That was power.
He laid his packed duffel bag on the chair, then rested a black leather bag atop the dresser and zipped it open. Inside was a pair of rubber gloves. A three-foot stick. A length of rope. A longer stretch of the same yellow nylon rope. And a knife.
This too was power. But it was the easy way.
This time there could be no props or tools, no worldly instruments of any kind. He would have to summon deeper powers. He was certain he could do it. He had that gift, he knew. All he had to do was will it. And it would be so.
He drew a deep cleansing breath, closed his eyes, and focused. Slowly, he exhaled. His lungs emptied, but he continued to exhale. His body called for air, but the mind said no. The lungs began to burn, but he refused to draw a breath. He struggled with the pain until it became a numbness. Dizziness set in. He felt rocky on his feet. Just at the point it seemed unbearable, the blackness became a vision. He could suddenly see the tightness in the rope, the pressure around the neck. He could feel the woman's body twitching, hear the pounding of her heart. He drew on all his powers of concentration, his powers of vibration--every ounce of mental strength and energy. Beads of sweat gathered on his brow. His face showed signs of strain. His grip tightened on the dresser's edge. He grimaced one last time and fell to his knees, barely conscious.
He groaned, gasping for air. He gobbled it up in quick, erratic breaths. After a few moments, he regained control. He took another deep cleansing breath and smiled to himself, his eyes still closed. It was the thin smile of the victor. His success was palpable, as real as ever before. The deed was as good as done. Such was his power over others.
The power of the source.
Chapter Forty-Eight.
Andie was reasonably patient, but by mid-Thursday afternoon she. could wait no longer. More than twenty-four hours had passed since Isaac's announcement that he wanted to think about the undercover assignment. She wasn't about to let him think it to death. The FBI was like every place else in that respect: too many decisions were made by not making a decision.
"Got a minute?" she said, standing in the open doorway.
He didn't look surprised to see her, but he didn't look thrilled either. He waved her in and signaled to close the door. She did, then sat in the armchair facing his desk. He leaned back in his leather chair and said, "You want my decision, I take it."
"Not to be pushy, but Blechman's retreat is tomorrow."
"I can think of plenty of reasons to let you go. You're the logical choice, since you've already got your foot in the door. For my money you're the most talented young agent in the office. And to be perfectly frank, I don't have a slew of agents willing to put their lives on hold and infiltrate a cult. Which makes me wonder. Why do you want to do this?"
"Because I honestly believe it will lead us to Beth Wheatley."
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "No, I mean why do you really want to do this?"
"You mean, do I think it will be a professional challenge? Good for my career? Better than another weekend of rented movies and microwave popcorn?"
"I'm being serious. This is a dangerous assignment. I don't want someone going into it for the wrong reason." "What would be the wrong reason?"
"Oh, I don't know. But hypothetically, let's say someone was still feeling a little hurt or embarrassed about a wedding that literally turned into a brawl at the altar. Maybe she'd jump at an undercover assignment as a convenient escape."
She was momentarily speechless. "That has nothing to do with this."
"Don't be mad. I just want to be sure you're going into this with a clear head. That's my professional responsibility."
"I know it wasn't that long ago. But emotionally Rick is so far behind me it isn't funny."
"Are you sure?"
"Are you sure your interest is purely professional?" She wasn't being accusatory. Just giving him another opening.
Isaac softened his expression but remained all business. "This weekend retreat is probably the kind of place where new recruits are expected to talk about themselves. If I approve the assignment, you understand you'll need a lot more than phony IDs. You'll have to create a whole family history."
"That's easy. I'm adopted, remember? No one has given more thought to another life than an adopted child. Don't think I'm crazy, but I have plenty of imaginary parents to choose from."
"Cults tend to prey on the emotionally wounded. You'd have to invent something on the dysfunctional side."
"No problem. Going to Yakima has already triggered some thoughts along those lines."
"How do you mean?"