He took his two plastic bags and trudged back toward the gravel road. The ground was moist rather than muddy, so he knew the rain had not been as heavy here. A car passed by on the highway, and he lay down in the grass at the bottom of the ditch so its occupants wouldn’t see him. When he stood, his clothes were damp, and he felt bugs, probably ticks, crawling on his skin. He stopped and set down his bags to brush himself off, but it was too dark for him to see whether he was successful. The sensation of things crawling on him didn’t go away, so he had to walk on and try to ignore it. He couldn’t wait to get out of Texas.
When he could see the flat shadow that was the mouth of the gravel road, he climbed the slope of the ditch and entered the forest, weaving his way between the trees. The woods were alive with chirps, clicks, and scrabblings, some of which ceased as Blackburn passed by. He didn’t want to think about all the ticks he was rousing, so he thought about snakes instead. Snakes could be shot.
A few hundred yards into the forest, an automobile appeared among the trees. It was a Nissan Z car that, in the darkness, appeared to be a dull gray color. It was parked in a clearing at the end of a dirt track that Blackburn assumed led back to the gravel road. The Nissan’s windows were down, and as Blackburn approached, he heard slurping sounds from within. Kids making out.
Blackburn’s plan was simple. He would force the Nissan’s occupants out of the car and take it. But he would have to be careful. In Texas, even people in sports cars were often armed. Blackburn set down his bags among the roots of an elm, removed the Python from his rolled-up suit jacket, and stepped into the clearing.
At that moment, another man emerged from the trees on the opposite side of the clearing. This man’s shirt, like Blackburn’s, was white, and his legs, like Blackburn’s, were bare. He stood out so sharply against the dark trees that he seemed to glow. Blackburn stopped and stared, thinking at first that he was seeing a reflection of himself, a terrestrial gegenschein. Then, as the other man continued to approach, Blackburn saw that he was small and walked in a stoop, and that his shirt was in fact a gown that stopped at mid-thigh. His gray hair was long and matted, and his beard touched his chest. He was not a reflection of Blackburn.
The man raised his hands above his head and shouted in a high-pitched, cracking voice: “Fornicators! Repent!”
Two heads popped up in the Nissan. Blackburn hissed “Shit” and stepped back into the trees. He didn’t know if the people in the car had seen him or not.
The long-haired man continued to shout. “The wages of sin is death!” he cried. He was standing beside the car now, pounding its roof with his fists. “At least use a rubber!”
The Nissan’s engine started, and its headlights came on. The beams stabbed into the woods and pinned Blackburn against a tree trunk. He dropped to the ground, hoping the kids were too intent on getting away to notice him. The Nissan spun its rear wheels, backed up in a half circle, and scraped against a cedar. Metal squealed as it lurched forward onto the dirt track, and then it was gone. Blackburn heard it turn onto the gravel road and roar off toward the highway.
“Oh, generation of vipers!” the long-haired man shouted, shaking a finger toward the sound of the departing car. “Who hath warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Me, that’s who!”
Blackburn was perturbed. He stood, sure that he was covered with ticks again, and stepped back into the clearing.
“Hey, you!” he said. “You’re Morton, right?”
The long-haired man froze, his finger still raised. Then his head swiveled, and he stared at Blackburn.
“My child,” he said. His voice was hoarse.
Blackburn raised the Python and shook it as the long-haired man had shaken his finger. “You may have just ruined my chances for getting out of here alive. I’d kill you, but killing crazy people is bad luck.”
The long-haired man turned so that his finger pointed at Blackburn. “I am the good shepherd,” he said, “and know my sheep, and am known of mine. Thou knowest I am the Morton. Thou art mine.” He lowered his hand and scratched his crotch. “As for killing me, go ahead. That’s what I’m here for. But if ye seek to be set free—” He turned and shuffled toward the trees from which he had emerged. “Follow me.”
Blackburn considered. Insane or not, Morton had managed to escape from a state hospital, and so far he had avoided capture for three days. Blackburn followed him into the forest.
