Praise for the novels of Brenda Novak

“Novak delivers another expertly crafted work of suspenseful intrigue heightened by white-knuckle danger and realistically complicated romance.”

—Booklist on The Perfect Couple

“I guarantee The Perfect Couple will keep readers on the edge of their seats. Each character is completely developed, from Tiffany and Colin to Zoe and Jonathan. The story line sizzles.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Realistic and gritty, this story grabs the reader by the throat on the first page and never lets go.”

—RT Book Reviews on Watch Me

“Gripping, frightening, and intense…a compelling romance as well as a riveting and suspenseful mystery…Novak delivers another winner.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Liar

“Two emotionally damaged protagonists find much-needed healing and unexpected love in a chilling, sensual tale that features a host of skillfully developed characters and intricate, multilayered plotting. Sacramento-based Novak (The Perfect Liar) writes gripping romantic thrillers. This is the latest in her Last Stand series.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Murder

“As always, Novak’s plotting is flawless, and her characterizations are rich and multilayered. What sets this story apart from the rest is the intensity of the romance between the two wounded protagonists—it simply sizzles. A keeper.” (4.5 stars, Top Pick)

—RT Book Reviews on The Perfect Murder

“Strong characters bring the escalating suspense to life, and the mystery is skillfully played out. Novak’s smooth plotting makes for a great read.”

—Publishers Weekly

White Heat
Brenda Novak

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Dara Favero…

Someone as sweet as she is beautiful.

Dear Reader,

It’s time to turn up the heat! I’m really looking forward to sharing my three “Heat” titles with you (White Heat, Body Heat and Killer Heat). Although each book stands alone, they all revolve around a private security company called Department 6 and the retired special forces personnel, private investigators and police officers who make their living working as “hired guns.” These men and women face some diverse and unusual circumstances—and some very frightening challenges.

Another common thread is that all three books are set in Arizona, a place I find fascinating. While growing up, I lived in Chandler for eight years, back when it was still a farming community and not the sprawling metropolis it has since become. I miss those days, especially the long days of summer, which is probably why I’ve chosen to set each of these titles in a small town during the hot months. If you’ve never experienced an Arizona summer or one of the infamous monsoons, you’re really missing something….

Arizona has more than its share of ghost towns. Paradise, the setting of this book, is one of them. I took a little (or a lot) of artistic liberty when I settled my fictional cult in Paradise, but it’s a unique place that really exists. With such a perfect name, I couldn’t resist.

I love to hear from my readers. Please feel free to contact me via www.brendanovak.com. There you can also enter my monthly draws (I give away all kinds of things), learn more about my annual online auction for diabetes research (we’ve raised over $1 million so far!), download a free 3D screensaver, get the latest info on my annual FAN convention (which I do with #1 New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan), or check out any new books on the horizon (you can even read a sample). If you don’t have a computer, you can write to me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA 95611.

Here’s wishing you many hours of reading pleasure!

Brenda Novak

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

1

Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

—King James Bible, Matthew 7:15

“This guy is dangerous?” Rachel Jessop studied the glossy black-and-white photograph her manager slid across the table.

Nate Ferrentino’s leather chair squeaked as he leaned back and locked his hands behind his head. “He doesn’t look dangerous to you?” One eyebrow arched, telling her he found her reaction amusing, but she couldn’t begin to guess why, and she’d worked with him long enough to know he wouldn’t explain even if she asked. With short dark hair and green, gold-flecked eyes, he had the face of a sensitive man who’d become cynical and the body of a soldier. Nate was a tempting physical specimen. But he wasn’t one to reveal much about his thoughts.

Rachel wished that was all she knew about her boss. When she’d first started working at Department 6 eight months ago, she’d been so convinced she’d met the one man she could love with all her heart, she’d made a humiliating miscalculation. The embarrassment of that incident still burned so intensely she could barely look at him.

Ignoring the way his T-shirt stretched over his clearly defined pecs, she kept her focus on Ethan Wycliff, the man in the picture. Wiry and with the appearance of some height, Ethan had polish to spare—high cheekbones, black hair, black eyes and a beguiling smile. “He’s too pretty to seem dangerous. He could be on billboards, modeling suits for Armani. What’s he done?”

Except for possibly height, Nate was Ethan’s opposite. Although he wasn’t overweight by any stretch of the imagination, slender wasn’t an adjective that came to mind. Pretty and polished didn’t fit, either. He was handsome, but not in the classic sense of movie stars and models. His forehead was a bit too wide, his jaw too square. And he had too many scars—both from when he was a navy SEAL and from working for Department 6 after he’d left the military.

“Depends on who you talk to,” he said. “There’s a chance that none of it’s illegal, but the secrecy surrounding him and his group is making some important people nervous.”

Rachel shoved the picture back in Nate’s direction, but he didn’t move to reclaim it. He let Ethan Wycliff’s image remain on the table, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling of the small conference room—one of several in the L.A. office. Unlike other security contractors, Department 6 rarely handled military operations. They specialized in undercover work, generally inside the U.S.

“What’s he suspected of doing?” she asked. “Laundering money? Smuggling drugs? Working in the sex-slave trade?”

“He’s the leader of a religious cult about two hundred members strong.”

That was the last thing she’d expected Nate to say. Judging by Ethan’s elegant business suit, he had taste. He wasn’t sporting a scraggly beard, wasn’t beggarly or odd-looking in any way. Neither did he appear smarmy like some televangelists she’d seen. Not in the photograph, anyway. “What kind of religious cult?”

“A Christian cult. Sort of. It seems to be a compilation of whatever Ethan wants it to be. He and his followers call their organization the Church of the Covenant. One thing they believe is that the world is coming to an end very soon. Only those who are properly branded—”

“You mean, tattooed?” she cut in.

“No, I mean, branded—and baptized and living within the gates of their little commune—will rule with God.”

“That’s not particularly creative.” She’d heard plenty of the same rhetoric in her own house growing up. For most of her life her father and the leaders of his small sect had claimed that the world was in its “last days.” They’d named date after date when Armageddon would arrive. Every one had come and gone. “How’d he get his start?”

“Five years ago, he was a popular frat boy at Cornell. I guess he and a few roommates went out in the woods and devised their own religion, loosely based on the Old Testament’s patriarchal order. Our intelligence report indicates that it was originally meant to be a joke. Drugs were involved. They called it the ‘antireligion.’ But when they began meeting regularly, word spread among the kids at Cornell and other colleges in nearby communities, somehow generating support, and it became real.”

“Power is tough to resist, especially for an Ivy League frat boy who’s used to being on top of the world.”

“That’s my take, too.”

She glanced away from Nate so she wouldn’t squirm in her seat at the memories that overwhelmed her whenever their eyes met. “How many of his roommates still belong to this so-called religion?”

“The original four are still with him. They’re known as ‘spiritual guides’ now and they’re part of the Brethren, the twelve men who form a close circle around him. A fifth roommate, one who joined a bit later, is dead.”

“Dead?” she echoed. “At twenty-something?”

“He was killed in a drunk-driving accident after a meeting. There are a few unanswered questions but no real proof that it was anything other than that.”

She considered what she’d just been told. “What’s so appealing about his religion that others are interested in joining up?”

“It’s mostly familiar stuff but with a modern twist. It includes extramarital sex and drug use. And Wycliff has a few assets—besides his looks—that make him more dangerous than most cult leaders.”

She ignored his reference to her appreciation of Wycliff’s appearance and scooted closer to the table. But the instant she caught Nate’s scent, that mix of clean male and leather that would forever differentiate him from every other man, the memory of slipping into his bed to “surprise” him came to her as vividly as the night she’d done it. Would the mortification never go away?

He gave her a speculative look, as if he could suddenly sense an added level of discomfort, but she was determined to pretend she’d forgotten all about her terrible faux pas. As a child, she’d been sheltered so long she hadn’t grown up with the usual interplay between the sexes and, apparently, hadn’t read his signals correctly. She’d thought he wanted the same thing.

Keeping her gaze steady, she struggled, once again, to forget that night. “And those assets are…”

“More charisma than any man has a right to, at least a man who once idolized Charles Manson.”

“Charles Manson? Are you serious?”

He chose a file from a stack he’d brought in with him, and thumbed through it while he talked. “Dead serious. Wycliff corresponded with Manson regularly while he was in high school. I’ve got copies of some of those letters here.”

“Was their correspondence a joke at first, too?”

“He played it that way, used to read Manson’s letters aloud to various people he knew, including his parents. His mother said he liked the shock value. His father claims he’s always been fascinated with killers. Especially Manson, because of the brutality of the Tate murders and the power Manson held over those who committed them.”

“Why would they allow him to correspond with someone like Manson?”

“It started out as what Ethan called ‘a psychological study.’ He said he wanted to major in behavioral science when he went to college.”

She shivered. “But couldn’t they see where it was going? These letters make me more than a little nervous.”

“They should’ve made everyone nervous.” He offered the file for her perusal.

Careful not to brush his hand, she accepted it but merely placed it in front of her, because he was still talking.

“At first his parents saw only what they wanted to see and hoped his interest was professional, as he’d claimed. He didn’t read them what he wrote to Manson. He kept that private, so the bits and pieces they heard of Manson’s letters made it sound as if Manson was the only crazy one.”

“So how did we get copies of the letters?”

“You know how closely prison mail is monitored. Once his father finally became uneasy, he paid a correctional officer to keep an eye on the budding relationship. It was that guy who made copies. But he worked certain days and shifts, of course, and the letters that came and went on someone else’s watch were lost.”

“Why didn’t dear old dad put a stop to the letters once he saw what they contained?”

“His wife insisted it was just a ‘phase’ Ethan was going through, that he was purposely trying to provoke Manson, the same way he tried to provoke everyone else. And then the problem seemed to solve itself. Ethan grew disenchanted with Manson, quit writing him and the relationship ended.”

“But that was a pretty ominous start, and it led to a bigger problem.”

“Exactly. Now Ethan’s set himself up as a prophet, the Holy One, the man to lead all Christians to enlightenment.”

“And let me guess—enlightenment happens after this life.”

“With your background, I knew you’d be familiar with the dogma.”

Far more than she wanted to be. She’d tried hard to distance herself from the brainwashing she’d undergone as a child, but it wasn’t easy to put all those hours of religious “instruction” behind her. Not when there were so many lasting effects, some of which she blamed for the embarrassing blunder she’d made with Nate six months ago.

“Sounds as if he’s as whacked as Manson,” she mused. Or, like her father, his teachings and devotions could be similar enough to mainstream religions to fall within what society deemed “normal.” Not that her father’s “normal” was normal to most people. From the moment she got home from school every day, Fredrick Jessop had kept her under lock and key, forced her to read the Bible for hours on end and go to church three or four times a week. Until she’d left home at seventeen, he’d had complete control. Even after she was on her own, she’d been so well trained she was twenty-five before she lost her virginity; at that point she’d finally slept with a man just to punish her father after an argument. That had turned out to be such a bad experience, so cheap and unsatisfying, she hadn’t had sex again until she met Nate. But, for different reasons, her encounter with Nate had been even more disappointing than the original one.

“He might be crazy,” Nate said. “But making up your own religion isn’t a crime. You know that better than most.”

Her father and his cronies had done it, hadn’t they? “So what law has Ethan broken?”

Nate’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “That’s the reason for this assignment—to find out.”

She’d already assumed as much. But she wasn’t comfortable with the religious element. Her background dealing with religious zealots had taught her there was no way to win, no way to argue any doctrine logically because people like her father always referred to the illogical to back up their beliefs.

“Do you think I have the experience for this?” she asked. Before coming to Department 6, she’d worked undercover for the LAPD, pretending to be a prostitute, as well as helping in some drug busts. Since hiring on at Department 6, she’d continued with drug enforcement, generally contract labor for the DEA. Bottom line, she’d specialized in something that was more straightforward, easier to fight. And she liked it that way.

“You have as much experience with this type of thing as anyone else at Department 6,” he said.

That was probably true. They all did more drug work than anything else. “There must be something besides his affiliation with Manson that’s brought this man to our attention,” she said. “I’m guessing there are a lot of whack jobs who’ve contacted Manson over the years.”

“A woman by the name of Martha Wilson recently escaped from the commune,” Nate explained.

Now they were talking. “Another interesting word choice, seeing that escaped has the connotation of being held against her will.”

“Her word,” he said. “She claimed Wycliff punished her for sleeping with her own husband.”

“I thought sex was dealt with in a more liberal fashion in this commune.”

“It is. But she was on ‘restriction.’”

Because it was beyond awkward to talk about sex with Nate after what had occurred between them, Rachel tried to cover her anxiety by toying with the edge of the file in front of her. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Otherwise, sex is open to anyone, married or unmarried, as long as both people are consenting and of age.”

“Now I see why Ethan’s attracting converts. Religious endorsement of drugs and sex. No willpower required. What’s not to like?”

His lips quirked in a wry smile. “It’s not quite as simple as it might sound.”

“With religion, it never is,” she muttered.

“Only those who live according to various ‘higher laws’—” he made quotation marks with his fingers “—gain that benefit. But there’s a cost. Once you join, you begin a process that culminates in embracing certain rituals that go with these laws. We’re not sure what these rituals are. We got most of this information from what was reported in the papers. Martha was vocal about the group’s abuse, but less so about their beliefs.”

“And Milt can’t get more information?” Milton Berger owned the company. Slightly eccentric, he was basically a wealthy businessman who’d never spent a day in the field. At forty-five, he drank and smoked so much he couldn’t possibly run the forty-yard dash. But he had an eye for talent and a talent for making money.

“He’s relying on us to figure out the rest.”

“Do you know what the prize is?”

“The prize?” he repeated.

“What do the people in Ethan’s religion get for living these supposed higher laws? There’s always a prize for good behavior. It’s usually called salvation.”

“They’re admitted into ‘the Holy One’s’ inner sanctum and become sanctified like he is. Or something like that. Again, there might be more to it.”

Remembering what she’d been taught regarding the few elect who would rule with God, she made a face. “How do people fall for this crap?” She’d been steeped in it and still couldn’t buy it, although there’d been plenty of times she’d wished she could. It would’ve made her life so much easier.

“I think psychologists say they’re not happy with the world in which they’re living. Some want to prove how unique and special they are. Others are just hoping to feel as if they belong.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “But who really knows? Motivations are as individual as people.”

“Doesn’t sound to me like the world they’re building will be any better than the one we’ve got.” No matter how hard her father and brother had tried to convince her that the afterlife was all that mattered. “How badly did Ethan Wycliff beat the woman who escaped?”

“She says it wasn’t him. It was a public event—a stoning modeled after those in the Bible.”

She stiffened. “Stoning is a death sentence in the Bible.”

“Martha managed to escape.”

“How?”

“We don’t know exactly. But according to her, Ethan’s getting crazier by the day. She says everyone in the church will wind up dead if someone doesn’t do something soon.”

