An electric mixer came to life again, as did a wireless doorbell. Don spent most of his man hours just writing up the bills.
Then there was the Boresons’ CD player—a nice one with a rotating deck that held five CDs at once. The rotating deck didn’t rotate. He hit the open button and it slid open. Hm. Kenny Boreson left a heavy metal CD in this thing. No wonder the deck was malfunctioning.
Then the craziest notion came over Don, and he ran his finger in a circle around the face of the CD as if he could actually read the digital recording through his fingertip. It was just a silly whim, but still he wondered— Somewhere in his head he could hear some raging, wailing, wildfire guitar work, every blasting, distorted note like a toothache set to music. It was giving him a toothache.
He removed his finger. The sound stopped.
He looked at his fingertip. Nawww, he thought. Don, now you’re leaping a little too high.
Well . . . there were other CDs in the store. A little experiment would settle any doubts. He found one of Mozart and no sooner picked it up than he heard the opening strains of Symphony No. 40 in G Minor. He shifted his gentle hold on the CD so that his fingers rested in another spot. Symphony No. 39 in E-flat.
Man oh man, he thought, what else can I do?
WHEN JIM BAYLOR came home from work, the house was quiet. In this household, such quiet was seldom a normal or good thing, and it made him uncomfortable.
“Dee?”
No answer. His first thought was that she was up at the ranch again, lingering after the afternoon meeting, all gaga over Mr. Messiah and forgetting her starving family at home. But this was Wednesday and Mr. Messiah wasn’t holding any meetings on Wednesdays.
He went into the kitchen, then the living room. “Dee?”
“What?” Her voice came from the bedroom, low and muffled, and she certainly wasn’t laughing.
He hurried down the hall and to the bedroom door.
She was curled up in a near fetal position on the bed, hugging a pillow to her head, her expression just this side of death.
“Dee? What’s wrong?”
She muttered into the pillow. He could hardly hear her. “What do you care?”
Jim hated it when something would happen to Dee that he just couldn’t understand and didn’t know how to fix. He suspected this might be one of those times. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
He approached the bed and sat on the edge.
She rolled over, turning her back to him. “Just leave me alone. You always do anyway. You don’t care about me. Nobody does.”
“Sure I care about you. I love you. You’re my wife.”
“If I died you’d all be a lot happier.”
Jim tried to tell her that wasn’t true and Dee kept talking about how worthless she was and how no one loved her and how she wanted to die, and the conversation went around and around on the same merry-go-round for several minutes. Finally, Jim got impatient enough to ask, “What happened, did Brandon Nichols hurt your feelings?”
That raised her temperature a little. “What do you care?”
“You know what Jack McKinstry told me? He said Mary Donovan thinks she’s Mary—you know, the Virgin Mary.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“And I hear Adrian’s talking to an angel. Did you hear about that?”
She curled up tighter. “Will you just get out of here?”
“Dee, maybe you’re just bugged because they’ve got this stuff happening to them and none of it’s happening to you.”
She flipped over like a fish on a rock. “You don’t know anything, Jim Baylor! How could you? You don’t know the Lord, you don’t care, and you don’t know diddly squat about spiritual things or what God’s doing on the earth, so don’t try to tell me—”
He matched her volume, and by now it was getting high. “You don’t think I know anything? Hey, I’m not laying on the bed like some kind of beached whale—”
Her strength was returning. “What did you call me?”
“—wanting to die.”
More strength, more voice. “What did you call me?
”
“I’m not the one who spilled frozen French fries all over the table and cha-chaed for Jesus while my family went hungry!”
“That was the joy of the Lord!”
“We could squirt each other and then dance a bit! Maybe look at the clouds. It’ll be a blast!”
She nearly screamed, “That was the joy of the Lord!”
“What joy of the Lord? You’re lying here wanting to die! What kind of joy is that?”
“You wouldn’t understand!”
“I understand you lying on the bed feeling sorry for yourself! What’s that, the pits of the Lord?”
She let out a war cry and threw the pillow at him.
“Yeah, that’s it, that’s it!” He backed out the door, angrily pointing his finger at her. “Go ahead and stew! We’ll see if Brandy boy comes to cheer you up again!”
“Aaaaaghhh!” She reached for the lamp to throw, but he slammed the bedroom door and stomped down the hall.
He got out of the house. He’d eat at Judy’s tonight. Maybe he’d get good and drunk too.
“I’LL BET you never imagined you were so enlightened.”
I’d no sooner come in the door than the phone rang. It was Brandon Nichols alias Herb Johnson alias Justin Cantwell. I half-expected this call. “Hello, Justin.”
He betrayed no reaction to my use of his third name. “Did you talk with Pastor Dale?”
I sat on the couch, smiling at his question. “Pastor Dale was unavailable.”
“Oh really?”
“I talked to Miles Newberry.”
He laughed. “Ah, good old Miles. A man you can talk to for hours and never really meet.”
I had to laugh. “That was the feeling I got.” I quickly added, “But he says you were trouble, Justin.”
“I was. They all came within a fraction of an inch of being embarrassed. As the saying goes, I wish I’d had a camera. But did you notice, Travis? There’s something different about you. You’ve grown. The old game hasn’t changed, but you have.”