Morton was fast, and Blackburn had trouble keeping up. Sometimes Morton vanished, then reappeared farther away, a will o’ the wisp in a hospital gown. Blackburn scraped his elbows on tree trunks, and tripped and fell twice. The forest seemed endless, and Morton flitted through it as if he were composed not of flesh, but of white gases that could pass through tree trunks as easily as through air.
At last, when Blackburn was sweating and his lungs had been aching for what seemed like hours, Morton stopped in a clearing. Blackburn collapsed a few yards away from him, breathing hard, not caring about ticks. After a minute or two he was able to sit up and saw that Morton had made a small pile of sticks on a strip of bare earth. Morton was sitting cross-legged before the sticks and setting them on fire with a butane lighter. When the fire was burning well, Morton tossed the lighter over his shoulder. It landed behind him with a clink.
“Isn’t it warm enough already?” Blackburn asked, rising to a crouch and moving closer. He saw now that Morton was wearing dirty high-topped sneakers with cracked soles and no shoelaces.
“Be willing for a season to rejoice in a burning and shining light,” Morton said. He leaned over the blaze and grinned. “Fire good,” he said.
Blackburn sat down across the fire from Morton and laid the Python beside him. “You said you’d set me free,” he said, “and for me that means getting out of Texas. You don’t happen to have a car, do you?”
Morton shrugged. “I am the way, the truth, and the life, but I got no wheels.”
“So how do I get out of here?” Blackburn asked. “I’m lost.”
“Yea, the son of Stan is come to save that which was lost,” Morton said. “No man cometh unto the fat herd, but by me.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Hang out with me until the old farts come from town for their picnics tomorrow,” Morton said. “Then you can snag a Buick and take a journey into a far country. But waste not your substance with riotous living unless your old man is a soft touch. Fatted calves don’t grow on trees.”
Blackburn decided that, at its core, Morton’s plan made sense. His only alternative was to take off through the woods on foot again, and that would get him nowhere. He had no idea where the nearest road might be or what he would do even if he found it. He might as well consider himself settled in for the night.
“Speaking of fatted calves,” he said, “I’m hungry. I had some bread and cheese, but I left it beside a tree. Do you have anything?”
“I have food for the spirit, my son,” Morton said.
“Anything else?”
Morton reached behind his back and produced a small foil-covered box. “A few Cracker Jacks,” he said. He held the box out to Blackburn. “Take, eat; this is my body.”
Blackburn accepted the box and shook some of the contents into his mouth. He had to chew for a long time before swallowing. “You’re a little stale,” he said.
“Watch your mouth. Know that I am indeed the Morton, the Savior of the world.”
Blackburn took another mouthful of Cracker Jacks. “No fooling?”
“I shit you not,” Morton said. “For lo, Stan went up from Indiana, out of the city of Goshen, into Pennsylvania, unto the city of Bethlehem. And there Bernice his espoused wife, being great with child, brought forth her firstborn son and did call him Morton, saying, This city doth reek with the fumes of many mills of steel, and it is not meet that a child of decent people should be brought up in a stinking cesspool. So Stan took the young child and his mother, and turned aside into the parts of Kentucky; and he came and dwelt in a city called
Nazareth, population seven hundred. But lo, there was no labor for Stan in the parts of Kentucky thereabouts, and he didst drink of the fruit of the vine and clobber his wife and child when they didst cry out for meat. And behold, an angel of the Lord appeareth to Stan in a dream, saying, Arise, and dump yonder bitch and brat. For what dost thou need this crap? And verily, Stan did arise, and gat himself the hell out of Dodge.”
“You were better off without him,” Blackburn said.
“Tell me about it,” Morton said. He reached behind his back again and produced a quart bottle of orange Gatorade. He held it out to Blackburn. “Drink ye all of it, for this is the blood of Morton of Nazareth, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.” His eyes narrowed. “You do have sins, don’t you? I don’t want to waste this stuff. We’re talking blood here.”
