I smiled gleefully. I couldn’t help it. “Having a little trouble there, Justin?”
“Why are you smiling? You did no better!”
I gave a little shrug. “I lasted longer. Hey, Justin, fifteen years in this town. You haven’t even gotten to year one.”
“I’ve got six hundred followers. Top that!”
“And no one to run the nursery.”
He refilled his glass and paced toward the fireplace. “I’m not worried about it. It’s only a wrinkle in the process. We’ll iron it out.” He rested his arm on the mantle and took another gulp. “But if you had these people in your church! They’re asking for fancy cars now, and houses, and bags of money! Can you believe that? That same guy was back today, wanting me to heal him of procrastination. Procrastination, as if it’s my fault he can’t get his act together!”
“I thought you said you give them what they want.”
“But they never stop wanting! I healed a guy’s thyroid. He came back the next week wanting me to heal his baldness, and then he came back wanting me to help him play piano better, and this week he came back with three friends who want to be more sexually attractive! There’s that other woman who wants me to make her thin but she won’t stop eating, and this other jerk who wants to be rich but never worked a day in his life.”
I could only shrug. “What did you expect?”
“They could grow up a little.”
I feigned wide-eyed surprise. “They have to grow up? Really?”
He threw back his drink, drained it, and slammed down the glass. “You may as well stop gloating, Travis! They are going to fall in line! It’s going to happen, believe me, and I hope you’ll be around!” He went to the couch, sat down, then got right up again. His hands wouldn’t stop moving, his fingers drumming. “Elise. One of the Cathedral’s finest. Did she bother telling you how I reached out to her, tried to comfort her, tried to bring some minuscule token of human warmth into her life?”
“She did.”
That answer seemed to mollify him, if only slightly. “I was trying to prevent another casualty.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
“Then why are you going to Nechville?”
I’d never seen that crazed look in his eyes before. It made me take note of how I could avoid the furniture and how far it was to the door. “Easy, Justin, easy. I’m here to talk to you first. You can save me the trip.”
“You will not corner me!”
I threw up my hands, palms forward. “Okay, okay. Just be mindful of who’s forcing whose hand here.”
He leaned against the hearth again, glaring at the flames, silent and brooding. After a long, uncomfortable moment, he faced me directly, his lip drooping into a sneer. “So, go to Nechville! You’ll recognize it. It’s where we started, you and me.” He looked away as if viewing it in his mind’s eye. “Meet my daddy. Talk to my mom. Hear what a lie really sounds like. Maybe you’ll finally wake up.” Finally, he looked at me. “When you come back, we’ll talk about it, have a drink, compare notes. I’ll enjoy seeing your conversion.” He pointed his finger at me. “Just be sure you find out everything!”
“Have you got your mom’s phone number?”
He turned away. “It’s your voyage.”
I FOUND MY OWN WAY OUT to the front porch where Kyle was waiting. We moved toward the parking lot. Most of the cars were gone by now. The RV people were milling around their big vehicles, apparently discussing the meeting—their faces weren’t this glum the last time I was here.
“What do you think?” Kyle asked.
“He’s heading for rough water,” I replied. “And you and I are part of the storm.”
“I think we’re being followed.”
I had no reason not to look back. The moment I did, a hooded figure walked faster, moving toward us, looking down, face concealed.
We were near my car. “Let’s get the doors open.”
Kyle opened a rear door as an invitation, then got in the front passenger seat. I got behind the wheel and then beckoned to the hooded stranger to hurry and get in.
The figure slipped quickly into the back seat and closed the door. “Thank you. Please get me out of here.”
I started the engine and got moving. “Better lie down.”
She slumped over, the hood of her coat over her face.
It was Sally Fordyce. We knew her voice, and saw part of her face as she climbed in. It was bruised yellow, green, and black. One eye was swollen shut.
I reached over and locked all the doors with the autolock.
“Lie still,” Kyle cautioned her without looking back. “We’ll get you out of here.”
