White Heat (15 page)

Rachel was just as interested in him. She was also surprised. Although not everyone wore the Covenanter's mark, she'd certainly expected to see it on him….

“I
don't believe we've ever met,” Ethan said.

Intrigued as to the reason he wasn't marked with his own brand, Rachel plastered a smile on her face and tried to appear hopeful and genuine. Retaining that air of innocence took effort. She actually felt more comfortable, more in control, in the ghettoes of L.A. “My name is Rachel. Rachel Mott.” She accepted the hand he extended.

From what she'd seen so far, most of those living in the commune, except the guards at the gate, dressed in Middle Eastern-style robes. Ethan was no exception. He wore a beige jalabiya with gold trim and sandals. His bare neck and forearms suggested he wasn't wearing a shirt underneath. Only a sash held the jalabiya closed. Considering the heat, Rachel could understand why he might forego a second layer of clothing. But there was something sensual in the way the loose fabric gaped open to reveal his tanned chest, as if he knew he was attractive and used it to his advantage.

His clasp was warm and dry, but he didn't shake her hand. He pulled her toward him and kissed her on each cheek. “I'm Ethan Wycliff, and these are my people. I'm glad you're here.”

She let her gaze flick to his forehead. “You're the leader?”

“I am.” He stared into her eyes. “Only I can offer you the living water you seek.”

Rachel blinked. The statement was dramatic to the point of being corny. And yet he came across as sincere. She could imagine the women who might be taken in by such intensity, such conviction. If for no other reason, Ethan Wycliff was dangerous. “I'm not sure I'm seeking anything,” she said with a laugh. “But I admit to being curious. Why is it that you don't have the mark on your forehead that I see on so many others?”

“Do they brand the shepherd as well as his sheep?” His mouth quirked, suggesting humor. Was it possible Ethan could still laugh at himself? Or was he laughing at the power he held over others, at their stupidity and weakness? Only a cocky man would be so bold as to call himself God's anointed and expect to be taken seriously. A cocky man—or a crazy one. Rachel was beginning to believe he might be both. But he certainly came in an attractive package.

Tilting up her chin to compensate for the difference in their heights—he was as tall as she'd assumed, based on his picture—she worked on controlling the subtle expressions that could label her as deceitful. A recent seminar she'd attended on body language had made her hyperconscious of what she might divulge without being aware of it. “I guess not.”

“What brings you to Paradise, sweet Rachel?”

Sweet
Rachel? The way he said her name brought to mind the sexual practices of this cult as explained by Martha. Ethan could have any woman here. And Rachel
got the impression he availed himself of that privilege whenever it suited him. “A desire to see for myself.”

“See what for yourself?”

“You, I guess.”

“Honesty. I like that.”

Someone else approached. Catching the movement in her peripheral vision, Rachel dragged her gaze away from “Alpha and Omega” long enough to see who it was and felt a jolt of anxiety when she recognized Bartholomew. She'd known she'd have to face him eventually; she just hadn't thought it would happen almost the first second she set foot on the premises.

No longer bare-chested, he was dressed in a jalabiya like his leader, except his was blue and had no trim. “Holy One. What have we here?”

“A guest,” Ethan said.

Deep furrows formed between Bart's eyebrows. “I know this woman. She is the female member of the couple I caught trespassing.”

Ethan remained unperturbed. “
Trespassing
is a harsh word, Bartholomew. She is welcome here. We are all friends, all family.” Lifting her hand, he examined her wedding ring. “Where is your husband, Sister Rachel?”

“He wouldn't come.”

“He's a skeptic?”

“He didn't feel the need.”

“But you do.”

Why? She needed a reason, something that might make him trust her. “I—I lost my mother not long ago,” she said. “I just wanted…I don't know.” She sought the empty spot inside her that made the pain real. Her mother had moved on so easily after the divorce, essentially abandoning her children, leaving them to a father
who was too strict and controlling. Rachel probed that ache whenever she needed to tear up. It always worked, and it worked today.

