The Influence (28 page)

“Go,” Jorge said, gesturing back up the drive toward the house and smokehouse. Though the chain was down this time, the way was blocked by recently installed metal posts that had been cemented into the ground and prevented any vehicles from going through. Father Ramos thought of the last time he’d been here, when his goal had been to give the angel a proper burial in the hopes that it would put an end to all that was happening, and he understood why the posts had been put up. He was probably not the only person who wanted to bury, burn or destroy the body, and he recognized Cameron Holt’s desire to protect it because he now felt the same way. The dream last night had awakened something within him, and though he was still frightened of the angel—and feared God’s wrath—he knew that the way to salvation lay not in trying to cover up the past but in embracing the future.  

He stopped the car. “I can’t—” Father Ramos began, but Jorge interrupted him. 

“Park here,” he said. “Walk.”  

Father Ramos backed up and pulled onto the side of the drive next to the barbed-wire fence connected to the cattle guard. Getting out of the car, he locked the doors, then nodded to Jorge, who said, “I will be there. We all will be there. Go.” 

It had not been merely a dream, the priest realized. It had been a summons. The angel wanted him here, wanted to
see
him, and his legs felt weak as he started up the drive. 

Although he hadn’t noticed it at first, the lane ahead was congested with overgrown vegetation. That was weird. The surrounding land seemed perfectly normal, but the sides of the drive were choked with weeds and brush that, Father Ramos saw as he drew closer, did not resemble anything that grew in this part of the state. Or on land. Between strands of what appeared to be tall brown seaweed waving in the slight breeze as though gently undulating in ocean currents, was a bright white coral formation standing like a bleached mockery of the nearby saguaros. Next to that were graceful ferns, and thick clumps of ivy that appeared to have grown over statues— 

bodies 

—of people.  

It was all part of God’s plan, Father Ramos told himself. His was not to ask why. God knew what He was doing. 

Still, it was with trepidation that he continued on, stepping around a protruding bush, walking over a series of vines crossing the drive. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked to the left and saw a long-necked vulture with a face that was all beak pecking out the eyes of a still-wriggling lizard the size of a medium dog. Further back in the brush, the pale delicate features of what looked like a mutated human child stared back at him. 

He hurried on. 

Ahead was the house, and the barn. Between them, a group of men stood, sat and kneeled before the smokehouse. Around the men, like a fence or barrier, was a ring of dead cattle. He pushed his way through the thin spidery branches of a strange low-growing bush and hastened up the remaining stretch of drive. From many of the men came the low mumbled sounds of prayer, and when he stepped within the ring of cattle, Father Ramos, too, began to pray, offering up a spontaneous thanks to the Trinity, to Mary, to the angel, for allowing him to be here. 

This close, the angel’s power was nearly overwhelming. He did not remember feeling this intensity of energy and force on New Year’s Eve, but he felt it now, and it reminded him of what he’d experienced in the chapel when he’d heard the voice call his name. 

“Hector.” 

He glanced up, startled. Had anyone else heard that? No one appeared to have moved, no one was looking up at the smokehouse or over at him, so he could only conclude that the voice was in his head. 

But had he imagined it or was the angel actually speaking to him? 

“Father.” 

He turned around to see Cissy Heath, Juanita Huerta and Iris Tomas walk between two of the dead steers and head toward him. Farther up the drive behind them, just emerging from the overgrown brush, was a scowling Vern Hastings, accompanied by Jorge. They were the people from his dream, and as he met the eyes of the new arrivals, he knew that he’d been right: they’d had the same dream, too. 

Where was Holt? he wondered. The rancher had not been in the dream and he was not here now, and Father Ramos wondered if something had happened to him.  

If God had taken His revenge. 

Jorge stepped forward, past the supplicants, pulled a key from his pocket and opened the smokehouse door. He motioned for Father Ramos and the others to step inside. The ranch hands all remained where they were as the five other people from his dream walked into the darkened shed. 

