“Shit.” He played the spotlight over the building. The vandals had painted 666s and obscenities all over the white clapboard building. One window was broken on the first floor. He moved the light to the second story and saw it was untouched. Getting out of the cruiser, he trudged up to the front doors, examined them. They were locked. Quickly he rounded the theater and found the back door intact as well. Extracting a key, he unlocked it and stepped inside, switching on the lights. Nothing had been disturbed. Thank God for small favors.
He locked the back door and returned to the cruiser, pausing as he caught an oily scent around the flower beds. As he picked up the radio receiver to call in, he glanced up. There, hanging at the top of the flagpole, was Cassie’s goat.
“You sick bastards,” he growled. “You goddamned sick sons of bitches. I’m gonna get you and you’re gonna be sorry you were ever born.”
Later, driving back to Cassie’s after he’d cordoned off the theater with police tape, he tried to fit the clues together. The vandals had attacked Cassie’s house and theater, and she was a woman who might be considered evil by a religious nut.
The vandalism seemed too directed and too complicated to be the work of the local high school punks. It was probably the work of more than one person, considering the extent of the damage at the church and at the theater, and it was religious—and prejudiced—in nature. Everything led to fundamentalist fanatics—or a cult of some kind. Baskerville was guessing the latter. Sinclair’s cult.
Heaving a sigh, he headed back to Cassie’s, not looking forward to giving her the bad news.
61
Justin Martin
IT WAS NEARLY THREE IN THE MORNING AND JUSTINM ARTIN WAS exhausted after bicycling all the way from New Madelyn back to his car in Spirit Canyon. He dragged himself off the bike and walked it to the trunk of the car. Withdrawing the spare key he’d brought back with him, he opened the trunk and stowed the bike. He hesitated, then opened the small plastic toolbox he always carried. In it was a single goat’s ear, cut from the animal before he’d run it up the flagpole. He wrapped it in a paper towel, slipped the packet in his pocket, then quietly shut the trunk. Next he unlocked the driver’s door and slid into the seat. He rested a moment, then fished around in the backseat until he found half a bottle of Evian. He chugged it, then sat back for one more minute before grabbing his flashlight and exiting the car again.
He would have liked to rest longer, but dear old Dad would be up in less than an hour, and all hell would break loose if the Mustang was gone when he went to work, and Justin didn’t care to get stuck making up any fancy explanations. He began searching for his lost keys, running the light back and forth over the dirt road as quickly and methodically as possible.
By three-thirty, he was nearly to the camp—as far as he could go because he didn’t dare take a chance on shining the light where it might be seen. Even though the night sky had remained silent, one of the scientists was probably up. He turned and went back to the car. Tomorrow, as dear old Mom always said, was another day.
PART THREE
Revelations
Thou shalt ascend and come like a storm . . .
—Ezekiel 38:9
When the right combination of social and psychological conditions is met, when the phenomenon finds in a witness a ready believer, then revelation takes place.
—Jacques Vallee, Dimensions
The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light . . .
—Isaiah 9:2
FRIDAY
62
James Robert Sinclair
JAMES SINCLAIR HAD SLEPT BLISSFULLY AFTER HIS SERMON, AND this morning as he sat in the meeting room with his Elders and Senior Apostles, he felt well rested and enthusiastic. And more. He felt love for these people, for each and every one. It was new to him, enlightening and wonderful, and he knew that, whatever happened, he and those they could reach would be at peace.
“My friends,” he began, “in a little over forty-eight hours, the Four Horsemen will ride and the world as we know it will end. We have much to do in the next two days, and that’s the reason we’re here. Are there any questions?”
He gazed at each of his Apostles in turn—Blandings, Caine, Allbright, Cramer, Ferguson, and Clayman—and each murmured no. Satisfied, he passed out special agendas for the last two and a half days of the world.