Rachel glanced at the photograph again. This time, Ethan’s black eyes appeared far colder than they’d seemed before. “Looks like my job’s about to get interesting. Again.” Interesting and potentially dangerous. The dangerous part never changed. But she didn’t mind. It kept her fully occupied, kept her from having to acknowledge the fact that she had nothing in her life except the satisfaction of doing a job most people couldn’t. “When do I leave?”

“We leave in the morning.”

She riveted her eyes on his face. They never worked the same case. He made sure of it. And they both knew the reason. So why the sudden change of heart? “You don’t think I can handle it on my own?”

“Milt’s decision, not mine.” His response divulged nothing of his own reaction. But she could easily guess how displeased he’d been when he heard the news. He probably feared she’d try to seduce him again. He’d made it very clear that he didn’t want that.

“What about Rod?” she asked, trying to control her voice so it wouldn’t reveal her panic. “He could go with me.” More than just a coworker, Roderick Guerrero was one of her best friends. She’d feel far more comfortable with him.

“Rod’s on another job. So are Jonah, Drake and Kellen.”

“Then maybe Angelina would be a better choice for—”

He shook his head. “She’s too new.”

And had no more business in this line of work than Rachel did. He didn’t have to say that; Rachel knew he didn’t approve of having females taking on the dangerous stuff. “Then I can handle it alone,” she argued. A homicidal maniac, drunk on his own power, would be easier to face than daily association with Nate. “It’ll be more difficult for two strangers to gain the trust we’ll need.”

“Milt wants us to go in as a couple.”

“What?” This went beyond going undercover together as…say, friends or acquaintances. What did it mean? Would she be sharing a room—a bed—with Nate?

She couldn’t do it. Not after the way she’d thrown herself at him six months ago. “How will we get them to accept us?”

“They hold meetings they call Introductions. I’m not sure where. But they’re open to the public. Once we find out where to go, you’ll attend one, feign interest and drag me to the next one. We’ll go from there.”

The plan already seemed set in stone, but surely there had to be a way out. “Where is this cult? Not here in Southern California…”

“No. Paradise, Arizona.”

Allowing his response to distract her, she frowned. “That’s the name of the compound?”

“That’s the name of the town they’ve taken over and has been since it was founded more than a century ago.”

“They bought a whole town?”

“Every parcel, and since no one else wanted it, they got it cheap.”

“They actually came across one named Paradise? Ironic, to say the least,” she said. Especially because it certainly wouldn’t be Paradise for her.

“Arizona and paradise are an oxymoron, at least this time of year.”

“So it’s as barren and hot and dry as the last place we worked?”

“Nevada? It’s just as barren. But it’s even hotter and dryer. I’d describe it as more of a white heat.”

“It’s that hot?”

“It’s that hot.”

He lowered his voice. “And there are a lot more snakes.”

The guys she worked with would never let her live down her fright at the pet boa constrictor Drake had put under her desk a few weeks ago. In a group of hard-asses, any weakness was to be exploited, if only for the sake of entertainment. But she got the impression Nate wasn’t needling her for fun. He didn’t like the idea of working together any more than she did. He wanted her to fight this assignment, to go outside the chain of command, if necessary, straight to Milt.

For a moment, she considered doing that. But she was relatively new and still trying to prove herself. She couldn’t risk getting fired, not with her mortgage. Besides, if there was any way to change Milt’s mind, Nate would’ve already tried it.

“I can put up with snakes,” she lied. “I just wasn’t expecting one to come slithering up my leg.”

“I’m not talking about pet snakes. I’m talking about rattlers.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

His jaw tightened. “This will be dangerous, Rachel.”

“Our job always is.” That was how she liked it. She didn’t have to worry about heaven and hell, her father’s disapproval or anything else—just surviving from one day to the next.

They stared at each other in a virtual standoff. She wasn’t sure what to do about this, but she wouldn’t let him manipulate her into causing trouble inside the company. That would only convince everyone that she was as whiny and hard to please as the guys were afraid a female would be. “I’m not quitting. Or getting myself fired,” she said.

He cursed under his breath, but she ignored it.

“So where are we going exactly? Paradise must be south of Flagstaff if—”

“It’s in the southeast corner of the state, not far from the Mexico and New Mexico borders. Used to be a ghost town. Until Wycliff decided to revive it, there weren’t more than a handful of people living in the area.”

“Are those people still around?” Or did they leave when the Covenanters moved in the way she wanted to flee at any mention of prophecy, scriptures or the end of the world?

“For the most part, he either converted them or bought them out.”

She wiped damp palms on her jeans. She was the only female operative at Department 6 with any field experience. That was why Milt had chosen her. They were just beginning to hire women. But who said this assignment required a woman or even a couple? Maybe Nate could go in alone. “Where’s Ethan getting the funds to buy land and build a town?” she asked, stalling.

“Like any cult leader, he requires converts to forfeit all their wealth for the greater good. And he makes everyone work. They sell cheese, for one thing. He also has other resources.”

“Like…”

“A trust fund.”

She sat up straighter. Now Ethan’s suit and polish made sense. Apparently, he hadn’t attended Cornell on student loans. “He comes from money?”

“You could say that. His father is Robert Wycliff.”

The name meant nothing to her. “It’s not as if you said Bill Gates. Who’s Robert Wycliff?”

“The owner of the eighth-largest engineering firm in the country. Gets big government contracts, makes the Forbes list every year.”

She whistled. “I see. So…who wants to know what little Ethan is up to? The government? Or Daddy?”

“If you heard your son was amassing weapons and explosives, and you knew he once had a relationship with Charles Manson, wouldn’t you be concerned enough to find out what’s going on? Mr. Wycliff doesn’t want anyone hurt. And he’d rather not see his only child in prison.”

“He has to have a security contractor? Wouldn’t a PI work just as well?”

“He tried that. Ethan’s group is isolated and very cliquish. The PI he hired couldn’t get close enough. And because of the potential danger, Wycliff senior wanted people who could defend themselves—and others—if necessary.”

She wondered if part of Robert’s concern stemmed from a desire to protect his family name. It would certainly be a consideration for her own father. He was forever asking her to make him proud. She’d just never been able to do it. “How’d he lose track of junior in the first place?”

“He said there’s always been something different about Ethan. Their relationship was strained almost from the beginning, but it’s gotten worse with time. They’ve been completely estranged for more than a decade. Ethan dropped out of college, wouldn’t work, never applied himself. Robert says he did what he could to turn his son into a productive individual. I get the impression he would’ve done more if Ethan’s mother hadn’t stood in his way. She insisted their son was fine, that he just needed to be himself and live his own life.”

“Classic denial,” she said, but she was intrigued in spite of herself. “So Robert backed off?”

“He immersed himself in his work and let her deal with Sonny, until Ethan started to preach in their neighborhood and town. They finally drew the line, so he left to take his followers to a place where they’d be ‘unmolested.’ Robert was confident he wouldn’t be able to make it work. He thought Ethan would eventually be forced to come home, hoped he’d quit with all the oddness and be the son they wanted him to be.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“No. For months, they had no idea where he’d gone—until an assistant Robert hired to follow the money flowing from Ethan’s trust fund sent a clipping from a Tucson newspaper. It was an article about the Church of the Covenant taking over Paradise.”

She opened the file and flipped through photocopies of several letters, all written in the blocky print so typical of males. But because she figured there might be a chance to duck this assignment, she closed the file without bothering to read them. “Are the Wycliffs aware of the woman who claims she was stoned at their son’s command?”

“I can’t speak for Valerie. Robert is. The PI he used could tell him that much. But Robert’s also aware that the police have visited Paradise and found nothing to substantiate Martha’s claims.”

“So he’s still hoping for the best.”

“Yes.”

Rachel tucked her long hair behind her ears. “What did Martha’s husband have to say to the authorities?”

“His name’s Todd. He said the same thing Ethan did. That she wanted to watch the children instead of work in the cheese factory and became more and more unhappy when she was denied. He told the police he was disappointed in her, that she wasn’t worthy of enlightenment if she could become disaffected so easily and make up such terrible lies.”

“She had to sustain those injuries somehow,” Rachel mused.

“No one in the compound seems to know anything about how she might’ve been hurt. And unless someone’s willing to talk, there’s not a whole lot the police can do.”

A growing sense of injustice, the kind that had fueled her desire to get involved in undercover work, began to percolate in Rachel’s blood. Society had to take a stand before these cancers grew out of control. And she was willing to be part of the solution. At least in this fight she wouldn’t have to hold anything back, the opposite of what she’d experienced with her father. That call to duty tempted her. She wanted to infiltrate the Covenanters and seek justice for the woman who’d been stoned, put an end to Ethan’s reign of terror—if that was indeed what it was. But she couldn’t do this assignment pretending to be Nathan’s wife. There was too much residual emotion between them. “Why do we need two people on this?”

His eyelids lowered. “If you don’t want to do it, you should talk to Milt.”

Of course. They were back where he’d been trying to lead her all along. “Why bother? You’ve already tried, haven’t you?”

He didn’t respond.

“I’ll take that as a yes. What did he say?”

Stretching out his legs, he crossed them at the ankles. “He said Ethan likes women. Pretty women. He said you’re the bait that’ll get us both in.”

Here was the difference between Milt and Nate, Rachel thought. Milt would send his own wife undercover if there was something to be gained by it. But it was Nate’s job to make sure everyone remained safe, which was why he wasn’t thrilled when Milt began using women in the field. He came from a conservative family where he’d been taught to protect “the fairer sex.” And his SEAL training supported his upbringing.

“That’s a pretty unequivocal no,” she said.

Nate’s eyes nearly drilled holes into her. “You could always quit. Someone as qualified as you would have no trouble getting back on the police force.”

And lose her house to the bank? No, thank you.

She leaned forward to prove she wasn’t intimidated by him. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s my life and I’d rather get paid well for the risks I take.” She also liked having a clearly defined target for the legacy of anger her father had left her, and she had more latitude working for Department 6. “If you’re afraid you can’t effectively manage me or Angelina or any other woman Milt might hire, maybe you should be the one considering a career change.”

Silence. He definitely wasn’t happy with her challenge.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said when he’d let her squirm long enough.

He wasn’t leaving, and it came as no surprise. As Milt’s first operative, Nate had all but built Department 6 into what it was. Rachel couldn’t see him moving on anytime soon.

“Then we’re stuck. But you don’t need to worry about me, so spare yourself the headache.”

When he simply stared at her, she sat back. Glaring at each other wasn’t going to help. “What names will we use in Paradise?”

A muscle flexed in his cheek, but he revealed no other outward sign of anger or dissatisfaction. “We’ll keep our first names. Our last will be Mott.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mott.”

“That’s right.”

Still intent on creating a situation more to her liking, she blew out a sigh. “We don’t have to say we’re married, you know. We could go in as brother and sister.”

“That wouldn’t allow us to share a room. I need to be close. Just in case.”

Close was precisely what she wanted to avoid. Close would bring turmoil. “Just in case…what?” He hadn’t been there to protect her on the last drug job. No man had. And she’d done fine.

“Just in case,” he repeated.

Obviously, she wasn’t going to get a better answer. “How long have we been married?”

He shoved a manila folder at her. “Here are the details Milt’s provided so far.”

Grabbing both files, she put them in her leather satchel and got to her feet. “The Arizona desert in the middle of July. White heat. Sounds great. When do we head out?”

His eyes glittered with frustration. “First thing tomorrow.”

Rachel felt some of the determination drain out of her. “That soon?” Usually they had a few days to gather facts, get into character, make travel arrangements. Milt established the infrastructure and provided what he could to support their covers—like fake ID and other documentation—but they had the freedom to add the finishing touches themselves.

“Robert Wycliff has offered a hefty bonus if we make quick work of it. Milt knows he’s already late on this one.”

And far be it from Milt to let any consideration outweigh money. “I see.”

Nate collected the remainder of the documents he’d brought into the room. “I’ll pick you up bright and early. Six sharp.”

At five foot seven inches and one hundred and twenty-five pounds, she felt dwarfed as he stood. It was all she could do not to keep her mind from flashing back to how the difference in their sizes translated horizontally. “We driving or flying?”

“Driving. It’s a good ten hours from L.A., but having a rental car in such a remote area will be too conspicuous. I figure we’ll want a vehicle that’s broken in, one that doesn’t scream Hertz.”

“Your truck?”

“My truck.”

The very mention of it evoked the scent of engine grease and pine air freshener. It also brought back her acute sense of shame when he’d curtly explained that she’d assumed too much and took her home the morning after their night together.

“I’ll be ready.” With a mock salute, she started out of the room, but he called her back.

“I almost forgot.” He skirted the table to hand her a small, crushed-velvet box he’d pulled from the front pocket of his jeans.

Rachel didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. As much as she told herself she’d learned her lesson, she still sometimes dreamed of getting a ring from him.

But not in any of those dreams had it happened like this.

Without even looking inside the box, she dropped it in her satchel.

“Don’t you think you should see if it fits? You’ll have to wear it tomorrow.”

Feeling as though a vise was squeezing her chest, she dug out the box and peered inside.

The diamond was tiny, the band plain. A similar ring could’ve been bought at any number of stores for around five hundred dollars, even less at a pawn shop. But she would’ve been happy to receive a plastic ring from a gum-ball machine, if only it held any of the usual symbolism.

“Well?” he asked.

She took it out and slid it easily onto her finger. The fit was loose but with a little tape she could fix that. “This is the best you can do?” she said with a grimace as if she hated the ring as much as the thought of wearing it.

He gave her a grin that wasn’t meant to be sexy but managed to look that way. “What can you expect from a lowly cement contractor?”

She supposed his cover would have to involve a job that required manual labor. How else would he explain all those muscles? “Can you actually pour cement?”

“I can do anything,” he said.

She knew he was teasing but, from what she’d seen, that was true.

2

According to the dossier Milt had created, they’d start this job by moving into a mobile home in Portal, Arizona, a small town five miles east of Paradise. Not only would Rachel keep her first name, she’d keep her age—twenty-eight. But that was about it. Under her assumed identity—Rachel Mott—she came from Utah instead of California. She had four siblings living in and around Salt Lake City. She’d married Nate three years ago, after meeting him at a Jazz game.

There was a little more—her schooling, her previous job at a child-care facility, information about their families and backgrounds. But as Rachel studied the dossier, she felt her anxiety increase. Going undercover with Nate would be even more difficult than she’d thought. How would they pull it off? There were details husbands and wives knew about each other, intimacies shared, that couldn’t be faked. And what about body language? Ever since the night she’d surprised him in his bed, Nate had been careful not to come within three feet of her.

“Crap.” Finding the remote on her nightstand, she muted the television and sat in silence for several seconds. Should she call him? See if she could convince him to postpone the trip for a day or two? With more time, maybe they could talk Milt into letting her infiltrate Ethan’s cult on her own.

