The Remnant (37 page)

"They’re going to kill him," said Marie,
quietly.

Alicia gasped. "He is the Prophet of the
Latter Day Saints."

Marie nodded. "He’s a good man. But the
Angels will still kill him. Or their master will."

"Frederick Rendt."

"Yes."

"Jesus protect us."

"Do you trust in what I have shown you?"
asked Marie.

Alicia studied the girl in the dim reflected
light from down the hall. Indecision was evident on her wrinkled
face. Marie reached out and gripped the woman’s hands and knelt,
drawing Alicia down onto her knees, too.

"Dear God," intoned Marie, closing her eyes,
"Please reveal yourself to this woman."

Alicia gasped again, and Marie felt the
woman’s hands begin to shake, but she grasped them tightly.

"Grant her the power of truth," Marie
continued, "that she may be an aid and a comfort to me. I ask it in
your name. Amen."

When Marie reopened her eyes there was no
more indecision on Alicia’s face. What Marie saw there was a deep
seated peace, and perhaps a deep seated sadness as well. Marie
understood. Just like her, this woman was being asked to walk
through that misty vision land into another reality, a new future
as terrifying as it was filled with promise. Harsh times and harsh
Gods called for harsh measures.

"Most of the men are gathered at the Meeting
House," said Alicia, "awaiting the Prophet’s orders."

Marie nodded. "Do you understand what we must
do?"

Alicia bit her lip, but nodded.

"We need to go," said Marie, rising. "There
isn’t much time."

With the others huddled around them, Trace
and Andre knelt behind a tall redwood fence through the slats of
which a couple of lights could be seen in the rear of the Rendt
home. They had taken what Trace felt was an inordinate amount of
time reaching the place because Andre was extremely slow and
diligent in his movements. But Trace had also noticed that he
didn’t seem to be getting any answer on his radio any longer. Trace
hadn’t seen any more of their mysterious
assistant
across
the street, either.

With the ominous darkness draping the town it
was difficult to make out what was shrub and what might be a hidden
assailant. But Trace had to trust to Andre’s training. Still they
both knew it was only a matter of time until the Angels discovered
their whereabouts.

He stared at the glass panels of the back
doors, seriously considering leaping the fence and just kicking
them in. But he knew that as soon as he stood Andre would likely
just jerk him back to his knees. It was a stupid thought, anyway.
No telling how many Angels were inside the house waiting. As much
as he needed to rush in there to Ashley’s rescue he wasn’t going to
do her any good if he not only got himself killed but Andre and the
others as well.

With that thought still in his mind he turned
to ask what the plan was, and Andre crashed back into him, driving
him against the fence and down onto his butt. The sput sput of
silenced shots sounded all around. Trace’s carbine clattered to the
ground. Andre grunted, and Trace found himself staring into
lifeless eyes. He looked up at a tall Angel who was pointing a gun
in his face.

"Bastard," gasped Trace, clawing for the
carbine.

The Angel smashed Trace’s face with the butt
of his assault rifle.

Ashley couldn’t believe that her father had
left them alone for so long. According to Ruth he was intent on
killing her, and Ashley assumed that meant he would murder Ruth,
too, although she wasn’t sure Ruth realized that because-regardless
of what she had said about pretending-the woman’s attention came
and went. For some time now Ruth had simply stared blankly at the
wall in front of her, and when Ashley spoke she was either ignored
or perhaps not even heard.

Ashley began to wonder if that was her
father’s plan to simply leave them here to starve or die of thirst.
The cruelty of such a death was certainly within his capacity, but
Ashley doubted if that would be enough for him. He would want to
feel her quivering in his arms, watch the life fleeing from her
eyes, hear her last gasping breath. The thought filled her with
rage.

She wasn’t going to go willingly. He might
shoot her down like a dog. He wasn’t going to get her to kneel.

The thought of a dog reminded her of Maxie
charging Stan in that brief series of instants in which she had
witnessed the dog, Cole, and Trace dying. It had all happened so
fast out there in the dark forest, and her mind was dull from the
blow to the back of her head. But she was certain she saw Cole and
Trace falling, heard the shots, saw Maxie leap and Stan clubbing
the dog down. Damn him. Damn him to hell.

