"A bomb, looks like. We don't know yet how many are hurt."
Gene said into the microphone, "Please remain in your seats." To the security man he said, "Get me up there."
Seven people were lying between the rows of seats, bloody and ragged. He healed five of them, one after the other; but two were dead.
"You were right," he said to Brian. "Lisa, you were trying to tell me the same thing. It was my damned pride. Those people would be alive if I'd listened to you. Cancel the rest of the tour. We're going home."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Driving down the wrong road and knowing it,
The fork years behind, how many have thought
To pull up on the shoulder and leave the car
Empty, strike out across the fields; and how many
Are still mazed among dock and thistle,
Seeking the road they should have taken?
--Gene Anderson
At the airport the next morning, as they approached the fence, a man in a gray suit came up to them, followed by three armed men in uniform.
"Mr. Anderson, you are under arrest for the crime of felony murder, as defined in section three oh-nine of the U.S. Criminal Code. I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you." He put a hand on Gene's arm.
"I'm Mr. Anderson's attorney," said Brian. "Let me see your warrant."
The man in the gray suit took a paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it and held it out. Before Brian could take it, Gene plucked it out of his hand and examined it. "There must be some mistake," he said, and held the paper up. It was blank on both sides.
"Give me that," said the man in the gray suit. He took the paper and looked at it in disbelief. He fumbled in his pocket again, then stared at Gene. "That was a properly executed warrant when I gave it to you," he said. "This kind of stunt won't get you anywhere, Mr. Anderson."
"I don't see any warrant," Brian said, "all I see is a blank sheet of paper. Come on, everybody."
They crossed the boarding area and climbed into the airplane. "Close that door quick," said Brian. He called to the pilot, "Have you got clearance? Let's go."
When they were airborne, he said, "Did you blank out that warrant?"
"Yes."
"Well, I wish you hadn't done that -- now we don't know what was on it. Wait a minute." He took his phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. "Phil? Gene Anderson was just hit with a federal warrant for felony murder, but the warrant disappeared -- Never mind that now, they couldn't serve it because it disappeared, but we don't know what the specific charge was. . . . Yes, all right, tell them anything you want. Okay." He put the phone back in his pocket. "He's going to try to find out and call me back. Meanwhile, let's see what our options are. Assuming that's a valid warrant, number one, Gene can surrender and stand trial. I don't think they can get a conviction, whatever it is, but we'll wait and see. If they do get a conviction, we'll appeal."
"How long would that take?"
"In the worst case, if it had to go to the Supreme Court, two, three years."
"And in the meantime, what, is he out on bail?"
Brian hesitated. "I can't promise that. The new Criminal Code gives federal judges the right -- " His phone buzzed. "Excuse me, that's my call." He took the phone out of his pocket. "Yes?"
He listened for a moment. "Okay, Phil, thanks. I don't know, I'll call you back. We haven't got our feet under us yet. Okay? Okay, Phil."
He turned to face them. "Well, it's bad. They pulled a double whammy on us. They must have been hoping for something like this, or maybe they rigged it, I wouldn't put anything past them."
"What are you talking about?"
"The bomb victims. By holding that meeting in defiance of the Anti-Cult Act, you technically committed a felony. If anybody gets killed while you,re committing a felony, you can be charged with murder."
"Can they make that stick?"
"I don't know. Now wait a minute, let's not get excited, let's talk about our options. Surrender is one. What else is there?"
"Gene could get out of the country."
"Yes, but think about the consequences. It would have to be to some country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the U.S. That would effectively restrict his movements from then on -- he'd be stuck in some place like Venezuela."
"How about this? Gene submits to arrest, they put him in jail, and he opens the doors and walks out. You could do it, couldn't you, Gene?"
"Yes."
"Then they come and arrest him again, and he walks out again. That would be a shot in the arm for the Movement, when they see no jail can hold him."
"That's beautiful, but it won't work. After the first time, they'd put a twenty-four-hour guard on him."
"Well -- "
"No, Lisa, he's right," said Gene. "I could knock out the guards, I could unload their guns -- that's the kind of thing you're thinking of, isn't it? That's all true, but then if they locked me up a third time, they would take extraordinary measures. Either I couldn't get out at all, or I could do it only by killing somebody."
"What's the answer, then?"
After a moment Gene said, "I don't know."
That night in Florida he dreamed of an enormous canvas marked off in squares and diagonals in preparation for transferring a cartoon to it. That was curious, because he had not thought of drawing or painting in over a year. Then the canvas somehow faded away, and only the charcoal lines remained; he was climbing them like a trellis, but he knew there was something waiting for him at the center, and that when he got there he would fall.
Early in the morning, before anyone was awake, he put some food and clothes in the motor home. He left a note for Pongo in his cottage, and another, addressed to everyone, in the kitchen of the big house.
"Where do you suppose he's gone?" Margaret asked.
"Where can he go?"
"As long as they don't know where to look for him, he can go anywhere he wants. He'll travel at night, use back roads."
"I think I know where he has gone," said Linck.
It would take Gene at least six days, more likely seven or eight, to drive across the continent. Linck made his preparations carefully. He packaged a revolver and a box of cartridges and airmailed them to Portland, Oregon -- an illegal act, but he could not carry a weapon onto an airplane. He spent several days in the Pinellas Park offices, settling policy questions and making contingency plans. For the time being at least, until the legal problems were settled, the Movement would have to go underground. There was, after all, a good precedent for that. Linck bought a few necessary things and packed a suitcase. On the eighteenth, four days after Gene's departure, he boarded a flight for Portland, Oregon.
He was well aware that from one point of view he was about to commit a monstrous act of betrayal. He did not underestimate the duties of friendship or the claims of sentiment, but he believed in the existence of something more important.
It was Linck's conviction that Jesus of Nazareth had been a man like Gene Anderson, gifted with the same power; all but a few of his reported miracles could be explained in that way, and in addition there was a suggestive passage in the Gospel of Peter, where he was made to say on the cross, not "My God, my God," but "My power, my power, thou hast deserted me."
It was even possible, although Linck did not excuse himself on this ground, that Gene expected and willed this betrayal -- as Jesus had given the sop to Judas, saying, "What you do, do quickly."
One of the great puzzles was the fact that within three centuries of the execution of its founder by one of the most degrading methods known to the Romans, the Christian religion had become the dominant force in Europe. That was absurd, and it was true, and this absurd truth, for many theologians, was the ultimate proof of the divinity of Jesus. Linck did not go so far, but he was convinced that if Jesus had not been arrested, tried, and executed, the movement he had founded would have remained an obscure sect.