“Oh, I’m waiting, all right. After forty years of serving the Lord, you learn to do that.” I relaxed and slouched in my chair. “But if we wait much longer, it’ll be too late to help you. Let me call the paramedics.” I didn’t get out of my chair. I only leaned toward the telephone.
He held the knife out, showing it to me, sending me a message. Blood was dripping steadily from his chair to the floor. “You should have joined up with me when you could.” I could barely hear him. “You could’ve beaten God, just like me.” His hand went to his abdomen and he winced in pain as fresh blood oozed through his fingers. “I am he. I’m the one.”
He pitched forward suddenly, sooner than I expected, one hand on his stomach and the other still holding the knife. For a long moment he lingered there, head close to his knees.
“Justin . . .” I got up.
With a groan, and before I could catch him, he slid off the chair and flopped over Henchle’s body, his head hanging loosely above the floor. He still held the knife.
Morgan cautioned, “Wait, Travis.”
I stopped a few feet short of Cantwell’s dying body. Morgan was looking at something—or someone—across the table from her and directly in front of me. There was no fear in her eyes. “Do you see them?”
I looked around the dining room and kitchen. I saw nothing but the walls and cabinets, but I could feel my skin crawling. “Who are they?”
Morgan looked from one to the other as she named them off. “The Hitchhiker, and Sally’s angel, and I suppose this one here is Elkezar, the one who appeared to Adrian Folsom.” Now she appeared angry. “They’re laughing at him.”
Just as they’ve been doing all along, I thought. “The party’s over,” I said. “Get out of here.”
It felt like a puff of wind, but it wasn’t. Morgan gave a little gasp and I could sense what she was seeing.
Evil was leaving the house like a receding tide. The weight I felt, the suffocating closeness of the room, lifted from me. Pain, bitterness, hatred, arrogance—they’d all had their season, but now it was over.
It was time.
I reached for the light switch and flipped the living room light off and on again, twice. We heard shouts and footsteps at both the front and the back door, and then Mark Peterson and four sheriff’s deputies stormed in like commandos, guns drawn, fanning out, hollering to intimidate, positioning, crouching, covering Cantwell from every angle.
The swarming and clatter became a silent tableau.
“Oh my God . . .” said Mark, sinking to his knees beside his fallen boss. “No. No, no . . .”
I knelt by the Messiah of Antioch. His eyes were half-open, half-alive, but not watching me. They were looking into the distance, filled with dismay and the pain of betrayal. I knew he was watching the retreat of his minions, the evaporation of his power. I took the bloodied blade of the knife between my index finger and thumb, and lifted it from his hand. By the time I stood to my feet, the eyes bore no expression at all.
Two deputies moved in, checking both bodies for any sign of life. One deputy stood up, said simply, “That’s it,” and it was over. He spoke into his radio, “Sheriff, this is Jones. We have Cantwell. Repeat, we have Cantwell. He’s dead from a gunshot wound. Officer Henchle is also dead.”
“Michael!” Morgan cried as I cut her loose with my pocket knife. “We have to find Michael!”
“He’s outside,” said Mark. “We picked him up. He was walking to your place to find you!”
“Mom?” came his voice. “Mom, you okay?”
Morgan ran out the door. “Michael!”
“Hey,” Jones said, “don’t leave! You’re a witness!”
“Don’t worry,” I assured him, stepping around all the officers and getting out the door.
Mother and son were embracing just outside the front gate. She was a small woman and he towered over her, but she was still his mother and acting like it. “You had me scared to death. I thought something terrible had happened to you. Why didn’t you call before you left? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I went over to your place,” he tried to explain. “I guess we missed each other.”
I glanced back into my house. Mark Peterson and the others were just beginning to clean up what Michael had barely avoided. It made me think of Kyle Sherman and the other ministers praying in a circle. When I looked back, Morgan was finally convinced of her son’s safety enough to let go of him.
She looked at me. I could read in her eyes what I knew in my heart, but there was no way either of us could say it. We just ran for each other. She put her arms around me and clung to me tighter than would normally be considered a sisterly hug. I returned her embrace, and I wouldn’t say I was careful or socially self-conscious, either.
