Rebecca York (13 page)

The low hum of conversation cut off abruptly as the Perfect Pair stepped through the door at the side.

"Peace be with you," Sax and Willow murmured.

"And unto you, too," the congregation responded.

There was no railing at the front of the church. No lectern that separated leaders from followers. Sax and Willow always started the proceedings by wandering hand. in hand among the faithful, stopping to touch a shoulder, or shake hands or even exchange a kiss with close supporters.

Right before a performance Willow always had the jitters. Probably she would have backed out if Sax had allowed it. But the moment she was "onstage," everything changed.

She found her serenity. Found her natural ability to draw people and hold them.

She and Sax made an unhurried trip through the audience, since the personal contact with the Perfect Pair was one of the high points of the service. They usually repeated it again at the end of the meeting to give others a chance.

Saxon stopped beside a sloppy blond woman with an alimony settlement of twenty thousand dollars a month.

"Thank you for coming, Bonnie," he said in a low voice. "We appreciate it."

Bonnie Darnell looked at him with adoration in her eyes, and Willow suppressed a small spurt of jealousy.

She moved a step away, letting go of her brother's hand as she touched one of the men on the arm, William Partlow, who had built his pipe-fitting business into a multimillion-dollar enterprise, then sold out.

"William," she said in a low, throaty voice. He sucked in a sharp breath as she made contact with him, probed his mind, and for a moment the two of them might have been the only people in the room. She felt the need coming off of him. The desperation to connect with her on a more intimate level. And she made him silent promises of a more private meeting—a promise that she might or might not keep.

As they returned to the front of the sanctuary, they turned to face the congregation, and she felt the hushed expectancy gather.

"Thank you for coming," Sax said in a quiet voice that always reminded Willow of the calm before a storm.

A murmur of acknowledgment ran through the room.

Willow smiled at the congregation, making contact with several people. "We call on the light of the universe to shine upon us," she said.

"We call on the currents that flow through the universe to nourish each individual soul in this room," Sax added. "We call on the best in every religion to fill our minds and hearts. Let no one in this room harbor unkind thoughts against his neighbor. Let no one here forget where we come from. In our personal lives, we have all survived tragedy and fear. As you know, Willow and I were left par-entless at an early age, and we survived the worst child welfare system in existence. But we're stronger for it.

"The same strength resides in you. All of you have survived forces that sought to destroy you. But you walked through the fire and came out stronger."

"Yes," voices answered from around the room.

"Let us join our strength," Willow said. "So let us join our hands." She raised her right hand, bringing Sax's left with her. He stepped to the end of the first pew and clasped the hand of the woman sitting there. She took the hand of the woman next to her, and everyone in the room followed suit, those at the end of the row reaching behind or in front of them, until each person was part of a giant chain, and the man on Willow's left had risen to complete the circle.

A soft hum of energy pulsed through the connection and manifested itself visually in small sparks that flickered on the hands of the people who sat on the benches.

The energy sizzled as it raced around the room, coming back to Willow and Sax, flickering like a giant halo around their bodies. And in back of them the organ burst into the notes of a traditional Christian hymn—"Have Thine Own Way, Lord." As a child, Willow had hated the words that made her feel subservient to a higher power. Now that she was in charge of the service, she changed the meaning of the text in her mind.

They were no longer about Christ. They were about her and Sax, molding these sheep as they wished.

Though no one sat at the console at the side of the hall, the music swelled, keeping time with the flickering sparks.

The congregation swayed with the music. One woman called out in ecstasy. Then a man. An exaltation was on them. A feeling of sweet fulfillment that Willow knew how to kindle and fan.

She didn't need to look at Sax to know what he wanted now. She didn't need to move her lips to speak.

You all know that we have been looking for members of Congress who can help us achieve our goals of peace and harmony in the world. And we know that Senator Daniel Bridgewater has joined our team. We want him to remain strong in the Senate, and we want him to run for president. Please be generous in your contributions to him. Give him the same consideration that you would give us.

Give him what you can. A thousand dollars would be a wonderful place to start. But if you can give more, we would be eternally grateful.

While she spoke, she and Sax kept the sparks flying over their skin. And she kept the energy flowing over her own body, knowing that when she finished she would be depleted—that she would need to renew her own resources.

It was exhausting work, swaying so many people at once. And when the music came to an end, she leaned back against the altar at the front of the room, her vision blurred, her breath labored.

"We must go," she said in a voice that barely carried to the first few pews.

Sax helped her through the door at the front of the room, shutting it behind them.

Michael was waiting, a muscular man with a broken nose and a deep scar on his soul. His childhood had been more traumatic than theirs. And he'd ended up in a juvenile detention center after he'd robbed a gas station at gunpoint. Incarceration had only hardened his resolve to get even with the society that had failed him. His life of crime had continued once he was on the streets again—with armed robberies and muggings.

One evening he'd tried to rob Sax and Willow Trinity on a street in downtown Chicago. That had been the luckiest night of his life. They'd stopped him cold with a surprise jolt of psychic energy. But Willow had seen something tender and vulnerable in his mind, qualities that had her begging Sax to go easy on him.

They'd taken away his desire to hurt them, then brought him back to their hotel suite and found the right buttons to push. He was completely devoted to them now. One of their most trusted employees, happy to serve for the joy of staying close to them and receiving their emotional balm.

He walked on the other side of her now, down the hall to the private "retiring room."

"How did it go?" he asked.

"Very well."

"I'm so happy about that."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for taking care of us."

His eyes were worshipful as he answered, "You know I found my purpose in life when I met you."

"It's our pleasure to help you find your way."

