House of Gold (24 page)

"What do you think it means?" Buzz asked.

"I don't like it. Maybe somebody doesn't want us to continue on this road," the Man assessed.

Buzz had come to place great weight in the Man's judgments. Buzz's attitude did not affect the Man either way.

"We could double back to Route
6. It's only five or six miles," Buzz suggested.

It struck neither man as strange that Buzz could now so easily append the word
only
before the phrase
five or six miles.

The Man pulled out his compass, carefully taking a reading. The silvery instrument looked like a white eye in the pink of his palms.

"See down there," the Man pointed with a nod of his bristly chin. "If that dirt road just before
the roadblock continues eastward, it could take us back to Route 6. It's getting late, and if that road does go east to 6, we'll save a day or more."

There were many trees in this area, but with their view from the crest, they could see clearly that the dirt road went straight a mile or more, punctuated by a single farmhouse within sight. They had come to trust the Man's compass and sense of direction
more than any map, or even the verbal directions from town-dwellers.

Farmhouses. Or sometimes "single subdivisions," as Buzz called them–that is, private homes, not quite farms, set alone on a plot near the road.

These could portend good news or bad news. Often, they were empty, their owners having fled to the local town. Other times, the occupant or occupants would come out, holding a rifle or
shotgun, and watch the two travelers pass by until they were out of sight.

Buzz would always wave meekly, avoiding eye contact, as if to say both
Hello
and
No Need to Fear Us.

More often than not, the Man and Buzz felt the eerie touch of unseen, wary eyes watching them from inside the nooks and crannies of the buildings.

Less often, but refreshingly, the owners would come running up to them, with
skinny children trailing behind (an overweight child was a rare sight nowadays), looking for news, or begging for food, or just seeking human contact.

One time, about two weeks ago, while walking on a moonlit night, they had heard the distinctive report of a shotgun come from a dimly-lit cabin set a hundred feet from Route 6. It was probably a warning shot aimed over their heads. Buzz and the
Man had run as fast as they could for a mile, laughing when the adrenaline wore off, if only because laughing was better than crying.

And because Buzz liked to laugh.

In general, though, twenty or thirty Saint Michael prayers per day seemed to be their best defense against the Farmhouse Enigma–another Buzz phrase.

"Oh, here comes another Farmhouse Enigma," he would say when they spotted a house
on the road ahead. They would automatically (but fervently) pray to Saint Michael and move forward. It was either impractical or geographically impossible, because of the mountain terrain, to go around every Enigma. They had no choice but to plow forward.

Today, with the sun an hour from the western horizon, they reluctantly decided to take the dirt road.

An hour later, the road had narrowed into
a path barely wide enough for them to walk side-by-side. At the crest of the last hill, they had spied what they believed to be Route 6 a mile or two off in the distance, and felt relieved. They could make it there, no sweat. Just another hill or two to traverse in between.

Until the road stopped cold. There was a stand of woods, a walking path leading into the growing darkness. Like mice deep
into a maze, they vaguely regretted they had not turned back at the roadblock.

They looked at each other and silently decided to move forward. Going off-road like this had proven difficult several times in the past. The brush could thicken, making progress slow. They could run into a river or wide stream, forcing them to get wet if they crossed, or, just as annoying, forcing them to walk alongside
the bank until they came to a bridge or a stretch narrow enough to leap over.

Buzz stopped.

"Hal? Did you hear something?" he whispered.

"Ssshh. Could've been a deer...or something."

The Man, reacting to his instincts, took the Ruger off his shoulder, checked his load, then took the point.

They stepped lightly. Fifty yards later they came to an opening. They crouched and surveyed.

It was almost
completely dark now.

There was an old green farmhouse–a salt box frame with clapboard siding, a hundred yards to their left. Its windows were darkened. There was no telltale smoke coming from its stone chimney. There was a hand-pump near the front door, and behind the house, a red barn. The field in front of them, which stretched for about a quarter mile, had obviously been plowed by tractor a
while back, probably last fall; perhaps it had been corn. Neither Buzz nor the Man had any farming experience, but the organic, light-gray stubble in neat lengthwise rows before them looked familiar–almost Ohio-ish.

