A paramedic tried to take the girl’s blood pressure, his stethoscope on her vein. “Can we get these people to quiet down? I can’t hear.”
The pastor ran up, his face red. “What’s happening?” One look and he figured it out. Then he angrily scanned the room. “Who called these people?” His eyes met mine and I knew we weren’t going to be friends.
It was all backward. Vern and Crew Cut started yelling at the paramedics to leave the girl alone, Shrill Voice was begging the pastor to order the men to leave, and Rotund Ruffly started crying, “Begone, begone, you’re ruining everything!”
Blue Dress bent down close to the paramedics. I heard her say, “She’s my friend and she’s a diabetic. Please help her.”
Shrill Voice grabbed Blue Dress to pull her away. Crew Cut reached out to calm Shrill Voice down. Vern rummaged around the front pew until he found his glasses, then put them on so he could glare at me. The paramedic trying to take the girl’s blood pressure shook his head and his partner yelled, “Could we please get all these people back? Give us some room and give us some quiet, please!”
The pastor finally went around calling for quiet and trying to calm people down. The EMTs wheeled in a stretcher, put the girl on it, raced her out to the ambulance, and sped away, lights flashing. It happened fast.
I remember standing out in front of the church with Blue Dress watching the aid car leave. We exchanged a look when we realized we had at least a hundred indignant people standing behind us.
“Maybe we should get out of here,” I told her.
“I’m going to the hospital,” she said.
I glanced over my shoulder. Vern was walking toward me, and I knew a sermon was coming. “Uh, can I catch a ride?”
“Travis!” Vern hissed, grabbing my arm. “Did you call the ambulance?” I was only starting to say yes when he opened up on me.
“Do you have any idea what you just did? She could have been delivered tonight! She could have been free!”
“She could have been dead!” Blue Dress retorted.
“She was trusting God! It was her decision and you interfered!”
“Sharon’s my friend and I saved her life.”
Vern just rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You just—” He fumbled, shook his head again, threw his hands around in frustration. “You’re a tool of the enemy, did you know that? You’re playing right into his hands.”
“And I see you’re wearing your glasses again,” I said.
That seemed to stun him. He quickly grabbed them off his face.
Blue Dress tapped my arm. “I can give you a ride.”
I gave Vern a little wave to indicate our conversation—and the whole evening, for that matter—was over, and followed her out to the parking lot.
SHARON IVERSON was nineteen but still financially dependent on her parents. They used that fact to force her to move back home where they could keep an eye on her and, as parents will do, lay down some law. She’d been attending Christian Chapel’s Bible Training Center, but that ended abruptly, as did her regular attendance at the services. I found out later that Shrill Voice, Crew Cut, and Rotund Ruffly—I’ll call them Susan, Pete, and Monica—actually planned to kidnap her so they could finish her healing and deliverance. Fortunately, a lawyer friend talked them out of it and it never happened. Sharon went back on her insulin, remained under a doctor’s care, and survived in spite of herself.
Most of this I learned from Vern after we got our own differences ironed out, which didn’t take long. We’d been mad at each other plenty of times before this. It came with the friendship.
As for the girl in the blue dress, her name was Marian Chiardelli.
She was eighteen, and turned out to be a deeply devoted Christian from a Baptist background. We spent several hours in the hospital waiting room, talking and comparing notes on religion, upbringing, and zealous friends like Sharon and Vern just to depressurize. She was just finishing high school and unsure of what she wanted to do.
I told her I was a musician but I didn’t say where or how.
She believed God could heal in answer to prayer and she wanted me to know that, but she was firmly convinced that tonight’s prayer vigil crossed the line of good sense. I desperately needed to hear someone else say that, and I easily agreed with her, although it would have been too difficult to elaborate. I was still haunted by the sameness of it, troubled by the bizarre reenactment of my painful memories.
Around midnight, a physician told us Sharon was out of danger. Sharon’s parents, Marian, and I went in to see her for a few minutes, restricting our conversation to safe topics.
By twelve-thirty in the morning, the crisis was over, and we were all tired. It was time to go home.
I shook Marian’s hand. “It was nice to meet you,” I said. “I enjoyed our talk very much.”
“Same here,” she said. “Thank you for all your help.”
We would go our separate ways in a matter of seconds and suddenly that concerned me. “I . . . I’d like to talk again sometime.”
She was picking up her handbag, slinging the strap over her shoulder. “I’m sure we will.”
Sharon’s parents were waiting to give me a ride to the ferry.
They were standing by the front door, looking back at me. I could feel the gravitational pull of their bodies. If I didn’t ask now, I may never get the chance again. “Say, uh, may I ask if it would be appropriate to ask if you might like to have dinner with me sometime?”
She smiled pleasantly. “I don’t think I would recommend it.
But I am flattered. Thank you.”
I retreated quickly, backing away, rescued from total humiliation by the presence of Sharon’s parents. “Hey, no problem. It was nice meeting you.”
Well, it wasn’t a rejection because I didn’t really ask, so I took it well, sort of. Her warmth and graciousness made the letdown easy.
