by Sandra Brown
Tobias asked, "Have you ever known anyone who lived at the Temple but left?"
"No," he replied honestly. "That's not to say it doesn't happen. I just don't know about it." He looked at them quizzically. "And why would someone who'd worked hard to earn admittance want to leave? Wouldn't that be like checking out of heaven?"
They left the sheriff's office and climbed back into the agency car. Tobias got behind the wheel. Lawson was impressed by the authority the man wielded. He had arranged for them to be met at the Albuquerque airport, where the car had been designated for their use. They'd driven from there to Lamesa, the county seat. With a single phone call, Tobias could make things happen. Lawson couldn't get a Bic pen without filling out a requisition form.
"What do you think of Ritchey?" Lawson asked the agent as they pulled away.
"Hard to read, but I'd say he was being about half truthful."
"My impression, too. Everything he said was filtered."
"Maybe through pride. He resents outsiders snooping around his county, looking for a criminal element. It suggests that he's not doing an adequate job. Or…"
"Yeah?"
"Maybe the man was telling the unvarnished truth and we're just getting paranoid."
"Could be," Lawson agreed. "I'm looking for ulterior motives behind every fence post." After several moments had elapsed, he said, "On the other hand, Ritchey could be a devoted follower. Maybe he accounts to a higher jurisdiction than the county, state, or federal laws."
"You mean that Brother Gabriel may have Ritchey and other local law enforcement in his back pocket?"
"Who's to say where his influence stops? We know it extended as far as Big D."
"And South Dakota. That's where Hennings became involved."
"Do you think Hennings and his little sister got converted by the school nurse, and that when their parents raised a ruckus, they were eliminated?"
"Someone made them disappear."
"You suspect Brother Gabriel?"
"Or a zealous follower working on his behalf."
"With his sanction?"
"Frightening prospect, isn't it?"
"If he's got followers willing to kill for him..." Turning to look at Tobias, he spoke his thoughts out loud. "That means that when Dale Gordon killed Gillian Lloyd, he could've been acting on orders from the Temple."
"I've thought of that."
Lawson's face turned ugly. "I want to meet this bleached-blond preacher eyeball to eyeball. I want to know what he's all about, and I'll bet you a steak dinner against a bottle of scotch that he's not as saintly as his pretty face and sweet smile suggest."
"You're on. But I don't eat red meat."
Lawson snorted.
Chuckling over Lawson's derision, Tobias answered his ringing cell phone. "Yeah, Lucy, what?" He listened, thanked her for the update, and then, as he clicked off, he turned to Lawson and smiled. "That eyeball-to-eyeball thing... you'll get your chance tomorrow morning. We have an audience with the main man."
"Why tomorrow morning? Why don't we just go up there now—",
"No probable cause. No direct link to either Gillian Lloyd, or Dale Gordon—except the phone calls, and he's already explained those—or Jem Hennings. He's granting us an audience as a courtesy, and that's how we must conduct the interview.
"Until we get those sperm specimens from the Waters Clinic donors and run DNA tests to prove that Gordon was switching them, then all we've got is a pile of supposition. At his point, we don't even know with certainty that the sperm was being switched. And even if we do prove that the specimens were being switched, we've got nothing that links the tampering to Brother Gabriel except a dead disciple, who proved himself to be deranged. So, in summation, we've got no probable cause for which to question an eminent man of God."
"My ass." Vexed, Lawson ran a hand over his burr haircut. "I know you're right. From a legal standpoint, you're playing it by the book. But my gut tells me that Brother Gabriel is the source of all this." Lawson gnawed on it for a full minute. "What about Melina Lloyd? What do you think?"
"That she'll come here to confront him."
"I think so, too." After a moment, he said, "Damn! Timing is everything, isn't it?"
"How so, specifically?"
"I was just thinking. If I'd had this lead on the Waters Clinic early on, I would've had smears taken from Gillian Lloyd's body. She'd been artificially inseminated less than twenty-four hours prior to her death."