“Tonight and tomorrow night at seven P.M., we’ll conduct special baptisms for new members. There will be a final baptism Sunday morning as well. We want to save as many souls as we can, so today and tomorrow I want all our Apostles out spreading the word and inviting everyone to the service. Eldo,” he said, looking at the hawk-nosed old man, “you’re in charge of Madelyn. George, you take a van of Apostles to Victorville and Hesperia. Lorraine, you do the same for Barstow.” He turned to the last two senior Apostles. “Corky, you lead a van to San Bernardino, and Mel, take as many people as you can to Palmdale and Apple Valley.”
His gaze fell on Caine. “I need you here, Hannibal, but I’d like you to arrange for car pools to the outlying regions. Send people to shopping centers in Santo Verde, Fontana, Yucaipa, Ontario, Upland, and Montclair. If there are more cars available, use your own judgment as to where they would best be sent.”
“Yes, Prophet,” Caine replied somberly.
“One caution to you all, especially you, Eldo, since you’re in charge of Madelyn. If you’re asked to leave private property, please do so immediately. We won’t get converts by antagonizing people. Is that clear?”
He studied Eldo Blandings. He had decided to keep the Elder here to better control him. Since he’d already had one run-in with Old Madelyn’s management, he would probably refrain from zealousness there. And if he did get carried away, he would be easy to remove.
“Yes, Prophet,” Blandings said, rather glumly. “We’ll wear our uniforms and carry our umbrellas, I assume?”
When he’d begun his religious movement, Sinclair had declared that the Apostles would wear white robes when Judgment Day came, in order to identify themselves as God’s chosen ones, and carry white umbrellas to shelter themselves from the great floods that would come at the end. Now the umbrellas seemed embarrassingly dramatic, but to say so would do more harm than good. “Yes, wear your uniforms,” he said at last.
“Now, let’s talk about Final Communion. Sunday morning, after the final baptism, we’ll prepare the Communion service. It will coincide with the eclipse . . . with the ride of the Horsemen. The eclipse begins at eleven-thirty in the morning and ends an hour later. We will begin our services at eleven-thirty and commence the Communion at noon, exactly. It will be complete in fifteen to twenty minutes, and I will resume services and continue until the Horsemen ride.”
Beside him, the intercom buzzed. “Yes, Lily, what is it?”
“Prophet, the New Madelyn chief of police is here. He wishes to speak with you.”
He watched his advisors’ faces as they heard the secretary’s words. He thought he saw Lorraine Ferguson’s eye twitch once, but that might have been a coincidence.
“Very well. Tell him I’ll see him in a few moments. I’ll buzz from my office when I arrive there.”
He switched off the intercom. “Do any of you have any idea what Chief Baskerville wants?”
They all looked blank, except Hannibal Caine. “He’s probably here about the incident at the park yesterday,” he announced. Eldo Blandings glared at him.
“I see,” Sinclair said, rising. “I’d like you all to join me tomorrow night for a special dinner to celebrate the coming of the Living Savior. Is that amenable to you all?”
“We’d be honored, Prophet,” Hannibal said. The others nodded pull them togel
“Gcen got around tok in the private dining room of the Fellowship House. Senior Apostles, you’re dismissed.”
He waited until all four left the room before turning to Hannibal and Eldo. “I fear some of our Apostles may become overzealous, so make sure the groups are made up of ou
r most levelheaded members. Hannibal, I want you to talk to everyone before they leave. You have a calming influence that will be beneficial.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve overheard some of our faithful talking about the weapons, wondering when we’re going to use them, and I’m a little concerned.”
“Aren’t we going to use them?” Eldo asked, dismay in his voice.
“No. I’ve decided that there will be no violence, not even on Judgment Day.”
Eldo looked up. “But what about the Special, that is, the armory?”
Sinclair smiled gently. “It will all be over in three days’ time. What does it matter, Eldo?” He paused. “Violence isn’t the way.”
“But, Prophet,” Eldo began. “You said to go forth and—”
“Not now, Eldo.” Sinclair glanced at his watch. “I’ll try to explain it to you after I speak to Chief Baskerville.”
He turned on his heel, straightening his blue suit, and headed out the door.
