Chapter 9

Canaan Camp, June 15, 2:00 PM

Paget's street knowledge led him unknowingly to a legitimate treatment for phencyclidine addiction.  The roofies were in the benzodiazepine family of drugs used to sedate patients during PCP withdrawal.  Of course, he had no intention of curing the old man.  He only wanted to manage him.  Presently the PCP and roofies had reached a tenuous equilibrium producing a state approximating normality.  Joshua was coming off the high and approaching a calm suggestible state where ideas could be planted and reinforced.  The old man sat with only an occasional twitch as he focused on the six o'clock news.

Paget missed the devilish influence of the heathen world, so he had hooked an antenna to an old television (contrary to church rules), after first convincing Joshua that it was necessary in order to discover what the enemies of the church were plotting.  The lousy reception of the local UHF station irritated him, but it was better than nothing---and infinitely better than listening to Joshua.  He decided to get a VCR and some decent tapes if he stayed long enough.

Spokesmen for the crusade say they have sold out the dome for the tour's weekend meeting later this month, the anchor was saying.  One hundred and fifty thousand people are expected to attend the revival Saturday and Sunday.  Already, the Reverend Harold Jones has run the most successful crusade in Christian history according to some of his admirers.  The black evangelist shrugs off such suggestions with his typical modesty, as you will see in this clip.

A grandfatherly black man's smiling visage filled the screen.

"Where only two or three are gathered in His name," he said into the camera.  "He will be in the midst.  God doesn't deal in thousands.  He deals one to one, so numbers mean nothing.

The scene switched to an auditorium filled to capacity with a crowd composed almost equally of black and white worshipers.

As can be seen, the crusade has been attracting crowds of considerably more than two or three.  Several area churches have announced suspension of services so that members can travel to St. Louis for the final weekend of the revival.

"Blind leading the blind," grumbled Joshua petulantly.

"What's that porch monkey saying to get all those white people to follow him?" asked Paget genuinely perplexed.

"He's not telling them anything," said Joshua indignantly.  "Dancing!  Hopping around!  Screaming like fools.  None of those . . . those holy-rollers are educated.  Probably can't even read on a third grade level."

"Jigaboo boogey masquerading as religion," suggested Paget, picking up on the racist thread he saw in the old man's jealousy.

"Look at that.  Can't people see what they are?" asked Joshua, gaping at the TV.

"They're slick, Joshua.  The Old Serpent gave them a way with words."

"He's the Father of Lies," slurred Joshua, now having trouble keeping his head up as he approached the highly suggestible state preceding unconsciousness.

It didn't take much to set Paget daydreaming.  Now a grandiose, scenario came to his mind and he ran with it.

"That nigger preacher has been saying some bad things about the Wilderness Church, Father Joshua."

"The Church?"

"And you.  He said you were the Anti-Christ.  He called the Wilderness Church the abomination of desolation."

Paget took the phrase from one of Joshua's apocalyptic sermons.  He didn't know what the hell it was, but the way the congregation reacted, it sounded seriously wicked.

"Abom . . . in . . .a . . . tion," lisped the old man as his chin slumped to his chest.

He grabbed the old man before he fell to the floor and guided him to his room.

"Tired, Caleb.  So . . . tired," said the old man as he sat heavily on the unmade bed.

"Rest now, Father Joshua."

"They rest from their labors," sighed the old man, his head lolling.

"You work so hard for the church," cooed Paget.  "So hard.  You shouldn't have to worry about what John's trying to do."

"What John's doing," muttered the old man weakly, blinking in confusion.

Worry knitted his brow even as unconsciousness pulled his chin downward again.

"John, is that you?"

Paget suppressed a curse.

"John's not the same as he was," he said.

The old man shook his head sadly.  "Not the same."

"John is taking over the Church.  John wants to replace you."

"No!" croaked Joshua weakly.

"Yes.  John wants to take it all away from you.  He wants to get rid of you."

"Not John," whined Joshua plaintively.

"He's a Judas."

"Judas," repeated the old man as he slid into unconsciousness.

Paget eased him onto his back, lifted his legs onto the bed, and pulled the covers over him.

