A Pagan's Nightmare (5 page)

Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly, or perhaps he was deep in romantic reflection, or perhaps he saw the opportunity to live
out a lifelong dream, but when Lanny saw a green sign that read HOME OF THE MASTERS, he took exit 199 off the interstate and
onto Washington Road.

Maybe if I explain my plight, they’ll let me hide here. Plus, if Georgian zealots are pursuing me in order to claim some big
reward, this will be the last place they’ll look

A
second green sign directed him to turn south. Excited just to be near Augusta National, he drove another mile until the right
side of the road took on the look of a manicured fortress—green, private, and pristine. In the distance a majestic driveway
sat behind a whitewashed guard house. Lanny sat idling in the road, ogling at the even more majestic clubhouse that sat at
the end of Magnolia Lane.

You shouldn’t,
said a voice in Lanny’s head.
You’ll get arrested.

This is your big chance,
countered a second voice.
So go for it. Plus, Miranda knows you love golf, and she could be hiding nearby and waiting for you.

Lanny eased his truck up beside the guard house, which had an electronic barrier bar to prevent tourists and non-members from
entering the stately compound. Tucking his hair behind his ears and lowering his window, he prepared to speak to whoever was
in charge.

But to his shock and delight, Lanny found no guard at the gate. And yet the door to the guard house was open, and from inside
the door a red button beckoned from atop a control panel. Had the staff disappeared as well? Or were they too out searching
for him, wanting to claim the reward—whatever it was—for themselves?

Don’t do it,
said the first voice.
You’ll surely get arrested.

Go ahead,
said the second voice.
Get out of your truck and push the red button.

Lanny flung open his door, scrambled out of his truck, and pushed the red button.

The barrier bar raised in front of him.

Magnolia Lane stretched for four hundred yards, a shaded tunnel beneath stout limbs and waxed green leaves. Lanny drove the
length of it in seconds. His was the kind of nervous glee found in children who suddenly discover themselves in an amusement
park without adult supervision—the possibilities seemed endless.

He parked and glanced left at the empty practice range, where perfectly groomed grass hosted perfectly stacked mounds of white
golf balls. Lanny grew even more excited when he saw no one on the property. Not even a policeman or a wandering guard on
duty.

He got out and shouted “Miranda!” in his loudest voice. Her name echoed through the pine trees, though no one answered.

Alone at Augusta National, Lanny decided he would spend the night here. And since there was still over an hour of daylight
left, he quickly pulled his golf bag from the rear of his truck. He hurried around the clubhouse to the first hole, unzipping
a pocket of his bag to pull out a tee and a ball. Then he shouted again, “Miraaaaaaanda!”

Only echoes.

That’s when Lanny noticed that he had forgotten to put on his golf shoes. In his excitement he had rushed to the course in
brown, steel-toed work boots.

He paused on the tee box and removed his work boots and socks, stuffing them into his golf bag. He loved the way the grass
felt soft and spongy beneath his bare feet. And it made him think again of Miranda and their fourth date.

He would play the course for her.

After three practice swings and a stretch, he imagined this was a Sunday afternoon in April, where a mass of twenty-thousand
spectators all waited for him to hit his first shot. He imagined Miranda watching, cheering him on from beneath a white visor,
wavy auburn hair spilling over her shoulders.

His swing was strong and fluid; his contact, pure.

The ball flew long and straight and came to rest two-hundred-fifty yards away, on an upslope of gorgeous green grass.

Funny what denial does to a man. Lanny thrust his arms in the air in triumph. He bowed to the crowd. He tossed them a ball.
He blew a kiss to Miranda. He then lost his mind completely and began imitating every celebratory sports gesture in the history
of television. He gave ‘em the uppercut. He gave ‘em the funky chicken. He gave ‘em the break dance and attempted a back flip.
He even moon-walked across the grass in his bare feet.

Finally the denial subsided, and he hoisted his bag over his shoulder and walked past the wrought iron sign beside the tee
box.

Then he smelled the fresh paint.

Then he
saw
the fresh paint.

Panic set in even before he read its lettering. The sign had read—just like the larger one on the interstate—HOME OF THE MASTERS.

