The Visitation 

By: Frank Perrety

Category: Fiction Religeon

Synopsis:

No synopsis available.

THE HAMMER RANG against the nail, piercing skin, cutting Ivessels. It
rang against the nail, piercing muscle, chipping bone. It rang against
the nail, anchoring arm to rough-hewn wood.

It rang. It rang. It rang.

And then the ringing stopped, and the young man hung there under the
scorching sun, faint with pain, alone. He could not shift his weight,
flex his knees, or even turn his head without feeling the fire of the
nails. His wrists were swelling around the nail heads. His blood was
drying in the sun, turning brown on the wood.

He cried out, but God did not listen. It could have been God who drove
the nails, then put his hammer down and turned away, smiling in victory.
It could have been God who left him to bake and bleed in the sun, unable
to stand, unable to fall, as the sun marked the passing hours across the
cloudless sky Stinking with sweat. Crimson with sunburn. Dried blood
crackling around the nails. Pain the only reality.

He cried out, but in the cauldron of his sun-boiled mind he heard only
the voices of his accusers and the ringing, ringing, ringing of the
hammer—sounds that would forever haunt his memory and echo through his
nightmares.

'You're a child of the devil,” they said. A child of the devil who
needed to be contained.

A child of the devil?

He cried out once again, and this time, a voice, a mind, answered and a
power coursed through him. Suddenly, he could bear the pain and make it
friel for his will. With burning will, he determined he would live.

And living, he knew what he would do.

SALLY left the house as soon as the breakfast dishes were done, walking
a little, jogging a little along Highway 9—a narrow,
straight-as-a-string two-lane with a fading white line and an evenly
spaced parade of utility poles. This was eastern Washington State, quiet
and solitary. Wheat fields, spring green, stretched in every direction
over the prairie swells. Straight ahead, the highway dipped and rose
gently into the distance until it narrowed to a vanishing point at the
far horizon. The sun was warm, the breeze a little biting. It was April.

Sally was nineteen, blonde, slightly overweight, and severely unhappy,
mainly because she was no longer married. She had believed everything
Joey, the trucker, told her about love, and how she was that girl
silhouetted on his mud flaps. The marriage—if it happened at all—lasted
three months. When he found another woman more 'intellectually
stimulating," Sally was bumped from the truck's sleeper and found
herself coming full circle, right back to being Charlie and Meg's
daughter living at home again. She had to keep her room clean, help with
dinner and dishes, get home by eleven, and attend the Methodist church
with them every Sunday.

Again, her life was not her life.

She had tasted freedom, she thought, but she was turned away.

She had no wings to fly and nowhere to fly even if she did. Life wasn't
fair. (To hear Charlie tell it, he and Meg must have made up a list of
all the dumb mistakes they hoped she would never make and given her a
copy. Needless to say, things were tense.) Even before she tried Joey,
the trucker, Sally used to find escape out on the wheat prairie in the
stillness of the morning. Now she returned, even fled to this place. Out
here, she heard no voice but her own thoughts, and her thoughts could
say whatever they wanted. She could pray too, sometimes aloud, knowing
no one but God would hear her. 'Dear God, please don't leave me stuck
here.

If you're there, send a miracle. Get me out of this mess.” In all
fairness, it was past time for Sally to feel that way. Except for those
who had wheat farming in their blood and couldn't wait to climb on a
combine, most everyone growing up in Antioch heard a call from
elsewhere—anywhere—sooner or later. When they came of age, all the kids
who could find a way out left—usually—for good.

Sally had come of age, all right, but had not found a way out. Charlie
and Meg would probably tell you that she was not the kind to look for
one, either. She was still waiting for itto come to her.

The halfway point of her jog was a spreading cottonwood at the top of a
shallow rise, the only tree in sight. It was monstrous, and had to have
been growing there long before the roads, farms, or settlers came along.
Sally double-timed her way up the rise and was breathing hard by the
time she reached it. She'd developed a routine: Every day she braced
herself against the huge trunk and stretched out her leg muscles, then
sat and rested for a moment between two prominent roots on the south
side. Recently, a short prayer for a miracle had also become part of the
routine.

The stretches went easily enough. She had cooled down, her breathing had
settled, she could feel the flush in her cheeks from the exercise and
the cool air.

She rounded the tree— And almost jumped out of her skin.

A man was sitting between the two roots, exactly in her spot, his back
against the gnarled trunk and his wrists draped lazily over his knees.
He had to have been there all during her stretching-out, and she was
immediately curious, if not offended, that he had said or done nothing
to indicate his presence.

'Oh!” she gasped, then caught her breath. 'Hello. I didn't see you
there.” He only chuckled and smiled at her with a kindly gaze. He was a
remarkably handsome man, with olive skin, deep brown eyes, and tightly
curled black hair. He was young, perhaps as young as she was. 'Good
morning, Sally. Sorry if I startled you.” She probed her memory. 'Have
we met before?” He shook his head teasingly. 'No.” 'Well, who are you?”
'I'm here to bring you a message. Your prayers have been heard, Sally.
Your answer is on his way. Be looking for him.” She looked away for only
a moment, just a slight, eye-rolling gesture of consternation. 'Be
looking for who—?” He was gone.

'Hey!” She walked around the cottonwood, looked up and down the road and
across every field, and even looked straight up the trunk of the tree.

He was gone, just like that, as if he'd never been there.

After one more hurried trip around the tree, she stopped, a hand against
the trunk to steady herself, her eyes scanning the prairie. Her heart
was beating faster than when she'd come up the rise. Her breathing was
rapid and shallow. She was shaking.

AT OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS CHURCH in Antioch, Arnold Kowalski was busy
dust-mopping the quaint little sanctuary, pushing the wide broom between
the pews and down the center aisle, moving a little slowly but doing a
thorough job. Arnold had been a soldier, a carpenter, a diesel mechanic,
and a mail carrier, and now, since retiring, he had taken upon himself
the unofficial title of church custodian. It wasn't a paid position,
although the church

did provide a little monetary gift for him each month as an expression
of love and gratitude. He just did it for God, a few hours a few days a
week, pure and simple. It brought him joy, and besides, he liked being
in this place.

He'd been a devout member of Our Lady of the Fields for some forty years
now. He never missed Sunday morning mass if he could help it. He never
failed to make it to confession, though now at seventy-two the
confessions were getting shorter and the penance easier. He liked to
think that God was happy with him. He considered himself happy enough
with God.

Except for one thing, one minor grief he had to carry as he moved slowly
down the center aisle pushing his broom. He couldn't help wishing that
God would pay just a little attention to Arnold's artliritis. It used to
flare up occasionally; now it was only on occasion that it didn't. He
was ashamed to think such a thought, but he kept thinking it anyway:
Here I am serving God, but God keeps letting it hurt. His hands
throbbed, his feet ached. His knuckles cried out no matter which way he
gripped the broom. He was never one to complain, but today, he almost
felt like crying.

Maybe I'm not serving God enough, he thought. Maybe I need to work
longer. Maybe f I didn't take any money for what I do here... What am I
missing? he wondered. What am I leaving out?

He always took off his hat when he entered the building and blessed
himself before entering the sanctuary. Right now, as usual, he was
wearing his blue coveralls. Perhaps a tie would show more respect.

He pushed a little more dust and dirt down the center aisle until he
stepped into a beam of sunlight coming through a stained-glass window.
The sun felt warm on his back and brought him comfort, as if it were
God's hand resting on his shoulders. From this spot he could look up at
the carved wooden crucifix hanging above the altar. He caught the gaze
of the crucified Christ.

'I don't want to complain,” he said. Already he felt he was overstepping
his bounds. 'But what harm would it do? What difference would it make to
this big wide world if one little man didn't have so much pain?” It
occurred to Arnold that he had addressed God in anger. Ashamed, he
looked away from those gazing wooden eyes.

But the eyes drew him back, and for a strange, illusory moment they
seemed alive, mildly scolding, but mostly showing compassion as a father
would show to a child with a scraped knee. Sunlight from another window
brought out a tiny sparkle in the corners of the eyes, and Arnold had to
smile. He could almost imagine those eyes were alive and wet with tears.

The sparkle grew, spreading from the corners of the eyes and reaching
along the lower eyelids.

Arnold looked closer. Where was the light coming from that could produce
such an effect? He looked above and to the right.

It had to be coming through that row of small windows near the ceiling.
To think he'd been attending this church for so many years and never
noticed this before. It looked just as if— A tear rose over the edge of
the eyelid and dropped onto the wooden cheek, tracing a thin wet trail
down the face and onto the beard.

Arnold stared, frozen, his mind stuck between seeing and believ- ing. He
felt no sense of awe, no overshadowing spiritual presence.

He heard no angelic choir singing in the background. All he knew was
that he was watching a wooden image shed tears as he stood there dumbly.

Then his first coherent thought finally came to him. I have to get up
there. Yes, that was the thing to do; that would settle it. He hurried
as fast as the pain in his feet would allow him and brought a ladder
from the storeroom in back. Pausing before the altar to bless himself,
he stepped around the altar and carefully leaned the ladder against the
wall. Every climbing step brought a sharp complaint from his feet, but
he gritted his teeth, grimaced, and willed himself up the ladder until
he came eye to eye, level to level with the carved face.

His eyes had not been playing tricks on him. The face, only a third
life-sized, was wet. He looked above to see if there was a leak in the
ceiling but saw no sign of a stain or drip. He leaned close to study the
image for any sign of a device or some kind of trickery.

Nothing.

He reached, then hesitated from the very first tinge of fear. Just THE
VISITATiON

what was he about to touch? Dear God, don't hurt me. He reached again,
shakily extending his hand until his fingertips brushed across the wet
trail of the tears.

He felt a tingling, like electricity, and jerked his hand away with a
start. It wasn't painful, but it scared him, and his hand began to
quiver.

Electric sensations shot up his arm like coundess little bees swarming
in his veins. He let out a quiet little yelp, then gasped, then yelped
again as the sensation flowed across his shoulders, around his neck,
down his spine. He grabbed the ladder and held it tightly, afraid he
would topple off.

A strong grip.

A grip without pain. He stared at his hand. The vibration buzzed, and
swirled under his skin, through his knuckles, across his palms, through
his wrists. He lightened his grip, tightened it again, held on with one
hand while he opened and closed the other, wiggling and flexing the
fingers.

The pain was gone. His hands were strong.

The current rushed down his legs, making his nerves tingle and his
muscles twitch. He hugged the ladder, his hands glued to the rungs, a
cry bouncing off the wall only inches from his nose. He was shaking,
afraid he would fall. He cried out, gasped, trembled, cried out again.

The electricity the sensation—whatever it was—enveloped his feet and his
scream echoed through the building.

SUNDAY, PASTOR KYLE SHERMAN prayed the prayer of benediction, the
pianist and organist began playing the postlude—a modern rendition of
'Be Still My Soul”—and the congregation of the Antioch Pentecostal
Mission rose to leave. The after-service shuffling was the same as one
would see in any church. Folks gathered up their coats, Bibles, Sunday
school papers, and children, then formed slow-moving clusters in the
aisles and doorways to joke and chat. Families, singles, friends, and
visitors passed through the main doorway where the young pastor stood to
shake their hands and greet them. Kids went as wild as their parents
would tolerate, running outside after being scolded for running inside.

Dee Baylor was among the departing saints that day. A steady and
constant presence at Antioch Mission, she was a robust, heavyset woman
in her forties with a prominent nose and hair that added measurably to
her height. Short, mousy Blanche Davis and tightly permed, blue-rinsed
Adrian Folsom were walking with her across the gravel parking lot as the
three worked excitedly to keep the Christian grapevine alive.

'That's all he said?” Adrian asked.

Dee didn't mind repeating the story or any part of it. 'Just that ‘her
answer was on his way.' And according to Sally he said his way, not its
way.” 'So who was he talking about?” asked Blanche.

'Maybe her future husband,” Adrian ventured. 'God told me I was going to
marry Roger.” 'So what about the crucifix at the Catholic church?”
Blanche wondered.

'You can't limit God,” Dee answered.

'No, you can't limit God,” Adrian agreed with extra insistence in her
voice.

'But a weeping statue?” Blanche asked, making a crinkled face.

'That sounds awfully Catholic to me.” 'Well, it's something a Catholic
would understand.” Blanche considered that in silence.

'We need to be seeking the Lord,” said Dee, her eyes closing
prayerfully. 'We need to be expecting. God has plans for Antioch.

I think the Lord is ready to pour out his Spirit on this town.” 'Amen.”
That was what Blanche wanted to hear.

'Amen,” Adrian echoed.

Dee looked up at the sky as if looking toward heaven. The clouds were
breaking up now. Patches of blue were beginning to show, promising a
pleasant afternoon.

Adrian and Blanche walked and continued the conversation until they
noticed they were by themselves. They looked back.

'Dee?” She was standing still, clutching her Bible to her bosom and
looking heavenward, her lips moving rapidly as she whispered in another
language.

'Dee?” They hurried to her side. 'What is it?” All she could do was
point, then gasp, her hand over her mouth.

Adrian and Blanche looked quickly, afraid something might fall on them.
They saw nothing but billowing clouds and patches of blue sky.

'I see Jesus,” Dee said in a hushed voice. Then, raisin gone hand toward
the sky she shouted ecstatically, 'Jesus! I see you, I see you!” Brother
Norheim walked by. He was old, bent, and hard of hearing, but a
respected church pillar. He knew how a church should be run and how the
Spirit moved and how to properly wash out the communion cups so as not
to offend the Lord. When he started 'Bless the Lord, 0 My Soul” from his
pew in the evening service, everybody sang right along whether Linda
Sherman could find the right key on the piano or not. He could see the
ladies were excited about something.

'What are you looking at?” 'I see the Lord!” Dee gasped, and then she
broke into a song.

'I see the Lord.. . I see the Lord... He is high and lifted up, and his
train fills the temple!” Adrian and Blanche kept staring at the clouds,
hoping to spot something, making quick sideways glances at each other
for clues.

Brother Norheim looked the sky over, smiling with three golden teeth and
three gaps. 'The firmament showeth his handiwork!” 'What do you see?”
Adrian finally asked. Dee pointed. 'Don't you see him? Right there! He's
looking right at us!” Adrian and Blanche looked carefully, following the
point of Dee's finger. Finally, Blanche drew in a slow, awe-struck gasp.

'Yeeesssss. . . Yes, I see him! I see him!” II

'Where?” Adrian cried. 'I don't see him.” 'Isn't that incredible!”
Adrian put her head right next to Blanche's, hoping to gain the same
perspective. 'Show me.” Blanche pointed. 'See? There's the top of his
head, and there's his ear and his beard. .

Adrian let out a crowlike squawk she usually saved for funny jokes and
deep revelations. 'AXVWXV! You're right! You're right!” Now all three
women were pointing and looking while Dee kept singing in and out of
English. Brother Norheim moved on, glad to see the saints on fire, but
others came alongside to see what the commotion was all about. Dave
White, the contractor, saw the face right away, but his wife, Michelle,
never did. Adrian's husband, Roger, saw the face, but found it an
amusing coincidence and nothmg more. Don and Melinda Forester, a new
couple in church, both saw the face but disagreed on which direction it
was looking. Their kids, Tony and Pammie, ages eight and six, saw Jesus
but also saw several different animals on top of his head.

'Look!” said Adrian. 'He's holding a dove in his hand, you see that?”
'Yeeahhhhh. . .' Dave White said in a hushed voice, his face filled with
awe.

'He's ready to pour out his Spirit!” Dee announced with a prophetic
waver in her voice. 'Eh, beats me,” said Roger, squinting at the sky.

'He's speaking to us in these last days!” 'You're crazy,” Michelle
insisted. 'I don't see anything.” 'Hey Pastor Sherman!” Tony yelled. 'We
see Jesus in the clouds!” 'There'is a rooster!” Pammie squealed.

'IT JUST KEPT GOING FROM THERE,” Kyle Sherman told me.

The three women started seeing all kinds of things because the clouds
kept changing. For a while Jesus had a dove in his hand, and

then after that he turned into a door—you know, the door to the
sheepfold, the door to heaven, whatever you want—and then—” Kyle looked
toward the ceiling as he recalled the appearance of the sky. '... a
flame, I think.” He drew it in the air with his hand.

'Kind of wavy, you know, up and down like a pillar of fire.” Kyle hadn't
used any names up to this point, so I asked him, 'Are we talking about
Dee Baylor?” He nodded, looking abashed.

'Adrian Folsom and Blanche Davis?” Kyle nodded again, a reluctant yes.

'Makes sense,” I said, picking up my coffee cup and taking another
swallow.

It was Monday, the typical pastor's day off. Kyle Sherman and I were
sitting at my kitchen table with coffee cups and a bag of Oreo cookies
between us. He was still in his twenties, dark-haired, wiry, a fresh
horse ready to gallop. For the past four months, he'd been at this table
in this little house several times, keeping in touch and trying to be a
good shepherd.

And hoping to keep some strays from straying further, I surmised. I know
I caught his attention the moment he arrived to take over the pastorate.
I was still the official pastor until I passed my mantle to him, but I
was conspicuously missing. Antioch Pentecostal Mission had a pastor—a
former pastor—who couldn't go near the place.

Kyle immediately did the pastoral thing by coming after—coming to—me and
becoming a regular part of my life, welcome or not. The minister in me
understood what he was doing and admit- ted that, if I were in Kyle's
place, I would have done the same. As for the rest of me. . . well, I'll
get to that.

Today's visit was decidedly different from the others, however.

I hadn't heard quite so many Praise Gods or Hallelujahs from Kyle today.
I could tell the spiritual escapades of Dee Baylor and com- pany were
weighing on him.

'Dee seems like she's—” Kyle was either struggling for words or waiting
for me to fill in the blanks.

‘3

I filled in the blanks. 'Dee is a follower with followers. Meg Fordyce
has a little prayer and praise meeting at her house once a week, and Dee
gets out there pretty often. Just put it together from there.” I could
see a light bulb coming on, but Kyle apparently wasn't comfortable with
my drift. 'I'm not sure I follow you.” 'Kyle, it's simple. Meg told Dee
about Sally seeing an angel.

That means someone else is getting a special visitation from God that
Dee isn't getting. You don't get something from God without Dee getting
it too. She won't allow it.” Kyle actually looked disappointed. 'So what
about Sally? You think she made the whole thing up?” 'You can talk to
Charlie and Meg about Sally. It's up to you, but no, I don't believe
her. It sounds too much like the vanishing hitchhiker.” Kyle laughed.
'You've heard about that, right?” 'Oh yeah.” He paused. 'So Dee's
copycatting?” 'No, with Dee you get it back with interest. Sally saw an
angel.

Dee's seeing Jesus.” But Kyle shook his head, still unsettled. 'They're
excited, Travis. And not just Dee and Adrian and Blanche, but the
Whites, the Foresters—” 'Excited about what? Jesus in the sky with a
rooster on his head?” 'Pammie thought it was a rooster.” 'Hey, you asked
me.” I set my coffee cup down on the table like a judge closing a case
with a gavel.

'So what about Arnold Kowalski?” I made a conscious effort not to roll
my eyes. 'Didn't a statue of Elvis start crying once?” I looked in my
empty coffee cup and then at the coffee maker. There were still at least
two cups in there.

'You need a refill?” 'No thanks.” I got up and poured another cup for
myself. 'Maybe Arnold Kowalski is the Catholic version of Dee Baylor.” I
could tell from Kyle's tone that he was getting impatient with me.

