7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  “Yes, the pope is fine. He was removed to a safe location by his security detail as soon as the alarm was sounded. He is under heavy guard at Castel Gandolfo near Rome.”

  Castel Gandolfo was the pope’s personal retreat—his Camp David. It was hard to believe he had been driven from the Vatican by some sort of violence. And St. Peter’s destroyed … impossible!

  “Tony, how could this happen?” asked Cloe. “Are there any more particulars?”

  “No one knows for sure, but somehow it seems that after the pre-Lenten crowd cleared the square, a group of young people hid and then entered the basilica. They set explosive charges against the columns that bore the weight of the church. A number of priests and young men studying to be priests were savagely killed.”

  “But why?” The thought of the priests and the loss of an icon of Christendom weighed heavily on Cloe.

  “The pope believes this is part of the worldwide reign of violence we have witnessed over the last few months. It seems to be getting worse and more daring,” replied the priest. “Religious of all sorts, both laity and ministry, are being targeted. Nor is it limited to Christians. Some of the worst violence has been visited on Muslim and other non-Christian clerics.”

  “This looks like it might have political implications as well as religious overtones,” observed Cloe. They had reached the garage, and she handed her receipt to Earl.

  “Quite right,” replied Father Anton. “Many Christians, Jews, and Muslims are blaming each other for the attacks. Each group seems to think the other is responsible. Fighting has broken out among right wing religious factions in several countries.”

  “Well, many of these religions have been fighting each other for hundreds if not thousands of years,” said Cloe. “Why is this different?”

  “First, it’s not limited to the Middle East where these fights—wars, really—have taken place. England, Russia, the US, and numerous other nations have seen large outbreaks of fighting and violence,” stated the priest. “Intolerance, threats, and just plain meanness are all off the charts, pretty much everywhere.

  “Second, in more normal times, responsible politicians and leaders try to defuse the violence. In this case, at least one individual has emerged from the shadows by subtly exploiting the situation. This man’s creed is a populist spiel that on the surface seeks to uplift those in poor or difficult circumstances, but it does so by pulling others down and by setting people against each other. It’s rich against poor, black against white, Muslim against Jew, and so forth. He preaches that all assets, all world assets, belong to everyone equally, regardless of who created the assets. He seeks worldwide redistribution of wealth and of the means of production.”

  “Even in these modern times, there are those who would believe this.” Cloe was beginning to think her interpretation of the journal and world events was correct. “But this has always been just a small minority—not enough to do any real harm.”

  “It’s grown to quite a few people, particularly among the young and disaffected,” replied the cleric. “Countless young people have no work and have become used to others providing for them. Already angry, the message is resonating with them, principally, at least to date, in the large population centers such as Paris, London, New York, and elsewhere.”

  “Who is this guy? Where does he come from, and where is he now?”

  “His point of origin is not precisely known,” Father Anton responded. “Some say he is from Eastern Europe. Others swear he was born in Israel or in North Africa. There has been speculation that he holds citizenship in more than one country, including the United States, where he apparently was educated.”

  Earl pulled up in Cloe’s car. “Tony, what’s his name? Who is this person?”

  The priest gazed out across the entrance to the parking garage before he turned to her and said, “He is called Icar.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  When they entered the café, a bell over the door jangled; the conversation in the dining room died as everyone turned to look at them. Was that fear in their eyes? Zack wondered. There were about a dozen tables, a couple of booths, and a few chrome bar stools around the counter. Aged red vinyl peeked from between the metal bands of chrome on the stools. The decor was a cross between art deco and country. The counter surface was green tile punctuated with stork-necked soda fountains. Several huge, glass-covered cake platters promised German chocolate and strawberry cakes. Behind the counter was a window into the kitchen populated with ancient gas grills and stoves belching fire and smoke.

  “Sit anywhere you want,” said a woman behind the counter, polishing a glass.

  Zack and Mel edged their way to a booth by the front window. The seats were also covered in a red vinyl that might have been new around the end of World War II. The table was Formica, likewise ringed by chrome strips. A jukebox remote was at one end of the table, guarded by oversized salt and pepper shakers and condiment jars.

  As they sat down, Zack surveyed the room. The other inhabitants were mainly older: men in jeans and cowboy hats and women in dresses, some of which looked handmade. Zack remembered his grandmother had sewn her own clothes and had a partial mannequin made to her size in her bedroom.

  Soon a young waitress came over. She was dressed in a beige uniform with a tiara-style paper cap on her head and a pencil behind one ear. She handed them menus and pointed the obligatory order pad at them.

  “Hi, y’all. Help ya?” she asked perfunctorily. “My name’s Doris.” It sounded like “Door-is.”

  Zack smiled and noticed Mel watching the waitress out of the corner of her eye.

  “What’s good?” he asked.

  “Well, our burgers are second to none, at least around here,” said Doris. “You can’t beat our shakes. We use real ice cream.”

  Zack looked at Mel, and she nodded slightly. “We’ll take two burgers all the way and two large shakes.”

  “Add cheese to mine,” said Mel.

