Outside the bus, people were stowing luggage. Bar Stool sat in the driver's seat with the motor idling. Across from him, Lor Lu was in his usual seat, his office. He'd lowered the hinged worktable in front of him, and his laptop sat open on it, with a map on its screen. At the moment, though, his attention was elsewhere. Taking the summons from her purse, Lee held it out to him. "Excuse me, Lor Lu."
For a long moment he seemed unaware of either the summons or of her, which was very unlike him; she half withdrew it. Then, glancing sideways, he took it, read it with raised eyebrows, and smiled wryly up at her. "It seems," he said, "the artillery I called in was not adequate. I will notify the strategic air command." His sudden laugh startled her. Getting up, he left the bus.
To make a call in private? she wondered.
He'd just returned when Art Knowles came aboard. It was Knowles who explained the situation to the tour crew. The plan had been to enter Arkansas tomorrow after breakfast, but Arkansas's Governor Cook had just declared martial law, to take effect at midnight. And word had leaked that he'd deny them entry. Lor Lu had notified Mike Shuster, at Legal, who had called Conroy, Morgenstern, and Blasingame. The firm had personnel on night standby to cover emergencies.
"They should get us at least an abeyance based on the First Amendment," Knowles finished. "Meanwhile, Dove's stealing a march on the governor. We'll cross the river before midnight."
Duke Cochran frowned. This was Dove's decision? He'd have expected patience. Why would Dove antagonize the governor? Marius Cook was well known to journalists as a far-right Christian activist, full of bona fide zeal, not simply a politician posturing for support from the Religious Right.
Cook had been part of the conservative backlash that led to the GOP split, and the formation of the America Party. But at crunch time he hadn't joined the Americists; his conservatism had too strong a populist streak, which had helped him unseat Ted Jamison as governor. By and large, the media liked Marius Cookhe was neither pompous nor abrasivebut when it came to religion, he had a short fuse, so Cochran felt uneasy.
Bar Stool pulled out of the motel lot and turned onto the interstate approach. They were on their way, but the TV trucks were not. Obviously Lor Lu hadn't notified them, and it was no oversight, Cochran felt sure. Moments later they turned south on the Memphis beltway, and Duke, who'd called up a map on his laptop, wondered if Bar Stool had made a mistake. It seemed to him they'd have taken Summer Avenue, or perhaps I-40. But a quarter hour later, when they hit the westward jog of I-55, it struck him: they were going to cross the state line on the I-55 bridge. Perhaps Cook had the Arkansas Highway Patrol watching the I-40 bridge but not the I-55, and Lor Lu or Knowles had learned of it.
A few minutes later they crossed the Mississippi into Arkansas, without incident or a cavalcade of followers. Within minutes, I-55 joined I-40. Near the junction was a visitors' center, but the bus tooled on past it. No pursuit developed, and Cochran relaxed. The roadblock was either at the foot of the bridge or not yet in place. Or maybe the report had been a false alarm.
Cochran closed his laptop. It was 130 miles to Little Rock. They could be there in a couple of hours; time enough for needed sleep. Though if the governor didn't want them there, it seemed likely the highway patrol would intercept them somewhere along the way.
"All right, folks, let's get it loaded! We got a hundred forty miles to Little Rock, and the sooner we get there, the sooner y'all can shower down and get to bed!"
The midsummer tour of Donnie Jamison's Christian Singers had drawn poorly, very poorly. Because whether or not Ngunda Aran was for realsomething Donnie rejected as a matter of Christian principlethe "Dove Tour" had totally attached the public's attention. So money was tight, morale was low, and Donnie Jamison was worried about meeting his expenses. Usually he did a pretty good job of trusting in God, but his credit was tighter'n a mosquito's ass stretched over a rain barrel. He'd arranged in advance to park in the YMCA lot, and the night watchman was to let them in to use the gymnasium shower rooms. They'd have to sleep on the bus though, with seats that tipped back only eight or ten inches. A few might spring for a room out of their own pocketshe wouldn't blame thembut he'd sleep in the bus with the others.
