Never had anyone dropped the names of three little girls, anonymous children planted in America’s heartland. From the way their parents had died to the names they’d been given, the triplets were being set up to appear as if they were something evil. This had to be another sick experiment – a psychological or spiritual one. Another attempt at harnessing and using these miracles for a manmade purpose.
Someone needed to be told about what was in the files, in case something happened to him. Khoury checked his watch. The cardinal would be in bed. No matter. He dialed his direct line. Let it ring a dozen times. No answer.
Khoury switched his attention from the cell to the windshield. The rain was coming down so hard, he could barely make out the trees around him. He was worried about his partners, one gun between the two of them as they stumbled through unfamiliar woods. They had no idea how powerful and well organized this opposition group was; Nardini hadn’t given any of them the full picture. The violent few were everywhere. Would his partners fall victim to them in the forest?
Khoury started to punch in MacLeod’s number, but instead closed the cell. A warning call wasn’t enough; he had to go to them. He unlocked the doors and gripped the door handle.
The rain suddenly turned into hail, the icy pebbles pelting the Suburban like gunfire. Khoury opened the front passenger door a crack, and a barrage of pellets shot into the car. He closed the door and picked one of the white peas from his lap. Dropped it into his palm to examine it. The small nugget had a hole in it. Perplexed, the priest picked the hailstone out of his palm and rolled it between his thumb and index finger. Holding the stone up to the natural light, he inhaled sharply.
The hail raining down from the sky was not made of ice, but of beads.
Fake pearls.
“Tell me something Merchant Man. Are you sure it’s a real pearl and not a fake?”
Again, someone was manipulating the girls. Telling them what to do. Whom to attack and how. He dropped the pearl and made the Sign of the Cross. The first prayer that came to Khoury was a Maronite blessing. He said it out loud:
“Oh Lord, almighty God, strengthen...”
The pearls rained down harder. Khoury looked through the windshield, and took a deep breath. Continued in a steady voice:
“Strengthen the heart of your servant. Comfort, sustain, and confirm him in mind and heart. Grant him the strength to conquer the power of evil. May he overcome all evil caused by adversity. Oh Lord God, bestow upon him a courageous heart and a steadfast and unshaken spirit, so that he may...”
The force of the hail increased, and Khoury could see nothing but white through the windshield. “Dear God,” he whispered.
With a loud pop, all the windows shattered, the glass crackling into a million tiny shards.
Khoury tipped his head back and raised his voice, finishing the prayer with a shout: “So that he may serve you and offer you praise, now and forever! Amen!”
The Suburban shuddered like a large animal in its death throes, and Khoury bent in half and shielded his head with his arms. Bits of broken glass blew into the car from all sides, followed by a shower of fake pearls.
The priest threw open his door and bolted into the woods, dusting off glass and pearls and crunching over the carpet of white that covered the ground. Overhead, the leaves of the trees pattered with the hail. The pellets that punched through the green canopy pummeled Khoury’s head and shoulders. He tipped his head down to protect his face, and the pearls hammered his hunched back. Even through his clothing, the impact stung. It was like running a gantlet through the trees, being stoned by an invisible mob. Something warm snaked down the middle of his forehead and he brushed it away. Checked his fingers. Blood, from either the broken glass or the pearls. Khoury kept going, hoping he was headed in the right direction. Praying he would find them safe. Kicking himself for letting them leave him behind. In the recesses of his mind and memory, this run was too similar to the one he’d made trying to get to his wife.
Am I getting closer? Is she safe? Is the baby all right? Why did I let her go without me? Let them be alive, God. Let them live.
When he reached a gap in the trees, he shielded his eyes from the hellacious hail and looked into the sky. Black as night. A bolt of lightening sliced across the ink. Putting his head back down, he pumped his legs harder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Perfect,” Rossi yelled over the thunder and hail.
Hunkered at the edge of the woods amid a clump of bushes, she and MacLeod were on the east side of the convent’s property. The front of the house – the side with the porch - was in front of them, about a football field away. Halfway between them and the house was the long driveway, which at its north end spilled out onto the road and at the south end stopped at a rundown barn. Parked right up to the barn doors was an ancient blue Buick. They’d seen it there when they’d arrived, a rosary dangling from the rearview mirror and a religious statue stuck to the dashboard. Had to be the nun’s car.
In the middle of the gravel span was a green sedan. The car must have pulled in while they were in the woods. Was it the blind girl’s ride? She couldn’t get the plates. She and MacLeod were facing the side of the car, and they were too far away. She wanted to get the license, but also wanted to escape this freaky storm. The hail wasn’t falling; it was shooting down at them, as if from a sniper’s gun planted above.
“Bloody hell!” bellowed MacLeod, pulling the back of his blazer up over his head.
Rossi did the same with her jacket. “This is crazy!”
MacLeod scooped some hail off the ground. “It’s raining pearls!”
Rossi picked up a handful. He was right. “The name of Khoury’s daughter! Durrah for...”
“For Pearl! I know!”
A bolt of lightening ripped across the black sky. “This attack is aimed at him,” she said.
