Blood Atonement

11

Foster was at his desk when his phone burst to life. He had been kicking his heels, as bereft of inspiration as the rest of the team. It was Heather; she was almost stumbling over her words in her eagerness to pass them on to Foster. Blood atonement, she kept repeating excitedly.

Blood atonement.

Foster managed to make her slow down and explain.

She told him what she had learned from Josiah Pettibone, about the splinter sect formed from the ashes of the 1890

tragedy, and their teachings.

'You've got to go there,' he said. 'Take a look around.'

She said she planned to at first light the following day, given the lateness of the hour in the States. 'They're pretty cut off from the world,' she explained.

Well, take care. Let me speak to Harris and let's see if we can open a channel with the US authorities. We might need them.' He paused. 'Do you think Naomi's there?'

'I doubt it. I mean, how? Unless he managed to change her appearance and get her a new identity in a week. Or rowed her here himself.'

She was right. It was doubtful. It was more likely that a former member of the TCF, or someone seeking to set up an offshoot, was doing it in their name. Heather's mind appeared to be heading in the same direction.

'They may keep themselves to themselves but they do have a website. There could be contact with the outside world. Maybe you could have a look and pass that on to the Americans - see if there's been any particular regular traffic to the site?'

Foster took a note. Heather rang off, but not before he'd wished her luck and urged caution once more. Neither of them knew what she might find when she got to Liberty City. He woke his computer from its snooze and hunted for the website of the True Church of Freedom. He found it immediately.

It was basic in design, and didn't play the theme from Deliverance as it loaded. The home page was rudimentary, a few pictures of the town and the rolling hills that surrounded it. There was a brief history of the Church and a set of links to one side. One was a link outlining their difference with mainstream Mormonism. The next was a list of revelations regarding the Church above and beyond those experienced by Smith, Young and Taylor. It included Orson Walker senior, Orson junior, and two successors.

Most of it seemed to be justifying their position as the one true Church and condemning the main Church as apostates.

Orson junior's first revelation, of June 1891, Doctrine and Covenant 143, caught his eye: Revelation given to the fifth prophet and fourth President of the Church, Orson Walker junior, concerning the oath of vengeance, which was only part of the temple endowment ceremony, but which, after the death of his father and members of his family as a result of a grievous fire, was, according to the Lord, to become scripture.

1. I say thus: Thou shalt seek and never cease to seek to avenge the blood of our Prophets on this nation, including the blood of my servant Orson P. Walker, and you will teach this to your children and your children's children unto the fourth generation.

2. If ye believe it, then let it be, Amen.

He read the revelation again and again.

There was the motive.

Harris agreed to approach the Home Office for permission to involve the FBI, though warned the process might be lengthy, and in the meantime cautioned against Heather wading into a small, tight-knit community, and urged patience. Foster knew there was no way he could stop Heather. He kept his counsel.

When the day was over, he decided to pay a visit to Gary, still at the safe house. He wanted the kid to see a familiar face. It was past eleven at night when Foster pulled up outside a detached cottage hidden behind some trees on the outskirts of a village just off the M4, fifteen miles outside London. The lights inside the house appeared to be off. He'd expected Gary to still be up. He checked the address he'd been given; he had the right place. Maybe the boy had got bored and gone to bed.

He got out of the car, parked half on the pavement.

The area was lit by a solitary streetlight. The nearest house was 200 yards away down the road, another detached cottage.

A few cars went past, then nothing. It was quiet and isolated and secluded. Ideal.

He went towards the house, which seemed to be a simple but spacious two-up two-down. All very bucolic and homely, he thought. A million miles away from what the kid was used to. Out front was a small gravel drive where a Ford Scorpio was parked. The back and front lights were flashing intermittently. The alarm must have gone off and muted itself. The wind, probably. But why hadn't they come out and shut it off?

He found the doorbell but there was no sound when he pushed the button, so he knocked softly. No answer. This time he knocked more loudly. No answer. Odd. He thought it was the deal that at least one person stayed awake. He went to the front window, but the curtains were drawn and with the light off it was impossible to make anything out. Then he glanced at the front upstairs window.

The curtain hung open. He went back to the door and rapped hard. No response. A vague sense of disquiet settled in the back of his mind.

There was no point calling headquarters to see if the address had been switched -- or if they had holed up somewhere else for some reason -- because there would be no one there at this hour to respond. He put his hands on his hips and thought for a few seconds, then with a sigh gave up and went back to the car. He got in. Then he got out again. There was no way he could sleep until he'd discovered what was going on here.

He crunched back along the drive to the front door.

He tried the handle slowly. It turned. He pushed the door. It opened a few inches, then stopped. Something was in the way. Something heavy. He couldn't get his head through the opening to see what it was so he gave the door another heavy shunt. It inched open. He squeezed his head through. Inside, the hall was dark but he could see the obstacle.

A body. The floor beneath was sticky and coated with blood.

Without thinking Foster gave the door the biggest shove he could muster, a rasp of pain coursing down his injured collarbone. He ignored it and squeezed round the door, trying not to step on the body. It was a man. Tall, thickset, balding. There was a small gunshot entry wound to his forehead. He'd been shot as he opened the door.

Foster could still smell cordite in the air. It was recent.

Foster went down the hall, breathless, a rising sense of panic in his craw. He turned into the sitting room. It was empty. A game console lay in the middle of floor, wires like spindly, tangled limbs. He checked the kitchen. It was difficult to see so he flicked on the light. There was a breakfast bar obscuring much of his view, at the end of which he could see a pair of trainers peeking out. The blood on the floor told him the person wasn't hiding. He peered round and saw the body of a young woman lying face down on the floor. Obviously dead. He looked up.

On the wall was a panic button. Given no one else was here the killer had managed to murder her before she had a chance to press it.

He turned round and sprinted up the stairs, which creaked after every step. At the top he checked the first room, a small bathroom with a dripping tap that was empty. Beside it was an empty bedroom, a double. The bed was made with an unopened suitcase on it. The next room was single and unoccupied. There was another set of stairs leading to a converted loft. He stood still, breathing hard. From up there he could hear the low murmur of voices, some laughter. A television. He walked up slowly, hoping against hope that Gary was lying propped up, watching TV, oblivious to the carnage below.

The door was ajar. He pushed it open, revealing a small room half-covered with sloping eaves which gave it the feel of a den. There was a bed, creased and used. Empty.

To his right were a sideboard and a television; the source of the noise was a comedy sketch show. He turned it off and looked around the room, staring at the floor and the sheets on the bed. Nothing. No sign of blood. Then, like a punch to the kidneys, it hit him.

He sprinted down both flights of stairs, ignoring the cries and protests of his body and his bursting chest, past both bodies, not even giving them a second glance. The back door was unlocked. He pulled it open and ran out into the large, dark garden walled by hedgerow, where a light rain drenched his face. He went down some stone steps and headed straight for the middle of the lawn where he expected to find the body of an elevenyear-old boy. There was nothing. He bent double, chest heaving, sucking in air. He pulled himself upright. Some mistake, surely. Gary's body had to be out here, its blood seeping on to the wet ground. He went to the borders, kicked at the bushes, peered into every nook and cranny, the drizzle soaking his scalp.

He screamed out the boy's name. Then again, from the pit of his stomach.

But there was no sign of him.

Dead or alive, he was gone.