Ethan lowered his head in apparent sympathy. “I'm sorry for your loss and am glad you were guided here,” he said, then dismissed her by motioning to Bartholomew. “Seat her in the front.”

Two women, also guests, had parked and were walking toward the tent opening. The moment Ethan intercepted them, Rachel heard a distinct purr in their voices as they responded to his questions and comments. Not only was he handsome, he was confident and powerful. That was a heady aphrodisiac among people who were lost and looking for a leader, searching for something to believe in or someone to save them.

Bartholomew waited for her full attention. “Why are you here?” he asked under his breath.

“I was invited,” she replied.

“By whom?”

“By whoever posted a notice of the meeting at the Southwest Research Station.”

That notice made this meeting open to the public, but the stiffness of his manner told her he wasn't any happier about her presence than she'd expected him to be. “Did you bring your camera?” he asked.

“Why would I? You said we had no chance of spotting an ocelot here.”

He didn't have anything to say to that. Shooting a scowl at his leader, who had his back to them and was busy greeting more newcomers, Bartholomew whipped around and grudgingly led her to a seat right in front of the podium.

 

The meeting reminded Rachel of the tent revivals of the 1800s that she'd seen depicted in varous movies—only it was so far removed from anything she thought the modern world would accept, she felt almost shocked that Ethan would be brazen enough to attempt it. But, like David Koresh and Jim Jones before him, his audacity knew no bounds. And especially in this setting, with no cell phones and no Internet, his presentation definitely spoke to a person's desires to receive unconditional love. It helped that he'd filled all the empty seats—about fifty—with believers. He was sufficiently rational to make himself seem sane, even though he was talking about the end of the world as if he had insider knowledge.

“It's my holy calling to identify those souls who will listen to Christ and believe. Believe in His power. Believe in His goodness. Let your faith start as a tiny seed, if that's all you can offer at this moment. Nurture it and let it grow within you until you can stand strong in love of your fellow man and do all that is right.”

“Hallelujah!” the congregation shouted.

The sound echoed through the tent. The energy in his preaching, the response of the crowd and the music coming through speakers at opposite ends of the platform seemed to sweep even the visitors into a religious frenzy. All except Rachel. She could barely sit still for it. She'd heard too much of Ethan's rhetoric before, from her own father.

As she watched Ethan pound the pulpit and exhort them all to greater love and greater faith, she wondered if she'd be able to fake a conversion. How could she conjure up enough sincerity, when religion had lost its
resonance for her in childhood? Her father had twisted his religion and its teachings to be anything he wanted them to be, and she suspected Ethan did the same. She had Martha's account of what went on here to prove it.

Then they started praying for those in the audience with special needs, and Rachel watched as more and more became seduced. She knew it was the unity they were experiencing as a group, the shared sorrow of pain and illness and the hope of becoming whole that affected them. And she had to admit Ethan had a gift for reaching people, one he exploited to the fullest.

Busy analyzing the show and everyone's reaction to it, Rachel didn't hear her name the first time it was called. Like the rest of the group, she was on her knees, swooning and praying aloud for Jesus to heal those who'd asked for His help. She didn't expect to be singled out, but soon realized why Ethan had wanted her near the front.

“Sister Rachel Mott, can you please come to the podium?”

The impatience in his voice indicated that he was repeating his request. Raising her head, she found Bartholomew standing nearby, ready to guide her to Ethan.

What was this? She wasn't sick or afflicted….

Ethan's voice boomed across the loudspeaker once again. “As I stood here, praying, it came to me that there is one among us who needs our help as much as these three who are suffering physically. This is one who has suffered in her heart. Let our combined faith heal her, too. Pray with me. Pray just as hard for those who need the Lord to heal their hearts.”

“Hallelujah!” came the shout.

Rachel nearly stumbled climbing the stairs that led to the platform. Bartholomew was pulling her along; he was there to facilitate the proceedings and seemed determined not to be responsible for a loss of momentum.

