Chapter 2

Mountain View, Missouri, May 4, 4:37 AM

Richard needed coffee to make it through the interminable night patrol.  An eventless night was giving him too much time alone with his thoughts.  Tonight he had become more convinced than ever that Jill had come only for his sake.  She had taken a nothing job at the junior college instead of entering the doctoral program she had been offered.  And all for what?  So that he could land a dead end job with the sheriff's department.  She had arranged it all to "save him."  Although she never breathed a word of second thought, he was almost certain that she was hiding her resentment.

It was depressing---lead cloak depressing.  It was even depressing to realize that he was depressed.  His advice to anyone moping around would had always been to just get over it

"Well, get over it, Richard," he said aloud as he pulled into the McDonald's parking lot.  "She's smarter and stronger than you are.  When she gets tired of this, she'll let you know, and then we'll be out of here.  Last thing you need to do is give the idea that you don't appreciate her sacrifice."

As he drove around to the takeout window, his headlights illuminated a car in an adjoining lot.  He frowned, and then drove over for a closer look.  As soon as he read the plate, he keyed his radio to call it in.

"Green ‘95 T-bird, Missouri license number 722-LLK, parked near the McDonalds in Mountain View," he said, and then released the key of his mic.

"Mountain View?  That's across the line in Howell County, Carter."

"I came over for coffee," he said lamely.

The silence stretched for several minutes.

"Secure the scene but don't touch the vehicle.  Howell County deputies are on their way.  They'll want to talk to you."

"Roger that," he said.

Leaving his cruiser parked beside the stolen car, he went across to get the refill that he had come for.  He anticipated annoyance from both the Mountain View police and the Howell County sheriff's department.  An outsider had discovered a stolen vehicle left in plain sight on their turf.  His own department was already upset at his being out of pocket while on duty.  The hill culture didn't tolerate meddlesome sorts.  The description couldn't fit him less, but his one glaring fault made it credible:  he was an outsider.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" asked a teenager with a suppressed yawn when he brought the coffee.

"Just a question," said Richard.  "How long have you been on shift?"

"Why?" asked the kid apprehensively.

Questioning by a law officer disconcerted most people.  The absence of concern was often a tell.

"That green car over there is stolen.  You didn't see who parked it there, did you?"

"Oh, the T-bird," he said, laughing with obvious relief.  "No.  It's been there since . . . let's see . . . Tuesday I think.  Sharp.  I figured the girl it belongs to was carpooling or else it broke down."

"You saw a girl?"

"No, but there's a necklace hanging on the rearview mirror."

"Did you notice anyone unusual in here on Tuesday, perhaps someone not from around here who spent an unusual amount of time here?"

"We get a lot of highway customers.  I didn't see anyone unusual."  He laughed.  "Except for some Jehovah Witnesses or maybe they were Mormons---I think they were here on Tuesday too.  They hang around in pairs, don't they?"

Flashing lights outside heralded the arrival of a local cruiser.

"Someone will probably be in to take a statement, so don't leave," he said before going outside."

Richard carried his coffee across to talk with the Howell County deputy.  On the way it occurred to him that the car had probably aroused no curiosity because the mall people thought it belonged to a McDonald's worker, and the restaurant people thought it was a mall employee's car.  The important thing was that Paget had a four-day head start.

He swallowed the dregs in his cup and went over to introduce himself and tell about finding the car.

"You know, he probably hitched a ride or found another car," he said when he was through.  "Has one been reported stolen near here?"

"We've got it covered now," said the deputy.  "But stick around.  The boss is on the way and he'll want to talk to you."

Richard itched to continue his involvement, but his small part in the drama was over.

"The boy in there said there was a necklace hanging from the rearview mirror.  Maybe it belongs to the girl he killed," said Richard.

"Why not to the girl the car belongs to?"

"I don't know.  It just seems like people hang mementos there."

His reasoning seemed lost on his Howell County counterpart.  They went to the restaurant to question the employees.  Etiquette required a closed mouth from Richard.  At least he was allowed to listen.

A girl working the night shift verified that the car had been there since Tuesday.  She also thought she remembered a man resembling the mug shot coming to the restaurant just the day before.  Richard doubted that Paget had hung around that long, but kept that to himself.

The bleary-eyed owner of the franchise arrived in the company of the sheriff a little after 5:00, and called up a copy of the previous week's work roster.  Follow up questioning would probably only confirm Paget's presence, but attention to detail was the essence of investigation.  As they left the restaurant, the Howell County Sheriff called Richard aside.

"Mind telling me what you were doing in my county?"

"I was on night patrol over this way and came to get some coffee, sir."

"No coffee in Hawthorn County?" he said sharply.

"I guess I'll go see," said Richard.

"Good idea."

It was nearly six by the time Richard recrossed the county line.  He called in and got permission to go directly home and come in to file his report after he had gotten some sleep.  As he turned into the drive, the kitchen light came on.  He parked next to Jill's car, and went wearily up the steps to the deck.  He frowned to find the door unlocked.  Jill was at the stove, her long auburn hair disheveled, and her robe cinched around her narrow waist.

"How is my favorite cop this morning?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Tired.  How's my favorite professor?"

"I am okay," she said, taking the skillet from the heat and setting it aside before giving him a good morning kiss.

"I had to sleep alone again, Richard," she said, giving his name the French pronunciation she usually reserved for the bedroom.  "That was not in our wedding contract I think."

She was teasing, but her words contained a barb whether she intended it or not.  The life they had was not what she had bargained for.

"You are late this morning.  Did something happen?"

"Actually it did.  You know the guy that killed that Arkansas family?  I found his car this morning."

"He is here?" she asked in alarm.

"I don't think we have to worry about that.  After he ditched the car he'd put as much distance as he could between himself and it.  But please check the locks when I'm on night patrol."

"I always check them," she said.

"The door was unlocked when I came in just now."

"I unlocked it when I saw you come home," she said.  "Where did you find his car?"

"Near the McDonald's at Mountain View."

"That is not in the county.  What were you doing over there?"

"That's what the sheriff over there wanted to know.  I think he was more upset with my visit than he was with Paget's.  I went over to get a cup of coffee."

"Leaving your patrol?  Could that jeopardize your job?"

"Shug might cuss me out for it, if he ever did cuss."

She placed an artfully arranged plate of eggs and bacon before him along with toast from her homemade bread.  As she poured coffee for them, he noticed that she had only toast.

"That's all you're going to eat?"

"I have gained weight," she said.

"Sure and you're just a slip of a girl," he said affecting an Irish brogue from his repertoire of bad accents.

She laughed dutifully and reached out her hand.  When he pulled gently, she got up and came to sit in his lap.  She nuzzled his neck.  As they kissed, she slid her hands over his shoulders, feeling the ridges of puckered scar tissue from a year and a half ago when she had almost lost him.

"I want you," she murmured, trying to push the memory of that bloody night away.

"I want you too, but---"

"I was alone in our bed," she said, cutting him off.  "I was thinking of you all night.  I got up and put one of your shirts on just to be closer to you."

It started as a joke, something to break the spell he was under.  He stood up, sweeping her from her feet.

"Is this what you were thinking about?" he asked.

"It began like this," she said as he carried her through the doorway.

When he placed her gently on the bed, her small hands worked feverishly at the buttons of his uniform.

"You are the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me," she said as she kissed his bare chest.

Then you've had a hell of a life.  The thought came unbidden, and he pushed it away.  He could do that when she was with him---when he was alone, not so much.

He slipped the knot on her robe.

Afterward, as she lay with her head on his chest, he luxuriated in knowledge that she could really love him.  Although achingly beautiful, what awed him about his wife was her intelligence and competence, her courage and determination.  He didn't measure up.

"What are you thinking, Dear?" she asked.

"That I don't deserve you."

She propped herself on her elbow and gazed into his eyes a long moment before bending to softly kiss his lips.  Then she moved so that her bare breast lay against his cheek.

"Jill, I . . ."

"Shhhh," she murmured as she cradled him to her.  "Lay with your wife and sleep now, Darling."

At eight she slipped from bed careful not to awaken him and went to shower before work feeling happier than she had been in days.  Richard's continuing bouts of depression frightened her, but today seemed to be a good day for him.  Like him, she tried to forget the unforgettable.  Now as she closed her eyes to rinse off the shampoo, images she could do without owning cascaded like subliminal cuts through her mind.

Mic smiling as he approached.  Richard bursting through the door.  The two men entwined on the sidewalk with Mic in a headlock, slashing and slashing at Richard.  Richard's head in her lap and blood everywhere.

She worked the conditioner in vigorously and took deep breaths, trying to pull herself free from the memories.  It was not until she was dressed and fastening her earrings that her pulse finally slowed and the aftertaste of terror faded to mere memory.  As she checking her hair in the mirror, she wondered if she should tell Richard what she suspected.  She had been delaying it, but her sudden olfactory hypersensitivity reminded her of how long she had been putting it off.

Blue Creek Community College

Summer brought a peculiar mix to campus:  adults enthusiastically blowing the curve, kids retaking failed classes, and freshmen like the one uncomfortably avoiding eye contact across from her this morning.  After reading his first essay test, Jill had asked him to come by her office.

"Shane, I called you in to discuss your writing."

He frowned grimly.

"I found your ideas insightful."

"Insightful?" he repeated with more than a hint of incredulity.  "I didn't copy anything.  Honest."

"I know.  Your ideas were very good, but your grammar is . . ."  She hesitated, searching for balance.  "Not up to college standards yet.  Have you considered tutoring?"

"I'm taking bone-head English," he said with a sigh.  "Maybe I don't belong in college."

"Nonsense.  Your writing mechanics need improvement, but your thinking is clear and logical."

Shane frowned self-consciously.  No teacher had ever taken an interest in him, but she had actually complimented him.  At least he thought she had.  Jill gave him what she only meant as a reassuringly smile.  He mistook it for something more.

"With effort I am sure that you can acquire writing skill to match your thinking," she said.

"Do you think that . . . you might be able to help me where I'm messing up?"

Jill had more work than she could handle without taking on tutoring, but she had broached the subject.  In the end, his blush won her over.  She checked her schedule.