I suppressed a little chuckle. He was right. “I used to buy everything that guy said.”
“And you did what he told you to do.”
“Oh yes.”
“And you felt guilty whenever he said so.”
“Oh yeah.”
“And any misgivings were your fault, every time.”
“Yep.”
“And this time he tried to scare you . . . but you didn’t scare.
Why is that?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out why.”
“You weren’t born yesterday, that’s why. Time’s gone by, water’s flowed under the bridge. Their game only works on certain people and you don’t fit the profile anymore.”
“I think that’s a good thing.”
“Oh, it’s good, Travis.”
“Sometimes it can feel pretty miserable.”
“I’m not worried. Day by day I can see you coming around. The more you try to find out about me, the more you discover about yourself. It’s just like I’ve always told you, we’re very much the same. Of course, you didn’t find out much, did you—about me, that is?”
“Miles gave me another name for you. That’s number three now.”
“But you don’t know if that’s the right one, either. How much time are you willing to waste tracking it down?”
“I don’t know. I think it would help greatly if you’d stop the charade and just tell me who you are.”
“Stop the charade?” He laughed a spiteful laugh. “And be the first man of God on the face of the earth to do so?”
“Hey, c’mon now, you know that’s not fair.”
“No malice intended, Travis. That’s just the way it is. Ministers are supposed to have their lives together and be an example. They’re supposed to have all the answers. Well, they don’t, so they pretend
because they have to.”
“Some of them get sick of pretending.”
“And I commend you.” His voice turned bitter. “But some of them love pretending. It gives them a rush to think of all the people they’re fooling.” Suddenly he mimicked the tone of a fiery, southern preacher. “You are a sinnuh, saved by grice! Come to Geee-sus and you shall be clean—then follow me, ’cause I make the rules!”
“Salvation by grace. Christianity by performance.”
“You have been there! Travis. Move on. Let it go. You’ve grown since the Cathedral. You can keep growing. I still have a place for you.”
“Hm. Get out of one charade so I can join the biggest charade of all? I’ll have to think about that one.”
“I’m not worried.”
“And I’m sure you have nothing more to say to me about yourself.”
“Not today.”
“Good-bye, then.”
NANCY BARRONS sat at her desk in the back of the Antioch Harvester and Office Supply, listening to hold music on her telephone.
It was usually this way whenever she called the county Health Department.
Finally, “This is Pete Jameson.”
“Hi, Pete. This is Nancy Barrons.”
“Oh, hi, Nancy. What’s up?”
“I’ve got some questions about that water project up at the Macon ranch. You inspected that, didn’t you?”
“Uh, yeah. Let’s see, that was an upgrade, wasn’t it? A new storage tank and three pressure tanks.”
“What about the water source?”
“Uh, that was a private well.”
“And?”
“What do you mean, and?”
“I was talking to Mrs. Macon the other day and she told me they had to develop a spring two miles behind the house.”
“Not for me, they didn’t.”
“You didn’t require an alternative water source?”
He laughed at the silliness of it. “No. Cephus Macon upgraded that well for commercial use just before he died. I required a new well head and some weatherizing of the well house, but that was it.” “You didn’t require them to develop that spring?”
“No. I didn’t require or inspect development of any spring.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Let’s have dinner sometime.”
“Check your calendar and call me.”
“You got it!”
Nancy hung up and turned to Kim. “I was right.”
21
WHILE JUSTIN CANTWELL was working his magic at the Macon ranch, Brett Henchle was doing his best not to think about it. It was Deputy Rod Stanton’s shift, his turn to serve and protect the town, so tonight Brett sat at home with his wife, Lori, and their two boys, Dan and Howie, enjoying a rented movie on video. They were watching, of all things, a cop movie. The obligatory car chase was just starting.
“Okay, watch now,” said Brett, taking popcorn from the big bowl he was sharing with Lori. “They’re gonna turn into that alley and hit some garbage cans.”
The bad guys’ big Lincoln screeched and fish-tailed into a narrow alley, bashing aside some garbage cans, sending them flying.
“Now they’re gonna splash through some water.”
The bad guys’ car, followed by the cops’ car, hit a big puddle in the alley, sending up sheets of spray while the long telephoto shot made the cars appear right on top of each other.
“Dad,” Howie whined, “you’re ruining it.”
“Next they’re gonna crash through some construction barriers.”
“Dad!”
The bad guys were cornered. They screeched through a tight turn and into a construction site, splintering several construction barriers.
“There’s gotta be a flip coming up somewhere . . .” Brett mused.
The bad guys roared up a street, swerved to avoid an oncoming truck, hit the back end of a parked truck—
And sailed into the air, twisting upside down. Their car came down in slow motion on top of some other cars, then flipped again, landing in the street.
“Cool!” said Dan.
“So much for those guys,” said Lori.
“They’ll live,” said Brett.
The bad guys climbed out of the inverted car and ran, shooting at the good guys.
“Have you seen this before?” Lori asked.
“Didn’t have to,” Brett replied. “It’s the same every—” He winced, grabbing his leg.
