Brent hadn’t expected anger to rise in the man. “Not exactly eight days, Pastor. We didn’t really tie things together that quickly. Clues, but nothing solid.”
Pastor Jonathan got up from his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head. He was exasperated.
“Brent, so what if it had only been five days? Two days? At what point was it going to be important enough for you to let me know this? This is not just a police investigation. In fact, based on what you’ve told me, it’s not a police investigation!”
The pastor got out from behind his desk and began to pace his office. Hands still behind his head, he bowed his head slightly, staring down at the floor as he walked. Brent could hear him begin praying in the Spirit, just above a whisper.
Brent felt guilty. Again. Now he’d let his church down. He couldn’t handle this. He got up abruptly and began to walk toward the door.
“Brent?”
Brent ignored the man and reached for the door handle. Reaching it, he turned it, opened the door, and walked out of the office.
As he headed for the church’s lobby area, he could hear the pastor gaining ground on him. Brent wasn’t so immature as to start running, though. Within a matter of seconds, the taller man, with his quicker gait reached him and placed a hand on his left shoulder.
“Brent. Stop.”
Brent did. Pastor Jonathan definitely had a commanding presence. He knew how to use the authority that had been placed in his care. The pastor moved to stand directly in front of him.
He sighed. “Brent, talk to me. Something’s eating you. What is it?”
Brent was five feet eleven inches tall and still had to look up into the eyes of the older, more sagacious man. He was one of the few men that could actually intimidate him. He hated that about himself, but really appreciated that about his pastor.
Brent put his hands on his waist, just above his gun and utility belt, and hung his head with a sigh. After a moment he forced himself to meet Pastor Jonathan’s eyes.
“Things are not going well at home because of this,” Brent finally admitted.
“Because of what, specifically?”
Brent turned away and slowly began to walk, hands still firmly placed at his waist. Now it was his turn to pace. After a couple of turns he faced his pastor again. There was a little more distance between them this time.
He could see the concern in Pastor Jonathan’s eyes. It was genuine. He was genuine.
Brent took a deep breath, his fractured ribs painfully objecting, and held it for a moment. Letting it out, he said, “I let my family down.” The corners of his mouth involuntarily drew down and began to tremble. No. Not this. Tears began to form. He sniffled and took in a rapid, deep breath and exhaled quickly. “Whoo! Sorry...” He turned away.
I can handle this. I can manage this.
He finally got enough of a grip on his emotions to continue. “They were attacked by these … people.” He did not want to say ‘people.’ “And I wasn’t there for them! They took me out first, before I could do a single thing to help!”
Rage was starting to develop within Brent again; an abhorrence that he had rarely, if ever, internalized during his five decades of life. He turned around and looked straight into Jonathan’s eyes. “I hate them, Pastor. With everything that is in me, I hate them!”
Another layer of guilt washed over him.
I failed my family. I failed my pastor. I failed my God.
The pain in his ribs was not great enough to outweigh—didn’t even compare to—the emotional pain he was feeling in that moment. He bowed over. Grabbing his knees, he began to weep in torrents. The pressure on his rib cage forced his right hand to his chest; an avalanche of pain from so many different heights and directions.
“Oh God… Oh God… Oh God…”
BRENT WAS AWARE that Pastor Jonathan was providing him with time to think and grieve. The man stood protectively a short distance away. He could hear as others entered into the hallway to find out what was going on, but his guardian assured each of the curious that the situation was going to be fine. As they returned to their duties, Brent imagined that the church staff was probably adding extra prayer to their normal routines.
Brent sniffled. By this time he was crouching against one of the walls on the balls of his feet. It was very uncomfortable, especially with the pain in his chest, but there was stability; the wall behind him lent to that. It felt good, solid.
His foundation had shifted so much since Friday night that everything in his life, good and bad, had left him off balance.
Brent took in another deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked over to his pastor who was leaning back against the opposite wall in the same squatting position. But he was praying. Watching Brent and praying.
Upon seeing Brent’s gaze, Pastor Jonathan smiled.
Genuine.
The pastor got up and approached Brent, offering his hand to help him get back on his feet. “Feel like you can manage a little more conversation?”
Brent took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled up, wincing in the process. He thought now was as good a time as any to take care of his lungs, so he let out a series of three coughs. They hurt, and it must have shown.
“You all right?”
“Yeah. Guess I forgot to mention the fractured ribs.”
“Ouch.”
They walked back into the office and took seats. This time the pastor made use of the other guest chair in front of his desk.
Leaning toward Brent, he said, “What these people are doing is evil. It’s vile and despicable.” There was a pause, then he continued. “But, they are just as loved by God as you and me.”
Brent’s teeth involuntarily clenched.
“I’m serious. And you know it’s true. These people, loved by God, are doing unspeakable things. We don’t know what the end game is for this group, but something even more evil is on the horizon that can hopefully be prevented.”
“Prevented only if we can crack the code on that note I told you about.”
“Brent, don’t limit God to your ability to figure things out. He’s bigger than that note. He also knows what that note means. Have you asked him for wisdom with regard to figuring out its meaning?”