We just had to hold each other, that’s all.
EPILOGUE
THE “SIEGE” at the Macon ranch didn’t last long enough even to justify the name. The motor home crowds wanted no trouble and most of them had already cleared out. The wanderers and seekers in pickups and old cars had already taken their kids and dogs and hit the highway again, looking elsewhere. The reformed and visionary work crews who spruced up the town had long since lost their vision when they ran out of money, and moved on. When the police finally entered the Macon house, they encountered no resistance and found only two people inside. Matt Kiley was lying by the telephone in the living room, crestfallen to hear of Cantwell’s death and unable to move his legs. Mary Donovan was in her room, still convinced she was the Blessed Virgin and praying for deliverance. They later found Melody Blair hiding in the barn.
BY THE FOLLOWING SUMMER, Antioch was a different town. Don Anderson had a new furniture and appliance store, and this one wasn’t pink. Kiley’s Hardware was now a True Value under new ownership. Nancy Barrons had sold the Antioch Harvester and married the columnist in Spokane. Our Lady of the Fields got a whole new set of pews, a new altar, and a new crucifix.
Some remnants of the previous summer remained. The white line Michael Elliott helped paint down the center of the street was still there, along with the heads of wheat to mark the intersections and the rain clouds to mark the fire hydrants. The trees planted along the street were growing quite well, and the townsfolk had pitched in to add some more.
But there had been no further sightings of Jesus or Mary in the clouds, in the highway signs, in the hedges, or even in the mildew on the shower tiles, and none were expected. The townspeople had undergone a notable change of mind: They were looking forward now, and saw no need to dredge up and relive the past.
I never thought I’d say that about Antioch.
By the following summer, I was a different man too. I didn’t fully realize it until I set foot inside Antioch Pentecostal Mission for the first time in over a year. The place was packed, and I was deluged by the same smells, sounds, and sights that had been a regular part of my fifteen years of pastoring. I was a little worried that the old symptoms would return: the upset stomach, the scrambled thoughts, the swelling tongue, the fear of being trapped.
But none of that happened. It was actually good—no, I’ll say it was wondrous—to be in that building again, standing before all those friends and family. When my time came to enter from the right and stand on my little “X” of masking tape, I could have remained in that spot for hours, as long as it took to read back from each face a portion of my life.
The mandolin player from my band. My old buddy Vern, with his second wife. Al and Rose Chiardelli, my “other parents,” who would always love me and consider me as their son. Some of the old youth group from Northwest Mission, with their wives and husbands and children, so grown and changed that I hardly recognized them. Joe and Emily Kelmer—Joe still healthy, and his family all saved. Bruce and Libby Hiddle, the only ones who could truly understand our shared tragedy, and our shared joy. Jim, Dee, and Darlene Baylor, sitting together as a family.
To my left stood my brother, Steve, living proof that a man doesn’t have to enter
the ministry to honor God in every aspect of his life. Behind me stood Dad, decked out in his tuxedo. Tradition did not dictate that he wear one, and he never did for the hundreds of other weddings he had performed. But when he married his own kids, he put it on. That was his tradition.
From the front pew, my sister, Rene, winked at me, and I winked back. I used to wonder what in the world her “problem” was, but now I knew what she knew: It was never a problem, but a passage.
We had come far, these friends and family and I. Most of the journey we’d made separately, but today we journeyed together.
As a sweet lady who once sang in a rock band told me, we were what Jesus was all about. Over the years we’d dispersed ourselves among many churches, denominations, traditions, and little things held sacred, but today none of that mattered. Jesus mattered. We mattered.
And she mattered. Everyone rose to their feet as she entered the room. Morgan’s widowed father came all the way from Michigan to escort her down the aisle. Her son, Michael, had a front-row seat, and her sister from Florida was her matron of honor. Both our former congregations were there to honor her.
As she came down the aisle in a gown of pastel blue, her eyes shining and never leaving mine, I could hear the same voice in my heart I’d been hearing since I was in kindergarten: I carried you, Travis, just as a father carries his son, in all the way that you went, until you came to this place.
He was still the same old God, ordering my life and doing all things well.
The Visitation Page 51