If she didn’t make her argument now, Nate would be at her door, packed and ready to go, in six hours.

“I’ve got to try.” Safety was a concern Nate would listen to. He always looked out for his team. It wasn’t just his SEAL training; it was part of his makeup. He’d fight Milt on those grounds if no other.

Feeling a fresh burst of confidence, she reached for the phone and dialed his number.

He answered on the first ring.

“He won’t let us off the hook,” he said. “And I’m sleeping. Don’t bother me again.”

He didn’t sound as if she’d awakened him. His voice wasn’t the least bit gravelly. But the click and subsequent dial tone told her he’d said all he was going to say on the subject.

Angry that he’d known the reason for her call before she could even say a word, she slammed the phone down and went back to the dossier. “This won’t work,” she mumbled. For instance, she might say that her brother was gay and he might call the same brother a womanizer. What then? There was no way they could script every detail ahead of time. Going undercover was all about ad-libbing. Trying to do this together could make it unravel. And Ethan was a dangerous man. Those letters to Manson confirmed it.

Rachel glanced at the stack she’d set to one side. The hero worship exhibited in Ethan’s earlier writing gave her chills. Had he really admired a man who’d used others, mostly women—except for Tex Watson—to brutally murder seven people? A lot of psychopaths admired killers because they themselves fantasized about committing the same kinds of acts. Was Ethan capable of such heinous crimes?

Putting the dossier on her nightstand, along with her fake ID, which had been tucked inside it, she picked up the letters and read them again. They were more than a decade old. She had no way of knowing if they still reflected Ethan’s thoughts and attitudes, but they gave her a glimpse into the psyche of the man he’d once been. He talked about Spahn Ranch, where Manson had lived when he ordered the murders. He compared it to a place he’d find for his own “spiritual family,” a place where he could “operate beneath the awareness of the outside world.” Except for one letter, he ignored Manson’s fascination with the Beatles and their music, but he quoted several of Manson’s favorite verses from the Book of Revelation 9:2, 3.

And he opened the bottomless pit…. And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth: and unto them was given power, as the scorpions of the earth have power.

“I have this power,” Ethan wrote. “I can feel it taking root in me. I can make scorpions of locusts. What would you have me do?”

Wishing she had Manson’s reply, she flipped to another letter, this one dated August 4, 1998. Here, Ethan began by thanking Manson for his latest response and quoting Revelation 9:4.

And it was commanded [that the locusts] should not hurt the grass of the earth, neither any green thing, neither any tree; but only those men which have not the seal of God in their foreheads.

“I have the mark,” Ethan informed Manson. “My people will freely take it upon themselves. They will be God’s avengers against the wicked. They will avenge you.”

That was where the brand came in, Rachel mused. He went on to quote verse 17.

And thus I saw the horses in the vision, and them that sat on them, having breastplates of fire, and of jacinth, and brimstone: and the heads of the horses were as the heads of lions; and out of their mouths issued fire and smoke and brimstone.

“You will be free,” Ethan promised Manson. “I will make you free.” He’d closed that particular letter by quoting one last verse.

And the fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth: and to him was given the key of the bottomless pit.

“You have passed that key to me.”

“‘You have passed that key to me,’” Rachel repeated. What did he mean by that? Did he feel as if he was taking over where Manson had left off?

That was a terrifying thought….

She chewed anxiously on her lip as she read the only letter in the pile that had been written by Manson.

“You know, a long time ago being crazy meant something. Nowadays everybody’s crazy. And you’re crazier than them all.”

Some sort of drink had been spilled on the bottom half, making the rest impossible to read. That was disappointing, especially because Ethan’s next letter revealed growing frustration. It seemed to be in response to Manson’s rebuke, or maybe there’d been a letter or two in between; the dates were three months apart. The gist of what he’d written suggested that Manson wasn’t living up to his prophet status, wasn’t guiding young Ethan as he wanted to be guided. Ethan was getting angry.

“You and all those Beatles songs, man. What was with that? What did the Beatles have to do with God? You’re full of shit, you know? Yellow Submarine, my ass. Where were you when Helter Skelter started? Safe at the ranch.”

Did that mean Ethan would be a different kind of leader? One who actively participated instead of watching from afar?

“The only thing you had right were the women. The women are where it’s at.”

Twisting her new wedding ring around her finger, Rachel read that line for the third time. Ethan had a fascination with women, probably because he felt more capable of bending them to his will. His mother had defended him and protected him against his father’s criticism, hadn’t she? Maybe he thought he could manipulate all women as easily as he’d manipulated his mother.

That was why she should do this job by herself. She had a better chance of appearing pliable without a hulking male at her side. And once she gained Ethan’s trust, it’d all be over. She’d bust him like she had so many drug dealers, shut him down as quickly as possible, so none of the other women in his commune would suffer as Martha Wilson had suffered.

She could imagine victory, but the satisfying image dissipated as the clock on the wall continued to tick. Five hours and counting…

It was too late to fight Milt’s insistence that Nate go with her.

In this part of the desert, night was nearly as hot as day. And the air hung heavy. There wasn’t so much as a slight breeze or a rustle—just the scrape of Bartholomew’s shovel. His efforts, sounding abnormally loud because of the silence and the rockiness of the soil, made him wince with each scoop. A tent filled with his fellow Covenanters stood only a few yards away. If someone woke and heard him, came to investigate, he’d have an even bigger problem on his hands….

But he wasn’t accustomed to this type of labor, and at forty-seven he was no longer young. Digging strained his back and made his arms feel so weak he could hardly keep going.

Taking a break to conserve his strength and catch his breath, he leaned on the shovel and gazed toward the little cemetery on the hill, half a mile or so away. It’d been established when Paradise was built as a mining town back in the early 1900s and it still had some of the old headstones jutting out of the bare soil beneath a paloverde tree. Thanks to a bright moon, Bart could almost make out the largest one. Except for the fact that the ground would be even harder, he wished he could dig this grave out there.

But burying Courtney Sinclair beyond the fence that encircled the commune wasn’t safe. It would be much more difficult to keep track of who came and went. What if someone noticed the disturbed earth and told Courtney’s parents? They’d already come to Paradise several times, looking for their daughter. Ethan had covered well, but Bartholomew had a feeling the situation was far from over. The Sinclairs weren’t going to give up and go away. Maybe Courtney claimed to have been unloved, that her parents were the worst parents ever, but her mother, at least, seemed quite devoted.

That just went to show that the girl didn’t have a clue about people. She was—had been, Bartholomew corrected as he glanced with distaste at the limp figure wrapped in a blanket at his feet—barely seventeen.

But he’d tried to warn her. She wouldn’t listen. The Sinclairs no doubt had the same problem with her. The black lipstick, fingernails and clothing, the earrings lining the rim of each ear and the metal rod through her nose—they all designated her as a rebel. And the scars from the cutting she’d done on her arms took it to a rather desperate level. She’d been deeply unhappy, hadn’t acclimated when her family moved from Texas. A lot of children, forced to take a backseat to a step-parent, resented it. Bart had been raised with a step-father himself, knew what it felt like to deserve more yet receive less. But he’d left that old identity behind. There was no more Francis Williams. He was simply Bartholomew now. An apostle to the Holy One.

Courtney had been offered a home in Paradise. She could still be here, as alive as he was, if only she’d played by the rules.

A light went on in the Enlightenment Hall where he lived with the Holy One. Twisting around, he stared up at it. Was Ethan worried? Was he frightened by what had occurred with Martha and then Courtney?

He hoped not. Ethan needed to remain stable or they’d both lose everything.

Drawing his exhaustion and concern inside himself, he returned to his digging.

3

Ethan paced inside his room. The Brethren were still meeting in the pit. He’d put in an appearance earlier, but he’d been too anxious to stay long. Watching them argue wasn’t any fun. It made him feel as if this was the beginning of the end of everything he’d created. Were they right? Was the paradise he’d built about to come tumbling down? With all the bad publicity, it felt that way. The rest of the world seemed to be pressing closer, crowding him, banging at the gates. The Brethren, the twelve he’d designated as Spiritual Guides for his people, had tried to tell him that a local girl going missing on the heels of what Martha had told the press wouldn’t be good. But he hadn’t listened. Sometimes he felt as though he could get away with anything. Other times…

What had he been thinking? Of course they’d been right! The attention his actions had drawn would only hasten the confrontation he’d been preparing for from the start. That was what the Guides were discussing now. They were hashing out plans for the final battle. But had it really come to that?

He wasn’t ready. He should’ve left Martha and Courtney alone. He’d screwed up, indulged himself one too many times….

It was the drugs, he decided. When he was tweaking, he made mistakes, and he tweaked too often these days. But the thought of getting high only made him want to do it again.

Crossing to the bureau, he found the quarter gram of meth he kept close at hand, took his pipe from the same drawer and lit up.

When that first anticipated rush of euphoria hit his brain, he dropped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Courtney came to him immediately, like a ghost. Or a memory. He knew what he was seeing wasn’t real, that he was hallucinating, because there was no lust, no anger, no betrayal. He was completely objective, an indifferent bystander observing the unfolding of their relationship—until the final moment when he’d strangled her.

Another memory surfaced—the day he caught his father grimacing when someone said, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” The person who’d spoken hadn’t been able to see past their physical similarities long enough to realize they couldn’t be more different if God had intended to make them enemies. Conservative and self-disciplined, Robert loved sports and business and took great pride in his financial success. Ethan preferred music, art, literature, fashion. Nothing he did could ever match what his father had accomplished. Even worse, he was emotional and high-strung, which irritated and angered his father.

Oddly, the differences hadn’t really bothered Ethan until the day he’d heard his father tell his mother that he planned to order a paternity test. Robert hadn’t doubted her fidelity; he’d been teasing when he said it. But Ethan’s mother had laughed with him and that was when Ethan knew Valerie was in on the secret. She preferred her husband to her son; she felt as embarrassed and ashamed of Ethan as Robert did.

Wincing at that memory, he took another hit on the pipe and then another.

Soon he seemed to be floating above his own body. Then the room began to spin and he could no longer remember what upset him so much. He had nothing to worry about. Look at what he’d become. His father had told him he’d never amount to anything, but he’d been wrong. Ethan had money and power and he hadn’t had to work for any of it.

Suddenly, the silence seemed to press in on him like an invisible hand, holding him down on the bed, smothering him. Nearly dropping his pipe, he staggered to his feet, knocked over a lamp and cut his arm. He was standing in a stupor, watching the blood drip onto the carpet when Bart walked in.

“Holy One, you’ve hurt yourself,” he cried. “What happened?”

Ethan’s mouth moved and words came out, but they sounded garbled, even to his own ears. Was he making sense? Somehow that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Bart had come to take care of him.

Just like always.

The sun was up when Nate pulled into Rachel’s driveway. Her house sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean a little south of Los Angeles. With one whole side made of glass, it was different—far more modern than the home of any other woman he knew. But Rachel was different, too. She tried to be so damn tough. In ways, she was tough. She could fight. She could play whatever part she needed to play. She’d gravitated to the polar opposite of her sheltered upbringing and wielded a gun instead of the Good Book. But for all that, she didn’t have the ability to protect her heart. He’d never forget the night he’d come home to find her waiting in his bed.

Working this closely together wasn’t a smart idea. He saw how she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, could tell how she felt about him. Hell, she’d said as much when they were making love. What she wanted from him reminded him too much of Susan. He still heard from her on occasion and he knew that, in some ways, he’d never really be free of her or the memory of rushing to the hospital that cold January night….

But Milt was adamant he take this assignment, so Nate would have to protect Rachel—not only from the Covenanters but from himself.

“Just do it,” he said, and shoved the gearshift into Park.

He was getting out to ring the bell when she appeared, wearing a simple peach-colored sundress beneath a cardigan sweater and carrying a small suitcase.

“You can’t take that case to Portal,” he said without a greeting. He didn’t recognize the label, but he didn’t need to know the designer to realize it had cost a bundle. “That’s a dead giveaway. You’re the wife of a cement contractor, not Paris Hilton.”

“I’m aware of that. But I tossed my crappy luggage after the last job. It was completely shot. We’ll have to stop at a secondhand store along the way.”

“What will you do with this one?”

“Ship it home,” she said with a shrug. “The clothes I wear when I’m not working are too sophisticated, too ‘single woman supporting herself.’ The ones I wear on other jobs are too ‘I’ll do anything for my next fix.’ I need something in between if I’m going to build the illusion of a sweet wife who recently got married and is trying to eke out a productive life with her husband. So we would’ve had to do some shopping, anyway.”

Maybe she needed additional clothes, but the dress she was wearing right now worked, he admitted grudgingly. The color brought out the golden tones in her hair and skin and contrasted nicely with the ice blue of her eyes. But he didn’t tell her that. He knew better than to lead her on and still kicked himself for not sending her home when she’d let herself into his condo six months ago.

“This is all, then?” he asked.

“Except for my computer.” She reached in to get the satchel she carried almost everywhere, but he stopped her.

“Leave it behind.”

“That’s like asking me to leave my gun!”

“No, it’s not. Where we’re going, there probably won’t be Internet service. And when we need a computer, we can use mine.”

“What about other gear?”

He motioned toward the truck. “I’ve got everything we might need.”

“Fine,” she muttered, and he put her bag in the truck while she locked the house.

Rachel was seven years his junior, but today she looked even younger. With her hair pulled into a messy bun and minimal makeup, she could pass for twenty. Had he spotted her on the road, he might’ve mistaken her for a teenager heading down to the beach.

But she wasn’t going to the beach. She was wearing his pretend wedding ring and packing a gun so Milt could thrust them both into the middle of a potentially dangerous situation.

“Why do you do it?” he asked as she climbed in.

She blinked. “You mean, the bag? I told you. I had to bring it. I didn’t have another one.”

“I’m not talking about your suitcase. Why are you in this business?”

She slammed the rusty door of his old truck. “It’s a living, isn’t it?”

A good living. They’d only have to devote ten years to their work to be set for life. But he knew Rachel’s involvement wasn’t entirely about the money. According to what he’d read in her file, and the bit of information she’d revealed, she’d had a difficult childhood with an overbearing father. That made him suspect her attraction to undercover work had something to do with slipping in and out of character, of being anyone she wanted to be except the child who’d known almost nothing of the real world until she was seventeen. She wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, didn’t know who she was or who she wanted to be.

“The danger doesn’t bother you?”

“No more than it bothers you.”

He almost told her to get out. She didn’t need to be mixed up in Ethan Wycliff’s twisted world. The auto accident involving Ethan’s former roommate had left skid marks suggesting he might’ve been run off the road. There were no witnesses to say if he’d swerved to avoid an animal or another car. So the possibility of murder was there. For all they knew, Ethan was as bad as Charles Manson, which made this assignment worse than usual. “Maybe we should try talking some sense into Milt,” he said, suddenly second-guessing his decision to comply with his boss’s orders.

