Boomtown (24 page)

“If I
survive
? Look, I don't know how to ride one of these contraptions. I can't do this. I
won't.

”

“Then you'll be the first pastor from Boomtown Church who hasn't ridden in the race for the past twenty-two years. At every festival, if the pastor is alive at the time, he rides in the race and his whole congregation cheers him on.”

“But why? What's the point?”

“One of your predecessors, Reverend Andersen—I think he was the one who died in a landslide—was concerned about how the church members were treating him. They didn't regard him as one of them. That's a common problem for ministers and public figures; you know what I'm talking about. People think we're somehow
different
—better, more perfect. So he got together with the other pastors in town, and they talked to the mayor and the other community leaders and found out they were having the same problem.

“That's when they came up with an event that was just for them. It was a way for the people of the town to get a different look at us. This race makes them feel like they can trust us because we're just like them—because we go and make fools out of ourselves and laugh about it. Do you see what I mean?”

He was right. People tended to put leaders,
especially
ministers, up on a pedestal. On the one hand, I secretly enjoyed the attention; on the other hand, I was always afraid of making mistakes. I put a lot of pressure on my family and myself; we had to be careful all the time about what we said and what we did. We weren't any smarter or better than anybody else, but I never knew what to do about it. I suppose if this race had a way of changing the way people thought about us, who was I to stand in the way?

“Okay,” I relented. “Give me my number.”

“Excellent, wonderful, marvelous—you won't regret it. Why not try out your bicycle for a few minutes and then come and join us on the starting line?”

I tried the best I could. As soon as I started to pedal, the front ski slipped to the right or skidded to the left. The back tire spun on the ice. I got my pants leg caught in the chain. My foot slipped off the pedal and I banged my shin. This wasn't going to be pretty.

The warning gun sounded, and somehow I managed to slip and slide and slosh through the slush and get myself and the bicycle death machine over to my assigned spot next to the other racers. Burton Ernie gave me a smile and a salute. Reverend Platz gratefully patted me on my back. I could see Jonny, eyes aglow, bragging to Busy and Frank and Lonnie. Everyone else was cheering wildly until Captain Trudeau waved his arms and signaled for silence.

He shouted through a megaphone, “Attention, racers! The three-mile course is marked by red flags along the route. Any deviation from the course will result in automatic disqualification. Observers must refrain from assisting or hindering the racers in any way. Riders may dismount and push their bicycles whenever necessary. The first man to cross the finish line here in Town Square is the winner. Any questions?”

I raised my hand.

“Yes, Reverend Button, you have a question?”

“Has anyone ever
died
doing this?”

The captain laughed, and so did everyone else. “Not so far, Reverend! Don't worry. We'll keep an eye on you. A
thousand
eyes. Just stick to the course.”

Then the captain raised the green flag, “On your mark . . . get set . . . MUSH!”

The crowd let out a raucous cheer and threw their hats in the air. Horns blew. Firecrackers went off. People shouted.

“Go, Dad, go!” I heard Jonny shouting from the side-line. “What are you waiting for? You've got to catch up.”

With the wave of the flag I'd been left behind in a spray of ice-cold water, standing ankle deep in a puddle of icy slush, unsure of what to do. I was the only one in the race who'd never done this before. I couldn't figure out how to steer or pedal the ridiculous contraption—but I tried. Jonny
needed
me to try. I started to pedal, wobbling and sliding at first. After about a hundred feet, I started to get the hang of it and straightened myself out.

“Good job, dear!” I heard Janice calling as I disappeared down the street. “See you at the finish line!”

The cheering of the crowd quickly drowned her out. I saw several of my church members lining the road and shouting words of encouragement. I heard one say, “That's our new pastor! Look at him go!”

That's when I began to see what this race was all about. My people, out in the slush, cheering me on, for the pride of our church—and for the
fun
of it. I was being such a wet sock. But I didn't have to be. I was going to
win
this race, and even if I didn't, I was going to do the best I possibly could.

In a few minutes, I passed Reverend Platz on the side of the road, his face as red as a ripe tomato. For the first time since I met him he was unable to speak, but he gave me a broad smile of encouragement and a jaunty wave. Next, I caught up to the mayor, who was struggling to keep his Slushcycle upright. Then I passed the math teacher and the school principal and even the fire chief. There was no way, with my late start, that I was ever going to catch up to Burton Ernie, who was in excellent shape—or the Reverend Tinker, whose extra long legs and long, thin body made him especially wind resistant. But I made up my mind; I would ride as hard as I could for my congregation and for Jonny.

The course wound through downtown, out onto Blasting Cap Avenue, and west toward the fireworks factory. All along the way were spectators taking pictures and waving flags. There was a comfort station about every half mile where a rider could stop, exchange his wet socks for some dry ones, get a hot or cold drink, dry his face with a towel, and keep going. By the halfway mark riders were strung out all over the course, but according to one of the station attendants, I was currently in tenth place and not too far behind the rider in front of me.
Not too bad
, I was thinking.