'No, now come on, Travis. Kowalski went to Dr. Trenner down in

Davenport, and he took x-rays and the whole thing. He says the arthritis
is gone.” I sat down, my hand still on the handle of my coffee cup, and
just looked at him. 'What do you want me to say, Kyle?” He sighed. 'Just
say what you think.” 'I've already said what I think.” He stared at his
empty coffee cup, dragging it by the handle in little zigzags around the
table. 'But you don't suppose God could surprise us once in a while? You
know, do something we weren't expecting?” I leaned forward. 'Kyle, what
these people experienced, they expected. Trust me.” I leaned back,
sipped my coffee, and tried to come up with some closing comment. 'If
you want my advice, I'd say don't sweat it. This kind of thing comes and
goes and the wrinkles wash out eventually.” 'I just need to take a
position on all this.” The very thought of someone else having to take a
position gave me a dark little pleasure. 'Yeah, you're the one who has
to remain stable, aren't you? Well, it won't hurt to let the jury stay
out a while.” 'I think Dee and Adrian are watching the clouds again
today—” There was a knock at the front door.

'It's Rene,” I said, then hollered, 'Come in!” She came in. 'Hi, Tray.”
Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was wearing her
old green sweats, same is she did every time she came over.

I introduced my big sister to the new pastor, and I took pleasure m
another thought: Rene lived in Spokane, so she didn't have to worry
about Kyle calling on her.

'Don't let me disturb you,” she said, turning toward the bedroom.

'We were just finishing up.” 'Uh—” Kyle fished around for his lost
thought but apparently found another one. 'Anyway, the ministerial's
going to meet to- morrow morning to talk about all this. I think Nancy
Barrons is going to be there.

‘5

'Great,” I said. 'Newspaper coverage. That'll put the fire out.” Kyle
raised an eyebrow at me. 'Hey, Travis, the whole town's buzzing about
this. There's a lot going on out there and you're missing it.

I smiled. That made three pleasurable thoughts in a row.

Rene came out of the bedroom with my laundry basket. She was giving me a
look, most likely a comment on how full that basket should have been but
was not after a week.

Kyle was still talking. 'Anyway, why don't you come with me?

I haven't gotten to know all the ministers yet. You can introduce me,
sit in and listen, have some input.” It was a ploy, pure and simple, and
not the first time Kyle had tried to get me moving in the old church
circles again. I gave a little disarming chuckle and wagged my head.

'It'll be at the Catholic church. We'll all get a chance to look at that
weeping crucifix.” I made a face. I couldn't help it. 'Get real!” Kyle
just raised his hands in surrender to logic. 'Hey, you can bicker about
hearsay or you can go straight to the source and see it for yourself.”
'And sit down with all those ministers again? Not this year, thank you.”
Rene walked behind me to the refrigerator and checked my supply of
frozen meals and leftovers.

Kyle looked at me for a moment, and I knew I wouldn't like his next
question. 'Do they have something to do with it?” 'To do with what?”
'Yes,” Rene answered.

I shot her a glance over my shoulder and she shot me one back.

Kyle had no fear of thin ice. 'With you resigning your pulpit, sitting
here in this little house all by yourself—” 'Never changing your
clothes,” Rene cut in, 'not shaving, not cleaning up—” 'I change my
clothes!” I said.

She looked at the laundry basket on the floor. 'There's only one shirt
in there. Have you worn that same shirt all week?”

I looked down at the shirt I was wearing. I couldn't remember how long
I'd worn it. 'I like this shirt.” I turned back to Kyle. 'And you're
living in the parsonage now, with my blessing. You're welcome to it”

Kyle raised his hands to show a truce. 'I didn't mean..

'Trav we're not trying to pick a fight.”

No, they weren't picking a fight. It was just the same old dilemma:
friends whose loving concern keeps stumbling into your raw nerves, with
every irritating stab well meant. I stared at my coffee cup because I
couldn't look at them.

'It's your life, I know that,” Kyle said gently. 'We just care about
you, that's all.” Then you might come up with a solution I haven't heard
already, I thought.

But I didn't say it Out loud. We had already had that conversation and
it got us nowhere. Instead, I just looked at him, managed a smile, and
reminded myself that I really did love this kid—sorry, this man. This
fresh new pastor, this up-and-coming man of God with the young, pretty,
piano-playing wife and the two energetic kids. I reminded myself that
twenty years ago I was sitting in his place. I was thinking the same
things, offering the same solutions, excited for the same reasons. Man,
did that feel like a long time ago!

'Thanks for the invitation,” I said finally. 'Not this time.

Maybe later, when I've got something better to say for myself.”

He returned my smile. 'Okay.” And to his credit, he dropped the subject.
'I gotta get going. Give me a call if you change your mind.” With that
he rose, patted me on the back, and headed for the front door.

'Oh, I will,” I promised almost jokingly.

After Kyle closed the front door behind him, I looked up at Rene, still
standing by the refrigerator. She was in her late forties and looking
great, though giving me a somewhat scolding look the way big sisters do.
It had always been her role to run interference for me while reaching
back to swat me when she thought I needed it.

'We're, uh, we're doing better, Kyle and me,” I said. 'We got along
pretty well today, all things considered.” ‘7

She shrugged. 'One of these days you're going to give him a lot of
credit just for coming back.” 'I do already.” 'You gonna let me cut your
hair today?” 'Maybe next time.

'You're getting pretty shaggy.” 'Next time.” She came around and sat in
Kyle's chair, facing me directly. 'I don't know when that will be.” I
figured it would be a week, just like always, but I could read in her
eyes how wrong I was. 'You and Danny going on vacation or something?”
She sat back in the chair and sighed deeply. 'Travis Jordan, I owe you
an apology. I've been wrong.” 'Wrong about what?” She drew a breath and
sighed it out. 'Wrong about letting you just sit on your rear.” This was
Rene's characteristic bluntness, her tough love. 'Trav it's been ten
months. You know Marian would be upset to see you like this. I'm upset.
Danny and I have been talking about it, and he's right: I thought I was
helping you by doing your laundry and planning out your grocery list and
cooking most of your meals. But...” She looked away and drummed her
fingers on the table while she built up to it. 'I can't be your mother
anymore. School's starting in the fall, and by that time you're going to
have to be a clean, resourceful, responsible adult again. You're going
to have to be an example.” 'In other words, get a lfr.” 'No, you have a
life. I'm telling you to get on with it. I mean...” She looked around
the house. It was a small place. She could see the dining room, living
room, and bedroom from where she was sitting.

'When we were kids, Mom would never let us get away with a mess like
this. We had to clean our own rooms, remember? Now here I am,
cleaningyours. What's wrong with this picture?” I looked around. This
was a mess? I'd come to regard it as simply having everything I owned in
plain sight and within easy reach at all times.

'I shouldn't even have done this, but I talked to Don Anderson
yesterday, and he has a washing machine in stock that was damaged in
shipping. It works fine, it just has a dent in it. He said he'll let it
go for a hundred dollars. Travis, buy it. Hook it up and use it.

Get yourself some rope and make a clothesline out back. The weather's
warming up. You can dry everything back there. And did you try that meat
loaf recipe I gave you?” That meat loaf. 'Uh, yeah. I think I cooked it
too long.” 'You used to cook when you and Marian were in California. I
know; she told me. And you still have the makings for meat loaf in the
freezer. Try it again. Try all the recipes again, and keep trying,
‘cause after today, I'm out of here.” She hurried around me and picked
up the laundry basket. 'I'll do this load, and then.., you'd better buy
that washing machine.” She bent and kissed me on the cheek. 'We're gonna
talk someday. We have to.” 'Sounds like we just did,” I said.

'We will. I promise. Bye.” She smiled at me, turned, and went out the
front door.

I heard her Bronco start up and drive off, and then the remarkable quiet
of a small eastern Washington wheat town set in. Such towns have no
ambient rumble of traffic. The only airport is a small strip for crop
dusters several miles west of town. I could hear the electric whir of
the clock on the wall and the intermittent drip from the kitchen sink.
Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog barked. A breeze caused a dry leaf
to skitter along the concrete just outside the patio door.

I sat motionless and intensely alone, ignoring the coffee growing cold
in my cup and trying to get through my head what had just happened. It
could have been the proverbial two-by-four against the side of the head.
It sure felt like it.

I finally got up and stood in the archway between the kitchen and the
living room, numbly scanning the disheveled state of the one-bedroom
bungalow. The coffee table had disappeared under books and magazines I'd
planned to read or been reading, most of them open to wherever I'd begun
or left off. I had to assume that ‘9

I had flung my coat and hat over the chair near the door, but I sure
couldn't remember doing it. I could probably blame the post office for
the newspapers and catalogs that were spreading like kudzu over every
level surface including the floor. The cluttered kitchen counters were
filled with dirty dishes and cereal boxes still stood around after a
week of breakfasts. It suddenly occurred to me how embarrassing it would
be if my landlord were to drop by.

I made my way to the bathroom and found something equally messy in the
bathroom mirror: a graying, weathered, whiskered, forty-five-year-old
former.. . what? Anything I had ever been, I wasn't anymore. I knew that
much. A question from my ordination application came back to me: Are you
always neat and dean? I stifled a laugh. Not today.

But Rene's point was well taken: Someone else was going to have to look
at this face when September rolled around—a whole classroom full of
sixth graders. I'd managed to regain a teaching position I held years
ago, when Antioch Mission was a fledgling congregation—any small-town,
small-church pastor can tell you the value of a secondary source of
income. Because the job didn't start until September, it had always
remained an abstraction to me. I'd shaved perhaps twice since the job
interview, and never viewed the upcoming responsibility in light of the
fact that I was a wreck.

Things will have to change, I told myself. Pretty soon. Tomorrow, maybe.

Enough of the face. I left the bathroom and looked out the bedroom
window expecting to see the same winter-browned hill that rose just west
of my place, with a tight grove of wind-battered cottonwoods at its
crest.

There was somebody out there.

I stopped. I'd never seen anyone on that hill before. I wasn't even sure
who owned that land.

But there was a man standing by the cottonwoods, resting an arm against
one of the old trunks. He was facing my direction, and didn't appear to
have anyplace else he needed to be.

Was he looking at me? I went closer to the window and shifted my head
back and forth, squinting a bit. He was looking at me. He wasn't just
looking west or looking toward the house. He was looking at me. I could
feel my brow furrowing, and he responded with a slight smile and a nod.

There was something about those eyes that held me. From here, I guessed
they were deep brown. But that gaze you didn't see every day. It seemed
to say, without words, I know you.

Who was this guy?

His hair was long and black, parted down the middle, curling down to his
shoulders.

He had a beard.

I looked away, catching myself, corralling my runaway thoughts.

Uh-uh, no Travis, don't think that.

He was wearing a white robe, wasn't he? I looked again, and yes, he was.
A white robe tied in the middle, open at the neck, with long sleeves
that hung loosely from the arms. I couldn't see his feet because of the
tall grass, but it was a reflex, a natural step to imagine sandals. I'd
been to Sunday school all my life. I'd seen the pictures.

He was still looking at me, and seemed to be enjoying how awkward I felt
staring back.

I finally shook my head and said, 'No. No way.” He laughed, nodding his
head yes.

I casually moved away from the window.

Then I ran to the patio door and bolted outside. Whoever this guy really
was, I was going to know it within the thirty seconds or so it would
take me to reach the crown of the bill. It was a gag, right?

Somebody sent him to shake up the weird old former minister.

But now the breeze played across the deserted grassy slope and the
cottonwoods stood stark against the sky all by themselves, just as one
would expect on a warm April day. He was gone. Just like that.

JUDY'5 EAT-A-LONG AND TAVERN was one of those lowbudget enterprises you
usually find associated with out-of-theway towns like Antioch. It was a
one-story, sagging structure with weathered siding and a neon sign atop
the roof that used to say EAT before it broke nine years ago. Even
without the neon sigu, the building' still shouted at passing motorists
with the words JUDY'S—Since 1955 painted across the front in huge white
letters.

Besides the three grain elevators immediately south and Bud's Shell
station across the street, it used to be the first thing you'd see
driving into Antioch westbound, and for that reason became one of the
town's prime landmarks.

Judy Holliday ran the place and did most of the cooking, although she'd
taken on an assistant fry cook so she could get off her feet a little
more often. She had to be pushing seventy by now, but she still got up
early and drove herself hard—that, she told me, was what kept her so
young and attractive. Back when Antioch was the nearest and best place
to store and ship grain, Judy cooked meals and brewed coffee for
truckers, farmers, ranchers, and railroad workers. When the truckers
switched to the interstate, she kept on cooking for the farmers,
ranchers, and railroaders. When the farm1 ers and ranchers sold out and
the railroad abandoned the northern

route, Judy cooked and brewed for whomever was left: the local folks,
the small farmers at lunch, a few truckers who serviced Antioch on their
way somewhere else, and people who still had trouble making meat loaf,
like me. To hear her tell it, she had been too busy to notice any change
in the amount of business. It was never that great anyway. As for the
broken 'EAT” sigu, she said, 'To heck with it. Nobody's gonna read it
anyway.”

Judy's was located on the east edge of town, and when I say 'edge,” I
mean abrupt edge. Antioch has no suburbs, no outskirts.

Like a model railroad laid out on a square table, the streets and
buildings occupy a tight, one-mile square grid and do not extend beyond
that. In this part of the country, there is land for building towns and
there is land for farming and ranching, and the two never mix. If you
stand in Judy's parking lot, you're in town. Take one step east and
you're in a wheat field. Stand at the east end of Myrtle Street and look
west, you'll see early postwar homes comfortably arranged along the
quiet oiled streets without sidewalks.

Look east and you'll see acres of plowed, featureless farmland as far as
the horizon. The other end of Myrtle Street is easy to see, by the way.
The street, like the whole town, ends abruptly at another wheat field
only a mile away.

My rental house was at the end of Myrtle Street on the west edge of
town, with a quiet neighborhood to the east and that once serene, now
mysterious hill with the cottonwoods to the west. This evening I had to
get out of there. I was still smarting from Rene ‘s two-by-four, and
somehow that messy little house only worsened the pain the longer I
stayed.

I also felt a serious need to see and talk to some people I could be
sure were real. I checked all around that hill and those cottonwoods for
footprints, trampled grass, anything that would show someone had been
there, and didn't find a thing. That scared me, not so much that I saw
someone on that hill, but that I thought I saw someone. I needed some
time in the real world.

Judy's was only a short hop over to the highway and then a onemile drive
through the center of town. I locked up the house for the first time
since I'd moved in and drove my Trooper.

23

I passed by the old Methodist church, Kiley's Hardware, and the Baptist
church, where a week-long revival was underway. What was that
evangelist's name? I am not kidding: Everett Fudd. Once again I felt the
strange sensation that I was viewing the town in a home movie from the
‘40s. Over half a century ago, somehow, this town materialized on the
prairie, liked the way it was, and froze that way. Yes, some new
buildings had appeared over the years.

Our Lady of the Fields had a new brick structure, forced upon the
congregation by a deep underground spring that swallowed up the old one.
Every so often there would be a fresh coat of paint on a storefront,
like that weird, Pepto-Bismol pink Don Anderson chose for his appliance
store. But those were only minor changes to over a half-century of
sameness.

Many things about the town were normal enough. We had our local Kiwanis
club and Grange, our Amway dealers and Jehovah's Witnesses, our Cub
Scout paper drives and youth group car washes. Our high school played
other small-town high schools and our cheerleaders did silly
fund-raisers like rocking-chair marathons and jog-a-thons. We had a
parade every Fourth ofJuly, and Amos Sjostrom always took part with his
old hay wagon and Clydesdales.

Even so, you didn't have to live here too long before sensing it:
Antioch was a town looking forward to the past. I used to notice it in
the churches of Antioch, especially my own: Do the old things again,
just do them harder. Back out of the slump. Don't go forward, you've
never been there. Replay the memory, it always better. That oldtime
religion was good for our fathers and mothers and it good enough for us.
I knew Brother Fudd was singing the same tune down at the Baptist
church, just him and the same dozen people every night, 'taking the town
for Christ.” I don't know why all this began to wear on me after fifteen
years, but suddenly it did.

For the entire fifteen years that I pastored, I never went inside
Judy's. It was, after all, a tavern as well as an eating establishment,
and there are places a Pentecostal Mission pastor in a small town like
Antioch just doesn't go. I took the big step soon after I resigued,
however, for two simple reasons: I wanted to know what

kind of people were in there, and I was hungry. I tried Judy's broiled
chicken over rice with mixed vegetables and salad and found it quite
satisfactory. I tried the twelve-ounce steak the next time, and the
pasta salad the third. The barbecued half-a-chicken was good the fourth
visit and a little dry the fifth, but four out of five good visits
wasn't a bad score.

By then, I'd gotten word second- and thirdhand that the talk had
started: The former pastor of Antioch Pentecostal Mission was
backsliding and giving into the world. I viewed it as a step forward.

After all, I'd never been here before. I'd never gotten to know these
people. This was new for me. And while I never even tried to de- velop a
taste for beer, I liked Judy's coffee. All that to say, I became a
regular customer and continued dropping in whenever the prospect of
cooking my own sorry little meal seemed too overwhelming.

'Hey, Tray!” Judy called from behind the bar, her hair a white fright
wig and her apron stained with gravy. She called me 'Rev” the first few
times I came in, but as soon as my ordination papers lapsed, I let her
know. She and the other regular customers have called me 'Tray” ever
since and have acted more at ease around me, although I still get junk
mail addressed to 'Rev, and Mrs. Travis Jordan.” The interior of Judy's
was just one more example of how Antioch was frozen in time. Back in the
days before taste, a clever restaurant

I trendsetter must have bought up all the dark wall paneling and red and
orange shaggy carpet in existence, sent sale announcements to every
backward, small-town, greasy spoon restaurant in America, and retired
with a small fortune. I'm guessingJudy was one of his first customers.
She made no apologies, however. Her carpet displayed several darker
shades after so many years of traffic, spills, and cigarette butts, but
she didn't seem the slightest bit interested in replacing it or anything
else. The dark walls were hiding the film and dirt just fine. The wood
tables and booths were so solid she only had to replace the
red-and-white checked tablecloths once a year.

The bar was in the back, well stocked, with ten stools. Five of the
stools were occupied today. I got a wave of hello from Greg 25

and Marc, the contractors, both wearing billed caps and flannel
shirts—the back of Greg's shirt was torn wide open at the shoulder but
he wore it anyway. For two months after they introduced themselves I
thought they were half brothers, but finally Marc admitted that they
didn't have the same mother either, and they had a real laugh over that.
Two stools over from them was George Harding, the retired wheat farmer.
He didn't talk much but he didn't grumble much either, so he fit in.
Skip another stool and there sat Linda and Irv, local truckers somewhere
in their early forties. They'd been living together unmarried for
eighteen years.

The sin of it aside, they'd put up with each other for so long I
honestly felt the relationship would last. They said hi. Occasionally
one of the five heads would turn toward the television hanging on the
wall. Right now, there was a basketball game in progress with the sound
turned low.

The rest of the place had a nice dinner hour going. I saw plenty of
regulars and the jukebox was thumping away, just one big subwoofer in a
gilded box. My favorite booth by the front window was empty, so I took
it, setting my hat and coat beside me on the bench seat. Gildy, Judy's
granddaughter, brought me a menu and silverware. 'Hey, Travis. Mind if I
join you?” It was Brett Henchle, the chief of Antioch's three policemen.
He was in uniform, wearing his gun and badge, and I figured he was on
his dinner break. A Vietnam vet with shrapnel still in his leg, he was
big enough for this or any job that required occasional head breaking.

I gestured to the bench seat across from me. 'Have a seat. How you
doing?” 'All right,” he answered, and I could tell he didn't mean it. He
sank onto the bench and then looked around the room, bothered about
something, trying to work up to saying whatever it was. He didn't get
there before Nancy Barrons came along. She owned and edited the Antioch
Harvester, our local, twice-a-week newspaper, and I surmised from the
cassette recorder and notepad that she was working. 'Hi. Am I
interrupting anything?”

