--Rick Hautala--The Hidden Saint--Ten part--

TEN

    Around four o'clock, having finished with her last patient for the day, Rachel left the hospital. As usual, the coast highway was congested with weekend traffic, so it wasn't until well after five o'clock that she pulled into the driveway of Legacy House and parked her car out front. She had just entered the expansive foyer of the house when the telephone began to ring.
    She dropped her briefcase by the door and picked up the receiver on the fourth ring.
    It was after eight P.M. on the East Coast, and she expected that this was Alex, checking in from Massachusetts. She was surprised to hear a man's voice on the line—a voice she didn't recognize.
    "I want to speak with Derek Rayne, please," the man said.
    There was a gruff, commanding quality to his voice that instantly put Rachel on her guard.
    "May I ask who's calling?" Rachel said, glancing up the stairs to see if Derek had heard the phone ringing and had responded.
    She didn't see him, and the house seemed unusually quiet. If Derek had stayed up all night, as she suspected he had, he might be asleep.
    "This is Jerry Caldwell, calling from San Diego," the man said.
    Over the phone, Rachel could hear the incessant chatter of voices and several other phones ringing in the background. Whoever this Mr. Caldwell was, he was calling from a busy room, perhaps a hospital or police station, or maybe the airport.
    "I'll see if he's here," Rachel said.
    She put the phone on "hold" and pressed the intercom button.
    "Derek? Are you here?"
    She could hear her voice echo faintly from the speakers throughout the house.
    After a long pause, Derek's voice, sounding drawn and tired, said over the speaker, "Yes, Rachel. I've got it. Thank you."
    She waited until the red light on the "hold" button stopped blinking, then shrugged off her overcoat and hung it on the coatrack by the front door.
    She was exhausted after having such a bad night the night before but, curious about the call—there had been something in Mr. Caldwell's tone of voice that alarmed her—she started up the stairway. She could hear Derek's voice coming from the second floor conference room.
    When she entered the room, she saw that Derek was seated at the same computer console he had been at the night before. Her immediate concern was that he'd never left it and hadn't gotten a wink of sleep since last night. He certainly looked exhausted. His face was even paler than it had been last night, and the lines around his eyes were dark and drawn tightly.
    "Yes, I'll check into it immediately."
    Derek glanced up at Rachel and nodded grimly as she entered the room.
    "Yes. Send the fax to me right away. I'll do what I can."
    Derek replaced the phone on its base and let out a heavy sigh as he slouched back in the chair.
    "Bad news?" Rachel said, reading his expression and feeling a spark of concern.
    Derek's lower lip tightened as he nodded curtly.
    "Yes. That was the San Diego P.D.," Derek said in a low, strained voice. "Fra Felipe died this afternoon." His breath caught in his throat before he could continue. "He was killed."
    "Oh, no," Rachel said in a whisper.
    Her legs suddenly felt like they couldn't support her. The room started to spin, and she leaned back against the door frame for support.
    "I'm afraid so," Derek said softly, "and Detective Caldwell thinks there may be an occult connection. There was evidence that he was killed in some kind of occult ritual."
    "Oh, my God."
    Rachel stood there, shaking her head, trying to clear it, but she was overwhelmed by a sense of absolute unreality. She could hear and feel her heart, slamming against her ribs.
    "They took some photographs of the crime scene and are going to fax them to me so I can take a look. But I have to say—"
    Derek looked at Rachel with concern etched deeply in every line of his face.
    "—I don't like the sounds of this."
    Even as he spoke, the fax machine in the comer of the room began to whine. After a few electronic beeps, a sheet of paper began to chum out of it. Derek rose from his chair with some effort and went over to the machine to receive the pictures as they arrived.
    Rachel was feeling too weak to move. She was still trying to absorb the shock of the news.
    "I-I Just can't believe it," she said hoarsely. "Who would ever want to hurt someone like .. . like Fra Felipe?"
    "They've arrested an altar boy who was found in the rectory with blood on his clothes and a bloody knife in his hands," Derek said. "Caldwell said the boy was muttering something about 'cleansing the world' so it would bring on the 'eternal night.' "
    ' 'But why Fra Felipe?' ' Rachel said, feeling too stunned to comprehend what Derek was saying. "He was such a kindly man. And he worked so hard, helping the homeless and the immigrants in San Diego."
    "There was no one better in the world," Derek said, nodding solemnly but not looking up at her. His hand was extended as he waited impatiently for the transmission of the first photo to be completed. He frowned and squinted as he watched the hazy black and white picture slowly appear.
    Rachel could tell by his facial expression that the scene was gruesome. She didn't dare go over and take a look at it. All she could think was. Who in the world would want to harm such a nice old man as Fra Felipe?
    For the longest time, the only sound in the room was that of the fax machine as it transmitted the pictures to Derek. As each photo was completed, Derek held it up and studied it carefully. He had three or four faxes in his hand and was watching the next one come out of the machine when suddenly he let out a loud cry and staggered backward. The sheaf of faxes dropped from his hand and scattered like fallen leaves onto the floor.