Sharon’s parents gave me a lift to the ferry dock that night, and we had a nice visit on the way. They were thankful for what I had done and wanted to be sure I knew that. It made me feel a little better.
I was feeling better, anyway. As I sat in the ferry terminal waiting for the 2 A.M. ferry, I had time to reflect on matters Marian and I had been too busy talking for me to reflect on. It was encouraging to meet a girl so mature in the Lord already. After that whole thing with Amber, my thinking had been a little skewed regarding that possibility. I replayed our conversation in my mind, hoping I’d made it clear enough that I was saved, and worrying that perhaps I didn’t look saved enough. I also reflected on that long brown hair held in place by a silver barrette, those sparkling blue eyes, and the freckles on her nose. Imagine. All that wisdom, all that sweetness, that inner glow—and she was beautiful besides.
No, I wasn’t in love. After Amber, I’d learned my lesson. No more silly infatuations or crushes. No woman would have my heart again unless I really knew what I was getting into. I was going to go slowly and carefully into the next relationship, if there ever was one.
But boy, was I happy I’d met her!
WHEN I RESURFACED from the memory, I was seething, incredulous. The audacity! The calloused impudence!
Get a grip, Trav, I told myself. Nichols has his reasons for saying what he does. Remember that.
Yes. His reasons. What might they be?
I asked God why Brandon Nichols was doing this to me. He gave me only part of the answer in a small demonstration. When I hung up the phone with Nichols’s words still turning my insides, I almost started brooding about it. Almost. I could have resorted to my old behavior. I could have sunk into the couch with my chin on my hand or gone for an agitated walk or just paced around the house, but suddenly it hit me: I’d been sinking into the couch and going for walks and pacing the house and brooding about virtually everything for months. Did I really want to do that again?
No. Seeing a future with more brooding in it, I put the brakes on. Having come to a full stop, I suddenly realized that the Messiah
of Antioch liked me when I was broody. It made me a perfect pincushion for his little stabs. While he was finding just the right places to poke me, I was lying there like a lump and taking it—and then brooding about it.
Okay. That was part of the answer. As for the rest, that could be the key to the whole problem. I thought I should call Kyle.
The telephone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Travis, this is Linda Sherman. I’m sorry to bother you.” She sounded very bothered herself.
“Is Kyle all right?” I asked.
She was on the edge of crying. “I don’t know. He’s up at the ranch.”
“You don’t mean the Macon ranch.”
“Yes, the Macon ranch. He went up there to pray.” She quickly added, “He said he wasn’t going to go on the property. He just wanted to stand on the road. I couldn’t talk him out of it.” She must have heard my mournful sigh. Her voice took on a defensive tone. “Travis, I’d be up there with him except I have to watch the kids. But he hasn’t come home and I’m worried about him.”
“You want me to check on him?”
“And talk to him. He needs you, Travis. He respects you.”
That was news, considering how well we’d been getting along.
“He respects me?”
“Travis, every time we walk into that church and see all those people and how grounded they are in the Word and how much they love the Lord—and how much they love you—yes, we respect you. We can tell every place you’ve been.”
Words wouldn’t come. I didn’t know what to do with what she’d just said.
“Travis, please go talk to him.”
Linda wasn’t the only one telling me to go. “Okay. I’ll go right now.”
I FOUND KYLE sitting on the hood of his car, on the opposite side of the road from the big stone gate, his wrists on his knees and his fingers interlocked, peering up that long driveway. As I got out of my car, I could see he’d taken a blow. He didn’t leap to his feet or holler Praise God. He just gave me a tired little wave of greeting and looked up the driveway again. I walked over and sat beside him. The top of the ranch house was just visible beyond the distant rise, and to the left of it, the ridge of the big circus tent.
For a moment, we just sat there staring up the driveway. I’d never known Kyle to be so quiet.
Finally, I said, “I confronted Armond Harrison about his weird doctrines and sexual practices, and I raised the whole question about his belonging to the ministerial. I wrote a letter too—not to the newspaper, but to the other ministers, just asking if they had a problem with it. I guess I don’t have to tell you what happened, or what people said, or how some of the ministers felt.”
Kyle stared up the Macon driveway and said, “He isn’t Jesus Christ!”
“No. Of course he isn’t. But you have to remember, people like Brandon Nichols and Armond Harrison are always going to be around. If you use up all your energy trying to pull them down, you won’t have enough left to do the Lord’s business, building up the sheep and gaining new ones. You could crash and burn, and after you crash and burn, the bad guys will still be there. I guess you’ve noticed by now, there are people who like the bad guys. When you live in a world that likes bad guys, the bad guys don’t go away.”
“Dee Baylor’s left the church and she’s recruiting anyone she can find to follow this guy. Adrian and Roger have left, and now Adrian’s passing around notes from Jesus that say people shouldn’t listen to me.”
I considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Hm. That sounds about right.”
“It isn’t right! It’s deception! It’s going to cost people their souls!”
