The Remnant (28 page)

As though it was a simple cleanup operation
and not the erasing of human lives. Rendt was a monster. All the
Angels were. So was Stan. What kind of men could murder people with
so little feeling?

Religious zealots, of course. Men who
believed that they were doing the will of God, or, alternatively,
sociopaths. Or both. And now Ashley was in their hands, and Trace
knew why. She was being taken back to the rats.

A rustling in the brush caused Trace to
freeze, wondering if his earlier plea for rodent assistance had
been miraculously answered. Assuming it had not he slowly he lifted
the barrel of the carbine and aimed it in the direction of the
sound, but after a couple of minutes he began to wonder if he’d
really heard it at all. Then it came again. Just the barest whisper
of something shifting a branch. He edged slowly in that direction.
Was it possible it was Ashley? Could she have gotten away, perhaps
wounded?

When he was almost on top of the sound he
carefully peeled back an alder limb with the barrel of the gun and
found himself staring into two reflective eyes.

Maxie was lying on his side, his head
wobbling, tongue lolling. Blood oozed beside one dangling ear.
Trace rested the gun on the ground and gently stroked the dog until
Maxie lay still. Blood seeped from a deep gash that revealed skull
bone. Trace pressed his hand to the wound, and after a moment the
flow slowed to a trickle. The dog licked Trace’s bloody palm and
tried to rise, stumbling. Trace forced the animal to be still,
running his fingers along the ribs, over the legs. He could find no
other wound. Apparently Maxie had been braver than Ashley had
suspected. Trace hoped maybe he’d gotten some licks in before being
hurt so badly.

"You’re gonna be okay, boy," he whispered,
not sure at all that was true.

Maxie shuddered, whimpering a little, but
even though Trace tried to still him the dog insisted in clambering
shakily to his feet. Trace studied the animal in the foliage
shattered moonlight as Maxie started sniffing the air again.

"You know where she is?" he whispered.

Maxie whimpered in answer, staring
plaintively toward the cliffs.

"That’s what I figured, too," said Trace,
rising.

Ashley’s head throbbed, and her body bobbed
painfully along as something sharp jabbed repeatedly into her gut.
When her face was struck for the third time by a hard, pointed
object she opened her eyes and realized that the world was upside
down and her hands were bound behind her back. She was staring at
the scabbard of a knife she recognized, and a sinking feeling
settled through her.

Stan.

It made sense, of course, as much as she
hated to admit it. If the Angels were going to be successful in an
attack the obvious way would be to subvert the man most important
to the Brethren’s security. This man she had trusted with her life,
whom they had all trusted with their lives, had turned on them all.
It also occurred to her in a rush of burning rage how Paulie must
have died. The old man’s dogs knew Stan, and Paulie would have not
only let him inside but welcomed him. She could picture Stan trying
to beat the information out of the old man and Paulie refusing to
give it up until he was so near death that Stan left him there to
die. Or had Stan sensed Marie’s arrival and fled, not yet ready to
give away the impending attack? More frustrated grief and fury
rampaged through her.

Safe. It’s safe.

Those had been Paulie’s last words. The old
man had died as he had lived, refusing to give in to man just as he
had never given in to fate.

Oh, Paulie, why didn’t we know? Why didn’t we
guess that Stan was a traitor?

Through the trees she glimpsed wide expanses
of the valley and flickering flames trickling up through the woods
below where houses should be. She felt a sickening sense of loss,
knowing that the silence foretold a total Angel victory. Gunshots
would have proven that some of the Brethren still lived. This was
the end for all of them, and she wondered what had happened to
Trace after her capture.

There was no reason for the Angels to leave
him alive. She suppressed a sob, picturing him dead. Through her
pain addled memory she suddenly recalled Maxie, surging out of the
darkness like a charging lion, leaping for Stan’s throat. The
vision seemed so unlikely that she had trouble crediting it, but
she knew it was true, or else the dog would be following. He had
tried to save her, and Stan had shot him for it.

