Buck Out

by Ken Benton

  “The Ninety-nine Sheep Baptist Church of Carlisle. Though we’re a small independent church, and would have to double in size to actually have 99 members…”

  “You’re a Baptist minister?” Malcolm choked. “You’re drinking!”

  Pastor Green chuckled. “You’ve got me there. Wouldn’t be seen doing it in my home town. I’m a good pastor. Just not a very good Baptist.”

  “So you think drinking is okay, then?” Ryan asked.

  The pastor scratched his chin. “I wouldn’t advise it to anyone, notwithstanding the fact Paul prescribed it to Timothy. That was purely for medicinal purposes, of course. But who’s to be the judge of another’s medicine?” He raised the bottle. “Even the Good Lord Himself was known to have a cup or two when He was among us. One of the things the religious zealots of His day slandered Him for, in fact. A bit of irony, then, that in our day Baptists are often categorized as religious zealots for abstaining, among other things. We’re a tad legalistic in our walk, I’ll grant you that. But I’ve yet to meet a group of people who love the Lord more.”

  “That’s interesting,” Ryan said.

  “You gentlemen religious?” Pastor Green asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. It was, after all, the religious folks who plotted to have our Lord killed—though that was the very purpose of His coming. God isn’t looking for religious people. He’s looking for repentant sinners to be the subjects of His everlasting kingdom.”

  Malcolm noticed the pastor’s tone get deeper and louder as he finished his sentence, probably an involuntary transition to his preaching voice. It reminded Malcolm of his childhood.

  “We went to a Baptist church when I was growing up,” Malcolm said softly. He looked up at the night sky. Stars were coming out.

  “Didn’t take?” Pastor Green asked.

  “I accepted it all back then, I suppose. But then I found out my entire world was a lie, and stopped believing in everything.”

  “Adopted?”

  Malcolm looked at the pastor. “Yes. That’s perceptive.”

  “Not really. I’ve met quite a few of adopted people. Your parents didn’t tell you until you were a teenager? Or a preteen?”

  “Exactly. My Dad turned out to be my uncle, and my aunt and uncle turned out to be my parents.”

  Pastor Green looked into the fire and shook his head. “That’s a new one, actually.”

  The three of them talked the night away about philosophical matters, the plight of the homeless, and baseball. Pastor Green passed along the news that all professional sports were canceled today until further notice, lamenting the loss of his beloved Phillies.

  Malcolm found he liked the odd Baptist preacher. Ryan must have too, because when they learned he was without any kind of sleeping gear Ryan insisted on providing him with the all-weather blanket from the floor of the tent. The preacher lay on one half of it and pulled the other half over him, placing his head on Ryan’s “dry sack” stuffed with clothes for a pillow, next to the smoldering fire.

  “Is there anyone you’d like me to pray for?” he asked before Ryan and Malcolm retired to the tent.

  “Yes,” Malcolm said. “My wife, Hannah. She works in law enforcement and is currently in the field, on assignment.”

  Pastor Green nodded.

  “Oh—and also my neighbor, Emma. She’s stuck in her apartment in New York City.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “A man named Dion.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A new friend of mine. A homeless man in New York, actually.”

  Ryan tilted his head.

  “Will do,” Pastor Green said. “God bless you, Malcolm.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hannah heard the policeman’s concerned voice while she was still out in the hallway. She pushed her way into the hospital room with her elbows, as both her hands held sandwiches.

  “Want half of mine?’ she asked the cop after giving Darian his. “I had to threaten a nurse to get these, as the cafeteria is closed. Can’t imagine being hospitalized during a food shortage.”

  “I can,” Darian said from the bed. Hannah smiled at him mischievously.

  “No thanks,” the cop said. “Two local bakeries are feeding law enforcement officers, hoping to ward off looters—though there hasn’t been any of that in Clarksburg yet, thank God. Nice to work in a small town. We couldn’t find the slug you claim the perpetrator fired over your head.”

  “Perpetrator?” Hannah asked taking a bite.

  “How would you refer to him?”

  “Scumbag. Murderer. Cop killer. Home invader. Counterfeiter. Take your pick.”

