Read China Lake for Free Online Page B

people were clapping in unison and the choir was singing a rompin’, stompin’ tune about stain and sacrifice. I called out again and Wyoming’s eyes panned the crowd, his gaze lighting on the commotion, and on me.
    I said, ‘‘I’m doing what you asked.’’
    I knew that when he said, Tell the cartoonist, he didn’t mean for me to seek out Tabitha at his service. But my words worked: They confused the crowd around me into stopping their jibes.
    Wyoming put the microphone to his lips. ‘‘My, my.’’
    He gestured the choir to hush. Slowly the crowd backed off, although Paxton kept his hand on the back of my collar, and Shiloh gave me a valedictory poke in the side with her car keys. Wyoming waited, letting people quiet down, and letting me appreciate the muscle surrounding me, and his authority over it.
    He smiled. ‘‘I believe, Miss Delaney, you were saying something to me earlier about mercy.’’
    Quiet smothered the church. I said, ‘‘About being merciful, not putting people at your mercy. But I get your point.’’
    The crowd didn’t like my lack of servility, taking it for backtalk. Wyoming’s expression went as flat as a board.
    He said, ‘‘Shiloh, Isaiah,’’—apparently meaning Paxton—‘‘thank you for your vigilance. You are the kind of high-caliber bullets the Lord needs in his ammunition clip.’’ He pointed to Crew-cut. ‘‘You, Curt Smollek. You gonna show this same fighting spirit when it comes time to confront the beast?’’
    ‘‘Yessir, Pastor Pete. Point me at him and pull the trigger.’’ Smollek’s hands mimed a pump-action shotgun. ‘‘He’s going down!’’
    ‘‘Excellent.’’ New expression: a patronizing smile. ‘‘Miss Delaney. You didn’t need to cause a ruckus.’’ He gestured to the front row. ‘‘Tabitha, come up here.’’
    She rose and followed his beckoning hand.
    Had she changed? Her white dress was longer, looser, hiding the high, pert butt that always attracted attention, but that may have been because she had lost weight. She was pale, almost fragile-looking, except for her face. With her wild auburn curls drawn back by a hair tie, her face shone. Her eyes were luminous. And they were only for Peter Wyoming.
    As she stepped onto the stage he took her hand. ‘‘Someone’s here to see you, lamb. But it’s someone who doesn’t see, and like all sightless things she’s clumsy and destructive and causing a mess. Can you straighten her out?’’ Laying a hand on the back of her neck, he turned her to face me. ‘‘Tell Miss Delaney how you came to the Remnant.’’
    For a second, then two, she stayed silent, staring at me, and I looked desperately for some acknowledgment that we were family, had been friends. Don’t, I willed her. Don’t say anything. But she had lightning in her eyes, a brilliant and pitiless force.
    Her boisterous voice carried straight to me. ‘‘Jesus tore me from Satan’s grip.’’
    Wyoming said, ‘‘How did he do that?’’
    ‘‘He rescued me from an unholy marriage.’’
    A discernible ‘‘Oh, no’’ rose from the crowd. Wyoming held up a hand. ‘‘Don’t judge. It’s easy for naive young people to get lured by ‘friends’ into liaisons with the unsaved. Isn’t it, Tabitha?’’
    ‘‘So easy it’s scary. They make the unsaved life look exciting, and they’re always eager for you to join it. And she seemed so honestly sincere.’’ Talking about me, now. ‘‘Encouraging what she called creativity, but she meant secular art and fiction, just godless chatter. And I fell for it, and she ended up leading me to a dark, a very dark and powerful place. To life with him.’’
    ‘‘Your husband.’’ She nodded. ‘‘Tell them how dangerous he was.’’
    ‘‘He . . .’’ She looked at her feet. ‘‘He’s an officer in the navy. He had us get married by a Roman Catholic priest.’’
    Silence. She might have been bragging that she bit the heads off kittens for sport.