The little boy’s eyes focus on something behind me, and his hand raises as he points. “That man naked.”
I spin to the church, and there in the open window of the steeple stands Dr. Winston—nude except for the golden boots of Bull Invinso. One thin arm leans against the brick wall at his side. He’s not looking down at us, but up into the heavens. In my heart I know instantly what he’s waiting for, the charge of the Svobodian cavalry.
“There’s your trouble right there,” the father explains. “Basically.Somebody said something about hostages too.”
“Jump!” a rough female voice from the front of the crowd shouts. “Do it!” At first I think it’s the lady cop, but when I spot the woman who actually spoke, I’m surprised to find a yellow hard hat capped over her brown hair. An orange safety vest spreads across a muscular back. Next to her is a second construction worker, this one a guy who’s country-singer lanky—Lyle Lovett or Dwight Yoakam.
Up front, the female police officer aims her nightstick at her fellow sister-in-arms. “You. Shut up.”
“Let us back in there,” Yoakam demands. “We’ll finish what we started.” The lady hard hat punches her pal in the arm and is about to say something when she’s drowned out by Tyrelli, booming through the bullhorn. “Please, Mr. Windstorm. Just talk to me. We’re here to help you.”
“Liar!” Winston shouts, eyes still fixed on the heavens. “Deceiver!”
Weaving my way into the crowd, I keep looking up, waiting for Winston to peer down and see me, though I have no idea what I’ll say. I’m trying not to shove, but my elbows edge in where they have to. I’m not out to bully anybody, but I’m also not about to tiptoe around this: I need to talk to somebody in charge, clearly Tyrelli. Close to the front of the crowd, I bump into an older woman cradling a Pekinese, one of those dogs with a kicked in face. The dog lover says, “Quit butting, jerkweed. I got here first.”
Stalled next to her, I smile and nod. The two construction workers are just in front of me, and smoke from the cigarettes they’re both working floats back into my face. I cough. But I can see better from my new vantage point. I note the 9mm on Tyrelli’s hip is unhooked, ready for quick action, a laser scope mounted on the barrel. He brings the bullhorn to his mouth, and his voice comes God-like from the speakers atop the black van. “Would you like something to eat, Mr. Windstorm? Some pizza or McDonald’s? Maybe some clothing? Don’t you think some clothing might be nice? I’d just like you to be comfortable so we can negotiate.”
“You think I don’t know who sent you?” Winston wails. “Only the truth can set me free. The sweet Svobodian joy of absolute truth. Nothing I’d expect people who work for NASA to understand.”
Tyrelli says, “We don’t want anyone else to get hurt here today.”
“Who got hurt?” I ask, looking left and right for some answer. The Pekinese barks once.
“I studied at Harvard,” Winston says. “I solved complex equations on green chalkboards. I know how things work. I understand.”
“What do you understand, you loony?” the lady hard hat screams, hands cupped.
Half the crowd chuckles, but Winston answers. “Everything. All of it. Those foul-smelling trespassers came to occupy my nexus.”
“Nobody wants to occupy your nexus, sir,” Tyrelli explains.
“Foul-smelling?” Yoakam repeats. “I don’t need two minutes.Give me thirty seconds.”
“Calm down,” the lady cop tells him, again using her nightstick for emphasis. Her name badge reads HARRELSON.
“Listen, Cupcake,” the lady hard hat says, “watch where you point that thing.”
“I’ll point it,” Harrelson declares, “anywhere I need to.”
Officer Harrelson faces off against the female construction worker, and though the cop is smaller, she has the advantage. From her stance, I can tell she’s had training, and not just the standard academy stuff. Brazilian jujitsu is not something to be trifled with.
I take advantage of the crowd’s distraction with the potential catfight and edge my way up to the front. I squeeze in next to the lady hard hat, settle my hands on the wooden horse before me. The thick male cop studies my face. His name badge reads MARSHALL.
Still staring into the empty sky, Winston explains, “This is clearly a violation of the separation of church and state. I am on holy ground. Obvious to anyone.”
“You’re on city property, you dingleberry!” Yoakam yells.
“Go for it!” the lady hard hat yells over Harrelson’s head. “Let’s see your Greg Louganis impersonation.”
