Gordon Richard’s Delorean shimmied and sputtered, jerking its way off the Interstate like a steel crab minus some legs. Gordon punched the dashboard and cursed. The car was only two years old for Christ’s sake. Next time he’d bring a Honda.

He maneuvered off the highway–the car glided downhill for a few miles, past acres of fruit trees, and a sign that read, “Leviticus Avenue.” Old-fashioned shops and buildings that looked like they were built when Teddy Roosevelt was president lined both sides of the street. The hill’s incline evened out, and the car came to rest in front of a cherry brick building with a toy fire truck and stuffed Dalmatian in the window.

Gordon smirked. He hated Norman Rockwell towns. He grew up in one. And no matter how many times he had made this cross-country pickup, having a duffel bag full of heroin in the trunk always made him twitchy.

Climbing out, he pushed the steel door up and outward like the wing of a deformed bird. A teenage girl strolled by, glanced at him and smiled. She had dark splotches under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept in a week, and it looked like she had a basketball stuffed under her “Jesus Saves” t-shirt.

Religion and baby making, Gordon thought. Not much else for entertainment in these places. Just like the Tennessee town he grew up in. He remembered Lucy, the girl he got pregnant when they were both 19. It was a few months before he had planned to leave for California. She had cried, and he was sorry, but he’d be damned if he was going to let himself get tied down with a wife and kid. That was no way to get ahead.

Gordon shuffled up to the building and peered inside. The lights were off. A Pigly Wigly grocery sat across the street; a closed sign hung in the window. He heel-toed it down the sidewalk, peering inside shops and looking for signs of life other than pregnant teenagers. There had to be an auto shop somewhere in town, or at least someone who could work on his Delorean. He’d get it fixed and high-tail it out of here. He had a few days leeway, but if that duffel bag didn’t find its way to San Diego within the week, the well-dressed men he worked for would come looking for it. And they’d take a pessimistic position on the subject.

Across the street a short chubby man with glasses stepped out of an antiques shop. Gordon thought he looked like a cerebral Danny Devito. Gordon trotted over.

“Excuse me–”

The man flinched and fumbled with his keys, almost dropping them.

“My car broke down and I’m looking for a mechanic.”

“Sorry, can’t help you. I walk to work.” The man locked the shop and dangled a closed sign on the doorknob.

Gordon glanced at his Rolex. “You folks lock up early around here.”
“It’s the Sabbath, and if you excuse me, I’m late.” He pushed past Gordon.

Gordon slapped his hand on the man’s chest. “Look, I just need to get my car fixed so I can get the hell out of here.”

“Phil Nettle owns the hardware store, sometimes he works on lawnmowers–”

“The shop is closed.”

“He’s in church. Where I need to be about ten minutes ago. You’re welcome to join us. After the service I’m sure he’d be happy to speak with you.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Gordon followed him down the street and into a residential area. The homes were uniform, Victorian-era, with cream-colored picket fences marking off their yards. The church sat alone at the end of a cul-de-sac; the steeple stabbed into the sky as if trying to puncture heaven. Two girls stood outside, clapping their hands together. As Gordon approached he could hear them playing.

“Patty cake patty cake, baker’s man! Bake me a sinner as fast as you can!” One of the girls swiveled her head and grinned. She looked sick, like an old doll whose porcelain had yellowed and the eyes couldn’t close all the way anymore.

The man shuffled up the steps, hurrying inside. Gordon paused, unsure of what he had just heard. Bake me a sinner? He must have misheard her. He pushed through the church doors.

“–and the lesson of Job remains a sobering reminder.” A preacher stood behind a pulpit, surveying his congregation. He wore a black jacket, white shirt with a bow tie, and cowboy hat.

Hundreds of people sat straight-backed in pews, staring ahead.

The preacher flipped pages in a bible that looked like an old log.

“Good, we haven’t missed much,” the Danny Devito look-a-like whispered, and took a seat in the back row. Gordon sat next to him.

The preacher made a sweeping gesture through the air. “Sin is everywhere! It hides in fast food restaurants to tempt us with gluttony! It slithers out of a Hollywood bathing suit to tempt us with lust! It lurks in the darkest corners of our souls, always vigilant, always looking for an opportunity… to strike!”

Gordon shook his head and smirked.

