Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  “Are they? I haven’t been out of the theater all day.”

  “They’re all dressed up in white robes, carrying umbrellas, of all things, and passing out flyers to the paying guests.” He grinned. “Or trying to. I’m trying to stop them. Which doesn’t leave much time for investigating the disappearances or the vandalism. Goddamned Apostles will be the death of me.”

  “When are you going to get another officer?” Cassie asked, rising and walking with him to the door.

  “That’s the good news. Got a young woman arriving this afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “At three.”

  “Young woman, huh?” Cassie poked him gently with one finger. “She’s a cop?”

  “Of course she’s a cop.” He grinned. “You jealous, Cass?”

  “Maybe,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. “Seriously, Moss, you’ve really got somebody?” He’d been working such gawd-awful hours and looking so tired lately that this was the best news he could give her.

  “Yeah, I hope so. She’s qualified, and she just moved up to Barstow. She was on the Santo Verde force over the hill.”

  “She’s willing to leave a gorgeous green place like that to live up here? Why?”

  “Maybe she’s tired of mowing her lawn.” He shrugged. “Her former sergeant has nothing but good to say about her.” He gave Cassie a hug. “I’m not gonna look a gift cop in the mouth.”

  She laughed. “Well, good luck. But don’t be too charming.”

  He opened the door and they stepped out, squinting in the bright sunlight. Not twenty feet away, five robed Apostles had cornered Eve and the two stagehands by the water fountain. One of the creeps was squatting down talking to Eve, his hand on her arm.

  “Hey!” Cassie called angrily as she and Moss strode toward the group. “You get your filthy hands off my daughter!”

  The Jim-Bobbers turned to look and, seeing Moss, backed off, barely. The one touching Eve was a scrawny old geezer and he glared daggers at Cassie.

  “The Apocalypse is coming,” he thundered. “Do you want your daughter to be damned forever?”

  “I’ll damn you, you dirty old—”

  “Cass,” Moss said softly, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Let me handle this.”

  He walked forward until the old man’s face was practically against his chest. “This is a private park,” he said softly.

  “We have our admission tickets,” a brick-jawed female Apostle said, waving hers at Moss.

  Moss nodded. “You’ll be acquiring some other tickets if you don’t leave the property, pronto.”

  The old man backed up and pointed his closed umbrella at the police chief. “You can’t make us leave.”

  “You’re disobeying the dress code,” Moss said with a nasty little smile.

  “There’s no dress code.”

  “There is now. And you better stop pointing that umbrella at me or I’ll take you in for threatening a police officer.”

  “Do you know who you’re dealing with?” the old man asked as he lowered his umbrella.

  “No, and I don’t much care, unless I have to take you in and book you.”

  “I’m Elder Apostle Blandings, right hand to the Prophet.”

  “I don’t care if you’re Jim-Bob himself,” Moss said, his smile broadening at the Apostles’ scowls. “You’re disturbing paying customers and I want all of you out of here now.”

  Blandings smiled back. “Management hasn’t asked us to leave. We’re here to save souls until then.”

  “I’m acting on behalf of management.”

  “We need to hear from the manager himself.”

  “I’m management,” Cassie told him. “Leave.”

  “You just manage the theater,” Blandings said smugly.

  “Miranda,” Moss called to one of the stagehands. “Would you mind running over to the arena and fetching Tom?” As Miranda trotted off, Moss turned to Blandings. “You want general management, you got it.”

  Two minutes later, Abernathy came walking up the street, silver spurs jingling with each step. Miranda had to trot to keep up with his long-legged strides. Tom was in his old West sheriff costume, his face hidden in the shadows of his cowboy hat. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, black leather vest and string tie, jeans, and a silver-studded gun belt and silver-tipped boots. His gold sheriff’s star caught the sunlight and reflected it back at the bad guys. His hand rested lightly on the butt of his blank-filled revolver.

  “Chief,” Tom said in a slow drawl as he touched the brim of his hat. “What can I do for you?”

