White Heat (18 page)

“It was the last one they had. I saved it for you.”

No comment from Rachel.

“Looks pretty tasty.” He removed the apple fritter from the sack as if he'd eat it himself. “Okay, if you don't want it…”

She jumped up and whisked it out of his hand. “What'd Ethan say?”

He wadded up the empty sack, shot it at the waste-basket—and missed. “You know I went to Paradise?”

“Where else would you go?” She sampled a piece of the fritter.

“I thought about trying to find a place to develop my pictures. But I knew it would take too much time.”

“And you would've brought me with you. Anyway, I don't think we're going to need those pictures. We're gaining direct access easily enough.” She moaned at the taste of her doughnut.

“It's that good?” It really had been the last one, and fritters were his favorite kind. He'd bought it, hoping she'd share.

“Delicious. Too bad they didn't have another one.”

“No kidding.” After picking up the sack, he threw it away and went into the kitchen to get her a glass of milk.

“Are you going to tell me about your time in Paradise?” she called.

“I was treated okay. Ethan had me look at some building plans. He wants me to pour the foundation for a school.”

“Isn't that kind of complicated?” She came as far as the partial wall and took a sip of the milk he handed her.

“Not really.”

“You're sure? You'd know that?”

“Of course I'd know it. I grew up pouring cement with my uncle nearly every summer. I can handle it.”

More interested in the doughnut than the milk—probably because he wanted it, too—she set the glass on a nearby table. “You could've told me that before.”

He tried not to grin at the way she was lording her possession of that fritter over him. “I told you I could pour cement.”

“You didn't tell me where you learned, or that you had extensive experience.”

“That was important for you to know?”

“Of course! I would've been much more confident in your ability to pull off—” She rolled her eyes. “Never mind. Back to the Covenanters. You think we'll be around long enough that you'll have to prove your concrete-pouring skills by putting in the foundation?”

He watched her lick glaze from her fingertips. “I hope not, but the job gives us an excuse to establish a relationship with Ethan without having to join a religion that would be pretty tough to swallow.”

“Not if you want to have sex with every woman you see,” she said flippantly.

“True.” He rubbed his chin as if he hadn't considered it from that angle. “Okay, on second thought…”

She slugged him in the arm.

“Hey, you know I'm joking.” He rubbed his biceps, although it didn't hurt.

“No, I don't,” she said, and slugged him again.

This time it did hurt. “What was that for?”

“For leaving me behind and being such a jerk last night.”

He deserved it. He wasn't quite sure what had come over him, except a case of “I want what I can't have.” But he didn't feel bad enough about his poor behavior to resist the opportunity to grab her wrist and shove her doughnut halfway into his mouth.

“Stop! That's mine,” she cried, and the next thing he knew they were wrestling for it on the living room floor. She was stronger than he would've guessed, but she was trying to keep her doughnut from getting smashed so he pinned her quite easily.

As he was lying on top of her, breathing heavily from the exertion, he realized he should've quit while he was ahead. The sticky glaze that had flaked off during the fight was all over them. But that wasn't the only problem. Fresh desire slammed into him, sending blood rushing to his groin. He'd let down his guard, and this was what came of it. “Well, now we know who can take whom,” he said.

She made a show of gulping down the rest of the doughnut. “You were worried I could take you?” she asked with her mouth full.

He was afraid she still might. But not in the way she meant. She seemed to have resigned herself to the fact that his feelings weren't what hers were—or had been—so she was better able to ignore the chemistry between them. All that did was make her more appealing because she seemed less fragile.

“Not really.” He got up before she could notice that he wasn't feeling so playful anymore.

“What's our next step with the Covenanters?” She stood and dusted herself off.

“We go to a celebration there this evening.”

She looked up, frowning. “You know their celebrations sometimes turn into orgies.”

He shrugged. “An orgy's got to beat a stoning.”

“What about your computer?”

“What about it?”

“If they're the ones who took it, we could be in trouble. The browser history alone will prove we have more than a passing interest in Paradise.”

