Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 

Willamette Freemen Compound, June 18, 5:45 AM

By dawn of the ninth day Oregon national guardsmen manned an outer perimeter, blocking roads to keep the media and spectators at least a mile from the compound.  Hazmat equipped special army units manned an inner perimeter still well back from the compound.  Only FBI and ATF personnel were inside the second perimeter.

Hank Grossette had won the first round, not with the militia, but with the brass.  Waco shy, they supported his low-key approach, agreeing that any escalation should be clearly seen as instigated by the Freemen.  To that end, the armored vehicles and helicopters remained safely out of sight in hastily erected revetments beyond the outer perimeter.  The media was told only that the FBI was assisting the local authorities in their pursuit of Bobby Lee Paget, and the ATF was present to recover weapons stolen in Marked Tree, Arkansas.  So far, no one had tumbled to the connection with the missing nerve gas, but from experience, Grossette knew it was only a matter of time.  It surprised him that it still hadn't been leaked.  Nine days was a long time for "anonymous sources" to keep their mouths shut.

"Are your pickets all place?" asked Grossette, keying the microphone.

"All in place, Sir," came the reply.  "Two positions are closer than planned.  Terrain made original deployment impractical."

"How much closer, Colonel?" he asked, not quite comfortable with speaking in the clear without the normal procedure of designating positions by code name.  The scramble phone technology had outstripped his imagination.

"Echo post is fifty clicks north and twenty east of the original, Romeo-Alpha one hundred and twenty northwest on the trail.  It was necessary for adequate field of fire."

"Good.  Make sure that no one falls asleep out there."

"Issuing the auto-injectors took care of that, Sir."

"Your men should be all right.  My weather guy tells me that the conditions for a release in the open air aren't optimal.  As long as they're vigilant, they should have plenty of time to suit up."

"Sir, should we prepare to tighten the perimeter?"

"We sit tight."

"We're not going in?"

"Negative," said Grossette, ending the communication.

He stared up toward the compound and patted the atropine syrette in his pocket, wondering how long it would take the militia network to concoct an atrocity story if the idiots in the compound decided to kill themselves.

St. Louis, North Broadway, 10:00 AM

Three men in light blue coveralls walked through the Convention Plaza entrance of the domed structure.  One, a muscular man in his late twenties, carried a clipboard, effectively rendering the group invisible to the security guards and maintenance personnel alike.

"In something this large, there isn't simply a central air conditioning system," said Collins as he led the way down a corridor near the arena.  "You can't just tie it all together.  You'd never be able to manage all the smaller spaces and the stadium as a unit."

Usually reticent, he was now in his element, comfortable discussing things with which he was familiar.

"The system cools and redistributes the air already inside.  There has to be a lot of air circulation, but you don't want it to be drafty.  On the other hand, you don't want it cold on the field and hot up in the seating.  People don't pay high dollar to be uncomfortable."

"Does that mean we have to be inside the arena in order to release the gas?" asked Paget.

"I doubt it.  With large crowds you have to be able to introduce fresh air too, even the stadium isn't completely sealed off from the rest of the building.  There will be intake vents around the arena inside the building.  If we had blue prints we could pinpoint them and just walk right in and release it when we wanted to."

They came to a large open space where the escalators were located.

"This is as good a bet as any," he said.

Traversing the open corridor near the outside wall, he finally found a grate.

"Awfully small.  I doubt that ones this size would feed the stadium.  Maybe they take air from the roof."

"You don't know?" asked Paget in irritation.  "You're supposed to know this stuff."

"Never worked on anything this big," he said.  "Without blueprints we'll probably have to release it directly in the stadium."

"How can we do that?" asked Shane.

"Let's go take a look," said Paget in disgust.

His first view of the huge open space above the field brought a frown to Paget's face.  He had no idea that it would be so big.  It hadn't looked it on television.  Now he wondered if the gas would have any effect at all.  Not that he intended to be around to find out when it was released.

"Wouldn't it be better if we could find a place that was like more hidden?" asked Shane.

"Has anyone paid any attention to us yet?" asked Paget.  "I told you, no one takes notice of people dressed like they're working.  And the niggers won't even see you.  They won't pay any attention to anything that looks like work.""

He clapped Shane on the back and laughed as he watched workmen erecting low scaffolding.

"Look.  Here's what you do," he said.  "That's where they'll set up the speaker's platform.  Once they start their program you just roll the bottles in.  Use those curtains for cover.  Take them behind the platform over there and open the valves.  That's all there is to it."

"I don't think that'll do much good, Brother Caleb," said Collins, who had been frowning as he looked around at the volume of open space.  "The nitrous oxide won't form a cloud or anything, it'll just sort of thin out and get lost in all this air."

Paget bit back a curse, trying to act calm.  He wanted to smash Collins in the mouth.

"It might not have the effect we want," he said.  "But what have we lost if it doesn't, right?  At least we tried.  We could learn something that might help us next time."

He smiled reassuringly at Shane.

"We don't have to effect all of them.  All we got to do is get one or two of them started.  It'll be like a chain reaction."

Collins was shaking his head more vigorously now.

"It won't work.  The place is too big.  You have to have a mask on and breath that stuff directly in for it to have an effect in here."

"They don't give you straight laughing gas at the dentist, do they?" asked Paget, with a warning glance that silenced Collins.  "They mix it with oxygen or they'd suffocate the patient."

He raised his hand to forestall a reply.

"Just a minute, Collins.  Look at all the maintenance people in here, Shane.  Walk down there to the other end of the field and back.  I'll bet no one pays any attention to you at all."

As soon as Shane was out of earshot, Paget placed a comradely hand on Collins' shoulder.  "Hey, look.  As soon as I walked in here and took a look around, I realized what you did.  This ain't gonna work."

Paget affected a chagrined look.

"But the kid looks up to me though.  Could you do me a favor and let me break it to him in my own way.  He's got his heart set on doing something for the Church, and . . . well, we'll probably just call it off.  Let me tell him after we get back, okay?"

"Of course I will, Brother Caleb."

Before they left, Paget looked around the dome imagining it full of religious fanatics.  He saw first one, then a few, then a dozen collapsing as the nerve gas hit them.  Even if he didn't take down a lot of them, when they found Shane's body near the canisters, they would quickly trace him back to the Wilderness Church and Joshua.  That would have to do.  In all the confusion and panic, nobody would be looking for Bobby Lee Paget.  He'd be long gone before anyone connected him to the attack.

