After the Wilderness
By Gordon Kearns
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Chapter 11
The Earth gyroscopes its toy train path around and around the sun --no side-tracks ...no milk-stops --dragging time, fate, and the course of humankind right along with it. The calendar became Monday as it had to, and at four-forty in the morning Pacific Coast Time, two thousand miles to the west of the Irish Wilderness, a Dodge Ram passenger van pulled into the area of the encampment outside Bollinger's resort. Seeing it creeping along well beyond available parking spaces, yet obviously not intending to reach the gate, Officer Lindsey Martin approached the driver's side of the vehicle. He made a mental note of the door panel on which he saw the logo crest of St Mary Magdalene Academy for Girls. The possible implications of its presence here were not lost on the officer. The nun driving the car rolled down her window.
"You can't be joining up with this New Crusade ...business, can you Sister?" the policeman asked.
"Absolutely not," she answered tersely and unequivocally.
Lindsey Martin rubbed his chin in thought. Then an unpretentious grin opened on his face. "Look, it's too dark and crowded to be turning around. How about squeezing the van in over here. There's just about enough room, I think."
Once the machine was settled in the cozy berth he indicated, Officer Martin again approached the driver. "Is there anything I can do to ...help?" he asked.
Sister Daniella studied the man's face, and apparently saw something in his expression that invited her trust. "Now that you mention it, young man," she answered, "there might be something." As their conversation progressed, she saw her judgment confirmed.
"All joggers are a little crazy," Art Sargeant had said to his son as they walked away from the desk and headed for their room about eleven Sunday night. Brad had just asked Phil Wagonner, who was manning the desk at the time, about a good route for his morning jog. Wagonner had answered, "I'm not a runner myself, but Mrs. Bollinger never missed a day. She usually preferred the 'Mine route'; that's across the pontoon bridge and along the berm to the hills across the lake. There's an old, easy to follow cart trail from there that leads up and around to several deserted gold mines."
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"Gotta be a little crazy," Art Sargeant continued. "There's ten thousand wild crusaders all set to crash the gate and maybe lynch us all at any time. But my son the jogger isn't going to miss his daily run. Gotta be a little crazy."
Brad Sargeant laughed. "You're right, dad. Like drugs, it's an addiction. We get the shakes if we miss our aerobic 'fix' for the day."
Now, about four forty-five, Brad was preparing to start out. Art nestled deeper under the covers. He was used to Brad's crazy morning routine. As his son opened the door and was for the moment caught in the glow of the hall lights, Art lifted his head to watch. "Now there's a work of art," he said as the younger man, dressed in dirty, box-like sneakers --and nothing else, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him."
Darren Bollinger and his father stepped out from the apartment behind the desk. Phil Wagonner was already up, moving about the lobby tending to needed housekeeping as a result of the late into the night t.v. news watch. Jack joined him in the clean-up as Darren headed straight on up the steps to the dining room. Again today, he was dressed --just ...just in case. Each of the three men nodded to Brad Sargeant as he passed them on his way out. Help would be in short supply today; it was doubtful any employee trying to come in from the outside would be able to get through to the gates until the crusaders were gone. Darren, Jack, and the few loyal employees who 'slept in' Sunday night would try to keep things going as normally as possible. There would still be several guests around today. Few of those who had intended to leave were now willing to hazard the severely escalating hostility in the forest outside. It should be noted that no one had been allowed inside the compound unless as a paying client. This even included the media. Since everyone was here on "guest status," the Bollingers would provide them all the amenities possible with a skeleton staff. For now, this meant Darren would work in the dining room. At the moment he was going to set out the coffee urn on a self-serve basis, and offer bacon, eggs, and toast as the only breakfast entree available using a "pick it up yourself" system. Old friends --the MacCleans, Schulmans, and a few others --promised to help where they could. Doris MacClean and Jerry Schulman would work at the griddle this morning.
Darren flipped the light switch on as he entered the dining room. It didn't take long to get the coffee started and the equipment arranged for Doris and Jerry, who would drift in shortly. After putting water glasses, implement trays, and napkins on one of the tables for handy pick-up by the guests, Darren relaxed for a few seconds standing by the coffee urn waiting for the drip-down to finish. No longer busy, he allowed his mind to drift; he hardly noticed the figure that suddenly took shape before him.
"Hello, Darren."
"Rachel! Where'd you ...My God, your face!" Involuntarily he reached out to touch her swollen cheek. When she flinched slightly at the contact, he quickly withdrew his hand.
"It'll be all right in a week or so, Phil tells me. Still tender now, though," she said.
Then he stepped closer as if to hug her. "Could I..."
"Please do, Darren."
