Coleman raised his right hand and sniffed the palm, then held it to Serge.
“Get that out of my face.” Serge’s back was like a leopard’s. “You’re just going to have to deal with it.”
They crawled forward across the pasture like a sniper team. At least Serge did. Coleman’s stealth was more like that of something in a playpen. Serge looked up: “Full moon. That’s the worst for our mission, but we were in no position to pick our timing.”
Ribbit.
“You brought Jeremiah?” asked Serge.
“He’s good luck.”
“He’s loud,” said Serge. “He’ll give our position away.”
“Not my Jeremiah!”
“Shhhh! Keep it down!” Serge lowered his chin in the tall weeds. “People are up . . .”
Moments earlier, the gold Satellite had left the highway for the concealment of a dirt road that ran through pine hardwoods. From there, Serge drove across the bumpy pasture as curious cattle watched the silhouette of the Plymouth in the moonlight. They continued on until reaching some new-growth woods and brush at the edge of a property. That’s where they left the car and commenced their crawl. Now they were in the perfect position that Serge had scoped out in advance with Internet help. Ahead: the target.
A white farmhouse sat atop a small hill.
It was a large farmhouse, as they go, two stories with an addition on back. The owner’s budget apparently favored size over condition. A tin roof sagged above the front porch. The wood siding had termite damage and missing paint from the sun. A pond sat off the driveway. And now two strangers lay in the woods just a stone’s throw from the front door.
“What do we do?” asked Coleman.
“Wait and watch.” Serge got out binoculars and scanned windows. “I picked the best spot to launch our operation, but that’s where my plan ends. I knew this extraction would be tricky because I figured he didn’t live alone. We must recon the social structure of this abode and find its soft underbelly.”
“What’s going on in there?”
“Remember the pastor from the funeral protest? He just went in the kitchen. I’ve picked up five other people inside, but they’re all young women. Long dresses and bonnets. They’re holding candles like it’s some kind of ceremony.”
“No guys?”
“Something weird’s going on in there.”
Coleman kissed his frog on the mouth. “Weird how?”
“Looks like one of those cults where the leader preaches strict obedience to the gospels in order for him to have sex with everyone.”
“Is that what the gospels are about?”
“I hate to judge without all the facts, but I’m guessing he’s taking liberties.” Serge handed Coleman the binoculars. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get more facts.”
Serge darted ahead toward the farmhouse, sweeping around the west side, which was shielded from the moonlight. He plastered his back against the building, creeping sideways. Soon he was under a window. He slowly rose on tiptoes until his eyes were just above the sill.
Inside the living room, the women stood in a line with heads bowed over their candle holders. The pastor held an open Bible with one hand and gesticulated wildly with the other. Then he stepped forward. The women’s chests heaved with anticipation. He looked up and down the row before blowing out one of the candles. He took that woman by the hand and led her into another room.
Serge resumed creeping along until he came to another window. This one was a bit higher. He found some loose bricks on the side of the house and fashioned a little stack. Two eyes again rose above a sill. It was a bedroom. Mirrors everywhere, including the ceiling. A video camera sat on a tripod in the corner. Serge watched the pastor taking off his shirt. The young woman took off her bonnet and reached for the top button under her neck.
“Holy mother,” Serge said to himself. “There’s no way she’s even close to eighteen. I can’t watch.”
He crouched down below the sill, and when he did, a couple of the bricks at his feet toppled. “Shit.” Serge hit the ground and rolled himself as tightly as possible against the lattice along the farmhouse’s crawl space. He looked sharply up and saw the shadow of the pastor’s face against the windowpane. Serge held his breath as the shadow moved from one side of the window to the other, clearly convinced something was out there.
After the longest of times, the shadow left the window, and voices could be heard inside.
“Whew!” Serge scurried in a big loop around the side of the house and dove back into the brush next to Coleman.
“What did you see?”
“It’s worse than I thought,” said Serge. “First, I don’t see any way of extracting the pastor without raising general mayhem from the women. They’ve been brainwashed. So we must abort the mission and put him under surveillance until we can identify an interception point away from his flock. Second, I think the one he’s about to have sex with is underage. I should burst in there under general principles to stop it. But what if I’m wrong or she’s older than she looks, or some kind of common-law wife?”
“Maybe you could phone in an anonymous tip.”
“That’s a great idea.” Serge pulled out a disposable burner phone with prepaid minutes. He looked up as clouds drifted across the moon, cutting the light. “And our luck might be turning. We’re getting extra cover of darkness . . .” He began pressing buttons.
A tap on his shoulder.
“Not now, Coleman. I’m phoning in the important information.”
Another tap. “Uh, Serge . . .”
“I told you I’m busy!”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Dammit, Coleman! What is it that can’t wait?”
A crunching of leaves. “Who’s out there!”
Serge looked up to see the pastor aiming a double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun.
“Damn,” Serge whispered. “Keep your head down and don’t move.”
“I said, who’s out there!”
The pastor kept walking, straight toward them.
The gun cocked, now only feet away. Just a thin, single row of bushes between them and discovery. The clouds began thinning and drifting away. The moonlight grew brighter on the leaves.
“Come out with your hands up or I’ll blast ya!”
Stone silence. Then:
Ribbit . . .
The shotgun’s twin barrels bore down on an exact spot in the bushes.
Jeremiah slipped out of Coleman’s pouch, and before the pair could react, the amphibian leaped from the brush. Another big jump, and it landed at the pastor’s feet.
“For heaven’s sake! I’m giving myself a heart attack over a stupid bullfrog!” The pastor propped the shotgun on his shoulder and turned back toward the farmhouse.
That was all the opportunity Serge needed. He sprang from the vegetation and caught the pastor in the small of his back with the stun gun. The victim fell inert.
Serge and Coleman grabbed him under the armpits and dragged the limp body from view as several curious people in bonnets appeared in the front window . . .
Just after midnight, the gold Plymouth returned to the motel on the north shore of Lake Okeechobee. It backed up to their room.