  As the waitress scribbled on the pad, she glanced over her shoulder a couple of times. When she finished, she squeezed her lips together in a tight smile and left.

  “Wow, did I say something wrong?”

  “Something’s wrong, but it doesn’t have anything to do with what you said,” responded Mel. “She seemed worried—maybe a little scared.”

  “Maybe we’re overworking this. Let’s just enjoy the best burgers and shakes around,” Zack replied.

  The bell over the entry door rang as the door swung open. A young man appeared in the doorway, and the chatter in the restaurant, which had resumed, came to an abrupt halt again. People quickly looked away. The man was dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket. The boots were more Goth than country, and grillwork shone in the young man’s mouth. The café patrons appeared scared.

  “What …” said Mel, softly.

  The youth scanned the room, going from table to table, face to face. When he looked in their direction, he focused on them in a way that indicated he was recording their faces. After a bit, eyes shining, he nodded warmly as if it were a Sunday afternoon greeting.

  “Whoa.” Mel shivered. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know, but I think we just saw what the waitress is afraid of,” responded Zack.

  The young man sashayed in a slow, undulating manner into the dining room and up to the counter. Every eye followed him. He threw a leg over an ancient bar stool and sat.

  The spell was broken by a yell from the kitchen: “Order up!”

  Zack saw Doris grab a to-go order in a tall paper bag and sweep some napkins and condiments into it. He wondered if that was for the stranger.

  Doris gripped the bag, spun on her heel, and headed toward their table. She deposited the bag on the table and said, “Your bill comes to twenty dollars even.”

  “Doris, we didn’t order our food to go,” said Mel. “We were g
oing to eat here.”

  “That’ll be twenty dollars,” repeated Doris, glancing over her shoulder.

  “We’ll eat here,” said Zack.

  The waitress was becoming agitated. The young man in leather eyed them intently.

  “It’s not safe for you here,” she whispered, her voice sounding desperate.

  Zack looked at Mel and reached for his wallet. He laid a twenty and three ones on the table and said, “Thanks, Doris. We hate to run, but we have to be on the road to meet our schedule.”

  Doris exhaled sharply and said, “Well, I enjoyed helping you. Y’all come back now.”

  Zack stood and grabbed the bag as the waitress ran into the kitchen. Mel was too smart not to follow, and they walked toward the door.

  The leather punk swung off the bar stool and intercepted them. The crowd in the small diner was riveted on the scene. “What? You too good to eat with us?” he challenged, moving between them and the door. He smiled lasciviously at Mel.

  “We certainly don’t want to see you go, honey,” he added.

  Zack handed Mel the bag of burgers, stepped up, and faced the young man. They stood about the same height and were about the same build. He sensed Mel move closer to him.

  “No, we are needed in New Orleans,” said Zack, looking directly into the boy-man’s eyes. There was a painful intensity in the kid’s stare, but Zack forced his concentration and struggled to back the punk down. Seconds ticked by, building into a minute or two.

  “New Orleans?” The young man broke the silence, stepping away from the door. “Then I’ll see you again,” he said as Zack and Mel passed through the door into the night.

  “That’s a promise!” he called after them.

  CHAPTER

  10

  “Well, what was that all about?” asked Mel, looking back as they pulled out of the parking lot headed toward the interstate. Zack was driving and not holding back on the Saab.

  “I’m not real sure. But I’m glad we got out of there. That guy was walking trouble.”

  “But what could he have done?” Mel continued. “We were in a restaurant full of adults. He wouldn’t have started something with all them around.”

  “Did you see the fear on their faces?” responded Zack. “I’m not sure we would have had any help—except for maybe our waitress friend.”

  Mel opened the bag of food and began to organize it. She put a shake with a straw in the cup holder next to Zack and unwrapped his burger so he could eat and drive.

  “Damn, that’s good,” said Zack, now slowing the car a bit as he took a bite of the overstuffed burger.

  “This shake is terrific too,” added Mel, finally smiling again.

  “Well, I told y’all so,” said a voice from the backseat of the roomy Saab.

  Zack and Mel both jerked around to the back of the car and saw the waitress lying down on the backseat. She was in her uniform, still clutching Zack’s check and cash in her hand. Zack looked back, causing the car to swerve, but he easily regained control.

  “Oh my God!” said Mel.

  “Please don’t take me back!” cried Doris. “I can’t stand it. It’s sick.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Mel. “But tell us what’s going on. What’s sick?”

  “Doris, you’re safe now. Tell us what’s going on in Smyth,” he said, accelerating toward the interstate.

  There was silence for a while.

  “I’m not from Smyth,” she began after she ceased crying. “I’m a student at State, and I needed a job. I saw an ad a few months ago, and I applied and got the waitress job. At first, it was great. The people accepted me, and I could eat all I wanted and made a few bucks plus tips.”

  Zack munched on his burger and looked at Doris in the rearview mirror. Mel had put her sandwich aside and was sitting sideways in her seat, completely focused on their new passenger.

  “What happened then?” asked Mel.

  “Well, I think it had something to do with all the trouble going around,” she replied. “Smyth is a small community, mainly farming. The people all know each other. Most of the kids become farmers, or they leave. The one you saw at the restaurant is not from Smyth. He came here about two months ago.”

