The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  A burly usher grabbed the arm of a little boy running by, whip-cracking him and hauling him in. The kid screamed bloody murder, kicking and punching as the usher carried him toward an exit. His mother popped up out of the vast, seated crowd and started hollering for him, tripping over chairs and feet trying to get out of her row.

  “Take him out!” said Nichols, and then he pointed to some other children still running loose. “And those too! That girl, and that girl, and those two boys, and that one running back there!

  Get them out of my sight!”

  Now there was a murmur in the crowd. People were looking at each other, whispering, concerned. This isn’t like Jesus, I could imagine them saying. Kyle and I drank it all in. I caught myself smiling again and put my hand over my mouth.

  Parents were popping up all over the crowd, working their way into the aisles, hollering, clapping, and finger-snapping at their kids. Some returned to their seats with their fussing children in tow. Many headed for the exits, indignant. For several minutes, two couples had to chase their kids around the tent and actually catch them before hauling them out, kicking and screaming.

  Nichols pointed an accusing finger and sighted down it at some latecomers meandering around in the back. “And you people! You’re late! Do you have any idea what message that sends to the rest of us, or to me? Now find your seats and please stop your talking!”

  Now this was quite a show. Brandon Nichols stood there like iron, scanning the crowd with a seething expression, waiting for his orders to be fulfilled. When it was quiet—nervously, tensely quiet—he said, “I hope today will set a precedent in your minds.

  We may be under a tent, but this is not a circus, nor is it a playground, and I am not here to compete with unruly children and gabby latecomers!” He drew a breath. “Now. Where was I?”

  He went on for a while, trying to throw in some jokes about the kid and latecomer problem but getting half-laughs for his trouble.

  His talk came to an anticlimactic ending, and I sensed that all of us—including Nichols—were just as happy to have it over.

  He moved on to the spectacle he was known for: going to people in the audience, apparently with no prior knowledge of who they were or what their problem was, and touching them.

  He ventured into the audience and started healing bad eyes, bad knees, bad lungs . . .

  A short but very fat woman came running down the aisle, reaching out toward him. Matt Kiley and two other toughs waylaid her and started walking—and almost dragging—her back to her seat.

  “You haven’t helped me!” she screamed at Nichols. “Look at me!

  Just look at me!”

  He’d been trying to ignore her, but finally pointed at her and growled into the wireless microphone, “It’s not my fault you’re fat!

  You’re fat because you lie around eating Big Macs and bonbons all day! Now sit down in however many chairs you have back there and be quiet. I’ve already touched you twice!”

  He did his best to recover his momentum, working his way around the two big tents, naming and healing sicknesses and sometimes granting favors. I watched in fascination. This used to be easy for him, but not tonight. People were getting out of their seats, clogging the aisles, shooting out their hands to touch him. “Back in your seats, people! Get back in your seats!” He had to repeat the same order, and then his head swiveled and his hair flew out sideways as he angrily searched the room. “Where are my ushers?”

  Matt and his heavies could only hold so many back before others broke through the line. They were wrestling with four or five petitioners when a young, trench-coated man broke through and almost tackled Nichols. Nichols spun around and gave the man a shove that floored him. “Don’t touch me! Just keep your hands off, all right?” He beat away another hand reaching toward him. “Get away! I told you before, I don’t heal procrastination! And you! If you want a million dollars, try working! What do you think I am, a genie?”

  A man behind me quipped, “Welcome to earth, God!”

  Kyle and I cracked up, careful to do it quietly.

  WHEN MATT KILEY bumped up against me with an invitation to meet with Nichols, he made it sound as if I had no choice. I followed him into Mrs. Macon’s living room to find Antioch’s Messiah pacing and cursing, his brand-new perm getting a little frizzy. “Get out of here, Matt! If I need you I’ll call you.”

  Matt didn’t take kindly to being barked at, but he left us alone.

  Justin Cantwell—that’s what I now called him—went to Mrs.

  Macon’s mini-bar and poured himself a drink. He did it so hurriedly I thought he’d spill it. “Travis, you are wasting your time, as always. There is nothing to discover in Nechville, nothing that you don’t already know. You’ve already been there, believe me!”

  “I have to follow it up. You ought to know that.”

  I thought he’d throw his drink at me, but he contained himself.

  “LIES! All you will hear is lies! Travis, they’ve done the same thing to you as to me: It’s all your fault! You’re the one who’s out of step, out of God’s will, full of sin, destined for hell! You’re the one who has to give up his questions and fall in line! You’re the one who has his whole life shredded to pieces—” He spread his arms and drawled like a southern preacher. “All, uh, in the nime of raaghteousness!”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  He gulped from his drink and leered at me. “You think you can analyze me? There’s no fear here, Travis! Not of you, not of the kid preacher you dragged along. Why’d you bring him, anyway?

  For backup?”

  “Of course.”