They embraced, but gently, gently. Then when they had separated, Darren spoke nervously: "I... wasn't expecting you. Phil said you were going to stay away for awhile."
Rachel: "Jeffrey ...Phil told you about Jeffrey and Denise, didn't he?"
Darren: "The ones you've been staying with?"
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Rachel: "My friends. Jeffrey always checks the news ...every day. That's how they knew about me in the hospital. Anyway, Jeffrey saw the late news yesterday ...about Goodman Gillette and the New Crusade and all. Phil was right; I wasn't planning to come back so soon ...but with all this business ...I thought you'd need me."
Darren: "I'm ...glad you came, but I guess maybe you shouldn't have ... They're after you, you know."
Rachel: "I know. Denise and Jeffrey wouldn't let me come alone."
Darren's attention was caught by a movement in the back corner of the dining room as Rachel's two friends moved out of the shadow.
Surprisingly, their sudden appearance didn't seem to startle Darren. So much had happened to shake up his world, he was becoming inured to the unexpected. "I... I appreciate what you've been doing for Rachel," he said.
They nodded. "She's one of our people," Denise said, as she had two days earlier in Rachel's hospital room.
"Yes ..." Darren said awkwardly.
Rachel: "I know about the crusade coming to get me ...and Patty Flanery and her mother and her Patrick. I was worried about them too." She paused. "It was all my fault ...that all this happened."
Darren: "If you'd have told me ...about that magic business ..."
Rachel: "I couldn't at the time."
Darren: "I'd have ...helped you work it out. You know, together --like we usually do?"
Rachel smiled: "I know you'd have tried, Darren. But I needed to understand about it myself, first ...alone."
Darren: "But ..."
Rachel: "It was something I had to get used to ...it still is. There was just no way you could have helped. It's such a crazy, mixed up thing to happen. I... I needed answers ...and I was trying to find them the only way I could ...by doing it ...by playing with it."
Darren: "But it was so dangerous."
Rachel forced out a short chuckle. "Don't I know it!" A beat. "Is Patty here?"
Darren: "No; nobody knows where she is --or her ...or that Patrick, either. Her mother is here, though --Marianne."
Rachel, smiling: "The famous Marianne. I'd like to meet her."
Darren: "They've got her hidden in the Schulmans' room."
Doris and Jerry came into the dining room. "It's Rachel," Doris said excitedly. She rushed to the girl, with Jerry right behind.
They stopped when they noticed the presence of Denise and Jeffrey.
Before they could react, Rachel said, "These are my friends ..."
Doris interrupted: "The ones who saved you in Atlanta. I know about them." She turned to the quiet couple: "I'm Doris MacClean, Phil told us all about you."
Jeffrey: "The doctor. He's been a great help to Rachel."
Doris: "She's our friend. We're quite close."
Jerry: "But you really can't stay here, Red. There's some guy called the knight who's out to get you."
Rachel: "That's what I hear. Don't worry, I'll zip out before the crowd pours in."
Jerry: "Not good enough. You never know who's spying around the corner."
Doris: "He's right, hon. You four guys --the ones on Goodman's list -- have to stay out of sight." A beat. "Did Darren tell you about Marianne being here?"
Rachel: "Down in Jerry's room, he said."
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Jerry: "It's a good spot --two ways out. Marnie and Marianne are up now. Why don't we slip you down there before the crowd gets here? We'll see that you get your coffee and breakfast."
"Thanks," Rachel laughed, "but I have my own way of getting places without being seen. You're right, though. No sense in tempting fate." She turned to her husband and kissed him on the cheek. "We'll talk some more later ...if there is a 'later."' In that instant she vanished.
Assured of Rachel's safety, Denise and Jeffrey volunteered to help with breakfast. It would have been awkward just standing around --and they did want to remain at the resort so they could keep a good watch for anything that might affect Rachel.
Brad Sargeant ran an easy pace along the berm, his senses overwhelmed by the beauty of Bollinger's at dawn. This running in the nude is really exhilarating, he said to himself --and then added with a laugh: once you get used to the bouncing. He chugged up Killer Cliff without too much difficulty, his strong legs doing the job they were trained for; but the succession of hills that followed began to take their toll, even of an inveterate jogger like him. When he reached the abandoned gold mine, he sat on a mound of tailings to rest and enjoy the mystic forest morning.
At this exact moment Patty was zipping her way west, now just above the treetops as she glided over the spine of the Sierra Nevada and down its western slope. Coming from the east and staying relatively low she was unable to see the ominous awakening of the New Crusade beyond the gate on the other side of Bollinger's Lake. Her full attention was on her search for Rachel. To this point in time, Patty knew absolutely nothing about the dramatic events of the past weekend.
