White Heat (14 page)

“They won't find anything,” Bart said.

“They could,” he insisted.

Ethan studied him. “Are you losing your faith? Are you beginning to doubt me, Joshua?”

With a scowl, he said, “Of course not. I understand why you feel entitled. I'm just saying the outside world won't.”

“I will not be judged by the outside world!” Ethan thundered.

Silence descended. Finally Joshua cursed under his breath. “Fine. I'll go along with it, too. But…shit, Todd's my friend.”

“Todd's getting a divorce,” Ethan said. “He hates his wife.”

“He doesn't hate her. He's a believer. He believes in
us.
And he's brokenhearted to think she could lose her faith. There's a difference.”

Ethan accepted the pipe. “Don't worry about Todd,” he said as he exhaled. “He will be rewarded for his belief. There are other women available to him. And, by your own logic, what Todd doesn't know won't hurt him.”

“God willing, he'll never find out.”

Handing him the pipe, Ethan patted him on the shoulder when he bent to accept it. “Relax. You like it here, don't you?”

“What's not to like?” he said grudgingly.

Ethan smiled. “God supports those who support Him. So stop worrying and remember who you are.” Nodding toward the bong, Ethan waited until his friend had taken one hit and then another, and soon Joshua was sitting down again, talking about what he had planned for Martha, just like the rest of them.

 

At first, Nate fought the memories. He knew they'd only make sharing a trailer with Rachel more difficult.
But it was so hard to believe the woman sleeping in the next room had crept into his condo,
into his bed,
six months ago that he couldn't help replaying the incident. He couldn't sleep right now, anyway, so he let his mind wander back to that night as it so often did.

His unlocked door gave it away first. When he found the extra key on the kitchen counter, he thought his brother had come over. Randall was younger by eight years and did that sometimes. He raided the refrigerator or borrowed Xbox games. Sometimes he even brought a girl over to watch a movie or just hang out at his older brother's place. But Randall was loud. And he didn't smell of perfume.

Curious, Nate walked into the living room—and saw a lacy white bra hanging from a lamp.

His visitor definitely wasn't Randall. Was it some prostitute the guys at Department 6 had hired, thinking it would be funny to put him on the spot? The practical jokes usually ended when they got busy, and they were currently shorthanded. But…

No. He rejected the prostitute idea. The guys wouldn't bother unless they could be around to witness his reaction. And if they were here, they were doing a damn good job of hiding. So…who was it? He dated occasionally, but he hadn't been in a serious relationship for ages. Not since Susan had he brought a woman home….

The floor creaked as he followed a trail of discarded clothing down the hall to his bedroom. How had this woman, whoever she was, gained entry to his condo? It wasn't as if he kept his spare key above the door or under the mat like most people.

Then it dawned on him. Last week, he'd forgotten a
file at home and sent Rachel Jessop to get it for him. He'd given her his keys, so she could get into his place. Could she have made a copy?

No, this couldn't be Rachel. He'd never even asked her out. And yet…

The door to his bedroom stood partially open and had a pair of bikini panties hanging from the knob. He fingered the silky fabric, even brought it to his nose, imagining Rachel as he did so—and felt his body react. It'd been a long time since he'd been with a woman. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, Rachel appealed to him.

The door creaked as he pushed it wider. The room was dark, but in the light from the hall he could discern the color of the hair spilling across his pillow.

Blond, as he'd expected. Almost before that detail could register, she turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and he felt his knees go weak. It was Rachel, all right.

For a second, he was torn by indecision. She was taking a huge risk, doing something he couldn't imagine she'd ever done before. She was usually so
careful.
He didn't want her to be embarrassed but, after Susan, he'd sworn he'd never take a woman's love lightly again. Which meant he couldn't accept what she was offering.

What now?

“Hey.” Her lips curved in a self-conscious smile.