Get you some rest, you old faggot.  Got to get you is shape to preach tonight.  Can't have Stick Man taking over too much or he might take over the damned place.  That would not be good---at least not while I'm here.

Canaan Camp, 10:30 PM

John Campbell looked down at his shoes.  His long walk had coated them with dust and the dewy grass had slashed through it like thin sharp blades had been at work.  He sat somberly on the edge of the porch.  The walk had neither calmed nor inspired him, merely added fatigue he felt after the disorganized "sermon."  Joshua's mean-spirited tirade had made him sick.  The old man (that's how John thought of him now) had made a pathetic spectacle of himself tonight, revealing an eroded remnant of what he once had been.  All the good had rotted away---and so quickly.  Pride and ego was all that was left.

Face shiny with perspiration, bony hands gripping and sliding ceaselessly over the lectern, eyes glinting with hot intensity, his beloved mentor had delivered a disjointed harangue the main point of which was that the pale horse of the apocalypse was the AIDS virus!  Joshua had gone from there to concoct a ridiculous scenario involving the CIA, the CDC, the NAACP, and some black evangelist in a plot to destroy the Wilderness Church.  In truth, John doubted that any of them even knew about the Wilderness Church.  The explanation, of course, was plain and sickening:  Joshua was no longer Joshua.

He gazed out over the moonlit fields of Canaan Camp.

"What demon have we lost you to, Joshua?" he whispered.

Short of demonic possession, which he didn't believe in, senile dementia was the only explanation.  The old man had obviously suffered a stroke.  Perhaps he would recover with time and the right care, but how would the Church react to the incapacity of its leader in the mean time?  What would happen to it without the old man to guide it?

It was tempting to blame Caleb for not taking care of Joshua properly.  Caleb had isolated him, and his influence on the old man had grown alarmingly.  Yet John knew himself well enough to admit that he had been jealous of the old man's sudden adoption of the new convert from the start.  He also had to admit that he just didn't like the man.  The fact remained that something had to be done, and he would have to do it.  He didn't think he was up to it, but there was no one else.

Canaan Camp, June 16, 9:00 AM

Campbell steeled himself against the inevitable unpleasantness and knocked.  Several knocks later an unshaven Caleb greeted John with a sleepy-eyed scowl.

"I've come to see Father Joshua," said John as forcefully as he could manage.

"He's resting," replied Paget, barring the door with arms folded across his chest.

"I have to talk with him."

"Come back tomorrow.  He's recuperating from the flu."

"No one else at the camp is sick.  And I don't think what's wrong with him is the flu.  I'm going to see him today whether you want me to or not," he said.

Paget felt like laughing in the Stick Man's face.  A fight with him would last about as long as a sneeze.  But it wasn't time for that just yet.

"Okay.  I can see that you're concerned," he said, pasting on a smile.  "Come on in, but try not to upset him."

As Campbell walked through the door it hit him.  Like Joshua himself, the house had deteriorated into something cheap and sickening.  The heavy odor of stale smoke reminded him of the tawdry ambiance of a bus station.  Empty glasses and encrusted plates lay scattered on the dusty living room furniture.  If Caleb had taken no better care of Joshua than he had the house, no wonder the old man's illness had progressed so quickly.

"Did you see the Wizard of Oz?" asked Joshua, emerging from the kitchen with his head down.

The question was directed at no one in particular.  The disheveled old man's forehead glistened, its skin stretched tight and impossibly thin in stark contrast with the loose unshaven folds of his neck.

"Flying monkeys," he continued, seemingly deep in concentration.  "Legions of evil like the porch monkeys.  Mud men!  Mark of Cain---false prophets---proselytes from Hell---but a leopard can't change his spots, can he Caleb?  Oh, no, no, no.  An Ethiopian can't change spots---but he can be given a tongue to deceive and lead away silly women."

The odor of personal neglect wafted to him.  John wondered when Joshua had last bathed.  How could this have happened so quickly? he wondered even as he recoiled from the reek.