The interior looked just as he knew it would, and they all took up position in the same locations they had in the dream. In the center of the room, the chrysalis-like form of the angel’s body seemed much darker and felt much more threatening than he expected. He knew he should pray to it, but he was afraid to address the angel directly, and the alien wildness of the face terrified him to the core of his being. 

And yet… 

He knew he had to protect it. 

He was not sure when it had started or how it was occurring, but the angel was
communicating
with him, with all of them, not talking to them, not sending thoughts telepathically, but allowing knowledge to
seep
into them, as though by osmosis. He stared at those hateful features, and while he did not feel the love he knew he should have, he understood that God wanted His angel protected until he?...she?…
it
…had completed its transformation. Exactly
what
it would be after that transformation was complete, Father Ramos did not know, but it was his job to make sure that the process was not disturbed, that it was allowed to happen without interruption. He glanced around at the others in the room, meeting their eyes one by one, and an understanding passed between them.  

Outside, he finally saw Cameron Holt. Naked and filthy, the rancher was running around the corral behind the smokehouse, as though chasing a horse that wasn’t there. He wasn’t saying anything but was breathing loud enough that they could hear him from this far away. On his face was an expression of mindless determination. He stopped, pissed, then continued running. 

Father Ramos crossed himself.  

When he returned to the church, it was full. Everyone who had come for the early mass had remained, waiting, and he was glad, because the angel had given him a voice, and he strode up the aisle to the dais and raised his hands high. “Brothers and Sisters!”  

He sounded more like an evangelical tent revivalist than a Catholic priest, but the angel of the Lord was guiding him, and he continued on, telling his congregation that they needed to be ever vigilant, that there were those who would try to take this miracle from them, that it was their responsibility to make sure the angel remained safe from harm. He met the gazes of those the angel had touched—for better or worse—and knew that they understood.  

“It is God’s will,” he concluded. 

And, as one, the flock before him chanted, “Amen!” 

TWENTY SEVEN 

Ross had just gone over some reports that National Floor Mats had had him analyze, firing off an email to his fellow team members suggesting they get a few more estimates before committing to any new equipment, when Jill showed up on his doorstep. Once again, she’d walked all the way from her house, and she arrived unannounced, opening the screen door and coming in without knocking. “Hello,” she said.  

“Hey!’ he greeted her, surprised. 

“Busy?” 

“I was. But I just finished.” 

“Good.” Jill smiled, wandering over to the window. “Nice weather for a walk,” she hinted. 

It
was
a nice day, around 75 degrees, the blue sky dotted with occasional
Simpsons
clouds. “Apparently so,” he said, watching as she took a drink from the water bottle she was carrying. 

“I thought you might want to join me.” 

“So we’re going to pretend nothing’s going on, huh? That’s the tack we’re taking?” 

“No,” she said. “But you can’t obsess about it twenty-four seven. Everyone needs a little breathing room. Besides…” She tapped three pencils that were in her shirt pocket. “I figure we can start the sketch when we get back.” 

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s walk.” 

He was surprised at how much he’d grown to enjoy these little excursions. “You’re a good influence on me,” he told her as they hiked up the drive out to the road. “I’ve exercised more since I’ve met you than I have in…I don’t know how long.” 

She patted his stomach. “I can tell.” 

Laughing, she ran away as he tried to catch her. 

They walked west for about ten minutes, until they encountered something that looked like a skinned seal by the side of the road. Ants were crawling all over the dead animal, and the sobering sight caused them to turn around. Neither of them knew what the creature was—or
had
been—and they speculated on its identity as they headed back to the L-Bar D, though they were both utterly certain of its ultimate origin. 

The creature in Cameron Holt’s smokehouse. 

Ross started describing the monster while they were still walking, and his description was specific and vivid enough that she was able to quickly sketch out a rough draft the moment they returned. It was unnervingly close, and he suggested a few minor changes to the face and the body’s position, watching as she erased and redrew.  

