Satan’s Lambs (29 page)

“Moberly's Landing,” he said.

A canoe was turned upside down in the dirt. A small flat fishing boat floated in the water, a neat black engine mounted on the back.

“Damn,” Moberly said. “Forgot the gas can.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out two black cotton socks. “Fill these with sand, I'll be right back.”

“What for?”

“It'll come to you.”

The sandy dirt was wet and clumpy. Lena dug with her hands for a while, then got a stick to gouge it up and loosen it. Grit collected under her fingernails. The wind blew her hair in her eyes. She pushed it out of the way with the back of her hands.

It took a while to fill both the socks.

“'Bout halfway,” Moberly told her. He filled the boat's engine with gasoline, then cranked it like a lawn mower with a handle and cord. The sudden buzz was loud.

Lena looked up. “They'll sure know we're coming.”

“We'll cut the engine before we get close. We got to get there sometime tonight, you know. You 'bout got those socks done?”

“Yeah.”

“You figured it out?”

Lena swung one in the air and Moberly ducked, though he was several feet away in the boat.

“As good as your baseball bat, and a lot less awkward. You just don't have the reach.”

“I'm glad I met up with you, Moberly. It's nice to learn all this backwoods lore.”

“Come on and get in.”

Moberly brought the boat in close. Lena moved carefully, but the boat jiggled from side to side. The water was filmy along the shoreline.

“This won't be as much fun as the canoe,” Moberly said, his voice raised to carry over the engine.

“How come you don't have one of those big motorboats? Ranger patrol and all?”

“It's being painted. And anyway, talk about advertising your presence. This is my sneak-up boat. This and that old canoe. Untie the line—not from the
boat
end, Lena, from the dock end. And watch your fingers. Get them mashed, if you don't watch out.”

The rope was damp, but the knot was fat and easy to untie. Moberly twisted the throttle and turned the handle of the motor. The boat turned and moved out on the lake. The wind blew Lena's hair behind her, and her sweater billowed and flapped.

The night air was cool. Lena trailed a finger in the water. The breath of the lake was warm.

They ran without lights in the darkness. As they eased into deeper water, white mist rose from the surface of the lake, shrouding the way just ahead. Lena lost her bearings. Moberly guided them across open water, around juts of peninsula, and into larger sections of lake. The water was still until they churned it, spewing white froth behind them and sending ripples to lap at the shore.

Moberly cut the engine, and the boat slowed. He pointed. Lena looked back in the trees and saw the hazy glow of a bonfire. Tiny pinpoints of light made a pathway through the trees.

“Flashlights,” Lena said softly. “Flashlights in the trees, showing the way.”

Moberly dredged a paddle from the bottom of the boat. He dipped it into the water with practiced, rhythmic strokes.

“You going right up there?” Lena said.

“No. We'll go around, place I know. Hush now. Voices carry over water.”

They bypassed the landing closest to the bonfire. Lena counted two fishing boats, three power boats, and a ponderous pontoon boat, riding the gentle swell of their wake. Moberly paddled around the jut of the shoreline. Lena looked over her shoulder. She could just make out the fire.

They glided in. Pebbles and grit scraped the bottom of the boat. Moberly stuck his paddle in the sand, steadying them. The boat rocked from side to side as he stepped in water to his ankles. He balanced on a rock and pulled the line, dragging the boat up onto the sandy beach. He tied his rope to a marker that said Wild Geese Sanctuary.

The path was thick with dead leaves, but Moberly moved silently. Occasionally he looked back at Lena, and she wondered if he thought she was too slow or too noisy. Probably both. Now and then something rustled in the brush. Bird, Lena wondered? Rabbit? She looked over her shoulder.

Moberly stopped suddenly, and put a finger to his lips. He seemed to be listening. Lena held her breath. Gradually she became aware of the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. Someone was moving their way. Lena smelled the sudden, acrid scent of cigarette smoke.

The man came within a few feet, his back to them. He was close enough for Lena to see the gun tucked into the back of his pants.

The man took a deep drag of his cigarette, then walked on. Lena breathed again, as quietly as possible. Moberly put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. He bent down and whispered in her ear.