"If DNA testing had proved that the smears didn't belong to her designated donor—"
"Or to Christopher Hart."
"—then you would have had proof that there was tampering being done at the clinic."
"But we already had our killer," Lawson said morosely. "There was no sign of semen externally. The stab wounds were so conclusive as to how she died, there was no reason not to release the body to Melina for cremation."
Tobias told him he was in the process of getting a court order for the remains of the woman in Oakland, California, to be exhumed. "When it is, we'll DNA-test the embryo inside Kathleen Asher against her designated donor. Of course, all of this takes time. A smear from Gillian Lloyd would have been much more expeditious."
"Sorry," Lawson grumbled.
"Well, as you said, you didn't know then what you know now"
It was gracious of Tobias to let him off the hook. He was gracious in return. "I brought along the case file, if you want to review any of it."
"I might," Tobias said. "It's going to be a long night, and I've got nothing better to do."
CHAPTER 34
"Melina?"
"Hmm?"
"It's almost three."
With a heavy sigh, she rolled onto her back and scowled up at Chief through eyes only half open. "Why are you always waking me up?"
"Because you're always oversleeping."
"I was dreaming."
"About what?"
"I don't remember."
"Good dream?"
"I think so." She stretched luxuriantly. "What time is it?" "I just told you."
"I wasn't listening," she admitted with a sleepy smile. "Tell me again."
But he didn't repeat the time. In fact, he didn't say any-lung, and it only took her a few seconds to appreciate, as he obviously already had, the intimacy of the moment. His fists were planted on either side of her head, buried in the pillow tip to his second knuckles. His arms were bearing much of his weight, so each muscle was well defined.
His face had lost all trace of a smile. The blue of his eyes seemed to have intensified, as the color of the sky deepens immediately after sunset, changing from violet to indigo, undiscernibly but definitely.
Acting on impulse, she reached up and touched his face. First she smoothed down his eyebrows in turn. Then she sighed sympathetically and with regret when she delicately touched the wound on his cheekbone. Her finger traced the length of his slender nose and finally outlined the shape of his lips. She lingered over each feature as though her fingertips were committing them to memory.
Gaining confidence, she lowered her hand and touched him just below his right breast. His skin radiated a warmth she longed to feel against her. Her eyes tracked her fingertips as they skimmed downward over several lean ribs, then moved back up to the sculpted undercurve of his breast. She whisked the nipple with her thumb.
Emboldened by his quick intake of breath, she did something she would never have dared to do otherwise. She raised her head high enough to flick her tongue over the distended tip.
Cursing softly, he threw back the covers, lowered himself over her, and pressed his face into her cleavage. He pushed her breasts up from her rib cage. Hungrily he kissed the slopes of them where they swelled above the cups of her bra. His stubble rasped her skin, but it was an erotic sensation, and, without any instruction from her, she felt her hips lifting off the bed to nudge the fly of his jeans.
He rubbed his lips against her nipples until they were thrusting hard against the lace that cont
ained them, and just when she was on the brink of begging him, he peeled the lace away and covered her with his open mouth. Each sweet tug of his mouth was felt deep within. She clutched handfuls of his hair and moaned with pleasure.
In a low, gravelly voice he urged her to unbutton him. Blindly she fumbled with fabric and stubborn metal buttons. The top one was already undone, but when she tried to undo the rest, she met with resistance. The hardness beneath was unyielding. He grunted with discomfort, and they both laughed lightly. Finally she managed to unbutton them all and pushed the jeans down over his hips.
He guided her hand to his erection and folded her fingers around it. When she began a rhythmic massage, he closed his eyes and grimaced with pleasure enough to bare his teeth. "Slower." When she complied, he pressed his forehead against hers. "Oh, Jesus, that's good. You'd better tell me now if you're not okay with this."
"I'm okay with this."
"Arch your back."
She pressed her shoulders into the mattress and lifted herself so that he could slide his hands beneath her and unfasten her bra. When it was unclasped, he pulled it off and raised his head to gaze down at her, then squeezed her breasts together and kissed the nipples, laving them with his tongue and plucking at them with his lips.