"Can you come in at two Mondays?  We'll try that for a while.  Rewrite your essay test using my corrections and we will discuss it when you come in."

It wasn't until much later that she understood how her offer had affected the attention-starved boy.

Canaan Camp, Rural Hawthorn County, May 5, 7:00 AM

It had taken all night to get the new belt on and adjust the main saw, which it wouldn't have if he could just think as clearly as he should be able to.  Ken Phillips leaned against the gatepost, weary and light headed, thinking that Martha would fuss at him about his blood pressure again if he said anything.  He realized what was happening to him, but there was no sense in dwelling on it.

Just put one foot in front of the other, he told himself as he approached the gatehouse. 

It wasn't really a guard post, nor was it a visitor center.  Why Father Joshua wanted the entrance manned, he didn't know, but it wasn't for him to question.

A young man smiled as Phillips came inside.

"Morning Brother Ken."

"Morning, Brother---uh---"

The young man pretended not to notice that the old man had been unable to retrieve his name.

"You look tired," he said.

"I am," said Phillips, dropping wearily into a chair.  "We worked on the main saw until about an hour ago.  Had to get it running or the boys fall another day behind the loggers."

Phillips' bright red face and his shallow labored breathing concerned him.

"Why don't you go on up and get some sleep?"

"I'll be fine if I just sit a spell," said Phillips, smiling thinly.  The truth was he didn't feel well at all.

"I'm not really very tired.  Let me pull another shift, sir."

"No, no, no.  I'm just winded from the walk.  Going down hill is a lot harder on me than going up I think.  I've been going down hill for some time now."

He smiled at his own joke, wishing he could remember the boy's name.

"Now you go on.  I'm fine."

After the boy left, Phillips sat back in the chair, enjoying the cool breeze coming in through the door.  He closed his eyes for just a moment, hoping that the lightheadedness would pass if he just gave it some time.

"Ken!  Wake up."

A firm hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him gently.  Phillips opened his eyes, and then smiled in recognition.

"Shug Shively.  What brings you out here?" he said, sitting up straighter. 

"Going to get yourself shot for sleeping on guard duty, Ken.  How are you doing?"

"Couldn't be better, Shug.  Martha and me are right happy here.  What brings you to Canaan?  You ain't thinking about joining the Church, are you?"

"Why, Mount Pisgah would kick me out as deacon if I did that, Ken," he said with a laugh.  "No, I come out on a dab of business."

"And here I thought you were just looking for a blocker so that you could bust it up the gut for another first down, Shug."

"My lands!  That was a long time ago, wasn't it, Ken?"

"Just yesterday, Shug, just yesterday."

"Right.  You have to light birthday candles with a blow torch the same as me."

"And blow ‘em out with a fire extinguisher."

They both laughed a little more than the joke merited.

Shively saw his own age in the face of his friend.  He thought Ken had made a terrible mistake selling his place and joining the Wilderness Church, but a man was entitled to his mistakes.  One man's epiphany was another man's delusion, and pretty much his own business.

"Ken, I came out here," he paused to unbutton his shirt pocket.  "Because we're looking for a guy."

He took out the photocopy and unfolded it before handing it to Phillips.

"You ever see this fellow?"

Phillips held the picture at arms length.

"On top of everything else, I'm going blind, Shug," he said, squinting until his eyes were mere slits.

"I don't think I ever seen this fella.  What'd he do?"

"He killed some folks down in Arkansas."

"Well that's terrible.  He from around here?"

"Over to Fayetteville, I believe, but he came through these parts a few days ago.  I imagine he's long gone."

Shively paused, trying to phrase his next question as inoffensively as possible.

"Kenny, have any new converts come to the camp in the last two weeks or so?"

"Not unless you change your mind," joked Phillips.

"You're sure?"

"I'm not that old, Shug.  Fact is we haven't had anyone join the Church since last fall."

He laid his hand on Phillips shoulder, feeling only bone where once there had been powerful muscle.

"It's been really good to see you again, Ken.  I know your new church has rules about visiting with outsiders, and I respect that, but tell Martha that me and the wife really miss you all.  Several people at Mt. Pisgah have asked about you."

"Tell them we're just fine.  We like it here.  We do miss the friends we used to have."

"We're still your friends, Ken.  We always will be.  Now before I go, could I ask you to do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"If a young fellow like him shows up here, even if you don't think it's him, could you get in touch with me?"

"We're not supposed to . . . Yeah.  I'll let you know.  You can count on it."

"Good enough for me.  Ken Phillips was always the straightest shooter I ever knew.  Thanks a lot, buddy.  I got to get back to town.  It really has been good seeing you again, Ken.  Laura and I really miss going over to your place and playing cards."

"Yeah, we miss that too," said Phillips as he followed Shug out to the car.  "I'll tell Martha you dropped by."

The full sun accentuated Phillips' sallow complexion.

"Are you sure you're all right?" asked Shug gently.

"Just tired," said Phillips rubbing his watery eyes.  "Don't understand it.  Got plenty of sleep last night."

Canaan Camp, May 9, 10:00 AM

The Outer Camp was about as exciting as the shotgun house in which he had spent the last five days.  Paget had decided that the term shotgun came from the fact that a man kicking in the door could hit everyone inside with one blast of buckshot.  The thought amused him for a moment.  He sat with elbows propped staring sullenly at the red-bellied, forty-year-old Ford tractor crawling across the field.  Four shirtless young men gathered bales and threw them up to two others stacking the hay wagon.  The clanging of the New Holland baler rose in volume as it approached the house coming down a windrow.  The scorched smell of drying hay permeated the air.

Why not make those big round bales and cut out all the donkeywork? he asked himself.  Probably some idiocy about hard work being godly.

He took the lone metal folding chair out onto the porch just as the tractor pulling the hay shifted gears and set off at a brisk pace toward a gap in the oak trees forming a border at the northwest boundary of the field.

Seven days of this crap, he thought.  But I'd rather be bored to death than pestered by Bible thumpers.  If it gets too bad, I'll just leave.

The baler shut down just in time for him to hear tires on the gravel around front.  He decided not to go see who it was.  If they wanted to talk they could come to him.  A cadaverous man in his early thirties eventually came around the house, stepped up onto the porch, and smiled.  When he extended a bony hand, his sleeve rode up six inches of thin wrist.

Thin and brittle like a stick, thought Paget.  "Stick Man."

"Hi, I'm John Campbell," he said.

"My name is---" began Paget.

"Don't tell me."  The man held up his hand.  "We don't use names until a person becomes one of us.  Then you can either keep your former name or choose one for your new life."

Weird, thought Paget.  Weird, but fine.

"I got to take a name from something in the Bible?" he asked.

"Not necessarily," said the Stick Man.  "It's an option, but not all that important.  The important thing is the decision you're contemplating."

"And you came to help me with that?"

"No.  Just to see if you have any questions.  We won't try to convince you to stay.  Take your full seven days to meditate, pray, and think.  Then decide if this is what you really want for the rest of your life."

"What happens if I decide to stay?"

"Then you will---if Father Joshua okays you."

"What's he?  Like your head priest or something?"

"Leader would be the best word.  Or maybe judge.  Do you know the Old Testament?"

"I've never been much of one for church.  I haven't lived a very good life."

"None of us has, but that doesn't mean we can't.  We of the Wilderness Church have dedicated ourselves to leave all that worldly stuff behind and start a new spiritual life."

Paget nodded.  Here comes the sales pitch, Bobby Lee.

"Let me explain about Father Joshua," said Campbell, warming to his subject.  "In the Old Testament you'll find that Israel was ruled by judges before God granted them their foolish request to have a king so that they could be like all the other people of the world.  The first of these judges was Moses, actually."

Paget decided to show that he knew something, if for no other reason than to shorten the introductory lecture.  The last thing he needed was a mind-numbing recital starting from creation.

"Moses was the guy who jumped bad on the Egyptians?"

"God did that actually, but he used Moses.  After Moses there were other judges, including Gideon, Samson, and, of course, Joshua."

"The dude that knocked down the walls of Jericho," said Paget exhausting his trove of Bible knowledge.

"Right.  In no time at all after Israel got kings, they started having more and more trouble, mainly because they got all mixed up with the things of the world.  They started to trade with other nations, intermarry, make military alliances---this was all brought on by the desire of the kings to become world powers and get rich.  It finally led to the incorporation of devilish worship.  Israel started borrowing religion from the heathen nations.  They even sacrificed their own children on burning altars."

Paget felt like he was in Junior High history class again.

Nothing like barbecued babies to keep the class interested, right?

He forced his mind back, and he picked the Stick Man up in mid-lecture.

". . . so God sent prophets among the people to tell them their errors, and to warn them of the danger their kings were leading them into."

"So Father Joshua is like your king?"

"My goodness no!  He's a judge and a prophet.  Another Moses."

The old bastard's got a hell of con going here, thought Paget.

"What brought you here?" asked Campbell earnestly.

The question caught him off guard.

You're on, Bobby Lee.  Now what do they want to hear?

"I'm not sure," he ventured, watching carefully for a reaction.  "My life's pretty well a mess right now.  I feel like I've just been . . . drifting, maybe looking for something."

Campbell nodded encouragingly.

Does he want to hear something specific, or is he just checking to see how honest I am? he wondered.  What the hell.  They want to believe me.  A place like this wants to suck as many people as possible into their little paradise.

"I overheard a couple of your people talking in a restaurant over at Mountain View.  There was just something---I don't know---It felt right that I should talk to them.  Does that make any sense?"

Stick Man beamed.  Paget relaxed.  Now there were things he needed to find out about the place.

"If I get to stay here do I have to tell everyone about my past, or do I only have to tell this Father Joshua?"

"Your past doesn't concern us."

"Kinda like the French Foreign Legion."

"Good analogy, except we don't harbor criminals," Campbell replied with a laugh.  "You're past isn't that dark, is it?"

"No, but I feel like I've been stumbling around in the dark my whole life."

"But you found your way here," said Campbell.  "The Lord does work in mysterious ways.  You can turn your life around here if you're willing to make the commitment."