“Sentry,” he said. “We got some pretty serious campers here. There'll probably be at least one more, maybe two, that we'll have to get by. Best if they never know we're here—they may be reporting in. Be
quieter
, Lena.”

She nodded, wondering how.

The next sentry was easy to spot, swaggering noisily up and down, with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Lena fingered the sock of wet sand.

The sentry froze, hefted the automatic rifle, and snapped the bolt. Lena looked at Moberly. He grimaced, and pointed.

“Tell him not to shoot,” Moberly said. “Then walk on out there. Go on. Just do it.”

Lena took a deep breath. “It's me,” she said loudly. “Don't shoot.”

“Me who?” the man said. “Come on out where I can see you.”

Lena felt sweat start on her back. She crashed through a bush, and out onto the trail.

“Boy, am I glad to see you.” Lena smiled. “I got turned around. How do I get back?”

The man lowered the rifle. “How'd you wander so far off? Oh, I know you, you were here last time.”

“Yeah,” Lena said. “Weren't you—”

The man groaned and pitched forward. Moberly stood behind him, breathing hard.

Lena bent close to the man on the ground. He looked to be in his late twenties, face round and pale, thick blond hair falling into his eyes. A radio, emitting a faint crackling noise, was wedged in his belt. Lena picked it up and turned the volume down.

“Let's go.”

Lena smelled wood smoke. A ways farther in she saw pinpoint lights hanging in the trees. She and Moberly circled closer.

The fire was huge and healthy—a roaring orange inferno. Dirty white smoke swirled upward through bare skeletal branches. People milled close by, most of them dressed in jeans or slacks, and tennis shoes, all of them holding black bundles. More men than women in this group. They laughed and talked quietly. Lena smelled cigarette smoke, and a pipe. And there, just a trace, but definite. Somebody passing a joint.

A man in a black robe moved with assurance close in to the fire.

“Heeeere's Johnny,” Lena said.

Moberly grimaced. “People in robes with hoods like that give me the creeps.”

The man, the leader, put a wooden bowl down into the coals. Lena caught a faint, sweet odor. People began slipping behind the trees, shedding their clothes, coming back to the circle in their robes.

Moberly looked at Lena. “I don't see the boy, do you?”

She shook her head.

48

The chants rose like smoke, the words singsongy and impossible to make out. Someone—several someones, and brawny—had dragged a stone altar before the fire, and a bowl of liquid had been passed around. Lena noticed that the leader didn't drink.

Was this Mr. Enoch, this man in the dark robe, his face cowled and oddly elongated in the firelight?

Lena lay in the dirt on her stomach, inches away from Ted Moberly. The scent of wet muddy earth, sweet herbs, and wood smoke mingled oddly. The worshipers were moving like dancers, their movements dreamy and slow.

It was oddly effective—darkness, firelight, the path of light through the trees. Lena felt the hair on her arms prickle and stand up.

Ted Moberly grabbed her shoulder.

“Look. To the left of the emcee there, under the tree.”

Lena saw children, three of them, sitting cross-legged. One of them pulled his hood off his head.

“Where did they come from?” Lena said.

“One of the adults slipped away a few minutes ago. Brought the kids back with … her, I think. Walks like a woman. You think any of the kids is Charlie?”

Lena looked at the one with the hood pulled back. His hair was thick, dark, and curly. “Not that one. I don't know about the other two. It's hard to tell with them sitting.” Her voice went flat. “I think they're too big to be Charlie.”

“Wonder if there's more of them. Look, see? She just slipped off again. She may be going for more kids. I'm going after her.”

“Take the radio,” Lena said. “You might want to tune in, see what's up.”

“Okay. Be back.”

The priest held the skull of a goat, and raised it over his head. He swayed and turned, making his way around the altar.

Must need drugs, Lena thought, to appreciate this stuff.

There was movement near the edge of the circle near the children. Two more slipped in, herded by the robed woman. She wore black tennis shoes.

The crowd hushed suddenly.