Then she saw ...perceived through the tree branches, at the site of the old mine, a spot of white ...a human naked white back --completely unnatural to the surroundings. Rachel! It's Rachel! she thought; and she side-slipped like a stunt pilot down through the trees to the path, bodying out in a skid along the rocky path, and stopping within a yard of an astonished Bradley A. Sargeant.
But no more astonished than Patty herself, who let out a squeak and, totally off balance, tried to scurry away from him on all fours.
Brad quickly cried out, "Wait! Please. I won't hurt you." He held up his hands with fingers spread as a gesture of intending no harm.
Patty, still on hands and knees, tilted her head slightly as she studied the young man, not sure whether to take off in her wave or ...
"You're ...you're one of them ...you're a fairy; you are a fairy, aren't you? You're a real fairy," he said with a wide-eyed sensitivity.
That did it! Patty rose to her feet and moved a tentative step forward. She was in the process of framing a response, when Brad added, "What wonders you could tell if you could talk."
She stopped, now standing at the edge of that three foot space which separated them when she landed. "If you could talk," he had said. All right, she thought, I can go along with that. So playing the game, she sat down on the path with her legs crossed Indian fashion, tilted her head again, and pretended other-worldish trusting naivete.
"God, it's true. There is magic," he continued. He reached out with his right hand. "I... I only want to ...touch you." Ready to jump away at any second, Patty allowed his hand to press softly against her upper arm. It was the first time she had ever let a boy get through to her private space. The feel of his nervous fingers on her skin brought a flush of red to her cheeks.
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She smiled when she saw his reaction, an involuntary rise of his penis. When he noticed where she was directing her eyes, he stuttered, "I... I'm sorry about that. It's just that ...you are absolutely the most beautiful creature I have ever seen." He shook his head. "I can't believe it. This only happens in books. A guy goes for a run in the woods, and he meets a regular dryad, a forest nymph --naked and pure and innocent as nature itself." He left the mound of tailings to kneel on the path before her so he could establish a closer and more personal eye contact. His knees were now inches from her legs. "It can happen, you know. You can recognize in the first instant your life's true love ...if you could understand my words you'd laugh so, my dear ...but exactly as Shakespeare would write it, you can recognize your life's true love from the very first instant you behold her. Oh, and my dear, dear: you are Miranda to this Ferdinand; you are Juliette to this Romeo."
This I don't believe, Patty thought. Men like this can't exist in the twentieth century. He can't be for real. But she kept to her play-act and listened with ...well... more than a little fascination. As her first honest-to-goodness boy-girl flirtation, this was pretty romantic; Patty was not inclined to shut off the experience. She giggled and rose to her feet and teasingly began to run up the path away from the mine. Catching the spirit, Brad followed, laughing the whole way as he deliberately held a few steps behind her. Then she darted off the path, playing hide and seek between the trees with her pursuer. But only as a game, not as a full-blown sport. Here and there she'd stop to pick up a handful of fallen leaves and toss them playfully at him. Brad returned the favor, but usually after Patty had slipped beyond his throw. Finally, for no reason, Patty decided to be caught. She raced through the thick woods until she was perhaps thirty yards ahead. Then she leaned back against a young hickory tree, her hands holding the trunk behind her head, and posed seductively until he caught up with her.
"My God, I do love you --my lovely fairy."
She giggled in response.
Slowly he walked to her, and taking her face between his hands he kissed her on the lips. She accepted the kiss --and returned a measure of the ardor he tendered. But Patty wasn't yet ready to commit herself to deeper passion. She took his hand and they walked side by side back to the path. The young man exhibited no frustration ...that is to say: he exhibited no outward frustration. She was still with him, allowing him to feel the pulse within her hand. If this were all the requite his love would ever achieve from his beautiful goddess of the woods, then he would content himself with that and be more than thankful indeed.
As they walked slowly back down the path, Brad said, "Rima; I think I'll call you my Rima."
Patty feigned a lack of understanding.
"There's a book I read once --Green Mansions --it was about another time when a man walked in a forest and met a beautiful daughter of nature: Rima. I am as he, overcome. Though I never know the warmth of your bosom, I will go to my grave having tasted the joys of pure love." Brad stopped and turned to face Patty. "You are my Rima," he said. "And I shall be your Abel" Then with typical Tarzan-Jane finger instruction: "You are Rima; I am Abel. Rima; Abel. Rima; Abel." Patty bit hard on the inside of her cheeks to keep from exploding. But she didn't pull away from him.
