The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  As for me, I was hiding.

  “TRAV, I like how the house looks, just in case you wondered.”

  Rene and I were in my kitchen. I was sitting in a chair with a sheet draped around my neck and shoulders, and she was behind me with her comb and scissors, attempting to make her brother look more presentable.

  “Well, thank you,” I replied, and let it go at that. But I was glad she had noticed. I’d been putting things away a little at a time for the last several days and I was finally getting ahead of the mess.

  “How long are you going to keep screening your calls?”

  Sharp gal, as always. “How did you know I was screening my calls?”

  “Because I got through but Kyle didn’t.”

  I started to turn my head but thought better of it. She had the scissors. “Don’t tell me he called you!”

  “Simmer down. I didn’t mind.”

  “So what did he have to say?”

  She kept on combing and snipping as she talked. “Just wanted to tell me what was happening at the church. Hold still! Some of the people are really getting obsessed with the stuff going on in town. Dee Baylor’s got a regular cloud-watching detail organized, and they’re using the telephone prayer chain to keep everyone informed in case ‘Jesus’ shows up again. It’s kind of like a revival except it isn’t.”

  “Rene, I’m not the pastor anymore. Is Kyle aware of that?”

  She kept pushing it, and I kept still and listened. “Some of the people are cautious and wondering if it’s for real, and the rest of them—Kyle says about half—are siding with him. They think it’s demonic. So there’s a nice split developing.”

  This time I did fidget. “I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  She sighed with frustration. “I know how you feel about all this, but just for the record, Kyle’s scared. He didn’t say he was, but I could tell.”

  My throat tightened up—the first sign that my old stress was returning. “So what do you expect me to do?”

  “Actually, I expect you to keep on hiding.”

  I was about to defend myself when she added, “That’s what I’d do.”

  My throat relaxed. It was comforting to hear her say that, and a little unexpected. “You would?”

  “It’s church stuff, isn’t it?”

  I sat still and let her continue cutting my hair. I had to think for a moment before remembering that, within days of her turning eighteen, she had moved out of the house and stayed away from church for years.

  “Yeah,” I said at last. “It’s church stuff. You were never into that kind of thing very much, were you?”

  “Sure I was, a long time ago. When I was little, growing up in church, I believed everything I heard, everything that happened.”

  “But not anymore.”

  Snip. Snip. “I don’t have to.”

  She came around the front to look at her work. “Okay, you’re done.” But then she put her hand on my shoulder. “Do you know what I mean by ‘stuff’?”

  I nodded. “It’s becoming increasingly clear to me.”

  She smiled. “That’s all it ever was. You know I never turned away from the Lord. It was just . . .” She shrugged. “All the stuff.”

  I nodded, then smiled as I realized how much I was finally beginning to understand her. “Kind of like having the same old conversation so many times you just don’t feel like having it again.”

  She kissed my forehead and helped me get out of the sheet. I helped her sweep up.

  WE USED TO HAVE plenty of dull moments in Antioch. They would pass through town in close succession like box cars at a railroad crossing, each one displaced by the next, but all of them alike, their steady, monotonous pace never changing. Anymore, such dull moments were hard to find, thanks to our newest Visitor. He had a knack for spacing things precisely, keeping us all guessing, waiting until we were just about to have a tiny dull moment before throwing another firecracker into the hen house.

  I’m certain he chose the time, place, and people for such events.

  Wednesday afternoon, he chose Mack’s Sooper Market, Jack McKinstry, and Dee Baylor.

  Dee was grocery shopping, pushing her cart along, crossing items off her list, and considering what she would fix for dinner that night.

  These were routine tasks, but today she found them difficult. With every nerve energized with expectation and her eyes alert for any sign anywhere of him, it was hard to concentrate on calcium-enriched orange juice and coupons for a special on frozen peas.

  When Dee rolled her cart up to Jack’s checkout, she paid little attention to the man in line ahead of her. Just a long-haired, hippie-looking guy. Humming quietly to herself, she began pawing through her cart and double-checking her shopping list.