Knowing he needed to do
something
before she felt even more uncomfortable, he crossed over to her. He'd simply talk to her, explain that he wasn't interested in a relationship with anyone at the moment, least of all someone he worked with. Having grown up without the
usual teenage sexual exploration, she didn't fully understand the emotional complexity of what she was doing and how it might affect both their jobs. It didn't help that she'd become a police officer. Law enforcement had kept her circumspect. She'd seen too much but experienced too little. This was the first time he'd ever known her to cast all reservation aside.

God, what a way to go….

Without actually touching her, he sat on the edge of the bed. “What's…going on?”

“The panties didn't give it away?” Her smile suddenly faltered, which told him she was already losing her nerve. He
wanted
her to lose it, didn't he? He thought so—but he wasn't sure. He'd never been so much at war with himself.

“Rachel…we work together. As your boss…this probably isn't…” He struggled for the right words, the kindest words. But rejection sounded like rejection, which made this very difficult indeed, especially because, on a very base level, he didn't really
want
to turn her away. “…the best thing for us to do,” he finished lamely.

“I guess I'm having trouble thinking of anything better,” she responded, and then she guided his hand beneath the covers to her bare breast, burying all his good intentions beneath an avalanche of testosterone. He couldn't even remember what he'd said or where he'd planned to go with his little speech. He'd just been glad she hadn't really listened.

Stop now,
his mind screamed in one final attempt to keep him out of trouble, but he didn't have the strength to withdraw. He willingly let go of sanity the moment their lips met. Maybe if he gave her as much pleasure
as she gave him, it would be an equal trade and everything would be fine.

He'd folded back the blankets, taken one look at her and realized he'd willingly trade just about anything to have her. She was so beautiful, so soft, so responsive. And it wasn't as if she wanted it polite and easy. That seemingly unbreachable wall of caution she generally put between herself and the world was gone. She'd gotten wild with him—sunk her fingernails into his back, bitten his shoulder and rode him as hard as he rode her—which whipped him into a frenzy unlike any he'd ever experienced. He was confident he'd just had the best sex of his life. Until morning. Then, as he slumped over her, exhausted, he'd heard the softly uttered words that'd chilled him to the bone: I love you.

A noise in the hallway brought Nate to a sitting position. Rachel was up. Judging by her footsteps, she was adjusting the setting on the swamp cooler.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he willed himself to relax. That memory had been so vivid his heart was still slamming against his chest. The only way he could get it to slow down was by focusing on the ending:
I love you….

No matter what happened, he
had
to keep his hands to himself. Susan had taught him that
I love you
were three very dangerous words.

 

The next evening Rachel had to take Nate's truck and go to the first meeting alone. She'd known that from the beginning. In a way, it was a relief to leave Nate at the trailer and set off on her own. Since the
storm, the tension between them had only grown more intense. It seemed that he couldn't look at her without lowering his gaze to her lips or her breasts, and she wasn't faring much better. It didn't matter where he was, she felt compelled to seek him out. Even when he went outside to fix the air-conditioning in the truck, she'd gone to the window time and again, just to catch a glimpse of him.

They needed to infiltrate the Covenanters as soon as possible so they'd have something else to concentrate on—like guarding their true identities and finishing this assignment. Maybe, if they did, they could siphon off some of the excess energy that was putting them on edge.

But when the tall fence and barbed wire surrounding the complex came into view, Rachel grew nervous. That fence was a metaphor for what she'd experienced as a child, and her heart quailed at the thought that she'd be left to the mercy of another person's dictates. That she'd be cut off from the world she'd embraced since fighting so hard to establish her freedom.

Telling herself to calm down, she waited for the beat-up Volkswagen bus ahead of her to pass through security. The Covenanters were obviously very careful about who they allowed onto the property. They were checking IDs and vehicles as if this was a military installation.