  Though Blandings stood firm, four of the Apostles backed away slightly. Tom was six four, plus a few inches of hat, and was an even more imposing sight in his lawman getup than Moss. Blandings, however, stood firm. Obviously he hadn’t seen High Noon.

  “You’re the general manager?” the geezer asked.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Do you have a dress code here?” he asked, shooting an obnoxious look Moss’s way.

  “Shoes and shirt required,” Tom drawled, rubbing his chin and fixing the old man with his gunfighter stare. “You got shirts on under those nighties of yours?”

  Before Blandings could react, Abernathy stepped forward and his hand snaked out and snagged the collar of his robe. He looked down the robe, then, fast as lightning, snatched Blandings’s hand as it came up. He held the man’s wrist, but gave Moss a conspiratorial half smile. “He’s got a shirt on under there, Chief.” He turned to Cassie, holding the struggling man’s wrist. “Cass, you want to take a look down this man’s robe?” His eyes danced with glee, but his features were solemn.

  “I’ll take your word for it, Tom,” she replied, barely restraining a snicker.

  Tom nodded and released Blandings.

  “You want them out of here, Tom?” Moss asked.

  Tom stepped back and studied the Apostles like they were ants under a magnifying glass. This time even Blandings, rubbing his wrist, cringed a little. “Well, I hate to throw out paying customers, so we’ll give ‘em a chance. You throw those flyers in the trash can over there, promise not to do any preachin’, and take off those robes so we can see y’all gotcher shirts on, and you can stay. One report of you bothering our guests and the chief here is gonna toss you in the hoosegow.”

  Blandings tried staring Abernathy down one last time, then gave up. “I won’t forget this,” he muttered.

  “See that you don’t,” Tom said amiably.

  “Come on.” Blandings turned on his heel, his group hurrying after him, their robes flying in the breeze.

  Tom laughed heartily.

  “You went too easy on them,” Moss said, chuckling, “but you put Blandings’s tail right between his legs.”

  “Well, Moss, I didn’t mean to undermine your authority, and I apologize if I did, but it seems to me you’ve got too much on your plate to be dealing with those pesty little varmints.” He bent and picked up Eve, set her on his shoulder. She giggled and put his hat on her head. It covered her face down to her nose.

  Tom ran his fingers through his sandy brown hair. “I’ll ask Fred and Becky Anderson to walk around Madland and talk to the shopkeepers and do a little spying. They’ll enjoy it.”

  “I don’t believe I know them.”

  “Tom’s a romantic,” Cassie explained. “They’re newlyweds and they just joined the show this week.”

  “They’ve been wanting to get to know the place.” Tom put Eve down and took his hat back. “If the Jim-Bobbers act up, we’ll detain them and give you a jingle.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Moss said.

  Tom tipped his hat, turned, and ambled back down toward the arena.

  “He’s a character,” Cassie said, smiling after him.

  “That he is.” He bent and kissed Eve’s forehead, then rose and did the same to Cassie. “I’ll see you two later.”

  Cassie watched him until he turned the corner. In his own way, Moss was as impressive as Tom. Tall and stoc
ky, he had the shoulders and gait of a bear, and she loved the hell out of him.

  39

  James Robert Sinclair

  “HE HUMILIATED ME!” ELDO BLANDINGS TOLD JAMES ROBERT Sinclair. The old man standing before the Prophet’s desk was so enraged that his entire body trembled with barely restrained anger.

  This morning, when he gave the order for the Apostles to do their missionary work in their white robes, Sinclair had feared that something like this would happen. Eldo Blandings was a prideful man with no sense of humor, so when he appeared after lunch, asking for an audience, Sinclair wasn’t surprised.

  Immaculate in a navy blue suit, Sinclair steepled his fingers and thought about last night. Something had happened, but he was no longer so certain that he hadn’t dreamed at least a part of it. Still, it was a sign, and he would have to spend much more time in meditation to try to decipher it. He hoped he could keep this meeting short.

  Finally he looked up into Blandings’s angry, beady eyes. “Eldo, remember that pride goes before a fall and missionary work is difficult at best. You’re dealing with souls who have been misled, some by the devil, some by other people, but always by ignorance.” He stroked his beard once, then smiled as gently as he could. Eldo appeared marginally calmer, but the fury in his eyes continued to concern Sinclair.