"Show ‘em for what they are," expounded Joshua tottering toward him.  "For what they are---yes---yes---and then the world will see.  Shine the light on them---rip away the mask---reveal the men of perdition."  Recognition lit his eyes.  "It's gonna be a show, John---I tell you---a real humdinger."

His smile was a yellow-toothed rictus, bloodless thin lips stretched tightly over purple gums.  A high-pitched giggle morphed into a hacking cough.  But it didn't slow the old man.  He continued until he reached the door, did an abrupt about face, and walked back past again, eyes fixed on the floor.

"See ‘em for what they are---dancing around like---wailing and screaming---fornicating in the aisles."

He stopped and threw one hand in the air like an ice dancer.

"AND THEN will the man of sin be REVEALED!"

Campbell captured the arm and guided the old man to a chair.  Joshua sat uneasily, seeming unable to remain motionless.  His eyes darted around the room.  He clasped and unclasped his bony hands, and scratched at the reddened skin of his forearms.  He tapped at the carpet with toes sticking through the ruined ends of mismatched dirty socks.

"What's wrong, Father Joshua?" asked John softly.

"Infamy and blasphemy," mumbled Joshua.  "Blasphemy," he shouted as his head snapped up.

He shook his head somberly.  Then a leering smile appeared, and he winked conspiratorially.  "In vino veritas."

"No!  In gas veritas!" he continued, making the last syllable rhyme with gas.

He cackled in appreciation of his own wit.  Once again the laugh ended in a hacking cough.  He finally stopped, stared at John, and laughed in delight.

"Tell him, Caleb.  Tell him what we're going to do that strutting buck and his so-called crusade."

Paget clenched his teeth, not because the old faggot had forgotten that the plan was supposed to be kept secret.  That's what you got with an addict.  What frustrated him was that the old bastard had forgotten his carefully nourished suspicion that Stick Man was out to take over the church.

"What's he talking about, Hodges?" asked John.

"Brother Caleb," corrected Paget.

"Yes, yes---brothers---blood brothers," intone Joshua.  "Brothers in arms---strong arms and forearmed---they fly forth into the four corners of the Earth.

Joshua stuttered to an uncertain conclusion as he became lost in the word blizzard assaulting his mind.

"Father Joshua has decided that the black preacher needs to be shown up for what he is," explained Paget.

"What are you talking about?"

"We saw it on television."

"We don't partake of the world's media," objected John.  "We left all of that.  None of it matters, and there's so much evil out there."

"Surveillance and reconnaissance," said Joshua.  "Got to know what the enemy's up to, John.  The forces of Satan are gathering from the north and east.  The great battle in the Valley of Megiddo---where the eagles are gathered together the bodies lie---and they lie and lie and the Father of Lies gathers them to do battle on the plains of---and we must make plain the nature of the beast.  Oh, we need light!"

"What do they have to do with us?  Or we with them?" asked John gently, seeking to calm the old man.  "Remember?  That's what you've always told us."

"Gog and Magog!  Show them for what they are," insisted Joshua.

John turned a confused look.  It was too much.  Paget had to tell him just to see the look on his face.

"Laughing gas, John, nitrous oxide like dentists use."

"I know what nitrous oxide is," said John.  "What are you---"

"Father Joshua plans to flood one of their televised meetings with it.  To disinhibit them.  I think that's the word.  Father Joshua thinks that if they are shown on national television acting the way they normally do, the way they do when no white people are around, then they'll discredit themselves."

Campbell tried to wrap his mind around the inane plan.

"That's ridiculous," he said.

"Yes they are," blurted Joshua enthusiastically.  "I knew you'd agree---but you can't go on the mission, John---no, no," he said wagging his finger in the air.  "We must not appear to be involved.  We're gonna sucker punch the Old Serpent---give him a black eye."

"You're serious?"

"I've been commanded to do it," Joshua assured him.

The sickening realization came that the old man was claiming divine inspiration for the idiocy.  Clearly Joshua was no longer in his right mind.  He placed a hand on the old man's thin shoulders, feeling only bone beneath the loosely hanging cloth.  Feverishly darting eyes settled on his for a moment.  Trying not to flinch from the fetid breath, Campbell tried again.

