Adrian and Roger stood frozen in the hallway.
“Melissa,” Adrian said, her voice trembling with fear she tried not to show, “would you come here please?”
Melissa looked their way but didn’t move. She was still talking to someone. “This is my gramma and grampa.” She told Adrian and Roger, “This is Alka-Seltzer. That’s his name; I’m not making it up.”
“Melissa! I want you to come here this instant!”
Melissa shrugged and came toward them. Adrian stepped forward, reached, and yanked Melissa to her side. Then she scanned the room, her eyes darting wildly for any stirring, any shadow or sign.
Jillie was the best sign. She was still looking up at something no one else could see.
Melissa got fussy. “He wants to play with me!”
“Alkanar . . .” said Roger.
“Elkezar,” Adrian corrected.
“Elkezar, get out of the house. Right now. You’re not welcome here!” Even his voice was shaky.
Jillie watched something move through the room, then followed it past the kitchen and toward the back door, her eyes locked on it, panting, trotting, and leaping playfully, but not barking.
The back door opened by itself and Jillie dashed into the back yard.
“Jillie!” Adrian cried, running after her. “Jillie, come back here!”
“Adrian!” Roger ran after her with Melissa at his heels.
Jillie snarled and then yelped. Adrian flung the back door open and stepped onto the walkway.
She screamed, stepping backward, turning her face away, covering her eyes.
Roger grabbed Melissa, but too late. She saw it too, and shrieked, burying her face in his leg.
Jillie lay twisted and dead on the grass, eyes vacant, legs crookedly skyward, her innards strewn about the yard in torn lengths and pieces.
JIM BAYLOR didn’t even get through the police station door before he bumped chests with Deputy Mark Peterson coming out.
“Hey, whoa there!”
“In a hurry, Jim!”
Jim followed, almost running alongside, as Mark strode toward his truck—the town had three officers and two squad cars, and it was his day to be the odd man. “What’s the deal on Sally Fordyce? You gonna do anything?”
“We’ve got it on the list, Jim. That’s all I can tell you.”
“On the list? What’s the matter with you, didn’t you see what that creep did to her?”
Mark was wound up tight and not feeling kind. “Jim, our phones are ringing themselves off the desks. We’ve got fights, we’ve got riots, we’ve got destruction of property—Brett’s out on a call, Rod’s out, I’m heading out, and we’re still not going to get to everybody. Sally’s okay, she’ll live, she has time to press charges and go through the process. We can’t mess with her case today.” He opened the door to his pickup and climbed in.
“You’re supposed to be doing your job!”
Mark’s hand was on the door handle, ready to close it. “I am doing my job, or don’t you have eyes?”
“I don’t believe this!”
“Jim!” Mark took a breath, a moment to calm himself. He let go of the door handle. “If you’d like to help, you can corral that wife of yours before she kills somebody. Brett just saw her driving through town like a nut case. He would have pulled her over if he wasn’t trying to calm a riot at the Catholic church.”
Jim was shocked. “You talking about Dee?”
“How many wives do you have?” Mark grabbed the door handle again. “Take away her car keys and we’ll get to Sally Fordyce quicker, okay?”
He slammed the door shut and drove off, emergency lights flashing.
I’d better get home, Jim thought.
I WAS TIRED AND EMOTIONALLY SPENT as I pulled into Antioch. All the way from Nechville to Dallas, then to Seattle, then to Spokane, then all the way home to Antioch . . . I wanted my couch, if not my bed. Nothing, I thought, would dissuade me from my course. Not the mobs scurrying around the streets of Antioch with their cameras and recorders. Not the people running from the Catholic church with—was that a wooden foot in that lady’s hand, and were those two guys fighting over a wooden arm? Not the—oh brother, was this another Jesus?
He was standing on the sidewalk near the Laundromat signing autographs and having his picture taken with smiling visitors. He had the traditional long hair and beard, but he could have put some more thought into his outfit: a tan bathrobe with tee shirt and jeans underneath, and a circle of plastic, dime-store ivy for a crown of thorns. I rolled my window down and caught his southern accent: “Well, verily, verily, I say to y’all . . .”
