Obsession (7 page)

His eyes flew open. Confusion washed over his dirt-encrusted face. He stiffened and croaked, “I work for great and glorious Almighty, the Messiah of End Days, the Chosen One—and our Father!”

Angie flipped copper strands of hair out of her eyes, and gave the poor wretch a gentle smile. Alejandro felt as if he was watching
La Pietà
come to life.

“Father sent me to rescue you,” Angie whispered.

The man sighed, “Father.”

“Do you know who I am?”

A smile cracked his parched lips. “Mother. Chosen One.”

“Yes, exactly.” She gave him some more water.

His brows furrowed. “Apostate.”

“I repented. Come to take care of my son.”

His eyes lit up. “Father happy?”

“Yes, Father is so very happy. And so is Mother Miriam.”

“Ahhhh,” he sighed and closed his eyes. “Good.”

She waved Pepe over. “Get me a wet towel.”

Pepe flew out of the room and returned with a basin of water and a pile of towels.

Alejandro glanced at Isabel. She hadn’t said a word since Angie sank down on the floor and began giving orders. Arms crossed over her ample cleavage, the Boss Lady’s stance gave little away. He wished he knew what she was thinking. He shuddered at the idea of crawling around in her mind.
On second thought, never mind
.

The mother of the
Chosen One
dabbed at the pathetic man’s face. The towel grew dark red with a mixture of dust and blood. She tossed one filthy cloth after another onto the red tile floor until the man’s head and neck turned from dark red brown to pink scrubbed flesh.

He smiled up at his rescuer. “Thank you.”

“Father says thank
you
for your love, faith, and loyalty…” She paused.

The man watched her with an open mouth, clearly in awe.

Who wouldn’t be? Alejandro thought. Not only had she saved his life and freed him from his bonds, but she looked like—well, an angel.

Angie began to stroke the disciple’s brow. “Father told me to come here and save you, said you’d lead us home.”

The mesmerized man nodded assent.

“There’s just one thing.” Angie paused. “You
must
tell me so these people will let us go.”

“Any—anything for Father and the Chosen One,” the man rasped.

She held his chin in her hand and forced him to look her in the eye. “Where’s the gold?”

Chapter Four

Zeke sat on his raised chair in the middle of the great hall and smiled down at his congregation. He felt right at home. The women had placed bright colored, native, woven tapestries on the walls and festooned the tables with corn stalks and pumpkins. Hanging on the wall at his eye level was an enormous blue and white replica of the tattoo each man and woman wore as evidence of their blood oaths to him. Zeke had told Aaron a normal stage with a microphone and podium would do, but the admiring engineer had insisted on setting a more regal tone, saying it befitted a man with the wisdom of Solomon. Decorated with repeating patterns of the congregation’s five pointed star within a circle tattoo in blue and white, the throne towered eight feet tall and four feet wide, sufficient space to accommodate seating another person at Zeke’s side. A bright blue cushion filled with scented stuffing protected his bony derriere from any discomfort. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and basked in his followers’ adulation.

It was good to be Zeke Edmonds, formerly Carl Logan, fugitive-at-large from the Texas Rangers. If
only
that young woman hadn’t resisted his pastoral attentions after the Sunday School picnic, she’d still be alive today. Stupid bitch. It was her own fault. She flirted with him like a brazen hussy, even let him know her parents were going out that night, that she’d be all alone. Then she’d acted as if she was a nun when he visited her at her home that evening. He’d been the wronged party, not her. Good thing he’d been wearing gloves that night years ago. The authorities had never connected the man in Baltimore’s inner city prison to the one the Rangers sought. No worries now. Here in the Sierra Madre, he was safe from snoops and prying eyes.

If his parents could see him now, they’d be stunned.
Doubters.
After their
untimely
deaths, not only was he able to purchase a car, but also establish a hefty bank account. When his troubles with the law occurred, he’d closed the account, and taken a bus cross-country, thousands of miles out of the reach of the Rangers, into the bowels of Baltimore.