“Please hurry.”
“Just keep calm,” I said. “We aren’t going to stop, not for anybody.”
We drove past the parking lot attendants in their bright orange vests. One eyed us suspiciously, his walkie-talkie close to his jaw. I couldn’t be sure if he knew. I kept driving, not looking his way in case he tried to signal me. I turned down the driveway and added some speed. In a few minutes, we were out on the highway. I hit the accelerator.
Kyle turned. “Have you seen a doctor?”
She sat up but kept her hood around her face, embarrassed. “No. Brandon wouldn’t allow it.”
I could see her face in the rearview mirror. “You’d better see a doctor. I’m not kidding.”
“I want to go home first.”
Kyle was visibly angry. “Did he do this to you?”
She broke down weeping as she nodded. “He’s going crazy.”
“What about Mary Donovan?” I asked.
“She’s okay.” She could see us both giving her a second look and added, “She’s not one of his lovers.”
Kyle flopped back in his seat. “Lord, help us . . .”
“Oh, great!” I said.
“What?”
I was watching the rear window past Sally’s battered face and saw blue lights flashing.
Kyle twisted around and looked back. “It’s Henchle!”
Sally wailed, “NO! Don’t stop!”
“Take it easy,” I said, watching the image in my mirror.
She was desperate, frantic. “He’s working for Brandon, can’t you see that? He’s trying to take me back.”
“She’s probably right,” said Kyle.
I wanted more. “Sally, listen to me. That’s a police officer back there. I have to stop.”
“NO!”
“Then I need a good reason not to.”
She dropped the hood from her face. I could see Kyle’s face twist with horror and disgust.
“Trav, she’s been bleeding.”
I saw enough in the rearview mirror to turn my stomach.
“You think Brandon would want people to see this?” she asked. Kyle took her side. “Brandon’s the one who beat up Sally, so why’s Henchle chasing us?”
Did I trust Brett Henchle? Not anymore. “Okay, okay, we won’t stop. But I want witnesses.” I grabbed up the cell phone lying next to the gear shift and handed it to Kyle. “Sally, what’s your home phone number?”
She said her number and Kyle tapped it in.
“Tell Meg and Charlie we’re taking Sally to the clinic and to meet us there. Tell them to bring some friends. And then call 911 and tell them we’re transporting a beating victim to the clinic— and you can tell them we’re being escorted by Officer Brett Henchle.” Then I prayed out loud, “And Lord, please help us.”
I caught Sally’s eye in the mirror. “Don’t worry, Sally. I’m not stopping, not for anybody.”
25
BRETT TURNED ON his siren. My heart was pounding and I felt guilty—hey, I was disobeying an officer—but I kept going, driving under the speed limit. Sally whimpered and cowered in the back seat, her hood over her face.
“Lord God, send your angels to help us!” Kyle prayed aloud, and then said into the cell phone, “Hello, Mrs. Fordyce?” He was too excited to talk slowly. He had to keep repeating himself. “
We’re on our way now. We’re on our way into town. No, we’re on the highway west of town, going into town. No, Sally’s in the car with us. She’s in our car. We’re going to the clinic. No, the clinic.”
I could see Henchle through his windshield, talking on his radio. I rolled down my window and signaled with my arm for him to come alongside. He gunned his big engine and pulled up beside us, rolling his window down.
“Pull the car over, Travis!” he hollered, jabbing the air with his finger.
“We’re transporting an injury victim to the clinic!”
“Pull the car over!”
In my right ear, Kyle was talking to the 911 dispatcher. “We’re inbound on the highway west of town. Yeah, that’s right. Officer Henchle is—well, he’s right beside us at the moment.”
Henchle shouted over the roar of our engines, our tires, and the wind, “Stop and we’ll transfer the victim to my vehicle!”
“She can’t be moved!” Well, it was going to be the truth as far as I could help it.
