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  There had to be a next step, if only because she had held out so far and hadn’t cracked. She had told them nothing. She’d bitten her tongue so hard that the blood had almost choked her, and the throbbing in her mouth was so painful that it distracted her from some of the other aches.

  Her hands were useless right now—fuzzy gloves of pain, the nails slowly pulled from their beds by pliers, the agony almost making her pass out. Almost, but not quite. Duane knew what he was doing. When she seemed on the brink of losing consciousness he would stop, pause, wait for the waves of anguish to subside before asking her another question. Inevitably, she would refuse to answer, and the pain would begin again.

  At one point she had looked away from his sweat-spangled face, the glittering eyes that reveled in his task, and had seen their flickering shadows on the wall, cast by the storm lamp that he used to light his work. It loomed large, grotesque and almost cartoonlike—a garish, ghastly representation of reality. Her mind was spinning, and for a moment she’d believed she would lose her grip on sanity.

  Perversely, it was Duane who’d saved her from this descent. In the instant when she felt things slip, he had paused to alter his method of attack.

  He had dragged her back from Ricke’s rooms and thrown her into the cinder block cell, while he went to fetch the implements he required, and the lighting. He had told her exactly what he intended to do to her, before slamming the door and leaving her alone with nothing but her own fear and imagination.

  Elena was tougher than either he or Ricke had figured. Instead of pushing her down the path of falling to pieces, the anticipation had steeled her. She was her father’s daughter when it came to determination, and forewarned, she was able to prepare herself mentally for the next onslaught.

  Duane had started by slapping her around a little, dragging her to her feet before putting down his tools. He was inviting her to make a move, to try and escape. She knew this, yet at the same time there was just that very small chance that his overweening confidence would let him down—a chance that was blown out of the water with the first backhand that sent her reeling. She was weak from pain, lack of food, bad water and sleep deprivation. Even fueled by her anger and desperation, she could not muster any real venom.

  Any fight she had left was driven out of her by the pile driver to her gut that knocked the breath from her and brought her to her knees. The heavily shod foot that crunched her jaw and loosened teeth was just for emphasis.

  Even as she lay there suffering, she swore that she would get revenge on him somehow, some day. If she had wanted to die as an alternative to this before, all he had done was fire up the hatred that reversed her attitude. She would take all he had to give, and store it up for later.

  Panting with his own exertions and excitement, Duane had finally left her, spitting in disgust on the ground by her prone body. He’d promised her he would be back, and that there were still things he could do to get her to answer Ricke’s questions.

  Some peace and love cult this had turned out to be. The inconsequential thought drifted through her head as she lay on the damp earth, and she laughed, harder and harder, until the laughter turned to sobbing, the salty tears stinging the scratches on her face.

  Duane had left her feet. She had read enough about torture to know that toenails and the soles of the feet were a whole world of pain waiting for her. Added to this, she knew that once he attacked her feet she wouldn’t be able to walk. That would mean any hope of escape would be lost. Despite the burning pain in her hands, she pulled herself to standing. She could still do this, but what the hell else could she do, now that her hands were, for the moment, so useless?

  Despair flooded over her. The bastard might as well have finished her off there and then.

  She sank back on her haunches, ignoring the pain, and started to cry again.

  * * *

  RICKE GESTURED TO the two women who were dressing him, and they left the room without a word. He was wearing a calf-length purple robe with an astrological design on the chest. Underneath, he wore purple tracksuit bottoms, and he had purple sneakers on his feet. He waited until he heard the women leave before speaking.

  “I take it from the way you’re looking that you failed,” he spit harshly.

  “I can make her talk.” Duane shrugged, trying to disguise the fear he felt. He was meaner and stronger than the older, flabbier Ricke, but there was something in the man’s eyes that terrified him. He needed to please him, to get his approval.

  “You haven’t yet, Duane. Did you do everything you could, or are you going soft on her?” Ricke said.

  Duane shook his head, half angry, half afraid. “No.... If I’d carried on she would have passed out, and then who knows how long before she came around. I took her to the brink, but had to hold back. She knows I’m coming again. She’ll be scared.”

  Ricke sighed. “I should hope so. She’s a stronger bitch than I would have liked, and we don’t exactly have all the time in the world. I wonder if we should try something else to soften her up, break down her defenses before tackling her again?”

  “I told you, sir, you give her more pain and she’ll go black or go mad—”

  Ricke smiled, although with little humor. “There are more ways to soften someone’s resolve than with pain, Duane. Sometimes you just have to think a little. Are the acolytes ready?” he asked, seemingly changing tack.

  “I guess so,” Duane replied, momentarily confused. Then realization dawned: ‘Yeah, yeah—they must be.”

  “Bring Elena to us. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Duane. You just have to pick the best one.”