She held it up for him to see, and Ross nodded, feeling cold. “That’s it.” 

Jill looked at the sketch, saying nothing. There was an odd look on her face, an unreadable expression that prompted him to ask, “Is something wrong?” 

“No,” she said, but the answer was tentative and not at all sure. 

“Jill?” 

“Let me try something else,” she said, and took another sheet of paper, this time drawing the monster with upright body and outstretched wings, the way it would have appeared before being shot. She drew quickly, the image obviously clear in her mind, and while he had never seen the creature alive, he was certain that this is what it had looked like. Even though she had changed the expression on that terrible face, closing the mouth and focusing the eyes straight ahead, he knew that the depiction was accurate. He thought of the black flying thing that had passed overhead on Christmas night, and imagined it looking exactly like this.  

“Oh my God,” he said. “That’s amazing.” 

She glanced at the picture, shuddered visibly, then handed it over to him. “Let’s get this out there,” she said. “See if someone knows what it is.” 

Ross scanned both sketches into his computer, and they spent the rest of the afternoon looking up pictures of mythological creatures, as well as animals, extinct and not, and emailing Jill’s drawings to zoologists, anthropologists, folklore experts, ecological organizations, and anyone else they could think of who might be able to identify the creature. They received no immediate responses, but Ross hoped that within a day or so someone might come up with an identification. Even if it was for a fictional being.  

Although his fear was that no one would, that they would end up being completely on their own. 

There was a knock on the screen. “Rossie? Are you two decent in there?” 

He laughed, despite himself. “Come in.” 

Lita grinned. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” she asked Jill. 

Ross glanced at his watch, surprised. “It’s that late already?” 

“Yep.” 

“Sure,” Jill said. “If it’s not too much trouble.” 

“I made jambalaya, so there’s plenty of food. All we have to do is pull another chair up to the table.” 

“Thank you. Yes,” Jill said. 

While eating, the two of them explained to Lita and Dave what they’d been doing all afternoon. In the middle of the meal, Ross rushed back to the shack to get Jill’s drawings, and their hosts marveled at the accuracy of the depiction. Lita examined the “before” picture. “I’ll bet that’s what we did see flying over us on the way home.” 

Dave didn’t seem to want to look at the sketch too long. “Do you think this’ll work?” he asked skeptically. 

“We hope so,” Jill said. 

“No,” Ross confessed, and surprised himself by the admission. They all looked at him. “Whatever’s happening here, I think it’s unique,” he said. “I’m not sure anyone’s going to be able to help us.” 

“But some people might have ideas,” Jill said hopefully. “I mean, the more minds we get thinking on this the better, right?” 

“Right,” Ross said, but he wasn’t sure he believed it.  

Lita stood up from the table, although she’d barely touched her food. “My friend Lurlene took a picture of it,” she said, walking across the kitchen. “That night. New Year’s Eve. Other people probably did, too, but Lurlene did for sure. She tried to show me the other day, but her phone wasn’t working. If we could get one of her pictures, or if she could tell us who else might have some, you could upload it and show people those.”  

Lita picked up the wall phone next to the refrigerator, started dialing, and Ross allowed himself a small ray of hope. 

“Hello?” Lita said. “Lurlene, it’s me—” She stopped talking, and a strange expression passed over her face. Slowly, she pulled the receiver away from her ear. “She hung up on me.” 

No one suggested that it hadn’t been intentional, and Lita placed the handset back in its cradle, making no effort to redial. She headed back to the table, where they resumed eating in silence. 

After dinner, they thanked Lita and Dave, then walked across the yard. The sun was starting to go down, and Ross knew that even if she left right at this second, it would be dark before she got home. The thought of her walking through the desert alone at night made him uneasy. 

“I should probably drive you back,” Ross said. 

“Or…I could stay the night.” 

He smiled. “Or that.” 

“You know,
Giant
’s on TCM.” 

He nodded, smiled, hoping he didn’t look too blank.