Chapter 4

 

Canaan Camp, 12:30 PM

Joshua's knee sent the ladder-back chair clattering across the floor.  Undeterred in his frantic pacing, the old man tangled his foot in the slats and toppled headlong to the hardwood floor.  Paget had been watched the old man's manic behavior with increasing amusement.  Suppressing a laugh, he went to help him up.

"You okay, Joshua?" he laughed.

"Someone grabbed my foot, Cal.  Just reached out there and---clipping is what it---you can't do that---the old serpent and his sharp teeth---or forked tongue---Indians say that---just stuck out his foot and---where did he go?"

The old man had been ranting in disjointed sentences for the past fifteen minutes, his phrases a mixture of fractured quotations, slurred platitudes, and garbage.  Blood snaked in a thin line from the goose egg in his eyebrow past the corner of his eye and down the side of his nose.

"Got you a little bump there, Joshua.  Does it hurt?"

"I'm fine---just hunky-dory---leave me alone---gotta dance some more---David danced naked before the Lord, John, uh Cal---Calvin---Kevin---er---what's-your-face," blurted the old man, unable to slow the pace of his rambling enough to organize his thoughts.

"Let's sit you down," said Paget, maintaining his grasp of the old man.

He had only slipped the old man half a street dose of PCP.  Either it hadn't been cut enough, or the old guy just had a really low tolerance.

"Unhand me, gray beard loony," said Joshua, jerking away so quickly that he fell again.

His head hit the floor with a resounding thunk, but the old man just rolled to his side, scrambled to his feet, and continued his manic pacing.  He whirled, almost losing his balance again, then turned a blank stare in Paget's general direction as blood ran into his eye.  He blinked, and then put his hand to his face.  He examined the blood on his fingertips intently.

"Stigmata!" he said, lurching forward again.

Paget captured him, and steered him to the bathroom to wash off the blood and put a band-aid on the cut.  Joshua was less manic now, but his words still made no sense.  It wouldn't be a good idea to let anyone to see the old man for the rest of the day.  When the old man turned unfocused eyes on him, Paget laughed aloud, unable to restrain himself as he thought of The Prophet stumbling around drunkenly and raving like a maniac.

"Feeling the Spirit, Father Joshua?"

"Feeling the Spirit?  Yes---yes I am.  Tongues of fire.  Tongue on fire.  Fire the tongue and in the belly, the belly of the beast.  His mark is everywhere."

"Well, we're going to have to make sure you don't get too worked up and try to do something miraculous.  Don't worry.  I'll take care of you."

"Eli took care of Samuel---no, Samuel was---or was it---Saul called up Samuel---can't consort with familiar spirits---but that witch of Endor, she called him and he was really---old lady McWilliams was a witch---but which way is up?  Or down---gotta get down---gotta dance!"

Paget almost lost his grip as the old man tried to whirl away.

"Hold on, Joshua.  We'll dance later.  Can't let people see you like this.  You had too much wine, but don't worry.  I won't let anyone know."

"Too much wine?" mumbled Joshua.  "Spirits!  Familiar spirits!  The witch is dead---dead wrong---a dead ender.  The Witch of Endor!"  Joshua whirled his head around anxiously, his bony fingers digging into Paget's forearm.  "Is this Fire Lake?"

"No.  You're just tripping you party animal."

"Animal?  NO!  Beast!  The spirit of a beast---the spirit is a beast---is---but the spirit is weak."

"Makes about as much sense as anything else you say," murmured Paget under his breath.

Fun was fun, but he had to shut the old fool up before he drove him crazy.  A roofie and some more wine finally got the old man calmed.  Fifteen minutes later Joshua lay across the bed with his shoes off, his eyes and (more importantly) his mouth closed.

Thank goodness the old faggot's finally asleep, thought Paget in relief.

"David was a friend of the Lord," said Joshua in a clear strong voice without opening his eyes.  "Are you my friend, Cal?"

Startled, Paget didn't answer for a moment.

"Cal?"

"Yeah, Joshua I'm your friend.  I told you I'd take care of you.  That's what I want to do."

"There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother," said Joshua weakly.

A moment later he was snoring.

Shannon County, 7:15 PM

Winding Highway 19 slithered over and through thirsty hill land, most of which had been set aside and designated Mark Twain National Forest.  The slithering finally became too much for Jill.