There was no sign of life.

Far away, they heard a cow moo.

"There's livestock in that barn," Buzz mouthed in ultra-low super-whisper mode.

The Man nodded. He held his index and middle
fingers to his eyes, then pointed toward the farmhouse.

Look over there...

Buzz looked. He saw nothing, then shook his head.

The Man had seen something in the window of the house. A shadow moving within a shadow. His senses, already heightened, ratcheted up a notch.

He put a hand on Buzz's forearm, holding it steady, signaling for Buzz to remain entirely still.

They listened, waiting, completely
motionless for several minutes, chests heaving imperceptibly, the Man's eyes fixed on the window. He saw nothing in the shadows.
Maybe I was imagining things.

Without moving, he whispered to Buzz, "We can't wait here forever. I'll go first."

"We can still turn around."

The Man shook his head ever so slightly.
If we're being hunted
–and he was sure in his bones this was the case–
they will follow
us.

There was no way to explain this to his friend.
We might as well make a dash toward Route 6. It can't be too far ahead.

"Game time," he whispered soberly.

Buzz nodded.
Just like on the courts.

The Man meant:
Stay cool. Get ready.

An image of the Man on the Rocky River courts, slipping like black mercury down the lane between two giant defenders flashed into Buzz's mind.

Their eyes were adjusting
to the darkness now, but clouds had come overhead. There was not much ambient moonlight.

"I'll go slow, then signal you to follow by swinging my right hand down, like this, palm open," the Man instructed. "Then you go full speed. Watch your ankle in those furrows. Got me?"

His voice was businesslike, and except for the ultra-low whisper, exactly the same as hundreds of times coaching Buzz on the
courts.

"Yeah," Buzz whispered, his eyes widening. He tried to control his breathing.

"It's probably nothing," the Man reassured him.

Right,
Buzz nodded.
Saint Michael the Archangel...

The Man took a deep breath, and coming out of his crouch, still leaning forward, his Ruger floating comfortably in both hands in front of him, made his first step out from under the cover.

Buzz split his attention
between the farmhouse and the Man, who quickly scooted a third of the way across the field.

A little voice spoke to Buzz:
...to your right. Look to your right.

He shifted his gaze, and in the woods beyond the field, on the opposite side of the farmhouse, he spotted..it.
A flash of glass.

A rifle scope? A night-vision goggle?
Buzz couldn't know this for sure. But there was somebody there!

What
should I do?
Call to Hal, who was halfway across the field?
Run forward?

He decided to do both.

"Hal! To your right!!" Buzz hollered with all his lungs, the veins on his neck straining, then moving forward, thighs churning, knees high, quickly gaining to full speed.

The Man turned to his right.

The sound of a rifle report came from the woods to the right, where Buzz had spotted the hunter...

...and the Man was spun around by the impact and flopped to the ground.

"Noooooo! Basstaarrds!"Buzz screamed, hearing another gunshot over his voice as he did so, loping almost halfway to the darkened clump of his friend, who was barely scuddling around on the ground...

To Buzz's left, at the farmhouse, the distinctive jingle of breaking glass...and the business end of a shotgun thrust out the
window where the Man had seen the shadow move...

...and Buzz was suddenly at the Man's side. The Man was struggling mightily to pull his backpack off.

Another rifle shot.

Buzz's backpack, parallel to the crossfire, thumped instantly, but Buzz quickly assessed that he had not been hit. He dove into a furrow, dirt punching into his mouth.

"You shot? Let's go! Hail Mary!" Buzz reached to pull the
Man up, but the Man shook him off.

"We're safer separated! Keep running!" he growled at Buzz. "I'm okay! I'm right behind you! Go now!"

...the force in the Man's voice hit Buzz like a hurricane wind.