I reach over and steady a hand on her shoulder. “Enough,” I say. She turns to me, one eyebrow cocked.
“Mr. Windstorm, are you sure you don’t want a soda or some chicken nuggets? Maybe a blanket or a sheet? Is anyone else up there hungry?”
“Tempt me as you will!” Winston shouts. “I have no need for what you offer.”
The lady hard hat sizes me up. Her biceps are half the size of mine, but her skin has the dirty tan of someone who’s never worked indoors, and her nose tells the story of a few brawls. “And just who the hell are you?” she asks.
Cupping my hands to my mouth, I turn to the steeple. “Winston,” I shout. “Dr. Winston?”
“Please, sir,” Harrelson says. “Let us handle this.”
The lady hard hat says, “Big Boy knows the whackjob.”
Winston’s face turns from the sky, and his eyes find mine. He smiles, calmly, like he expected me to be here all along. “Buddy,” he says. “I’m so gratified you’re here at last. They took away the others—I tried to stop them—I was afraid I’d be alone. But you’ll be here now. You will be my witness.”
“Hold everything,” Tyrelli booms. “Nobody’s witnessing anything here today. Let’s all just calm down.” He looks back at me, recognition clear in his eyes, and lowers the bullhorn. “Cooper,” he says.
“It’s too early, Winston,” I shout. “You have to wait until the time is right.”
“Right for what?” Tyrelli demands, walking my way now, bullhorn at his side.
Looking down on us from the steeple like the Pope over a Sunday crowd, Winston explains. “Time and space flow freely, Buddy. That’s what I’m coming to understand. So there’s no such thing as too early. And there’s no such thing as too late. Everything is perfect. Now that I have a witness who’ll understand, I must prepare. I must purify my heart and soul.”
Winston kneels on the edge of open space. He’s fifty feet up. He spreads his arms and opens his mouth—a low, grinding moan comes out of him, like the chanting those monks in Tibet do. Behind me, the Pekingese yips. The little boy in the back starts to cry.
Tyrelli steps up to the other side of the wooden police horse. With his eyes on me, he speaks into a walkie-talkie attached to his vest. “Hog Pen Alpha: Maintain surveillance. No dessert unless you finish your meat.” Then he turns to me. “Small world, Mr. Cooper.”
“Life’s full of coincidences,” I say back.
“Coincidences are only patterns we don’t understand yet,” Tyrelli says. “I was looking for you when this situation developed.”
“Looking for me why?”
“We’ve decided to bring in a special consultant and hoped you might make yourself available to her tomorrow. But all that can wait. Does any of what this guy is saying make sense to you?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Every word.”
“I knew it,” the lady hard hat says. “He’s a whackjob too. I can always tell a whackjob.”
Tyrelli tilts his head back toward Winston. “So how about a translation?”
“My friend’s obviously not well,” I tell him. “Let me go up there and talk with him.”
“Are you part of their little gang?” Officer Harrelson wants to know.
“It’s not a gang,” I say. “They live together in the church.”
“So it’s more of a cult thing?” Officer Marshall asks.
Tyrelli nods. “Either way, it falls under
my jurisdiction.”
“Freaks,” the lady hard hat says. “Nothing more dangerous than true believers.”
“So, Mr. Cooper,” Tyrelli says. “You remember all this? Your relationship with Windstorm and these other homeless folks?”
I don’t have time for memory games. “My amnesia is spotty. The doctors told you that. I spoke to these gentlemen just yesterday and we renewed our friendship. Is Winston alone in there?”
“We believe he may have hostages.”
“Your sonuvabitch friend tried to stone us,” Yoakam whines. “Sent Tony and Lex to the hospital.”
“He’s confused,” I say. “He just needs to calm down. Let me go up there.”
“Out of the question. I’m not risking more hostages.”
“But I can end this,” I say.
Above us, Winston stops chanting and begins to sing a song. The language is unrecognizable, pure gibberish, but I know the tune: “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
“Please,” I say to Tyrelli. “Just leave. Clear out and I’ll drive him down to the police station in half an hour. I swear.”
“Let him go up there,” the lady hard hat says. “Maybe he’ll get a brick fastball like Lex did.”
“If Lex is who I think he is, he had it coming.”
