“I haven’t told you yet,” said Morgan. “Nevin Sorrel is dead.”
Kyle took the news badly, but I was only vaguely familiar with the name. “Who is that?”
“Remember the guy I told you about?” asked Kyle. “He was there at the meeting in the garage. He’s the other guy who tried to take pictures of Nichols.”
Now I started taking the news badly. “You’re kidding.”
“He used to work for Mrs. Macon before Nichols came along,”
Morgan explained. “From what Michael tells me, Mrs. Macon fired him and hired Nichols, and Nevin was not happy about it.”
“He broke up the meeting.” Then Kyle added with dramatic force, “And he said Brandon Nichols was not Brandon Nichols! He said Nichols was lying!”
“He was right.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“Nichols hired him back,” said Morgan. “Michael told me he was working with Nichols on a water project, developing a spring up in the hills somewhere. Apparently, Nevin was riding his horse back from the project when he fell off and hit his head. His foot was caught in the stirrup, so the horse dragged him all the way back to the corral. At least, that’s the story. Nobody actually saw it happen.”
“He was working with Nichols?” I wanted to verify.
“According to Michael.”
“Nichols hired him?” Kyle asked. “After that scene in the garage, he still hired him?”
“Michael says Mrs. Macon was against it, but Nichols wanted Nevin to live on the place and work for him. You can draw some nasty conclusions.”
Kyle shook his head at me. “I wouldn’t go up there alone.”
He and Morgan waited for my answer.
I thought it over and said, “You two just pray for me. I’ll be all right.”
SATURDAY, at least three hundred people from almost as many faraway places filled the folding chairs under the blue-and-white striped big top, and Brandon Nichols/Herb Johnson held forth in a glorious manner. It was the first of his meetings I’d ever attended, and I could quickly see why Kyle got so upset and wrote that letter to the paper. This guy could sell snow to an Eskimo. The healings were dramatic to say the least, and all the wonderful talk—of love, brotherhood, peace, safety, a new world—just went on and on, and the people ate it up. I recognized several familiar faces: Matt Kiley was in the back, apparently an usher; Michael Elliott was helping direct traffic and bring prophetic comfort wherever needed; Dee Baylor and Adrian Folsom were present, but not sitting near each other, which was a little unusual. Don Anderson the appliance dealer actually went forward with the other petitioners, wanting a special blessing for his business.
Before Nichols preached, several went to the podium to give testimonies. All I had to do was mentally substitute a few key names and words—“Brandon” for Jesus, for example, or “follower” for Christian—and the testimonies could have come right out of a Sunday night church meeting.
“My life used to be a mess,” said a young professional from Colorado. “I had a great job running a resort in Vail and I was making plenty of money, but it just didn’t satisfy. Something was missing. Then I found Brandon, and that’s made all the difference!”
“I became a follower two weeks ago,” said a young woman from Redding, California, “and my life has never been the same. I used to be on drugs, but now that’s over. Brandon—” Then she giggled and said, “I like to think of him by his real name,” and everyone chuckled at what she was implying. “Brandon has brought real meaning to my life and I love him dearly.”
Then Andy Parmenter, the retired executive from Southern California, stood behind the podium and said, “Brandon has dramatically affirmed what I have always believed, that whatever it is, I can do it. There’s no mountain too tall to block your path if you just believe in yourself. I think this little town is going to become a world-renowned showplace for exactly that principle! We are here, we are strong, we have what it takes to build a better world. So don’t miss out. Get on board. Let Brandon touch your life and believe!”
He sat down to whoops and applause.
Nichols sat on the platform listening to all this and obviously enjoying it. Sitting to his immediate right was, of all people, Sally Fordyce. One look told me she was a total, 100 percent follower— and maybe more. She was wearing a long white dress that matched his white tunic, and the shawl and sandals made her look like a biblical character. There was an obvious affection between them. They touched and held hands frequently. Their eyes met as they shared the laughter. When someone praised him, she would stroke his shoulder. My guess was that she no longer went home to Charlie and Meg at night.