Man's right, so go!
his instincts–and his angel–convinced him.
Mel!

Buzz leaped up and galloped toward Route 6.

In one quick movement the Man pulled himself up onto one knee, sighted his Ruger, and
calmly squeezed off five rounds in the direction of the rifleman in the woods, then rolled toward Buzz, then back up onto one knee, and repeated his cover fire–three rounds. He had two rounds left. He kept Buzz in his peripheral vision.

Buzz was almost beyond the field.
Good.

The Man took off after him, zig-zagging toward his friend.

Buzz watched in amazement as the Man came toward him. There
were no more shots from the woods, but the shotgun was roaring away. Four blasts, then a pause. Four blasts, pause. (Buzz deduced the pause was for reloading.)

Maybe the Man got the guy in the woods.

Maybe not.

Both Buzz and the Man knew intellectually that shotgun accuracy at this range was suspect, but it didn't lessen the sheer terror of being shot at. Buzz was now certain that he himself had
not been hit.

Watching the familiar, silky gait of the Man, unburdened by his backpack, as he ducked and feigned, streaking toward him, gave Buzz hope.

Come on come on come on! Only a few more yards!

Surely the Man would not be able to run like this if he had been shot.

He's okay!

There was an unintelligible shout from the green farmhouse.

Seconds stretched into psuedo-hours, and then the Man
was with Buzz, diving the last few feet into the bramble.

"Let's move out," the Man said, breathing heavily. "Stay close!"

And so they ran, as rabbits and deer and squirrels run, with the fervor and zeal only the hunted share, through the thick and the thicket, toward what their instincts told them was the east, toward Route 6, toward
safety,
which could only be defined as:

Not here.

They ran
and they ran. For minutes, then tens of minutes, their legs strong, their bodies hard, built up by weeks on the road, mentally trained to trust each other by years on the courts together; Buzz with loping, virile power; the Man with darting, light strides, the deftness of a butterfly.

They stumbled up a small ravine and burst from the woods and onto a road.

"It's Route 6!" Buzz shouted.

The Man
didn't stop. He ran right by his friend.

So Buzz followed, catching up, both of them truly winded now, but at a healthy jog, side by side, in the darkness.

After five minutes, the Man said between breaths, "Hold on."

Buzz stopped abruptly.

They bent over, clasping their knees, sucking air.

"Let's jump back up into–" the Man paused for a breath "–into the woods here. Behind that big rock. Where
we can monitor the road."

The Man was already rummaging into Buzz's backpack for ammunition in order to reload his Ruger.

"Safer that way," he finished.

"Sure. Up the hill then," Buzz agreed, then spit. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm great," the Man replied.

And so they left the road and climbed up behind the huge granite rock, which itself was surrounded by low pines and bushes. Buzz pulled off his backpack,
then poked his finger into the two bullet holes.

Oh Mary! Oh Jesus, God. Bullets! Thank you! Mel!

Disturbed by the manic incongruity of his thoughts, Buzz forced himself to calm down by repeating, slowly:

Thank you, Mary. Thank you, Mary...

They sat with their backs to the rock, facing uphill, away from the road. The Man, rifle at the ready, peered around to his left, toward Route 6.

They waited
this way, their breathing gradually slowing along with the adrenaline rush, alternately praying and replaying the event in their minds, until they sleep felled them.

Chapter Eleven

Hard Cold World

When Buzz woke up, he first noticed the strange smell. He did not recognize it. Over the past weeks they had both gotten used to the odors of their unbathed bodies–to the point that they didn't notice at all.

The frantic run during the escape had drained Buzz completely, and he had slept soundly, beyond dreams, during the warm night. He had snuggled next to the Man
while he was asleep, his head nestled on his friend's shoulder.

What is that smell?

He straightened up, feeling sore all around, noticing his surroundings in the morning shadow of sunlight.