"Hmmph," said Ruth, and Ashley turned.

Ruth’s head rested on one shoulder as she sat
spraddle-legged in the corner, staring at her knee.

There was a bee on Ruth’s pant leg, wandering
in a strange and mesmerizing pattern, and Ashley remembered the
swarm. What could a bee possibly be doing in this hole in the
ground?

With a flick of her finger Ruth sent the bug
buzzing about the cell, and she rose slowly to her feet to track
its path with eyes that were no longer dull. When it finally came
to rest on the wall, both Ashley and Ruth approached to arms length
to stare at the insect as it continued to meander in what seemed a
not-so-random design across the glazed paint.

"We have killer bees here," said Ruth,
raising one eyebrow.

Ashley had no way of telling one of the
insects from another, but she’d heard of killer bees. Who hadn’t?
The possibility that this was one of the deadly little beasts gave
her the shivers. The idea that her father might use bees to murder
her and Ruth was not outside the pale. She glanced at the door,
gauging the distance from the bottom to the threshold, picturing
someone outside clad in a protective suit, shaking a hive. She
wondered if she should stuff her shirt underneath the sill.

"How can you tell one from the other?" asked
Ashley, hoping that Ruth would stay with her long enough to tell
her.

Ruth shrugged. "They look pretty much alike.
It isn’t the way they look. It’s the way they act."

"What do you mean?"

Ruth moved closer to the bee, until her nose
was mere inches from the wandering little bug, her head moving with
it, disconcerting Ashley even more.

"They’re dangerous in a swarm," said Ruth,
squinting at the bee. "If you threaten their nest they attack all
together without warning. There’s no stopping them. They live to
kill."

Ashley swallowed a large lump in her throat,
imagining thousands of the angry creatures buzzing about the
cell.

"They’re not as dangerous alone, though,"
said Ruth, glancing at Ashley.

When Ashley frowned Ruth slammed the heel of
her hand down upon the bug. Then she brushed bee parts off her palm
and went back to sit quietly on the floor, her eyes frosting over
once more.

The lights in the cell flickered out, and
Ashley drew in a quick breath. But then, when the door did not
immediately open the tension began to tell on her, and she had to
force herself to calm. Was this the way her father was going to
play it out? A game in the dark? He knew the temple. She didn’t.
She decided that as soon as the door swung open she was going to
charge through it, fighting for her life.

Trace’s head pounded, the pulse throbbing
through it to a jungle beat, the feel of carpet under his back and
the palms of his hands. In the dim moonlight glimmering through the
windows he could barely make out Rendt frowning at a pair of
Angels, one on either side of him.

"Find out what’s happened to the power,"
Rendt ordered.

It was apparent by the set of the man’s eyes
that one of the Angels was reluctant to leave. Trace shoved himself
to his knees and nudged the old man he discovered lying face down
on the carpet beside him. Jedadiah moaned and rolled over onto his
side. At least he was alive.

"Go!" said Rendt, waving a hand toward Trace
and Jedadiah. "Neither of
these
can harm me."

The second Angel departed through a side
door.

Trace glanced groggily around his
surroundings. They were in a large, oak-paneled library. Rendt
leaned back against an ornate desk, crossing his arms to stare down
at both of them.

"You would not have been harmed if you had
not attempted to escape," he told Jedadiah.

The old man laughed, pulling his legs around
to sit cross-legged on the floor and rubbing the back of his head.
"I stepped up onto the curb."

Rendt shrugged. "My men might have acted a
bit prematurely."

"What do you mean to do with us?" asked
Jedadiah.

"You invaded our town. You came with armed
men to attack us. They have been dealt with already."

Jedadiah sighed, and his face sagged. "You
are a murderer, Frederick Rendt. An apostate. A liar-"

"Silence!" shouted Rendt, shoving himself off
the desk.