Canaan Camp, June 18, 7:15 PM

The day melted slowly into muted shadows, but lingering heat radiated from the ground as the sweet scent of honeysuckle mantling a persimmon and blackberry thicket hung in the air.  The native vine thrived in the August parch that seared the grass and shot the leaves from the trees before fall.  Unkempt ragweed and goldenrod flourished too, choking the fencerows and field margins.  Wild chicory and less comely weeds overhung the dusty gravel, scratching passing cars.  Like Father Joshua himself, Canaan Camp was falling into disrepair as summer went to seed.  The Wilderness Church, like an exotic plant, was withering from neglect.

Raven felt it seeping away.  Her surprise had passed.  It's what always happened when she was foolish enough to hope.  Canaan was no more what she had hoped it was than Starry Dawn had been.  It had been a long time since she had thought of her mother.

"Going to get my act together, Baby," she heard her say.

She had believed her the first few times.  She had dared to hope.

Hope is the cruelest thing there is, she thought 

She suddenly became aware that Shane was standing in the field across from the barracks.  Without knowing exactly why, she went across to him.

"Like to take a walk?" he asked, meeting her half way.

"Okay."

"I've been thinking . . . about the things you told me," he said.

Raven walked beside him mutely, head down, her face veiled by dark hair.

"It doesn't matter to me," he continued.  "I already told you that, but . . . the thing is . . . you need to know that I'll never do anything to make you scared or . . . anything."

"I know," she said.

His pleading brought home a terrible truth:  she didn't want to lose Shane.  But what did she want him for?  A friend?  That's certainly not what he wanted.

My life is so utterly messed up.  I guess I want to mess his up too, she thought bitterly.

Shane continued talking, but Raven listened to only to the sound of his voice, not his words as a horrible thought stole into her mind.

Is the Church to me what drugs were to Starry Dawn?  Has everything been just a pleasant, but empty promise?  Have I run here just to escape who I am?  And what's this crazy thing with Shane, just more of the same?

"Don't send me away, Raven," he said as if he had read her mind.  "I'll give you all the time you need---"

"It's not a matter of time, Shane," she said distantly.  "And it's not you."

"You don't think I understand, and perhaps I don't, but ---"

"You don't."

"You think I want to sleep with you, but . . . well, I do."  He couldn't believe he had actually said it.  "But that's only . . . some day, you know---when you're ready.  If it's possible.  But that's not what this is all about, Raven.  It's you.  It's you I want.  To be near.  I want to marry you."

She closed her eyes in exasperation.  He had actually proposed.

"You need to face something," she said.  "There's a fact here, and it won't go away.  You're normal.  I'm not.  I know you mean what you're saying, but it's impossible."

"Raven, you've got to listen to---"

"Stop it!  If I listen to you, if we . . . there's nothing in it.  There can't be.  I've thought this through."

"So have I.  I've---"

"Been dreaming!  That's what you do!  You've never considered---look, do you really think you could live with . . . a . . . a frigid woman who . . . who can't even stand to be touched?"

Shane surprised her with a smile.

"This isn't funny," she said sharply.

"You want it too."

"Not what you want," she said.  "I know myself, Shane.  I won't be able to give it to you---not ever."

"Ever is a long time, Raven.  Jacob waited fourteen years for Rachel."

"That was different."

"Okay, it was.  But I'll tell you something.  You are what I want.  Now I know I have a chance, and I ain't gonna walk away.  I ain't."

When she didn't respond, he hurried on.

"I love you, Raven.  And I know that you at least like me.  If that's all you'll ever do, well it's enough for me."

He thought about what had been done to her.

"I'm not like any of those men," he continued.  "Surely you know that by now."

"I do know, Shane.  My mind knows.  But you have no idea what it's like for me!  When you tried to hold me, something took over.  It's always like that.  It would be better if I was the way I was supposed to be as a victim of a pedophile.  I'm supposed to be promiscuous and wanton.  Instead I'm---when it happens I'm not even me anymore.  I'm a terrified little girl that something terrible is going to happen to.  I can't fight it because---"

"I know," he interrupted.

"No.  You don't!  Let me tell you the rest of how it is.  Whenever I have to let it happen, when I can't stop one of them from . . . doing it.  Then I become nothing.  I'm just numb.  I know what's happening, but I just don't care anymore because I know I deserve it.  That's what terrifies me---that I know I deserve it."

"You don't."

"My mother is a prostitute and so am I, Shane.  That's what you won't accept."

"That's not who you are.  You were just a kid when all that happened.  It's all in the past.  It's long gone."

"No.  I know it's not my fault, but it's what I am.  It's who I am.  Can't you see that?"

Far from perceptive, Shane nevertheless saw that she was pushing him away to protect him.

"Some day all that will be over," he said.  "Some day you'll heal.  Let me be with you until it ends."

"And if it never ends like you want?"

"Then it won't be any worse than one of those arranged marriages they used to have.  We'll make it work.  We'll become comfortable with each other.  We're already friends, aren't we?  Lot's of married couples don't have that going for them."

She shook her head, but the foolishly impossible thing he proposed appealed to her.  Perhaps it was only because she desperately wanted to belong to something.

"You're crazy," she said.

And I've got to be crazier than you are, she thought

"Besides, it's too soon."

"For what?" he asked.

"For you to ask me to commit to something like that."

"Then you're not saying, ‘No.'"

"I'm not saying anything.  I can't trust myself to say anything."

And she couldn't.  She had just done more thinking about herself than she had ever done.  Her contradictory feelings made no sense---at least she could make no sense of them.  Perhaps she never would.

Willamette Freemen Compound, June 18, 10:23 PM

"This good news or bad, Ford?" asked Grossette, as he handed the communiqué from Treece back to the young agent.

"You keep asking me the same question, Sir?"

"But in different contexts.  You're my psych guy.  So, does this put us any closer to a resolution, or is it the beginning of Armageddon?"

"Sending the women and kids out?  They're not thinking about capitulating."

"No.  So they're either getting ready to do something really dumb, or they're anticipating an attack," mused Grossette.  "Tell everyone to keep his head down.  No one, and I mean no one, tries to improve his position or work his way closer.  And nobody gets the bright idea of putting a huey in the air or moving a tank up."

"Got it.  But this could mean something else, like that they're running short of food or anticipating a long siege."

"I'm just glad they're getting families out of there."

"Are we going to detain them?"

"Just long enough to make sure they're not carrying anything out."

"It could be bad PR.  No telling what they'll say to the media."

"Price of a free country," said Grossette absently.  "Send the word that everyone is to keep the decontamination gear real close and ready for use however they do that.  And make sure that everyone has his atropine syrette on his person at all times."

"You expect a release?"

"Reading minds is your specialty, Ford.  So you tell me."

