Dancing on the Wind (38 page)

remark, she turned and left him standing in the living area.

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” she called from the bedroom.

Fallon flinched. Dismissed just that easily, he thought, and he supposed he had

Roland to thank for Bolivar’s abrupt change in attitude toward him. He might be useful

to her, but she no longer trusted—or even liked him it seemed.

What he wanted to do was go to Keenan’s trailer, but since he couldn’t speak freely

to her either normally or psychically, he would stay away. He stood there staring at the

motor home Breslin and Matty shared and would have laid odds it was wired for sight

and sound as was his. Unless he invited Matty into town with him—everyone knew

how he felt regarding Breslin—there was no way to speak privately to the agents.

Stymied for the moment, he went back to his trailer, stripped, put on a pair of black

running shorts, socks and sneakers and headed for the road, intent on working some of

the frustration out of his system.

Keenan stood at her front window, wishing she could talk to him. What had

happened the night before had shaken her badly and though she had talked with

Bolivar, it was Fallon she needed.

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Roland sat on the steps of his motor home, knife and column of wood in hand. He

paused in his whittling to follow the progress of the man for whom he had such little

trust.

* * * * *

As darkness fell on that humid Louisiana night, the faithful once more lined the

aisle from the stage all the way out the tent flap and even beyond. People on crutches,

in wheelchairs, with walkers and canes and on litters stood quietly as the choir

hummed and Sister Tandy laid her hands upon the ill and wasted. Men and women

with casts on their limbs, the blind and deaf, the lame and the infirm stood patiently

anticipating their moment with the healer. Each time a pilgrim was healed, a mighty

cheer rose from those gathered.

Fallon and Breslin stood together on the right side of the stage with Matty and

Roland on the left. Breslin was in a foul mood since he wasn’t a part of what Keenan

was doing. There was no talking in tongues for him to translate and that pissed him off.

“What does she think she’s doing?” he asked Fallon.

“Healing the sick,” Fallon snapped. “What the fuck do you think she’s doing?”

“Eat shit and die,” Breslin snarled.

Fallon ignored the man. He was surveying the crowd, closely watching every

person who came within touching distance of Keenan. Though he could not see her

face, he had the impression she was tiring, her movements becoming slower with each

person who came to her. He caught Matty’s eye, but the physician merely shrugged. He

too was standing where he could not see Keenan that clearly because of the extra

security, but Fallon knew like Breslin and Roland and himself, Matty was ready to leap

to the stage at a moment’s notice to help her if she needed him.

As he swept his gaze over the crowd, Fallon felt the same icy chill he had from the

night before. His head suddenly throbbed and he knew somewhere in the audience

there was someone or something bombarding him with psychic slams. He was vaguely

aware of Breslin moving away from him, but he was searching the people in the chairs,

trying to hone in on the one who was sending such punishing shots his way.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd and Fallon whipped his head around,

his attention going automatically to Keenan. His eyes widened for there was blood

streaming from her ears and nostrils. For a crippling moment he could not move. He

saw Breslin catapulting onto the stage. Saw Matty doing the same, but he stood frozen.

Once again something slammed brutally into his head and he grunted with the

force of it, bending forward with his hands slapped to his temples. Around him people

were leaping to their feet and the noise was shattering, savagely accentuating the agony

rippling through his head.

“Robin!”
he heard Bolivar shout and struggled to lift his head. As he did, his gaze

went to a face in the second row and he staggered beneath the onslaught of rage

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smashing against him. It was all he could do to tear his eyes from the one savaging him

so fixedly.

Just as they had the evening before, Breslin, Matty and Roland were carrying

Keenan off the stage. One look at her body and Fallon knew she was unconscious. He

stumbled toward the stage, in so much pain he could barely scramble onto the platform,

rolling to his feet as the other three men disappeared out the back of the tent.

Staggering, he followed them as a phalanx of security closed in to keep outsiders at bay.

Pushing his way past several guards, he made his way to Roland’s motor home where

the men had once more taken refuge.

Blundering through the door, Fallon fell to his knees and flopped to his side, the

pain in his head crippling him. His own ears and nostrils were bleeding and a bright,

searing haze clouded his vision.

“What the hell is wrong with
him
?” he heard Breslin ask as though from far away.

The last thing he remembered before unconsciousness swept up to claim him was

Roland’s face glaring down at him through the gathering darkness.

* * * * *

He woke to a brutal, pounding headache and a sick stomach that barely allowed

him to twist to the side of the bed before he puked. A cool hand held his forehead as he

strained to rid himself of his stomach contents. With each tensing of his gag reflexes, the

agony lying between his temples sent shards of glass through his brain.

“Man, you are really sick,” someone said. He thought it might have been Matty, but

he wasn’t sure.

“Maybe he’ll die and we won’t have to put up with his shit anymore.”

That sounded like either Roland or Breslin, but the voice was distorted by the loud,

agonizing buzzing in his ears.

“As soon as he’s able to talk, send someone to get me. I don’t like leaving Tandy.”

That was definitely Bolivar’s voice and Fallon struggled to speak to her, frantic for

word on Keenan’s condition, but the gagging prevented him. So forceful was his

nausea, he saw stars every time he heaved and a thick wash of cold sweat was covering

his entire body.

“Here, drink this.”

Something fizzy was placed to his lips and Fallon tried to bat it away. By the glare

of the sun coming in through the bedroom window he knew it was morning and what

he needed wasn’t the cure being foisted off on him but the vac-syringe. His body was

beginning to itch and burn beneath the sheen of sweat.

“Come on, drink it.”

Whether he wanted it or not, the liquid was poured down his unwilling throat. He

gagged, choked, coughed but managed to swallow of the cherry-flavored stuff. His eyes

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watering, he was made to drink even more of it, but it was helping to alleviate some of

the brutal nausea that was eating away at him.

