The Remnant (36 page)

The girl gnashed her teeth, staring at the
pavement as though peering right down into the depths of the earth,
and muttering under her breath. Trace dropped to one knee in front
of her, trying to break her gaze, but he could not.

"What’s the matter, sweetheart?" he whispered
in her ear.

"Eyes," she muttered. "Lots of red eyes in
the dark."

Her words slashed Trace like talons
threatening to drag him down into the horrible darkness he saw
reflected in her face. "What did you say?"

"Little red eyes. They never blink."

"What eyes?" he gasped.

"All around," said Marie, shaking. "In the
shadows."

"It’s not dark, yet, sweetheart," said Trace,
squeezing her shoulder. "Not yet."

Was it possible she was reading something
from him? Intuiting the worst memory from his distant past?

"It was a long time ago, Marie," he assured
her. "They can’t hurt you or me, now."

But the girl shook her head. "Not a long time
ago. Soon."

"What is it you see?" said Trace, his fingers
tightening on her shoulders. "What is it you need to tell me,
Marie? Goddamnit! Tell your God to
talk to me!
"

Slowly the girl’s vision cleared, and he
could see that she recognized him again.

"He already knows you’re coming," she said,
quietly. "Or he will. He’ll lead you into a deep dark place filled
with bright red eyes with Ashley and another woman. He knows."

A dark place. Filled with red eyes.

"You know not what part you play," said the
girl, quietly.

For a moment Trace wondered if he was hearing
her voice or some other inside his head. But when she nodded he
understood that this message came not from but through Marie. Her
God had spoken.

"Story of my life," he muttered.

Jedadiah stood over them, and Trace gazed up
at the old man.

"It’s rumored that Rendt has a spectacular
temple beneath his house," said Jedadiah.

Trace nodded. He’d heard the rumor as well.
He glanced past the old man toward another group of Mormons
strapping black web harnesses over their dark shirts. One man, off
to the side was staring directly back at Trace, and Trace caught
his breath. It was the little man from the bar in New York, the
monk from his dream. For such a small man the look on his face was
positively intimidating. Trace shot him the finger.

"Do you know that guy?" asked Trace,
pointing.

Jedadiah glanced around. "Which one?"

"The little one, there. Off to the side."

The old man frowned. "Do you mean Amos? The
one there checking his rifle?"

Amos was easy to spot, but the little man was
gone.

"No," said Trace, sighing. "Never mind."

"Let my people take care of this, Mister
Wentworth," pleaded Jedadiah.

"Do you believe that God has a plan for all
of us?"

"Yes."

"Even if it’s Marie’s God and not yours?"

The old man grimaced. "Yes," he said at last,
"Regardless of which God is in power in heaven, I think there must
be a plan. The plan may change..."

"If Rendt’s in there I have to go get him,"
said Trace. "My entire life has led me to this moment."

This time the old man studied him for a good
long time before answering. "You know this?"

"I know it."

Finally Jedadiah nodded. "Then far be it from
me to dissuade you. Andre will prepare you. The sun will be down
soon."

"They’re just beyond the rise," said the
lanky Angel, pointing through the study windows toward the road out
front.

Rendt nodded. "And all the phones are
out?"

"They must have cut the lines. Our cell
phones aren’t working, either."

"Radio?"

"Jammed."

Rendt smiled. He hadn’t planned on this
attack, but it couldn’t have worked out any better had he
orchestrated it for years. California City was now surrounded by
invaders, and there was no way for the townspeople to call for help
from the authorities. They would have to defend themselves. What
choice did they have?

"They’re well armed?"

"Not heavily. Mostly handguns, a few machine
pistols. They appear to be disciplined and well trained, though.
Zack recognized two of them."

Rendt nodded again. Zack had served for six
years in Special Forces. Then he had been a stake president in a
small town in southern Utah before Rendt converted him first to the
NLDS and then into an Angel. Rendt had suspected for some time that
Jedadiah had his own militia to hand. Why wouldn’t he? The old man
was foolish, but he wasn’t a fool. He had, however, made a serious
mistake in coming here, and coming armed was even stupider. Now
that the head of the LDS had ventured onto NLDS soil he was an
interloper, a trespasser, and a deadly threat. He could be dealt
with as such, and no law in the land would hold an Angel
responsible.

"Turn on all the lights out front," said
Rendt. "I want the Prophet’s coffin clearly visible. Are the
cameras on?"

The Angel nodded.

Rendt laughed. The Prophet of the Latter Day
Saints coming to town with armed assassins, attacking a sleepy
little village in the midst of grieving over the loss of their own
Prophet. The film would be worth more to the NLDS than a century of
proselytizing. They would gain an immunity they had never dared
dream of from outside interference with their lives. And, at the
same time, the LDS would be dealt a blow to its credibility it
would do well to survive. The timing was all too serendipitous to
be mere coincidence. He felt the hand of God resting on his
shoulders, and his chest swelled with pride. He was the Archangel,
the warrior of God Almighty, and the final battle was about to be
fought.

The heavy knife rested now in a sheathe
against the small of his back, and he stroked the handle
lovingly.

"All the men are gathered at the Meeting
House praying for the Prophet, but the women have been told to
watch from their windows," said the Angel.

"Good. I want them to see what we are doing
for them. The Angels have lived in darkness long enough."

Skittering over fences, worming their way
through scraggly desert hedge, Trace and Andre and three of the
other men slunk through the outskirts of California City like a
couple of Indian scouts. But even though he was not nearly so
furtive as his companion and his damaged shoulder caused him to
make more noise than he should in the climbs, Trace noticed that
not one dog barked to announce their passage.

"Where is everybody?" he whispered, when
Andre pressed himself against the wall of a large brick home.

"They know we’re here," Andre whispered
back.