"What kind of commitment?" asked Paget suspiciously.

He once went to a church where people made fools of themselves begging for forgiveness.  He would never do that, not even in pretense.  He'd go to their Hell before he would humiliate himself like that.

"When you're ready you'll pledge yourself to service if you intend to stay."

"In front of everybody?"

"No.  It's not a show.  You'll be serving God, not us.  You'll make your pledge to His Anointed, to Father Joshua."

He could handle that.  As a kid, he had learned how predictable people were.  All you had to do was learn what they wanted to hear, give it to them with the right body language and expression, and then everything was hunky-dory.  The old con man wouldn't be any different

So let's close the deal.  What do you want to hear from me now, Stick Man?  You're a true believer, so you need to talk.  That's it.

"Tell me more about the camp," he said.  "I need to understand this isolation thing."

"‘Come out from among them and be ye separate,'" said Campbell with an amused smile.  "I know.  People spout scripture to justify all sorts of things.  Let me put it this way:  There's a plague raging out there.  The ways of this world bring misery and death, both spiritually and physically.  We try to keep all that outside."

Paget got it.  They were holy rollers who deprived themselves so much all week that acting like fools for a few hours on Sunday seemed like a real hoot.  He could handle that too as long as they didn't insist he play the fool along with them.  Then he had second thoughts about something the Stick Man had said earlier.

"Just how much of that worldly stuff do you keep out?  I'm ain't no monk."

"Let's put it this way:  It's not natural to live like monks.  God created Eve as a helpmeet and companion for Adam.  He created marriage and told them to be fruitful and multiply."

"So you all have regular . . . relationships and stuff like that?"

"Adultery and fornication are forbidden.  Single people date."

"Date?  Where the hell do they----oh sorry.  That just slipped out."

"Don't worry about it.  It takes time to lose all that.  We have events, parties, and live like normal people---that is the way normal people are supposed to live."

Paget flashed on a story about stoning sinners in the Bible.  It would be interesting to be in on that.

"What happens when someone breaks the rules?  I'm sure people mess up sometimes."

"If a person were really recalcitrant, he could be banished.  Of course we haven't banished anyone yet."

Nope, thought Paget.  Kicking them out would cut into the old man's collection plate.

"Of course erring can't be ignored.  Restitution must be made," continued Campbell.  "Whenever a breach of the peace occurs, Father Joshua decides what payment must be made.  Usually it's just a token offering to the Church and a public acknowledgement of the wrong.  We allot time for that before each Sabbath service."

Campbell seemed eager to tell him more, but Paget cut him short.  He had no intention of becoming an expert on the ways of these lunatics.  He just needed a place to hide for a little longer.  Since confession was so big for these guys, he decided to give the Stick Man something to chew on.

"I did something bad out there," he said suddenly.  "Actually, more stupid than bad.  Some bad dudes are looking for me.  Gambling debts.  Man, it's a disease."

Campbell, apprehensive when Paget's confession began, visibly relaxed.

"Don't worry about them.  No one gets in.  Well almost no one.  County officials have the right.  We render unto Caesar the things that are his."

That didn't sound good.

"So the law comes in whenever they want, like to deliver a subpoena or something?"

"The only government we recognize as lawful is the county.  The state and the so-called United States are anti-antichrist organizations.  We consider them at war with the Wilderness Church.  The county, however, has legitimate civil authority because the citizens of the area have elected it, and God has ordained it to keep the peace."

He didn't need for the Stick Man to go on.  The idea was identical to the Posse Commitatus crap that idiots in the militia preached.  If the Wilderness Church were half as stubborn as the militia then he couldn't find a better place to hide.  Things were looking up. 

"So when do I meet this Father Joshua?"

"When he is led to see you."

Paget had an intuitive understanding of superstition.  The man had given him an important clue.  He went with it, figuring that if it didn't work out, he wouldn't lose anything.

"He'll see me soon then," he said.

"No.  He never meets with seekers before their days of reflection are completed.  You still have two days left."

"He'll see me sooner," repeated Paget.

The rich aroma of walnut oil permeated the study.  The Victorian mansion's entire interior had been elaborately paneled in native walnut, cherry, and yellow poplar cut from the camp's stands of hardwood.  Although skylights, large windows, and copious lighting fought to illuminate the interior, but the darkly oiled heartwood panels and dark wool carpet soaked up light.  Campbell felt uneasy in the room, but Father Joshua said that it was the only place he could hear the voice of God clearly.  It crossed John's mind that the effect came from sensory deprivation.  He quickly tried to banish the blasphemous thought as he heard the inner curtain being drawn.  Joshua had finished his evening prayers. 

"Good evening, John," said the old man, ducking out through the low opening.

The sanctuary's entrance was only five feet tall, forcing the old man to bow humbly in order to enter.

"You've been to see our new seeker?" he asked as he slipped his large feet into the shoes left outside the sanctum.

"Yes."

Joshua took off his prayer robe and ran fingers through his iron gray hair before donning the customary charcoal gray suit in which he conducted services.

"Something bothers you," he said in his rich deep voice.

"The new seeker seems a bit presumptuous.  He's certain that you will see him sooner than normal."

Joshua nodded his head, as he fastened his tie.  "So I shall.  I'll go down there tonight after services."

Joshua looked down at his chief assistant in amusement.

"Let us not be presumptuous, John.  No doubt the man was sent here."

Despite his devotion to both Father Joshua and the Wilderness Church, Campbell bridled at the condescension.  Sometimes Joshua's arrogance annoyed him.  Then he realized that it was his own pride that brought such thoughts, and breathed a silent prayer for forgiveness.

"I know I shouldn't judge, but something about him puts me off."

"Careful with strangers, John."

"Yes, sir.  Some have entertained angels unaware."

"Exactly."

No steeple adorned the tabernacle, and there was no stained glass.  Neither crucifix nor artwork graced the interior.  A raised dais stood as the focal point of an amphitheater composed of tiers of comfortably upholstered seats with fold-down desktops.  A buzz of convivial conversation arose from the three hundred plus of the congregation (every camp member thirteen and older) as they awaited Father Joshua's appearance.  Each carried a well-thumbed Bible and a notebook.

The lights slowly dimmed as Joshua stepped to the podium.  A spotlight brightened as it contracted on him.

"A little less drama please, Henry," he said staring up in the direction of the spotlight.

Rippled laughter came from the adoring congregation.

Joshua never preached.  He instructed, explained, and revealed the truths hidden in the sacred text.  As he frequently did, he began informally, like a father speaking to his children at the dinner table.

"The Wilderness Church is in camp now.  For years our band of air stream trailers wandered the vast wilderness of this heathenish country, taking the light of understanding to those who sat in darkness, and trusting that God in his mercy would provide us just such a home.  We wandered in the wilderness---mind you it wasn't forty years like Brother Moses---seeking a land, a place promised us.  God led us here to this beautiful valley where he planted into the heart of Gayland Williams to give us this land when that good and faithful servant was called home.  Canaan Camp is our home, but not our entire birthright.  For the moment, as it pleases God, we rest from our travels, but we must be ready to go where he sends us, whenever He calls."

"I would ask you if you are willing, but I know you are willing.  Each of you has come to us, has become one of us, by deliberately forsaking his former life.  You have chosen God rather than the pleasures of sin, and He is not forgetful of your good works.  He appreciates your sacrifices, and has made of you a City set on a hill, shining unto the world---a bright beacon in the darkness, the great and glorious Camp of the Saints."

Joshua took a delicate sip from a water glass and smiled.

"I almost got carried away there.  Hope none of you thought you had wandered onto the set of a televangelist."

He paused to let the laughter subside.  Slowly he opened his large black Bible without saying a word.  After finding his place, Joshua fixed individual members of the audience with an intense stare.  He let the silence build.  The congregation waited, recognizing the signs.  They had witnessed it many times, and they loved it.  He was about to tell them something important.   

When he spoke, his voice was soft evenly paced and perfectly clear.

"Now, I'm neither a prophet, nor a prophet's son."

The congregation exchanged knowing glances.  Bright smiles lit their faces.  Notwithstanding the disclaimer, they knew they were in the presence of a prophet.

"Tonight, I'm going to open the first seal.  Pray for me, Saints."

He read to them in a calm clear voice.

And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering and to conquer.

He scanned the auditorium, and then spoke softly as if only confirming what they surely knew.

"This has passed, children.  It pleased God to allow the ten tribes of Israel to be carried away into captivity for their disobedience.  Now this is nothing new for God.  He always punishes his disobedient children.  We sometimes moan and complain about that, but it is what we deserve, and what He does.  But He does not destroy his children as He does the children of wrath, and He did not destroy the lost tribes.  What father destroys his own children?  In fact they were not lost at all, only carried into the wilderness for instruction and purging until such time as He decided to call them forth.  He did that around the fifteenth century, during what historians like to call the Age of Discovery.  He sent them forth conquering and to conquer."

"The European race---the descendants of the ten tribes---went forth and conquered all the heathenish nations, burning and destroying utterly their devilish idolatry and their gods of wood, brass, stone, and silver and gold.  This was the beginning of the latter days."

"Now I want you to think about this.  You have been taught a lot of things in this country, things that you think are very good things, but they are confusions to you.  God has always had a chosen people, but he did not choose all people.  Not for nothing does Moses speak of the sons of God looking upon the daughters of men, thus distinguishing between men.  You have been taught that it is wrong to think this way, but is it?"

A dark haired young woman in the maidens' section gazed with devotion at the tall man on the dais, drinking in the sound of Joshua's words uncritically.  Occasional verses rang with familiarity, but it was his softly insistent and utterly confident tone she loved.  His sincerity and obvious faith made her feel secure.  It amazed her still that he could weave bits and pieces from the gospels, the epistles, and the prophets into an utterly convincing and comprehensible whole.  He was a prophet.  She knew that as surely as she knew that she had been miraculously plucked from a life of utter squalor to be part of this powerful and wonderful thing.  Raven Bliss was finally worth something.  She finally belonged.    

She was the least worthy person in the auditorium.  Part of a verse came to her:  . . . conceived in sin and shapen in iniquity.  Tentacles of her sordid childhood pulled her away.

