by Sandra Brown
Waving his arms wildly, he shouted. "Hurry, everybody. Get downstairs. There's a fire in apartment D and it's spreading quickly."
A resident on a lower floor, who had responded to the alarm and ventured into the stairwell, shouted up, "Is there really a fire?"
"Seventeen D," Melina called back. "Get everyone on your floor out!"
By the time they had loped down several flights, they became part of the throng rushing into the stairwell, which was exactly what Chief had hoped to accomplish when he raised the alarm.
"What do we do when we get to the bottom?" Melina asked beneath her breath.
"Hell if I know. I'm hoping there'll be so much confusion, we'll be able to sneak away. No matter what, don't let go of my hand." He received an answering squeeze even though she was helping a woman in a sari hustle two sleepy children down the steps.
Even before they reached the lobby, Chief could hear sirens wailing. By the time they got to the lower floor and entered the lobby, rent-a-cops who provided building security were herding people through an emergency side exit. Two fire trucks had already arrived. Firemen in full garb leapt from them and raced toward the entrance where Harry was babbling frantically. Chief was glad the doorman was occupied and didn't see him and Melina as they were caught up in the crowd that moved en masse toward the bottleneck at the emergency exit.
"Keep your head down," he instructed as they wiggled through the door. They moved along with their eyes on their feet. Once they were clear of the door, he tugged her toward the edge of the gathering crowd but purposefully kept them in shadows as security personnel shepherded them across the street into the parking lot of the building from which he guessed the shots had been fired.
He pulled up short when he recognized two familiar faces in the crowd of condo dwellers. The two men were looking wildly about, but not because they feared fire. They were scanning the faces of everyone who had exited the building.
Chief spun Melina about and reversed their direction. "Don't look back. Two o'clock. Our FBI impersonators. I'd bet good money they were the shooters."
"But why'd they shoot Jem? They were under his orders, weren't they?"
"He thought so."
Anxiously she pulled her lower lip through her teeth. "What do we do?"
"Well, we could try reasoning with these guys."
"Right," she said caustically.
"Or we could call Tobias. Lawson. Either would help us." "They'd also contain us."
Privately Chief acknowledged that he and Melina were fools for not taking advantage of the protection that the FBI and the local police department could afford them. Their lives were at risk—at least his. Now that Hennings had been dispatched, the next hollow-tip bullet probably had his name on it. They'd already made two unsuccessful attempts to punish him for "tainting" Gillian and making her unsuitable for the Program. And he didn't like the sound of Melina's being pegged to take her place.
Of course, everything Hennings had said could be nothing more than the blather of a madman. He and his pal Gordon, he sexual deviate, could have been zealots who had twisted Brother Gabriel's well-meaning message to justify their own aberrant agenda.
But maybe not, and that was a terrifying prospect. If Brother Gabriel had authored this program of genetic engineering, the implications were horrifying and had the potential of being globally catastrophic. Chief recognized that he had to be crazy not to call in the cavalry.
On the other hand, he didn't have all the facts yet. At this
point it was still a personal fight, and he didn't cotton to anyone else fighting his battles for him. Maybe that misplaced pride, or downright orneriness, was a legacy from his forefathers that was only now manifesting itself. Maybe his inclinations were more Native American than he'd been willing to accept.
Whatever, he chose to rely on his gut instinct.
"I say we go for broke, but it's your call, Melina," he said quietly, barely making himself heard above the din surrounding them. "Gillian was your sister."
"She was my twin. This is personal."
"For me, too."
"Then there's your answer."
"Okay."
But now that the decision had been made, they were stuck in their immediate dilemma, and it was dangerous. He had created chaos in the hope of their getting out of the building unseen. But his strategy wasn't without a few major hitches. For one, they were now afoot. There was no way they could retrieve the clunker from the parking garage because it was blocked by emergency vehicles. Furthermore, it would soon be determined that the fire alarm had been a ruse to cover Jem Hennings's murder.
Following his train of thought, Melina said, "We've got to get away."
"Soon. When they discover Hennings's body, everyone with a badge will be after us for questioning. Harry the doorman isn't going to forget us. Particularly you." He glanced down at her flat-soled shoes. "If we have to, can you run?"
"I do. Three times a week."
"Where's the nearest commercial area? Lots of traffic. People."
"Oak Lawn Street. That way," she said, subtly motioning with her head.
"I'm right behind you. Start out slow, walking. Try not to attract attention."
He placed his hands loosely on her waist. They shuffled through the crowd of milling people, some of whom were already expressing skepticism about the fire and grumbling about the unreliable technology that set off false alarms more often than not.
They had almost reached the fringes of the crowd when Chief turned his head to check and see if they were being followed. He spotted Tobias's impersonator standing no more than twenty yards away. His neck was stretched up from his shoulders as he swiveled his head back and forth, surveying the crowd of men, women, and children who'd evacuated the high-rise.
Suddenly he turned. Chief had no warning. He couldn't avert his head in time. Their eyes connected.
"Go!" he told Melina, giving her a light push, just as he heard a shout behind them.
