“Precious Lord,” I prayed, “there’s got to be a way.”
After fifteen minutes of stewing and praying, I opened my eyes. I was in Justin Cantwell’s hometown. Until Cantwell himself had an overwhelming change of heart—something on the order of getting saved—I would never be closer to the truth than I was right now. I was nearly exhausted but could not sleep because I had to know.
And I would know. God help me, before I left this town, I would know.
I knelt by the bed and, in prayer, grabbed the hem of Jesus’ garment. “Dear Lord, You’ve brought me this far. Please open the door.”
“HI. I’m sorry to disturb you again, but if we could just talk—”
The doctor’s wife didn’t wait for me to finish pleading. The moment she saw me, she swung the door open and invited me inside.
Dr. Sullivan was sitting in a comfortable chair across from the sofa, still wearing his work jeans and tee shirt. He acknowledged me with his eyes and a warm smile but didn’t say anything. I gathered he was waiting to get a reaction from me.
Sister Lois Cantwell was sitting on their couch, clutching a crumpled, wet handkerchief in her hands and weeping. The moment our eyes met, her sobs broke forth again and she covered her face. “Oh, praise God, praise God!”
“I would say so,” said Dr. Sullivan. He extended his hand toward another chair. “Have a seat. It’s good to see you again.”
“Really good,” his wife agreed.
I sat across from Sister Cantwell. Mrs. Sullivan sat beside her, her hand on Sister Cantwell’s, and softly explained, “Lois told us about your visit at the church this morning.”
I had to ask, “So where is Reverend Cantwell?”
“He’s home taking a nap,” Lois answered. “I told him I was going to go see Laurie for a while.”
“I’m Laurie,” Mrs. Sullivan explained.
“And now here you are,” said the doctor. “We thought you’d left town.”
I was stunned and afraid to presume what would happen next.
“How is my son?” Lois asked.
Now, that was a tough question. I tried to consider how I would answer, and it took time. “He’s . . . he’s all right physically, as far as I can tell.”
“And what is he doing? Tell me again.”
I took it slow, but didn’t try to soften it. “He’s allowing himself to be regarded as a new, improved version of Jesus. He’s performing miracles, healing the sick, the lame, and the blind. He’s preaching a new, superpotent religion that helps people have faith in themselves and what they can do. He’s set up headquarters at a ranch near town, and pilgrims are coming to Antioch from all over the country. The local economy is booming and people are excited.”
It was interesting how news that sounded so good could produce such horrified reactions.
“My God,” said the doctor.
Lois silently shook her head in horror, then said in a barely audible, trembling voice, “I’m so sorry.”
I added, “I believe he’s out to prove he can be a better Jesus because he’s quite unhappy with the real one—or at least his idea of the real one.”
Lois absorbed that for a moment and then replied, “How could he feel otherwise?”
Dr. Sullivan leaned forward and asked her, “Are we going to tell him?”
She nodded emphatically, without hesitation.
The doctor was at a loss. “Where do I start?”
Lois started, straightening a little, looking directly at me. “Justin is my son, but I have to tell you, his miracles are from the devil. All his power comes from Satan. If he has touched or healed anyone, those people are in desperate trouble. Desperate trouble!” She looked at Dr. Sullivan as if needing his help.
Dr. Sullivan began, “The, uh, the accident—”
Lois jumped in again. “He was . . . he was just so angry at our church, at everything we were doing. He hated going, he hated our religion. He went the other way. Clear the other way. He . . .” She looked at the doctor again.
“He’s a ticking time bomb,” he said, “and when he explodes, there are terrible results.” He kept looking at Lois as if to get her okay to proceed. “I don’t know what I believe about the devil, but something is driving him. There’s more there than just an angry young man. A severe psychosis, perhaps, or—”
“He prayed to the devil. He told me that.”
“Or indeed, something diabolical, something more than human, more than evil.”
“We had to send him away. He couldn’t be around his father anymore.”
“The accident. Let’s get that out.”
Lois fell silent, her eyes closed in pain, her fist holding the wadded handkerchief over her mouth.
Dr. Sullivan directed all his attention toward me. “You met Ernest Cantwell?”
“Yes.”
“So you understand he was severely injured some time ago. He has only partial use of his lower body and impaired use of his hands. His speech is affected, as well as some of his memory. Now—” he met the eyes of the others—“the rest of the town has been told he was in a car wreck, and that’s been the popular belief for over six years.” He looked at me again. “But there was no car wreck. No one has ever seen a wrecked car. The local police never looked into it, never investigated, never reported anything—”
“Excuse me. Would that be Conway?”
They all nodded knowingly.
Dr. Sullivan said, “I understand you met him as well. Conway Gallipo is our chief of police and he’s also head deacon at the church.” He looked at Lois as he told me, “I guess we could say he’s Ernest Cantwell’s right-hand man.” Lois nodded in agreement. “His muscles, his bodyguard.” Lois nodded again. The doctor looked at me. “Anyway, he was helpful in spreading the myth that Ernest was in a car wreck. The Cantwells—mostly Ernest—didn’t want anyone to know that it was actually . . . that it was Justin.”
