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“What brings you to Paradise, sweet Rachel?”
Sweet Rachel? The way he said her name brought to mind the sexual practices of this cult as explained by Martha. Ethan could have any woman here. And Rachel got the impression he availed himself of that privilege whenever it suited him. “A desire to see for myself.”
“See what for yourself?”
“You, I guess.”
“Honesty. I like that.”
Someone else approached. Catching the movement in her peripheral vision, Rachel dragged her gaze away from “Alpha and Omega” long enough to see who it was and felt a jolt of anxiety when she recognized Bartholomew. She’d known she’d have to face him eventually; she just hadn’t thought it would happen almost the first second she set foot on the premises.
No longer bare-chested, he was dressed in a jalabiya like his leader, except his was blue and had no trim. “Holy One. What have we here?”
“A guest,” Ethan said.
Deep furrows formed between Bart’s eyebrows. “I know this woman. She is the female member of the couple I caught trespassing.”
Ethan remained unperturbed. “Trespassing is a harsh word, Bartholomew. She is welcome here. We are all friends, all family.” Lifting her hand, he examined her wedding ring. “Where is your husband, Sister Rachel?”
“He wouldn’t come.”
“He’s a skeptic?”
“He didn’t feel the need.”
“But you do.”
Why? She needed a reason, something that might make him trust her. “I—I lost my mother not long ago,” she said. “I just wanted…I don’t know.” She sought the empty spot inside her that made the pain real. Her mother had moved on so easily after the divorce, essentially abandoning her children, leaving them to a father who was too strict and controlling. Rachel probed that ache whenever she needed to tear up. It always worked, and it worked today.
Ethan lowered his head in apparent sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss and am glad you were guided here,” he said, then dismissed her by motioning to Bartholomew. “Seat her in the front.”
Two women, also guests, had parked and were walking toward the tent opening. The moment Ethan intercepted them, Rachel heard a distinct purr in their voices as they responded to his questions and comments. Not only was he handsome, he was confident and powerful. That was a heady aphrodisiac among people who were lost and looking for a leader, searching for something to believe in or someone to save them.
Bartholomew waited for her full attention. “Why are you here?” he asked under his breath.
“I was invited,” she replied.
“By whom?”
“By whoever posted a notice of the meeting at the Southwest Research Station.”
That notice made this meeting open to the public, but the stiffness of his manner told her he wasn’t any happier about her presence than she’d expected him to be. “Did you bring your camera?” he asked.
“Why would I? You said we had no chance of spotting an ocelot here.”
He didn’t have anything to say to that. Shooting a scowl at his leader, who had his back to them and was busy greeting more newcomers, Bartholomew whipped around and grudgingly led her to a seat right in front of the podium.
The meeting reminded Rachel of the tent revivals of the 1800s that she’d seen depicted in varous movies—only it was so far removed from anything she thought the modern world would accept, she felt almost shocked that Ethan would be brazen enough to attempt it. But, like David Koresh and Jim Jones before him, his audacity knew no bounds. And especially in this setting, with no cell phones and no Internet, his presentation definitely spoke to a person’s desires to receive unconditional love. It helped that he’d filled all the empty seats—about fifty—with believers. He was sufficiently rational to make himself seem sane, even though he was talking about the end of the world as if he had insider knowledge.
“It’s my holy calling to identify those souls who will listen to Christ and believe. Believe in His power. Believe in His goodness. Let your faith start as a tiny seed, if that’s all you can offer at this moment. Nurture it and let it grow within you until you can stand strong in love of your fellow man and do all that is right.”
“Hallelujah!” the congregation shouted.
The sound echoed through the tent. The energy in his preaching, the response of the crowd and the music coming through speakers at opposite ends of the platform seemed to sweep even the visitors into a religious frenzy. All except Rachel. She could barely sit still for it. She’d heard too much of Ethan’s rhetoric before, from her own father.
As she watched Ethan pound the pulpit and exhort them all to greater love and greater faith, she wondered if she’d be able to fake a conversion. How could she conjure up enough sincerity, when religion had lost its resonance for her in childhood? Her father had twisted his religion and its teachings to be anything he wanted them to be, and she suspected Ethan did the same. She had Martha’s account of what went on here to prove it.
Then they started praying for those in the audience with special needs, and Rachel watched as more and more became seduced. She knew it was the unity they were experiencing as a group, the shared sorrow of pain and illness and the hope of becoming whole that affected them. And she had to admit Ethan had a gift for reaching people, one he exploited to the fullest.
Busy analyzing the show and everyone’s reaction to it, Rachel didn’t hear her name the first time it was called. Like the rest of the group, she was on her knees, swooning and praying aloud for Jesus to heal those who’d asked for His help. She didn’t expect to be singled out, but soon realized why Ethan had wanted her near the front.
“Sister Rachel Mott, can you please come to the podium?”
The impatience in his voice indicated that he was repeating his request. Raising her head, she found Bartholomew standing nearby, ready to guide her to Ethan.
What was this? She wasn’t sick or afflicted….
Ethan’s voice boomed across the loudspeaker once again. “As I stood here, praying, it came to me that there is one among us who needs our help as much as these three who are suffering physically. This is one who has suffered in her heart. Let our combined faith heal her, too. Pray with me. Pray just as hard for those who need the Lord to heal their hearts.”
“Hallelujah!” came the shout.
Rachel nearly stumbled climbing the stairs that led to the platform. Bartholomew was pulling her along; he was there to facilitate the proceedings and seemed determined not to be responsible for a loss of momentum.
