"I've been told the same thing, though I've personally only heard the God Loves You version."

"And have you seen his effect on his female followers?"

"I've seen it. Creepy as hell. Whatever he's doing to them if it isn't a crime, it's sure to God a sin."

"It's worse than a sin." She told him their theory.

Though it pretty much confirmed his own suspicions, Sawyer nevertheless felt queasy. "Christ. So he's killing some of them and regularly feeding off others? Off the sexual pleasure of the women?"

"We think so."

"For energy? Literally?"

Tessa nodded.

"Why does he need so much energy?"

"We don't know. Maybe because he's using so much to control his followers. Maybe he's stockpiling for some future need."

"What kind of need?"

"If he's paranoid, and cult leaders mostly are, he has to be afraid someone really will try to stop him. In his mind, that would be an ultimate battle. An apocalypse. Armageddon. He may be trying to build up his power, strengthen his abilities, for that last stand against whoever is perceived to be attacking him. Most cults either explode or implode, sooner or later, and it's virtually always because the cult leader has lost it."

"If he's using so much energy, even if he's just storing it, won't that have an effect on his brain?"

"Probably. And we're pretty sure he was twisted to begin with. There's no telling what's happening inside his head, but I can pretty much guarantee you it isn't good."

"Maybe his own ambition will destroy him," Sawyer said. "I don't have to be a doctor to know that the human body was never intended to contain too much electrical energy. Whatever's building up inside him, sooner or later, it's gotta blow."

The morning meditations were always the most difficult for Samuel, at least these days. He thought it was because there was seldom an opportunity to recharge his energies so early in the day, but he also felt certain it was part of God's plan.

To keep him humble.

On this morning, however, he'd been forced to deal with the small problem of Brookepoor child, to believe she could escape God's plans for herand while he was saddened by her loss, her energy had certainly made his early meditations much easier on him than usual.

So it wasn't quite so difficult to work his way through the memories one more time, to relive his childhood. His slow, hesitant acceptance of God into his life. Until

On a scorching hot July day when he was thirteen years old, God reached down and touched him.

It happened more or less in the middle of nowhere, in an area so rural the cows by far outnumbered the people. It happened at a summer tent revival being run by an older preacher, a thin, unshaven, intense-eyed man named Maddox who had long ago fallen out of the mainstream but felt compelled to preach his radical version of God's word to anyone who would listen.

Samuel had intended to pass through the tiny excuse for a town the day before, but a flyer tacked to a power pole had drawn his attention, and he had decided rather idly to stay for the revival. In his experience, the ladies of the town often brought cakes or cookies along, and sometimes casseroles, turning the event into a sort of family picnic.

There wasn't much entertainment in such isolated areas, and a good preacher could brighten up an otherwise dull Saturday. And if he was really good, the crowd would return, possibly larger, on Sunday, choosing him as a onetime alternative to their more traditional churches.

So Samuel hung around the town, earning a few bucks sweeping out a couple of downtown stores forgotten by time and then hitching a ride out to the big pasture where a worn tent had been pitched, all the flaps pinned open because it was a sweltering day.

Inside were a few dozen folding chairs and benches, sitting unevenly on the harsh stubble of recently harvested hay. Someone had taken the trouble to rake up whatever manure had been on the ground beneath the tent, but there was nevertheless a pervasive odor of cow hanging heavily in the still, hot air.

Maddox passed out badly printed "programs" that consisted of a single sheet of cheap paper, folded once and filled with tiny, smudged type. His sermon, more or less. The highlights, at least. It was barely literate but filled with passionate belief.

Samuel settled onto a rickety chair at the back, happy that there had been a chicken and two beef casseroles but disgruntled because nobody had brought cookies. He listened to Maddox build slowly to a rant against government officials and established religions and anybody other than himself who believed they had the Answer.

Maddox alone had the Answer.

The Answer he cannily hinted at but never actually provided. Only the godly, he assured them, could hear the Answer.

He was good theater, Samuel thought. The couple dozen townsfolk who had come out to listen fanned themselves with his program and nodded and occasionally threw in an amen to keep the show going.

Thunder began to rumble distantly, then closer, and a hot breeze blew through the tent.

Samuel saw a few people consulting watches and beginning to grow restless, and he saw that Maddox had also noticed. The old man's words began to tumble and fall over one another as he rushed to get his sermon finished and reach the all-important ritual of passing the collection plates, which were, Samuel had noticed, old baskets.

But even with a storm approaching and his audience growing restive, Maddox took the time to ask if any wanted to come forward and offer their own testimony.

Samuel didn't have to look around to know that no one else in the audience was interested. It was too hot to bestir themselves. Besides, it was time to be leaving, what with a storm coming.

He realized afterward that it was God who made him get to his feet and move to the "front" of the tent, where Maddox had been pacing back and forth. God who made him face the audience filled with sweaty, distracted faces. And God's voice that thundered from his thirteen-year-old throat with all the passion Maddox possessed and all the power he lacked.

"God loves you!"

A few of the chairs lurched sideways as the people occupying them jumped in surprise.

"God loves you and wants you to be happy. God wants you to enjoy this life in all its abundance! God sent His son to die for you, for your sins, so that you need never fear punishment. God has chosen you, of all His children, to hear the Truth!"

From the corner of his eye, Samuel could see that Maddox was hardly pleased by having his spotlight stolen, but he didn't really care what the old man felt, because he was enjoying himself. Looking at the sweaty faces, intent now, some of them filled with a kind of wonder, he felt that sense of power that never failed to thrill him.

They listened to him. They believed what he told them. They believed he was special.

He lifted his arms, calling on God to verify the truth of his words and fill this congregation with that truth, and

A freight train hit him.

Samuel opened his eyes to find himself on the ground, the hay stubble poking uncomfortably against his back. Above him was a ring of pale, sweating faces, most of them wearing anxious expressions that also, he realized in surprise, held more than a touch of awe.

"Son, are you all right?" It was Maddox, one of those worried faces. But his also held a curiously calculating expression.

Samuel struggled to his feet, aided by several hands, and instead of answering the question, he found himself staring at one of the men who had helped him up.

"You're going to lose your farm," he said.

The man started in surprise, his face going pale. "What?"