No, not even him. Not even—oh no. There was a fight going on in the park. It looked like some of Justin Cantwell’s followers were having it out with some of Armond Harrison’s. They’d been working together on that park, and now they were fighting in it.
I just wanted all the more to get home, close my door. . . .
Kyle had left a note on the door and a message on my answering machine. I’m sure if I’d turned on my computer I would have found an e-mail from him too.
I called him, he said he’d call the others, and I doubled right back to the Methodist church. By now it was late afternoon. The meeting was bigger this time. Not only were Kyle and Morgan there waiting for me, we also had some guests: Nancy Barrons and Gildy Holliday.
“It’s time we laid all our cards on the table,” said Nancy. “This town’s in trouble.”
“I’m ready,” I said.
We sat down in Morgan’s office and Morgan closed the door.
ON THE WEST END OF TOWN, near the vacant lot next to Mumford’s Machine Shop, Matt Kiley brought the big flatbed hay truck to a halt. Justin Cantwell, robed and ready, climbed out of the cab and took his place on the flatbed. Michael the Prophet, wireless microphone in hand, walked out ahead. The Virgin Mary Donovan took her place behind, and a gaggle of about thirty Macon ranch hangers-on, arriving in cars and RVs, gathered behind her. Andy Parmenter and his wife were there—Andy looked a little bruised, but they were still believing. George Harding came along hoping to improve his business. Melody Blair had brought extra pins along, in case Brandon’s robe needed adjusting. She just wanted to keep the Messiah happy.
From where he now stood, Cantwell could look south and see the little hill with the cottonwoods near my place where he first came eye to eye with that pitiful, burned-out former minister. Looking ahead and to the left, he could see the church that minister no longer pastored sitting on the knoll above the highway.
“Let’s take this town!” he hollered, pointing ahead like a general commanding a charge.
The band and the female vocalist had quit. Matt had a cassette player on the front seat. He hit the play button and an old Reader’s Digest collection of inspirational favorites started broadcasting from the speakers: “When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high . . .”
Michael stood there a moment, looking bewildered. Matt tooted his horn at him and he jerked to life. “Uh, behold he comes forth, his power in his hand, to touch this land and bring forth new life!”
The procession began, and already, heads of wandering pilgrims were turning.
WE HUDDLED in Morgan’s office, and although we were alone, we still spoke quietly as if an enemy could be listening. I shared my Nechville experience with everyone, and if they felt concern before that, I doubled it.
“Just got a call from Adrian Folsom,” Kyle reported. “If Elkezar left, it was on a bad note.” He told us about Elkezar, Melissa, and the horrible death of Jillie. “I’m going to get over there and get that whole problem prayed through.”
“She’s back in the fold, I take it?”
Kyle nodded, but seemed sorrowful. “I’m just sorry it had to happen this way.”
“I need to have a good long talk with Sally,” said Morgan. “She’s afraid to be left alone, afraid her ‘angel’ might show up again.”
“Well, all of these people need to come cle
an with God and rebuke these things in the name of Jesus,” said Kyle. “That’s what Bob Fisher told that member of his congregation to do, and the thing hasn’t been back.”
“Brett’s still looking for the hitchhiker,” said Nancy. “He’s convinced the man, the thing, whatever, was in his house.” Then she said something to Kyle that surprised me. “Looks like your little theory about demons was right.” She caught us all staring at her. “Well they aren’t angels—just take a look outside!”
MICHAEL KEPT WALKING ahead of the truck, staying right on the white line he helped paint down the middle of the street. “He is, uh . . . he’s . . .” Suddenly Michael wasn’t sure. He forced the words out. “Come to him, all ye who are weary and are heavy-leaded— uh, heavy-laden—and he will give you best! His yoke is in his hand to separate the cows from the goats and the wheat from the flakes, and his words are a mighty wind to quake the hay stalks of confusion that roll through the oceans of grief and pain and . . . you know, other messy stuff . . .” His British accent was failing him.