She flashed him her wedding ring. “Too late. You already tried that, anyway. Let’s go.”

His thoughts gravitated to a former Department 6 employee. Enrico had lost his right eye when someone he knew in regular life happened upon him while he was on the job. After that friend inadvertently blew his cover, Enrico had been forced to fight for his life. Nate didn’t want something like that to happen again—to any member of his team, but especially one of the women.

“This could be unpredictable,” he warned.

“They’re all unpredictable.”

“You’re sure you’re up for it?”

“I’m positive.”

“You didn’t seem so certain when you called me a few hours ago.”

“How would you know? You didn’t give me a chance to talk.”

“I’m giving you a chance now.”

“Someone’s got to do this. Might as well be me.”

She was right. Someone had to do it. He doubted Milt would change his mind, anyway. As she’d just said, Nate had already argued with him about it, to no avail.

Ultimately, this was Milt’s decision. And Rachel’s. Not his.

Taking a deep breath, he backed down her long drive. She’d chosen this line of work, applied of her own free will, knowing full well the dangers she’d encounter. And she’d proven herself effective.

While he made the turn onto the winding road that would take them to the highway, she dug through her purse. He had no idea what she was searching for until he smelled the distinctive scent of fingernail polish.

“Hey, that stuff stinks,” he complained.

She pulled off her sandal and hugged her left knee to her chest so she could paint her toenails. “I need to get into character. Rachel Mott is the kind of woman who likes her nails a delicate pink.”

“How do you know?” he countered. “That wasn’t in the dossier.”

“There wasn’t much in the dossier. So I figure the role is subject to interpretation. I’ve got to sell it, make it real.” She moved to the next toenail. “And the way I picture her is sort of sweet and naive and madly in love with her nice but none-too-bright husband.”

He shot her a dark look. Where was she going with this? “Did you say ‘none-too-bright’?” he grumbled, but it was really the “madly in love” part that disturbed him. He didn’t want to get anything started.

“It’s just a role.”

“I don’t mind playing dumb as long as you remember I’m the boss here. Milt’s sending me with you for a reason.”

“I think Milt is sending us together because there’s safety in numbers, not because he expects you to exert your authority while we’re there.”

“He doesn’t need to specify that because I’m already your boss.”

“And I’d never question that.” She gave him a saccharine smile to take the edge off her sarcasm, and he seemed to accept the statement at face value.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Back to that incomplete dossier.” She waved one hand rapidly over her toes. “What was Milt thinking, being so vague?”

“He said he didn’t have a lot of time. He thought we could finish strategizing today while we drove.”

“I’m glad to hear I’ll have some input, because we need to come up with ways to seem more like a real couple.”

What was she up to? He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, speculating on what it could be. “Such as…”

“I don’t know. Something that makes it appear as if we’ve been together for more than, say…a day.”

He decided to go along with her. “Like what? Like…getting my name tattooed on your neck?”

She didn’t argue as he’d expected; she frowned in contemplation. “Exactly. Only…not on my neck. That’s too…overboard. But maybe my arm.”

“No way! I was joking, and you know it. There’s no telling how long we’ll be there. A fake tattoo might wash off.”

“Which is why it would have to be a real one. Right here.” She indicated her deltoid. “Nathan’s woman.”

She was pushing his buttons. After the way she’d avoided him the past several months, it seemed out of character, but now that they’d been forced into this situation, he wondered if she was overcompensating. “That might be just the thing,” he said, refusing to take the bait.

“As long as it’s designed to be turned into something else when this is all over,” she murmured. “I’ve been meaning to get one, anyway—maybe a skull to impress the drug dealers I usually work with.”

His name—turned into a skull? The kiss of death. The image hit far too close to home. But, of course, she wouldn’t know that. “Tattoos take time to ink and to heal. And they hurt. Are you sure you want to go through all that pain just to put your manager’s name on your arm for one assignment?”

“I could use it afterward. The skull, I mean.”

“Right. You mentioned that.”

“Besides, they can’t hurt too badly if everyone’s getting them.”

He slung one arm over the steering wheel. “They hurt badly enough. Why put yourself through it?” And mar that soft skin, he added silently.

“Good point. Since you’re so tough, you should get the tattoo—my name on your arm.”

No way would he etch a woman’s name on his skin. The permanence of that scared the hell out of him and she knew it. That was partly what told him this was a setup. “Sorry, ain’t gonna happen.”

They reached the highway, and he accelerated as they headed toward Interstate 10, which would eventually take them through Riverside and into Arizona, almost all the way to Portal. “We don’t need tattoos.”

“It’ll take more than simply telling everyone we’re married to make them believe it.”

“You’ve got a ring, don’t you?”

“A ring only signifies that we once exchanged vows. It doesn’t mean we have a close relationship. So…you tell me. How do you want to play this? Do you want us to seem sort of…estranged? Regretful that we tied the knot? On the brink of divorce?” She poked the tiny brush inside the polish and changed feet. “I could win an Oscar I’d be so good at that performance.”

He’d hurt her six months ago, and now she didn’t like him. It bothered him, but it was better to have her not like him than like him too much. At least, that was how he felt most of the time. “That won’t work, not for this. We need to act as if we’re close.” Otherwise, he’d be less capable of protecting her.

“That’s what I thought you’d say. Or you would’ve gone in as my brother, like I wanted you to in the first place.”

So that was what all this was about. She was punishing him, or trying to spook him into changing the nature of their pretend relationship before they arrived in Phoenix and found themselves locked into the arrangement.

He would’ve been more than happy to accommodate her, but he wasn’t sure it’d be any easier to play brother and sister. There was too much sexual tension between them. They ignored it, of course. When he’d rejected her, he’d cut her pride so deeply she’d go without air before she’d ever admit to wanting him again. But since that night in January, the energy that flowed between them had only grown stronger. When they were at the office together, he was aware of every move she made, and he was afraid others were beginning to sense what they both so categorically denied. That kind of interest would hardly seem appropriate between siblings.

“We’ll have a close relationship, but no tattoos,” he reiterated.

She dipped the brush again. “So you’re suggesting we let it all hang on a ring?”

“Works for me.”

Finally dropping the manipulative tactics, she straightened. “Oh, come on. Let’s just say you’re my brother! We don’t even want to get close enough to rub up against each other. How convincing will body language like that be?”

Want had nothing to do with it. He glanced over to tell her they’d just have to improve their acting and caught a glimpse of her dress bunched up around her hips, bare legs plainly visible. Another inch or two and he could’ve spotted her panties.

Rachel wasn’t trying to entice him. That was obvious from her careless attitude. She was so sure he wasn’t interested, she saw no point in being cautious, which wasn’t very wise if they were going to be living together. Maybe he wasn’t in love with her, but that didn’t mean he was blind. He could appreciate her physical assets the same as the next guy.

“Convincing enough, I hope,” he said. “And one other thing.”

She made a careful swipe with the polish, then another. “What’s that?”

He waited for her to look at him. “Unless you want me to knock down that invisible wall you’ve constructed between us, I wouldn’t tease me if I were you. That’s not a punishment I’ll tolerate.”

Her jaw sagged. “Tease you?”

When he shifted his gaze to her legs, his meaning finally seemed to register.

“I’m painting my toenails!” she said. “You think I’m trying to punish you? That I’m trying to do it by arousing you?”

She didn’t have to try. That was the problem. “Just put your dress down,” he said with a scowl. “And leave it there.”

4

She wasn’t the only one nervous about sharing a bedroom. Nate’s grumpiness made that clear. He probably wouldn’t refuse a quick lay if he was in the right mood—he hadn’t refused last time, had he? But he didn’t want her, and he couldn’t be any more obvious about it. She wasn’t willing to get burned a second time. She’d already offered him her heart and soul, and he’d tossed them right back at her. Hell would freeze over before she ever made him that offer again.

Ignoring his order to keep her dress down, she raised it again and proceeded to paint the rest of her toenails. Without shifting her dress she couldn’t do it comfortably. If he thought ordinary behavior constituted teasing, that was his problem. They’d be “married” in name only. Until they moved into the commune, they wouldn’t even share a bedroom.

Soon after she’d finished, the scenery outside changed from the green and brown of the rolling hills surrounding L.A. to the monochrome beige of flat desert. By afternoon, they couldn’t get a radio signal and Rachel lamented the fact that she hadn’t brought her iPod. The only sound, other than the warp of their tires on asphalt, came from the fan of the air conditioner. It hummed at full speed but pumped hot air into the cab. According to Nate, they must’ve lost their coolant somewhere along the highway because he couldn’t get the AC to work any better.

“Why do you still have this old truck?” she grumbled.

“Because I like it. It has character. And it comes in handy for work—and play.”

Besides using it on various undercover jobs—jobs like this one—he sometimes took it four-wheeling with the guys. But she never would’ve agreed to ride with him if she’d thought they’d have to travel without air-conditioning. She would’ve flown into Tucson and had him pick her up there. At least that would’ve eliminated this extended trek across the hottest desert in North America. It had to be one hundred and twenty degrees outside. The truck felt like an oven.

“I can’t believe this,” she complained. “We’re in the Sonoran Desert. It’s the middle of July. And we don’t have air.”

“Roll down your window.”

She did as he suggested. The wind caused strands of her hair to come loose but did little to cool her off. Drops of perspiration rolled down her back and between her breasts. She’d abandoned her sweater long ago. Now she kept raising her skirt over the closest air-conditioning vent to funnel the air up under her dress, which clung miserably to her if she didn’t.

“Do you want me to drive?” she asked, suddenly so restless she felt she couldn’t tolerate another mile.

“I’ve got it,” he said, but when she continued to shift and squirm, he pulled to the shoulder and turned off the engine.

“Change your mind?” she asked.

“No, I’m getting you a cold drink.”

He was hot, too. She could see the dampness of his T-shirt, could smell the slight tang of his sweat—and wished she found it distasteful.

A moment later, her door opened, and he stood there with a bottle of water he’d taken from the cooler in back.

“Thanks.” She reached out, but he twisted off the lid and squeezed it down the front of her dress.

Gasping at the cold, she grabbed hold of the bottle and fought to turn it back on him.

“Hey, I’m just trying to help!” he said, laughing at her futile efforts.

Mad enough at his surprise attack to scramble out and get her own bottle, she flung water at him while he circled the truck to avoid her. She got him by acting as if she’d given up, then pivoting abruptly when he made a move to get in. But he didn’t seem to mind. He merely removed the cap from a third bottle and poured it over his head.

“Better?” He grinned as he dribbled the last few drops over her head.

Knowing she looked bedraggled, she glanced down at her soaking dress. She wasn’t willing to give him any credit, but she did feel cooler. “A water fight. That’s your solution?”

“I enjoyed it,” he said. Then, in a motion that seemed as impulsive as it was unexpected, he used his thumb to stop a drop of water from rolling down to her cleavage.

Rachel caught her breath at the contact. Looking up to see him watching her intently, she stepped out of reach. “It’s my turn to drive,” she said, and hopped in before he could protest.

This was the way Nate liked Rachel best—completely undone. Her hair was a mess, her face devoid of what little makeup she’d put on, her dress damp and wrinkled and hugging every curve. He could even appreciate the thin sheen of sweat on her smooth skin. The dampness caused the soft tendrils of hair at her nape to curl.

God, she was pretty. At times she took his breath away.

“What?” She glanced over as if she could feel his scrutiny and didn’t like it.

“Nothing.” He turned his attention to the rocks, soil and cacti flying past his window. During moments like these, he was so tempted to act on the attraction between them it was all he could do to keep his hands to himself. He wouldn’t have bothered to fight the impulse if she was half as resilient as she pretended to be. But her desire to love him showed in those wide blue eyes every time she looked up at him. He couldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability; he wouldn’t break her heart. He, of all people, knew what could happen if he did.

“We haven’t talked about Portal,” she said.

He adjusted his seat belt. “There’s not a lot to say about Portal. It’s a very small town.”

“How small?”

“Maybe fifty people, mostly ranchers, artists, bird-watchers and nature enthusiasts. Paradise used to be even smaller than Portal, until the Covenanters moved in.”

“Why aren’t we starting off in a bigger place?”

“The closest town with any significant population is Willcox. They have about thirty-five hundred people, but it’s an hour and a half from Paradise. I felt that was too far and we’d have trouble making contact with the cult.”

She fought the wind whipping at her hair by anchoring several loose strands behind her ears. “But how can a cement contractor expect to earn a living amid fifty ranchers, artists and bird-watchers? I doubt they’re the type to pay for a lot of concrete work.”

“I’m actually playing an out-of-work contractor. With the downturn in the economy, I’ve decided to go after my real aspirations—photographing wildlife. I’ll be taking pictures for a coffee-table book I hope to sell.”

Her eyebrows slid up. “Did you bring a camera?”

“Of course.”

“Nice thinking. Except that doesn’t explain to others where we get the money to eat and pay rent.”

“We’ve recently inherited a small sum from your grandfather.”

“That wasn’t in the dossier, either,” she pointed out.

“I just made it up before we left. We have this inheritance and we’re using it to spend a year in Portal to take photographs for my book, hoping to recoup expenses when we sign a big deal.”

“Okay, so you’re an aspiring photographer. What am I going to say I do?”

“You’ll be my assistant.” That would keep her at his side all the time. It was perfect. But she didn’t seem convinced.

“Don’t you think this might seem kind of random?”

“No one says we have to be the most responsible couple in the world. Reckless can be believable, too.”

She bit her lip as if contemplating what he’d said, but his explanation must’ve pacified her because she changed the subject. “How much farther do we have to go?”

He checked his Swiss Army watch. “Another four and a half hours. But we’ll hit Phoenix soon. We’ll stop there to buy your wardrobe and other supplies.”

“Are we planning to get the air conditioner fixed in Phoenix, as well?”

“We don’t have time if we want to reach Portal before dark, which is advisable considering there’ll be no city lights. I’ll fix the air-conditioning myself once we take up residence.”

“If Portal is an hour and a half from Willcox, which is the closest population center to Paradise, how far is Tucson?”

“About three hours.”

“This is sounding very remote.”

“There’s no mall.”

“Forget the mall. I’ll settle for running water.”

“We’ll have an outhouse.”

She wiped the sweat from her upper lip. “Great. Snakes and an outhouse. My two favorite things.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there to look after you.” Confident that it would provoke her feminist tendencies, he gave her a satisfied smile and she didn’t disappoint.

“I can look after myself,” she snapped.

“Aren’t you at all concerned that we’ll be so far from help, should we need it? I mean, say one of us did get bitten by a rattler. Tourniquets aren’t an attractive option if you plan on using that leg again.”

“I’m not worried.”

He could tell it was a lie. The fact that they’d be so out of touch bothered him, too. But he wouldn’t let her get hurt—by a rattler or anything else.

Pulling the bodice of her dress away from her body, she fanned herself, even though she must have known it was a futile gesture. “I’m anxious to see what these little towns are like. Especially Paradise.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t look them up on the ’Net.”

