At two o’clock, Sergeant Lavender called headquarters and asked for reinforcements. His small force numbered eight now, including himself, but there were, he reported, about three hundred people along the fence, both sides of the road, and in the road itself. Most were well-behaved, but Lavender was worried about “militia.” “And martial law or not,” he said, “I’m not about to start shooting. Too many folks to get hurt.”
After a time, three more cruisers pulled up in front, each with two officers.
The healers, including Lor Lu, hung out with the police, one of whom got a toothache healed, and another a groin muscle he’d pulled sliding into third in a police and firemen’s league softball game. But the rest of the tour group sat in the bus watching television. They’d all wondered what had become of Dove, so when CNN switched to the front yard of the executive mansion, Art Knowles went outside and informed the others. Most reached the set in time to watch Dove enter the governor’s office . . .
. . . And watch the interrogation.
At the climax there was one scream, Lee’s. Carl Lavender was at the fence when he heard it, and hurried to the bus to find out what was wrong. It was Lor Lu who told him. “The governor has murdered Dove,” he said. Said it through tears, his smile beatific.
Thunderstruck, Lavender strode back to where he could see, then looked horrified at the others, all with tears running down their faces. Hurrying out to one of the patrol cars parked behind the shed, he called department headquarters in Little Rock. A male officer took the call.
Lavender identified himself. “I’ve got a busload of Millennium folks here, and I need to know what’s going on. Can you . . .”
He’d intended to ask whether his orders had changed, but his phrasing opened a floodgate. “Going on?” The officer completely forgot the department’s rules of radio etiquette. “Marius went totally bonkers; shot old En-gunda full of holes! Jesus Christ, everyone here saw it! And the guru just stood there, smiling and talking and bleeding. Looked like he was on fire, the way that halo of his flared up. So Marius emptied the whole goddamn magazine into him! Jesus Christ! And he just stood there smiling”—the man’s voice broke—”while the blood pumped out of him!” He paused, struggling for control. “Told old Marius God loved him anyway! Jesus Christ, I never saw anything like it!” Tears were running down the man’s face, and again his voice broke, but he continued. “He must have had fifteen, twenty holes in him . . . blood all over the place! Then Marius took out another gun, put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger! Oh, God, it was terrible!”
“You mean put it in his own mouth? The governor is dead?”
“Hell yes, the fucker’s dead! Jesus Christ! Splashed his brains all over the place! He killed Christ, for God’s sake! He should have shot himself!”
The man broke down entirely then. Lavender waited. Someone else got on the line and called the shift commander for him. “Captain,” Lavender said, “what do I do with these Millennium folks I got here? And their bus?”
“Just keep them there till we get instructions. Pete MacIlvaine’s governor now, but he don’t know it yet. He’s supposed to have gone fishing today, somewhere on the Upper White. We’re trying to get in touch with his wife, to find out just where. Everything okay there now? You got enough men?”
“Boy, I hope so. I surely do. Oh my! This feels bad to me, Captain. If you can send me some more people, I’ll surely be grateful to you.”
Then the sergeant had his men get the heavier weapons from their cruisers—a 12-gauge pump shotgun and an M-16 assault rifle from each. Somehow it seemed like the thing to do.
* * *
By that time, the crowd had learned of the killing from radios in cars, and on car and cell phones. A few cars drove away, but most people stayed. There was some wailing and sobbing, but most of the weeping was quiet, wet faces peering through the fence. Others stood dry-eyed but solemn, some talking in undertones.