Canaan Camp

Chapter Fifteen

Outcasts

Elsinore

          A former neighbor directed them to a trailer park in town.  A woman answered Richard's knock without unlatching the screen door.  

           "Are you Cathy Howard?" he asked.

          She peered through the silvery mesh, a baby on her hip.  "What do you want?" she asked guardedly.

           "I'm Richard Carter, a deputy sheriff over in Hawthorn County."  He held up his badge and then turned the folder so that she could see his picture ID.  "This is my wife, Jill.  If you could spare the time, we'd like to talk to you about Paget."

           "I've already told them everything I can remember," she said without moving to unlatch the door.

           "I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't important, but two women have been killed over in our county and---"

           "The TV says he's in Oregon," she interrupted.

           "I think he may have been staying in our area over there.  I don't think he would be foolish enough to come back, but . . . we all have to be cautious until he's caught."

          She clutched her baby to her, still making no move to invite them in.

           "He is a cute one," said Jill.  "What is his name?"

           "Billy," she said, turning her attention to Jill for the first time.  "Are you a deputy too?"

           "No, I am only Richard's wife.  I came along because otherwise I would get no time with my husband this weekend.  We also are having a baby.  I hope ours is as bright-eyed as Billy."  She turned to Richard.  "Have you noticed how he has been studying us, dear?"

          Cathy bounced the baby, but still made no move to open the door.

           "Is he a little explorer yet?" Jill asked her.

           "Yes.  He gets into everything, she said, fumbling with the latch.  "I don't know where my manners have gone.  Come in out of the heat."

 

          They had iced tea in the kitchen nook while Cathy, with wide-eyed Billy on her lap, dispassionately rehearsed her abduction and captivity.  The amount of detail she related made Richard revise his estimation of her intelligence.

           "After what I heard about him, I think I must have a guardian angel."

180.

           "How did he treat you?" asked Richard.  "Was he threatening and abusive, or apologetic and reassuring?"

           "Threatening while we were in the car.  After we got home he just assumed control like he wasn't worried that I would do anything but what he said.  He didn't talk much---just told me what to cook or where to sit.  He tied me up when he slept."

          She frowned, interlaced her fingers, and worked her hands as she continued with closed eyes.

           "I knew he was going to kill me even before I heard about that Arkansas family.  I'd catch him looking at me, and I just knew that he would . . . do it.  But all he ever really did was like give me orders.  He kept saying everything was going to be all right as soon as he was able to leave.  He was lying."

           "What did he talk about?" asked Richard.

           "We never had a conversation.  In the car---on the way home he kept trying to . . . kind of reassure me I guess.  He said the car he wrecked was stolen and that he needed to hide because he wasn't going back to prison.  That's how he explained what he was doing."

           "Can you tell us more about how he got control of you?"

           "I . . . uh . . . I really . . . don't want to think about it."

           "Cathy," said Jill.  "I cannot imagine what it must have been like, but I can probably get closer to understanding than my husband can.  He is not here to satisfy his curiosity.  He needs to know how this man behaves so that he can find him before he hurts some other woman."

           "I just want it to be over."

           "I know.  Believe me I do.  But you are the only one who has ever gotten away from him.  Perhaps you know things about him that no one else does."

           "Nothing important."

           "My husband says that every detail in an investigation is potentially important.  Maybe you can remember something you haven't told anyone yet."

           "He didn't say where he was going or what he was going to do.  I can't remember even a hint of anything like that.  Believe me, I've tried---I've tried real hard."

           "Perhaps you are trying too hard.  Let's just you and me talk.  I will make my husband sit still and be quiet."

          Cathy laughed.  "I'll try," she said.

181.

          As soon as she started talking about the night of her abduction she became woodenly serious.  Her face lost all expression.

           "He faked having a heart attack," she said.  "He was almost apologetic about me having to help him to the car.  I got him into the back and started for the hospital when he told me not to speed.  I thought he was worried about causing me to get a ticket.  Then he grabbed my hair and . . . I felt the knife on my throat.  He made me take him home.  I knew then he was going to kill me.  I thought about crashing the car but I couldn't because Billy was there."

           "Do you remember what he said?" asked Richard.

           "He said if I did what I was told nothing would happen to me or Billy.

           "Did he ever hit you later or maybe display something threatening like the knife or anything like that?"

           "He put the knife to my throat in the car, but afterward, no.  The only time he even touched me after that was when he tied me to the chair or to the bed."  She shifted uncomfortably, bit at her lower lip.  "He always kept Billy with him when I was out of the room.  He never said he would hurt him . . . but I couldn't take no chances.  I knew he would kill me when he left but maybe not Billy."

          She sniffed, her eyes riveted on Jill's.  "He wouldn't have just killed me, either.  I saw this look in his eyes."

