by Kay Hooper
Ah, well. Hardly his fault if they were unable to think like soldiers.
It was what happened when amateurs tried to make war.
Things got sloppy.
With a shrug, he slipped over the fence and into the Com pound. There was virtually no moonlight tonight, with the full moon ten days in the past and overcast skies to boot. He didn’t mind. He adapted easily to the night and preferred darkness. He worked his way across the fields and through the woods and the undergrowth that also provided something of a barrier, at least for a casual intruder: big, prickly holly bushes.
Not fun, but also not unbreachable.
Within minutes, he was through the woods and into the clear fields on the other side, in the central area of the Compound.
Where all the homes lay.
Where the church lay.
He had a set pattern in mind, a definite plan, and followed it methodically, moving from house to house in utter silence. At each small, neat cottage, he probed the exterior of the building, pinpointing every piece of electronic security and then tagging it with a very tiny electronic device of his own. An electronics expert would have been hard-pressed to spot it; he didn’t expect any of these amateurs to.
No one would discover his handiwork.
He began at the outer edges of the Compound and circled his way in, moving house to house, toward the church itself, keeping an eye to that direction all the way. But the church was still and silent. No one came or went; only a few lights on the upper floors illuminated two or three of the stained-glass windows.
There was an almost eerie quiet out here, he acknowledged. In January there weren’t even crickets, or bullfrogs calling from the river, and without summer sounds or dogs barking, it was . . .silent.
Strange and uncomfortable, that realization. He who enjoyed silence had finally found a place where it screamed at him.
Shaking off the decidedly unpleasant sensation, he went on, keeping to his schedule. By the time he reached the main building, even the few lights on the upper floors had gone out, and the interior was dark and silent. It would have been a peaceful sight, if not for the security lights casting pools of bright, harsh light around each entrance.
He didn’t worry about those.
It took him more than half an hour to slowly work his way around the very large church. He was more careful now, efficient, less inclined to assume he was dealing with amateurs.
Because not all of them were.
He found and tagged more than two dozen cameras and an equal number of motion detectors, and by the time he reached that point, he was grimly certain there were experts involved in protecting at least this building. And they were very, very good.
Almost too good.
But he was good himself, and though it required that he spend at least two more hours than he’d planned in the Compound, he was reasonably sure he had found everything of interest. Not absolutely positive but reasonably sure, which was all he had been aiming for on this trip.
He glanced toward the eastern sky and saw the first gray beginnings of dawn but lingered another few minutes to check some of the locked doors. Then he planted just a few more of his own devices and retreated toward the fence, leaving as silently unobserved as he had come.
Or so he thought.
——
Tessa didn’t sleep well, which was hardly surprising. It took a lot out of her to open herself up like that, especially in a place that literally radiated negative energy.
Negative energy in a church.
A giant red warning flag from the universe, that.
She had gone over everything with Hollis but hadn’t been able to offer a decent interpretation to the federal agent. Because the truth was, Tessa had never experienced anything quite like that.
“Cases almost always affect our abilities, usually in unexpected and unpredictable ways,” Hollis had told her, more resigned than anything else. “Considering what we know about Samuel, that he’s probably one of the most powerful psychics we’ve ever encountered, it stands to reason the energy there is going to be . . . supercharged, for want of a better word.”
“You mean not just more but more powerful?”
“Negative energy tends to be.”
Tessa frowned. “I can’t say I like the sound of that.”
“None of us does. The problem is, most of us deal with positive energy—literally—in our own abilities. We don’t know why, but that’s what all the science we have to depend on is telling us.”
“Good guys equal positive? And bad guys equal negative?”
“Weird, isn’t it? Like I said, we don’t know why that would be true. Maybe it’s just a chemical thing in our brains; the same hardwiring that makes us inclined to be cops or investigators also makes our psychic abilities work from the positive pole. And whatever wiring gets crossed to produce a sociopath also causes any psychic energy to be negative in those particular brains.”
“Because it’s all about balance.”
“That’s the theory.”
“Mmm. So in this case my own abilities aren’t going to work the way they always have?”
“If I had to guess, especially after your experience today, I’d say probably not. Energy affects us. And negative energy can affect us in some really bad, really painful ways. I speak from bitter experience.”
“But there’s no way for me to know just how my abilities may have changed—until the change becomes obvious?”
“Yeah, pretty much. The good news is, it’s seldom a drastically different ability but an expansion or enhancement of the ability or abilities you already possessed.”
Tessa had been warned about that, but as with so many things about being psychic, experience was really the only teacher. Up until now, she had never experienced any drastic change in her abilities—until she sat in that bathroom stall inside the Church of the Everlasting Sin and deliberately opened up her mind, expecting the usual jumble of thoughts and emotions.
She had not expected actual physical sensations.
Her body still felt sore from the waves of pain it had endured inside the church.
