The Sign (54 page)

“Well by breaking the story and letting people know who was really behind it and what their agenda was, it’ll be even worse,” Gracie countered. “Either way, Darby and all his pals are going to come out of this stronger. Once you and Drucker are exposed, all the heathens and depraved liberals across the country are going to be demonized. We’ll be giving the hard-core right their biggest rallying cry since the fall of the evil empire. Branding people as ‘anti-American’ will get a whole new lease on life. They’ll run away with the next ten elections and turn the country into a Christian theocracy.”

“Hang on, we’re talking about a handful of guys who put this stunt in play, not an entire political party,” Danny protested.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gracie argued back. “What matters is how they’ll spin it. How they’ll use it to split the country even further. They’ll tar everyone with the same brush and make it look like everyone on Drucker’s side of the aisle was in cahoots with him. That’s what they do. And they’re damn good at it too. Just imagine what someone like Karl Rove could do with it.”

“Hey, maybe we could draft him and the other scumbags who sold us the war in Iraq and have them pin this thing on Iran,” Dalton joked.

The others all turned to him with deeply unamused eyes.

“What? I’m kidding,” he protested, his palms turned out.

A dreary silence smothered the room. On the TV, the anchor was back on briefly before the image cut away to footage of violent riots in Islamabad and in Jerusalem. Across the screen, people were clashing furiously as cars blazed behind them. Police officers and soldiers were in the thick of it, trying to stop the carnage.

Gracie sat up. “Turn it up,” she told Dalton, who was closest to the TV.

“. . . religious leaders have urged their followers to show restraint while the questions surrounding Father Jerome are answered, but the violence here shows no sign of abating,” an off-camera reporter was saying.

An anchor came back on, and a banner at the bottom of the screen said, “President to make statement on Houston events.”

“Following the unprecedented events in Houston earlier this evening,” he announced, “a White House spokeswoman indicated that the president would be making a statement tomorrow.”

Gracie and the others didn’t need to hear the rest.

Drucker’s web was spinning out of control.

“Even the president’s getting suckered into this,” Rydell said.

“We can’t let that happen,” Gracie insisted. She let out a dejected sigh and sagged back in her seat. “This is just going to sink us all.” The room went silent. After a moment, Dalton asked, “So what do we do? ’Cause it seems to me like we need to do this pronto, but we’re screwed either way, whether we expose it or not.”

Rydell sat up. “We can expose it,” he stated. “We have to. But only if I take the fall for it. Alone.”

That got everyone’s attention.

He pressed on. “It’s the only way.” His voice was quivering slightly, a tremble of nerves that was alien to Larry Rydell. “My plan didn’t call for a fall guy. It was never intended to empower or undermine any religion. It was just meant to get people to listen. But now . . . after what they’ve done, the way they’ve turned it . . . We’re all agreed that we can’t let this lie go on. But Drucker’s right. We need a fall guy with no political motive if we’re going to avoid tearing this country apart. And that fall guy’s got to be me.” He sighed, then looked around at them with renewed determination. “There’s no other way out of this. If anyone here has a better idea, I’m all ears, but . . . I don’t see it happening any other way.”

“Great,” Gracie grumbled. “So Drucker wins.”

“Don’t worry about Drucker,” Rydell assured her quietly. “I’ll make sure he pays.”

Gracie nodded stoically. No one knew where to look. Rydell was right, and they knew it. But the thought of doing what Drucker was going to do anyway, albeit long before he was planning to, was swirling inside them like a tuna melt that was a month past its sell-by date.

Gracie turned to Matt. He hadn’t said a word throughout.

“You got somewhere else you got to be, cowboy?” Gracie said, a slightly provoking grin bringing a quantum of light back to her eyes.

“We’re forgetting someone in all this,” he said. “Remember?”

Gracie saw it even before he’d finished saying it. “Father Jerome.”

“Damn,” Dalton groaned.

“Can you imagine what’s going to happen to him if this thing breaks?” Matt asked.

“They’ll rip him to shreds,” Rydell said.

“But he wasn’t in on it,” Dalton noted. “You’ll make that clear, right?” he asked him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt frowned.