  * * *

  THE OLD DINER of the amusement park had been designed to cater to the rabid Evel Knieval fans who would flock to the place in droves. Except they had never come. Now, the large room was unrecognizable from its original design. The tables and chairs had been cleared, leaving a huge open floor scattered with rugs and cushions that had seen better days. Like the walls and the windows—which had been painted over—the furnishings were all varying shades of purple, turquoise and cobalt-blue, the colors of the Seven Stars. Framed pictures and laminated posters of Ricke hung along one wall, some of them accompanied by aphorisms from the great man. The focus point of this display was a red-white-and-black altar. These traditional occult colors suggested the origins of the guru’s cobbled-together philosophy. On the altar stood a three-dimensional representation of the constellation of the seven sisters, from where, Ricke taught, mankind had originally come, and ultimately aspired to return. Man’s goal on earth was enlightenment that would allow him to reach a state where he could commune with God, who came from this region.

  It was a ragbag of old ideas, dressed up with righteous indignation at the unfairness and corruption of the modern world, and sugarcoated in a doctrine of love and peace as the panacea for the world’s ills.

  And money. Like all gurus, Ricke was not above earthly trappings to illustrate his divine guidance and mental superiority. His problem was that most of the acolytes he’d attracted thus far were poor or disenfranchised, or else had made show of leaving behind the trappings of their past lives and families—much as Elena had originally intended—in order to demonstrate their worthiness. Ricke hadn’t made anywhere near as much money as he would have hoped, or as others might assume. And now he had a large and growing family of misfits to feed and house. For all his talk of other cells and spreading the word person to person, apart from a few isolated groups and individuals, this amusement park—purchased with a loan from the owner of the Midnight Examiner—and the bank raids were all he had to show. Unfortunately, his so-called fund-raisers raised his profile more than his bank balance.

  The Examiner link was what had led him to Eveland in the first place. Blackmail based on a past life that the Examiner’s owner would rather put down to youthful high spirits, leaving a corpse and
Ricke—then a sports reporter for a paper owned by the man’s father—as a witness with a long memory. Ricke was able to parlay this into his people being left alone, but he could push for little more. The Examiner owned the town, including the sheriff’s office. Ricke’s secret ensured the cult’s immunity, but he was aware that to strain it too far would cause a backlash.

  Elena Anders was the answer to the prayers he offered up to his God. A senator’s daughter had to be worth something, and when he became aware of the access she had to her father’s work, her value spiked. She held the key to his future riches. All he needed to do was unlock her resistance.

  If pain would not do this, then there were other ways.

  * * *

  THE DOOR TO the cinder block cell burst open, and Duane walked in, holding a lamp. Instinctively, Elena tried to shrink back from him, but she froze at the sight of someone behind him. When Duane stepped around her, she saw that it was Susan Winkler. The woman’s stony face was as expressionless as ever, but her eyes were soft as she took in Elena’s injuries. She leaned down over her, her toneless voice as soft and as near emotion as it ever got. She was holding a bowl with cloudy water, and had a robe draped over her arm similar to the short purple one she was wearing.

  “Honey, you should have told him what he wanted,” she said without preamble as she took a wad of cotton wool and, soaking it in the water, started to bathe some of Elena’s cuts and scratches. “Duane didn’t enjoy what he did—he was just doing what he was told,” she added.

  Elena nodded. She didn’t believe that, and she wasn’t sure Susan did, either. But right now, if it delayed further pain, she would agree with anything.

  Susan finished cleaning her wounds and helped her to her feet. “Here, hon, put this on,” she said, handing Elena the robe. “You’re coming with us.”

  Hesitantly, Elena did as she was asked. It made no sense. She had worn the robes before, and knew that they were ceremonial, saved for Ricke’s sermons to his followers. During these celebrations the acolytes made obeisance to their distant God and came close to direct contact with a higher consciousness.

  Of course. She wasn’t that stupid, even when traumatized. Ricke must think she was a complete fool. Brutality had not worked, so he was going to use hallucinogenic substances to loosen her consciousness and resolve. Her mind raced. How could she go along with this and yet somehow prevent ingesting any substances that would have the effect he desired?

  As the three of them walked across the compound, Susan and Duane flanking her, she reasoned that the hallucinogens must be in the food or drink that was served in the ceremonial hall. She had never consciously ingested anything else on these occasions, yet knew she had been drugged at some point. If she could avoid eating and drinking—at least large amounts—then she might be able to keep some hold on her sanity.

  She was greeted by other acolytes, who joined them as they approached the entrance. They were welcoming and friendly, which seemed at odds with the way she had been treated, which some of them must have witnessed or heard about. Their mild demeanor showed her the grip Ricke had on them...the grip he wished to have on her.

  The large hall still felt empty, even when all the members of the Seven Stars were in attendance, emphasizing for Elena how small the cult was. Yet it was still large enough to keep her in captivity.

  The acolytes milled around, visibly impatient, muttering among themselves, until Ricke walked in with one of his wives on either side. He knelt before the altar, intoning something in what had always sounded to Elena like broken Arabic, but which was in all likelihood completely invented. Then he turned and faced the assembled throng.

  “My friends, we are nearing the time when we will be taken from this place. The world is closing in on us and does not understand us. That is their loss, and for as long as they left us in peace, we could coexist with them. But soon we will have to uproot and find a new home, whether on this earthly plane or on another, astral level. We must be ready for this....”