And no use telling herself it had all been in her mind. Like most psychics, she had long ago discovered the often unpleasant truth that what happened in the mind could be and, in fact, usually was far more “real” than anything the outer five senses could claim.
She tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, her mind replaying what she had seen and heard and sensed in that place, all the disjointed emotions and fragmented thoughts. Always circling back to that final, oddly chilling statement.
I’m hungry.
Who was hungry? Hungry for what? Everyone had certainly looked well-fed and, besides, every instinct told her it was not food that voice, that presence, hungered for. So what was it?
And who was it that had offered the simple I see you?
A friend, or at least a potential ally? Someone trying to tell her that another mind up there was capable of communicating in silence and secret?
Or bait on a hook?
Tessa pulled her pillow around so that she was as much hugging it as resting her head on it, conscious of a strange, unsettling feeling. She kept wanting to look over her shoulder, though every time she did there was only her bedroom in the Gray family home, illuminated for her by the light she left on in her bathroom. It was, admittedly, a space that was still strange to her, but until this night she had not felt uneasy here.
Not felt as though someone was watching her. Almost as though someone was, even now and very lightly, touching her back.
Ridiculous. There’s nobody watching. Nobody touching you. You’re just tired and you need to sleep. So sleep. Get some rest, and tomorrow everything will be clearer. Tomorrow you’ll have a better handle on what’s going on here.
Tessa wasn’t at all sure she believed that, because a certainty inside her—deeper than instinct—insisted that during or after her trip to the Compound, something was different, changed,
maybe even her. And it was a difference she didn’t understand. She needed to understand, but her thoughts chased themselves in circles uselessly until finally, exhausted, she slept.
And dreamed.
Seven
YOU SENT for me, Father?”
“Yes, child. How do you feel?”
Bambi smiled. “Oh, I feel wonderful, Father. I always do, after Testifying.”
“I’m glad to hear that, child.” He positively beamed as he came around his desk and took her hand. But even with the smile, he looked pale and weary, and his eyes were darkened and held a curiously flat, almost empty shine. “I want you to sit here and talk to me for a little while.”
“Of course, Father.” She sat down in the single low-backed visitor’s chair in front of his big mahogany desk.
He perched on the edge of the desk, still holding one of her hands. “You’ve been happy here with us, haven’t you, Bambi?”
“So happy, Father. It’s just like I said in my Testimony. I found peace here. I found God here.”
“And God is happy you found Him. He loves you very, very much.”
Bambi began to tear up. “I feel that. Thanks to you and the church, I really do feel that, Father.”
“I know you do, child. And God knows. But it never hurts to pray to Him and give thanks for your happiness.” He slipped off the desk and went around her chair, releasing her hand so that both of his could rest on the top of her head, just as they had earlier in the church.
And just as in the church, she bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Pray with me,” Reverend Samuel said, half-closing his eyes as his voice thickened. “Give thanks with me, child.”
“Yes, Father. I give thanks to God—” She jerked suddenly and moaned, her head tipping back.
He cradled her head in his hands, his fingers moving gently as though massaging her scalp, his own head moving side to side like some creature searching blindly. “Give thanks to God,” he said hoarsely. “Give thanks to me. Give yourself to me, child.”
Bambi moaned again. Her hands, resting on the arms of the chair, twitched spasmodically and then curled over the wood, fingers tightening until they turned white with the force.
“Give to me, child. Give me all that you are, all you have.”
“Yes, Father . . . yes . . . oh, God . . . it feels . . . so good . . .”
Her breasts rose and fell jerkily and her body shuddered. Again and again, as though shaken by wave after wave of sensation. Long minutes passed. Her face paled, then flushed, then paled again. Her moans grew quieter, weaker. Her hands relaxed their grip on the chair, fingers loosening and finally letting go.
Reverend Samuel lifted his head, his eyes opening. He looked down at her for a moment, then took his hands off her and walked around behind his desk.
He was . . . changed. His face showed a healthy color, his eyes were bright, and his every movement showed a dynamic energy. Even his hair looked more silver than gray. He seemed almost to glow.
“Thank you, child,” he said softly. He settled into his chair, then pressed a button on a very elaborate-looking phone system. The door opened, and Reese DeMarco stepped into the room.
“Bambi and I are done,” Samuel said.
“Of course, Father.” DeMarco went to the visitor’s chair and picked Bambi up, holding her limp body easily. His face was completely without expression. “Will there be anything else tonight?” he added, waiting there with the young woman cradled in his arms.
“No, I think not. Good night, Reese.”
“Good night, Father.” DeMarco carried Bambi from the room, closing the door quietly behind them.
Samuel leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “It’s good not to be hungry,” he said.
Tessa sat up in bed with a gasp, her heart pounding.
Oh, my God.
He was feeding off them.
“He’s a—a goddamn psychic vampire.”
“Sounds like it,” Hollis agreed.
Tessa turned to face the other woman, cradling her cup in both hands as she took a cautious sip of the hot coffee. “You don’t seem surprised,” she said finally, slowly.
