“Of course,” Steven said. “Come on, Dad.”
She watched them go. Her father’s eyes still avoided Dove. He’d never been against civil rights for blacks, though his tolerance for “pushiness” was limited. He’d made a point of “befriending” the first black family to move into the fringe of Loblolly’s white community. It never grew into actual friendship—they were never comfortable with the Johnsons—but the Johnsons were Baptists, and Willis Johnson a pharmacist like both Edmund and his father. And associating with them was the Christian thing to do.
“Lee, tell the waitress where I’ve gone,” Jenny said. Carrying her coffee, she followed her brother and father. They’d chosen a booth, and seated themselves side by side. She slid in across from them. “Hello, Dad,” she said. “I’m glad to see you. And glad you wanted to see me.” She’d realized his grief had more to do with her than with her mother’s death, but she hadn’t anticipated the silent tears that overflowed his eyes when she spoke to him. Reaching, she patted his hand. “Mom’s watching us,” she said, “and she’s glad we’re together here.” Edmund nodded, unable to speak.
She turned to Steven. “Who’s filling your pulpit while you’re gone?”
“Esther Ruth Maddox,” Steven answered. Then gestured with his head toward Dove. “Is he—who he seems to be?”
“I have no doubt. None at all.”
Steven nodded. “It seems that way to me, too. And to Dad. Either the Second Coming, or he who comes before, to prepare the way. In either case . . .” He shook his head. “It’s hard. He doesn’t say the things we expected. But then, Jesus didn’t say the things they expected him to, either.”
* * *
Lee watched them from across the room. She too had sensed Edmund Buckel’s emotion, been touched by it. Then her waitress brought her breakfast, and took Jenny’s to the booth. Lee was finishing her waffle when the police arrived. The captain in command eyed the auras, then gathering himself, approached Dove and spoke to him calmly and professionally, addressing him as Mr. Aran. Dove’s people, he said, could finish breakfast, but afterward he’d need to talk to them outside. He’d barely said it when the man who’d asked for healing came from the restroom. “It worked!” he shouted. “I’m healed! Thank you, God, he healed me!” He looked around at the startled faces. “I just had my first really good pee in years!”
For a moment, silence reigned, followed by applause and friendly laughter, breaking the tension of a moment before. The police captain stared, then retreated to the vestibule, shaking his head.
* * *
After Lee had signed the receipt, the captain led the tour crew out into the sunshine. Overhead were two police choppers. Some distance off, a TV chopper circled slowly. Eight or ten police cruisers blocked the entryways and approach road. The captain led Dove to one of the police cars, while a sergeant and several other officers gathered the tour crew. Art Knowles remonstrated with the sergeant in charge. He was Dove’s security chief, he said, and should be allowed to go with him. Politely but firmly the sergeant refused. “Sir,” he said, “nobody’s going to do him any harm. He’ll be just fine.”
Several people had followed them out of the restaurant, and one of them shouted to the captain. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing, officer.”
The captain turned and called back. “I hope so too, sir, I surely do.” He got into the cruiser beside Dove and closed the door. Then the car pulled out onto the frontage road, and accelerated sharply as it headed for the on-ramp, followed by other patrol cars.
The senior sergeant and three other highway patrolmen herded the rest of the party toward the bus. Lor Lu confronted the sergeant. “Sergeant, I am Lor Lu, Mr. Aran’s administrative assistant. In his absence I’m responsible for these people. What exactly is this all about?”
“Mr. Lu, martial law has been declared in Arkansas. You folks are in danger of your lives, and Governor Cook isn’t about to let Mr. Aran get killed here. Or any of the rest of you folks. Last night about midnight, a whole busload of folks got all shot up—Donnie Jamison and his Christian Singers. They were in another Celebrity Tours bus, on the I-40 bridge out of Memphis. Seems likely someone mistook it for yours. Slammed a bunch of rockets into it. Killed everyone on board. So when nobody knew where you were last night, Governor Cook was worried to death about y’all. Now you’re under protective custody, and one of my men is going to drive. He knows where we’re going, and there’s no need for any of you to worry.”