“Sister Rachel.” Ethan had her kneel in front of him. Then he cupped her face as if he were Christ showing mercy to those who worshipped at His feet. “I love you. God loves you. Do not suffer more because of your mother. Release the pain.” With that he put his hands on her head and began to give her a blessing. And even though Rachel doubted he was anywhere close to being sincere, there was a part of her that could relate to the people who seemed taken in by the spectacle. Ethan had such charisma, and the others in the room chanted and clapped and stomped their feet. She
almost
wished she could let go of her cynicism long enough to feel what they felt….

Almost. But not quite.

“Love can conquer all!” they cried.

When Ethan drew her to her feet, she found herself in tears. But it had nothing to do with belief. The experience made her homesick, although she knew there was no going home. The home she craved didn't exist.

Ethan stood over her and tenderly wiped her tears. “Make sure you tell your husband that he is a very lucky man.”

That line was for her ears alone, but she was glad to hear it. Because it meant Ethan couldn't see inside her soul the way he sometimes made it seem. It meant he didn't know that Nate was only pretending to love her. And that she was only pretending to believe.

 

“So what do you think?”

Nate sat on the couch in their trailer while Rachel
perched on the edge of the old recliner across from him. It was dark outside, nearly ten, so she'd turned on the lamps. “He's going to be formidable.”

“How?”

The memory of the embrace she'd received from each and every Covenanter as she left the tent reminded her of the love and acceptance she'd felt at the meeting. It was part of the magic that held people, made them want to return and participate, to believe in healings that never really occurred. “He argues logically and boldly and he
seems
to have a clear basis for his beliefs. He's also a powerful speaker. He has a certain mystique that's very effective.”

“Sounds as if you admire him.”

“I don't
admire
him!”

“You were attracted to him?”

“Repulsed. But I recognize his strengths. He's definitely appealing in some ways. And his people seem very loyal. That'll make our job harder.”

“Did you get the sense that he's dangerous? That he might've kidnapped the Sinclair girl?”

“I wouldn't put anything past him. Bartholomew was there, too,” she added.

“How'd he treat you?”

“He wasn't particularly friendly. He kept his normal eye trained on me the whole time, watched every move I made. But it was hard to read what he was feeling. He's as coarse as Ethan is polished.”

“If Ethan's the kind of cult leader I suspect he is, he needs someone to handle the dirty work.” Resting his elbows on his knees, Nate let his hands dangle between his legs. “Did you see Martha's husband or son?”

“No, there were no children present. Todd might've
been in the congregation, though. A lot of the Covenanters showed up. I had the impression that's part of the act, part of what makes Ethan's presentation so moving. He fills every empty seat with someone he can rely on to show the proper enthusiasm and support, and it becomes infectious.”

“You didn't ask anyone about Martha?”

“I didn't dare. I was afraid of creating suspicion.”

“She's been in the news. I think it would've been okay.”

Once Rachel had met Ethan, she'd been asking herself if this person could be stopped—and if she was capable of stopping him. “There wasn't room for me to show too much skepticism. Not during this round.”

Nate's eyebrows shot up. “What's that supposed to mean? You were there as a visitor. Isn't some skepticism expected?”

“Of course. But I needed to come off as the interested party, the one driven by curiosity, or something deeper, to seek the ‘completion' Ethan supposedly offers. That's what makes me a good target for him. You're the hard sell, remember? I decided to wait and let you broach the subject of Martha and her accusations when it's safe to bring you in.”

“When will that be?”

“I have no idea. But not yet.”

She toyed with some electrical tape covering a tear in the vinyl upholstery.

The silence stretched on. “Does Ethan know you're married?” Nate finally asked.

“Yes.” The image of Ethan gently wiping the tears from her eyes appeared in her mind. “He said to tell you that you're a lucky man,” she added with a chuckle.

Nate didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He sat brooding for a few more seconds. “That meeting really made an impact on you.”