After tomorrow night's performance, they'd leave Little Rock and drive home to Knoxville, some 600 miles. They'd have to overnight somewhere along the way, at some motel for the driver, but he couldn't afford to put his own folks up.
Celebrity Tours! The outfit that hauled Rhonda McCrory and groups like hers, but not in a bus like this one. Only the logo was the same.
With the instruments, equipment and bags stowed, Jamison and the others who'd helped with the stowing, boarded the bus and settled into their seats. A minute later it pulled out of Memphis State University's auditorium parking lot, found its way onto Poplar Avenue, and headed west.
Donnie tried closing his eyes, but there wasn't any sign at all that he was going to fall asleep, so after a couple of minutes he opened them again. It was past midnight, and there wasn't a lot of traffic. Pretty soon he saw the river. They'd started across the bridge, when something slammed the bus and exploded. There were screams, smoke, a stink of explosive. Donnie found himself on the floor, in the aisle, the bus rocking back and forth as the dying driver tried to steer. It hit something, and careened along the rail. Metal tore, screeching, and the bus jerked to a stop.
Some of the screams became articulated. "My God!" someone cried, "help me!" And "Billy! Billy! Don't be dead, Billy."
But that was brief, cut short by a series of explosions that started from the rear and worked to the front. After that, there were no more screams, not even moans. Just the reek of burning diesel fuel.
By night, the flat, midnight-shrouded farmlands of eastern Arkansas offered little of visual interest to the casual traveler. Lee soon drew her window curtain and lay back to sleep. When she awoke, they'd left the interstate; the road was rough, and the bus moved slowly. Construction, she thought, a detour, and slept again. The next time she awoke, her watch read 2:05, and they had parked. A truck-stop parking lot, she thought sleepily. She wobbled back to the ladies' room, then returned to her seat and to sleep, without opening her curtain to peer outside.
It was daylight when next she awoke. They were moving again, slowly, and she opened her curtain. They were on a dirt truck trail along the edge of a floodplain woods. It occurred to her they'd hidden out for the final hours of the night.
Minutes later they were on a blacktopped county road. Half a mile ahead she could see the interstate. The summons from the Monroe County court popped into her consciousness, along with an expletive, not quite voiced. She didn't allow herself to dwell on the situation though. Lor Lu would handle it.
Lor Lu waited till they were back on I-40 before phoning Little Rock's network affiliates and the Democrat-Gazette. They'd done well not to be spotted the night before. Or, more accurately, Dove had done well. But now it was time. A roadside sign announced a restaurant at the next exit. He noted the exit name and number, and got back on the phone again.
For the first time, Dove went into a restaurant with them. His aura brought immediate recognition. People stared. The hostess told Lor Lu to seat themselves however he pleased, and a couple of minutes later came to Dove's table with menus and a coffee pot. She seemed unawed by him, and after she'd poured, spoke to Dove, her voice brassy and cheerful. "You're Mr. Aran, ain't you?"
"I am. And you are Mrs. Wallace."
Surprised, she looked down at her name plate. Edith was all it said. She laughed. "That's pretty good. If you're not the McCoy, you're close enough. I'll bet you eat though. Jesus even sweated. Did you know that?"
He beamed. "Oh yes."
"Were you him?"
"No I wasn't. A person is chosen who was born and raised in the time. Jesus' parents were Mary and Joseph. Mine were Maryam and Howard."
"Well that's interesting! Maryam and Howard! I'll tell my grandkids that, when I have some. I'll tell them you told me yourself." She spoke more quietly then. "Amy's supposed to be your waitress. She's nice, but when she saw who you were, she almost peed her pants. No way would she come over here. So I'll be your waitress."