"The rank and file won't be hot on the idea.  Treece?  I don't have a handle on him.  I'm just glad Tyler's not still alive and making the decision.  His profile is kind of scary.  He might push for a final solution."

"Wrong allusion, Ford.  The holocaust wasn't suicide."

Grossette looked up toward the darkened compound.  The hill was silhouetted against the bright swath of the Milky Way.

"This is more like Masada."

Canaan Camp, 11:05 AM

Raven hurried toward the barracks, holding the fabric of her ruined blouse away from her skin and trying not to breath the fumes.  The girl removing the dyed yarn from the fixative had accidentally sloshed her with the liquid.  She didn't know how caustic the liquid was, but since it began to burn immediately, she decided to shower and change.

Inside, she stripped quickly, leaving her discarded clothes in an untidy pile on the floor, pausing only long enough to put the blouse in a sink to soak before hurrying toward the shower room wearing only a robe.  As she adjusted the water, she examined the tender area below her right breast.  A hand-sized area was light red and felt like a sunburn.  She decided to spray it with the topical pain reliever that Cheryl, her fair skinned roommate kept.

As she toweled herself, she examined it again and decided that it didn't seem to be getting worse.  She hurried from the shower room, bare-foot and with her unbelted robe loosely draped over her shoulders.

Outside the shower room she came face to face with Paget.

"Oh!" she gasped, almost falling as she scrambled backward, clutching her robe closed.

"I saw you holding your arm when you came in," he said.  "I was worried that you were hurt.  I shouldn't have come in I guess, but I was concerned about you and I just wasn't thinking."

He acted embarrassed, but his face wasn't red, and his eyes were too intense.

"Sorry if I scared you, Sister Raven.  I'll just wait outside until you get dressed."

"Why?" she stammered.  "You don't need to wait?"

"Well after doing something so stupid, I need to apologize more properly."

She could tell by the way he looked at her that he had been watching while she was in the shower.

"That's not necessary," she said tersely.

"Okay," he said.  "Then . . . I'll just go.  I'm really sorry.  I just let my concern for you override my good sense.  I don't know what I was thinking coming in here like that.  It was really stupid."

"Yes it was," she said.

He stiffened, the urge to backhand her boiling in him.  Then he smiled.

"I'll just be going now that I know that you're all right," he said as he turned and strode down the hall and out the door.

She hurried to her room and hastily got dressed, all the while listening for signs that he had re-entered the barracks.  With trembling fingers she buttoned the last button of her blouse, pulled on a clean pair of jeans and slipped on her sandals.  Wanting to get back to the safety of the shop, she didn't bother to brush her hair.

He was waiting just outside, barring her way down the stairs.

"How can I ever apologize properly, Sister Raven?" he asked.

His expression didn't match his apology.

"I told you there's no need," she said.

"Sure there is," he said easily.  "I've offended you by invading your privacy.  I didn't mean to.  Believe me."

His smile looked self-deprecating, but she wasn't buying it.

"You're the last person here I would want to offend, Sister Raven."

He reached toward her cheek, and Raven flinched away.

"Sister Raven," he began.

"I'm not your sister, Cal Hodges," she said in a trembling voice.  "I don't know why you came to Canaan, but you don't belong here!"

She wanted to rush past him, but couldn't make herself get that close to him.  She was trapped.

"I want to be your friend," he began.

Somehow Raven got the courage to step forward, squeezing herself through the space between him and the porch rail.  Though he made no move to stop her, he held his position, forcing her to brush against him as she escaped.

Paget smiled as he watched her go, thinking about what he had glimpsed as she came from her shower.  The connection thrilled him.

You're wearing Pale Babe's necklace for me, Miss Dusky.  Guess what else you're going to do for me?

12:45 PM

The sound disgusted him.  Paget closed the door on the gape-mouthed scarecrow sprawled across the bed.  He stabbed on the TV, turning up the volume to drown out the noise.  The local station was airing clips from old black and white movies.  Canned laughter faded mercifully as one ended and another began.  Passengers debarked from a bus in some dismal desert town.  The bus conjured a replay of his own work at the bus boneyard, and that took him back to a more something more satisfying.

Pale Babe.  He closed his eyes, slowed it, heard it again, felt the power it had given him.  With delicious anticipation he turned her hair black, enhanced her figure---and the images melded.  The necklace was his magic.  Pale Babe became Miss Dusky and Miss Dusky became Pale Babe.  His dreams, his present, and his past merged seamlessly until he wasn't quite sure which parts were real and which fantasy.

"You're wearing it," he whispered.  "You're mine already."

It wasn't enough.  It could never be enough because then it would end.  He needed more.

He got the magazines from his room and hurriedly thumbed through for his favorites.  The scenes of control and impending violence had fascinated him at first, but now he saw how fake it all was.  He couldn't suppress the knowledge that the women were only posing.

Not just posing!  Aping! Whores!

He imagined strung out prostitutes chomping gum like cows while the photographer tried to penetrate their stupidity long enough to get them to understand what they were supposed to be portraying.

A new fantasy materialized, fully formed.

I'm editing this real magazine, and I'm only using this prime stuff---no whores.  All the while I'm looking for the vulnerable ones, the ones with no roots or curious friends to ask questions when they disappear.  I'll run the shoots myself, and there won't be any need for posing.  All these eager little wannabe models will come running to me, and I'll promise to make ‘em stars.

"Guess what?" he said aloud.  "You're a star now, Baby."

The whole thing was so lame that he was mildly disgusted with himself.  The hastily constructed fantasy only deepened his frustration.  He tossed the magazines to the floor, and went to the kitchen and uncorked a bottle of Joshua's rotgut wine.  The crap made him want to throw up, so he poured the rest of his drink down the drain and went to see what was left from Peppy's stash that might do him some good and not mess him up too bad.  He selected the baggie.

Elm Street, near the Blue Creek College Campus, 4:32 PM

Mrs. Hankins wasn't tending her flowers as usual, which was just as well.  Stephanie would have felt compelled to talk, and she was already late for her job at the bookstore.  Mrs. Fortner would understand as always, but Stephanie hated to disappoint her.  Clutching books to her chest, she hurried down the maple-shaded residential street leading down from the campus.  Glancing at her watch, she failed to see the buckled sidewalk thrown up by a tree root.  Her sandaled foot caught it, pitching her headlong.  Miraculously she kept her balance, but books and papers went everywhere.

"Crap," she muttered, lowering herself to the grass and grimacing as she rocked in the first bloom of pain.

Paget stopped his nervous tapping of the church van's side view mirror when he saw the blonde coed go down.  Now he examined her intently, from the pained expression on her pretty face, to the tapering expanse of her long tanned legs.  He got quietly out, and went to her.  Her shoulder length hair slid forward, masking his approach.