"Father Joshua," he began softly, "No matter what anyone says or does, we can't strike back at them.  We must render good for evil.  Remember?"

A glimmer of recognition flitted through the restless eyes.

"Of course they speak evil of us," Campbell continued.  "All men will.  What they do means nothing to us."

"Yes, John," said Joshua, nodding as if he agreed.

Then he was off again as if nothing John had said had penetrated.  "Speaking evil---the false prophet---with great flowing words---and the great Dragon from the deep black pit---whose mouths must be stopped!"

Joshua twisted away from him and lurched to his feet.

"Yes!  They must be stopped---but you can't go, John---no, no, no, you mustn't.  Got to sucker punch him---show ‘em for what they are---spawn of the serpent---proselytes from Hell!"

Campbell could bear no more.  Heartsick, he had to leave the house, had to get away from Joshua.  It suddenly occurred to him that his beloved Church was tied to the fate of a deranged and frail old man.  As he reached the door he heard Joshua still ranting from somewhere deeper in the house.

"Sucker punch ‘em---show ‘em for what they are."

"Wait a minute," said Paget before John could open the door.  "What are you going to do?"

Campbell thought he detected the hint of a smug smile behind Caleb's neutral expression.

"You let this happen without telling anyone," he said.  "Why?"

"All I've done is be his friend, John," said Paget, stepping closer and purposely invading John's space.  "You shouldn't argue with him.  He founded the church and led it this far.  You should trust him, Brother John."

"He's not in his right mind."

"Best not say that again, John," said Paget evenly.

Campbell left without replying to the implied threat.  Now, as distasteful as it was, he knew what he had to do.

Little Rock, 12:10 PM

Tanner glanced at the mug shot of an unkempt, dark haired man and turned up the volume.

. . . has extended his murder spree to western Oregon with the killing of two members of a radical separatist group calling themselves the Willamette Freemen, and the shooting of a convenience store clerk near Busby.  Adding a bizarre twist to the saga, the freemen are denying authorities entrance to their compound.  Paget, a former member of the militia group, began his deadly rampage in April when he killed three members of an Arkansas family during a robbery.  Since then, he has kidnapped a Missouri woman and her baby and killed another two people in northern Arkansas.  Paget has worked at various construction sites in western Oregon and is familiar with the area.  Police are asking for anyone seeing Paget to call this toll free number, or the nearest law enforcement agency.

The tips were cascading in from people trying to be helpful.  Paget was sighted everywhere from Vancouver to San Francisco and as far east as Boise.  Most leads were only the product of overactive imaginations, but each had to be checked.  One had panned out overnight.  A motel clerk in Cottage Grove, Oregon unequivocally stated that Paget had signed in the night before the convenience store killing some one hundred and fifty miles away.  Although the man looked markedly different from his mug shot, the clerk (a college art student) said there was something about the face that made her certain that it was Paget.  Skeptical police were amazed when fingerprints from the motel register proved her right.  Within hours, she helped a sketch artist produce an updated portrait of Bobby Lee Paget.  After distributing it Tanner hoped other sightings would follow.

Canaan Camp June 17, 7:00 PM

As the assembly hall filled with nervous church members huddling in small, quietly talking groups speculating on the reason for the special meeting.  With neither prologue nor ceremony, John Campbell appeared on the dais.

"I'm sorry that we have to meet like this today," he began in an unsteady voice.  "But circumstances . . . concerning Father Joshua's state of health force us to . . . to make some hard decisions about the . . . uh . . . about the future of the Church."

A low buzz droned briefly before his amplified voice overrode it.

"As you know, Father Joshua has been ill.  He has been unable to conduct services for several weeks prior to the last sermon."

Dead silence spoke of their fearful anticipation.

"You all heard the same thing I did---the last sermon I mean.  No doubt you are worried, as you should be.  Something terrible has happened to our beloved Father Joshua.  He is . . . uh . . . he's ill . . . I . . . uh---" 

Campbell realized he was stuttering.  He stopped and drew a quick breath, and then tried to continue calmly.  "I fear that he is no longer the man he once was."