She left them to decide their orders. When she'd gone, a fiftyish woman came hesitantly to his table. "Excuse me, uh, sir. Mr. Aran. I hate to bother you at your mealtime, but my husband's got prostate cancer." She gestured toward a booth. "The doctors want to operate, but he won't let them, andcan you . . . ?"
"Bring him to me," Dove said, and a minute later she returned with her husband.
"Do you want to be healed?"
"Yessir."
"Do you believe you can be healed?"
The man eyed the golden-auraed Dove worriedly. "Uh, I sure do hope so. Seems to me you might could."
"Well then" Dove grinned, a grin brighter than even Ngunda Aran's had been. His aura flared to enwrap those around him, and it was not frightening at all. "By your trust in coming to me," he said, "and through the loving power of God, you are healed."
The man's eyes widened, then he stood, seemingly dazed, before starting back to his booth, his wife murmuring to him that he hadn't thanked the man. He seemed not to hear. Dove smiled after them before turning his attention to his coffee. Lee noticed that when Dove's aura had flared, so had Lor Lu's, and the others had strengthened enough that she could see them too. Even Duke wore one around his head and upper torso. She looked down at her arms, wondering if people could see hers.
Duke Cochran wasn't paying attention to auras. His mind was examining a question: After taking the I-55 bridge, and hiding by the woods part of the night, why were they sitting in this restaurant for breakfast? It was bound to take the better part of an hour, and their bus could be seen from the highway.
Edith Wallace returned shortly, took their orders and left. Several tables away, Jenny Buckels had given her order too, and was sipping her coffee when a voice called her name. She knew at once who it was: Steven! She'd gotten to her feet before she saw her father a few feet behind him; he seemed shrunken and hesitant.
Beaming, Steven strode to her, their father following. "It's too good to believe," he said. "I'd left the freeway to get breakfast before I noticed the bus." He glanced over his shoulder at their father, who hung back; Jenny sensed his grief.
"Mom died," Steven said, "and Dad's had second thoughts. He asked if I could find you, and I learned from the, uh, Ranch that you were with the tour. We started too late to catchMr. Aran's Tennessee appearances, but I thought if we got to Little Rock in time . . ."
He straightened and looked around, his eyes moving to Dove and Lor Lu, with their conspicuous auras. "I never imagined," he said.
Edmund Buckels did not look around. His discomfort was palpable.
"Why don't you and Dad get a table or booth," Jenny said, "and I'll join you there." She glanced at Dove; he was smiling broadly at her.
"Of course," Steven said. "Come on, Dad."
She watched them go. Her father's eyes still avoided Dove. He'd never been against civil rights for blacks, though his tolerance for "pushiness" was limited. He'd made a point of "befriending" the first black family to move into the fringe of Loblolly's white community. It never grew into actual friendshipthey were never comfortable with the Johnsonsbut the Johnsons were Baptists, and Willis Johnson a pharmacist like both Edmund and his father. And associating with them was the Christian thing to do.
"Lee, tell the waitress where I've gone," Jenny said. Carrying her coffee, she followed her brother and father. They'd chosen a booth, and seated themselves side by side. She slid in across from them. "Hello, Dad," she said. "I'm glad to see you. And glad you wanted to see me." She'd realized his grief had more to do with her than with her mother's death, but she hadn't anticipated the silent tears that overflowed his eyes when she spoke to him. Reaching, she patted his hand. "Mom's watching us," she said, "and she's glad we're together here." Edmund nodded, unable to speak.
She turned to Steven. "Who's filling your pulpit while you're gone?"
"Esther Ruth Maddox," Steven answered. Then gestured with his head toward Dove. "Is hewho he seems to be?"
"I have no doubt. None at all."
Steven nodded. "It seems that way to me, too. And to Dad. Either the Second Coming, or he who comes before, to prepare the way. In either case . . ." He shook his head. "It's hard. He doesn't say the things we expected. But then, Jesus didn't say the things they expected him to, either."