"Chief," she gasped.
"I know. Me, too. But I don't want to rush it. You'd better stop that," he said, moving her hand aside.
He hooked his thumbs into the elastic waist of her bikinis and pulled them all the way down past the tips of her toes. Then, wrapping his hands around her ankles and kneeling between them, he slowly opened her legs. Her initial reaction was to resist, or to cover herself with her hand, or to bashfully turn her head aside.
But his ardent stare was sweet, tender. It made her feel elevated, not humiliated. Gradually his eyes traveled up her body until they magnetically connected to hers. They remained locked onto one another's gaze as his hands slid up her shins. They rotated to the undersides of her legs so that her calves were cupped in his palms. Gently he massaged them with his strong fingers.
Then back to the topside, his hands glided upward to lightly squeeze the ticklish area just above her knees. They stayed on course up her thighs until his fingers were splayed over her lower abdomen and his thumbs met at her center.
And still his eyes remained fixed on hers.
Alternately his thumbs stroked her. Became slippery. Found the treasured spot. Caressed it with the merest touch. Sparks of sensation shot through her. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Her breathing became choppy and quick. Her eyelids fluttered and his image began to blur. "If you don't stop," she panted, "I'm going to come."
"That's the point, isn't it?"
"But I want you inside me."
He thrust into her. Possessively, his hands slid beneath her hips and lifted her to him so that it would have been impossible for him to be any deeper. Nevertheless, she pushed her hands into his jeans and gripped his ass tightly, pulling him into her.
Each stroke was greedy but also giving. She sensed behind every push a wildness that he barely kept harnessed. Strangely, she wasn't afraid of it. Rather than shrink from it, she responded with a complete lack of inhibition and a ferocity of her own.
His breathing became rough, and he buried his face in her neck and groaned, "You... fuck... like..."
And then he climaxed, calling a name.
"Hey, Tobias, want to hear something really weird?" "Don't you ever go home?"
"I am home," Lucy Myrick replied from approximately two thousand miles away. "This info came in just as I was leaving the office, so I printed it out and brought it home with me. I fed my goldfish, barely in time to prevent an outbreak of cannibalism. I treated myself to a long bubble bath, nuked a frozen lasagna, opened a bottle of cheap wine, and only now am looking over the material."
Earlier, in the cafe attached to the motel, Tobias had eaten a grilled cheese sandwich in the time it took Lawson to scarf down two chili cheeseburgers with extra onions. They had then parted company with plans to reconvene at breakfast. Tobias had showered and was now reclining against the faux wood headboard of the motel bed, a pillow bunched beneath his head, a drink from the honor bar in his hand.
He didn't imbibe often, but he felt he owed himself one scotch and soda tonight. He was in alien territory. Without the familiar sounds of traffic outside, the silence of the desert was deafening. He couldn't relate to the paint-by-number artwork decorating the paneled walls of his room, nor to the Pueblo Indian life it depicted.
Despite his request for a nonsmoking room, an ashtray shaped like a rattlesnake was coiled and ready to strike on the dresser. It had red glass eyes that glittered in the light from the TV.
It was good to hear Lucy's familiar voice with her clipped northeastern accent instead of a southwestern twang. "What material?"
Lucy began her explanation by saying, "This Brother Gabriel is creeping me out! I watched his show last night on the TV I keep in my office. `New world order' sounds a little too Hitleresque to sit right with me. My question to him would be, `Who would establish this new world order?'. Although, I have a sneaking suspicion of who he has in mind.
"Anyway, I did some research today and was staggered by the scope of his so-called ministry. He's not your ordinary TV preacher. His sermons are simultaneously translated into thirty or so languages. He has devotees in countries that are predominately Jewish, Catholic, Moslem, or Buddhist. The religious leaders of each are alarmed by his growing number of converts.
