"It is not time," he said. None heard him, but the eyes in the wall glared in unblinking malice. "It is not your time."
He searched for and found the rhythm. It was there, in the movements of their bodies, the creak of the pews and the hot whisper of breath. It shivered over their naked flesh to echo from the walls. Silas took up his chanting prayer where it had been interrupted. He sent a silent command to Tommy, still making his way through the brush, to get the girl and get back at all cost.
Then Silas Greene was swallowed in a nightmare of his own design as the sun began its final descent toward night.
Angel rocked back on his heels. The throbbing on his forehead pounded like a hammer between his temples. He gritted his teeth and held on, still stroking himself, kneeling just out of reach of the girl. Then, as suddenly as the pain had come it released him, and he gasped, nearly shooting into his hand.
He sat back and stared at the girl. It took a long moment to focus. She was pressed into the wall of the barn so hard that she actually lifted an inch or so off he dirt floor. This caused her to arch invitingly, pressing her breasts into the soft cotton of her blouse and stretching it down to reveal soft flesh at her throat, where the top button had come unfastened.
Angel shook his head. The connection he'd felt had not been entirely Silas. The other hovered just beyond, brooding and dark. Every time that shadow brushed Angel he felt pumped full of energy—of heat and desire. The air changed and the sweat on his arms dripped more slowly, sticky and smelling like he'd been rolling in a field, or rubbing leaves on his skin.
It was too much. Angel stood, leaned down, and grabbed the girl by her bound ankles. She screamed. She fought like a crazed animal, but he held her easily by the rope joining her legs, and the squirming, grinding motion of her struggles fed his hunger.
He pulled her to the center of the floor and knelt beside her. She tried to sit up. She snapped her teeth at him and tried to bite, but he avoided her easily. He unfastened her shirt first. She tried to pull away. Once, she dragged the button from his fingers before he could unfasten it, and he growled. With a quick swipe of his hand he gripped one side and tore the light material to the waist, then laid his hands flat on her ribs. Her bra was bright white, lacy at the edges. Her breasts were small, but well-formed.
Angel turned his attentions to her jeans. She struggled again, but more weakly. She was tiring. Tears streaked her cheeks and ran through smudges of dirt and dust. He managed to loosen her belt, and to unfasten the top couple of buttons, but she kept rolling to her side. He caught his thumb between one button and its buttonhole just as she jerked to the side, and he bellowed in pain and anger.
Without thought he slapped her hard across the face with the back of his hand. Angel stood and looked around the barn. There should be something in the barn sharp enough to get through denim. He left her lying in the dirt and headed for the workbench in the corner.
Katrina watched him move off into the shadows, and she spat softly. She tasted blood, but she wasn't hurt bad. The blow had stung more than anything. She tried the bonds on her wrists again. Nothing. Her ankles were just as tight. She had to get him to cut her loose, somehow, or he was going to do whatever he wanted and she might never see Abe again.
When she'd leaned against the wall, she'd seen the back bumper of her car. She knew it wasn't far outside the door of the barn. She knew if she could get to it, she might have a chance. If she stayed here, there was nothing.
Her vision blurred again as she thought of Abe. Did he know she'd come? Was he out there on the side of the mountain somewhere looking for her, or, worse yet, had he called, found her not answering the phone, and gone back to find her?
The light was fading. There wasn't much time left before it would be too dark for her to find her way back down the mountain, even with the car. She didn't know what happened to the other man, Silas, but she didn't believe that her captor lived on this farm alone. If she waited until he wasn't alone, she'd never get away.
The thought stopped her cold. Never get away. God. She'd spoken those words to herself a million times. How many plans had she made and discarded during her marriage? How many times had she been on the verge of some action that would cut her loose? It had taken years, but the lessons she'd learned were hard ones, and etched deeply into her psyche. If you got the chance, you acted. If you sat back and waited and hoped that something good would come along and save you, or fix what you were too frightened or weak or stupid to fix for yourself, you could wait a lifetime and still be trapped.