Lee watched them from across the room. She too had sensed Edmund Buckel's emotion, been touched by it. Then her waitress brought her breakfast, and took Jenny's to the booth. Lee was finishing her waffle when the police arrived. The captain in command eyed the auras, then gathering himself, approached Dove and spoke to him calmly and professionally, addressing him as Mr. Aran. Dove's people, he said, could finish breakfast, but afterward he'd need to talk to them outside. He'd barely said it when the man who'd asked for healing came from the restroom. "It worked!" he shouted. "I'm healed! Thank you, God, he healed me!" He looked around at the startled faces. "I just had my first really good pee in years!"
For a moment, silence reigned, followed by applause and friendly laughter, breaking the tension of a moment before. The police captain stared, then retreated to the vestibule, shaking his head.
After Lee had signed the receipt, the captain led the tour crew out into the sunshine. Overhead were two police choppers. Some distance off, a TV chopper circled slowly. Eight or ten police cruisers blocked the entryways and approach road. The captain led Dove to one of the police cars, while a sergeant and several other officers gathered the tour crew. Art Knowles remonstrated with the sergeant in charge. He was Dove's security chief, he said, and should be allowed to go with him. Politely but firmly the sergeant refused. "Sir," he said, "nobody's going to do him any harm. He'll be just fine."
Several people had followed them out of the restaurant, and one of them shouted to the captain. "I hope to hell you know what you're doing, officer."
The captain turned and called back. "I hope so too, sir, I surely do." He got into the cruiser beside Dove and closed the door. Then the car pulled out onto the frontage road, and accelerated sharply as it headed for the on-ramp, followed by other patrol cars.
The senior sergeant and three other highway patrolmen herded the rest of the party toward the bus. Lor Lu confronted the sergeant. "Sergeant, I am Lor Lu, Mr. Aran's administrative assistant. In his absence I'm responsible for these people. What exactly is this all about?"
"Mr. Lu, martial law has been declared in Arkansas. You folks are in danger of your lives, and Governor Cook isn't about to let Mr. Aran get killed here. Or any of the rest of you folks. Last night about midnight, a whole busload of folks got all shot upDonnie Jamison and his Christian Singers. They were in another Celebrity Tours bus, on the I-40 bridge out of Memphis. Seems likely someone mistook it for yours. Slammed a bunch of rockets into it. Killed everyone on board. So when nobody knew where you were last night, Governor Cook was worried to death about y'all. Now you're under protective custody, and one of my men is going to drive. He knows where we're going, and there's no need for any of you to worry."
Good God! Lee thought, a whole busload killed! That's terrible! She wondered if the police had anything to do with it.
Steven Buckels introduced himself to the sergeant, and explained that he and his father weren't part of the tour crew. "But my sister is," he said, indicating Jenny. "We drove out from North Carolina to see her. We'll follow you."
"I'm afraid that won't work, Reverend Buckels. Your sister needs to come along with the rest of Mr. Aran's folks, and the escort isn't to let anyone follow." The sergeant frowned. "Now my orders don't say anything aboutguests of the tour. So if Mr. Lu is willing to call you that, and if you're willing to leave your car here . . ."
Steven hesitated for perhaps a second, then"I'll be right back, sergeant," he said. His eyes found Lor Lu, who was ushering the last few crew members aboard the bus; Jenny was the last of them. Steven strode over to them, and briefly they talked. Two minutes later, Steven and Edmund Buckels were aboard with the tour crew, carrying only a small bag each.
The sergeant took a seat halfway back in the bus, and sent the remaining two of his men farther to the rear. The trooper-driver seemed familiar with buses. After warming it up briefly, he drove from the lot, preceded by a patrol car and followed by others.
The TV hadn't been turned back on, so Duke Cochran booted up his laptop. Protective custody, he said to himself. And the pope is Presbyterian. He wondered where they were taking Dove, and if they'd be stupid enough to do anything to him. Jail him perhaps. It occurred to him that might be what Dove intended; they might be playing into his hands. Although what possible purpose that could serve . . . He'd already rejected the idea that the state patrol might have shot up the other bus. He was no lawyer, but it seemed to him the FBI would assert its jurisdiction over murders aboard an interstate commercial carrier. And if the state police were guilty of the killings, the feds would stick it to them ruthlessly.