Starry Dawn giggled shrilly as the man pawed at her tank top.  Hidden beneath the second bed, she watched her mother and the grunting man atop her.  Eight-year-old Raven knew the word for what they were doing, just as she knew the words "whore" and "meth."  Although she had no appreciation of their connotation, she knew that being a whore was what her mother did, and getting money for meth was why she did it.   

Starry Dawn pulled her out from under the bed.

"I'm going to town, Honey" she said.  "You do what Jimmy says like a good little girl."

Social Services finally put her in foster care when she was twelve.  A series of surrogate parents failed to give her anything but separation from the trailer that had been her life.  In school she made good grades and her teachers liked her, but she had no friends.  Boys were attracted to her, but only transiently.  When they went away it was always a relief, because they all wanted to touch her.  She hated that because it meant that they knew.  It was as if she wore a sign that everyone could see but her.

Raven was not like other people.  Until she had found the Wilderness Church she was dirty and cheap.  Father Joshua said her past did not exist, and most of the time it didn't.  The gray haired leader of the Church was the only man she had ever been able to trust.  Raven sighed as she realized that she had missed most of the sermon.  Once again Starry Dawn had reached out and dragged her back.  Her long black hair brushed her shoulders as she tried to shake away her mother's hold.

Raven rose to her feet along with the rest of the congregation as Father Joshua came to the front of the dais.

"Put away your books, children.  The sun is setting, and a new day begins.  Choose you this day whom ye will serve.  As for me and my house . . ." 

"We will serve the Lord," intoned the crowd in unison.

"Selah," said Joshua touching the finger tips of both hands to his forehead.

People milled the aisles, talking and laughing together before the evening meal, but no one spoke to her, which was fine.  It was always a relief when none of the young men approached her.  It wasn't normal to feel that way, but she was powerless against the visceral feeling.  Her awkwardness had eliminated most of her prospective suitors.  It had also spawned rumors that were utterly untrue.  Raven endured the dragging minutes until she could leave for the maiden's quarters unobtrusively.

Paget couldn't decide if Joshua looked more like an actor playing the President, or a news anchor.  The tall gray-haired man (Paget thought he old man would call it silver) was tall.  Once he had been muscular, but now merely lean.

The old man probably starves himself out of vanity, he thought.  One thing for sure, the old geezer is a true believer.  He believes in himself.

"So you were just wandering without direction when you found yourself at the restaurant where you overheard the brothers talking, and knew you were supposed to come here?"

Paget knew that it sounded like just so much crap---was so much crap, but he also knew that the old man wanted to believe it.

"That's what happened," he said.

Joshua's ice blue eyes held their steady gaze a long, silent moment.

Paget maintained eye contact with guileless expression.  He was a good role player.  It's all he did until he gained control.  Then there was no need for acting.

"I believe you, son," said the old man with a reassuring smile.

Paget affected a relieved sigh.  "I was afraid you'd send me away.  And I've got nowhere to go."

Joshua nodded sagely.

"You've made a mess of your life, haven't you?  You haven't succeeded at much.  You don't have any goals.  No attachments."

It was probably the standard line the old man would feed to any loser wandering in off the highway, but it rankled because it was too near the truth.  Paget's right hand tightened reflexively into a fist.  He caught himself and relaxed, but not before the old man noticed.

"Got a temper too," said Joshua.

Paget looked up sharply.

The old man can read.  The thought surprised him, but only for a second.  Of course he can.  How else could he have all these idiots doing his crap?

"How long have you been out of prison, son?"

Good guess, but logical.  The old bastard wants me to think he's a prophet.

Okay.  So what do you want to hear?

"I've been out two years---finished probation six weeks ago.  How did you know?"

"I just knew."

Paget read relief in the old man's change of posture.

He wants to believe me, he realized.   

"You did something violent.  You hurt somebody.  You're ashamed of it."

"Yes, sir," he said, breaking eye contact as much to keep from laughing as to feign shame.  "I . . . uh . . . robbed a store.  I was just a scared kid---thought this clerk was going to trigger an alarm.  I hit him with the gun.  It went off.  I didn't shoot anyone, thank God.  Got caught before I got out of the parking lot."

"And it was bad in jail,"

"Yeah," he said, acting as if he were trying to remember something almost too shameful to think about.  "How do you know so much, old man?"

Paget thought the "old man" slip a good touch.  Joshua's expression told him that he was right.

"It was the second time.  You were young the first time, but that was a juvenile facility, not really prison."

"Sir, there's not much difference.  The guys in prison are just bigger."

Joshua nodded as if he understood, which was almost too much.  The old man had no clue.  No one who hadn't been in had a clue.

"Tell me, young man.  Should I allow you to stay here?"

That was an easy read.

"Honestly?  I don't know if I'm the kind of person for a place like this."

"You don't think you're good enough?"

 Good?  You mean will I do what you want me to do?

Paget knew that Joshua meant good as in obeying the rules and doing what all the "good" people expected, but the concept made no sense to him.  "Good" was personal.  Food when you were hungry was good.  A fist crunching nose cartilage was good.  Getting a "good woman" alone---that was very good.

He lowered his eyes, feigning humility.

"How do you know so much about me, old man?"

The question brought a smile.

"I have an Interpreter, young man.  He reveals things to me," pausing to place a hand on his shoulder.  "Now you don't have to believe that, but it's true."

Paget hated being touched, but kept himself from flinching away.

"And one other thing," said Joshua with a beneficent smile."  Would you mind not calling me old man?  The description may be apt, but it sounds a bit disrespectful."

"I'm sorry.  I won't do it again.  I just---"

"It's just the past," said Joshua.

"The past?" asked Paget, confused for the first time during the interview.

"Yes.  The past is all you have right now.  But if you stay here you must give it up.  Your old life must become dead to you, and you to it."

"I need to stay."

"In a few days we'll make it official.  But I think you're already one of us.  Give me your hand if you agree."

Paget took the hand, surprised to feel the man's strength and the calluses that said he still did manual labor.

"What shall I call you?" asked Joshua.

"I'm . . . Cal, Cal Hodges."

"Not your real name, but good enough, Cal Hodges.  The day after tomorrow we'll have a little ceremony.  Then we'll move you into the single men's barracks," he said with an expansive smile.

"Oh, by the way call me Father Joshua.  Father has a much more respectful connotation than old man."

Paget flashed on how his own father used to beat the hell out of him for nothing at all.  He had respected the old man all right, respected the power of the old man's fists.  He put a stop to that when he was sixteen, and he had never been afraid of anyone or anything since.

Joshua was almost through the door when he turned back.

"John told me that you knew I would come and see you before your days of meditation were up, Cal.  How did you know that?"

"I don't know, Father Joshua."

The old man nodded his head slowly.

"Yes.  Yes, I think I do.  You know, Cal, I have a feeling that you and I are going to have a special relationship.  I think you were sent here for a special purpose."

"Like what?" asked Paget, suddenly worried at what the old man might have in mind.

"Perhaps you could be my aide, my special servant," said Joshua impulsively.

Cleaning up after the old man didn't appeal to him, but it beat the hell out of tossing hay.  Still, he was suspicious about the special business.  He'd kill the old man if he tried any homo stuff.

"Give me tonight to meditate on it, Cal.  I'll call for you if it's to be."

May 12, Canaan Camp, 11:15 AM

It was a close day with both temperature and humidity in the nineties, and without the hint of a breeze.  Paget leaned on his cant hook, sweat streaming down his face and bare, hairless chest.  His jeans were soaked, and his eyes burned in the heat.  Tossing hay suddenly didn't seem like such a bad idea.  Neither did leaving.

He dug the cant hook into the side of the crooked, knotty section of tree trunk, putting his weight into the shaft in a vain effort to roll the log over.

"I need some help over here, fella," he said.

A deeply tanned young man wearing a sweat soaked sleeveless T-shirt slipped his own cant around the butt of the log.  Together the two of them rolled the misshapen trunk down the gentle slope to the spot where it could be skidded out and hauled down to the sawmill to be cut into rough lumber.

Earlier in the morning the teenager had told him that the Church produced almost all of its needs, but traded with the heathen world, for the cash to buy things impossible or inconvenient to make at Canaan Camp.

"That baby was a tough one, Brother," said the young man as he leaned on his cant catching his breath.

"She was a real bitch," replied Paget before he caught himself.  "I mean---I'm glad they're not all like that."

The young man smiled at the profanity, which is not what Paget expected.  He was still trying to get a handle on these people.  While going back to wrestle another log down the slope, he picked angrily at the blisters he had already worn on his hands.

 "Cal!"

Suddenly Paget realized that he was the Cal being called.  Down through the trees he saw the Stick Man struggling up the slope toward him.

"Are you hard of hearing, Cal?"

"I've got a little deafness in my right ear," he lied.  "Got a head cold too.  My ears are a little stopped up."

"Well, you can put your gear away and put on your shirt.  Father Joshua wants to see you."

"Why?"

"He wants to talk to you about becoming his aide," said the Stick Man, his tone saying he was less than thrilled with the idea.

What's wrong, little girl?  Getting jealous? thought Paget in amusement. 

But Bobby Lee was in a good mood.  It would be good to get away from the logs and the heat, but if the old faggot touched him it would be the last time he touched anybody.

Blue Creek, May 13, 5:30 AM

Richard sat with feet propped on the gallery railing.  Down to the northeast white limbed sycamores stood like sentinels marking the course of the spring fed stream called Blue Creek.  A south wind had stiffened, carrying Gulf moisture into the heat and promising thunderstorms.  Their lightening and wind didn't bother him.  In fact, he liked their raw display power and had a farm boy's love for the relief they brought to parched land and summer heat.

He went into the kitchen as soon as the coffee had brewed, closing the screen carefully on his way back out so as not to awaken Jill.  Beyond the creek steep oak and hickory covered hills rose, azure tinted from the moisture-laden air of daybreak.  A gray, shear rock cliff rose hard against a curve in the stream about three quarters of a mile away, its top garlanded with dark green cedars.  Jill didn't have to work today, and he didn't go in until two.  Maybe they'd go fishing over there at the bluffs later in the morning.