"Maxie," she whispered. "Trace."

A deep, dark emptiness filled her, and
finally she did allow herself a silent sob. When she was dumped
unceremoniously onto her butt she realized they had reached the top
of Raven’s Head. More fires dotted the valley below now, and she
recognized the largest as the Meeting House, and that only served
to deepen both her certainty of an Angel victory and her own
despair. She wanted to die.

But first she wanted to kill.

A booted foot nudged her side, and she found
herself staring up into Stan’s leering face.

"Thumped you a little harder than I intended.
Sorry," he said, not sounding at all repentant.

"Screw you," she spat.

Another boot toe caught her hard in the ribs,
and she gasped.

"Your language has become atrocious since
you’ve lived among the heathens," said Rendt, glaring down at
her.

She bit back another venomous reply. Better
to hold her tongue and look for an opening for revenge. She had no
thought of escape. Where would she escape to? For what? She had no
one any longer. The Angels had made certain of that. The only thing
left for her was vengeance and death.

Rendt’s boot bit into her side again, and she
gasped, pain racing up under her arm and down her side.

"You will learn to be a good woman again,"
said Rendt. "A good wife."

"I’ll never marry anyone you choose."

Rendt laughed. "You’ll marry me."

Ashley bit her lip, careful of every breath
that stung her ribs like fire. She glanced at Stan, wondering how
the man she had trusted for so long could watch her now like this.
But there wasn’t a shadow of emotion on his face or on Rendt’s as
she turned to face him again.

"You’re my father," she whispered.

Rendt shrugged. "Who better to retrain you
and bring you back into the fold?"

"That’s incest."

Rendt laughed. "Not if the Prophet says it
isn’t."

"He’d never do that."

"
I
am the new Prophet," said Rendt,
leering.

Ashley was speechless, but she saw the light
of truth in her father’s eyes. The enormity of this second
massacre, the horror of what was planned for her, the future of
captivity and rape and abuse she saw spreading before her was
almost too much for her mind to encompass.

"My father I understand," she said, turning
back to Stan. "He’s a complete nutcase. What did you get,
money?"

Stan frowned, silent.

"I hope it was enough that you don’t mind
dying for it."

The frown spread. "What the hell is that
supposed to mean?"

"I’m going to kill you."

A smirk spread across Stan’s face. "That’s
not very likely. Like Rendt says, your future now is as a good
Mormon wife."

Ashley shook her head. "Not going to happen.
They can’t hold me. You trained me. Remember?"

"We have no need to
hold
you," said
Rendt. "You will remain with us of your own free will."

"Right."

Rendt laughed. "Oh, you will. You will
see."

But there was the old, more familiar glimmer
of subterfuge back in his eyes.

Trace halted several times in his torturous
trek up the mountain, scoping out the surrounding area and the
cliff, and once he spotted a pair of figures standing near the face
of Raven’s Head. But he never saw Ashley. So he continued the
climb, striving desperately to remain as silent as possible at the
same time that panic drove him to hurry. If Rendt got out of the
valley with Ashley it was going to be damned difficult to rescue
her. Not that that would stop him.

If I have to kill every man living in
California City to get her back, so be it.

The thought of losing her again was just too
terrifying. Trace popped the stock of the carbine against his palm
like a whip. The next time the figures appeared above the crest of
the cliff he rested the gun against the rough bark of a fir and
tried to figure out the sight picture. When he had it centered on
the man’s broad back he
thought
it was Rendt, although he
couldn’t be sure. But rage dictated that at the moment any killing
was better than none, and any opportunity to take out the Angels
leader was not one to be missed.

"Fuck you," he whispered, squeezing the
trigger.

The gun bucked, the explosion blasted through
the valley, and when Trace’s vision readjusted the cliff was
empty.

But as he started up the trail again he
noticed that Maxie was no longer with him. There was no time to
waste searching for the dog, however, and he hurried on.

