On Harrow Hill

The venue for Gant’s “revelation tent meeting” was a rectangular, wooden-fenced field that had the scruffy look of a former pasture. Several lengths of fencing had been removed to allow vehicles to enter. Scores of cars and pickup trucks were parked around the perimeter of the field, and more were arriving. Morgan and Gurney each parked near the entry-exit opening.

The “tent” was a tarp-like canopy erected over a set of theatrical risers at the far end of the field. A podium stood on the top riser. To its left was an American flag on a gold-painted pole and to its right a gold-painted cross of equal height. On the front of the podium was a carving of two rifles with intersecting barrels.

Morgan got out of the Tahoe, and Gurney watched as he headed up behind the row of vehicles to a Larchfield patrol car and bent over to talk to the driver. Gurney went the other way, to a spot by the rear fence with a view of the whole field.

A large part of the audience, which he estimated at roughly three hundred, was already seated in informal rows of lawn chairs on either side of a central aisle that led from the rear of the field to the makeshift stage. They were universally white, mostly older, and, unlike many church congregations, mostly male. Groups of younger men stood smoking, talking, and drinking from beer cans by the parked pickups. Swarms of ragged little boys were running here and there, shouting and colliding with each other. The colors of sunset had faded away, dusk was deepening, a restless breeze was rising, and the sweet scent of mown grass was competing with the exhaust fumes of late-arriving vehicles.

Gurney was about to call Madeleine, to give her a rough idea when he’d be arriving home, when a low rumble out on the road diverted his attention. As it grew louder, the audience began looking back toward the source, and the murmur of their voices grew more excited. The rumble increased to a roar as a procession of motorcycles turned from the road into the central aisle of the seating area.

Gurney counted twelve of the heavyweight machines proceeding up the aisle toward the stage. The procession split as it reached the stage, with six machines turning right and six turning left. A thirteenth rider—this one in a shiny white leather riding suit—came slowly up the aisle and took the center position, setting off a burst of cheering from the crowd. It was Silas Gant, his gray pompadour unruffled by the breeze.

The crowd fell into an anticipatory silence. A few moments later a loud whoosh accompanied the fiery path of a rocket racing up into the sky, where it burst into a red-white-and-blue approximation of an American flag while the sound system blared an arena-style rendition of “God Bless America.” The crowd applauded as Gant stepped up onto the risers and took his position at the podium, illuminated by a pair of spotlights.

“God bless America!” he cried, generating a reprise of the applause that had just ended.

“God save this threatened nation of ours,” he continued. “That is the calling that brings us together on this beautiful night, at this critical moment in the history of our country. Our country! We have come together tonight to share our vision, to claim our rights, to send our message to the degenerates in high places conspiring to turn our precious homeland into a foreign garbage dump. The degenerates in the media—the corrupt, depraved media—who glorify every kind of perversion. The degenerates who laugh at our religion, our Bible, our God. The degenerates who want to strip us of our God-given, Constitution-guaranteed right to bear arms. The degenerate LGBTQ promoters who connive to turn innocent children into freaks. You know what those letters stand for? They stand for ‘Leave God Behind and Turn Queer.’ They are the initials of perdition! The alphabet of the demons of hell!”

He took out a large white handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face before going on with rising intensity. “When I say the demons of hell, that’s exactly what I mean. The purveyors of evil have insinuated themselves into high places. Perched like vultures on their mountains of filth, they look down on God-fearing folks like you and me. Proud in the putrefaction of their souls, they look down on us and laugh the laughter of demons!” His voice, which had risen to a sustained shout, cracked. He stepped back from the podium microphone to clear his throat.