    In an instant, Rachel was beside him, her arm around him to support him. He was trembling beneath her touch. His face had gone ash gray.
    "Sit down over here," she said, guiding him over to a comfortable chair by the window.
    Derek walked beside her with stiff, halting steps, as if he suddenly had no will of his own. Rachel was convinced
    that he would have fallen down if she hadn't been supporting him.
    Once Derek was seated by the window, she stood back and quickly assessed him. The circles around his eyes looked like soot smudges, and his lips were as pale as bone. He slouched back in the chair as though he didn't have an ounce of strength left. Rachel thought he looked like someone who was fighting a long-term, body-ravaging disease.
    "What happened?" she asked, unable to disguise the panic in her voice.
    "The ... the pictures," Derek said. "I... It's not possible, but I... I saw it again."
    His voice sounded raw and broken, as if he'd been shouting for a long time.
    "You saw what?" Rachel asked, glancing over her shoulder at the faxes on the floor. A numbing chill wrapped its fingers around her heart.
    Derek tried to speak again, but he was trembling so badly he couldn't form the words he wanted to say. He raised his hand and pointed at the fax machine.
    "The one still in the machine," he rasped. "Look at the one still in the machine."
    Rachel cautiously approached the fax machine. Her heart was thumping in her throat, making it difficult for her to breathe as she looked down at the grainy black and white photo.
    It was a stomach-wrenching shot of Fra Felipe, lying on his back. His head was tilted to one side, and his eyes were wide open and staring. The entire left side of his cassock, from the shoulder to the waist, was black with blood.
    A sick, sour taste filled Rachel's mouth as she looked at the photo of the slain priest. She reached out to pick it up but couldn't bring herself to touch it. Her heart was breaking, just remembering what a kind and gentle person Fra Felipe was ... or had been. It seemed beyond reason that he would meet such a cruel and violent death.
    "I just can't imagine ..." Rachel said.
    Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears
    "Look at his forehead," Derek said. His voice was so weak he sounded like an ailing, elderly man.
    Rachel resisted the impulse to pick up the photo and look at it. Her gaze was riveted to the blank, staring eyes of Fra Felipe.
    "What do you see?"
    Through her tears, Rachel forced herself to look at the dead priest's forehead, but she saw nothing unusual—just a wide expanse beneath the Fra's thinning black hairline.
    "I... I don't see anything," she said in a whisper, shaking her head in confusion. "There's nothing there."
    "Yes, there is," Derek said.
    He struggled to get up out of the chair and came over to her. He snatched the fax from the machine and held it in front of her face. With an angry, frantic jab of the forefinger, he pointed at the dead priest's forehead.
    "There! Right there! It's—"
    But before he could finish his statement, he caught himself. Frowning, he brought the fax up close to his face and studied it carefully. His hands started trembling so badly he dropped the fax on top of the machine.
    "I saw it again," he said, so softly Rachel could barely hear him.
    "Saw what?" she asked, feeling a tightening tension in her stomach.
    "On his forehead," Derek rasped. "There was a symbol on his forehead. Just like I saw on Holly's forehead. I recognized it from the research I did last night."
    "Derek, please. You need to rest," Rachel said, taking him by the arm and leading him back to the chair. "You can't push yourself like this."
    "But I know I saw it," he said, struggling to regain a measure of composure. "It was there ... the Hebrew word for the number eight was on his forehead."
    "No, you imagined it," Rachel said. "You're working too hard."
    Derek looked at her, nailing her with the intensity of his glance.
    "I know what I saw," he said, sounding a bit more steady, now, more in control. "That has to be it. Fra Felipe must be one of the lamedvovniks."
    He looked at Rachel and swallowed hard.
    "There's no other explanation for it."
    Rachel found herself at a loss for words.
    "Someone ... or something .. is trying to eliminate all of the Hidden Saints," Derek said.
    Rachel covered her mouth with her hand and fought the wave of nausea that swept through her.
    She wanted to tell Derek that he was wrong, that he was past the point of exhaustion and was imagining all of this.
    He couldn't have seen a Hebrew word on the dead priest's forehead.
    But somewhere, deep in her heart, Rachel knew that it could be true.
    "According to Jewish legend," Derek said, "if the Hidden Saints are eliminated, then God will no longer withhold his Judgment, and the Apocalypse will ensue."
    Rachel shivered.
    "That's exactly what the Forces of Darkness want."
    "So what do we do?" she asked, hearing her own voice as if from a great distance. She was trembling inside. "What can we do?"
    Derek stared at her, and then she saw a smile twitch at one comer of his mouth The life and energy was returning to him
    "Why, we have to try to stop them, of course," he said simply. "That's what the Legacy is all about. And the best way to do that is to make sure that nothing happens to Alex's friend. Holly Brown."
    The sun had set, and the forest was filled with a hushed silence broken only by the creaking of branches in the cold wind and the light tread of Nick's feet as he made his way
    carefully around the perimeter of Hunter's paramilitary compound. He was keeping a safe distance away so no one would hear him if he inadvertently snapped a twig or scuffed too loudly in the dead leaves that carpeted the forest floor.