          Cathy shook her head angrily.

           "It was stupid of me, I guess.  But the accident wasn't staged, and he seemed like a decent guy and I thought he was having a heart attack.  And he was so convincing.  I remember how he set my mind at ease about him.  He was worried that I'd get my dress dirty if I helped him up.  Can you imagine?"

          It sounded familiar, but Jill passed it off as something she had read.

           "He never fooled me again though," continued Cathy.  "He kept saying he wouldn't hurt me, but I knew better."

           "You're all right now, aren't you?" asked Jill with a sympathetic smile.

           "Sure," said Cathy as she absently bounced her baby on her knee.  "Except when someone knocks at the door.  Or when I wake up in the night thinking I've heard something.  Or when some strange guy looks at me.  Funny---I used to like that."

           "I'm sorry, Cathy," said Jill as she reached out to touch the young mother's hand.  "It was really a dumb question."

           "It's okay.  I don't guess anyone could understand who ain't had it happen to them."

          Jill well knew what it was like, but didn't think it would be productive to begin relating her own ordeal.

182.

           "Can I hold your baby?" she asked.

           "Why?" asked Cathy, lifting her chin.  "So that I'll feel more like we're just having a girl-to-girl chat instead of being interrogated?"

           "No.  He just seems so darling, and I want to get to used to it.  Richard and I are new to the area and we don't have any friends with children.  I really would like to hold him."

           "Sure," said Cathy, visibly relaxing.  "I'm sorry about that interrogation thing.  Here.  Take my little man---but watch him.  He grabs everything."

Jill sat Billy on her lap.

           "He's so intense," she said to Richard.  "He's been listening to everything we say, and trying to figure us out."

           "Yeah," said Cathy.  "He's a handful.  When are you due?"

           "Maybe around Christmas or New Years," said Jill dodging the little hand seeking her nose.

          She twisted away, but not before Billy clutched a handful of her long hair.

           "Sorry about that.  He loves hair," said Cathy, gently removing Billy's grasp.

           "And watch out, sometimes he takes it in his head to taste it.  Don't you, you little heathen?"

          She chucked his plump chin, eliciting a single toothed smile.

           "Anyway . . . the man---he didn't say anything about his past, or what he intended to do except that he would leave when it was safe.  He was calm most of the time.  The only time he got angry was at some preacher on TV.  I didn't hear what the guy said to make him mad, but he was cussing him out good.  Of course a lot of people don't like what preachers say."

 

           "So how do you think she escape being attacked?" he asked once they were on the way back.  "She fits his fantasy---young, pretty, vulnerable.  Once he gained control why didn't he attack her?  Or do you think maybe he did and she just doesn't want anyone to know?"

           "No.  Perhaps the baby made a difference."

"Paget has a soft spot for kids?  I don't think so.  Sociopaths don't have soft spots."

          Jill frowned in concentration.

           "Labels like ‘sociopath' can lead one to oversimplify," she said.  "Billy has no father.  Paget's father abandoned his mother when he was quite young.  Perhaps he identified with him and delayed . . . the inevitable.  Or perhaps he simply kept her alive to take care of the child so that he would not have to do so."

          Richard took his attention from the road long enough to stare at her a moment.

183.

           "I keep thinking that she wasn't telling us the everything."

           "You mean about forcing himself on her?"

           "It's possible, isn't it?"

           "It would be understandable," she said.  "But I do not think so.  She was not beaten and there were no bruises on her neck.  From the description of his crimes and those horrible pictures it seems that he cannot restrain himself.  Violence is the essence of his sexual behavior.  He would have at least hurt her badly enough to leave bruises."

Richard felt guilty.  The meager insights he had gained didn't seem worth forcing Jill to immerse herself in the horror as he had done.  They rode in silence for some time before Jill spoke.

            "Billy was a complicating factor I think," she said.  "But in the end it would have made no difference.  He is a psychopath.  Perhaps he would not kill a child, but he would have killed her.  She knew that.  It is why she cannot sleep."

            "I'm sorry, Babe," he said.

            "Don't be.  I am with you, and . . . we are sharing something for a change."

            "The last thing I want is to make you sad."

            "It is a sad business you are in, Richard."

           Even before she continued, he knew something he didn't want to hear was coming.

            "Once making me happy was the most---no," she said, stopping herself.  "That is the very thing that we must stay away from.  You must not shut me out of your life, and I must not resent what is important to you."

184.

            "Jill, it's . . ."

            "It is a dark place that you have taken me," she finished.  "No matter.  I have been to dark places before.  It is better than being alone.  That is the darkest place of all."

