The man rose. "And you are-?"
"Harriman from the Post ."
"He just barged in, Reverend-," the aide-de-camp began.
But a slow smile was spreading across Buck's face. "Harriman. It's all right, Todd, I've been expecting this gentleman."
Deflated, Todd retreated to a corner of the tent, while Buck shook the extended hand. Seen up close, he looked shorter than he did while preaching. He wore a simple checked short-sleeved shirt and a pair of chinos: no blow-dried helmet of hair or polyester suits for this preacher. His forearms were meaty and one sported a tattoo. His handshake was a crusher. Ex-prison, guessed Harriman.
"You've been waiting for me?" he asked.
Buck nodded. "I knew you'd come."
"You did?"
"It's all part of the plan. Won't you sit down?"
Harriman took a plastic seat at the card table and removed his microcassette recorder. "May I?"
"Be my guest."
Harriman turned it on, tested it, set it carefully on the table. "Perhaps we should begin with this plan of yours. Tell me about it."
Buck smiled indulgently. "I was referring to God's plan."
"Right. Okay. Which is?"
Buck spread his hands. "What you see all around you. I am nothing, just one flawed human trying my best to fulfill God's plan. You, Mr. Harriman, whether you know it or not, are a part of that plan, too. An important part, as it turns out. Your articles have swelled this crowd, brought people together-those with ears to hear and eyes to witness."
"Witness what?"
"The rapture."
"Excuse me?"
"God's promise to his followers in the End Days. When the faithful will be lifted into heaven while the wicked sink into filth and fire." Buck hesitated briefly. And in that hesitation, Harriman detected a flash-just a flash-of nervousness. Perhaps the man was a little scared at what he'd unleashed.
"What makes you think the End Days are here?"
"God sent me a sign. It was your article in the newspaper, the article on the deaths of Grove and Cutforth, that first brought me here all the way from Yuma, Arizona."
"And just who are all these people camped around you?"
"The saved, Mr. Harriman. Out there are the damned. Which are you?"
Harriman was taken aback by the suddenness of the question. Buck was eyeing him with an almost Rasputin-like intensity.
"Does it matter?" Harriman laughed weakly.
"Does it matter whether you spend eternity boiling in a lake of fire or lying sweetly in the lap of Jesus? Because the time has come to make a choice. These awful deaths have made that clear. No more sitting on the fence, wondering where the truth is. This question enters everyone's life at some point, and now that life-changing decision has suddenly, without warning, come to you . Remember Paul's Epistle to the Romans: There is none righteous, no, not one . For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God. You must repent and be born again in the love of Jesus. You can wait no longer. So, Mr. Harriman: are you saved, or are you damned?"
Buck waited for a reply.
Harriman felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. The guy was really waiting for an answer, and it was clear he wouldn't go on until he got one. What was he going to reply? Sure, he'd always considered himself a Christian, sort of-but not a Bible-thumping, proselytizing Christian.
"I'm still working it out," he finally said. How had he allowed Buck to set the agenda like this? Who was in charge of this interview, anyway?
"What's there to work out? The decision is simple. Remember what Jesus said to the wealthy man who desired eternal life: Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor . For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. Are you ready to give away your earthly goods, Mr. Harriman, and join me? Or will you walk away, like that rich man in the Gospel of Luke?"
Harriman thought about this. Had Jesus really said that? Something must have been lost in the translation.
Maybe another tack would break this impasse. "So when, Reverend, is all this going to happen?"
"If everybody knew when the Day of Judgment would dawn, we'd have a whole lot of converts the night before. It will come when the world least expects it ."
"But you expect it. And very soon."
"Yes. Because God has sent his faithful a sign, and that sign was the death that took place right across the street."
Harriman noted that the group of policemen in the distance had grown a little bigger. They were talking and taking notes. He realized abruptly this little Shangri-La wasn't going to last. If Christ didn't come soon, the police would. You couldn't have hundreds of people shitting in the bushes of Central Park forever. And come to think of it, there was an odd smell wafting on the air .
"What will you do if the police move in to evict you?" he asked.
Buck paused, his face betraying another fleeting glimpse of uncertainty, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. The serene expression returned.
"God will be my guide, Mr. Harriman. God will be my guide."
{ 59 }
D'Agosta heard the sirens first, shattering the peace of the Tuscan countryside with their dissonant two-note ditty. Next came the headlights of two vehicles speeding around a nearby hill and sweeping up the drive. They ground to a halt before the villa with an audible spray of gravel. Police lights cartwheeled across the ceiling of the alone .
Pendergast rose from his crouch. The tweezers that had magically appeared from his clothing just as magically disappeared.
He glanced at D'Agosta. "Shall we retire to the chapel? We wouldn't want these good gentlemen to think we've been tampering with their crime site."
D'Agosta, still gripped with fear and dread, nodded dumbly. The chapel. That seemed like a good idea. A really good idea.
The chapel was in the traditional location at the far end of the alone , a tiny but exquisite Baroque room which could fit little more than a priest and half a dozen family members. There didn't seem to be any electric lights, so Pendergast lit a votive candle in a red glass holder, and they settled on the hard wooden benches to wait.
Almost immediately there was the sound of a door booming open; boots echoing in the downstairs hall; police radios blaring. D'Agosta was still holding his cross, his eyes on the small marble altar. The candle gave out a flickering reddish glow, and the air was redolent with frankincense and myrrh. He resisted the impulse to go down on his knees. He reminded himself he was a policeman, this was a crime scene, and the idea that the devil had come and claimed Bullard's soul was ridiculous.
And yet, in the perfumed darkness, it didn't feel the least bit ridiculous. His hand shook as it clutched the cross.
Now the carabinieri burst into the alone . D'Agosta heard a gasp; some muffled expostulations of shock; what sounded like a prayer being quickly intoned. Then came the familiar sounds of a crime scene being secured and floodlights being set up. A moment later the room beyond was bathed in almost unbearably bright light. A beam lanced into the chapel, striking the marble Christ behind the altar and setting it aglow.
A man appeared in the doorway, casting a long shadow. He was dressed, not in uniform, but in a tailored gray suit, a couple of gold leaves on his lapel signifying rank. He paused, staring. To D'Agosta, he seemed no more than an outline, framed in brilliant light, a short-barreled 9mm Beretta Parabellum in his hand.