Reflexively, he began his morning prayer:
Dear Jesus, I don't know what will happen to me today, I only know that nothing will happen to me that was not foreseen by You, and directed to my greater good from
all eternity. I adore Your holy and unfathomable plans–

–the pungent smell barreled up his nostrils, interrupting his prayer.

Last night came back to him quickly, along with the gripping emotional fear the events had provoked. He wondered now if they were really out of danger.

Ask the Man what to do.

He jostled the Man's shoulder. His friend groaned a far-away groan.

"Wake up, Hal," he whispered.
"It's morning."

The Man turned his head, and with great effort, opened his eyes. He smiled.

There was an angelic peace in his smile. But there was something wrong. His expression of peace became troubled.

"Buzz, your hands," the Man whispered hoarsely.

Buzz looked down at his hands, and saw...blood!

Some of the blood was dry, cracked and darkened, but a lot of it was new, liquidy, dripping down
onto his forearm, which was also covered with small scrapes and bruises suffered during last night's scramble through the thicket.

How could these little cuts have bled so much?
he asked himself, confused.

Blood–and something else–had been the source of the unusual smell.

Buzz looked from his hand and forearm to the Man's stomach, where his arm had been moments earlier while he had been asleep.

"Hal! You're bleeding!"

"Been shot," the Man said weakly.

Buzz gingerly opened Hal's jacket. The shirt had already been partially torn by...the bullet.

The blood was coagulated, hiding the bullet hole, but a gnarled piece of flesh was protruding out–

Buzz could not bear to look at it. His focus shifted frantically to the Man's eyes.

"Let's fix you up!" Buzz cried out.

"Shssshh," the Man cautioned,
his voice alarmingly weak. "They could have followed us. Following our trail. Might have dogs."

Pathetically, the Man tried to sit up, and made an effort to hold the Ruger at attention, looking away from Buzz, toward the road below.

Buzz spoke with a clear voice. "We're going to dress that wound. Let me help you. Lie down! Now!"

The Man ignored him, and continued looking down at the road.

"Don't
bother," he replied evenly. "I'm going to die-today. Today is the day of glory."

"No!" Buzz shouted.

Buzz scrambled around the Man and the grey rock, slipping down the hill, then pulled himself back up to face him. "You can't die! I won't let you. No freakin' way!"

The serene smile returned. He carefully placed his Ruger onto his lap, winced, and lifted a hand to Buzz's face, now covered with
dirt and scraggly beard, touching it tenderly. Buzz thought of his own mother–the mother he had never known.

And Mel.

Buzz tried to speak, but the Man's eyes held him silent. Tears welled up.

"Listen to me–" the Man began.

"No," Buzz interrupted with a croak.

"Listen to me!" the Man said forcefully–as loud as he could, which was not loud at all, wincing again, coughing from the effort.

Buzz looked
down. The reality of the situation was striking him now, placing a heavy weight on his soul.

The Man is dying.

"Buzz, I have something I must tell you. We don't have much time. The Lord has spoken to me. Today is the day of glory. But He has a word for you–"

The Man began to cough violently, and his torso pitched forward. Buzz awkwardly crawled toward him, then carefully put his arms around the
Man's shoulders, holding him until the coughing subsided.

The Man allowed himself to be lowered into Buzz's lap. In all their trials, as Buzz now wondered if the Man would last even a minute more, none of their long silences had matched these few moments.

There were no birds singing, or jets in the sky, or breezes ruffling the pines or leaves together. It was completely silent, except for the
Man's shallow breathing.

Dear Sweet Jesus, not the Man! Not the Man!
Buzz prayed, looking down at the beautiful ashen face of holiness.

The Man opened his eyes, which were more yellow than ever. His physical vitality on the trip had hidden from Buzz until this moment that the Man was well over fifty, of another generation. Buzz realized that he had never adjusted the Man's back, or even offered.
He felt immensely guilty.

The Man had been so
strong.

"I see the Lord!" the Man exclaimed softly. "He's coming for me. I see Mel, too! She's with Him."

He's seeing things,
Buzz thought disjointedly.