“He’s safe,” said MacLeod. “He’s in the tank.”
Thunder cracked the air.
“Let’s go for the shed!” MacLeod yelled.
She didn’t want to risk running into the yard and exposing themselves. The barn backed up into the woods. They could stay in the greenery and hook around to the rear of the old building. She wove through the trees and bushes, repeatedly checking behind her to make sure MacLeod was keeping up. Even before the hail, he’d moved slowly.
When they got to the back of the barn, they faced a wall of weathered wood. No door, but wide gaps between the vertical boards. Slipping her fingers into one of the gaps, she locked her hands over the edge of the slat and pulled hard while hail battered her head. Something warm clouded her eyes, and she took a hand off the board to wipe it away.
MacLeod tore off his blazer and tossed it over her head. Pushed her aside. She heard boards creaking, and felt a strong hand wrap around her wrist and yank her forward.
She pulled his blazer off her head. They were inside. It was dark and smelled of mildew and musty hay. Something beneath that. Old manure? But the roof was good and the pellets couldn’t get to them. She felt something in the back of her throat and spit it into her hand. One of the pearls. Rossi hurled it down with revulsion.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?”
She opened her mouth to respond, and a clap of thunder made them both start. They moved closer to each other, and deeper into their shelter.
MacLeod laughed nervously. “Black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat in here.”
“Our eyes will adjust.”
“What’re the nuns doing with a barn?”
“I saw some veterinary bills in the files. The old orphanage used to keep farm animals for the kids.”
They could hear the hail intensifying. Rossi looked to the west wall of the barn and MacLeod to the east. “No way,” said the Scot.
They shuffled around the interior of the barn and tried to listen through the walls. “How’s that possible?” Rossi asked the darkness.
The stones were attacking all four sides of the barn.
“Amazing,” said the Scot.
They came back together at their entrance wall. “I’m worried about Ryan,” she said.
MacLeod took out his cell and punched in the priest’s number. Pressed the phone to his ear. “Pick up, pick up.”
“Is it ringing? You got a signal?”
“Father? Where are you?” The Scot shook his head. “Dammit, man! Why’d you do that?...What? You can’t be serious.”
Rossi danced anxiously in front of MacLeod.
“You’re breaking up.” The Scot plugged his free ear so he could hear. “What?...You’re breaking up...We’re in the barn...Go to the back side of the barn. We made a hole...Can you hear me? Father? Back of the barn...Ah, bugger!”
“What?”
“Lost the call.” He tried redialing, but couldn’t get through.
“Where is he? What’s he doing?”
“Fool is running through the woods, trying to find us.”
“Why didn’t he stay in the car? The Suburban is...”
“Toast,” said MacLeod. “The tank is toast. The bloody beads took out all the windows.”
“Crap.”
“I may have to make a dash through the woods, to meet our friend halfway.”
“Not without me.” She started for the exit, but as she bent over to step through the hole, she felt a rush of pain and put her hand to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?”
“I could use about three hundred Extra Strength Tylenol.”
He dug into his trouser pockets and produced a kerchief. “Let’s see how bad this thing is.”
“Is that clean?”
“Virginal.” He dabbed the top of her head.
“Ouch.” She reached up. “Let me take over.”
“We need some illumination.” Squinting into the dimness, he headed for a low beam crossing the middle of the barn.
She hard metallic rattling. “What’re you doing?”
Lifting his find in the air, he showed it to her: An old lantern, fuel still in the base. “Have you a match?”
“Don’t smoke.”
“I quit. Too soon, it seems.” He set the lantern down on a hay bale parked against the back wall.
She reached inside her jacket and produced a penlight. “Will this work?”
He took it from her. “That big, red head if you please.”
Facing him, she tipped her head down and took off the kerchief. “We’re wasting time.”
“You need to be stitched up.”
“Later.” Wincing, she covered the wound up again and went over to the wall on the house side of the barn to spy through the gaps between the boards.
“Is the green car still there? What do you see?”
She squatted and pressed her face into a hole. “Nothing but white. It’s coming down too hard. I don’t want you to go out there.”
“But his holiness...”
“I’m not losing both of you.” She stood up and swayed. Put her hand out to steady herself against the wall.
He draped his blazer over a cube of hay. “Sit down before you fall down.”
She went over to him and lowered herself onto the bale. While she propped her back against the wall, she pressed his questionable pocket square into her wound. On the other side, she could hear the hail hitting the boards. “It’s after us.”
“Tis,” said MacLeod, standing over her with the penlight.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I told you: The blokes at the hospital said...”
“Bullshit,” she said. “You didn’t see a doctor, did you?”
“Did too.”
She took down the impromptu bandage, refolded it and put it back on her head. “For a con man, you’re a horseshit liar.”
Taking the bale next to her, he sat down and shined the light in her face. “No need to insult me.”
She snatched the light away and took off the kerchief to examine it. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. “Getting beaned by a hunk of jewelry. How humiliating is that?”
“Not nearly as humiliating as getting laid up by a man in a carnival mask.”
She reached for his hand. Squeezed it. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Getting us inside.”