I vividly recalled the pitiful wreck of a man in a wheelchair. “What are you saying?”
“It’s, uh, it’s the time bomb I told you about. Justin and his father did not get along—”
“We had to send Justin up to Illinois to live with my sister,” Lois blurted. “We told people it was just so he could get to know the rest of the family.”
“I don’t think that story worked very well,” said Laurie.
“No,” said Lois. “People weren’t blind.”
“Well, let’s not get things all confused,” the doctor cautioned. He turned back to me, “Justin was fifteen when they sent him to Illinois.”
“It was to save him from his father,” Lois blurted out, “and maybe, just maybe help him get away from all the anger and the hate.” Then she added, “And it was also to protect my husband’s ministry. I knew he couldn’t continue the Lord’s work with such a terrible problem at home.” She dabbed her eyes and continued. “Justin stayed with my sister until he was eighteen, and then we brought him back. Everything seemed all right for three years. He acted different, like he’d met the Lord at my sister’s church, like he really wanted to serve the Lord. He got active in our church, he sang in the choir, he led us in prayer and prophesied. People thought he’d changed. Somehow, he got along with Ernest.”
She stopped. I could see the pain of the memory flashing through her eyes. “But he was waiting, just waiting for the right time, the right moment. He bought a gym and set it up in the basement—he was still living with us—and he kept working out, getting strong, really developing his body. And then, it wasn’t too long after his birthday—he’d just turned twenty-two—he found that moment.”
Laurie interjected, “But weren’t there some woman problems in all this?”
Lois nodded, obviously sad to be reminded. “He was sleeping around. One of the girls was the daughter of a deacon. And that’s what set it off. Ernest found out about it and came after him, and— ” She stopped abruptly, her face and hands quivering. “Justin was at home, waiting for him. I just thank God I wasn’t there to
see it. I was at a women’s meeting. I think that was part of Justin’s plan too, to even the score with his father when I wouldn’t be there to see it.”
Dr. Sullivan picked up the narrative. “I don’t think there were any witnesses to the actual beating, but when Lois came home . . .” Lois broke down again, sobbing as Laurie put an arm around her. The doctor took a ragged breath and continued, “Ernest was in the back yard. He’d been . . .” Now he was having trouble telling it. “He’d been beaten repeatedly with a baseball bat. Nine of his ribs were broken. His skull was fractured. He was bleeding from head wounds and unconscious. And . . .” He held out an arm and indicated the forearm just above the wrist. “He was nailed—literally nailed, like a crucifixion—to the apple tree in the back yard with spikes about—” he held his index fingers apart about eight inches—“that long. The spikes were still in his arms when the ambulance brought him into the clinic. I had to remove them surgically.
“Some of the tendons were severed. He had several operations, but never fully recovered the use of his hands. There were spinal injuries that partially paralyzed him from the waist down. It’s a wonder he’s alive at all, hanging from his arms with broken ribs. He would have suffocated if Lois hadn’t found him.”
I was horrified and incredulous. “And people think this was a car wreck?”
The doctor allowed himself a slight, cynical smile. “That’s what you’ll hear on the street. But there are police and paramedics and medical personnel—and this doctor right here—who know otherwise. Up to this point, none of us has said anything. Ernest came to this town first and he still holds the high ground. He can make things difficult for anyone who invites trouble.”
“He has that kind of power?”
The doctor cocked an eyebrow. “The power over heaven and hell and who goes where, to put it simply.”
He looked at Lois, but she declined to look back.
“He’s still my husband,” she said in a whisper.
“Religion misused,” the doctor continued. “It’s not uncommon. He has the personality—and the followers, the chief of police being among them.” With an arched eyebrow he added, “Chief Gallipo has his own nasty part in this.”
“So . . . what happened to Justin?”
“He vanished. We never saw him again. Lois did get some letters occasionally.”
Her voice was still trembling when she said, “I didn’t get my first letter for two years.”
“But he went free. The whole matter was buried. Ernest Cantwell had his ministry to think about—I’m sorry, Lois.”
“No,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “That’s all right. It’s true.”
“The letters,” I said. “Did he have an address in Southern California?” “Yes. But that was all. He moved two years ago and I never heard from him since.”
“So he was in the Los Angeles area for two years.”
“Yes, I think that’s right. I don’t know where he was before that.”
“I believe he went to Missoula, Montana, after L.A., and from there he came to our town, just this spring. He’s using an assumed name, posing as someone else.”
“He’s still running,” the doctor suggested.
“And he’s still angry.”
“And still very dangerous. Do you have any idea, any plans at all, to stop him before you have an incident like we had here?”
“I’m not sure it hasn’t happened already.”
“What about the police?”
“He healed the war wound of our police chief.” They all groaned. “But more than the wound has changed.”
The doctor shook his head in wonder. “He hates and emulates his father all at the same time.”
“Well, he and his father are made of the same stuff. We all are. But I’m finally getting a clear picture: He’s going to self-destruct.”
They were silent, perhaps a little surprised, but I could see Lois nodding.
“How?” the doctor asked.
“Have you ever tried to be Jesus? Believe me, only the real one can manage that.”