"Are you okay, Miss?"

Startled, Stephanie looked up to see a clean-shaven man with what she took for concerned compassion in his eyes.

"Oh . . . uh.  Yes.  I just stepped on something and . . . I went down," she stammered, embarrassed by her undignified position.

"I saw how you kept your balance.  You must be an athlete with that kind of coordination."  He extended a hand.  "Here.  Let me help you up,"

What a way to meet an interesting man, she thought.

But she shook her head, declining his hand.  "Let me sit here for a moment," she said with a nervous laugh.  "It really hurts."

"I'll bet," he said as he began gathering up her books and papers.

"You don't have to do that," she said.  "I'll be okay in a minute."

"Now I haven't done anything chivalrous in over a month," he said with his best winning smile.  "You've got to let me help you."

He stacked the books beside her and then offered his hand again.

"Thanks," she said allowing him to pull her to her feet, and frowning as a slight twinge shot through her ankle.  She rested a hand on his shoulder to steady herself, noting, despite her pain, the firmness of the muscles beneath the carefully rolled sleeve of his shirt.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I think it's sprained a little."

"I can give you a lift if you want.  I'm parked just down the street."

"I'll be all right in a moment.  Thanks for stopping to help.  That was really nice."

"Nothing anyone wouldn't do," he said smiling what she took for a shy smile.  "By the way, I'm Carl Hastings."

"I'm Stephanie Dobbs," she said.

"Glad to meet you, Stephanie.  He looked at her intently.  "Are you going far?"

"Just down to the bookstore around the corner," she said dropping her hand from his shoulder.  "And I'm late for work already."

"You probably shouldn't walk on that more than necessary," putting a hand on her shoulder to steady her.  "And I know you shouldn't hurry.  Let me give you a ride."

What he was saying was completely innocuous, but he was beginning to make her nervous.

"I don't think so.  It's just a couple of blocks.  I'll walk it off."

"I was a paramedic in the army," he said.  "I'm telling you now, you need to stay off that ankle.  Elevate it and put on an ice pack as soon as possible.  Even minor sprains need proper tending.  Keep the swelling down first, so no aspirin and don't apply any heat for a couple of days.  You'll want to ice it down, the sooner the better.  You probably shouldn't be going to work today."

"Thanks for the advice, but I don't think it's that bad."

"Well let me take a better look at it."

He knelt without waiting for her to comply.  Feeling foolish standing in front of him, Stephanie looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then lowered herself to the grass again.  He probed gently on both sides of her foot below the ankle.

"Does it hurt when I put pressure here?" he asked as he lightly pinched his fingers together, his palm lying flat on the top of her foot.

"A little," she said wincing.

"Ummmm," he muttered nodding his head in apparent approval as he placed the fingers of both hands on either side of her leg above the ankle and slid them up her calf.

"You may have stretched the ligaments a bit."

He worked his hands up her left leg to just below the knee.

"Flex your calf muscle and point you toes downward," he said.

She did as he instructed, but his examination was beginning to make her nervous.  He stood up and offered her his hand again.  She let him help her up.

"I think I'm all right.  Thanks for all your help and concern, but I've got to get to work."

He handed her books to her, and then accompanied her down the street.

"So you attend the college.  What's your major?"

"Undeclared so far.  I've been thinking about journalism.  How about you?  Maybe you should go to med school."

"You think?"

"You're compassionate," she said.  "We need doctors like that."

"Look, Stephanie.  I'm still worried about that ankle," he said as they came abreast of the van.  "Get in and let me give you a lift to work."

"Come on," he said as he opened the passenger side door to the van.

"No, Carl.  I really appreciated it but . . . I don't really know you . . . and a girl has to be careful, you know."

He put his hands to his head and closed his eyes, shaking his head in acknowledgment of what she was stammering to say.

"Of course.  What was I thinking?" he said.  "Those girls that guy killed.  Man, I made your bad day even worse!  I'm even driving a van."

"Oh no.  I wasn't thinking anything like that," she stammered.

"No.  It's okay.  You're right.  "I've got a confession to make, Stephanie.  I'd like to see you again.  If you don't think I'm being too forward.  How about we meet at some public place like---what do they call that place by the college?  The Horseshoe?  No, wait.  How old are you?"

Stephanie smiled in relief.  His apologetic smile had won her over.

"I'm old enough to be in a bar.  Twenty-one actually."

"How about tomorrow at four?" she added impulsively.

"Let me check when I have to work," he said moving to open the rear door of the van.  With his back to her, he peered at a piece of paper.  "I can't read it without my glasses, and they're up front.  What does this say?"

"Let me see," she said, coming closer.

She reached for the paper, but it slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the ground.  Then she noticed the pistol.

"Get in the van," he said evenly.

She froze, her mouth forming a perfect "O," as her body refused to do what her frantic mind was screaming for it to do.  Thrill coursed through him.  She was almost under control.  A combination of threats and promises would make her comply until it was too late for resistance.

"Get in the van," he repeated, seizing the nape of her neck.  "If you do what you're told I won't hurt you."

Thoughts whirled chaotically in her head.

"Do what I want, and I'll let you go afterwards," he said.

She knew he was lying.  Everything else was a blur as half formed thoughts and vivid fears tumbled through her mind like the debris cloud of a tornado.

"Come on," he coaxed.  "I'm not that other guy.  I just need a woman.  I won't hurt you.  I promise.  I would never hurt anyone as pretty as you are . . . unless I was forced to."

Stephanie took a shaky step toward the open door.  At last a coherent thought penetrated her shock.

Whatever you do, don't let him take you anywhere.  Once he gets you alone---

"No!" she screamed lurching sideways, heedless of the pain as his nails cut deeply into her neck.

Surprised by her sudden recovery, Paget lost his hold on her.  Then he captured her wrist and yanked her toward the open door of the van.  She fell to her knees, screaming.  Although no match for him, she kicked, wriggled, and flailed like cat held over water.  A fist to the side of her head stunned and silenced her.

"Hey!  What's going on over there?" he heard someone shout.

Paget whipped around to see two men running toward him.  For a moment he considered shooting them, but quickly assessed his chances of getting them both with Pearson's puny .22 as not good.  He released his hold on the unconscious girl, dove into the van, and scrambled forward to the driver's seat.  The men reached the scene just as the engine caught.  He fired two shots through open side door, knowing that even if he didn't hit anyone it would stop cold any silliness like trying to jump into the van.  Predictably, both dove for cover.  Two blocks away, he stopped to close the door.