“Pull over—” And then he swore, hitting his brakes, ducking his car behind us just in time to avoid an oncoming semi.
“This could get hazardous,” I said, slowing down to thirty. We were approaching the edge of town.
“Now the dispatcher’s telling us to stop,” Kyle reported. Then he told the dispatcher, “Why don’t we just all meet at the clinic?
Huh? Well, could you call Officer Henchle and explain our situation? And tell him he doesn’t need to be sounding that stupid siren. What?” He listened, then told me, “Henchle’s called for a backup. Rod Stanton’s going to block the road into town.”
“I see him,” I replied.
Rod’s squad car was parked along the highway at the western edge of town, but something was a little odd. Cars were slowing in our lane, brake lights shining, and there were people standing in the street and gathering on either side. I gathered we weren’t the only show in town. I slowed.
“Oh no,” I said.
“Oh no,” Kyle echoed.
“What?” said Sally, leaning forward between the front seats.
There was another Jesus standing in the middle of the highway, a long-haired, bearded man in white robe and sandals. He was blond, and I could imagine him being a yoga-humming, yogurt-eating surfer in California before coming to Antioch to try the messiah game. He appeared to have a whip in his hand and he was flailing each car as it passed, hollering and preach-pointing with his free hand. The first car passed him by, and then the next. The third stopped to listen and I could see the passengers snapping pictures through the closed windows. I was coming up behind them.
Stuck between False Christ Number Two and a cop! I couldn’t stop with Henchle after me, but the right lane wasn’t moving. A car came by us in the opposing lane, and then I pulled around, hoping to get by.
This latest Jesus put out his hand and stood right in front of me, ranting and raving about something.
“What’s he saying?” Sally asked.
I rolled down my window. Brett Henchle was pulling up right behind me, his siren still blaring.
“Can we get through here, please?” I shouted, and I didn’t sound nice. By now I had a real gripe against false christs messing up my life.
This one approached my window, whip in hand. “No motor vehicles, sir! Thou shalt not pollute the air, a gift from the Father’s own hand!”
“We have to get to the clinic!”
“It is written, my town shall be a house of prayer for all nations, but you have turned it into a garbage dump!”
“This isn’t your town, bub!”
“I’ll get him to move,” said Kyle, opening his door.
“What?” I said, but it was too late to stop him.
“Extinguish your engine, my beloved,” said the christ, “and partake of the clean air God has—”
“Excuse me!” said Kyle, coming around the front of my car.
The phony Jesus brandished his whip as if defending himself. “Touch me not!”
Brett Henchle cut his siren and got out of his car.
Kyle held out a dollar. “See this here?”
“You would bribe the holy one of Israel?”
Some pilgrims were moving closer, cameras ready. A woman in pink shorts and a plastic sunhat touched him, stood there a moment, then turned to walk back to her friends. “I didn’t feel anything,” she reported.
Kyle held the dollar out, coaxing the christ toward the left side of the road. “Whose face is this, and whose inscription?”
The christ took the dollar and looked at it. “George Washington.”
“You’re standing in George’s road, did you know that?”
The christ looked down at George’s pavement.
“Render unto George the things that are George’s . . .”
“Can I keep this dollar?” the christ asked.
“Okay, hold it,” said Brett Henchle, striding from his car, pushing through the pilgrims, his club ready.
But a woman in a biblical outfit got there first, embracing the christ. “Son! My beloved son!”
The christ looked baffled. “Who are you?”
She stepped back and gave him the classic mother look, her hands on her hips. “I happen to be your mother!”
Wow. Another one.
Brett was getting close.
“You’d better go,” Kyle told me.
I knew Kyle was sacrificing himself. I gave him a nod of thanks and eased forward through the gathering bodies.
“Travis! Don’t you leave!” Brett warned, pointing his night stick at me.
I hollered out my window, “Just meet me at the clinic!” and kept going.
