That had exhausted her and she staggered back to the Highlander. The pickup was still in range and she followed it, keeping a mile between them and allowing other vehicles to pass her.
And now she was in a clearing in the Crockett National Forest, about forty miles northwest of Warren, waiting for the sun to go down. She had spent the previous day and night in another out-of-the-way spot, in too much agony to move. The vehicle she had bugged had been stationary for all that time, so she hoped Matt was still there-it was about a mile ahead, in the depths of the woods. She presumed it was Heinz Rothmann’s hideaway, although he didn’t have priority. Her former lover was the number one target. She would take him down whatever the cost to herself.
The Soul Collector took another couple of painkillers. There was birdsong all around, the light falling in shafts between the trunks of trees she couldn’t identify. Her back was racked again, and she recalled what the doctor had said. Apart from the cancer, she was in excellent physical condition, but she couldn’t expect that to continue. She would get weaker, and would eventually need twenty-four-hour care. With the right combination of medication, she might stave off the worst effects for a month, but after that her decline would be more rapid. The bastard had actually smiled when he advised her to get her affairs in order. No doubt her manner, her refusal to accept any of what he’d said, had made him uncomfortable, even riled him.
The Soul Collector didn’t care. She would be fighting to the end and she would take Matt Wells with her. That idea was all that kept her going.
Gordy Lister was standing at the edge of the space between the barns. A timber merchant had put the buildings up years back and there was a clearing of about a hundred yards outside. That made the place easy to fortify and, in recent weeks, the Master’s miniature SS had put listening devices in the open ground. Anyone trying to approach except by the single track that led to the main gate would be spotted and hunted down. The first of the Antichurch faithful had already arrived and had been assigned one of the barns. They were surprisingly normal-looking people, though you wouldn’t want to take them home to Mom. They had the faraway eyes and hair-trigger temper of all religious lunatics.
Not for the first time, Gordy wondered exactly what he had gotten himself into. Working for Rothmann, Jack Thomson, as he called himself at the newspaper, had been a gas: no two days the same, plenty of cash, the rush of wielding real power. Back then he hadn’t realized how cracked the boss was, but the attack in the cathedral had put him right. He should have hit the road weeks ago. Maybe he would, after this ridiculous rite was over. On the other hand, he also wanted to know who had killed his brother, and the Master was the most likely person to find that out. The Englishman Matt Wells knew more than he was letting on. Then again, the Englishman was about to beat the black guy’s head in and only a fully qualified zombie would do that.
Gordy Lister had turned his head from the men standing round the inverted cross, but at the last moment he couldn’t resist and turned it back as Wells raised the baseball bat and swung it with wicked force.
Twenty-Three
I let out a great yell as I heaved the bat toward Quincy’s head. Since he was hanging upside down, it was more like a golf shot than a baseball swing, but I’d never played either sport so I was improvising. Fortunately the sound I made didn’t provoke Quincy into moving, so the metal bat thudded into the vertical under an inch from the side of his cranium. The wooden cross shook from the force of the blow, and nerves tingled all the way up my arms. I bent over, breathing heavily, and wondered what would happen now.
There was silence for longer than was comfortable. I straightened up slowly, letting the bat drop to the ground to show I wasn’t interested in strike two. I must have been programmed not to carry out the execution in full.
‘Very well,’ Rothmann said, moving closer. ‘You are willing enough, Matt Wells. We will continue your treatment after the Antichurch’s great annual rite, at which your presence is required.’ He gave me an encouraging smile.
I mumbled thanks, but my concern was what he would do to Quincy.
‘Leave him where he is,’ the Master said to the guard. ‘He will be needed later.’
I didn’t like the sound of that, but there wasn’t much I could do. Two more denim wonder boys came up and were ordered to take me to the ‘old barn.’ That turned out to be a small building on the other side of the open space. The planks on its sides were buckled and its frame was uneven, but there were bars all over the windows. I was shoved inside and the door locked behind me. Solitary confinement.
There was a bed with a thin mattress in one corner of the confined interior, a large plastic bottle of water next to it. I walked around, checking the windows and walls-although the latter looked flimsy from outside, they were solid enough. Breaking out would make a lot of noise and I imagined there were guards in the proximity. The roof beams were too high for me to reach, even when I stood on the bed, and the dusty concrete for a floor ruled out digging. It looked like I’d be staying put.
I lay down on the bed and tried to get some sleep. My mouth was dry and the metallic taste lingered. I had no idea what drugs had been pumped into my system, but at least I was being given a break from the indoctrination process. I looked at the water bottle and decided against drinking, even though I was thirsty. The chances were the contents weren’t pure and I didn’t need any more of Rothmann’s pharmacological concoctions.
I closed my eyes, but they were immediately filled with visions of the lost woman and child. I jackknifed off the bed and gazed around desperately, needing some thing to take my mind off them. The pain was too much to bear, and even the thought that I might be able to make Rothmann pay didn’t help anymore.
Then I saw it. The book was leather-bound, the brown cover like stained wood. I hadn’t noticed it before because it was in what I realized was a specially constructed wooden holder by the door, only the top couple of inches protruding. I went over and took it out. It wasn’t long before my fingers began to twitch as if they had touched some kind of nerve agent. An inverted cross had been cut crudely into the soft leather.
I opened the book and read the title: The Antigospel of the Lord Lucifer, as licensed by the Master of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. The paper quality was good and it looked recent, although there was no date or publisher. As I flicked through the text, it became obvious that no respectable publisher or printer would have allowed their name anywhere near it. There were section headings such as ‘Sacrifice of Unworthy Humans to the Lord Lucifer,’ ‘Children’s Blood as an Unholy Sacrament’ and ‘The Rite of Rape.’ It seemed incredible that an intelligent man like Rothmann would buy into such a crock of shit.
I turned to the section called ‘The Master’s Word’ and began to realize that something strange was going on. Although the print and format were uniform, the style differed greatly between paragraphs. The majority were written in clumsy, old-fashioned language, with a lot of manipulation of New Testament phrases. So, the Master ‘walks the fields of ruination, glorying in the light of the underworld’ ‘whosoever wishes eternal life, let him know that the kingdom of hell is at hand and the powers that be are ordained of Lucifer’ ‘Glory be to Lucifer Triumphant, on earth confusion, and evil will toward unbelieving men,’ and so on. But other parts seemed more modern, both in language and content: ‘Anyone who doubts the Master’s word will live to regret it’ ‘disobedience and ill discipline will be punished severely’ and even, ‘the Master’s faithful servants must always be obeyed’-that struck me as a reference to the brainwashed killers Rothmann and his sister had created.