wind out of him.
As George slid to the floor, struggling for breath, Daniel dragged him into the large wheelchair stall, dragged the bag in after them, locked the door. He got George seated on the toilet, grabbed the roll of boxing tape from his bag, taped his mouth, wrists, and ankles. The cut wasn’t too bad, but foreheads bleed a lot, so Daniel quickly taped the cut as well. It would take a few stitches later.
“I’d apologize, George, but the thing is, I’m not sorry.”
George didn’t try to answer, but his eyes were full of murder.
Daniel slid under the door, quickly washed the blood from his hands, splashed cold water on his face. He wiped his face dry with a paper towel, hooked a finger behind his clerical collar.
And took the collar off.
By sunrise, the highways into Atlanta were jammed solid. Poor folks driving rusted-out beaters, pulling overloaded trailers, senior citizens peeking over the steering wheels of massive RVs, Deadheads with psychedelic peace signs and dancing teddy bears on their station wagon windows, and thousands of others along the shoulder, riding bicycles, or on foot, carrying large backpacks, carrying small children, making the pilgrimage any way they could.
Some holding hands, many singing their faith aloud.
Andrew Thibodeaux loved the singing. He loved the pilgrimage. Loved being part of something larger than himself, part of a tribe, loved being at the center of a fast-changing world.
And he loved his secret knowledge.
Because he knew what God was planning.
He inched up I-85, willing his old truck not to overheat from excessive idling. The traffic was getting worse. He switched on the radio and spun the dial to a local talk station. One of those
–“…Can you believe these morons? They come to our city, no place to stay, no thought to how they gonna look after themselves—”
–“My point exactly. And I aim to fix it. So, for any wingnuts listening: I had breakfast with God this morning. He said to tell you: ‘False alarm. Go home.’”
–“Seriously though, we gotta read this update: The Atlanta Police Department has cordoned off the area around the Tim Trinity Word of God Ministries, where the parking lot has become a tent city. There’s no more room, do not go there. Same thing with Centennial Park. It’s cheek-by-jowl, and police are turning new arrivals away.”
–“And don’t even dream of going to Buckhead, ’cause you
–“Well said, brudda, and they got
–“And besides, the police have already confirmed Trinity is not at home and not anywhere in Buckhead.”
–“He’s. Not. Even. There. Get it, people? So, for your own sake—and frankly, I don’t care if you do get your ass kicked—but for your own sake, please do not go to Buckhead. It’s getting pretty tense up there, and somebody’s gonna really get hurt if you people don’t get the hell back downtown.”
–“Of course, that don’t mean you should go downtown. One more time, for the slow kids in the class: You should turn around, leave Atlanta, and go home. All we’re saying is stay especially out of Buckhead.”
–“Think we beat that point to death, brudda?”
–“Well, these people ain’t exactly paddling with both oars in the water…”
Andrew shifted from neutral into drive as traffic again picked up to a crawl. The radio jocks were pissing him off with their attitude, and now he questioned the wisdom of calling that Julia Rothman woman. Maybe she was just part of the “Liberal Media Elite” that Rush was always talking about, just looking to mock the real Americans whose faith in God helped build this country.
–“Next item…The governor and the mayor have released a joint statement—probably the first time those two ever agreed on anything. It reads: ‘The City of Atlanta remains open for business. If you’re a business traveler, rest assured that your hotel reservation will be honored. Reserved rooms are not being given away. Conventions have not been canceled, and the Georgia High School cheerleading finals will begin tomorrow as scheduled. You will need to add significantly to your estimated travel times in and around the city, but the city is open. If, however, you are planning a trip to Atlanta because of recent media reports concerning Reverend Tim Trinity, please reconsider. There are no hotel rooms left anywhere in the metropolitan area, and we cannot have millions of people living in our parks. We’re a hospitable city, but there is simply no room at the inn, and there is a limit to our patience.’”
–“Whoa. Strong statement, doncha think?”
–“I like the way they tried to thread the needle: Businessmen please come, whackjobs stay away.”
Andrew snapped off the radio. None of it applied to him. He could live in his truck, he had money for food and water, and once he made himself known to Reverend Tim, he would be welcomed like Lazarus from the tomb. But there was clearly a dark side to this pilgrimage, and he was seized now by the thought that some of these people might not be true pilgrims—that something bad could happen to Reverend Tim.
As the truck crept into the city, he saw a handmade banner, painted on a white bed sheet, hanging from an overpass.
THE MESSIAH HAS RETURNED
“Fuck!”
Tim Trinity slammed his safety razor down on the marble countertop as blood seeped from the vertical slice he’d just carved in his chin, turning the shaving cream red. Electrical signals screamed up the nerves from his chin to his brain.
He splashed cold water on the cut—might as well have been lemon juice—and reached out to grab the styptic pencil from his leather Dopp kit to staunch the flow of blood. But his hand jolted sideways and knocked the bag off the counter. Pill bottles and moisturizers and nose hair trimmers and tweezers clattered across the bathroom floor.
The high-pitched buzzing in his brain surged, kicking his headache into migraine territory, signaling the imminent arrival of the tongues.
Trinity snatched a face towel off the bar and pressed it against his chin as he maneuvered his body into the