Boiling with anger, he considered returning.  Run them down.  Shoot them between the eyes.  Then throw her into the van and finish what I started.  Of course it was all nonsense.

Driving carefully, he took a circuitous route back to the camp.  Paget was angry at himself for botching it, but he was incapable of blaming himself for long.  Nothing was ever really his fault.  Other people were always messing things up.  Everything would have been fine if the little slut had let me give her a ride.  If I find out where you live, I'll pay you a little visit as soon as you get back from talking to the cops.

That was nonsense too.  But someone's going to pay.  And I know just who:  someone with a cute silver necklace hanging between her knockers.  The old-fashioned slang conveyed a contempt that satisfied like a well-connected punch.  And this time it wasn't nonsense.  It was something he knew he could do.

Rural Hawthorn County, 5:20 PM

Dimmed by a stagnant haze, the sun could be look at directly.  Even the dark spots blemishing its surface could be seen, recalling the sci-fi paperbacks Richard had devoured as a kid.  He thought idly about the virtually eternal hell-fire fusion there that made life on the skin of his planet possible.  The light-colored asphalt curled to the right before descending into a darkening wooded valley.  Spider veins of drizzled tar filling the cracks and weathered seams of the road surface patterned it like the back of huge serpent.  Such thoughts and images came often to him during his ceaseless retracing of the county's familiar roads.

He slowed preparing to investigate a pop-up camper parked on the almost non-existent shoulder, but the car pulling it gave the proper signal and crawled back onto the road in front of him.  He considered giving the tourist a warning for the careless maneuver, but decided to cut him some slack.

"Okay, guys and gals, listen up."

Richard shook his head at the unconventional manner of the dispatcher.  Shug had justified the procedure with his typical common sense.

"Anyone interested enough to listen to a scanner knows the codes anyway, so who are we going to fool?" 

"Be on the look out for a late model dark blue, maybe black van, possibly with Missouri plates.  Suspect is a tall, well-built white male in his late twenties or early thirties---short dark hair and wearing blue jeans and light blue long sleeved shirt.  Attempted abduction near the college.  Van last seen going east on Middleton.  Be advised, suspect is armed, and has fired on civilians."

Richard's first thought was that he hadn't seen a van even vaguely matching the description.  His second was that it was Paget.  His shift was nearly over and he wanted to get the campus as soon as possible.  He keyed the mic.

"Carter," he said quickly.  "I'm on D about half way between Singletree and the W junction.  No sign of such a van, but I'll run from here back to town on the lookout as my shift ends."

"Negative, Richard.  Shug wants all deputies on the road until further notice." 

Blue Creek Campus, 7:30 PM

When she came down the steps from the library, Jill was surprised to see Richard still in uniform and sitting on the hood of his car.

"I thought you were supposed to get off at five-thirty," she said.  "You had to work late?"

"A little," he said, sliding off the car to put an arm around her.  "I thought I'd come in and pick you up."

"And what did you think we would do with my car?"

"Let campus security to take care of it until morning," he said, relieving her of the heavy valise she always lugged back and forth to work.

"That would be Mr. Love.  He has other things to do I think."

"We're eating out tonight---that is if you don't mind being seen with a man in uniform."

"Dining with my husband for a change would be nice."

He opened the door for her.  "I guess you heard about the attack today?"

"No!  What happened?"

"Someone tried to force a girl into his vehicle just off campus around four-thirty.  You didn't hear?"

"I've been in the library since four.  Who was she?"

"Stephanie Dobbs, a sophomore at the college.  Know her?"

Jill shook her head.  "And you think it is Paget of course.  Did he hurt her?"

"No.  Let's get going and I'll tell you about it."

Jill finally processed the meaning of what he had said.  "Should you not be trying to find him?"

"I am.  I told Shug I didn't want you driving home alone, so he said I could patrol the streets near campus until you got off.  I though we could grab some fast food and . . . you could ride with me for awhile."

Like many rural deputies, Richard owned his own car.  The police package had been added at county expense.  The thinking was that it was good for the sheriff's department to be seen as often as possible.  Even when not on duty, the deputies were on call.  Although not regular procedure, family members often rode as passengers, but taking Jill along on patrol was definitely more than bending the rules.

"You may get in trouble again," she said.

"I'll risk it."

She could see there was no use arguing with him.

"How did it happen?"

"I'm not clear on that.  All I know is that a couple of guys came along just as he was trying to force her into his van."

"How sure are you that it was Paget?"

"My gut's certain.  My head not so much.  Tanner and the rest of the feds think he has to be in Oregon.  So maybe he's our killer, and maybe he's a local, but the girl's description sounds like Paget.  Her rescuers descriptions don't match what she remembers, but eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable---ironic because it's the most believable testimony in court.  Maybe she saw his picture on television and remembered more than she actually saw."

"Productive rather than reproductive memory," she mused.  "The mind is a powerful pattern finder.  We are built to make sense of sensation."

"Yeah.  Well under fire the mechanism tends to malfunction.  I haven't read the statements yet, but I was told that both the guys described the attacker as a big man, and one said was blond."

"How could that be?"

"Same reason they didn't get a license plate.  They were too busy eating dirt."

"Stop with the American idioms."

"He shot at them.  That tends to distract a person.  They dove for cover and weren't in any hurry to stick the heads up for a second look."

She nodded thoughtfully.  "How he approached her?"

"I don't know.  At some point he used a gun trying to force her into his van.  I haven't read her statement."

"If he tried to charm her first then I think it was probably Paget," she said.

Richard forgot about dinner as they discussed the incident and scoured miles of rural blacktop looking for the van.  When Jill noticed that all dusk to dawn lights had disappeared, she asked where they were going.

"Through Mark Twain and on up to Mountain View."

"I thought the national forest was in the eastern part of the county."

"Bits and pieces of it are all over the place," he said, concentrating on the curving two lane and keeping an eye out for deer.  "If he's going to Mountain View he'd have a better a chance of avoiding detection this way than on 60.  Cathy Howard's car was left there, so maybe that's where he's been staying."

"What he did today is different, isn't it?"

"I think our man is starting to lose it.  This was high-risk and foolish."

"He's becoming more dangerous," she said.  "Now nothing will scare him away.  That's why you picked me up tonight, isn't it?"

"He attacked her just off campus.  That's too close."

Sobered, they drove in silence for a while.

"Still hungry?" he asked.

"Actually, yes.  When does your shift end, or will it?"

"Technically I'm already off.  What say we swing by the Scottish restaurant over there."

"Scottish?  What do they serve?  Haggis?"

"If they do, I'll pass.  Can you and the kid handle a Big Mac?"