  “Fine. There was one empty chamber in the …home invader’s revolver, and powder residue on his hands. Ballistics has yet to confirm whether his gun was responsible for killing either of the homeowners.”

  “If it was,” Hannah said with her mouth full, “he reloaded it. The round he fired at me is out there somewhere, though you probably won’t find it, as there’s no structure directly across the street from the victim’s house.”

  “We’re done looking.” The cop set his clipboard on his lap and stared at Hannah. He was young, thirty-something with neatly trimmed brown hair and something of a stickler for minor details. Probably volunteered to handle the paperwork on this case because he’s trying to make detective.

  “Did you see the shovel in the living room?” the cop asked.

  “No. Was there one?”

  “Yes. Why do you suppose that was there?”

  “Maybe they were going to bury the bodies?”

  “Could be. But why bring the shovel in the house? Fresh prints on the handle are a match for one of your suspects, Joseph Slate. The shovel blade was dirty with fresh earth.”

  Hannah didn’t react.

  “Aren’t you pleased to learn the identity of the home invaders is confirmed to be that of the suspects you’re chasing?”

  “We knew it was them,” Darian said. He grimaced as he moved his freshly-bandaged leg.

  “I see.” The cop stood. “The ATV in the woods belonged to the homeowners. We found photos of most of their possessions, no doubt taken for insurance purposes. They owned two, plus two off-road motorcycles. One of the ATVs had a rack in the photos.”

  “Thanks for that information,” Hannah said.

  “That’s not all. The photos also suggest they had a substantial stash of gold bars—none of which we’ve been able to locate.”

  “Find the ATV with the rack and you may find the gold,” Darian said. “The scumbags were obviously poised to make their exit from the woods, probably first thing in the morning.”

  The cop nodded. “That’s what I think, too. But this appears to be quite a large amount of gold. We didn’t find your satellite phone, either. Our investigators won’t be done cleaning up the crime scene for a few hours yet.” He turned to Hannah. “We’ll need you to come down to the station tomorrow and sign a statement.”

  “I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

  The cop left.

  Darian raised his eyebrows. “Well, I have a bed. You must be at least as tired as I am. Where will you be sleeping?”

  “Right here.” Hannah plopped down in the large visitor chair which was, thankfully, a love seat.

  “Doesn’t look all that comfortable.”

  “They turned west on the road,” Hannah said. “It doesn’t go east very far, anyway. So they’re up in the hills tonight. They have to eat. They’re bound to show up in one of the little mountain towns within a few days. I’ll get a ride from the police tomorrow back to the crime scene to pick up our car…” her voice began trailing off and she closed her eyes.

  Darian was right. She was dead tired.

  * * *

  The morning sun through the trees failed to warm the camp. Malcolm didn’t think a wildfire could warm this place. It had a permanent apathy that hung about it.

  “Where did your car
break down?” Ryan asked Pastor Green as he rolled up the tent.

  “Not far back. Close to the airport. Short walk to town from there. Wasn’t much air traffic happening. I hear flights are being canceled in droves on account of the financial crisis.”

  “Want us to take you back and have a look at it?” Malcolm asked the pastor. Ryan gave him a queer look.

  “You’re small,” Malcolm explained. “I can probably ride you double a short ways, if you’re willing to wear my backpack. Ryan’s pretty good at mechanical things. If it’s something easy, there’s a chance he can fix it.”

  “Oh, it’s something easy all right.” Pastor Green chuckled. “I know what’s wrong with it. A very common form of car trouble.”

  “Flat tire?” Malcolm asked hopefully.

  “Out of gas.”

  “Oh,” Malcolm and Ryan groaned.

  Pastor Green shook his head. “It’s an old car. At $500 a gallon, it would likely cost me more to get home than the car is worth. Think I’ll have to abandon it. But if you’re offering me a ride, I wouldn’t object to a short transport in the opposite direction, seeing as you’re headed that way. I don’t mind wearing your pack.”

  He ended up fitting on the seat behind Malcolm fairly well. Malcolm was pushed forward, but not so far as to be uncomfortable. Also, it was something of a relief to be freed from the backpack.

