The Harvest

by John David Krygelski

  Kaylie backed out of the space, bouncing the front wheel deliberately off the side curb. She gunned the engine and sped away, wondering who would already be at Barton’s. As she drove, Kaylie started calling her friends, trying to either line them up for an evening at the bar or find out their plans so she could change hers. Frustratingly, four of the five calls resulted in voice mail. Driving one-handed, she followed the voice mails she left by “texting” each of them. More than once, as she swerved out of her lane, angry drivers honked at her, only to get a raised finger in response. The successful fifth call was to “Sumo,” a nickname with an origin that was a mystery to her, only to find that he was going to spend the evening with his parents. No amount of cajoling was to change his mind. “Dork!” she exclaimed, angrily punching the button to end the call.

  The parking lot at Barton’s, normally almost full at this time of the evening, was nearly empty. Putting her car in “park” but leaving the engine running, she scanned the parked cars and recognized none of them. Shifting into “drive,” about to move on to another bar, Kaylie was suddenly startled by a loud knock on the window right next to her ear. Jerking her head to the left, she saw a stranger leaning down to look at her and smiling. He was old, she thought, at least thirty-five, but looked okay, kind of friendly. She lowered the window, and he immediately started talking. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. I’m sorry. I just ran out of gas. With all this stuff going on today, I forgot about it completely. I was on my way home to my wife, when my car died.” He rattled all of this out rapid-fire, while pointing to a car pulled just barely off the road and onto the Barton’s lot.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “I wouldn’t dream of asking you for a ride; you don’t even know me. Could I pay you to buy a gallon of gas for me, and I’ll wait here?”

  Kaylie’s first thought was not wanting her hands to smell like gasoline. She started to tell him that she was in a hurry and could not help him, when she noticed the mark on his palm. The stranger saw her eyes focusing on his hand and became self-conscious.

  “You have it,” she said, forcing herself to sound happy for him.

  “Uh…yes, I do.” Feeling a need to say something else, he added, “I was as surprised as all get-out.”

  She shifted her gaze from the symbols to his eyes. Staring into them, she made a decision. “Get in. I’ll take you to a gas station.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, sure! Get in.”

  He trotted around to the passenger side, climbing into her car.

  “My name is Ted, by the way…Ted Hornsby.”

  “Good to meet you, Ted. I’m Kaylie.”

  She slammed down the accelerator, and they sped away before he could fasten his shoulder harness. The first traffic light was red, and she stopped at the intersection. At the next corner was an actual service station with bays and lifts, rather than the usual convenience store with gas pumps. She pulled up to the front of the building. Ted immediately jumped out and began talking to the attendant. She saw the attendant grab a can and take it out to the pump, filling it. Ted paid and returned to her car.

  “That was pretty quick,” she said.

  “Well,” he replied, “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than help me tonight. You look like you’re on the way to a date.”

  “Actually, no date…no plans.”

  Not sure what the appropriate response was, Ted said nothing. They made it back to his car in minutes. As he got out and thanked her, she said, “I think I’ll hang with you for a minute…make sure you get going okay.”

  “No need, really.”

  “It’s fine, Ted. Really. Like I said…I’ve got nowhere to go, anyway.”

  She opened her door and walked with him to his car. He opened the gas door and unscrewed the cap. As he did, Kaylie leaned against the side of his car…right next to the tank and close to Ted. Feeling a little nervous, Ted took a half step away while trying to insert the can nozzle into the throat of the tank. As he pulled away, she slid closer until she was pressed against his arm, pretending to lean over to see the process. Neither said anything. The can emptied, and Ted, seeming relieved, pulled out the nozzle, setting the can on the ground. As he reached to screw the cap back, Kaylie placed her hand on his, stopping him.

  “Uh…Kaylie…right? Kaylie, I need to be going…home.”

  Still not speaking, she reached up and touched the side of his face, staring at him. He stared back. After a long moment, she leaned toward him, her lips slightly parted, closing her eyes. Expecting to feel her lips touch his, she was startled when she felt him firmly grasp her shoulder, holding her away as he pulled his other hand out from under hers, the gas cap clattering to the pavement.

  “Kaylie,” he said firmly. “Thanks. Thank you again for the help…the ride.”

  He stepped back from her and the car, moving a few feet away. Instantly her eyes flashed. The contempt dripping from her voice, she asked, “You think you’re special? Just because you have that…,” gesturing toward the mark.

  Not wanting a confrontation, Ted answered softly, “No…I don’t. I just…I just…I love my wife.”

  Kaylie became instantly furious and shrieked, “YOUR WIFE…YOUR WIFE…I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOUR WIFE!”