“Well, we had the suspicion it would work like that. Or that it could, at least. A brain apparently hardwired to steal psychic abilities is already stealing energy. Somewhere along the way, he must have realized he could steal enough to replenish whatever he expended.”
Hollis sounded and looked wide awake, despite the fact that it was half past four in the morning and she was in a nightgown and robe, just as Tessa was.
Tessa stared at her. “Most people just rest when they’ve used up energy reserves.”
Hollis shook her head. “Most people don’t use energy the way psychics do. Even so, the majority of psychics probably do just rest, sleep. Hell, after one case, I slept for four days straight.”
“Samuel can’t do that?”
“Maybe he can. Maybe he can’t. Maybe he can’t afford the luxury of being that weak and vulnerable for that long.”
“Because he has enemies?”
“Because he has to hold on to his flock.”
Tessa thought about that for a moment. “If he weakens too much, or for too long, then his grip loosens. And they—what? Wake up? Realize they’ve been held captive by a kind of power most of them would consider witchcraft?”
“If I were him, that’s what I’d be afraid of. Especially if I’d risked a lot of power once, maybe even nearly all I had—and came home, weakened, to find my followers in the middle of a minor revolt.”
“Did he?”
“According to some information Sarah found, it happened last October. A number of weird things happened last October. Just about the time we thought we were wrapping up a serial murder case in a little town outside Atlanta.”
“Venture.”
“Venture.”
Tessa frowned. “You didn’t mention that before.”
“I didn’t know.” Hollis grimaced. “I talked to Bishop last night. He told me then. Apparently, Samuel was able to reestablish control over his people fairly quickly, but we’re not really sure how he managed that.”
“Psychically?”
“If that’s the hold he has over them.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“Well . . . I am. Controlling the mind and will of just one other person is an incredibly complex thing, beyond the limits of any psychic we’ve yet to encounter, no matter how powerful he or she was. The closest we’ve seen to any kind of mind control was between blood siblings, and even then the control was extremely erratic and uncertain. To control over a hundred people? All at once? All the time? Some of them outside the Compound, miles away in town? No. Samuel’s not that powerful. He can’t be.”
Tessa accepted that, but more because she didn’t want it to be true than because she was absolutely convinced. And she wasn’t entirely sure that Hollis didn’t feel exactly the same way. “Okay. If he isn’t controlling them psychically, then how?”
“I think he’s using his abilities but in a far more limited and precise way. You read up on cult leaders; they all use a combination of techniques, from strictly controlled schedules and structures to sleep deprivation, social isolation, sexual or emotional domination, public confession of sins and supposed sins, and flat-out brainwashing. Indoctrination through hours and hours of sermons, the central theme of which is always a variation of Us Against Them. Us being the chosen ones, of course. Them being everybody else, all outsiders, who are collectively and individually a dire threat to Us.”
“Yeah, I remember reading all that. But none of the cult leaders I read about was psychic.”
“I imagine they would have loved to be, though. For one thing, the hours of sermons wouldn’t be as necessary if you could make every single one pack a supercharged punch.”
“Is that what Samuel does?”
“We think so. From Sarah’s reports, ‘services’ aren’t an everyday thing, much less an al
l-night thing. But he does appear to speak to and touch every one of his followers every single day, and they do appear to be, for want of a better word, mesmerized.” Hollis shrugged. “Plus, just think about all the nice, convincing . . . miracles you might be able to pull off in front of a highly suggestible audience more than willing to believe you’re God’s messenger on earth. We humans have a long and storied history of following prophets and messiahs.”
“No matter where they lead us.”
“No matter where they lead us,” Hollis agreed.
Brooke knew her friends were right. She knew she couldn’t get all the way to Texas all by herself. But knowing that didn’t help. Knowing that she had friends who knew what she knew, who understood, didn’t help.
She was afraid.
She didn’t doubt Cody when he said something bad was going to happen, something even worse than the things that had already happened. She didn’t doubt him because Cody was never wrong about stuff like that, and because she felt it too.
It was like a weight she couldn’t escape, that feeling. She lay in her bed for hours feeling it on her, heavy and dark. She tried hard to make her shell even stronger, even thicker, but that didn’t seem to make any difference at all. The weight remained. And it was getting heavier by the minute.
She wanted to cry out, to run to her parents’ bedroom, as she had once done when a nightmare woke her, seeking comfort. And seeking reassurance that nothing was going to hurt her, that nothing lurked in the darkness of night that she need be afraid of.
Once, that had been true. But not anymore.
In the darkness of her bedroom, lying very still in her bed, Brooke began to cry.
On the other side of the Compound, in her own bed, Ruby lay awake. She, too, had been working to strengthen her shell, but even as she did so she had the guilty awareness of hiding at least one truth from her friends. Not because she didn’t trust them, of course, it was just . . . It was just that she had only one thing left in the whole world that truly belonged to her, one thing Father hadn’t been able to take away.