  And then a haunting suspicion crept into her mind, and she looked again.

  The man was young, with a beard and black hair tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt. He had a dark complexion—he could have been Jewish. She stared, studying his face.

  He was just paying for his groceries, counting out bills into Jack’s hand, when he glanced at her and smiled. “Hello, Dee.”

  She lost all awareness that she was holding a can of beans and dropped it with a clatter into her cart. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. “Are—” She gasped. “Are you him?” All he did was look at her, and she began to tremble. “It is you!”

  Jack saw her shaking and looking pale and obviously thought it might be something medical. “Mrs. Baylor? Are you all right?”

  She pointed a finger at the man. “That’s, that’s him! He healed Norman Dillard’s eyes, and healed Matt Kiley so he could walk!”

  Jack eyed the man curiously.

  The man just looked back and said with a casual shrug. “It was their faith that healed them. I just happened to be there.”

  Dee let out a little shriek. “It was you!”

  Now Jack’s eyes widened. “Was it? Was it you?” The man gave a little half-nod as if confessing. “Who are you?”

  “I work for Ethyl Macon. I’m her new caretaker, handyman, cook, whatever. It’s a nice job.”

  Dee approached him fearfully, as if drawing near to a god. “But who are you? Please tell me who you are!”

  He looked deep into her eyes. “Those with open hearts and seeing eyes will know who I am, just as you do.” He gently touched her shoulder and she felt a tingle like electricity. “See that you tell no one.”

  KAWUMP! She hit the floor.

  JACK SCURRIED from behind the counter. “Mrs. Baylor! Mrs. Baylor!”

  “I’ll call for help,” said the man, hurrying toward a pay phone by the front door.

  “Use the phone by the cash register!” Jack shouted.

  The man didn’t seem to hear him. No matter. Jack knelt by Dee and felt her pulse.

  Other shoppers gathered. “Did you see that? All he did was touch her!” “Is she breathing?” “Get her a pillow, somebody!”

  Someone handed Jack a bag of corn chips and he placed it under her head. The crackling of the chips seemed to bring her around. She began to mutter in another language.

  Jack looked up, anxious.

  There was no one at either telephone. The man was gone.

  Jack grabbed the telephone by his cash register and dialed 911—not just for the EMTs, but for the police.

  Mary Donovan happened into the store. She was Catholic, a good friend of Dee’s, and intervened immediately, kneeling and cradling Dee’s head in her hands. “It’s all right, everyone. She’s okay. She’s just slain in the Spirit. It’s a God thing.”

  By the time Brett Henchle and Deputy Rod Stanton came storming into the store with the paramedics, Dee was sitting up and muttering like someone just returning from the threshold of heaven. “I saw him. He touched me, and I could feel his power . . . oh, you have no idea. . . .”

  The paramedic checked her pulse.

  “She’s okay,” Mary assured him. “It’s just a God
thing.”

  Brett nodded. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  “It was that guy!” said Jack. “The guy that healed Norman and Matt.”

  That got Brett’s undivided attention. “Did he look like . . . ?”

  Jack and Dee exchanged a quick look of agreement. Jack answered, “Sort of.”

  Dee put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, it was him, it was him.

  Glory, glory, glory!”

  “So everybody’s okay?” Brett asked, looking from one person to the next.

  With help from Mary and the paramedic, Dee got to her feet.

  Now her adrenaline was starting to rush. “He’s here, and now we know where!”

  “Where?” Brett demanded.

  Jack answered, “He said he’s the new caretaker up at the Macon place.”

  “The widow? Up there alone with that guy? Rod, get some statements. I’m going up to see the widow.”

  “I’m going with you!” said Dee.

  “No you’re not!” said Brett as he went out the door.

  Dee and Mary looked at each other. “Oh yes we are!” they both said together.