"Richard, I have to stop for awhile," she said.  "I'm not feeling so well."

"Is it the baby?" he asked fearfully as he looked for a place to pull off the shoulderless road.

"I'm just a little nauseous."

He saw a dilapidated mailbox and turned into the weed-infested drive.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked once he stopped.

"Yes," she said weakly as she opened the window.  "This is the price one pays to changing hormones."

To get away from the road and find some shade, he pulled further down the drive and parked under a profusely leafed rock maple, the only thing flourishing in the abandoned homestead.  Jill examined the building, trying to distract herself.  The broken back house bespoke the humble life once centered there.

"I hope the old woman never saw her house in this condition," she said.

He smiled.

"I say, Holmes, how did you deduce that this was the home of an old woman?"

"Elementary," she replied, falling in with the game.  "That an old person lived here is obvious from the modest size of the house.  No one born after the last World War would content themselves with such a humble abode."

"But you also divined that it was a lady who lived here."

"A widow," she said.  "The mail box says Mrs. E. A. Brown, and the Mrs. is painted in darker letters than the rest because it was added only after her husband died."

He was glad she could tease.

"Oh.  I just remembered.  There's Dramamine in the glove box."

"Let's not take any unnecessary medication.  Let me sit here a moment.  Could you get me some water from the cooler?"

Richard brought water and a Coke for himself from the trunk.  Returning to the driver's seat, he handed the plastic bottle to her.  She took a long, slow drink, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.

"Do something for me."

"Sure, Babe, anything."

"I hate to ask, but . . . one of my students left school unexpectedly.  His name is Shane Sanders.  Do you think you can discover where he is?"

The name didn't mean anything to him.

"He seemed to be doing well, and then he stopped attending class."

He thought that only a rookie professor would worry about a no-show student.

"Kids drop out all the time, Jill."

"Yes, but I was helping him with his writing, and he was making excellent progress.  I wonder if maybe I did something that caused him to quit."

"Lots of kids are first semester wonders.  They party, neglect their work until they screw up their GPA, and then just chuck it.  I'm sure you're not responsible."

"I may have been.  Perhaps he misinterpreted the attention I gave him.  I was totally professional, Richard."

"Oh.  You think you broke his heart and he ran off with the carnival, huh?" he asked with a smile.

"It is not funny.  Maybe when I am more experienced, things like this will not bother me.  I just need to know that he is okay.  Please do this for me."

"I'll ask around," he said.  "What's his name again?"

"Shane Sanders.  He's a really nice young man."

"I'll take care of it tomorrow," he said as he started the car.  "You feel like heading on home now?"

"Yes, but go slower please."

"Of course.  Keeping your eyes on the road helps, Babe."

"Thank you for the suggestion," she said.  "And for humoring your naïve wife."

Singletree, May 24, 10:00 AM

"Shane don't live here no more," said the bleary-eyed woman defensively.  "Whatever he done, I don't know nothing about it."

According to DMV, the pinched-face woman peeking through the half-opened door was only thirty-seven.  She looked fifty-seven.

"As far as I know, he didn't do anything, ma'am.  I'm just doing a favor for a friend.  He left college a couple of weeks ago, and one of his teachers was concerned."

"Well I don't know where he is," she said distractedly as she kneed back the toddler peeking around her.

The curly headed girl gave Richard a wrinkle-nosed smile, revealing two teeth stained the same shade as her jelly smeared cheeks.

"Bo!" shouted the woman over her shoulder,  "Come get Melanie."

"Check that place he works at over to Blue Creek, or with his friends if he's got any," she suggested, obviously wanting to end the conversation.

"Is there anyone else that might know where he is?  A girlfriend perhaps?"

"Not that I know of.  Check with that Clifford boy.  He's probably hanging around with him again."

"Clifford?"

"Vance, that boy what tried to burn down the school."

Richard nodded.  He only knew the sketchiest details of Shane Sanders juvenile record, which, he reflected, was as it should be.

"Does the Clifford family live near here?"

"Not no more.  They went back to St. Louis or wherever they come from.  Run off from that boy, not that I blame them."

A red-face man appeared behind the woman, breathing audibly as he came forward to take care of the situation.

