Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(113)
On this glorious evening, Bryce Harriman strolled northward, back to the site of his earlier triumph, in search of fresh glory. What was needed now was an interview with the good Reverend Buck himself—a Post exclusive. And if anyone could get that exclusive, he could.
As he came around the back of the Central Park Zoo and passed the old arsenal, he stopped in surprise. There was a tent here, an old canvas tent, pitched in the overgrown area just north of 65th Street along the Fifth Avenue side. As he walked up a small rise, more tents came into view. He crested the rise to find a veritable tent city spread before him, the smoke from dozens of fires rising into the autumn air.
Harriman paused, surprise changing to a glow of satisfaction. He had done this. He had kept the story alive, identified a leader, kept the people coming. And now this.
He moved into the outskirts of the camp. Some people, especially the numerous high school and college-aged kids, were wrapped only in newspapers; others had sleeping bags of various makes and colors; still others had makeshift tents made of sheets held up by sticks. A few had fancy tents from North Face and Antarctica Ltd.—trust fund brats from Scarsdale and Short Hills, probably.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of cops along the Fifth Avenue wall, eyeing the situation. And to his left were more cops, just standing around, keeping a low profile. No wonder: there must be five hundred people camped in here.
He wandered into the encampment and down a makeshift alley between rows of tents. It was almost like a Depression-era shantytown, little narrow lanes built among the woodsy hollows and exposed rock faces: cooking fires, people sitting around on quilts and blankets drinking coffee. Here and there people were arriving with backpacks and setting up more tents. It had to extend at least to 70th Street: four square blocks of parkland. It was incredible. Had anything like this happened in New York before? Quickly, he got out his cell phone and ordered up a pool photographer.
Harriman then stopped to ask directions and within minutes had located Buck’s tent: a large army-surplus job near the camp’s center. Just inside, he could make out Buck himself, seated at a card table and writing. He was a curiously dignified figure, and Harriman was reminded of old pictures he’d seen of Civil War generals. He hoped that damn photographer would hurry up.
As Harriman approached the entrance to the tent, a young man cut him off. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Buck.”
“A lot of people are here to see the reverend. He’s busy, can’t be disturbed.”
“I’m Harriman from the Post.”
“And I’m Todd from Levittown.” The aide-de-camp stood firm, blocking the way, a kind of dreamy, supercilious smile on his face.
No * like a born-again *, Harriman thought. He glanced beyond the self-appointed guardian to Buck, working at his card table, ignoring them. What was that he saw, taped to the inside wall of the tent? A row of articles clipped from the Post. His articles. He felt emboldened.
“The reverend will want to see me.” He pushed past the fellow, ducked into the tent, and strode over to Buck, hand extended. “Reverend Buck?”
The man rose. “And you are—?”
“Harriman from the Post.”
“He just barged in, Reverend—,” the aide-de-camp began.
But a slow smile was spreading across Buck’s face. “Harriman. It’s all right, Todd, I’ve been expecting this gentleman.”
Deflated, Todd retreated to a corner of the tent, while Buck shook the extended hand. Seen up close, he looked shorter than he did while preaching. He wore a simple checked short-sleeved shirt and a pair of chinos: no blow-dried helmet of hair or polyester suits for this preacher. His forearms were meaty and one sported a tattoo. His handshake was a crusher. Ex-prison, guessed Harriman.
“You’ve been waiting for me?” he asked.
Buck nodded. “I knew you’d come.”
“You did?”
“It’s all part of the plan. Won’t you sit down?”
Harriman took a plastic seat at the card table and removed his microcassette recorder. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
Harriman turned it on, tested it, set it carefully on the table. “Perhaps we should begin with this plan of yours. Tell me about it.”
Buck smiled indulgently. “I was referring to God’s plan.”
“Right. Okay. Which is?”
Buck spread his hands. “What you see all around you. I am nothing, just one flawed human trying my best to fulfill God’s plan. You, Mr. Harriman, whether you know it or not, are a part of that plan, too. An important part, as it turns out. Your articles have swelled this crowd, brought people together—those with ears to hear and eyes to witness.”
“Witness what?”
“The rapture.”
“Excuse me?”
“God’s promise to his followers in the End Days. When the faithful will be lifted into heaven while the wicked sink into filth and fire.” Buck hesitated briefly. And in that hesitation, Harriman detected a flash—just a flash—of nervousness. Perhaps the man was a little scared at what he’d unleashed.
“What makes you think the End Days are here?”
“God sent me a sign. It was your article in the newspaper, the article on the deaths of Grove and Cutforth, that first brought me here all the way from Yuma, Arizona.”