Chosen (22 page)

Michael parted the curtains a bit and smiled as his eyes swept the sanctuary. Seven-thirty on Sunday morning, and the first floor and balcony were almost filled to capacity. It had been a long time since three hundred fifty people attended the sunrise service without it being a holy day.

He didn’t fool himself for a minute: most were not here to listen to his sermon, not this time of the morning. They had come to see the main attraction, Mariah Adele Carpenter. Even so, they were here, and he hoped something he said today would make a difference.

Michael had felt ill at ease upon awakening this morning. The feeling persisted when he joined Abigail for breakfast. Nor did it lessen after he said morning prayers in his office. Usually an act of devotion brought him peace, but not today. Most likely this vague uneasiness was just an accumulation of all that had happened recently. He sighed; it was not a convincing argument.

He let the curtain fall back in place and headed for the choir room. He could always count on the choir’s exuberance to lift him up—something he sorely needed right now.

God, he’s got such a beautiful body
, Mariah mused, probably for the hundredth time.
No wonder he was such a hot model in his college sculpting class
. Thomas lay on his stomach, his face half buried in the pillow. She let her eyes wander down his muscular thighs and calves then up to his narrow waist and broad shoulders. Her gaze rested briefly on his rounded biceps and thick forearms, then slid back down to his best asset (in her opinion): his tight buttocks.

I can’t understand why someone who looks like him would have anything to do with me,
she reflected, also for the hundredth time.

That thought evoked a grin. She was no longer allowed to voice this sentiment out loud in his presence. The last time she did, he shook his finger in her face and said, “No more, Mariah. If you enjoy your insecurities so much then, by all mean, keep them. But to yourself. I don’t want to hear how beautiful I am and how ugly you are anymore.” His mouth twitched in an effort to keep from returning her grin. “And stop insinuating that by being with you, I have bad taste ... hell, I’m beginning to get
insulted
!
”
At that, both of them cracked up, and she promised to keep her opinions to herself.

Mariah’s smile faded and she yawned lavishly. She had awakened several times during the night, her heart stuttering, her body slick with sweat. She remembered none of the dreams that had caused this.

At one point, she had cried out. Still asleep, Thomas had rolled onto his side, and pulled her up against him (he called it “spooning”) then wrapped his arms around her and fit his knees behind hers. His solid body behind her and his warm breath on her neck had the effect of a narcotic. She finally fell asleep, only to be awakened two hours later by the clock radio.

Mariah wrapped her arms around her body. She had the greatest urge to strip off her clothes, jump back into bed, and wake him up. She knew what would happen; they would kiss until he became fully awake—and aroused—and then would make love.

She grinned, remembering an argument they’d had some time back. Howling and raging had elicited no more than a shrug from him. How unusual, she pointed out, that a man half Italian and half Spanish didn’t have a fiery Latin temper. Leering at her, his half-closed eyes gleaming, he had said in a terrible Spanish accent, “I am Latin when it counts, baby.” That, and the fact that he tried to kiss her while she was giggling, had made her laugh all the more.

A sigh escaped her lips. Mariah knew she would never let the choir down. Besides, singing in the choir was one of the few remaining pleasures in her life, and she would not give it up unless forced to.

She had finally given in, quit work, and moved into Frannie’s safe house. Her coworkers gave her a “retirement” party, joking about her new lack of responsibilities. But she knew they were relieved to see her go. Not only for their safety (you never knew when some mental case would spray bullets in the building in his attempt to kill her) but also for the crowds of people and the media that got in their way.

The house was as plain as vanilla yogurt, but she had plans to spruce it up. Maybe sapphire blue walls in the living room, a kitchen mauve with black trim. And the bedroom fairly cried out to be painted in gold with red stipples. She didn’t care about resale value; she would paint this baby to suit
her
taste, and to hell with the next occupant. Let the FBI hire someone to paint it back to its original blah when she left.

Mariah left the bedroom, snatched her purse off the dining room table, and opened the front door. There was Frannie in her white BMW at the curb. She always welcomed Frannie’s company.
Except it might be nice to go someplace alone once in a while
, she thought.

