by Jay Lake
He nosed the car over to the side of the highway just past where she stood and popped the trunk. He felt the car settle with the weight of her pack and when she opened up the door and crawled in he extended a hand. “George Applebaum.” He smiled.
“Molly Clark,” the woman answered. “If you can get me as far as the bridge, that would be great.”
“Actually,” George said, “I can get you downtown. I’m headed to Cathlamet, too.”
Now she smiled. “That would be great, George.” She dug a battered book out of her cargo pocket. It had a plain black cover and at first he thought was a Bible. She held it, her thumb just blocking the title. “I really appreciate it.”
He eased the car back onto the highway and let it take over. They were twenty minutes from Longview’s Lewis and Clark Bridge, maybe thirty minutes from having to drive manually. He settled back into the seat and glanced again at the book. She had it open now, her finger moving over the thin paper as she read.
A Symmetry Framed. The letters were gold embossed and below the title, the author’s one-word name seemed oddly out of place. Bashar.
He nodded. “That book looks important,” he said.
She looked up at him. “It might be one of the most important books ever written.”
George grunted. He’d used that line himself before back in the day. To hear it now felt oddly disconcerting. Because no one book should be that important. “What’s it about?”
He expected her eyes to light up but they didn’t. They were cool and gray even as her mouth twitched into a slight smile. “It’s about a new way,” she said. “It’s about a man named Tygre and the path he walked to heal the world.”
George pulled up a search engine in the left lens of his glasses. The old keyboard and mouse technique was so much better than all this ocular mumbo jumbo but since he had to wear the glasses to synch with the car and highway, he might as well satisfy his curiosity. He ran the name Tygre through along with the title of the book and its author, Bashar.
The search returned very little. The book was a collection of stories and sayings from and about a man named Tygre who’d allegedly found the hidden city of Cascadiapolis some forty years earlier. Bashar’s name came back with even less. Most of the references pointed toward Blake’s poem. The book itself was published abroad and distributed by the J. Appleseed Foundation out of Seattle.
The girl must have read his mind. “You’ll not find much about it online,” she said. “But I can give you a copy if you’re interested.” She nodded her head back to the trunk. “I have a few extras in my pack.”
George found himself remembering Texas suddenly, his nose flooding with the smell of sweat and dust as he and Billy Frost warmed up their voices on Dallas’s downtown lunch crowd. They had a plastic grocery sack filled with Gideon New Testaments, the faith strong upon them that they’d give them all out in a day’s preaching. All that had changed in thirty years was that the plastic sack had become a building full of books. Back in those days, he’d believed every word of it. Now, he believed little. He chuckled at the memory of that former certainty. “I don’t think so,” he said. “But thanks.”
She shrugged, smiled and went back to reading. There was a quiet confidence in the way she held herself that made him almost reconsider. But in the end, he disconnected from the net and settled back into his own seat to relax before he’d need to take over the driving.
Outside, the clouds broke open and unexpected sunlight made the wet highway glisten. But it didn’t lull George into any kind of hopeful calm.
George Applebaum knew that a storm waited for him ahead.
* * *
The sun had won out for a handful of days now and Charity sat behind the wheel of the antique pick-up enjoying the warmth on her forearm where it rested out the window. Her eyes went from the highway to the map layover in her glasses. Out here, most connections failed because of lack of coverage or, in some instances, from the outright blocking of the wireless signal by the Luddites who now dominated the rural extents of the Pacific Northwest.
On the map, she watched the red cursor moving toward her. That would be the bus from Shekinah Camp. On it, according to the information she’d received from Hunter, Matthew Rodriguez rode toward the next leg in his training.
Careful to avoid a tail, or observers on the obvious route, Charity had taken the long way, driving her rented electric as far as Aberdeen before stopping to book a room in a cheap motel that made her army shelter-half and fart-bag seem high-end. She took an hour to pick up three second-hand dresses and a battered Bible at the local thrift store before dining in a cafe that boasted local seafood. Then, she’d slept fitfully on the lumpy motel mattress after once more reviewing the information Hunter had sent across. She ended on Hunter’s note reiterating that she check in before making any kind of contact with Rodriguez or the people he travelled with. Of course, she had no doubt whatsoever that Patriot, Inc. had its eyes and ears on her as she made her way south.
And I can do this without making contact.
According to the map she watched, the bus was now less than five miles behind her and she fired the truck up again. She’d driven fossil-fueled vehicles in the military but that was fifteen years ago. She’d forgotten how they smelled and sounded.
Highway 101 had been privatized but that hadn’t included any high tech. It was asphalt and mostly smooth though she suspected the tolls collected at strategic points barely scratched the surface of the highway’s need.
As she pulled onto the highway, her phone chirped again. She knew the number and had dodged answering for well over a day now. Finally, she sighed and picked up. “Oxham.”
Sandra Rodriguez’s voice was cold with anger. “Oxham,” she said slowly, “how many fucking times do I have to call you? You tell me you have a lead and then … nothing.”
No, Charity realized, not just anger. Worry. “I’m sorry, Senator Rodriguez,” she said. Then, as an afterthought: “Sandra.”
“Well?”