“Last night? I had too much to do to get ready.”

He covered a yawn. “Like trying to talk me out of taking you.”

“Actually, I was trying to talk you out of coming along,” she admitted.

“You wanted to do this alone.”

“That’s how I prefer to work.”

“Milt would never have gone for that.”

“Milt’s totally indifferent to what’s best for us. He didn’t even give us a chance to prepare.”

“He knew we’d have a long drive, plenty of time to flesh out the details.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How long have you known about this?”

“A couple of days.”

“That’s long enough to do some research.”

“And I did a little. What do you want to know?”

“How about what I would’ve found if I’d done my own?”

“Portal sits at one end of a large canyon, with the Chiricahua Mountains to the west and New Mexico to the east. Paradise is an old mining town, five miles up the mountains.”

“Mountains? You mean, real mountains—in the desert?”

“Real enough. The highest peak is almost ten thousand feet.”

She nodded. “I’d say that’s a real mountain.”

After driving in silence for several miles, she glanced over at him again. “It won’t be easy keeping our stories straight. The longer we live in Portal or Paradise or wherever we wind up until this job is done, the more we’ll get to know other people, and the more we’ll talk and share anecdotes. We’ll seem strange, reclusive, if we don’t make friends. That’ll make folks uncomfortable and less likely to trust us. Yet the more we open up, the greater our risk of exposure.”

“We’ll manage.”

“But we won’t even be sleeping together. How do we fake intimacy that’s not there?”

She was putting him on notice, drawing the line at her bedroom door. But he had some ammunition he could use, too. “It’s not as if we haven’t made love in the past, Rachel.”

Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. That was the first time he’d ever referred to the night he’d found her waiting in his bed. He generally chose not to embarrass her, but what had happened sat so awkwardly between them. If they were going to play husband and wife for the next few weeks, they needed to address the issue and get it out of the way. Then maybe they could both relax.

“That was a long time ago,” she said, but he wasn’t about to let her off the hook that easily.

“Not that long ago. I know your body, and you know mine. We’ll go by memory.”

Her chin jerked up. “I don’t know your body. I—I can’t remember a thing. I was drunk or…or I never would’ve been so bold.”

She hadn’t been drunk at all. As a matter of fact, he’d only ever seen her drink one glass of wine, even at company parties, where most employees drank much more. “You’re saying that wasn’t the real you.”

Unwilling to meet his eyes, she kept her head at a jaunty angle. “Not at all. You know what it’s like. Sometimes you have too much to drink. You get a wild idea like ‘hey, why don’t I surprise my boss?’ and you act on it. Then you wake up feeling like an idiot, wondering what on earth possessed you to do something so stupid and normally unappealing.” She glanced over to see if he was buying her act, so he pretended to believe her.

“Normally unappealing.”

“Yes.”

“And the details are…gone. You’ve forgotten them all.”

“Every single one.”

“Bullshit,” he said with a laugh.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You remember the details as well as I do.” And for him, they remained in sharp focus, including the taste and texture of her skin, even the smell of it. He’d never forget how greedily she’d responded to his touch, how she’d given herself so artlessly, so honestly—then brought all pleasure to a screeching halt when she told him she loved him. Talk about getting sucker-punched.

Her grip on the steering wheel grew noticeably tighter. “No, I don’t.”

He waved a hand. “Fine, if that’s what you want me to believe, I’ll play along. So…you’ll just have to fake the attraction.”

She tossed him an overconfident grin. “No problem. I’m a pro at faking.”

Now she’d gone too far. “You weren’t faking anything when you were with me,” he said simply.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, she yawned and stretched. “Like I said, I wasn’t myself. I didn’t know what I was saying or doing. Or saying,” she added again. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I was going through a rough patch, so you were just one in a long line of screw-ups. I mean, men.”

“You were sleeping around?” That statement took him off guard.

“Not a lot, but…I live on the beach, you know? I have my share of men.”

Nate sincerely doubted it. The woman he’d had in his bed had been exciting as hell, but not because she was well practiced. Part of the fun had been introducing her to so much she found completely new. And, considering her background, it made sense that she wouldn’t be particularly experienced. “Taking strangers in off the beach isn’t a safe thing to do,” he commented. Especially because she didn’t know how to pick one who wouldn’t break her heart. Take him, for instance…

“I keep a few condoms on hand just in case. What’s wrong with having some fun once in a while?”

Fun… The strap of her dress had fallen off her shoulder. He stretched his arm across the seat to slide it back into place, but she flinched and ducked away before he could touch her.

“Whoa! For someone who sleeps around, you’re pretty skittish.”

“I’m not skittish. I’m…I didn’t know what you were doing, that’s all.”

This time he moved more slowly. She sat perfectly still as he slid that strap up, but she wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted to appear. His touch had created a swath of goose bumps. “If you’re so free and easy with everyone else, I guess there’s no need for me to be any different, right?”

“I’m afraid I’m on hiatus right now,” she said. “It all got to be a bit boring and stale…you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

A furrow formed between her eyebrows. “That happens when you do it too often.”

“I’ve never reached that threshold. But then…I don’t live on the beach.”

“That must be it.”

“You’re not remotely tempted? Even though we’re sort of married?”

“Not remotely. If we were any good together, I’m sure I’d remember more than I do about the last time.”

“Let me get this straight. You were drunk. You weren’t yourself. You don’t remember making love with me. And it stank?”

Her lopsided smile finally righted itself. “Now you’ve got it.”

5

Where was Courtney Sinclair? Sarah Myers paused in the doorway of the tent where the children attended classes. After the glare of the early-afternoon sun, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmer light, but even when she could see clearly, she saw no one resembling her young friend. Courtney hadn’t shown up at the cheese factory this morning, either. And when Sarah had visited her tent to ask her roommates, everyone said Courtney hadn’t even rolled out her bed last night.

Had she gone back to her family in Portal? If so, why? She’d been terribly unhappy there….

Still, the girl’s parents wanted her to come home. Maybe they could salvage their relationship. If Courtney wasn’t going to stay in Paradise, she needed their help and support. But Sarah didn’t think Courtney had gone home. Something didn’t feel right. A hush had settled among the Brethren, an uneasiness Sarah had never sensed before—except during the first few days after Martha got away. Once again the men scurried through Paradise with their heads bowed, going to or from the Enlightenment Hall, as if they were deeply worried.

Earlier, Sarah had dared to approach Brother Titherington to ask about Courtney, and he’d barely paused long enough to mumble, “Haven’t seen her.”

“Sister Sarah? Is there something we can do for you?”

Patricia Sellers had spotted her. Patricia was the administrator of the children’s programs and one of the nicest people Sarah had ever met. “I just…I was wondering if Courtney was here.”

“Courtney…?”

“Sinclair. The new girl. She wears black and has lots of piercings?”

“Oh, you mean, Trix.”

Sarah had heard the nickname, knew it was the girl’s own preference, but she hadn’t used it herself. Somehow it didn’t fit Courtney. She wasn’t sure why Courtney thought it did. “Yes.”

“She doesn’t usually come by until after she gets off at the cheese factory.”

“She didn’t go to work,” Sarah explained.

“Perhaps she’s ill.”

“I’ve checked her tent, spoken to the other women who share it with her. They don’t know where she is. They say she never joined them for dinner last night and never rolled out her bed, either.”

“She might’ve stayed at the Enlightenment Hall with the Holy One. He’s been taking a special interest in trying to help her, praise be to God.”

“Yes, praise be to God,” Sarah echoed. But after what she’d witnessed with Sister Martha, Sarah didn’t think she wanted another friend to draw so much of the Holy One’s attention. Although Sarah had been a devout follower of Ethan Wycliff since she’d first heard him speak on the Appalachian Trail near her hometown, he seemed different. Changed.

Or was that her broken heart talking? She couldn’t deny how much it hurt that he scarcely noticed her these days. She supposed now that the church had grown so large, he had other things to worry about than an ugly, scarred woman. But he’d been able to see past her appearance before. At least, he’d made her feel as if he could. And what about the stoning? The bloodlust that’d overtaken the Covenanters when Ethan ordered Martha stoned still horrified Sarah. How could Ethan be the man she’d thought he was, a man she’d compare to any of the great prophets, if he was willing to resort to such violence? Was it true that his actions were sanctioned by God, as everyone said? That God’s punishment was righteous punishment?

Maybe. She didn’t pretend to know God’s mind. But sometimes Ethan didn’t seem Christ-like at all. To Sarah, Martha had been no more deserving of public slaughter than anyone else in Paradise. What had happened to acceptance, tolerance and love? To providing a refuge from the dangers of the world?

Those questions had swirled in her mind ever since she’d helped Martha escape, probably because the answers were so unsettling. If Ethan was wrong in ordering Martha stoned, he wasn’t really holy and the foundation for the religion she’d gladly embraced was a false one. And if he was right, she’d rebelled against him and therefore rebelled against God.

“Is there anything else?” Patricia asked when Sarah didn’t leave.

“No. If you see Courtney, would you tell her I’d like to talk to her? I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course.” Patricia reached out to squeeze her hand. “You look lovely today.”

“Thank you,” Sarah murmured, but she knew it was one of those kind lies designed to lift her spirits. She hadn’t been pretty since she’d been injured in the house fire that had killed her mother and taken the lives of her younger sister and brother. The terrible burns she’d sustained trying to rescue them had destroyed too much of her face and hands. The skin grafts made her look like a monster. Even the children were frightened of her.

“She’ll be okay,” Patricia called after her.

Sarah had to catch the tent flap so it didn’t hit her in the face. “How do you know?”

Patricia widened her eyes. “Because God will mend her broken heart the way He’s mended yours. The way He mends every heart that turns to Him for solace.”

Embarrassed, Sarah nodded. Patricia hadn’t been speaking of Courtney’s physical welfare. That the girl might be in danger hadn’t even crossed her mind. But it had crossed Sarah’s, and the resulting fear sat like a lump in the middle of her chest. Although she kept telling herself she was crazy to suspect her beloved leader of harming anyone, she kept recalling the triumphant expression on Ethan’s face at the stoning, when Martha’s husband had thrown the first rock and hit her so cruelly on the temple. Martha had become so disenchanted with him that she’d been very vocal about her doubts, only to be stoned days later. Courtney had also been talking, saying things she shouldn’t. Sarah had heard her tell others that Ethan couldn’t be a prophet. She accused him of being a sexual deviant who preyed on the weaknesses of others to cover his own inadequacies. She claimed she had proof that he wasn’t superior to anyone else.

What that proof might be, Sarah didn’t know. She hadn’t asked because she didn’t want to get involved. She was trying to rebuild her faith, not demolish it entirely. She wasn’t convinced Courtney would’ve told her, anyway. When the others had asked, she’d merely laughed and said she’d discovered a secret Ethan wouldn’t want her sharing with the world, and that he’d pay dearly to keep her silent. She said it would be her ticket to the good life somewhere outside Arizona.

Had she gotten what she wanted from Ethan and left?

Sarah happened to pass Bartholomew as she walked back to the cheese factory. He didn’t seem to be in any better mood than the other Spiritual Guides. He was moving slowly, obviously in pain. She had to call to him three times before he looked up.

“Brother Bartholomew!”

As if reluctant to be interrupted, he glanced at the Enlightenment Hall but stopped to address her. “What is it?”

“Have you seen Sister Courtney?”

“Sister who?”

His response surprised her. Unlike Patricia, he’d been heavily involved in Courtney’s indoctrinization and should have recognized her real name. “Trix. The new convert.”

“Oh, yes. I think she went back home to her parents.”

“She did?”

“That’s what the Holy One told me.”

“When?”

His scowl was always unsettling, with his lazy eye drifting off to the left. “Does it matter? Why are you asking?”

“I’m…” Her voice trailed off beneath his glower, and suddenly she felt silly for being worried. Ethan was a man of God. He gave beautiful, moving sermons about being true to oneself, about being generous in spirit, about becoming a better person.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “She didn’t come to work so I was afraid she might have fallen ill.”

“She’s not ill. She’s gone. Hopefully, for good.”

Sarah’s fingers curled into her palms. “You didn’t like her?”

“I like everyone,” he said, even though his expression suggested just the opposite. Aloof and difficult to read, he dogged Ethan’s every step, and had ever since she’d joined. But he wasn’t like Ethan at all. Sometimes, he was downright unfriendly. “I just didn’t appreciate some of the lies that came out of her mouth,” he added. “Not everyone is capable of upholding the covenants we make. This was clearly not for her.”

Sarah could understand. She was the first to admit that living in the commune wasn’t easy. She herself sometimes struggled to trust her leaders. This was a perfect example. “Yes, Brother.”

He waved toward the cheese factory. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Her chin nearly hit her chest as she nodded. Not only was she questioning her faith and doubting God’s anointed, she was being derelict in her duty. “I’m on my way.”

“Make it quick.” He started off again but turned back. “Before Courtney left, she mentioned to several people that she’d learned something shocking, something—or so she claimed—that would destroy us all. Did she tell you about it?”

Sarah didn’t know how to respond. Courtney hadn’t really told her anything. Sarah had merely overheard what the others had said. She opened her mouth to say as much but that irrational fear she’d been feeling welled up inside, and it was powerful enough to silence her. She didn’t want to be thrown out. She had friends here who’d become more like family to her than her own emotionally aloof father. And she had nowhere else to go. “No, Brother.”

“Well, if you do hear anything, it was all a pack of lies. Courtney was a lost soul, as you know. We did our best to redeem her, but one must be repentant and willing to be cleansed.”

“I agree.”

Why was he bothering to explain this to her?

“It would be wise to remember that anyone spreading gossip or falsehoods will be shunned. God will not stand for His prophet to be mocked.”

Was Ethan worried about being mocked—or questioned? Sarah got the impression he refused to allow either. “I’m aware of God’s laws.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” he said. “Peace be with you.”

Having an explanation for Courtney’s disappearance helped. Sarah felt relieved as she hurried to work. It made her sad that Courtney hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. But that didn’t matter as long as her friend was safe. Sarah was used to being forgotten.

“Self-pity is a sin,” she reminded herself as soon as the “forgotten” thought passed through her head. Then she said a prayer of thanksgiving for a Savior who made it possible to repent and change. As she stepped inside the cinder-block cheese factory, she decided she didn’t care what her leaders did. As long as her heart was pure, her soul would be saved.

Or was it a little more complicated than that? Did she have more of a responsibility to make sure her leaders were being honest than she wanted to acknowledge?

Rachel rubbed her temples as she stared through the windshield at a white single-wide trailer. Judging by the dents and the rust and the broken picket skirt, it had to be at least thirty years old. There was a dog pen on one side, also broken in places, and a rock pile in an area Rachel couldn’t even call a yard. It all sat at the end of a dirt drive. They’d actually been driving on dirt for a while. The only way to reach Portal was to go around the mountains or over them, and the road over was dirt. Taking the pass meant you risked running into one of the thunderstorms that could happen so suddenly during monsoon season, but Nate had insisted on the direct route, and Rachel hadn’t been surprised. He was in his beloved ramshackle truck; that was what he felt such a vehicle was for. “This is it?”

