Dancing on the Wind (28 page)

body and the body itself would know differently. He’d had no choice but to join their

bodies, mingle their fluids so all of her would remember the intimacy. Now it was time

to sever the link that he had found so disgusting and shameful—much to his surprise.

He sent her a revealing thought.

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Dancing on the Wind

“You bring out the worst in me and I bring out the worst in you,” she said.

“You think?” he countered, knowing his sublim had taken root.

“I don’t want to end up a statistic,” she said, unknowingly repeating his psi push.

“And I don’t want you to.”

“As much as I enjoy our physical interludes, I think we should limit our working

relationship to you protecting me and leave the…ah…intimate side out of the

equation.”

He nodded. “I think you’re right.”

He added another subtle but important nudge.

“I know you have your needs, Robin, but I don’t want you fucking the girls in the

ministry. Do you understand?” Her eyes flared with jealousy.

“I haven’t seen one I’d have,” he said sarcastically.

“If you need to do that, then you can fuck a townie, but don’t you dare bring her

here to this trailer. Understood?”

He shrugged. “I don’t piss in my own yard, baby.”

One more strong push that was vitally important.

“Maybe one day I’ll find you a nice girl I wouldn’t mind you keeping around,” she

said, and from the look on her face, her words had surprised her.

He glanced over at the clothing she had laid out for him earlier. The black T-shirt

and black jeans were folded neatly on the top of the dresser along with a pair of tight

black boxers and black socks.

“Why don’t I take you out to supper tonight?” he suggested, testing the sublims to

see if they took. “Let me make it up to you for being such a rat bastard.”

Bolivar stood. “No, Robbie. I don’t think so. Like I said, let’s just keep this strictly

professional from here on out.”

“Okay,” he agreed. He watched her walk out of the bedroom and a slow, merciless

smile tugged at his chiseled features.

He’d played her just like a cheap guitar.

139

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Sitting in the motor home galley’s custom-built dining booth with one leg stretched

out and the other crooked at the knee, Fallon was chomping contentedly on a large red

apple as he listened to Mizhak Roland giving his weekly report to Bolivar. The motor

home being driven by Ollie was tooling along I-10 in the Florida Panhandle near

Marianna, Florida, on its way to Dothan, Alabama—almost a six-hour trip from

Kissimmee—and would soon be taking U.S. 131 north into the Wiregrass region of the

Heart of Dixie state. They were about half an hour from their destination.

“Not bad,” Bolivar said of what they’d taken in from the Kissimmee revival. “Let’s

hope Dothan does as well.”

Roland pulled at his thick red beard. “We may run into a slight problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“We have some competition I’m afraid.”

Bolivar was reclining on the sofa, Roland in the chair adjacent. She scowled. “What

kind of competition?”

“There’s a berg across the Alabama-Georgia line called Colquitt and I’ve been told a

brother-sister act has been making the rounds of small Baptist churches in the area—a

mini-revival if you will. Seems the sister has healing powers and people are flocking to

the churches on Saturday nights instead of out to bars and movie theaters.”

“Healing powers?” Bolivar questioned with a snort. “Are you shitting me?”

Roland shook his head. “No, I’m not, and it seems her following is growing. People

are starting to talk about her, and when I sent Purvis into Dothan, he called to tell me

the duo had just been in to get their stuff from the county. They’ll be setting up shop

about a mile from the fairgrounds where we’ll be and they’ll be having their revival

while we’re still there.”

Fallon took another bite of his apple. He knew Steve Purvis was Bolivar’s advance

man—an employee who went ahead of the group to handle such details as licenses and

bribes to local offices so the group would be left alone while in the area.

“Get somebody over there and take a look at these grifters,” Bolivar snapped. “Run

them out of the area.”

“You want me to do it?” Fallon inquired.

“No, Robbie, I need you with me,” Bolivar said. She put a hand on Roland’s arm. “If

you need to send Martiya, do so.”