“Amen,” Lois managed.
“But that brings me to the scars on Justin’s arms. Doctor, you said you treated those wounds.”
Dr. Sullivan looked at Lois and she gave him a barely visible, affirmative nod. “I believe we mentioned how Justin was sent to Illinois to live with his sister when he was fifteen. Again, the real reason was hidden from the public, especially from the church.”
“Especially,” Lois emphasized, then lowered her head and shook it mournfully. “Justin was like a wild horse with no way to corral him. Ernest was determined to have it otherwise. And things got out of hand.”
“What was it you said?” I asked Lois. “Something about Justin wanting to even the score with his father?”
“You can blame me,” the doctor interjected. “I treated the wounds in Justin’s arms, but I did nothing about the wounds to his soul. There was nothing to be done in this town, but I could have gone beyond this town for help. I could have done more.” He took a moment to compose himself. “But Justin was quickly sent off to his aunt’s in Illinois, so we thought that would be the end of it. He was several states away from his father, no one in town saw what happened, and the rest of us went on with our lives, keeping the matter quiet.”
Lois raised her eyes and looked into mine. “I found him in the back yard, and I . . . I held him in my arms. I prayed for him. I sang to him. But the Justin we once knew was gone. He never came back.” With frightened eyes she peered into the past. “And we had no idea what kind of . . . creature . . . had taken his place.”
The doctor drew another deep breath. “Seven years later, Justin nearly killed his father.”
Now I realized why Justin Cantwell had warned me, Just be sure you find out everything. I shifted my weight forward and said, “Tell me what happened in the back yard.”
I CLOSED THE MOTEL ROOM DOOR behind me, rested against it, and let the tears come. I cried and cried, quaking against that door, wanting to slap myself, feeling so foolish, so blind.
Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me.
No, Justin Cantwell and I were not that much alike. Sure, our church worlds were similar. Both our dads were preachers. We read from the same Bible, learned the same doctrines, sang the same songs, followed many of the same rules.
But I had never been in such a place as Nechville—and I know I’d never been in such a place as Justin’s back yard.
I only thought I had, and I was acting like it—until Justin came to my town and I went to his.
Now I was sorry. Desperately sorry.
27
MONDAY MORNING, Michael Elliott felt called to go for a short, very spiritual walk across the rolling pastureland of the ranch. He took his staff in his hand, wore his prophetic mantel over his head and shoulders, and set out on his journey knowing not where it would take him—God would lead. As he walked along the white paddock fence, past horses lazily grazing, he looked frequently toward heaven, praising God and listening, always listening, for the next prophetic message, the next inkling of what God was about to do. He knew he must obey every word. He must watch for every sign. The Messiah had come, Antioch was the New Jerusalem, and he, Michael, blessed among men, was to be the Messiah’s messenger.
“I will obey, my Lord,” he said. “But speak the word, and I will obey. I am your servant.”
His heart soared. He felt filled with God, in tune with the divine, cosmic mind.
And greater works than these shall ye do. The promise coursed through his soul like marching orders from on high. Greater works. These would require greater faith, greater obedience, but the world would behold and tremble, and then it would change. It would grow. A new thing would occur upon the earth, the news of which would make all ears tingle.
Michael raised his staff toward the heavens and sang forth in joy, turning the heads of some steers who grazed beyond a wire fence with bright plastic numbers on their ears.
He came to th
e pond, an acre of quiet water reflecting the deep blue of the sky and the June green of the gentle hills. Mr. Macon had built a fishing dock there, and his old skiff lay on a split rail rack by the shore. Across the water, four ducks paddled in formation, dipping their heads, rustling their wings, and conversing in duck-ese.
This was one of Michael’s favorite spots for reflection. He often took the skiff out just to float quietly, lie on his back, and watch the sky. The mud along the shore became his canvas, and his most recent etching—the word ALLELUIA in Gothic lettering—was still intact, though some ducks had waddled through it.
Standing at the end of the dock, he sniffed the natural, living odor of the pond, the scent of mud, algae, ducks and catfish. He received the kiss of the breeze upon his cheek and heard the song of the earth the breeze carried—the rustle of the spear grass, the lowing of the cattle, the murmur of the ducks.
Walk upon the water.
Below him, the pond was a sheet of glass, and his reflection nearly perfect.
Walk upon the water.
The voice was the same, the one he had always heeded and obeyed. It brought him to Brandon Nichols. It had led him through the streets of Antioch. It had opened his understanding to the mighty move of God.
Walk upon the water.
This was the Messiah’s pond. He was the Messiah’s messenger. All things were the Messiah’s—all works, all miracles, all things.
Greater works than these shall ye do.
As God tested Abraham, Gideon, Joshua, and even the first Christ in the wilderness, so now he, Michael, was being tested.
It is mine to obey, he responded in his spirit. Far be it from me to turn away from the voice of God.
He obeyed. He stepped off the dock.
IT WAS COLD THIS TIME OF YEAR! Deep too. He thought he would drown before he finally grabbed hold of the dock and worked his way toward the shore hand-over-hand. Dripping and shivering, he clambered out of the water, shocked by the cold and by the very fact that he was wet.
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