“You’re hurting me,” I exclaimed.  I jerked my arm and Mayor Lockley loosened his grip.  Not completely, but enough that I could my move my arm around inside the sleeve of my coat. 

“Sorry, Ms. B. I didn’t realize I had such a tight grip but, I wouldn’t want you slipping and hurting yourself.  The wind’s starting to ice up the sidewalk and roads.  I slid a couple of times already this evening.” 

Yeah sure, I thought.  “Well, I really don’t need your support, thank you.  I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own, icy walk or no.”  I pulled my arm again.  Mayor Lockley stopped and glared at me.  The look was pure hatred.  For an instant I thought he was going to slap me, but then his smile re-appeared and he let go of my arm.  

Facing each other, Lockley said, “I think I’ll just dispense with the false pleasantries, Rachel – you don’t mind my using your first name, do you?  It really doesn’t matter if you do.  You’re not a real teacher anyway, isn’t that right?  Perhaps, Agent Broom would be a better address?” 

His rapid fire questions and announcement that he knew who I was stunned me. He stood there sneering at me, knowing he’d scored a direct hit and proud of it.  Surprised and shocked at this development; I used the intervening seconds, while he gloated, to consider a response.   

Rachel Broom was my real name, the name I was born with and the name I’d given up so many years ago. 

All of my aliases since have used my original initials.  The Bureau’s instructors insisted that by using the initials of my true name, I’d be better able to remember my new names. 

My current alias was Roselyn Brundage or Ms. B, as everyone insisted on calling me.  I’d always thought it idiotic to use the same initials.  Why not a radical change?  Something like Esmeralda Washington wouldn’t be hard to remember, would it?   

It didn’t matter, now.  Lockley had somehow discovered my real name.  That mattered.  It mattered a lot.  At the moment, though, how he knew was secondary to what else he knew.  And, all of that was secondary to my current dilemma and how I was going to get out of it. 

I considered another lie.  I thought of feigning indignation, bluffing it out; but I was sure he knew far too much.  If Lockley knew my birth name and that I was an FBI agent, he must know everything else. 

My first thought, my gut intuition, screamed – Attack!  Long ago I’d learned that my “gut” was almost always right.  A physical attack would be my best – hell, my only defense.   

I eyed my antagonist.  Mayor Lockley was much bigger and stronger than I, but he was also a desk jockey; most likely out of shape and certainly not expecting me to do anything he couldn’t handle.  Why else would he be here, alone?  He’d underestimated me and I was determined to take full advantage of his mistake. 

Surprise is often the certifying bedrock of an attack.  If I simply took off and ran, I’m sure his surprise would be enough to allow me several steps head start.  I was wearing soft, rubber soled boots with no heels.  They were light, had grip and I was in good shape.  I jogged five miles, three days a week.  If I got the jump on him Lockley would never be able to keep up. 

I mentally prepared myself, my leg muscles tensed, and then a strong gust of wind blew my hair across my face.  As I reached up to brush it out of my eyes I noticed that the wind had also blown something into Lockley’s eye.

Momentarily distracted, he rubbed his eye, but realizing that I might take this opportunity to try something; he reached forward and grabbed the lapels of my coat with his free hand. 

Without the slightest hesitation I changed plans.  I kicked him in the crotch so hard that I lost my balance, slipped and landed flat on my butt.  Fortunately, Lockley let go of my coat as soon as the pain I’d inflicted blazed across his consciousness, and he did what all men do in that situation – he grabbed himself with both hands, screamed and doubled over.   

I’m certain that he had zero thoughts about me for several seconds; precious seconds that I used to get to my feet and start a hundred yard dash down the sidewalk. 

I was fifty yards away, a few feet from the corner of the block before I looked back.  A quick, over the shoulder glance was enough to see that Lockley wasn’t following.  He was on his knees, still holding the balls that I had hopefully, crushed beyond repair.  I looked back around, turned the corner at the Merchant’s Bank and ran smack into Pete coming from the opposite direction. 

The force of the collision should have knocked both of us down.  Hell, it should have knocked me out.  It was like running into a brick wall. 

Though the collision was powerful, Pete had no problem grabbing me in a bear hug with only a small step backwards to absorb my headlong rush.  Pete was in his sixties, at least; but he was solid as a brick wall and strong as a bull.  

He had me, but he didn’t have my arms.  I immediately began flailing away; swinging wildly and not particularly concerned where my fists landed.  They say that panic can lend a person incredible strength and it worked for me.  I didn’t know whose side Pete was on and at the moment I had no reason to believe he was on mine. 