She didn't hesitate or stop to ask questions, but broke into a sprint across the parking lot. She didn't falter when they reached the low hedge of shrubbery, but hurdled it like an Olympian and kept running full-out. The street was clear. They raced across it. He heard tires squeal behind them and turned his head only long enough to see that the men in pursuit had nearly been struck by an oncoming minivan.
The near miss diverted them just long enough for Melina to plunge through a high, dense hedge that bordered a vacant lot. They were away from streetlights now. It was dark and the ground was uneven. Chief nearly collided with a metal real estate sign planted in the ground, but he managed to avoid its doing no more damage than glancing his kneecap.
"Through here," Melina gasped when they reached the far .side of the lot. She led him through a bank annex's drive through bay and then into another darkened lot that had a vacant house in the center. When they rounded the house, he reached for her hand and pulled her to a stop. They flattened themselves against the frame exterior. The wood smelled old and mildewed and gave off the odor of animal decomposition.
"You okay?" he huffed, trying to catch his breath. "Are they still chasing us?"
"I'm taking no chances. How much farther?" "Two, three blocks. See the lights?"
Above roofs and treetops he saw the glow of commercial lighting. "Take off."
Many of the older houses in the area had been converted into businesses—antique shops, hair salons, law offices which were closed at this hour. They kept to the shadows and used trees, fences, and shrubbery as shields.
Over her shoulder, she asked, "When we get there... ?" "Hail the first taxi you see."
Taxis weren't easily come by in a city like Dallas, where the number of cars nearly outnumbered the population. He reasoned that their best chance of finding one would be near restaurants and clubs where people were drinking alcohol and hopefully opting to take a taxi home rather than risk a DUI charge.
They wove their way through a congested parking lot that serv
ed several restaurants. Curious looks were thrown to them by people who were either returning from or going to dinner. Chief didn't resent the passersby. He was glad to see that the sidewalks were crowded and that the street was jammed with traffic.
"Try and blend in," he said, taking Melina's arm. If not for the sweat pouring down their faces, they might have been any other couple out on a date. "There," he said, spying a taxi pulling up to the entrance of one of the restaurants.
They dodged the crawling traffic and jogged across the street, climbing into the back seat as soon as a trio of Japanese tourists alighted. "Where to?" the driver called back.
"Head south out Interstate 45. I'll give you directions as we go along."
Chief pulled Melina back against the seat. She didn't have to be told to keep her head low. "There," she whispered. "Under the R in the restaurant sign."
Tobias's imposter and his partner looked out of place in the yuppie crowd, sweating, their chests heaving with exertion, frustrated. Chief kept his eyes on the pair until the taxi was well away.
"They never saw us," he reported as he flopped back against the seat, exhausted. For a time, he kept his eyes closed and concentrated on sucking in oxygen. Eventually he asked, "How're you doing?"
She had pulled up the hem of her sweater and was using it like a towel. Her face was buried in it. Then he noticed that her shoulders were shaking. "Melina?"
He stretched his arm across her shoulders and pulled her closer against him.
"Were y'all in some kinda race?" the driver asked.
"Yeah. A fucking marathon. Now mind your own goddamn business and drive."
"Jeez. Bite my head off, why don'tcha?"
Dismissing the nosy driver, Chief threaded his fingers through Melina's sweat-damp hair. "It's okay. Don't cry. You're safe."
When she raised her head, he was amazed to see that she wasn't crying at all. She was laughing. "I don't know what's wrong with me!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "I just saw a man's head disintegrate. We falsely reported a fire. I was chased by bad guys intent on killing one or both of us. I am avoiding the FBI. And I'm laughing?"
No sooner had she said that, however, than her features crumpled and tears spurted from her eyes.
Cupping the back of her head in his palm, Chief pressed it against his chest and continued to massage her scalp while she hiccupped hard sobs into the front of his shirt.
He hated being anywhere in the vicinity of a weeping woman. Tears represented emotions that were best avoided—fear, frustration, heartbreak, disappointment, anger. When a woman began to cry, you wished you were anywhere else but there, especially if you were the one responsible for her tears.
But he didn't mind Melina's crying. He felt if anyone deserved a good cry, it was she. Up till now, she'd demonstrated unusual bravery. He would sign her up to be a member of his crew any day of the week. She had proved that she could be relied on not to unravel during a crisis situation.
Now that the crisis was past, however, he felt she was entitled to an all-too-human crack-up.
He held her close, with his chin propped on the crown of her head, one hand stroking her back, the other still cupping her head. He let her cry until she ran dry. He didn't move until he was sure she was finished. Then he placed his finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up. "Better?"
"I barf and I bawl. Fine confederate I am."
"You don't hear me complaining, do you?" He smiled and she smiled back.
Her neck was resting in the crook of his elbow. Her face was tilted up and back, exposing her throat. After brushing away a tear with the pad of his thumb, he kept his hand there against her cheek. His other moved to that bare strip of skin between her raised top and the waistband of her slacks.
Her lips separated on a quick intake of breath.
He wouldn't have disengaged his eyes from hers just then if someone had told him that the sun had burned out. Without looking, he felt her hand, which had been clutching fistfuls of his shirt moments ago, now resting somewhere just below his belt buckle, collecting heat.