Brett seemed thankful for the reprieve. 'No. You go first,” he said,
scooting over.

'You sure?” 'Just let me hear what he says.” She slipped in beside him
and set the notepad and recorder on the bench, out of service for the
moment. That was like her. She was going to talk as a friend first and
be a reporter second.

She was in her thirties, an independent sort, with auburn hair pinned up
Katharine Hepburn style, single but dating a columnist in Spokane. She
was into natural foods, a little yoga, and probably voted for Clinton,
although she often took him to task in her editorials. We'd had our
disagreements, sometimes nose to nose, mostly through her editorials and
my dissenting letters to the editor, but it never got nasty. She won a
few—I had to concede I only had half the story on Christopher Columbus.
But I won some myself—she turned dead set against partial-birth
abortion.

'How are things going?” she asked.

I wasn't about to go into the details of my afternoon. I only replied,
'Strangely. How are things going with you?” She laughed. 'Strangely.” I
noticed Brett smiling as if agreeing.

'Did you hear about Sally Fordyce seeing an angel, and the weeping
crucifix at Our Lady's?” she asked.

My grimace and nod clued her in. 'Kyle Sherman told me about it earlier
today.” Nancy looked at the table as she asked, 'See that couple over
there?” I glanced discretely at a young couple in a booth across the
room. 'They came here from Moses Lake to see the crucifix for
themselves. They believe in it.

'Did it weep for them?” I asked. 'No, but they still believe in it.
They're going to get a room over at the Wheatland Motel and then spend
the day at Our Lady's tomorrow, as long as Father Vendetti lets them
stay.” 'To . . .

'To see if it'll cry again.” Nancy lowered her voice. 'She has
leukemia.” 27

I closed my eyes, sighed, and felt grief for them. 'How did they find
out about it?” 'His mother attends Our Lady's. She called them.” She
leaned forward a little, her voice still low 'Travis, I don't know what
to think about all this. It sounds like something that should go in the
paper, but...” She flipped her palms upward, at a loss. 'You've been
there and back. Any perspective on all this?” 'Are you skeptical?” I
asked her.

She smiled. 'As always.” I gave a little shrug. 'So am I.” I stole
another glance across the room. 'So I see a bit of tragedy.” 'Tragedy?”
She set her notepad in front of her and clicked her pen. 'May I?” I
nodded, then mentally reviewed the names, the faces: SallyFordyce,
Arnold Kowalski, Dee and her friends, this couple across the room. I
stopped when my own name came up. 'This kind of thing reminds me that
it's a crummy world out there, and there are things we have no easy
answers for. When people are hurting, they start grasping. When the
world hands you a pile of sorrow, you look beyond the world for some
kind of relief, or at least an explanation. That's what a lot of
religious experience is all about.” Nancy scribbled down my thoughts.
'You think I should say anything about the cloud sightings?” 'If you
write about any of this stuff, you may as well.” She smiled and nodded,
understanding my point. 'All the same thing in your book?” 'I'm not
trying to be derogatory.

'Sure.” 'I just want to emphasize that these are very human events.

People are involved, and people have wants, wishes, fantasies, earnest
desires. . . and pain. Lots of pain. Given that, people can be very
creative. They can hear things, see things—you follow me?” IShe nodded
affirmatively. 'Gotcha.” 'Off the record.. .' I prompted, and she put
down her pen. 'I had a lady once tell me she saw Jesus standing right
next to me while I was preaching. I knew another young fellow who
claimed

he saw a demon fly in his bedroom window. Also a little girl claimed to
see an angel on top of her neighbor's roof. People have told me all
kinds of things. It's nothing new.” She seemed a little nonplussed. 'And
you don't believe them?” That question flustered me. I had to work a
long time to come up with an answer. 'It's a tough call; it's so
subjective. You have to know the person. You almost have to be the
person. The same thing applies here.” 'So obviously, another witness to
the same thing might help.” 'Well, sure, if I saw. . .' I tripped a
little trying to say this. 'If I saw Jesus myseW then there'd be a
little more, uh, credibility, I guess.” She picked up her pen again.
'So, do you think this is going anywhere?” The question made me laugh.
'In Antioch?” She winced and snickered. 'Sorry.” 'Well, to be fair, I
think the people who've had these experiences are hoping it'll lead to
something, that somehow it'll change things.

You know this town. Somebody has to get restless eventually.” 'But you
don't think it'll lead anywhere or develop into anything?” I felt
cynical, which saddened me a little. 'I've seen it before.

It'll come, it'll go.” She clicked her pen and put it away. 'Thanks for
your time, Travis. You too, Brett.” 'Think you have a story?” I asked.

She stood and had to think a moment before answering. 'Well, it's
interesting. Maybe that's reason enough to print it.” 'Anything
interesting is news in this town.” She laughed. 'That it is. See you.”
'Bye.” Brett Henchle watched her go out the front door, and then told me
quietly, 'You might be wrong, Travis.” I looked at him, expecting a
punch line to reveal he was kidding.

There was no punch line, only his troubled eyes boring into me.

'What do you mean?” 'I'm not in pain. I'm not religious. I'm not
restless. I like my job, I like living here. I didn't make up what I saw
today.” 29

That stopped me cold. Brett Henchle saw something? 'You?” 'You want to
hear about it?” he asked in a traffic ticket tone of voice. He was
challenging my cynicism, I could tell.

I gathered my composure, pried my mind open again, and said, 'Yeah. Tell
me about itt' He glanced around the room, clearly on edge, and then
spoke in a lowered voice. 'For a while I thought I was going crazy. I
was coming back from Spokane on Highway 2, and there was this guy
hitchhiking.” Uh-oh.

'I was feeling pretty good, I wasn't in a hurry, so I figured, hey, I'll
pick the guy up—if he doesn't mind riding in a squad car. He looked a
little weird anyway, so better a cop gives him a ride than some innocent
citizen—” I interrupted. 'Hey Brett.”

I held my hand up, just trying to keep the peace as I offered my
question. 'Did this guy get in the car, ride with you a while, say
‘Jesus is coming soon,' and then disappear?” I regretted the question
the moment I asked it. He never going to talk to me again, I thought.
I've insulted him, I've— He froze, his face turned pale, and he stared
at me as if I'd told him Martians had landed. 'How did you know?” This
just couldn't be happening. 'I.. .

'Did someone else run into this guy?” Now we were in a face-off, staring
at each other as if each was waiting for the other to crack into a
smile, confess the whole thing was a gag, and break the tension. Was
Brett tying to outlast me?

If so, he was an incredible actor playing a role vastly different from
his nature. I finally broke the freeze-up by asking, 'You've never heard
that story before?” 'What story?” No. Brett wasn't a Christian; he
wasn't part of the culture. I could be reasonably sure he'd never heard
that popular rumor that circulated around Christendom every few years.

'Well, we'll, uh, get to that. You say he looked a little weird.

What did he look like?”

'Long blond hair, like a hippie, about five-seven, early twenties,
wearing a white sweatshirt and jeans. He looked a little ghostly— you
know, pale and skinny like he was sick. Couldn't have weighed more than
120 pounds. He got into the car, the passenger seat right next to me,
fastened his seat belt, and rode with me for a couple of miles.” 'Did he
say anything besides. .

'He said he was coming to Antioch to visit some friends. He didn't say
who. I talked a little bit about the town, the weather, you know, just
making conversation, and then he said, right out of the blue, ‘Jesus is
coming soon,' and then—” He took a moment to watch the memory play
through his mind. 'Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him make
a quick movement. I turned and he disappeared. There wasn't any sound or
anything. His seat belt was still buckled. He just wasn't there anymore.
I slammed on the brakes and pulled over and checked every inch of that
car. I looked up the highway, off the shoulder, drove back the way I
came. The guy was gone. 'Then I talked to Nancy this afternoon—and
listen, I haven't said a thing about this to anyone except you—and she
starts tell- ing me about people seeing angels and a crying crucifix and
Jesus in the sky.” He looked at me intensely. 'Now that tells me I'm not
crazy, but it also tells me there could be a blond, five-seven suspect
in town that I need to question before he pulls this little stunt again.

I couldn't believe I was even having this conversation. 'Have you talked
to Sally Fordyce?”

'Is she the other person who offered this guy a ride?” Oh brother. What
could I say to that? 'No. Brett, the story about the hitchhiker, it's a
rumor, a legend.”

I stared. It happened to him—not to a friend of a friend who told a lady
who was aunt to the woman who was married to the man who used to work
for the guy who last repeated the tale. It happened to Brett Henchle,
the man sitting right across from me.

3'

'From what I understand, the man Sally saw had a totally different
description.” That news did not cheer him. 'Oh great. So there might be
two.” He thought aloud as if bouncing his theories off me. 'He said he
was coming here to visit friends. What friends? Who else are they going
to play tricks on?” He sniffed in frustration. 'You see the problem I'm
up against? This whole thing is so religious, it's not going to look
good for a cop to be poking around interfering.” Finally I thought of
something worthwhile to say. 'Brett, I understand the Antioch
Ministerial is meeting tomorrow morning to talk about all this. Since
it's a religious thing, if anyone is going to know the latest details,
the ministers will. Maybe you ought to drop in and find out how
extensive this stuff is and if anyone else has seen either one of these.
. . whatever they are.” 'Are you going?” God works in wondrous ways.
'Yeah, I'll be there.” I called Kyle when I got home, told him I would
go with him to the ministerial meeting, then braced myself. To his
credit, he didn't gush all over me as I feared he would. After four
months, he was starting to learn.

IMAGINE A TIRED OLD DOG, lyinginthe road, suddenlyfinding itself wrapped
around the axle of a speeding truck. That's how I felt my first five
minutes with Kyle Sherman. I was tired and feeling old, I hadn't shaved,
the place was a mess, I was planning on a quiet session of journaling.
And suddenly, there he was.

'Praise God, brother! I'm Kyle Sherman! Just came by to share the love
of the Lord!” His greeting had the same effect on me as that soup kettle
they used to bang on to wake us up at summer camp. He was standing on my
front porch in brown slacks, tan sport jacket, blue shirt, and Looney
Tunes tie, and had a big, gold-edged Bible in his hand. His brown hair
was slick with mousse, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and he was
in high gear.

I knew he wasn't a Jehovah's Witness; they always travel in twos and
compliment you on your house.

He couldn't be a tax assessor because he wasn't carrying a clipboard
with the plot plan on it.

He wasn't a salesman because he carried no samples.

But like all three, he hadn't called first. He just showed up. I wanted
to kill whoever told him where I lived.

'You're the new pastor?” I asked. I wasn't curious. I was amazed.

'Guilty as charged, brother!” He was so jubilant, so on top of it, so
young.

I let him in because it was the right thing to do and invited him to
have a seat wherever he could find one. He stepped around the model
airplane I was working on, dug a man-sized space in the magazines and
newspapers that covered the couch, and had a seat.

'Nice place you have here.” I'd left the pastorate a month before and
had not returned to Antioch Mission since. Call me picky, call me a
grouch, but I expected Kyle Sherman to know there had to be a reason.
The moment he opened his mouth I knew he didn't have a clue.

When I ate dinner at Judy's, nobody I met there talked about church. We
talked about fishing, baseball, country music, cars and trucks, and the
condition of the roads. We argued about politics and local issues. We
even talked about religion and spiritual matters, which I didn't mind,
not at all.

But we did not talk about Sunday school attendance, the church van, the
outreach program,' or the Blessing Barrel. We didn't haggle over the
Sunday morning song list or whose job it was to change the sheets in the
nursery. We didn't talk about the budget and the offerings or the need
for an ongoing children's ministry, or whether we should allow Dee
Baylor to fall on the floor every time we prayed for her. Potlucks and
men's fellowships and ladies' Bible studies and the struggling youth
program never came up.

But Kyle started right in talking about all that stuff as if I'd asked
him for an update. I wouldn't go near the church, so he brought itto me.
'The youth group's going to have a lock-in this33

weekend/Dave White and Brother Norheim showed up for men's prayer
breakfast. Is it always just those two?/I'm thinking about painting the
van/Bruce Hiddle still smokes. I wonder if he should be on the deacon
board?/Emily Kelmer wants us to sing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,' but I
don't think that's a worship song/Did you know Jeff Lundgren doesn't
want to do the Young Explorers anymorefHow often did you preach on
giving?/We need to de- velop the children's ministry—” He was out to
cover everything. He talked fast, he talked loud, he got more and more
excited, and I just sat there trying to gauge if my nerves could last
longer than this seeming catharsis. I could feel a lingual tonsil
starting to swell up. I began to feel a guawing pain in my stomach.

Then it came: the one sentence predestined from all eternity for this
moment, this place—exactly what it would take to set me off: 'Travis,
we're going to take this city for Christ!” 'We?!?” My voice came so loud
and sudden it made him jump. It also made him stop talking. I leaned
forward in my chair, so far I almost stood up. 'Now you listen to me.” I
said it slowly, and I know I sounded downright vicious. 'Have you even
asked this town if it wants to be taken for Christ? Have you even met
the folks down at Judy's or working at Kiley's Hardware or Anderson's
Furniture and Appliance and gotten their input? I guarantee you, Kyle, I
know some people around here who do not wish to be taken for Christ.” He
looked like he was about to interrupt, but I didn't give him a chance.
'No one.., has ever. . . taken a city for Christ. Not Paul, not Peter,
nobody. Not even Christ took a city for Christ.” Now I did stand up, too
upset to hold still. 'You come cruising into this town throwing that
big, glorious claim around as if it were some kind of mandate from the
throne of God, but who's going to do all the work in the real world? I
suppose you think everyone in town has his own transportation, so you
won't have to organize a car and bus route and deal with people who
don't want to come that Sunday but didn't call, or people who aren't
ready on time so you have to sit there waiting for them while all the
other people on

the route are wondering where you are, and everybody ends up getting
there late.

'And once you take this town for Christ, what are you going to do with
all the kids? Is Judy Milton still breast-feeding Baxter right out in
the open during the service?” 'I was going to ask you about that.” 'Ab!
Aha! That boy's old enough to unbutton her blouse himself. Want some
more? Of course, babies don't just nurse. They scream too, and there are
plenty of mothers out there who are going to sit there with that kid and
let him drown out your sermon—during the most important part, I might
add. You might ask them to take the kid out, and some might, but they'll
be back with the same kid the next week. Either that, or they'll get
huffy and not come back at all.

'Which brings me to the nursery sigu-up sheet. Keep that puppy
circulating or somebody's going to get stuck in there doing the job
alone and forever while all the parents dump their kids on them. Same
goes for children's ministry. Be careftil you don't find anyone too good
at it, because they'll get stuck with the job until they burn out. And
then the parents will start to mutter about who's going to take charge
of the kids, and maybe some of them will step forward to do something
about it, and some of them will just go elsewhere.

'Youth ministry? It's the greatest, but don't you dare make a mistake.
Because after you've done anything and everything to disciple those
kids, it's your mistakes the parents will tell you about.

'How's your car running? Once you take this town for Christ you're going
to have tovisit every person, every family, until you run yourself
ragged and your wife starts to complain that you're never home. You'll
be so busy visiting that folks will start complaining that you never
come to visit.

'In the meantime, you'll always have a contingent in the church that
wants to dance in the aisles and fall on the floor and have battles of
the prophets and insist that leg lengthening services are the answer to
everything, and if you try to bring some balance to 35

all that stuff they'll start their own faction and accuse you of
‘quenching the Spirit.' 'When you take this town for Christ you're going
to get all this stuff with it. It's all going to be right in your lap.”
By now I was thinking I'd better stop before I outtalked the young man I
thought talked too much. I took a breath. 'Pastor Kyle Sherman, dreams
and goals in ministry are fine and good, but spare me this ‘take the
town for Christ' stuff I've been taking as much of this town as wants to
go for the past fifteen years. I've been there, done that, got the tee
shirt, and the town and I are sick of it.” He looked up at me from the
couch. His face seemed so different, so tranquil, when his mouth wasn't
moving. 'You seem bitter.” Well, I could let this young buck start
counseling me or I could get back to my journaling. 'Thank you for
coming to visit. I'm pretty tired.” I moved toward the door, and to his
credit, he followed my cue.

THUS ENDED MY FIR5T MEETING with Kyle Sherman. I did not go out of my
way to encounter him again, but it happened on several occasions anyway,
either by God's hand or by Kyle's. As I've mentioned before, Kyle has no
fear of thin ice.

That's one reason—among the others—that I accepted his invitation to go
with him to the next morning's ministerial meeting.

It was the first time I'd taken him up on any invitation to do anything,
but I knew those ministers. If Kyle stepped out on thin ice this time,
he was sure to break through, and there were sharks waiting below to eat
him alive.

The next morning we rode together. In a town the size of Antioch there
isn't much time to discuss anything while on the way somewhere, so I
found myself talking fast.

'Morgan Elliott's the only female minister. She used to copastor the
Methodist church with her husband, Gabe, but he was killed in a car
wreck three years ago. Nice gal. I wouldn't call her a liberal, but
she's definitely not a fundamentalist, either.

'Paul Daley's a kidder, and he likes being Episcopalian as much as you
like being Pentecostal. He'd genuflect at a light pole if it had a cross
piece on it.

'Al Vendetti is as Catholic as the Pope himself. His father was
Catholic, his father's father was Catholic, his oldest sister is a nun
in Philadelphia. I got into a religious argument with him once and he
finished it in Latin. But listen, you respect him and he'll respect you.
You get yourself into a scrape he'll be the first one there, and besides
that, he plays a mean first base on the softball team.

'Bob Fisher's Southern Baptist, so he's sound and solid. Just don't get
into a doctrinal dispute with him. He doesn't like being disagreed
with.”

There was no more time. We had arrived at Our Lady of the Fields.

Thanks to the underground spring that had undermined the old church, Our
Lady of the Fields now had one of the newest buildings in town. It was
sand-colored brick, traditional with its tall spire and arched,
stained-glass windows. It sat on a solid founda— tion ideally located on
the main thoroughfare through town.

Father Al always posted the title of his sermon on the illuminated,
covered sigu that sat in the front yard.

As Kyle pulled into the parking lot, I recognized some of the cars
already sitting there. 'That's Morgan Elliott's Jeep Cherokee.

And I think that Ford belongs to Sid Maher, the Lutheran pastor.” There
were plenty of other cars, including Nancy Barrons's Volvo and Brett
Henchle's squad car. This meeting of the Antioch Ministerial was going
to be unlike all the others: well attended. I kept telling myself I was
only a visitor now, but that didn't take away the tremors deep inside
me.

We walked along the sidewalk toward the front door. 'I haven't been in
too many Catholic churches,” Kyle said quiedy.

'I've only been here once, for a funeral,” I admitted. 'I don't know
that the ministerial's ever met here. But Kyle. . .'I stopped, he
stopped. I had to get this said before we went in. 'I'm never going to
tell you to compromise your convictions. But remember what the Bible
says about being sly as a serpent and harmless as a dove.” He wasn't
quite getting my message, I could tell. He gave me a suspicious look.
'What do you mean?” 'I mean...” Suddenly I found it hard to form an
answer with him looking at me like that. 'I mean, there's a time to
speak out and there's a time to just listen and, you know, stay cool.”
'Stay cool?” Something else came to mind. 'With this bunch, it's easy to
get into a discussion that just goes around in circles, and take it from
me, if you really want to go around in circles, it's best to find a
merry-go-round somewhere, you follow me?” 39

'A merry-go-round.” Now the look in his eyes had to be something he
normally reserved for Mormons at his front door.

