Gator A-GO-GO

cackles.

Before the passenger knew what was going on, Serge had both hands through the open window, seizing hair. The youth’s face repeatedly smashed the dashboard in rhythm with Serge’s instructions: “Treat… others… as you… would have them… treat you!”

He released his grip, and the unconscious student flopped back in his seat, blood streaming down his frat shirt. The others in the Mustang normally would have jumped from the vehicle at the welcome opportunity to whup butt, but the intensity of Serge’s onslaught made them screech off instead.

Serge rejoined the stunned roadside gang. He pointed at the ground. “Dropped your posters.”

“But I thought you believed that turning the other cheek was a good thing?”

“My complete quote was, ‘Good for you.’ It’s just like the Bible: One must consider the overall context. Remember when Jesus went on that money-changers-in-the-temple lights-out cage match? I really like that part…”

Sudden yelling from behind: “Inside! Now!”

They’d never seen their pastor so angry. The foursome headed for the activities room.

“No!” The preacher pointed at Serge. “Not you!”

The remaining trio demurely ducked inside for an unprecedented tongue-lashing. “I couldn’t believe what I just witnessed in the street!”

A tentative hand went up.

“What is it?” snapped the pastor.

“But nobody’s ever defended us like that before.”

“Violence is wrong! It’s against everything we stand for!”

“You don’t know what it’s like out there. They say all this stuff.”

“Turn the other cheek!”

“What about money changers in the temple?”

“Did Serge tell you that?”

The boy lowered his head. “Maybe…”

The pastor took a deep breath. “From now on, you are to go nowhere near that man!”

“But…”

“But what?”

“We… kind of like him. And he knows the Bible inside out.”

“The devil can quote scripture with the best. He’s trying to make you nonbelievers.”

“Just the opposite. He said that unlike politicians and TV preachers, we’re magnificent ambassadors for our religion because our faith is so pure and beautiful, and we should never stop nurturing it.”

“I saw his T-shirt!” said the pastor. “He drew feet on the Jesus fish!”

“But he didn’t change the name to Darwin.”

“So?”

“That’s the magnetic appeal of his theology: He respects all religions, then mixes and matches for himself.”

“No!” yelled the pastor. “No mixing and matching!”

“Why not?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“But we already have. Even you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said that if Jesus and the apostles didn’t mix and match, our own religion never would have gotten off the ground.”

The pastor turned purple. “I’ve heard more than enough! My decision is final! Stay away from him! Am I understood?”

INTERSTATE 95

A station wagon with a University of New Hampshire parking decal crossed the Virginia line.

Each new state called for another beer. It was the law.

The driver crumpled a State of Maryland speeding ticket and threw it on the floor.

“What are you doing?” asked Doogie.

“When am I ever coming back to Maryland?” said Spooge.

“On the return trip, hopefully.”

“So someone else will be behind the wheel.”

Their drive had been touch-and-go for a while. The increased snowfall back on campus was the leading edge of an approaching blizzard that would soon hammer most of the northern seaboard. Visibility had almost stopped them in southern Connecticut, but the New England quartet pressed on and outran the system’s front by Delaware.

Now, clear sailing.

Andy held a borrowed cell phone.

A phone rang in Dorchester. And rang.

Andy closed it again. “Still no answer. He’s going to be worried if he tries to reach me.”

“Leave a message on his machine,” said Joey. “You’re an adult. It’s not like you have to ask permission.”

“He doesn’t have a machine. It’s one of those answering features from the phone company.”

“What’s the difference?”

Andy shrugged and dialed again, letting it ring through to an automated message.

Beep.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me, Andy…”

“You’re his only child,” said Doogie. “Calling him ‘Dad’ kinda clues him in-”

“Shut up!… Dad, I know this sounds nuts, but some friends and I are driving down to Florida for spring break. We’ll be staying in Panama City Beach at-” Andy called to the front seat, “What’s the name of that hotel again?”

“Alligator Arms.”

“Dad, we’re staying at-” Andy stopped at the sound of a robotic voice on the other end: Mail… box… full… From all the reporters calling nonstop for hero interviews.

Andy hung up.

Spooge glanced over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell him the hotel?”

“No more recording time. He’s going to be worried.”

“You worry too much. If it’s so important, why not try his cell?”

“Don’t remember the number.”

“You don’t remember your own dad’s number?”

“Don’t need to. It’s stored in my cell-I just hit his name. But someone wouldn’t let me go back to my room.”

“You’ll thank us.”

Doogie turned on the radio. Weather report.

“We lucked out. They’re snowed in at Logan…”

At Logan: Agent Ramirez stared up at a screen of flight info, all delayed. He was on the phone. “We’re snowed in. I’ll call when I know more.” He hung up and dialed again.

All around, people made pillows from rolled-up clothes and settled in uncomfortably.

“… So keep looking,” Ramirez told Oswalt, who breathed heavy as he backtracked across campus in the dark. “… Then start from the beginning and check every place again… No, I don’t care how long it takes.” He hung up.

Next to him, Patrick McKenna closed his own phone.

Ramirez turned. “Any luck?”

“Still no answer in his room.”

“Try his cell again?”

Patrick hit numbers. The phone was on speaker mode. Someone answered. “Agent Oswalt here…