The Second Coming by John Dalmas

“Stuff?” The tone was guarded.

“Yeah. Like what’s the attraction here? Does Dove come out and talk to you guys? Does it seem like he might really be the Second Coming?”

The man grunted, then looked at the children. They were playing again. “Thurl,” he called, “don’ lose my screwdriver. If you do, you don’ eat till you find it.” He turned back to Lute. “The Dove came out once when we first come here, last June. Circulated aroun’ and talked with people, then left. There was a lot more of us then. And the attraction? Depends on the person, I suppose. To me the place feels clean. Plen’y of dirt, living like this, but the vibes are clean. And Dove? I don’ worry whether he’s the Second Coming or the Fifth. Or just somebody spiritual, with a line to God. ‘Cause he’s got one; read what he says. And man, his vibes are unbelieveable! Those Indian guards have clean vibes, too. We talked to one of them, from the Yakima Nation up in Washington. Invited him to supper.” The man laughed. “Kind of a hoot, white eyes like us inviting an Indian into our wigwam. He had that Ladder treatment, Life Healing, back on the reservation, and tol’ us a little about it. Cindy says she’d like to try it, and I guess I would too. Maybe we will someday, when we get a little ahead on things.”

He tilted his head back, and looked at the empty blue sky. “We’re gonna leave this week. It’s closing in on November, and up here it can snow any day now.

“I got my knee all shot to hell in the Lagos Rescue, and we lived on my partial disability money, till it got cut way back a couple years ago. Gotta cut those taxes, you know. Keep up those stock prices and executive bonuses.”

He said it without heat, then shrugged. “Up here we can still live on it. We’ll go back to Phoenix for the winter, and I’ll work for my uncle again, cutting up scrap. It ain’t much for pay, but it don’ take a lot of walking around, and my uncle’s a good guy to work for. He’s got a mobile home he lets us use cheap, and his wife presses juice from their orange trees. Gives us all of it we want, for nothing.” He shrugged again. “It ain’ very exciting, but it suits us okay.”

He half-turned to the tent. “Come in and meet Cindy. She ain’ feeling too good today. You know how it is. But maybe she’ll invite you to lunch.”

* * *

Later, Koskela visited another tepee, then an ordinary walled tent and an old camper rig, killing time till nightfall. Giving his name as Lloyd Krause. Most of what he learned, he got from his lunch hosts, Al and Cindy Espinosa. What the others had to say wasn’t much different. His questioning had been cautious and casual; it wouldn’t do to arouse suspicion. Mostly he let the conversations take their own course, only now and then bringing up a subject.

Little of what he heard was useful, except about the guards. Apparently three were on duty at any given time—two on the gate, one on the tower, day and night. They worked three-hour shifts, alternating with six hours on standby at the guard house, for one long day and night. Then they were off for twenty-one hours. They lived at the Cote with their families.

The tower stood like a forest lookout tower without a forest, on a knob a mile inside the gate. He’d seen it on his overflights, two days earlier, and again while driving.

Koskela was uncomfortable with what he’d learned. It was no doubt honest, as far as it went, but something was missing. The Ranch was said to be four miles on a side—sixteen miles of perimeter. And with all the threats against Ngunda’s life . . . Uh uh. The place was too unprotected. There was something more, something these hippies didn’t know about.

* * *

Koskela had never, of course, intended to stay with anyone that night. He’d been blowing smoke, to mislead the guard. At dusk he went back to the Espinosas’ tepee. He’d been invited back for supper, and intended to leave off a five-dollar bill, significant money these days. The temperature had already dropped sharply, and he stayed to talk for more than an hour after supper. The Espinosas had grown up in Phoenix, and Al’s military service had been with the 5th Ranger Battalion. Koskela didn’t mention his own. He told them a bit about an imaginary childhood in northern Minnesota, drawing details from time spent there as a boy, with an uncle and aunt.

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