While ordering, Richard looked for the young man he had talked to the night he found the car.  He didn't see him.

"Your order, Sir," announced a tired teenager doing her best to sound appropriately perky.

"Miss, I spoke with a young man who works here---or he did work here back in May," he said.  "I'd like to speak with him again if he's around."

"About that guy who killed all those people?  Cool beans," she said obviously delighted to be even a small part of the drama.  "Vernon's not here anymore.  He's taking summer classes at SEMO."

"Would your manager have a number where I could reach him?"

"Vernon quit, so I doubt it.  He's living in a dorm I think.  Wait a minute.  Barb will know.  She's his girlfriend."

The girl went to the window separating the cooking and ordering areas.

"Hey, Barb!  Come here!" 

A moment later a tall, dark-haired girl with a square jaw and a serious demeanor came from the back.

"Barb," this guy's a sheriff.  He wants to talk to Vernon about that killer guy."

"I'm a little busy now.  If you take your order to a table I'll be back out as soon as I'm finished."

Being summarily dismissed irked him, but before he could say anything, Jill tugged at his arm.

"Let's sit for a moment," she said.

A good fifteen minutes later the young lady finally emerged from the kitchen.

"Why do you need to talk to Vernon again?" she asked, not at all awed by the situation.

"It was something he said back in May that I need to clear up," replied Richard.  "Do you have his phone number?"

"He's living in Myers Hall," she said with a voice to match her cool demeanor.

Tearing off an order blank she printed a phone number in neat evenly spaced numerals and handed it to him.

"Could you tell me Vernon's last name?" he asked.

She arched a thick eyebrow critically at what she obviously thought was his professional ineptitude.

"Walker.  Vernon Walker.  Do you want me to spell it for you?"

"No.  I think I've got it.  Thank you, Miss."

She nodded her dismissal and turned back to the kitchen.  Jill suppressed a laugh, but smiled broadly as they passed through the double glass doors to the parking lot.  Finally, she succumbed to the laughter she had been holding back.

"She was not impressed with you, Dear."

"I don't impress many people," he said.  "Don't guess it would do me much good to run for sheriff when Shug retires."

"I would vote for you," she said, taking his arm.  "Can we go home now?  I have to work to do."

"You haven't finished your burger."

"It is monstrous.  I can eat no more.  I will wrap it up for later."

"Richard," she said when they were back in the car.  "Why do you need to talk to that young lady's boyfriend again?"

"He was working a double shift the day Paget left the car over there," he said, nodding toward the mall lot.  "We have a newer sketch of Paget that I'd like him to look at.  And I'd also like to ask about other people who came into the restaurant that day."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure.  It's just a little tickle.  Probably doesn't mean anything."

They took highway 60 back.  On the way Jill frowned as they passed a professionally lettered sign.

"What an odd logo for a church," she said.  "It has a one of those old-fashioned camper trailer things with a big ‘W' on it."

"Doc told me the Wilderness Church---that's what the Canaan campers call themselves---started with a bunch of Airstream trailers.  They used to wander around the country from campground to campground.  Pretty eccentric, huh?"

"I have seen that logo somewhere else," she said, searching her memory.

"They've got it painted on their trucks."

"On bumper stickers," she said.  "That's probably where I have seen it.

 

Blue Creek, June 20

Richard had just taken his second cup to the back porch when Jill came outside, toweling her hair and clad only a bath towel.

"Barefoot and pregnant," he observed.  "All's right with my world."

She ignored the pseudo-chauvinism.

"Richard, if Paget was the attacker yesterday then he has been here all along.  So why did he go to Oregon and then come back?"

Thinking about Paget as soon as he got up was usual for Richard, but that Jill should do so bothered him.

"Maybe he's just got a good hiding place."

"Someone is aiding him?"

"Maybe he's got someone like Cathy Howard again.  He could easily be hiding out in an empty vacation cabin or even an abandoned trailer.  They're all over the place.  Having another captive would explain the van."

"He could have just stolen it."

"No van has been reported stolen.  Of course he could have taken it from someone just passing through."

If that were the case then there were more victims, more bodies to be discovered.  He decided not to share the thought.

"Jill, let me pick you up again this afternoon." he said.

"I will be perfectly safe at the campus.  My car is parked right in front of the library and I will leave well before dark."

"You're not driving by yourself until we catch the attacker, whoever he is."

"I am careful.  Besides he would be foolish to try anything near the college again so soon."

"Don't ague with me," he said sharply.

The surprise on her face made him realize at once that he had crossed the line.

"Jill, I need you to do this.  I'd be out of my mind worrying about you.  Please let's do it this way."

"If you wish.  But never use that tone of voice with me again."

Once Jill was safely at campus, Richard phoned Myers Hall at the SEMO campus.  Vernon Walker had already gone to class, so he left his name and number with a request to call back.  Restless, he fidgeted around the house until nine-fifteen and then went to the department.  On his way to the inner office, he checked with Betty and learned there was nothing new on the van.  When he knocked at the door, its opaque glass rattled it in its enclosure.

"Come on in," called Shug.

He frowned when he saw Richard.  "What's the opposite of prodigal, Carter?"

"You mean like in prodigal son?"

"That would be the reference.  You're my only deputy who hasn't mastered the fine art of wasting company time?  You got the day off, remember?"

"Just thought I'd drop in and talk shop if you got the time.  Betty says there's nothing on the van yet, so I can't imagine it being stolen locally."

Shug levered himself from his squeaky swivel chair.  "Coffee?"

"Been through two pots already," said Richard, waving him off.

Shug looked askance at him as he filled his own mug.  "You jumped on the idea that it was Paget from the get go.  Why couldn't this be a copycat, a home grown creep inspired by all Paget's mayhem in Arkansas?"

"Isn't that a more complicated explanation?  I'd rather go with Paget until some fact eliminates him."

"Keep an open mind, Carter."

"That's what Tanner keeps telling me.  Can I look at the report on the attempted abduction?"

"Why not?  You're heading up the Huck Finn Task Force."

For a moment Richard thought his boss was serious.

"Isn't that all we need?" continued the sheriff.  "If reporters hear us say something like that, we'd have a real circus.  By the way, we asked the Dobbs girl if she saw the sketch of Paget on TV.  She said he didn't look like that."

Richard frowned.

"You got some ideas you'd like to bounce off the cracker sheriff?"

"We should show her the new sketch from Oregon.  Let me read the statements first and then talk to you about it---that is, I'd like to do that."

"Sure.  I've got an open mind," said Shug pointedly.