In my mirror I saw a four-way spat going between Brett Henchle, Kyle, the christ, and his long-lost mother. Then Rod joined up and they had a five-way going. Antioch was definitely an exciting place to visit.
I reached the clinic in two minutes. Charlie and Meg Fordyce were already there and took Sally inside. They’d gotten the word around. Morgan Elliott was also there, along with Jim Baylor, Joe and Emily Kelmer, and Bruce Hiddle. They all saw Sally’s condition before her parents hurried her through the door, and now they gathered around me.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Travis,” said Joe.
Morgan put one arm around me, gave me a quick hug, and let go.
“We’ll see whose side old Henchle’s on,” said Jim.
Brett Henchle screeched to a halt right beside my car and almost fell out, he was so upset. “Travis—” Then he regarded the others standing around me and balked a little. “Now folks, I wouldn’t recommend getting involved in this.”
“Come into the clinic and have a look at Sally,” I said.
“First I’m taking you in!”
“No you’re not,” said Joe. “He was transporting an injury victim. It was an emergency.”
“I’ll be the judge of that!”
Rod Stanton drove into the parking lot of the clinic with Kyle sitting in the back of his squad car.
Brett nodded toward his backup and said, “It’s over, folks. Now unless you all want to be arrested, you’ll stand aside and let me do my duty.”
“I think you’d better take a look at Sally and do your duty!” Jim demanded.
“Let’s do it,” said Rod.
Brett jerked his head around and glared at his deputy. “I’m giving the orders here, deputy!” Then he noticed Kyle wasn’t handcuffed. “Where are his cuffs?”
“He’s not under arrest.” It wasn’t just a statement of fact. It was an act of defiance, and I could tell Rod knew it. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, and besides that, he helped me quell that second Jesus situation.”
“Nobody’s getting arrested here today,” said Joe.
“Unless it’s Mr. Brandon, the home wrecker and lover beater!” said Jim, jabbing his finger toward the ranch.
“Brett,” I said, “I’m hoping your loyalty is still to the law and to this community. If so, I’m sure you ca
n understand my not stopping—”
“You resisted an officer, Travis! You resisted an officer, fled an officer, disobeyed an officer, acted like a jerk, made an officer look like a jerk . . .”
“Don’t give us that ‘officer’ business!” said Kyle. “You’re not an officer of the law—you’re an officer for Brandon Nichols and you know it!”
Brett turned deliberately and put his hand on his gun. “You want to say that again?”
Bruce interceded. “Officer, I think Kyle is asking you to clarify where your loyalties lie: with the law, and justice, and the good of this community, or with Brandon Nichols. Just who’s calling the shots here?”
Brett just stood there, stuck.
Rod tapped Brett’s arm with the back of his fingers. “C’mon. Let’s talk to Sally and take it from there.”
For an agonizing moment, the only sound was Brett’s labored, angry breathing.
Finally, abruptly, Brett started toward the door of the clinic, but not without barking a few “last word” orders. “I want this parking lot cleared! If you’ve no business here, then clear out! Now!”
I tagged Kyle and Morgan. “Let’s get to a phone.”
I HELD THE RECEIVER to my ear and dialed the number I got from information. “Come on, now, time’s getting tight.”
I was sitting in Morgan’s office at the Methodist church. Morgan and Kyle were sitting in the church office behind the foyer, listening in on a speakerphone, its microphone muted. We all listened as the telephone rang at the other end once, twice, three times, four times— “Hello?” The voice sounded grumpy, gravelly, and a little slurred.
“Hello, is this the Cantwell residence?”
“Yeah, who’s this?” The man could have been drunk. It was hard to understand him.
“Hello, I’m Travis Jordan. I live in Antioch, Washington. I suppose you’ve read about us in the papers—”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, I’m calling to speak to Lois Cantwell.”
“She’s not home right now.” This guy could never get a job telephone soliciting, that was for sure. He could get a job discouraging solicitors.
The Visitation Page 40
