The Man in the Tree (34 page)

"God doesn't care if the human race survives or not. We are not his
chosen people. If we become extinct, he's got millions of other species
-- species that we're killing off right now at the rate of about one a
day. He's got the leopards and the deer and the elephants and the fish
in the ocean and the spiders with their wonderful webs. Everything in
God's world reflects his beauty, and he can get along without us. We
depend on him, not the other -- "
The flat crack of an explosion echoed from the rear of the hall. A little
gray smoke was drifting above the distant balcony, and there was a
confusion there -- people standing, moving like ants; there were shouts
and screams. Ushers and security people were converging on the spot. Just
below the podium, the head of the security detail was speaking into his
walkie-talkie. "What is it?" Gene said.
"A bomb, looks like. We don't know yet how many are hurt."
Gene said into the microphone, "Please remain in your seats." To the
security man he said, "Get me up there."
Seven people were lying between the rows of seats, bloody and ragged. He
healed five of them, one after the other; but two were dead.
"You were right," he said to Brian. "Lisa, you were trying to tell me
the same thing. It was my damned pride. Those people would be alive if
I'd listened to you. Cancel the rest of the tour. We're going home."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Driving dowh the wrong road and knowing it,
The fork years behind, how many have thought
To pull up on the shoulder and leave the car
Empty, strike out across the fields; and how many
Are still mazed among dock and thistle,
Seeking the road they should have taken?
--Gene Anderson
At the airport the next morning, as they approached the fence, a man in
a gray suit came up to them, followed by three armed men in uniform.
"Mr. Anderson, you are under arrest for the crime of felony murder,
as defined in section three oh-nine of the U.S. Criminal Code. I warn
you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against
you." He put a hand on Gene's arm.
"I'm Mr. Anderson's attorney," said Brian. "Let me see your warrant."
The man in the gray suit took a paper from his breast pocket, unfolded
it and held it out. Before Brian could take it, Gene plucked it out
of his hand and examined it. "There must be some mistake," he said,
and held the paper up. It was blank on both sides.
"Give me that," said the man in the gray suit. He took the paper and
looked at it in disbelief. He fumbled in his pocket again, then stared
at Gene. "That was a properly executed warrant when I gave it to you,"
he said. "This kind of stunt won't get you anywhere, Mr. Anderson."
"I don't see any warrant," Brian said, "all I see is a blank sheet of
paper. Come on, everybody."
They crossed the boarding area and climbed into the airplane. "Close
that door quick," said Brian. He called to the pilot, "Have you got
clearance? Let's go."
When they were airborne, he said, "Did you blank out that warrant?"
"Yes."
"Well, I wish you hadn't done that -- now we don't know what was on
it. Wait a minute." He took his phone out of his pocket and punched
in a number. "Phil? Gene Anderson was just hit with a federal warrant
for felony murder, but the warrant disappeared -- Never mind that now,
they couldn't serve it because it disappeared, but we don't know what the
specific charge was. . . . Yes, all right, tell them anything you want.
Okay." He put the phone back in his pocket. "He's going to try to find
out and call me back. Meanwhile, let's see what our options are. Assuming
that's a valid warrant, number one, Gene can surrender and stand trial. I
don't think they can get a conviction, whatever it is, but we'll wait
and see. If they do get a conviction, we'll appeal."
"How long would that take?"
"In the worst case, if it had to go to the Supreme Court, two, three
years."
"And in the meantime, what, is he out on bail?"
Brian hesitated. "I can't promise that. The new Criminal Code gives
federal judges the right -- " His phone buzzed. "Excuse me, that's my
call." He took the phone out of his pocket. "Yes?"
He listened for a moment. "Okay, Phil, thanks. I don't know, I'll call
you back. We haven't got our feet under us yet. Okay? Okay, Phil."
He turned to face them. "Well, it's bad. They pulled a double whammy on
us. They must have been hoping for something like this, or maybe they
rigged it, I wouldn't put anything past them."
"What are you talking about?"
"The bomb victims. By holding that meeting in defiance of the Anti-Cult
Act, you technically committed a felony. If anybody gets killed while
you,re committing a felony, you can be charged with murder."