“He’s a piss-poor patient, ain’t he?”

Roland. The buzzing was dying down.

“Do me a favor, would you, Mizhak?”

Matty. The nausea was abating and the pain in his head was easing just a tad.

“Whatcha need?”

“Go to his trailer and look in his bathroom. You’ll find a syringe and a vial. Bring it

to me.”

“What…?”

“Don’t ask any questions, okay? I think you know he needs what’s in that syringe.”

There was a moment of silence then the sound of receding footsteps, the closing of a

door.

“All right, open your eyes,” Matty ordered as he rolled up his sleeve.

Opening his eyes was easier said than done. Fallon struggled to do it as Matty

pushed him back onto the bed and ran a cold cloth over his face.

“Here,” Matty said, holding his arm out to Fallon.

“I can’t…”

“Just do it,” Matty snapped.

Fallon sank his fangs into Matty’s arm, needing the Sustenance. When he’d taken

enough to quench his need, he collapsed against the pillow.

“Now tell me what the hell happened to you last night.”

“Lily,” Fallon said. “She was in the audience.”

“Her mother Lily?”

Breslin came into view, his face angry. “How the hell did she know where we

were?” he demanded. “It couldn’t have been Lily.”

“I saw her,” Fallon grated, reaching up a trembling hand to scrub at his face. He

locked eyes with Breslin. “She’s got psi powers. She more than likely read our

destination in Keenan’s mind.”

Breslin shook his head. “Hell no, she doesn’t,” he snapped then his eyebrows

clashed. “At least I don’t think she does.” He held Fallon’s stare. “Are you sure?”

“Goddamned sure,” Fallon said. “She’s a very powerful sender. I kept up my guard

when we were with her, but Keenan was so on edge the entire time she probably forgot

to block her thoughts.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Matty said. “She did this to you?”

Fallon nodded, swallowing hard. His body was in torment for need of the tenerse.

“Well, she did a number on you, son,” Matty stated. “That was tenerse I gave you

to stop the nausea and it hasn’t helped, has it?”

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“No,” Fallon replied. “You’ve got to find her, Breslin. Stop her. She’s a loose cannon

and if she tells someone who Keenan really is…”

“I’m on it,” Breslin said, and pivoted on his heel.

“How is she?” Fallon asked.

“Keenan?” Matty clarified. “Sleeping when I was over there last. Too much strain

on her body last night. As soon as I saw the blood, I knew we had to put a stop to the

show.”

“We can’t let that happen again,” Fallon said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I know, and it isn’t going to happen again. You guys will have to find another way

to locate that entity. What about those other agents Breslin was training?”

Fallon tried to sit up in the bed but was too weak. “Thirsty,” he said.

“Want some water?”

Fallon nodded although the action increased the agony in his head. “The other

agents are useless to us now,” Fallon said. “Bolivar has a real miracle worker in her

hands. She isn’t going to give a damn about three would-be Sensitives.”

Matty poured a glass of water and slid his hand under Fallon’s neck. “As soon as

Roland brings your injection, I’m going after Breslin to help look for her mother.”

Gulping the entire glass, Fallon waved a weak hand at Matty. “Go ahead,” he

insisted. “I can give it to myself.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, go on. Finding Lily is more important. If she blows Keenan’s cover, there’s

no telling what Bolivar or Roland will do.”

Matty removed his hand from under Fallon’s neck. “Okay, but you stay still until

the tenerse takes hold. Understand?”

“I hear you.”

Fallon thought he must have dozed off despite the pain racking his body for when

Roland shook him he snapped his eyes open and growled.

“Yeah, you try biting me, Reaper, and I’ll fry your fucking ass,” Roland hissed.

“Here!”

Fallon took the vac-syringe without even looking at it and brought it up to his neck.

Thrusting the needle into the carotid artery, he depressed the plunger before he noticed

the smirk on Roland’s face and realized something was very wrong. The moment the

payload entered his body he knew he was in deep shit.

* * * * *

Matty waited until Breslin left the grounds before he walked over to Bolivar’s

trailer. He rapped a couple of times then went on in, smiling as he encountered the

evangelist reclining on the sofa.

“How’s she doing?”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“She’s still sleeping,” Bolivar reported. “I don’t know what you gave her but she’s

really out of it.”

“It’s called pairilis and it will help her body to heal,” Matty replied. “How are you

feeling?”

“Drained,” Bolivar reported. “I ache all over.”

“I can fix that,” Matty said, and came over to the sofa. “Turn over and I’ll massage

your neck and shoulders. That’ll help.”

“Yeah, it would,” she agreed, and did as he suggested. The moment his hands

began kneading her tense muscles, she groaned. “I’ll give you an hour to stop that.”

Matty smiled, his knowledgeable fingers working magic on her stiff tendons.

“Mignon?” he asked softly.

“Yes?”

“I want you to listen to my instructions and then follow them to the letter. Do you

understand?” His voice wound through her head like an uncoiling serpent.

“Yes, Reggie,” she agreed.

Matty plied her muscles, and as he did, he implanted the sublims deep into her

subconscious—just as he had delved there once before to erase Fallon’s.

“Robin Marks is actually a man named Mikhail Fallon. He was sent here by one of

your enemies to shut you down, to stop your ministry, to eventually kill you. Do you

understand what I am saying?”

“He’s a hired killer.”

“That’s right. He’s a hired killer,” Matty said, squeezing her shoulders. “Roland

knows all about him. He knows Fallon is a very dangerous man. He will take care of

Fallon for you.”

“Yes,” Bolivar mumbled.

“Now I am going to leave you. You will sleep as I have instructed. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Reggie.”

“Good, now sleep.”