She saw the man coming back across the barn. He held a wicked, curved blade in his hand—some sort of sickle, she thought. His eyes glinted in the failing sunlight. When he came close enough to hear her, and before he could lift her by the waist of her jeans and start hacking them off of her, she spoke.
"You don't need that," she mumbled. Her mouth was dry, and her lip hurt. It was hard to articulate the words. She stared up at him, her best doe-eyed innocent stare.
"I don't want to be hurt," she said. This time her voice was clearer. He shook his head, as if something was distracting him and he might not be hearing her.
"You don't need that. If you loosen my ankles you can take my pants. Just don't hurt me?"
He glared down at her. She saw emotions warring across his features and she fought the expression of disgust back from her face. She lowered her gaze from his a little.
"I don't mind," she said.
She didn't meet his gaze again after that. Not at first. She didn't want it to appear as if she were watching his reactions. He might be rough at the edges, but that didn't make him stupid. If he got the idea she was trying to trick him, he would hit her again, probably a lot harder, and he'd cut her pants off in a second. She waited.
A moment later he dropped to his knees beside her. She still didn't meet his eyes, but when he stroked her breast through her bra, she bit back the bile and pressed into his touch. He pulled back as she moved, then he saw what she was doing. Another long hesitation, and his hand dropped to her hip. He slid it down until his thumb caught in the waistband of her jeans. Then she felt it. The cold metal of the wicked, curved blade stroked her belly and caught near her zipper. She didn't move.
Then he spoke. It was hard to tell if he was directing the words at her, at himself, or at some other entity she wasn't aware of. He pulled the blade back from her skin and she heard it hit the dirt with a soft whump.
"Don't you move," he said. "I'm going to untie your ankles. You so much as twitch, and I'll bend them back and tie them to your wrists, like you were a deer."
Katrina nodded. She bit her lip and almost cried out. She'd forgotten, just for a second, the swollen bloody bump where he hit her.
He worked the knots out of the cord quickly. She felt his strength again, and shivered. If she got a shot, she was going to have to make it a good one. This was no soft, city rapist grabbing unsuspecting drunk girls as they left the club on Saturday night. This man had lived his life on a mountain, growing and hunting his food. He was strong, and he was fast, and at the moment he was very focused. That was her one chance.
He freed her ankles and tossed the rope aside. With a grunt he reached for her waist. "Wait," she cried. He glanced at her. He didn't speak, and he didn't take his hands off her jeans.
"My hands," she said. "My arms. They hurt. Can't you let me get them in front? I don't want to be laying on them when…" she trailed away.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he growled. "Get me to untie your arms."
"I don't need them untied," she replied quickly. "I can pull them up over my legs. I…I like them tied." He stared at her again. Katrina dropped her gaze again. She had been in plenty of situations like this with her ex-husband. She had also counseled countless women who'd faced violence of all kinds. If she showed defiance it would be like staring directly into the eyes of an attack dog. It would provoke him, and she would get hurt.
"I want it to feel good," she whispered.
Katrina didn't hesitate or wait for him to give his permission. She bent at the waist, drew her knees up to her chest and worked her wrists down over her feet. She had trouble at the last. Her arms were numb, and she'd been in that position for too long. He grabbed the cord binding her wrists and tugged them free of her feet. With a whimper of relief she bent her arms and brought them up to her chest.
She'd won all the time he was allowing. He rolled her to her back and clapped his hand up between her thighs. He ground his palm into her, dragged his nails over the denim of her jeans, then gripped the buttons and finished what he'd begun before. When he moved to peel them back Katrina arched her back, lifting herself to make it easier for him. Her heart raced, and panic rose quickly, threatening to drag her into the darkness.
You have to do something, she told herself fiercely. Don't wait. Don't wait for someone to help. He's going to rape you, and he's never going to let you go.