But someone had replaced the first two words and marked out the second “s,” so that the sign now read OWNED BY THE MASTER.

“Hey you!” someone shouted. “Stay right there!”

The voice came from the ninth hole, far to Lanny’s left. He turned and saw three men in white jumpsuits running toward him.
They looked to be competing with each other, pushing one another out of the way to be the first to get to Lanny. They were
nearly a golf hole away, however, so he knew he had time to scram. Behind them he saw the cans of paint they had dropped in
order to pursue him.

What is it with these zealots and their signage?

He ran—as close to running as a man can manage with a forty-pound golf bag on his back—to the parking lot. Pebbles hurt his
bare feet, so he ran on his toes to his truck. He tossed his bag in the rear, hurried to the driver’s seat, and cranked the
engine.

Around the corner of the clubhouse came the three men in white jumpsuits, yelling at him, pushing past each other, and waving
their arms. The tall one shouted, “Stop! You’re my Big Reward!”

Lanny fled those hallowed grounds. With no Miranda in sight and no lifelong dream fulfilled, he screeched his tires and fled.
He now fully realized his situation—the religiosity had swept deeper across Georgia. His immediate thought was his only thought.
Maybe I can outrun it to Florida.

The sun was setting over Georgia now, and he figured the smart thing to do would be to withdraw the remaining cash from his
bank account. Across Washington Road he spotted a Wachovia sign, and fortunately, his teller card still worked. He withdrew
the last two-hundred-and-forty dollars, stuffed one-hundred-sixty of it into his wallet, the other eighty under his floor
mat. Just in case. Then he saw his likeness posted on the teller window. The bank was closed, but the poster showed him in
frontal pose and profile, and below that, what he’d look like with a goatee, with a shaved head, and as a blonde. All of this
under the heading “Have You Seen This Man? He Is Your Ticket!”

Frightened and confused, Lanny left skidmarks in the drive-thru and turned west on 1-20. An hour later he was back on 1-75,
bypassing Macon and driving determinedly for the Sunshine State.

Determination quickly faded to drowsiness, however, so he decided that when he reached Florida he would stop and get some
rest—being on the run takes its toll.

Mile after mile, Lanny fought sleep in the right lane. His only defenses against slumber were to roll down his windows and
to keep trying Miranda on his cell phone. But every time he dialed, he only got her answering service.

He gnawed his lip in frustration and drove into the night.

Lanny woke early the next morning in a rest area outside of Jennings, Florida, just over the Georgia border. The sun was coming
up, and he walked inside to use the facilities.

A copy of the WANTED poster from the teller window hung from the men’s room door. Ditto for the women’s.

Head down to avoid being recognized, he washed his hands, splashed some cold water on his face, and looked in the mirror.
He
rubbed his stubble and considered a shave, then thought better of it and hurried back to his Xterra.

Three hours later he could see the baked sprawl of Orlando in front of him, where he noted traffic moving the opposite way
in a steady stream, as if they, too, were fleeing from something.

Rumbling along in the fast lane, Lanny tuned his radio to a local talk show and listened for a weather update.

D
J NED NEUTRAL
spent the night at Fence-Straddler AM—he felt safest there—and had stocked the station’s kitchen with food and double-bolted
the front door.

It was now 7:45 a.m., and the female DJ who normally hosted the morning show had been missing for nearly a day. So Ned decided
that, with Hurricane Gretchen on the way, he should man the broadcast booth from 6:00 until noon and keep his listeners informed
of the storm.

A plate of Krispy Kremes and a black coffee sat to the right of his microphone. Ned swallowed half of the first donut and
gripped his mic. “It’s still early, folks, but if Gretchen continues on her easterly path, we can expect her to make landfall
below Tampa sometime Wednesday night, and hit us by Thursday morning. For all you time-challenged people, that means less
than two days. Do you grasp the magnitude of this? Today is Tuesday, the storm could hit as soon as Wednesday night, and Gretchen’s
winds are up to one-hundred-thirty-five miles per hour.”

Ned paused and considered if he too should evacuate. His overriding instinct, however, was to try to sniff out any other unfortunate
ones. “Folks, since we were deluged by calls from the religious right yesterday, I’d like to ask for some of you non-religious
types to call in and share what you’re doing in preparation for this hurricane. I’ll leave all five lines open for you.”