'Think of it as two gravel trucks going opposite directions on a one-way
street. Sure, one of them is wrong, but both of them are going to get
smashed when they hit, right?” 'You're not telling me to compromise?”
'No. I'm just telling you to be wise. Be discreet.” He thought about
that a moment, and finally—finally—he relaxed and smiled. 'Okay, Travis.
I gotcha.” 'All right. That's all I'm going to say.” The brass handle on
the big paneled door yielded, and the door opened. There were two other
men in the foyer, and the moment I saw them, I thought I'd seen
everything. Howard Munson and Andy Barker were standing on either side
of the sanctuary door, peering into the sanctuary like two kids sneaking
a peek at something forbidden. They turned as we entered and recognized
me at once.

'Travis!” said Howard, the older one with the balding head and
wire-rimmed glasses. He offered his hand. 'Great to see you again!” I
introduced him to Kyle and told Kyle how he pastored the Gospel Light
Pentecostal Tabernacle over on the southeast corner of town, that little
white chapel near the grain elevators.

Howard introduced Andy, a young wheat farmer with stern— looking eyes
even when he smiled. Howard said nothing about the small, independent
Bible study Andy led in his home, a little group that had split off from
Howard's church over a dispute about— well, about Howard. I didn't tell
Kyle about Howard having a strong, negative opinion about every other
church but his own, but Kyle may have noticed my surprise to see these
two together and within the walls of a Catholic church. Of course,
neither had ac- tually gone farther than the foyer.

Howard looked through the sanctuary door again, shook his head m pain
and disgust and muttered to us, 'Incredible. Just incredible.” The
sanctuary was a comfortable, intimate place that could seat,

I figured, about a hundred worshipers. It was warmly colored, with dark
wood pews, red carpet runners down the aisles, and brass fixtures. The
crucifix was in its traditional location, on the front wall above the
altar, illuminated by a ceiling-mounted spotlight.

There were at least twenty people occupying the pews toward the front.
Some were kneeling, some were sitting, all were looking steadfastly at
the crucifix. I recognized the couple I'd seen at Judy's the night
before sitting right on the aisle.

'They're waiting for the crucifix to cry again,” Andy whispered.

'Incredible,” Howard repeated, shaking his head again. The ladder Arnold
Kowaiski had used to reach the crucifix was still where he'd left it,
and now a man sat next to it reading from a psalm book.

Howard leaned close. 'That's some kind of lay assistant sitting up
there. I understand if anything happens, he's there to maintain order
and assist people climbing the ladder.

What was I feeling? Awe? Foreboding? Even in my skepticism, I couldn't
escape the fact that, real or imagined, nothing like this had ever
happened in Antioch.

'Wher&s the meeting going to be?” I asked.

'... I think in the fellowship hall.” I could tell Howard didn't want to
go into the sanctuary. He asked in a whisper, 'Is there another way to
get there?” I pointed toward a door at one end of the foyer. 'I think
it's through there.” We went through the door and down a hall to a
sizable, multipurpose room. Most every church has such a room for
wedding receptions, potlucks, and socials. At one end was a large pass—
through into a commercial-sized kitchen, and coffee was available on the
pass-through counter. Four folding tables were arranged in a square in
the center of the room, and already the other ministers were mingling.

'Hey Travis!” Sid Maher, the Lutheran pastor, stepped up to shake my
hand, and I introduced him to Kyle. He was tall, dark— haired, and
bespectacled—a likable guy. His burden for unity 4'

among the pastors made him even easier to get along with, and he was
glad to see me—with caution. 'We're going to be sharing information and
concerns, but I don't think we'll need to debate anything.” 'I just came
to listen,” I told him.

He smiled and patted me on the arm, then turned to Kyle. 'You have some
tremendous shoes to fill.” 'I think he brought a pair of his own,” I
quipped, and Sid laughed.

We helped ourselves to some coffee.

Burton Eddy stepped up to introduce himself. He was short, with black,
horn—rimmed glasses, and wild brown hair. He pastored the local
Presbyterian church and was, to put it mildly, a liberal. 'Welcome to
the booming metropolis of Antioch!” he told Kyle in his whiny, sneery
voice. 'How's the church going?” 'We're taking this town for Christ,”
Kyle announced unabashedly.

Burton gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. 'You'll get over it.”
Then he turned to me. 'Travis, I never got a chance to extend my
condolences to you. Marian was a saint if ever there was one.” 'Thank
you. You're right.” He laughed. 'On that we can agree!” He looked around
the room, checking out who else was there. 'And I trust we'll strive for
consensus on other matters today?” 'I'm just here to listen,” I
repeated.

He gave me the same pat he'd given Kyle. 'Good to see you.” Sid Maher
was chairman of the ministerial and was taking his place at the center
of one table. Kyle and I were headed for the table when a big-framed man
with heavy jowls came up to greet us—effectively blocking our path to
the chairs. He spoke to Kyle first and didn't even look at me. 'And you
must be the new minister at the Pentecostal Mission church.” 'That's
right,” Kyle said boldly, shaking the man's hand. 'Kyle Sherman.”
'Armond Harrison,” the big man answered. 'Pastor of the Apostolic
Brethren.”

Kyle hesitated—digesting the church's name, I figured—before saying,
'Okay.” 'I understand you've brought a guest today?” Kyle hesitated
again.

'He's talking about me,” I told him.

'Oh! Yeah, sure. Travis and I are together.” The big man weighed that
for a moment and then gave a slow nod. Then he moved in closer—so close
that Kyle had to shift his weight backwards—and peered at Kyle through
his thick bifocals.

'Of course, you were aware that this meeting is just for the ministers.”
'I'm only here to listen,” I told him in as pleasant a tone as I could
muster.

'And Travis is my guest,” Kyle confirmed.

Armond Harrison directed only the briefest glance at me, then spoke to
Kyle. 'I suppose each minister is free to bring a guest.

Nice to have you here.” He turned away as Kyle and I took our places at
the table.

'What was that all about?” Kyle whispered while trying not to look like
he was.

'It's a great story,” was all I said, sitting down. ‘With one discreet
glance, I saw Armond Harrison settle like a sinking ship into his chair
directly across the square from me. He caught my glance, and his
narrowed eyes sent a clear message back. It was just like old times.

Sid opened the meeting with a prayer and then made some opening
comments. He thanked Al Vendetti, sitting to his immediate left, for
opening Our Lady's facility to the other ministers—I think we all nodded
in agreement except for Howard. 'It's the first time we've ever met
here, which is one historic note. The other might be the large
attendance.” We laughed politely. I counted ten ministers. Nancy
Barrons, Brett Henchle, and I brought the total attendance up to
thirteen.

Nancy had her notebook ready; Brett sat next to her, looking ill at ease
and out of place in his uniform. Sid acknowledged their presence but
only glanced at me and nodded.

43

'So... now.. .' He looked around the table. 'If we can go about this in
a somewhat orderly fashion, why don't we recap what we know so we all
have our information straight? Al, perhaps you could start?” Al Vendetti
was dark and Italian, in his forties, with his Philadelphia roots easy
to guess in the way he talked. He cleared his throat, quickly caught
everybody up on what had happened to Arnold Kowalski, and then explained
the people now sitting in the sanctuary.

'We have pilgrims in town. One couple came from Moses Lake, three came
from Seattle. There are some from Spokane and some from Ritzville.
Word's getting around, and they're here just to wait and watch.” He
looked at Paul Daley, the handsome, bushy haired rector of St. Mark's
Episcopal, who took the floor. 'Yes, I was telling Al that I've gotten
some inquiries as well, mostly from Episcopalian friends on the west
side who got wind of this somehow. Not being Catholic, I don't know what
to tell them so I refer them to Al.” Then he added with no change in
tone or facial expression, 'But they do seem fascinated that this time
it's Jesus crying and not Mary.” Al realized Paul was teasing and
laughed. 'In any event, we re still investigating, and so far we've
found nothing happening here contrary to faith and morals.” Sid gave the
floor to Morgan Elliott, who began a recap of the whole incident with
Sally Fordyce. As we listened, I couldn't shake the image I still had of
her being a flower child of the ‘60s, maybe even a singer in an
acid-rock band. Her silver-streaked hair was wildly curly and hung past
her shoulders, she wore roundish, wirerimmed glasses on loan from John
Lennon, and her voice had a Janis Joplin rasp as if she'd been born
perpetually hoarse. 'Sally hasn't tried to embellish her story at all.
I'm not even sure it would have gotten around town except for the other
things happening.

Bob . . .' She looked across the table at Bob Fisher, pastor of Antioch
Baptist. 'You were telling me about someone in your church?” Bob Fisher,
short and solidly built, eyed the gathering grimly as

he related, 'It's a member of my congregation who prefers to remain
nameless.” Morgan piped up, 'But you did say it was a man?” She got a
smile out of him. 'It was a man.” 'Just wanted to underline that little
detail.” We all chuckled again, and the laughter took some of the edge
off the discussion.

Bob continued, 'He was fishing down by the Spokane River when he saw a
man standing on the riverbank, just the same as Sally Fordyce saw. The
man, or angel, or whatever it was, said ‘Jesus is coming to Antioch,'
and then he disappeared. It was that quick, that simple.” 'Do you
believe him?” Paul Daley asked.

Bob considered his answer for just a moment and then replied, 'I believe
he's sincere about whatever happened to him. I'm just not sure what
happened to him. His account sounds very similar to a popular rumor that
circulates every once in a while.” I stole a glance at Brett Henchle. He
just sat there with a stern look on his face, silent as a stone. I could
guess he wasn't about to stick his neck out, and I couldn't blame him. I
wasn't about to speak up, either.

'Travis,” Paul said. 'I heard the people at your church are see—
ingJesus in the clouds.” I smiled at Paul without saying a word, then
leaned over and spoke to Kyle. 'That's your cue.” 'I'm not so sure,”
Kyle answered. 'We had some folks who were seeing Jesus, but they were
also seeing animals and a door and a flame of fire. Little Pammie
Forester saw a rooster and then Bugs Bunny.” That got a laugh from the
group. 'A few of the women came back on Monday, but the weather was too
cloudy. You can only make out shapes when the clouds are scattered to
broken.

Overcast wont cut it Sid offered, 'So for visions in the clouds you
should get a weather briefing.” 'Absolutely.” 45

More laughter. Laughter was usually a good idea at these meetings.

'By the way, everyone, this is Kyle Sherman, the new pastor at Antioch
Pentecostal Mission.” Good old Sid, always the bridge builder.
Introductions went around the table and Kyle was off to a good start. I
breathed a little easier.

Paul Daley offered, 'A man in my church once received a prophecy from a
cutthroat trout, but this could be a little different.” 'What was your
evaluation on that one?” Bob Fisher asked.

'Oh, the fish was delicious.” More laughter. Paul was good for loosening
things up.

I couldn't be sure if Burton Eddy was really sneering or if it was just
his usual crooked way of talking. 'But we're starting to see a schematic
here, aren't we? One supposedly supernatural occurrence breeds another,
and then another, and before you know it, we have a real hysteria.” 'So
you don't think any of this is real?” Sid asked.

'Oh, it's real to those experiencing it, I suppose, the same as any
dream or hallucination seems real. But this stuff catches on, and we'd
be making a big mistake to cater to any of it. We'd only be feeding the
frenzy.” Kyle added, 'And there's always the possibility that these are
demons we're dealing with.” No laughter. Burton just stared at Kyle.

'That's my concern too,” said Bob.

'Whoa, now let's approach this carefully,” Sid cautioned.

'Here we go again!” said Armond Harrison, glaring at me as if I was the
one who said it.

Bob fired back, 'Armond, it's only wise to be wary of deception.

You can't believe everything that comes down the pike as though it's
from God.” 'Well if God does send anything our way,” said Howard, 'it's
about time!” Al was keeping cool outwardly, although his face looked a
little

red as he asked Kyle, 'Are you suggesting that a demon healed Arnold's
arthritis?” 'Well, just check the long-term results,” Kyle answered.
'You mean, the much greater church attendance, or Arnold jubilant,
walking about and rejoicing in what God has done?” 'No, I mean people
turning their attention and devotion to an idol instead of to the Lord.”
Armond's big jowled face was so red you could feel the heat clear across
the table. 'I see nothing has changed at Antioch Pentecostal Mission.”
Morgan started laughing, wagging her head. 'And the beat goes on,” she
said, then confronted Kyle and me. 'There might be a good side to this.
Don't condemn something just because it falls outside your religious
paradigm.” Kyle tried to counter, 'We're not condemning anyone—” 'Let
people follow their personal sentiments. It can't hurt, really.” 'Hear,
hear!” said Burton Eddy, clapping his hands.

'After all, what is religion but—” Sid raised his hands for attention.
'All right, fine. Kyle's had his say, you've given your response, I
think that should be enough—” 'No!” Morgan insisted. 'We came here to
share observations, and I'm going to share mine. Religion is a cry of
the human heart for meaning. Every tradition has its myths and
visitations, and this case is no different.” 'You're saying this is all
a myth?” Paul Daley asked.

'A myth,” Burton said with a nod, his arms crossed. Then he added, 'Not
that myths aren't a legitimate expression of culture—” 'I don't want to
get sidetracked on that,” Morgan cautioned.

'Well isn't that what we came to determine,” Sid asked, 'whether we're
dealing with myth or reality?” 'It doesn't matter.” 'What doesn't
matter?” asked Howard.

'What matters is what it all means. I don't want us to get into a big
fight over whether this is God, demons, or myth and miss the deeper
causes.” 'But you said it was a myth,” Andy protested.

47

She brought her chin low over the table and scolded him. 'I did not say
it was a myth! I said—” 'Arnold's healing is real enough,” said Al.

'Well what was your point?” Sid asked, trying to help out.

'This is a human thing.” 'A human thing!” Burton repeated with another
nod.

'So Arnold healed himself?” asked Al.

'The pilgrims aren't visiting Arnold,” Paul observed. 'May I finish?”
Morgan's Janis Joplin voice was rising. The oth- ers backed off. 'When
people have religious experiences like these, I take that as the
expression of a need. Now we can expend our time trying to attribute
this stuff to God or demons—or myth— or we can look for the spiritual
needs these occurrences represent and be ready to minister to those
needs in practical ways.” 'But you're totally overlooking the deception
that could be involved,” Kyle countered.

She shook her head emphatically. 'It doesn't matter.” 'It does matter!
The truth always matters!” 'Whose truth? Yours or theirs?” Burton raised
his index finger and plopped it down. One more point for Morgan.

Al jumped in, addressing Kyle. 'These people are not worshiping an idol!
They are waiting and seeking the God the image represents.” 'They don't
need an idol to do that.” 'It's not an idol!” 'They don't need any
mediator save Christ himself!” 'Judging, judging, judging!” Armond
Harrison bellowed. 'Of all the arrogance!” Sid was shaking his head,
looking toward heaven. 'Our Lord must weep.” Paul Daley looked at me.
'Well Travis, what's your view on all this?” 'NO!” Sid shouted—and
shouting was something he rarely did.

'I don't think—” 'He's no longer a part of this ministerial!” Armond
growled.

'Then let him speak as a layman,” said Bob Fisher.

'You don't get it,” Morgan lamented, still on her previous subject. 'You
just don't get it.

Burton Eddy said something about my prior record, but by now everyone
was talking at once and I couldn't make it out. Armond heard it and
bellowed out his agreement, but Paul was still harping on getting
feedback from everyone present while Morgan was still trying to make her
point, whatever it was. Howard and Andy had gotten into an argument that
somehow drew in Bob Fisher, and Sid was trying to straighten out Kyle on
what was and was not acceptable in a ministerial meeting. Nancy Barrons
was having trouble taking notes.

I did hear Al Vendetti counter Sid. 'I might like to hear what he has to
say.” 'Me too,” said Bob, turning from Howard and Andy.

'If he speaks, I'm leaving this table!” said Armond.

'Now, now...” Sid tried to calm things.

'He's my guest!” Kyle objected.

'If either one ofyou says another word, I'm leaving the table!” Kyle
rose from his chair. I reached over and pulled him down again, but that
didn't keep him from saying another word. 'We are commanded by the Word
of God to contend for the faith once and for all delivered to the
saints, and if there are lies and deception—” 'So now we're all liars?”
'Has anyone seen Jesus?” I asked.

'In the latter days there shall be false christs and false messiahs
showing great signs and wonders!” Kyle was preaching by now.

But Sid heard me. 'What?” Howard and Andy stopped arguing and looked my
way. 'What did he say?” 'In order to deceive, if possible, even the
elect! Read your Bible!

That's all I'm saying!” Suddenly Kyle noticed how quiet the room was and
how everyone was looking at me. He looked at me.

Paul asked, 'What was that, Travis?” I scanned the room, a little jarred
by the sudden silence. 'I was just wondering, has anyone seen Jesus?
That's what this is all about, isn't it?” 49

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

Morgan offered, 'Sally's ‘angel' spoke about the answer being on his
way.” Al said with emphasis, 'The pilgrims here are looking for Christ.

Bob built on that. 'My person said the angel said ‘Jesus' was coming.”
Suddenly, to the surprise of everyone, Brett Henchle spoke up.

'That's what an angel said to me!” Everyone's head turned so quickly I
thought I heard some neck joints crack.

'You saw something?” Sid asked.

'A hitchhiker,” said Brett. He quickly recounted the story and then
said, 'So there's one more side to this. It might not be God or the
devil or myth. It might be some clever huckster moving in on the town,
and he might have some friends in on this with him.

Now I'm not here to downplay anyone's religion, but I'm not looking for
some heavenly vision here, I'm looking for a suspect. You tell the
people in your churches that if anyone sees these guys again, I'd like
to know about it.” He rose from the table. 'Thanks for letting me sit
in. It was interesting.” Then he walked out, his boots clunking on the
linoleum in the hall, his portable radio hissing as he clicked it on.

'If ]esus shows up, then we'll really have something to talk about,” I
said.

Silence.

'Well, if I may change the subject,” said Bob Fisher. 'As most of you
know, we're having a week-long revival with Everett Fudd.

We expect the Lord to do some great things and we'd appreciate it if
you'd pass the word around.” 'What about the softball team?” asked Paul.
'When does that start?”

EVERYTHING WENT WRONG on the way home. Kyle, emotionally wounded, kept
bleeding all over me and making it sound like

my fault, and I was sour and brooding about a conversation I'd just had
with Bob Fisher.

'You just sat there!” Kyle huffed as we drove across town.

'These are pastors, ministers, people answerable to the Lord for how
they lead their flocks and they get off on this stupid, wishywashy,
tolerance stuff—that's Morgan Elliott's bag, right? She and that Burton
what's-his-face. She's some kind of liberal, feminist, radical,
politically correct female pastor type, and all the men in there don't
want to stand up to her, right?” 'She's a widow, and she made sense.”
'Not if she thinks the truth doesn't matter!” 'I was talking about the
people-having-needs thing. She's concerned about people, and I think
that's commendable.” 'At the expense of the truth?” 'That's an entirely
different issue.” He really turned on me. 'It should bother you!” I
shrugged. 'I've already been bothered.” He shook his head in dismay and
disappointment. 'Something's happened to you, Travis.” I muttered, 'Sure
it has.” 'What'd you say?” 'Nothing.” 'And who in the world is that
Armond Harrison character?” 'He's a cult leader.” Kyle checked for
traffic, jammed on the brakes, and pulled over.