His thoughts were interrupted by a patrolman collecting laptops and cell phones. Without them, Cochran felt naked.
Lor Lu turned on the television, which as usual was set to CNN. The picture gave them an aerial viewpoint. The TV chopper had accompanied the captain's cruiser, keeping the prescribed distance, but telephoto shots showed Dove visible through a window. A radar readout showed the cruiser's speed87 miles per hour. The pilot increased his speed, moving to a position perhaps a half mile ahead of the cruiser. The bus was not in sight. From a seat next to the pilot, a newswoman provided commentary.
Abruptly the shot changed to show one of the police choppers moving toward the camera. Via a radio-camera hookup, the viewers could hear the police chopper ordering the TV chopper back to Little Rock. They could also see a gun of some sort, seemingly an assault rifle, being used to gesture from the door. The view swung away westward as the TV chopper started for home, shepherded by one of the other police aircraft.
Race played little or no part in Governor Marius Cook's hostility toward Dove. He'd grown up in his parents' church, an Ozark Baptist congregation with an old antislavery tradition. They may not have considered blacks as good as whites, but even then they'd regarded them as human beings, God's children, not to be bought or sold.
Today he sat in his office with his aide and his pastor, watching the wall screen intently. "Everett," the governor said to his aide, "what is that stupid sonofabitch doing, waving that gun out the helicopter door like that for the whole world to see? I explicitly ordered that everything was supposed to look cool!"
It seemed to Everett Miller the answer was obvious: in an operation involving that many people, some were likely to screw up. He did not, however, point this out. He was worried, wondering if Marius Cook hadn't bitten off more than he could chew. For two weeks, Everett had been keeping up with the TV highlights of what the newspeople were calling "the Messianic Procession," and he couldn't help wondering if Dove wasn't what so many people now claimed he was. Or hoped he was.
Everett didn't mention that either. He'd learned not to disagree openly with Marius on anything to do with religion. In other matters, he could and did level with the governorselectively. He and Marius Cook had been boyhood friends, himself the elder. Later they'd overlapped for two years at the U. of A., from which Everett Miller had graduated in public management with honors, and a minor in political science. Marius had squeaked through in law, and by dint of hard workhe'd always been good at thathad passed the bar exam on his third try, which was respectable.
They'd worked together politically beginning with Marius's first run for the legislature. Everett Miller had always known that his friend had flaws of character, not all of them trivial, but they'd been friends since second grade, and Everett Miller stood by his friends. Especially he stood by Marius Cook. And politically, if Marius said he'd do something, he at least gave it an honest try. That made up for a lot.
The flaw that had gotten him into this situationEverett Miller was confident it was a situationwas that Marius could not abide what he considered heresy.
And Marius had become somewhat erratic after an attempt on his life that spring. He'd have been killed if it weren't for a misfirethat and the pistol in his desk drawer. He'd gotten it out and fired back, while the would-be assassin was trying to unjam his weapon. Afterward Marius had given the credit to the Lord, "who has a purpose in mind for me," he'd said, "a task for me to fulfill."
Still, "in these lawless times with their Godless men," Marius had not left it all in God's hands. Not only had he added additional security personnel to the mansion staff, he'd acquired "a real Uzi"actually an Iraqi-made copywhich he kept in a capacious lower desk drawer, loaded. He'd even practiced with it several times, early on, on the capitol police's underground firing range.
More recently he'd pretty much forgotten about it, which didn't surprise his old friend. Marius had always tended to enthusiasms, and to getting over them in a week or a month. The "Church of the Divine Exhortation" was the most conspicuous exception to that.
