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front of the grandstands, studying the concrete circle. It was a plain, poured concrete slab.
    "Landing pad for the flying saucers," Simon declared.
    "It could be a heliport," Christy suggested.
    "Not with these cuckoos. It's a saucer pad, all right. I've seen them before. There's two of them in Wyoming, one just outside of Gillette. That one has its own lights and generator."
    Christy saw nothing but normal outdoor lighting around the compound. With nothing left to see, they joined the handful of visitors gathered on the grandstands. An empty podium stood in front of the stands. Simon pulled Christy high into the stands directly in front of the podium, toward a black man in sunglasses who stared at Simon.
    "I should have known you'd show up here, Simon."
    "I never miss a freak show," Simon replied. "This is Christy Maitland. Christy, this is Roland Symes, you might have read some of his columns."
    She recognized Symes's name from his byline. He wrote for the San Francisco Journal and was syndicated nationally. Symes was an attractive man, just under six feet tall, hair cropped short, his skin dark, but his facial features reflecting a racial mix with narrow nose but wide lips.
    "That's Reverend Maitland, isn't it? I tried to interview you after you brought those white supremacists in."
    Christy had been inundated with requests for interviews after she talked a group of white supremacists into surrendering to federal authorities. It had been three grueling days in the Idaho panhandle and afterward she wanted nothing but a bath and soft bed. She turned down all but one interview.
    "I did talk to a pool reporter."
    "I don't report what every other reporter has. Maybe when this fiasco is over you could spare me a few minutes?"
    Even sitting, Symes was clearly a tall, thin man. His eyes were intense and Christy squirmed, searching for a polite way to say no. Simon saved her.
    "What brings the great Symes to an event like this?" Simon asked. "A high school bake-off would be more newsworthy."
    "I'm not here for the show. You see that guy down there," he said, pointing.
    Christy followed his point to see a man reclining on the front bench.
    His head was tilted back—eyes closed. He was balding, with blond hair combed to cover bare scalp. His face was tan, but soft-looking with rounded features. His body looked lean and hard.
    "He supplies automatic weapons to every religious gun nut in the country," Roland said.
    "George Proctor," Simon said.
    "Very good, Simon. Everyone knows he does it but he's slick and no one can prove it."
    "And you can?" Simon asked.
    "I just want an interview."
    As Simon and Symes talked, Christy noticed George Proctor's eyes open. Then he turned and stared at them. Closing his eyes again, he stood and began stepping from seat to seat, climbing the grandstand. Only after he faced them did he open his eyes. They were a vibrant blue. He spoke in slow, measured tones.
    "My mother taught me it was wrong to talk behind someone's back."
    "You've got good hearing," Symes said.
    Proctor turned around, sat, reclining and closing his eyes.
    "I see more than I hear," Proctor said.
    "My name's Roland Symes. I'm a columnist and I'd like to interview you."
    "No."
    "It's a chance to give your views to a national audience."
    "Pick up a Bible and a copy of the Constitution of the United States of America if you want my views."
    "I want your spin."
    Proctor turned back around, his eyes still closed.
    "You don't spin God's word or the Constitution. The Bible speaks directly to your heart and the Constitution to your mind. An honest man can sense the truth in both."
    "Where in the Bible does it say you've got a right to own an Uzi?"
    "Samson would have used one on the Philistines if he'd had one."
    "That's the kind of thing my readers want to hear," Symes said.
    "The story today is what's going to happen here," Proctor said, indicating the concrete pad behind him.
    "A saucer landing?" Simon cut in.
    Proctor turned to face him,