Part 29 (1/2)

It was the only good thing that had ever come out of the ec.u.menical committee. He and B.T. had started by complaining about the idiocies of the ec.u.menical committee, which seemed bent on proving that denominations couldn't get along, progressed to playing chess and then to discussing religion and politics and disagreeing on both, and ended by becoming close friends.

I have to call him, Mel thought, it's a betrayal of our friends.h.i.+p not to.

And tell him what? That he'd had a holy vision? That the Book of Revelation was coming literally true? It sounded crazy to Mel, let alone to B.T, who was a scientist, who didn't believe in the First Coming, let alone the Second. But if it was true, how could he not call him?

He dialed B.T.'s area code and then put down the receiver and went to check out.

The roads east were still closed. ”You shouldn't have any trouble heading west, though,” the balding man said, handing Mel his credit-card receipt. ”The snow's supposed to let up by noon.”

Mel hoped so. The interstate was snow-packed and unbelievably slick, and when Mel positioned himself behind a sand truck, a rock struck his winds.h.i.+eld and made a ding.

At least there was hardly any traffic. There were only a few semis, and a navy-blue pickup with a b.u.mper sticker that said ”In case of the Rapture, this car will be unoccupied.” There was no sign of the blue Honda or of the carnival. They had seen the light and were still at the King's Rest, sitting in the restaurant, drinking coffee.

Or headed south for the winter.

He pa.s.sed a snow-obscured sign that read ”For Weather Info, Tune to am 1410.”

He did. ”. . . and in the last days Christ Himself will appear,” an evangelist, possibly the one from yesterday, or a different one- they all had the same accent, the same intonation-said. ”The Rook of Revelation tells us He will appear riding a white horse and leading a mighty army of the righteous against the Antichrist in that lastgreat battle of Armageddon. And the unbelievers- the fornicators and the baby-murderers-will be flung into the bottomless pit.”

The ultimate ”Wait till your father gets home,” threat, Mel thought.

”And how do I know these things are coming?” the radio said. ”I'll tell you how. The Lord came to me in a dream, and He said, 'These shall be the signs of my coming. There will be wars and rumors of wars.' Iraq, my friends, that's what he's talking about. The sun's face will be covered, and the G.o.dless will prosper. Look around you. Who do you see prospering? Abortion doctors and h.o.m.os.e.xuals and G.o.dless atheists. Rut when Christ comes, they will be punished. He's told me so. The Lord spoke to me, just like he spoke to Moses, just like he spoke to Isaiah. . . .”

He switched off the radio, but it didn't do any good. Because this was what had been bothering him ever since he started out. How did he know his vision wasn't just like some radio evangelist's?

Because his is born out of hatred, bigotry, and revenge, Mel thought. G.o.d no more spoke to him than did the man in the moon.

And how do you know He spoke to you? Because it felt real? The voices telling the bomber to destroy the abortion clinic felt real, too. Emotion isn't proof. Signs aren't evidence. ”Do you have any outside confirmation?” he could hear B.T saying skeptically.

The sun came out, and the glare off the white road, the white fields, was worse than the snow had been. He almost didn't see the truck off to the side. Its emergency flashers weren't on, and at first he thought it had just slid off the road, but as he went past, he saw it was one of the carnival trucks with its hood up and steam coming out. A young man in a denim jacket was standing next to it, hooking his thumb for a ride.

I should stop, Mel thought, but he was already past, and picking up hitchhikers was dangerous. He had found that out when he'd preached a sermon on the Good Samaritan last year. ”Let us not be like the Levite or the Pharisee who pa.s.ses by the stranded motorist, the injured victim,” he had told his congregation. ”Let us be like the Samaritan, who stopped and helped.”

It had seemed like a perfectly harmless sermon topic, and he had been totally unprepared for the uproar that ensued. ”I cannot believe you told people to pick up hitchhikers!” Dan Crosby had raged. ”If one of my daughters ends up raped, I'm holding you responsible.”

