The Turning (25 page)

Celeste said, “I don’t have
any
life
outside
the church. And inside the church I’m either lost in Terry’s shadow, or I’m drowning in all the expectations people have of me. I spend most of my waking hours feeling completely out of place.”

Alisha walked back over to the veranda’s edge and stuck her hand out into the curtain of rain spilling off the roof. “I had no idea, Celeste.”

“I’ve spent years wanting to be seen and heard for myself.” Celeste’s voice cracked. “The problem is, I don’t know who that is any more.”

Alisha pulled her hand back and examined how her fingers glistened in the porch lights. “Why didn’t you say something before now?”

“I think maybe I’ve forgotten what it’s like to talk to somebody about my issues. I’ve spent years being silent because I didn’t want to offend. Didn’t want to disappoint. Didn’t want to be hurt any more than I already am.”

“Does Terry know?”

“He’s the only reason I’m still here at all. Terry says I need to love the church, faults and foibles and all.”

“Your husband is a saint.”

“He is, and sometimes I could shoot him for how all this comes so natural.”

“And now he says you need to make me your friend.” Alisha liked having a reason to smile. “I suppose that can’t be much harder than anything else you’ve been through.”

The rain drummed and sang for a time, then Celeste said, “You know, I feel better already.”

The strange thing was, so did Alisha. “Sister, I’m glad you called.”

WESTCHESTER COUNTY

The slicker Trent had purchased at the army surplus store helped combat the rain’s pelting chill, as did the helmet Della had handed him before he climbed on behind her. As the two dozen bikes thundered down the highway, water worked down the zippered collar and past the wrist-clamps. Trent held the woman’s waist and felt the cold trickle down the length of his spine. The ride was endless and the noise fierce. His drenched trouser-legs flapped painfully in the wind, adding to his bone-deep chill.

Trent could not see a thing except the rain-swept taillights of the bikes up ahead. He hurtled down the road behind the woman at a ridiculous speed, the thunderous engine vibrating up his spine and rattling his eyeballs.

It seemed like forever before they peeled off the road and clustered at the back of a defunct gas station, motors revved up and popping once more before shutting down. Trent was not the only one who rose slowly from the saddle. But the woman seemed untouched by the long, cold ride. Della took off her helmet, ran two gloved hands through her hair, and demanded, “Where are the guys with our equipment?”

“Five minutes,” someone replied.

Eventually they were joined by two decrepit vans with faded logos half-scraped from their sides. The bikers went about their tasks with offhand brutality. The plan was simple. Chase all the Barrett people outdoors. Fire the buildings. Demolish all transport. Leave Trent’s foes isolated and wet and defeated. And afraid. So afraid they’d all slink away and never show their faces again.

Plastic canisters were filled with gasoline and lashed to the back of the saddles. Shotguns were loaded with foam rounds, designed to stun and hurt but not kill. Pistols were checked and stowed. As Della passed out flares and clubs, she repeated the order several times: No live rounds fired unless somebody in the camp fired first, no physical assault unless one or more of them was attacked. Trent could not tell if the bikers objected. They all seemed to be tattooed with permanent surly expressions.

Della waved him over. “You armed?”

“Not even a butter knife.”

She reached into a wooden case and handed him a pair of Tasers. “You know how to use these?”

“Point and shoot, right?”

“Close enough. Any last words for the troops?”

Trent turned to the bikers and said, “Smooth, simple, swift. In and out.”

“Works for me.” Della slammed the van’s doors. “Okay, mount up.”

Three miles farther on, the bikes turned off the main highway, rumbled past the Barrett Ministries sign, and rattled across a cattle guard. They followed a narrow lane around a bend and entered the rain-swept dark. Trent’s heart rate surged in an adrenaline rush. He smelled wet meadows and saw nothing but the small stretch of road illuminated by the headlights. He liked how Della muscled her bike to the front of the pack. This was where he had always wanted to be. This was his destiny. To take control. To lead from the front.

Trent felt the electric thrill of coming battle, and whispered, “Showtime.”

