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THE FINAL INSTALLMENT OF A THREE PART SERIES

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The first vehicle to leave Second Baptist was Maybelle Watkins’s pale green Buick, although Maybelle would later insist she had gone directly home and had no idea why three separate people remembered seeing her arrive at the Cattle Baron Hotel before the benediction had finished echoing. Behind her came Chad in the Piggly Wiggly produce truck, followed by Rex and Evelyn Hall, Angus Hopper, Hairless B29, Mayor Goodman, Sister Eunice, two deacons, the entire alto section of the choir, and a visiting Presbyterian family who had never before witnessed a Baptist congregation respond so quickly to a sermon. Brother Bob stepped onto the church lawn in time to see the last of them turn toward downtown, carrying with them every warning he had delivered and none of the restraint he had intended.

He stood there for several seconds with his Bible beneath one arm, watching taillights disappear around the corner. Beside him, Mrs. Brother Bob adjusted her hat and asked whether they ought to go home before the roast dried out. Brother Bob said he believed it was his pastoral responsibility to determine whether the message had been properly understood. Mrs. Brother Bob looked toward downtown, then back at her husband, and told him she would save him a plate if the potatoes had not hardened into construction materials by the time he returned.

By the time Brother Bob reached the Cattle Baron, the Chrysler was surrounded three people deep. Men who had shouted amen when he condemned the fins were now comparing their height to nearby Cadillacs. Women who had nodded solemnly during his warning about the upholstery were taking turns shading their eyes against the glass so they could inspect the stitching. Children pressed close to the windows until their mothers pulled them back and wiped fingerprints from a car none of them owned. Maybelle Watkins stood near the trunk with one gloved hand over her mouth, staring at the chrome spare-tire cover with the horrified fascination ordinarily reserved for medical diagrams displayed at the county fair.

“I am not admiring it,” Earl announced when Brother Bob approached. Earl had been leaning over the passenger-side window for so long that the outline of the chrome trim was impressed across his forearms. “I’m verifying the location of the console.”

“And where is it?” Brother Bob asked.

“Between the seats.”

Brother Bob waited.

Earl nodded gravely. “Just like you said.”

This appeared to satisfy Earl, who immediately leaned closer for another look.

The crowd had divided itself into informal committees. Rex Hall was explaining the long-ram intake system to a group of men who had spent the sermon agreeing it resembled serpents. Angus had become responsible for horsepower and was telling anyone who would listen that the Golden Lion V8 produced enough torque to move the Cattle Baron six inches toward Alpine. Hairless stood at the rear, where he had begun offering interpretations of the Chrysler script based on the handwriting of various relatives. Trixie and Lucinda were discussing whether the fins were excessive, tasteful, or both, which Lucinda considered entirely possible. Sister Thelma had removed a small measuring tape from her handbag and was recording the distance between the four bucket seats for reasons she described only as ecclesiastical.

Brother Bob moved through the gathering with the painful realization that he had not driven anyone away from the Chrysler. He had furnished them with a guided tour. Before the sermon, most people had merely known the car was beautiful. Now they understood the symbolism of the grille, the suspected motives of the bumper, the spiritual implications of the fins, the engineering of the carburetors, the top speed of the speedometer, and the precise moral danger represented by the console. He had transformed casual curiosity into a comprehensive education and had done so without charging admission.

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Mayor Goodman stood near the front fender wearing his ceremonial hat and speaking to two strangers from Monahans who had stopped after seeing the crowd. “As mayor, I have been monitoring the situation closely,” he said, resting one hand upon the brim of his hat. “The automobile has been welcomed under a temporary cultural-exchange arrangement.”

“There is no arrangement,” Sheriff Vickers said.

Mayor Goodman lowered his voice. “Not yet.”

The sheriff had parked his patrol car nearby, less because the Chrysler required protection than because Fort Stockton citizens were beginning to step into traffic while walking backward to admire it. He had already instructed Chad to move the produce truck after discovering it blocking the hotel entrance, and he had warned Hairless twice not to crawl beneath the car without the owner’s permission. Hairless asked how one was supposed to obtain permission from a person nobody had seen, which the sheriff admitted was a legitimate question but not one he wanted answered from underneath the transmission.

Brother Bob stopped beside Rex Hall, who was describing the way Chrysler’s engineers had mounted the dual carburetors far apart on the engine and used long intake passages to improve low-speed torque. “You heard the sermon,” Brother Bob said.

“I did.”

“And yet here you are.”

Rex looked around. “So are you.”

“I am here in an official capacity.”

“What capacity?”

“Pastoral supervision.”

Rex nodded toward the Chrysler. “Then you may want to supervise the driver’s side. People are getting a better view from over there.”

Brother Bob did not move. “There is nothing about this automobile that requires further study.”

Rex considered that statement, then looked toward the hood. “You spent thirty-eight minutes studying it aloud.”