  MY ANSWERING MACHINE went through its “leave a message” routine and then I heard Kyle’s voice. “Travis! If you’re there, please pick up the phone!” He kept talking a mile a minute, telling me all about the Sooper Market encounter. I listened, debating whether to pick up the phone until he said, “I’m going to follow Brett Henchle up there and see who in the world—”

  I picked up the phone. “Kyle!”

  “Travis! They’ve just seen the false christ at Mack’s—”

  “I heard.”

  “Already?”

  “No, I heard you on the answering machine. Kyle, don’t go up there. Stay out of it.”

  “He’s working for Mrs. Macon. Dee Baylor and Brett Henchle and some others are heading up there right now. I just saw Nancy Barrons drive by.”

  “Oh brother . . .”

  “Somebody needs to be there to confront—”

  “NO! Don’t go up there.” Somehow, I had to keep from saying, Kyle, I’m afraid you’re going to do something really stupid. “Let Brett do his job and you stay out of it.”

  “But Brett isn’t a Christian. He doesn’t have any spiritual dis-cernment—”

  “Kyle! If you don’t want my advice, why did you call me?” He finally put the brakes on. “It’s going to be a circus up there and you don’t want to be a part of whatever stupid thing happens. And you don’t want to be part of a vigilante committee either.”

  I could tell he didn’t like my terminology. “What do you mean, a vigilante committee?”

  “A preacher and a cop, the church and state, on Mrs. Macon’s front porch! How’s that going to look, especially if Nancy puts a picture in the paper?”

  “But we have to do something. We can’t just let—”

  “Kyle, listen to me. This guy knows what he’s doing. That whole thing in the grocery store was planned. He knows who’s going up there to see him and he’s ready. It’s his game. Trust me.” Kyle hesitated, then asked curiously, “How do you know all that?”

  All I told him was, “I’ve seen it before.”

  IT WAS LIKE A MINIPARADE on the open highway, a short little chain of cars moving together, up and down the gentle rises of prairie, never breaking formation. Brett was in the lead in his squad car, followed by Nancy Barrons in her Volvo. Behind Nancy was a Plymouth Voyager carrying Dee Baylor, Adrian Folsom, Blanche Davis, and Mary Donovan. A television crew from Spokane happened to be in town when the word got out, so they were bringing up the rear in their van with the big station logo on the side.

  Nancy Barrons knew where the ranch was, but had never been there. Cephus Macon was a very private man when alive, and after his death his widow remained reclusive. The Macon money wasn’t much of a secret, to Nancy or anyone else who had lived in Antioch long enough. The town had been settled and built by generations of Macons, and most every renter and lessor in town knew how much of the town’s real estate had been passed down to Mrs. Macon. Not a lot of people knew the widow personally, but everyone knew it was best to keep her happy. Nancy knew what Brett Henchle was thinking: This young whoever-he-was might be trying to keep the widow happy too, for all the wrong reasons.

  Brett pulled to a stop at the big stone gate, parking his squad car so no other vehicle could get around him. Nancy pulled up behind him, got out of her car, and waited to see how he intended to control this situation. He stepped out, his eyes invisible behind his wire-framed sunglasses, and watched as the ladies in the Voyager and the crew in the TV van pulled over, jostled a little, waited for each other, and finally found parking spots on the highway shoulder. Dee and her friends launched themselves out of the Voyager and ran to him.

  “Officer Henchle, we need to get up there!”

  “You can’t block us! It’s our first amendment right!”

  “Just sit tight,” was all he said. Then he stood there ignoring the rest of their pleas as he waited for the others to gather.

  A female reporter—dressed to appear on camera from the waist up, but wearing blue jeans came running from her car. “Officer, is it true?”

  “Just wait.”

  “Is there a man claiming to be Jesus Christ living on this ranch?”

  He just put up his hand and said, “Hang on.”

  Then Brett looked at Nancy and, unsmiling, gave her some welcome news. “Nancy, I talked to Mrs. Macon by cell phone. It’s going to be you and me. That’s it.” The moans had already begun before he announced, “The rest of you have to stay off the property.” A chorus of protests. “That’s the way she wants it.”