  He just rolled his eyes at me. “Oh, I’m petrified!” Then he took another swallow. “I am upset, that’s obvious. I’m upset at you and your refusal to let the slightest clue penetrate that skull of yours. I’m upset at all those people out there and all their crap!” He paced in tight little circles, his hand messing up his permed hair. “The people in George Harding’s RV park think they should have equal time parking up here like the others, the people parking up here want lifetime spaces and special rest room privileges. They bring all their kids but nobody wants to take charge of them. Some don’t like the music. Some want more music. The chairs are too hard. It’s too hot in the tent. It’s too cold. I’ve got a bunch of old people who won’t sit anywhere but clear in the back and then complain because they can’t hear. I’ve got another bunch who are always late—always!—and have a different excuse every time! I’ve got four different factions in a big fight over what to do with our Web site—and we don’t even have a Web site!”

  I smiled gleefully. I couldn’t help it. “Having a little trouble there, Justin?”

  “Why are you smiling? You did no better!”

  I gave a little shrug. “I lasted longer. Hey, Justin, fifteen years in this town. You haven’t even gotten to year one.”

  “I’ve got six hundred followers. Top that!”

  “And no one to run the nursery.”

  He refilled his glass and paced toward the fireplace. “I’m not worried about it. It’s only a wrinkle in the process. We’ll iron it out.”

  He rested his arm on the mantle and took another gulp. “But if you had these people in your church! They’re asking for fancy cars now, and houses, and bags of money! Can you believe that? That same guy was back today, wanting me to heal him of procrastination.

  Procrastination, as if it’s my fault he can’t get his act together!”

  “I thought you said you give them what they want.”

  “But they never stop wanting! I healed a guy’s thyroid. He came back the next week wanting me to heal his baldness, and then he came back wanting me to help him play piano better, and this week he came back with three friends who want to be more sexually attractive! There’s that other woman who wants me to make her thin but she won’t stop eating, and this other jerk who wants to be rich but never worked a day in his life.”

  I could only shrug. “What did
you expect?”

  “They could grow up a little.”

  I feigned wide-eyed surprise. “They have to grow up? Really?”

  He threw back his drink, drained it, and slammed down the glass.

  “You may as well stop gloating, Travis! They are going to fall in line!

  It’s going to happen, believe me, and I hope you’ll be around!” He went to the couch, sat down, then got right up again. His hands wouldn’t stop moving, his fingers drumming. “Elise. One of the Cathedral’s finest. Did she bother telling you how I reached out to her, tried to comfort her, tried to bring some minuscule token of human warmth into her life?”

  “She did.”

  That answer seemed to mollify him, if only slightly. “I was trying to prevent another casualty.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  “Then why are you going to Nechville?”

  I’d never seen that crazed look in his eyes before. It made me take note of how I could avoid the furniture and how far it was to the door. “Easy, Justin, easy. I’m here to talk to you first. You can save me the trip.”

  “You will not corner me!”

  I threw up my hands, palms forward. “Okay, okay. Just be mindful of who’s forcing whose hand here.”

  He leaned against the hearth again, glaring at the flames, silent and brooding. After a long, uncomfortable moment, he faced me directly, his lip drooping into a sneer. “So, go to Nechville! You’ll recognize it. It’s where we started, you and me.” He looked away as if viewing it in his mind’s eye. “Meet my daddy. Talk to my mom.

  Hear what a lie really sounds like. Maybe you’ll finally wake up.”

  Finally, he looked at me. “When you come back, we’ll talk about it, have a drink, compare notes. I’ll enjoy seeing your conversion.” He pointed his finger at me. “Just be sure you find out everything!”

  “Have you got your mom’s phone number?”

  He turned away. “It’s your voyage.”

  I FOUND MY OWN WAY OUT to the front porch where Kyle was waiting. We moved toward the parking lot. Most of the cars were gone by now. The RV people were milling around their big vehicles, apparently discussing the meeting—their faces weren’t this glum the last time I was here.

  “What do you think?” Kyle asked.

  “He’s heading for rough water,” I replied. “And you and I are part of the storm.”

  “I think we’re being followed.”

  I had no reason not to look back. The moment I did, a hooded figure walked faster, moving toward us, looking down, face concealed.

  We were near my car. “Let’s get the doors open.”

  Kyle opened a rear door as an invitation, then got in the front passenger seat. I got behind the wheel and then beckoned to the hooded stranger to hurry and get in.

  The figure slipped quickly into the back seat and closed the door. “Thank you. Please get me out of here.”

  I started the engine and got moving. “Better lie down.”

  She slumped over, the hood of her coat over her face.

  It was Sally Fordyce. We knew her voice, and saw part of her face as she climbed in. It was bruised yellow, green, and black. One eye was swollen shut.

  I reached over and locked all the doors with the autolock.

  “Lie still,” Kyle cautioned her without looking back. “We’ll get you out of here.”

  “Please hurry.”

  “Just keep calm,” I said. “We aren’t going to stop, not for anybody.”

  We drove past the parking lot attendants in their bright orange vests. One eyed us suspiciously, his walkie-talkie close to his jaw. I couldn’t be sure if he knew. I kept driving, not looking his way in case he tried to signal me. I turned down the driveway and added some speed. In a few minutes, we were out on the highway. I hit the accelerator.

  Kyle turned. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  She sat up but kept her hood around her face, embarrassed.

  “No. Brandon wouldn’t allow it.”

