Dancing on the Wind (22 page)

disappeared into thin air.

For just a split second Fallon stood stock still with his mouth dropped open then he

howled with fury and went tearing through the woods, searching for his woman.

He did not find her, and long after the sun had set he was still roaming the forest,

crashing through the underbrush, calling her name and feeling the first uneasy ripples

of fear coming at him like poisoned blow darts. At moonrise, he was sitting dejectedly

on a fallen log with his head in his hands, cursing
An Fear Liath Mor
and his own

gullibility in trusting anyone or anything other than himself. The moment the heavy

hand fell upon his shoulder, he knew a murderous rage upon which he would have

acted had he not raised his head to find Keenan standing in front of him, none the

worse for wear.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

He shot to his feet and grabbed her in an embrace that drove the wind from her

lungs. Her laughter as she returned his hug was the most wonderful thing he’d ever

heard.

“You need to learn to trust your friends, hound,” Coim told him. “You could not go

where I led your mate. You would not have survived the journey.”

Fallon wasn’t listening. He pushed Keenan back from him and swept his scrutiny

over every inch of her, looking for any sign she’d been hurt. “Are you all right?” he

asked.

“I am fine, lineman,” she said, placing a palm to his cheek.

He crushed her to him again then turned enraged eyes to the beast. “Don’t you
ever

do that again!”

“Chill, hound,” Coim said sternly. “You are a heart attack waiting to happen.” It

switched its gaze to Keenan, its eyes soft and filled with affection. “Take care, Kiki. Call

upon me if you have need of my services.”

With that, the creature was gone once more, only the leaves overhead stirring at its

passing.

“And don’t call her Kiki!” Fallon shouted.

* * * * *

Since they hadn’t been able to leave the Exchange until early Saturday morning,

they wouldn’t have as much time in the Ozarks as Keenan would have liked. After

spending the night at Lake of the Ozarks, she insisted they drive to Branson where she

clocked over a thousand dollars worth of charges on her credit card before they left

town. All but one of the purchases she’d made—nearly every one an antique of some

sort—would be sent to her via parcel post. All, that is, except what rested securely in

the boot of the Porsche, lovingly placed there by Keenan.

“It’ll look so pretty over my dining room table,” she’d said of the chandelier.

They spent the entire day in Branson and vowed they would come back to explore

the amusement parks and take in the shows that looked so entertaining.

Having found a shop that sold crispy fried pastries called funnel cakes, Fallon

bought two dozen of the large confections and was content to sit in the passenger seat

while she started home and munch as the wind blew the powdered sugar from his

cheeks. Within an hour he’d consumed all but one of the greasy treats and was

growling low in his throat, eyeing Keenan with what she realized was intense lust.

“What’s your problem, Fallon?” she asked, sweeping her attention down to the

hard bulge at the juncture of his legs.

“Sugar,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Too much sugar.”

She tightened her hands on the steering wheel. “Oh,” she said, eyebrows raised.

“And you’re just now realizing that?”

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“Pull over,” he said.

They were on the interstate. “Where?” she asked.

“I don’t care where, woman. Just pull over!”

Keenan sighed and flipped on the turn signal, grateful the sun had already set.

Reluctantly she hit the switch to raise the ragtop.

Twenty minutes later she was not a happy camper though her Reaper was sound

asleep. He’d gone at her as though she were a bitch in heat, and while the experience

had been fulfilling, she had kept an eye on the road, expecting a Missouri State

Patrolman to come cruising up at any moment. Making love in a Porsche took some

doing, some acrobatic maneuvering, and she had strained a muscle or two during the

process.

She swore to watch Fallon’s sugar consumption from that day on.

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He slammed his booted heel into the kickstand and leaned the bike to the right. His

gaze wandering the congested area in front of him, he turned off the ignition, took the

key out then reached up to remove his black helmet. Shaking out his hair, he swung his

long leg over the seat and stood, slid the helmet down the sissy bar and pulled the black

leather gloves from his hands. Unzipping his tank bag, he stuffed the gloves inside then

peeled out of his leather jacket and stepped to the back of his bike where he unlocked

one of the saddlebags to slip the folded jacket inside before locking it again.

The grounds around him were thronged with people of every age, color and size.

The farm field was packed with noisy, sweaty humanity all headed to the huge tent

about five hundred yards away. Surveying the cars being directed into the makeshift

parking area, he saw there were expensive foreign jobs and neatly washed and waxed

family cars crammed amidst the rusted-out buckets that were badly in need of new

suspension systems and mud-encrusted pickup trucks. Crying children, squalling

infants, coughing old folks and arguing husbands with their meek-looking wives

passed him as though he weren’t standing there.

Beyond the tent on a rise of ground stood a fleet of semi-trailers and at least two

dozen very expensive motor homes.

The sound of a band revving up to play an old-time revival song amused him as he

started toward the tent at a leisurely stroll. Somewhere among the rolling tide of

unwashed and over-perfumed bodies were several Exchange operatives sent ahead to

be there for his arrival. He would meet them when the time was right, and in the mood

he was in at that moment, that time wouldn’t come fast enough.

As he walked—his harness boots kicking up the dry Georgia red clay—his thoughts

went to Keenan. He hadn’t wanted to leave her behind. Just knowing she was there

with Breslin rankled like nothing ever had and he clenched his hands into fists,

unaware his jaw had tightened and his eyes turned hard.

“He wants to get back together,” she’d told him as she’d watched him packing his

things into the soft saddlebags he’d strap to the sissy bar of his bike.