Frannie was not convinced by the thin smile Mariah gave her. Further, she refrained from telling Mariah how bad she looked. She shrugged: if she were in Mariah’s shoes she’d have bad nights too.

Gregory Sinclair threw off the covers and leaped from the bed. Soaked in sweat, he heard sounds of mewling before he realized they came from his throat. The night leached strength from his body, and he collapse back onto the bed.

The nightmare had changed. Something had loomed in the distance, awash in a radiance that reminded him of blood. But blood wasn’t luminescent, didn’t shine, didn’t swirl like mist around a figure lost behind its brilliance. The light had flared up then out to encompass everything, heading straight for him, seemingly directed by the shadow bathed in the glow. He was stunned into immobility, could not retreat back up the aisle. Could not even breathe.

Had he not awakened when he did, Gregory was positive he would have died where he lay.

On the first Sunday morning that followed the preparation of the gun for its holy purpose, Damion visited Chelsea Heights Community Church. There was nothing shoddy about his investigation: he would leave nothing to chance.

He parked his car several blocks away, and sauntered toward the church. It was nine o’clock. There was a policeman at each of the two driveways next to signs that said “Enter Only” and “Exit Only” respectively.
Check
. The parking lot was completely full. The sunrise service had started at 8:00 am.
Check
. Each door into the church was manned by one officer except for the main entrance—it had one at each of the three main lobby doors.
Check
. There were no metal detectors like at the airport.
Of
course not
, he thought contemptuously,
no one takes precautions until something really bad happens
.

He ambled by two cops in front of a chain link fence surrounding a parking lot filled to capacity. The sign read: “Additional Parking for Chelsea Heights Community Church.”
Check
. No doubt about it, the False Prophet was a big draw. She could pull them in even this time of day.

Damion Lazote managed to find a spot twenty feet down the street where he could lean against the trunk of an old olive tree and observe the overflow lot and the church driveways simultaneously while not drawing attention to himself. At ten minutes past nine, people began to leave the sanctuary which meant the first service was over.
Check
.

Others began to arrive for the second service around nine thirty, and crowd control was handled smoothly. Damion frowned. As each car came up to the “Enter Only” sign. The driver handed the policeman what looked like a laminated square. The officer looked at it before handing it back. Those who didn’t have a square were turned away.

Parking permits. Probably issued to those who attended before the Finding aired on television
. After everyone was inside, he crossed the street, and approached the cop at the entrance.

“Hi there, officer!” he chirped, hoping he sounded cheerful.

“Hello, sir, what can I do for you?” the policeman said, no change of expression on his face.

“Just wondering, officer; do you need a pass for the services?” Damion’s heart rate accelerated as he waited for the reply.

“No, sir, the pass is just for parking. Seating is first come first serve, with or without a pass. Since almost everyone drives here, the pass usually guarantees them a place to sit. And there’s no standing room because of fire laws.”

“Well, thanks for the information. You’ve been a great help,” Damion said.
Maybe that was a bit much
he thought when the cop’s brows furrowed as he left. Well, no matter: he was positive the cretin would never recognize him when he returned.

Back in his car, he headed toward his apartment in San Francisco. Damion could hardly wipe the smile off his face. Everything was ready. Next Sunday would be Showtime.

An opaque veil of dismal clouds hid the sun and heightened Mariah’s anxiety. The choir closed in around her, sensing her distress, subconsciously providing a shield from whatever caused her unease.
I’m giving off bad vibes
she thought as tears gathered in her eyes. But she had done enough crying to last the rest of her life, and now was not the time to have swollen eyes and a red nose.

When the choir filed into the sanctuary and took their place in the risers on stage, the noisy crowd hushed instantly. Still not used to all those eyes staring at her, Mariah had the greatest urge to do something outrageous, like stick out her tongue, poke her thumbs in her ears, and wiggle her fingers! Just the thought made her bite back a grin. It never got easier; every Sunday was the same.

Even though Michael’s sermon was his usual—straight from the heart and a little playful—Mariah had to fight to concentrate. Why had she agreed to do this solo? It wasn’t her usual style. Mariah Carpenter had a reputation for singing up-beat gospel hymns or, as Michael called them, her “stepping out” songs. However for some reason, Peter Martin really wanted her to do this somber piece, and she had agreed. She loved to sing and this solo was perfect for her voice, beginning in the high tenor range then climbing to second soprano. She had worked hard on it, and she’d be damned if she wouldn’t enjoy herself. Maybe she would stick her tongue out at the end. That would give them something to buzz about.

