“It’s time,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I’m turning you in.”
Brent looked up and saw exhaustion and worry carved in her face but also determination. “Not yet!” he said. “I’ve got a name!”
Her face flooded with anger. “You come back into my life and expect me to risk everything for you?”
“I’m just asking for a little time.”
“You’re wanted for murder. You stole a car.” Her voice shook with emotion. “I can’t keep you in my house.”
Her vulnerability struck him. It made him want to go over to her and cup her face in his hands, but he held back. “Give me a few more hours,” he said. “Please!”
“I’ve already given you too much time!”
“A couple hours! These guys have been flawless! If they even suspect I’ve got a lead, they’re liable to vanish completely!”
“What do you expect to do?” she demanded.
“Get something!” he shouted, sitting up, ignoring the pain. “You’ve got to let me try!”
She turned away and looked into the kitchen. “I just hope you’re worth it,” she muttered.
Brent slumped back on the pillows. “So do I.”
THIRTY-FIVE
OYSTER BAY, NY, JUNE 30
FRED WOFFORD STOPPED AT PRESCOTT Biddle’s gates, took a deep breath, and tried to punch the entry code into the keypad. His hand shook, and he hit the wrong numbers. He cursed then took a rattling breath and tried again, once more his fingers shaking out the wrong code. He tried a third time, and the gates finally swung back. He headed down the driveway then braked at the small guardhouse located around the first curve, just out of sight of the road.
A man wearing a blue blazer and gray flannels stepped toward the car. He had an earpiece in one ear and a small microphone at his lapel, and even though he recognized Wofford, he walked around the car, peered through the windows, and tapped the rear hatch. Wofford hit the unlock button, and the guard opened the hatch and glanced at the boxes inside. “Mrs. Biddle order all this?” he asked.
“I believe they’re expecting guests in the cottage for a few days,” Wofford replied. He tried for an easy smile, as though delivering cases of foul-smelling stuff purchased from a Middle Eastern grocery was nothing out of the ordinary.
The guard raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He closed the tailgate then bent to his lapel mike. “Clearing Mr. Wofford,” he said. “Silver Mercedes SUV, New York plates, one passenger. Going to the cottage.” The man listened then nodded. “Roger.” He saluted Wofford. “Have a good day.”
Wofford started moving again, leaving his window down. The sea air was soft against his face, the bright morning light adding an extra touch of splendor to Biddle’s acres of lawn and flowers, but the beauty was illusory. Dread chewed the lining of his stomach as he thought of what was hidden just ahead.
Clearly, Biddle’s security people remained ignorant of the three men in the little stone cottage. Thank God. Only a tiny group knew—Biddle, Wofford, their two secretaries, Reverend Turner, and the two sheriff’s deputies from Turner’s church. Each of them had sworn a sacred and holy oath to the prophecy and the promise of bringing Jesus back into the world!
Wofford tried again to focus on that one supreme goal and prayed that Jesus would banish his fear. Only, it didn’t work. Panic squeezed his insides. He stopped the car in the middle of the driveway, opened the door, and hung his head out the side. He retched, but only a few drops of clear liquid since he’d thrown up everything hours ago.
He closed the door and wiped his lips with the back of his wrist. His own vision was so different from Biddle’s. It always had been, but Biddle’s revelations had overpowered him—just as they had all the others. Only, when he was alone he had such horrible doubts. Would a loving God really want this?
At times he suspected Armageddon was meant to signify a war fought in people’s hearts, as the religions of the world struggled to find one God together. But Biddle insisted otherwise. It needed to be an actual war, with millions dead. Anything less, and Jesus would not return.
Well, Biddle was getting his way, he thought bitterly, as his recollection of the orders he’d given the previous night made him want to vomit all over again. The call from Reverend Turner had set everything off. It had come in around nine o’clock, followed by a second call an hour later from the firm’s security people.
He hadn’t been able to reach Prescott, so it had been his decision. Yet again he had begged God for courage, but those prayers had not been answered, not last night and not today. Nonetheless, he’d called Turner and given the order he knew Biddle would have given. Sometime around dawn, after hours of sleeplessness, he’d swallowed some Valium and finally nestled within its soft comfort. Only now, a little over four hours later, the drug was a faint memory.
Yesterday everything had been going perfectly—even his phone conversation with Lucas. Wofford knew he’d done well. He’d sounded angry, even felt angry, as he’d focused his anxiety and let it pour out. Only now… he lifted one hand from the steering wheel and made a fist. His fingers felt sticky. It was irrational, but he imagined them covered with blood.
How could Biddle insist this killing was God’s work, unavoidable, the only way to the prophecy? How had he let himself get pulled into this? Already it was out of control. The original plan called for only Faisal and his butler to die, but the news reports said a third person had been in the house, a woman. And then that poor man in the garage! Ironically, Lucas, the greatest threat to them all if they hoped to stay out of jail, was still on the loose.
But young Smythe! He’d had a wife and child! That had to be a sin beyond forgiveness. He put his face in his hands and let out several convulsive sobs. He’d accepted Biddle’s vision as far as he could, but now he knew he’d run out of strength.
He raised his head and looked around. How long had he been there? He had stopped where the driveway forked, the right fork leading to Biddle’s house, the other to the stone cottage and the dock. This surely was a sign from God—the fork of the drive, the fork of the serpent’s tongue, the choice. He needed to move, but it took every ounce of his will.
A moment later he drove into the stone courtyard and used his shirtsleeve to dab the sweat from his scalp. His bowels were water. A blast of resentment ran through him directed at Biddle, safe in Russia right now, his alibi ironclad. It was Biddle’s job, not his, to handle these animals. Fuck! Wofford thought, uttering an unaccustomed silent curse.
He climbed from the car then froze when he heard a sound at his back. He turned slowly and spotted a man hidden in the deep shadow of a pine tree. A scarf wrapped his face, covering everything but delicate eyes and what looked like a narrow band of bruised, bandaged flesh. However, Wofford’s gaze went straight to the machine gun aimed at his stomach. He raised his hands. “Please… I only brought the food,” he stuttered.
The man looked back down the driveway. “You were supposed to call first.”
“I know,” Wofford said, nodding, appalled at his mistake. “I forgot. I’m very sorry.”
The man stepped over to the SUV, opened the doors, and looked inside. He said something into a small microphone on his shoulder, and then with one hand pressed to his earpiece, he listened. After a second he jerked his head toward the cottage.
Wofford looked around as the cottage door swung open, and Abu Sayeed stepped out. “Mr. Wofford,” he said in cultivated English. He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose thin but muscular forearms. A machine gun dangled carelessly from his hand. His chiseled nose had the inhumanity of a raptor’s beak, and his dark eyes blazed with ruthless certainty, as they seemed to drill into Wofford’s heart and extract the tender meat of his innermost secrets.