At the inner city bus station, in her modest Amish dress and
kapp
, Miriam had appeared to be a creature from his religious visions. But when the cloud of diesel smoke cleared and she stumbled on the step, he realized she was meant to be his. She was his angel, made flesh and blood. A little bird, lost and lonely, fallen down from the heavens into his hands. That night, he’d performed the marriage ceremony himself. After spending time in the Baltimore City Library researching the area, he had decided to establish himself in a small town on the sleepy Eastern Shore of Maryland. Chicken farming and religion were the main businesses of the town, and with Miriam as his strong helpmate, he quickly became a captain of
both
industries.

He sighed. Life was good. He opened his eyes. When would he have his virgins? This space was perfect for the ceremonies. Aaron had created a pleasing environment for dining, worship, and initiation rites.
Here
, high in the isolated mountains, Zeke was king, high priest,
and
the god of fertility. He stroked his thigh and fantasized about the ripe young women. He motioned to a female congregant placing sheaves of corn around the base of the throne.

“Yes, Father?”

He smiled and spoke in a low voice. “I need to speak with you in private. I need some assistance with an urgent problem.” Zeke stared deep into her eyes. “Can you help me?”

The middle-aged blonde-haired woman with freckles and wide blue eyes, blushed. “It would be my honor.”

He stood. “Meet me in my quarters in ten minutes.” Zeke tingled with anticipation. She probably wasn’t a virgin, but she’d do for now.

****

Miriam trudged after Sister Anne, wondering how many more miles they had to go to reach the orphanage. Anne had said it wasn’t far from the village on the next ridge. What she
hadn’t
said was that the village was miles up and down steep inclines of the interwoven mountains and canyons. Miriam wasn’t afraid of hard work. Her hands were as large as a man’s, and God knew she had the stamina of a bull, but this terrain demanded the feet of a goat. She laughed out loud at the mental image.

Sister Anne stopped and looked at her with an expression of concern. “Mother, are you okay?”

“I could use a rest, if you don’t mind. How about there?” She pointed at a small cabin nestled in a field below them. Wisps of smoke rose from the chimney, and goats grazed in a nearby corral. “The sun is setting. Let’s go see if they’ll take us in for the night.”

The other woman frowned and shook her head. “No, you can’t do that here. We wait to be invited in. They say ‘only ghosts knock at doors’. Let’s sit over here, on this pile of wood. I have some
pinole
we can eat while we wait.”

Miriam took a cup of the ground corn mixed with water, sipped, and grimaced. “This could use some milk and sugar.”

“You’ll get used to it. Sugar is only available at the trading post. We have little money for luxuries here.” She smiled. “That’s okay. We are rich in our own way.”

“It’s not as if we need to worry about keeping up with the Joneses. When we came through the train stop, women and children lined the streets, selling baskets and little dolls to the tourists. Where do they get those layers and layers of colorful clothes?”

“They trade for the fabrics. Have you seen the men in their loincloths?”

Miriam shook her head. “You mean like Tarzan?”

Sister Anne giggled. “No, not that kind. Sort of like a skirt tied in front, with a shirt and
huaraches
—sandals. The haircuts—well, let’s just say the men look like someone put a bowl on their heads and used it as a guide.”

The door to the cabin opened and light outlined a small figure “
Hola!”

“
Hola!”
Sister Anne called out in Spanish.

“May we sleep in your cabin tonight?”

Time had left its indelible stamp on the old woman’s wrinkled features. She nodded at Sister Anne, stopped in front of Miriam, and looked her up and down. “
Es su Madre Menonita
? Is your mother a Mennonite?”

Sister Anne shook her head. “
No, no es Menonita
. Not Mennonite. Recreationist. Over the ridge.” She pointed in the direction from which they’d come and flailed her arms. “Windmills?”

“
Ahh. Si, si.”
She patted her chest. “
Mi nombre es Maria
.” The old woman motioned for them to follow her.

Miriam whispered to Sister Anne, “How does she know about Mennonites?”

“They came from Canada in the early 1900’s,” the other woman responded in normal voice. “Looking for religious freedom, just like us. Keep to themselves, except to sell their dairy products.”

Nostalgia for Pennsylvania’s green pastures and milking cows washed over her. She wondered what had become of her best friend, Leah. Had she married a good Amish man? Did she still go to quiltings and singings? Was Leah happy?