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They continued down the path, now passing the south facing slope. A dark thought passed behind Patty's eyes. She had read the classic story by W. H. Hudson. In the story, Abel's Rima was burned to death by superstitious natives. Another thought came upon her: Abel was indeed the character in the book; why didn't the young man tell her his real name? He assumes I can't understand his words. Why not say? She sighed to herself. He's living his dream romance, I guess. And she yet enjoyed her role in it. She felt him squeeze her hand as a way of proving to himself his dream was real. She squeezed back.
Brad was himself indulging in some apt introspection. She is a dream. But not a dream. She is a fairy. But not a fairy ...or more than a fairy. With the early sun heating his shoulders through empty branches, reality was setting in. She can talk; I know that, he thought. She's one of Goodman Gillette's marked four. He saw Marianne last night. Rachel was a red-head. The beautiful sprite at his side had to be Patty Flanery, the daughter of Marianne and Patrick, the fourth of the marked. I love her the more for being my fantasy brought to life. I don't think she knows about what's going on back at the resort. If she did, she wouldn't be so casual about our little sojourn. I should tell her ...she should be alerted to the New Crusade. I can't let her go back --maybe walk right into the arms of the knight. But he only squeezed her hand again ...and she squeezed back. If he warned her, the fantasy would be over. The real world's terror would end his beautiful fantasy world of Rima and Abel. He would tell her later. He wouldn't let her be ignorant of the peril awaiting her. He would tell her ...later.
They arrived at the old skeleton of a gate crossing the path, and they stepped through to the pleasant glade. Patty pulled his hand and led him to an inviting spot of low grass. They sat down together, and Patty leaned into Brad's shoulder. He dropped his arm around her in return. She offered no objection when his hand rested tenderly on her right breast.
For a while a feisty brown thrasher held their attention as he flitted from this branch to that, constantly arguing with the nude couple and chanting his endless intimidations. Later, Brad had them acting the parts of a fair lady riding her steed through the enchanted forest. Of course, through it all Patty pretended charming wonder over the strange game. During this particular activity they often found themselves tumbling ingloriously to the ground. It would probably have been more practical for Patty to have played the steed and Brad a knight in shining armor --Patty was the taller and most likely the stronger of the two. But that would not have been the way of chivalry in the mystic days of helpless damsels, which Brad was so determined to recreate. Then there were the over and over hide and seek chases, always ending with an easy capture by Brad --and always he was rewarded with a kiss for his accomplishment --and always the kiss led to tepid mutual fondling. However, Patty never. permitted the play to progress further, nor was she tempted to take the young man with her for a thrilling escapade in her wave. Patrick had cautioned her to be discreet in deciding the human whom she could trust with the deeply personal knowledge one shares with another in the wave. And Brad's persistence in the worlds of magic and romance to the total exclusion of here and now were not inspiring such trust. At one point Patty even toyed with the idea of letting down her restraints and having her first sexual intercourse experience on this bright and gentle morning with this nice looking, imaginative stranger. She was being prompted in this course by those turbulent hormones she'd only come to realize since her arrival at Bollinger's. If just once he'd break down and speak of her and their relationship in real-life terms. But ever she was his fairy find. Oh, she enjoyed the flowery talk all right. It was fun --even his attempts at poetry --would you believe: "Roses are red, violets are blue; you're my magical fairy, and I think you're beautiful, too"! But one thing his behavior made certain: something there was that he was afraid for her to see.
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For Brad's part, he refused to acknowledge the here and now. He would surely lose his wonderful Rima once the cold light of the New Crusade showed on their misty idyll. With each game, with each session of petting, they would draw closer to Killer Cliff. When we get to the top of the cliff, I'll tell her, he thought. Then as they stood at the bottom of the hill looking out over the lake, he thought: we'll walk along the berm for a bit, then I'll tell her. But they walked and played and petted, and Brad talked of castles and giants and sprites and leprechauns --and the beautiful fairy he loved from the depths of his heart.
Meanwhile, in the Schulmans' room Rachel had found a kindred spirit in Marianne Flanery. The dash of daring, of brashness ..of showmanship, if you will, made sisters of the two women. Marianne did not possess the distinctive beauty of her daughter. However, Marianne was indeed pretty. She exuded the fresh, bouncy, youthful aura of a college coed. After a few minutes with Marianne, Rachel could visualize without any difficulty the provocative strip-tease which made the then seventeen year old a legend at Bollinger's Resort. Patty must have derived much of her physical mien from her father, Rachel assumed. Where Patty was relatively tall and slim, her mother was short and cute-stocky. Marianne's face was round and puckish to Patty's long and classic. But Patty had her mother's bright, friendly, and perceptive eyes
Marianne didn't so much as blink when Rachel materialized inside the room door. Her week in Patrick's world had left her with an easy acceptance of his kind of magic. She recognized the girl with the bright red hair from the constant descriptions in the media over the past several days. However, her heart immediately reached out for Rachel when she saw the beaten face and realized the horrors Rachel must have experienced.