She repeated the words to herself, over and over. Her lips moved, but he must have thought it was a tremble of fear, or something else. He paid no attention at all, intent on getting her naked. She heard him whispering, but she couldn't make out the words. He wasn't talking to her—she was certain of that, but it sounded as if he were arguing. Then, as his hands slid over her hips he grew taut, gripped her skin tightly enough to pinch and make her cry out, and shook his head. He paid no attention to her, and in a few seconds, he released his grip.
As he continued sliding her jeans down and off, Katrina heard him singing softly to himself. Bobby McGee. He was singing Bobby McGee to himself, stripping her jeans slowly from her body, and panting like a steam engine.
She sensed the hunger she brought him, and she fed it. Each time she had a chance, she lifted herself up, or turned in a way that lifted her breasts. She teased him. She brushed her thigh against his as he knelt, working at her jeans, and every time they touched, he grew more frantic and less controlled. Every time she touched him she forced the vomit back down her throat and repeated the words to herself. "Do something."
Then the moment came. He pulled her pants free of her feet and she helped him, drawing her knees up toward her chin. At that moment, he seemed to hear something, though there was no sound, and he stopped. He cocked his head to the side, her jeans held in his hands against his chest, kneeling in the dirt. In those seconds, Katrina screamed. She drew here knees tightly to her chest and then drove them out like pistons. She planted both heels soundly on her captor's jaw and convulsed her body, rippling up and off the ground like a snake, following through. There was a solid, satisfying crunch as she made contact and he fell back, stunned.
Kat didn't wait to see how badly she'd hurt him. She caught the glint of light from the rising moon on something—the sickle. She rolled to her knees, gripped the wooden handle in both hands, and rose to her feet. She saw him moving, trying to rise. He wailed in pain and she didn't hesitate.
Tears streamed down her face again, but she brought the blade up and dashed it into his head. It stuck point first in his scalp. She tried to drag it free, but it was stuck, and she let go with a soft cry. She grabbed her jeans out of his hands and turned.
Her car was only a few yards beyond the barn door, and she limped to it as quickly as she could, fumbled the door open, cursing the knotted cords binding her wrists, and slid inside. There was no sign of her captor, but he could be right on her heels. She knew that if he were alive, and he caught her again, it would be her last day of life.
She couldn't see Angel's prone form, lying in a pool of blood on the barn floor. The blade of the sickle caught him just to one side of his eye and dug deep. He and Tommy had spent long hours making sure all the bladed implements in the barn were like razors. The sickle was a favored toy. It had seen service in wars with rats, had been flung at stray dogs—and it was sharp.
Angel's hand clasped the wooden handle, but he had lacked the strength to pull the blade free. His other hand was pressed firmly between his legs, and as his blood leaked out to soak the dirt floor, the black mark pulsed on his forehead, more and more slowly, until at last it faded.
Katrina found the keys in the ignition. There was no fear of car thieves on the mountain. People watched over what was theirs, and trespassers were dealt with. Sobbing so violently she could barely grip the keys, she finally managed to get them turned. The engine caught immediately. She gasped in relief and sat back. It was hard to maneuver with her wrists bound, but she didn't want to stop to try and untie them. The car was an automatic; she didn't need to shift. If she could just get it into gear and the lights on, she would make it. She had to make it. Abe was down there somewhere, and she had to find him.
She flipped on the lights and screamed again. In front of her another man loomed. He was taller than her captor had been. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't seem angry, or surprised to see her. Kat was taking no chances. She slapped the car into gear, gripped the wheel with both hands and hit the gas. She spun in a quick curve, barely swerving around the man, who reached out to her and motioned for her to stop. She vaguely recalled the direction they'd come in and she turned that way blindly, watching the headlights arc over what appeared to be a rutted dirt road.
Then her head slammed back against the headrest as someone gripped her hair hard.