She looked to her rearview mirror. So far, no sign of the bus. “It’s a good lead. I really can’t say more than that.”
“What do you mean you can’t say more?” The cold was bleeding out and becoming something closer to panic. “It’s those fucks at Patriot, isn’t it? They’ve—”
“Sandra,” she said again with as much firmness as she could muster. “Listen to me. I can’t say more. But I have a good lead. A really good lead.”
Charity heard the senator sigh even as she saw movement on the highway behind her. White and cresting the rise behind her, she saw the bus. She increased speed and saw the sign indicating the highway’s sole operating rest area was just a mile ahead. “When will you be able to tell me more?”
“I don’t know. But I may need a quick flight for two out of Portland in two or three days. Private if it can be arranged.”
“Before I do anything, I will—”
But she cut her friend and former CO off as she saw the bus gaining speed. “I’m sorry, Senator. I have to go.”
Disconnecting, she punched the accelerator and felt the truck shake as it sped up. She kept an eye on the mirror and then signaled to exit into a dilapidated and overgrown rest area scattered with a handful of cars. Behind her, the bus followed and she smiled. A bus full of young men in the late morning; of course they’d be stopping here.
She parked and climbed out of the cab, reaching for a purse she rarely felt the need to carry. The Bible poked out of the top and she smoothed the somewhat plain dress she wore. She’d been careful to pick one that was not cut too high or too low in the wrong places. “Start recording,” she whispered and the glasses did the rest. All she needed to do was look around …
She stretched and walked toward the sign marked Ladies. The bus had stopped and three young men in dark slacks, white short-sleeved shirts and ties climbed down first. They looked around the rest area and one of them grinned at her.
“Ten minutes,” one of them shouted
into the bus and pandemonium ensued as a herd of young men scrambled to get off. The bus emptied quickly as a line formed up.
She panned each face, silently counting. There were twenty of them, not counting their chaperones and driver. They were all clean cut and close shaven, skin burnt brown by days spent in the sun. And they were all as fit as fresh recruits straight from boot, only lacking the swagger most privates managed. She nearly didn’t recognize Matthew; he’d changed a great deal even from the recent photos she’d seen. But it was him; she could see his mother’s eyes and jawline. With that image tucked carefully away, she moved to the restroom.
One of the chaperones—the one who grinned—intercepted her. So much for no contact, she thought.
“Morning, ma’am,” he said. “You responsible for that?”
She looked where he pointed, not sure exactly what it was. She tried to pull off demure. “I’m sorry?”
His grin widened. “That well-worn book, ma’am. Did you read it that way?”
She returned the smile. “Yes, sir, I did.”
He blushed at the courtesy. This one is easy. “Good,” he said. “Enough people read it and maybe we’ll get back to the great nation God intended us to be.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. “I hope so.” Then, the light in his eyes changed and she corrected herself. “I pray for it.”
His grin was back and he saw her hand resting on the restroom door’s handle. He blushed again. “I’m sorry to have kept you.”
She smiled one last time and slipped into the shelter of the ladies’ room. Then, she occupied a stall and waited until she heard the old bus turn over and start.
She was back on the road when her phone chirped again. She didn’t recognize the number but knew who it was. “Yes?”
“That,” Hunter said, “was what we call making contact.”
“Funny,” Charity said, “we call it surveillance.” Then she hung up. She followed the winding road south, at times through forest and at times within sight of the vast Pacific Ocean. She kept her speed down so that the bus was well ahead of her and out of sight. But she knew exactly where it was and where it was going.
And, more important, she knew Matthew Rodriguez was on it.
* * *
George and Molly rode most of the way in silence, the car jostled by a dying highway that curved along steep banks alongside the Columbia River.
The girl looked up from her book about fifteen miles outside of Cathlamet. George gave her a sidelong glance. “So what is it about?”
She smiled. “Healing the world.”
George let out a chuckle that was nearly a snort.
She cocked her head. “Don’t you believe the world can be healed?”
He shrugged. “I used to. For a long time, I thought I was helping heal it.”
She closed the book. “And now?”
He couldn’t bring himself to admit he didn’t know anymore. And now, something else tickled at his spine. If the things he’d heard about Billy were true, what they’d been doing wasn’t healing at all, but harming. He looked at her, looked back at the road, and said nothing.
“I think it can be healed,” she said. “Tygre did, too.”
He well recalled that kind of fervent belief. “So how are you going to heal it?”
Her smile widened. “Why,” she said, “with a casserole.”
George laughed and she laughed with him. Then, they lapsed into quiet until they reached Cathlamet.
The town had always been small but it had shrunk to a bright core in the midst of dilapidation and burned-down houses. Most had fled the decline of the rural Northwest for the dubious job markets of the urban sprawl. Those who remained were those who wanted nothing to do with a re-organized and re-vitalized United States of America. And the United States took little notice of them, only occasionally raiding illegal fishing and logging operations.
Driving down the short Main Street, passing the Pioneer Church, George could see the charm the town had once possessed. And even now, some of the buildings were still kept up and at least two businesses—a restaurant-tavern combination and a grocery store—looked open.