  “Missionary work is a trial, Eldo, a test of our faith; there’s no doubt of that. But remember, too, that the more you humble yourself before God, and the more souls you bring into the fold, the greater your reward on the Day of Judgment.” He sat back, steepling his fingers once more.

  “Thank you, Prophet,” Eldo said hoarsely. “Thank you for your guidance.”

  “It’s the guidance of God and the Living Savior,” the Prophet corrected mildly.

  “He speaks through you, Prophet.”

  He could see that the anger was all but gone now, though the rapture in Eldo’s eyes was unnerving. Sinclair had seen it on others many times during sermons when he was especially eloquent, but then it was transitory; as his sermon wound down, so did the unquestioning look of love. He’d also seen it singularly in the eyes of the women who tried to seduce him. It was fierce and adulatory, and Sinclair told himself he had to be misreading his Elder Apostle’s expression. Still, he had worried about the man’s state of mind of late, and perhaps he was right to do so: Blandings could be verging on a mental breakdown.

  “Sit down, Elder.” Sinclair indicated one of the straight-backed chairs before the wide desk.

  Blandings sat stiffly and Sinclair was relieved to see the eyes go back to normal: hooded and sullen.

  “Eldo, I’d like to hear exactly what happened at the park today.” He paused. “But first, do you know where Elder Caine is? He should be here as well.”

  Blandings looked uncomfortable as he glanced at the glass and copper clock on the wall. He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure if he’s in the compound or not,” he said hesitantly.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, Prophet.”

  Sinclair nodded, thinking that Blandings was keeping something to himself. He doubted it was anything important. “Did you have difficulty gaining entrance to the park?”

  “Some. The police wouldn’t let us in until we bought admissions.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “After we were inside the park we had no trouble until my group ran into the same policeman again. He told us to leave, and I refused, so he called the general manager.”

  Blandings clutched the edge of the desk, white-knuckled with renewed anger. “Prophet, this man was a messenger of the devil.”

  “He’s the one who humiliated you, then?” Sinclair asked softly.

  “Yes, Prophet. He had Satan’s own tongue.”

  “Did he ban you from the park?”

  “No. He made jokes at my expense, then he said we could stay as long as we didn’t wear robes, or preach, or pass out flyers.”

  “I see.” James Robert leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, wanting to be done with this meeting. He needed time to think before four o’clock, when he’d tape the sermon for tonight’s broadcast.

  Finally he opened his eyes. “I appreciate your coming to me with this problem, Elder Blandings. Rest assured that I will take it into consideration.” He rose, and Blandings quickly did likewise.

  “Thank you, Prophet.”

  Sinclair nodded and put his hand out to shake Eldo’s.

  Blandings, the weird adoration slipping back into his eyes, took Sinclair’s hand and brought it reverently to his lips. He kissed it, and Sinclair stared at his toupee in the awful realization that Eldo Blandings was truly going mad.

  Retrieving his hand, he showed him to the door, then returned to the phone and called Timothy Dresner.

  His aide picked up on the second ring. “Yes Prophet?”

  “I’m going to meditate, Tim, so please see that I’m not disturbed until it’s time to go to the church.”

  “Yes, Prophet.”

  “And find Elder Caine and tell him I wish to meet with him in my office immediately afterward.”

  “Yes, Prophet.”

  Sinclair hung up and left the office, walking down the hall and entering the key code on a door that opened on a flight of stairs that took him below to his private apartments. With a sigh, he let himself in.

  Exhausted, worried about Eldo Blandings, worried about his own mental state for that matter, he walked through the spacious living room and down the hall into his bedroom, where he changed from his suit into tan chinos and a complementary brown pullover shirt. He pulled on a pair of black running shoes, then a brown baseball cap. He was about to slip his ponytail under his shirt, then realized no one would see him and left it out. He smiled, feeling a small sense of freedom.

