17
Sandy sat in his car, out of the soggy salt wind at last, and wondered what to do. Almost two hours now since the celebratory outburst in the bungalow, and not another sound since. No movement either, other than to refill a soft drink or have another cracker or piece of cheese.
Bored did not even approach how he felt. He wondered if the Savior had picked up his message; and if so, was he on his way down. Sandy didn't want to miss that.
A flash of light on the neighboring street grabbed his attention. Headlamps, moving toward the cult bungalow. Immediately Sandy was out and heading that way. He arrived in time to see two women stepping up to the front door. It opened as they reached it. He ducked around to his old vantage point and peered through the window.
Of the two late arrivals, Sandy had seen the brunette before at the cult hum session, but the blonde was a newbie. They greeted her like a prodigal daughter, each taking a turn hugging her—and still not one damn word!
Finally they settled down, seating themselves in the circle of chairs. When only the blonde newcomer was still standing, everyone suddenly froze and stared at her. And she in turn was staring at something in her hand.
When Sandy recognized it he damn near jumped through the window. He'd seen that tiny pistol before.