Pray for the Devil

Part 1: The Strange Brains-1

Part 1: The Strange Brains

1He broke through the storm cloud into a brilliant sunlit afternoon and shouted for joy. The ominous gray mountain that seemed so threatening minutes ago turned out to be nothing more than a late spring snow squall - not a tornado, like the eyeless beasts he dodged five hundred miles past.

Clear skies ahead, he thought. Put on a happy face. In the theme of clichéd song titles another occurred to him. California, here I come. In fact, he sang a few notes. He glanced around his '99 Volvo Station Wagon as if to reconfirm his solitude. Only a small stash of belongings - a compact suitcase with five changes of clothes and toiletries, a twenty-two inch flat panel TV, a laptop and a sleeping bag - took up any other space. Nobody here but me and Blue Volvo, his oh-so-funny nickname for this navy tinted buggy.

He fought the current, but his thoughts stubbornly drifted to the playful banter that spawned silly nicknames like Blue Volvo - with the wife he left behind. Or the ex-wife he left behind.

Don't forget that. It was over for her too, he reassured himself. Maybe it was over for her before it was over for me, but who cares? It's over.

A sudden pang of melancholy gripped his heart, deepened by a glance in the rearview mirror at the indented, badly worn back seat where Rufus used to sleep. He could still smell the old boy, even though Lyme disease got him a little over two years ago, that gentle, stupid mix of Labrador and something else.

Rufus was gone, Kate was gone - and who knew what lay ahead? A new career in the Golden State, he hoped. Maybe he could break into movies or TV... The wave of emotion surprised him, the single tear he brushed quickly away even more so.

"Time for some music," he muttered to himself. Unfortunately, the radio produced a continuous band of broken signals, which was to be expected in this sparsely populated, mountainous region of north central Utah. Thank God for the scenery, he thought. Otherwise he could well imagine awakening from a boredom induced slumber soaring over a cliff at eighty-five miles an hour.

Such was the inescapable risk for solitary drivers on westbound Interstate 80.

Finally, a clear signal blared, so strong it jolted him and prompted a frantic grab for the volume control - a single voice, belonging to an elderly man from the sound of it.

Andrew Farley, soon to be known as The Fugitive, listened with growing dismay to the rant of a preacher, or so it seemed, such was the chaotic message of God-fearing hatred.

"Look around you, children. The signs of disintegration and the coming wrath of the Almighty slap us in the face every second of every day. The signs of international faggotry pollute the airwaves, movies screens and printed pages in nearly every culture of the world, the lifestyle Moses called an abomination, whose only just sentence is stoning, as it is prescribed in the holiest of books. We are surrounded by a conspiracy that is luring our young ones to certain damnation, and even those bodies that call themselves Christian churches either ignore or condone the threat.

"Why look at what happened only two days ago. An insane faggot walked into a schoolroom in Sacramento, California, and shot two six year-old children dead and wounded four others..."

Farley hit the off button. If that was all the radio had to offer this day, he'd rather risk lingering death in a crumpled, smoldering heap. It's amazing what people call the gospel out here, he thought. Not only did the invective disgust him, he was equally put off by the speaker's twisted facts. The shooter had been married twice and fathered a child, so he was almost assuredly not homosexual. Farley knew enough psychology that even if the killer had been, sexuality rarely came into play in such a rampage.

The Riverside shooting was an unprovoked act of random violence, plain and simple. Harold Plains, the killer's name, had only one goal in mind - to cause as much heartache and despair as possible. It mattered little that none of the families knew him when the shooting commenced. They knew him now. Unfortunately for Harold, but what was called a miracle for everyone else, third grade teacher Lois McCrane was packing a loaded .38 Smith and Wesson in her top desk drawer in an adjacent classroom - illegally it should be noted, but no one was going to press that fact - and on hearing the first shots calmly reached into her desk, took hold of her weapon and strode into Mandy Gleason's first grade reading lesson, whereupon she lifted the revolver, bracing it with her left hand like they do on TV, and - just as he was preparing to fire a seventh shot - splattered Harold's brains all over Terry McMichael's and Brian Potter's desks and part of Nancy Dreyer's new T-shirt with the sequined Ariel emblazoned on the front.

It would probably be a long time before any of the kids in that room slept soundly again, but at least most of them were still alive.

In all the excitement no one noticed a sudden brief power surge in the Balboa Grammar School as Harold Plains' lifeless body slumped to the floor.

When asked by CNN why she kept a loaded gun in her desk McCrane responded simply, "In case of an event just like this." The inevitable media dissection of the BGS Hero revealed another possible motive, however - an abusive, estranged husband with a restraining order.

Farley recalled the incident in such detail, because, as is always the case with stories like these, it continued to dominate the airwaves over two days later - and would probably do so for another week before the next horror story, or earthquake, or alien landing took its place.

Out of morbid curiosity he turned the radio back on just in time to hear the ranter identify himself. "This is Rev. Morton Utah, KAOC, Army of Christ radio."