”What were you thinking of?” Mrs. Bilderbeck had said, hanging up after fending off Mable Jenkins.

”On CNN last week there was a story about somebody who stopped to help a couple who was out of gas, and they cut off his head.”

He had had to issue a retraction the next Sunday, saying that women had no business helping anyone (which had made Mamie Rollet mad, for feminist reasons) and that the best thing for everyone else to do was to alert the state patrol on their cell phones and let them take care of it, unless they knew the person, although somehow he couldn't imagine the Good Samaritan with a cell phone.

There was a median crossing up ahead, but it was marked with a sign that read ”Authorized Vehicles Only.”

And if I get my head cut off, he thought, the congregation will have no sympathy at all.

But it was threatening to snow again, and the green interstate sign up ahead said ”Wayside, 28 Mi.” And the carnival had been his Good Samaritan last night.

” 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto me,' ” he murmured, and turned into the median crossing and onto the eastbound side of the highway, and started back.

The truck was still there, though he couldn't see the driver. Good, he thought, looking for a place to cross.

Some other Samaritan's picked him up. But when he pulled up behind the truck, the man got out of the truck's cab and started over to the car, his hands jammed into his denim jacket. Mel began to feel sorry he'd stopped. The man had a ragged scar across his forehead, and his hair was lank and greasy.

He slouched over to the side of the car, and Mel saw that he was much younger than he'd looked at first.

He's just a kid, Mel thought.

Yeah, well, so was Billy the Kid, he reminded himself. And Andrew Cunanan.

Mel leaned across and pulled down the pa.s.senger window. ”What's the trouble?”

The kid leaned down to talk to him. ”Died,” he said, and grinned.

”Do you need a lift into town?” he asked, and the kid immediately opened the car door, keeping his right hand in his jacket pocket. Where the gun is, Mel thought.The kid slid in and shut the door, still using only one hand. When they find me robbed and murdered, they'll be convinced I was involved in some kind of drug deal, Mel thought. He started the car.

”Man, it was cold out there,” the kid said, taking his right hand out of his pocket and rubbing his hands together. ”I been waiting forever.”

Mel kicked the heater over to high, and the kid leaned forward and held his hands in front of the vent. There was a peace sign tattooed on the back of one of them and a fierce-looking lion on the other. Both looked like they'd been done by hand.

The kid rubbed his hands together, wincing, and Mel took another look. His hands were red with cold and between the tattoo lines there were ugly white splotches. The kid started rubbing them again.

”Don't-” Mel said, putting out his hand unthinkingly to stop him. ”That looks like frostbite. Don't rub it. You're supposed to . . .” he said, and then couldn't remember. Put them in warm water? Wrap them up?

”They're supposed to warm up slowly,” he said finally.

”You mean like by warming 'em up in front of a heater?” the kid said, holding his hands in front of the vent again. He put up his hand and touched the ding in the winds.h.i.+eld. ”That's gonna spread,” he said.

His hand looked even worse now that it was warming up. The sickly white splotches stood out starkly against the rest of his skin.

Mel took off his gloves, switching hands on the steering wheel and using his teeth to get the second one off. ”Here,” he said, handing them to the kid. ”These are insulated.”

The kid looked at him for a minute and then put them on.

”You should get your hands looked at,” Mel said. ”I can take you to the emergency room when we get to town.”

”I'll be okay,” the kid said. ”You get used to being cold, working a carny.”

”What's a carnival doing here in the middle of winter, anyway?” Mel asked.

”Best time,” the kid said. ”Catches 'em by surprise. What're you doin' out here?”

He wondered what the kid would say if he told him. ”I'm a minister,” he said instead.

”A preacher, huh?” he said. ”You believe in the Second Coming?”

”The Second Coming?” Mel gasped, caught off-guard.

”Yeah, we had a preacher come to the carny the other day telling us Jesus was coming back and was gonna punish everybody for hanging him on the cross, knock down the mountains, burn the whole planet up. You believe all that's gonna happen?”

”No,” Mel said. ”I don't think Jesus is coming back to punish anybody.”