The First Prophet (41 page)

He felt her easing away, and it took all his willpower not to try to follow her. Instead,
he concentrated on flexing his fingers again, trying to ease the stiffness and cold
numbness. To be ready.

“It’s very simple,” Duran said patiently.

The boy looked at him, amazed. “Simple? My head’s gonna hurt for a week—”

“There will be…rewards if you’re successful.”

“And all you want me to do is take it from her, the way I gave her the cobwebs?”

“Exactly.”

The boy sighed, and made himself comfortable. “All right. I’ll try.”

Softly, Duran said, “Rewards for success, Jeremy. Punishment for failure.”

Jeremy looked at him and briefly chewed his bottom lip, then shifted a bit on the
couch. “All right, all right.”

Duran didn’t say anything further. He just waited. And watched.

It seemed to Tucker that he had waited an awfully long time, flexing his fingers and
blowing on them, before much feeling returned to them. He put his hand down, finally,
touching the stone floor as he prepared to try to push himself up. And his fingers
were still so chilled that he nearly missed it.

Even when he managed to pick it up, it took him several minutes to convince himself
that the thin, flexible lockpick was real.

Sarah opened her eyes and drew a deep breath.

“Well?” Brodie asked.

Her right hand was clenched shut in her lap. Sarah held it out palm up and slowly
uncurled the fingers. It was empty. Not ten minutes before, it had held a small tool
designed to pick a lock.

“Son of a bitch,” Brodie said quietly.

Sarah slowed the Jeep as she neared the old church. It was very old, constructed of
stone and timbers that had weathered brutal Atlantic storms for probably a hundred
years or more. Yet the cross atop the steeple was still straight, even if most of
the windows were gone and vegetation had encroached on the building.

It looked deserted, an appearance Sarah knew was deceptive. There were no other buildings
close by, though piles of stones here and there indicated where there might have been
other structures once, and a forest of tall trees reared on one side of the property
so that the church stood facing the woods with its back to the sea.

Isolated by miles from the nearest habitation, it was a perfect spot for clandestine
activities; a bomb could go off here and the widely scattered neighbors in the surrounding
countryside would probably not even notice.

It looked bleak. And lonely. And with every sense Sarah could lay claim to, it reeked
of decay.

Shadows.

She could feel them all around the place, feel their attention, their eyes on her.
Feel them like the certain knowledge of something twisted and dark hiding among the
rocks. And terror crawled over her flesh like the cold touch of a dead hand.

She actually stopped the Jeep and sat there for several minutes gripping the wheel.
Trying to breathe evenly, to get control of her fear. Being here physically felt radically
different from being here in spirit had felt, the threat to her more direct and far
more deadly.

All her instincts were urging her to run, to get away. If it had been anybody but
Tucker inside, she thought she would have.

Sarah drew a deep breath and, steadily, sent the Jeep forward once again. No matter
what, she couldn’t allow any of them to touch her. Or Tucker. Even Brodie conceded
that if they could get Tucker out of there and escape themselves, the other side would
back off at least for the moment, but if Duran even guessed what Sarah was capable
of, she and Tucker were dead.

The raw memory of Cait’s blood staining her hands was proof enough of an enemy that
wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

She guided the Jeep to a level place near the church where a parking area might once
have been and cut the engine. She got out, trying not to look too conscious of being
watched. Not that it really mattered. They had to assume she knew it was a trap, particularly
since she had been bluntly invited to come after Tucker. If they were as good as Brodie
said they were, they would be looking past her even now, searching for the others
they had to assume would be following.

It was a classical tactical move, Brodie had told her. She went in, seemingly alone,
and when the enemy closed in behind her to seal the entrance of the trap, her backup
would close in behind
them
—catching them in their own snare.

Of course, they would expect the tactic. So they were going to get it.

Sarah opened the hatch to get out the kerosene lamp she’d brought with her, then brushed
her cold hands down her thighs one at a time, took a deep breath, and concentrated
on enclosing her mind with the strongest walls she could build. Then she walked steadily
into the church.

There was nothing easy about picking a door lock in pitch darkness, even with a lockpick.
In fact, it was difficult as hell, especially with chilled, nearly numb fingers. Tucker
had the feeling it was taking him too damned long to do it, but he gritted his teeth
and kept working on it.

He was conscious of Sarah on the edge of his awareness, a spot of warmth he wanted
to pull around him like a blanket, but kept his attention fiercely on what he was
trying to do. He had no clear idea what Sarah had been through since he had left their
bed at the hotel, but that brief glimpse into her mind told him that it had been rough
for her, and he wasn’t about to add to her burdens.

So he had to get his ass out of this room before somebody came back here to check
on him, and he had to make damned sure none of those bastards got their hands on him.

Simple enough.

But the reality made the odds against those simple goals rather high. He was still
fighting his way out of the
drug-induced haze, for one thing, so concentrating or even thinking clearly was a
problem. He was also stiff from lying immobile for such a long time, and strength
was only slowly returning to his muscles.

Dexterity was also a problem; he dropped the lockpick twice and had to feel around
on the cold stone floor for it. It occurred to him that if he lost the thing he’d
really be up a creek, so he tried to be more careful.

He didn’t realize what a strain the physical and mental effort was until the door
finally opened and he had to hang on to the knob and just breathe for a few minutes.

It was as dark outside the room as in, though he could faintly discern a glow maybe
two shades lighter than the darkness way down the corridor that stretched out straight
ahead. The temptation to move toward the light was strong, but Tucker remembered his
instructions and, after he’d closed and relocked the door behind him, turned right
and plunged into more darkness instead.

He found the storage room on the left just where Sarah had said it would be, and for
the first time wondered how on earth she knew that. Of course, she seemed to know
a hell of a lot about many things, more with every day that passed, but he still wondered.

Life with Sarah was going to be very interesting.

He slipped into the room, his senses flaring out in an attempt to get some idea of
what was in here with him, and closed the door softly behind him only when he was
reasonably sure he was alone. From the door, he began moving very slowly along the
wall clockwise. It was distinctly unsettling to be feeling his way around in pitch
darkness, but it was better than just standing or sitting and waiting with no idea
of what was around him.

He found out quickly enough that most of what was around him was boxes and trunks,
and numerous piles of rotting furniture and apparently scrap wood.

The furniture was easy enough to identify by touch, and it cost him only one splinter
and a bruise on his shin. It was much harder to make himself reach into trunks and
boxes when he couldn’t see what he was about to touch, but he steeled himself and
did it.

He had no intention of making things harder for Sarah, but he was also not used to
feeling helpless—and he’d been helpless too long. If he could find anything that might
help him get himself and Sarah out of here in one piece, then he intended to find
it.

Most of the stuff in the boxes and trunks was unidentifiable; a couple of sharp, metallic
edges made him glad his tetanus boosters were up to date, and he once encountered
some squishy stuff he didn’t even want to think about, but mostly it seemed to be
household objects and the like that might once have been packed away down here as
charity contributions no one had been able to use.

Tucker agreed that most of the stuff was useless, to him anyway, and he was feeling
very frustrated when he pried open a smaller box, earning himself another splinter
and a jab from an undoubtedly rusty nail, and this time found bottles. Several of
them.

It took him only a moment or two to realize what he’d found, and when he did, he knew
he had two-thirds of a
dandy weapon. If he could only find the other, necessary, third.

“My kingdom for a match,” he muttered.

“I think I can oblige,” said a voice out of the darkness.