I have no idea. I don’t know what all right means anymore. The burning in my eyes is gone, but I keep crying. Is that all right? Is this feeling all right? I don’t even know what it is. Only that I’m so tired I want to sleep, and at the same time I have to go back. “My dad’s still in there,” I say. “He’s still in there.” I start to get up.
Agent Torres puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes me down. “Agent Lustig and several teams are already over the wall, and they’ll bring him out. You stay here.” He stands up and looks toward the fence. He seems tense and worried, and I realize it’s probably because of the singing. They shouldn’t be doing that. They ought to be surrendering.
His radio crackles, and he answers it. “Status?” he asks. I’m close enough to hear the reply from the other end.
“They’ve retreated into the church building. It’s rigged to blow. We’re working on it now.”
“How many in the church?”
“Maybe twenty-five men and women, no children we can see. We’ve disarmed two devices. Just one to go. Advise Agent Lustig that the leader is not, repeat, is not in the church.”
“Wait one.” The agent pushes buttons on his radio and says, “Special Agent Lustig, please be advised that explosive devices are in place at the church and are currently being defused, but the cult leader is still at large, do you copy that?”
“Copy,” the radio says. “Did you locate Connor Proctor? Sam Cade?”
Agent Torres cuts a look toward me, and I feel sick all over again when I realize what he’s about to say. “We have Connor Proctor safe, sir. No trace yet of Sam Cade.”
“Acknowledged, Lustig out.”
I lick my dry, still-tingling lips and say, “Check the shed, the one at the end of the concrete building. He’s in there, I think. Or at the lake. He could be at the lake.” I hope he isn’t. I don’t even want to think why he would be, but I remember seeing him there, seeing that last look he gave me, and even though my eyes are burning and leaking, now I know I’m crying for real. Dad, please. Please be okay. Please.
Torres passes what I said along. Before we get an answer, the radio says, “All clear at the church. Located another device in another building, but it’s empty and—”
In the next second, there’s an explosion that tears the whole night to pieces, and it’s big enough to send pieces of wood and concrete flying through the air up, out, every direction. We all duck and cover, and when I look, part of the fence is mangled and bent from the force of it. My ears are ringing, and I just stare numbly at the fire rising on the other side of the gate.
Nobody is singing anymore, not that I can hear.
“Jesus, tell me that wasn’t the church,” Agent Torres says into his radio.
But I already know the answer. It was too close. They’ve blown up the Garden. And if not for Sister Harmony, they’d have killed all the women and children inside it.
“Devices in the church confirmed rendered safe,” the radio says. The agent on the other end sounds unsteady. “We pulled back before the building blew, no casualties. Those in the church being taken into custody now. Not putting up a fight.”
They didn’t manage to kill themselves. That’s good.
But we haven’t got my dad.
I stare off at the fire until Vee puts her arm around me. “It’s okay, Connor,” she says. Vee Crockett. Comforting me.
“Yeah,” I agree. I don’t mean it.
Because it isn’t.
28
GWEN
I think nothing will stop me from getting to my son, but something does. I’m running up the path from the lake, exhausted, legs like jelly, my lungs aching from exertion; I’ve shed my tank and mask and regulator, but I’m cold. So cold. I’m forcing speed from my unsteady body and am halfway up the hill when there’s an explosion that whites out the night and sends me staggering, and the sound claps my ears an instant after. Like lightning striking. It hits me like an ax to the chest and nearly sends me to my knees. Connor. My son is there. I can’t believe that he was in that fireball. No. I can’t. I need to find him.
I realize that there’s someone walking toward me, coming down the path away from that hellish flame reddening the night. And he’s singing. I recognize the hymn. Yes we’ll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river.
He’s got a beautiful voice, and it feels like the worst joke of all that this man can create something so lovely.
He sees me standing in his path, dripping wet. I’m aiming my gun at him, and he stops singing. “Who are you?” I ask him. He stops walking. I’m boiling with rage and terror, but outside I’m completely still. Completely steady.
He slowly raises his hands. “My name is Father Tom. I surrender.” Father Tom. He looks almost angelic in the moonlight. But I know he isn’t.
“Where’s my son?” I ask him. My voice sounds almost quiet.
“Gina Royal. I knew you’d come. Well, if there’s any God in heaven, your son is in hell,” Father Tom says, and I hear the awful, smug delight in that. It shatters me like that explosion shattered the night, and for an incandescent moment I imagine emptying a clip into his face until I obliterate it, until there’s nothing left of him but blood and shards, and then I will reload and keep shooting.
I break free of that with a gasp and realize my finger is a microtwitch from making it a reality. I can’t, because he did not say my son was dead. He said, If there’s any God in heaven. But he wouldn’t hesitate to tell me directly that Connor was dead. I have to believe that. I have to, or I’ll lose my mind completely.
He slowly lowers himself to his knees. He winces a little, and smiles. “Old bones. I’m not the man I was.” If he’s trying to convince me he’s a human being, he fails. He’s playing with me. “You brought evil into our garden, just as women always do. You’re Lilith and Eve and the serpent all in one. You’re the mother of all sins.”
I walk right up to him, crouch down, and shove the gun under his chin. “Including murder,” I say. “Did you kill my son?”
“He was in the Garden,” he says, and I see hell in the smile that spreads across his lips. “The Garden and our meeting hall are ashes now. Go sift through them and find what you can.”
I hate this man; I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life. Even Melvin. I want to rip him to pieces, and I can do it with a touch of my finger. No effort at all.
“That isn’t an answer,” I tell him. “Did. You kill. My son.”
He’s gone pallid now. For all his grinning and pretense, he’s afraid of something. Not the gun. Not that I’ll kill him.
He’s afraid that I won’t.
“Yes,” he says. “I did. He’s with the saints.” He looks toward the lake.
And I know he’s lying.
“You’ve got a way out of here,” I guess, and I know I’m right, because for the first time I see surprise flash in his eyes. “A secret only you keep. Where is it, near the lake? Behind the waterfall? Doesn’t matter. You’re not getting to it.” I stand up and back away, still aiming. “Where’s my son, you asshole?”