Page 17 of Her Last Escape

"No, thank you," Rachel said. "You've been more than helpful already. Thank you."

“Come on, then,” she said. “I’ll see you out.”

As they followed her back through another biometric checkpoint, Rachel caught Novak's eye. They were both thinking the same thing: it seemed that Ms. Fenway was not only being hospitable in ushering them to the door, but also a push in a very subtle way. She wanted to make sure these unannounced agents left, and she wanted to be the one to show them the door.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rachel spotted them first—a small cluster of people gathering near New Horizons' main gate as she and Novak left the facility. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawn, and through the tinted windows of the car, she counted at least twelve people. Some clutched handmade signs, their messages indistinct due to the distance. The scene triggered something in her investigator's mind—a nagging sensation that wouldn't quite form into a coherent thought.

"Look at that," she said, nodding toward the group as Novak steered them toward the exit. Two more cars pulled in behind the line already formed along the edge of the sprawling lawn. The vehicles were modest—a weathered Honda Civic and what looked like a decade-old Chrysler minivan. More protesters climbed out, joining the growing crowd with their own hastily made signs.

Rachel studied the gathering through her trained eye. The group wasn't random; there was organization here and purpose in their movements. They positioned themselves with practiced efficiency, spreading out to create maximum visual impact for passing traffic. These weren't first-time protesters.

At the guard shack, the same heavyset man who had checked them in regarded them with a weary smile. As the guard opened up the small window into his shack to wave them off, Novak leaned out the window. "What's the story with them?"

The guard rolled his eyes, his security badge glinting in the sunlight. "Religious protesters." He sighed, shoulders slumping. "Happens at least once a month. Say," he brightened, adjusting his ill-fitting uniform jacket, "since you folks are FBI, any chance you could shut it down?"

"Not as long as they keep it peaceful," Rachel said, studying the growing crowd. Their numbers had swelled to nearly twenty, and they'd begun a slow march in front of the gates. The guard's joke hadn't landed with her—something about the determination in the protesters' movements set her on edge. After years in the Bureau, she'd learned to trust these instincts.

“Yeah, that’s what the cops have said every time we’ve called them. They aren’t violent, they’re not blocking traffic…so they can’t do anything. Free speech and all that.” He pressed a button somewhere inside his shack and the little wooden barrier in front of them rose up.

Novak gave him a wave as he pulled through. He then turned left onto the road and instantly pulled over on the opposite side of the road, across from where the protestors had parked and formed their ranks. Rachel got out of the car, her boots crunching on loose gravel. The signs among the protestors were clear now: CRYO IS SINFUL painted in jagged red letters. ONLY JESUS CAN SAVE! emblazoned on white poster board. GOD ALONE HOLDS THE KEYS TO ETERNAL LIFE. Each message is more confrontational than the last.

The protesters themselves were a study in conviction. An elderly woman in a floral dress, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, clutched her sign with trembling hands. Her face bore the deep lines of someone who'd spent years expressing disapproval. Beside her, a pair of young men in their twenties, wearing identical sweaters with a Bible verse printed on them, chanted scripture verses in perfect unison, their faces flushed with religious fervor.

A mother had brought her teenage daughter, both of them in long skirts that brushed their ankles. The daughter's expression mirrored her mother's zealotry, but Rachel caught moments when the girl's eyes darted to her phone, suggesting not all the younger generation shared their parents' passion. A middle-aged man in pressed khakis and a thick jacket looked more like he should be heading to a golf course than a protest, yet he shouted verses with particular vehemence. Their breath created multiple little clouds in the chilly air.

At the center of it all stood their apparent leader. Unlike his followers, he carried no sign—just a well-worn Bible with dozens of colored tabs marking its pages. The book's spine was cracked and mended, suggesting years of dedicated study. He wore a navy cardigan and pressed jeans, watching the proceedings with an air of quiet satisfaction behind thick-rimmed glasses. His demeanor reminded Rachel of a college professor observing a successful experiment.

"Excuse me," Rachel said, approaching him. She noticed how the protesters' chanting subtly decreased in volume as she drew near. "Did you organize this protest?"

He turned, and a proud smile spread across his face. The kind of smile that suggested he'd been waiting for someone to ask. "I absolutely did." His voice carried the practiced resonance of someone used to public speaking, each word carefully enunciated. "I'm Pastor David Thorne of Christ's Hope Church. And you are?"

Rachel and Novak displayed their badges. The reaction was immediate—protesters stopped their chanting, all eyes turning to watch the exchange. "FBI?" Thorne's smile tightened, though his voice maintained its measured tone. "I suppose the powers that be finally sent in the cavalry to protect their precious multi-million-dollar freezer."

"Actually, we're here on other business," Rachel said, noting how Thorne's followers had begun to drift closer, hanging on every word. The air grew thick with tension. "We saw your group forming and wanted to understand what's happening here."

"What's happening?" Thorne's eyes lit up with evangelical fervor, and Rachel recognized the look of someone who'd been handed a captive audience. "What's happening is we're taking a stand against an abomination. Margaret Fenway and her kind think they can play God, preserving human remains like—like cosmic leftovers in some technological refrigerator." He held up his Bible, the pages ruffling in the afternoon breeze. "They're selling false hope at premium prices."

Rachel maintained eye contact, her investigator's instincts firing. The passion was genuine, but was there something darker beneath it? "Are there other churches or religious organizations that share your concerns?"

"Oh, certainly." Thorne warmed to the subject, gesturing expansively. His cardigan sleeve rode up, revealing a silver watch that caught the sun. "The Trinity Baptist Coalition has been vocal about it. Several Catholic parishes have issued statements. But most are too timid to take direct action. They fear negative press, or worse, losing their tax-exempt status." He scoffed. "As if that matters more than eternal souls."

"Why do you personally consider it an affront to God?" Rachel pressed, aware of Novak taking notes beside her. She watched Thorne's face carefully, looking for any micro-expressions that might betray something beyond religious conviction.

“Do you not?”

“I honestly have no horse in this race,” Rachel said. “I’d just like to know your thoughts.”

Thorne's expression grew solemn, and he took a step closer. Rachel caught a whiff of coffee on his breath as he spoke. "Death is not a technical problem to be solved. It's a divine appointment, ordained by our Creator." He began to pace, his words taking on a rhythmic cadence that suggested countless sermon rehearsals. "These people, they think they can cheat death with liquid nitrogen and computer processors and whatever other gadgets they have. They're promising resurrection through science, usurping what rightfully belongs to God alone."

He stopped, jabbing a finger toward the New Horizons building. The gesture was theatrical, practiced. "Every person they freeze is a soul led astray from the true path to salvation. They prey on the desperate, the wealthy, the arrogant—those who think their money can buy them immortality. But there is only one way to eternal life, and that's through Jesus Christ."

"And these specific protests," Rachel said, gesturing to the group still watching their exchange. "Why here? Why now?"

"Location is everything, Agent Gift." Thorne's voice took on a conspiratorial tone as a thin smile touched the corners of his mouth. "New Horizons is the largest facility of its kind in the region. They're the face of this... this technological blasphemy. As for timing..." A knowing smile crossed his face. "It's nearly three o'clock. Perfect timing for the local news crews to get their footage for the evening broadcast. We're not just witnessing to New Horizons—we're spreading the message to everyone in their living rooms at six o'clock."

Rachel felt Novak shift beside her, and something in her gut twisted. The religious angle was worth exploring—zealotry had motivated plenty of killers she'd encountered over the years. But something about this felt too obvious, too performative. Thorne wanted attention, certainly, but murder would defeat his purpose. He needed New Horizons to remain operational so he could continue his crusade against it.

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