“A small victory, but I’ll take it.”
A clap of thunder made the entire building vibrate, and she found her hand tightening over his. “Tell me,” she said.
“What, lass?”
“What you were really doing in the chapel by yourself. How you knew to come to Wormwood. How you knew the name of Khoury’s dead kid. Why you...”
“I can’t,” he said.
She pulled her hand out of his. “You piss me off, Patrick.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
She stood up. “Horseshit liar.”
He got on his feet. “Wait a bloody minute...”
“No,” she snapped. “You bloody save it.”
“You FBI lot, lowest of the low. You were flirting with me to wheedle it out of me, weren’t you? What next? Were you going to snog me?”
She blinked twice. “Is that the same as shagging? If it is, the answer is...”
Thunder boomed, making the barn shiver. Rossi heard something closer. A board creaking. She shined the weak light toward their entrance hole and was relieved to see a tall, black figure tripping into the cave. They both ran to him.
As Khoury blinked into the penlight’s dull halo, his partners saw that his clerical garb was in tatters, shredded by innumerable tiny rips and holes. Through some of the tears, they could see blood. More blood was trickling down his forehead, a half a dozen separate streams of red. The priest took two steps into the barn and started to teeter.
MacLeod put an arm around the priest. “Good God, man!”
Rossi took off her blazer and ripped out the lining. “Sit him down.”
“S’Truth.” MacLeod lowered Khoury onto a bale of hay. “You look like you’ve been...”
“Put a cork in it.” Rossi bent over Khoury’s head and parted his hair with her fingers while shining the light onto his scalp.
MacLeod stood on the other side of Khoury. “Death by a thousand cuts.”
Rossi gave him dagger eyes.
“Sorry, mate.” MacLeod patted the priest on the shoulder. “Not that bad, really.”
“I’m glad you’re both okay,” Khoury said numbly. “I was worried.”
“We were worried about you,” said Rossi, dabbing at his head with her jacket lining.
“Our car,” Khoury said.
“Patrick told me.”
“The girls,” Khoury said. “They’re...”
“They can’t be responsible for this,” said MacLeod. “It’s got to be those nuns.”
“One of the girls asked me...”
“What?” asked Rossi.
“She asked if the pearl of heaven was real – or fake.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” said Rossi.
“Bugger,” said MacLeod.
Rossi squatted in front of Khoury and wiped the blood from his face. “Ryan, we’ve got to take you in.”
He shook his head and handed her phone back to her. “The files I read...The opposition group is more powerful and pervasive than Nardini let on.”
She pulled off his jacket and stifled a gasp. The long sleeves of his white shirt were punctured and bloody, and bits of glass were caught in it. As she and MacLeod exchanged concerned looks, Rossi ripped one of the shirt sleeves off from the shoulder and started tearing it into strips. She’d nearly passed out from a single head wound; Khoury had been sliced and diced. Whipped. She remembered the note left in their car:
In flagella paratus sum.
She pushed it away. Concentrated on keeping him awake and talking. “So...Did you get a hold of Nardini?”
“He didn’t pick up.”
“What about the miracle leg guy?”
“I...I concentrated on the girls. It’s the girls.”
“
Button it!” grumbled MacLeod. “I’m sick of hearing about the ankle biters.”
“Go make yourself useful,” said Rossi, ripping the other sleeve off of Khoury’s shirt. “See if there’s anyone coming or going.”
The Scot tried to spy through the boards.
“Anything?” asked Rossi.
“Can’t see nothing.”
“What about the green car?”
“I told you, woman...”
Khoury stiffened. “Green?”
Rossi ripped more bandages. “There was a green car parked in the driveway.”
“The last horseman,” Khoury said.
He told them everything that he’d found in the girls’ files – from the three horsemen attending their fathers’ deaths to the numerical value of their diminutives. His conclusion:
The fringe group was setting the triplets up as the Antichrist, so that their miraculous powers could be used to terrorize and control believers.
“Why do you think it’s that organized?” asked Rossi. “What if it’s just...I don’t know...the abbess and some other crazies?’
“Samantha, think about what it took to stage those deaths,” said Khoury. “Think about what it took to stifle an investigation into how three girls lost all six of their parents. How did the girls end up back at a convent that had closed its orphanage, with no questions asked by child protection workers? The violent few...”
“Have tentacles everywhere,” finished Rossi.
“And Nardini claimed to have next to nothing on them,” said MacLeod.
Khoury didn’t even try to defend his superior. Instead, he added grimly: “Their next logical step...”
“Logical,” MacLeod said dryly.
“Their next logical step is a staged Armageddon.”
“They’ll try to convince the world it’s all coming to an end,” said Rossi.
“Brilliant, in a horribly devious way,” said MacLeod.
“We live in such cynical, pessimistic times,” said Khoury. “Think of how much easier it would be to get the world to believe the Antichrist has arrived rather than the Messiah.”
A long silence, with only the sound of the hail hitting the barn. While Rossi worked on the priest’s wounds, binding the worst of the cuts, MacLeod paced back and forth in front of them.
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