“Ain’t gonna happen,” he’d declared.

“I told him as much,” she’d agreed.

She’d walked with him down to the garage, carrying his sleeping bag roll. While he

secured his belongings to the bike, she had looked worried, but she hadn’t looked

afraid. He knew she could—and would—handle Breslin.

Her worry was for him.

“You’ll be careful?” she asked as he slipped his arms around her.

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“Just as careful as you will,” he’d replied, kissing her.

They’d both known not to let the kiss get out of hand. Not that it should have since

Monday night had passed without either of them getting a wink of sleep. They had

made love four times and both were worn out from the intensity of their passion.

“Don’t think of anything but your assignment,” she’d ordered.

His last sight was her standing there waving to him as he sped away, and that

image would stay with him all the way from Iowa to Macon, Georgia.

He wove his way around slower-moving people and past many who simply

stepped aside to let him by when they noticed his black T-shirt, black jeans and black

biker boots. Fifty feet out from the red and white tent, the ground had been padded

with wood shavings and the air was redolent with its musky scent. The air was barely

moving, the afternoon sun beating down with a vengeance. People were trying to cool

themselves with the cardboard fans being handed out by the two white-clad young

women who stood to either side of the tent flap, ushering the faithful inside. One tried

to hand Fallon a fan and he shook his head, but not before getting a look at what was on

the front of the fan—Mignon Bolivar’s smiling face, a halo behind her midnight black

hair.

As he made his way into the tent, he was amazed at how many people were already

packed onto the folding chairs that ringed the center stage in a tight U. There was

barely enough room to sidestep between the chairs so he chose to stand among those

who loitered at the back of the tent, edging himself as close to the flap as he could. It

seemed cooler there and with his Reaper’s naturally high body temp, he wasn’t quite as

uncomfortable as he knew he’d have been sardined in with the teeming masses

occupying the chairs.

Or as claustrophobic.

For nearly another hour, the faithful continued to move into the tent until there

didn’t appear to be a solid inch of ground or seating that was not occupied. The empty

section down front that had been reserved for the crippled, the infirm and the

ambulatory was now filled and a few gurneys were laid next to each other off to one

side. The band continued to play old revival songs with more jubilance than skill and

the cardboard fans snapped back and forth, back and forth.

Then with a suddenness that caught him by surprise the music stopped and

everyone around him went deathly silent. He noticed a tall, cadaverous-looking man

walking to the center of the stage, a single spotlight lighting his nearly bald pate.

“Brothers and Sisters,” he said in an ominous voice, “Mother Mignon Bolivar.”

Every head snapped toward the back of the tent and the spotlight crawled from the

center of the stage down the pathway to the flaps and hung there, causing Fallon to

squint from its intensity.

And then she walked past him and he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that

this woman was sheer evil without a single drop of redeeming quality in her shapely

body. Though she was clad in a soft shimmering gold silk sheath that covered her from

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neck to ankle, he could feel the wickedness rolling off her in waves. In her wake, he

caught a whiff of a very expensive perfume.

No one made a sound—not even the children, who had been bawling throughout

the band’s performance. No one reached out to touch her as she passed. Every eye

followed her progress down the aisle, two very muscular bodyguards in pristine white

suits right behind her. The moment she took the stage, she turned lazily and bestowed

upon her followers a smile that seemed loving and benevolent, but to Fallon was rigid

with loathing and so predatory it made the hair on his arms stand up. He watched her

slowly raise her arms to the heavens, let her head fall back, and when she spoke, he felt

a shaft of repugnance travel through his body.

“My children, I am here by the Grace of God,” she said then demurely lowered her

head. The spotlight that had followed her every step up the aisle now shone upon her

rich, black hair that fell well past her slender waist. “I am at His command to do His

bidding.”

All hell broke loose and the crowd went wild, whistling and cheering, stomping

and clapping, arms waving in the air as the band struck up another rousing revival

song. From the back of the stage came a line of singers in pale blue robes to begin

singing the lyrics.

With his arms folded over his chest, Fallon watched the spectacle unfold before

him. Her voice was soft, mesmerizing and filled with power as she looked down at the

rows of people who were wearing round phosphorescent orange stickers on their shirts

or bodices. As the light from the spotlight grew more intense, a fine sheen of sweat

began to coat her face and stain the front of her lovely gold silk sheath. At one point as

the sick kept coming, she seemed to sway and a white-clad bodyguard stepped forward

to catch her. She nodded as though to say she was all right and
healed
three more people

before she began to sag gracefully to the floor. Once again, the bodyguard came to her

rescue, sweeping her up in his arms then kneeling on the floor with her as a pretty

young woman in a long pale green dress stepped forward to wash Bolivar’s face with a

white cloth.

Oh you’re good, baby
, Fallon thought as he watched the crowd go still until Bolivar

was once more on her feet, bravely continuing to minister to her followers as the two

bodyguards stood close should she fall again. Carney people had a term for someone

like her. They called them sky grafters, and watching Bolivar do her thing, Fallon knew

that was exactly what she was—a grafter of the particularly mercenary sort.

As the last limping old man left the stage—two hours after the pageant began—

Bolivar held up her hands again, silencing the crowd.

“I am weary, my Brothers and Sisters. So weary and ill at heart at seeing all the

tragedy and evil that has befallen my beloved ones.” A crystal tear tracked down her

lovely cheek. “It grieves the heart inside my breast to see such travail thrust upon the

believers, but I will strive until my last to bring health back to these sorely put-upon

children of God.”