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“And do you think your congregation would be forgiving of your sins, Reverend?” He soaked the word “Reverend” in sarcasm. “Perhaps we should tell them?”
Colleen swallowed. “I don’t have the cash, okay? It will take some time.”
Mowlam sighed. “I want to help you out, Reverend. You and I are on the same side, despite—well, despite what I know.”
He rose and walked closer. Colleen could smell cigarettes, sweet aftershave and malevolence. She fought the urge to recoil. Behind the handsome face, the soulful eyes, there was danger here. She could feel it in her bones.
“So maybe, instead of cash, you can do something else for me.”
Her skin crawled. “What?”
Mowlam smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re a little on the old side, but your young friend…” He glanced toward the back of the church.
Colleen raised a hand. “Don’t you—”
The church windows exploded inwards in an avalanche of glass. Colleen shrieked. They both fell to their knees, covering their heads as the razor-sharp slivers rained down. Snow and wind squalled through the broken panes.
“What the hell?” Mowlam cowered under a pew. Some glass had nicked his eyebrow and blood trickled down his cheek.
Colleen forced herself to look away. She could hear something. From above them. Scrabbling sounds, as if a creature was running or crawling over the roof. Almost immediately they were followed by another sound. This time from the front door. Thumping and scratching. Like someone was desperate to get in.
And now Colleen could hear the voices. In her head.
“Let us in. Let us in. Open the door.”
Colleen stared at the front door. She could almost see the wood buckling. She stood. Mowlam grabbed her ankle.
“No.”
She yanked her leg away and strode down the aisle.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouted. “You’re going to get us killed, you stupid bitch.”
Let us in. Let us in.
No, she thought. They won’t harm me.
She paused for a moment, composing herself. Then she pulled the door wide open.
The voices abruptly stopped. No one stood outside. But at the end of the path, she could see flames reaching high into the night sky. The cross was on fire. A short distance away, a disemboweled pig lay on the ground, guts steaming in the freezing night air.
Its blood had been used to scrawl a message in the snow:
“WE ARE GATHERING.”
35
Rita beamed. “I hope you’re hungry, because I’ve cooked enough here to feed the five thousand.”
“Oh, I’m always hungry,” Barbara replied. “My mom used to say I’d eat a damn horse if I could.”
Of course, her mom stopped cooking meals when Barbara was about ten. After that everything came out of a box or a can and, eventually, even that stopped when her mom took to the sofa, but that probably wasn’t one to throw into light conversation.
Barbara followed Rita into a living/dining room. Like her host, it was bright and cheery. Lots of indigenous tapestries and pictures adorned the walls. The color scheme was corals and warm, earthy tones. A fire blazed in the hearth and a small round table in one corner had been set for dinner.
“Your home is so welcoming,” Barbara said.
“Thanks. I like to think it’s small but perfectly formed, like me.” A chortle. “We’re all on one level. Two beds. Mom gets the bigger one because that’s kind of her living room, too.”
