Those who got out used a chemical toilet near the shed, to spare the ones on the bus, which otherwise would soon need to be pumped out. But mostly the crew stayed on board, watching TV.
Local television, including the network affiliates, were skirting the subject of Dove’s seizure and the disappearance of the bus—mentioning it but not speculating. Duke Cochran supposed they’d been constrained by martial law provisions.
CNN, of course, was giving major time to both description and speculation, and to demands by the U.S. Attorney General’s office for an explanation. Constitutional law experts speculated that if Governor Cook wasn’t quickly forthcoming, he’d find U.S. marshals on his doorstep with a warrant for his arrest.
Sergeant Lavender watched along with the tour crew, saying nothing, but looking increasingly unhappy. After a few minutes, a highway cruiser arrived with two more troopers. Lavender had them pull in behind the shed, too.
* * *
Steven and Edmund Buckels had taken a seat together in the bus. After a bit Jenny went to them and looked at Steven. “Hello, big brother,” she said. “Trade you seats. It’s my turn to sit by Daddy.”
Steven smiled at her and moved across the aisle, while she sat down beside their father, putting her hand on his forearm. “I’m glad you came, Dad. You’ve made me very happy.”
Again silent tears overflowed his eyes. She squeezed his hand gently, saying nothing more till she sensed he could speak without breaking. Then she asked what kind of summer they’d had back home. “About right,” he said. “Not too hot, and God has sent rain when needed. The farmers are happy with it, and it’s to them that weather means the most.” He looked searchingly at his daughter. “Jenny,” he began, paused, then continued. “I’ve come to ask your forgiveness.”
Leaning, she kissed his cheek, then chuckled. “I’ll forgive you if you’ll forgive me.”
He smiled wanly. “I believe we have already. But—the greater fault was mine.” Once more he paused. “Do you truly believe Mr. Aran is the messiah?”
“I do, Father. I’m a healer now; he taught me. His love and compassion are beyond my comprehension. I’ve been blessed to know him.” She gestured. “We all have.”
He examined his hands. “I fear I cannot let go my doubts. He is—beyond anything I’d thought to see, but I have not been able to swear a belief in him. I have been warned too often of the antichrist.”
Her voice softened. “That’s all right, Father. The Infinite Soul doesn’t demand. It simply loves. It is love. There is no punishment for doubting.”
Once such heresy would have triggered anger. Now he simply nodded, not convinced perhaps, but receptive.
* * *
Noon came and went, and Sergeant Lavender’s stomach began to complain. He had no doubt everyone else’s had too. He began to look at ways to get food delivered, sufficient for his detainees and his men, without tipping anyone as to whom it was for.
Then he heard a chopper in the distance, and left the bus to look. It came nearer, to hover directly over the shed at about two hundred feet. It had neither police nor national guard markings, nor the logo of any TV station.
CNN in a charter job, sure as can be. He shook his head. It was probably just as well. It would put pressure on old Marius, and maybe the damn fool would realize the trouble he was making for himself.
He became aware of Art Knowles standing a few feet behind him. Knowles spoke quietly: “I guess the fat’s in the fire now, eh, Sergeant?”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised, Mr. Knowles, not a bit.”
But he didn’t send anyone for food until the telltale video shots of the bus were shown on CNN, and the location announced. Then he had lunch orders compiled for his prisoners and troopers—the state would pay—and called Bell Creek, placing orders for pizza, tacos, burgers, and fried chicken.
Before the food was delivered, the first rubberneckers and believers had parked along the road and were looking through the fence. Minutes after the food arrived, so did the first wheelchair case.