The light from the crack beneath the door had grown dimmer as she worked at her bonds. Whoever had entered the outer room hadn't bothered to turn on the lights.
She saw vague shadows pass across the room accompanied by the sound of heavy boots. Her mind raced. Was it Greene?
The footsteps were very loud, and they seemed to belong to a much larger man, but she couldn't be sure that she wasn't magnifying the sound in her mind, or that her proximity to the floor didn't cause the steps to echo.
She could barely hear him over the hammering of her heart, and she bit her lip behind the bandanna to keep from crying out.
Tears stung her eyes again.
When the steps neared the door again, she tensed. As inconspicuously as she could, she positioned her palms flat on the floor, or as close to flat as she could get them in their binding. She pulled her knees slightly forward. She wasn't certain she could get to her feet, but if she could, she intended to run for the front of the store. She might be able to kick the door closed behind her and stumble to her car.
She had no idea how she'd drive with her hands tied, and in a panicked moment she wondered where her keys were. Then she remembered she'd left them in the ignition, and her resolve strengthened.
The footsteps stopped, then turned toward the door. Katrina pushed back against the wall, hoping it would lend her a little support when she made her move. The doorknob turned, and the door swung outward slowly.
It creaked loudly.
A tall form stepped into the room.
It wasn't Greene—she saw that right away.
This man was slightly taller and broader.
He had shaggy dark hair and wore heavy leather work boots. He stopped in the doorway and scanned the shadowed office storeroom.
He didn't know where she was. Katrina held her breath and willed her heart to beat more quietly.
The man shuffled into the room and turned toward the desk. He took a step in that direction, looked over his shoulder, then turned to the wall. Katrina saw that he was reaching for the light switch, and chose that moment to move. She lurched back against the wall, curled her legs beneath her and pushed off the floor with her fingertips. The cord ground into her wrists, but she ignored the pain.
The man cried out in surprise as she staggered past him toward the door and he tripped as he turned, making a wild grab that just missed yanking her back by her hair.
In a second she was through the door and managed to kick out with her left leg and slam it closed. She ran clumsily toward the front door, nearly fell as her balance shifted, then righted herself and yanked the door open, holding the knob tightly between her bound hands.
Outside it was nearly dark. She saw a glow off to her right, but she ignored it. She slammed the door and headed for her car, heaving great gulps of fresh air into her lungs through the bandana and ignoring the pain in her legs, arms and back. She heard a crash and a loud curse behind her, and then she had the car door open and slipped around it and inside. She yanked the door closed behind her and slammed her hand down on the lock. Frantically she twisted over to the passenger side and did the same. For the first time since owning the little car, she was thankful it was a two-door.
At the same moment she pressed down on the passenger side lock and groped for the keys, her pursuer crashed out through the front door.
His eyes were dark slits, and his lips were curled back in a crazed expression of fury. Katrina met that wild glare for just a second.
Her bound hands banged painfully on the steering wheel as she reached desperately for the keys. She groped once, missed, then brought her fingers together and gripped the edges of the empty ignition slot. The tears she'd held in check burst free and she leaned, searching the floor and the seat.
The man ran to the car and slammed his fists into the window. It shook, but held. Katrina backed away and pulled her hands up to shield her face. She pressed into the door behind her and held her face in her hands. She screamed, and then screamed again.
The man didn't hit the window again.
As her screams subsided into sobs that wracked her frame, Katrina opened her eyes and peered into the moonlit parking lot. The man stood just outside the driver's side door and stared at her.
His rage had melted away to a dark calm. When he saw that she was looking, he smiled.
He lifted his hand, and she saw her keys dangling from his tight-knuckled grip.
Abe reached the bottom of the trail in less than half an hour. Running downhill was dangerous, especially in the failing light of late afternoon, but the smoke rising up over the trees and the scent of burning wood drew him on and down. He ran because it was comfortable. As long as he could remember, running had helped him clear his mind and sift through conflicting thoughts. It didn't matter what was burning, there was little he could do about it. If all the folk on the mountain gathered, they could build fire breaks and dig trenches. They could cart in barrels of water and pumps. There was no fire department up on the mountain. No trucks with sirens were likely to rush in and stop the blaze unless it burned completely out of control and started to eat away at the mountain. Wildfires were no rarity in California, and the citizens of San Valencez would see to it that firefighters kept the flames contained.
There was nothing Abe could do about the fire, but he had to know.
The flames had appeared in the distance as he'd spoken of burning. The coincidence was not lost on him, and he wondered if someone else had shared his thoughts. The smoke came from the direction of the white church, but there were other things in that direction. There were plenty of dry trees, for one thing.
There were families who lived further in, past the church and well off the path.
He rounded the last string of trees and stopped cold. In the distance he saw the tree line that marked the edge of the clearing. He saw the entrance to the trail that led back and away, into the trees and on to and past the white church.
He saw his mother's cottage engulfed in flames.
He started forward again, and his steps slowed to a steady march. His gaze never wavered from the crumbling, burning building. The clearing was filled with people. Some of them held shovels, or rakes, as if they'd come to respond to the blaze, but none of them fought the fire. The structure of the small home had mostly collapsed. The walls were caved in on two sides, and great chunks of the roof had dropped through into the interior.
Another let go as Abe approached and hit the burning floor with a thud that sent sparks dancing into the darkening sky.