Senior Sergeant Carl Lavender knelt on the bus's rear seat, looking out the back window. They'd left the interstate, exiting unnoticed onto a county road. Unnoticed because road blocks had prevented interstate entry both ahead and behind, to keep the media from knowing where the bus was.
Going up front again, he sat next to Lor Lu, diagonally across from the trooper driving. A mile and a half farther on, they turned off the narrow blacktop into a county road department equipment yard. It wasn't mucha large semi-cylindrical Butler shed where equipment was worked on, and a yard with a couple of dump trucks, a grader, bulldozer, front-end loader, semitractor with flatbed trailer, a big pile of crushed rock, and a bigger pile of gravel. All of it surrounded on three sides by thick-trunked cottonwoods, and on all four sides by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. It was Saturday, and no one was there except them.
"Pull in behind the shed, Loy," Lavender told the driver, "so's we can't be seen from the road. But under the trees; otherwise we'll have to keep the motor running so's the sun don't cook us." He turned to his captive passengers. "All right, folks, you can get out five at a time and stretch your legs if you want. Just stay close. I definitely don't want to handcuff anyone, but if I need to, I will."
"Excuse me, Sergeant," Art Knowles said, "but we haven't been shown any warrant for our arrest."
"That's right sir. You're not under arrest. Like I said before, you're in protective custody. Though I suppose it doesn't make that much difference just now, from your point of view. Just keep in mind that martial law's been in effect since midnight. Y'all been drawing awfully big crowds with not much security, and the amount of traffic following you . . . Yesterday you had more than a hundred vehicles chasing along behind. The Tennessee Highway Patrol called it the worst traffic situation they'd seen since their big ice storm of '94."
Those who got out used a chemical toilet near the shed, to spare the ones on the bus, which otherwise would soon need to be pumped out. But mostly the crew stayed on board, watching TV.
Local television, including the network affiliates, were skirting the subject of Dove's seizure and the disappearance of the busmentioning it but not speculating. Duke Cochran supposed they'd been constrained by martial law provisions.
CNN, of course, was giving major time to both description and speculation, and to demands by the U.S. Attorney General's office for an explanation. Constitutional law experts speculated that if Governor Cook wasn't quickly forthcoming, he'd find U.S. marshals on his doorstep with a warrant for his arrest.
Sergeant Lavender watched along with the tour crew, saying nothing, but looking increasingly unhappy. After a few minutes, a highway cruiser arrived with two more troopers. Lavender had them pull in behind the shed, too.
Steven and Edmund Buckels had taken a seat together in the bus. After a bit Jenny went to them and looked at Steven. "Hello, big brother," she said. "Trade you seats. It's my turn to sit by Daddy."
Steven smiled at her and moved across the aisle, while she sat down beside their father, putting her hand on his forearm. "I'm glad you came, Dad. You've made me very happy."
Again silent tears overflowed his eyes. She squeezed his hand gently, saying nothing more till she sensed he could speak without breaking. Then she asked what kind of summer they'd had back home. "About right," he said. "Not too hot, and God has sent rain when needed. The farmers are happy with it, and it's to them that weather means the most." He looked searchingly at his daughter. "Jenny," he began, paused, then continued. "I've come to ask your forgiveness."
Leaning, she kissed his cheek, then chuckled. "I'll forgive you if you'll forgive me."
He smiled wanly. "I believe we have already. Butthe greater fault was mine." Once more he paused. "Do you truly believe Mr. Aran is the messiah?"
"I do, Father. I'm a healer now; he taught me. His love and compassion are beyond my comprehension. I've been blessed to know him." She gestured. "We all have."
He examined his hands. "I fear I cannot let go my doubts. He isbeyond anything I'd thought to see, but I have not been able to swear a belief in him. I have been warned too often of the antichrist."
Her voice softened. "That's all right, Father. The Infinite Soul doesn't demand. It simply loves. It is love. There is no punishment for doubting."
Once such heresy would have triggered anger. Now he simply nodded, not convinced perhaps, but receptive.