"I feel so badly about bringing all this down on everybody ...and especially on Patty," Rachel said as she sat by Marianne on the bed. Marnie had drawn up a chair and, together with Marianne put their hands on Rachel's as a sign of support. "My bungling's put her in terrible danger. All this notoriety ...I don't know what I've done to her future." She looked to Marianne. "And you ...I guess I dragged your the whole family into my problems."
"Patty loves you dearly, Rachel," Marianne said. "I was in her wave, and I felt the warmth and depth of her feelings for you. You gave Patty your unqualified friendship. Friends have never been easy for Patty to come by." A beat. "Actually, I guess I'm the one who started it all, reviving the spirit of ...Patrick's people. You were getting along fine ...and so was Patty when you get right down to it ...without ...all this."
Marnie: "Hold it, everybody! Enough of this 'My fault' --'My fault' business. In fact, neither Patty nor Rachel were 'getting along fine' at all. Both of them had an emptiness ...we all knew that. Just one day with Patty told it, and as for Rachel, all her friends have watched it develop for as long as we've known her. When all this nonsense settles down, both will be the better for it. Rachel, your friends couldn't be prouder of you. You're not responsible for the actions of that devil outside the gate. Both you and Marianne did right things. Now we have to deal with the new problem. It's separate; a whole new ball game --a whole new UNRELATED worry."
Later, Jerry and Denise brought a tray of "Crisis Special Breakfasts." When the word got to Phil MacClean that Rachel was back, he joined the group in the Schulmans' room. And as soon as Phil Wagonner reported for duty at the desk, Jack Bollinger also dropped by for a rather emotional reunion --only to return quickly to his post; it would take more than one to handle the business demands of this day.
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Conversation in the room generally revolved around speculation on Goodman Gillette's next move, worrying over the present whereabouts of Patty, and occasionally, for relief, the changes in Bollinger's Resort since Marianne's Week. They turned on the t.v. to catch up on overnight developments --and saw Patty's picture splashed full scale on the screen. A Santa Barbara paper had researched their files and found the picture attached to a related story on her winning a state math contest when she was in the eighth grade. The shot was of an early-adolescent Patty, but there was no mistaking the features. So her peril was intensified. If she showed up at the lodge she would certainly be recognized by the media; and worse: by the mysterious knight.
Looking back, one wonders how the New Crusade achieved such a massive scope. Goodman Gillette has the word for it: TIMING. The country was ready. It was a troubled era, an era where traditional values, the sense of family and community stability and personal security were floundering in an ocean of greed, opulence, calculated esotericism, selfishness, insensitivity, irresponsibility, licentiousness, and dedicated anarchy and amorality. It was an era of murders, rapes, rip-offs, pay-offs, kickbacks and scams; of corruption in government, Wall Street, banking, politics, foreign affairs, industry, and charities; of spy scandals, sex scandals, drug scandals, major league and college recruiting scandals, lobbying scandals, and scandals in media ministry; of violence on television, violence in the movies, violence in schools, and violence on the streets. Within the year preceding the events of this narrative we were rocked by a whole series of devastating revelations: the large-scale profiteering on defective materials used in advanced army weapons systems; the existence of a network of lottery forgery rings; extensive drug usage in the elementary grades; sniping outbreaks on the interstates; cheating on teacher accreditation examinations; the shocking traffic-light rapes of last summer; and kick-back scandal involving a senator, a governor, a chief of police, and two small town mayors. Then salt and pepper the times with filthy lyrics so rife in popular music; underground senior "Orgy Days" that became traditional in suburban high schools; discovery of a child porno syndicate operating out of the "Old King Cole" nursery schools in many metropolitan areas; the almost epidemic rise in junior high age abortions; rampant homosexuality among the heroes on a particular major league baseball team roster; and the recent rise in popularity of some particularly insidious bigamy sects and satanic cults. Add fuel to the fire: the spate of rapes and murders committed by felons who were paroled from prison after ridiculously short stints for the same crimes.
The end result of this litany of baseness was a grass-roots population sick and tired of the overwhelming degeneration our society's moral fiber -- a grass-roots population let-down by its government --a grass-roots population looking for a direction --a grass-roots population, in short, ready for the New Crusade.