Others lined the clearing. He saw them in the periphery of his site, but he couldn't tear his gaze from the burning home.
He thought through the things he'd left behind. He thought of his mother's teapot and the old quilt he'd slept with as a boy.
He thought of his father's clothing, folded and neat and stored in boxes lined with mothballs. He remembered the symbol carved into the door, thought of it etched in flame, and sank to his knees at the edge of the clearing.
He turned slowly.
Nearby, a clutch of watchers stood gathered together, staring at him.
Beyond them, he caught a lone man, and beyond the man a couple, their arms wrapped tightly about one another's shoulders.
All of them watched him. He turned the other direction and saw similar groups lined the trees all around. He saw Henry George, leaning on a tree.
Henry turned toward the burning home and slouched lower against the tree. Two other men stood near him. They watched Abe and the burning home alternately.
He was almost certain they were smiling.
A little closer to him stood Ed Murphy.
Ed had a woman under his arm, but Abe couldn't make out who she was, or if he knew her at all. Ed started to say something. Abe saw the man open his mouth, reach out, and then drop his hand. Ed's mouth closed at the same instant, and he reached up absently to tug his hat brim down tighter over his forehead.
Abe lowered his head. He felt very conspicuous with all of their eyes on him, but he knew what he had to do. This was the moment many of them had waited for since the day he left. It was the moment in which they'd take his measure and find him wanting, or acceptable.
He had no way to know how many of them bore the mark. It was easier to read in some than in others. A few, like Harry, lounged indolently and stared into the flames as if they wished they had sticks and marshmallows to do it up right. Others hung back, shot wary, furtive glances at the marked ones, and whispered quietly.
Abraham pulled the pendant out from beneath his shirt and held it in his hands. The metal gleamed in the dancing firelight. He let it dangle from his fingers, and bowed his head. In a steady voice, he prayed. He didn't try to pray over the roar of the flames.
He didn't pray to them, but despite them.
He prayed for his mother.
He thanked God for the mountain and its strength. He thanked God for his father, the wisdom he had grown up with, and for all the years of his life. He prayed for whoever had set the fire, using that moment to acknowledge that he knew his mother was dead, and that he mourned her.
He asked for the forgiveness of his past failings.
When he rose, Abraham scanned the crowd again.
They stared at him openly now, turned away from the flames.
No one spoke. A few of them started forward, as if they intended to speak with him, or offer condolences.
They stopped when they met his gaze. A few of them hung their heads. Others, like Henry George, glared in open hostility.
Abe turned toward the forest trail that led to the white church. He stood that way for a long time, very still. He turned back slowly, gazed at the burning house a last time, and then turned back to the trail.
He didn't see the trees.
He didn't see the burning home, or the wooded trail. He saw a symbol burning in the air, the equal arms of a cross surrounded by letters so old the name of the language they represented had faded from memory.
He saw that image surrounding a pair of cold, staring eyes. Abe closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists.
He started back the way he'd come, but didn't take the turn toward the trail. Instead he turned toward the road to Greene's store and the telephone. He needed to call Katrina. He needed to figure out what he was going to do—why he was going to do it, and how. He needed to be as far away from the charred remnant of his past as possible. And so he ran.
With the stars high in the sky and the acrid tang of smoke wafting across the mountain, caught in the night's breeze, Abraham ran down the mountain as fast as his legs would carry him. He didn't think about the church, or the fire.
He thought about Katrina, her voice and her smile. It didn't matter if Greene were the Devil himself. Abe needed a phone.
After the girl knocked him into the wall and ran out of the store, Angel's mind blanked.
It happened more and more since he'd received the mark on his head—his anger boiled up and out of him like steam from a teakettle. He had no control over it, and wouldn't have exerted it if he had.
He had been ready to smash his fists into the driver's side window again and again, to drag the woman out through the broken window and truss her up like a pig for the roast. His fist swung back and he willed it forward, but the blow never fell. He heard Silas' voice in his mind.
He remembered the keys in his pocket. He smiled. All of this happened in the span of a moment, and his face, contorted in mindless rage a moment before, softened with the smile.
He opened the door quickly and slid inside, even as the girl scrambled across to the passenger side and tried to open the lock.
Angel grabbed her arm tightly and yanked her back.
The girl screamed. It was a garbled, broken sound that grated on his ears like shattering glass. She pressed back into the passenger side door and smacked her head painfully on the glass of the window.
Angel released her arm, drew his hand back, and smacked her hard in the mouth. Her head jerked, and her eyes widened in shock. She started to scream again, and Angel spoke.
"Shut up," he said. His voice was soft, but it carried. "Shut up or I will hit you so hard you don't remember how to scream."
She stopped screaming, but was still crying and breathing heavily, having trouble sucking in air through the gag.
Angel grunted in satisfaction. He had instructions, but it was difficult to think of them with his ears ringing.
"Turn," he grunted.
She did as he asked and he unknotted the gag. "Take this," he said, thrusting a small flask toward her.
"Take this and drink. Don't stop until it's empty or I will hold you by the hair and pour it down your throat. Spill it, and it will be worse."
She stared at the flask, but made no move to take it. He shook it at her and turned, reaching for her hair.
With a soft cry she took the flask. She fumbled with it and he reached across the seat. She flinched, but Angel was quick.
He wrapped one large hand around hers and with the other he gripped the lid of the flask. He unscrewed it quickly and drew his hand back.