* * *
Noon came and went, and Sergeant Lavender's stomach began to complain. He had no doubt everyone else's had too. He began to look at ways to get food delivered, sufficient for his detainees and his men, without tipping anyone as to whom it was for.
Then he heard a chopper in the distance, and left the bus to look. It came nearer, to hover directly over the shed at about two hundred feet. It had neither police nor national guard markings, nor the logo of any TV station.
CNN in a charter job, sure as can be. He shook his head. It was probably just as well. It would put pressure on old Marius, and maybe the damn fool would realize the trouble he was making for himself.
He became aware of Art Knowles standing a few feet behind him. Knowles spoke quietly: "I guess the fat's in the fire now, eh, Sergeant?"
"I wouldn't be a bit surprised, Mr. Knowles, not a bit."
But he didn't send anyone for food until the telltale video shots of the bus were shown on CNN, and the location announced. Then he had lunch orders compiled for his prisoners and troopersthe state would payand called Bell Creek, placing orders for pizza, tacos, burgers, and fried chicken.
Before the food was delivered, the first rubberneckers and believers had parked along the road and were looking through the fence. Minutes after the food arrived, so did the first wheelchair case.
It was 3 p.m. when a police van pulled up in front of the governor's mansion in Little Rock. The street had been blocked off most of the day, and the sidewalk and grounds were also out of bounds, patrolled by capitol police. Thus, as Dove was taken from the van and hustled inside, no spectators stood by. Only two video cameras, and inside the entrance two more, one following, the other backing ahead of him, across the foyer and along a corridor.
In his office, the governor watched Dove's progress on the wall screen. This was to be Marius Cook's finest hour: the public interrogation of Ngunda Aran, and his exposure as counterfeit. So far as possible, Marius intended to undo the damage brought about by the antichrist's false teachings, which meant it had to be on national TV, preferably on prime time. So he'd had "the guru" quietly kept in a holding cell at the Highway Patrol substation outside Lonoke.
He'd had to jump the gun though, move it up to midafternoon. The public detention of the guru, followed by the discovery of the tour bus and its passengers by CNN, had brought a demand from "Babylon on the Potomac" for an explanation, and he didn't want the FBI pounding on his door. So he'd promised to explain everything at 3 p.m., on network television. On Saturdays, afternoon was as prime as evening anyway, in the U.S.A. and Canada. And CNN would get him coverage throughout the rest of the world.
Standing, he watched Ngunda Aran being marched down the corridor to his office, and noticed with satisfaction that the man was handcuffed. Captain Swingel had protested the order, but obeyed it. He should have removed the man's aura machine, too, stripped him if need be. It wasn't seemly that a false messiah wear a halo to his interrogation. Good God! He looked like some kind of big yellow torch! Now they were at the door, and Captain Swingel was reaching, knocking. As Marius Cook turned his attention from screen to door, he found his guts in one titanic knot. There were three sharp raps. One of the governor's bodyguards opened to them, and Ngunda Aran entered.
Somehow the guru seemed taller, more imposing in person than on the screen, his aura more alive. Two troopers had entered with him, one holding each arm. When they stopped in front of his desk, the governor was tight as a fiddle string. Licking dry lips, Marius gathered himself.
"Are you the man known as Ngunda Aran?"
"I am called that, yes."
"Is it true that you have also called yourself God? Or a new Messiah?"
"When the Infinite Soul manifests itself in human form, it is each person's choice to recognize it or not."
The brief exchange had strengthened Marius Cook, but still he was tense, a spring wound near its limit. "Are you familiar with the Holy Bible, that it is the Word of God?"
"I know the Bible more thoroughly than you do. It is the word of men, some inspired, some not."
Cook's jaws clenched, and he began to redden. Oh God, thought Everett Miller, here we go. Marius is going to make a fool of himself on national television.
The governor's voice displayed an edge now. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you, Antichrist!"
Dove didn't answer, simply gazed calmly at the governor.
