clothesline along either side of the state highway.
Chief noticed that among them were the requisite bank, post office, supermarket, and a pharmacy that doubled as a barbershop. A mobile home had been converted into the public library. The ladies of Lamesa could get their hair and nails done at Marta's, who also sold Indian fry bread out of her kitchen. There was one motel, where a blinking red neon sign informed travelers of a vacancy. This evening only one car was in the parking lot.
The public school campus, which served grades K through twelve, occupied an acre on the outskirts of town. Small clusters of houses, scattered intermittently here and there, constituted the residential areas.
"Have you ever had fry bread, Melina?"
"What is it?"
"Delicious. Which reminds me how hungry I am." Without even consulting her, he stopped at a carry-out food stand. The structure was barely wide enough to accommodate a stove,
but it advertised burgers, chicken, and tacos. "Longtree's breakfast has worn off."
Melina nodded, but he could tell that her mind wasn't on food. She was focused on the mountain that loomed out of the desert on the west side of town. At its peak was their destination, the Temple.
Chief tried to shake off a feeling of foreboding and asked Melina what she wanted to eat. "Anything's fine."
He got out and walked up to the window. Not surprisingly, it was a one-man shop. The cashier who took his order also deep-fried breaded chicken strips and sliced potatoes, then served them to Chief through the window. They ate in the cab of the pickup, from which they had an unrestricted view of the mountain.
"Ketchup? Salt?" He offered Melina pillows of each. "Thanks."
Chief was using his straw to break up the ice in his drinking cup, when it squeaked against the plastic lid. It was a rude sound that caused him to laugh.