The murmuring rose in amplitude.  Concern gave way to denial, and then to eruptions of outrage. 

"I know how you feel," shouted John too loudly for the PA system.

He placed his hand over the microphone until the ear-splitting feed-back stopped.

"I know how you feel because it is the same way I feel," he said, adjusting his voice.  "We all pray that Father Joshua will regain his health soon, that he will come back and lead us again as he has so done well for so long."

The murmuring quieted.  They wanted to believe that Joshua could resume his leadership.

"At present, however, he is not able.  His last sermon has surely made plain to all of us that something is wrong.  That---"

"No," shouted a man near the front.  "Father Joshua knew exactly what he was saying.  He was divinely inspired."

The noise level rose as members of the congregation voiced conflicting opinions.

Campbell tried to regain control.

"Father Joshua is ill," he said loudly.  "He cannot sleep, and it's beginning to affect his mind."

It was the wrong thing to say.  Anger, worry, and confusion combined to increase the clamor.

"We've made a terrible mistake," said Campbell.  "We have let a man---You know him as Brother Caleb---gain a position of great responsibility, and he has misused that position.  He was supposed to be an aide to Father Joshua.  We trusted him, but in his hour of need, in his affliction, Caleb has taken advantage of that position.  For some reason beyond comprehension he has isolated Father Joshua from those who would care for him properly and would see that he has medical attention."

"Father Joshua picked Brother Caleb as an aide," challenged the man in the front row.  "And he was perfectly healthy when he did it."

"Yes, Brother Dan, he did.  But this man is not what he appeared to be.  We were all fooled, even Father Joshua.  Brother Caleb was a wolf in sheep's clothing.  What I'm about to tell you will make that clear."

Campbell hesitated for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts before continuing.

"Yesterday I learned that he has convinced Father Joshua to support a plan to disrupt another church's services.  The Father Joshua I know would never consider such a thing if he were in his right mind."

As soon as it was out of his mouth, John Campbell knew he shouldn't have said it.  The auditorium exploded in protest.

The man in the front row shouted above the tumult.  "We want to see Father Joshua!"

Versions of the shouted remark echoed from various sections of the hall.  John raised his hands in a futile attempt to quell the tumult.

"Unfortunately Father Joshua is no condition to be with us," he shouted.  "We have two things to decide today.  First, we need to select someone to conduct services until our beloved Father Joshua recovers, and, second we need to decide whether or not to expel Brother Caleb from our midst."

"You can't do that!" shouted the man in the front.  "Father Joshua, himself, picked Brother Caleb as his aide."

"Yes," admitted John.  "But if you could see the state of neglect, how he has kept our Father Joshua from the care he needs, how he has treated him---I fear Caleb is to a great extent responsible for Joshua's present . . . mental confusion."

Murmurs of "Father Joshua" arose from the congregation, and for a moment John thought they were correcting him for omitting the Father when he spoke the man's name.  Then he noticed movement behind him on the dais, and turned in surprise to see Joshua walking unsteadily toward him, a grim look on his face.  Behind him the curtains still swayed where he had emerged from back stage.

When Joshua reached the podium, he held out his hand demanding the microphone.  John relinquished it as if in a trance.  Replacing Joshua was necessary, but he shuddered at the prospect of the congregation having to witness a demonstration of the old man's shattered mind.  He breathed a prayer that what was about to happen wouldn't destroy the faith of too many of the congregation.

"Reports of my mental deterioration may have been slightly exaggerated," said Joshua softly.

Relief audibly wafted through the auditorium.

"The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak, children.  You have heard those words before, but I offer them to you in a different way---to explain my malady.  Yes, I am sick, but it is only the common ailment of all flesh.  Children, I'm getting old."

They laughed in relief.

"I am getting old, BUT  I  AM  NOT  FEEBLE!"

Eyes blazing, the old man stamped his foot as he bit off each of the last words singly.  Then he lowered his voice, and continued more reasonably.

"Brother John was right to call this meeting," he said with a thin smile.  "The Lord works in mysterious ways.  He does.  John Campbell has sought to excommunicate and banish Brother Caleb, a most trusted servant---a faithful man.  ‘Why has John done this?' you might ask.  It saddens me to tell you that it is through jealousy and ambition."