“Sinners!” The preacher pointed into the crowd. He dragged his scrawny finger through the air, aiming it at random people. “Beware of Lucifer and his agents!”

“Can you believe this guy?” Gordon said, “He needs a little Metamucil.”

“Be quiet,” the man whispered, “you’re in a house of God.”

The preacher turned his attention to the bible. “In Exodus 22:18 we are instructed not to suffer a witch to live.” He glanced over the congregation. “We have been commanded by Jehovah to keep our community pure! To remove those who would corrupt us. The sinful and the blasphemous. We shun those who turn their back to the One True God!” He placed his hands together and bowed his head. The congregation lowered their heads.

The preacher’s voice boomed through the wooden church. “Jehovah! Help purify our town! Keep us from sin and temptation, and the evil doers who would tear down our City on the hill! We make this sacrifice in Your name, our Lord, Jesus Christ!”

A man in a police uniform who had been standing against the wall, approached the pulpit. He held a rope that was attached to the neck of a shivering lam. It glanced around and bleated.

The preacher unsheathed a knife, aiming it at the stained-glass window behind him. “Sacrifice!”

“This is too much.” Gordon stood and slinked out the door. He had seen his share of zealots where he grew up, but at least they didn’t kill defenseless animals.

He hustled back to the car and grabbed the duffel bag. He’d hoof it to the next town and get his car towed. Screw this place.

He hiked back up the hill, past a wooden sign stuck in the ground. “You are now leaving New Ezekiel,” it read, the words scratched and faded. Gordon smirked. If this was New Ezekiel, he shuddered to think what the original Ezekiel was like. Perhaps they still burned “witches” at the stake.

The Interstate came into view and Gordon quickened his pace. A police cruiser pulled up behind him and flashed its lights. A husky man with Top Gun aviator sunglasses stepped out. A sheriff star pinned on his vest. Gordon recognized him from church.

“Howdy, friend. You lost?”

“My car died,” Gordon said, pointing to the highway, “I’m just walking to the nearest town.”

“According to Abe you were just in town. He said you accosted him in from of his shop, and then you disrupted the church service.”

“I was just looking for a mechanic and–”

“What’s in the bag?” The sheriff asked, stepping up to him.

“Just some personal items.” Gordon unzipped it, opened it a few inches and held it out. A paisley print shirt laid folded on top and a hair brush sat next to it.

“Can I take a look inside?”

“If you don’t mind, I’m in a hurry. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Let’s just say I’m no longer asking.”

“And let’s just say I’m asking to see a search warrant,” Gordon said through clenched teeth.

“I’ve got probable cause,” the sheriff said and snatched the bag. He moved the shirt. Six packages of tightly wrapped caramel-colored powder laid exposed.

The sheriff whistled. “Lookie what we got here.”

“This was an illegal search! I want to talk to my lawyer!”

“You’ll get your chance.”

The sheriff yanked Gordon around, handcuffed him, and shoved him into the cruiser. They drove back to New Ezekiel.

At the police station the sheriff locked Gordon in one of the building’s two cinder block cells.

Gordon gripped the bars, feeling his stomach folding in on itself. There’d be no way he’d make it to San Diego in time now. Unless he could talk to his lawyer, get bailed out and replace the heroin. It would cost most of his savings, but it was either that or start writing his eulogy.

“I get to make a phone call, I know the law!”

“Soon,” the sheriff said and left.

A half hour later he returned with the preacher hobbling in behind him.
Gordon rattled the bars. “I’m allowed a phone call!”

The preacher approached the cell. “You’ll get your phone call. A toll-free call to Hell!”

The sheriff held up one of the heroin-filled bags. Gordon noticed it had been cut into.

“Morpheus powder!” The preacher said, spittle shooting out of his mouth. “You picked the wrong town to peddle the sin of the poppy!”

Gordon lowered his head, clutching the bars. “Look, my car died. I’m sorry I stopped here. But if I don’t get to California soon, I’m dead. I’ve got a lot of cash, if you let me get to a bank it’s all yours–”

“I don’t think you’re going to make it to California,” the sheriff said, propping his boots up on his desk.

Gordon hit the bar with his fist and cursed.