Now Matt was playing a gospel album by Elvis with the Jordanaires: “Then sings my soul . . .”
And Justin Cantwell, the Messiah of Antioch, waved to the crowds, blew them kisses, made sure they could see the scars on his arms, and tossed them loaves of bread he produced out of thin air. “I am he,” he cried. “I am he and there is no other!”
It was working. Cameras were flashing, camcorders were blinking. Young and old scrambled after the loaves. People were running up to the truck, reaching for a touch and getting one.
“Come to me! I will hear your cries! I will give you blessing!” The tone in his voice and the steely glare in his eyes would have made his daddy proud.
Mary Donovan followed behind the truck, blessing the crowds, waving to them, spouting any Magnificat that came to mind. “Magnify the Lord! Let his joy dwell in your hearts for his time has come! He is our hope, he is our joy!”
The Macon Ranch hangers-on brought up the rear, waving, shaking hands, shouting greetings, passing out flyers, pointing at Cantwell. Two women sang and rattled tambourines.
“Now just a minute, young lady!”
Mary jerked her head around and saw another woman in robe, shawl, and sandals coming toward her, a nasty expression on her face. “Uh, blessings and peace to you!”
The woman aimed an angry, shaking finger at her. “I’ll blessings and peace you, you little snip! My boy was here first!”
Mary looked toward the real estate office and gasped. There was another Jesus standing there—or some young character in jeans and a bathrobe trying to look like him. Whoever he was, he was frightfully indignant. There had been a crowd around him with cameras and autograph books, but now they were all moving toward Cantwell and reaching out to catch the loaves he was tossing.
The mean, old Mary stood directly in the Virgin Donovan’s path. “Now you can just turn around and take your big show else-where! This is our street!” She turned and chased the flatbed, banging on the boards to get Cantwell’s attention. “Hey, creep! Yeah, you! Get this rig out of here!”
That finally spiked Mary’s ire. “Don’t you talk to my son that way!” She ran after the older Mary and grabbed her by her shawl. The mean Mary quickly showed how mean she could be.
“I am he!” Cantwell shouted at the other christ, who extended a finger at him and bellowed in a southern accent, “Well y’all just come down off that truck and we’ll see about that!”
From the sidewalks, it was the most bizarre show in town: Two christs yelling and giving each other obscene gestures while their two mothers scratched, tore, and screamed at each other in the middle of the street. Crowds on the sidewalks took pictures and home movies.
“Glory, glory hallelujah!” sang Elvis.
“YOU AREN’T GOING TO BELIEVE THIS!” said Gildy. “Everybody thought Mrs. Macon had a stroke, right? This morning she got out of bed and came down for breakfast all by herself. They drugged her! The last thing she remembers is the first shot they gave her.” Then she added with a note of dread, “And let me tell you, she’s hopping mad!”
“The Macon estate owns half the property in this little square mile,” I observed. “If the corporation’s legit and Cantwell’s the main stockholder, he could control most of the town.”
“Not from jail, he won’t,” said Nancy. “Did you know about the Harmons in Missoula?”
We all looked at her blankly. “Speak on,” I said.
“I’ve sat on this information long enough. Remember Nevin Sorrel?”
“He was killed,” said Morgan.
“He was working for me, in a way.” said Nancy. “After Cantwell wowed Mrs. Macon and took his job, he came to me wanting to give me some inside stuff on him. I didn’t listen at first. I thought it was just gossip and mud-slinging, but once I met Cantwell face to face, I thought better of it. It turns out Nevin Sorrel and the real Brandon Nichols used to be ranch hands together on the Harmon ranch rear Missoula. That’s how Nevin knew that our Brandon Nichols wasn’t really Brandon Nichols.”
“Whoa,” I said. “You mean, we’re talking about another Brandon Nichols, as in, a real one?”
“A real one,” Nancy replied. “Buck and Cindy Harmon are good friends with Mrs. Macon. They knew Cephus, of course, and they did business with each other. Nevin came from the Harmons to work for the Macons, and then, so did Cantwell, posing as Brandon Nichols, with a good reference from the Harmons.”