He turned to glare at John.

Jabbing a finger at him accusingly he shouted, "Like Haman he has constructed a gallows to destroy his brother, but he himself will be strung upon it."

Lowering his voice he struck an almost compassionate tone.

"My old familiar friend.  I have treated you like a son.  What more could I have done?"

Joshua turned his gaze back to the crowd.

"David had a son too, children.  Absalom, the rebel---the heir who couldn't wait for his inheritance---Absalom, a son who made war on his own father and sought to kill him so that he could wrest control of the kingdom."

When the congregation absorbed that, he turned toward the stunned Campbell.

"Could you not wait?"

"I never---"

"You thought to take the kingdom by force," he thundered, stamping his foot again.

John vehemently shook his head.  Turning from the implacable face of Joshua, he looked imploringly at the congregation.

"Children, I declare this rebel anathema.  He is cut off from Israel!  That is my judgment."  Joshua paused to look around the auditorium.  His eyes seemed to search each face momentarily.  "But, since my judgment is called into question, you must make the decision."

They sat mutely.  Nothing like this had ever happened, and they didn't know what to do.

"Well, raise your hands if you agree with me that John Campbell should be cast out of the kingdom."

Slowly hands began to rise from every section and corner of the solemn auditorium.

"Okay.  Now raise you hands if you oppose what, to me, seems a unanimous decision.

Slowly Kenneth Phillips and his wife raised their hands.  Belatedly, a hand went up in the section where the widows sat.

"You disagree with us," said Joshua petulantly.  "I'd like to hear your reasons.  Would you care to tell us why you object?"

Phillips stood slowly.  When he spoke it was in the uncertain, deferential manner of a man unused to asserting himself.

"I think that Brother John may have done what he did out of concern . . . instead of . . . ambition.  It's just that . . . well, I don't want to see anyone turned out of the Church.  It seems so harsh.  Where could he go?"

"What would you do with heretics?" shouted Joshua, startling the whole congregation.  "That man of sin has revealed himself."

Thoroughly cowed, Phillips sat down.  As he did so, his wife placed a concerned hand on his arm.

Trembling with rage, Joshua looked out over the audience.

"I command that the rebel, John Campbell---along with his fellow conspirators, Kenneth and Mary Phillips, and that . . . that woman," He jabbed his finger toward the widow who had dared raise her hand.  "Be excommunicate.  They will not see the dawn of another day here.  They will slink away in the night like the vile creatures they are.  Leave Canaan Camp before sunrise."

Raven sat stunned and sickened.  From the moment Joshua had stepped to the dais, she had sensed something wrong and, unlike others in the congregation, his appearance had not reassured her at all.  It was like he had sprung a trap.  His gleeful spite had sickened her.  Canaan Camp had been defiled by its creator.  She looked back to the dais, trying to seek out Joshua's face as if something there could give her back her faith.  But Joshua had vanished, and the meeting was ending without a formal conclusion.  People were adrift.  Many, as she was, were stunned to silence.

The four exiles stood apart and huddled together, an island in their midst, already pariahs as former brothers and sisters moved past avoiding eye contact.  Raven wandered toward the exit still trying to come to grips with the change in the old man.  She thought of him like that now, the old man.

"Mind if I walk you back?" asked Shane, catching up with her.

"Okay," she muttered.

She needed Shane's friendship now.  It seemed all that she had left.

"It's a shame about the Phillips," he said.

"And Brother John," she added.

"After what he did Father Joshua had no choice.  If he hadn't been well enough to take charge of the meeting, John would have taken control of the Church."

Am I the only one who saw what really happened? she wondered.

"John Campbell is a good man," she said softly.  "Whatever he was doing, he was not trying to take over the Church."

"Sure he was.  You heard Father Joshua."

No one had been more devoted to Joshua than she, but tonight she he had displayed a passion that had little to do with love of any kind.  She had seen it before.  It had been exactly like Starry Dawn's drug-fed temper tantrums.

