Sawyer struggled to let all that sink in. Finally he asked DeMarco, "How long have you been inside the church?"

"You should know. We met shortly after you took office, two years ago."

"Wait," Hollis said. "You've been under that long?"

"Twenty-six months," he said.

Frowning, Hollis turned her gaze to Bishop. "You knew about Samuel that long ago?"

Bishop shook his head. "You heard Reese. It wasn't until last October that I began to suspect Samuel."

"Then why was he sent in?"

"There are presently more than a dozen suspected cults on the FBI watch list because they're believed to be dangerous or potentially dangerous. The FBI, ATF, or Homeland Security has undercover agents in six of them. The SCU has agents inside two of thoseplus Reese here. We knew Samuel posed a danger almost from the moment Reese was inside and able to report. We suspected Samuel was psychic, but since he doesn't read as psychic and has never openly displayed abilities we can define, we were never sure of his capabilities. I had no idea he had any connection to the murders in Boston last summer, or the murders in Georgia a few months later. Not then."

"And now? Are you absolutely sure?" Hollis asked him.

"Ask Reese."

Without waiting to be asked, DeMarco said, "Until about ten years ago, Samuel was fairly harmless, as cult leaders go. Like many of them, as I said, he started preaching young. Then lightning struck, literally. And suddenly he had a mission. To save his followers. He saw himself as their healer, their savior. Over time, he became convinced that he was God's instrument on earth, chosen and set on a path that would lead his people through the dangerous days ahead."

Sawyer grunted and said, "Sounds like most of the preachers I've heard in my life."

DeMarco nodded. "Yeah, not much difference in the early days. But then, gradually, his sermons began to be less about God and more about the role of his flock in the coming End Days. They were, he taught them, persecuted or, worse, ignored by blind and faithless outsiders. The world was a perilous place and would become even more perilous. Only he could protect them; only he could lead them to salvation. They had to trust him, had to believe in him. Utterly."

"And that," Quentin said, "crosses over the line. From legitimate spiritual leader to the first dangerous stages of a cult."

Again, DeMarco nodded. "Still, he wasn't preaching violence as far as any outsider could telland by then some watch groups were paying attention. He preached the usual dire warnings of the approaching End Times, of how the ungodly would be punished, but he wasn't encouraging anyone to do anything about it, other than pray. No abuse reported, no stories from former church members that indicated any openly dangerous tendencies. They didn't even isolate themselves particularly from the communities around them. Only thing that really stood out that long ago was the fact that he left his first small, fairly remote church outside L.A. in the hands of one of his trusted followers and took his act on the road."

"He didn't seem to want to settle anywhere over the next eight or ten years. He traveled around the country. He'd spend maybe a year in a likely spot, usually a small town or other remote area, gathering a few converts and then choosing one of them to run that branch of his church. Then he'd move on to the next likely spot."

"Why?" Sawyer asked. "That doesn't make sense."

"It does seem weirdly random," Hollis agreed. "I've always thought so. If the branches he founded end up anything like the one we found in Venture, it was hardly more than a shack with a handful of loyal members."

"A shackplus a lot of property," Bishop pointed out.

"Well, yeah, but mostly worthless property. Abandoned buildings, defunct businesses, and not a lot of land. What's the good of owning stuff like that? Especially when you don't even bother taking steps to improve the property?"

"I wish I knew."

Hollis frowned again at Bishop, then turned her gaze to DeMarco. "You don't know why he wants the land?"

"No."

"His right-hand man doesn't know?" Sarcasm tinted her tone.

DeMarco appeared to ignore the dig. "No, his right-hand man doesn't have a clue. Samuel plays his cards close to the chest. Very close. He doesn't confide his thoughts to anyone, far as I knowwith the possible exception of Ruth Hardin, who's been with him longer than anyone else. As Bishop said, he doesn't read as psychic, and so far we haven't found a psychic who's able to read him. At all."

"Including you?"

"Including me."

Ruby lingered in the shower as long as she dared, using the special soap her mama had bought. It smelled like roses, so sickly sweet that her already queasy stomach churned even more as she soaped herself from head to toe and then just stood underneath the steaming hot water.

The Ritual.

She hated the Ritual.

Two of the other girls loved it, she knew that. Amy and Theresa. She saw it in their wide, dazed eyes and flushed cheeks. She heard it in their nervous, excited giggles.

They were Becoming, and it thrilled them.

Father thrilled them.

But Ruby and Brooke knew the truth, and what they knew had made their skin crawl.

Ruby's skin was crawling even in the shower, a cold pit of dread lay heavy in her stomach, and she wasn't certain how much longer she would be able to pretend otherwise. She wasn't even absolutely sure Father believed her pretense, except

He seemed to get what he wanted from her. What he needed. He seemed pleased. So maybe she could make Father see what wasn't there as well. She allowed herself to hope that was true. That she could make even him see what she wanted him to see, believe what she wished him to believe

Maybe.

And if she could do that

"Ruby, hurry up! You'll be late."

She reluctantly turned the water off, then stepped out of the shower and began to towel herself dry. And it wasn't until that moment, dripping on the mat with her wet hair in her eyes, that it occurred to her what she had done.

She had sent Lexie away.

She had sent Lexie to an outsider.

What if Father sees that? What if he knows?

What have I done?

"Ruby??"

All she could do was concentrate harder, to try her best to make the protective shell she had fashioned for herself even stronger. Stronger than it had ever needed to be before, even when she watched Brooke die. Her head began to pound, to throb, and she could feel her own heartbeat, first racing and then gradually slowing, growing more steady as she regained control over herself.

He can't know where I've sent Lexie. He can't.

"Ruby!"

Her fingers felt a little numb as she hurriedly finished drying herself and wrapped the damp towel around her. She went out into the bedroom, her parents' bedroom, where Emma Campbell waited.

"Here, sweetie, come sit down at my dressing table while I do your hair."

Ruby obeyed, keeping her gaze fixed on her own reflection in the oval mirror. Still her face, thank goodness, with nothing dark and empty underneath. She checked every day, always worried that it could happen at night, when she slept. When she couldn't concentrate to keep her shell around her for protection. She dreaded looking into the mirror every single morning.

She didn't know what she would do if she saw beneath her own skin what she saw beneath the skin of so many of those around her.

Except that I wouldn't be here to see that. I'd be gone. Only my empty shell would be left.

She glanced up at Emma Campbell's reflection, then just as swiftly returned her gaze to the reflection of her own face. She didn't know where they went, the people who'd once lived inside their skins. She wished she could believe they'd gone to heaven but knew that wasn't the case. People went to heaven when their bodies died naturally; their souls went to heaven. That was what Ruby believed.