“Ms. B !  Hold it, Ms. B.  It’s me, Pete.  I’m…” 

Smack, I caught him in the mouth and immediately regretted it as a lance of pain shot from my knuckle to my shoulder. 

That was enough for Pete.  He let go of his bear hug and with lightning speed, grabbed both of my wrists in his big, strong hands.  I got one, ineffectual, kick in before he spun me around and pulled me into his body; my arms now crisscrossed over my chest and wrists still confined in bands of steel. 

“I’m on your side, damn it.  Quit fighting me if you want my help.” 

I stomped his right foot with mine as hard as I could.  He yelped but that was all.  Soft soled boots are great for running but for stomping, you need something harder and heavier.  He didn’t release his hold one iota, either. 

“Listen – listen, Rachel.  Agent Wilkes sent me.  He called and told me that your cover was blown and you were catching the bus.  He wanted me to make sure you got on the bus. I was on….” 

Completely still, I listened.  Pete knew my name, too?  Well, so did Lockley and he might know of Wilkes and passed this along to Pete. What he wouldn’t – couldn’t know was my phone call to Chomsky and then, Wilkes.  Could he? 

I decided to chance that Pete was telling the truth, at least for the time being. “Who are you and how do you know my name?”  I said. 

“My name is Pete Armstrong.  Special Agent Armstrong out of the Atlanta office.  I came here a couple months before you.  I know your name because Wilkes told me it would validate me to you.” 

“Can you prove that you’re an agent?” 

Pete laughed, “Can you prove that you are?” 

Of course he couldn’t, neither could I. Agents don’t carry identification when undercover.  I chuckled, “No.” 

“Alright, then.  Who or what were you running from?” 

Before answering I stepped back to the corner of the bank and peeked around the way I’d come.  There was no sign of Mayor Lockley or my suitcase.  I couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.  Turning back to Pete, I said, “Mayor Lockley grabbed me.  He knew my name, my real name, and that I was an agent.  He wasn’t going to let me leave town.  Maybe he gave you my name – told you that I was an agent.” 

Exasperated, Pete said, “I’m here to help, Rachel.  Special Agent Joshua Wilkes and I go way back.  You’ve got a phone, call him; or you can use mine to call him.  Whichever – do it, quickly.  There’s a major blizzard headed our way and I’d like to get undercover before the worst of it arrives.” 

Watching Pete’s eyes, I pulled out my cell phone and hit the direct dial button for my contact.  I wanted to believe Pete.  Hell, I needed to believe him; to be able to trust him because he might be the only help I’d have in this town. 

“While you’re talkin’, we need to be walkin’.”  Pete said.  He reached for my arm.  Before I let him, I looked long and deep into his eyes.  I saw no malice, no hint of deception.  I allowed him to take my arm.  I let him guide me while I waited for Chomsky to answer the phone. 

I hardly believed it possible but Chomsky seemed drunker than the first time I’d called.  Fortunately, not too drunk and within a minute I was talking to Wilkes again.  I made a mental note to get his direct number before we were done talking. Agent Wilkes apologized for not getting Pete to me sooner.  He further explained that the bus had been delayed up the line by the blizzard that was fast approaching our area of the state.  He told me that he was going to send in re-enforcements but couldn’t until the storm passed. 

He reiterated what Pete had said about “going way back” and that I should stick with him until he could get me out. 

And then he asked, “What’s going on there, Rachel?  Do you have any idea at all?” 

“I’ve got nothing but clues.  One - my cover’s blown, two - I’ve been threatened, three - the Mayor is involved and four - whatever is going on involves the town’s children; I can identify at least two that have been affected.  Actually, after tonight I can probably conclude that all or most of the children have been affected.” 

The image of the ghostly arrival and disappearance of the children at the bus stop, crossed my mind.   

Agent Wilkes was silent for several seconds.  “Okay, Rachel.  You and Pete hole up until I can get you out and then, we’ll go into that town in strength.” 

I thanked him; got his direct number and we disconnected the call.  I looked around to see where we were and then at Pete.  “We’re going to your house?” 

“Sure.  Lockley didn’t see me and, as far as we know, my cover is still intact.  I can’t think of anywhere else we could hide out.  The school maybe, but….” 

“No, I agree.  I think your house will be fine.  There’s also no reason anyone would link you and I.  I don’t think…”  But, I wasn’t so sure about that.  There were just too damn many unknowns in this equation. 

