The Gorge

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Halle-fucking-lu- yah!” Ace couldn’t help shouting toward heaven.

God had sent more than a sign this time; He’d sent an angel to the rescue. Watching the gray creature flit out of the fog and launch itself into the group of rafters, Ace knew God was doing one of those mystery moves that kept the believers strong and made the doubters wonder.

Though the angel appeared down for the count, nothing lasted forever, and Ace knew the creature would be back at Rapture, when the forces of good and evil would stage the final battle. The only battle that mattered. For now, it had served God’s purpose.

The group gathered its equipment and the two deflated rafts and the people now scurried down the slick rocks beside the waterfall. The rain killed visibility, but the blaze orange of the five life vests moved across the landscape like bugs in a computer game.

Ace scooped their supplies into the backpack. Clara was sluggish and sleepy under the makeshift vinyl shelter. Figured. Whenever a man was ready to do great works, a woman was along to slow him down.

He slung the backpack over one shoulder, gripping his pistol. “Come on. This is our ticket out of here.”

“You said that last time, with the canoe.”

“That was just luck. This is a blessing.”

“What’s the difference?”

Getting more and more uppity each fucking day. Once we get out of these woods, I’m going to have to set the bitch straight about the facts of life.

“Stay here if you want.” He set off through the undergrowth, his damp clothes taking on more water until they were soaked and sagging around his body. He’d be dry soon enough, once they made it to the lake. Clara could hang around at the gas station, beg for money by saying their car had broken down. If that failed, he could always let her screw for money. Fifty bucks a pop, and she’d probably enjoy it. Either way, they’d soon have bus fare for Kentucky.

In Kentucky, a man known among militia groups only as “Dredder” had extended a personal invitation for Ace to stay in his cabin as long as necessary. Dredder lived somewhere beyond the depleted coal mines of Whitesville. He had no street address, but instead had sent a strange, coded set of directions. Ace had set them to memory and burned the piece of paper Dredder had mailed general delivery, care of “Ted Rudolph,” to a Birmingham post office. Ace himself had chosen the name in tribute to the Unabomber and his most recent role model, Eric Rudolph, who had eluded capture in the remote mountains of North Carolina for nearly three years despite a nationwide manhunt.

“Ace! Wait!”

Ace smiled and slowed only slightly. His boots slid in the leaves, carving up long scars of black dirt. Among the taller trees, he’d lost sight of the group, but there was only one point from which they could emerge: the flat stretch of sand at the base of the falls.

“Ace!”

She sounded a little panicky, the exhaustion gone. Just goes to show every woman needs a little nudge. You don’t challenge her, she thinks she’s the one with control.

Control. God was the one in control, but all the rest of the world was fair game for Ace’s special brand of chaos. God knew the winning numbers, but let human beings roll the dice. Shit fire, that was half the fun. They made their own choices, followed their own roads to salvation or eternal hellfire.

And she was choosing to follow him.

Just as she’d chosen to get into his truck on that dark emergency lane in Georgia. Just as she’d chosen to submit to him and take his seed. Just as she’d chosen to run when the FBI showed up. Just as she had chosen to be found again.

As he scrambled down the mossy embankment, through ferns, briars, and the twisted limbs of rhododendron and laurel, the sky cleared a little. The chimney of boulders, stacked like fat, mottled-gray pancakes, was visible, a few stunted pines bristling from cracks in the rock. Under other circumstances, it would have made a great sniper’s post, where he could have held off a hundred cops. But he lacked the ordnance. He was down to a handful of plastic explosives and the Colt Python.

He moved faster, the footing treacherous. The roar of the falls swelled louder, like the pissed-off sigh of God. A branch snagged his arm, running a shallow furrow in his skin. He shook free and skidded down a slanted, leaf-covered rock face, and he was on the sandy shore.

Ace eased back into the concealment of the undergrowth, wondering if Clara had gotten lost. He wanted to take the group by surprise. Since the rafters had been attacked by the angel, they were on edge. But they’d be looking to the sky, not the woods.

Though Ace was pretty sure they wouldn’t understand the meaning of it all. Even most religious people, who claimed to believe that God worked among them each day, were quick to deny the real miracles in their own lives.

“Ace!”

Damn. She was faster than he’d figured. He smiled. She must really love him.

But she’d best shut her apple-biting, back-talking mouth or she’d give away the game.

No big deal. The rumble of the river would muffle her voice. And it would take the group at least ten more minutes to make it down the embankment along the falls.

The pistol felt good in his hand, the rod and the staff that comforted. An instrument of God. Like the detonators he’d wired for the clinic bombs.

All it took was a steady hand and a little faith.

If only the rain would stop.

He lifted his face to the sky, precipitation on his cheeks like cold tears. The rain turned red. It fell from the bruised and beaten clouds like pellets of hellfire. A glow arose from the water, shimmering in waves of yellow and orange. The river was molten lava, sluicing between the rocks and pounding down the stony channel, burning its way deeper into the earth. Here and there among the flowing heat, creatures poked pathetic, singed limbs above the surface, attempting to crawl from the fluid damnation.

Creatures with scarred human faces, charred lips peeled back in eternal, soundless screams.

Ace smiled.

This vision was sweet. He was one lucky son of a bitch.

“Hey,” he shouted at Clara. “You should come see this.”

Like it was a blooper on America’s Funniest Home Videos. As if she’d be able to see it, or understand its significance.

“Ace? Where are you.”

Right where the Lord put me. Where I’m fucking supposed to be. Like always.

He leaned against a tree, oblivious to the water tickling down the back of his neck. The show was about to begin.