Guilt.
“No,” he quietly admitted.
“It’s time to start, because maybe God put that note into the hands of three police officers for a reason. Pray for the officer you work with… Tracy?”
Brent nodded.
“And for John Eldredge, as well. Interesting name, by the way.”
Brent smiled in acknowledgment. Another John Eldredge had made a huge impact on his manhood by means of a book he had written.
The pastor got up and walked to the built-in shelving units behind his desk. He looked through an impressive collection of DVDs before he found what he was looking for. Coming back to the front of his desk, he extended it to Brent to take.
“It’s called ‘Furious Love,’ and it’s important. This documentary was planned to be a God-versus-the-devil smack-down. The documentarian, Darren Wilson, wanted to watch as God showed up in different situations and proved himself against the powers of darkness. There was a sort of spiritual pride that was being brought into each encounter. But God wasn’t going to be tempted by Darren or the others he had brought into the mix.
“God did show up, though. Just not at all like Darren had expected. Watch this film with Tara and Jenna. You might want to bring our younger brother, Officer Eldredge, in for a viewing, too.”
Brent accepted the plastic case and flipped it to the back. He didn’t read it. He just stared as he touched one last subject. “Pastor, it’s going to be hard being the man you’re expecting me to be. I may have broken down in the hallway, and I may have listened to what you’ve said, but I’m still angry.”
“Brent, just by saying that, I can tell that you’re already allowing God to penetrate. Do not stop talking with him. That’s what got you into this painful fix
to begin with, not those Picti people over in Pittston.”
Brent considered that and nodded. He stood up and extended his hand to the man he loved as a brother, maybe even as a second father. The pastor’s hand was strong in his own, just as another friend’s had once been; one that he missed dearly.
“I sure wish George Chamberlin was still alive.”
“Yeah. Me too, Brent. Me, too.”
Releasing Pastor Jonathan’s grip, he looked into the pastor’s reassuring eyes one last time and made for the office door. Reaching it, he paused and turned back over his shoulder.
“Pray for me. I’ve got a hurting wife who wants her husband back, and three kids who have to be wondering about their dad.”
Pastor Jonathan nodded and flashed what appeared to be a knowing smile.
They were installed correctly? There can be no mistakes in this. None,” insisted Brendan. “Uilliam, this is it. Any mistakes here and the entire Home Coven has to leave and go into hiding.”
The High Priest of the Picti nation stood, leaning over the dining room table of the farmhouse. Before him were the plans, the almost minute-by-minute details, of everything that was about to happen in a mere twenty-seven-and-a-half hours.
“Brendan, I know the stakes. The installation was no problem, and no one saw it take place. As long as she comes exactly where we tell her, when we tell her, the transmitter will do all of the work.”
“Well, that’s the trick. Isn’t it? When has Donna McNeill ever been predictable?”
The Pittston police chief was silent for a moment, then said, “As long as Brook fulfills her part in this, everything will be fine.”
“Don’t worry about Grainne. She’s dependable.”
“She’ll need to be very convincing during the phone call. Donna has to believe what she hears about her brother. She has to come exactly where we tell her.”
Brendan looked at his legal pad. The intersection was remote enough, and most likely there would be no one around for miles driving that stretch of back road in the early hours of a Thursday morning.
“You’re sure her GPS will navigate her into that intersection? The GPS will be able to identify these two specific roads?” Brendan knew he was frustrating the man, but there could be no room for error. Not now. He heard the man sigh.
“The GPS will get her there. I’ve tested two different systems, and both of them identified the intersection without a problem,” Uilliam answered, obviously trying his best to fend off signs of irritation.
“Good. Is there anything else about the planning of which I need to be aware?”
“Just that I’ll be the one pressing the button and making the call to police dispatch about the scene. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to have Brook—excuse me, Grainne Lugos—come with me. If there are any loose ends to tie up before making the call to alert the police and fire departments, we’ll take care of them. In fact, now that I think about it, Grainne will make the phone call, so that there will be no chance of my voice being recognized. I’ve already picked up another disposable cell phone so none of the calls from the intersection can be traced. We’ll head straight to the farm the moment that the call is made.”
“It sounds like everything is in order,” allowed Brendan. “See you tomorrow night.”
Brendan set his own disposable cell phone on the table. There could be no trace of any phone calls related to the upcoming events.
A nervous excitement coursed through him, producing a tingle down his spine. Soon he would have power beyond what he could have imagined. The gods of the Picti people would be satisfied, awakened from nearly twelve-hundred years of slumber. Cailleach the Hag had assured him that he was doing everything that was needed to avenge the Picti people.
Soon the house of Kenneth MacAlpin would pay for its treason. Cináed mac Ailpin’s own blood would be spilled for what he did to the last rightful king of Pictland.
To look into the terror-filled eyes of the chosen woman, that alone should prove itself worthy of all the preparation and waiting that the Home Coven had endured. Brendan’s only responsibility tomorrow evening was to make sure that she was “safely” at the farm for the ceremony.