"When he asked who opposed exiling Brother John, I almost raised my hand," she whispered.

He frowned, and then shook his head vigorously.  "You're just soft-hearted.  You don't want to see anything bad happen to anyone."

"It was wrong, Shane."

"No.  Father Joshua only did what he had to.  I'm sure it saddened him as much as it saddens you, but it was his duty to the Church."

The image of Joshua as he delivered the sentence of banishment flashed suddenly to her.

"He was angry, not sad," she said softly.  "He didn't even give them a chance to ask for forgiveness."

"The whole thing was underhanded, Raven.  They were going to take advantage of Father Joshua's illness.  It was obvious that John Campbell was counting on him being too sick to attend."

"Brother John and the Phillips?  You know them better than that.  They're good people.  You know they are."

"Good people get misled sometimes.  Besides, I don't believe all that stuff about Brother Caleb." he said.  "I know one thing.  If Father Joshua hadn't shown up when he did, John Campbell would be running the Church now."

I shocked her that Shane had defended Cal Hodges.

"Did you vote to banish them?" she asked.

"No.  But if it was only John I sure would have."

Her objections had sobered him.  He still thought Joshua had averted a coup, but he was beginning to wonder if things shouldn't have been handled differently.

"This is bad, Shane.  Things here will never be the same."

"But think how it would be if John had taken over and Father Joshua was gone."

"We didn't come to Canaan to worship Joshua," she said.

"No, but he's the anointed one, not John."

"This didn't have to happen---not this way," she said.

Her sense of loss was complete.  A deep emptiness had opened inside her.

Canaan Camp, early morning, June 18

The exiles bumped over a gravel road northwest of Canaan in silence, still trying to process the sudden end of the life they had chosen.  Two hours ago they believed that Canaan Camp would be their home for the rest of their lives.  Now, having forsaken family and friends for the Church, they were at a complete loss as to their future.

"Where are we going, Hodges?" asked John from the back.  "Where are these people supposed to stay?"

"The Church is taking care of all of you---for tonight.  You have motel reservations.  Tomorrow you're on your own," replied Paget as he turned onto a county road.

"Why are we going this way instead of to the highway?" asked John.

"You're not the only ones who have to leave.  Until you pulled that stunt tonight everything was cool.  Now we're all going to be homeless."

Paget pulled the van into a logging road that forked off to the right.

"Where are we going, Brother Caleb?" asked the old lady sitting next to him.

"Right here," he said as he pulled to a stop.  "For now, Granny."

He pulled open the glove compartment and took out a bottle.  You all are going to have to drink this.

"Why?" asked John.

"Joshua wants you unconscious until it's too late to mess up the mission."

"You're lying.  That's probably poison."

Paget backhanded him.  When John's vision cleared he was staring at a pistol.

"If I had my way I'd kill all of you.  At least I'd kill you," he said.  "But lucky for all of you Joshua told me just to knock you out for the night.  Now you all got a choice.  You either take the stuff in the bottle or I will kill you."

"You're going to do it anyway," said Phillips.

"Don't be stupid, old man!  If I was going to do that I'd just start shooting, wouldn't I?"

Paget smiled thinly as he watched them struggling with it.  People always thought that they'd resist and go down fighting, but hit them up aside the head with sudden violence and all they can do is beg and, in the end, go along.  From experience he knew that they would grasp at the hope he was offering because they wanted to believe him.  In the end they always did what he wanted them to do.

It was after three by the time he found the north entrance.  He went around the cable barring the gate and negotiated the maze of retired buses until he reached the middle of the boneyard.  Moonlight glinted from the abandoned behemoths' glass and chrome.  In moments he had dragged his unconscious riders out of the vehicle.  The .45 had been a great intimidator, but its report was too loud, so he opted for Peppy Pearson's .22.  Bending low he carefully placed the weapon just below the Stick Man's right ear and angled it carefully.  There was a satisfyingly small pop.  When he rolled him over the full moon reflected in half opened eyes.  Paget congratulated himself at the absence of an exit wound.  There would be very little blood.  He popped the others and then picked up the shell casings before cramming them into a Greyhound's belly compartment.