"No, stay here," Buzz sobbed, unable to look at his friend, unable to look away. "We've got to go to Bagpipe. You and me. Sam and Ellie are waiting for us. Mel and the boys are waiting...you and me,
we're a team..."

The tears came in a steady flow now. Buzz tried to control the shaking of his own body, welling up from his belly, in an effort to reduce the stress on the Man.

He took his hand and forearm and wrapped it around the Man's neck, resting his hand just above the wound.

How did you ever make that run last night?

"He's a-coming on a cloud!" the Man cried.

The Man was not with Buzz
anymore, and was gazing up toward the empty blue sky.

He was an old man having a vision, in the arms of a young man dreaming dreams.

"O Sacred Head...surrounded," the Man sang low, slowly, tunelessly, to Buzz, "by crown of piercing thorn..."

"No, no... no," Buzz begged. "Stay here, Hal. Stay with me–"

The Man's body stiffened. His gaze shifted toward Buzz. The Man was suddenly
here
again.

"Buzz,
listen to the Lord. Can you hear Him?"

The Man coughed harshly.

Buzz shook his head, knowing, in that way of soul-knowing, that the time had come.

"Oh...oh...I love Him so," the Man confided. "Today is the day of glory. He says you gonna make it to Bagpipe...that's great news, isn't it?"

"Huh?" Buzz asked, his heart skipping a beat. "He says what?"

"...make it to Bagpipe..." the Man repeated.

Then, his voice shifted, and became strong, the voice of Another: "Keep your hand on the plow, my son."

"...the plow?"

"The plow," the Man whispered weakly, the voice of the Other gone. "Yes, the plow...He has a heavy plow, for a big man, all ready...to go...for you..." the Man's voice was fading quickly, "He's a-saying that He...wants
me
to go with you...Amen, Sweet Jesus...I'll go! I'll go...
with Buzz ...to... Bag-... ...pipe–"

And Hal Smith's last breath left his lungs. And his eyes lost their light. And his soul left his body.

And Buzz, alone, shaking uncontrollably with huge, silent sobs, held on to the lifeless body of the Man, unable to let go.

Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace...

+  +  +

An hour later, the sobbing had ceased. The stimuli
of the weight of the body, and the blood on the shirt, and the feel of the Man's frizzy hair under his chin, and the smell of no-life, gradually seeped in.

What to do next?

Don't freak out, for one thing,
he steeled himself.

That was number one on the list.

Stay sane.

He gently moved the Man's body off his lap. He stood up, leaning on the rock, averting his eyes from the corpse. He noticed how
sore his ankle had become–must have taxed it during the run last night.

You can't afford to go crazy. Keep your hand on the plow. That's what the Man says. Keep your hand on the plow.

Yes, a heavy weight was on his soul, just as it had been during the dark, terrible days before his suicide attempt, but now there were...
others
depending on his sanity. He had taken a sacramental vow.

Mel, Markie,
Packy.

He had travelled on that road–the road of the insane–before.

No way, don't go there, Cowboy. Gotta stay tuned.

Gotta pray.

So Buzz carefully, methodically folded his hands, his hip against the rock, the corpse at this feet, and then closed his eyes.

Do the simple prayers. The ones that come easy. It's been a hard day so far. No need to get fancy.

Buzz prayed three Hail Marys. He concentrated
on each word. He felt nothing.

But his faith gave him hope beyond mere feelings.

"I see Mel, too!"
the Man's strange words drifted back to Buzz.

The Man was hallucinating. Sure, he was. Had to be. He lost a lot of blood. Or maybe he saw Jesus with her in Bagpipe, with Sam and Ellie and the boys...yeah, that's what he saw.

Good. Excellent.

Buzz wondered about what to do next. He looked around,
up the hill, then down to the road. There were light breezes coming in from the south now, and he welcomed the sound of their songs in the leaves.

What to do next? He closed his eyes, and prayed the prayer that has no words. The prayer of a child, a movement of a soul with no power of its own.

