by Anne Stuart
She shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t her fault that Angel had died. They should have known better than to leave a newcomer with that kind of responsibility. Besides, Calvin had been behind it all. If anyone was responsible for Angel’s death it was the jealous little man who’d confessed to it. There was no reason for her to feel a speck of guilt, and she refused to acknowledge it.
“Don’t you want to be there?” she asked Bobby Ray in a curious voice.
He shook his head. “I never liked Angel,” he said evenly. “She was crazy.” He smiled at her with liquid innocence.
“I would have thought Luke would expect compassion for the afflicted,” she said.
“Luke doesn’t expect anything of us. We simply learn to exist, in our own way. That’s the power of the Foundation of Being.”
He seemed so earnest she wasn’t about to dispute it. The room he led her into seemed similar to the others, if a little larger and a little emptier. White adobe walls, plank flooring, a few cushions on the floor. Hardly conducive to comfort, she thought wryly. She would have rather had an overstuffed sofa and a large-screen TV.
However, at least Luke wasn’t anywhere around, which was the best thing that could be said about anyplace at Santa Dolores. She rubbed her arms, feeling suddenly chilled. There was a fireplace in one corner, and the smell of burning piñon pine was crisp and resiny in the stillness. She half expected Bobby Ray to leave her, fading away like most of the ghostly creatures who called themselves Luke’s People, but he was still there, watching her, as she warmed herself by the fire. Luke’s private quarters, she thought. A perfect place to start searching, if only she were left alone.
“You really don’t need to stay with me,” she said. “I just wanted someplace where I could be by myself, and Luke suggested his rooms.” She glanced around the empty space. There were no other doors but the one through which they’d entered. “Where does he sleep?”
You would have thought she’d asked where he kept the bodies, the way Bobby Ray reacted. “Luke is celibate,” he said repressively.
“So am I,” she shot back. “I didn’t say I wanted to sleep with him, I just asked where he slept.”
“Here.”
The thin pallet in the corner didn’t look much more comfortable than a bed of nails. And yet Luke didn’t strike her as the self-denying type.
“Why?”
“It’s all he needs,” Bobby Ray said simply.
“Humph,” Rachel muttered. “You must think he’s some kind of god.”
Bobby Ray moved closer, his placid face oddly shadowed, his eyes so dilated they looked almost black. “Not exactly,” he said.
For a moment she felt a little shiver of doubt. It was no wonder she was spooked—this entire place reeked of death. She’d been there less than twenty-four hours when someone had tried to kill her, someone who killed herself immediately afterward. It wasn’t surprising that she was looking for monsters beneath the most innocent of faces.
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
He wasn’t a physical threat, the way Luke was, even though he came up to her and took her hand. She let hers lie in his cold one, waiting.
“I wrote you the letter, Rachel. I’m the one who knows the truth about your mother’s death. About all the deaths here at Santa Dolores.”
And he put his hand over hers, trapping her.
8
Rachel should have felt elation. She should have felt joy and triumph, knowing that revenge was moving closer. Instead she looked into the innocent face of Bobby Ray Shatney and wondered why she suddenly didn’t trust him.
“You knew my mother?” she asked warily. “You were here when she was?”
“I’ve been with Luke since I was eighteen. I’ve known everyone who’s ever been here. Those who are still here. Those who left of their own free will. And the people who just disappeared without a trace.”
“Have there been many of them?”
“The ones who disappear? A few. They were the unbelievers, the ones who wanted to destroy Luke. It could happen to you.”
“It’s not going to,” she said firmly. “Not with you to help me.”
Bobby Ray looked so incredibly young, with his soft cheeks, his faintly dazed expression. “I don’t know if I can,” he muttered.
“You said you were the one who wrote me. You said they murdered my mother, you said she never had cancer and that she knew what was happening to her!” Her voice was shrill, but there was no way she could calm herself. “You have to tell me what you know.”
“I’m not sure,” Bobby Ray said. “I’m not sure of anything anymore. They give me these drugs, and they confuse me.” His eyes were strange—unfocused and yet oddly watchful. “I loved Stella, you know. She was like a mother to me. My own mother died when I was young, and Stella had such a soothing touch.”
Rachel just looked at him. He was older than some of the young men Stella had slept with, and she’d never had a soothing, maternal bone in her body. But he looked so sad, so lost, that she didn’t want to doubt it. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she murmured gently.
For a moment she couldn’t read the expression on his face. “I’ve got to get out of here. Luke will be coming back soon. He trusts me, but he doesn’t trust you.”
He was already backing away from her, heading toward the door. “But we need to talk!” she protested. “Come to my room later and we can …”
He shook his head. “Your room isn’t safe. He’ll be watching. Listening.”
“How?” she asked bluntly.
“Luke knows everything.”
“He’s not some kind of tin god. He’s only human, for heaven’s sake.”
Bobby Ray shook his head pityingly. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s not like other people.”
“That’s for sure,” Rachel muttered.
“I don’t know how I can help you. Things are so confusing to me now. Stella said she wasn’t sick, and I believe her. She told me she didn’t think anyone had really been sick, that they were killing her for her money. She wanted me to get in touch with you, to try to help her before it was too late. But I wasn’t in time.”