Brendan smiled.
MacKay Hill would soon be anointed with the blood of royalty.
6:37 P.M.
STEPHANIE WAS DOING a little shopping for tomorrow night’s ‘festivities.’ The little lamb that was to be sacrificed needed to be adequately clothed for the event. Brendan had been very specific; get a dress for a woman of medium height and slim build. It needed to be white, pretty, and something that could not be traced back to a specific retailer. That meant a day meandering through local thrift stores.
She was amazed at some of the quality she had found. She had no idea that one could find high-end fashions in some of these places. In fact, one of the stores seemed to cater to upper-crust thrift shoppers—if such people actually existed. Though she had initially managed to maintain a strict focus for only the necessary garment, she found herself looking through handbags, shoes, and accessories for herself. She was a girl, after all. It had been a while since she had been around such finery.
Her mother had been a woman of some means after divorcing her father. Taking part of the divorce settlement, she had capitalized on some risky stocks, “sure bets,” that had actually turned out to be just that.
Fiorucci, Helmut Lang, and Carolina Herrera had been some of her mother’s favorite designers. If it hadn’t been for Brendan, she would have probably followed in her mother’s footsteps; a life of pretentiousness and lack of purpose. In retrospect, she was glad to have avoided all of that.
The woman did have style, though!
Stephanie found a pair of Prada shoes for $179.00. Flared heel platform Mary Janes! You’ve got to be kidding! Turning them over she could see the remnants of the original price tag. They had been worn, what … twice? They were, unfortunately, a size too small.
Finally making her way to the store’s area of nice dresses and formal gowns, she rifled through rack after rack until she saw a dress that just might be the one. Pulling the hanger out from amongst the others, she saw that the white dress was quite beautiful. It spoke of an innocence that she hadn’t known in thirty years. Lace ran around a neckline that plunged at the front; almost risqué. The dress had obviously not been custom tailored to a specific woman’s curvature, because it had a silk draw-string belt at the waist.
Stephanie looked at the tag. It was a brand she had not heard of, but it was obviously not cheaply made. She located a full-length mirror and held the dress up before her. The hem fell down to mid-calf.
Those Prada heals would have made quite a combo, she thought. It’s sort of sad the woman that Brendan found was only going to have one opportunity to wear this. Sadder still that I can’t take it for myself after the ceremony is over!
She laughed to herself.
Oh well. Such is life … and death.
She was about to head to the register when the handbags caught her attention.
Sometimes I really enjoy being a little A.D.D.
7:09 P.M.
NOW I’VE HEARD it all, Tara reminisced.
Brent came home late. Upon walking into the house, he’d sought her out, finding her in their bedroom folding a small pile of laundry. It hadn’t really needed to get done, but the task had consumed some of her otherwise anxious self-time.
He walked directly up to her, took her two shoulders in his hands, looked her directly in the eyes, and said, “I need to talk with you; apologize to you. But can you wait for a few minutes?”
She looked back with a wide-eyed stare that indicated that she didn’t know how to respond to the question. He smiled and walked out of the room. She, in turn, walked to the doorway and watched as Brent walked to Jenna’s room, where music blared, and knocked on the doorjamb. He said something and the music volume came down. Tara heard him ask if he could talk with her downstairs in the living room. She apparently said yes. He th
en asked if she knew where Amy and Jamie were.
Tara already knew that Amy was decked out in her Princess Rapunzel dress—a gift she had received during her birthday party last month. Her Nana and Papa were all about making sure she had every opportunity to make herself look princessy.
That girl had better not grow up to be a spoiled snob, thought Tara with a smile, knowing the very idea was utterly ridiculous.
Brent then came back down the hall and saw Tara standing in their doorway. He presented her with a smile and a wink, then turned to Amy’s room.
“Amy-Bug, are you in here?”
“Yes, Daddy,” came a soft response.
“Oh, there you are! What are you doing on the other side of your bed?”
“Being Princess Rapunzel, of course!”
Tara drew her left hand up to her mouth and let out a small giggle as Brent flashed a big grin.
“May I have the pleasure of your company downstairs in the living room, your highness?”
“Uh-huh.”
Brent looked at Tara again. Another smile, before heading down the stairs.
Tara continued to stand at the entrance to their bedroom, as her two daughters came out of their respective rooms and headed down the stairs.
Tara secretively followed to the top of the stairs and waited.
She heard Brent open one of the sliding glass doors in the family room and call out. “Jamie! Can I talk with you, Buddy? Hi, Tyler! I’ll have him back outside in a little while. Sorry for interrupting your game.”
After several seconds Tara heard her two men walk into the living room together.
All four were gathered and Brent cleared his voice and paused, presumably collecting his thoughts and the words he’d use.
Tara quietly walked partway down the stairs until she was able to see all three of her children sitting on the couch, their backs to her. Her husband was sitting in his favorite swivel rocker, leaning toward them. He clasped his hands.
Tara contented herself with sitting down on the stairs, watching between the balusters as she listened to what happened next.
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