Her sense of apprehension never lessened. When Michael concluded and the choir rose to sing, she stepped out without hesitation and took the microphone from Peter. Mariah’s legs trembled but not from stage fright. Something felt wrong.
Or else you’re afraid to sing in front of this group and don’t want to admit it,
she thought.

But everything went beautifully. She received a standing ovation that she knew was not entirely due to her singing. She acknowledged the applause as she had been instructed to do—graciously, with a slight bow of her head and a smile. She then took her place back in the choir.

When she had fussed at Michael about this hero-worship malarkey, he pointed out that people had no other way to show their appreciation for her extraordinary contribution to society. Mariah was afraid the members of the choir would resent her for being the center of attention, but they assured her they were proud of her and they beamed at her accolades.

The service was over.
One down, two to go
, she thought darkly. So why did light-headedness and a headache (something she rarely experienced) replace the discomfort?

The second service went just as well, the crowds were just as appreciative ... and her anxiety escalated until she thought she would scream. She couldn’t wait for this day to be over, to sing the third service and get back to her new home. And Thomas. Today she would ask him to move in with her; he was there all the time anyway. She was surprised when Frannie offered no resistance.

Kelly Garrett sat twelve rows from the stage, center section on the right. He convinced people he needed to sit in an aisle seat, something about claustrophobia. Everyone bought it, even the old man who grumbled about a bladder problem, and how he would have to crawl over Kelly if he needed to go to the john, but that wasn’t his problem now, was it.

Gabriel Winters had ingratiated himself with Frannie Manzetti, so when he asked to be part of the church detail, she agreed. She had no trouble with his suggestion to have Garrett as a member of the team.

Of average height and medium build, Kelly Garrett was physically unimpressive. However, he was the best shot in the San Francisco bureau, receiving a perfect score in the cardboard street of the FBI marksman test, hitting every pop-up cardboard “criminal” in the middle of the chest or in the center of the forehead, never once shooting a cardboard “civilian,” proving that he was calm, levelheaded, and able to think logically and swiftly under pressure. It didn’t hurt that his completion time was admirable and his scores on the target range were the same ... nearly perfect.

In fact, Gabriel Winters decided to have someone in his department make Kelly an offer to join the CIA if he could display the ruthless instincts necessary in a company man.

There was an FBI agent at the opposite end of Garrett’s pew, aisle seat. Six more were sprinkled in the left and right sections, near the back.

At the last minute, Gabriel Winters decided to dump three CIA agents in the balcony plus two behind Garrett; one in the right section, the other in the center but further back. Agent Ephraim Fuhrman, new to the CIA, was down front. It would be his responsibility to jump up on the stage and calm people down after Damion Lazote was killed—if today was, in fact, the day the fanatic would show.

The choir entered the sanctuary for the last service. Frannie sat in the first row, right section, aisle seat. Her own sense of anxiety had escalated as she watched Mariah through the previous two services.

She knew Mariah Carpenter better than anyone in this room (with the exception of Michael Jenkins) and something was not kosher. Frannie didn’t think Mariah’s nervousness was due to singing a solo, especially with a voice like hers. As fidgety as she appeared during the first service, she was downright spastic during the second.

As the choir mounted the risers to take their accustomed places for this final service, Mariah’s distress hung heavy in the air like a cow’s udder before milking.

Frannie scanned the pews around her. Everything looked normal. She found her agents in the strategic places she had put them.

Why was Mariah spooked? Frannie’s hand parted the Velcro fastener on the side of the purse in her lap. She loved this purse. It was designed for females in law enforcement, and eliminated the need to wear a shoulder holster.

Her fingers curled around her Glock 19, a compact version of the 17. She loved this gun, as did sixty-five percent of all law enforcement agents. Loaded with hollow point bullets, she kept it in the half-cocked position with the safety on. With her thumb on the safety, she felt confident that she could react instantaneously if necessary.

She sat on the edge of the seat, prepared for anything.