The priest held his arms high. Two robed figures moved into the firelight, tugging a rope. A naked man, bound around the wrists, neck, and waist, stumbled into the circle.

Hayes.

Lena felt the breath go out of her lungs.

She felt oddly embarrassed and more afraid, as if his vulnerability magnified her own. The urge to sneak away in the darkness warred with the urge to watch.

She knew now why Hayes hadn't met her to ransom Charlie, why there had been no more nasty reminders on the answering machine, no intruders in the house. He had lost the power struggle and become a danger to the group. They'd taken care of Archie Valetta, and it hadn't fazed him. Now they would take care of him.

Lena began to understand what it meant to come to the attention of Mr. Enoch.

Hayes sagged against the man who held his rope. His hair was growing back in dark prickles, like a five o'clock shadow on his scalp. His head lolled to one side, and he opened and closed his eyes, squinting, seeming confused.

The two robed men helped him gently onto the altar. One of the children, the one who had pulled off his hood, covered his eyes with his fingers. The black-robed woman pulled his hands away. Lena could not see, but she knew, from the way his shoulders hunched forward, that the little boy was crying.

A hand rested firmly on her shoulder, and Lena jumped.

“It's me,” Moberly said, sliding in on his belly.

“What'd you find?”

“The kids were just sitting by themselves under some trees. Quiet, not making a sound. This woman comes and gets them, two of them. I scouted around, see if I could find any more. Didn't, though. But something funny's going on.”

“No kidding.”

“I mean the sentries. They're gone.”

Lena looked at Moberly. He was sweating. She was too.

“Behold,” the priest said loudly.

“That's
Hayes
they've got,” Lena said, looking back to the circle.

“Behold, a lost lamb.” The priest rested his palm on Hayes's forehead. “Here is one who would betray
you
, betray our communion,
betray our service to the dark
. He has been brought back penitent, and ready to perform the ultimate service to the dark lord.
Redemption
, my lambs. Redemption and punishment, love and hate, pain and pleasure. All are one.”

One of the men stepped forward, offering a wooden box. The priest removed a dagger, and held it high.

“They're going to kill him,” Moberly said. “We better stop it.”

“Nothing we can do, Moberly. There's more of them than us. I'm not going to risk my neck to save Hayes.”

Moberly looked at her. “You want him dead.”

Lena watched the priest. He lowered the knife in a deft, swooping motion. Hayes lifted his head, then rolled it to one side. There was a collective intake of breath from the crowd, and someone moaned. Blood welled up in a black line that swept from Hayes's groin, veered to the rib cage and stopped just under the left nipple.

“God,” Lena said.

“Superficial,” Moberly muttered. “But the next will be a go.”

The priest smeared blood on his fingers, dabbing streaks on the right shoulder of his robe and then on Hayes's forehead.

“You want those kids to see this?” Moberly's whisper was fierce.

The watchers began to chant. The priest held the dagger over his head and swayed from side to side.

“Everybody stay where you are.”
The voice was amplified through a bullhorn, loud and distorted. Metallic. Police officers in caps and flak jackets rushed forward, shining spotlights. People screamed and scattered and someone fired a shot.

“This is the police, you are surrounded, stay right where you are.”

Some of the children did not run. The boy with the dark curls pulled the hood over his head and hunkered close to the ground. Lena heard laughter and saw a woman dance sideways, then sit down suddenly.

Enoch was bending over Hayes. Lena saw, in the flicker of firelight, that Enoch's hands were dark with blood. She stood up. Moberly grabbed her leg and pulled her to the ground. Gunfire split the air.

“Cops can be dangerous too,” Moberly said.

“The woods are full of Satan worshipers. You're warning me about cops?” Lena shook his hand off and crawled forward. She heard a child crying and sensed, rather than saw, Moberly move in that direction. She looked up in time to see Enoch head into the woods, away from the flashlights, away from the path.

It was the old shell game, Lena thought, a high-stakes version. Enoch was getting away, and Jeff was bleeding to death. Which one knew where Charlie was?

She was on her feet before she'd consciously decided, tracking the dark figure moving through the trees.