Plus the fact that she was nervous and still hadn't found her son.

And afraid, maybe. Just a little afraid. Not that there was any reason to feel fear, not in this place, not in Travis Jordan's house.

She turned her back to the wall and looked all around the bedroom. The only sound was the gurgling of the aquarium. Everything looked fine. It didn't smell fine, but- She didn't know what was in that closet, did she? She hadn't looked in there.

Well, she hadn't looked under the bed, either.

Every child's silly fear. Monsters in the closet and a bogeyman under the bed. Fear for no reason. Enough!

"Michael?"

No answer. He simply wasn't here.

She walked out of the bedroom-FRONTDOOROPENED! She jolted.

"h.e.l.lo? Reverend Elliott?" It was Brett Henchle.

She wilted.

She found some air, drew it in deeply, and sighed it out, her hand over her heart. "Officer Henchle, you scared me to death."

He smiled, embarra.s.sed. "Whoa, sorry. Do you know why I'm here?"

She managed a smile although she was still trembling. "I think we're both here to get Michael, only he isn't here."

He immediately turned grim. "Where is he?"

"I, I don't know. He's been gone a while, I think. Travis and I have both called him but there's been no answer . . ." Her legs felt wobbly. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

"You okay?"

She pulled a chair from the kitchen table, sat down, and didn't answer until her head was between her knees. "A little overwrought, I guess. Too much excitement . . ."

"I'll get you a gla.s.s of water."

She didn't trust him enough not to raise her head and watch him go to the sink. He no longer stood between her and the front door. She thought of running.

Control, Morgan! Come on!

NANCY BARRONS and Kim Staples made it to the ranch after news hounding and shooting several rolls of film in town. With a word to the police from Kyle and me, they were permitted under the yellow barrier tape and into the thick of the action. The main attraction right now was the slow, relentless parade of campers and motor homes coming down the driveway, each one bearing a red tag indicating it had been searched.

"The end of Cantwell's heyday," Nancy commented.

"We don't know how many are still with him in the house," I replied. "But he's keeping hostages."

"Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll be writing another editorial, something I hope will bring some balance to the first one. Sorry for the trouble."

Kyle smiled. "Well, praise G.o.d."

"Kyle!" someone shouted from beyond the yellow tape. "Travis!"

It was Bob Fisher, the Baptist minister. He was standing out there with Howard Munson the independent Pentecostal, Sid Maher the Lutheran, and Paul Daley the Episcopalian. We hurried down to the tape and ducked under to their side. They were full of questions and concern. Could they help? Was there anything they could do?

"Pray," said Kyle. "Just pray that no one gets hurt, that somehow the Lord will open the eyes of Cantwell's followers and bring freedom to the hostages."

"Cantwell?" Paul Daley asked. "Who's Cantwell?"

Explaining the new name meant telling a lot of the story. While Kyle began the account, I stepped aside to watch the police setting up floodlights and loudspeakers along the brow of the hill. No doubt they were setting up speakers and lights all around the house.

"He's not going to like being surrounded," I said.

"What was that?" Nancy asked.

"I'm not too sure how he's going to respond to being surrounded by all the . . . authority figures. It might be too much like the fence . . ."

Nancy moaned, "I think you're right."

"If he feels corralled . . ."

"FEELING BETTER?" Brett asked.

Morgan had downed most of the gla.s.s of water he'd brought her and was sitting upright. She nodded. "I'm with you. Just needed some time to steel my nerves." Her heart was still racing.

"We'd better find Michael."

"He probably decided to walk home-to my place. You may have noticed, he likes to walk." She saw my telephone next to the couch in the living room, and crossed over to it. "I'll see if I can reach-"

"HOLD IT! HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!"

She jumped and then she froze, hands half-raised and trembling. She turned her head.

Brett Henchle wasn't talking to her. He was looking into the bedroom, sighting down the barrel of his gun. He motioned to her, get back. "TURN AROUND SLOWLY AND PUT YOUR HANDS AGAINST THE WALL!"

She ducked behind the far end of the couch, her heart pounding. She managed a prayer, only three or four words, then concentrated on breathing.

Brett advanced on the bedroom, gun extended. He disappeared through the door. "AGAINST THE WALL! SPREAD 'EM!" Something jingled: His handcuffs, she thought.