  “What if we called her?” the reporter wondered aloud.

  “That’s up to you, and it’s up to her.” Then he said to Nancy, “She takes the paper. She knows you’re the editor, so you’re okay.

  Climb in.”

  “I need to get my camera.” She started to reach into her car.

  “No cameras,” Brett advised. “The widow’s orders.”

  Nancy didn’t like that, but quickly adjusted and got into the squad car.

  The reporter asked again, “Is there a man up there claiming to be Jesus Christ?”

  “There’s a man up there, and I don’t know who he is. That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  The reporter ran around to Nancy’s window. “You’ll share the information with us, won’t you?”

  Nancy was feeling a little smug. “We’ll wait and see.”

  She heard the reporter let an unprofessional word slip out as the squad car started up the driveway.

  The attractive, circular driveway in front of the house brought them right up to the front door. Brett stepped out and put on a casual windbreaker to cover his uniform. “We gotta make this look as nonthreatening as possible.”

  Mrs. Macon, dressed in denim shorts, spring blouse, and sun hat, answered the door. She was smiling, expecting them.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Macon,” said Brett. He introduced himself and Nancy.

  The widow’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh yes! Nancy Barrons!

  I read your paper all the time!”

  “I’m flattered,” said Nancy, shaking her hand.

  “Won’t you come in?”

  They stepped through the big glass-paneled door and into the finest home anywhere near Antioch. Nancy guessed it had to be around six thousand square feet, all one story, with marble entryway, sunken living room, imposing stone fireplace, thick rugs, and exquisite décor, including Cephus Macon’s many hunting trophies.

  “Would either of you like a cup of tea?” the widow asked.

  “Uh, thank you, no,” said Brett. “We won’t take up much of your time. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  Mrs. Macon looked up at him with a motherly glint in her eye.

  “You want to know about the young man I hired.”

  “Yes, that’s right, if you don’t mind.”
>
  “Would you like to meet him?”

  “I certainly would.”

  She led them through an arched hallway with huge vases in alcoves, then through an immense, immaculate kitchen. “He’s a different kind of fellow, I have to warn you. Have you ever met a prophet of God before, Officer Henchle?”

  Brett shot a glance at Nancy. “No, ma’am, I can’t say that I have.”

  “Well, you have to make some allowances for them. They can seem a little abrupt and forward at times. But once you get to know Brandon you realize he has a heart of gold.”

  She led them through a French patio door and onto a covered patio. There they found a young, dark-haired man busily at work putting up some hanging baskets for flowers.

  “Brandon? The officer is here to see you.”

  The young man turned, smiled, and offered his hand. “Hi.

  Brandon Nichols.”

  “Uh, Brandon, were you just down at Mack’s Sooper Market in Antioch?”

  He answered casually, without hesitation. “Sure was. How’s Dee? Did she recover all right?”

  “She’s doing just fine as near as I can tell. Uh . . . would you happen to have any ID you can show me?”

  Brandon pulled a wallet from his back pocket and produced a driver’s license. Brett studied it as Brandon explained, “I just moved here from Missoula, Montana. I haven’t had the license very long.”

  “So what brings you to Antioch?”

  “I hired him,” said Mrs. Macon proudly. “He used to work for some rancher friends of ours in Missoula and came highly recommended. He’s a wonderful worker, he’s knowledgeable, he’s diligent, and besides that, he’s a prophet of God, and those you don’t find too often these days.” She pointed to a small cottage built in the same style as the ranch house, facing them from the far side of the swimming pool. “I’ve put him up in our guest house.

  That’s my prophet’s chamber, just like in Second Kings.”

  Nancy could see suspicion in Brett’s eyes and felt a good measure of it herself. The widow was lonely, rich, and eccentric.

  Brandon Nichols was young, handsome, maybe even charming.