The Watcher was being watched.
She’d glimpsed his rugged face at a number of her infamous religious debunks, even sensed the flickering gaze from his intense eyes. A couple of times, Rachel felt compelled to meet this man. Each time she tried, he disappeared. It was as though he knew she was intrigued.
She had him in her sights now, rear-view mirror to be exact, as his black sedan followed her at a safe distance along a half-deserted street off Eastend’s main drag.
A few people were hurrying along the cracked sidewalks, as though anxious the cracks might split open and consume them.
Rachel wondered if they’d heard of Freddie’s miracle or were reacting to the odd energy that swirled in the streets as the sedan cruised by. Unafraid, she was still buzzing from the media responses to her confrontation two days before at the Hendersons’. She generally hung around for a day or two after a successful debunking, savoring the power.
Her thoughts reluctantly cast back sixteen years to a period when she was powerless. To the universal blank faces and broken postures of the members of the Children of Heaven. To her beautiful mother’s sagging shoulders and shuffling gate, fear and fatigue her twin companions.
Rachel shivered, unwilling to relive her youth. No one would control her or her thoughts or emotions. Enough of this crap! she thought, and gunned the accelerator. Her sub-compact rental screeched around a corner, almost clipping a mailbox. She braked quickly, yanked the wheel right, slammed to a halt and jumped out.
The black sedan crept around the corner and rolled to a stop inches from Rachel. As though the driver knew she was going to be in the street. In a blink, she was pounding on his window, shouting, “Who’n the blazes’re you? Why’re you following me?”
The driver breathed for a moment, then rolled down the window, calmly ducking Rachel’s errant fist. “Well, hullo, Ms. Willingdon,” he said, his voice slightly husky. “About time we jived.”
She shivered, backing up at the unusual light in his eyes.
“I’m Harry,” he drawled, eyebrows rising. “Harold R. Holt. Buy you a jolt of java?”
Rachel found herself temporarily mesmerized by his bold and dazzling smile. Behind the craggy face and five-o’clock shadow shone eyes the likes of which she had never seen.
Always a sucker for the wiry type, she openly stared, wondering what sort of genetic miracle had produced that indigo glow. And why, when she looked right into it, the hairs along her spine snapped to attention as though swept by an arctic gale and her innermost fears rested on her tongue. The intense color reminded her of something...something ancient and arcane. She was both fascinated and wary. She blinked then jumped as a car rushed by, tooting its horn.
“Come on, it’s just coffee,” he added, reaching out of his car and grabbing for her arm. “Before you get killed.”
Warmth curled through her and Rachel surprised herself by replying, “Make it scotch and you’ve got a deal.”
He laughed deep in his throat and gave her an appreciative look. “Yeah, right. Bell’s, ain’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“Ah, Ms. Willingdon, you’d be plum amazed at what I know.” He gestured to her car. “Follow me and find out.”
And that was Rachel’s introduction to the dark side.
