“I wouldn’t have looked if it hadn’t burned rubber.”
Pittman nods. “Good thing you did. The security video is pretty bad.”
He considers the sketch thoughtfully. Taps on his desktop keyboard and waits. Taps and waits more. Then turns the monitor toward Casey.
Where Casey sees a black Sprinter with a decal of a dramatic snow-capped mountain on the driver’s side, tiny skiers gliding down it, and the words, in vivid orange lettering at the bottom:
SIERRA SPORTS
MAMMOTH LAKES CALIFORNIA
Casey’s questioning blue eyes meet Pittman’s questioning gray.
“What’d you get on Google?” asks Casey.
“Zip. No such place.”
“Out of business?”
“Five years ago.”
“What’s that mean to us?”
“It’s a nice little whiff to send dogs like us down the wrong trail.”
“Did you talk to that fire setter? Orchard, that Mom wrote about?”
“No,” says Pittman. “He’s in the wind, where he likes it.”
30
Friday morning Brock stands behind the pulpit of his Breath of Life Rescue Mission and looks out at his congregation. Sparse, as it often is. Twenty-six people. Only one Go Dog is here.
Brock is wearing his standard preaching uniform: red-and-green flannel pants, a yellow pineapple Aloha shirt over a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and shearling-lined boots.
The pulpit, waist-high and curving, is from a secondhand furniture store in San Bernardino. It’s got a signature Brock Stonebreaker eight-foot Day-Glo green surfboard bolted upright over the aluminum cross, the arms of which peek out on either side of the gun like rays of light.
That light signifies the Breath of Life, in fact, Brock tells his motley crowd, his voice well amplified in the big cinderblock room.
“The life in my wife’s breath when she brought me back from death to life, and I was blind but later saw!”
A faint murmur rises from some of the worshippers. Most of them are seated near the enormous river-rock fireplace, in the back, on Salvation Army couches and folding metal chairs. Some doze. The fire licks their faces with orange tongues. The pots on the stove bubble with venison stew, and the chafing dishes on a long picnic table offer up the smell of bacon, eggs, and potatoes, and Brother Brock knows full well that the food is a much bigger draw here on Friday mornings than he is.
As it should be.
Now he directly addresses Mahina, standing mid-room at the video and PA control board. She’s in charge of sending his sermons out live to his YouTube subscribers, who number a modest 955, Brock knows.
Hoping his Internet audience is a little more aroused than these twenty-six live wires, he reads from “The Second Coming” by Yeats, then asks his followers to join him in a silent prayer, asking the Breath of Life to shine on them and inspire them to go into the world and help those in need, wherever they might be, however sick, poor, tired, cursed, hated, cold, wet, burned, hungry, wounded, or beaten down they might be. Bring them food and water and shelter and medicine. Bring them service and protection. Bring them money and love. Bring them action and energy. Bring them the Breath of Life. Bring them something! Our path on Earth is the Earth, and all the people on it!
Brock shouts out passages from Psalms, drops the Bible to his altar.
Picks up the Talmud and reads in his forceful baritone.
Slaps down the Talmud and quotes Muhammad from the Quran.
Which he sets on the stack but the holy books topple to the floor and Brock stares down at them for a moment as if unsure what to do.
He picks them up one at a time and brushes them clean on his Aloha shirt, and sets them carefully atop the altar, squaring them off for balance.
Then Brock nods to Mahina at the console, who cues up a Scottish bagpipe dirge that fills the big room with sweet, weary notes.
Which is when Right Fight leader Kasper Aamon quietly enters the church. Even with his trucker’s hat in hand and his Right Fight windbreaker, he still looks to Brock like a bearded, pot-bellied bear. He’s followed by six not much smaller bears, three female and three male—same jackets, caps in hand, too. They carry holstered sidearms, some up high at the belt, some low-slung and tied off like gunslingers from another century. Three of them have carbines slung over their shoulders.
Aamon nods at Brock, moves past six folding chairs not far from him, and sits.
“Welcome, dullards! What can we offer you?”
“Peace on Earth, Brother Brock,” says Aamon.
“Not on the Earth I know. But welcome to the Breath of Life Rescue Mission, Aamon.”
Aamon crosses one thick leg over the other, settles back into the spindly metal chair but says nothing.
Brock has Mahina cue up another Scottish bagpipe dirge, closes his eyes, and stands still behind his pulpit, letting the full, eerie notes fill the room.
Stirred by the pipes and inspired by these intruders, Brock sermonizes on the value of helping others, friends and family, for sure, but especially people you don’t even know. Whoever needs. Whoever has little or nothing. Equal-opportunity rescue. Your heart turned to action, not pity, not disgust. He thinks it’s a particularly good message for the visitors, these equal-opportunity complainers who hate their brothers and sisters of this world, hate the people who were on this land before them, hate their own government.
He feels like the Boss up there, by whom Brock’s endless performances—some go on for nearly three hours—are inspired. He used to sing along and play air guitar to Grandpa Stonebreaker’s Springsteen CDs.