That was the trouble with Rex Hall. He rarely raised his voice or insulted anybody directly. He simply placed a fact in the middle of the conversation and allowed everyone else to trip over it.

Maybelle Watkins had progressed from the spare-tire cover to the rear window. She bent forward slightly, clutching her Sunday handbag beneath one arm, and looked across the back bucket seats. “There really are four of them,” she said.

“That is what Brother Bob told us,” Sister Eunice replied.

“I thought perhaps he was speaking metaphorically.”

Brother Bob heard this and turned. “There is nothing metaphorical about four bucket seats.”

Maybelle straightened quickly. “Of course not.”

She waited until he looked away, then bent forward again.

The congregation’s fascination might have begun to weaken had the Chrysler remained nothing more than a sealed display. But as the afternoon advanced, people began imagining motion. Angus described the sound of the 413 starting cold, the brief rush of fuel through the twin four-barrels, and the deep exhaust note settling beneath the car. Rex explained the push-button transmission. Hairless demonstrated how the speedometer needle might sweep toward one hundred fifty by moving one finger across the windshield, leaving a streak Chad tried unsuccessfully to polish away with his necktie. Even those who had no desire to drive at unlawful speed found themselves wondering how it would feel to press the button marked D, ease away from the curb, and watch Fort Stockton shrink in the rearview mirror between two black fins.

“That’s what he warned you about,” Brother Bob said when he overheard Trixie wondering aloud whether the Chrysler would make El Paso feel closer.

Trixie looked at him. “Everything makes El Paso feel closer if you’re leaving Fort Stockton.”

Lucinda laughed, and Brother Bob gave them both the expression he usually reserved for parishioners who treated church discipline as a form of entertainment.

The strangest thing was that the owner still did not appear. Hotel employees came and went. Guests crossed the lobby. A salesman from Lubbock loaded two suitcases into a Rambler and drove away. The Chrysler remained untouched. Nobody approached with keys. Nobody claimed responsibility for its polished condition or answered questions about where it had come from. Sheriff Vickers checked with the front desk again and learned nothing useful. The room register contained no Chrysler, no 300F, no Virgil Exner, and no lesbian aunts.

By four o’clock the crowd began to disperse, less from diminished interest than from the practical demands of Sunday supper. People left slowly, often circling the block once before committing to the road home. Brother Bob was among the last to remain. He stood beside the driver’s door with his Bible beneath his arm, studying his own reflection in the black paint. The crowd had gone quiet enough for him to hear the ticking of another car’s engine across the street and the distant clatter of dishes from the hotel dining room.

The Chrysler reflected him perfectly. Dark suit. White shirt. Narrow tie. Bible. Behind that reflection, visible through the glass, waited the beige driver’s seat, the large steering wheel, the bright instrument panel, and the row of push buttons Brother Bob had spent so much energy condemning. His reflected hand appeared to rest near the door handle.

He did not touch it.

At least not while anyone was watching.

Hairless later claimed he had seen Brother Bob test the handle once, very gently, but Hairless also believed a government listening device had been installed inside the Dairy Twin menu board, so his testimony was considered colorful rather than binding.

The Chrysler remained in town through Monday. It occupied the same space when the sun rose, although several people insisted the front wheels had been turned slightly during the night. By breakfast, the argument had reached the GFD. Rex believed the car had been moved and returned. Angus believed someone had started it without moving it. Chad believed the wheels had always been turned and everyone was now suffering collective automotive hysteria. Hairless believed the Chrysler moved by itself after midnight, which caused Delgado to ask whether he had been watching Christine again.

“Christine was a Plymouth,” Brother Bob said from his stool at the counter.

Everyone turned toward him.

He stirred his coffee. “Accuracy matters.”

That was when Lucinda knew the sermon had accomplished something Brother Bob had not intended. Before Sunday, he had called it “that black automobile.” By Monday morning, he was correcting people on the make and model of fictional killer cars.

The Chrysler appeared in a different space Tuesday morning, parked along the side of the Cattle Baron beneath an elm tree. Nobody had seen it move. The hotel’s night clerk said he had stepped into the back office for no more than ten minutes at approximately two-thirty and found the car relocated when he returned. Asked whether he had heard the engine, he said no, but admitted the lobby radio had been playing Ernest Tubb and might have concealed ordinary mechanical activity.

The new location offered shade and a better view of the interior. Attendance increased.

Women from the Garden Club incorporated the Chrysler into their morning walk. Three high-school boys photographed themselves standing beside the fins. Mayor Goodman proposed using the car in the Founders Day parade, despite having neither the owner’s consent nor any evidence the owner existed. Sister Thelma returned with a camera and photographed the console from six angles. She explained that the diocesan newsletter was considering an article on modern temptations, although she later had one of the pictures enlarged and framed.

Brother Bob preached Wednesday night on humility. Attendance was down by half.