Be it known: Goodman Gillette was up to the challenge. A decade of effective and far-sighted planning, unrelieved toil, and intrepid constancy brought him the means, strength, and the support required to achieve success in this daring venture. At the core was the philosophy of the man Goodman Gillette, for it was the philosophy that framed the purpose and the process of his unique ministry. It was not his aim to establish some great institution; institutions are static and parochial, and, therefore, self-limiting. He wasn't seeking the satisfaction of power
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and the comforts it brought; his passion was for the exercise of power --he didn't want to be a leader; he wanted to lead.
There were five elements to the philosophy on which Gillette staked his dream. One: he would build no monuments to himself --no hospitals, no libraries, no universities, no cathedrals; nor would he cover himself with the expected accoutrements of success: palatial home, vast estate, tailored designer wardrobe, garish jewelry, stable of fine-tuned German and Italian automobiles. His home base was a small cottage in the Great Smokey Mountains of North Carolina (with the normal threats to the life of such a celebrity, he did, out of the need for security, own surrounding acres bounded by a high electric fence and protected by a small guard staff). However, mostly, the reverend lived in his dressed up over-the-road bus. Not as much of an indulgence as you might think. It was his home away from home, and he rarely spent ministry funds for expensive hotel rooms and suites. The whole business of the church was conducted from the bus. The money earned through his appearances and through his God's Club was poured back into the organization to strengthen its base and extend its reach. Wise are the commercial enterprises that don't take their deserved profits off the top. Successful business are those who feed the needs of corporate growth first and the pocketbooks of the investors second. In the end the latter proves the more lucrative to all concerned. Goodman Gillette's organization was never smug in its accomplishments; it was ever a vital, dynamic organism.
The second key element in Gillette's philosophy: reach out. He viewed his ministry as not so much a religious entity as a catalyst for religious belief. You will find little in his public utterances to indicate a bent to one particular interpretation of scripture. For an example: he said nothing to incite Catholics against him; no slanted slurs about 'papists' or "Mary Cultism." On the contrary, he regularly invited renowned Catholic spokesmen --even well known conservative Bishops --to address his arena pageants. Such was his reputation that they usually came. He treated all beliefs with sincere respect, and usually had present on his stage Catholics sitting alongside Jehovah's Witnesses alongside Episcopalians alongside Southern Baptists alongside all synods of Lutherans alongside Mormons alongside Jews ...yes, Jews. Goodman Gillette reached out to his neighbors; Goodman Gillette was truly the Evangelist for All. And he was respected: because he was willing to go out with his helping hand outstretched. His money found its way into many a local fund drive. Goodman Gillette purchased organs can be found in hundreds of the churches of almost as many divergent religions. Not only funds. His able lieutenants and workers were typically dispatched to assist in building drives, revivals, and especially in community actions against pornography, unfair taxation of religious enterprises, and anti-abortion marches.
A word about Gillette's God's Club. To be a member of the club one merely donates a dollar --or if he lacks a dollar, a hand-scripted prayerwill do; Goodman requires people as much or more than money. The acceptance and resulting appreciation of the poor soul adds to his base of power with greater effectiveness than anything money could buy for him. For him, money is the means to power. If you can achieve the same end without it, so much the better. Goodman Gillette never let his end purpose out of the forefront of his thinking.
So he reached out --to religions and to people, and gained as a result a dedicated, loyal, and fantastically broad and all-inclusive following. And "following" is the correct choice of words. His God's Club, numbering in the tens and tens of millions from all walks and corners of life, would follow and defend him if necessary to the death.
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In effect, God's Club was the club of Mr. Average American --the club that spoke Mr. Average American's language --the club that spoke to Mr. Average American's dignified traditional work ethic. God's Club was Goodman Gillette's M-15, loaded, cocked, and ready to take on the forces undermining Lincoln's nation "Of the people, by the people, and for the people."
He courted with equal intensity the media and in all its branches. Of course, he was ever available for interviews from national news magazines to local throwaways. Not only that, but he allowed himself and his obsequious staff to act as primary sources and underground eyes for news organizations. Add, he catered to the newsman's prejudices; he was always good for a supporting quote to a "back to basics" editorial.
The third key element in Goodman Gillette's philosophy: mobility. As indicated earlier, Gillette's working office was his beloved bus. When Richard Nixon hit the comeback trail that ultimately led to the presidency, he taught a lesson in politics that successful candidates for the top office have practiced point by point ever since. He paved the way by whistle-stopping across the country for years meeting and supporting local politicos and party organizations. The chips he dealt out along the way paid off tenfold when he called them in for his big play. So it was with Goodman Gillette. He kept to his rolling base. He went to his constituency. He didn't stand in one place and allow his transmitted t.v. image to do work better suited to flesh and blood. Oh, he conducted his television ministry all right, but from this church, that hall, and that arena allover grass roots America. And as already indicated he generously complimented and utilized the home-grown devotees to the club. Reach out, were his by-words; and he reached out as no other preacher ever did before or since. As they would say in crossword puzzles, evangelistically, Goodman Gillette was a "oner."