Rendt stood back from the edge of the
precipice peeking over at the woods below. He had seen the brief
flash of the gun, the barest flicker of light before the crack of
the shot. Then Stan collapsed to his knees, rolling over the edge.
But instead of disappearing into the mass of forest a hundred feet
below, the man clung to the rough stone face, pleading for help.
Rendt ignored the calls.

"That puts a new twist on things," said
Ashley, staring up at Rendt from the flat of her back.

"It changes my plans slightly," agreed Rendt,
nodding toward the woods.

Two Angels stepped out and snapped to
attention.

"Get her down the mountain and to the car.
I’ll be right behind you," ordered Rendt.

Rendt watched the largest Angel toss Ashley
over his shoulder. The second man backed down the trail. Rendt
nodded.

Then he dropped to all fours and crawled to
the very edge of the cliff. Stan hung by one hand from a small
jutting outcrop almost within reach.

"Don’t leave me here, you bastard," he
grunted.

"Where were you hit?"

Stan grimaced. "Feels like my left thigh got
popped. I’m losing blood, but it must not be that bad. I’m okay.
Give me your hand."

"Who do you think shot you?"

"What the fucking difference does it make?
Help me."

"Just curious who you think might still be
alive. I’m going to assume it’s Wentworth. Why didn’t you kill him
to begin with?"

"I was aiming for him. I guess I missed, or
Cole took the bullet."

"And such a good shot you are. But no matter.
My Angels will now deal with Mister Wentworth."

"You’re going to let me die here. Aren’t
you?"

"I think this must be God’s plan for
you."

"Rot in hell."

"Not hardly. As the new Prophet, Heaven is
assured for me."

"You are one sick fuck."

"I must be going."

"Nice talking to you."

Rendt scuttled back from the edge before
standing and slipping away into the trees. A large shadow appeared
in the forest ahead. Rendt faced the man.

"Find Wentworth," he ordered, "and this time
make sure he dies."

They disappeared into the forest again, and
Rendt headed back over the mountain to the waiting cars.

Trace paralleled the trail which placed him
precipitously close to the edge of the cliff. The going through the
thick brush was so steep he gasped for breath. He was less than
fifty yards from the top when he heard a scream and spotted a
figure clinging to the rock face.

So Rendt had left Stan to die. But it
occurred to Trace that Stan’s scream also meant that Rendt or one
of the Angels must still be close enough for Stan to at least
believe he might be heard. As though on cue Trace caught the feeble
sound of a booted foot striking the trail, and he froze. Not three
yards away through the woods a man clad all in black moved quickly
but stealthily down the trail. There was no time to raise the
rifle. All Trace could do was remain still and pray that the killer
didn’t glance in his direction. Sweat burned his eyes, but he
feared to blink.

When the Angel finally passed on down the
slope Trace drew a long deep breath and started upward again. He
finally emerged from the bracken, staring through the bleak, cold
moonlight at the tiny empty clearing to one side and open valley
below dotted with flames and wafting grey smoke. His breath came in
heaving gasps.

"Help me!"

Stan’s voice rattled up the rocks, but Trace
ignored it.

"Ashley!" he called in a stage whisper.

Of course he might be giving himself away to
Rendt. To the Angel back down the trail. But he was out of answers
with no plan in mind other than to find her and to kill any others
he met up with.

"Ash!" he hissed.

"I can help you!" called Stan.

Trace padded to the crest and leaned over. He
could just make out one hand and Stan’s face down a narrow defile.
But he could tell by the strained forehead and the look in the
man’s eye that he wasn’t holding on much longer.

"Help me how?" asked Trace.

Stan chuckled humorlessly. "You don’t know
which way they went, do you?"

"I know they’re going to California
City."

"Once they get there it’s too late for
you."

Regardless of his thoughts of mayhem, of
running amuck in the town like an avenging Berserker, Trace knew
that was the truth. He’d either be arrested or killed long before
he ever found Ashley. He could feel time running away from him like
scurrying rats.

"Which way did they go?"