As the wind chime at the corner of the deck jangled, he drank in the beauty of the Courtois Hills along with his coffee.  His momentary contentment, however, only exacerbated his guilt.  The hills were a perfect fit for him, but not for Jill.

How does she really feel about being stuck out here away from everything she had planned? he wondered.

They were only here because he was clinging to the pathetic shadow of a dead dream.  He should have never let her do it.

Road deputy! he thought in disgust.   That's what your law enforcement career is, Buddy.

He made up his mind to give it a year just to get it out of his system.  Then they would move on to something more realistic.

She finishes the year at the junior college, and we're out of here.  A full professorship.  A prestigious university.  She's got a bright future if you just get out of her way.

Although it was the right thing to do, the manly thing, just thinking about it brought the familiar sinking feeling.  He became angry with himself.

Depression is nothing more than being self-centered and weak.  It's self-pity and nothing else.

He got up in disgust and went to the kitchen for a refill.

If a guy has enough work to do, he doesn't have time for that crap, he assured himself, as he picked up the folder he had started on Bobby Lee Paget to take back out with him.

He balanced his cup on the arm of his chair and began leafing through the file.  His boss had humored him when he asked permission to gather a file on Paget, telling him that he would have to do it on his own time, not the county's.  Marked Tree had surprised him by faxing the FBI profile of the Riepe family's killer, evidently feeling that since they had IDed Paget they it was of no further use.

The fruitless manhunt suggested that the killer had hitched a ride or obtained another vehicle and was no longer in the area.  That was probable, but Richard wasn't quite sure.  The man could easily be holed up in one of the many isolated houses and trailers in the area, maybe even in Hawthorn County, although he would have had to backtrack from Mountain View.

He picked up the summary of Paget's criminal history.  The twenty-six year old man's record began at the age of seventeen.  The extent to which his criminal record matched the Marked Tree profile impressed.  Robert (Bobby) Lee Paget's nine years of adult life had been spent either incarcerated, on probation, or on parole.  Twice assault charges brought by women had been dropped, but he did time for unlawful restraint, assault, and attempted kidnapping, serving three years of an eight-year sentence.  Sought two years ago for a series of burglaries in rural northwestern Arkansas, he had disappeared, resulting in his parole being revoked.

He closed the file and let it drop to the weathered wood of the deck.

A pileated woodpecker---a "wood hen" in local parlance---cackled in the scrub oaks just beyond the stony stump lot that served as their woodland lawn.  The eastern Ozarks' virgin forest had been harvested in the 1890's lumber boom.  A hundred years later the second growth forest still wasn't the same, but the lumber camps and boomtowns had withered to place names, and the once-numerous turkeys were coming back.  The deer population had swelled to road hazard and garden pest level.

Although he once loved it, Richard could no longer bring himself to hunt.  He preferred fishing the clear, gravel-bottomed streams wending through the overgrown hills locals insisted on calling mountains.  Whether it was solitary fishing as he waded the small creeks, or floating the larger streams, he couldn't remember ever having a bad day on the water.  If it weren't for what he would be doing to Jill, he could spend the rest of his life here.

"Am I interrupting your reverie?" asked Jill as she scooted a lawn close.

"A welcome interruption," he replied, noticing her cut-off jeans as she folded her long, tanned legs beneath her.

Her sleep tousled coppery hair fell in enticing disorder over the T-shirt she had slept in.  He never tired of looking at her.

Covering a yawn delicately, she looked out over the rail.

"You were up early," she said.  "Did you sleep well?"

"Fairly well.  How about you?"

"Fine," she said, chickening out of what she had been determined to tell him.  "I wish we could go somewhere today, but you have to work, don't you?"

"Odd you should say that.  I was thinking the same thing before you came out.  See that cliff over there.  That's where the creek runs.  I don't have to go in ‘til two.  What say we go fishing over there this morning?"

"If I just swim or sunbathe will that hinder your fishing?"

"The fish might mind, but I wouldn't."

She noticed the open folder.  "Will you bring that?" she asked.

"Of course not.  Why would you even ask?"

"You seem to have it with you all the time."

"Well not today.  And while we're on the subject, I've been thinking this morning about what we're doing here.  What say we call it quits after this year and get you into that doctoral program at Auburn.  You need to get on with your career."

"But you want to be a policeman, Richard.  We both know that.  I'm teaching and---"

"I wanted to be in the FBI, Jill.  Not this.  This isn't police work.  It's being a security guard out of doors."

The truth was that, as horrible as it had been for both of them, he thirsted for the excitement he had experienced discovering what Mic Boyd had done.  And he had found a missing child, although most of that was dumb luck.  What he'd had was a juvenile dream.  It was dead and it was high time he buried it once and for all.

"And don't tell me that teaching at a second rate junior college is what you want."

"Maybe not forever, but it is for now."

"Teaching history in Podunk?  Your aunt didn't send you to the States for that.  You should be a professor in a real university---live in a place more at the center of things.  Not here."

"I like it here."

"You're in exile, Jill."

"Richard, I do not care about money, and certainly not about being somewhere that everyone thinks is important.  We live in the sort of place people go to---"

"Get away from it all," he finished.  "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be here."

"No.  I'd be dead, Richard."

"Jill, you don't owe me anything."

"What a horrible thing to say.  I didn't marry you out of gratitude."

"No.  But you gave up everything for me.  Besides being selfish, it was unrealistic of me to try to hold to a . . . to a dead dream."

She studied him with narrow eyes.

"I love us, Richard.  We are so good together until you do this.  I want us to be happy, and all we have to do is let it happen.  Why can't you do that?"

"You're not being realistic," he said.

She got up and went to the railing

"I hate this self-pity!" she said over her shoulder.

He got up and tried to encircle her waist.  She moved away.

"I love you and I want to be with you.  Why isn't that enough?"

"Oh, Jill.  It is," he said.  "I just don't want to make you do something that you don't want to do."

He approached her again but refrained from touching her.

"What if I call in Pete?  Maybe he can pull my shift this afternoon and we can spend the whole day together---that is if you still want to."

Instead of his fishing tackle, Richard carried their picnic lunch as they set off toward the bluff through the tangled underbrush and saw briars armored with jeans and high-topped boots.  At the creek they decided to wade the knee-deep water barefoot with rolled up jeans, but underestimated the depth and reached the cliff-sheltered gravel bar soaked to the waist.  They changed into swimsuits and spread their wet clothes on the rocks to dry.  Down in the sheltered hollow heat radiated from the rock face creating a comfortable microclimate, but the water was too cool for swimming.  Water seeped in sun sparkled runnels along a line of permeable strata on the face of the bluff---lifeblood for the spring fed creek.

Jill spread a blanket beside a dry log half-buried by the spring floods as Richard knelt, absently tossed pebbles into the murmuring water.

"Come," she said patting her blanket.  "Lay your head in my lap and relax."

"It'll put your legs to sleep," he warned. 

"As feather brained as you are?  I doubt it," she said as he came over and lay down.

He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to the bare skin of her abdomen, breathing in the aroma of tanning lotion while she lightly fingered his hair.  He could have lain there forever, and had almost fallen asleep when she spoke.

"When do you think we should start a family?"

"When we get settled," he said.  "Isn't that what we planned?"

She didn't answer for a moment. 

"How settled do they have to be?" she finally asked, biting her lip afterward.

"I don't know.  Right now having a kid is the last thing we need."

When she stopped moving her fingers through his hair, he opened his eyes.  Tears glistened in the lashes of her tightly closed eyes.

"What's wrong, Babe?" he asked.

She shook her head.  The knot in her throat wouldn't let her speak.

"I've . . . ruined things," she finally managed.

He bolted upright, spun around, and took her by the shoulders.  She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You're pregnant?" he asked.

"I . . . maybe."

He jumped to his feet.  "This changes everything," he said.

He dropped to the gravel again.  "You're certain?"

"I am . . .  there are other possibilities, but . . . I think so."

"How long have you known?"

"For a couple of weeks now . . . I thought . . . maybe.  Are you angry with me?"

"Angry?" he asked in genuine amazement.

Jill drew her legs beneath her.

"What are we going to do, Richard?"

"Start a family, obviously," he said, obviously delighted.

"I don't understand.  A moment ago you said that a baby was the last thing we need right now."

"Hypothetical," he explained with a wave of his hand.  "I thought a baby would complicate things, limit your options, short circuit your career."

"It will."

"We've handled bigger stuff."

"We are barely able to make expenses now, Richard.  Where will we get the money?"

"We'll make do, Babe.  It might be tough, financially, but if you decided that now is the time then that's good enough for me."

A thought suddenly occurred to him, but he dismissed it.

She read the play of emotions on his face.

"What is it?" she asked fearfully.

"Nothing.  I know you didn't do it for the wrong reason---you know, to fix things between us."

"Do we need things fixed, Richard?"

"Well, I might need fixing, but not you.  I'll stop the . . . the wallowing in self pity thing now that I've got something to think about other than myself.  By the way, when did you decide we should get pregnant?"

Now Jill had something else to worry about, something totally unanticipated during all her worry about telling him the last few days.

"Richard, would it hurt terribly if I were wrong?"

"I'd be disappointed, but you're not wrong."  He laughed in delight.  "My lady is going to have my baby."

He sat and drew her to him.  "When did you stop taking the pills?"

After moving to Blue Creek they had gone over a month without making love.  She had resigned herself to a state of near abstinence, and so had made the common sense decision not to refill her birth control prescription.  She had been without them for two weeks when he suddenly found the urge again, but she had never refilled the prescription.  Since he was fine with her taking sole responsibility for what had happened, she decided to lie to him rather than chance ruining the way things had gone.

"You'll be angry," she said.  "I forgot to take my pills a couple of days, and then panicked when I thought about it.  Then I just . . . decided that I wanted to have a baby.  I should have asked you."

"I'm glad you didn't," he said.

"Why?"

"Because I can be really stupid sometimes."

She stiffened.

"If I had suggested it, you would have objected?"

"I've done stupider things."

