bikes and stared at him making eye contact through the mirror. The center biker, dropped his kickstand, and sauntered back to the Cadillac.
Gibb radioed in his position and exited the car. He kept to the shoulder, positioning the vehicles between him and the traffic. He passed the bikers, ignoring their impertinence and stepped to the back window of the Cadillac. He rapped on the window with his right hand. After several seconds, to the electric whine of a hidden motor, the window lowered. Gibb knelt and glanced inside and saw that Rev Boscoe stared back at him. Gibb turned and stared east.
"What did you mean, what you told me yesterday?" he asked.
"I said many things."
"About my life being incomplete...you don't know me. How can you say that?"
"You know better than that. You are of a type. I may not know you, but I know your type."
"What type am I?"
"Mr. Gibb, we don't have time for this."
"Then make the time." Gibb faced Rev Boscoe, but out of the corner of his eye he also caught the gaze of the biker, who'd been leaning down and glaring through the other rear window. They exchanged a look that only cops and robbers knew.
Rev Boscoe saw this and toggled the window nearest him closed, shutting the biker off from the conversation. Then the Burned Man scooted across the leather seat until he was next to Gibb. "You don't want to do this."
"I'm not afraid," Gibb said, forcing himself to stare at the place on the man's face where a nose should have been. "I am not afraid," he said again.
Rev Boscoe shook his head. "You should be."
"You said before that I am of a type. What type am I?"
"You are a practical man."
"You say it like it's a bad thing."
"When you see a problem you fix it," Rev Boscoe said.
"That's right. What's wrong with that?"
"You place responsibility as the most important character trait and strive to be responsible at all times and in all places," Rev Boscoe said.
"Of course. Doesn't everyone?"
"No. Everyone doesn't." Rev Boscoe stared pointedly at Gibb. "In fact, some see it as a weakness."
"That's just crazy. Responsibility is a good thing. It's a strength, not a weakness."
"Corinthians 12:9 says My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness," Rev Boscoe said, his hands clasped beneath his chin. "You see your responsibility as a strength, but this very essence of your practical nature is your weakness."
"What? What?" Gibb sputtered. "But that makes no sense."
"There is a pattern to things. There is a holy promise that was made from the moment time began. The verse I quoted speaks to Christ and how he, as a humble man, ascended into Heaven and gave us grace."
"What does humility have to do with responsibility?"
"Do you know the limits of your responsibility? Do you understand where you must stop?"
"What limits? This is just responsibility we're talking about. How do limits apply?"
Instead of answering, Rev Boscoe steepled his hands beneath his chin and closed his eyes. He shook his head twice. "No," he mumbled. "We shouldn't—" he began but was cut-off by some internal dialogue. "Yes. Okay," he finally whispered. Without opening his eyes he said, "She will honor your request."
"My request?" Gibb sputtered.
"You were going to petition the Long Cool Woman, yes?" Rev Boscoe asked, his tone that of a patient professor.
"Well, yes. I mean, I was going to, but how did she know? How did you know?"
Rev Boscoe smiled, the sight utterly lacking in humor. "You're willing to accept that the dead can speak through a comatose woman but have a problem with the fact that I can communicate with her?"
Gibb processed the question and saw the reason within the unreasonable. "So she'll do it?"
"Yes," Rev Boscoe said. "She'll do it."
"Then it's back the way we came. You'll follow me, right?"
"Right." Rev Boscoe toggled closed the window signaling the end to the conversation.
Gibb rushed back to his police cruiser. He hadn't missed the tired resolve on Rev Boscoe's face. He'd just decided to ignore it. After all, his most private wish was about to be fulfilled. What was he to do? Trade his dream for the nightmare of a burned preacher?
A break in traffic found them accelerating until the next exit, where they were able to regroup before heading West towards mile marker 43. And with each mile they drew closer, the more excited Gibb became.
Excitement not like when he chased down a perp or during a high-speed chase. Gibb had