The Devil_s Workshop

by Stephen J. Cannell

  It was ten o'clock on Sunday morning, and Reverend Fannon Kincaid stood before a makeshift altar in a lean-to chapel constructed from materials scrounged or stolen from houses all up and down the Southern Pacific Railroad track. A huge green nylon tarp was stretched overhead to create a ceiling for the chapel, which was located in the hills above Vanishing Lake not two miles from the prison. The morning sun shone through the nylon and cast an eerie green hue on the worshipers. They sat on logs and boxes or on the hard ground. They looked up at Fannon Kincaid in wonder. Even in these meager surroundings, he seemed larger than life. He towered above his flock.

  "So what does this tell us about the second creation?" Fannon thundered, pausing as if to wait for the answer, but, of course, no one dared interrupt. "Tells us Cain was not the son of Adam; Cain was the seed of the devil. Adam was the first and only true white man created by the Lord God. Later Adam gave the second seed to Eve, and they begot Seth, and with him came the glorious beginning of the white godly civilization."

  His voice thundered off the back wall of the chapel, which was a piece of plywood leaning up against some grocery store siding.

  There were forty worshipers in the congregation: scruffy, unwashed men, and a few tired females with snarled hair. All of them looked homeless. All of them were bending forward slightly to catch every bit of Fannon's holy wisdom; all except for Dexter DeMille, who sat between his two uniformed M. P. guards, wearing pressed Dockers slacks and a pink Ralph Lauren shirt.

  "Now, there are those who will say this is heresy. These heathens ask, 'Where in the scriptures does it tell of a second creation?' "

  Fannon Kincaid looked out at his flock. His silver-white hair seemed to shimmer in the backlight that came through window holes cut in the makeshift chapel. "For that, we have to turn to the forty-eighth and forty-ninth chapters of Genesis, the prophecies of Jacob for his twelve sons, and look at how the Tribes of Israel were founded and came down to eventually rule the nations of Europe."

  The two M. P. S who had brought Dexter DeMille to this Sunday service were Bobby Faragut and Lewis Potter. They were both from the rural South and had been assigned to Vanishing Lake Prison. Dexter thought they were dumb white trash in uniform. Bobby and Lewis had discovered this church while wandering in the hills doing some hunting. Dexter overheard them at the prison one afternoon, talking about the strange hobo priest who lived up here with a band of misfits. After talking to Bobby and Lewis, Dexter thought that Fannon Kincaid might be just what he was looking for. He had petitioned Fort Detrick for the right to attend church services. He had been told okay, but that he had to go under guard. Dexter accepted this condition and had left that Sunday to attend the hobo church with the very M. P. S who had originally told him about it.

  "Okay," Fannon thundered. "Let's go to the begats." He glanced down at his Bible for a moment, then looked up, reciting, more or less, from memory. " 'And Israel said thy issue begettest and shall be thine and shall be called after the name of their brethren and I shall bless them. And when Joseph saw that his father had laid his right hand upon the head of Ephar-im, it displeased him and Joseph raised up his father's right hand and tried to put it on Manas-seh's head. This is my first born, Joseph said. Put thy hand on his head first. I know it, my son, Israel replied, but truly his younger brother shall be greater. His seed shall become a multitude of nations! And Israel set Ephar-im before Manas-seh.' " Fannon paused to look at his congregation. "Y'all listening to that? Lemme say it again, 'cause it's real damn important. Israel set Ephar-im before Manas-seh. Joseph's father, Israel, chose one race to be supreme over the other. And that was the White Christian race." The congregation nodded and murmured at this holy wisdom.

  What a crock of shit, Dexter thought. He turned his gaze to the congregation of misfits and lost souls. They wore ragtag clothing and weathered complexions. Most had tattoos on their biceps that read "F. T. R. A." One thing about the congregation was horribly out of place: They were all armed to the teeth. The men were carrying every imaginable kind of firearm. The hardware dangled from their belts as they worshiped. Live ammunition hung across their chests in army surplus webbed bandoliers.

  "Our Father who art in heaven," they whispered, as Fannon led them, "hallowed be thy name…"

  Dexter bowed his head, reciting with them. He didn't know how he would use this collection of throwaway people, but he knew they offered his best possibility of escape. Since the murder of Troy Lee Williams and Sylvester Swift, he'd suspected he was on a very short clock. Admiral Zoll was not above disposing of him once he was satisfied that Dexter had delivered an operational strain of Pale Horse Prion. What had happened to Max Richardson was a testament to Zoll's brutality. Reverend Kincaid could probably get him out of the Black Hills of Texas. Dexter assumed Kincaid had four-wheel-drive vehicles that could climb over the hills and avoid the roadblocks that would instantly be thrown up if he tried to escape.

  After the service, they drank lemonade in a three-sided yellow tent with an open flap. Fannon Kincaid sat in an old discarded upholstered chair, his hands out on his knees like the last Pharaoh of Egypt. Dexter sat on a wooden crate, and his two M. P. guards squatted in the dirt near him.