"Look, we don't know where he is," he said sourly, "And if it's all the same to you, we really got a lot of work to do around here."

The litter-strewn yard with its ankle-high weeds made Richard appreciate the remark.  The couple probably did have a lot of work they were going to get around to some time.

"Are you Shane's father?" he asked.

"Tried, but it didn't take," he said dismissively.

Apparently he was no longer interested in assuming the role.

"Maybe you did a better job than you think," suggested Richard.  "I understand he's pretty well kept his nose clean since Sears.  He's got a steady job.  He's back in school."

"I hope so.  He done caused the family enough shame.  At least he's still carrying his real Daddy's name instead of ours," inserted the woman.

Richard thought he understood how the young man had become a troubled teenager.

"If you ain't got no more questions," began the man, seeking to end the unwanted interruption of his morning.

"No," interrupted Richard, also eager to end the meeting.  "Thanks for talking to me."

What a dismal atmosphere to grow up in, he thought as he made his away around a rusty bicycle with finger thick weeds growing through the spokes of its one remaining wheel.  As he slid into the seat of the cruiser and keyed the ignition, someone pecked on the glass.  An overweight teenager with eyes like the man he had just spoken to waited for him to roll down the window.

"Are you Shane's brother?"

"Step-brother," he corrected.  "Shane went out to that church camp."

"The one they call Canaan Camp?"

"That's what I hear.  He in trouble again?"

"No, I'm just doing a favor for one of the teachers at the college who's worried about him leaving school."

"Well, he's out there with those freaks.  He'll fit right in," said the boy with a crooked-toothed smile.

Richard backed the car out of the drive, thinking that, considering his family relationship, it was a wonder Shane Sanders hadn't gotten in worse trouble than he had.  If a church was supposed to help lost souls maybe the boy was headed in the right direction.  Jill would be both relieved and disappointed with the news.

Directing words to the boy he had never met, he thought, Well, kid, you can't get in much trouble at church camp.

That was not quite true.

 

Saeger Pond, near Blue Creek, May 25

An ethereal mist hovered on the mirrored water as the unseasonably warm air and cool spring fed waters of the old millpond combined to induce a slightly milky layer of air just above the water.  Their boat drifted silently, impelled by the quiet currents feeding up from below.

Richard flipped a top-water lure toward a clutch of lily pads, miscalculated, and landed it a foot above the water line into a miniature forest of ten-inch-high may apples.  A light twitch jerked the lure into the water without snagging.

"Nice natural presentation," said Carl Hoag, just as a large mouth broke the surface with a loud splash, sucking in the lure.

Before Richard could set the hook, however, the lure popped to the surface two feet from where the bass had hit it.

"Didn't like the taste of plastic, I guess," he observed.

He wasn't really disappointed.  Catching fish was fun, but the ritual was the main thing.  He worked the lure in a slow retrieval, wondering idly if his momentary contentment was some genetic carryover from his predator past, perhaps the contentment that came from trying to outwit prey.  Hunting used to do it for him, especially turkey hunting, but he could no longer hunt.

"No cursing," observed Hoag, as he took his smoldering pipe from his mouth.  "Bad sign.  You don't have the appropriate vocabulary for this sport?"

"What's to curse about, Doc?"

He drew on the pipe, and the sweet, odd aroma of the maple-laced tobacco flavored the air.

"How are you doing, now?" asked Hoag.

"Oh, a session, huh?  Better than I've been in a long time, Doc.  Wish you had a scalpel sharp enough to excise a thing or two in my past, but on the whole, I'm fine."

Richard was surprised that he had said as much as he had.  Hoag nodded thoughtfully.

"Ever get angry?"

"Angry?"  He shook his head.  "No, you?"

"Damned right.  Sometimes I think about what they did to me, to us---I read about normalizing relations with those communist bastards---I want to get in my Thunder Chief and bomb and strafe the place ‘til there's not a heartbeat left in the Red River Valley."

The vehemence of the sentiments spoken so softly jarred.

"Is that healthy, Doc?"

"Don't know.  That just the way I feel sometimes.  No use lying about it."

He unscrewed the lid of a large stainless steel thermos.  "Coffee?"

"If it doesn't have anything in it," replied Richard as he reached for the cup Hoag offered.