A list of things to do came unbidden to his consciousness–as if infused from another being. This, in
fact, was the case. Our Lady, having heard his prayers, and shared his tears, prompted her broken son with this partial list:

...Feed the hungry.

Clothe the naked.

Bury the dead...

Bury the dead. He had his answer.

+  +  +

His following hours drained into a numb series of activities. Buzz forced himself into his tasks, directing his focus on his actions, on the movements of his hands, on the worn
wooden handle of his workaday plow.

He took an inventory of his tools. He still had the canteen, the ammunition, the compass (which the Man, with keen foresight, had slipped into his pocket during the gun battle...), a sleeping bag, the bleach, one hunting knife, one snare trap, the gold coins, the sharpening stone, the needle-nosed pliers, a few items.

Unfortunately, the mini-tent, the fishing
pole, the screwdriver, the Bible, the camp cookware–had all been lost in the abandoned backpack.

He still had the Zippo, but the cans of lighter fluid were lost.

Buzz took the Man's scapular from the corpse, scraped off the dried blood, and placed it around his own neck. He found a Saint Benedict medal in the Man's pocket, and put it in his own pocket. To his surprise, Buzz discovered a first-class
relic of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, the Man's favorite saint, in the other pocket.

Using the hunting knife to strip two fallen branches he found on the floor of the woods, which he fastened together using his and the Man's socks (pulling them off the Man's feet had been–something to not remember...), along with his sleeping bag, Buzz fashioned a crude, Indian-style stretcher. He loaded the body
onto it, and began the most challenging walk of his journey–dragging it by the open ends of the two branches along the highway. It took seven hours, and it was almost sundown, before he came to a town whose name he forgot.

There was no Catholic church there, so he passed through, his hands raw with blisters, the muscles of his thick, undefined forearms swelling against the weight of the load.

It's only pain.

He found a stream, and washed himself and his clothes in the ice cold water. It took him a day and a half to reach the next town. This town had a Catholic church, Saint Gregory the Great, maintained by an old, starving priest named Father Antonio Mastreoni, who agreed to say the funeral Mass.

But first, Buzz found a local carpenter, and paid him a gold coin to construct a crude,
plywood coffin.

To earn a meal from the town, Buzz forced himself to play the role of jovial chiropractor, but could not bring himself to tell the stories to the children.

During the funeral Mass that evening, feeling numb to all emotion, Buzz gave this eulogy to a church empty except for himself, the priest, and the Lord in the Blessed Sacrament:

"Hal Smith was a practicing Catholic and he was
my friend. I'm sure he likes the fact that he is being buried from a church that has a statue of the Little Flower.

"For the last six years of his life, during every waking moment, he loved God with all his mind, with all his heart, and with all his soul. He was the best point guard in the history of the Rocky River courts. His love was so great that he laid down his life for me. He was a perfect
saint. He was the Man, and there will never be another."

As he walked back into the town from the cemetery, having buried the casket alone after the old priest left, staring down at his dirty boots, Buzz heard the tinny
ring-ring
of a bell.

He looked up and saw a black kid, no older than seven, riding a bicycle toward him, a brown package in the basket attached to the front of the handlebars.

"Hi mister!" the kid smiled and waved, zipping past.

Bicycle,
Buzz thought.

+  +  +

The nights were the worst; that's when he missed the Man the most. Buzz tossed and turned. Every sound startled him. He would sleep on his back, the Ruger on his chest, the hunting knife unsheathed next to his thigh. There were only so many Rosaries he could pray.

"I see Mel! She's with Him!"

He made a great effort
to turn his mind from this–this
thing,
but these words of the Man kept coming back to him, draining Buzz's spirit.

Mel.

On most nights his terror finally led to exhaustion, and he awoke feeling dirty, hungry, then started walking east. He drank water, but he felt weaker and weaker in body and soul. There was little fat left on his body for reserve. He estimated that he was now below two hundred
pounds.