Morgan heard sounds of scuffling and blows. Books thudded and crashed to the floor. A body hit the wall. She half rose from her hiding place, longing to help.

A shot went off. She dropped behind the couch again.

A sound like tearing cloth, the impact of a punch. Brett cried out in pain. More scuffling.

Quiet. Then feet stumbling, dragging.

A hand came through the door, grabbing the doorpost, streaking the paint with blood.

Brett's face appeared, twisted, shaken, pale. He stared at her, trying to form words. He gagged and drooled red. She jumped up to help him. He had prevailed, but he was hurt. He- His body lurched forward, and his torso slipped from around a bloodied blade that remained poised in the air, the handle invisible within the doorway. He collapsed, coming down on his knees, then buckling forward, his head thumping on the vinyl flooring.

The knife entered the room, followed by the hand that held it.

The bloodied hand of Justin Cantwell.

30.

DRESSED IN WHITE but b.l.o.o.d.y as raw meat, Cantwell leaned against the doorpost and gazed at her, eyes crazed, knife ready.

Morgan ran for the door.

A man stood there, Near Eastern in appearance-olive skin, black curly hair, a wicked gaze. He reached for her. She spun away.

The Hitchhiker was right behind her, looking pale and dead, his blond hair hanging limply to his shoulders. He didn't grab for her. He just stood in her path, smiling a toothy grin.

She went for his face with the heel of her hand-he wasn't there. She fell forward, off-balance.

Justin Cantwell caught her, clamping his bloodied hands around her wrists. His hands were cold like steel, their grip unbreakable. He reeked of sweat-the smell from the bedroom-and blood. She struggled and kicked, twisted, but he got behind her and twisted her arm behind her back. His knife went to her throat.

"Uncle?" His tone was mocking and patronizing.

The Hitchhiker was back, right in front of her. Near Eastern approached from the front door, taking his time, his eyes menacing. She squirmed and pulled, and the tip of the knife poked her neck like a hot needle. She cried out.

"Uncle?"

She held still, gasping, whimpering. The knife had to be cutting her. She was going to die.

"I can't hear you."

She formed the word several times before she could finally utter it in a quaking whisper. "Uncle."

The tip receded. "That's better."

A third figure appeared from nowhere, dressed in white and looking like an angel. The three came close, lining up like a wall before her.

"You saw what I did to Officer Henchle?"

Father, receive my spirit . . . She swallowed, then nodded.

"And you see my friends?"

She couldn't believe it even as she nodded again.

"So you know your options are limited. As a matter of fact, you don't have any."

"Oh, Jesus . . ."

The knife jabbed her neck. "Say that name again and I will surgically remove it."

His "friends" were a vision she could not blink away. "Who are they?"

"They came to my rescue when G.o.d didn't. We've been a team ever since."

"Are they . . . ?"

He snickered. "Who do you want them to be?"

Near Eastern suddenly gained weight, turned pale and gray, and stared at her through the sunken eyes of an old man: Louis Lynch, Florence's dead husband.

The man in white suddenly wore a dark suit and turtleneck, the same as . . .

His face changed, shifted, became . . .

Gabe Elliott. He smiled and nodded to her.

No greater pain could have gone through her heart. "NOOOO!!"

THE POLICE WERE STILL WAITING for a van from the phone company that would provide extra phones and monitoring equipment. I had to use their cell phone to call the ranch's second line one more time.

"h.e.l.lo?" It was Cantwell.

"Justin, this is Travis."

"I thought I told you to go home!"

"I have to know-"

Click.

CANTWELL TOSSED HIS CELL PHONE on the kitchen table so he could finish duct taping Morgan to a chair. "The miracle of call forwarding," he explained. "But he's going to figure it out. We'll have to be ready when he does."

"You could have escaped." Morgan said it in a very quiet voice. She had agreed to his offer: If she kept her voice quiet, he wouldn't tape her mouth shut. If she cried out he would slit her throat. It was a solid offer. The body of Brett Henchle lying in a pool of blood at her feet convinced her.

"My loyal followers think I did. They're buying me precious time."

"Then why don't you?"

He cinched down the last strip of tape around her wrists and stood back to admire her helplessness. "I still have to settle my dispute with your boyfriend-if he ever gets here! I was waiting for him, not you and Henchle!"