WESTCHESTER COUNTY

I
t was not just the oddest first date Jenny Linn had ever been on. It  was the oddest evening altogether.

Kevin Burnes had been around them every day. And she had noticed him, of course. But at the same time, she hadn’t. He was friendly and capable and ever so professional. And patient. When she had botched the first seven takes of her appeal in Cantonese, Kevin had even made a joke of her efforts. He had entered the soundstage and seated himself beside her, his eyes alive with what she feared was impatient anger and then realized was humor. He had asked her to promise she wasn’t saying anything that would make Ruth upset with him. And then he had praised her for doing what clearly was a difficult trial. So of course she’d noticed him.

But not like
this
. Not
here
, and certainly not
now
.

He had come up after lunch and asked if she’d like to have dinner. And to her surprise, Jenny heard herself say that she would be delighted. Which she was.

“Do you think I should ask your father if it’s okay?”

She was about to remind him that she was twenty-seven and had been on her own since university. But somehow there was a sweet logic to his question, a strong sense of rightness. As though he sensed something in the moment and the place, that drew them into a need for harmony that defied the culture or the world beyond the green-clad hills. So Jenny had said, “Why don’t we see if they want to come along?”

The evening proved amazingly nice, rain and all. They went for pizza to an Italian restaurant with checkered tablecloths and candles in old Chianti bottles. Their conversation flowed smoothly and was spiced with laughter.

On the drive back, Jenny found it rather natural to reach for Kevin’s hand. They sat behind her parents, and she laughed over something she did not actually hear. Then Kevin turned to her and asked, his voice low, “What is the perfume you’re wearing?”

Even the way her parents shared a smile over the question seemed just fine to her. “It’s called Joy.”

Kevin squeezed her hand. “It’s really nice.”

Jenny did not respond. Because what came to mind was something she was not ready to share, especially with her parents in range. But what she thought was, she would remember this night every time she wore that perfume.

The tires hissed as the van slowed and turned off the road. They trundled across the cattle guard, rose over the first hill, then slowed again to traverse the gravel-filled trench. Then Richard jerked the van to a halt.

“What is it, Daddy?”

“Lights.”

Jenny’s mother asked, “Are those motorcycles?”

“Big ones.”

Kevin released her hand and leaned forward. “They shouldn’t be here.”

“Why are they blocking the road?” Jenny turned around. “There are more behind us.”

“Kevin, call the police.” Richard turned around and jerked the van into reverse. “Hold on, everybody.”

“What are you going to do?” came from her mother.

He gunned the motor. “Escape while there’s still time.”

After dinner John joined Dexter Wise, head caretaker, for a walk through the night. The rain fell steadily, as it had all afternoon. John wore a slicker he had found hanging in the admin building’s foyer. As they tramped down the silent lane, Dexter tried to phone his contacts at the veterans’ hall. He cut the connection and grumbled. “Thought I could count on them.”

“That trip into town was probably a waste of time,” John said.

Dexter pushed his hood back and ran his fingers through his remaining hair. “Even so, I’d still sleep better…”

John caught the man’s sudden tension. “What is it?”

“Thought I saw something.”

“Where?”

“Out past the first trees.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

Alisha emerged from the lane joining the house to the admin buildings. “I saw it too.” She pointed beyond the veil of water. “Lights farther down the road there.”

Dexter squinted into the rain-swept darkness. “You armed?”

“I’ve never even held a gun,” John told him.

Dexter pulled up his slicker to reveal a holster attached to his belt. He popped the catch, but did not pull out the pistol. “Stay close.”

“Maybe somebody took a wrong turn,” Alisha said doubtfully.

The rain glittered with the flash of lights from around the curve. “That ain’t just one car,” Dexter said, moving faster now.

As John rushed to keep up with Dexter, he said to Alisha, “How about going back—”

“Why? I’m already wet. Besides, if there’s trouble, I want to help.”

“It could be …” He didn’t even want to say the word, dangerous. As though such things had no place here.

“If there’s trouble, I want to help,” Alisha insisted.