“You can drop me here,” Molly said, pointing to an abandoned drug store. Its windows were boarded up and weeds grew through cracks in the sidewalk.
George pulled over and put the car in park. They climbed out together and he hefted her backpack out of the trunk. “With casserole?”
She grinned. “Come find out on Friday.”
He looked around. “Where?”
She pointed to the drugstore and he noticed the SOLD sign tacked across the doors. “Right here.”
He looked at her there in the fading afternoon and saw a lightness in her that made him ache with nostalgia. But I was never that confident, he thought. “If I’m still in town,” he said, “I just might.”
She took the pack. “Thanks for the lift, George.”
He tipped his ball cap. “You’re welcome, Molly.”
She’d already disappeared behind the building when he pulled back onto the street. He continued through town and across an old bridge to Puget Island. It wasn’t hard to find the Wahkiakum Bible Temple. It was a sprawling complex of buildings surrounding a large chapel. He pulled into the graveled parking lot alongside a battered pickup with its rifle rack and faded “God is Love” bumper sticker.
He followed the sidewalk along the building to the side entrance with a hand-painted wooden sign that said THE PASTOR IS IN. He opened the door and found himself looking at an austere reception area with an old fashioned counter that appeared to have been pulled from an old elementary school. Muted voices drifted out from a partially closed door and George paused to see if there was a bell or some other way to announce his visit.
“Just tell him,” he heard Billy say, “that we can’t afford the attention right now. He needs to hold off that log raft he’s fixing to put out there and let us get the Lord’s work done.”
“He’s saying he needs the money, Brother Frost.”
“Then we’ll take up a love offering for his family. They’re watching the river now, watching us even, after that fiasco in Portland. Just tell him another week.”
George cleared his voice. “Hello?”
The enthusiasm in Billy’s voice sounded genuine. “Holy Jesus … that you, George?” A chair creaked. “It took you long enough.”
Billy Frost strode out of the office, his arms outstretched. “It’s good to see you, Brother.”
George returned the hug, a knot suddenly in his stomach. Even the hug was enthusiastic and for a moment he wondered if maybe the agent from Patriot was wrong about Billy. He hoped so, he really did.
“Come on in here, George. I want you to meet my Associate Pastor.” They entered the office where a young man—nearly a brother to the four George had met in the foyer of his church—stood waiting. “George Applebaum, this here is Steve Wilkes. First graduate of our local seminary and my right hand man.” They shook hands. “George and me was preaching the streets of Dallas before you were born, weren’t we?”
George nodded. “We did a lot of that.”
Frost chuckled. “That we did, Brother. You hungry?” When George nodded, he turned to the younger man. “Steve, I’m going to take Brother George up and introduce him to Rosie’s. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
And a lot to talk about. He wasn’t sure how much talking they could do at Rosie’s but he’d planned three days in town, taking advantage of the guest room in Frost’s parsonage. Part of him hoped it was enough time to learn something. But another part of him, a part that remembered the two of them sweating and laughing together as they practiced their zeal and their sermons on innocent passersby, hoped it wouldn’t be enough time at all.
“Let’s go,” Frost said, grabbing up a battered black Bible from his desk. “We’ll be back in time for prayer meeting, Steve.”
Then, George followed him out of the office. Outside, the sun was trying once again to s
hine through the clouds. He found kinship in its attempt to cut through the gloom of the day with its watery light and climbed into the waiting truck with a quiet sigh.
* * *
Charity Oxham turned the hot water up all the way and tried to scrub the road out of her eyes. It had been a long, slow drive from Aberdeen.
She’d followed the bus—at a safe distance—to the parking lot of the Wahkiakum Bible Temple on an island just outside of Cathlamet. She’d driven past as the young men filed off the bus with army-issue duffle bags, then she’d taken the long way around the island before heading back to town.
The Bradley House Bed and Breakfast was happy to rent her a room for three nights and she was happy to pay cash. The room was a bit frilly for her tastes, but it smelled good and the water was hot.
She washed quickly, then dried off and dressed for dinner. After a brisk walk across the street, she settled into a booth in the town’s only surviving restaurant. The waitress was an older woman who took her order without writing it down and came back quickly with her iced tea.
When the seafood fettuccine arrived, Charity forced herself to eat it slowly, pretending to read her Bible as she did. Despite her best efforts, she polished it off quickly and paid.
What next? She needed to get Matthew alone and talk with him, see if she could reason with him and convince him to come home with her. But what if he didn’t want to? Bring him home by force? And what did Patriot, Inc. have planned here? It was obvious to her that they had this organization under surveillance. She’d read about the bomb-making lab in Portland on the news, and Hunter had referenced it in her notes. So what were they going to do about it?
And what am I going to do? She left the restaurant and set out for the bed and breakfast. But Charity stopped when she heard the singing.
It leaked out of the open door of a rather rundown old pharmacy in a rich alto voice. The song grabbed her and pulled her toward it. The singer was a young woman pushing a broom about the dim-lit, empty store. She wore camo pants and a t-shirt, her blond hair swept back in a green bandana. When the woman looked up to see Charity watching her, she didn’t startle but a deep blush washed her face.