“Who’s Martiya?” Fallon asked.

“No one you need to concern yourself with,
rikono
,” Roland replied.

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Dancing on the Wind

Fallon didn’t move a muscle or acknowledge in any way he knew what the Romany

word meant. If he had any doubt the man knew what he was, he no longer did. He held

the older man’s suspicious glower and tried to slip past the shield around Roland’s

mind but it was locked tight—just as his own was.

“Not a problem,” Fallon said, and took another bite of apple, grinning broadly as he

chewed.

“Pray you never meet Martiya,” Roland told him. “Or have reason to have her

come after you.”

“Bad ass, is she?” Fallon quipped.

Roland never blinked. “The baddest of the bad.”

Bolivar got up from the sofa and walked past Fallon to the refrigerator. “Perhaps

you should go get dressed now, Robbie,” she told him. “Your stuff is on the bed. I want

to make a good impression when we arrive at the fairgrounds. There will be reporters

there.”

“Okey-dokey,” Fallon told her, and slid out of the booth. Now that he was no

longer forced to service her carnal needs, he didn’t mind acting halfway human with

her. He still didn’t show her the groveling respect her other employees did, but he had

mellowed to a great degree.

The carpet beneath his bare feet was so plush he made no sound as he walked

down to her bedroom and shut the door. He stood still and directed his psi powers to

the conversation going on in the living area.

“I’m telling you I don’t trust him,
Day
,” Roland said, using the Romany word for

mother. “There is darkness surrounding him. He is not what he seems.”

“Yes, so you’ve said time and again,” Bolivar grumbled.

“He’s a dangerous man.”

“Oh, I agree with you on that,” Bolivar replied, “and calling him a dog to his face

won’t make him any less dangerous if he finds out what
rikono
means.”

“He won’t,” Roland said with a snort. “Irish Travelers aren’t the brightest bulbs in

the pack. What psychic ability he has is minimal so he didn’t pick up on my meaning.”

In the bedroom Fallon silently repeated the word minimal then chuckled to himself.

He shook his head. “I think all the filaments in
your
bulb pack may have snapped apart,

Roland, my man,” he mused.

So they’d checked with the amusement park in Altoona and discovered the Irish

daredevil named Danny Burke who’d performed in the Wall of Death, he thought. He

knew they’d then learned that Burke had been arrested by the Des Moines police for

being part of a scheme to bilk homeowners out of thousands of dollars in phony

driveway paving scams. Burke—a member of the infamous Irish Travelers, an alleged

band of wandering con artists who roamed the country fleecing the populace—had

jumped bail and was now in the wind. They would also have learned that there were

several outstanding federal warrants circulating on Daniel Michael Burke aka Burke

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Daniels aka Danny Michaels and that he was wanted for questioning as a person of

interest in two murder cases.

“All the same,” he heard Roland say. “I’m gonna keep a close watch on him

because I don’t trust him any farther than I can see him. Sammy should have the

cameras and bugs installed by now in Burke’s trailer.”

Fallon laughed and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He already knew about the

bugging for when Sammy’s wife Riley came to tell Fallon that Bolivar wanted him to

ride with her this trip instead of driving his own motor home, he’d read the information

in Riley’s weak mind. His laughter stopped abruptly when he heard Bolivar’s next

words.

“I don’t give a shit about those cameras, but I want this yokel over in Georgia taken

care of. Send Martiya over there tonight. We don’t need any competition.”

Blind fury lashed across his face and he reached for the doorknob, but stilled before

he jerked open the door. He knew the beast Breslin mentioned had to be this Martiya.

He also knew he had to keep Roland from sending whoever or whatever Martiya was

after Keenan, convincing Bolivar it wasn’t in her best interest. No matter what, he had

to protect Keenan. He couldn’t, however, push sublims on Bolivar with Roland in the

same room. He would have to wait until they arrived in Dothan and the Rom was out

of the motor home. Stepping away from the door, he closed his eyes and tried once

again to intercept Roland’s thoughts, to determine if the Rom might even then be trying

to contact the beast.