Richard took the new case file into the outer office and read over the statements from Stephanie Dobbs and her rescuers.  With minor differences, the stories meshed except for the descriptions of the attacker.  She described the man who had tried to force her into the van as tall, strong, dark, and good looking.  One of the men gave no description at all, while the other thought the attacker had light brown or blond hair.  The discrepancy was typical of eyewitnesses to sudden violence.

Most interesting was the woman's story.  She described her attacker as "charming," so much so that she had almost gotten into his van of her own accord.  She had even made arrangements to meet him later at a bar.  He only turned violent when she refused to get in the van.  The behavior dovetailed with what Cathy Howard had said about Paget.

How long did you wait to do this after you killed those people in Oregon?  Ten days or so?  You're coming apart at the seams, Bobby Lee Paget.

He took the statements back to Shug's office.  "The behavior she describes fit with what Paget did to the woman from Elsinore," he said.

"Yeah," said Shug.  "I noticed that, but the way our guy seems to come and go as he pleases means that he's got a place to stay and transportation that doesn't raise eyebrows.  That sounds like a county resident, not some berserk drifter."

"He's got a good place to hide.  That's for sure."  Richard suddenly thought of a place where people might be paying little attention to the recent havoc.

"Shug, you checked out that church camp yourself.  How sure are you---"

"He's not there, Carter," said Shug tiredly.  "You know, I'd take offense at that question if I didn't know you flunked diplomacy one-o-one.  Just being thorough, huh?  That's your usual excuse for irritating people."

Shively rocked back in the chair as if to get up, then settled back.  "No.  You're right to ask.  I know he's not in there because I know the guy that told me he wasn't.  Before he decided to join up with them, Kenny Phillips was---still is---a friend of mine.  I've known him forever.  He's good people.  I've never known him to lie, and he sure wouldn't about something like this."

Richard nodded, still not altogether convinced.

"Now you listen to me," said Shug.  "I know this."

"Well if he is out there it would explain a lot."

"Why do you think it was one of the first places I checked?  As isolated as they are it would be a great place to hide, at least for a while.  Kenny said no one new had shown up at the camp."

"I wouldn't think he'd go there," said Richard, "But I keep remembering that he has a remarkable ability to gain people's trust."

Shug nodded.  "You go out there if you have a good reason---I mean other than a hunch.  Do you?"

"Nothing other than just not knowing of anywhere better to look."

Richard tried to think of a plausible justification for going out to talk with Ken Phillips again, but couldn't come up with anything that he thought would fly with his boss.  Back at the car, he saw that it was eleven-thirty, so he decided to pick Jill up for lunch.  On the way he reminded himself to think about the baby and family things instead of the case.  He might as well have decided to stop breathing.

"It all comes down to the same two questions," he continued as they waited for their orders to arrive.  "Where has he been staying?  And where did he get his transportation?"

"In Oregon he disappeared into that militia place," said Jill.  Shane Sanders virtually disappeared when he went to the church camp.  Could he not have gone there?"

"I've been thinking the same thing," he said, not really surprised that she had considered the same thing he had.  "But Cathy Howard says church stuff really sets him off and. Tanner says that fitting in isn't really his thing.  You'd have to be able to abide preaching and you'd have to fit in to stay long at a place like that, wouldn't you?"

"Although, as a working hypothesis, it seems to account for everything:  his transportation, his invisibility, and the location of the . . . what do you call them . . .dumpsites."

It was surreal that Jill was discussing it so dispassionately.

"Well we've got a great theory," he said.  "But Shug checked it out right after we found the car over at Mountain View.  He has an old friend out there who told him that no one had come into the camp for over a month."

Jill sipped her tea thoughtfully.  "When you go out there talk to Shane.  I want to know how he is."

"What makes you think I'm going out there?"

"I know you."

"Right.  But Shug kind of told me to have something more than a hunch before bothering them.  Maybe I can talk him into letting me show the Oregon sketch around to the folks in there and kind of appeal to their community spirit or something."

"There's a new picture of him?"

"Yeah.  From a sketch artist out in Oregon who actually saw him.  It's run on TV."

"I haven't seen it," she said as she finished her salad.  "But with a whole community like that, surely someone there would have.  So why have they not contacted the authorities?"

"I think they consider all us outsiders infidels."

"I think you should go see.  And you should talk to several people, not just this man that Sheriff Shively knows.  The first rule of research is never to rely on just one source."

"Verify, verify, verify."

"Exactly."

Richard spent that afternoon at the Assessor's Office looking up the tangible property that the Wilderness Church, as a corporation, had to file with Hawthorn County in December.  The list of twenty vehicles didn't include a van.  He emerged from the echoing dark enclosure of the old stone building into the afternoon heat of the usual "June drought," squinted at his watch, and saw that it was time for Jill to get off.

Jill worked at the cutting board while he peeled boiled eggs.

"Of course they could have bought the van later," he said.  "I'll check DMV tomorrow.  For arguments sake.  Let's say he has been staying there.  How did he get in?  Do you just walk up to the gate and ask to join?"

"Perhaps.  Religions always want converts."

"But how did he get here from Mountain View without a car?"  He dropped the last egg in a bowl and wiped his hands.  "Where's the phone?"

"In the living room.  Who are you going to call?"

"Doc.  He seems to know more about those people than anyone else does."

He left the kitchen.

"Jill, where in the living room," he called.

"You're a detective," she said with a laugh.

"I'm a road deputy," he answered with a laugh of his own as he snatched the phone from atop the TV.

He punched in the number as he went through the screen door onto the deck.

"Carl?"

"Ah, my erstwhile head case.  What can I do for you, Richard?"

"I was hoping you could tell me something about the recruiting practices of the Wilderness Church?"

"Seen the light, huh?"

"I'm serious.  I need to know how they go about collecting members."

"Do you know how many politically incorrect assumptions you're voicing?"

"Forgive my insensitivity and help me out here."

"Word of mouth, I think.  I know they send people to talk when someone shows interest."

"High pressure sales pitch?"

"You mean like the usual subtlety:  ‘You're gonna go to Hell if you don't change your ways.'  I don't know.  They've never proselytized me."

"Well do you know if they recruit at large---accost the general public."

"I've never been accosted.  As far as I know, none of them ever leave camp except for business purposes, or for buying supplies, or if someone asks them for, I guess you'd call it an interview.  Old Joshua's people only go where they're invited."

"Have you seen any of their recruiters?"

"I think ‘missionaries' is the proper term," Hoag corrected.  "Yes, I have.  Why?"

"What do they look like?"

"Like ordinary people.  Which, by the way, is what they are."

"No special dress or anything like that?"

