The Influence(81)

Father Ramos backed up and pulled onto the side of the drive next to the barbed-wire fence connected to the cattle guard. Getting out of the car, he locked the doors, then nodded to Jorge, who said, “I will be there. We all will be there. Go.”

It had not been merely a dream, the priest realized. It had been a summons. The angel wanted him here, wanted to see him, and his legs felt weak as he started up the drive.

Although he hadn’t noticed it at first, the lane ahead was congested with overgrown vegetation. That was weird. The surrounding land seemed perfectly normal, but the sides of the drive were choked with weeds and brush that, Father Ramos saw as he drew closer, did not resemble anything that grew in this part of the state. Or on land. Between strands of what appeared to be tall brown seaweed waving in the slight breeze as though gently undulating in ocean currents, was a bright white coral formation standing like a bleached mockery of the nearby saguaros. Next to that were graceful ferns, and thick clumps of ivy that appeared to have grown over statues—

bodies

—of people.

It was all part of God’s plan, Father Ramos told himself. His was not to ask why. God knew what He was doing.

Still, it was with trepidation that he continued on, stepping around a protruding bush, walking over a series of vines crossing the drive. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked to the left and saw a long-necked vulture with a face that was all beak pecking out the eyes of a still-wriggling lizard the size of a medium dog. Further back in the brush, the pale delicate features of what looked like a mutated human child stared back at him.

He hurried on.

Ahead was the house, and the barn. Between them, a group of men stood, sat and kneeled before the smokehouse. Around the men, like a fence or barrier, was a ring of dead cattle. He pushed his way through the thin spidery branches of a strange low-growing bush and hastened up the remaining stretch of drive. From many of the men came the low mumbled sounds of prayer, and when he stepped within the ring of cattle, Father Ramos, too, began to pray, offering up a spontaneous thanks to the Trinity, to Mary, to the angel, for allowing him to be here.

This close, the angel’s power was nearly overwhelming. He did not remember feeling this intensity of energy and force on New Year’s Eve, but he felt it now, and it reminded him of what he’d experienced in the chapel when he’d heard the voice call his name.

“Hector.”

He glanced up, startled. Had anyone else heard that? No one appeared to have moved, no one was looking up at the smokehouse or over at him, so he could only conclude that the voice was in his head.

But had he imagined it or was the angel actually speaking to him?

“Father.”

He turned around to see Cissy Heath, Juanita Huerta and Iris Tomas walk between two of the dead steers and head toward him. Farther up the drive behind them, just emerging from the overgrown brush, was a scowling Vern Hastings, accompanied by Jorge. They were the people from his dream, and as he met the eyes of the new arrivals, he knew that he’d been right: they’d had the same dream, too.

Where was Holt? he wondered. The rancher had not been in the dream and he was not here now, and Father Ramos wondered if something had happened to him.

If God had taken His revenge.

Jorge stepped forward, past the supplicants, pulled a key from his pocket and opened the smokehouse door. He motioned for Father Ramos and the others to step inside. The ranch hands all remained where they were as the five other people from his dream walked into the darkened shed.

The interior looked just as he knew it would, and they all took up position in the same locations they had in the dream. In the center of the room, the chrysalis-like form of the angel’s body seemed much darker and felt much more threatening than he expected. He knew he should pray to it, but he was afraid to address the angel directly, and the alien wildness of the face terrified him to the core of his being.

And yet…

He knew he had to protect it.

He was not sure when it had started or how it was occurring, but the angel was communicating with him, with all of them, not talking to them, not sending thoughts telepathically, but allowing knowledge to seep into them, as though by osmosis. He stared at those hateful features, and while he did not feel the love he knew he should have, he understood that God wanted His angel protected until he?...she?…it…had completed its transformation. Exactly what it would be after that transformation was complete, Father Ramos did not know, but it was his job to make sure that the process was not disturbed, that it was allowed to happen without interruption. He glanced around at the others in the room, meeting their eyes one by one, and an understanding passed between them.