Part 44 (2/2)
”Lord G.o.d, send your angels to help us!” Kyle prayed aloud, and then said into the cell phone, ”h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Fordyce?” He was too excited to talk slowly. He had to keep repeating himself. ”We're on our way now. We're on our way into town. No, we're on the highway west of town, going into town. No, Sally's in the car with us. She's in our car. We're going to the clinic. No, the clinic.”
I could see Henchle through his winds.h.i.+eld, talking on his radio. I rolled down my window and signaled with my arm for him to come alongside. He gunned his big engine and pulled up beside us, rolling his window down.
”Pull the car over, Travis!” he hollered, jabbing the air with his finger.
”We're transporting an injury victim to the clinic!”
”Pull the car over!”
In my right ear, Kyle was talking to the 911 dispatcher. ”We're inbound on the highway west of town. Yeah, that's right. Officer Henchle is-well, he's right beside us at the moment.”
Henchle shouted over the roar of our engines, our tires, and the wind, ”Stop and we'll transfer the victim to my vehicle!”
”She can't be moved!” Well, it was going to be the truth as far as I could help it.
”Pull over-” And then he swore, hitting his brakes, ducking his car behind us just in time to avoid an oncoming semi.
”This could get hazardous,” I said, slowing down to thirty. We were approaching the edge of town.
”Now the dispatcher's telling us to stop,” Kyle reported. Then he told the dispatcher, ”Why don't we just all meet at the clinic?
Huh? Well, could you call Officer Henchle and explain our situation? And tell him he doesn't need to be sounding that stupid siren. What?” He listened, then told me, ”Henchle's called for a backup. Rod Stanton's going to block the road into town.”
”I see him,” I replied.
Rod's squad car was parked along the highway at the western edge of town, but something was a little odd. Cars were slowing in our lane, brake lights s.h.i.+ning, and there were people standing in the street and gathering on either side. I gathered we weren't the only show in town. I slowed.
”Oh no,” I said.
”Oh no,” Kyle echoed.
”What?” said Sally, leaning forward between the front seats.
There was another Jesus standing in the middle of the highway, a long-haired, bearded man in white robe and sandals. He was blond, and I could imagine him being a yoga-humming, yogurt-eating surfer in California before coming to Antioch to try the messiah game. He appeared to have a whip in his hand and he was flailing each car as it pa.s.sed, hollering and preach-pointing with his free hand. The first car pa.s.sed him by, and then the next. The third stopped to listen and I could see the pa.s.sengers snapping pictures through the closed windows. I was coming up behind them.
Stuck between False Christ Number Two and a cop! I couldn't stop with Henchle after me, but the right lane wasn't moving. A car came by us in the opposing lane, and then I pulled around, hoping to get by.
This latest Jesus put out his hand and stood right in front of me, ranting and raving about something.
”What's he saying?” Sally asked.
I rolled down my window. Brett Henchle was pulling up right behind me, his siren still blaring.
”Can we get through here, please?” I shouted, and I didn't sound nice. By now I had a real gripe against false christs messing up my life.
This one approached my window, whip in hand. ”No motor vehicles, sir! Thou shalt not pollute the air, a gift from the Father's own hand!”
”We have to get to the clinic!”
”It is written, my town shall be a house of prayer for all nations, but you have turned it into a garbage dump!”
”This isn't your town, bub!”
”I'll get him to move,” said Kyle, opening his door.
”What?” I said, but it was too late to stop him.
”Extinguish your engine, my beloved,” said the christ, ”and partake of the clean air G.o.d has-”
”Excuse me!” said Kyle, coming around the front of my car.
The phony Jesus brandished his whip as if defending himself. ”Touch me not!”
Brett Henchle cut his siren and got out of his car.
Kyle held out a dollar. ”See this here?”
”You would bribe the holy one of Israel?”
Some pilgrims were moving closer, cameras ready. A woman in pink shorts and a plastic sunhat touched him, stood there a moment, then turned to walk back to her friends. ”I didn't feel anything,” she reported.
Kyle held the dollar out, coaxing the christ toward the left side of the road. ”Whose face is this, and whose inscription?”
The christ took the dollar and looked at it. ”George Was.h.i.+ngton.”
”You're standing in George's road, did you know that?”
The christ looked down at George's pavement.
”Render unto George the things that are George's . . .”
”Can I keep this dollar?” the christ asked.
”Okay, hold it,” said Brett Henchle, striding from his car, pus.h.i.+ng through the pilgrims, his club ready.
But a woman in a biblical outfit got there first, embracing the christ. ”Son! My beloved son!”
The christ looked baffled. ”Who are you?”
She stepped back and gave him the cla.s.sic mother look, her hands on her hips. ”I happen to be your mother!”
Wow. Another one.
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