“How in the world did he do that?” Morgan wondered.
Nancy opened her valise and pulled out a photograph, a snapshot of some ranch hands leaning on a fence. “The Harmons sent this to me. Check out the two guys in the middle.” We all leaned in to study the picture. Nevin Sorrel was easy to pick out. Next to him was a young man with long, black hair and dark skin, apparently of Hispanic or Native American descent. “Meet the real Brandon Nichols.”
“Kyle,” I said, “remember Hattie in Missoula? She said Herb Johnson used to ride horses on a ranch around there.”
“Herb Johnson?” Nancy asked.
“Justin Cantwell,” I explained, “before he became Brandon Nichols.”
“Oh great.” Nancy shook her head in dismay. “Another name.” She continued, “Anyway, piecing it together from what Nevin told me, Justin Cantwell—alias Herb Johnson—visited the ranch a few times to ride horses, and met the real Brandon Nichols. They even joked about how they could be mistaken for each other.”
We looked at the photograph again. It was possible.
“If Cantwell wanted to call himself Brandon Nichols and get a Washington State driver’s license, it’s conceivable he could have done it. So Cantwell came to Antioch, posed as Brandon Nichols, introduced himself to the widow, and he had a job. Mrs. Macon called the Harmons for a reference and they gave her a glowing report of what a great worker Brandon was—and the description was the same: dark-skinned, long black hair, medium build.” Nancy smiled whimsically. “The Harmons were a little amazed to learn their former ranch hand was such a spiritual man and miracle worker. They’d never seen him do anything of the kind.”
“No cameras,” Kyle mused. “Cantwell never allowed cameras on the ranch.”
“The Harmons had never met Cantwell and the widow had never met Nichols. It was a perfect switch.” Nancy shrugged. “But I sneaked a camera onto the ranch and got a shot of Cantwell, just as you did. I sent it to the Harmons and they confirmed: Cantwell isn’t Nichols. No way.”
“Which raises a dark question,” I said. “What happened to the real Brandon Nichols?”
“Brandon Nichols was unknown, with no family, and had no address other than the Harmon ranch where he worked. He was transient, and moved from place to place, job to job. If someone wanted to slip into his shoes and carry on his life in his place . . .”
“And use his driver’s license and social security number,” added Morgan.
“You’re saying Cantwell killed Brandon Nichols?”
Nancy return
ed my gaze. “From what you’ve told us about Cantwell, he may have done more than that.”
28
BRETT HENCHLE stood on the front steps of Our Lady of the Fields, notepad in hand, trying to find out what made so many people go so wild. The way Arnold Kowalski was carrying on, you’d think the mob had murdered his mother.
“It’s all my fault . . .” Arnold wept, sitting on the steps with his face in his hands.
Father Vendetti sat beside him, his arm around his faithful old maintenance man. “Arnold, no, not with this bunch. They were different, they were . . .” Words failed him.
“Can you name any of them?” Brett asked, notepad ready. He’d managed to nab five people carrying various pieces of what used to be Our Lady’s crucifix, but the rest of the mob and the rest of the pieces were quickly scattering.
Al Vendetti only shook his head. “We want no vengeance here. What’s done is done.”
Brett wasn’t ready to accept that. “Father, they destroyed church property. They made a mess of your sanctuary.”
“And they chopped up the Savior!” Arnold lamented. “What will we do without him?”
“Arnold.” Al patted his shoulder with his free hand. “They were the same as you: They thought they could take a little bit of Jesus with them.”
“Well, he’s gone now!”
“No, Arnold. We can always buy another one.”
The handheld radio clipped to Brett’s belt squawked: “Car One, Car One, Brett, you there?”
Brett tweaked the talk button and spoke into the mike clipped to his shoulder. “Yeah, go ahead.”
“Mrs. Fisk called. There’s some unknown character lurking around the Sundowner Motel. Might be a peeping Tom.”
Brett winced. “Brother. What more do we need?” Then it hit him. “The hitchhiker!” He hit the talk button. “Rod, let’s get over there. It might be our man from the other night!”
The Visitation Page 45