  Ted moved around to the driver’s side, keeping the car between them. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I hope you didn’t misunderstand. I just needed some gas.”

  Bending over, Kaylie picked up the gas cap and threw it at Ted, narrowly missing him. “You’ve got your gas, asshole! Get out of here!”

  Needing no further incentive, Ted quickly got in, locking the car door behind him, and cranked the engine over until it caught. His obvious anxiousness to get away from her seemed to make Kaylie even angrier. As the engine roared to life, she was beating on the trunk with both fists, screaming, “Get out…get out…go to your damn Heaven, you sonofabitch!”

  As he drove away, Ted saw her in his rearview mirror, still standing in the parking lot and screaming at him.

  א

  Dick Barton, the owner of Barton’s, heard the yelling and went to check it out. He arrived in time to see a car pulling out in a cloud of burnt rubber and a young, blond girl he recognized as a regular, standing and shouting at the retreating car. Before he could go out to ask her the problem, she got into her car and also sped away. Watching the receding taillights, he shrugged and returned to the front door where he had a box of black vinyl letters for his marquee.

  There was only one person inside, a daily customer, so Barton took the letters out to the curb and changed the sign. Finished, he stood back to reread it, making sure there were no misspellings to embarrass him.

  FIVE DAY SPECIAL – BRING IN

  YOUR NAKED RIGHT-HAND

  PALM AND GET TWO-4-ONE DRINKS

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Debbie Bennett and William Stavros were alone in his office.

  “I just can’t believe the timing,” Debbie complained. “For once, Preston was smack dab in the middle of the biggest deal of the century, and he got sick.”

  “I know,” Stavros agreed. “Were you able to get anything?”

  “Sure. Lots. Either Clayton and El Queso Grande are keeping him in the dark or this Elohim is pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. All Preston talked about was how they said the man was so real, so believable. And now we’re back out of the loop.”

  “Didn’t he go back to work today?”

  “He did. He’s feeling better. But now that the cat’s out of the bag, they didn’t see any need to keep him on this detail. They’re all worried about how the world is handling the news. They’ve got him working his normal back channels.”

  Stavros thought momentarily. “That might be helpful to us.”

  “How?”

  “The rest of the world isn’t led by the moronic ilk that America is. Someone’s going to get wise to this scam, and maybe your husband can tip us off. If we can find out early enough who’s
going to do what, we might be able to play a part or lend a hand.”

  Debbie sat quietly, thoughtfully staring out the window. “Bill, how are they doing this?”

  “That’s the big question. I don’t think the marks were all that hard. For all we know, they could be those carnival tattoos that you apply with water.”

  “But how could they get them to appear all at once?”

  “Debbie, ‘they’ are the only people who got the marks…they get on the Internet, contact their networks, send out the marks. They all put the marks on that morning and just keep their hands closed till the dramatic moment. I might have been a little convinced if one suddenly appeared on my hand or even yours, someone I know and trust.”

  “What about Tom Gleason?”

  “That fool! I said, someone I trust. Tom hasn’t been with the program in years…still reliving the 1968 Democratic Convention. He has never had the stomach to do what we needed. Besides, that proves my point. Did you see his palm before the broadcast?”

  “No,” she answered, “not that I remember.”

  “Neither did I. He obviously kept it hidden till the right moment.”

  “I still can’t figure out why they’re doing this.”

  “You can’t? It’s simple. I’ll bet my last dollar that every Congressman and Senator they want elected is going to have the mark. When the five days are up, instead of floating off to ‘la-la-land’ with Elohim, they will all hold a press conference and tell us that they decided to stay behind, that America was more important than their own personal eternal happiness. Between their noble self-sacrifice and the stamp of approval from ‘god’ himself, how can all of the idiots not vote for them?”

  “Makes sense. But all of those chosen can’t stay behind.”

  “I haven’t figured that part out yet. Maybe they all disappear to some island or something. They’d be found eventually, but if it’s after the election, who cares? They can come up with some story to explain it then.”

  “If that’s their plan, how do we stop it?”

  “First, I get my hands on someone with the mark. We need to figure that out. If it’s ink, a tattoo, whatever it is, we need to know. Other than that” – Stavros smiled – “don’t worry; I’ve got a plan.”

  א

  Turbo heard the dangling bell ring as the front door to his shop opened. The customer wore a floppy, pull-down hat and sunglasses.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Uh, yes. I need a tattoo.” Even though it was not bright inside, the stranger kept on the sunglasses. Turbo was used to this.

  “Nobody needs a tattoo. You just want one.”

  “Okay, I want one.”

  “Arm, back, ass…where do you want it?”