Richard felt a small stab on the inside of his left elbow, and slapped reflexively.  He examined the mosquito bite, a dime-sized smear of his blood.  Sudden nausea hit him.  He set the cup down, nonchalantly trying to ignore the pounding in his temple.  As if he were suddenly vulnerable, he felt a desperate need to get off the water, away from his exposed position.  He took a deep breath, telling himself that it was silly.  There was no danger.

"What's wrong?" asked Hoag, noticing that the color had drained from Richard's face.

"I . . . nothing.  I just suddenly got this feeling . . . like when you suddenly know you've walked right into the cross hairs . . . and you know it's too late."

Hoag nodded.

"I wasn't a grunt, but I know the feeling.  It's like when you know a SAM is coming up and your missile detection warning hasn't sounded yet.  Mind telling me what were you doing last time it happened?"

"Just looking at myself in the mirror."

"Cut yourself, didn't you?"

Richard nodded.  The panic had subsided, but he was still trying to figure it out.

"Am I going crazy or something?"

"You're not going crazy.  You got a panic attack brought on by a symbolic cue---blood."

Richard tried the thought on.

Hoag repacked his pipe and applied a flame to it.  He puffed noisily at the stem until a blue-gray wreath of smoke tendrils twisted slowly upward between them.

"For me, it's soup."

Richard smiled.  The thought was ludicrous.  Hoag had to be making it up.

"They had this watery slop with a little rice or some greens in it, maybe a little pig fat if they were feeling generous.  They kept us down around eight hundred calories a day---starved us when they had no reason to.  Didn't give a damn about the Geneva Convention or any of the other rules we westerners had made for gentlemanly warfare. 

"Those little bastards killed us by deliberate neglect."  "Of course the beatings didn't help.  So, I get real angry, and can't do anything about it.  And now I'm this grown man who gets scared of chicken noodle soup!"  He laughed ruefully.  "At least I don't have to worry about MSG allergy because there's no power on earth that could get me into a Chinese restaurant."

"So, how do you handle it?" asked Richard.

He puffed at his pipe.

"I get revenge by living.  I took the worst they had to offer, and now I'm breathing free air, while those dumb bastards have to live in their communist paradise."

"This is that post traumatic stress stuff?"

"That's what they call it in DSM-IV."

"So how do we get over it?"

"It ain't going away, but you'll make progress given the support you have.  You should have more good days than bad ones.  When it hits and hurts, then recognize what's happening and tell yourself that it's gonna be bad for awhile."

It wasn't what he wanted to hear.

"Don't expect anyone to understand, because you don't understand it yourself and you never will."

Oddly, talking about it made Richard feel better.  At least his nausea was gone.

"Where in the hell does this stuff come from?" he asked.  "I mean it's not logical, not a survival trait or mechanism or whatever?"

"Sure it is.  It's gut level non-verbal survival stuff.  Your body's yelling:  Hey!  Look out!  That damned thing almost killed you once!"

"Let me guess.  You got a double---make that triple major:  medicine, psychology, and drama."

"A little respect, dammit.  I'm being pedantic here.  You asked a question, now listen to the answer."

"Sorry."

"Well, you should be.  The subconscious mind is an idiot, Richard.  Logic doesn't mean jack to it.  And remember, it's our original operating system.  We were born with it.  The logical part is only an overlay.  We think with our conscious mind, but this more primitive stuff is always running in the background.  It's wired in closed to the endocrine system, so basic emotions like fear and rage are triggered by it."

"So, when it comes down to nut cutting---when it's  do-or-die---we've got an idiot at the switch?"

"Yeah, but he tends to work pretty well whenever he's correct about the situation.  You and me, we got an over-active, enthusiastic little bastard as an autopilot.  He insists on trying to take over when we don't need or want him.  We have to recognize it when he grabs the wheel and slap his grubby little hands away."

"So you got him in line yet?"

"I learned not think that way back at the Hanoi Hilton.  For you and me, Richard, it's a two-step.  We take two steps forward, and know sure as hell that we are going to slide one step back, and sometimes two.  We make progress, but realize that he can pull us all the way back to square one if we're not careful."

After a long silence Richard spoke again.

"I'm not sure who. . . or what I am, Doc."