Blackburn was thirsty, so he took the bottle. “I only have one sin,” he said, “but it’s a big one. A woman was raped because I didn’t do anything to stop it.” He shook the bottle, took off the cap, and drank. The Gatorade was warm and salty. He drank half the bottle in seven gulps, then lowered it and caught his breath.
“I said all of it,” Morton said. “Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life. So chugalug.” He clapped his hands and chanted. “Chugalug, chugalug, chugalug.”
Blackburn chugalugged, draining the bottle. Then he belched.
“Attaboy,” Morton said. “Now, if thou wilt confess thy sins unto me and accept me as thy Savior, thou wilt be born again of water and of the Spirit and dwell in Paradise, a small town in Utah.”
Blackburn dropped the bottle, and it clanked against the Python. He saw then that the Python’s muzzle was clogged with mulch from his falls in the woods, so he picked up the pistol and removed its cartridge cylinder. “I told you, I only have one sin,” he said, pulling a weed and running it into the Python’s barrel. “And the woman I committed it against has already absolved me, so I don’t need to be born again.”
Morton sat up straighter and glared. “Unless she has written permission, she can’t absolve squat. And even if she does, you still need a Savior.”
Blackburn continued cleaning the Python. “I don’t think so. I was willing to accept a Savior when I was a kid, but everyone who tried to sell me one turned out to be peddling snake oil.”
“That which is born of the flesh is flesh,” Morton said, “and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. They were false prophets; I’m the real McCoy.”
“The Christians say that Jesus is.”
Morton snorted. “Yea, but if Jesus had to die for Christians to be saved, and Jews killed Him, then shouldn’t Christians be kissing Jews on the backside at high noon instead of burying them in shallow graves at midnight? Hear then my condemnation: That light is come into the world, and men love darkness rather than light. Verily, a new, improved Savior with superior night vision is required.”
Blackburn finished wiping the Python clean with his T-shirt. “You?”
“As foretold in the prophecies,” Morton said. “Witness my birthplace, my home town, my ministry, my scourging, and my crown of thorns. Witness that I yearn to submit to the sacrifice, and that I shall exalt whosoever offs me as the instrument of man’s salvation. I’d do it myself, but that would be an act of selfishness and would queer the deal. So pack up your doubts and troubles in your old kit bag and behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!”
“I don’t see a crown of thorns,” Blackburn said.
Morton put his hands on his hips. “I took it off for the evening, okay? The damn thing hurts.”
Blackburn snapped the Python’s cartridge cylinder back in place and laid the gun on the ground again. “Sorry,” he said. “No offense.”
Morton took his hands from his hips and pointed a finger at Blackburn. “Art thou going to confess thy sins and be saved, or aren’t thou?”
“I repeat, I only have one sin.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Morton cleared his throat. “To begin: Hast thou had any other Gods before me?”
Blackburn peered across the fire at Morton, studying his dirty, lined face in the flickering light. “No,” he said, “but I can’t say that I’ve had you either.”
“Close enough,” Morton said. “Now for door number two: Hast thou ever taken my name in vain?”
“‘Morton’?”
“Okay, dumb question.” Morton scratched his beard. “How about adultery? Ever done that?”
“No. It was done to me, though.”
Morton gasped. “What’d you do to your wife when you found out?”
“I tied her upside-down in a closet. It didn’t hurt her, but I guess I feel bad about it.”
“You let her off easy,” Morton said. “So forget it and tell me: Hast thou honored thy father and thy mother?”
Blackburn looked at the fire. “I tried to do what they said, when I was a kid. But I don’t think I loved them. My mother was weak, and my father was—”
Morton interrupted. “A frustrated failure who became a mean-tempered, shit-heeled son of a bitch you wished you had the guts to kill?”
“Something like that,” Blackburn said.
“Piss on ’em, then,” Morton said. “My old man used to scourge me with baling wire, and when he left, my mom took up the slack. That’s why in my church, commandments are conditional. Which brings me to: Hast thou killed? People and furry creatures, I mean. Serpents, bugs, and armadillos that jumped up into your transmission don’t count.”
