Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(21)

“We could live out here,” I said. “Somewhere like that, yeah?”

“Why?”

“’Cause . . . it’s a great house. I fancy living in the countryside. And I bet it wouldn’t cost that much. I mean—”

She was silent for a while. That bothered me. I kept my eyes front, like it took all my effort just to drive.

She said, “This isn’t England, Chris.”

“Obviously—”

“You can’t just—catch a bus into the nearest town. There’s a reason it’s cheap here. It’s ’cause no one wants to live here. You know?”

“Still,” I said. “Still . . .”

A stand of trees slid by. A farmhouse in the distance, its white roof shining. A plowed field like pleated cloth. Then there were houses—smaller, these, wooden shacks with chain-link fences. We passed a general store, and then, at once, were on an urban street. “In ten yards, turn right,” said the GPS. In ten yards was a party shop—balloons and booze and glitter—and I swung right, bouncing down the hill. They had one of those mansion-like town halls even the smallest towns all seemed to manage, and we slid around this and came to what looked like a public park, and the GPS told us we’d reached our destination. A notion I was not at first convinced about.

A big marquee had been erected on the lawns, striped pink and blue, and half a dozen smaller tents had sprung up next to it. I saw kids with cotton candy, adults strolling, chatting, sipping from canned drinks.

“Not like England?” I said. “You think?”

“What?”

“Village fête. They have ’em every summer, in the country. Tombola, raffles, soak-the-bloke. It’s fun. Morris dancing, too.”

“What?”

“Old fertility ritual. Wouldn’t try it personally, but some people love it.” I was searching for a parking place. The streets were lined with cars. “Like a fun fair, you know? Family day out. Games and stuff. Boy Scouts. Fund-raising . . .”

“That,” she said, “is not a fun fair.”

“Well. Whatever you call it.”

“That,” she told me, “is a tent revival. It’s a church meeting.” When I said nothing, she said, “Read the signs, for God’s sake! They look like a fricking fun fair?”

I had seen the signs, of course—“Pray” and “Jesus is Lord”—but you couldn’t turn a corner in the States without religious slogans smacking you across the face. Now, though, I said, “Church meeting . . . ?”

She was craning round, trying to get the measure of things.

“We’re looking for a god,” she said. “Could be someone got here first . . .”





Chapter 19

Trying to Find the Reverend




The Gemini Motel was said to be the best in town. I carried my own bags upstairs and tipped the bellboy for the privilege. It was a large room with a double bed, a dresser and a view across a field where half a dozen crows milled and cawed and argued with each other.

I shut the door on the bellboy, and Angel slipped her arms around my waist.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

I held her, felt the muscles moving in her back, and I ran my tongue over her lips, catching that salt taste, walking her slowly backwards to the bed.

“Let’s give the crows a show.”



Most companies have rules to stop you mentoring your loved ones. There are good reasons for this. We had arrived at noon, but it was late before we crawled out of our room and drove back into town. By then the sun was just a small, red disk, flickering between the trees. Seen from the corner of the eye, it looked like some excited bird, flapping to escape its cage.

The crows had left their mark upon my psyche.

Downtown, crowds had gathered. There was nothing that unusual about them. A few had dressed up—suits, and summer frocks—but most were in their casual clothes, out for a summer evening. We parked a little distance off, then walked over to mingle with the faithful.

Angel had a look on her face, like she almost wanted to join in, but knew she couldn’t anymore. She squeezed my hand, and pulled me close.

“Sinning’s over,” I said. “Time to get holy now.”

I could smell barbecue. We found the kitchen stall—profits to the church—and bought a couple of burgers. The woman there told me to “Have a blessed day.”

“See that?” said Angel. “They’ve got a Bible quiz. That’s for the kids. My aunt’d drop me off there and I’d sit and answer all the questions. Man, was I pissed if I didn’t win! I was a vile kid, I really was.”

“Yeah, your dad was telling me . . .”

“Get out!”

“But, hey—you used to go to these things? Tent revivals?”

“Few times. When I was a kid. My aunt Tokela used to take me. She was kind of a holy roller back in those days. Oh, I saw it all—laying on of hands, talking in tongues, healing the sick—the whole nine yards.”

A little girl went by holding a balloon with big, pink letters: Jesus is Lord.

“You’ve got an Aunt Tequila?” I said.

“Different spelling. Hey, I’ve got a cousin named Quovadis, all one word, so careful what you say. Me and my brothers got the straight names in the family. Though there’s still some people mail me, thinking I’m some Latino dude.”