“They’ll protect him,” Dalton argued. “We can make sure they do. Get him somewhere safe before we go live.”

“And after that?” Gracie asked, her voice thick with emotion. “Where’s he going to go? His life will be over, and it’ll be our doing.” She glanced at Matt. “We can’t do this,” she argued, resolve hardening her voice. “Not without letting him know what’s about to happen to him. He needs to be part of this decision. We can’t just have it all hit him unprepared.” She shifted her focus back to Matt. “I have to see him. Talk to him—before anything happens.”

“You saw the news. They flew him back to Darby’s place,” Rydell reminded her. “You walk in there, Drucker’ll make sure you don’t come out.”

“What if you say you want to interview him, one-on-one,” Danny offered.

“Too dangerous,” Rydell grumbled. “Besides, he’s got to be the most heavily protected guy on the planet right now.”

Gracie glanced over at Matt. He seemed to be processing something. “What?” she asked him.

He turned to Danny. “How much gear is there in that van?” he asked him, hooking a thumb toward the motel’s lot.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how much of their gear is in there?”

“The full kit,” Danny said.

“What about the laser transmitter? It was inside the stadium, wasn’t it?”

“One was. We had another with us. For when the sign was all the way out over the roof. It took over then.”

Matt nodded. Visibly putting something through its motions in his mind’s eye. “And how much smart dust do you have left in there?” He caught Gracie’s expression and noticed her posture straightening up.

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“Because we’re going to need it. We can’t feed Father Jerome to the wolves.” Matt glanced around the room. “He was dragged into this, like Danny. And he’s a good man, right? As decent as they come, isn’t that what you said?” he asked Gracie. “We can’t let Drucker ruin his life. Not until he’s had his say on the matter.” He paused to gauge the others’ reaction, then turned to Gracie. “What does Darby’s place look like?”

River Oaks, Houston, Texas

T
he chaotic scene outside the entrance to Darby’s gated community was hardly normal, but at least it was quiet. It was almost five o’clock in the morning, and the gathered masses were down for the night. They slept in their cars, in sleeping bags by the side of the road, anywhere they could. Others were still awake, huddled around makeshift campfires, chatting, milling around expectantly. A small, tireless contingent was still crowding the entrance gatehouse, waiting for their messiah to make an appearance. Some wailed in pained desperation while others sang spiritual chants of varying origin. A few diehards goaded the wall of security guards and cops who manned the perimeter barricades. The news crews sheltered quietly by their vans and their satellite dishes, taking turns on watch, afraid to miss out on something. All across the neighborhood, whispered prayers wafted through the evergreen trees that lined the drives, mingling with a thin predawn mist that gave the lushly forested area a portentous, expectant feel.

The sign’s appearance changed all that.

It took them all by surprise, lighting up the night sky, blazing out of the stygian darkness, pulsating with mysterious, unexplained life as it hovered in place just above the treetops.

It was right there, up close and huge.

And it was right over Darby’s house.

The crowd snapped to attention. The believers, the reporters, the cops, the security guards. Even the dogs went manic. Within seconds, everyone was up, on edge, pointing and shouting excitedly. The worshippers were pressing against the barricades, desperate to get closer to it. The cops were scrambling to contain the sudden swell of people. The news cameras were rolling, the field reporters rubbing the tiredness from their eyes and rambling on into their mikes.

Then it started to move.

Drifting, slowly, silently. Floating sideways, away from Darby’s house. Gliding over the trees, heading east, over a neighboring house, toward the country club.

And opening a floodgate of pandemonium.

The crowd broke out and went after it. The sudden shift in their momentum caught the cops by surprise and outflanked them. The barricades toppled over, breached by a wave of hysterical believers who streamed through the trees, chasing the shimmering apparition. Police radios crackled sharply and footfalls crunched heavily as the cops and the security guards raced off to try and control the invading horde.