“James!”
He stopped. Caine was chasing after him. “Hannibal?”
“Excuse me, James, but I just wanted to tell you that I know you’re very busy. I think I can make Eldo understand your new position on violence without your using up your valuable time.”
Sinclair smiled. “Thank you, Hannibal. I’d appreciate that.” He turned and strode down the hall, thankful for Caine’s services. Whereas he had doubts about Eldo, and even some worry about his two most zealous Senior Elders, Hannibal Caine was a rock. A man he could trust. “Thank you, Lord,” he prayed softly as he entered his office through the back door, “for giving me Hannibal as my good right hand.”
He sat down at his desk. He continued to dress in a suit, not robes, but his ponytail had remained prominent as it fell down his back, cool and comfortable above his clothes. He’d never known how much it itched before, and he enjoyed the new freedom he felt. He smoothed the jacket, ran a hand over his beard, then pressed the intercom button. “Please send in Chief Baskerville, Lily.”
63
Hannibal Caine
ELDO BLANDINGS STOPPED PACING BACK AND FORTH AND TURNED to face Hannibal Caine as he reentered the meeting room. Blandings’s squinty blue eyes were ablaze. “Hannibal, did the Prophet explain why he’s condemned using weapons?”
“Yes, Eldo, calm down,” Hannibal soothed. “Have a seat, and I’ll tell you what he said.”
Eldo eyed him suspiciously, than sat. Hannibal pulled a chair out, turning it to face Blandings, then smiling broadly, seated himself. “Eldo, nothing has changed.”
“Then why did the Prophet say those things? We planned on using force. Hell, we are using force,” he growled. “It’s the only way to win a war!”
Blandings, Caine thought, was like a little boy afraid his parent was going to take away his toys. His expression turned soothing, conspiratorial. “Eldo, right now the Prophet is speaking to a policeman. He’s likely to do so again. Remember, I explained to you that he gave us the freedom to form the Special Projects Committee, but that the Prophet didn’t want to know what our activities are?”
Eldo nodded grumpily.
“It’s the same with the weaponry. He can’t know. He’s a holy man, Eldo, and he cannot lie. If the police asked him about our activities and our use of weapons, he would have to tell the truth. So he cannot know. His instructions are to be subtle in our dealings with the public and to use our own best judgment. Today we do missionary work without weapons. Tomorrow we use them if we must, to convince people to see the light.”
Eldo relaxed a little. “An army’s got to have weapons.”
“He wants us to take prisoners tomorrow,” Hannibal said quietly.
Eldo’s eyes lit up. “He does?”
“Yes. It shall be as it was planned. We’re going to have our last Communion, Elder Blandings, and we have to do it right. There must be sacrifices.”
“Sacrifices?” Eldo repeated the word reverently. “What kind of sacrifices?”
“Human, Eldo, human. The dregs of society. Those who deserve to die.” Caine repressed a smile: Blandings was eating this stuff up, driven by his bloodlust, his power lust. “How many crosses have we on our rostrum?”
“Three, when the great cross is lowered from the tower.”
“We must have three prisoners, then.”
“Heathens to serve as symbolic sacrifices?” Eldo asked, eyes gleaming.
“Perhaps. The Prophet has asked me to decide who it should be. These people will be greatly honored and hold high places in heaven,” he added, his voice full of awe. “But, Eldo,” he cautioned, “I’ve told you more than I should. You must swear to me to keep this to yourself.”
“I swear,” Eldo said, his voice hoarse.
“The Prophet wants to hear nothing of it. He has plans of his own he hasn’t told you about yet.”
“He has?” Eldo asked hopefully.
But Caine only smiled. “You’ll know soon enough, my friend. Now, tell me what the Special Projects Committee will be up to today.”
He sat back, listening to Eldo with only half an ear. Things were falling into place more easily than he had ever expected, and soon Jim-Bob Sinclair would only be a memory.