Thursday afternoon the Chrysler appeared in front of Rex Hall Drug. Rex denied knowing anything about the move. A small crowd gathered before the pharmacy had opened, and by nine o’clock Rex was answering more questions about Chrysler Corporation than prescriptions. He finally placed a handwritten sign in the window:

THE CAR IS NOT MINE.
I DO NOT HAVE THE KEYS.
THE ENGINE IS A 413.
YES, IT HAS TWO FOUR-BARRELS.
NO, YOU MAY NOT SIT IN IT.

Hairless added beneath it:

BROTHER BOB SAYS YOU SHOULDN’T ANYWAY.

Rex removed the final line. Hairless replaced it twice.

The mystery began to affect people according to temperament. Sheriff Vickers became irritated because every unexplained relocation created paperwork without producing a crime. Mayor Goodman became enthusiastic because each new location made the Chrysler appear to be participating in municipal life. Chad became suspicious that someone was moving it specifically when he was working. Sister Eunice began keeping a notebook of sightings. Angus simply admired the precision with which the unknown owner selected parking spaces.

Brother Bob grew quieter.

He never withdrew the sermon. He never admitted exaggeration. On Sunday morning he referred briefly to “recent examples of worldly distraction,” but did not mention the Chrysler by name. Still, those seated near the front noticed that he paused before saying the word temptation, as though he could see black paint reflecting beneath it.

The car remained another five days. It moved twice more, once to a space near the courthouse and once beside the vacant lot across from the GFD. The latter position allowed the regulars to monitor it over breakfast, lunch, and supper without admitting they were doing so. Lucinda finally moved a sugar dispenser because it blocked Angus’s view through the window.

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Near closing time on the final evening, only Lucinda, Delgado, Rex, Angus, Hairless, and Brother Bob remained inside. The Chrysler sat across the street beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp, its roof low, fins rising into the darkness, black paint reflecting bits of Fort Stockton in broken pieces. Nobody had much left to say about it. Every rumor had been repeated. Every specification had been memorized. Every known relative’s handwriting had been compared to the chrome lettering.

Brother Bob stood to leave and paused at the window.

“I still say nothing good comes from four bucket seats.”

Angus looked across the street. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

“Could have five.”

Brother Bob considered this longer than the remark deserved, then walked outside.

The others watched him cross the street. He did not approach the driver’s door. He did not inspect the grille or study the fins. He stood several feet away with his hands in his coat pockets, looking at the Chrysler in the same silence with which the Chrysler had looked back at the entire town.

Then he smiled.

Not much. Just enough for Lucinda to notice.

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The next morning the space was empty.

There were no tire marks, no oil stain, no note beneath the windshield wiper, and no hotel guest who admitted checking out during the night. Sheriff Vickers made one final inquiry about the license plate and received the same unhelpful confirmation that it was properly registered to an owner whose name never became public. By noon the Chrysler was somewhere beyond Pecos County, carrying its four bucket seats, cross-bar grille, twin carburetors, toilet-seat spare-tire cover, and one hundred fifty-mile-per-hour speedometer toward another town that had not yet been warned.

Fort Stockton never learned who owned it.

That absence became the most durable part of the story. Had the owner been revealed as an oilman, a banker, an actor, or a traveling salesman, everyone could have filed the experience away beneath a name. Without one, the Chrysler remained free to belong to anyone. Hairless never abandoned Elvis. Mayor Goodman suspected a federal official. Rex favored a collector from California. Angus believed the owner had been nearby the entire time, quietly enjoying the performance. Sister Thelma once suggested it might have belonged to a woman, a possibility that caused Brother Bob to stare into his coffee for so long that Rex asked whether he needed medical attention.

Years later, Brother Bob’s sermon remained more famous than any message he delivered on grace, forgiveness, marriage, money, pride, or the minor prophets. People who had not attended could quote whole sections. The Four Horsemen gained three hundred seventy-one additional horses. The grille grew more sinister. The fins became sharper. Maybelle Watkins fainted in some versions, although she never had. By the time the story reached a second generation, Brother Bob had climbed onto the hood and attempted an exorcism with motor oil.

He denied all embellishments except the title.

On quiet mornings at the GFD, when the coffee was fresh and nobody had yet provided the town with a newer emergency, someone would eventually mention the black 300F. Angus would remember the engine. Rex would remember the engineering. Hairless would remember Aunt Velma and Doris, whose Christmas cards apparently possessed exactly the same chrome flourish. Lucinda would look through the window toward the empty space across the street and repeat the judgment she had made the first day.

“It was beautiful.”

Then she would smile.

“But it knew it.”

Brother Bob always heard her.

He would stir another packet of Sweet’N Low into his coffee, stare down into the cup, and offer the same final opinion.

“I still don’t trust bucket seats.”

Nobody argued.

By then, nearly everyone in Fort Stockton owned a car with two of them.

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