  Approaching the hidden door to the secret tunnel, he punched in the code and waited until the paneling slid open on cool darkness. He shivered with fear and delight at the thought of returning to the site of last night’s visitation. Stepping inside, he unhooked the cart from the charger, then backed it out of its parking space and headed into the mile-long tunnel. He began his journey back to Olive Mesa, where he would meditate on the meaning of last night’s visions.

  40

  Moss Baskerville,

  MOSS BASKERVILLE HAD JUST SETTLED DOWN AT HIS DESK WITH A cup of coffee and a stack of reports when the intercom buzzed. He punched the button. “Yes, Shirley?”

  “Chief,” came his clerk’s voice, “there’s a lady here to see you.”

  He glanced at the clock. My new officer’s here, and she’s an hour early. That’s a good sign. “Send her in.”

  He rose from his chair as the woman entered. They shook hands. “I’m Chief Baskerville. Please, ah, have a seat.” He gestured at the wooden chair before his desk.

  “Thank you.”

  They sat down and he had to remind himself not to stare. She might be a cop, but she looked like a model, tall, dark, with exotically tilted eyes, high cheekbones, and long wavy hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. “You’re early.”

  “I am?” She smiled and raised one eyebrow quizzically.

  “Yes. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour. Coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I should explain—”

  Moss smiled. “No need. You probably wanted to get a look at the town first.” He searched the stack of papers for her resume without success. “How do you like it?”

  “It’s fine,” she replied slowly.

  “Did you have time to get a look at the park?”

  “Yes. It’s fascinating. Very nice.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you? I can’t place your accent.” He was glad Cassie couldn’t see him stumbling over his words like a schoolboy. The woman was beautiful—an arresting beauty—but combined with her composure and air of self-confidence, she was absolutely intimidating.

  “I was born and raised in England, but I moved here when I was eighteen.”

 
He nodded. “That makes you more worldly than ninety-nine percent of Madelyn’s citizens. You realize what you’ll be dealing with here, don’t you? It’s probably very different from what you’re used to down in Santo Verde.”

  “Santo Verde?”

  “Let me explain,” he said. Shuffling papers as he spoke, desperate for the resume, because he didn’t want her to know he couldn’t remember her name. “Madelyn is a fairly quiet place most of the time. Lately it hasn’t been. We’ve had three disappearances. I suspect foul play but can’t get a lead. We have teenagers who like to play chicken up above the park. Had a death the other night, in fact. We have tourists driving where they shouldn’t, weekends we have drunk trouble at the Mobius Bar, especially when the Santa Anas blow. Sometimes we get calls at Ray’s Tavern. Some of those truckers are overgrown redneck cowboys who get drunk and take to jousting each other with the pool cues over the damnedest things. One got his eye put out last month.”

  “I—”

  “Let me finish, then you can tell me if you’re interested. We’ve got extra problems now. Somebody killed a goat, probably the same party that vandalized our church. Might be the local religious cult, might be some rogue satanist. The cult calls itself the Apostles. They expect the world to end on Sunday and they’ve been hassling our tourist trade and they’re getting worse. Also, last night we had a quake that didn’t do much damage, but scared folks and kept my only officer and me out most of the night.”

  “Chief—”

  “That’s not all,” he said, starting on the final stack of papers. “We’ve got UFOs, and UFO nuts to go with them. Why, I hear we’ve even got some educated nuts camped out in Spirit Canyon.” He flipped one last sheet and found the resume. Breathing a sigh of relief, he looked at his prospective employee. “So, now that you know the truth, Ms. Kellogg, are you still interested in the job?”

  She gave him a chilly smile. “My name’s Manderley. Dr. Alexandra Manderley. I’m one of the educated UFO nuts camped out in your canyon.”

  Baskerville, his face flaming with embarrassment, counted silently to three before speaking, which was something he should have done before he ever opened his mouth in the first place. He looked her in the eye. “If I’d had time to get up there and meet you, like I’d intended, I wouldn’t have made an ass of myself just now. I’m sorry, ma’am—Doctor. No disrespect meant. I’m hurting for help,” he explained, “and I’m expecting a female officer to show up for an interview this afternoon.”