“It is if we can trust our directions.” Nate didn’t sound any more enthusiastic than she was.

“Wow.” Thanks to her job, she’d lived in plenty of dumps. She’d tolerated soggy, water-damaged ceilings, threadbare carpet, cockroaches, cigarette smoke clinging to drapes, bedding and furniture, leaky plumbing and paper-thin walls in motels where she could hear headboards banging, courtesy of her prostitute neighbors. But she’d always had electricity and running water. This place had a generator, if it worked, and an outhouse made of sun-bleached wood that listed to one side.

Taking a deep breath, she studied the surrounding area. As Nate had promised, the Chiricahuas were close by. They rose like islands from the desert “sea,” which was why, according to Nate, these mountains and others like them were called “sky islands.” Rachel was happy that this part of the state wasn’t quite as flat as the land they’d crossed coming from L.A. In addition to creosote and cacti, they now saw some oak and pine.

The sunset resembled taffy melting on the mountain peaks in stunning layers of red, orange and gold. It was one of the most spectacular displays Rachel had ever seen—but all she could do was gape at the remote outpost she’d be sharing with Nate for God knew how long.

“How much is Milt paying in rent?” she asked.

“I lined this up. I knew I was getting taken even at the time, but…shit,” he grumbled. Then he was gone, carrying their luggage to the front door as if they might as well get on with the task at hand.

Nate had mentioned snakes. If Rachel had her guess, there were plenty of scorpions, tarantulas and lizards, too—not to mention the odd mountain lion. She could picture the Apaches who’d holed up here with Cochise and Geronimo in the 1860s and ’70s. Two of the last bastions of the Old West—Tombstone and Douglas—weren’t far away. Nate had talked about the area’s history as they’d passed the grocery store/café constituting the center of town. Apparently, there wasn’t even a gas station in Portal. You had to drive seven miles to Rodeo, New Mexico, in order to fill up.

If Wycliff had wanted a remote spot, and if Paradise was anything like Portal, he’d certainly chosen well.

“You coming?” The door of the trailer hung open as Nate waited on the landing.

“I’m coming,” she called back, and got out.

Nate hadn’t told Rachel that only one bedroom was furnished. There weren’t many rental options in Portal; he’d had to take what he could find. He’d figured he could always sleep on the couch. But as he studied the short, lumpy sofa in what passed for a living room, he decided he’d rather lie awake night after night suffering from sexual frustration at Rachel’s side.

She stood in the hallway, gazing into one bedroom and then the second, which was empty. Eventually, she turned to glare at him.

“What?” He spread his hands in mock innocence.

“You know what.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll let you bunk with me, at least until we can get a mattress for the other room.”

“You’re going to let me sleep with you.”

He wondered if she was remembering the last time she’d been in his bed. “Just until we can get you a mattress. That won’t be any problem, will it?”

“What do you think?”

“I know you’re on a sexual hiatus and all, but you said yourself that I’m no temptation. And even if we get a little hot and bothered, what’s one more hurrah after entertaining all those beach bums?” He chuckled at her stricken expression as he went out to collect the rest of their supplies. But he’d underestimated her resistance. When he returned, he met her going in the opposite direction, carrying the cheap secondhand suitcase they’d bought for her in Phoenix.

“I’m finding my own place to stay,” she announced. “Consider us estranged and on the brink of divorce.”

He put down the groceries in his arms and moved to cut her off. She had the keys. “There’s no need to over-react,” he said, sobering in an effort to calm her. “We can’t be estranged when we approach the Covenanters. And there’s nothing else around here. Do you think I would’ve picked this place if I’d had any other choice?”

“I think you feel it’s a big joke that I’m going to be without any personal space—but I’m not laughing.”

“It’s not a joke. I—I’ll sleep on the floor, okay? It’s a job, Rachel, like any other. You can’t tell me you haven’t been in compromising situations before. What makes this one any different?”

That wasn’t hard to answer. He knew working with him was what made it different. But he also knew she’d never admit it.

“I just don’t understand why I couldn’t have handled this alone,” she said. “I work better that way.”

“So you’ve said. But sometimes you have to adjust.”

“That doesn’t include sleeping with my manager!”

He could’ve mentioned that it was a little late to worry about that. After all, she was the one who’d let herself into his condo, removed her clothing and offered him everything she had, including her heart. But he knew the reminder wouldn’t help. It was the fact that they’d been together before that was causing all the trouble now. “Hey, this isn’t about us,” he said. “Our work never is. It’s about doing what we have to. Period. You know that.”

She remained stiff, resistant, so he tried another tack. “Look, I didn’t set you up, okay? You’ve seen what’s available in Portal. This place was all I could get, unless you’d rather camp out under the stars. I figured we’d make improvements when we could—and we will. Until then, I’ll sleep in a bag in the spare room. Nothing’s changed. There’s no problem.”

Her forehead rumpled as she kicked at the dirt, but it wasn’t long before she let him take her suitcase and the keys.

“Lightweight,” he muttered.

“I’m not a lightweight,” she snapped. “It’s the damn heat. It’s insufferable.”

Although it was no longer the hottest part of the day, they were still sweating. “Whatever you say. Sit down while I get the generator going.”

“I don’t need to sit down. I can carry stuff, too,” she said. Then she helped him unload and, using water from two metal barrels provided by the landlord, they began to clean.

By midnight, the temperature hadn’t dropped more than a few degrees. Rachel felt as if she couldn’t breathe in the sweltering heat. L.A. could get warm in the summertime, but the breeze coming in off the ocean generally made for comfortable nights.

The generator whined out back. Supposedly, it was large enough to run the swamp cooler in the hallway, but she’d needed to put some space between her and Nate so she lay in bed with her door shut, praying for the slightest breeze to carry through her open window.

Those prayers went unanswered. The desert stretched beyond the trailer on all sides, quiet and still. But with her drapes open, she could see the night sky. The stars had never looked quite so close or so bright. She supposed this place could get in a person’s blood. Although it was a far cry from her glass-and-chrome house on the ocean—she doubted she’d ever be able to give up her proximity to the sea—the desert had a stark beauty she found appealing, if lonesome.

What would tomorrow bring? She and Nate had to start talking to people in town, make their presence known and build their cover. Maybe they’d take some pictures around Paradise. They couldn’t wait for Ethan and the Covenanters to notice them. They had to draw the attention of someone in the group, get an invitation to one of the Introduction Meetings. She hated the thought that Ethan might be stoning people while they settled in, completely unaware, in this trailer.

Would gaining admission to the group be difficult?

Rachel couldn’t even guess. Like every job she did, this one was filled with unknowns….

The creak of Nate’s footsteps in the hall told her he was up. She tensed, waiting to see what he’d do, but she wasn’t worried that he’d try to come into her room. He hadn’t really wanted to be with her the first time they’d made love. Why would he feel any different now?

She heard the front door open. He was going out.

Leaving her bed, she went to the window to see what he was doing. He appeared to be heading to his truck, but it didn’t look as if he planned on going far. He wasn’t wearing anything except a pair of basketball shorts.

The cab light went on when he opened the passenger door. He got something out of the jockey box, then started back.

Because she didn’t want him to catch her watching him, she climbed back into bed. Forget Nate! Obsessing about him was what had gotten her into trouble before.

She cringed as she remembered all the signals she must’ve misinterpreted to wind up in his bed, naked. The way he’d sometimes looked at her at the office, she’d assumed…well, she’d assumed too much, obviously. Without the experience most women had in dealing with men, she hadn’t known how to take their relationship from colleagues to lovers and had gone too far, too fast.

Getting into his bed had been her first mistake. Not getting out of it when he reacted with such surprise had been her second. And not leaving his house right after they’d made love had been her third. But by then she’d known deep inside that she’d have only the one night with him. So she’d stayed, secretly treasuring every moment.

The crushing disappointment that’d come in the morning—with his polite explanation of why he’d lost control and how sorry he was for not sending her home—still made her cringe.

God, what a fool! Why couldn’t she have salvaged her pride?

Because she’d been lonely too long. And because she’d let him mean too much to her. When she realized that feeling wasn’t mutual, she simply didn’t have the skills to shrug it off or act indifferent.

He’d taught her a good lesson, though. One most people learned in their teens, but better late than never…

At least she’d never make that mistake again. She’d demand more from any lover she took in the future.

But there were times she was tempted to lower her standards. Times like now, when she lay in bed, remembering Nate’s hands on her body and craving them there again.

6

Every Wednesday, Ethan called his entire church together for morning prayer. Then Bart and his guards took over for two hours with armory drills. In the summer, they met in the courtyard outside the Enlightenment Hall as the sun came up, like they were doing now. It wasn’t Wednesday, but the sudden disappearance of Courtney Sinclair had to be addressed. At Bartholomew’s urging, Ethan had called for a special prayer so he could handle the issue via public announcement. This would enable everyone to hear what he had to say on the matter. But he hated that this was the second time he’d been forced to convene a meeting for the sake of damage control within the past two months.

He could feel Bartholomew behind him, keeping silent watch, as always. Bart took his job as head of security very seriously. The way he’d supported Ethan after that fight with Courtney, how he’d hidden the body and then buried it, proved he could be trusted with anything.

Ethan had been lucky the day Bart had attended one of his first Introduction Meetings. Claiming she couldn’t live with his sexual dysfunction—which probably had more to do with his orientation than his impotence—Bart’s wife had recently left him. Days later, he’d closed his failing chiropractic practice. He’d been in the middle of a full-blown midlife crisis, had been searching for an anchor of some sort, a devotion that felt worthwhile, and Ethan had been there to offer him that. Bart was so grateful to have a purpose, to be valued that he’d become one of Ethan’s most loyal followers.

But he hadn’t tracked down Martha, and that grated on Ethan. He couldn’t abide the thought of a Covenant member leaving the group and then spouting off about him to the outside world. Martha was a Judas and would suffer God’s wrath, just as traitors like her deserved.

The other Spiritual Guides stood behind him, too, but Ethan wasn’t as completely sure of them as he was of Bartholomew. Some had been with him since college, but whether they stayed because of loyalty or self-interest, he couldn’t say. He protected himself by telling them only what he wanted them to hear.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep this particular situation between him and Bart, as he would’ve preferred. Harry Titherington knew he’d been with Courtney the night she went missing. Ethan had spent an hour trying to convince the entire group that she’d been alive when she left his apartment, but he wasn’t positive they all believed him. Especially Harry…

Head bowed, Ethan waited for the prayer to come to a close. It was beneath him to have to reason away doubts and accusations, but he had to put the rumors concerning Courtney to rest. He also had to prep his people so they’d know how to react if Courtney’s parents reappeared at the gate or, God forbid, sent the police. He wasn’t sure Paradise could tolerate another media onslaught, not on the heels of the botched stoning.

The sudden silence notified him that the prayer, said by one of the Spiritual Guides, was finally over.

“Thank you for your eloquence, Brother Whitehead,” he called out.

A resounding “Praise be to God” rang loud and clear in response.

“Yes, praise be to God,” Ethan said. “And now, before you go about your day, I have an issue of some importance to discuss.”

A ripple of expectation filtered through the crowd. The last time he’d said those words, he’d had to tell them that Sister Martha had escaped God’s justice and could not be found. As a defensive measure, he’d also had to exhort them to speak to no one about the incident, to pray that she could be caught before her evil tongue destroyed the work of God and to remember their covenants to put God’s work and glory above all else.

“Many of you celebrated with me when Sister Courtney Sinclair was saved from the cesspool of the outside world two short weeks ago. As you remember, because she was underage, we voted on whether or not we would take the risk associated with accepting her into our family.” In a private meeting before that, several of the Guides had voted against it, but he’d wanted her in his life and forced the issue. Now he was paying the price.

“We took a great deal into consideration,” he went on. “But, envisioning her with us after the world is cleansed of pride and iniquity, we took that risk and rejoiced at having reclaimed another lamb of God.” He changed the inflection of his voice. “Unfortunately, as sometimes happens, she has already lost her way.”

This time a groan sounded from the crowd and Ethan thought he heard someone mention Martha, but he ignored that and the disapproval he felt from the Brethren who hadn’t wanted him to admit Courtney in the first place, and talked over the noise. “She informed me of her decision to leave over the weekend. It was with a sad heart that I listened to the news. But I did not attempt to persuade her to stay. Not one so young. We can’t afford trouble with the authorities. They don’t understand us and those who don’t understand prefer to destroy.”

“They persecute and belittle!” someone cried.

“That they do,” Ethan responded. “Thus, I allowed her to make the choice on her own and then I escorted her to the gate that very night. Several of your Spiritual Guides saw me do it,” he added, even though, other than Bart and Harry, there wasn’t a soul who’d seen him with Courtney on Monday. Everything had happened in the pit and only the Brethren had direct access.

Murmuring arose. “I saw her go, Holy One.” “Me, too.” “How could she?” “Why would she do it?” “We loved her.” “We accepted her into our family.”

Slightly relieved by the response, he raised a hand to indicate silence. “Bartholomew tells me that many of you have expressed concern about some of the things she was saying before she made the decision to leave. I assure you, those were the words of Satan. He grabbed hold of her heart when it was at its most vulnerable, and he’ll grab hold of yours, too, if you do not watch and pray constantly.”

“We will watch and pray” came the echo.

“And to stop the poison from spreading further, we will speak no more of her,” Ethan continued. “We won’t so much as mention her name. She is to be shunned completely and, here in Paradise, it shall be as though she never existed.”

“All betrayers deserve to be shunned,” Sister Titherington called out.

“That’s true,” Ethan agreed. “It says in the scriptures, ‘If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out…and if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.’”

“Praise be to God!” everyone cried. “We will cast out the devil.”

Ethan raised his voice even louder. “Yes, cast out the devil, cast out all evil, my brothers and sisters. Be strong. Fret not about Courtney’s sudden withdrawal. As with Martha, God will punish her and justify us in the end.”

“We will pray for her soul!” the woman standing next to Sister Titherington yelled.

“As will I,” Ethan said. “Pray also that the Lord will provide us with others who seek the truth. Others who are more sincere in heart and more capable of taking on His covenants and promises. That way, we will have many hands to build up His Kingdom and plenty of friends with whom to rejoice in the enlightenment we have received.”

“Amen!” they called.

“Guard even your thoughts,” he cautioned, “lest ye be ensnared by the devil and dragged down to hell.”

“Amen!”

Warming to his role, Ethan stepped forward, once again feeling invincible in their worship. “And although it greatly pains me, I must broach another part of this issue. When we decided to accept Courtney, we decided to protect her from discovery and removal.”

“I remember,” Roger Lamkin shouted from the back.