  Elena looked around at the collected acolytes. Their faces were rapt as they gazed at Ricke, even those of Duane and Susan. There had been a brief period when her own face would have registered the same expression, but now that she saw through him, she knew what Ricke really meant. He had information that someone was coming after him—maybe for her. That would account for his haste in trying to pump her for knowledge. If there was a standoff... She had heard of Waco and of Jim Jones and the strychnine in the Kool-Aid. Her blood ran cold. Then she heard his next words.

  “Tonight we celebrate growing close to our fate. The old ones had many ways to touch God and converse with him. We shall share in their knowledge, and the manner in which they attained it. Ladies...”

  His wives left his side and went into what had once been the kitchens. They returned with boxes, which they handed out among the crowd. She didn’t want to take one, but Susan forced a box into her hand, causing her to wince in pain.

  Elena opened the box. Inside was a squat, ugly yellow toad. She cursed. She had to give it to Ricke—this was going to be impossible to avoid.

  Ricke, who was the only one without a toad, held up his hands. “There is only one way to get there, people. Take them out of the box....”

  Beside her, Susan and Duane took the amphibians in their hands. Duane nudged Elena, indicating she should do the same. The look in his eyes told her he knew Ricke’s plan. There was no way out. She reached in and grabbed the slimy animal, her stomach turning.

  Ricke’s eyes gleamed. It seemed to Elena that he was staring right at her.

  “Lick the toad.”

  Chapter 9

  Eveland was a vast, sprawling estate that covered several acres. It was easy enough to negotiate with the night-vision goggles, but its seeming desertion was baffling. What little info Bolan had on the number of people in the Seven Stars was patchy, but it seemed the cult was nowhere near as large as Ricke liked to claim to the mostly indifferent public.

  It was a fair bet that the members would be billeted close together. This area of the park certainly didn’t seem occupied. The rides were dark, dank, and had an air of continued neglect. Bolan guessed that no one had been over this way for a long time—apart from whoever had repaired that fence paling, and perhaps whoever uprooted it in the first place.

  Still, it was a fair bet that the broken fence, along with the death of the guard earlier in the day, would have put the cult on the defensive. Bolan had expected to meet resistance of some kind almost as soon as he’d entered Eveland.

  The silence wasn’t entirely inexplicable, however. If the Seven Stars had limited resources, they would likely concentrate defenses around their living quarters.

  He just had to locate them....

  Bolan ran over the schematics of the park in his mind. He was southwest of the entrance, which was where the accommodation blocks and facilities for visitors had been located. It was a good bet that the cult was using these, so that was the logical place to head.

  Was it the logical place to find the senator’s daughter, though? She had appeared to be an unwilling participant in the bank raids.... Memories of pictures of Patty Hearst in the 1970s ran through his mind, and the expressions on the faces of both women were identical. And if Ricke was trying to pump her for information about her father’s office, then it was a possibility that she would be kept apart from the others.

  Bolan sighed. The only sure way to check this out would be to scour the whole of the park, which would take up valuable time. He checked his watch; the hours until dawn were few.

  His best course would be to circle around and come at the park entrance from the northeast, covering the most ground in the least time. He set off, swiftly but cautiously, keeping the HK shouldered and palming the TEKNA from its sheath. Junk littered the overgrown paths and walkways that had been built between the rides, the engines and
wheelhouses of which stood silent and vacant, with broken windows, and gaping holes where the doors had fallen from their hinges. Between the scaffolding and rails of the attractions, cars that had never seen passengers lay derelict and empty.

  He slowed when he came to a section containing rows of boarded and shuttered concession stalls, and smaller fairground attractions that would have fleeced customers. These wood chalets were squat, shadowy threats—there was no knowing what might lurk within. None showed any sign of life.

  But Bolan wasn’t going to take chances. He checked each small building individually. All were padlocked, the corrosion and rust on the locks indicating that they hadn’t been in use for a long time.

  He moved past a row of these shacks and took a bend. Ahead of him a ride rose up sharply from the ground. A row of cars shaped like rockets and decorated in the red, white and blue stars and stripes of Knieval’s unique take on the flag stood rusting at the base.

  An old tarpaulin lay across the path, and as his foot landed on it, Bolan felt a strange unevenness beneath the canvas. He threw himself backward, rolling off the path and into the scant shelter afforded by the ride’s toll booth. As he hit the back of the booth, he heard a whoosh of air, and a number of dark shadows flew over the path, where his head had been a few moments before. He stayed where he was, counting off the seconds until the shadows passed back the way they had come.

  They repeated the arc with less and less force and speed before coming to rest, hanging in the air. Bolan got to his feet and walked across to examine them. Six wooden stakes, sharpened into points at each end and smeared with some kind of dark liquid that had soaked in over time and stained the wood... The stakes were attached to one of the struts on the ride by a wire cable. Clearly, the trigger had been concealed under the tarp.

  The soldier had two concerns. The first was that this was unlikely to be the only booby trap, and being on the lookout for more would slow him down. His second concern was with the substance painted on the ends of the stakes. If they had caught him full on, there would have been no need for any other kind of offensive weapon. This secondary line of attack must be some kind of toxin, designed to catch those who might escape being impaled, but who would investigate the stakes afterward.