THE
COPS
PATROLLING
THE
EDGE
of the fairways on the estate’s western perimeter saw it too. Their radios squawked to life seconds later. Incoherent bursts of chatter were flying across the airwaves. The six of them, who had been making the rounds in twos, converged by Darby’s tennis court to try and make sense of what was going on. They could hear the chaos, an eerie upwelling of noise that subverted the stillness of the night. It was heading away from the house. The rear of the estate, where they were—the part that backed up against the golf course—was calm.

Then one of them saw something. A hint of movement, slipping across the trees at the edge of the fairway. He focused his gaze in that direction and nudged the others to attention. It was hard to see anything in the darkness. The light was coming from behind them, from the porch lights around Darby’s garden and pool and, farther away, the sign in the sky. They fanned out a few yards from each other, muscles tensing up slightly, hands resting on their handguns’ grips, eyes scanning on high alert. Then another one of them saw something. Looked like two figures, creeping along the far edge of the tennis court, heading toward the house.

“Over there,” he hissed, pulling out his handgun and pointing it through tense fingers—then it hit him. It hit them all. A blast of unbearable static, a hissing shriek from hell. It overwhelmed their senses, an anvil punch to their eardrums that shocked them into unconsciousness. A couple of them wet their pants before they even hit the ground.

MATT
GLANCED
into the darkness behind him. He couldn’t see them, but he was grateful that Danny, Dalton, and Rydell were there, manning the
LRAD
, hiding in the trees by the seventh green, covering their back. So far, the diversion was working. But it wouldn’t last long. They had to be in and out in fifteen minutes or so.

He waited for a couple of seconds to make sure the guards were staying down, then nodded to Gracie and gave her a let’s-go gesture, knowing that she wouldn’t hear him through the wax plugs shielding her eardrums.

They struck out over the lawn and crept up to the rear façade of the house. Matt spotted two guards walking past the guesthouse and motioned for Gracie to hold position. They both crouched in silence and waited for them to pass, then slipped across to a set of wide French doors. Matt pulled his earplugs out. Gracie followed suit.

“This it?” he asked her in a whisper.

She nodded her confirmation. “Stairway’s off to the right. His bedroom’s upstairs, first door on the left.”

“And the monk’s on the ground floor, beyond the stairs?”

Gracie nodded.

He acknowledged it with a tight nod of his own and pulled out his handgun. He’d brought one of the silenced automatics with him, even though he wasn’t planning on using it unless things got really desperate. Defending himself against Maddox’s goons was one thing. He didn’t really have a problem with that. This was different. Gracie had told him that the guys babysitting Father Jerome were cops and private security guards from the estate. They were just doing their job, and he wasn’t about to cause them any damage beyond the reparable.

He tried the handle. It was open. He slipped inside. Gracie followed. They waited in a low crouch, by the French doors, listening hard. There was no sound coming from the house. Matt glanced around. They were in the guesthouse’s spacious living room. It was lined with bookcases and featured an oversized sofa that faced a big, stone fireplace. It was dark except for a pale glint of light that bounced in from the hallway.

They crossed the room on tenterhooks and slithered up the stairs. Found the first door on the left. Matt tried the handle. It was unlocked. He cracked the door open and slipped through, with Gracie on his heels. Let her in and feathered the door shut behind them. His palm sensed the locking button on its handle, and he pressed it in.

They crossed over to the bed. Father Jerome was fast asleep, breathing in with a slight wheeze. Gracie bent down beside him, glanced hesitantly at Matt, then nudged Father Jerome’s shoulder softly. He stirred awake. He turned over, his eyes blinking open. He saw her, inhaled sharply, and pushed himself up.

“What . . . ? Miss Logan . . . ?” He glanced across the room and saw Matt standing by the window, peering out from behind the curtains. “What’s going on?”

She flicked on the small lamp by the bed. “We have to be quick. You need to come with us. Your life’s in danger,” she said, maintaining an even but urgent tone.

“Danger? From what?”

“Please, Father. There’s no time. Trust me on this. We have to go now.”

He stared at her, his tired face wrinkled with uncertainty. Held her gaze for a brief moment, then nodded and got out of bed. He was wearing dark pajamas.

“I have to get dressed,” he told her.

“There’s no time. Just put your shoes on,” she insisted.