“Weapons?” she echoed as if bewildered. She felt naked without her gun, but was glad she’d left it at the trailer.
“It’s just a precaution.”
“I’m not a member or anything. I was told there’s an Introduction Meeting here and that it’s open to the public.”
“That’s true. It starts in a few minutes. We’re only documenting who comes and goes and making sure no one brings any weapons into the commune. We are a nonviolent people.”
“I see.” Apparently the Covenanters didn’t consider stoning to be violent. Continuing her act of innocence, she said, “I have nothing, nothing at all.”
“How did you hear about the meeting, Ms. Mott?”
“Mrs. Mott. I met one of your members yesterday when I was out taking photographs with my husband.”
His eyebrows slid up. “So you’re the one.”
“The one?”
“Yesterday evening Brother Bartholomew mentioned finding a young couple with a camera along the perimeter. Where’s your husband?”
“He wasn’t interested in coming. He…he doesn’t feel any need for religion.”
The young man rested his hands on her open window. “Maybe someday he’ll change his mind.”
It was a shame this boy had carved up his forehead. “I hope so.”
His partner finished checking the truck’s undercarriage and returned to their post, a small platform where he could take advantage of an overhang he soon wouldn’t need. Dusk was settling in. And he certainly didn’t have to worry about rain. Last night’s monsoon had moved on as quickly as it had hit. By the time Rachel woke up at eight-thirty this morning, there were no puddles or even mud to show there’d ever been a storm—just some broken branches scattered by the wind.
Grateful that Nate had managed to fix the truck’s air-conditioning, Rachel adjusted the closest vent and drove into the compound. There, she was directed by a third man, this one bald and wearing a T-shirt with ripped-out sleeves, to park near a large tent.
She did as she was told. Then she checked her cell phone. No service, as she’d suspected. This place was too remote.
“Damn.” She couldn’t text Nate to let him know she was inside. But it hardly mattered, since he didn’t have service at the trailer, anyway. Not having a conduit to other people she trusted was as odd as it was uncomfortable. She was working without a safety net.
Despite its uselessness, she dropped her phone back in her purse and got out.
A woman wearing Islamic-style clothing—a green thobe and headdress with sandals—greeted her with a bouquet of wild flowers, one of which she slipped into Rachel’s hair. “Hello, I’m Louise.” Approximately thirty years old, the woman had a pretty face completely devoid of makeup and bore the same mark on her forehead as the men Rachel had met at the gate. “Welcome to Paradise.”
Whether or not it was Paradise remained to be seen. “Thank you.”
“Have you ever been here before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
“I hope you enjoy your visit.”
Rachel would’ve admired Louise’s pleasant manner, except her vacant eyes and subdued behavior suggested she was on something, likely a sedative. Rachel was about to ask the woman where she was from and how long she’d been part of the group when a far more resonant voice interrupted.
“Sister Louise, you’ve made a new friend?”
Turning toward the sound, Rachel saw a tall man duck out of the tent. With his black hair slicked away from his face and his eyes shining like pieces of obsidian, she recognized him immediately. Ethan Wycliff was as well groomed as his picture. He walked toward her, wearing an expression of curiosity and avid interest.
Rachel was just as interested in him. She was also surprised. Although not everyone wore the Covenanter’s mark, she’d certainly expected to see it on him….
13
“I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” Ethan said.
Intrigued as to the reason he wasn’t marked with his own brand, Rachel plastered a smile on her face and tried to appear hopeful and genuine. Retaining that air of innocence took effort. She actually felt more comfortable, more in control, in the ghettoes of L.A. “My name is Rachel. Rachel Mott.” She accepted the hand he extended.
From what she’d seen so far, most of those living in the commune, except the guards at the gate, dressed in Middle Eastern-style robes. Ethan was no exception. He wore a beige jalabiya with gold trim and sandals. His bare neck and forearms suggested he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. Only a sash held the jalabiya closed. Considering the heat, Rachel could understand why he might forego a second layer of clothing. But there was something sensual in the way the loose fabric gaped open to reveal his tanned chest, as if he knew he was attractive and used it to his advantage.
His clasp was warm and dry, but he didn’t shake her hand. He pulled her toward him and kissed her on each cheek. “I’m Ethan Wycliff, and these are my people. I’m glad you’re here.”
She let her gaze flick to his forehead. “You’re the leader?”
“I am.” He stared into her eyes. “Only I can offer you the living water you seek.”
Rachel blinked. The statement was dramatic to the point of being corny. And yet he came across as sincere. She could imagine the women who might be taken in by such intensity, such conviction. If for no other reason, Ethan Wycliff was dangerous. “I’m not sure I’m seeking anything,” she said with a laugh. “But I admit to being curious. Why is it that you don’t have the mark on your forehead that I see on so many others?”
“Do they brand the shepherd as well as his sheep?” His mouth quirked, suggesting humor. Was it possible Ethan could still laugh at himself? Or was he laughing at the power he held over others, at their stupidity and weakness? Only a cocky man would be so bold as to call himself God’s anointed and expect to be taken seriously. A cocky man—or a crazy one. Rachel was beginning to believe he might be both. But he certainly came in an attractive package.
Tilting up her chin to compensate for the difference in their heights—he was as tall as she’d assumed, based on his picture—she worked on controlling the subtle expressions that could label her as deceitful. A recent seminar she’d attended on body language had made her hyperconscious of what she might divulge without being aware of it. “I guess not.”