"That's another problem---depression.  You killed a guy but you're not a killer.  From what I understand you had to do it, but to part of you it doesn't make a damned bit of difference that he deserved it."

"Mic Boyd?  That doesn't bother me, Doc."

He stowed the rod in the bottom of the boat before continuing.  When he spoke he looked away down the lake.

"You're right.  He deserved it, and I'd do it again.  I'm not the least bit sorry.  But in Somalia I killed a kid and he didn't deserve anything.  He was just . . .  Somebody gave him a rifle to and . . .  He tried to kill me, so I don't guess I had a choice---but he was no more than twelve."

Hoag puffed at his pipe before resuming in a quiet voice.

"I'm not going to say I know what that was like.  It was pretty antiseptic up there in the sky while I was doing the old nine-to-five from the South China Sea.  Later, the gooks did a pretty good job of convincing me that it wasn't so clean after all . . . and I do wonder how many innocent people I killed.  But I never had to look at them when I did it."

"I came damned close to taping one of those confessions."  He reeled in his lure.  "I never let anybody know that before."

"But you didn't?"

"In my mind I did.  I gave in.  I was ready.  You don't have any idea how low they can make you feel.  I was laying naked in my own urine, while this gook interrogator sat on this chair with one of its rungs pinning my neck to the concrete floor.  A second gook, we called him Weasel, beat me from neck to ankles with this fan belt for having a bad attitude, for communicating with my fellow criminals.  I was ready to do anything to make it stop.  I would have informed on anyone, admitted anything.  I agreed to do it, but they couldn't film me until the visible wounds healed."

"What stopped you?"

"They waited too long.  I had this tremendous load of guilt and despair---I didn't think the war would ever end, and I was convinced that they'd bury me right there in the red earth of that compound, so I was ready.  Then they killed Cole Hardy.  He got a flu or something, and they just let him die there---coughing his lungs out.  He couldn't swallow anything, and we just watched him fade away.  I never knew anyone could last so long.

"Anyway, if they had just taken us out one at a time and shot us, that I could have understood.  But their total lack of respect for human life---well, it made me remember who the good guys were.  There's no way in hell I was going to confess after that."

Hoag cast his lure, and watched silently until the ripples reached the boat.

"Hell, you'll do fine.  You didn't ask for any of the stuff that happened to you.  You were just dealt a couple of lousy hands, and from what I can tell, you played ‘em pretty well.  So give yourself a break."

Hoag twitched the lure.

"And you've got a good attitude.  I don't hear you bitching about how it ain't fair."

"But it's not going away."

"Nope."

When the sun rose above the trees, the strikes dwindled to nil.  After Carl hooked the same submerged log for the third time, he'd have enough.  As they were tying down the boat on the trailer Richard turned to him.

"Doc, what do you know about this Wilderness Church?"

"Don't have religious opinions," came the immediate and terse reply

"Then tell me about Camp Canaan."

"Canaan Camp," Hoag corrected, looking at Richard intently.  "Most locals don't like it or the old guy who started it.  A local fellow by the name of Williams died and left them about half of the good land in the county.  That doesn't sit too well."

"Outsiders?"

"That, and the fact that they aren't one of your more traditional churches.  If they were Baptist, Methodist or Pentecostal, folks would probably be as pleased as punch with the camp."

"I'm just asking because one of Jill's students dropped out and went out there.  She's worried about him."

"The kid could have gotten in a worse place.  Those folks are hard workers.  They farm, log---keep to themselves mostly.  Old Joshua's a Messianic nut in my opinion, but probably harmless.  He preaches that the end is near, and that his group will stand alone against the forces of evil at the last day."

"It's a doomsday cult."

"Well a cult is like heresy, ain't it?  If it ain't your church, then it's a cult, and if it ain't your truth, then it's heresy.  The kid will give up pork, work hard, live morally, and attend services like two-a-day football practice.  His biggest danger is dying boredom.  Your wife shouldn't worry about the kid, Richard.  Despite what the locals have to say, those are pretty good people out there.  They just keep to themselves.  It's not like they're kidnapping babies, or arming for Armageddon."

"The religious thing may be good for him," said Richard.  "He's been in juvie over at that Poplar Bluff youth center."

"How'd he get sent to Sears?"

"Story is that he tried to burn down his high school."

"That would probably do it."