The Second Ship (The Rho Agenda #1)(80)

But God must be disappointed in him. He had allowed a longing for fellowship to cloud his vision. When he had seen the three young ones discover the Ark, he had hoped that they, too, would come to understand God’s calling, that they would also feel the importance of protecting the Ark against Satan’s false ark, which now sat inside the Rho Lab in Los Alamos.

The Rag Man stared up at Harold's broken body, swinging slowly on the hook, and a scowl settled over his thin features. But they had betrayed the trust. They had led a ravager back to the Ark. Now the Rag Man would enforce God's vengeance upon them.

He turned away from Harold's corpse, the long, dirty strands of his blond dreadlocks swinging out behind him, and trotted toward the exit to his cave.

Although the boy had been the one who led the agent to the Ark, the Rag Man thought he would deal with the girl he had been watching first. Certainly God would not begrudge him some pleasure in disposing of her. He was, after all, doing God's bidding. He would do the others in due course.

The Rag Man exited the cave, running through the moonlit night along the trail that led back toward White Rock, his moon shadow stretching away behind him as he ran.





Chapter 58





As the car pulled back into their driveway and the old garage door began slowly clawing its way up to let them park the Grunge Buggy inside, Heather watched her mother reach across the front seat to gently stroke the back of her father’s head.

It was such a little thing. A gentle petting between her mom and dad that happened so often that it almost went unnoticed. A simple gesture that spoke of affection so profound that few would have believed it possible. But the McFarlands were living proof that true, adoring love was not only possible, it was a fact.

As Heather watched them, her eyes misted.

The car stopped, coughed a couple of times, as if arguing that it did not really want to be put to bed, and then went quietly to sleep.

Her father was the first one out. “Heather and I’ll carry in the bags.”

“Good,” said her mother. “Then I’ll start reheating the posole. If you guys are as famished as I am, then I’d better get with it.”

“I’m starving,” said Heather.

By the time Heather and her dad had carefully put everything away, the wonderful aroma of her mother’s special posole wafted out to meet them. That wonderfully spicy New Mexican hominy dish seemed to stretch out an imaginary smoky finger, tapping Heather on the shoulder, then curling itself in a “follow me” signal as it led her to the kitchen.

She arrived at the table just in time to see her mother carrying a large serving dish between two puffy oven mitts, each decorated with images of dancing green chili peppers. Her mother was an excellent cook all around, but it was with New Mexican food that her prowess shone. Heather could not blame the Smythes for all but abandoning their own kitchen in deference to hers.

Dinner passed in pleasant conversation, bedtime arriving almost reluctantly to call her up to her bath. Still, the hour was surprisingly late and church service was early in the morning. By the time she had bathed and pulled on her nightgown, warm robe, and fuzzy slippers, Heather felt so sleepy she could hardly wait to slide between her sheets.

“Good night, babe,” her dad called out as she stepped into the hallway and headed toward her room.

“Night, Dad. Night, Mom.”

“Good night, sweetheart,” her mother called out from her bedroom. “Sleep well.”

Heather smiled to herself as she turned the knob on her bedroom door. They might as well be the Waltons.

She was still smiling as she stepped into her room. Before her hand could reach the light switch, a strong arm clamped around her, lifting her off the floor and clamping her mouth shut. Heather screamed, but the sound came out as a tiny, muffled squeak, not loud enough to be heard over the Leno show now playing in her parents’ bedroom at the far end of the hall.

As she tried to claw and kick, she was thrown facedown on the bed, her head tilted to the side in a quick movement as the man jammed a piece of cloth in her mouth and covered it with duct tape. The tape covered part of her nostrils, and Heather struggled to breathe. Jesus, he was strong. Maybe as strong as Mark. Despite her thrashing, she quickly had her hands and feet also bound in loops of duct tape. The man’s hands worked so quickly and with such strength that Heather found herself completely immobilized before the shock of the attack subsided.

Then the strong hands grabbed her shoulders and rolled her faceup on the bed. To her horror, she beheld the sunken eyes and insane grin of the Rag Man as he straddled her body. She screamed again, this one producing even less sound than the last. The Rag Man’s grin widened.

He moved again, grabbing her like a very small sack of potatoes and tossing her over his shoulder. Moving to the window, he opened it and leaped out, catching a branch with his free hand and swinging himself out and down, landing on the ground from a height of fifteen feet as lightly as if he had just stepped off the porch.

Then, reaching up to pat her gently on the butt, the Rag Man jogged out of Heather’s yard, crossed the street, and disappeared along the wooded trail beyond.





Chapter 59





Night. The bright headlights of cars passing by as they headed off into the black void, destination unknown. How many times over the years had Jack moved along dark streets, momentarily blinded by that glare as he prowled, a lone hunter in the darkness?