Maybe the dossier Milt had created had been purposely vague, but he'd done his homework when it came to her ID. Department 6 had someone on staff who took care of that sort of thing. Someone good. Rachel wasn't worried that the Utah driver's license
issued to Rachel Mott would be spotted as a fake. But she
was
concerned about what she'd learned from Thelma and Martha. She was also nervous about the sentiments expressed in the letters Ethan Wycliff had written to Charles Manson. Just how crazy was he?

Once the Volkswagen rattled inside the compound, she let Nate's truck move slowly forward until she came even with the two men working the checkpoint. “Hello,” she said with a smile.

“Good evening, ma'am. May I see your identification?” One man, about twenty years old, peered closely at her face, comparing it to her picture. The other, a portly older gentleman wearing army fatigues like his younger companion, walked around her vehicle using a long-handled mirror.

As the younger man returned her license, Rachel tried not to stare at the crudely made
C
on his forehead. “Do you have any weapons with you?” he asked.

“Weapons?” she echoed as if bewildered. She felt naked without her gun, but was glad she'd left it at the trailer.

“It's just a precaution.”

“I'm not a member or anything. I was told there's an Introduction Meeting here and that it's open to the public.”

“That's true. It starts in a few minutes. We're only documenting who comes and goes and making sure no one brings any weapons into the commune. We are a nonviolent people.”

“I see.” Apparently the Covenanters didn't consider stoning to be violent. Continuing her act of innocence, she said, “I have nothing, nothing at all.”

“How did you hear about the meeting, Ms. Mott?”

“
Mrs.
Mott. I met one of your members yesterday when I was out taking photographs with my husband.”

His eyebrows slid up. “So you're the one.”

“The
one?
”

“Yesterday evening Brother Bartholomew mentioned finding a young couple with a camera along the perimeter. Where's your husband?”

“He wasn't interested in coming. He…he doesn't feel any need for religion.”

The young man rested his hands on her open window. “Maybe someday he'll change his mind.”

It was a shame this boy had carved up his forehead. “I hope so.”

His partner finished checking the truck's undercarriage and returned to their post, a small platform where he could take advantage of an overhang he soon wouldn't need. Dusk was settling in. And he certainly didn't have to worry about rain. Last night's monsoon had moved on as quickly as it had hit. By the time Rachel woke up at eight-thirty this morning, there were no puddles or even mud to show there'd ever been a storm—just some broken branches scattered by the wind.

Grateful that Nate had managed to fix the truck's air-conditioning, Rachel adjusted the closest vent and drove into the compound. There, she was directed by a third man, this one bald and wearing a T-shirt with ripped-out sleeves, to park near a large tent.

She did as she was told. Then she checked her cell phone. No service, as she'd suspected. This place was too remote.

“Damn.” She couldn't text Nate to let him know she was inside. But it hardly mattered, since he didn't have service at the trailer, anyway. Not having a conduit to other people she trusted was as odd as it was uncomfortable. She was working without a safety net.

Despite its uselessness, she dropped her phone back in her purse and got out.

A woman wearing Islamic-style clothing—a green thobe and headdress with sandals—greeted her with a bouquet of wild flowers, one of which she slipped into Rachel's hair. “Hello, I'm Louise.” Approximately thirty years old, the woman had a pretty face completely devoid of makeup and bore the same mark on her forehead as the men Rachel had met at the gate. “Welcome to Paradise.”

Whether or not it was Paradise remained to be seen. “Thank you.”

“Have you ever been here before?”

“No, this is my first time.”

“I hope you enjoy your visit.”

Rachel would've admired Louise's pleasant manner, except her vacant eyes and subdued behavior suggested she was on something, likely a sedative. Rachel was about to ask the woman where she was from and how long she'd been part of the group when a far more resonant voice interrupted.

“Sister Louise, you've made a new friend?”

Turning toward the sound, Rachel saw a tall man duck out of the tent. With his black hair slicked away from his face and his eyes shining like pieces of obsidian, she recognized him immediately. Ethan Wycliff was as well groomed as his picture. He
walked toward her, wearing an expression of curiosity and avid interest.