Brimstone

{ 68 }

The Reverend Buck sat at the desk inside his tent, the beams of bright morning sun slanting through the door net and setting the canvas walls ablaze. Everybody in camp was still keyed up from the showdown with the police, still abuzz with energy. Buck could feel that same energy coursing through his being. The passion and belief of his followers had astonished, had heartened him. Clearly, the spirit of God was among them. With God, anything was possible.

The problem was, the police would not rest. They would act decisively, and act soon. His moment was about to arrive: the moment he had come so far, worked so hard, to fulfill.

But what moment? And how, exactly, would he fulfill it?

The question had been growing within him, gnawing at him, for days now. At first, it had been just a faint voice, a sense of disquiet. But now it never left him, despite his praying and fasting and penitence. God's path was unclear, His wishes mysterious.

Yet again he bowed his head in prayer, asking God to show him the way.

Outside, in the background, he could hear the excited hum of a hundred conversations. He paused to listen. Everybody was talking about the aborted attempt to arrest him. Strange that the police had sent in only two. They probably didn't want to make a show of aggression, have a Waco on their hands.

Waco. That little aside from the woman cop had sobered him up. It had been almost like a surgical thrust. She was something, that one. Couldn't be more than thirty-five, a real looker, self-assured as anything. The other was just another weak, vainglorious bully, like any number of the screws he'd dealt with in the Big House. But she-she had the confidence, the power, of the devil behind her.

Should he resist, put up a fight? He had tremendous power in his hands, hundreds of followers who believed in him heart and soul. He had the power of conviction and the Spirit, but they had the power of physical arms. They had the might of the state behind them. They had weapons, tear gas, water cannon. If he resisted, it would be a butchery.

What did God want him to do? He bowed, prayed again.

There was a knock on one of the wooden posts of the tent.

"Yes?"

"It's almost time for your morning sermon and the laying-on of hands."

"Thank you, Todd. I'll be out in a few minutes."

He needed an answer, if only for himself, before he could face his people once again. They relied on him for spiritual guidance in this greatest crisis of all. He was so proud of them, of their bravery and conviction. "Soldiers of Rome," they'd shouted so aptly at the cops .

Soldiers of Rome-that was it.

Suddenly, like the cogs of some vast spiritual machine, a series of connections fell together like dominoes in his mind. Pilate. Herod. Golgotha. It had been there all the time, the answer he'd been searching for. He'd just needed the strength of faith to find it.

He knelt a moment longer. "Thank you, Father," he murmured. Then he rose, feeling suffused with light.

Now he knew exactly how he would face the armies of Rome.

He armed aside the tent flap and strode toward the preaching rock. He glanced around at the beauty of the morning, the beauty of God's earth. Life was so precious, such a fleeting gift. As he climbed the path that circled behind the rock, he reminded himself that the next world would be far better, far more beautiful. When the infidels came, a thousand strong, he knew exactly how he was going to deliver them unto defeat.

He raised his hands to a thunderous cheer.