  “It saddens me to leave this place,” Pastor Green said as they passed the last tents. “Always feel like I’m leaving some important work undone.”

  Malcolm didn’t share his sentiments. He was only too glad to be vacating the homeless camp. After this experience, he actually looked forward to camping on Ryan’s land. Hopefully, that’s where he and Ryan would be sleeping starting tonight. But he knew he couldn’t count on it. Ryan assured him he had gas stashed along the route, so fuel shouldn’t be an issue. At 50 miles per hour, their destination was perhaps an eight hour journey from their present location. Easily doable under normal circumstances. And they were getting an early start. But circumstances were far from normal in America today.

  Out on the highway, Malcolm discovered riding double wasn’t as easy as he anticipated. The preacher on his back became more burdensome. Malcolm had to fight the pressure to keep from sliding up the seat too far. It was work. And the scooter’s top speed was now reduced to about 45.

  Traffic this Saturday morning was noticeably light, but an increasing number of abandoned cars were beginning to become obstacles on the highway shoulder. Speeding vehicles occasionally passed, sometimes a little too close, including state troopers. No one seemed to take notice of Ryan’s saddle gun.

  Forty-five minutes into the journey, Malcolm was already ready for a break. He mercifully received one when Ryan led them off the highway shortly before the small town of Bethel. This was an agricultural community. Small farms full of green crops stretched to the nearby hills. Malcolm couldn’t tell what the crops were. Ryan took them into the local hills and pulled off the road next to a creek. Out came his shovel. Ten minutes later, the soil yielded a different kind of crop: a gas can.

  Malcolm decided to eat the remainder of the asparagus.

  “Did you get this at a ‘pick your own’ farm?” Pastor Green asked. He graciously accepted a handful of stalks as Ryan topped up the tanks.

  “Yes.” Malcolm stretched his back as he chewed.

  “One of my parishioners owns one of those, just below Mechanicsburg. Nice guy. Very charitable. Being as I’m out of food, I think I’ll have you drop me there, if you don’t mind.”

  “How much farther is it?” Malcolm realized the absence of enthusiasm in his voice was obvious.

  “Not as easy as you thought riding double, is it?” Ryan said.

  “It’s …manageable. But I’m going to need frequent breaks.”

  “I’ll give you one right now. Take my pack. I’ll take your scooter and ride him a while. Can’t put him on mine because of…” he glanced at the shotgun scabbard.

  “Is that gun legal to carry in such a manner?” Pastor Green asked.

  “How else am I supposed to transport it?” Ryan turned back to Malcolm. “Just keep an eye on it. Touch the stock once in a while to make sure it isn’t working its way out.”

  Malcolm found himself happy on the road again, his yoke now lifted. Ryan’s tall form squished at the front of the scooter seat was humorously unnatural, but he seemed to handle it better than Malcolm did.

  …At least until they were directly north of Harrisburg. A flashing highway sign warning that the bridge ahead was closed provided Ryan with all the excuse he needed to pull over and switch back. Two state troopers stood next to the sign. The looks on their faces suggested they were disgusted with their day’s assignment; that of guarding a portable highway sign. Ryan pulled over on the shoulder a ways in front of them, a little before the Route 22 interchange.

  “I was going to have you take one of the southern bridges across anyway,” Pastor Green said. “It’s a more direct route to the farm.”

  “As long as we aren’t kayaking across the river,” Malcolm said. Ryan shot him a smirk.

  Big city sounds came into earshot while they changed scooters. Malcolm had flashbacks from yesterday’s New York escape. The noises weren’t as encompassing, but they were there. Sirens. Distant sounds of crowds in an uproar. The distinct smell of smoke. The last thing Malcolm wanted to do was ride towards the sound of upheaval.

  But that’s exactly what they did.