As we neared Pete’s house he talked about his wife.  “Jessie and I have been married thirty-five years.  She’s doesn’t work for the Bureau but she’s gone with me on several covert operations.  She’s tough, smart and I’m always happy to have her with me.  She lends credibility to our new identities when we move into a town.” 

“I’ve always liked Jessie, though we haven’t had a lot of contact since I’ve been here.” 

“We don’t have any secrets, so she knew that you were with the Bureau and she told me, often, how much she admired your strength and courage; going into towns, alone and often not knowing what awaited you there.” 

I think I might have blushed and was glad of the darkness.  I sure don’t think that I’m strong or brave.  I was surprised that anyone else would think so.  I was going to ask how he knew about me and I didn't know about him; but,  we were already at the door and Pete seemed eager to get inside. 

The Armstrong’s lived in a smallish single family house with a large, fenced in yard all the way around.  Other than the porch light, only one other burned inside the house.  I thought it was probably the kitchen. 

“If I know Jessie, she’s got a pot of chicken soup on the stove,” he looked at me and grinned while opening the front door. 

The house was silent.  It had that empty feeling that is impossible to miss.  Pete picked up on it instantly.  He increased his gait through the living room and into the kitchen, looking right and left in quick scans the whole way.  I was close behind him. 

There was, indeed, chicken soup simmering in a pot on the stove.  The single light I’d seen burning from outside was hanging over the kitchen sink.  A small breakfast table with two chairs occupied the wall opposite the sink.  On it burned a black candle and underneath the candle was a thick-ish pad of paper. 

Pete pulled the paper from under the candle and as I watched his face, I knew that whatever he was reading was not good news.  A hardness settled over Pete’s face.  His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed.  He handed me the paper and turned to look out the kitchen window. 

It was a pamphlet, actually, from “The Children’s Church of Sacrifice”.  The cover showed a picture of the town church that I believed to be protestant, but I had never heard it called this.  

I opened the pamphlet.  On the left side was written, in gold leaf; “The spirits of youth insures the everlasting lives of those who believe”.  

Beneath that was a picture of an altar upon which a young girl lay, legs straight, hands crossed over her heart; and a priest in dress that resembled that of a catholic priest, standing over her, arms outstretched and looking heavenward.  

On the right side was the real reason for leaving the pamphlet. 

“To Agents Rachel Broom and Pete Armstrong: 

The Children’s Church of Sacrifice is honored to request your attendance at our monthly service, this evening at ten p.m. 

The failure of either one of you attending will result in the untimely and extremely painful demise of Mrs. Jessie Armstrong. 

In order to assist your compliance with our invitation, appropriate escort has been arranged.” 

It was signed, “Barbara Wilkes, High Priestess, Children’s Church of Sacrifice.” 

I looked at Pete’s back.  “I’m sorry, Pete.  Sorry about Jessie.”  I hesitated.  Was this the time to ask?  I had to.  “Tell me, please, that it’s only coincidence that Agent Wilkes and this High Priestess have the same name.” 

Slowly, Pete turned.  He couldn’t look at me, dropping his head, “I wish I could.” He looked up and continued, “I can’t believe it; but, neither can I deny that my long time friend in the FBI, Joshua Wilkes, is married to Barbara Wilkes.” 

“You obviously know what she looks like.  Have you ever seen her here?” 

Pete simply shook his head.  He walked to the cupboard, reached onto the top shelf and pulled down a brown paper bag.  From the bag he pulled out a .38 Special and an ankle holster.  As he leaned over to attach the holster he said, “I’ve never seen her here, no; and, I’ve never heard of anyone in this town by that name.” 

This had to be a nightmare.  Please, somebody wake me up!  If Wilkes is involved, then it’s highly likely that Pete is, too and this **** act of his was just that – an act.  

But, why -- why go through all these theatrics, if all they really wanted was my head on a platter?   

I needed to re-group, re-evaluate and find an escape.   Stalling for time while I thought of a plan I asked, “What do we do, now?” 

Pete gave me a steady look.  I could see the pain in his eyes.  How could I have doubted him? I thought.   

The resounding knock on the door was loud and rattled the glass panes.  I followed Pete as he strode to the nearest window that offered a view of the front door and front yard. 

Outside, the snowy yard was covered with people, all dressed in black and holding three foot long, fiery torches. 

I walked around the house, peering through every window. Returning to Pete’s side I whispered, “We’re completely surrounded.” 

Our escorts didn’t knock again.  They kicked the front door down.