Great. So this whole design had gone from
formula to fiasco in a matter of minutes. That explained why the
town was so deathly empty and silent. He and the others had walked
right into the middle of the vermins’ nest. At least Marie was
safe. If the party sent in to save Ashley was taken or killed, the
girl and the Prophet would be whisked to safety. But at the moment
that seemed a feeble consolation.

As Andre crept along the length of the house
Trace glanced at the home next door and found himself staring into
the eyes of a redheaded, very frightened looking woman in her
twenties. He couldn’t think of anything else to do, so he waved.
She shook her head sadly and slowly closed the drapes, as though
she were lowering the lid on Trace’s coffin, and Trace couldn’t
suppress a shudder. Turning to stare across the street he saw a
blind close on a front window.

The rats were all watching.

Andre glanced back at him and nodded. He’d
seen it, too.

"So much for surprise," Trace whispered.

Like they’d ever had that. Trace got the
feeling that this scenario had all been planned by Rendt long
before. He felt as though he was walking in his own footsteps
toward some inevitable end he wasn’t going to like, and it all felt
so hauntingly familiar. He’d come here looking for the rats, but
the rats had been awaiting his arrival all along, just as they
always had. His fingers tickled across the scars on his abdomen,
and the old frustration and rage kindled fire in his belly.

At the front corner of the house Andre knelt
beneath the level of the porch railing and whispered into his
throat mike again.

Across the street Trace saw a hand lift from
behind a shrub, wave once, and disappear.

But where were all the others?

Marie could no longer tell if she was inside
or outside her vision or if there was any difference. She wasn’t
even sure if the ground beneath her feet was real or a dream. She
had simply risen from the bumper of the car and begun to walk, and
no one had stopped her.

That was odd, because there had been men on
either side of the car. Trace had told her to stay with them, and
she had assumed they would be watching. But in the deep desert
darkness that shrouded the evening after the sun fell, she pattered
down the highway, over the crest of the low-lying hill, and on
toward the few lights of town without a single person calling to
her, either within, or without her vision.

She knew exactly what she was to do now. It
seemed such an odd thing, too, and all too simple, and it might
quite possibly cost her life. But she could no more deny her vision
now than she could still her heart. Of her own volition she had
passed into her otherworld to reach this future where all the
Brethren except she and Ashley were dead. She could not betray the
memories of her loved ones now by stepping
outside
the
vision to protect herself.

She padded on down the road, the town in the
distance looming angrily. But a powerful voice echoed in her mind
and buoyed her with confidence. Her legs pumped with a strength she
had never experienced before, and her chest swelled.

Be thou mighty and strong,
said the
voice.

Suddenly the darkness erupted, as though the
night itself assailed them. The ambush was so sudden, so
aggressive, so unexpected, that the last gasps of the dying were
indistinguishable from the final silenced shots of the
attackers.

Jedadiah heard the Mormon guard beside him
grunt, the death rattle of a rifle clattering to the asphalt. He
grabbed for the young man, but he was too slow, and as he knelt
beside the guard he saw the small crimson hole in the young man’s
forehead and mouthed a silent prayer for his soul. Then he rose to
his feet in as stately a manner as he knew how and awaited his own
fate stoically.

He had misjudged.

So had his men. But that was not their fault.
Any guilt would accrue to him, and rightly so. He was their
Prophet. He had guided them here. If God had allowed the Prophet to
lead them to their deaths either he was a false Prophet or there
was some reason beyond all their understanding for what would
happen here.

Or he was a false God.

Has my faith been misplaced all these years?
Is the document in the Casket the real words of Prophet Young? Have
we all been mislead?

Even if Joseph Smith was nothing but a liar
and a charlatan, God Almighty is still in heaven. But what if the
girl was right? Could a woman-child really communicate with God?
Could there be a war in heaven that had been being fought since
before the time of Moses?

"God of my fathers," he intoned, quietly. "I
know not your will. Guide my hand."

As he spoke two men clothed all in black,
with grease-painted faces rose up like poisonous flora sprouting
from the ground across the road. One made a slashing hand signal,
and the other trotted away toward the rear of the column of cars.
The first man aimed his carbine at Jedadiah then waved it toward
California City.

Jedadiah nodded, starting toward the town,
still praying for the souls of the men who had followed him
here.

"Our ambush has taken out the convoy, and
Jedadiah Mason has been captured," said the lanky Angel behind
Rendt. "We lost a couple of men in the attack."

Rendt nodded, staring out the front window
where the coffin of the past Prophet of the NLDS lay in state.

"The girl?" asked Rendt.

The Angel cleared his throat. "We lost track
of her in the attack. We should find her again shortly.

"And Wentworth?"

"We are tracking him and a few of the
survivors."

"Don’t kill Wentworth. I want him alive."

The Angel turned on his heel and left.

Rendt stroked the knife behind his back. This
was turning into a perfect night, indeed.

Marie strode up the steps of a giant,
pine-sided two-story home and knocked quietly on the door. At first
no one answered, but she simply waited, spotlighted by the overhead
porch fixture. When the door opened a crack she could just make out
a bright blue eye and the thin bridge of a nose.

"Go away," said the woman in a frightened
voice.

"I can’t," said Marie. "I have something to
share with you."

After a long moment the door swung open and
the woman-who appeared to be in her fifties with her long gray hair
draped in a ponytail—stood aside and waved Marie inside. Marie
stepped into the dark foyer and waited, but the woman seemed as
reluctant to close the door as she had been to open it.

"What do you want?" asked the woman,
gruffly.

"I’ve come to bring you the truth," said
Marie, closing the door herself. "And to tell you that living a lie
is far worse than dying."

As Jedadiah was led past on the road out
front the woman-named Alicia-and Marie watched through a slitted
blind.