'What?” I did not want to go into it. I didn't have to go into it. I
don't know why I did go into it. 'He came out here from Michigan with
about thirty followers, and they have their meetings in his house over
on Maple Street. Some of them work in town; I think a few commute to
Spokane. They're just average, hard-working people.” 'But they're a
cult?” I ran down the list—an old, wrinkled list ingrained in my mind
through months of public and private discussion, debate, accusation,
counteraccusation, and vitriol. It was a list peeled off a can of 5'

worms, and I would have loved to forget it. 'The Apostolic Brethren deny
the deity of Christ, don't know diddly-squat about atonement or
salvation, and think they're all going to be christs someday because
Jesus was just one of many ‘christs' one of many ‘sons' of God. They're
into pop psychology—you know, deep meanings behind bodily excretions and
private body parts and whether or not your mother breast-fed you. They
consider the whole church one big extended family, so they move the kids
around from family to family wherever Armond wants them to go.

Armond usually requires the young women to live with him for a while so
he can teach them about sex—whatever his view of it is, anyway. They,
uh, they do things.” I wanted to cut this short.

'That's about the gist of it.” Kyle's grip on the steering wheel was so
tight I thought he'd bend it. 'And he's on the ministerial?” 'You have
eyes.” 'Why isn't anything done about it?” 'Something was done about it.

'But he's still there!” 'End of story.” 'But he's a heretic! He's a
pervert!” 'Nobody's asking you.” He yelled at me. 'What?” I tried to
explain, even though I was pretty sure it wouldn't do much good. 'Kyle,
in the long, drawn-out scope of things, it's really none of your
business what the Apostolic Brethren do and believe. You can preach the
truth just as God called you to do, but what Armond and his bunch choose
to believe is up to them and you're better off just leaving them alone.
If you don't believe me, just try to break up their little church. See
how far you get. After you fall flat on your face, you can thank God you
live in a country where heretics like Armond Harrison can still roam
free, because his freedom is your freedom.” Kyle shook his head. 'I
can't. . I can't be on this ministerial!” 'Oh, you'll break their
hearts.

'Travis, you're talking like you're in agreement with all this!” I did
not need or desire this conversation. I was looking at the door handle,
seriously thinking of bailing out of the car. 'Not in agreement. Just
wiser, that's all. We did talk about that before we went in, remember?”
'So you just sit and let people like that on the ministerial? You just
sit and let me do all the fighting, all by myself? You let me walk right
into that wolf pack and don't lift a finger to defend the truth, to help
me out?” 'I warned you.” He sighed a deep sigh, shook his head, and
reiterated, 'Something's happened to you, Travis. I mean, the things I
used to hear about you, the great spiritual warrior you used to be. You
need to come back to the Lord, Travis. You need to get right with God.”
I grabbed the door handle and just about tore it off. 'See you around.”
'What are you doing?” I flung the door open and practically leaped out.
'The ride's over.” Kyle leaned over, calling to me. 'Travis, I'm just
trying to help you. You're heading down the wrong road.” I was already
walking. 'I know my way home, Kyle!” 'You know what I mean!” I stopped
and turned. 'Yes, I know what you mean. I know the language, Kyle. I was
speaking it before you were born. I used to lay that trip on people! But
you're the man of God now, Pastor Sherman. Fight the good fight any way
you want. The cause is all yours. Just stay out of my face!”

I turned and kept walking and did not look back, even as I heard him
close the door I'd left open and drive off.

I SUPPOSE WE COULD HAVE AVOIDED our little spat if Kyle had been here
two years ago, the first time Everett Fudd came to town to revive us at
the Baptist church with a week of special meetings. At least he would
have had a better picture of what was eating at me.

I wanted to help Bob Fisher out so I got on board and an53

nounced the revival meetings in my morning service. For three of the
meetings, I brought some of my choir over. Bob and I even sang a duet
one night while I played my guitar.

And every night we listened to Brother Fudd preach his long, rambling
string ofjeremiads, railing against any and every sin, real or imagined,
and continually reminding us how backslidden, selfish, and cold of heart
we all were. He came from the 'to wake ‘em up, beat ‘em up” school of
preaching, the kind that gave rise to a popular description of the Bible
belt: 'Punch a hole in the sand and guilt pours out.” I often looked
around the room to view the weathered faces of those being revived and
wondered how much of this stuff these people really needed. Bob and I
saw these same faces in church most every Sunday.

They were the regular people, the habitual church attenders who viewed
the fact that there was something to show up for as reason enough to
show up. God bless them, they were many a pastor's last gasping reason
to continue having a midweek Bible study or a Sunday evening service,
and now they were, at least in my mind, Bob's primary justification for
scheduling Brother Fudd.

They came every night, and every night Brother Fudd beat them up. He
accused and scolded them, then shoved their tattered souls up against
the sublime memories of the past for comparison: the great revivals that
happened in another place, another time; the things that God used to do;
the way it was when they first found the Lord. Wherever they once were,
they had strayed. Shame on them. Shame on them!

And the altar call was always the same, a piano-accompanied petition:
Come back to where you were. Do the old things again. Turn back and pick
up whatever it was you dropped.

Recycle the old-time religion.

Come back to the Lord. Get right with God.

As the memories came back, I quickened my step, hurrying down the quiet
house-lined street. I was dreading the possibility that Bob Fisher might
drive by, offer me a lift, and invite me to the Fudd revival meetings
again.

He was my friend. He meant well. But when he approached me

after the ministerial with his invitation—”Hey Travis, come to the
meetings. It'll be good for what ails you”—I could hear the message
coming between the lines: You need to come back to square one and do it
all over again, just do it harder You need to come back to the Lord.

Come back to the Lord.

Come back to the Lord.

Just what did that mean, really? I chuckled. I could vow never to eat
devil's food cake again, or deviled eggs, as Brother Fudd instructed us
two years ago. I could think of all kinds of things to do to please God.

I whispered as I walked, 'Lord, we are okay with each other, aren't we?”
There was no booming voice from heaven, nor was there any quickening in
my soul. There was only the same silence I'd endured for months.

I kept walking, anger fueling my steps. Spiritual Band-Aids from
friends, silence from heaven, and the same, unshakable sense of being on
the outside of it all. The story of my life.

Q NT HUR5DAY, Nancy Barrons sold a bumper crop of Harvesters, her
biggest print run since the brush fire of ‘95, andthe town became
officially informed regarding the 'Antioch Phenomenon.” The story about
Arnold Kowalski worked well because

Nancy had a real Arnold to interview and photograph, as well as a doctor
from Davenport to render his opinion about the arthritis mysteriously
disappearing. I thought the accounts of the angelic sightings had a
strange, groping tone, trying to be a story about something that might
become news if it ever happened. No matter. News that might become news
was still news enough. Thephotocopier at Prairie Real Estate got a lot
of use that day, and single households were buying multiple copies of
the paper. This news was definitely going to travel.

Their fervor renewed, Dee, Adrian, and Blanche returned to the church
parking lot with a more favorable weather forecast— morning low clouds,
but partial clearing in the afternoon. Blanche brought her camera and
notebook to record whatever signs might appear, noting that they saw
Jesus riding a white horse from 2:05 to 2:15, and then a big fist that
could have been the hand of God. Dave White stopped by briefly to check
the sky for himself, but he was the only person other than the three
ladies to

do so. This particular aspect of the Antioch Phenomenon hadn't made the
paper yet.

Of course, the Phenomenon had no regard for Nancy's publishing schedule.
Even as the Harvester was hitting the vending boxes around town and the
checkout counters at Mack's Sooper Market, it happened again, to a
person no one would have expected.

One look at Bonnie Adams and you just knew she couldn't have been born
and raised in Antioch by parents who were born and raised in Antioch. It
may have been Marc and Greg who first pointed her out to me and called
her the 'hippie woman.” She was the one who lived on Birch Street with
the 'PEACE BEGINS WITH ME” bumper sticker on her car and the 'KEEP OUT,
NO TRESPASSING” sigu on her fence. I was never sure how she made a
living besides being an artist who created bizarre nudes and animals out
of sheet metal and scrap aluminum. She had long, frizzy hair, granny
glasses, loose clothing that had to have come either from India or
Berkeley, and a particular scent about her, a strange combination of
incense and burning hemp. The first time I met her, she was playing old
Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan songs at a local jam for acoustic musicians.
I did some lead fills on my banjo and we hit it off fine, but she turned
a cold shoulder to any mention of the Lord. I quickly gathered she was
into energy and vibrations, maybe a little karma, and that was about it.
She was pragmatic, however, and that was why she showed up Thursday
morning at Our Lady's with her daughter, Penny.

Penny was seventeen, had no memory of her father, and up until a year
ago was constantly in trouble. Brett Henchle and his two cops had run
Penny in several times for shoplifting, drug possession, and truancy,
but her mother always seemed either helpless or indifferent, and Penny
showed no sigus of changing.

Until the accident.

Many folks were surprised the single-vehicle wreck hadn't happened
sooner. Penny was out with two friends late at night, drinking and
driving, when the car went off the road and rolled several times down an
embankment. Penny was thrown from the vehicle and the 57

open door landed on her right forearm, crushing it and mangling the
nerves. The two friends recovered from their injuries, but Penny's hand
was ruined and soon withered, curled back on itself like a broken bird
foot.

After that, we didn't hear too much about her.

'Well,” Jack McKinstry told me once, 'she just can't be the thief she
used to be.” He ran Mack's Sooper Market, and Penny used to be a regular
visitor who cost him a lot of money. Brett Henchle confided that things
had indeed quieted down as far as Penny was concerned. 'Maybe she's
learned her lesson.” When Al Vendetti opened the church doors for the
pilgrims, Bonnie was there with Penny in tow. Penny looked a lot like
her mother, except that her frizzy hair had green streaks in it, her
clothing was quite a bit tighter, and her face was pierced in far more
places than Bonnie's. They took a seat in the second pew from the front,
directly behind the young couple from Moses Lake. Bonnie had brought
some granola bars and took her first bite as she gazed at the crucifix,
waiting. Penny just slouched in the pew, bored and scowling.

After no more than five minutes, Penny snarled, 'Can we go home?” 'No!”
Bonnie answered.

'I need a cigarette.

'Shhh! You're going to disrupt the energy.”

'There isn't any energy.” 'There is. You just have to relax.” Bonnie
closed her eyes for a moment and took some deep breaths. 'It's here. I
can feel it. You just have to settle into it, let it flow.” She opened
her eyes again and looked around the room. 'This could be big medicine.
The Spokanes could have worshiped on this very spot.” The other pilgrims
were giving them sideways glances.

'This isn't Indian,” said Penny, 'it's Catholic!” 'It's all the same,
sweetheart.” Penny rolled her eyes. 'It sure is.

came a quiet suggestion from across the room.

'We're doing this for you, Penny.” 'It's not going to work!” Bonnie
raised her voice. 'If it worked before, it'll work again.

Then she drew a deep breath, settled back in the pew, and tried to
settle her nerves, relaxing, relaxing. With her eyes on the crucifix,
she drew a deep breath and began to hum, 'Ommmmnimmmmm.. Today Pete
Morgan was the lay assistant keeping watch at the ladder. After another
minute of Bonnie's humming he finally set down his psalm book and
hurried off the platform to have a word with her. 'Excuse me, I'm sorry,
but I'll have to ask you to—” Bonnie leaped to her feet and pushed him
so hard he stumbled across the aisle and almost landed in a lady's lap.
All around the room, there were gasps and ooohhhs.

'Way cool!” Penny exclaimed.

'Come on!” Bonnie hissed, yanking Penny by the arm.

Pete recovered just in time to see Bonnie racing for the platform, her
full-cut clothing rustling behind her like natural, organic flags in a
gale, pulling a running, off-balance Penny after her.

The couple from Moses Lake jumped up from their pew as the young lady
gasped and pointed. 'It's crying!” Everyone stood, pointed, shouted.
'Look at that!” 'It's crying, it's crying!” 'Saints be praised!” Pete
stared, aghast. Tears from both eyes now traced thin, meandering streaks
down the wooden face of the image.

He took the arm of the young lady with leukemia. 'Come on, I'll help
you.” 'But —' She pointed at Bonnie Adams, already grabbing a rung of
the ladder and pulling at her unwilling daughter.

'Come on!” Pete insisted, and they hurried onto the platform, followed
by an asthmatic man from Ritzville, a lady from Spokane with cancer and
the friend who came with her, three elderly folks with arthritis, a
Yakima man with a bad liver, and at least ten other people who were
either sick or just plain curious.

59

'Get up there!” Bonnie yelled, pulling on Penny's arm. Penny tried to
jerk away. 'I'm scared!” 'Make way!” Pete shouted, bringing up the young
lady. 'Let us come through!” 'Only in your dreams, bub!” Bonnie started
clambering up the ladder, stepping and tripping on her long, full pants
legs.

The crowd stumbled and jostled around the altar and closed in around the
ladder, pleading, praying, grabbing at the rungs in order to climb.
Bonnie yelled back at them, stomping on any fingers that dared to climb
after her. The two women from Spokane began to wail and weep. The man
with the bad liver swore and said excuse me, swore and said excuse me. A
forest of pleading hands reached toward the crucifix.

'Calm down now!” Pete hollered above the clamor. His back was against
the ladder and some folks were trying to climb him.

'I'm sure there will be tears enough for everyone! No shoving!” Al
Vendetti heard the noise from his office and came running into the
sanctuary. My God, they're going to break something!

The young woman from Moses Lake began climbing the ladder. Bonnie Adams
stepped on her hand, she fell back, and her husband caught her.

'Please!” Pete begged. 'Let her come up the ladder! She has leukemia!”
Bonnie didn't hear him. Her full attention was on that wooden face. She
brushed her fingers across the wet streaks, gathering the tears. A
powerful tingle coursed through her hand and arm and she cried out, her
hand trembling. Then she screamed, forgot her grip on the ladder, and
fell, bowling over the two ladies from Spokane and the Ritzville man
with asthma. 'Penny!” With help from Pete and her husband, the young
woman from j Moses Lake went up the ladder.

'Penny!” Penny reached around the man with the bad liver and the three
arthritics. 'Mom, get up!”

Bonnie grabbed her daughter's withered hand, her wet fingers touching
her daughter's skin firmly, purposefully. Penny began to tremble and
scream, trying to pull her hand away, but Bonnie held on with all her
strength, her eyes wild with excitement. 'You feel it, Penny? Feel the
energy? I knew it! I knew it!” The young woman from Moses Lake reached
for the face of the image, touched it, and found it dry. 'Oh God, no..
.' She ran her fingers over the face imploringly, but there were no
tears. 'No... no, please, have mercy..

The only tears now were her own.

Father Al worked his way into the crowd. 'Please, let's calm down,
everyone! Let's not endanger each other!” Penny was the one doing most
of the screaming, her body trembling, her eyes fixed on her right hand,
now uncurling as it slipped steadily from her mother's grip. 'I can feel
it!” she gasped.

The fingers wiggled. 'I can wiggle my fingers! Mom, I can feel your
hand!” 'It works!” Bonnie exclaimed, her wide eyes filled with awe.

'This is a sacred place!” Al reached Penny and took her shoulders to
steady her. Bonnie let her hand go and Penny held it up in front of the
priest's face, wiggling, twisting, and flexing it. 'You see? You see?”
He took her hand and felt it alive and strong in his own. 'Oh child. .
.' Then he looked up at the crucifix and blessed himself.

WITHIN HALF AN HOUR, I heard about it from Sid Maher who heard about it
from Paul Daley who heard about it from one of his parishioners who
heard about it from Pete Morgan. Sid called Father Al to confirm it, and
then he called me. Sid was a believer now, totally flabbergasted, unable
to understand what it meant, how it worked, how he could explain it
doctrinally. I had no answers for him; all I could do was thank him for
calling, hang up, and get out of the house before Kyle took it upon
himself to call me. The way I was feeling, I couldn't talk to him or
anyone else.

6i

By the time I even cared where I was going, I found myself near the
cottonwoods on the little hill beside my house. I stopped, rested a hand
against a guarled trunk, and began to pray desperately, trying to think,
trying to understand just what in the world I was supposed to do with
all this. The thing that kept wrenching my insides was that I wanted to
believe it was true, that God was indeed moving through our little town
and, well, doing something, doing anything. But I'd already put in too
many years of believing too many things too quickly. I felt cautionary
red flags popping up everywhere. I had scoffed at the reports of people
seeing angels, but I was now standing where something had appeared to
me. The God I had known all my life didn't heal through tearful wooden
images, and yet two witnesses—the biblical requirement—had confirmed the
healings at Our Lady's. What must I accept next, that Jesus was really
appearing in the clouds?

'Lord, please speak to me,” I said aloud as I looked across the
expansive farmland to the west. 'Help me sort this out.

I quieted myself and remained still, scanning the smooth, gently rolling
horizon as I waited for a clear answer to come to mind. I listened for
sounds, and even stole a few glimpses of the clouds, just in case. I
recalled and sang an old song we used to do at prayer meetings: 'Speak
my Lord, speak my Lord. Speak and I'll be quick to answer Thee....” I
waited. I told myself I wouldn't wait long, but I waited.

Minutes passed. There was no remarkable vision, no voice. The only sound
I noticed was the distant purring of a lawn mower in the neighborhood
behind me. Well, I thought, I can spend the whole day up here doing and
accomplishing nothing, or I can get on with my lfr.

I turned and headed down the hill toward Myrtle Street, my prayers
unanswered—again. I accepted that fact grudgingly even as I tried to
remind myself, 'Hey, time is one of God's primary tools for teaching
wisdom.” Time. And more time. And still more time. More praying, more
asking, more weeks, months, or even

L years of anguish trying to pull it all together. This frustrating
little

session on the hill reminded me of something I'd learned over the years:
God won't be hurried. Or in this case, I thought, whatever he doing, he
isn't about to clue me in!

I stepped out of the grass and around the wooden traffic barrier that
marked the west end of Myrtle Street. The sound of the lawn mower was
coming from John Billings's yard across the street from my place. Some
guy was busily circling around the big yard on a little Snapper mower.

I checked my mailbox. Hm. More catalogs. Just what I need: a solid gold
trailer hitch, a short-wave radio that fits on your wrist... The guy on
the mower came whirring around the front of the yard. He was young, with
long black hair bound in a ponytail, a beard, faded work jeans, a
long-sleeved shirt, leather gloves. I couldn't recall John Billings ever
hiring anyone else to do his lawn.

Maybe he was a relative. The young man looked at me, smiled, and turned
the mower for another lap around the back.

I recoguized him.

And I was stunned. Speechless. I stood there frozen, staring, my mouth
dropping open so far I could feel the sun drying my tongue.

A landscape man?

My mysterious vision of Jesus on the hill was just a landscape man, a
young guy with long hair and a beard? He must have been out for a walk,
or maybe scoping out another mowing and trimming job. Maybe he was
inspecting those trees for possible trimming or removal.

I felt silly and embarrassed. April Fool's. Just kidding. Gotcha!

But after that, I felt wonderfully relieved! It was John Billings's
landscape man. His landscape man! I burst out laughing.

I watched for him to come around the back of the house and toward the
front of the yard again, trying not to have a silly grin on my face in
case he should look my way. He appeared soon enough, circling around the
back deck and weaving his way toward me through the fruit trees. It was
him, all right. He spotted me right away, smiled that same pleasant
smile, and this time he waved. I waved back. He seemed like a nice guy.

63

I looked down at the catalog in my hand so as not to stare at him. I was
just debating whether to return indoors or walk over and say hello when
I heard the mower stop in the front of John's yard.

'Hey Travis!” the man yelled. I looked up. 'Got a minute?” 'Uh, sure.” I
set the mail in the mailbox and left the door open to remind me.
Crossing the street, I kept looking at his face and probing my memory.
He knew me by name, but had we met before?