  The stranger extended his right hand, palm-up, and said, “Here.”

  “Sorry. We don’t do palms – too many blood vessels, too many nerves; skin wears off too fast; the tat won’t stay; and it’ll look like shit.”

  “Look,” the guy said, pulling several $100 bills out of his pocket, “I’ve been to three shops. They all said the same thing. The last one said you were the best, and if anybody could do it, you could.” He dropped the cash on the counter.

  Turbo snatched up the money without hesitation and said, “C’mon back.”

  The stranger followed him, saying, “What I want on the palm is….”

  “I know what you want,” Turbo interrupted.

  א

  Randolph Duncan stared out his office window at the pastoral Berkeley campus, absently riffling a pile of phone slips with his thumb. The slips were mostly calls from the media that requested his presence, either in person or via the telephone, to discuss the latest developments with Elohim. He normally used this semi-meditative state to create his best thoughts, but today it was not helping. The sun was setting in California, and the slightly red-tinged light, filtering through the trees and creating an intricate network of shadows on the strangely vacant campus, caused him to think of Dante, a writer disdained by Duncan as he disdained all others who promoted the primitive superstitions of the human race.

  “Oh…you’re here.” Duncan looked around to see Ki Sung, one of the postdocs in his department, standing at his doorway.

  “Ki, come in, come in.” The young man was wearing loose-fitting camos and high-laced black boots. Duncan could not help but think that Ki looked like a North Korean prisoner of war, captured by American troops and dressed up in a soldier’s clothes.

  The young evolutionary biologist, Duncan’s protegé, dropped heavily into the chair across from him.

  “Can you hear it?”

  “Hear what?” asked Duncan.

  “The mass ‘I told you so’ coming from the parents of all the students who headed home today with tickets bought by Mom and Dad.”

  Randolph laughed. It was the first mirth in quite a while. “If that’s the only thing we hear over the next few weeks and months, we’ll be lucky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just have a feeling that departments like this…all of them across the country…are going to be dismantled…replaced with, I don’t know, Bible Study faculty,” Duncan said wistfully.

  “Back to the bad old days?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Why, Dunc? Why do you think it’s going to be that way? I mean, everything is still all out there to study. Nothing changed.”

  “Ki, it’s like reading a murder mystery. What good does it do to study all the clues if you already know ‘whodunit’?”

  “Is that what we were trying to do…find out who the culprit was? I thought you always said there was no culprit.”

  Randolph’s eyes hardened at Ki’s comment. “What do you mean ‘you always said’? I always thought you were on board.”

  Ki, instead of being intimidated, smiled and said, “Look, Dunc…I was raised a good Catholic. As I got into my teens, I thought going to church was as uncool as everyone else did, so I stopped going. When my parents sent me to Berkeley, I figured out pretty quickly that if you wanted to get laid here, you didn’t wear the ash smear on your forehead on Ash Wednesday, and you didn’t ever bring up God…except to trash Him. Then, of course, I fell in love with this field, and it just so happened that the number one guy in the world in evolutionary biology – the one with seven published books and hundreds of papers, and the one who happened to be right here on campus – was a guy who thought that if you believed in God, you needed surgery to remove that part of your brain because it must be defective.”

  Duncan glared at Ki, pausing briefly before saying, “So you didn’t have the backbone to stand up for your convictions?”

  Instead of hedging, Ki answered honestly. “No, I didn’t. And I’m not proud of that. I rationalized it…told myself I was a double-agent working in the enemy camp. Except I never tried to sabotage you or the department, Dunc, and I hope you know that. My work speaks for itself. But…as you said, we were working on a mystery together, trying to solve it…trying to find out ‘whodunit.’ And like a good pair of detectives working a case, we had differing theories. I hoped, in my lifetime, to find the smoking gun.

  “If you want to be pissed off at me for keeping my dirty little secret, that’s fine. Just remember one thing, I always have believed in God…believed that God made everything. As far as I was concerned, the work I did was an attempt to understand His methods and techniques. I don’t think my…orientation…affected the quality or objectivity of my work. No matter what my beliefs were, I was able to work with you…the biggest God-hater in the field. I, unfortunately, found out soon enough that it was not a two-way street.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you had found out, I would have been out of here.”

  “That’s not tr….”

  “Don’t tell me that, Dunc,” Ki interrupted. “Look what you did to Linda. All she did was wear a St. Christopher medal around her neck…a gift from her grandmother. She kept it hidden from you. All semester she wore high-n
eck blouses. Unfortunately, one day it fell out and you saw it. You reduced her to tears and wouldn’t let her back into the lab until she proclaimed to the class that she didn’t believe in God.”