"Stop." A voice hissed in her ear. It was a woman's voice. She considered hitting the gas and taking her chances, but the pressure on her hair was excruciating, and she let off the gas. She punched the brake and sat, panting, as the man she'd barely missed trotted up, opened the passenger side door, and slid in beside her.
"Let her go, Elspeth," he said calmly.
The pressure released on Katrina's hair. The man reached for her, and she flinched away, but he made a clucking sound in his throat.
"Hold still," he said.
She did, and a moment later her wrists were free. She glanced into the rearview mirror, but all she caught was the flash of whites in a pair of pale eyes.
"You'd be looking for Abraham?" the man said. It wasn't a question.
Kat nodded.
"Then drive," he said. She looked at him for a second, saw the cold, emptiness of his gaze, and did as he instructed. She lifted her foot from the brake and began the long, winding drive down and across the mountain.
TWENTY-SIX
The moon shone brightly in a cloudless sky, illuminating the trail down the mountain with rays like silver sunlight. Shadows stretched long and dark across the trail, the shades of tall pines and soaring oaks. Abraham paid no attention to any of it. He focused on the two objects that he carried. In his left hand he held the old book. It was bound in leather so aged and supple it felt like living skin. In his right hand, he held the small crystal vial. With each step that liquid splashed against the insides of the crystal and the vibration of it shivered through him and down through the bottoms of his feet into the mountain beneath.
The past hour was a blur. Once the others had taken their places on the cross there was no time for thought or doubt. There were words and actions. The words flowed unchecked from his memory, and though he clutched the leather book so tightly it would probably bear his fingerprints forever, he didn't open it. There was no need.
Forces moved beneath and above them. Abraham felt great shifts of force. He sensed the blood of all of those who'd come before him coursing through his veins and rushing through the stone of the mountain. There was a bright, blinding light just out of reach and behind him. The one time he turned to look he saw nothing. It didn't cast any visible glow on the trail. It wasn't a haunted spirit, or a floating ghost-image. It was more of a state of mind, a source of energy and power that spiraled down and into the earth and stone, driven into the heart of the mountain by their words and their actions.
That was the key; Abe knew this now. His fears of a lack of faith cutting him off at the knees had faded with the realization that it was the ritual that mattered. It was the words, the acti
ons—all of it performed like an intricate dance, as it had been performed in other times and other generations. The words were written in the book, but they didn't rise from the book. Others who, like himself, simply knew them recorded them there. He knew the first time they were spoken they rose from within, unbidden and unchecked. They were only written down later, when it was over. When the mountain was cleansed. Like a living thing, the mountain cared for all that was its own.
Abe had never asked his father about the objects in the box. He had been curious; how could he not have been? Still, they represented something very powerful, and very personal. The few times he'd seen them his father held them like eggshells. His eyes glazed, and he cocked his head like he was listening to something far away, or as if someone had whispered in his ear. There had never been an appropriate time to ask, so Abraham held his silence.
Now that the objects were in his own hand, he understood. He felt their roots as he felt his own. Though he could not separate one voice from another among those whispering in his head, he caught snatches of it. One voice finished where another started. There was symmetry and coherence to it once you were used to the sensation. Abraham's father had seemed a very solitary man—almost a lonely man. Abe knew, now, that his father had never stood alone. The privacy he'd always taken for granted had vanished the moment he knelt in the center of the cross in the cottage, and he wondered, even when their mission was over the objects he held were tucked safely back beneath the stone floor, if it would return, or if he even wanted it to.
The crystal vial was carved from the same huge geode that had provided the almost magical lens in the cottage roof. The water that it held came from a stream further up in the mountains. That stream poured from the mouth of a cave to trickle down the slopes to the stream, winding downward to ever larger waterways until it sought the ocean far beyond. It had flowed up and out of the heart of the mountain and been blessed, not by Jonathan Carlson, but a man generations in the past. The seal was tight, and did not leak; there was no sign of any evaporation or contamination.
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