The preacher swept off his hat and rubbed a liver-spotted hand over his head. “I’m sure you think we’re all rubes out here. Dumb hicks who don’t know our corn holes from our assholes–”

“Wrong! I think you’re all frigging geniuses.”

The preacher smiled, nodding. “This ain’t Calyfornia, friend. We aren’t apt to let you waltz in here with a bag full of drugs and corrupt our town. And we aren’t too keen on letting you go peddling your drugs in any other towns, neither.”

“You can’t keep me here. I’ll sue your asses!”

The sheriff laughed; the sound reverberated through the room like a gunshot.

“Look, if–” Gordon’s voice cracked, “–if anything happens to me, people will come looking. They’ll tear this town apart.”

The preacher gave the sheriff a Bob’s-your-uncle nod, and turned back to Gordon. “And who, if I may ask, knows you’re here?”

“I checked in with my people before I pulled off the highway. That’s their stuff and they’re gonna want it back. You won’t get away with this.”

“Nobody knows you’re here. You’re a petty criminal and nobody will miss you.” The preacher nodded at the sheriff. “Bring him to church tonight.”

“Is this a joke? You’re all crazy! Sheep-murdering psychos!”

The preacher paused at the words, and then stumped out.

Gordon paced around the cell, biting his fingernails. After a while he trudged over to his cot and collapsed, exhausted. Sleep didn’t come easily.

#

The sheriff hit the bars with his baton late in the night. Gordon jerked awake, his eyes adjusting to the cell’s sterile light.

“Time for church,” the sheriff said.

“It’s three in the morning!”

“God doesn’t sleep.”

The sheriff unlocked the cell. Gordon thought about making a run for it. He was in good shape, jogged every day, but the sheriff was built like a linebacker for the Chicago Bears.

“Turn around, hands behind your head,” the sheriff said. “And I know what you’re thinking.” He undid his pistol holder snap. “I can hit a rabbit with this at fifty yards.”

Gordon groaned, turned and clasped his hands behind his head. The sheriff handcuffed him and stuck him in the back of the cruiser. As they drove into the parking lot of the church, Gordon saw people gathering outside, droopy-eyed, shuffling in. Even children.

“What are you going to do to me?” Gordon asked, peering at the sheriff through the metal mesh. “Kill me with boredom by making me listen to that idiot preacher?”

“Watch your mouth.”

The sheriff led Gordon inside and sat him against the wall.

After a few minutes the preacher sashayed out, stood at the pulpit and began his sermon. He droned on, monotone at times, for hours, and after a while Gordon stopped listening. God punishes sinners. Sinners burn in Hell. An eye for an eye. He had heard it all in Sunday school. Centuries ago, it seemed, when he still believed in God. He remembered those days. His Mom would spend hours in front of her vanity, trying to cover up the weekly bruise around her eye that was in the curious shape of a knuckle. And he remembered his Dad’s advice, in between a swig from his Pabst Blue Ribbon and a belch–”It’s a dog eat dog world out there, Gordy. If you aren’t doing the ass kicking, you’re the one getting your ass kicked!”

The sheriff kicked his boot into Gordon’s shin, waking him from his daydream.

“Ouch! Bastard.”

“Pay attention.”

The preacher was making hand gestures, raising his voice. “–we do not abide the corrupt, the sin-lovers, the lecherous, the pimps, the addicts–” He pivoted, facing Gordon, and raised a bony finger. “—or the drug dealers!”

“I’m a smuggler, not a dealer–”

The sheriff smacked his head. “Shut up.”

“Sacrifice!” The preacher screamed.

“Kill him!” someone yelled in the back.

“Bake the sinner!” a little girl in the front row said, staring at Gordon, her mouth stretched into a grin. She was the girl he saw playing Patty Cake.

The preacher nodded and the sheriff jerked Gordon to his feet, dragging him to the pulpit.

Gordon looked out over the audience. Tired, angry eyes stared back.

“This is murder! If you allow this you are all hypocrites!” Gordon lowered his head, bit back a sob. “What happened to thou shalt not kill?”

The preacher sneered. “Agents of Lucifer quoth the scripture for their own ends!” He unsheathed a knife, aiming it at the stained glass Jesus behind him. “We offer this sacrifice to you, Our Lord!”