  "I never heard of the two-seed theory of creation," Dexter said. "I found that uplifting, very edifying."

  "Fd figure a mo-lec-u-lar biologist like yerself would more likely hold with Darwin. Man like you can't possibly believe all that shit I was spoutin'."

  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 final
ly 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

  DISASTER AT VANISHING LAKE

  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."

  "You were telling me those hobos working out there in the yard were cleaning up after raccoons that got in the trash…" he said, trying for a smooth scientific segue.

  "That's right," she said, looking out the window at Hollywood Mike and Lucky, who were just finishing up raking trash from around the Dumpster.

  "Well, I did some 'index case' research on raccoons a few months ago."

  So did /, Stacy thought, remembering the paper that had earned her five hundred dollars from Animal Science Magazine and Augie, the ceramic raccoon from Max.

  "My study," Dr. Lack continued, "showed the relationship in raccoon HIV-1 variants that infect brain-derived positive cells in humans."

  She knew the study. It had been done by three Japanese microbiologists. Nowhere had she ever read that a Dr. Charles Lack was involved. "You and Dr. DeMille must be awful busy over at the prison," she said, refocusing the conversation.

  "You know Dex DeMille?" Charles asked.

  "Not to talk to. I seen him in town at the grocery store once or twice. He always has guards protectin' him, like he was a national treasure or some damn thing."

  "Well, not exactly." Dr. Lack was choosing his words carefully now, working up to a hatchet job on his rival. "Dr. DeMille is a troubled, highly dissociative personality, who needs to be watched constantly. I don't like to use terms like 'suicidal,' so let's just say that they're watching him for his own good."

  "Son of a gun, an' I thought it was 'cause he was so important,"

  she said, shaking her head in wonder. "Well, lemme get this order in 'fore y'all faint from hunger." She moved away, and as she passed the table full of soldiers, they whistled at her, pawing out as she swept past.

  "Need another round of beer, Stace," one of them shouted.

  "It's comin', sugar," she chirped, and darted past them. "And hold it down. This ain't the rodeo." She gathered some dirty plates off a sideboard and backed through the swinging doors into an over-hot kitchen where Barney, the harassed owner-chef, was flipping burgers, stirring chili, and falling behind on the orders. He patted his damp forehead with the towel he always had around his neck.

  "One Bud Light and another round of long-necks for the table from hell," she said to Barney. "Dr. Lack wants a CB, full-house, and a side bowl of red. And the two 'bos are almost through with the raccoon cleanup, so you better decide what ya want to pay 'em and throw their steak an' eggs on."

  "I'm goin' inta the trees here, Stace," Barney said. "I'll get to the hobos when I can."

  He put the beers on her tray with an opener, then shoved two fruit salads through the pass-through. "Here's yer two number fours with yogurt sides for table nine."

  "Right," she said, scooping them both up, balancing them on one hand. Then she picked up the tray of beers and backed through the swinging doors, into the restaurant. She set the salads on a side bar and took the l
ong-necks over to the rowdies.

  "Here's the rescue lady," one of the soldiers yelled as she snapped the tops off with a church key and passed the beer around. The one closest to her tried to slip a hand around her waist as she leaned in to distribute the last beer to the soldier by the window.

  "Easy there, babe," Stacy said, playfully slapping his hand away. "Don't be messin' with the wagonmaster."

  The others hooted their appreciation.

  After her parents died, she had waitressed all during her teens to save up enough to put herself through college. The first thing she had learned was how to serve a meal without getting tackled.

  She finished distributing the beer and scooped the salads up off the back console and moved with them to a nearby table occupied by a mid-sixties couple named Sid and Mary Saunders.

  Sid was a retired dentist, with a full supply of old jokes. Mary was gray-haired and always pleasant. They told her they had just had their silver wedding anniversary and had moved to Vanishing Lake to live out their golden years. Mary was glaring at the table full of rowdy soldiers.

  "How do you ever put up with it?" she asked angrily.

  "Sorry, Mrs. Saunders. I just got through asking them to hold it down. Here's yer two low-cal pineapple boat salads, each with a side a' peach yogurt," she said, sliding the plates in front of them. "I'll get yer two iced teas."

  Mary went on, "When it was a prison we were so worried somebody would escape and kill us in our beds. We thought it would be so much better when the University took it over, but now we have all these soldiers."

  "Oh, why don't you quit yer damn complaining," Sid growled uncharacteristically, startling both Mary and Stacy.

  "All morning you've been sullen and mean," Mary said. "What on earth is the matter with you, Sid?"

  "I'll be right back," Stacy said, wanting to avoid this strange domestic quarrel. As she turned away to get their iced tea, she heard Mary say, "Don't glare at me like that!" Then Stacy heard a commotion behind her at the Saunders table. She turned and saw Sid scramble unexpectedly to his feet. He was glaring angrily at his wife.