  Malcolm was relieved to see a heavy showing of both police and military on the 22 south as they made their way through Harrisburg. If anyone was bothered by the sight of Ryan’s shotgun, they didn’t show it. The police seemed more concerned about keeping traffic moving along, and encouraging the tow truck drivers in their removal of abandoned vehicles. Maybe they didn’t notice the shotgun. Or maybe Ryan, Malcolm, and Pastor Green didn’t fit the profile of someone they felt like harassing over a minor firearm violation. In Pennsylvania you are allowed to “open carry” long guns—just not in your vehicle while loaded.

  Route 22 turned into Route 230, and suddenly they were on streets near the city center. Malcolm looked around nervously. What in the world were they doing here? Oh yeah, getting across the Susquehanna River. Small crowds had gathered in places throughout Harrisburg. Many were protesters carrying signs. Too many eyed Malcolm and Ryan when they saw the backpacks.

  The streets around the capital building were thick with police and military. Taking the Harvey Taylor Bridge across turned out to be a good decision. Going this route was the closest thing to having a police escort.

  Malcolm glanced up at the capitol dome while they waited for bridge traffic to move forward. It reflected a brilliant bright green in the late morning sunlight. Quite a spectacular sight this close up—although perhaps a bit ironic that such a grandiose symbol of American freedom now stood proudly over a stirring civil unrest that didn’t feel far from exploding into a full-blown revolution.

  When Malcolm looked back down, a stocky black man stood on the sidewalk staring at Ryan’s shotgun scabbard. Ryan had pulled slightly ahead of Malcolm.

  “Hey!” the somewhat-intimidating Harrisburg citizen yelled. He pointed at Ryan and looked around, as if trying to get someone’s attention. “This guy has a gun on his scooter! If I can’t have a gun, why does he get one?”

  He stepped into the street with his arm reached out, as if he were going to try to grab the shotgun.

  Malcolm hit the gas and pulled between Ryan and the approaching man, narrowly missing hitting him. The man’s outstretched hand brushed the shoulders of both Malcolm and Pastor Green as they came to a stop.

  “Howdy friend,” Pastor Green said to the agitator. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Beautiful day my ass,” the man responded. “Maybe it’s beautiful if you’ve eaten in the last 24 hours. Don’t almost run over a hungry man and then call him friend, unless you plan on giving him some of the food in your fat backpack.�
�

  “There’s food in the country,” Pastor Green said. “Come on out to Oak Grove Farms in Mechanicsburg and you can buy food.”

  “With who’s money? Yours? Man, don’t tell me to leave the city and walk out to some farm. Just give me some of what you got. So what about it? You crackers holding any crackers?” He reached for the pack on Pastor Green’s back.

  Malcolm pulled forward. The angry city man swore.

  At that moment traffic cleared in front of them. Ryan and Malcolm were able to ride forward through the rest of the capitol neighborhood and out onto the bridge, leaving the troublemaker behind with his incensed curses.

  They crossed the bridge. The green of the trees on the Susquehanna River islands was even prettier than the green on the capitol dome behind them. Refuge from the tense city awaited them on the opposite shore.

  The west side of the river was mostly an industrial area, nestled among beautiful spring forestry. Malcolm pulled out in front as Pastor Green began giving directions.

  Five miles and two highway changes later, they exited the highway again. This time it was on to a welcoming country road.

  The Oak Grove Farms sign would have been even more welcoming, except for one thing: the conspicuous presence of military along the entrance road. Two big army trucks and a Humvee were pulled off on the side. A dozen National Guardsmen sat on the tailgates of the two trucks eating lunch, which appeared to include fresh produce. Ryan waved to them as they passed. One of the guardsmen glanced up from his meal and waved back.

  An additional half-dozen trucks occupied most of the parking lot space in front of the main farmhouse building. These weren’t military. They were standard-looking produce delivery trucks, with refrigeration units sticking out the front of the cargo holds over the cabs. Workers scrambled to load them from behind. It was good to see at least some food being distributed somewhere.

  Ryan and Malcolm parked their scooters opposite the produce trucks, next to a field of what appeared to be peas, not far from a woodsy area. As Malcolm took his helmet off, he noticed people in the field picking. They didn’t look like farm workers. Then he noticed several of them walking up to cars in the parking lot with armfuls of peas.