"Can they make that stick?"
"I don't know. Now wait a minute, let's not get excited, let's talk
about our options. Surrender is one. What else is there?"
"Gene could get out of the country."
"Yes, but think about the consequences. It would have to be to some
country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the U.S. That would
effectively restrict his movements from then on -- he'd be stuck in some
place like Venezuela."
"How about this? Gene submits to arrest, they put him in jail, and he
opens the doors and walks out. You could do it, couldn't you, Gene?"
"Yes."
"Then they come and arrest him again, and he walks out again. That would
be a shot in the arm for the Movement, when they see no jail can hold him."
"That's beautiful, but it won't work. After the first time, they'd put
a twenty-four-hour guard on him."
"Well -- "
"No, Lisa, he's right," said Gene. "I could knock out the guards, I
could unload their guns -- that's the kind of thing you're thinking of,
isn't it? That's all true, but then if they locked me up a third time,
they would take extraordinary measures. Either I couldn't get out at all,
or I could do it only by killing somebody."
"What's the answer, then?"
After a moment Gene said, "I don't know."
That night in Florida he dreamed of an enormous canvas marked off in
squares and diagonals in preparation for transferring a cartoon to
it. That was curious, because he had not thought of drawing or painting
in over a year. Then the canvas somehow faded away, and only the charcoal
lines remained; he was climbing them like a trellis, but he knew there
was something waiting for him at the center, and that when he got there
he would fall.
Early in the morning, before anyone was awake, he put some food and
clothes in the motor home. He left a note for Pongo in his cottage,
and another, addressed to everyone, in the kitchen of the big house.
"Where do you suppose he's gone?" Margaret asked.
"Where
can
he go?"
"As long as they don't know where to look for him, he can go anywhere
he wants. He'll travel at night, use back roads."
"I think I know where he has gone," said Linck.
It would take Gene at least six days, more likely seven or eight, to drive
across the continent. Linck made his preparations carefully. He packaged a
revolver and a box of cartridges and airmailed them to Portland, Oregon --
an illegal act, but he could not carry a weapon onto an airplane. He spent
several days in the Pinellas Park offices, settling policy questions and
making contingency plans. For the time being at least, until the legal
problems were settled, the Movement would have to go underground. There
was, after all, a good precedent for that. Linck bought a few necessary
things and packed a suitcase. On the eighteenth, four days after Gene's
departure, he boarded a flight for Portland, Oregon.
He was well aware that from one point of view he was about to commit
a monstrous act of betrayal. He did not underestimate the duties of
friendship or the claims of sentiment, but he believed in the existence
of something more important.
It was Linck's conviction that Jesus of Nazareth had been a man like
Gene Anderson, gifted with the same power; all but a few of his reported
miracles could be explained in that way, and in addition there was a
suggestive passage in the Gospel of Peter, where he was made to say
on the cross, not "My God, my God," but "My power, my power, thou hast
deserted me."
It was even possible, although Linck did not excuse himself on this
ground, that Gene expected and willed this betrayal -- as Jesus had
given the sop to Judas, saying, "What you do, do quickly."
One of the great puzzles was the fact that within three centuries of
the execution of its founder by one of the most degrading methods known
to the Romans, the Christian religion had become the dominant force in
Europe. That was absurd, and it was true, and this absurd truth, for many
theologians, was the ultimate proof of the divinity of Jesus. Linck did
not go so far, but he was convinced that if Jesus had not been arrested,
tried, and executed, the movement he had founded would have remained an
obscure sect.
After Caesar, Augustus. After Christ, Paul.
In Portland he picked up his parcel at the post office. The weather was
cool and damp. He stayed overnight in a motel, and rented a car the next
morning. The rental agent was very helpful. "I know the place you mean,"
he said. "It isn't on most maps, but I can tell you how to get there. Now
see, here's Bend. You keep going on route twenty, and in about forty
miles you'll hit a place called Brothers. Don't turn off there, take
the next exit south, and that'll take you right down to it."