Commercials played as Ned stared at the bank of five dim lights.

Thirty seconds ticked off the clock. All remained dim.

A full minute. Nothing.

Two minutes, then three. Still nothing.

When the last of six commercials finished playing, not one of the five lights was lit.

Ned gripped his mic and did his best to save face. “Alrighty, during the break I spoke with three atheists, and all were boarding
up their windows and planning to leave Florida by nightfall. I would play their replies for you, but we seem to have a small
problem with the playback feature today.”

Four call lights immediately lit.

Ned stared at the shining bank of lights, hesitated, and pressed line two. “Welcome to Fence-Straddler AM, caller. What’s
your name and where’re ya from?”

“Ned, I’m a disciple of Marvin the Apostle. We’d like to invite you to an accountability group for chronic liars. In fact,
I can come pick you up at your station.”

Ned panicked and hung up on this nameless fanatic. Then he addressed his audience in a measured tone of voice. “Um, folks,
seems we have a new update from the National Hurricane Center. I’ll go get it off the printer. Meanwhile, I’m going to switch
you to our sister station in Tampa. I’ll return in a few minutes, so just sit back and enjoy this oldie from the Bee Gees.”

Ned switched to the sister station, and across the airwaves came a high-pitched voice, singing the chorus from
Stayin’ Alive.
“See the city breakin’ and ev’rybody shakin’ and WE ARE ALIVE, WE ARE ALIVE.”

Ned stood over his printer and glanced back at his DJ booth. He tilted his head and blinked as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
But then the chorus repeated. “See the city breakin’ and ev’rybody shakin’ and WE ARE ALIVE, WE ARE ALIVE. Ah, ah, ah, ah,
WE ARE ALIVE!”

DJ Ned rushed back into his broadcast booth and switched off the sister station. He spoke rapidly into his mic. “Sorry ‘bout
that audio mix-up, folks. I’m a bit shorthanded at work today. But never fear, I have the latest update from the National
Hurricane Center. Gretchen is now at one-hundred-forty miles per hour, slightly faster than yesterday and with no change in
direction. That, of course, is bad news for us.”

The bank of red lights went dim again. And then, just as he was about to ask for callers, line 1 lit.

“Welcome to Fence-Straddler AM radio,” Ned said, “What’s your name and how are you preparing for this hurricane?”

“Um, what hurricane?” There was a scratchy quality to the call, as if the caller was on a bad cell phone connection. “I just
arrived in Florida from Atlanta. Been driving since sunrise. You said you wanted to hear from non-religious callers, so I
called.”

“And your name, sir?”

“My name is Lanny. Lanny Hooch… from Atlanta.”

Ned smiled at hearing Lanny’s innocence. “You know nothing about Gretchen?”

“Nope,” said Lanny, “I’m in my truck. I spent the night at a rest area and haven’t listened to the news.”

“You’re not aware that there is a major hurricane heading for the coast of Florida?”

“Nope. I’m just trying to find my girlfriend and flee the zealots.”

Ned paused, shocked to hear someone else use the term
zealot.
“Hey, caller, do you mind if I switch you to a private line?”

“Not at all.”

Ned replayed the newfangled Bee Gees song for his listeners and picked up his private phone to speak with Lanny. “Hey, man,
you know about the zealots?” DJ Ned sounded anxious, desperate even.

“Yesterday in Atlanta they took over the schools and the BP stations.” Lanny veered back into the slow lane so he could talk.
“And the McDonald’s too. The radio station even announced that some guy named Marvin has a reward out for my capture.”

“Aw, man… don’t tell me that.” Ned then began an inquiry that seemed simplistic on the surface and yet was loaded with consequences.
“You say your name is Lanny?”

“That’s right.”

“Mind if I ask you a couple personal questions?”

“Go ahead.”

“You cuss?”

“Sometimes. ‘Specially when I hit my thumb with my hammer.”

“Drink?”

“On weekends.”

“Go to church?”

“Never. You?”

Ned frowned at this boomeranged question. “Do I go to
church?
No way. I hang out at the beach on Sundays or take a trip somewhere.”