"Answer when I speak to you, you spawn of Satan!" Cook spit the words.
"Your question was rhetorical, not requiring an answer."
Marius Cook's jaw muscles were large and powerful, developed by a lifelong habit of grinding his teeth. Now they bunched like golf balls, and he jabbed the air with his finger. "When you land on God's doorstep, it's Him you'll answer to."
He paused, gathering himself again. He'd had this man brought here for interrogation, not to squabble with him. "Tell me, Ngunda Aran, what must a man do to be saved?"
"There is no need to be saved. The body dies whatever one does. And the soul is immortal; it cannot be threatened. Nor is there a hell, unless one insists on experiencing it."
Cook turned to one of the cameras. "Note that! He says a man need not be saved!" Then he turned back to Dove. "What about where Jesus said, 'Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God'?"
The calm face smiled. "You have been and will be born again and again, in the usual manner. Eventually you will be gathered with the rest, into the Tao. You may wish to think of it as into the loving arms of God."
Marius Cook no longer felt the slightest apprehension. He was a warrior nowa soldier of God. He no longer even saw the vivid golden aura. This devil was damning himself with his answers. "And what have you got to say about false messiahs? False Christs?"
"The man Jesus has been quoted as saying, 'By their fruits shall ye know them.' " Dove paused. "Marius, Marius, you are full of fear and hatred. You claim to love God, but no one truly loves God unless he loves his fellow humansall of them, including those who hate and despise him, who persecute and kill him. If you loved me, you would not have brought me here chained."
It seemed to Marius Cook that his prisoner had suddenly grown, a head taller. The apparency shook him, and he felt his fear as itself, not disguised now as anger or scorn. Meanwhile his prisoner spoke on.
"To love others, Marius, you must first love yourself. And to love yourself, it will help to examine yourself, as honestly as you can, without rationalizing, without excuses. And without withholding. The wrongs you've done, you cannot hide from the Tao." The voice softened. "Yet the Tao loves you as it loves the most innocent child.
"Take responsibility for your acts, starting with what you did to the children Julia and Benjamin, and Millie-Rose." Marius Cook's eyes bulged in sudden shock. What? How could this be? "And to the wife of Harmon, and the wife of Bobby John . . ." The governer's jaw fell slack. " . . . And the widow Frankie Mae, who trusted you with her property . . ." Marius dropped into a crouch, an idiotic "wa wa wa" issuing from his mouth. Jerking his lower right-hand desk drawer entirely from the desk, he scrabbled within it, and came up with the Uzi. " . . . and your old mentor and law partner Earl, when he began to be senile, and your . . ."
Rising, Marius fired a short burst into Dove's midsection, the slugs erupting through the erect body, one striking a highway patrolman behind him. The officer fell, but Dove merely stopped listing the governor's hidden sins.
"Ah, Bird," he said. His voice was strong and clear, speaking the love name Cook's mother had used. "You cannot kill the Tao's love for you. It is impossible, however unworthy you think yourself."
"Wa wa wa!" Cook's finger convulsed, this time emptying the magazine in a long burst, the weapon climbing with recoil, stitching Dove from belly to forehead, blood gushing from a torn throat. Fragments of skull and brain splattered behind him, and plaster fell from the wall. Most in the room had dropped to the floor, even Everett Miller, who hadn't known his old friend as well as he'd thought.
Everyone dropped in fact but Dove and the governor. And those behind the cameras, who transmitted it all and got it on cube, though they wouldn't remember doing it.
For a long moment Dove remained upright, his smile and aura bright almost beyond bearing. With a nasal cry, Marius Cook threw the empty Uzi at him, the weapon striking him in the chest. Dove began to slump, folding at knees and hips, falling forward to the blood-pooled floor. The governor screamed, opened an upper drawer, this time bringing forth a .38-caliber pistol, shoving its barrel into his own mouth so hurriedly he broke teeth with it, as if he couldn't do it fast enough. And pulled the trigger.
The cameramen got that, too.