  I could see her face in the rearview mirror. “You’d better see a doctor. I’m not kidding.”

  “I want to go home first.”

  Kyle was visibly angry. “Did he do this to you?”

  She broke down weeping as she nodded. “He’s going crazy.”

  “What about Mary Donovan?” I asked.

  “She’s okay.” She could see us both giving her a second look and added, “She’s not one of his lovers.”

  Kyle flopped back in his seat. “Lord, help us . . .”

  “Oh, great!” I said.

  “What?”

  I was watching the rear window past Sally’s battered face and saw blue lights flashing.

  Kyle twisted around and looked back. “It’s Henchle!”

  Sally wailed, “NO! Don’t stop!”

  “Take it easy,” I said, watching the image in my mirror.

  She was desperate, frantic. “He’s working for Brandon, can’t you see that? He’s trying to take me back.”

  “She’s probably right,” said Kyle.

  I wanted more. “Sally, listen to me. That’s a police officer back there. I have to stop.”

  “NO!”

  “Then I need a good reason not to.”

  She dropped the hood from her face. I could see Kyle’s face twist with horror and disgust.

  “Trav, she’s been bleeding.”

  I saw enough in the rearview mirror to turn my stomach.

  “You think Brandon would want people to see this?” she asked.

  Kyle took her side. “Brandon’s the one who beat up Sally, so why’s Henchle chasing us?”

  Did I trust Brett Henchle? Not anymore. “Okay, okay, we won’t stop. But I want witnesses.” I grabbed up the cell phone lying next to the gear shift and handed it to Kyle. “Sally, what’s your home phone number?”

  She said her number and Kyle tapped it in.

  “Tell Meg and Charlie we’re taking Sally to the clinic and to meet us there. Tell them to bring some friends. And then call 911 and tell them we’re transporting a beating victim to the clinic—and you can tell them we’re being escorted by Officer Brett Henchle.”

  Then I prayed out loud, “And Lord, please help us.”

  I caught Sally’s eye in the mirror. “Don’t worry, Sally. I’m not stopping, not for anybody.”

  Twenty-Five

  BRETT TURNED ON his siren. My heart was pounding and I felt guilty—hey, I was disobeying an officer—but I kept going, driving under the speed limit. Sally whimpered and cowered in the back seat, her hood over her face.

  “Lord God, send your angels to help us!” Kyle prayed aloud, and then said into the cell phone, “Hello, Mrs. Fordyce?” He was too excited to talk slowly. He had to keep repeating himself. “We’re on our way now. We’re on our way into town. No, we’re on the highway west of town, going into town. No, Sally’s in the car with us. She’s in our car. We’re going to the clinic. No, the clinic.”

  I could see Henchle through his windshield, talking on his radio. I rolled down my window and signaled with my arm for him to come alongside. He gunned his big engine and pulled up beside us, rolling his window down.

  “Pull the car over, Travis!” he hollered, jabbing the air with his finger.

  “We’re transporting an injury victim to the clinic!”

  “Pull the car over!”

  In my right ear, Kyle was talking to the 911 dispatcher. “We’re inbound on the highway west of town. Yeah, that’s right. Officer Henchle is—well, he’s right beside us at the moment.”

  Henchle shouted over the roar of our engines, our tires, and the wind, “Stop and we’ll transfer the victim to my vehicle!”

  “She can’t be moved!” Well, it was going to be the truth as far as I could help it.

  “Pull over—” And then he swore, hitting his brakes, ducking his car behind us just in time to avoid an oncoming semi.

  “This could get hazardous,” I said, slowing down to thirty. We were approaching t
he edge of town.

  “Now the dispatcher’s telling us to stop,” Kyle reported. Then he told the dispatcher, “Why don’t we just all meet at the clinic?

  Huh? Well, could you call Officer Henchle and explain our situation? And tell him he doesn’t need to be sounding that stupid siren.

  What?” He listened, then told me, “Henchle’s called for a backup.

  Rod Stanton’s going to block the road into town.”

  “I see him,” I replied.

  Rod’s squad car was parked along the highway at the western edge of town, but something was a little odd. Cars were slowing in our lane, brake lights shining, and there were people standing in the street and gathering on either side. I gathered we weren’t the only show in town. I slowed.

  “Oh no,” I said.

  “Oh no,” Kyle echoed.

  “What?” said Sally, leaning forward between the front seats.

  There was another Jesus standing in the middle of the highway, a long-haired, bearded man in white robe and sandals. He was blond, and I could imagine him being a yoga-humming, yogurt-eating surfer in California before coming to Antioch to try the messiah game. He appeared to have a whip in his hand and he was flailing each car as it passed, hollering and preach-pointing with his free hand. The first car passed him by, and then the next. The third stopped to listen and I could see the passengers snapping pictures through the closed windows. I was coming up behind them.

  Stuck between False Christ Number Two and a cop! I couldn’t stop with Henchle after me, but the right lane wasn’t moving. A car came by us in the opposing lane, and then I pulled around, hoping to get by.

  This latest Jesus put out his hand and stood right in front of me, ranting and raving about something.

  “What’s he saying?” Sally asked.