I put up my hand. Truce. “You’re right, you’re right. Just trying to give you a perspective, that’s all. Heresy loves company.”
He pointed his finger in my face and spoke like a preacher.
“He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing and he’s snatching my sheep! I’m not going to stand aside and let him do that.”
“Kyle, as far as Dee and Adrian are concerned, if it hadn’t been Nichols it would have been someone else. People like that don’t stay in one church very long. They go where the goodies are.”
“I won’t stand for it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Pray. That’s the first thing. I’m going to be up here every day praying that God will defeat this man and his lies.”
“But you’re going to be wise, aren’t you?”
He just about snapped at me, but I guess he got my point. He turned away, his pain showing.
I pressed it just a little, hoping he’d allow it. “Generally speaking, it’s not wise to walk right into the enemy’s cannon fire. A little caution, a little forethought, a little strategy never hurt anybody.”
“I don’t know how in the world he got those scars.”
“He told me they were nail scars.”
That turned his head. “He told you that?”
I nodded.
“When did you talk to him?”
“About an hour ago. He told me what happened between him and you. He sounded apologetic, if that helps.”
Kyle’s face seemed permanently twisted with amazement. “He talks to you?”
“Yeah. He calls and gives me regular updates.”
Kyle’s amazement twisted his face even more. “He calls you?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
I thought he’d never ask. “Heresy loves company. My hunch is, he’s looking for some kind of sympathy, some kind of justification for what he’s doing. He thinks I’ll agree with him.”
Kyle thought that over and then nodded with a hint of a smirk.
“I guess that shouldn’t surprise me.”
“But that gives us a handle on him, doesn’t it? He has a religious background he’s not happy about and something he has to prove.
He’s after me because he thinks we have something in common.
Well, if we have as much in common as he thinks we do, then I might know him better than I think.”
“Are you saying you’re going to help me?”
I remember thinking, Now how in the world did it come down to this? as I answered, “I guess that’s what it comes down to.”
I TOOK A SIDE TRIP along the river road just so the drive home would take longer. It was a nice day, I hadn’t been down that road yet this spring, and I didn’t feel like going home, not yet. I had the window rolled down, the smells of grass, wheat, and river water were rushing through the car, and I felt different. Not good, particularly— what I felt was a stirring in my heart I’d known before, a feeling that God was saying, Okay, Travis, here’s what I’d like you to do next.
Kyle and I prayed together before we each headed for home.
I prayed for him, he prayed for me, and we didn’t pray against Brandon Nichols as much as for him. As mysterious and sinister as he was, I knew, and tried to tell Kyle, that he had an unknown side that needed to be reached. How that would happen there was just no saying, but— Hold on! What was that in the river? I caught just a brief flicker of it through a break in the trees and brush.
I braked to a stop at the first gravel turnout and turned the car around. On any other day I might not have done that, but today—I don’t know, I guess I was expecting something. I drove back, spotted it again, and pulled off on the opposite shoulder from the river.
Only weeks ago, the Spokane River had been running high from the spring snow melt, its banks nearly submerged, its water pea green from fine, suspended silt. Now it was dropping toward its summer level, changing from green to crystalline blue, and leaving muddy banks where river grass grew tall and sodden drift logs came to rest. I walked to the edge of the riverbank and found out I was right: I really had seen the rear end of an automobile just breaking the surface. It was brown with mud and silt, which relieved my concern that I’d come upon a recent accident. By all appearances, the spring current had pushed it along until it came to
rest against a huge fallen log. I looked upriver. About thirty yards upstream was an embankment with access from the road.
The embankment dropped like a cliff toward the water, but during the spring run-off the water would have been up to the top edge, making it a perfect spot to ditch a car—or have an accident. That thought now plagued me.
The fallen log provided a nice bridge out to the car and I took it, leaving my shoes, socks, and wallet in the grass. The current was brisk, rippling over the log, the car’s trunk, and my ankles. The water was clear, however, and all I needed was an angle to avoid the glare of the sun off the water. Just above the rear bumper, I could see the license plate no more than a foot below the rushing surface.
It was muddy and obscured. Now I had to consider the temperature of the water, the quality of my clothes, and how far I would have to drive soaking wet.
I sat on the log and gasped as the cold water came up to my waist, then swept the mud away with my hand.
I could hardly breathe with the river chilling me, but I remained long enough to memorize the license number. Then, dripping and shivering, I hurried up the log and got out of there.
The effort may have been worth it. The car had a Montana license plate.
Thirteen
I GAVE BRETT HENCHLE a call and he came out to the river to have a look, putting on some waders and double-checking the license plate. I didn’t say anything about the car being from Montana and what that could mean. I was hoping he’d make the connection himself. If he did make the connection, he didn’t acknowledge it.
“Okay, I’ll check into it.” He threw his waders in the trunk of his squad car and drove off, leaving me standing alone on the riverbank, feeling let down. I wanted to think well of him. I wanted to believe he would be objective and do his job as a lawman, but . . . he had been healed by Brandon Nichols, hadn’t he?
The Frank Peretti Collection Page 72