This new voice turns all our heads, and I’m amazed to see the pudgy form of Dr. Bacchus coming through the parting crowd. Not only is he cleaned up from the last time I saw him, but he’s wearing one of my ancient T-shirts. Beneath the drawing of the elephants, giraffes, and tigers, it reads: ASHEVILLE ZOO. ZOOPER FAMILY FUN.
“Now who the hell is this?” Tyrelli demands.
“He’s with us,” I say. “Bacchus, talk to me.”
He points to the hard hats. “These flippin’ yahoos were trying to evict Winston’s crew before trashing the church. Things were at a standoff until he showed up.” He points at Tyrelli. “From what I could tell, Winston got spooked by the sight of someone with sunglasses. He probably figures him for the leader of the invasion force, if you follow me. Things got messy fast, and this Lex guy got a baseball bat from his truck.”
“I don’t care who you are,” the lady hard hat says. “Nobody in my crew had any baseball bat. My men aren’t violent, and if you don’t take that back I’ll smash your face in.”
Tyrelli puts a hand on the lady hard hat’s chest. “Nobody’s smashing anybody. Just like nobody’s witnessing anything. I am in charge here and no one’s getting beat up or dying without my consent.”
The lady hard hat says to Tyrelli, “You know, we’re on the same team. You’d expect some courtesy from a fellow city employee.”
Suddenly, Winston’s singing stops. We turn and he’s looking down on us. “I forgive you, brother,” Winston says, making the sign of the cross toward Bacchus. “I know now that you presented me to mine enemies. But you had no choice. We all must play our parts. We all have destinies which must be fulfilled. I forgive you.”
“Winston,” Bacchus shouts. “Nobody gave you up. They came from the city. This is all a mistake.”
“I understand,” Winston says. “NASA has advanced brainwashing techniques. In the years to come, don’t blame yourself.” Winston flips his wrist, checks a watch that isn’t there. “The appointed hour is upon us and I am cleansed. Do you hear them coming, Dr. Cooper? Do you hear the sweet sounds of their perfect propulsion engines?”
I shove into the barricade to squeeze by, but Marshall, just across the wooden horse from me, puts his hand up. “Hold it, hero.”
“You don’t understand,” I plead. “He’s gonna go.”
“One less whackjob,” the lady hard hat says. “I’ll notify the census bureau.”
“Lady, you are some kind of flippin’ bitch,” Bacchus says.
Tyrelli says, “Stay calm. I’m in control.” He turns and takes a few steps toward Winston, raising the bullhorn to his mouth. “Mr. Windstorm,” he says. “How about some pepperoni on that pizza?”
Winston stands up, his chin lifted to the sky. I’m out of time. With my hands gripping the top plank of the wooden horse, I lift it straight out of the legs and drive the plank up into Officer Marshall’s jaw. This results in a satisfying pop and his face rises skyward as he stumbles back. He drops on his ass. I ram one blunt end sideways into the lady hard hat’s stomach and she doubles over nicely. Then pain rings from my hand as Harrelson’s nightstick careens off my knuckles. The wooden plank clatters to the ground. Tyrelli ditches the bullhorn and is reaching calmly for that 9mm when Bacchus blindsides the lanky construction worker, drawing the lieutenant’s attention.
Without the board, I face off against Harrelson and her nightstick. “Let me help my friend,” I say, afraid to look up.
She comes in high overhead, like a knife attack, and I step into it so she can’t get a full swing. I catch her wrist in my left hand and reach for her head with my right. When I get a handful of hair, I tug it—and her face twists sideways just as she makes the distinctive tough grunt of a true warrior woman. With that sound, time stops.
I remember my fingers wrapped in Alix’s hair this way, the same grunt coming from her throat. In the kitchen on Asgard Lane. The Monday Night Football night. I held her by the hair and punched her dead square in the face. This vision comes to me not like a forgotten memory or a dream that had slipped away, but like a remembered scene from a movie. Like something I’d simply edited out.
My hands release the lady cop, my arms droop at my side. Her nightstick catches me flush on the side of my head, and my vision sweeps across the steeple, across Tyrelli with his 9mm, and then the world tumbles as I drop. Next to me Bacchus gets tackled. A yellow hard hat bounces on the ground. Something explodes in my ribs. Faces cover the sky. A boot drops over my eyes. My head crushes into gravel. Somebody kicks my shoulder, waking the bullet wound. There’s a gunshot. Everything stops.