“We sheltered her from the parents who’d been so unkind to her.” Ethan shook his head. “And now she will betray us, put us at risk. I have no idea what details of our lifestyle she might twist, but she could cause problems for us. I have made this a matter of much thought and prayer and it has been revealed to me that we are to stick with what we told her parents initially. Courtney was never here. The Lord would rather have us maintain that as the truth than to admit a lie that would cause the innocent among us to suffer.”

“The Lord will protect us.”

“He has shown us how to protect ourselves,” Ethan added, wanting to drive that point home.

“We only lied to make her free!” someone else called out. “We only lied to protect her. For the greater good of truth and freedom.”

“And in that we are justified.” He rubbed his hands together. “As we are justified, according to His word, in this—if outsiders come to call, you will say nothing of Courtney. You will come directly to me, and I will handle all inquiries. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Holy One,” they cried.

Cupping a hand around his ear, he spoke louder. “What did you say?”

“Yes, Holy One!”

The unified response satisfied him. “Good. Now, go on about your work and don’t worry. All is well.”

“All is well,” they echoed. “Praise be to God.”

Bartholomew came up behind him as the crowd dispersed. “You have led them in the right way,” he murmured.

Ethan turned to study his friend’s haggard face. He had bags under his eyes and a gray tinge to his skin that made Ethan suspect he wasn’t entirely well. But Bartholomew wouldn’t go back to bed even if ordered to do so. He was on guard, waiting for this latest problem to blow up or blow over. “It’s the only way.”

“We’ll be fine so long as we’re consistent. She came to a meeting here. That is all we admit. We never saw her after that. We cannot undermine our credibility by changing our story. The Lord will protect us if we hold our tongue on all else.”

The belligerence on Courtney’s face during their argument flitted through Ethan’s mind. He was shocked that she’d tried to blackmail him. Or had he been hallucinating about that, too? That was what really frightened him. Maybe she’d posed no threat and he’d killed her, anyway…. “Another scandal so soon after what happened with Martha is regrettable.”

“All will be well,” Bartholomew said. “Leave it to me.”

“I’ve left Martha to you, and it’s been weeks,” he complained to deflect attention from his own mistake.

“I’m working on it. I know she’s in Willcox.”

“If you know she’s in Willcox, why haven’t you been able to bring her back?”

He lowered his voice. “She’s not exactly listed in the phone book, Ethan. But I’ll find her. I have two men there as we speak.”

“Not with the mark—”

“Of course not! Do you think I’d send men so easily identified as belonging to us?”

“No. You’re too smart for that.”

“Thanks be to God I have never let you down. And I don’t plan to start now.”

“But by the time you recover her, the damage will be done.”

“The damage was done the moment she escaped and opened her big mouth. What more can she say now that she’s told the world we tried to kill her?”

“She knows details about the way we worship that I’d rather she didn’t share. What we do here is sacred. I won’t throw pearls before swine, won’t hold our beliefs up for the world to judge.”

“She’s probably already told. But we’ll get her back, and it won’t be too late. It’s never too late to punish the deserving.”

Ethan watched the crowd disperse. “I can’t believe she slipped through the hands of two hundred people.”

Bart lowered his voice. “She had to have help, as I said from the beginning.”

“Who helped her?”

“That’s what I want to know. And I won’t be satisfied until I find out.”

They’d called in at least two dozen people who’d been there that night, but all denied any knowledge of what had occurred.

“Once the fuss dies down, we’ll quietly reclaim her,” Bart said. “It’ll be safer then.”

With a sniff, Ethan nodded. It was going to be another hot day. After last night, he’d rather not be wandering around. And he didn’t want to be so close to Bart. Sometimes his head of security made him feel…strange. “Cancel my meetings this morning and send me three women,” he said. Then he searched his pockets for the meth he’d put there and hurried to the Enlightenment Hall, where the privacy of his room awaited. He wanted to get high and experiment with the women who were always so eager to please him.

But it was only an hour later that a knock on his door interrupted them.

“Holy One!” a breathless voice called from the hallway.

Ethan was pretty sure it was his housekeeper, Sister Maxine, but the sound came to him as if through a synthesizer. It took several seconds for him to realize he hadn’t imagined it, and even longer to bring the response swimming around in his head to his lips.

“Yes?” He’d had the women tie him to the bed so he couldn’t move. He didn’t want to leave the room, anyway. He’d been fantasizing about a most erotic encounter, one that didn’t include women at all.

“Holy One!” The second call came with enough urgency that his companions sat up.

“What is it?” he managed to ask.

“Courtney’s mother is at the gate!”

Rachel stood just inside the entrance of Portal’s store/café with Nate at her side, waiting for someone who worked in the restaurant portion of the establishment to seat them. They wouldn’t have any trouble getting a table. The place was almost empty. Apparently, even birders avoided this part of America at the height of the summer.

“You’re quiet today. You okay?” Nate asked.

“I’m fine,” she replied, but she already felt tired and dusty. She’d had only a few hours’ sleep and had to settle for a rudimentary bath. With such a limited water supply, a shower had been out of the question.

Somehow, Nate looked none the worse for wear. Dressed in a loose pair of khaki shorts that fell low on his lean hips and a T-shirt tight enough to delineate his rock-hard pecs, he hadn’t shaved and he hadn’t showered. But acknowledging that he could rough it far more gracefully than she didn’t make Rachel feel any better.

An elderly woman with white hair piled on top of her head and turquoise teardrop earrings smiled when she noticed them waiting. “Hello. Two for breakfast?” she asked, scooping up menus.

Rachel smoothed her pink cotton blouse and—thanks to the dust—ill-advised white shorts as Nathan nodded. Resting a hand at the base of her spine, he guided her to a booth along the perimeter. There were ten tables in the restaurant, but only one was occupied—with two ranchers, judging by their cowboy hats and weather-beaten faces.

Once they were seated, the hostess presented them with menus. Glancing out the window, Rachel could see heat rising from the earth in shimmering waves. The temperature here was exactly as Nate had described it—white-hot, hot enough to bleach anything. But with wood paneling and deep awnings, the restaurant provided a cool, shady respite. An oasis.

Thank God.

Of course, they’d have to contend with the heat later on. But in the meantime she accepted a glass of ice water from a young girl of about twelve.

“Thank you.” Rachel tried to catch the girl’s eye so she could get a clearer glimpse of her delicate features, but the child ducked her head and scurried away.

“Abby’s deaf,” the hostess explained. “She can’t hear and she can’t talk, but she’s the sweetest thing in the whole world.”

“Is she any relation to you?” Rachel asked.

The deep wrinkles on the woman’s face easily accommodated a smile. “She’s my grandchild. Unfortunately, her daddy isn’t up to much, so I take care of her every summer. I’d keep her over the winter, too, but she goes to a special school.”

Rachel guessed that the girl was part American Indian. Her bronze-colored, dewy skin was especially beautiful. “Maybe when she gets older.”

“Maybe.” The woman straightened their flatware. “This your first time in Portal?”

Rachel held her menu at the ready but didn’t open it. “Yes.”

“Where you headin’?”

Expecting Nate to enter the conversation, Rachel hesitated—but he was already perusing the list of entrées and didn’t seem to be paying attention.

“Nowhere,” she replied. “At least, not anytime soon. We’re renting the Spitzer place about three miles from here.”

“You’ve moved in? You’re new?” she asked in surprise.

“Yes. We plan to be here for a while. My, um, husband—” she stumbled over the word but made an effort to cover her gaffe by hurrying on “—is a wildlife photographer.”

“Really! Well, you’ve come to the right corner of the earth. We have one of the most biologically diverse areas in America here.”

They were sure hiding it well. So far, Rachel had seen nothing diverse about it. Hot and dry, more hot and dry, and desert scrub mixed with a few other plants that looked about the same. That was it. But she pretended to agree. “So we hear,” she said, and kicked Nate.

Lifting his head, he set his menu aside. “From what I’ve read, you’ve got more than eighty species of mammals.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” the woman responded. “I hear people talk about the wildlife all the time—hooded skunks, mountain lions, black bears, javelinas, raccoons. We even have quite a few different kinds of bats. One of ’em has these really big ears,” she said with a laugh.

“You have a lot of snakes, too, don’t you?” The expression on Nate’s face suggested the question was in earnest, but Rachel knew him too well. He was needling her.

“Oh, yes. Lots of snakes and lizards.”

“What about spiders?” he asked. “I’d really like to photograph a tarantula—a tarantula crawling out of an old outhouse would be a great photo.”

Suppressing a shudder of revulsion at the thought of such a creature living in their outhouse, Rachel kicked him again. “If you want to get started today, we should probably order, honey,” she reminded him.

The woman took the hint gracefully. “Heavens, yes. Don’t let me hold you up. I’m a talker. It’s because of living in such a small community.” She laughed again. “I’ll be back after you’ve had a few minutes to look over the menu.”

“Sure you want to photograph a tarantula coming out of an old outhouse,” Rachel muttered when she was gone.

“I’d rather capture a snake slithering across a woman’s bare stomach, but I only have one woman at hand, and I doubt my trusty assistant would cooperate.”

“Damn right.”

He chuckled under his breath.

“You could’ve jumped into that conversation a little sooner,” she whispered.

“Why? You were doing just fine. No need to overact. As long as what we say makes sense and appears to be true, the less detail, the better.”

“There’s nothing wrong with making friends and opening up, Nate.”

“Except that we’re lying, right?”

He had her there. “Except for that,” she reluctantly agreed.

“So…are you going to ask this woman about the Covenanters, or should I?”

“I will.”

“When?”

Her stomach growled. “After we eat.”

7

The woman who’d seated them also waited on them through breakfast, eventually introducing herself as Thelma Lassiter. Abby, her grandchild, came around once or twice to fill their water glasses.

After the ranchers left, Nate and Rachel were the only patrons in the restaurant. But they weren’t the only people in the building. Voices drifted over from the store section, Thelma’s chief among them as she greeted her customers like the old friends they probably were.

It wasn’t until they’d finished eating and Thelma had come to get their plates that Rachel brought up the Covenanters. “We’ve been hearing about a cult that’s moved into the area. Do you know anything about them?”

Losing some of her cheerfulness, she frowned. “A little. They live about five miles from here and have occasional meetings where they invite folks in to see the place. But they’re very unfriendly if you show up any other time. Even if you attend the Introduction, you get the feeling you’re just seeing what they want you to see and hearing only what they want you to hear.”

“So you’ve been there? You’ve been to an Introduction Meeting?” Rachel asked.

Thelma cast a serreptitious glance over her shoulder as if she was afraid she’d be overheard. But she couldn’t be worried about Abby. Was there someone else who wouldn’t like her talking about the people of Paradise? “I took Abby about six weeks ago. That Ethan fellow who claims to be a prophet saw her in the store one day and told me he could heal her—that he could make it so she can hear.”

Nate leaned back in the booth. “That’s quite a claim.”

“Chaske—my husband—was skeptical, too. He still is.”

Chaske was obviously the person in back, the one she didn’t want overhearing the conversation. Maybe he was the cook.

“He thought I was crazy for hoping,” she went on. “But…I believe in miracles. There’s got to be more to this life than the tangible things we deal with every day. I thought maybe one reason God sent the Covenanters here was to help Abby.”

Kicking off his flip-flops, Nate found Rachel’s feet under the table and began to play footsie with her. Under the guise of their cover, he could get away with goading her in any number of ways, and messing with her made this assignment a lot more fun. “Did they? Help her, I mean?”

He suppressed a chuckle at the sharp stop it glance he received from Rachel as Thelma shook her head. “No. Once I got out to the commune, Ethan told me I’d have to leave her there if I wanted him to heal her.”

“Leave her for how long?” Rachel kept trying to move her feet out of reach, but he wouldn’t let her. Although he knew he’d pay for it later, he was enjoying getting her riled up.

“A few weeks, at least. But…I couldn’t do that. As far as I was concerned, there was no one to look after her. No one I trusted, anyway.”

Nate thought Thelma’s practical side had served her better than her spiritual side. “So you took her and left.”

“Yes, but…I’ve gone back once since then.”

Pointedly clearing her throat, Rachel moved her feet again. “What happened?”

“They wouldn’t even let me in until I mentioned Ethan’s offer to heal Abby. Then they checked with him, and he gave me an audience. But he told me the same thing as before. We couldn’t come for brief visits. I’d have to trust him, have complete faith, or he could do nothing.”

He was tempted to tell Thelma about Ethan’s correspondence with Charles Manson. Nate also knew a little about Ethan’s mental health or lack thereof—tidbits his father had shared with Milt. But as much as Nate longed to convey the danger, he couldn’t reveal his true interest in Paradise. The best way to protect Abby and Thelma, and everyone else, was to get inside that compound and figure out what was really going on. And that required him to be judicious. “You can’t leave a child in the keeping of someone you don’t know,” he said. “You made the right decision.”

Thelma cast another glance over her shoulder. “It was my only choice. Chaske would’ve gone up there with a shotgun if I’d left Abby. He says there’s no way he’ll ever let her fall into the hands of a cult.”

Rachel finally resorted to pulling her feet up and tucking them under her, effectively ending Nate’s game. “You considered leaving her?”

“More so the second time,” Thelma admitted. “I wish Chaske had been there with me. The Holy One—that’s what Ethan’s worshippers call him—introduced me to several people who say he’s done miraculous things. One said she had cancer until he cured her. Another was in a wheelchair, suffering from multiple sclerosis. Three members of that man’s family told me he couldn’t even feed himself when he first met Ethan. You should see him now.”

“But MS is a strange disease,” Nate said. “It can advance and recede. Maybe his miraculous improvement had nothing to do with Ethan.”

“Then how do you explain the woman with cancer?”

Nate had heard the peddlers of various health tonics claim they had the answer to a whole list of incurable maladies. That didn’t mean it was true. It just meant they had a vested interest in making others believe, and it might be the same here. “There could be a lot of explanations,” he said, “a flat-out lie being the most obvious.”

“Why would they lie?” she countered.

“Because they want to believe what Ethan is telling them, and it builds the group’s credibility to outsiders.”

Rachel frowned. “Did it seem to bother Ethan that you wouldn’t leave Abby?”

“Of course. He told me he could give her a much better life.” Tears filled Thelma’s eyes. “That’s all I want for her—that she’ll be okay when I’m gone. He was disappointed, maybe even a little disgusted, that I wouldn’t trust him.” She blinked several times. “But there are all those rumors about their sexual practices….”

“What rumors?”

“He has some very…liberal ideas. People say orgies go on up there. But who knows? That might be a witch hunt. Most folks around here don’t like him much. The Covenanters are all I’ve heard about since they moved in, and none of it’s been good.”

“Maybe they are having orgies,” Nate said.