“Not necessarily. With the rumors flying around Portal and elsewhere in this part of the state, it's conceivable that we were curious enough to look them up.”

“What about your work files? What if they get access to those?”

“That's what has me worried,” he said.

T
hat evening when Rachel rolled up to the gate at Paradise, she was riding in the passenger seat and she wasn't thinking about the height of the fence or the razor wire. She had the missing girl from Portal on her mind. She couldn't imagine that Ethan would socialize with locals if he'd kidnapped one. It would be far too easy to spot Courtney or pick up on some detail that would give away the fact that she was here. But the girl had to have gone
somewhere.
Maybe she was hiding in the compound of her own accord and didn't want her parents to know. After all, this was the ultimate counterculture. Maybe joining a cult seemed like a great way to punish her folks for whatever she held against them—like giving birth to her or living in Portal.

The security personnel were far more respectful than the ones she'd encountered during her first visit. They spoke in somber tones, barely glanced at her and Nate's IDs and waved them through without the undercarriage check. Bart himself came out to meet them after they'd parked at the big tent.

“Welcome back to Paradise,” he said the moment they stepped out.

Rachel exchanged a furtive look with Nate.
Bartholomew's words were clipped, but at least he was making an effort. “Thank you.”

“The Holy One is waiting for you in the dining hall. You're invited to dine with church leaders before the celebration begins.”

Dinner sounded conventional enough, but knowing Ethan's support for certain kinds of festivities, who could say what might follow?

Bart led them to the largest of the permanent buildings she'd first seen through Nate's lens.

Nate put his arm around her as they climbed the steps and were shown into a room where Ethan sat at the head of a long table.

“The Holy One” turned immediately. “Ah, there you are,” he said, and got up to greet them by kissing them both on each cheek. “We've been looking forward to seeing you again. Please have a seat.”

There were twelve other men, most in their thirties or forties, around the table. They'd stood when Ethan had. Now they approached and embraced Ethan but not Rachel. As they turned to her, they bowed their heads, murmuring things like, “Your presence is a blessing” and “Thanks be to God, who sustains all life.”

When she finally reached the table, Ethan had her sit on one side of him and put Nate on the other. “Friends bring much joy to an otherwise unremarkable day,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Now, let us pray.”

He prayed with his eyes open and his hands lifted toward heaven. The others bowed their heads and repeated his words. Rachel sat quietly, waiting for the prayer to end. She felt Nate's eyes on her but refused to look directly at him.

The meal consisted of marinated steak shish kebabs
and rice. She enjoyed the food but felt the others were paying her too much attention. Every time she looked up, she found one or another studying her curiously. Except for Bartholomew. Seated at the far end, he kept his gaze anchored to his plate. Was that because she was the only woman in the room? Was it unusual for Ethan to dine with a woman? Or was the problem that she was also an outsider?

She didn't know, but she felt as if she'd dropped through the rabbit hole in
Alice in Wonderland.
Here, anything could happen.

When Nate and Ethan began discussing the school and the other improvement projects Ethan had planned, Rachel started to feel more comfortable. But that didn't last. Soon Ethan was probing for information about them.

“So how long have you been married?” he asked.

Nate answered as smoothly as if he was telling the truth. “Almost three and a half years.”

“Those first few years can be rough.”

“If you don't get along.” Nate took another bite of his food and talked through it. Rachel knew his manners were better than that, but he was playing up the blue-collar aspect of his character. “We haven't had any problems, have we, honey?”

“None,” she confirmed.

Ethan grinned at her, implying he knew something she didn't, which bothered Rachel, but she resisted the temptation to try to convince him about her fake marriage. It was preferable to let Nate handle the web of lies this conversation demanded. She wasn't sure what Ethan and Nate had discussed when Nate came here on his own. Why risk contradicting him?

“Yours is a match made in heaven, then,” Ethan said.

“More or less,” Nate murmured.

