Within minutes, Jericho learns that Betsy’s mother was a member of the Holy Church of Revelations. She had been a Seventh Day Adventist in San Diego but left the church, telling Betsy its teachings had been watered down. The end is coming, and it will be glorious, her mother repeatedly told her. About a year ago, the woman left her husband, a non-believer, and drove with Betsy from southern California to Wyoming.
Now, Jericho scratches an “X” in the wrong place, letting Betsy win the game. She laughs, runs her hand over the dirt, erasing the game, then draws the lines for a new round. Ike grows bored and wanders off, sniffing at fallen pine cones. “Mommy is one of Brother David’s favorites, though not as favorite as Rachel. Mommy cooks. Do you like rice?”
“Not particularly.”
Betsy wrinkles her nose. “Me neither. We eat a lot of rice. Do you think there’s rice in heaven?”
“Why do you ask?”
“‘Cause that’s where we’re going, silly.”
Jericho considers his reply before saying, “Of course you are, but not for a long time.”
“No, we’re going soon. We’ll be lifted through the clouds and poof, we’re there. I just hope we don’t have to eat rice or bean sprouts there.”
“In heaven, there’s pizza and cheeseburgers and cherry Cokes,” Jericho says. “But no rice and no bean sprouts.”
That makes her smile. “I haven’t had a cheeseburger since we left California.”
“Does Rachel cook, too?”
“No, Rachel is David’s Mary Magdalene.”
“Who tells you that?”
Betsy uses the twig to scratch at a mosquito bite on her ankle. “Mommy says Rachel was a coke whore.”
Ike stops his sniffing and looks at Jericho. From his expression, he seems to be listening.
“She sold her flesh,” Betsy says innocently. “David saved her, just like he saved all of us, but Rachel needed it more. Now, she’s David’s best friend. Mommy says she believes even more than David.”
“Believes what?”
“In the Word. The Word will save us.”
“Betsy, listen to me. It takes more than the Bible to save people. Unless we get some help, a lot of very nice people are going to get hurt. Will you help me?”
She seems to think about it as the breeze rattles the tree limbs. A soft shower of pine needles floats over them. “But Brother David will protect us. He loves all the people.”
“Maybe he doesn’t love himself, and that makes him confused.”
Her forehead is wrinkled in thought, but she remains quiet. Ike slinks back and rubs against Jericho’s boot. Jericho picks up the animal and places him in a pocket on his fatigue pants.
“Sometimes, something happens to a man,” Jericho says, “something in his past that affects him forever. Makes him somebody he didn’t think he was and doesn’t want to be. Ruins him, really.”
Betsy’s appraising look is so knowing and mature that Jericho is chilled. “Who are you?” she asks.
“Your friend. Your secret friend. You shouldn’t tell anyone about me.”
She stands and brushes dirt from her knees. “I can’t have any secrets from Brother David, and you’re saying bad things about him. Whenever anybody says anything bad about him, we have to tell Brother David right away, even if it’s our friend or our very own mother.”
“No, no, I was talking about myself,” Jericho says, believing it to be at least partially true.
“You say Brother David is confused, but you’re wrong. Brother David has seen the light.” Agitated now, backing away from Jericho. “Brother David gives us the Word. Only bad people will get hurt. Brother David said so.” She is near tears. “And you’re a big old liar, and besides that, you smell stinky.”
Jericho reaches out to take her arm, but she backs away, turns and runs down the embankment and into the dry river bed. She will tell the commandos about him, he knows. Jericho crouches low and, staying in the shadows, heads toward the barracks on the east side of the missile base.
He weaves through the pine trees, then crawls through the underbrush, listening and watching. He sees commandos working in pairs, fanning out from the river bed over the missile grounds. They could be on routine patrol, but he assumes they are searching for him. Search and destroy.
Jericho has the ability to stalk game without breaking a twig underfoot or snapping a tree branch. Camping out in the mountains of West Virginia, he has made flour from the bark of a spruce tree and brewed tea from its green needles. He has made arrows from a fire-killed sapling and boiled tamarack pine shoots to eat as vegetables. But those skills will do him little good here. This is survival of a different kind. Here, the enemy is man. Another difference, too. Others depend on him, now. Susan Burns, for one. Maybe the whole damn world. For a man who ran away the first time he was needed, it is a frightening proposition. He will have to go back into the hole, into the man-made hell he hates so much.
Jericho comes upon the shredded barracks. There is no sign of life. Bodies of airmen lie where they fell. He circles the barracks, then slithers on his stomach to a rear wall. He hoists himself up and tumbles through a blown-out window, landing squarely on the back of a dead airman, through-and-through wounds puncturing his chest. The barracks is a shambles, the aftermath of a massacre. Nine bodies are strewn on and between bunks. All show multiple gunshot wounds. The walls are peppered with bullet holes, and the barracks have been ransacked. Jericho makes his way to the weapons locker. If he can lay his hands on an M-16…
The locker door has been jimmied.
Empty.
Jericho makes his way to the sleeping compartment at the end of the barracks — the security officer’s quarters. The room has been tossed. Jericho picks up the phone. Dead. He opens a desk drawer, roots around inside and finds a cellular phone and a palm-sized Newton Messagepad Wireless Fax. He puts both devices in his pockets.
Back in the interior of the barracks, he uses his knife to pry open several footlockers, rifling their contents like a burglar. Through the broken windows, he can hear the shouts of the commandos but cannot make out their words. At the locker marked “Sayers,” he pulls out three long bungee cords and stuffs them into a rucksack. He moves to the locker marked “Jericho.” The lock has been broken, and the contents are scattered on the floor, but nothing appears to be missing. What would be? He finds a telescoping fishing rod which has rolled halfway under his bunk and puts it in his rucksack. As he closes the lid on the locker, an old black and white photo slips out and skids across the floor.
He picks it up and looks into the faces of three smiling men, their faces stained with dirt, helmets on their heads at jaunty angles. Two of the men — his father and brother — are ghosts, and the third man, Jack himself, has often wished he were dead. In the background is a long, dark bar in a dingy saloon. He stares at the photo for a long moment, remembers the salute they always gave each other after work on Fridays. This day, he knows, was special. That morning, the Appalachian Anthracite Company had opened two new shafts. There would be work through the winter and spring. He looks at his father’s wide grin, the eyes red dots from the flash and a little glazed from the beer. He looks at his brother, two years older, Jack had idolized him as a child.
Mike Jericho never asked for much, never needed much. Married a girl he had dated since seventh grade and only wanted to live in the mountains, raise a lot of kids and a little hell. Jericho looks at his own picture, barely recognizing himself. Not because he was younger then, but that he was so much more innocent. He looks at his own guileless smile, knows he will never recapture that moment. He remembers the words they spoke just before the photo was taken. Always the same, their arms intertwined, their glasses raised.