Dexter smiled slightly; they were circling each other like wary combatants looking for handholds. Both wanted something from the other. Dexter could see that the old man was much more than he first appeared. A bright intensity shone from his blue eyes. "How do you mean that?" Dexter said. "There are lots of ways to view creation. Darwin doesn't have to dispute biblical creation."
"Y'mean, God creates life by bringing accidental single cell clusters of microbes together, and they become bacteria growing in the moisture on the leaves of prehistoric trees, then they fall to the ground and the bacteria mixes with the mud protein, which then evolves over billions of years into a more complex organism, capable of splitting in two and reproducing itself until there is a flood that turns it into a tadpole. Then this fish, or whatever, becomes an air-breathing lizard, starts walking around on his tail, and, after a zillion years, develops up into a biped or some shit like that." Fannon's blue eyes were twinkling as he spoke, amusement and intelligence burning there bright and shrewd, surprising Dr. DeMille with their piercing energy.
"That's pretty good, although you forgot a few important steps like the first sexual beginnings where chromosomes divided, called meiosis. But who's to say that Darwin's kind of evolutionary process isn't God's Creation? Creation can be molecular and divine, can't it? Do we need the biblical lumps of clay?"
"Don't know, maybe not," Fannon said. "Probably don't need all yer fossilized skeletons either."
"I'll tell you something that bothers me about Darwin," Dexter said, smiling. "I don't like missing links. We go from Australopithecus through Homo erectus to modern Homo sapiens, but lots of mysteries still remain. We've still got huge gaps in the evolutionary chain."
"You wouldn't be shitting me, would ya, Mr. DeMille?"
"Dr. DeMille," Dexter corrected.
"You got a doctorate. That only makes you a Ph. D. A real doctor cures sick people; a Ph. D. don't do nothin' but read books or write 'em. I ain't making you call me Colonel. And I'm sure God wore the Oak Leaf and kicked some dink ass for this beautiful God-blessed country. You ever in Vietnam, or did ya serve in Canada?"
"I was Four-F."
"I was for America," Fannon shot back, "all the good it did me." Then he smiled, and seemed to relax slightly. "You must be curious why I allowed you t'come up here and visit with us."
Now Dexter could see something else in Reverend Kincaid's eyesThere was a gleam there, a shining connection to some hidden truth that nobody else could share. "I wasn't aware that these were closed services," Dexter finally said.
"Don't shit me, bub," the Great Man said from his old stuffed chair. "You know better'n that. I gave Bobby here permission ta invite you. See, I know what's happenin' in that prison. Bobby and Lewis tell me what's going on. You guys are cookin' up a heap of nasty shit over there."
"Really?" Dexter looked over at the two young hillbilly guards, who suddenly seemed uneasy. "What else did they tell you?"
"They told me you're making chemical weapons. I'm real interested in strategic chemical weapons."
"They're wrong. I'm not a chemist, I'm a molecular biologist, as you said. I don't deal in chemicals. I'm a different kind of scientist."
Fannon looked at the two M. P. guards, and some voiceless command seemed to pass between them. Both men simultaneously rose from their squatting positions beside Dexter and moved out of the tent, stopping about fifty feet away and turning so that their backs were to Fannon Kincaid. They looked out at the religious compound that sat on a rocky bluff.
"What'd you really think of the sermon?" Kincaid asked, a small smile playing on his rugged features.
"I thought it was unique. As I said, you hit on some things I'd never thought of before."
"I did, huh?" Again, that small smile hovered. "I think," Fannon said very slowly, "that you and I are going to be friends."
"It's my hope."
"But friends, Mr. DeMille, tell each other the truth. Bobby and Lewis told you about my little church, my settlement, 'cause I told 'em to, and they told me about yer situation over at the prison. Not being able ta go places without bein' watched."
"It's been a problem," Dexter concurred.
Fannon reached down and pulled up a long blade of grass, stuck it in his mouth, and chewed it pensively. "You got any idea what it is I'm doin' up here?"
"No, not really."
"The church I run is called 'the Christian Choir and the Lord's Desire.' "
"I saw that on the banner in the chapel."
"We' re a chorus of angels and sub-angels, Mr. DeMille. In Revelation it foretells of the Choir of One Hundred and Forty-four Thousand."
"Really?" Dexter said. He was an agnostic and was not sure where this was headed.
" 'For the great day of his wrath is come,' " Fannon recited from Revelation. " 'And I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth. And there were sealed one hundred and forty-four thousand of all the tribes of the Children of Israel. And one of the elders said, What are these which are arrayed in white robes and whence do they come? And I said, These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.' " He paused and looked hard at Dexter, who once again felt he needed to say something, to comment, but he was badly off rhythm and wasn't sure what his response should be.
"I see," he finally muttered.
"I am one of those four angels standing on the corner of this earth. From the iron rails of this great nation, I will lead my people to God's greatest victory. I will wreak havoc on a government of lost idolaters who have chosen to worship material values sold to them by Levites. Our government today is far more corrupt than the British Empire that our Continental Congress declared war on in 1776. Our leaders today choose to favor the Children of Satan handed down from the loins of Manas-seh over the godly descendants of Jacob and the twelve tribes of Israel. As prophesied, we will become a Choir of One Hundred and Forty-four Thousand and we will throw off the chains of this corrupt administration. What I'm doin' is I'm leading the Second American Revolutionary Army. Whatta ya think of that, bub?"
Dexter DeMille was forced to make another quick reevaluation. He finally knew that the intense gleam in Fannon Kincaid's eyes was more than shrewd intelligence. He now realized the silver-haired man sitting in the old chair leaking stuffing was insane.
Chapter 9
I'll have the deluxe cheeseburger, the small chili, and a Bud Light," Dr. Charles Lack said, looking at Stacy Richardson's trim figure as she leaned across the table to pour his water. The Bucket a' Bait was filling up. It was Sunday lunch, and there were the usual after-church retirees, some anglers, and at the far end of the restaurant, a table full of soldiers from the prison, raising hell. She glanced over as they let out an ear-piercing whoop.
"I can talk to 'em if you want," Dr. Lack said. "That's okay, they're just puppies tearin' up a shoe," Stacy said, using a pretty fair country accent she'd developed playing Ado Annie in her high school production of Oklahoma.
Charles Lack was trying to figure a way to shuck this beautiful new waitress out of her tight jeans and into the sack. He had never been very good with women. He had lost most of his hair before he got out of grad school, and at thirty-four had only been laid twice. He looked at the dumb blond waitress and decided to play his best card… the old black ace, his scientific mind.
"You wanna hear something we found out that's really incredible?" he asked.
"You bet yer shabooty," she grinned, tucking the pad into her waistband and her chewed pencil behind her ear. "I usually only hear complaints about Barney's food."