His throat was tight, but he managed to breathe her name. "Melina...?"
"Say, uh, don't get pissed or nothing," said the driver from the front seat, "but I need to know how far south we're goin' before turning off I-45."
She was the first to move. Regrettably, she sat up and put space between them. She smoothed down her sweater, made swipes across her tear-streaked cheeks with the backs of her hands, and tucked her hair behind her ears.
Chief told the driver which exit to take. "Go east."
He was still watching Melina as she unsuccessfully pretended that the moment—he wasn't sure what else you'd call it—hadn't happened, and that, had they not been interrupted, it might have ended with him pressing his mouth against the indentation in her throat where a ruby pendant nestled.
She fidgeted nervously. It seemed her eyes didn't know where to rest. Finally, after running out of self-conscious gestures to occupy her, she looked at him. "Where are we going?" "You're not afraid of flying, are you?"
CHAPTER 29
Brother Gabriel was at prayer.
Ritualistically he prayed three times a day—before breakfast, before dinner, and before bed. His prayers this evening were effusive because it had been a productive day. The sermon he'd taped this afternoon for his television show had been particularly inspired.
The subject had been tribulation. Not the Tribulation with a capital T as described in the New Testament's Book of Revelations, but the minor annoyances that occur in everyday life. He shared with his followers the solution to handling those persistent, nagging nuisances.
"Give them to me," he'd implored in his sincerest voice. "Lay them on my shoulders." He went on to explain that this transference was possible only if the burdened one had absolute faith in him and his ability to improve one's quality of life.
Actually, it wasn't that hard for him to sell the idea because he believed it.
He could improve lives. He demonstrated a perfection to which his followers should aspire. He bestowed love on the unloved. His promise of a new world order gave hope to the hopeless. He was benevolence personified.
Benevolence personified. Hmm. Catchy phrase. He must remember it.
In the courtyard below his balcony, the children were at play. Each evening for thirty minutes following their dinner, they were free to do anything they liked. Except watch TV.
With the single exception of his telecasts, television programming was banned from the compound. So were newspapers, radio, and books, unless he had personally approved them. He wanted nothing to pollute the minds of these who had achieved a level of worthiness that qualified them to live in the Temple and work directly for the ministry.
On clear, clement evenings like this, the children were allowed to play in the courtyard, which was an ideal opportunity for them to see him at prayer. There must never be a doubt in their minds as to the level of his dedication. He hoped to cultivate in each a desire to attain that level for himself or herself.
The children were supervised by their mothers or surrogates, but he insisted that each child be given free rein to pursue the kind of play that interested him or her. How else was he to learn what that particular child's strengths and talents were? Was that boy a scientist? Was that girl a healer? Joel was a natural athlete, Margaret an intellectual. William had a talent for attracting loyal friends as a magnet attracts metal shavings. Sarah was a comedienne but also a diplomat when disputes arose. Did he see in David entrepreneurial skills? Did Jennifer possess outstanding leadership qualities?
Naturally, the boys interested him more than the girls. The girls would become women, and the main function of women was obvious. But Brother Gabriel was a realist. Women had wormed their way into industry, politics, commerce, every area of society, particularly in North America and Western Europe. Until that trend changed, he must plan accordingly. The girls must be prepared to enter fields of endeavor just as the boys would. In fact, ther
e were areas that they could permeate probably better than their male counterparts.
He studied them all, watched their patterns of behavior, looked for weaknesses that might eliminate them from the Program. Only a very few of the children failed to meet his standards, which spoke well of the selection process he had designed.
On his knees, head bowed in prayer, he used his time in the evenings to plan a future for each child. He considered all the mind-boggling changes that would take place when they were turned out into the world to do what they'd been created to do. Just to think about it made him giddy.
"Amen."
He stood and picked up his Russian prayer cushion. Someone below noticed that he had concluded his prayers and called up a greeting. He waved. Soon all eyes in the courtyard were focused on him. They vied for his attention.
"Watch me, Brother Gabriel."
Joel shot a basketball that swished through the goal. An NBA star in the making? If that were to come about, think how many young men would look upon him as a role model. Imagine how many lives he could influence, make converts of.
He made a mental note to bring in a coach to hone Joel's natural skills.
He applauded enthusiastically. "Good job," he called down to the boy.
Leslie, the Iowa farm girl, was looking up at him with unabashed adoration. Since her visit with him, her attitude had notably improved. It had been reported that she was no
longer forlorn and homesick. She had applied herself to her studies and chores with renewed rigor.
He winked at her, and she blushed becomingly. As she should. In bed, she demonstrated an earthy sensuality that bespoke her rural upbringing. What an incredible fuck she was.
But it was too soon to summon her again. The others would get jealous.
Mary, the girl with the beautiful dark curly hair, was using both hands to cradle her pregnant belly. She looked as luscious as a piece of fruit so ripe it was on the verge of bursting. Beneath her clothing, her projecting nipples looked as large as thumbs, ready for the infant to suck.
Instantly Brother Gabriel swelled with desire for her. Her pregnancy was too far advanced for intercourse, but there were other ways to achieve pleasure. He resolved to send for her later.