“Where did you meet?” It was Bart who asked.

Nate gave him the spiel about the Jazz game and Rachel applauded the way he'd provided enough information to seem truthful but resisted the urge to embellish. Too much information could get an operative in as much trouble as acting too secretive. That was the first thing they'd been taught in their human behavior and psychology classes—to look anyone they needed to fool in the eye and to keep whatever had to be said to a minimum.

“So you're both from Utah?” Bart seemed eager to take over the questioning.

Nate pointed with his fork. “Rach is. I moved there when I was twelve. I grew up pouring cement with my uncle.”

Bart picked at his food, as if he wasn't all that interested in eating. “What'd your father do?”

“He worked as a chiropractor until he retired a few months ago.”

Rachel knew this part was true; she remembered when Nate had had to leave a staff meeting early to make his father's retirement party.

“How old is he?” Ethan asked, joining in again.

“What is he these days, Rach? Sixty-five?” He looked at her for confirmation, but being included in such a question almost made her laugh. She'd worked for Nate for six months but knew very little about his family. Like a lot of men, he loved them but talked about them only when there was a reason. From what she'd pieced together so far, he'd been raised in a middle-class home in Long Beach, where his family
still lived, and he had grown up spending most of his time surfing. As a result his grades had suffered, so his dad had encouraged him to join the military because he was afraid his son would turn out to be a beach bum if he didn't get some discipline in his life. Turned out Nate was plenty ambitious; he was just a late bloomer. Nate's only sibling, a brother who was younger by seven or eight years, promised to give his parents far more trouble than Nate did. Randall had been going to SDU but was currently on suspension for his poor grades. Although Nate's voice was filled with affection whenever Randall's name came up, he usually called him a pain in the ass.

“Your dad just turned sixty-six,” Rachel supplied.

“That's right.” Nate nodded at her response and talked on as if they'd been helping each other answer questions like this for as many years as he claimed they'd been together. “But the way that guy eats, he'll probably last longer than me,” he added.

Rachel had heard Nate jokingly refer to his father as Jack Lalanne, Jr., so this was probably true, too. Like her, Nate relied on the familiar when he could. It was so much easier to remember.

“And your mother?” Ethan asked. “Is she interested in health food, too?”

Rachel got the impression that Ethan was truly interested; Bart, however, was trying to trip them up.

“She worked with my father as a massage therapist,” Nate said. “They ran the business together. When he retired and sold the practice, Mom stayed on, but in a limited capacity. She works ten or fifteen hours a week. Says she likes having the pocket change.”

“Any siblings?” Bart asked.

Growing uncomfortable with Bart's level of interest in such specifics, Rachel searched for a way to change the subject, but Nate didn't seem to be concerned. “Just one, a younger brother.”

Ethan offered them each more wine and poured it when they acquiesced. “What does he do?”

“Randy's still in school,” Nate said. “He hopes to be a chiropractor like Dad.”

“But you chose cement.” Bart again.

“I was never that great a student. Working outdoors suits me better.”

“And what about you, Rachel? What's your background?” Bart wanted to know.

Ethan turned expectantly, as though he was eager to hear her response, so Rachel gave a quick summary based on the rough sketch from the dossier—her family in Utah, her experience working in child care, her two years at a community college, her father's job as a supermarket clerk. Then, to avoid Twenty Questions, she asked about the Introductory Meetings they held and how many visitors came from week to week, and when they tried to bring the conversation back to her, she put them on the defensive by mentioning Courtney Sinclair.

 

These people knew something about the missing girl. Nate would bet his life on it. From the moment Rachel mentioned that a girl who'd attended one of their meetings had gone missing, and that her parents were frantically searching for her, the room grew quiet.

“We're aware of the situation, of course. It's a real tragedy,” Ethan said, but he didn't seem particularly sincere.

Bartholomew spoke up immediately afterward. “Courtney's a nice young girl. She wanted to make her home here with us.”

Nate swallowed the food in his mouth. “She said that?”