“What is it?”
HISSSSS. The television screen went snowy.
“Hey!” said the boys. “Right at the good part!”
Brett rubbed his leg. “It’s that shrapnel wound. It’s really poking me.”
“But—” Lori looked at the little jar on the mantel. The shrapnel that had fallen out at Brandon Nichols’s touch was still there. “The shrapnel isn’t in there anymore.”
Brett recovered a little. “Eh, it hurts anyway. I don’t know why.”
“Why’d this thing stop?” Dan fussed, reaching above the television to tinker with the VCR.
“GET BACK!” Brett shouted, leaping to his feet, almost spilling the popcorn.
Dan leaped back, his hands quivering, startled and scared.
Howie sat on the floor wide-eyed and frozen.
“Brett . . .”
“Now just take it easy,” Brett said to . . . whom? He was looking toward the corner of the room near the television. “Lori, take the boys into the kitchen.”
“Why?”
“Do it now!”
“Come on, boys. Howie! Come on, get up!”
“What are you looking at?” Dan asked.
“Go with your mother.”
Lori looked in the same direction as Brett and saw nothing.
But she felt something. “Boys, get into the kitchen and stay there!”
“What do you see, Dad?” Dan was getting scared now.
“Go!” Lori herded the boys behind her as she backed toward the kitchen, watching her husband talk to the wall.
“Listen,” Brett was saying, “I don’t know what you want, but you made a big mistake coming in here.” His right hand was behind his back. He was snapping his fingers. A signal. “I can’t hear you. Speak up.”
She ran into the kitchen, yanked a locked box from the cupboard above the refrigerator, and opened it with a key hidden behind the flour jar. Inside was a 9 mm pistol. She grabbed a loaded clip from a drawer, slammed it into the pistol, and returned to the living room.
She stopped at the edge of the living room. She peered intensely in the direction her husband was looking but there was no one there.
Snap! Snap! Snap! He wanted the gun.
She saw nothing, but felt a jittery sensation, like standing on the edge of a cliff. Her pulse was hammering. Behind her the boys were starting to cry. Was her husband hallucinating? Dared she give him a loaded firearm?
He grabbed it from her forcefully, pushing her behind him, taking a shooting stance. “Freeze! Turn around slowly, put your hands on the wall!”
Whatever it was, it was beginning to move. He followed with his aim, the muzzle of the gun sweeping across the room toward the hallway. She could feel something getting closer.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
It didn’t stop.
“Stop!”
Her skin was tingling, like a static charge. She backed away. She may have seen a shadow that didn’t belong— BANG!
The boys screamed. She jumped, her trembling hands went to her ears, her eyes searched and searched.
Brett aimed down the hall.
BANG!
The bullet slammed into the back door. Brett ran down the hall.
“Hold it!”
She dashed into the kitchen, crouching, shielding the boys in a corner with her body as they screamed and cried. She heard the back door open, felt cold air crawling around her ankles. Her ears were humming from the shots.
The telephone rang, startling her like another gunshot. She was protecting th
e boys. She didn’t even think of answering it.
Brett slammed the back door and scrambled up the hall through a blue haze of smoke, limping and cursing.
The telephone rang again.
“He’s gone.”
The cop movie came back on the television. Shooting, yelling, sirens.
The telephone rang. She turned but did not rise.
In anger Brett grabbed the phone off the kitchen wall. “Henchle!” Then, “Rod, get your butt over here, I’ve had a suspect right here in the house! The hitchhiker! That guy I told you about! He was right here in the house! What?” He listened, then cursed again. “Did you put her in custody?” His hand went to his leg and he bent a little, wincing in pain. “No, you did the right thing. I think it’s already hit the fan. Get Mark on the radio and get the two squad cars over here, one on Maple, one on Elm. I want the neighborhood combed for this guy.” He listened to another question. “Leave her there. We’ll sort that out later.”
He hung up, hurried into the living room to pause the VCR, then returned to the kitchen and his wife. He noticed the gun in his hand. He quickly removed the clip and set it aside. He touched her. “Lori, it’s okay. Boys, it’s okay, it’s all over.”
“What was it?” Dan cried. Howie was speechless with fear.
“It was a man I picked up on the highway some weeks ago. He sneaked in somehow. He’s gone now. You’re okay.”
Lori stood. The boys just held onto her legs and remained there as she asked, “The hitchhiker?”
“Yeah, the blond guy who told me Jesus was coming? That was him. I don’t know what he wanted, but—” He lowered his voice for the sake of the boys. “He was up to no good. We’ll have to lock the place up tight tonight. If you want I can take you to your mother’s.”
“The hitchhiker?” she asked again.
He nodded. He held her. “Yeah. I knew that guy was trouble the moment he pulled that stunt in the car.”
“Honey . . .” She was afraid to say it. “I didn’t see him.”
“It’s okay.”
She pushed him back just enough to look in his eyes. “No, really. I didn’t see him. I didn’t see anyone there.”
He returned her gaze with a blank look. “He was right there, right by the TV cabinet. He must have been hiding behind it.”
The Visitation Page 34