“If so, he certainly didn’t talk about it at the Introduction Meeting. And he denied it when I told him that was why I couldn’t leave Abby. According to him, it’s just superstitious folks bein’ scared and talkin’ about things they know nothing of. He said that sex and drugs aren’t part of the religion, freedom and acceptance are. But—” she sighed “—my husband is one of those superstitious people.”

Nate saw Abby going between the restaurant and the store. “Did Abby know he wanted her to stay?”

Thelma straightened her apron. “Oh, yes. She’s very smart. But she wouldn’t have any of it. She clung to me and kept signing that she was fine and wanted to go home to Grandpa.”

Hoping to add a little support to what her husband believed, Nate spoke up again. “Someone else told us about a woman who left the commune. Sounds as if she had it pretty rough when she was with them. Have you heard about her?”

The dishes clinked as she stacked them. “Oh, yes. Her name’s Martha Wilson. She’s not from around here. She came with Ethan from back east somewhere—like most of the Covenanters. Chaske’s mentioned her several times. So has everyone else who hates the church. I think she’s the source of most of the rumors. But who knows if she’s being truthful?”

Nate turned his water glass around and around. “Has she been seen in Portal lately?”

“No. I guess Martha went straight to the police. She’s staying in Willcox now. From what I hear, she’s getting a lawyer so she can fight for custody of her son.”

Nate considered that good information. Maybe they could have a talk with Martha….

“You think she’s lying?” Rachel asked.

Thelma pulled their dirty plates toward her. “I can’t say one way or another. I only know that everyone I saw in the commune looked busy and peaceful. There was no hint of violence or sexual impropriety. Ethan preaches Christian values. He told me so.”

Rachel shoved the salt and pepper and sugar packets against the wall. “Hard to imagine a Christian preacher, at least in this day and age, ordering a person stoned.”

“Chaske doesn’t think it’s so hard to imagine. He keeps saying that what Ethan shows the world and what he does behind those closed gates could be two different things.”

“That’s true,” Nate agreed. But she didn’t seem to be convinced. The dream of fixing her granddaughter held too much allure.

“But he’s never been up there,” she argued, “never seen it for himself. And the police looked into the matter. If Martha was telling the truth, they would’ve done something about it, wouldn’t they? The sheriff and his deputies came in here for lunch not long ago. I asked them about Martha’s accusations and they said they couldn’t prove a darn thing.”

Nate knew police work from the other side. “Investigations rarely occur overnight. There’s the truth. And then there’s proof of the truth. Truth without proof won’t build a case.”

“I guess.” She jingled the change in her pocket. “Chaske keeps talking about Jim Jones and David Koresh and what they got away with. He thinks Ethan’s no better.”

Abby approached with a pitcher of water, distracting Thelma. She touched the child’s face with such love, Nate worried that Thelma’s desire to see Abby healed would eventually overtake her good sense.

“You’re a wonderful child. Aren’t you, Abby?” she said.

The girl smiled up at her grandmother, then refilled their water glasses.

“I’d heard Paradise was a ghost town,” Nate said. “Before we learned about the Covenanters, I was planning to go up that way, take a look around, maybe get some shots.”

“They won’t like you taking pictures,” Thelma said. “They’re very private. They know what other people are saying about them. When I was there, they definitely seemed a bit…defensive.”

Abby, who’d refused to look at him or Rachel since they’d come in, was watching them both closely. Gone was the shyness and reluctance he’d witnessed in her mannerisms and bearing so far. Not only was she staring at him directly, she was shaking her head.

“You don’t like it up there, Abby?” Rachel asked.

She shook her head again, even more adamantly.

“She doesn’t want you to go to Paradise,” Thelma said. “She thinks her grandfather is right, that Ethan is dangerous.”

Nate leaned toward the child to let her know he was talking to her. “As long as we don’t bother him, we should be okay taking a few pictures, don’t you think?”

The child’s eyes widened and she jerked her head again.

“Don’t listen to her,” Thelma said. “She can read lips better than you can imagine and picks up on far too much. Richard and Lynne Sinclair have scared her, that’s all.”

Rachel placed her napkin on the table. “Who’re Richard and Lynne?”

“They own a ranch between here and Rodeo. They’ve been stopping in almost every day, spouting all kinds of accusations against the Covenanters.”

“Like?” Rachel prompted.

Abby didn’t leave. She tapped her grandmother’s arm to get her to turn so that she could see her lips; she seemed to be closely monitoring the conversation.

“Courtney, their teenage daughter, went missing last month,” Thelma said. “They swear up and down she’s been kidnapped by the Covenanters.”

“You don’t believe it,” Nate said.

“No. That girl was always a handful. Cutting herself and thumbing rides with anyone who came through town. She dressed in that gothic garb. You know, the black pants and black T-shirts with black boots. She even wore black nail polish and lipstick. They actually caught her propositioning a couple of old birders! She’d gone out to their campsite to trade you-know-what for the chance to ‘get out of this dump’ as she put it.” She waved a hand in apparent disgust. “She musta run off. She’s done it before.”

Nate rubbed the condensation on his glass. “What makes her parents believe otherwise?”

“She went to one of the Covenant meetings a week or two before she disappeared and came home gushing about Ethan. She thought he was—” she made quotation marks with her fingers “—‘hot.’ That’s all. It’s not much to go on, which is why the police haven’t been able to help. They can’t force the Covenanters to let them search without some evidence that she might be in the compound.”

Rachel took a sip of water. “No one’s seen her since?”

“No one.”

“How many Covenanters attend the Introduction Meetings?” Nate asked.

“Quite a few. Fifteen or twenty. Ethan usually officiates—him or one of the Spiritual Guides.”

“Aren’t there any women in the leadership?” Rachel asked.

“No, the men hold all the power.”

Nate could almost hear Rachel’s spine snapping straight with indignation. She’d come from a church with a strict patriarchal order where that power had been abused. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“Isn’t that the way it usually is?”

Nate cut in before the conversation could drift away from what he was interested in learning. “So once people join the commune, can they maintain relationships with their former friends and family?” If so, it might be possible to gain more information from those on the outside. That was his hope in asking, but Thelma’s answer didn’t surprise him.

“They’re not allowed to see them again, unless Ethan sends them on the Errand of God.”

“I take it the Errand of God isn’t just getting supplies.”

“No, the Spiritual Guides get all the supplies. Right after a convert is baptized, he’s sent to warn his family that they’re risking God’s wrath by rejecting the truth. That’s the Errand of God.”

Sounded more like Ethan’s errand. The more people he converted, the more it would increase his power and enrich his coffers. “Otherwise, they sacrifice all association with their friends and family?”

“Yep.”

“And you think that’s okay?”

“Not exactly okay, but I can understand why they do it. Ethan says Covenanters are in the world but not of the world. They offer spiritual peace and prosperity, and you can’t do that if you’re always looking at the person you used to be before being born again.”

So, like any good cult leader, Ethan made the most of isolation and alienation. Very convenient. “I see.”

A noise by the entrance distracted Thelma. A woman and two middle-grade boys had come in. “I’d better get to work,” she said. “It was great chatting with you. We’re happy to have new folks in town.”

“I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of us,” Rachel said. “Breakfast was delicious.”

“I’m glad.” Taking their empty plates, she paused by the door on her way to the kitchen. “I’ll be right with you folks,” Nate heard her say. Abby followed her grandmother but returned a moment later with a sheet of paper she’d taken from a stack at the register. She thrust it at him, then stood resolutely beside the table as if she could communicate her thoughts simply by glaring at them.

Nate glanced at the sheet. It was a Missing flyer for the girl Thelma had been telling them about—Courtney Sinclair.

“Do you know where Courtney might be?” Rachel asked.

Shaking her head, the child made several darting hand signals.

“I’m sorry…I don’t sign.”

She made the same signals again, more slowly this time, then hurried off.

The flyer had a picture of a girl that reminded Nate of the character Lily on The Munsters. “What do you suppose that was all about?”

Rachel shrugged, so he took the flyer and tossed twenty dollars on the table to cover the bill plus a tip.

Thelma was busy seating her new patrons as they started across the restaurant, but a grizzled Indian with bowed legs and a black cowboy hat stood in the kitchen doorway, watching.

Rachel must have assumed he was Chaske, because she paused the moment she spotted him and mimicked the child’s motions. “What does this mean?”

“Bad people,” he answered, and turned away.

8

Bartholomew took one look at Ethan and quickly clasped his arm, then turned him around. His hair was mussed, his pupils dilated, and he smelled as though he’d walked out of a massage parlor. Ethan was doing too many drugs. Normally, Bartholomew didn’t mind. He believed in freedom of choice and expression as much as Ethan did and wasn’t opposed to running the compound when Ethan was indisposed. But Ethan needed to be coherent in times of trouble, and that meant now.

“You’re not well, Holy One,” he said when Ethan tried to yank his arm away.

“Didn’t you hear? Courtney’s mother is at the gate.”

“I know.” Bartholomew encouraged him to return to the Enlightenment Hall, but Ethan tried to shake him off again.

“I need to tell that bitch to get lost!”

“I doubt she’d react favorably to that. But don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

“What will you tell her?”

When Ethan stumbled over his own feet, Bartholomew had to keep him from falling facefirst in the dirt. “I’ll tell her what we agreed to say.”

They finally reached the Enlightenment Hall and walked through the front doors. “What was that?”

“You’ll remember when you can think straight.”

Sister Maxine stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “Is everything okay?”

Bart waved her away and led Ethan toward the stairs. He didn’t want her or anyone else to see the Holy One in such a state. Despite his open acceptance of drug use, he had an image to uphold. He could not appear to be letting it get the best of him. “It’s fine. Go back to your dishes.”

“Maybe you should invite her in.” Ethan was still talking about Mrs. Sinclair. “Maybe if we give her an audience, we can convince her Courtney was never here.”

“No.” Bart wasn’t willing to even consider it.

Ethan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We could take her to the pit, teach her to mind her own business.”

The pit was used for their most sacred, and secret, rituals. There was one key to the heavy metal door; Ethan held it. Only the Brethren, their wives and select Covenant members knew what went on there, and they’d all taken an oath not to divulge the smallest detail. It was part of the Covenant of Brotherly Love. So far, they’d been able to maintain absolute secrecy. Each person knew what would happen if he or she talked. But a greater deterrent than the threat of harm was the fact that they were all involved. Telling would incriminate the whistle-blower as much as the rest.

“That would just make the problem bigger,” he said, and helped Ethan up the stairs.

“She won’t leave us alone. She’ll keep coming.”

“No, she won’t.” Hoping to distract him, Bart changed the subject. “I’m afraid this isn’t any happier news, but I received notice from the investigator we hired a few weeks ago that Martha’s suing the church.”

Ethan stumbled again. “What? Where’s she getting the money to do that?”

Bart stabilized him until he could recover his balance. “Who knows? Donations, maybe. Or she’s made friends with some sympathetic and overzealous lawyer. She’s got the whole outside world feeling sorry for her.”

At last they reached the landing. “You told me you were going to bring her back!”

“I am.”

“When?”

“As soon as I can.”

Ethan seemed to lose direction until Bart gently guided him toward his room. “What does she hope to gain?”

“The return of her property.”

They hesitated outside the door to the suite where they each had a room. “She deserves to lose the small amount she gave up when she joined us,” Ethan said. “She’s the one who broke her covenants. She’s the one who disobeyed. That whore’s possessed by demons.”

“When we get her back, you can cast them out.” The idea of an exorcism excited Bart. He loved watching Ethan in action. It was a sight to behold. And, as the only woman who’d ever defied them and lived to tell about it, Martha was the perfect candidate for this painful and degrading process. It galled Bart to think she was in the outside world, walking around, saying anything she wanted, after the effort they’d exerted to keep their actions, thoughts and practices to themselves. Eighty percent of the compound didn’t know as much as she did. Besides taking the Covenant, she’d participated in some of the rituals in the pit.

Bart lowered his voice to a whisper. “You should know that several of the Brethren disagree with bringing her back here.”

“Who cares? I’m the only one who matters.”

Bart swung the door wide. Fortunately, the women were dressed and leaving. He waited until they were gone to continue. “You and I know that. But they might make trouble. And we can’t risk a division. Internal strife leads to self-destruction.”

“What do they expect me to do?”

“Nothing.” Bart pushed Ethan down onto the bed. “They prefer to let the scandal die.”

“The only way it will die is if she dies with it. What we’ve built is too good to allow Satan to destroy it. We’ll use the minds and hands God gave us to protect His work.”

“Of course you’re right, Holy One. I’ll see that it happens.”

Ethan had been whispering, too, but in his current state his whisper was loud enough that anyone within ten feet could hear. Sister Maxine was around. As a frequent visitor to the pit, she was almost as trustworthy as Bart, but this wasn’t something Bart wanted anyone to hear. Not yet.

Searching for the dope that was all too tempting for Ethan, he went through the dresser. When he found it, he shoved it in his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Ethan cried. “Why are you taking that?”

“So you can sober up. When your mind’s clear, we’ll call another meeting with the Brethren. They need to feel included. They’re getting upset thinking you’ve gone rogue.”

“I’m the Holy One. This is my church. I can do whatever I want.”

“We have to at least pretend to listen to their opinions. You’re the one who made them Guides, granted them a voice.”

“Half of them would’ve left if not for that.”

“And now we’ve got to consider their input, that’s all I’m saying. We’ll enlist their help and then we won’t have to worry about internal problems. About unity. We need unity more than ever.”

Ethan shook his head. “But we won’t be able to convince them to act. They’re too scared.”

“Now that she’s filed a suit, things will be different. This will rekindle their anger. They can’t afford to be dragged into court any more than we can.”

Ethan fumbled with the bedding as he tried to cover himself. “Martha will ruin us if we don’t do something.”

Maybe Ethan was thinking more clearly than Bart had assumed. It was amazing what he could do, even when he was high. “We’ll put a stop to her,” Bart said.

“Wait…” Ethan’s lucid moment gave way to confusion. “What will we tell everyone when she goes missing? The police will come here first.”

“We’ll say we haven’t seen her. They can’t do anything unless they can prove otherwise. The Lord will stand by us and so will our people.”

“Right. We don’t know what happened to her. Like Courtney,” he said.

“Like Courtney,” Bart repeated and hurried to the gate, where he told the hysterical Mrs. Sinclair that she had to leave or he’d call the cops and have her forcibly removed.

Willcox seemed like a big city compared to Portal, but it was infinitesimally small by L.A. standards and looked like the set of a John Wayne movie. According to some trivia Nate had mentioned, the building designated as city hall had once been a train depot for the Southern Pacific Railroad. Not far away, on Railroad Avenue, sat several Old West-style buildings with plank walkways and wood overhangs. In this cluster of buildings Rachel saw the Willcox Cowboy Hall of Fame—A Tribute to Rex Allen, the Singing Cowboy. She supposed he’d either been born in Willcox or he’d died here—maybe both.

“Interesting place,” she said as Nate slowed the truck to a crawl in accordance with the new speed limit.

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