64
Moss Baskerville
“SO YOU CAN SEE MY PROBLEM, MR. SINCLAIR.” MOSS BASKERVILLE leaned back in the cushiony leather chair before Jim-Bob’s desk and tried to appear completely at ease. But he was nervous as a cat. The preacher’s eyes bored into his, which wouldn’t have bothered him if they had been filled with that cold criminal look that Baskerville knew so well. No, Sinclair’s eyes were fathomless, and Moss couldn’t read what was in them.
What seemed to be in them was, of all things, genuine sincerity. He exuded trustworthiness, and for that reason, Baskerville’s hackles were up.
“I assure you, Chief,” Sinclair said in a voice as riveting as his eyes, “I know nothing about vandalism in town. I am truly sorry that it happened and I’ll help you any way I can.”
Baskerville believed him, despite the hackles. “Do you think some of your members might be getting a little carried away? Behind your back?” he added, no menace in his voice. The man amazed him and he understood for the first time the true meaning of the word “charismatic”; it meant unnerving. This man could take nearly anyone’s free will, yet he gave off not a whiff of criminality. For the first time, Moss wondered if Sinclair truly believed he was what he claimed to be. No, the place is too expensive . . . The furniture, the paintings, the suit. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Money doesn’t lie. A prophet should be dressed in rags, and barefoot.
“Chief?”
“Sorry, Mr. Sinclair. You were saying?”
“After your phone call, I spoke to my advisors, and they assured me our people had nothing to do with Miss Halloway’s problems or the vandalism of the church. But you are welcome to question anyone here.”
That surprised Baskerville. “That won’t be necessary for now, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Chief Baskerville, I also wanted to apologize to you for the invasion of the park the other day. I understand there was some commotion.”
“Nothing to worry about.” Moss heard himself say this when what he meant to do was give Sinclair a stern warning about trespassing on private property. But for some reason, he couldn’t.
“We believe the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse will ride this Sunday, Chief Baskerville, and we believe that the more souls we can rescue before they come, the better. We will be out doing missionary work, but I’ve asked my people to stay off private property and be polite at all times.”
“Thank you.” Sinclair’s voice mesmerized him, and Moss continued to stare into those dark brown eyes. This guy ought to be put away for the safety of everyone. He wondered if Hitler and Napoleon had possessed such charisma.
Sinclair rose and Moss followed suit. “Thank you for coming to see me,” the preacher said, sounding utterly sincere. “If you change your mind and want to talk to my people, you’re quite welcome
. You’re also welcome to come to our services and join us in celebration of the Living Savior.”
“The Living Savior,” Moss repeated. “That anything like Jesus?”
Sinclair nodded. “The Second Coming. He’ll walk among us soon.”
Moss felt himself returning to earth, despite the man’s charm. “Caught a little bit of your sermon last night, Mr. Sinclair.”
Jim-Bob smiled. “You did?”
“Um-hmm. You said you talked to God.” Now his feet were firmly planted back on earth. “Did you mean that literally?”
Sinclair tried to pull him back in with his hypnotic gaze. “Yes, quite literally. I was praying on Olive Mesa the last time He came to me.” He extended his hand.
Moss was unnerved by the eyes, the voice, and now the touch of the hand. It was supercharged, almost electric. You’re imagining things, buddy. He’s doing his voodoo on you. Moss pulled his hand back quickly, but Sinclair didn’t react. “You know, that’s interesting about Olive Mesa. A scientist friend saw a UFO over the mesa yesterday afternoon.”
Sinclair’s eyes moved rapidly, taking in all of him, fascination obvious. “That’s amazing,” he murmured. “A true miracle. What time did this occur?”
“Around three or four, I believe.”
“Tuesday night was my first visitation. The newspaper mentioned several UFO sightings that evening . . .” Sinclair’s voice trailed off, but his eyes kept Baskerville imprisoned.
“We had all sorts of reports that night,” Moss said.
“What we once recognized as angels,” Jim-Bob Sinclair mused sadly, “are now mistaken for little green men from Mars.” He broke eye contact.
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