Fourth. It isn't enough to build a loyal following, although you spin your wheels in self-deception without one. You have to meld that following into an efficient organized structure. Loyal citizens are at the mercy of the enemy; a trained, disciplined, loyal citizen militia can conquer a horde. About his immediate self, Gillette maintained a selected "war cabinet" of a dozen brilliant strategists, and devoted disciples. Under them in turn were a thousand hard-nosed members of his Action Auxiliary. They put in force whatever actions Gillette or his cabinet called for --WHATEVER ACTIONS -- without question. "Ours not to question why ..." It was for the auxiliary to get the word out to the many and diverse segments of God's Club around the nation.
Finally, Goodman Gillette understood with shrewd clarity such a wondrous organization dies of its own weight as surely as a man on a cross, unless it's put to use. There comes a point when a big organization needs a big step to prove its purpose ...or it has no purpose.
Timing, Gillette would say. It's all in the timing. To his mind the time had come; you heard his planning session with his war cabinet. The step taken had to be such as to be irrevocable. Dissenters can't argue a fait accompli. There can be no act so personal to the Mr. Average American as putting someone to death. And doing so in the cause of Mr. Average American, the cause Everyman is shouting from the deepest corner of his heart gives him enough of a share in the responsibility to assure --whatever his before the fact reservations --to assure he won't defect from the full run of the cause. Mr. Average American himself becomes the apologist, the defender of the act, the apostle to the cause through to the end. The New Crusade doesn't cease with the burning of two witches. In reality, their death marks the
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start of the New Crusade. Up to that point, it's only been prolog. What Goodman Gillette knows --because he wrote the scenario --is that the witches ...and, for that matter, the destruction of Bollinger's ...and, for that matter, the destruction of all the nudist establishments in the country ...all these are the means to the end --the end is Goodman Gillette wielding the baton for no less than the entity we call the United States. A megalomaniac would be thinking in terms of the world. Goodman Gillette? Well ...I doubt he's thought that far ahead yet. It just might sometime come to his mind. A leader has to lead. An organization has to make a move.
Understand, please. Goodman Gillette was not a cold fish. Nor was he a fanatic Puritan with an out-dated witch-fixation. He couldn't fathom how the red-head managed her magical appearances and disappearances; and he didn't dispute the numerous witnesses, many of whom were quite creditable. However, his logical mind harbored significant doubts. In fact, though he would not admit it even to his closest aides, he didn't really think the four people he himself had named were witches. Typical, eccentric nudists at most was his down deep assessment. He understood with absolute clarity that under his direction two human beings were going to be covered with gasoline, set on fire, and die. Sunday night after his aides had departed, he extended his reclining chair its full extent and closed his eyes. But sleep would not come for the recurring vision of those two humans enveloped in flame. But he would not alter his determined course. It had to be done. The step had to be taken. The New Crusade had to move ahead to fulfill the destiny such a great organization requires. In the end, the moral degeneration of society will be arrested. In the end thousands of innocent lives will be spared which otherwise would have been sacrificed to the teeming immorality now eroding society. How sad for the two, but it's the welfare of the whole that takes priority.
By dawn at the New Crusade, the machine had already been rumbling on for hours on the east coast. The morning news broadcasts were filled with the New Crusade and its cause. Spokesman after spokesman prepared the way for whatever was to come. The themes of hedonistic nudism, witchcraft, Satan, the Anti-Christ, and Armageddon were pounded, pounded, pounded. Call-in shows were flooded with calls from Mr. Average American outraged by the open sin represented by Bollinger's Resort and its infamous "Gang of Four." To drive home the immorality of the group and the effrontery to basic clean American traditions, Marianne Flanery's audacious display of nudity Sunday night on the lobby steps at the resort was rerun over and over through the morning shows.
As day broke across the continental United States, the weather was mild and the skies clear. There was no special sense of panic. Absenteeism was high, and grocery supermarkets felt a rush. Sporting goods stores did an unusually brisk business in hunting rifles, shotguns, and ammunition. Few were the offices without a television set blaring from every desk or so. It was an air of ...anxious normalcy, as in the embarkation camps in England just prior to D-Day. Something big ...dire ...was about to happen. However, there was not in any way a sense of rejection of the "something" -- discomfort, perhaps; but head-held-high determination. The general attitude of the population was "What must be done must be done." There was resignation that a step was being taken that would unalterably revise the way American democracy would forever more be interpreted. Freedom under the government and its courts had evolved to a frightening permissiveness, a threat to the well-being of the masses of the
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people and the standards they held dear. It was no longer acceptable; something had to be done; and now, everyone seemed to understand their "bluff" was being called --something was being done -- and it was attendant upon a united citizenry to stand tough behind the course the action would take.