Sitting to Nichols’s immediate left was Mary Donovan, the Catholic friend of Dee Baylor. I didn’t know her very well, only that she tagged around a lot with Dee. She was wearing a long, blue dress and a shawl over her head, like every statue of the Virgin Mary, and she seemed to be acting very . . . shall we say, icon-like?
Nichols gave her a kindly, playful nudge, and she giggled with embarrassment. The audience picked up the idea. “Mom!” they called. “God bless you, Mom!”
She rose slowly, gathering her shawl about her head and taking small steps with a fluid, dancer-like gracefulness. She approached the podium and then, both hands extended, said airily, “Blessings to you all!”
“Blessings,” they echoed back.
“Today the Lord has done great things, and holy is his name! He has touched the weak and made them strong. He has brought wealth to the needy and courage to the fainthearted. Be thankful, one and all. Be thankful!”
“Thank you,” rippled through the audience, and Nichols nodded back.
“From the earth comes water, from the water comes new life. Be thankful, one and all!”
“Thank you,” they repeated.
And Nichols smiled and nodded again.
They have a regular liturgy going here, I thought.
But just who is Mary Donovan supposed to be? They’re calling her Mom. The Mom? I had to wonder what Dee, Mary’s former mentor, must be feeling about all this. Mary was getting the attention now.
This was too much.
I noticed Nancy Barrons standing in a doorway of the tent with Mrs. Macon. The two were talking quietly, but Nancy didn’t appear to be acting as a reporter today. If I learned Nancy had become a follower I knew I would scream.
The moment Nichols rose to speak, he told the crowd, “Turn to someone and say, ‘This world needs someone like you.’ Go ahead.”
Someone turned to me and said it, but I didn’t even turn. I had made up my mind long ago I’d never turn to anyone and say anything ever again, but mostly, I was stunned. Where’d Nichols pick up that little routine?
“Folks, I’ll have you know, we are now officially county-approved!” Everyone cheered. “The spring is developed, the water system is upgraded, the storage tank is in, and we have our permit for the new headquarters! The porta-potties will soon be a thing of the past!”
More cheers.
“But wait, I see something,” said Nichols, closing his eyes, seeing spiritually. “I see a spirit of doubt in this place, clinging to minds, spreading a poison of fear and anxiety. Do you feel that today? Do you?”
Several muttered affirmatively.
“BEGONE!”
His shout made me jump, as it did others. There was a wail from the crowd as, supposedly, the spirit of doubt departed.
More cheers and applause.
I had to do some praying. This whole thing was bigger and moving faster than I had imagined. What in the world was I doing here? Would Nichols even have time to talk to me?
TWO HOURS LATER, Brandon Nichols and I were walking along the white fence that bordered a large horse paddock. As it turned out, he saw me in the audience as soon as the meeting began and couldn’t wait to take this walk with me. We weren’t necessarily alone. We could talk privately, but Matt Kiley and two other men stood across the paddock to keep an eye on things.<
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He was giddy with excitement. “Things are moving right along, Travis, faster than I’d hoped!”
“So I see,” I replied with a lack of enthusiasm. “I was surprised. I really was.”
“Give the people what they want, they’ll come.”
“It’s quite a show.”
He paused and leaned on the fence. “It always is. Everywhere, every Sunday.” He looked directly at me. “Am I right?”
I saw no need to get into that. “We need to talk about Herb Johnson.”
He only smiled. “Maybe we should talk about that speeding ticket you got from Brett Henchle.”
I took a breath and made a decision not to get angry. “I’ll contest it in court and probably get it thrown out. I wasn’t speeding, I have a perfect driving record and a witness, I know the judge, and the judge knows me. There, we’ve talked about it.” I waited, then I prodded, “Herb Johnson.”
“Herb is a plant you grind up and put in soup. Call me Brandon.”