He even has the audacity to take the name of the whole state, Farley mused. And "army of Christ"? The phrase brought to mind the name of a fictitious splinter group of Campus Crusade, which he and a few sardonically witty friends planned to found at their little church affiliated college: Guns for Christ. But they were kidding. Rev. Utah clearly was not.

Better watch your speed, boy, Farley whispered as the needle briefly topped ninety.

In keeping with the sudden downturn of his mood, he spied a mangled carcass by the side of the freeway blanketed by what appeared to be vultures, which in unison flapped away from the body at the approach of - what? Were they dogs? Wolves? Whatever they were, there were quite a few. He thought he saw one's bared slavering jaw.

Almost immediately, an unseen force seemed to tug at his eyelids like the drawing of a window shade. He'd been through this before. The weariness, like a highway hypnosis, usually passed in a few minutes, held at bay by stretching, widening the eyes, and loud rock music. As he fumbled for a Led Zeppelin CD in the center console, he took his eyes off the road for a split second and almost missed the woman waving from the shoulder. As the Volvo zoomed by, a quick glance also revealed three men running up behind her. There was one other fact that left an imprint on his mind - the woman was by any standard stunningly beautiful.

He hit the brakes and coasted to a stop a hundred and fifty feet beyond. Immediately, an inner debate raged. If he ran to help her, could he overpower the three men? What if they were armed? He, Farley, was not.

He spun in the seat and studied them all standing by Interstate 80 awaiting his next move. No struggle ensued, like he had expected. They simply stood there together, not even touching. The woman did not seem to be in any distress, nor did the men seem intent on harming her.

Somewhat becalmed, he put Blue Volvo in reverse and backed up the shoulder. An eighteen wheeler roared by, blasting its horn in annoyance. As he drew closer this peculiar group came into clearer focus, and he was surprised to see that one of them, a thin, forty-something man of medium height with a rusty red beard, wore rabbinical garb: a prayer shawl and yarmulke. The other two men, also on the lean side, seemed somewhat younger, but were noteworthy for a different reason - the stark contrast in their height. The small man could not have been taller than five foot six, while the taller one stood at least six foot eight.

As he backed up further, the woman began waving excitedly, and was immediately joined by the tall man. The rabbi stood still with his hands folded before him. The shorter man kept his hands buried in a frayed gray hooded sweatshirt, clearly unhappy about something.

For the next minute, however, he could not take his eyes off the woman. She seemed like a model on a hair care commercial, long auburn tresses being wafted by a gentle breeze, a face so open, fresh and warm that make-up of which there was none, would have seemed a blight, liquid green eyes that literally sparkled, a patrician nose and a wide-full-lipped smile.

And a slender, perfect body to match, he thought. This is going to be interesting.

As he drew near, the woman and tall man approached the driver's side. Farley opened the automatic window but before he could speak the woman leaned in, smiling hopefully, and breathed, "Could you help us?"

He was about to say something stupid, like "I'd be delighted, Beautiful," when the tall guy filled the other half of the window and added, "We have a little problem."

It suddenly occurred to Farley that he had not seen any vehicles, and immediately wondered how these people got here. Then he recognized a rest area situated beyond the tree lined shoulder, which, had he been alert, he would have pulled into himself. There he saw a Winnebago and a pick-up truck with what seemed like a large satellite dish sitting in the bed.

"I'm not much of a mechanic, I'm afraid." Out of an urgent need to impress the woman even a little bit, he added, "I mean I can change the oil, and tires, and things like that." He expected the woman to roll her eyes at the feebleness of this remark, but she held her open, friendly smile.

"Actually, we're out of gas," she said.

"Out of gas?" Farley tried unsuccessfully to hide his astonishment. Who runs out of gas these days? "Both of your vehicles are out of gas?"

"Uhh, yeah, they are," the tall man answered haltingly. Farley glanced at the other two who held their positions about twenty feet away. They seemed to be hiding something, but they didn't seem threatening. "Would you mind making a run for us? We have two five gallon gas cans. We'd be glad to pay you for your time."

Farley did a quick calculation. He recalled passing a sign about five miles back indicating the approach of Lumberville, twenty-two miles ahead. If he agreed to help, it would probably cost forty-five minutes to an hour of driving time, factoring in the distance there and back and whatever else was needed to find a station and gas up. He hated distractions when he had a destination and time table in mind. It was one of those personality quirks that chafed on Kate, who, after a long road trip often wanted to stop at the supermarket before returning home. He never agreed to it, and she learned never to ask again.

Sensing his hesitation, the woman suddenly reached in, opened the door and slid into the passenger's seat. "I'll go with you," she said brightly. Her action caught all of them by surprise. The rabbi and the shorter man stepped forward in protest. The taller man backed away from the Volvo and stood upright, deep concern clearly etched on his face. "Mother Mar... uh, Melanie, are you sure you want to do this?"

"That's a bad idea," the shorter man called out.

Again, a radiant smile arrested them all. "I'll be fine," she assured them, "I know a gentleman when I see one." She turned her gaze to Farley, still beaming. But he, despite the proximity of this gorgeous female, couldn't shake the wariness aroused by compulsive and careless behavior. What woman gets into a car with a total stranger, and what friends let her do it?