 

Canaan Camp, June 15

           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.  The PCP and roofies seemed to have reached a tenuous equilibrium producing a state that approximated normality.  Joshua was coming off the high and approaching a calm suggestible state where ideas could be planted and reinforced.  The old sat with only an occasional twitch as he focused on the six o'clock news.

           He 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 up to.  The louse reception of the local UHF station irritated him.  He decided to get a VCR and some decent tapes.

           Spokesmen for the crusade say they have sold out the dome for the tour's weekend meeting later this month.  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 that they are suspending services so that members can travel to St. Louis the weekend of the revival.

            "The 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.  And he probably can't even read on more than 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.

 

185.

            "Look at all of them.  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 talking 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," said Paget, almost cooing.  "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.

186.

             "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 really get it in his head to take over.  That would not be good idea---at least not while I'm here.

 

            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 made him sick.  The old man (that's how John thought of him now) had made a pathetic spectacle of himself tonight, revealing that he was only an eroded remnant of what he once had been.  All the good had rotted away---and so quickly. 

            Pride and ego was all he had seen.  Face shiny with perspiration, bony hands gripping and sliding ceaselessly over the lectern, eyes glinting with a hot intensity, his beloved mentor had delivered a confused harangue.  The pale horse of the apocalypse was the AIDS virus.  Joshua had gone on to concoct a ridiculous scenario involving the CIA, the CDC, the NAACP and some black evangelist in a plot to destroy the Wilderness Church.

            The explanation was plain and sickening:  Joshua was no longer Joshua.  John hated to use the term senile dementia even to himself, but there was no other 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?

            He gazed out over the moon lit fields of Canaan Camp.  "What demon have we lost you to, Joshua?" he whispered.

            It was tempting to blame Caleb for not taking care of Joshua properly.  Caleb had isolated him, and the newcomer's 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.  Despite all that something had to be done, and it seemed up to him.  He didn't think he was up to it.

 

Canaan Camp, June 16

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

187.

             "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 was sick.  John knew that whatever was wrong with Joshua it wasn't 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.  Then he reconsidered.  It wasn't time for that just yet.

             "Okay," 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 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 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."

            As the old man shuffled closer, John detected the odor of personal neglect.  He wondered when Joshua had taken his last bath. 

            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," he said, his smile a yellow-toothed rictus that stretched pale thin lips tightly over purple gums.

            A high-pitched giggle morphed into a hacking cough, but it didn't slow the old man down.  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.

 

188.

            "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, as 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."

             "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---brothers in arms---strong arms and forearmed---they fly forth into the four corners of the Earth," mumbled Joshua, 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."

             "What are you talking about?"

             "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."

             "Surveillance and reconnaissance," said Joshua.  "Got to know what the enemy's up to.  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!"

 

189.

             "What do they have to do with us?  Or we with them?" asked John gently, seeking to calm the old man.

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

            John turned a confused look in Paget's direction.  Obviously he had to tell the man something.

             "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."

             "Why would we want to do that?"

             "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.  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.  Struggling 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!"

 

190.

             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 thoroughly damaged 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?"

             "How long has he been this way?"

             "I don't know what you mean," said Paget evenly.

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

             "You let this happen without telling anyone.  Why?"

             "All I've done is be his friend," 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."

             "I don't think I would say that anymore if I were you," said Paget.

                     Campbell left without replying, but now, as distasteful as it was, he knew what he had to do.

 

Little Rock

            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 Seattle and as far west of Boise.  Many leads were only the produce of overactive imaginations, but all had to be checked out.  Last night one had actually panned out.  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 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.  Tanner was hopeful that other sightings would follow.

 

Canaan Camp June 17

            As the assembly hall filled nervous church members huddled in small, quietly talking groups speculating on the reason for the special meeting.  With neither prologue nor ceremony, John Campbell appeared on the dais and looked out over the expectant crowd frowning.

             "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."

191.

              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 and reactions to the shouted comment.

            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 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 an insane 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."

 192.

            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 out 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."

 193.

            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."

194.

            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.  He had sprung a trap, and his gleeful spite 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 would make help her make sense of it all and give her back her faith.

            Joshua had vanished, and the meeting was ending without a formal conclusion.  People were adrift, many like she stunned to silence.  The four exiles stood huddled together, an island in the 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 realized with surprise that she needed his friendship now, as complicated as that hopeless situation was, 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 the Church from away."          

               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. 

195.

            "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."

             "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.  He didn't even give them a chance to ask for forgiveness."

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

             "Brother John and the Phillips?  You know them better than that."

             "Good people get misled sometimes," he said dismissively.  "All I know is that if Father Joshua hadn't shown up when he did, Campbell would now be running the Church now."

             "Did you vote to banish them?"

             "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."

            Her sense of loss was complete.  A deep emptiness seemed to possess her.

             "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.