Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

“What is it that you want me to do?”

Landers smiled, replaced his glasses on his nose, and opened his folder once again. “First, you need to call back the men you’ve sent after Molly Ross. She’s in our thoughts, believe me, but we’re going to let her go for now.”

After a seething moment George Pierce looked up at the guard beside him, who’d long since seen which way the wind was blowing and quietly reholstered his gun. Pierce gave a nod to pass along the order, and when the man had left he looked across the table again with something like respect in his eyes. Close enough for today, in any case.

“And what next?”

“What next?” Landers said. “Next, Mr. Pierce, we’re going to spit upon our hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.”

Chapter 9

In a sudden swoon of vertigo Thom Hollis snapped wide awake with a start, heart pounding, drenched in a frigid sweat and clutching the quilted comforter like a slick lifeline. His throat was raw and his breathing labored, and though he felt all these physical things and knew that the warm, darkened room around him must be real, it still took the solemn march of several seconds before he could assure himself he was alive.

With the heavy curtains drawn there was just enough daylight seeping in to gauge the proportions of a large guest suite and trace the outlines of unfamiliar furniture. A silent figure stood backlit in the doorway with what appeared to be a basket in its hands.

“Who is that?”

“You called out just before,” came the quiet answer. “You’re safe now. Your friend Molly and all the others are okay, too.”

Bedside lamps lit with the click of a wall switch and the woman who’d been standing there came into the room. The wicker basket she held was filled with pressed and folded clothes, and she placed it on a low dresser, pulled out a wide drawer, opened a closet, and began to put away the laundry.

“You’ll have to pardon me, ma’am—but who are you, and where am I?”

She spoke to him as she worked. Her tone was genuinely pleasant, though hued with the good-natured patience of one who was explaining something very simple for the second time around.

“I’m Cathy Merrick. This is my dad’s place. This is your room, and these are your clothes—the tatters you wore when you got here, along with some other things I figured might just fit you. The rest of the family met you for a few minutes yesterday night. In the state you all were in, I guess I’m not too surprised if you don’t remember.”

But he did remember, vaguely. The face reflected in the dresser mirror was handsome and mature, with clear brown eyes that seemed subtly amused by some unshared thought just behind them. These features were framed with dark brown hair that fell easily around her shoulders. A wisp of mid-thirties premature gray played here and there, along with the sort of highlights the sun would have left throughout a life lived in the great outdoors.

She looked more familiar, in fact, than his own more distant image alongside her in the glass. The man there looked quite thin and substantially younger than he felt, all due to the extra weight he’d gradually lost over their long winter on the run. He touched his cheek—the skin was clean-shaven for the first time in years.

“Oh, that reminds me.” She came over to sit next to him, then took his chin to turn the far side of his face toward the nearest lamp. “You’ve got a cut here at the jawline that probably should have had a couple of stitches a few days ago.” As he moved to feel the spot she stopped his hand with a gentle smack, as one might correct a greedy child about to take another cookie out of turn. “Just leave it be; we’ll see how it heals. I had to shave that part to treat the laceration, and then you looked kind of funny that way, so I took off the rest.”

She must have noticed he was fixating again on his transfigured face in the mirror across the room. “For heaven’s sake, that bushy old beard’ll grow back if you want it to. And you told me you didn’t mind; you were talking to me all friendly just like you were downtown with the boys at the barbershop.”

“I hope I didn’t say anything I should be ashamed of.”

“Oh no, you were quite the complimentary gentleman, even if you weren’t strictly conscious. Exhaustion and running yourself half starved for weeks on end begins to play some havoc with the mind.” She looked at him, with the slightest frown on her face. “You really can’t recall?”

He shook his head, then pushed himself up through some sharp aches and pains to sit back against the headboard. “I don’t even remember getting into this bed.”

“Last night, while I was looking after some of the others, the men came to let me know you’d fallen asleep in the shower. So, we cleaned you up real good and dried you off and I found something for you to sleep in, and then we put you down for the night.” She checked the clock on the wall. “That was about twenty hours ago.”

He felt his face getting red. “You all got me dressed?”

She smiled at him, took his wrist, found the pulse, and turned her head aside again so she could watch the second hand as she counted the beats. “I was married for eleven years, I’m a rancher’s only daughter in a family of nine, and I’ve been called upon to patch up farmhands and cowpokes since I was a teenager. Don’t you worry, Mr. Hollis, you can rest assured I came across no undiscovered country.”

“Try as I might, I’m finding little solace there.”

“Do you have a headache at all?” Now she was running her hands over his unkempt hair, as though checking for signs of an unreported blow to the skull.

“No.”

“The boys tell me that you fainted out there, when they found you.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly. Just let myself get stretched too thin, I guess, and the burden got the better of me.”

“And they also said that even after that you insisted on walking back into the woods all alone to bring out your people.”

Hollis nodded, though much of the memory was there only in bits and pieces.

“This loss of consciousness, has anything like that ever happened before?”

“I’ve had a . . .” He sought the proper words for a moment. “Since I got back from the war I’ve had a bad spell or two. Hadn’t happened in years, though. They told me that stress could bring it on. And I guess I’m just not as young as I used to be.”

She frowned a bit, and the transition from casual conversation to thinly disguised bedside exam was smooth and professional. As she continued he answered her questions and complied with each prompt and instruction, following her moving finger with his eyes, extending his arms and touching his nose, pressing against her outstretched palms with his own when so directed.

“Do you feel any nausea, or dizziness?”

“No, I don’t.”

A young lady arrived with a small wooden tray of fruit, bread, sliced cheese, and a tall glass of water. She handed the food to Cathy Merrick, the two exchanged some quiet words, and then the girl left again the way she’d come.

“Mom thought you’d be hungry,” Cathy said, “but don’t eat too much too fast.” She rearranged some things, slid the tray onto the nightstand within his reach, and then walked over to the window. “You missed lunch already, so some of that can tide you over until dinnertime. Now, are you ready to see some sunshine?”

“I think I am.”

She pulled the heavy outer drapes aside to the edges of a large bay window behind them, then drew the inner curtains by their braided cord. “There you go,” Cathy said. “That’s the best view we’ve got.”