“Yes,” Blackburn admitted. “I’ve killed nineteen men.”
Morton didn’t seem surprised. “Did they deserve it?” he asked.
“Every one of them.”
“Piss on ’em, then.” Morton stood. His joints made popping sounds. “Come kneel thou before me.”
Blackburn stood and went around the fire, then knelt beside a shallow hole that was just behind the spot where Morton had been sitting. The hole contained the butane lighter, another bottle of Gatorade, a bag of Fritos, and a dead mole. Blackburn clasped his hands before him in a prayerful attitude.
Morton placed his hands on Blackburn’s head. “Dost thou repent of all thy manifold sins?” he cried.
“Well, the one, anyway,” Blackburn said.
“Dost thou promise to walk in the way of righteousness?”
“Yea, verily,” Blackburn said.
“Art thou now or hast thou ever been a member of the Communist Party?”
“Not to the best of my recollection.”
Morton pressed down hard. “Be thou clean!” he shouted. “By the powers vested in Me by Me, I now pronounce you SAVED!” He leaned over and gave Blackburn a wet kiss on the mouth. Then he straightened and smiled. “Son, thy sins be forgiven thee. Let’s us go find the nearest body of water.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell a little gamy.”
Blackburn laughed. Morton might be crazy, but his craziness was more tolerable than what most of the world called sanity. He stood and shook Morton’s hand.
“Thank you,” Blackburn said.
“Thou art welcome,” Morton said. “Maybe someday you can do something for me.”
As Morton spoke, there was a crashing noise in the forest. Blackburn released Morton’s hand and jumped across the fire. He scooped up the Python and cocked it, then stood with his back to the flames and looked into the woods. He saw bobbing disks of white and yellow light.
With the lights came voices. “There!” one cried. “I see him!”
Blackburn jumped back across the fire and grasped Morton’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll head the other way.”
But as he began to pull Morton that way, lights appeared among the trees there as well. So Blackburn turned another way, and then another. The lights were almost everywhere. Only one direction was free, but Blackburn and Morton had taken only a few steps when the sound of engines a
pproached from there. Then headlights appeared, bearing down on them.
Blackburn stopped, and now he saw that he and Morton were standing in the same clearing where the Nissan had been parked. He had followed Morton for miles, only to be led back to their starting point.
They were surrounded. A circle of more than a dozen armed men emerged from the trees, and two vehicles with not only headlights but spotlights entered the clearing. Blackburn and Morton were caught in their beams.
Morton pulled free of Blackburn’s grasp and stepped toward the spotlights. “Whom seek ye?” he shouted.
One of the spotlights was blocked as a man stepped in front of it. “Morton,” he said.
“Morton who?” Morton demanded.
The man came toward Morton, and Blackburn saw that it was Dr. Norris from the Rusk State Hospital.
“Morton of Nazareth,” Dr. Norris said.
Morton’s shoulders sagged. “I am he.”
Then a voice behind Blackburn spoke. “You in the shorts,” it said. “Drop that weapon and lie face-down.”
Morton whirled around. “I have told you that I am he!” he shrieked. “If therefore ye seek me, let this schlemiel go his way!”
A figure dashed from behind the spotlights and charged toward Morton as if to tackle him from behind. Blackburn saw that it was Dr. Norris’s blue-uniformed driver.
Blackburn raised the Python. “Stay away from him!” he yelled.
The driver came on, so Blackburn aimed and fired. The driver screamed and dropped to his knees, pressing a hand over his right ear. Some of the men in the circle shouted and raised their weapons, but Blackburn knew none of them could fire at him without the risk of hitting the men across from them.
Morton jumped at Blackburn and threw his arms around him. “Put up thy three fifty-seven into the sheath,” he said. “The cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not chugalug it?”
The circle of men tightened, and Blackburn saw among them the two cops who had questioned him at the motel. The one who had scowled at him was carrying the plastic bags containing Blackburn’s clothes and food.
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