Trace thought he was about to strike the old
man, and he struggled to his feet, but his shoulder ached and his
legs betrayed him, and he stumbled. Still he managed to place
himself between Rendt and Jedadiah. Rendt was older than Trace by
decades. But he was well built, and he hadn’t had his face smashed
in recently by a rifle butt nor one arm torn nearly from its
socket. Still, Trace could not watch him murder the old man, and
his own need for revenge and to save Ashley reasserted itself. He
prepared himself to leap.

"Don’t be foolish, Mister Wentworth. Touch
one hair on my head, and my men will kill both of you very slowly
after
they murder Ashley before your eyes."

"You bastard," gasped Trace. "Where is
she?"

Rendt ignored the question.

But at least she was alive. Or was Rendt only
playing him? The man was a practiced liar just as Jedadiah said. It
was certainly not beyond him to have murdered Ashley and to use the
information to his own advantage. More than anything Trace wanted
to feel his fingers around the man’s throat. He hadn’t killed a rat
since he was ten years old, but he had never forgotten the
incredibly fulfilling sense of a final consummated vengeance each
time he’d found one dead in a trap.

"Both of you will learn to control yourselves
or you will pay for your outbursts. As to you," he pointed into
Jedadiah’s face with a quivering finger, "you are the apostate, the
liar, the seducer of men. God’s wrath upon you and yours for all
eternity."

There were shots in the distance, and Rendt
cocked his head. Trace and Jedadiah both listened. The sounds
seemed to come from the middle of town. Rendt frowned.

"Perhaps
you
were premature," said
Jedadiah.

Rendt waved a hand carelessly. "Whoever is
left will be dealt with quickly."

Jedadiah sighed. "Get on with it, then. What
do you intend to do with us?"

"You will both be tried, found guilty, and
executed."

"Are you mad? Who will try us? Where?"

"The citizens of California City have all
witnessed your uncalled for attack upon us. They will all witness
the trial. The men, of course."

"And the executions?" said Trace.

Rendt nodded. "It is important that every man
in California City know the sacrifices the Angels have made for
them, and that they know the penalty for an attack upon the people
of God."

"You’re talking about cold blooded murder,"
said Jedadiah. "Don’t you think word will get out? I’m the Prophet
of the Latter Day Saints."

"You both died in the attack," said Rendt,
calmly. "We will have video of your armed arrival and invasion.
Evidence of how you cut our phone lines and jammed our radio should
not be difficult to come by. You were both shot and killed in the
furor that ensued. There will be no way of knowing which of us was
directly responsible."

"You truly are mad," muttered Jedadiah.

"We will see who is mad, shortly," said
Rendt, cocking his head again as more shots sounded, closer this
time.

Trace could see that the gunfire concerned
Rendt more than the man wished to reveal. Rendt had been so certain
that he had won the war, but apparently the battle was far from
over because now there were shots from the other side of the house
as well. But when the gunfire finally ended Rendt drew a deep
breath, straightened and turned back to them with an assured look
on his face again.

"There," he said. "Now, where were we?"

"You were explaining how we were going to be
tried and executed," said Trace, feeling some of his strength and
steadiness returning.

More than anything he wanted to kill this man
now, but he had no idea how to get to Ashley or who might be
watching her. For all he knew for once the bastard might be telling
the truth, and the instant he touched Rendt she would be murdered.
The feeling of being a pawn in some game he was never meant to
understand was so familiarly frustrating he felt himself losing
control.

"I’m not your plaything," he muttered,
angrily.

"What?" said Rendt, frowning.

But Trace realized Rendt wasn’t speaking to
him. A crowd seemed to be forming on the manicured lawn out front,
and even by the gloomy gray light of the moon rising over the
distant mountains Trace could see that there were no men among the
throng. Many of the women seemed to be armed with rifles and
pistols. Others carried butcher knives or golf clubs. As more and
more women appeared, several in front made way, and Trace gasped
when Marie stepped through. When the old man shoved off the floor
Trace leaned to help him to his feet, but Rendt continued to ignore
both of them.

"Frederick Rendt!" called Marie, in a raucous
cry that seemed to caterwaul right out of the Old Testament. "Come
out and face judgment!"