  “Where did he come from? What’s he do?” asked Zack.

  “He doesn’t seem to do anything except make trouble, and nobody knows where he came from,” she answered. “One day he was just here. We don’t have local cops anymore to take care of people like him, what with the martial law and all.”

  “So what does he do that has everybody so afraid and you wanting to run away?” asked Zack.

  “Well, Skylark—that’s supposedly his name—recruited the youngest, most impressionable kids around here.”

  “Recruited to what?” asked Mel.

  “As far as I can tell, to nothing,” she replied.

  “That makes no sense,” said Zack. “What do you mean to ‘nothing’?”

  “The kids have quit working on their family farms, stopped going to school, and just don’t do anything, including listen to authority,” said Doris. The car grew quiet for a minute or two.

  “Once he had about a dozen recruits—some say disciples—he began to slowly take over and terrorize everybody,” Doris went on. “It was like those old gangster movies. Skylark and his boys shook down people for protection money. Some people laughed, but soon strange things happened to them or to their stuff. Nothing could be pinned on Skylark, and besides, the nearest military outpost is over in Starkville. Now his gang pretty much controls everything, and he punishes, unmercifully, anyone who steps out of line.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave?” asked Mel.

  “He won’t let anyone leave,” Doris replied. “For one thing, he’s taken everyone’s car keys. We can’t get them back except for a specific purpose, and then an escort is assigned to go with us.”

  “Horrible,” said Mel.

  “A sign of the times,” added Zack. “Everything seems upside down.” He looked in the rearview mirror and said, “Oh, oh.”

  “What is it?” Mel responded, a little worry in her voice.

  “Headlights coming up behind us … fast,” he replied.

  “That could be just some country boy on his way home,” said Doris, hopefully. “They’re fast around here. But like I said, the bad boys have taken everyone’s keys. That’s either a stranger or it’s one of Skylark’s thugs.”

  “Maybe,” said Zack over his shoulder. “People at the café would have figured out by now that you’re gone. Would Skylark come after you?”

  “Yes. Nobody has gotten away from him yet,” she said.

  “Well, we’ll know soon,” said Zack, watching the vehicle drawing closer and wondering whom to thank for this new threat.

  As he monitored the mirror, he could see it was a large truck, the kind with big tires and a large grill. He couldn’t yet see the driver.

  “He’s pulling into the left lane to pass,” said Mel, relief in her voice.

  “Yes …” Zack began.

  Bam! The huge truck’s bumper slammed into the back left quarter of the Saab. Mel and Doris both screamed as Zack struggled for control of the car while the rear end made to skid off the road to the right. The food, now forgotten, flew from their hands and laps.

  Zack steered into the skid and managed to stay on the road. He knew the Saab, while old, was in great shape. He cared for it meticulously himself and had recently changed out the shocks and struts. It clung spiderlike to the narrow blacktop road as they sped along with the big truck closely behind.

  “I’m so sorry for getting y’all in this,” cried Doris. “Here he comes again. What do we do?”

  “Strap yourselves into your seats, really tight,” yelled Zack over the rush of the road noise. He carefully watched the killer vehicle approach. Soon, it filled the entir
e mirror, and all he could see was the grill.

  “Hold on! I’ve got a little surprise for our friend,” Zack said as he downshifted the Saab 99 and hit the gas. The turbocharger on his old ride engaged, and it leapt forward like a scalded antelope. The big truck receded in the rearview mirror until its lights looked like a white two on a black die. The Saab sped through the night as a tight, thin smile spread over Zack’s lips.

  “What the hell was that?” cried Mel.

  “That was something Skylark would never know anything about. This Saab carries a stock turbocharger to boost the horsepower when needed,” said Zack.

  “Well, we sure needed it then,” said a relieved Doris.

  They cruised through the first of the two small towns they had passed on the way to Smyth but this time in excess of eighty-five miles an hour. Everything but the sidewalks had been rolled up and shut down tight. Two years ago, there likely would have been a local cop on duty to snag them in his radar. At this speed, they would have made his day. No longer.

  “Thank God, you were able to beat him,” said Mel.

  “Hmmm, I don’t think I did beat him,” observed Zack, focused on his mirror. “Here he comes again.”

  The two girls looked back and saw the monster truck in the distance. It seemed to breathe fire as it roared toward them.

  “Oh my God!” cried Mel. “It must be doing more than a hundred!”

  “Yes,” said Zack. “He’s gonna try to end it in one great bull rush. I don’t think the turbo trick is going to work again.”

  The truck had closed to about two car lengths behind them.

  “He’s crossing into the left lane!” screamed Doris. “He’s gonna try to knock us off the road!”

  Time slowed down as danger and possible death approached over Zack’s left shoulder. It was size, weight, and raw horsepower versus the swift and nimble. He had a plan, and he liked the odds.

  The huge truck pulled even with him, with both vehicles going flat out, and Zack looked up into Skylark’s leering face, the personification of evil.

  “We can’t shake him!” screamed Doris.