Gordon glanced around the church. The only exit was the front doors, 30 yards maybe. But if he ran would the sheriff shoot at him in a room full of people? And what would he do even if he made it to the street, handcuffed with the whole town chasing him?

The preacher grabbed Gordon’s hair, pushed his head down and placed the tip of the knife at his neck. Gordon’s hands and arms shook, handcuffed behind him, and he closed his eyes in shame as warm liquid trickled down his leg, sogging up his parachute pants.

“Before you meet your Maker,” the preacher said, his face stoic, “do you wish to beg Jesus for forgiveness?”

Gordon tried to swallow; a lump of saliva stuck in his throat. “You’re all crazy,” he croaked. He jerked his head free.

“It’ll just be worse for you if you struggle–”

Gordon darted forward, jumping off the stage, and weaved down the aisle like a chicken with its head decapitated. The little girl who had called for his death earlier stuck out her foot strategically and he fell forward onto his nose. It snapped and blood gushed out.

“Get him!” the preacher bellowed, all the wrath of the Old Testament in his voice.

People started to climb out of their seats after him.

Gordon struggled to his feet and scrambled down the aisle. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the sheriff had his pistol out and was aiming. The gunshot boomed through the church and Gordon felt pain in his shoulder, like a wasp sting followed up by a boxer’s punch. He continued weaving down the aisle.

“The serpent is escaping!” the preacher screamed.

Gordon butted the doors open with his head and stumbled outside, his cuffed hands bouncing against his spine. He scrambled toward the houses that lined the street.

Men, women and children hustled out of the church after him. Gordon jumped over a fence in someone’s yard, his foot catching on a spear-shaped picket, and fell face first into the grass. He knee-jerked into a standing position and a boy threw a rock that bounced off his head. Gordon winced and ran through the yard, jumping over another fence. He ducked into someone’s backyard, through their gate, into another yard.

“Where did he go?” someone yelled from the street.

“Through there!”

Three men in red and black lumberjack shirts spied his head over the fence and changed their course like pit bulls going for a loose rabbit. Gordon ducked behind the house, jumping over a Kiddie Pool, and ran up against a locked gate. He kicked it open then ducked behind two plastic garbage cans a few paces away.

The men turned into the yard and ran up to the gate. Gordon sensed their eyes probing the cans.

One of the men pointed to the busted lock. The other two followed him through into the next yard.

Gordon heard people yelling, feet scuffling by on the street. He waited for a few minutes, the noises getting distant, and struggled to stand. The blood in his nose started to coagulate. He gasped for air. His shoulder throbbed–the right arm dead weight.

He padded around the house. A veranda stood in back, enclosed in wood lattice. He checked the screen door handle with his cuffed hand. Unlocked. He suspected they didn’t have a big problem with crime.

He staggered inside and into a dining area. A rectangular table covered in a floral print cloth sat in the middle. On it, plates, forks, spoons and napkins were all laid out. A butter dish sat in the center next to salt and pepper shakers.

Gordon backed up against the table and groped for the butter. He dipped the handcuffs in, rubbing the butter around his wrists, greasing them up. He then curved his thumbs inward, popping them out of their joints, and wiggled the cuffs over his wrists and off his hands. They fell to the floor with a clank. Ten years since his last stint in juvenile hall and he hadn’t lost his touch.

“What are you doing?”

Gordon flinched. The pregnant girl from earlier stood in the doorway, hands cupping her belly.

“I was just leaving–”

“You’re the one everybody is after. The stranger. What did you do?”

“Nothing! You weren’t in church?”

“I’m not allowed.” She lowered her eyes. “I got pregnant out of wedlock.”

“Can you help me? Do you have a car? We can both get out of here!”

“I like it here,” she said. “But I might be able to help you. My dad has a truck in the garage. He doesn’t drive it much.”

“Show me.”

“I’m Ursula,” she said, smiling, “and it’s this way.” She led him through the house, into the garage. She fingered a switch and yellowed-newspaper light flooded the room.

An old truck sat in front of the garage door, blanketed in dust. Gordon thought it looked like a Bedford, built in the 30′s. His old man used to have one.

“Where’s the key?”

“I think it’s inside. My Dad used to take me for rides when I was a kid.”

Gordon opened the door and a cloud of dust billowed into his face.

“I should go with you,” Ursula said. “I know a way out of town. They’ve probably blocked off Leviticus.”