At nine thirty (EST), the president issued a statement: "I would like to add my voice to those of loyal Americans across this great land of ours in condemning without qualification the wanton perversion of the followers of the witch-cult operating so blatantly from the shadows of the majestic Sierra Nevada Mountains in the great state of California. Our democracy has no need for such as these who flaunt their nakedness upon the television screens in the living rooms of millions of decent homes throughout the country, exposing their sinfulness before evert innocent little children. For shame. There can be no doubt as to their evil intent. "Thank God for courageous souls like the Reverend Goodman Gillette and his mighty New Crusade. In the American way they have risen to cast the devils from America, the temple of God's hope in the world. Let it be known that I have enlisted my heart in that holy crusade. Their purpose is God's purpose. Their purpose is America's purpose. Their purpose is my purpose. "Of course, I would rather the enthusiasm of the good folks of the New Crusade not turn to violence. But let it be understood, I stand four-square behind those wonderful people.
"God be with you."
Earlier, Art Sargeant leaned against a wall near the desk in the lobby. From this vantage point he could watch the news unfolding on the big-screen television set, but the greater value of his position was the a clear view down the length of the first floor corridor of guest rooms. He seemed relaxed as he casually sipped from a cup of coffee he'd brought down from the dining room. At the moment he was studying with some intensity the image now filling the screen, the smiling face of a thirteen year old math contest winner of four years back, Patricia Flanery. Other things he had noted as well, such as the three trays of breakfast brought to the second guest room down the corridor from the lobby, and the visits of Phil MacClean and Jack Bollinger. Amateurs, he thought. They didn't realize they'd have done as well to have put a neon sign on the door: "Marianne Flanery is here." Not a bad choice of rooms at that, he thought. Two exits: the door to the corridor and the sliding french doors to ground level on the outside. Little problem about that. With the five Gillette agents, he could post two on the inside hall door as he and the other three crashed through the glass outside doors. He still hoped to find alternatives. To crash the room would be tricky. The sudden shattering of glass should, he hoped, startle the room's inhabitants sufficiently to give him a chance to grab for and cuff the woman --before she has a chance to flit away. The element of surprise would be on his side. Still, he thought, if he could find one of the fairies ...witches in the open, the chances for capture would be far better. So he waited, and watched. There was time.
The president's statement was shown at six thirty, after which Art Sargeant took a few minutes to visit the restroom. "Damned unisexual johns," he said under his breath when a nude woman came in while he was still in one of the cubicles with its door hanging open. Afterwards he went upstairs again for another cup of coffee. The combined breakfast chatter interfered with his concentration. Not mentally ready quite yet to go back to the boredom of the lobby, he
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stepped out onto the screened-in porch to look at the lake. He checked his watch. Almost seven o'clock. Not much time. He smiled to himself; not much time needed. If he had to crash the room, it would have to be all over in seconds. It wouldn't be hard to drag the woman to the gate once he slapped the cuffs on her --especially with the help of Gillette's people. A wave of dizziness passed through his head and left a dull headache in its wake. He shrugged it off. Happened a lot lately. Finally, he went back inside and walked briskly through the dining room and down the stairs.
It was time to get his "equipment." In the parking lot he lifted the trunk lid of his rented car. He took off his suitcoat, strapped on the holster, and donned the coat again. He picked up the Ruger Redhawk .44 magnum double action revolver, checked its load, and tucked it firmly into the holster. A canon like this isn't too well suited for tucking under your belt, he said to himself, laughing. Then he dropped two sets of handcuffs in each of his side coat pockets --my secret weapon, he thought. Looking up at the lodge entrance he saw the figures of five "reporters" watching his every move.
Abruptly, he looked at his watch again and said out loud, "Seven o'clock. I forgot about Brad. It's been two hours ...he never runs for two hours." A beat. "The path across the berm: he was supposed to take the path across the berm." With more than a little concern lining his forehead, he took the field glasses from the trunk, put them to his eyes, and scanned in the direction of the path. The sun was up and bright. His view was clear. Two figures filled the twin lenses. He focused in tight ...and smiled. "By God it's Patricia Flanery. My boy is bringing me a fairy. No need to crash the room after all." He signaled his intentions to the five at the entrance and set off down the lawn toward the pontoon bridge.
Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18
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After the Wilderness - Copyright 1990 by Gordon Kearns