Had he ever been to the church while I was pastoring? Maybe he came into
Judy's a few times, or attended one of the acoustic jams.

I crossed the street, approaching the little lawn mower where he sat
waiting. I did not remember this guy. He gave me a sympathetic smile.
'You're really going through it, aren't you?” I smiled to be pleasant.
'Excuse me?” 'You'll be okay. It's just a little eye opener, that's
all.” 'Have we met before?” 'Never face to face.” He offered his gloved
hand. 'Or hand to hand.” I took his hand to shake it and felt a weird
tingling, like electricity. It didn't stop and I pulled my hand away.
'Whoa!” 'What?” 'Got a little shock.” He chuckled. 'Sorry. Must be the
lawn mower.” He rested his elbows on the mower's steering wheel and
looked at me casually.

'We've known each other for years, Travis, ever since you were eight
years old.” I was about to question him on that, but he didn't pause.
'It's a lonely time for you, I know, especially when so many folks don't
understand what you're going through. They've never been there. But you
and I have.” He chuckled, shook his head, then said in a mimicky voice,
'Travis, you need to come back to the Lord.” He told me sincerely, 'They
don't know your heart.” Just a landscape man? 'Who are you?” He gazed at
me for just a moment, his head slightly cocked.

'I've been with you all this time and you don't know me?” .4>.

.. Well.. . he could have been Jewish, from the Middle East. His skin
was dark, his eyes a deep brown, his hair jet-black with a

gentle curl at the ends. Then again, he could have been part Native
American or perhaps Hispanic. He seemed to know a lot about me, even
what I might be thinking, but I wasn't about to take the bait. 'No. I
guess I don't know you. But go ahead, I'm listening.” He drew a breath,
sighed it out, and then said, 'Travis, you've lived here for years. You
know the people, you know the ministry.

So tell me. I've sent some messengers on ahead to prepare people.

How are people responding? What are they thinking?” I was trying to
remember what I had prayed for a few minutes ago. Whatever it was, I
wasn't expecting this for an answer. 'Oh, people are really buzzing
about it. Yesterday the ministerial had its best attendance in years.”
'They even let you in.

'I behaved myself. I didn't say much.” 'What else?” I thought a moment,
then told him about Nancy's big write-up on the healing of Arnold
Kowalski and the angelic visitations. 'She sold a lot of papers this
morning.” He smiled and nodded, obviously quite pleased.

'So, I'm to understand you're the cause of all this?” 'Well, I haven't
appeared in the clouds. I haven't appeared to anyone except you. You
know how it is. Some people receive the message and ponder it for what
it is, and some take it like a handoff and just run with it—usually out
of bounds. It happens.” Wow. He knows football. But then I pulled out
the old 1 John 4 test. 'So let me ask you: Did Jesus come in the flesh?”
He held out his arm and pinched the flesh under his shirt. 'What do you
think this is?” 'But why all this show biz, all this angelic stuff and
weeping images?” He shrugged. 'John the Baptist doesn't get out much
these days.” In spite of myself, I laughed. 'I can't believe I'm having
this conversation.” 'Give it time, Travis. I don't expect you to believe
everything in one moment, not even one week. But I was kidding about
John 65

the Baptist. This all goes deeper than clouds and angels and images. You
know that.” 'This is a gag! Somebody sent you, right?” 'Actually, I came
on my own.” I laughed at that as if it were another joke. 'Yeah, right.”
'I'm a little surprised you haven't asked me about Marian.” That was no
gag. It was a sudden, very serious twist, and I could feel it. I studied
him. He just raised an eyebrow and looked back at me, waiting.

So now we were going to talk about Marian? This man was a total stranger
to me. My answer came with difficulty, but I hoped it would close the
topic. 'It would be a very big question.” He nodded as if he understood.
'The answer's pretty big too.” Then he added, 'But she sends her
regards.” If this was a joke, it was a sick one. I could feel my anger
start- ing to rise— A car pulled up beside us. 'Hello?” a lady called
from the passenger side.

I turned. 'Yeah? Can I help you?” Behind me, the mower started up.
'We'll talk again, Travis!” I jerked my head back to see him putting the
mower in gear.

The lady in the car was saying something I couldn't hear over the mower.
I turned to her again. 'Excuse me?” She repeated, 'We're lost. Can you
tell us how to get to the Catholic church?” I approached the car so I
could communicate better. I could hear the mower whirring toward the
back of the yard. 'You're looking for Our Lady of the Fields?” 'Yes,
that's it!” I noticed the car was full; four women and two men. It had
an Oregon license plate. 'Uh, well, you head down this street till you
get to 7th—it's right where that red pickup is parked.” 'Uh-huh.” 'Turn
left, go down the hill to Highway 2, that's the main drag through town.”

The lady driving the car elbowed the older woman sitting next to her. 'I
told you we weren't supposed to turn!” 'Turn right, and it's down two
blocks, on the left. Big stone church. You can't miss it.

'Do you think it's open today?” I ventured a question. 'Are you here to
see the weeping crucifix?” Every passenger in that car brightened up and
leaned toward me. The passenger lady said, 'We sure are! Have you seen
it?” 'I haven't seen it cry, but I've seen it.

She nodded toward one of the gentlemen in back. 'Barry has lung cancer.
We've come clear from Oregon.” I noticed the gentleman had oxygen tubes
attached to his nostrils. I didn't know what to say other than, 'I think
Father Vendetti is keeping the doors open all day.” She clapped, they
giggled, the driver put the car in gear.

'Thanks a lot! God bless!” 'God bless,” I said, and they drove away.

I watched them until they turned left at the red pickup and drove out of
sight, struck by what I had seen in that car, and so many times before:
serious illness companioned with high hopes.

I knew what that was like. I wondered how it would turn out.

But where did the Mower Man go? I no longer heard the mower running and
I couldn't see it.

Hoping John wouldn't mind—and not really caring at the moment—I went
into his yard, following the last mown path. As I rounded the back of
the house, I found the mower parked by the patio, but no sigu of its
mysterious operator. I peered about the yard, over the fence, and
through the back gate like a hound on a hunt, but there was no one
around. I almost knocked on the door of the house, but finally put the
brakes on and admitted that my emotions were getting the better of me.
Whoever this man was or claimed to be, we had ended our conversation on
a tedious subject that was best left closed for the time being. I took a
moment to draw a long breath, then turned for home.

Between John Billings's yard and my mailbox I determined that John and I
would talk about his lawn mower man. I would be in a 67

cooler mood by the time John got home. I would quietly and politely find
out who the man was, extend to him an opportunity to apologize for being
so cruel and tasteless, and hopefully put this whole event to rest.
Surely the Mower Man understood that the town was going through enough
craziness right now and I was in enough pain. His witty masquerade would
not help matters.

I would be civil. I would be Christian.

By the time I retrieved my mail from the mailbox, I'd dealt with my
anger. I'd cooled down a bit.

But the pain was still there. The Mower Man had gotten to me. His words
and actions, like slow venom, were still working, and by the time I
reached my front door I felt nineteen again.

Not young, just burdened with an old sorrow, a deep loneliness, a
familiar despair.

Certain smells, like the odor of your grade school or even the scent of
an old girlfriend, remain in your memory forever. An old song can bring
back the feelings you had when you first fell in love.

You may think you don't remember how the back door of your childhood
home sounded when it swung shut, but if you could hear it again, you
would know the sound.

As I sat on the couch and picked up my banjo, I knew this feeling. I
knew when and where I'd felt it before. I was nineteen at the time,
sitting alone on the bed in my room in Seattle. I still remembered the
'new house” smell of that room, the texture of the Sears bedspread, the
feel and color of the blue-green carpet on the floor, the exact position
of my Glen Campbell poster on the wall. I had a banjo in my hands then
too—a brown, fifty-dollar Harmony with a plastic resonator, and I could
have been playing the same song I was playing now.

I was nineteen, alone, and there was absolutely nothing happening in my
life. It was a pivotal moment, I suppose, frozen in memory like a
historic photo from the LIFE magazine archives, a passage out of
childhood and a painful end to illusions. I'd been in love, but lost the
girl; I'd been a prophet of God, but proven wrong; I'd prayed for the
sick, but they didn't get well; God had called me to a faraway city,

but hadn't met me there; my friends and I were going to change the world
for God, but they had all scattered after graduation. I had been a young
man of such hope and faith, but now my hope and faith were gone, slowly
suffocated by disappointment and disillusionment. I felt desperately
alone with no idea where to go next or why I should even want to go
there.

Sitting on my couch at forty-five, banjo in hand, I could feel it all.
The lawn mower man brought it all back. He was trying to be Jesus. He
spoke of Marian. It made me realize how much I missed them both.

fIHE Harvester didn't come out again until Tuesday, and I when it did,
Penny Adams was on the front page, holding her right hand high and
wiggling it for the camera. It was a great picture and a great article,
but oddly enough—and virtually unheard of in our little town—a big,
out-of-town paper actually 'scooped” Nancy Barrons on a local story.
Someone—I'm guessing it was Penny's mother, Bonnie—called the Spokane
Herald, and they sent a photographer and reporter to Antioch on Thursday
afternoon.

The story ran in the 'People” section of the Herald on Friday, with a
color picture of Penny and Arnold Kowalski standing on either side of
Father Al and the crucifix visible on the wall behind them.

But the outside news coverage didn't stop there.

Reporters and producers from three different Spokane stations saw the
Spokane Herald article on Friday morning and had their crews out to Our
Lady's before ten o'clock. Al, Penny, and Arnold posed in front of the
crucifix again and did their on-camera interviews with the crucifix
specially lit by TV lights. Bonnie, being Penny's mother and therefore
worthy of quoting, elbowed her way into the story and got her face on
television. The camera operators made sure to record the crowd of
pilgrims sitting in the pews wait- K ing for it to happen again, and
also got sweeping shots of the

outside of the church. When I drove by about noon, I saw the news crews
still walking up and down the highway, cameras aimed at the church, the
highway through town, Mack's, Judy's, the street signs, and any people
who might happen along. Our town—even our street signs and Maude Henley
walking her three-legged toy poodle—had suddenly become interesting. But
it didn't stop there.

Anything interesting enough to get the attention of the Spokane Herald
is interesting enough to make the wire services. That same Friday
morning, major newspapers and news broadcasters all over the country
were reading the wire copy, perusing the wire photos of Penny, Father
Al, Bonnie, and Arnold, and raising their eyebrows.

They wanted more. The big newspapers called the Herald. The networks
called their Spokane affiliates.

Of course, by this time the local reporters were after sidebars and
spin-offs to the core story. Sally Fordyce made the Saturday editions
and the weekend television news, her story corroborated by an anonymous,
silhouetted member of the local Baptist congregation and the testimony
of a police department spokesman who declined to appear on camera. By
Sunday, the pilgrims coming to Our Lady's had doubled. That became a
story in itself, which further increased the number of out-of-town
reporters.

On Sunday, all the Christians and ministers in town were gathered at
their respective churches, making them easy to locate and interview on
camera as their services let out. Sid Maher expressed astonishment as
the reporters interviewed him standing in front of his church, while
Burton Eddy at least sneered civilly as he expressed skepticism in front
of his. Bob Fisher had the Word of God to comfort him and that was
enough. Morgan Elliott was indignant that such a private matter would
become so public.

When a cameraman and reporter from Seattle came by Antioch Pentecostal
Mission, Kyle didn't want to limit God but still called for caution.

Dee Baylor was waiting in the parking lot with a whole new spinoff She
had other witnesses camera-ready, Blanche had video and photographs, and
Adrian had written records. By two in the after7'

noon, three stations from the west side of the state and two from the
east side were aiming their cameras at the clouds while Dee provided the
shape-by-shape commentary. That little twist on the story attracted more
attention, which drew more pilgrims, which better filled the parking
lot. All of which made it a better news story.

And people did start seeing things up there.

BY S UNDAY AFTERNOON, the Wheatland Motel had filled eight of its ten
rooms, something Norman Dillard, the owner, hadn't seen in years. By the
time a married couple and the man's brotherin-law arrived from Yakima to
take the ninth room, Norman was beginning to reel off information like a
tour guide.

'The weeping crucifix can be seen at Our Lady of the Fields Catholic
church, up the highway and on the left, open twenty-four hours. Also, I
understand they're seeing Jesus in the clouds at Antioch Pentecostal
Mission, one block over and up the hill. Well, yes, I suppose you could
stand anywhere, but Antioch Mission is the traditional place to gather
and facilitators are there to answer your questions. For angels—well,
that could happen anywhere, any time. That's part of the thrill. Yes,
cameras are allowed at all locations. Cloud watching will be pretty good
for this afternoon, but the forecast is for decreasing clouds this
evening and clear skies tomorrow, so keep that in mind as you make your
plans.” Just outside, an older couple Norman had never seen before
halted abruptly as the wife pointed at the hedge bordering the driveway.
'I see him!” The husband, somewhere near eighty and squinting through
trifocals, studied the hedge. 'Where?” She was digging for her
palm-sized camera. 'Right there! Right there in those leaves!” He
muttered, 'You're seeing things already?” She yanked him by the arm.
'You have to be standing here!” He stood where she put him, studied the
hedge, and never got the puzzled look off his face while she snapped
pictures.

Norman signed in the new arrivals and gave them the key to Room Nine.
Only one vacant room left, and that older couple was heading his way.

Hm. This religious stuff was good for business.

JACK MCKLN5TRY noticed a lot of new faces coming through Mack's Sooper
Market as well. The news crews stopped in for crackers, chips, and soft
drinks. Out-of-towners were buying whole loads of groceries as well as
film and batteries for their cameras. Others were stocking up on
carry-along snacks for the vigils under the clouds or below the
crucifix. He and his wife, Lindy, had little time to rest during
checkouts at the cash registers.

'Hey,” he called to Lindy, 'what if we dress up our employees like
angels? You know, little angel wings or something?” He was at cash
register two; she was at cash register three. She started speaking
louder so she could concentrate—”Two at fifty, dollar twenty-nine,
dollar forty, three ninety-nine... '—and then vetoed the idea with her
eyes.

He chuckled as he counted cans of beans, sliding them along the counter
with shuffleboard precision. Well, maybe that idea was a little too
daring, but the way business was picking up lately, one couldn't be too
quick to frown at new ideas.

Mack's was a family business, begun by Jack's father back when
misspelling Super was still clever. It wasn't a large place, but Jack
worked hard to keep pace with the big-town supermarkets while
maintaining a neighborhood grocery attitude. The store had four checkout
counters with one designated 'Ten Items or Less,” but the laser bar-code
readers were still something he'd only read about. The automatic doors
were still activated by pressure pads instead of motion detectors,
butJack saw no need to upgrade them as long as they worked and the
customers didn't mind waiting a little. He kept a magazine rack at each
checkout with a fresh rotation of Cosmopolitan, People, and The National
Enquirer, but drew the line at any magazine that had to have its cover
concealed. He'd 73

finally put in a video rack, but only at Lindy's insistence. At heart,
Jack was a grocery man, the kind of guy who did his own meat cut- ting,
bought produce from local farmers, and always provided floor space for
church bake sales.

'And that will be.. .' He scanned the register's display. 'Fortynine
eighty-two.” He got the money, gave the customer the receipt, Ronny the
box boy took over, and Jack was free for a moment. 'Hey Nevin, the widow
called. She's wondering where you are.” Nevin Sorrel, a gaunt-looking,
blue-jeaned ranch worker in his thirties, had been waiting by the
Rent-a-Vac carpet cleaners, fidgeting and fretting. He hurried forward
and spoke in quick, low tones, 'Jack, I can't find those groceries
nowhere.” 'Those four sacks you bought?” 'Yeah, they were the ones.”
'Ronny took them out to your truck. I saw that much.” 'But they ain't
there!” 'I saw Ronny put em in.

It upset Nevin to have to repeat himself. 'They ain't there!” Jack
stared at him a moment. 'So... what am I supposed to do?” 'Have you seen
‘em?” NowJack was getting impatient. 'Yeah! I saw Ronny put ‘em in the
back of your truck and that was the last time I saw ‘em. Mrs. Macon is
wondering where you are. She sent you down here two hours ago and she
wants her strawberries.” That was no comfort to Nevin whatsoever. He
started reliving the past two hours. 'I got in the truck, drove out
toward the Macon place, I got sleepy...” 'Wait. You got sleepy?” 'Yeah.
I pulled over and fell asleep, and when I woke up the groceries were
gone.

Jack was amused even as he realized it was rude. 'Well, there you are.
You got ripped off.” Nevin stared at him blankly, so Jack expounded.
'Somebody stole the groceries while you were sawing logs.

THE ‘VI5ITATLON

Nevin had a hard time getting that to sink in. 'What am I gonna tell
Mrs. Macon?”

IT WAS BECOMING a fruitful day for sightings. As the number of pilgrims
in town increased, so did the sightings ofJesus; and as more Catholics
arrived, so did the Virgin Mary. It reminded me of a large scale,
grown-up Easter-egg hunt. Everywhere you looked, folks were scouring the
town—searching the sky, the potholes in the roads, the bark of trees,
the water stains in ceiling tiles—hoping to see the Savior or his mother
looking back. Both Jesus and his earthly mother appeared on the back of
the highway sign denoting how many more miles it was to Coulee City and
the junction with Highway 174. Mary did a solo appearance in the growth
ring pattern where a tree trimmer sawed a rotting limb off the big
willow tree next to Sawyer Memorial Playground. The pavement stones on
the front steps of the library drew attention, but Catholics and
Protestants were divided as to whether it was Jesus or Mary. The most
unusual sighting I heard of was the face of Jesus beckoning from the
mildew on the shower tiles in Room Five at the Wheatland Motel. Norman
didn't know what to do about that one—whether to clean a dirty shower or
desecrate a holy shrine.

As for me, I finally managed to catch John Billings at home. It turned
out he had been gone most of the week installing a sprinlder system in
Missoula, Montana.

'Hey, what happened to rtly lawn?” he asked me the moment I walked over
to talk with him.

It seemed the Mower Man only mowed the lawn until he had his talk with
me. Now John had a ring of mown grass around the outside of his yard and
a wide border of shaggy lawn closest to his house.

'I saw a guy mowing your grass on Thursday,” I said, eager to hear his
reaction.

John was a tough old bird in his fifties who took great pride in his
yard. He was a bit miffed. 'Who?” 75

'Uh.. .' I almost answered, but then realized I didn't have an answer I
could actually use. 'I don't know. He didn't tell me who he was. But he
was driving your Snapper around the yard, cutting the grass. I thought
he was working for you.” 'He wasn't working for me.” He looked around
his yard in disgust. 'I wouldn't hire a guy who only does half a lawn.
Did he ink I was going to like this?” Then he jerked his head around to
mower?” ok at me as if something had finally sunk in. 'He was driving my
I could see the Snapper from where we were standing and I pointed it
out. 'That one right there.” 'On Thursday.” 'Yeah.” 'Ever seen him
before? What did he look like?” Well, who he looked like would have made
a better question, but I proceeded to tell John what I saw, leaving out
the details of the conversation we had. I was feeling an odd mix of
triumph and mystification that I tried not to show: I knew that guy was
some kind of phony.., but if that was the case, who was he really?

BY THE TIME Nevin Sorrel got back to the widow Macon's ranch he was an
hour late and carrying a whole new order of groceries, paid for out of
his own pocket. Being late didn't worry him too much. Mrs. Macon would
scold him about it, but she would tolerate it. Losing four sacks of
groceries while sleeping was another matter. Mrs. Macon was wealthy,
quirky, and very particular about her cash flow.