"Then it's---"

"The second best thing that ever happened to me," he said.  "The first being when you agreed to be my wife."

"I insisted on it as I recall," said Jill crying and laughing at the same time.

"See what I mean about trusting your judgment?"  He squeezed her.  "I am so happy, Jill."

When it was time to start home, Jill stood at the water's edge, bracing for the chill of crossing. 

"Here," he said, handing her his clothes.

When she took them he picked her up without warning.

"Put me down!" she said.

"Just hold our clothes above the water until I get us across,"

He took only two steps before losing his footing, and with a barely muffled curse, he fell sideways.  Jill came up spluttering, gasping, and laughing.

"You dropped me in the water!"

"Excellent observation.  Are you okay?"

"Fine," she said lunging to grab at the clothes that were drifting downstream.

"That may have not been a good idea," he said as he hurried after them.

"Excellent observation, husband."

When they got home they showered together and made love.  Afterwards, Jill snuggled against him, wanting to talk of the future, to dream aloud, and to give voice all her suddenly bright hopes, but Richard had fallen asleep.  Even that buoyed her.  She was sure that he had finally turned the corner, that the past could be left behind now.

She listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing and slow beating of his strong heart beneath her cheek, and she sighed contentedly.  He murmured, shook his head, sighed, and lay still.  Then his heartbeat accelerated, he drew a deep breath and held it.

His cramped arms burned.  Something wet and hot was on his back and neck, stinging like a swarm of wasps.  His head rubbed painfully against another as he tightened the strangle hold.  With an audible snap he felt death.  The man went suddenly mushy and heavy, slipped from his grasp, sagged forward, and rolled face up.  Accusing eyes locked on his own.  Not Mic!  It was a boy dressed in rags.  Beyond him, a scarecrow woman in a loose fitting brown dress repeatedly pointed a bony finger at him.  He couldn't speak Somali, but he knew what the boy's mother was saying, and that it was true.

"Richard!  Are you all right?"

He gradually became aware of where he was.

"Oh, I'm fine.  Just a . . . a dream."

"About the boy soldier again?" she asked reaching out to stroke his shoulder.

Of course she knew.  He wished he had never told her about it.

"I don't . . . can't remember," he said.

Blue Creek Community College, May 14, 7:55 AM

Jill had come in early to finish grading the tests she had put aside in favor of the picnic.  "Welcome to Bedrock" signs festooned the maple lined drive.  The administration had finally embraced the nickname started by the kids and made popular during the national tournament at Hutchison where the basketball team had made a respectable debut the previous fall.  Blue Creek Community College became BC College, Stone Age U., and finally Bedrock.  The disparaging term had been turned around, and was now used with pride.

"Every school needs a little swagger," Richard had told her.

Thinking of him made her think of the baby, and she smiled because everything was going to be all right.

Fifteen minutes into the work, she was so deeply into the task that she failed to notice that someone was at the open door of her office.

"Mrs. Carter?"

A gangly young man stood uncertainly in the doorway.

"Oh, Shane," she said putting aside an essay test.  "What can I do for you?" 

He extended an open spiral notebook awkwardly.

"Could you look this over for me?"

"Of course," she said, immediately turning her attention to his cramped handwriting.  "Come in and sit down," she said absently.

He sat stiffly and watched nervously.  At first he tried to interpret each nod of her head, blink of her eye, and indrawn breath to anticipate her judgment of his effort.  Gradually, however, he became more interested in her profile, the way she moved, the cut of her hair.  He suddenly realized how young she was.  His essay all but forgotten now, he was unable to resist examining her while she was distracted.  It made him feel like a peeping Tom, so he tried to stop, but his eyes were drawn irresistibly back.

Jill sensed his unease, and did her best to dispel it by limiting the corrections she suggested.  Some men resented intelligent women, and some resented beautiful ones as well.  Many found the combination insufferable.  She knew that she intimidated some of her students, and assumed that was what was going on with the awkward boy.  Her intuition failed her this time, however.  Shane may have been intimidated, but he was more than willing to suffer her.

Canaan Camp

Canaan Camp was Hell.  Paget was sure of that.  The old man was driving him crazy.  When Joshua wasn't trying to instruct him, he was telling holly roller stories.  There was no getting away from the crap.  And there was nothing, absolutely nothing to do in the damned place.  Without a television, or even a radio, it was like being in solitary.  Even that was better than the old man's babbling, but fortunately, the old faggot went to bed nine.

At eleven his restlessness drove him out into the night.

I need a smoke.  I need a drink.  He kicked at the grass.  I need to get the hell out of here is what I need.

But he had nowhere to go.  They were looking for him out there.

Patience, Bobby Lee.  They'll get tired of looking.  As soon as the news media gets bored with the Riepe's story, the cops will go back to shaking down dopers and hassling whores.

He'd give it a month, and then head back to Fayetteville or maybe Oregon.

It was a hunting night, with moonlight sharp enough to cast concealing shadows and illuminate unwary prey.  A light breeze blew from the direction of the single women's barracks.

An interesting place if things were different, he thought dispiritedly as he wandered down the road.

A voice.  He couldn't make out words, but it was definitely the furtive tone of someone meeting in the dark.  Paget listened, but didn't hear it again.  About to believe that he had imagined it, he heard a foot scrape on gravel.  He ducked off the road, and into the shade of a large tree.  Pressing himself to the trunk, he watched silently, curious as to what would bring other people out at a time the sheep in the compound would no doubt call an ungodly hour.

A teenager walked by leading a girl by the hand and talking quietly but urgently.

Good for you kid.  Go get that little honey pot.  At least someone in the damned place is normal.

He waited until they were well up the road, before following.  He couldn't risk doing anything, but at least they could entertain him.  The road shone starkly in the light of the full moon.  Fearing that they might spot him if they looked back, he walked close to the edge of the road to blend in with the darker patterns of the bordering weeds.  They hurried on, however, without a glance back.

He stalked them to an old barn atop a small hill off the road, pausing to watch until they disappeared inside.  A moment later he followed.  The barn stood starkly against the starry sky, its door, a black hole.  Paget let them settle.  Soon they'd be too busy to notice anything but each other.  If discovered, he'd scold them for their evil ways, and send them running back to where they were supposed to be.

"I want to see you, Bev," said the boy, sounding all of fifteen.

"Let's go over in the shadows," an equally young female voice said plaintively.

"No one else can see you.  Please, do this for me."

He slipped into the barn and stood in the shadows watching as the boy fumbled with the girls clothes.

"Michael, this isn't really wrong, is it?  I mean---"

"No," assured the boy, "We love each other and we're going to get married.  We'd already be married if they'd let us."

"Shhhh," she cautioned.

"You're right.  We shouldn't talk so much.  The sound really carries," he said.

They always talk too much, kid, Paget said to himself.

The moonlit girl lay on her back, while the boy worked at her blouse.  Paget's racing pulse throbbed in his temple.  Compulsion wound him like a tightening spring.  He felt for the butterfly knife, and inhaled.  Running the possibilities through his mind, he calculated the outcome.

You could do it, Bobby Lee.  They won't be missed until morning.

The girl lifted her hips, and pushed down her jeans.  Paget tried to calm his breathing.

Hide them under the hay bales afterwards.

But they'll find them.  Then what?

It could take days!

You're the new guy.  If you're still here when the police come they'll make you for it.

Take a car and leave tonight.

And then what?  They're looking like hell for you in Fayetteville, and probably in Oregon too.  Until they get tired, you got nowhere else to go.  The damned money just won't last long enough.

Paget wavered, tempted to step over the edge.

She's just asking for it, he thought, irresistibly drawn to what he knew was a dreadful mistake.

The boy stripped off his shirt, and stood over the prone girl.  Paget licked his lips in anticipation.

It would be so easy---so satisfying.

And so stupid!

He slipped back outside, and stood uncertainly in the shadows listening.  That wouldn't do, not if he wanted to stay in control.  He began walking down the hill toward the woods, neither knowing nor caring where he was headed.  A root caught his foot as he reached the deep shade where the trail---it couldn't be termed a road---turned into the woods.  He cursed under his breath as he regained his balance.  Now that he was out of hearing distance, the temptation was lessening.

Walking along the moon dappled trail leading through the woods, he kept running through what he might have done, and decided that he'd either have to find a woman of his own here pretty quickly, or find some way to leave the damned place once in awhile.  The trail suddenly emerged onto another gravel road.  Not sleepy, and unwilling to go back past the barn until they had finished and gone back, he decided to follow the road to the left.  Feeling sorry for himself, wishing he had cigarettes, something decent to drink, something interesting to do, he just walked.

To hell with this! he said to himself after he had gone what must have been two miles without seeing anything but dust-cloaked head high weeds.

All you've done is give yourself a long way to walk back.

Then he noticed a gatepost off to the right up.  Mildly interested in what the gate led to, he decided to walk just a little further.

A cable stretched from one upright railroad tie to another barred access to a bushhogged lane, and a weathered sign warned trespassers away.  He stepped over the three-foot high cable and went in.  About a hundred yards ahead, he crested a rise and saw what the owners of the property were warning people away from.  Row after row of silver sided buses were parked end to end, filling a shallow valley.

"Well, at least you didn't waste your whole damned night, Bobby Lee," he said sarcastically.  "You found you a bus bone yard."

Farley Switch, May 15, 8:30 AM

A shrill scream penetrated his closed windows.  Richard braked quickly and then hit the shoulder for a U-turn.  The couple in the Walk On Inn parking lot were oblivious to his arrival.  The point and counterpoint of the debate seemed to be that "he wasn't going to treat her that way" versus "she wasn't going to get away with it."  The only unusual thing about the alcohol-fueled fracas was that it was occurring at one in the afternoon.

Richard hoped his mere presence would dampen the argument if not the passions.  Before he got to them, however, the man suddenly grabbed the woman by the arm and slapped her, snapping her head around, and, in a continuous motion, backhanded her.  The overweight man drew back for a punch, but before he could land it Richard caught him by the neck, stuck a leg behind his knee, and put him on the ground.  The man fell heavily, striking a section of exposed bedrock with the back of his head.