“I talked to—”
“To Abe. And Hattie. I know. They have terrible memories if they can’t even remember what my name is.”
“So you do remember them. Well they remember you, and Abe remembers the car.”
Now he got impatient with me—what did I expect? “Travis, you are way behind and way off! You sat through the whole meeting. Didn’t you learn anything? People are people and they always will be people, and people don’t care what I am or who I am, they care about what I provide. Give them what they want and they’ll think what they want. You can go to Missoula, you can go to L.A., you can dig up whatever you want, but it’ll only make you the bad guy, not me.”
I frowned. “What’s in L.A.?”
He looked away and laughed. “Travis, please tell me you’re not a hypocrite.”
“Are you going to answer any of my questions?”
“I’ll do better than that.” He turned toward me, his elbow on the fence. “I’ll tell you my intentions.”
I was skeptical and made no effort to hide it. “Knock me over.” He gave a sly smile. “I intend to take this town for Christ.”
I knew what he really meant. It felt like a hot needle going through my heart but I tried not to flinch. “I can’t believe the gall you have.”
“Travis, come on, now. You’ve tried the same thing, be honest.
Outreaches and bus ministries and youth evangelism, anything to bring the people in. It’s all a big game, Travis. It’s called building a kingdom, having followers, changing the order of things, and I’m better at it. You got some, but I got more. It took you fifteen years. It took me a few weeks. Argue with that.”
“It’s a big lie, Brandon!”
He slapped the fence and rolled his eyes in a circle that could be seen for miles. “Travis, Travis, how many times do we have to go over that? It doesn’t matter! I produce! I provide results! I get things done! While your God is stalling and hem-hawing and forcing you to make excuses for him, I’m right here, right now. You can’t compete with that.” He got close and pointed his finger at my heart. “And you can’t stop it, either. People will let you define their beliefs, did you know that? Give them a homey feeling, give them security, and they’ll give you their minds and hearts. That’s how I’m going to control this town, Travis. First the adults, and then their children.” He leaned back against the fence and stretched his neck. “It’s scary how easy it is.” He snickered. “‘I see a spirit of doubt!’ As soon as I saw it, so did they.”
“And you’re saying you didn’t?”
He gave me a comical shrug. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t, but how’s anybody going to know?” Then he pointed at my chest again and said with wild eyes, “Turn to somebody and say, ‘I do everything he tells me!’ Go ahead!”
I turned away, disgusted.
“Travis! Travis! Don’t go hypocritical on me now! You’ve had the same doubts about this whole racket that I have! Or are you sitting alone in your house on Sundays because you still buy all this stuff?”
“Stuff,” I muttered. The word had a private meaning for me— at least until now.
“Stuff,” he agreed. “The game.” He gripped the fence tightly as anger filled his eyes. “Herd them in, herd them out, brand them, shear them . . . butcher them!” He hit the fence with the heel of his hand, a snarl on his lips. He recovered, calming himself. “Travis, I hope you realize we’re both angry at the same things. We’ve been in the same places, felt the same pain.”
“We’re different, Brandon. Way different.”
He wagged his head. “No, we’re not. Not at the core. You’re mad and I’m mad.” He thought a moment, then suggested, “If there’s any difference between us, Travis Jordan, it’s that I’m doing something about it while you’re still trying to make up your mind. So let me be as friendly as I can: Make up your mind and do it soon. I’m going to own the people of this town—their wills, their money, their children. They are going to give themselves to me because I’m a better Messiah and I play a better game. Now I’ve let you into my circle of confidence because I know you really do see things as I do. I know we could work together. But the opportunity won’t last.”
“I can’t let you do it.”
“I am doing it.” With his hand, he signaled across the paddock. “You know Matt Kiley, of course. Now that his legs are working so well, he can help you find your way out of here.”
I DROVE TO THE BOTTOM of the driveway and through the big stone gate. Kyle was sitting on the ground across the road, his back against a fence post, waiting. I parked the car, got out, and sat beside him.