Once Miriam married Zeke, he’d allowed her only one letter home to her parents, telling them she was married and would not be returning to the Church. The letter might as well have been her suicide note and obituary rolled into one. For the sake of their souls, and for her own good, if she had returned home, she would have been shunned.

The old woman pointed to a pile of blankets in a corner of the smoky room. Miriam rested her aching joints and worn out bones on the rough floor of the hovel, listened to the wind sweep over the roof, and looked back at herself as a young woman in Lancaster. Little did she know then that she’d someday sorely miss her good bed and warm quilts. She dashed an errant tear away, lest the other woman notice.

“This is an extraordinary place, Sister Anne,” she whispered. “Just as Father foretold, we’re among friends in a land of peaceful living. Everything is going according to his plan.”

****

Sister Ellen, the freckle-faced blonde, was suitably impressed with Father’s large living quarters. He showed her the shower and bathroom, and attempted to hustle the woman past the nursery to his bedroom.

“Is this the Chosen One’s room?” She paused in the doorway. A mobile with birds and butterflies dangled over a blue and white crib.

“Yes, but as you can see, he’s sleeping.” He pulled at her arm. After shooing Sister Rose away, he’d rushed to prepare for the younger woman’s visit. It had been months since he’d felt this virile. Truly it was a sign from above.

Jake chose that exact moment to wail. Zeke groaned.

“Oh, the poor baby. Let me see what he needs.”

He bit back a diatribe and choked out, “Sister Ellie—”

“Ellen.” She flashed him a quick grin. “I know, there are so many of us and only one of you. Diapers?”

Zeke shrugged.

“Never mind, here they are.” She leaned over the crib, exchanging Jake’s wet diaper for a clean one. He admired the woman’s fine bottom.

“Aren’t you the handsomest baby I’ve ever seen. Look at that cute little dimple when you smile.” She lifted the baby, turned and faced Zeke.

A gray-haired hag with rotting teeth, a milky eye, and drooping tits stood before him, exuding the odor of rotten cheese. He gagged and staggered back. “What have you done with Ellen?”

The gruesome thing frowned. “Father, I’m right here.”

He twirled around, looking for people hiding in corners, waiting to leap out, point their fingers, and laugh at him. “Who put you up to this? Bring Ellen back. Now.”

The drooling old crone shifted the baby to her other hip. “Father, are you ill? Shall I call the doctor?” She stroked the child’s hair with long bony fingers and filthy yellow nails.

Zeke considered the hideous old woman’s question.
Was
he having one of his seizures? This was
not
the Lord speaking to him. On the contrary, this was a witch, much like the one King Saul consulted to call up the ghost of the Prophet Samuel. This had to be a hoax. Was Aaron behind this? If so, he’d
pay
for his trick.

Trembling with rage, he shouted, “Where is Ellen?”

The repulsive creature shook her head, and maggots fell out of her greasy mop of hair. “I’m Ellen.” She took two steps closer to Zeke.

He raised a fist. “Do
not
come any closer. I swear I will strike you down.”

“Father,” she croaked and the stench of methane and sulfur hit his nostrils, “please, you need to lie down, take care of yourself.”

“Stop calling me father, you abomination—you—you
witch
!”

She stepped back and placed the baby in the crib. “I’m getting help.”

Zeke closed his eyes and leaned against the rock wall. His fingers brushed the rough surface, anchoring him in the here and now. The hag brushed past him and wrapped his senses in a putrid miasma. Gut muscles clenched, bile filled his throat and mouth. He shuddered, blinked, and saw Ellen’s long blonde hair and lovely ass as she ran down the corridor, away from him and the waiting bed.

Chapter Five

Alejandro Espinosa Santoyo Torres glanced around Isabel’s air-conditioned home office and admired her sense of style. Attention to modern technology flowed with the villa’s traditional Mexican stucco walls and dark leather furniture. Colorful marketplace oil paintings arrayed on the walls over the cherry wood desk and between matching book shelves, bore the signature of Lola Getz or Lara Spencer. Based on the ATFE background information he’d memorized before taking this assignment, Alejandro knew Lola/Lara was one of the rare non-criminal relatives in the extensive crime family. A well-known artist, she had escaped a kidnapping attempt in Mexico a few years ago and now lived in upstate New York with her cop husband and a young son.