Bacchus is tucked into my ribs, shaking. The hard hats step away, and with blurry vision I see Tyrelli standing over us, gun drawn.
Officer Harrelson is helping Officer Marshall get to his feet. Tyrelli says, “Officers, arrest all four. I will shoot anyone who resists. We will all stay calm. I am in charge.”
The edge of my vision pulses, like a tunnel growing smaller with every breath. I’m passing out, a sensation I know too well. The figures around me sway and melt. The ground goes soggy. When I blink, I see the still frame of my fist falling onto my wife’s face, her eyes blank and wide open. I don’t want Tyrelli to stop them. I want these people to beat me into oblivion so I’ll never see this again.
My eyes search for Tyrelli’s, hoping I can somehow transmit this message to him. But my focus rolls on its own, from Marshall and Harrelson cuffing the construction workers to Bacchus’s bloodied scalp tucked into my chest. Tyrelli’s barking orders but it sounds like he’s talking to me down a well. His voice draws my eyes though, and I find his face. It is calm. He is in charge. Behind him, in the patch of vision just over his right shoulder, I see Winston in the steeple window. No one else seems to be looking. I am his only witness. Without the slightest fear or doubt, he raises his arms and faces the empty sky, then raises one golden boot and steps out into the nothing.
-----
Prophecy of Death. Cutting off Hearses.
A Bigfoot Sighting. Hearing the Awful, Horrible Truth.
The Imitation of Life.
The floor is real. The unclean concrete is the first thing I see when I hear my name—distant and dreamy—barely loud enough to make me ease open my left eye. The right one stays shut, swelled inside a tight and pulsing bruise. I imagine it’s the same shade of eggplant as my ballooned hand, the one Officer Harrelson clipped with the nightstick. The bench is real. My tender face rests on its wood. So I sit up on the real bench and plant my feet on the real floor. Real blood stains my jeans, though I’m not clear on the donor. I don’t recognize the shirt I have on. It’s gray and a size too small. Beneath a black cowboy hat, words are pulled taut against my chest: NEW H
ANOVER REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER’S HOEDOWN FOR THE HEART CHARITY AUCTION. For a moment, I think I’m being sold. But then I hear my name again—close by and more clearly—and I lift my good eye to find red hair on the free side of the prison bars. Rhonda, I’m about to ask, can it really be you? But her green eyes stop me from speaking and she says, “You never called.”
I look around the empty cell, as if an excuse might be written in the graffiti.
“It’s been three days, Seamus. A phone call takes five minutes. I left a dozen messages on your machine yesterday.”
My fingertips run over the prickly caterpillar that a nervous intern stitched into my forehead last night, and I consider the events that have taken place in the three days since the wildflower weeds. Winston’s return. Hardy’s miracle healing. Brook’s encounter with Grendel. My heart-to-heart with Alix on the nuclear sub. “Listen,” I say, “I should have called you. I’m sorry. A lot’s happened. And last night, my friend was kind of in an accident. Do you know if he’s alive?”
Rhonda shrugs. “What kind of accident?”
I take a deep breath and debrief her on Winston’s situation, beginning with his abduction, through the Sacred Tenets of the Svo-bodians, up to his breakdown and yesterday’s mess.
When I’m finished, Rhonda nods and says, “Sorry. I hope your friend is alright.”
“Me too,” I say. We’re awkwardly quiet then, neither of us sure how to interpret what happened in that field and its implications. Finally I wonder how she came to be standing before me, and I ask, “So your psychic powers brought you here?”
She shakes her head. “Manner of speaking. I came down to help out on the case.”
“My case?”
“Is there any other? A lieutenant got my number from his brother-in-law, Hal Caruso. He’s in the business, a hypnotist friend of mine.”
“Sure,” I say. “Hal’s been on Montel.” I try not to look surprised. After all, how big can the paranormal community be in North Carolina?
Rhonda explains, “This lieutenant’s going to bring me to the hospital room the kid disappeared from, see if I can pick up his psychic trail. But it’s all got to be on the q.t. Even if I help break the case, I can’t make any public statements. This kind of thing, it goes on more than you’d guess.”
Buddy Cooper Finds a Way Page 27