Linck drove with the map beside him, south on the interstate, then east
on route 22, rising through forests of conifers still with snow on their
branches, then down again.
In his suitcase was a block and tackle and two forty-foot lengths of
half-inch manila rope. When Anderson was dead, he would find a tree
with a suitable limb, draw up the block and tackle and secure it. Then,
using the block and tackle, which had a ratio of five to two, he could
easily hoist Anderson's body, by a rope around its neck, until it hung
clear of the ground.
He took the wrong exit from Bend and wound up at a crossroads settlement
called Fort Rock, where he stopped for gas. "Can you tell me how to get
to the Lost Forest?"
"You lose one?" the attendant asked gravely. "Just a joke. Naw, what
you do, you head right on out this way about five miles, then you'll
see a road going south. It ain't a good road, but it'll get you there if
it ain't full of water. Then you take the first left turn, and that'll
bring you over to Christmas Valley. There's another turnoff north just
past the lake, but don't go there, take the next one. That'll take you
right up to Lost Forest." He hung up the nozzle. "Seven fifty."
"This certainly is the wettest desert I have ever seen," Linck said
pleasantly. "Is it always like this?"
"This time of year, yeah. Dries out along about June. See, this is
what they call high desert. Dry because it's high. You're about four
thousand feet up right here. Get a lot of snow and rain in the winter,
but it runs off, and the summers'li curl your hair."
"Is there a motel near here?" Linck asked. "Or up near the Lost Forest?"
"Nope. Was two at Christmas Valley, but they closed down. Nearest one'd
be Burns, that's about a hundred miles."
Linck followed the man's directions, but the road quickly became
impassable; there were deep potholes full of water, some of them so big
that the car could not go around them. He turned and drove back the way
he had come; the gas station attendant waved at him as he passed.
He got onto the paved road again, followed it all the way to Bend,
then turned southeast on route 20. The map showed an unimproved road
that should take him directly to the Lost Forest, but when he tried it,
it was worse than the other. He got back onto the paved road and drove
to Burns, where he found a motel.
What he needed for the desert, the manager told him, was a van or
camper. There was none to be had in Burns, but he found a man who was
willing to rent him a Dodge pickup truck at an exorbitant price. The
truck had a high wheelbase and big heavy-duty tires; it would, the owner
assured him, go anywhere.
He drove back by a different route, south for twenty miles on a bad
gravel road, then west on a road that was not even gravel but dirt,
one car wide. Every quarter mile or so there was a pothole too big to
cross, and then the tire-tracks ahead of him swung up into the brush
and down again. The truck, rocking and groaning on its springs, took
him forward at five miles an hour. Once he met a cow and a calf in
the road; the calf stared at him dumbly, then, with a start of horror,
turned and ran. The cow followed more placidly, swinging the hell under
her neck. After fourteen miles of this, the scrub gave way to a forest
of dark evergreens, widely spaced, growing in white sand. Linck stopped
the truck and sat a moment, listening to the silence; then he drove on.
That night in his room he put himself into deep trance, lying on his back
with his arms folded in the darkness: -- When you see Gene Anderson you
will forget why you came. You will forget what you intend to do. When
he goes to sleep, you will remember everything. You will be very calm.
The next day, and the next, he drove the same route. The truck was coated
with pale mud up over the bottoms of the doors. On the third day he saw
the familiar chevron patterns in the road and followed them until he came
to Gene's motor home parked under the trees. Footsteps led northward in
the white sand.
Linck's hands were trembling. He put himself into light trance for a
moment, gave himself a calming suggestion. He got his suitcase out of
the truck and began to follow the footprints.
It was absolutely still under the trees. Whenever he stopped to listen,
there was nothing; not a rustle of branches or the sound of a bird;
nothing.
Around the edges of the forest grew stunted and deformed juniper trees,
their ropy wood twisted into tormented shapes -- skeletal trees, the color
of ox skulls. In the forest itself the giants stood in proud isolation;
they were pines with reddish bark broken into dry hexagonal plaques. Under
one of them he found Gene Anderson, sitting on a gray pile of duff with
his back against the tree.