“Thanks. But why are you helping me? Won’t you get in trouble?”

Ursula shrugged. “I’m bored, and they won’t do anything to me. My dad is the preacher.”

“Your dad is that psycho?”

“He’s okay once you get to know him.” She glanced down, nudging the tire with her foot. “And besides, you’re kinda cute.”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.”

They climbed into the truck. A rusty key stuck out of the ignition and Gordon rotated it. The engine tried to turn over, then died. He turned the key again, lightly pumping the gas pedal. Same result.

“Sounds like the battery.”

“We don’t have much time,” Ursula said. “My dad comes home right after church.”

Gordon popped the hood. He poked at the battery. One of the wires was loose. He tightened it and climbed back in. The engine grumbled to life, then died again.

The preacher’s voice echoed through the garage. “Ursula? What are you doing?”

Gordon craned his head out the window. The preacher stood at the top of the stairs, his leathered face strained, furrowed.

“You!” The preacher shuffled down the stairs. “You! Kidnapping my daughter!”

Gordon turned the key, pumping the gas. “Goddamnit start!”

The preacher ran up to the window, grabbed Gordon’s hair and slammed his face against the steering wheel. “Let her go!”

Gordon grimaced, his broken nose throbbing. “Fuck!” He punched his palm against the preacher’s chest, pushing him off. The man fell backwards onto the cement.

Gordon turned the key again, the engine rumbled, started to die and Gordon pushed his foot to the floor. The engine revved and Gordon put it in gear, and drove the truck through the garage door. Wood splintered around them like paper mache.

The preacher hobbled after them, fists raised. “We’ll get you! We’ll get youuuuu!”

Gordon gunned the engine and the truck accelerated down the street. Townsfolk trekked along the sidewalks, and when they saw the truck some of them ran after them. Gordon swerved, just missing a woman in the street who was shouting curses of damnation. Someone else threw a rock at the window.

Ursula giggled, and covered her mouth.

Gordon glanced sideways at her, shaking his head. “Hilarious, isn’t it?”

Ursula pointed to a side street they were approaching. “Turn here,” she said.

Gordon rotated the wide steering wheel, his arm screaming in protest. The truck barreled around the corner.

He followed Ursula’s directions, taking back roads. Twenty minutes later they pulled onto the highway.

“Thank you, you saved my life,” Gordon said.

Ursula smiled, her face beaming.

“I need to get to California. I don’t have much time,” he said. “They aren’t going to believe this.”

“Can I go with you? Maybe we can get married.”

Gordon’s eyes widened. “Married? I just met you!” He gnawed his lip. “Look, I appreciate your help, but I’m not ready for a relationship. Can I drop you off somewhere?”

Ursula glanced out the window. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. “The next town is twelve miles north,” she said finally. “You can leave me there.”

They drove in silence and Gordon pulled off at the exit.

“Do you know your way around here? Where should I drop you off?”
“Take me to the sheriff’s. He’s a friend of our family–”

“That’s not a good idea! Your Dad–”

“I’ll explain things,” she said. “You won’t get far in this truck anyway. My Dad will report it stolen. And you need a doctor.” She touched the dried blood that covered the right half of his shirt.

Gordon pursed his lips, still unsure. “Fine.”

They drove through the town, pulling up in front of the police department. He followed Ursula inside, clutching his wounded shoulder. He didn’t like the idea of confronting another small town sheriff, but he had little choice. And Ursula had gotten him this far.

A young sheriff sat behind a desk, typing on a Commodore 64. He glanced up as they entered.

“Jesus, buddy. What happened to you?

Gordon sighed and relayed the story: The lamb sacrifice, the chase, how they tried to kill him, and embellished the part about the drugs–adding that they had been planted in his car.

After he was done the sheriff scratched his head. “That’s about the darndest thing I ever heard. But those folks in New Ezekiel always did have the wristwatch wound too tight.” He stared at Ursula. “Have anything to add?”

She glanced at Gordon, then back at the sheriff. “He’s lying. They put him in jail and he broke out, then kidnapped me.”

Gordon swiveled on the balls of his heels, his arm cradled against his chest. “You bitch!”

The sheriff yanked his pistol out of its holster and aimed the barrel at Gordon’s face. “Get on your knees! Put your hands behind your head!”