“How’d it go?” he asked, but I could tell his face was already mirroring mine—quite unhappy.
“We need to pray for this guy.”
We sat there together on the bank beside the road, a pasture at our backs and the Macon ranch on the wide, gradual hill before us, and prayed. My emotions were a swirling mixture. I loathed the man’s evil and cunning, but felt so deeply sorry for him. It angered me to hear him suggest we were so much alike, but I knew he was dredging soil from my soul that he recognized in his own, and as much as I knew my own heart, I knew his.
And knowing his heart, I feared for those who followed him.
DON ANDERSON WAS A GADGET GUY. He sold appliances, CD players, VCRs, remote controls, stereo headsets, radio-controlled models, radio-controlled doors and light switches, key chains that chirped, bedside environmental sound machines and ultrasonic pest repellers—just to name a few—because he loved that stuff. A sign hung in the front window of his Pepto-Bismol pink appliance store: “Better Life Through Creative Technology.” The store was his own little world where he could surround himself with myriad little plastic boxes that beeped, blurped, lit up, entertained, informed, and did zillions of other amazing things. It was a wonderful kingdom to rule, when he could.
But sometimes his subjects would get the better of him. Once a customer brought in a VCR that ate tapes. He fixed it, the customer took it home, and that very night, the thing ate her collector’s edition copy of Gone with the Wind. Once a remote control for a customer’s television wouldn’t switch the channels but would open the garage door. He knew how to lick that: He just switched the frequencies around. This time when the customer tried to change channels, the lights in the house dimmed, and the FM radio started searching for another station.
Right now he was having to deal with a CD player that wouldn’t go around. There was no other problem with it. It just wouldn’t go around. He couldn’t make it go around, and that vexed him severely. A radio scanner that wouldn’t scan also vexed him, and if he couldn’t get a decent solenoid for Mrs. Bigby’s washing machine he’d have to refund her money.
Don’s sovereignty over his little kingdom was far from complete.
Even the gadgets in his home could be wayward and noncompliant, and his wife, Angela, never missed an opportunity to remind him about it. Just as a plumber’s wife will complain about her clogged sink and running to
ilet that never get fixed, so Angela often reminded him of the stereo that only played on the left side, the hair dryer that didn’t turn on at all, and the television that kept blinking in and out.
Don had trouble remembering the stereo or the hair dryer, but the television got his attention almost every evening, and especially this evening. There was a prizefight coming in live over the satellite dish, a fight he’d paid forty dollars in advance to view. Now, as he sat there with his dinner on a TV tray and his wife looking for something to read, the tube blinked out.
“NO!” he wailed, almost knocking his dinner over.
“Too bad,” Angela said with a curt little smile, thumbing through her House and Garden.
He set aside the TV tray and approached the big television with the massive oak cabinet, forty-four-inch screen, and surround sound. He stood before it, he spoke to it, he gestured. It only hissed and threw a snowy picture at him.
“Gotcha stumped?” Angela asked.
“No!” he growled. It was just that problems like this took precious time to figure out, and he didn’t have time. The fight was going to start in a few minutes—and knowing the champ’s record, it would only last a few minutes. “C’mon, c’mon . . .” He banged the television on the side. That didn’t work.
“You have tools, don’t you?”
No time, no time. Too much trouble.
He could feel Angela on the couch behind him, enjoying her magazine and trying to pretend she wasn’t really enjoying this.
Nuts! He’d been up to that Brandon Nichols character and received some kind of magical touch from him, something to help his business. Angela didn’t think much of that either, and maybe she was right. Nichols gave him a touch on the forehead, he felt a tingle, he went home, his television didn’t work. End of story.
So it was mere impulse, and perhaps a little sarcasm, that caused him to reach out and touch the television in the same histrionic, Brandon Nichols fashion.
He felt the tingle again, and the picture tube came on with a flash. The champ was winning thirty seconds into the first round. “Yes!”
Angela looked up. “What’d you do?”
The Visitation Page 29