But Roland’s mind was an iron vault into which Fallon could not break. The man’s

safeguards were strong, powerful. He knew the only way he would be able to penetrate

that locked barrier would be when Roland used his abilities to psychically communicate

with another. While Roland was transmitting—his concentration centered—Fallon

could slip unnoticed past the blockade and create an avenue he could later use to travel

through Roland’s subconscious undetected. Until Roland opened his mind, Fallon

could do nothing.

Or he’s where he can’t hold his safeguards in place,
Fallon thought and a sly smile

tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Closing his eyes again, he slipped into Ollie’s mind and placed a suggestion that

Ollie was to pay no attention to what was about to happen.

Fallon then opened the bedroom door and headed for the living area. Bolivar and

Roland stopped talking at his approach. When they saw the look on his face, Bolivar

put up a hand to forestall him and Roland lurched out of the chair, his fists coming up.

“
Rikono
, huh?” Fallon said, and before Roland could block him, plowed a hard,

brutal fist into the older man’s gut then sent a left hook directly into the Rom’s face. The

sickening sound of a nose breaking and the spray of blood sent Bolivar scrambling back

as Roland pitched sideways to the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.

“Bastard called me a fucking dog!” Fallon snarled, sensing Roland was out cold.

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Dancing on the Wind

“You…”

He held up his hand and Bolivar froze, the force of his psi powers hitting her like a

sledge hammer so her mind blanked out and she stood there with her mouth ajar, eyes

glazed, unable to move with her thought processes temporarily shut down. With her

completely under his control, he turned his attention to Roland, slithering easily past

the man’s mental roadblocks. He searched for the entity called Martiya, but all he

encountered was a seething cauldron of pure evil that made Fallon shudder. The beast

was enclosed with darkness but Fallon had an impression of savage strength, immense

powers and a straining desire to maim and mutilate. When unleashed, whatever the

thing was, Fallon sensed it would be formidable.

He took three steps over to Bolivar and grabbed her upper arms, staring down into

her lax face.

“You will rescind the order you gave Roland. You will not send Martiya after the

woman in Georgia. What you will do is send Ollie over there to bring the Lynches back

for you to meet. You will be cordial and you will offer Tandy Lynch a position with the

ministry. You will take her under your wing, protect her at all costs and make her the

centerpiece of your show. Understood?”

Bolivar nodded, a thin stream of drool falling from her open mouth, her pupils

dilated.

“Tandy Lynch will become the daughter you never had, and you will groom her to

take over your ministry so you can retire. There will be no more phony healings.” He

pushed that sublim hard, anchoring it tightly in Bolivar’s brain. “Understood?”

Once more Bolivar’s head moved slowly up and down.

That done, Fallon let go of Bolivar’s arms and hunkered down beside Roland. He

closed his eyes and slipped once more into the man’s twisted brain. After he’d learned

all he needed, he paved his pathway into the Rom’s subconscious then stood. He looked

over at Bolivar.

“You will also tell Roland he is not to retaliate for the punch I gave him. I don’t

need any more shit from him today. Tell him he deserved it.”

Bolivar nodded still again.

Walking up to the cockpit, Fallon put a hand on Ollie’s shoulder.

“I want you to pull over into the breakdown lane, but before you do, contact the

man driving Roland’s motor home and tell him he’s to pull off behind us. Roland will

be getting out.”

Ollie reached for the mike on the dashboard and brought it to his mouth. “Carl?

You need to pull in behind me when I stop. Mizhak needs to get out.”

“Copy that, Oll,” came the reply.

Ollie flicked on his turn signal.

“Good man,” Fallon said, clapping Ollie on the shoulder then he turned and went

back into the living area where Roland was moaning and trying to regain