    Dim lights showed all around the compound—bare bulbs that hung from wires strung loosely onto makeshift telephone poles. When he moved closer to the compound, Nick could hear the faint hum of an electric generator. He guessed it was in one of the smaller outbuildings toward the back.
    There was no wire or fencing around the complex, and Nick didn't see any guards posted. Apparently Hunter wasn't all that concerned about keeping his location a secret or deterring any intruders. He probably thought he was deep enough in the forest and far enough off the beaten track to escape the notice of any curious passersby or law officials.
    Keeping to the deepening shadows of the pines. Nick studied the layout of the place from several angles as he worked his way around toward the back.
    In the center of the compound was one main building, probably designated the command post. It was maybe fifty feet square, and built of rough-cut timber. Ranged around the command building were numerous other, smaller buildings. One building close to the outer perimeter of the compound had a heavily padlocked door. Iron bars and plywood covered the single window that Nick could see.
    Obviously, this was the stockade.
    Nick had to wonder about an operation that had to use prison—or even the threat of prison—to enforce discipline.
    There was plenty of activity inside the compound.
    Besides the dark green pickup truck Nick had followed out here, there were six other vehicles—an assortment of mud-splattered four-wheel-drive trucks and Jeeps—parked along the wide central avenue that led up to the command post. At least three men had arrived in the truck Nick had
    seen earlier. Taking that as an average number. Nick figured there could be as many as fifteen or twenty militia members all together.
    Not very good fighting odds, even with the element of surprise on his side.
    In spite of the deepening cold. Nick hunkered down behind a rounded boulder. Gripping his semiautomatic Walther tightly in his hand, he settled down to watch for a while.
    In the space of half an hour, he counted more than a dozen men—none of whom he recognized as Hunter— moving about from one building to another. All of the men were dressed in baggy military camouflage jackets and pants and had their firearms slung casually across their shoulders. In the gathering darkness. Nick couldn't identify the exact types of weapons, but he figured, like most paramilitary militias, they had an assortment of legal and illegal automatic and semiautomatic rifles from various foreign countries. Everyone appeared to be sporting sidearms or hunting knives, as well.
    Note to myself. Nick thought with a dry chuckle. Don't try a frontal assault.
    Satisfied, he continued to encircle the compound. When he was downwind from it, he caught a strong whiff of something that he couldn't quite identify. It smelled a bit like burning manure, mixed with a tinge of overheating machinery. Some of the activity seemed to be centered around one of the smaller buildings out back, which Nick guessed was the source of the noxious smell.
    Crouching low. Nick started to make his way back around to the front of the compound. Now that he had a good idea of the layout and defenses of the place, such as they were, he wanted to figure out some way to determine if, in fact. Hunter and his group had been involved in the bombing at Plymouth. The manure smell could very well be the chemical fertilizer they were using to make materials
    for bombs, but he wanted to have something more substantial than that before going to the authorities.
    To the west, the land sloped gently down from the compound. In the darkness of the forest. Nick had to move very slowly. His plan was to go back to town, spend the night at Mrs. Parker's, and then come back out here first thing in the morning, before daylight, and have another look around. He wasn't sure how many—if any—of the men stayed at the compound overnight, but the number of vehicles compared with the number of soldiers he'd seen indicated that not many of them were permanent residents.
    Then again, the stockade building indicated that at least a few of them might be semipermanent residents.
    Nick was about a hundred yards from the front, having almost completed his encirclement of the compound, when the door to the command post opened, and a man stepped out into the night.
    Nick dropped to the ground, concealing himself behind a spray of low scrub pines.
    He immediately recognized Hunter. He was wearing a cap with a wide brim that seemed to shadow his eyes from the feeble glow of light, no matter which direction he turned. Hunter was followed by two heavily-built men who maintained a respectful distance behind him.
    Hunter walked with a cocky swagger down the central avenue toward the building that Nick guessed was the stockade. The two men accompanying him, obviously his personal guards, carried automatic rifles at the ready. Their heads continually turned from side to side as though they were sweeping the area for imminent danger.
    When they arrived at the guardhouse, one of the men stepped forward. After selecting a key from the heavy ring hooked to his belt, he unbolted the padlock on the door and threw tha. heavy door open. Nick heard the throaty groan of the rusted hinges.
    Inside, the building was a dense wall of darkness, but none of the men entered. Instead, Hunter turned around
    and, for a few seconds, scanned the area. Cocking his head from side to side, he seemed to be focusing beyond the lighted compound and into the night-drenched forest.
    Even at this distance. Nick could hear a faint chuffing sound, as though Hunter was sniffing the night air like a bloodhound.
    Then Hunter raised one arm and pointed directly at the spot where Nick was crouching. His voice was faint with distance, but Nick clearly heard what he said and was struck with disbelief.
    "Morgan ... Williams," Hunter said.
    His voice filled the night.
    "Go out into the woods there and get our new guest."
    Nick knew that there was absolutely no way Hunter could have seen him beyond the lighted area of the compound, but the man was pointing directly at where he was hiding.
    "Tell him that we have his new quarters ready for him."

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