John did not object further. She had as much right to be there as anyone. Headlights lined the top of the hill between them and the main road. They twisted and flashed like disjointed alarms. Then he heard them. What he thought was thunder coalesced into the sound of motorcycles. A lot of them.

When they rounded the bend, John’s first thought was, an invasion. A dozen or so bikes swarmed around an SUV, the headlights flashing on the Barrett Ministries logo imprinted on the doors. One biker reached out and hammered the side window with a gloved fist.

“This ain’t happening,” Dexter growled, and reached for his weapon.

“Hold up there,” John said, and gripped the man’s arm.

The metallic thunder grew louder still, as another group of bikers rumbled down the lane, halting directly between the first group and the van.

Jenny heard the tremor in Kevin’s voice as he warned Richard, “If you go off the lane, we could get stuck.”

Richard spun the wheel. “We have to risk that.”

But as he started to reverse, a fist hammered at Jenny’s window. Richard slammed on the brakes. Jenny could not actually see any of the faces. The helmets formed blank and frightening masks. The rain pelted the van as the bikes rumbled in a tight circle, moving like predators.

Then another biker slipped in close to the van. Where he came from, Jenny had no idea. But there was a difference. He faced outwards. Away toward the others. Jenny had the distinct impression he was guarding them.

The first bikers seemed unsettled by this sudden appearance. They wheeled back a trace. Watching.

The newcomer stopped by Richard’s window and swept up his face-guard. His skin was not dark, but he was definitely not Caucasian. The man’s features were craven in the manner of an ancient warrior race. The cheekbones were as pronounced as bony fists, the jaw massive, the eyes open and dark and penetrating.

Richard asked nervously, “Do you recognize him?”

“N-No,” Kevin stammered out.

The man stood there, waiting. Untouched by the rain or the surrounding danger.

Richard rolled down his window. “Yes?”

“Follow me,” the man said. His deep voice carried an accent Jenny did not recognize. “We will keep you safe.”

“But—”

The man simply flipped down his visor and maneuvered his bike around to the front of the van. He was joined by two others. The man turned back and motioned to Richard. Then he started forward.

Richard was still hesitating when Kevin said, “There are others now.”

And there were. Two to either side of the van. Richard asked, “What should I do?”

“Exactly what he said,” Jenny said. “We’ll be fine.”

Trent was about to break Della’s rules and order the bikers nearest the van to break the side window. He could taste the adrenaline’s thrill of triumph. Then the rain seemed to condense on Trent’s visor, until all he saw was a bleak fog. He could no longer make out the road, or even Della’s helmet right in front of him. Della apparently had the same problem, because she jammed on the brakes hard. Another bike rammed Della’s rear wheel. Someone shouted. It seemed as though the rain was clogging Trent’s ears as well. Then the bike engines went quiet. All of them.

The silence was eerie. All Trent heard was the sound of rain striking his helmet. Trent undid the clasp and lifted off his helmet. And froze.

They were surrounded.

He had no idea how many there were. Twenty. Forty. More. All of them riding nondescript old bikes, all dressed the same way, in slickers and helmets and boots. He tried to see if they were armed. But their hands not holding the controls remained hidden. Which he took as a very bad sign.

Della shouted at the circled men, “Get out of here.”

“Now, see, that’s kind of funny coming from you.” The biker nearest them lifted his visor. He was grey-bearded and narrow-faced, and his gaze was hard as flint. “You’re the ones that don’t belong.”

“Move off, or we’ll take you down,” Della snarled.

“You can try,” the man replied almost casually. “See, my buddies and me, we’ve been out there in real combat.” He scanned the clutch of silent bikes. “We know what it means to face a real enemy.”

“You’re about to find out just how real we can be.” Della lifted the edge of her jacket and started to unholster her gun.

“No,” Trent said.

But Della was not made for following orders. She pulled the weapon free and cocked it.

The sound galvanized their opponents. All of them, whoever they were,
moved forward
as one. Menacing in their silent intent.

“Della, put the gun away!”