“She wanted me? She wanted my help?” Rachel heard the longing in her own voice and hated it.
Bobby Ray nodded. “She said you were the only one who could help her.”
“And I didn’t. I didn’t come in time.”
Bobby Ray shook his head. “It’s too late now. Leave this place. Luke’s too strong, too powerful. Get out while you still can.”
“But …”
He was gone before she could scream at him. Before she could tell him she couldn’t give it up, she couldn’t let go, couldn’t just forget that her mother might have been murdered.
It could all have been one of Stella’s ornate fantasies, of course. Stella loved to be the center of melodrama, and dying of breast cancer might have been too mundane for her. She would have been entirely capable of turning the whole thing into a giant conspiracy, just to get more attention. And she’d drag everyone into that fantasy with her—Bobby Ray and Rachel and any other gullible fool.
There was no way she could find out. They hadn’t done an autopsy, and her remains had been cremated and scattered in the New Mexico desert. Any trace of Stella had been washed away by acid rain months ago.
She sank down in front of the fire, staring into the glittering orange depths. She’d been an unwilling audience to Stella’s histrionics all her life. She’d been told to be patient, to be quiet, not to interfere, not to get in anyone’s way, from the time she was old enough to obey. She’d seldom seen Stella during her early years, and Rachel had never decided whether that was a blessing or a curse. The caretakers she’d hired had been efficient, responsible, and far from loving, and Rachel had been a skinny, sallow-faced child, prickly, full of anger at the world. As a child she’d read voraciously: books were her comfort, her parents, and her friends, and early on she’d identified with Mary Lennox in The Secret Ga
rden. The thin, sour, unwanted child who’d been transformed by the magic of a garden and love.
But there were no secret gardens for Rachel Connery. Only the eager, fumbling hands of her third stepfather.
It was Stella’s longest marriage, a testament to the cruelty of fate, Rachel always thought. The touching had started when she was nine years old, culminating in rape when she was twelve.
She could barely remember what happened when she told her mother. Stella wouldn’t have listened. Those years were hazy now, thankfully so. Rachel had withdrawn into a dark, private place where no one could hurt her and by the time she slowly, cautiously emerged, Husband Number Three with his filthy habits was long gone, and Stella had embarked on her series of boy-toys.
And Rachel had been patient. Waiting for a sign of love or affection from her preoccupied mother. Waiting for the ice that had locked around her to melt. Waiting for miracles.
The time for patience was gone. She was suddenly chilled, and she wrapped her arms around her body, wishing she had a sweater. Wishing something could warm her, melt the ice inside her.
At least Luke didn’t know anything about her. Didn’t know about old vulnerabilities, new pain. There was no way he could reach her, hurt her. Not if she didn’t give him that power.
And she wouldn’t. Not for twelve million dollars, not for that mindless peace the others seemed to be enjoying. She would never let him get to her.
She heard the door open behind her, and she stiffened her shoulders, prepared to do battle once more. The light cast the elongated shadow across the room, but she knew at once that it wasn’t Luke. She seemed to have developed an unnatural instinct about him, which she could only hope would help her in the long run.
“I brought you some food,” Calvin said. The tray he carried was almost as big as he was, and there was no enticing smell of coffee this time. Rachel accepted its absence with a fatalistic shrug. The lack of caffeine was only adding to her edge.
He set it down on the floor in front of the fire, looking at her expectantly. There were two bowls of some lentil-veggie mash and a loaf of fresh baked bread. No butter, but Rachel was beyond caring. “Who’s the other plate for?” she asked, reaching for the bread.
“Luke’s eating in the refectory with his people. He said I was to keep you company. If you were willing.”
She gestured toward the other plate. “Help yourself,” she said. “And while we’re eating you can answer some questions for me.”
“He said you would ask.” Calvin sat down across from her, the firelight casting strange shadows on his odd, ugly face.
“And what did he tell you to say?” She managed to choke down a few bits of the lentil mash. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, and she made herself swallow another bite. Food had always been low on her list of priorities, but it had been too long since she’d eaten, and her body was beginning to assert its need.
“He said to tell the truth, of course,” Calvin replied. “Anything you want to know.”
She didn’t believe him, of course. But that didn’t keep her from trying. “You’re his helper, aren’t you? His partner in crime?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just a guess.”
“I know Luke better than anyone else does,” Calvin said. “I look after his best interests.”
“Even when he doesn’t recognize them?”
“Particularly then.” Calvin’s voice was affable. “Take, for instance, the problem of you. I think he underestimates just what kind of trouble you could start.”
“And that’s why you tried to kill me?” She took another spoonful of lentils, trying to savor it. It was a lost cause, and she set the spoon down again. “But how could I make trouble if you’re all as saintly and innocent as Luke pretends to be? If this little cult really exists for the betterment of mankind and not the lining of Luke Bardell’s pockets, then why should he have to worry?”
He didn’t answer her question. “I didn’t like Stella either. She was greedy. She wanted to monopolize Luke. She wanted everything, and she didn’t want to share.”