They parted at the door. Then she and Sax stepped inside the retiring room, and he reached to snap the lock closed as he gathered her close and brought his mouth down on her.

The service had fed the basic need for intimacy with each other that was at the core of their existence.

They had discovered the connection between them when they were very young, two children who only had each other for comfort. That connection had grown and flourished. Now it was everything—their reason for living. Sometimes they might disagree on how to run their lives, but they had learned early that no other relationship could compare to this one. They were like Siamese twins, not joined at the hip but joined by a mental bond they had never tried to describe to anyone else.

"Bridgewater should be impressed when the money starts flowing in."

"Yes. The money ... will reinforce his bond to us."

"He wants more than money."

She let her head drop to his shoulder. He wants to help us. He's our spy in the government.

He stroked the length of her back, and she silently asked, You think he'll find anything that could harm us?

I hope not. But the premonition is strong. Something is in the wind—like a hurricane spinning our way.

I can't see it clearly. But just because it hasn 't gotten here yet doesn 't mean it's not coming.

A shiver went through her. Sax was the one who could sense the future. And when that strong intuition overtook him, he was usually right. But not always.

It may not be true. I'm just being careful.

I know.

She didn't want it to be true. Not now. Not ever. She wanted her life to go on the way it had since they'd broken free of their past and taken charge of their own destiny. Together, they had made something bold and beautiful out of garbage. And they had to hold on to that goodness at all costs.

We'll be fine. I promise we'll be fine.

Blind to everything but each other, they clung together, feeding the connection that had changed them from losers to winners. From victims to the gods.

* * *

He was coming out of his fog, the way he did when his shot was wearing off.

So he could think almost clearly.

Was it a dream, what he'd heard the head bitch say?

Her name was Brenda, and she was in solid with the chief monster—Dr. Colefax.

She'd been talking about a new nurse named Emmeline, who was coming on the evening shift. Brenda was hoping the rookie wasn't going to screw up—since this was heavy-duty work.

Or was any of that true? Had he just made up the conversation?

One thing he knew; he'd been in this damn bed for weeks. At least it felt like weeks, although there was no good way to tell the time. Another fact he'd picked up— they were holding him in a private mental hospital, not a medical facility.

Since he'd started thinking straight, he'd been careful not to give the staff any trouble. Mostly he daydreamed—about sitting in Jen's kitchen eating chocolate chip cookies and milk with his cousin Sid.

Or about the future—about the security company he was going to open. He had spent a lot of time stocking the shelves with a great selection of rifles, baseball equipment, clothing. All the guy stuff he loved.

While he soothed himself with a mental trip through a selection of mail-order catalogues, he worked his muscles, trying to keep them in reasonable shape. And when they'd walked him down the hall, he'd tried to study the layout of the facility.

If this Emmeline person was really coming on duty, then she was his best chance. So he pulled at the sheet and light blanket, making them fall off the side of the bed, then lay with tension coiling in his stomach as he waited for her to come in and give him his evening shot.

When the door opened, he cracked an eyelid.

Yeah, she was new, all right. A little brunette with a cheerful blue-and-green uniform top and a pinched look on her ivory features.

He hated to hurt her, but he didn't think he had much choice. Talking to her wouldn't do any good, since she'd been told he was a dangerous maniac.

"I see your covers are falling off," she said as she strode toward him.

He waited until she was within striking range, then jack-knifed his legs, hitting her square in the stomach with his feet.

He heard the air whoosh out of her lungs as she fell back. He leaped after her, coming down on top of her hard.

She struggled against him, but he knocked her out, then tied her hands behind her back with the strips he'd ripped with his teeth and torn from the side of the sheet. Next, he stuffed more sheeting in her mouth and tied it in place. Finally he secured her feet and dragged her into the bathroom.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he murmured as he left her in a heap on the tile floor. "I hope I don't get you fired,"

he added. "But my need is more urgent than yours."

He had already checked the closet. His shirt and trousers were missing. But the light cotton robe would cover his ass where it hung out of his hospital gown.

He slipped on the robe and peeked into the hall. When he saw no one, he stepped out of his room and hurried toward the Exit sign.

His heart was pounding, and so was his head. He fought a wave of nausea as he went down the stairs—not to the ground floor, since the door at the bottom might be locked.

Praying he had time to get the hell out of Dodge, he opened the door, then darted back when a man came around the corner. The guy disappeared into another room along the hall.

Mark waited a beat then stepped out—and leaped into an office. With a window. And, praise God, no bars. A short drop led to a flat roof. He scrambled out, then hurried across the gravel surface. This time the drop was a whole story. But he lowered himself by his hands, hanging for a moment before letting go and landing in a flower bed.

The facility had a fence. He headed for the guardhouse at the gate. He was breathing hard, his heart racing. If he'd thought he was in shape, he'd been kidding himself.

The farther he got from the building, the more hopeful he felt—and at the same time more terrified that somebody was going to figure out he'd flown the coop.

But he told himself he was going to get out of this hellhole or die trying. He'd been trained in stealth warfare— which gave him an advantage over the rent-a-cop manning the guard station.

He got the guy from behind in a choke hold, then bashed him over the head with his own nightstick.

The guard had a couple of other things he could use, too. Like the keys to the Jeep Cherokee sitting next to the gate—and a pair of pants and a shirt that were large but better than the hospital gown and robe.

He had opened the gate when he heard a bell begin to clang inside the building. At the same time the gate started to close again.

His heart stopped, then started thumping in double time.

Behind him he heard pounding feet.

Cursing he gunned the engine, bashing the front bumper into the wire mesh.