Soon the course climbed to its highest point, out behind Lazy Gunderson's property, and up along slushy, muddy TNT Trail. It climbed the hill and passed through a tangle of trees and bushes at the top. I could see the tire and ski marks from the riders who had passed by ahead of me, and I struggled to avoid the bumps and puddles and rocks on the trail. With my attention focused and head down, I didn't see the strange figure on the trail who was blocking my path. Suddenly, I noticed him.
On no! Where did he come from?
If I didn't turn, I would tear him to pieces with the studded tires of the Slushcycle. Too late to stop, I veered to the right, crashed through a dense thicket, and found myself looking straight down the solid ice surface of Slippery Slope.

“Oh, Lord in heaven!” I cried as I jumped the crest of the hill and started down. Slow at first then faster and faster, unable to stop because the brakes no longer seemed to be working. The front ski slithered side to side as I careened down the hill.

“Oh, no!” I wailed. Down below the hay bales had been moved for the inner tube races a few days earlier. With nothing to stop my headlong plummet down the hill, I picked up speed, flew past the bottom of the hill, then up and over an icy snowdrift. It was just like a ski jump. I was launched thirty feet into the air—head first and hind end toward death and heaven beyond.

A funeral flashed before my eyes. I saw a young widow and four fatherless children. I heard Vera DeFazio leading hymns. I saw Ingrid hanging my photo in the hallway. I saw the search committee meeting to replace their most recently deceased pastor.

“How did he die?” visitors would ask, seeing my picture on the wall.

“Oh, him? He died at the bottom of Slippery Slope with a Slushcycle ski buried in his forehead.”

“You don't say?”

“Yep. Too bad. Nice man. Tough way to go.”

But miracle of miracles! At the very moment I started my downward plunge, Lazy Gunderson drove underneath me in his pickup truck on his way to dump the slush from the Slush Bucket Relay.
Plop!
I landed smack-dab in the back of his truck without a bruise or a scratch. The Slushcycle, however, disappeared under Lazy's truck with a screeching crunch of twisting metal. It nearly gave him a heart attack. I lay safe and sound in the back of the truck thinking how the mangled Slushcycle could have been me.

“Yow!
What the hay was that?” Lazy exclaimed, slamming his brakes and jumping out of the cab. “Reverend Button! What're you doin' back
there?
Where'd you come from? You fell out of the sky like a busted kite! You all right?”

I couldn't answer him. I was frightened and freezing and frustrated. All I could do was climb out of the slush pond and stand on my own two frozen feet.

With teeth chattering, I managed to say, “Lazy, I don't suppose you've got a blanket in your truck? And a ride back to town?”

“Sure thing, Preacher. You just hold on.”

He hustled around and gave me a blanket to warm myself. He had a thermos of coffee in the cab and poured me a cup. He bundled me into the passenger seat and then backed up slowly to dislodge the mangled Slushcycle from his rear axle. By the time he dumped his load and drove back to Town Square, the race was over. Burton Ernie was the winner for the third year in a row. I was just happy to be in one piece.

The Spring Fever Festival ended without further incident. The spring thaw continued; the streets cleared up, and the snow finished melting. The farmers swung open the doors of their barns and went out for their first spring plowing.

That's when the mysterious mounds were first sighted. Around the whole south and west end of town, in field after field, there were piles of fresh dirt all over the place. Now that the snow had melted they lay in plain sight, like an army of huge gophers had dug up the entire landscape and left their hills behind.

Everybody in Boomtown was talking about it. Burton Ernie went out to investigate. When I saw him that next Sunday in church, he pulled me aside and said, “I got me a theory about what's been going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“About the robberies.”

“What about them?” I asked, curious about the sheriff's theory.

“At first, I couldn't make a connection between the odd things that have gone missing. You know: the fencing, the truck, the trees, the digging tools, and the lights from the courthouse. And now them piles of dirt.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I think somebody's been digging a
tunnel
. Probably a
bunch
of somebodies and a
bunch
of tunnels. You see what I'm get-ting at?”

“Maybe.” I didn't have a clue.

“Think about it. Someone stole the tools so he could dig. He stole the truck to haul the dirt. He stole the wood to shore up the tunnel. He took the lights so he could see where he was going. You get it? It's as plain as the nose on your face.”

Burton's theory actually made sense. “I think you've got it, Burton,” I told him. “All the pieces fit. Hey, maybe that strange fellow I saw on the trail has something to do with it.”

“Who?”

“During the Slushathon this man came out of nowhere. And now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure he was wearing my old coat!”

“You see his face?”

“No, I was too busy trying not to kill myself. But I don't think he was anybody from the town. I can't really be sure; I don't think I'd know him again if I saw him.”

“Too bad. Maybe he's the one who's been leaving the dirt mounds. He has to dump all the dirt from the tunnel, if that's what he's up to. That's pretty hard to hide.”

“You're right, Sheriff. That's pretty smart.”

“Not smart enough. I still don't know
where
he is—or
who
he is.”

I shook my head. “That's not the big question.”

“What could be more important than that?” asked Burton.

“The most important question of all,” I answered.
“Why?
”

CHAPTER 12

The Investigation