As he turned the golden brown pickup off the highway and through the
ranch gate, he tried to concoct an explanation. A mechanical breakdown
wouldn't work. This was the late Cephus Macon's truck, an immaculate
Dodge with extended cab, custom running boards, and chrome-plated
exhaust stacks, always kept in top condition by the widow out of respect
for her husband's memory. He could say he met an old friend, got to
talking, and lost

track of time, but that would sound irresponsible. A flat tire? No, that
would mean exchanging one of the good tires for the spare, and that was
too much trouble.

He rehearsed some other excuses as he drove the mile-long driveway to
the sprawling ranch house atop the rise, but none of them played out
very well. By the time he eased the big rig into Mrs. Macon's four-car
garage, he settled for no explanation at all.

He was late, he was sorry, that was it. He'd bring in the groceries,
apologize, and duck if he had to.

He grabbed two sacks from the back of the truck, knocked on the rear
entry door, then cracked it open. 'Mrs. Macon? I'm back.” Her voice came
from the kitchen. 'Where have you been?” He hurried through the laundry
room and into the kitchen, a gorgeous, expansive facility with a virtual
warehouse of cupboard and counter space and a vast wall of windows
offering a panorama of the Macon ranch lands. The moment he saw the
widow sitting at the enormous breakfast table, the first excuse he
rejected didn't seem so outlandish. 'You'll never guess what happened!
The alternator belt broke and I had one awful time—” 'You don't have to
explain,” she said gently. She was a small woman in her late sixties,
with a trim figure and white hair tucked into a comb atop her head. She
was sipping her afternoon drink of blended fruit juice—a blend that was
supposed to include the strawberries she'd needed but he'd lost, bought
all over again, and delivered late. He couldn't be sure, but the pink
color of her drink sure looked like she'd found ‘some strawberries. As
she took another sip and looked out the windows, the expression on her
face did not seem harsh, as he expected. It actually seemed peaceful. He
began to breathe easier. 'Uh, well, I got the groceries. I'll bring the
rest in.

She gave him a puzzled look. 'What did you do? Buy them again?” It was
tough trying to look innocent while feeling so cornered.

....... no, I got the groceries. I got ‘em in the truck.” She set her
glass down and looked at him with her head slightly 77

tilted, her fingers drumming her chin. 'They're already in the house.”
His mind went blank. 'Ma'am?” 'My strawberries, my oranges, my
strawberry nonfat yogurt, the porkchops, the flour and my Knox for
Nails, all of it. You got it all the first time.” 'The first time?”
'Yes, before you decided to take a snooze by the side of the road,
remember?” She went to the double-wide refrigerator and swung the door
open. 'Here are all the perishables, safe and sound, no thanks to you.”
It took a few seconds for Nevin to conclude that whatever cover story
he'd concocted had already failed. 'I, uh, I didn't want to get into an
accident, you know, go off the road in Mr. Macon's truck.” 'You might
try sleeping at night,” she responded briskly.

'Lucky for me, someone happened by and saw you sleeping in the truck
with my perishables sitting in the back, out in the sun, about to go
bad.” So he'd been caught. Worse than that: snitched on. 'Who?” She went
to the windows and pointed. 'My new hired hand.” What? Pain and jealousy
twisted around inside him, and Nevin hurried to the window.

'He came to the front door with all four sacks in his arms and told me
where he'd found you parked, snoring away while my yogurt sat in the
sun. He's very sweet and conscientious.” Nevin saw the bigJohn Deere
tractor emerging from behind the horse barn, puffing a trailer of hay.
'What's he doin' on my tractor?” She cleared her throat. 'On my
tractor,” she corrected. 'He's transferring hay to the other barn.”
'That was my job!” 'You were sleeping, Nevin!” He looked at her with
horror in his eyes and a wrenching pain in his stomach. 'You're giving
him my job?” 'Oh, we'll see.” She cocked her head and gave him a
motherly look. 'He didn't lie to me.”

'But I paid for ‘em! I paid for the second load out of my own pocket!”
She waved her hand, not wanting to discuss it. 'Give me time to think it
over, Nevin. Take the day off. We'll just see how everything works out.”
Before turning on his heels and getting out of there, Nevin took a long,
careful look at the man he knew he would hate. The fellow was young,
with black hair and a beard, dark skin, blue jeans, longsleeved shirt,
and gloves, now looking his way and giving him a friendly, gloating
smile and a little wave.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, with just a few hours of daylight left, Norman
Dillard stepped out of his motel office and checked the sky. There were
a few clouds up there still, drifting like small islands in a vast sea
of blue and getting smaller and scarcer by the hour. The cloud watching
at Antioch Mission might be ending soon. He removed his thick glasses
and rubbed his eyes, resigning himself to the idea that he should get up
to the church to see what was going on. He didn't want to. He was not a
man of faith, and Praise the Lord types got on his nerves, especially
women having Hallelujah conniptions. But he was supposed to be the
knowledgeable guide who could answer questions and speak local facts,
and that meant he had to see the sights for himself. It was business,
pure and simple.

He drove the few short blocks and pulled into the church parking lot to
find about two dozen people gathered there, necks craned skyward,
cameras ready. Hoo boy. Here we go.

'Ooooh, it's Mr. Dillard!” a woman shouted. He winced. He could hear her
shrill voice through his closed car windows. Dee Baylor and Blanche
Davis were right there to greet him as he stepped out of his car.

'Norman! Praise the Lord!” Dee gushed, giving him a bear hug he wasn't
expecting and couldn't wait to get out of. 'We were praying you'd come!”
79

'Just came to check things out,” he said limply.

'Are you ready to see Jesus?” Blanche asked, pulling out some Polaroid
snapshots. He tilted his head back so he could see the photos through
his bifocals. 'See here? He's looking toward the east.” 'Uh, which way
is east—I mean, in the picture?” Blanche tilted the picture this way and
that and finally decided, 'This way. Now you can see his nose. Right
there.” 'Mm-hm.” His agreement was less than enthusiastic.

'You can believe, Norman,” Dee said reassuringly. 'Just put your doubt
aside and you'll be amazed at what you'll discover.

He shied away, turning his attention—and hopefully theirs— to one lonely
cloud passing over. 'So. . . you're the facilitators, right? Just how
does one go about this? You know, what do you have to do?” 'Just yield
to the Spirit,” Dee told him. 'Let God open your eyes and speak through
his creation.

'The firmament showeth his handiwork,” Blanche added.

Norman walked toward the front of the parking lot where people were
standing about in couples and clusters, some singing softly, some
praying, some counting rosary beads, all of them watching that one cloud
approaching. He came upon the elderly couple who first discovered the
face of the Lord in the hedge outside his office. They were sitting in
folding lawn chairs with their heads resting back on inflatable neck
pillows. She pointed. 'Here comes another cloud, Melvin!” Her husband
did not respond, but appeared to be praying. Then Norman heard a short
little snore.

The married couple and the brother-in-law from Yakima quietly began to
sing 'How Great Thou Art,” and others picked up the tune. Behind Norman,
a rotund man with a Seahawks cap sang the words in a clear tenor voice,
holding his small wife close to his side. To Norman's left, two couples
he recognized as local residents added harmony as they sat on lawn
chairs in the back of a pickup.

To his right, a Hispanic family of parents, grandparents, and children
huddled together on the church lawn, singing when they

knew the words and humming when they didn't. Norman had to admit it
sounded good, and as he stood in the middle of the music and watched the
solitary cloud passing overhead, it even felt good. This was a nice
place to be. It was sweet, peaceful, and enjoyable. It would be easy to
send people up here who were inclined toward this sort of thing.
Definitely good for business.

Norman removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day
and he was getting tired.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dee Baylor. 'How are your eyes,
Norman?” 'Oh, about as bad as usual,” he answered. He'd never been very
happy about his poor eyesight and the thick glasses he had to wear.

'This is a place where God speaks through the eyes. I think he wants to
heal you.

He rolled his eyes.

'Hey, come on, now. I really think he does.” 'That would be quite a
trick.” 'Why don't you just take those glasses off and see?” 'See what?”
'Go on, take them off.” Well, it wouldn't be good business to have Dee
and the others mad at him. He removed his glasses and gave his eyes a
little rub out of habit.

'Now just look at the sky, Norman, and let God speak to your eyes.

He directed his gaze upward, but saw exactly what he expected: a vast,
blue blur. If God was speaking, he was mumbling.

'What do you see?” Blanche asked.

'I see a blur. 'NO!” Dee corrected. 'You have to speak your healing. Say
you can see.” He looked at her. She looked better, he thought. 'I beg
your pardon?” 'Believe you can see, and you will.” 8i

He looked at the sky again because he didn't want to look at her.

He was trying to think of a way out of this.

Blanche coached him, 'Say you can see.” He was incredulous. 'Say what?”
,,, 'Say, ‘I can see.

'I can see.

'Say it until you believe it,” said Dee.

He laughed nervously. 'Ladies, we could be here a long time.

'We have all night.” He fumbled, fumed, and finally put his glasses on.
'Well, I'm sorry, I mean, I really do apologize, but I don't have all
night. I have to get back to the motel and run my business.” 'That's all
right. Baby steps, Norman.” 'One little step at a time,” said Blanche.

He smiled at them and hurried to his car before he said something
unkind. Once he got the door closed and drove away, he did say it. And
he believed it too. He kept on saying it and believing it all the way
back to the motel, gesturing wildly, wagging his head, addressing his
reflection in the rear view mirror. Those people up there were crazy!
They were an embarrassment! Fanatics! He was amazed they were allowed to
roam freely about the town. People were traveling from far and wide for
this?

Yes, Norman, and staying in your motel, he reminded himself. By the time
he got back to his office, he'd taken some baby steps toward getting
used to the whole idea.

MATT KILEY had no intention of getting used to it. Monday morning, when
I stopped in at his hardware store for some molly screws, he was still
fuming about a visit he'd had from some cmcifix watchers.

'I told ‘em to spend some money or get out of here,” he said, propelling
his wheelchair down the aisle where he stocked all his fasteners. He was
still disgruntled. 'If they can't cope with it, that's

their problem. I cope with it because I have to and I'm not asking

for any favors. What are you hanging, anyway?” Matt was a decorated
Vietnam vet. He was proud of that, and I was proud of him.

He still wore camouflage fatigues around the store when he felt like it,
flew a flag over his front entrance, and kept a POW—MIA poster on the
wall behind his cash register. I never found him overly rude or
obnoxious, but he was crusty, no doubt about that.

In his younger days he'd come out the winner in quite a few rib and nose
breakers down at Judy's—the other guy's ribs and nose, not his. In
Vietnam he'd dispatched his share of Vieteong and taken more than his
share of risks for his buddies before a sniper put a bullet through his
spine. Now, running his hardware store from his chair, he wasn't bitter
about the war or about his injury.

He just didn't like people fussing about it.

'Some more shelves in the bedroom,” I told him. 'A lot of heavy stuff.”
'Got a stud finder?” 'No, but you can sell me one.” 'I'll do that.
Anchor to all the studs you can find. And here, these mollies'11 do the
trick through the drywall.” He pointed them out to me and I grabbed as
many from the little drawer as I thought I would need. Matt had four
employees to do most of the stocking and high reaching, but customers
helped by Matt were often responsible for reaching any items Malt
couldn't. We headed up the aisle.

'They were all hot to trot. ‘Matt, you gotta come down to Our Lady's so
you can walk agaii!”' He abruptly turned left. 'Stud finder. Magnetic or
fancy?” 'Depends on how much they cost.” He kept wheeling along,
perfectly at home with every square inch of this place. 'Like all I have
to do is look up at that crucifix and believe, and that'11 do it. Tray,
you know what it's like. I've had crackpots before try to get me to
walk.” He quickly added, 'Well, not all of ‘em were crackpots. You know
what I mean.” 'Sure.” 83

'There's just some people who can't leave it alone, that's all I'm
saying.” 'I know what you mean.” 'Yeah, sure you do. You've been there.”
He grabbed a stud finder off the tool rack. 'These are fun. You slide it
along the wall and watch the little lights come on.” I checked the
price. I figured I could swing it. 'Great.” I followed him as he wheeled
toward the front, executing snappy turns around corners and past
merchandise. He rang up my purchase at a cash register built on a lower
shelf just for his use. I paid him, he threw my goods into a sack, and
then stopped to ponder. 'Funny. I made some friends at the VA hospital,
I've met some other folks in wheelchairs, and we got along fine. They
never told me to go down and look at some crucifix or wash in some
special kind of water or say some kind of magic prayer words. It's
always the walkers who know what you need.” Our eyes met. We understood
each other.

It's' always the walkers who know what you need. Matt Kiley's words, his
cynical wisdom born of experience, haunted me for the rest of the day.
Yes, I understood. I had been there.

I just didn't want to go back again....

I A5 SEVENTEEN the year my father took a hiatus from the ministry and
relocated the family from Seattle to a small, almost nontown on an
island in Puget Sound. Back in Seattle, we had a great church with great
worship and a great youth program. I had a girlfriend. I was a junior at
the high school my brother and sister and several uncles had attended
and had school spirit that bordered on pathological. I had some friends
at that school—it had taken me long enough to make them. Then we moved,
and I began my senior year in a run-down, fund-hungry high school with
caved-in lockers, sagging floors, and three hundred total strangers.

Like any plant torn up by the roots, I didn't take well to the
transplant. I used to have the acceptance of my peers, and now I
couldn't be sure I even had peers. I used to be part of something, but
now I was an outsider. I was in pain. I was lost.

Lost, and absolutely certain that it couldn't be right, much less the
will of God.

You see, I knew God back then. I knew exactly what he expected from me
and what I could expect from him. I'd grown up attending the Allbright
Gospel Tabernacle, a Pentecostal Mission church in Seattle's Rainier
Valley, and when we gathered for worship, we al- ways counted on God's
tangible presence. We felt no qualms about calling out to him aloud,
right from our pews, right when we felt the need or the unction. We
heard from God regularly in prophetic utterances that usually began with
'Oh my people” and admonitions that usually began with 'I hear the Lord
saying.. .' We prayed for the sick and expected they would get well.

Dad preached the Word of the Lord from the pulpit, and we worked it in
at the altar afterward. Our sessions at the altar were usually noisy,
often tearful, and altogether glorious. I couldn't tell you now how much
of the commotion was due to the Holy Spirit and how much was simple
Pentecostal fervor, but I know I did precious business with God in that
place. I got saved in that church when I was eight years old. Being
Pentecostal, I received the baptism in the Holy Spirit in that church
when I was twelve, kneeling at that wooden rail with my head on my coat
sleeve until the pattern was pressed into my face. Over the years, I
dedicated and rededicated myself to the Lord's service, repented,
praised, confessed, and petitioned, all from that little brick building
in Rainier Valley. That was where I knew God.

But Dad was tired, Mom was unhappy, and the family needed a change, so
Dad quit preaching and we moved.

The church we found on the island was ... restful, you might say. Kind
of like a stalled car. These folks didn't smile much, sang all possible
verses of really slow hymns, and absolutely, positively, never, ever
clapped. As far as I could discern, God was not expected to move, speak,
or convict—he was expected to follow the printed order of service and
keep quiet like everyone else. There was never an altar call after the
service. Instead, people worked the sermon out of their memories over
coffee, cookies, and idle chatter in the basement.

I was seventeen, living in a strange new place, enrolled in a school
that felt foreign, and attending a church dedicated to deadness.

Which made me a prime target for the Kenyon—Bannister movement.

David Kenyon, a fellow senior I got to know in art class, pinned me down
one day. 'Hey, are you a Christian?” 87

'Sure!” 'Spirit-filled?” 'Yeah.” 'Speak in tongues?” 'Yeah.” He extended
his hand and we shook. 'I knew it. I just knew it.” It had been a while
since I'd met anyone excited about what God was doing, so while I worked
on a sculpture and he worked on an oil painting, David talked and I
listened.

'The Holy Spirit's moving,” he said. 'Just blows my mind what God's
doing. I had a real confrontation with a demon yesterday. I think he
knew we were moving into Satan's territory. We had a prophecy last week
and God told us to get our act together, get off the acid and grass and
get high on Jesus. He was talking right to some of the group and it
really shook them up.” He started naming kids in school I'd known of but
didn't know.

'Bernadette Jones—” Wow. She always impressed me as being tough and
unapproachable. She had a crusty mouth when she could get away with it
and never missed a chance for a smoke.

'Karla Dickens—” I knew of her from drama class. It seemed every skit
she did had something to do with marijuana.

'Andy Smith—” Very musical. Had a rock band and was already working on a
symphony.

'Clay Olson—” Uh, no. I couldn't think of a face to go with the name.

'Benny Taylor—” I didn't know him at all, except that he was one guy in
school who had more pimples than me.

'Amber Carr—” A quiet girl from drama class. I always liked her long
brown hair. 'Harold Martin—” What? Harold? The guy was a creative
genius, but lived and breathed The Doors and always played knifewielding
psychotics in drama class.

He named about five more. They were all strangers to me, but that
wouldn't be the case for long. During lunch period, David introduced me
to every Christian he could find.

'Hey, guess who's a Spirit-filled Christian!” BernadetteJones looked up
from her fruit salad. 'You're kidding!” 'Hey Andy, guess who's a
Spirit-filled Christian?” Andy Smith looked up from a copy of The
Hobbit. 'Well, praise God!” 'Hey Amber! Guess who's a Spirit-filled
Christian?” Amber Carr pulled her long hair away from her face and
smiled at me. 'Wow. That's really nice.” Clay Olson was eighteen but
seemed older, wiser, too cool to be in high school. He shook my hand.
'Great to have you on board.” Benny Taylor not only had more pimples
than me, he had more brains, at least as far as math was concerned. 'God
bless you.” Harold Martin, who looked like he'd spent the night in a
ditch, stared up at me blankly for a second or two. 'It's a heavy trip,
isn't it?” Karla Dickens, blonde, bespectacled, and jolly, shook my hand
and giggled. 'I sort of figured,” she said.

I learned that this particular move of God centered around the Kenyon
home on Wednesday nights, and the next Wednesday night, I was there to
see it for myself. I wasn't disappointed. I could tell this was going to
be good stuff, powerful stuff—the kind of thing I grew up with and
needed more of. The cozy living room became even cozier as more than a
dozen high schoolers filled the couches, the chairs, and several
cushions on the floor. Mrs. Kenyon led the meeting, sitting in her big
stuffed chair in the corner. She was a pleasant, conversational lady,
short in stature and beyond rotund, wearing a loose, tentlike dress and
slippers she didn't have to tie. Mr. Kenyon was quite 'blessed” himself,
sitting across the room with arms folded over his expansive paunch.

David, Karla, and Andy had guitars and we wasted no time launching into
some praise songs, clapping—that's right, clapping— and getting into
Jesus.

We sang songs like:

Thank you, Thank you Jesus Thank you, Thank you Jesus 89

Thank you, Thank you Jesus in my heart.

Thank you, Thank you Jesus Thank you, Thank you Jesus Thank you, Thank
you Jesus in my heart.

That song must have taken the composer months to write, but I learned it
the first time through. The next one was a little tougher:

You gotta move when the Spirit says to move, Oh Lord You gotta move when
the Spirit says to move.

When the Spirit says move, you gotta move, Oh Lord You gotta move when
the Spirit says to move.

Then we replaced the word 'move with dance, sing, pray, shout, preach,
kneel, and anything else that came to mind, and sang the whole thing
again. This was an easy song to wear out.