“That sounds like my mother,” Rachel said wryly.
“She was too needy. Like you.”
It took her by surprise. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to take the nearly full bowl and shove it in his smug little face. Instead she set it down, very carefully. “I’m not like my mother,” she said in a deceptively calm voice. “And I’m certainly not needy.”
“That’s not what Luke says.” He continued to spoon away at his own dinner, not meeting her eyes. He didn’t need to, Rachel thought bitterly. He knew exactly how his airy words were affecting her. “He says you’re the neediest human being he’s ever met. He’s a sucker for the needy. Always has been. That’s why he started the Foundation of Being.”
“Is that why he keeps you with him?”
He looked up and grinned at that. “We all have our needs,” he said. “Luke needs me as much as I need him. Whether he admits it or not.”
“You mean the great messiah wouldn’t admit something?” Rachel said in mock amazement. “I thought he was perfect.”
“Far from it. He’s human, just like the rest of us, searching for some kind of peace and helping other people to find it as well.” He rattled it off as if by rote.
“You don’t believe that.”
“You don’t care what I believe. You’re like the rest of them. Like your mother. You’re only interested in Luke.” It didn’t seem to distress him.
“Yes,” she said, for once completely honest. “I’m only interested in Luke.” And how I can destroy him.
“It won’t do you any good,” Calvin whispered. “You can’t hurt him, no matter how much you want to. I look out for him, and there are others as well. No one would let you hurt him.”
“Who says I don’t want to learn from him?”
“The only thing you want to learn is how to bring him down. But it won’t work. He’s got a gift, Luke has. For drawing people to him. He’ll get you as well, see if he doesn’t. No matter how much you think you hate him, he’ll have you eating out of his hand before long. You’ll be just as helpless as everyone else is, desperate for a word, a smile, even a glance. I can see it now.” His glee was appalling.
“I’d kill myself first,” Rachel said flatly.
“There are those who have done that. And there are those who have tried to kill Luke. No one ever wins. Only Luke triumphs in the end.”
“Over the bodies of the vanquished?” Her voice was sharp.
“And over the fortunes of the deluded,” Calvin added smugly. “You finished with your dinner?”
Somewhere along the way she’d lost her appetite. She shoved the tray away from her. “Why aren’t you busy trying to convince me of his saintliness? I would think you’d want me to doubt my paranoia. Instead you’re feeding it.”
Calvin rose, hoisting the tray up. “I don’t think I could say anything that would make you trust Luke. And I have my own reasons.”
“And what are they?”
He was already at the door when he turned to look at her out of his small, dark eyes. “Maybe I’m trying to scare you away,” he said. “You’re nothing but trouble here. Go someplace and forget about Luke. Forget about this place. Forget about your mother. Trust me, you could lose a lot more than twelve million dollars.”
And then he was gone.
She didn’t waste any time. She searched the barren room with a determined thoroughness, trying to blot out Calvin’s words. It took her exactly five minutes. There was nothing in the cavernous chamber but the thin pallet that was purportedly Luke’s bed, a few cushions, and the fireplace. No place to hide papers, or contraband.
She stared in frustration at the blank walls. Surely he couldn’t spend all his private moments in such ascetic surroundings? For all his vaunted abstinence, he didn’t strike her as a man who ignored the call of his senses. There must be some hidden life, or room, like Blu
ebeard’s chamber. Maybe filled with the corpses of the women who’d tried to destroy him.
Now she was getting crazy, and it was all Calvin’s fault. He was setting her up once more, but she couldn’t figure out why. Her distrust of Luke Bardell was already overpowering—she didn’t need anyone feeding it. Bobby Ray had already done enough.
She was tired of waiting for him in this empty room, waiting for him to grace her with his presence, to string her along with another pack of lies. She was tired of being passive. Bobby Ray Shatney had to be somewhere nearby—none of the followers seemed to leave this place, and he said he’d been with Luke since he was a teenager. Odd, when there were no other children around. Not that Bobby Ray was a child, but he had been when he first came here.
For some reason his name, his eyes, seemed familiar, though she couldn’t imagine where she might have seen him before. Particularly if he’d been cloistered with Luke’s People for so long.
What kind of life was that for a young boy? What kind of life was it for anyone?
Maybe she could force him to remember something specific. Something that would help her decide whether he’d just been one of Stella’s pawns, or if there really was more to her mother’s death than she suspected.
She had her hand on the door when it opened, and she let out a tiny shriek, startled, as Luke stepped into the room.
It would help, she thought nervously, if he weren’t so damned tall, even with bare feet. He towered over her, and it took her a moment to realize his ridiculously long hair was wet.
Water glistened on his skin, and his tunic was untied, hanging loosely about his body. Rachel held still, panicked, waiting for him to touch her. Instead he moved past her, into the room, heading for the small fire that had been built to offset the late-summer chill of the New Mexico Mountains. Expecting her to follow.
He’d closed the door, but it would be easy enough to open it, to escape. And God, she wanted to escape. As much as she hated the thought, she was feeling unaccountably vulnerable, and she was wise enough to want to avoid the enemy when her defenses were compromised.