“Yes. She came to a meeting and asked to stay for the Preparatory, or initiation,” he said, “but she wasn't old enough. She needed her parents' approval. She asked if I'd intercede for her, but that isn't my place. We welcome all who would be happy here, but we don't want trouble. I sent her home with a release form and—” he raised his bony shoulders “—she never came back.”

“That she's gone missing is unfortunate, but not altogether surprising,” Ethan added. “Her parents probably said no, just as she expected, and she's on her way to New York City or somewhere equally exciting to a young woman who's an adventurer at heart.”

“How would she get there?” Nate asked. “Travel costs money.”

“Believe me, she's very resourceful,” Bart said.

“She was willing to do almost anything to get away from her parents. And since she left, I can see why. They're like other repressed Christians—afraid to experience the world for fear they'll fall into the hands of the ‘devil,' so afraid of him they actually become just like him.”

Nate found it ironic that Ethan, of all people, would say that. If his religion was like other religions, he, too, used the fear of hell to motivate his members. “So you think she's still alive?”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise.” He closed his eyes and chewed with greater relish. “We must re
member to thank Sister Maxine for this delicious meal. She has outdone herself, has she not?”

Just about every man there nodded and mumbled agreement. But Rachel ignored the change of topic and drew Ethan right back to Courtney.

“Her parents are claiming you've kidnapped her.”

The enjoyment instantly fled Ethan's face. “I'm aware of that, too, but I have no idea why anyone would make such an unfounded accusation.”

Once again, the “Guides” began to study their food as if they'd never seen steak and rice before.

“I talked to her mother a few hours ago,” Rachel said. “I was looking at the flyer they have at the grocery store, when she came up and asked if I'd ever seen her daughter.” She took a sip of wine. “When I told her I hadn't, she said, ‘The Covenanters have her.'”

The encounter had never taken place. Nate knew that because Rachel hadn't had a car until he'd returned, and they hadn't gone to the grocery store before coming to Paradise. But she was selling the incident, making it believable—and making everyone uncomfortable.

“Did you tell her you were here for an Introductory?” Ethan asked.

“I did.”

“And did you also tell her we have nothing to hide?”

“I told her that everything seemed perfectly normal and that you treated me well.”

He raised his wineglass. “And what did she say to that?”

“She said things are not always as they appear.”

He chuckled. “What a hag.”

Rachel straightened in her seat.
“Hag?”

“You'll have to forgive me. I don't care for the
woman. She doesn't even know me, yet she's pointing her finger in my direction. If she was a better parent, her child would probably be at home.”

“I see.”

“Some people will believe the worst no matter what,” he added with a shrug.

“Maybe it would help if you allowed her to search Paradise,” Nate suggested.

“No.” Bartholomew shook his head. “We can't. We know Courtney's not here. Trying to prove it would only leave us vulnerable. What if Lynne Sinclair told the police that we mistreated her? Or that she saw some evidence she didn't see? She hates us. The prejudice we face almost everywhere is enormous. Nobody's willing to tolerate those who are different, who buck the status quo.” He held up his own wine and examined the color of it. “Religious wars are often the bloodiest, most bitterly fought wars of all. And they've occurred throughout history. In some countries, they're happening today.”

“Not in
this
country,” Nate said quietly.

Bart put his wine back on the table. “This country isn't as tolerant as you might think. Staying away from mainstream society is really the only way to avoid the kind of opposition that could ruin what we have established. That's why there's a fence around Paradise. That's why we've chosen to live inside a cage in the middle of the desert. We don't want to bother other people, and we don't want them bothering us.”

Rachel turned to Ethan. “Have you run into opposition in previous locations?”

“Everywhere,” Ethan complained. “Opposition
and
persecution.”

Nate wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Have you ever met Courtney's mother face-to-face?”

“Of course. She's been at the gate several times, demanding that we let her daughter go.” He set down his fork. “Did you promise her you'd look for Courtney while you were here, Sister Rachel?”