"You mean like a uniform or a robe of something?  No.  Joshua wants them to be seen as a big happy family composed of ordinary people, not as a collection of odd balls.  The women stick to the middle of the fashion spectrum.  You won't find body piercing, odd jewelry, or revealing clothes, but you'd never mistake them for Mennonites or Pentecosts.  Why are you so interested?"

"A couple of his missionaries were at the McDonald's over at Mountain View the day Paget was there.  I'm thinking maybe they brought him back to their camp.  It would be a perfect place for him to hide."

After a moment Hoag spoke again.

"If you have to bother those good people, Richard, try to remember that they deserve the same respect as any other church."

"I'm religiously unaffiliated, Doc."

"Which does not preclude you being a bigot."

The retort was beyond Hoag's usual bluntness.

"How did I put your tail in a twist?" asked Richard.

"I'm just sick of the God-fearing Christians around here spreading lies and trying their best to make these people feel like they don't belong here."

"Well, I don't care about them one way or the other.  So if you're through going off on me, I'd like to ask you another question."  He took Hoag's silence as assent.  "As someone trained in psychology---"

Hoag snorted.  "I did a residence in neurosurgery too.  Want me to open up your skull and putter around in there?"

"Let me rephrase.  As one more trained in psychology than you average road deputy, what do you think Paget's chances of fitting in out there would be?"

"You're serious?"

"It's a serious question."

"You're going to pester me all night if I don't give it a go, right?  Okay.  First a disclaimer.  I probably don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so if you act on what I say and end up with your tail in crack, it's your own damned fault."

"So stipulated."

"Two questions then, not one.  First, could Paget fit himself into a religious community where everyone but the high muckety-mucks subordinates himself to the whole?  Not being one of the muckety-mucks, and lacking the discipline to subordinate himself to any group for any length of time, I doubt it.  Anti-social types aren't good at long-term stuff.  No stable relationships or steady jobs.  That's the reason they wash out of the military."

"They can't put up with crap like us normal dirt-eaters?" suggested Richard.

"For a few days maybe," said Hoag, pausing to yawn.  "But there's a more basic question:  could he make them think he's a true believer?  I would say that he could, but only for a short time.  Church people want to be fooled.  Scratch that.  They want to believe it when someone says they've seen the light.  So, he could be accepted, but it wouldn't be a stable situation.  Oh, and there's one other thing.  All the hard physical labor they do out there---that's probably not his thing."

"He's been doing plenty of his thing if these bodies and the attack the other day are his work," said Richard.

"Well I gave you a theoretical answer.  Now I'm going to give you my opinion.  Paget may be in the area, but Canaan Camp is a stretch because they don't just come and go as they please out there.  Old Joshua runs the place like a monastery.  A new convert would never have that kind of freedom."

"Doc, I appreciate your help.  Mind if I ask you one more question?"

"Probably can't stop you."

"How do you come to know so much about the Wilderness Church?" he asked as he went back through the living room to the kitchen.

"I'm a student of human nature," said Hoag before hanging up abruptly.

Richard stared at the phone a moment, and then clicked it off.

"Did you have a dropped call?" asked Jill.

"Yeah.  Doc dropped me."

"Did he clarify things for you."

"I'm less sure of things now than I was before."

Soon he was to be even less sure.

After dinner they went out onto the back porch and sat watching the woods dim until the first stars appeared.  When mosquitoes drove them inside, they showered together, and one thing led to another.  They moved to the bed.  Jill pressed herself to his bare chest, molding her body to his.  He caught the light scent of her perfume and sought her lips---and then the phone rang.

Jill finally answered on the fourth ring, listened, and then handed it across.

"This is Vernon Walker," said a young male voice.  "Is something wrong?"

"No, Vernon," said Richard as he swung his feet out of bed and sat up.  "I'm sorry if I worried you.  I'm the deputy who talked to you the night that car was found over at Mountain View.  I need to ask a few follow-up questions."

"I told you all I knew then."

"I'm sure you did, but maybe I didn't pay as much attention as I should have, or maybe I didn't ask the right questions.  You said something about two men who came to the restaurant that day.  When was that?"

"The Jehovah's Witnesses?  It was sometime in the afternoon . . . I think after four because it was around shift change.  I remember thinking that if Jeanie hadn't called in sick, I'd be off."

"What made---"  Richard checked himself.  He had to phrase his questions so as not to encourage a particular response.  "How did you ascertain that they were Jehovah's Witnesses?  Did they say that they were?"

"I guess I just assumed.  There were two of them, and they always go out in pairs, don't they?  Or is that Mormons?"

"And you said you overheard them talking to someone?"

"Yeah.  They were trying to convert him."

"Did you hear them say anything in particular?"

"When I took them their drinks, I heard one say that he should go with them."

"Where?" asked Richard, his pulse quickening.

"I didn't hear that part."

"Okay, Vernon.  Did you get a good enough look at the one they were talking to describe him for me?" he asked gently, trying to rein in his excitement.

The young man laughed.  "Yeah.  It was Johnny Harmon."

"You know him," he said dejectedly.

"Sure.  He comes in all the time."

He ended the call quickly, then fell back on his pillow, and squeezed his eyes shut.  "So much for that."

"So it was someone he knew," said Jill.  "What was that about Jehovah's Witnesses?"

He shook his head.  "Doesn't matter.  It's a tangent.  It has nothing to do with Paget.  Man!  I thought it was all coming together there---that I was getting confirmation that missionaries from the Wilderness Church took Paget to their camp."

She propped herself on her elbow.  "Richard, perhaps they spoke to Paget also and the boy did not notice."

"Doc says they only go where they're invited as far as potential converts are concerned.  They wouldn't have known Paget from Adam."

"That may not have made any difference," she said, sitting up and hugging her knees, an intense look upon her face.  "What do we know about him?"

The pose made her look cute, and even younger than she was.

"You tell me," he said, slightly amused at her manner.

"He is adept at seizing opportunities.  He saw Cathy Howard's compassion, and faked a heart attack.  He saw that girl in Fayetteville argue and part with her boyfriend, and convinced her to go with him.  Yesterday he almost talked Jessica Dobbs into getting into his van."

"So, he's a good actor."

"More than that.  He correctly evaluates a situation, devises a strategy, and manipulates people into trusting him.  He overcomes their wariness with guile and charm."

"Okay.  So you're thinking he overheard these guys talking, and found a way to convince them to take him with them."

"It is possible."

"So even though Shug told me that his friend says Paget never came there, I should go and verify that."

"We still do not know that Paget is the one who did all these terrible things, but you must."

That she still wasn't convinced that Paget was in the area surprised him.  "Then you were talking hypothetically a moment ago?"

"We have verified nothing yet, Richard."