Brimstone

{ 58 }

Harriman strolled past the Plaza Hotel and into Central Park, breathing in the crisp air with relish. It was a glorious fall evening, the golden light tinting the leaves above his head. Squirrels ran around gathering nuts; mothers pushed babies in strollers; groups of bicyclists and Rollerbladers glided past on South Park Drive.

His piece on Buck had run in the morning edition, and Ritts had loved it. The phones had been ringing all day, fax machines humming, reader e-mails flowing in. Once again, he'd touched a chord.

On this glorious evening, Bryce Harriman strolled northward, back to the site of his earlier triumph, in search of fresh glory. What was needed now was an interview with the good Reverend Buck himself-a Post exclusive. And if anyone could get that exclusive, he could.

As he came around the back of the Central Park Zoo and passed the old arsenal, he stopped in surprise. There was a tent here, an old canvas tent, pitched in the overgrown area just north of 65th Street along the Fifth Avenue side. As he walked up a small rise, more tents came into view. He crested the rise to find a veritable tent city spread before him, the smoke from dozens of fires rising into the autumn air.

Harriman paused, surprise changing to a glow of satisfaction. He had done this. He had kept the story alive, identified a leader, kept the people coming. And now this .

He moved into the outskirts of the camp. Some people, especially the numerous high school and college-aged kids, were wrapped only in newspapers; others had sleeping bags of various makes and colors; still others had makeshift tents made of sheets held up by sticks. A few had fancy tents from North Face and Antarctica Ltd.-trust fund brats from Scarsdale and Short Hills, probably.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of cops along the Fifth Avenue wall, eyeing the situation. And to his left were more cops, just standing around, keeping a low profile. No wonder: there must be five hundred people camped in here.

He wandered into the encampment and down a makeshift alley between rows of tents. It was almost like a Depression-era shantytown, little narrow lanes built among the woodsy hollows and exposed rock faces: cooking fires, people sitting around on quilts and blankets drinking coffee. Here and there people were arriving with backpacks and setting up more tents. It had to extend at least to 70th Street: four square blocks of parkland. It was incredible. Had anything like this happened in New York before? Quickly, he got out his cell phone and ordered up a pool photographer.

Harriman then stopped to ask directions and within minutes had located Buck's tent: a large army-surplus job near the camp's center. Just inside, he could make out Buck himself, seated at a card table and writing. He was a curiously dignified figure, and Harriman was reminded of old pictures he'd seen of Civil War generals. He hoped that damn photographer would hurry up.

As Harriman approached the entrance to the tent, a young man cut him off. "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Mr. Buck."

"A lot of people are here to see the reverend. He's busy, can't be disturbed."

"I'm Harriman from the Post ."

"And I'm Todd from Levittown." The aide-de-camp stood firm, blocking the way, a kind of dreamy, supercilious smile on his face.

No asshole like a born-again asshole, Harriman thought. He glanced beyond the self-appointed guardian to Buck, working at his card table, ignoring them. What was that he saw, taped to the inside wall of the tent? A row of articles clipped from the Post .His articles. He felt emboldened.

"The reverend will want to see me ." He pushed past the fellow, ducked into the tent, and strode over to Buck, hand extended. "Reverend Buck?"

The man rose. "And you are-?"

"Harriman from the Post ."

"He just barged in, Reverend-," the aide-de-camp began.

But a slow smile was spreading across Buck's face. "Harriman. It's all right, Todd, I've been expecting this gentleman."

Deflated, Todd retreated to a corner of the tent, while Buck shook the extended hand. Seen up close, he looked shorter than he did while preaching. He wore a simple checked short-sleeved shirt and a pair of chinos: no blow-dried helmet of hair or polyester suits for this preacher. His forearms were meaty and one sported a tattoo. His handshake was a crusher. Ex-prison, guessed Harriman.

"You've been waiting for me?" he asked.

Buck nodded. "I knew you'd come."

"You did?"

"It's all part of the plan. Won't you sit down?"

Harriman took a plastic seat at the card table and removed his microcassette recorder. "May I?"

"Be my guest."

Harriman turned it on, tested it, set it carefully on the table. "Perhaps we should begin with this plan of yours. Tell me about it."

Buck smiled indulgently. "I was referring to God's plan."

"Right. Okay. Which is?"

Buck spread his hands. "What you see all around you. I am nothing, just one flawed human trying my best to fulfill God's plan. You, Mr. Harriman, whether you know it or not, are a part of that plan, too. An important part, as it turns out. Your articles have swelled this crowd, brought people together-those with ears to hear and eyes to witness."

"Witness what?"

"The rapture."

"Excuse me?"

"God's promise to his followers in the End Days. When the faithful will be lifted into heaven while the wicked sink into filth and fire." Buck hesitated briefly. And in that hesitation, Harriman detected a flash-just a flash-of nervousness. Perhaps the man was a little scared at what he'd unleashed.

"What makes you think the End Days are here?"

"God sent me a sign. It was your article in the newspaper, the article on the deaths of Grove and Cutforth, that first brought me here all the way from Yuma, Arizona."

"And just who are all these people camped around you?"

"The saved, Mr. Harriman. Out there are the damned. Which are you?"

Harriman was taken aback by the suddenness of the question. Buck was eyeing him with an almost Rasputin-like intensity.

"Does it matter?" Harriman laughed weakly.

"Does it matter whether you spend eternity boiling in a lake of fire or lying sweetly in the lap of Jesus? Because the time has come to make a choice. These awful deaths have made that clear. No more sitting on the fence, wondering where the truth is. This question enters everyone's life at some point, and now that life-changing decision has suddenly, without warning, come to you . Remember Paul's Epistle to the Romans: There is none righteous, no, not one . For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God. You must repent and be born again in the love of Jesus. You can wait no longer. So, Mr. Harriman: are you saved, or are you damned?"

Buck waited for a reply.

Harriman felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. The guy was really waiting for an answer, and it was clear he wouldn't go on until he got one. What was he going to reply? Sure, he'd always considered himself a Christian, sort of-but not a Bible-thumping, proselytizing Christian.

"I'm still working it out," he finally said. How had he allowed Buck to set the agenda like this? Who was in charge of this interview, anyway?

"What's there to work out? The decision is simple. Remember what Jesus said to the wealthy man who desired eternal life: Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor . For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. Are you ready to give away your earthly goods, Mr. Harriman, and join me? Or will you walk away, like that rich man in the Gospel of Luke?"

Harriman thought about this. Had Jesus really said that? Something must have been lost in the translation.

Maybe another tack would break this impasse. "So when, Reverend, is all this going to happen?"

"If everybody knew when the Day of Judgment would dawn, we'd have a whole lot of converts the night before. It will come when the world least expects it ."

"But you expect it. And very soon."

"Yes. Because God has sent his faithful a sign, and that sign was the death that took place right across the street."

Harriman noted that the group of policemen in the distance had grown a little bigger. They were talking and taking notes. He realized abruptly this little Shangri-La wasn't going to last. If Christ didn't come soon, the police would. You couldn't have hundreds of people shitting in the bushes of Central Park forever. And come to think of it, there was an odd smell wafting on the air .

"What will you do if the police move in to evict you?" he asked.

Buck paused, his face betraying another fleeting glimpse of uncertainty, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. The serene expression returned.

"God will be my guide, Mr. Harriman. God will be my guide."