Stunned, but marginally conscious, the drunk groaned and blinked his eyes, trying to figure out what had hit him.  Richard rolled him over, cuffed him, and got him to his feet.  After tucking him safely into the back of the cruiser, he took the woman's statement.  She was a hostess at the tavern.  Richard knew from the reputation of the place that her duties likely included services a little more personal than taking orders and bussing tables.  Several rooms over the tavern were rented out for naps, all in the interest of being solicitous to tired customers, you understand.  The place was also rumored to be an occasional source for substances other than alcohol.

According to the woman, the man owed her money, refused to pay it, and became abusive when she insisted.  When asked what the money was owed for, she became evasive and then quit talking.

Shug met them as they came up the courthouse steps.

"What we got here?"

"Assault, Sheriff," he answered.

"Take the cuffs off, Deputy Carter.  I'm sure he'll cooperate."

The handcuffed man and the sheriff exchanged meaningful looks, and then Shug cleared his throat.  "Go on up to my office, Justin," he said.  "I'll be up directly."

The man smirked at Richard before going inside.  Shug cinched up his pants and walked down to the parking lot motioning Richard to join him.  The Sheriff stood silently, apparently studying the six or seven impounded vehicles on the lot.

"Do you know who that is?" he asked finally.

Richard glanced at his note pad.  "Justin Hall."

"Right.  His daddy's Harlan Hall."

Richard was going to be raked over the coals for arresting someone he shouldn't have.  He was disappointed, but that was how the world worked.  Still, it rankled.

"So the usual rules don't apply," he said.  "I get it."

He rued the words as soon as he loosed them.

Shively turned abruptly, scowling.  He checked what he was about to say, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly before continuing.

"We don't have two sets of rules.  But that man's family is trouble.  They own about half the land in the southern part of the county and a lot of people are beholding to them.  That kid you arrested is a spoiled brat.  The old man's bailed him out of trouble his whole life."

He sighed.

"Look, Carter, I got an election coming up in the fall, and I don't need to make an enemy of the old man.  So I'm not exactly overjoyed about this.  But that's not your problem, and I don't want you or anyone else to start making exceptions.  Now tell me what happened."

"He was slapping this woman around over in the parking lot of the Walk On Inn, and I put him on the ground.  Then I cuffed him and brought him in.  That's all there was to it."

"Who was the woman?"

Richard looked at his notepad again.  "Betty Barnhart."

"Lord!  A whore!"

Blue Creek, May 16, 1:00 PM

Jill had been disappointed but not surprised that Shane Sanders had failed to make his appointment.  Her mood brightened when she saw Richard's car unexpectedly in the drive.  Maybe they could take advantage of the nice day together.  The door was unlocked, but the lights were off which was unusual because of the deep shade of their woodland lot.  She felt a stab of apprehension.

"Richard!" she called, suddenly sure that something was wrong.

"Out here," came the answer from the back porch.

She put her valise on the table, kicked off her shoes, and went to get a Coke from the refrigerator before joining him.  An open six-pack of Coors on the bottom shelf brought a frown.  Richard occasionally drank beer, but never kept a supply at home.

It doesn't mean anything, she said to herself, as she got her soda.

"Can you bring me a beer from the fridge?" he called out.

Without answering, she reached in for a can and carried it out onto the porch, where she found him sitting, still in uniform, staring toward the creek.

"What's going on?" she asked as she handed him the beer.

"A little vacation," he said as he popped the top.  "Without pay, I'm afraid."

"But why?"

"False arrest and excessive force."

He gave her a quick account of the arrest at the Walk On Inn.

"So, it is a prostitute he hits," she said.  "That makes a difference?"

"It's complicated.  I gave the guy a concussion when I put him down.  Now, he claims that there was no real dispute between them, and she backs his story."

"But you saw him hit her?  Why would she lie?"

"Money.  What other motivation is there for a prostitute?  I don't know.  Maybe she just doesn't want the trouble.  He's an influential man."

"Will you lose your job?"

"I don't know."

"Doesn't Mr. Shively know you would not do what the man accuses you of?"

"Shug doesn't have a choice, Jill.  After all there's my history of violence."

"This is so unjust.  You are the least violent man I know.  There must be something we can do.  We must hire a lawyer to dispute these . . . these specious charges."

Hiring a lawyer would only escalate the incident, which, if Richard read it right, was the last thing his boss wanted in an election year.

"Let's just let it ride, Jill.  Shug's a good man.  He knows that I didn't do anything wrong.  He'll do what he can for me.  In the mean time, maybe I can do a little handyman carpentry.  Of course we'll have to tighten out belts."

"Perhaps you should switch to a bargain brand of beer," she said drolly.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have said that."

"You're right," he said with a wry face.  "But it's not the money you're really worried about, is it?" 

"This is just . . . not fair."

"I'll be all right if you can handle it," he said.  "No drinking---after this one.  And no depression.  I promise."

They made it through dinner as if nothing had happened, but the conversation was forced as they avoided talking about his suspension.  They went to bed early trying to put a merciful end to the day.  Jill, trying too hard, came in after her shower wearing his favorite negligee.  He dutifully pulled her close, and she dutifully caressed his chest, but they were like awkward lovers lying together for the first time---only there was no eagerness of urgency.

"What's wrong?" she murmured.

"I love you," he said softly, like a reluctant confession.  "But I just can't . . . I won't make love to you for the wrong reason.  I won't . . . use you for therapy."

"Maybe I'm the one who needs the therapy," she said.

"I can't, Babe."

Sometimes people, especially extremely intelligent ones like Jill, have trouble reconciling what they know with what they feel.  Intellectually, she understood the logic of his explanation, but she felt rejected.  She got up and went into the bathroom.

When time changes me will he not find me desirable? she wondered.

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror to see if her pregnancy had already begun to change her figure.

Will we some day become just a habit?

She considered exchanging the skimpy nightie for something more comfortable, but decided against it in case he changed his mind.  She came back to bed and molded herself to her man.  After a time she went to sleep with her breasts pressed to his bare back.

She awoke alone.  His side of the bed was still warm, so she waited.  When he didn't return she got up, slipped on her robe, and went to find him.  He was outside, smoking in the dark.

"Back to the cancer sticks," he said.  "Disappointed?"

She was tempted to let the question slide, to say she understood.

"Besides endangering your life and health without regard to your wife or your child, we cannot afford it," she said sternly.

"Well," he said after a moment of stunned silence.  "You're right.  We can't afford cigarettes or me moping around.  I'll straighten up."

She knew it wasn't that simple, but Richard still labored under the false premise that depression could be banished by will power alone.

"I know you're upset about losing your job and---"

"I'm not going to lose my job," he said, sucking smoke deep into lungs.  "At least I don't think I will.  But even if I do, it won't be the end of the world."

He flipped the cigarette into the darkness, and then tossed the pack after the arcing ember.

"I appreciate the symbolism," she said.  "Especially if you mean it, but you shouldn't litter," she said.

"I just thought a dramatic gesture was called for."

She turned to look over the rail.  "Could that start a forest fire?"

"Not the way things have greened up," he said, rising.

He slipped his arms around her and pulled her back against him.

"I love you," he said as he nuzzled her neck and lightly nipped her ear.

"You do not have to do this," she said, fearing he was trying to make up for his earlier rejection.

"No, but I'd like to.  It's your call."

She turned in his arms, stared into his eyes.

"Tell me that we will never become just a habit."

"What?"

"That we will never be just two people sharing a house."

"That could never happen."

"Don't let it," she said, her eyes brimming.

Canaan Camp, May 18, 9:00 PM

Joshua looked at him curiously as Paget entered the bedroom with his evening wine.

"You're preoccupied tonight, Cal," he said as he took the glass.  "What's bothering you?"

It unnerved him that Joshua could read his moods.

"Just the change, sir.  I'm still trying to find my way here."

"I know what's bothering you, son."

Paget stiffened although it was impossible that the old man even had a clue as to what was bothering him.

"You do?" he said, careful to keep his tone and body language neutral.

"It's only natural for a young man to have such feelings.  I hope you don't expect them to go away just because you joined the Church or any such nonsense like that."

Paget's puzzled expression made Joshua smile.  He delicately sipped at his wine before continuing.

"Cal, go pour yourself a glass of wine and come back.  We'll talk about this man to man."

Paget went to the kitchen for the wine trying to figure out what the old man thought he knew.

Joshua watched him leave the room, and thought about his own motivation.  Why had he elevated the young man so quickly?  John didn't like it, and John usually had good judgment.

So what about this young man appeals to me?  He has potential.  John's faithful, but he's not strong, not a warrior.  He hasn't seen enough of the enemy's ways.  This young man could be my "Paul," an enemy turned champion of the faith, a warrior in the holy cause.

The man he knew as Cal Hodges came back with a small glass of the dark wine that Joshua favored.

"Sit.  Drink."

Paget tried to keep from making a face as he sipped the nauseatingly sweet liquid.  The crap overwhelmed his taste buds, almost totally masking the aftertaste of the alcohol.

This stuff would cure a wino, he thought.

"I've been watching the way you look at the young sisters," said Joshua sternly.

Paget wondered how to play it?  He didn't think it would be a good idea to deny it.

 What does the old man want to hear? he asked himself, a version of an "impure thoughts" confession?

"I don't want to think the way I'm thinking about them," he said, trying to sound contrite.  "Maybe when I'm completely . . . you know purged my sins I won't do that."

Joshua laughed aloud, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, Cal.  I'm not laughing at you.  I'm just laughing at the nonsense someone has taught you."

The laughter infuriated him, but at least now he could relax.  Nothing more serious was coming down than another of the old faggot's boring lessons. 

"Answer me some questions, Cal, and I'll show you that you already know the answers."

I'll have to remember that line, thought Paget.  He had a vision of the old man spread-eagled while he waved a knife in his face.  Answer me some questions, Joshua, and I'll show you that you already know the answers.

"Why did God take a rib from Adam and fashion Eve from it?"

Bobby Lee knew the story, but he couldn't ever remember being told why that was done.  He sat, feeling like a child in school, called upon for an answer that he was supposed to know but didn't.

