Now Hayward leaned in at the rear window. 'You're probably wondering what's going to happen to you, Mr. Buck.'
Buck felt a rush of emotion. This was it: he was being led away, taken to meet his end, his supreme moment. He was ready.
'This gentleman is a U.S. marshal, who is going to escort you by plane back to Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, where you are wanted for parole violation.'
Buck sat there, stunned. This couldn't be. More mockery. It was a trick, a ruse.
'Did you hear me?'
Buck did not acknowledge. It had to be a trick.
'The D.A. decided not to file any charges against you here in New York-too much trouble. And to tell you the truth, you didn't really do anything all that wrong, outside of exercising your right of free speech in a rather misguided way. We were lucky, avoided a riot, managed to disperse the crowd peacefully once you left. Everyone went home and the area's now fenced. Soon the Parks Department will be giving it a thorough cleaning and reseeding, which it needed anyway. So, you see, no real harm was done, and we felt it better to let the whole incident die a quiet death and be forgotten.'
Buck listened, hardly able to believe his ears.
'And what about me?' he finally managed to say.
'Like I said, we're shipping you back to Oklahoma, where there's a parole officer really anxious to talk to you. We don't want you. They had a prior and wanted you back. Nice ending all around.'
She smiled, laid her hand on the side of the car. 'Mr. Buck? Are you all right?'
He didn't answer. He wasn’t all right. He felt sick. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. It was a trick, a vicious trick.
She leaned in just a little farther. 'Mr. Buck? If you don't mind, there's something personal I'd like to say to you.'
He stared at her.
'First of all, there's only one Jesus and you aren't Him. Another thing: I'm a Christian, and I try to be a good one, although I may not always succeed. You had no right to stand there when I was at the mercy of that crowd, point your finger at me, and pass judgment. You should take a good look at that passage in the Gospel of Matthew: Judge not, that ye be not judged . Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye. '
She paused. 'I always liked the King James Version the best. Now, listen. You worry about yourself from now on, being a good citizen, keeping out of trouble, and obeying the law.'
'But . You don't realize . It's going to happen. I warn you, it's coming.' Buck could barely articulate the words.
'If there's a Second Coming in the works, you sure as heck won't get advance notice-that much I do know.'
With that, she smiled, patted the side of the car, and said, 'Farewell, Mr. Buck. Keep your nose clean.'
{ 84 }
In the elegantly appointed dining room within the main massing of the Castello Fosco, the count waited, quite patiently, for his dinner. The walls of the fifteenth-century villa were extremely thick, and there was no sound at all save the faint mechanical whirring of Bucephalus from a white T-stand nearby, applying his artificial beak to an artificial nut. The stately windows of the room looked out over a spectacular landscape: the hills of Chianti, the deep valley of the Greve. But Fosco was content to sit in his heavy oak chair at one end of the long table, reviewing-with delicious tranquillity-the events of the day.
His reverie was broken by the shuffle of feet in the passageway. A moment later his cook, Assunta, appeared, bearing a large serving tray. Placing it at the far end of the table, she presented the dishes to him one by one; a simple maltagliati ai porcini ; oxtail, servedalla vaccinara ;fegatini grilled over the fire; a contorno of fennel braised in olive oil. It was the simple, homely fare his cook excelled at and Fosco preferred while in the country. And if Assunta's presentation lacked the polish and subtlety of Pinketts-that, alas, could not be helped.
He thanked her, pouring himself a glass of the estate's exceptional Chianti Classico as she left the room. And then he applied himself to his dinner with relish. Although he felt famished, he ate slowly, savoring every bite, every mouthful of wine.
At last, meal complete, he rang a small silver bell that lay near his right hand. Assunta reappeared.
'Grazie,' he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a huge linen napkin.
Assunta curtsied a little awkwardly.
The count rose. 'Once you have cleared away, you may take a few days off.'
The cook glanced at him inquiringly without raising her head.
'Per favore, signora. It has been months since you visited your son in Pontremoli.'
The curtsy deepened. “Mille grazie.'
'Prego. Buona sera.” And the count turned lightly on his heel and left the dining room.