"His doctrine isn't exactly Christian. In fact, it isn't even scriptural. He rarely mentions Jesus Christ except as an example of humility. But that shortage of a specific dogma
hasn't hampered his appeal, which seems to be universal." She took a deep breath. "Which brought me to Interpol."
Interested, Tobias set his drink on the nightstand. "I'm sure there's some logic behind that decision."
"Well, we stumbled onto Jem Hennings's connection when we—"
"When you," Tobias corrected.
"Thank you kindly," she said cheekily. "When I started looking for similar crimes on a national basis, we turned up several cases that bore a striking resemblance to Gillian Lloyd's murder and the Anderson baby's kidnapping. Only today did I think about stretching my investigation abroad. And guess what?"
"I'm all ears."
"Five European women over the course of the past two years have died violently—read murder or accidental death—after having been impregnated by artificial insemination. All were single, healthy, of superior good looks and intelligence. Moreover, in the same time period, three children conceived either in vitro or by Al—using donor sperm—were kidnapped shortly after birth. Two from their cribs at home, one from the hospital."
"But statistically, Lucy—"
"I already checked," she said, interrupting his argument before he could even verbalize it. "Only one other pregnant woman—in Portugal, I believe—was murdered during the same time period. She was married and had conceived naturally, and the assault on her was motivated by robbery. The perp was caught and admitted to choosing her at random because of the jewelry she was wearing.
"All the other kidnappings, except for these three, were for ransom. One was a child molestation case by a repeat offender. All those cases were solved. The children were either returned to their families alive or their bodies were subsequently found."
He should have known that Lucy would have checked out all her facts before sharing the information with him. "And the three involving children conceived in a fertility clinic?" "I don't really have to tell you, do I?"
"Never a trace," he guessed. "Just like the Andersons' baby."
"Precisely like that." She let him mull it over for a full thirty seconds, seeming to sense that he wanted to organize his thoughts about this new data. "I'm going to dig deeper," she told him. "See if I can find any Brother Gabriel disciples connected to these cases."
"Good, but get some rest first."
; "Thanks. Is that what you're doing tonight?"
"In a manner of speaking."
He glanced at the thick black notebook containing the file on Gillian Lloyd's murder. He'd taken Lawson up on his offer to loan it to him for the evening, but it remained untouched on the nightstand. He was saturated with this case and was dreading having to review information he already knew.
"Where are you anyway?" Lucy asked.
"In the shadow of Brother Gabriel's Temple."
"Liar."
"No, I swear. I can see the lights of it from my motel room bed."
"Wish I were there with you. In the area, I mean," she clarified hastily. "I'd like to ask Brother Gabriel when God died and left him in charge."
"Let me know what you get tomorrow."
"Quick as a bunny. What's it like?"
"What?"
"Your motel room."
"Your basic stop-over-but-don't-stay-too-long. The sheets are clean, but the pillows are hard." He described the vicious looking ashtray.
"You're kidding. I'd have nightmares. Aren't there any amenities? Coin-operated vibrating bed? Pay-per-view X rated movies?"
"There's a brochure on top of the TV that lists the movies for adults only," he admitted.
"Any titles I might recognize?"
"Goodbye, Lucy."
"Haven't seen that one."
He hung up laughing. Talking to her had improved his mood considerably.
Melina was the first to leave the bed. Without once glancing at him, she picked up her underwear and retreated into the bathroom. Seconds later, he heard the shower running.
Chief laid his forearm over his eyes and filled the silence with muttered swear words. Of all the things that could have happened to him, who would ever have guessed this? When he had walked out of The Mansion and saw Gillian Lloyd for the first time, could he have imagined that within days he would be embroiled in her murder investigation and sleeping with her twin?
"Sleeping with"? Nice euphemism, but grossly inaccurate. He, Colonel Christopher Hart, astronaut and public figure, signer of autographs and hero of schoolchildren, had fucked Gillian's identical twin, an exact replica of her, and had relished every goddamn carnal heartbeat of it. He had lost himself in her the same way he'd lost himself in Gillian.