"It was because Adam needed a helpmeet, a companion."

Paget applied a smile.  Nothing was required now but for him to be grateful for the old man's wisdom and insight.

"She was made for his needs, one of them being sex.  Now the purpose of sex is to beget children, but the reason we have sex is because we enjoy it, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that."

The young man's surprised expression delighted Joshua.

"Now it is best that a man wait until he is married.  But is that practical except for the man who gets married at an extremely young age?  I think not in most cases."

Paget wondered if Joshua were about to offer him one of the women in the camp.

Maybe I'll get my pick, he thought in amusement.

"I've seen the way you react when Sister Raven is near."

"The dark-haired girl?" he asked in surprise, wondering how the old man had picked up on his interest in "Miss Dusky," as he liked to think of her. 

"I'm sorry, Father Joshua, I never---"

"No need for that, son.  She's a very desirable young lady.  You aren't the first to be drawn to her.  But you must not defile her, Cal.  That would be a terrible thing.  We tolerate neither promiscuity nor adultery.  But we do recognize human weakness.  ‘Whoever is without sin, let him cast the first stone.'"

Joshua took another sip of the syrupy wine.  Noticing that Paget had hardly touched his, he motioned for him to drink before going on.  Paget choked down a small swallow.

"Occasionally a young couple . . . knows each other prematurely.  Well, then they should marry, but we don't force them.  Like I said, it's natural for a man to have those urges, especially a vigorous young man like yourself."

He paused to fix Paget with a steady gaze.  "You need to take some sort of . . . relief, don't you?"

"But not with a woman?" he blurted, thinking that he figured out what the wine and bull session was really all about.

"Well certainly with a woman---only not here, Brother Cal.  That sort of thing causes trouble to no end.  If you had honorable intentions with a woman here, then I would advise you to go ahead---to jump the gun, so to speak.  Then you two could make your restitution, be forgiven for that minor sin, and be married in the fullness of time.  We understand that sort of thing.  Are we not all cloaked in flesh?"

"And since I don't have a woman?"

Joshua finished his wine.

"Do what I do when the urge becomes overpowering," he said, staring into Paget's eyes with equanimity.

"What do you do?"

"What Sampson did when he went down to Timnath, what Judah did mistakenly with his own widowed daughter-in-law."

What in the hell are you talking about?  Paget felt like screaming.

"Go down to Timnath, Cal.  Visit a harlot."

"You want me to buy a whore?"

"It's better to plant your seed in a harlot than to spill it on the ground, Cal.  If the woman is already a harlot the sin is hers and her whoremonger's.  Pay her price and relieve yourself."

What the hell kind of church is this? he wondered.

"It's the lesser of the two sins, son.  But be discreet.  You mustn't discredit the Church."

Paget knew just the whore he wanted to see.  A vague plan was beginning to form.  If he could somehow get her to let the police know that he had visited her, then the hunt for him in Missouri would soon be over.

"Father Joshua," he began, "It would be best if I did it far from here, wouldn't it---you know, to not bring disfavor on the Church?"

"Discredit," corrected Joshua.  "But this has something to do with your old life, doesn't it?  Once you are part of the Church, you shouldn't have any business from your past to take care of.  That should be dead to you.  A man cannot serve two masters, son."

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but while I'm away doing my thing so to speak, I though I'd like to visit my mother.  She's not in good health, and I may never see her again."

"Laudable," said Joshua, nodding soberly.  "Do you need money for your trip?"

Paget almost said "yes" automatically, taking advantage of the situation, but declining would make points with the old man.

"No, I have some left over from before.  But I need to borrow a car for a few days.  My mother lives in Kentucky.  Will that be a problem?"

"We usually don't leave for extended periods," said Joshua, frowning in thought.  "But mothers are precious."

Paget smiled, thinking that if he ever saw his "precious mother" again he'd cut her tongue out.

"Take the car parked outside whenever you decide to leave."

"Thank you, Father Joshua," he said, trying to sound as if he were choking up.  He thought he pulled it off well.

"Careful, Cal.  There's a danger of being reentangled out there."

"I'll be back, sir.  I've got no place else to go."

That, at least, was the truth.

Blue Creek Clinic, May 18, 9:30 AM

"You can put your shirt back on, Mr. Carter," said Carl Hoag.

Richard had been waiting for the inevitable question about his scars.

"Well?" he asked as he stood.

"Nothing wrong with your heart.  Blood pressure is a little elevated.  Cut back on the salt and try to relax a little."

Richard smiled crookedly as he buttoned his shirt.  Far from a hypochondriac, he had been tempted to skip the appointment Jill had arranged.  Now he was oddly disappointed.  A medical cause for his fatigue would have been a relief.

"I'll do some blood work.  We can even run a stress test, but I don't think your problem is physical."

"I've never had this much trouble sleeping before, Doc.  Maybe it's just something that comes with age."

He had yet to mention the racing heartbeat he sometimes woke up to.  Maybe that was because he had been doing his best to ignore it.

"Nightmares?"

The question startled him.  "Not often."

Hoag nodded, then pointed with his pen at the purple scars covering Richard's right forearm.  They almost glowed under the fluorescent lights.

"Have anything to do with these?"

There it was.

"No," he said quickly.

It was almost true.  The dreams had come before Mic, and they seldom involved him.

"You killed the guy who did that to you.  Thinking about it, dreaming about it---that would only be normal.  If you don't, then you're one cold guy."

"I seldom dream about it.  And I don't waste my time thinking about it."

"Push it right out of your mind, do you?"

"It wasn't fun," said Richard, getting seriously irritated.  "Look, I don't want to think about it or talk about it right now."

Hoag nodded.  "Want to talk to a head doctor?"

"I thought you were the head doctor."

"I'm the only damned doctor.  I meant a shrink."

"That's not necessary."

"Do you ever talk to anyone about it?"

"A minister or priest?  No."

"How about your wife?  Does she help you with this, or does she just ignore it with you?"

Richard smiled.  "So if I won't go to a head doctor, then you'll do a stand in?"

"Well, you're a stubborn son of a bitch, so I'm doing what I can.  There's nothing physically wrong with you yet, but you can't go on without proper rest.  This anxiety not only deprives you of sleep, it's bad for the cardiovascular system."

"You said my heart was fine."

"Now.  Look.  You're lucky.  You know the cause for all this.  You need to find a way to live with it."

"Don't worry about me, Doc.  I'll get over it."

"Don't be ridiculous.  What happened to you is who you are.  You don't change that.  You just learn to accept the fear, the guilt, the shame, or whatever it is.  You have to learn to live with that too."

"I'd rather just forget it."

"You can't.  It's like an infected wound, Carter.  If it only heals on the outside it becomes an abscess, goes systemic."

"Nobody ever died from a psychic wound," said Richard with a smile.

"Your wife seems like a strong woman.  She wouldn't put up with your behavior if she wasn't.  Talk to her.  You can't keep everything to yourself."

He was sick of people thinking they knew what he was going through.

"What makes you think you know anything about what's going on in my mind?"

"Your wife talked to me and---"

"Well she shouldn't have," Richard interrupted.

"She's supposed to be the nice compliant wife and let you drop dead of a stroke or a heart attack?  She's not supposed to worry about raising your kid without a daddy?  I think you're suffering from PTSD."

"Post traumatic stress," said Richard dismissively  "That was the crap they came up with to explain why the Vietnam vets were messed up."

"I'm a Vietnam vet, Carter, and I suffer from that phony crap."

"No offense intended, Doc, but how come no one ever heard of that stuff before your war?"

"Of course they did.  In the First World War it was shell shock.  In the second it was battle fatigue.  Before that, it was ignored.  War ain't like the damned movies.  Until Vietnam this country had a bad case of the happy ever afters.  Horrible things happen in war.  It always has.  We see and do things that we were never meant to.  It changes what we thought we knew about ourselves.  It changes who we are.  Some of us never adjust to that."

"I'm a . . .  I was a Marine, Doc.  I've never been in a real war like you.  Remember the Somalia famine relief?  That was our mission."

"Yeah," said Hoag with a short laugh.  "Uncle Quixote's impossible dream.  Send in the Marines to fix the unfixable!  No offense.  I love my starry-eyed country.  And I have the utmost respect for you jar heads.  But did you do any good?"

"I hope so.  We sure as hell tried."

"Lose friends over there?"

Richard nodded.

"Great intentions, Carter.  I dropped bombs on people in my war.  Flew off the Enterprise until I checked into the Hanoi Hilton for three years."

Richard tried to imagine the nightmare of being a POW.

"Came home, wrecked my marriage, got into med-school---some crazy idea that being on the other side of the equation could even things out, you know:  kill a person, save a person.  Then I decided to come out here and fly fish the rest of my life away.  You see, things being what they were, and me being what I was, I decided I didn't owe a damned thing to anyone.  Six months of the hermit bit and I realized that being alone with my own thoughts wasn't such a good idea.  So, after failing to save the world and failing to save myself, I decided to settle for making myself useful."

It was odd how quickly they had fallen into familiarity.  It was that terrible common experience:  the brotherhood of war, men forced to do what no one should have to live with having done.

"So you opened the clinic.  I get it.  You're paying your dues.  I'm trying to pay mine too."

"Go home and talk to your wife.  I wish I still had that option."

Richard nodded.

"And check in here at the clinic once in awhile."

"Therapy?"

"For me," said Hoag.  "It's good to find someone with an idea of what's going on in my head."

Two-fifteen.  The appointment had lasted longer than he had expected, but he still had nearly three hours until his shift.  Hall had dropped the charges after Shug suggested that it might not be wise to rely on the word of a prostitute during what might become a messy trial.  Richard was happy to be going back to work.

He realized that he, like Hoag, had once had redemptive delusions of saving the world.  Making himself useful was a less grandiose but more realistic goal.  As far as sharing everything with Jill went, he couldn't and wouldn't do that.  Talking to Hoag, however, appealed to him.  He liked it that the man didn't pull his punches, and that he understood what had happened to him in Somalia.

No.  Not what happened to me, what I did, he reminded himself.