“But–”

The sheriff pulled back the hammer. “Now!”

Gordon kneeled, gritting his teeth. The sheriff handcuffed him and Gordon grimaced as his arm was yanked behind.

“You’re making a mistake–”

“I suggest you remain silent until we can straighten this out. Anything you say can and will be used against you–” the sheriff droned on, then led him to a cell.

Gordon limped around the tiny cinderblock room, splashed water on his face. That crazy bitch. He should have known. But maybe he could still make it to California if he could just make a phone call. His lawyer was a miracle worker if enough Benjamins were pressed into his palm.

Gordon staggered to the cot and lowered himself in. The plastic mattress was heaven. His whole body ached and he closed his eyes.

#

Gordon twitched awake a few hours later. Had it all been a dream? He raised his head, his droopy eyes focusing on the silhouette of a cowboy hat on the wall. He pivoted in his cot and saw the preacher standing at the bars.

“The sheriff here is my nephew. Now who’s the idiot?”

Gordon groaned, pushing himself up. He was taken out to the cruiser with his head lowered, and once again, driven back to New Ezekiel.

***

The next evening Gordon stood in front of the congregation. This time his legs were bound so he couldn’t run. His hands were wrapped tightly around his back, the rope running around his neck and torso. They weren’t taking any chances.

He was exhausted, felt like he hadn’t slept in decades. At least now he could rest, once it was done. He just hoped the blade wasn’t cold. He hated the cold.

The preacher approached and turned to the congregation. “God has delivered us the sinner!”

Cheers.

The preacher brandished the knife. The sharp steel reflected the moonlight that peeked through the stained glass window behind them–a colorful Jesus stared down in mid-flight, his bulging eyes watching over them with anger and judgment.

“Just get it over with,” Gordon mumbled. He saw Ursula sitting proudly in the front row and he mouthed the words, “fuck you.”

The preacher placed the knife against Gordon’s neck. Ursula stood. “Wait, Papa.”

The preacher cut his eyes at her. “Do not interfere, daughter.”

“We love each other. He wants to marry me.”

The preacher stretched his mouth as if to say something, could find no reply. He lowered the knife and stared into Gordon’s eyes. “Is this true? Have you proposed?”

Gordon bit his lip. “Umm, sure.”

“And you will take care of her child as your own?”

Gordon swallowed. “Sure.”

The preacher raised the knife, poked it against his neck.
“Ouch! Yes! I will marry her!”

“And as this congregation as witness, will you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

A tear dripped out of the corner of Gordon’s eye, slid down his face. “I guess.”

The preacher applied more pressure.

“Yes!”

“Praise the Lord!” He beckoned to the sheriff. “Unshackle this man! We have a wedding to perform!”

***

Some months later a black BMW was seen driving through Leviticus Avenue. It parked in front of Abe’s Antiques, and men with sunglasses and dark suits got out. They paced up and down the street, asking people questions and going in and out of shops.

Later that day, during service, the car pulled up in front of the church. The men got out and hustled inside.

The preacher stood at the pulpit, giving his usual fiery-eyed sermon.

The men took off their glasses, studying the room. In a pew, a few rows from the back, sat a man and a woman with a baby held to her breast. The man glanced back, dark splotches under his eyes, then turned back around.

“That’s him,” one of the men whispered to the other. They strode over, grabbed the man by his shoulder and jerked him around.

“You couldn’t hide forever, Gordy. Where’s our stuff?”

Gordon smiled–an idiot’s vapid grin.

“Where is it?” The man undid his suit-jacket, exposing a nickel-plated pistol. “We want our smack, Gordy.”

“Sinners!” Gordon yelled, standing. “Sinners!”

The congregation mumbled. The preacher squinted, peering at the men. The woman hugged her baby closer to her breast.

The man who had grabbed Gordon’s shoulder raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you, Gordy? What the hell happened–”

The men felt hands on their shoulders; the sheriff and other people from the town encircled them. The men tried to grab for their pistols and were overpowered.

Later that evening there was a special service. The preacher was more enthusiastic than normal, and at the end of his sermon he was pleased to announce two sacrifices. Gordon was given the honor himself. And after it was done, he prayed, with his new wife and baby, thanking Jesus for delivering him to New Ezekiel.