After several songs, when things got cooking and the joy was just right,
Mrs. Kenyon lifted her hands and started speaking in tongues, and that
was everyone's cue. All around the room, hands went up like blooming
plants and tongues started fluttering, making all nature of sounds with
a commonality of rapid, repeated phrases, rolled r's, and stuttered t's
and d's. David was the loudest and maybe the fastest, speaking phrases
that sounded like a dirt bike downshifting. Harold stood with arms
outstretched and eyes a little buggy, rolling his r's on a long string
of rah-rahs. Amber wasn't saying much at all, just standing there with
her palms upward, looking sweet. Benny Taylor could have been addressing
invisible troops like Patton the way he was barking phrases and throwing
in an occasional clap for emphasis.

I'll be honest: It was clamorous. This was not a convenient time to hear
yourself think or compose a prayer of any substance. But that was okay.
We didn't have to pray with understanding because we were praying in the
Spirit, and I was right in the middle of it.

Then Mrs. Kenyon called out in a bold, loud voice, 'My chiland we all
fell quiet, our eyes closed prayerfully. I knew from dren,” y upbringing
that an opening such as 'My children,” 'My people,”

'Thus saith the Lord,” or 'I am here” meant the start of a prophecy.
This was God talking.

Mrs. Kenyon continued, 'Surely I have heard thy praises, and I receive
them as a sweet smelling savor. Continue to praise me, and I will walk
in your midst. Drink of my Spirit, and I shall grant you a mighty
increase on this island.. .' She went on like that, delivering words of
encouragement as we thanked God quietly but audibly and praised him for
speaking to us.

Then Clay Olson gave a prophecy much like Mrs. Kenyon's, which really
made my evening. I always thought this guy was so cool and sober about
life, and now here he was, yielded and being used of God. Would wonders
never cease?

By the time the meeting was over, we'd just about done it all.

We had opened the Word, prayed for the sick, shared testimonies, even
laid hands on some new kids so they could get the baptism like the rest
of us. By the time I walked out of that house I was reeling with ecstasy
and my emotions were in wondrous, healing reversal. Regret had turned to
joy. Perplexity had turned to understandmg. Loneliness had vanished. I
was home. I belonged. 'Hallelujah,” I kept saying, hugging everybody.
Hallelujah! For the first time, I was glad to be exactly where I was.
God had a plan all along! He brought me here to find this bunch, to be a
part of this mighty outpouring!

But I had to stretch my thinking a little. At the Allbright Gospel
Tabernacle, being a Christian meant you didn't smoke. When we were kids
we even equated condemning tobacco with preaching the gospel: 'Mom, I
witnessed to Robbie today. I told him we don't smoke.” Well, not only
did Bernadette, Harold, Karla, and Andy smoke; Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon
smoked as well. In fact, the moment we said Amen to the closing prayer,
she grabbed her pack and her lighter and started pulling down smoke like
she was making up for lost time.

I think she noticed my discomfort. Between puffs, she let me know it was
something she would be giving up in the Lord's time.

The Lord had given her a vision about it. 'I saw a huge garden full 9'

of weeds, and I saw the weeds being plucked out around the outside of
the garden, and then more weeds being pulled farther in toward the
center, and in the very center of the garden was a big cigarette stuck
in the ground, and the Lord said, ‘This is the garden of your life. I'm
going to start pulling weeds, working from the outside in, and after I
take care of these other weeds in your life, I'll take care of this weed
too.”' She laughed at the pun. 'The Lord called it a weed. He really has
a sense of humor.” Then she added as she crushed out a spent cigarette
and lit another, 'But praise is the answer. God is perfecting things and
all we have to do is praise.

Every Wednesday night there's someone new at the door, and we just pray
and praise them in.” And that's what we did, week after week, Wednesday
after Wednesday, all through the fall and into the winter of my senior
year. Every Sunday I sat in the quaint little quiet church, and I admit
I got good preaching and teaching there, good meat and potatoes. But for
spice, for energy, for a spoonful of Pentecost per week, I made it to
the Kenyons' and hung together with my on-fire buddies at school. We
witnessed around the school, got into religious arguments with other
students and sometimes our teachers.

We won a few, lost a few. We developed a reputation, of course, but when
people saw that Christianity was okay for guys like David, Benny, and
Clay, they weren't so quick to say it was only okay for kooks like Andy
and Harold. Things were going great.

Pretty much.

Harold became a puzzle to me. I vividly remember the cold Wednesday
night in November when he and I stepped outside so he could have a
cigarette and we could talk. It was a rule at the Kenyons': No smoking
during the meetings, and only Mr. or Mrs. Kenyon could light up in the
house afterward.

We stood out in the yard. It was dark and there was a cold drizzle.
Harold hunched his shoulders and kept one hand jammed in his overcoat
pocket as he used the other to hold his glowing cigarette. I could
barely see him.

'Ever smoke pot?” he asked me.

'You ought to try it. I can get you some.” My answer came out
halfhearted because he'd thrown me off- balance. 'Well, no, I, uh, I
don't need that stuff.” 'Fair is fair. I came over to your side and gave
the Holy Spirit a try. I got high your way. You need to see what
marijuana's like.

You'd be getting high my way, see what I mean?” 'Harold. . .' I really
didn't want to become some kind of parent to this guy. 'Smoking pot is
wrong. It's against the law.” 'Man's law. God gave us pot. It's a gift
from him. You need to try it. If you love God, if you love me, you
should try it. You can't say something's wrong if you haven't even tried
it.” I couldn't think of what to say.

'Fair is fair, right?” he repeated.

I don't remember how the conversation ended. I only remember that it
ended quickly and I went home to brood about it.

I'd seen Harold at almost every meeting, singing the songs, raising his
hands, and doing his rah-rahs. I didn't get it.

But God was moving and he would perfect things. In time.

DAVID LOVED TO TALK about demons. No one else ever saw them, but David
saw them all the time.

'Man, I had a scary experience with a demon yesterday.” 'I saw a demon
on Mr. Carno's desk.” 'She has a demon. Sometimes I can see it looking
out through her eyes.” 'Last night a demon came right through the window
and sat on my bedpost looking at me.” 'There were two demons sitting up
in that tree today. I think they're looking for somebody.” He'd point
them out to me. He'd even draw them, and he was so casual about it. I
would have been scared spitless, but he just gave us a daily update as
calmly as reporting the weather. I was present at a meal when he told
his folks about another incident, but they only listened, praised the
Lord, and went on eating.

93

I finally figured it was his unique gift from the Lord, the discern- ing
of spirits. I wasn't sure what good it was doing him or any of us but I
still had much to learn.

ANDY SMITH KEPT RUNNING HIS CAR onemptyinfullassurance and faith that
the Lord would multiply his mileage. I had to bring him a can of gas a
few times so he could get his car off the highway and to a gas station.
I guess that made me the tool in God's hands to honor Andy's faith.
Well, it worked. He got some gas out of the deal.

Karla converted about twenty kids in just one day. All they had to do,
she told them, was say 'Jesus” out loud, and they would be calling on
the name of the Lord, and that meant they would be saved.

What could be easier?

Mrs. Kenyon had a friend, Mrs. Bannister, who began to frequent our
meetings and even take leadership. Mrs. Bannister was a normal-looking
homemaker in tennis shoes, but she was also a prophetess, just like in
the Book of Acts, and could tell you God's answer to most any question.
Bernadette asked if she should continue going with some non-Christian
guy named Barry, and Mrs. Bannister said it was the Lord's will, because
Bernadette would win him to the Lord and they would further his kingdom
together.

Clay asked her if he would pass his US. Government final, and she said
he would, and he did. One evening, Mrs. Bannister addressed the whole
smoking issue by telling us about the vision she'd had regarding Mrs.
Kenyon's cigarette habit, the vision of the garden full of weeds with
the big cigarette growing in the middle. It made me wonder which lady
actually had the vision, but I didn't push it.

Somebody had the vision, and that was good enough for me. On another
evening, Mrs. Bannister laid hands on Mr. Kenyon and appointed him
bishop of the island. She didn't say what that was supposed to mean or
what Mr. Kenyon was supposed to do, but okay. He was bishop of the
island.

The Kenyons and Bannisters would often visit a large church in Seattle
to pick up new ideas on prayer, praise, and gifts of the Spirit, but
neither family was regularly committed to any church. They met with
other adults on Sunday mornings, either in their home or over at the
Bannisters' place, and the meetings were much the same as the ones on
Wednesdays. It was a whole new concept for me.

Their way of dealing with problems was a new concept as well.

Once a doctrinal conflict flared up at a Wednesday meeting—the old
dispute between 'once saved, always saved,” and 'stay holy or else.” A
newcomer from the 'stay holy or else” camp started argumg that we'd
better get holy or God would deal with us. I was from a strict
Pentecostal background, so he made sense to me. Considering the smoking,
crusty language, and romantic indulgences going on in the group, I was
glad he'd brought it up.

We did not discuss the matter. Neither Mrs. Kenyon nor Mrs. Bannister
would allow it. Instead, the two ladies broke into their heavenly
languages, encouraged us to do the same, and filibustered in the Spirit
until the problem went away—specifically, the newcomer let it go, held
his peace, and never came back. I can't say he would have felt welcome
if he did.

Praise was the answer. Moving in the Spirit. Praying in our heavenly
languages. Through these things, God would perfect us.

God had a plan, and we were at the center of it. As for the rest of the
churches on the island, they'd better get on board or fall behind.

But there was an enemy, lurking outside the walls of the Kenyon home,
just beyond the safe cocoon of our joy. A Question kept occurring to me,
but I d4red not speak it, perhaps for fear that even Mrs. Bannister
wouldn't have an answer. I know I turned away from it, blaming the very
thought of it on the devil. God would perfect this too, I kept telling
myself. God will speak, and move, and someone will come up with
something. Until then, don't talk about it. Don't let it in.

But I could hear the Question rapping at the windows, scratching at the
door, constantly whispering, 'I'm still here.” It lived out in the
everyday world where cars break down, children fall from their bicycles,
and parents get into fights.

95

It hovered behind the big plastic jar on the checkout counter at the
grocery store, the jar with the slot in top and all the small bills and
change inside. Atop the jar was a small sign asking for help and a photo
of a little girl with crutches and braces on her legs.

It leaped at me mockingly from between the lines as I heard about a
school chum's mother: She had brain cancer and the doctors didn't expect
her to live.

It rode on the wheelchair of Tim Ford, a young man at our church with
multiple sclerosis. His parents had taken him to traveling healers and
miracle evangelists, but still he could not walk.

They requested prayer for his healing so often that their request should
have earned a permanent slot in the printed order of the service. Tim
was sixteen now and virtually helpless, and they could not rest, could
not feel complete until God answered their prayers.

One Sunday morning, while the people sang the hymns, the pastor gave the
announcements, and the church service plodded along at its customary
cadence, I sat quietly in my pew, oblivious to it all, secretly laboring
over the Question.

Must this be? What was still broken, still wrong with this world God had
made? What were we leaving undone? How could this enemy, this pain and
suffering and sickness still be hanging around when God was so powerful
and his work so complete?

Maybe it was our fault. Christians today were spoiled from materialism
and having it easy. We had no faith. If we truly had faith, we wouldn't
be such helpless victims in an imperfect world. God could work through
us to change things. We could be victorious.

Help me to have faith, I prayed. Dear Lord, help my unbelief A thought
flashed through my mind.

Huh? What was that? Run that by me again.

The pastor's lips were moving, but I didn't hear his words. I was having
a revelation. Of course God wanted to change things. It was God who was
troubling my spirit right now, letting the Question nag at me. He was
trying to get through to me, shake me up, and get me seeking his face
for a resolution. He wanted me to do something about it.

Hope began to swell within me. Maybe this was God's plan all along.
Maybe God was granting me a heart of compassion for the suffering so I
could do something about it.

I looked down at my hands. They shall lay hands on the sick, and they
shall recover.

I determined at that moment that I would begin a fast. I would pray,
fast, and seek God.

I had just turned eighteen, and things can develop quickly when you're
young. I began my fast on Sunday, and by Tuesday, I'd heard from God and
could eat again. I had the gift of healing. I believed it, and that was
all there was to it. By his stripes we are healed. They shall lay hands
on the sick and they shall recover. The prayer offaith will save the
sick and the Lord will raise him up. This was my world now. This was my
life, my truth, my calling. When I passed by the plastic jar in the
grocery store with the picture of the little girl in braces, I thought,
No more. It won't have to be this way. I laid a hand on that jar and
silently prayed for that child, allowing myself to think and believe
nothing other than the child would be healed, right then and there.

I saw an older man out in the parking lot of the store, coughing
violently as he tried to climb into his truck. I could lay hands on him,
I thought. I could heal him. I was immediately timid and nervous.
Instead, I prayed for him silently, remotely. God would hear my prayer.

I thought of the hospitals that would no longer be needed and the
crutches that could be bu'rned. I thought of the wondrous revival that
would sweep the island and then the rest of the country because God was
going to fix that one thing still wrong with the world.

It was such a wonderful hope, such a giddy elation. I was looking
forward to Wednesday night.

At the Kenyons' on Wednesday night, we sang our songs, praised the Lord
in a noisy, joyous circle, and then had our time of sharing.

Clay shared about a friend he'd been witnessing to who was still 97

holding back, but God was working on him. The ferry dock hill was icy,
but Clay prayed for his car while his friend watched, and then Clay made
it up the hill. The skeptic friend tried it and his car came to a
pitiful, wheel-spinning stop only halfway up. We laughed, cheered, and
praised the Lord for such a direct demonstration of his power.

Amber had been witnessing to her friend Liz, and tonight Liz was there
to observe. Mrs. Kenyon emphasized how getting high on Jesus was better
than any drugs, and if there was any doubt in Liz's mind, she should
just try it. 'Instead of LSD, try some PTL,” she said, and we all
laughed.

I raised my hand, and then shared my journey of the past several days,
how I'd been chased by the big, ugly Question until I finally confronted
it in church on Sunday. I shared the illumination I received, the
knowledge from the Spirit that God was speaking to me, shaking me up,
giving me a heart for the sick and suffering.

Then, feeling humbled by it all, and trembling a bit from nervousness, I
said, 'I think God has given me the gift of healing.” 'Praise the Lord!”
said Mrs. Kenyon as praises, sighs of joy, and claps went around the
room. I could see in their faces that they had wondered about the
Question also.

Andy spoke up. 'I'd like healing. I've had diabetes since I was a little
kid.” I sat there, not sure what to do. Clay exclaimed, 'Step right up!”
and put his chair out in the middle of the room as everyone cheered.

With anticipation, and maybe a little bit of sheepishness, Andy rose,
went to the chair, and sat down. The others gathered around as I took my
place directly in front of Andy.

This was it. I knew I had faith.

A doubt sneaked up on me.

No, go away. No doubt, no doubt. Only believe. God has spoken to me.
I've hashed it all out with him, and he has called me to pray for the
sick. By his stripes we are healed. The effective, fervent prayer of a
righteous man can avail much.

The prayers, praises, and tongues began and I joined in, preparing
myself, working out the doubt, working up the faith.

'And now,” I said loudly, and all the prayer and praise fell to a low
buzz of anticipation. I placed my hands on either side of Andy's head
and spoke my prayer with authority, 'we come against this diabetes in
the name of Jesus. Andy, in the name of Jesus, be healed!” And then I
started to shake. I didn't know if it was I doing it or the Lord, but my
arms were twitching and quivering as I held onto Andy's head. The kids
around me were getting excited. Andy sat there with his eyes closed in
prayer, his hands clasped in his lap. The praise raised in intensity.
Hands went up. Tongues started rolling. Clay agreed with me aloud, not
asking, but demanding healing in the name of Jesus. This went on, then
it went on some more, and I just kept shaking. Finally, when we all felt
we'd done enough, our prayers subsided, the noise died down, and we
rested.

I removed my hands and opened my eyes.

Andy sat there motionless, dazed, staring ahead. Nobody said a word.

'You okay, Andy?” Bernadette asked.

He didn't answer. He only got up slowly, shakily, and returned to his
seat.

Everyone had a strong impression that something had happened. Bernadette
put an arm around him. David patted him on the shoulder and said,
'You're healed, buddy. You're going to be all right!” 'Let's thank the
Lord,” said Mrs. Kenyon, and we praised him again.

Karla spoke up. 'I'd like prayer for my eyes. I'm nearsighted and I hate
having to wear these stupid glasses.” 'Get up there,” said Amber,
indicating the chair in the center of the room, the 'hot seat.” I laid
my hands on Karla's head and we did the whole thing again, shaking,
praising, praying, demanding, and ordering that nearsightedness out of
her. When we were finished, Karla took her 99

place again, and removed her glasses. No one asked her how things
looked. A song started and we all sang. I sat down, strangely glad it
was over.

But I did hear Karla tell Amber that nothing had changed.

'Just give it time,” said Amber. 'God will accomplish it.”

ROUND AND ROUND, round and round, water sloshing, suds swirling, a
steady rhythm of gush, hiss, gush, hiss, gush, hiss. It wasn't that
boring a show, Norman Dillard thought, especially if you placed bets on
which garment would flop against the glass on the next tumble, the red
shirt or the pair of jeans. Sitting here in the laundromat was actually
a welcome break. The motel had been so busy over the weekend that he and
Mona had to take turns sleeping and eating to handle the flow of guests
and the calls from those still coming. Mona was running the motel's
washing machines full time to handle the used linens from all—that's
right, all—ten rooms.

So here Norman sat, enjoying a little escape on a Monday morn- ing,
watching his and Mona's clothes tumble round and round. As far back as
he could remember, he'd never been squeezed out of his own washing
machines. It was a nice problem to have.

And this time it'll be the jeans—come on, baby, come on, let see those
jeans—Yes! We have a winner!

He was thinking about the sightings, the pilgrims, the clouds, and the
faces everywhere, all the craziness of it. It made him sigh and give his
head a little wag. Why couldn't it have been UFOs and ETs, some real
sightings, and real contacts? That would have been

exciting—and believable too. Religious stuff was hard to get excited
about when he didn't believe it.

Well, that doesn't matte, he reminded himself. What matters is business.

The motel needed a whole new paint job, some upgrades on the plumbing,
some rewiring. The sign out front needed several bulbs replaced. The
grounds needed grooming, planting, and fertilizing.

The rooms—oh, those poor, pitiful rooms!—needed new wallpaper, carpets,
fixtures, everything. All of this stuff was important if he was going to
attract guests, but the bank saw no future for a motel in a town like
Antioch, and there had never been enough guests to pay for the
improvements so he could attract more guests.

But now things were different. People were coming to see Jesus in the
clouds and in the hedges, and even in the mildew on the shower tiles.

Norman laughed, slapping his knee. As silly as it was, it was sweet,
wonderful business. He'd waited a long time for this.

There went the jeans again, flopping past the glass, right past the face
of Jesus.

Norman froze.

He couldn't really be seeing this. He leaned forward, staring at the
glass porthole on the front of the machine. The clothes and suds inside
were still tumbling over and over, but the face remained on the glass,
looking at him. He could see dark hair parted down the middle and
falling almost to the shoulders; a beard; a white tunic. He'd seen
pictures. He knew the standard configuration.

Hypnoticnsggestion, he thought. All this talk around town is getting to
me.

He leaned to the left, watching his own countenance move to the left and
then pass in front of the Jesus-face, obscuring it. It was a reflection
of something behind him!

He jumped up quickly and nearly knocked over his chair.

A man stood there, leaning on a row of toploading washers, smiling back
at him. With his hair, his heard, and that loose-fitting, long-sleeved,
open-necked white shirt, he was a dead ringer for— 103

Norman got over his shock, and then he started laughing.

'Ohhhh man! Oh man, that was good!” The man laughed too, almost as
loudly as Norman, showing a pearly white grin.

Norman felt he'd better explain. 'You know what's been going on around
here, right?” 'Oh yeah.” The man nodded.

Norman pointed at the washing machine. 'I was watching my laundry, and
all of a sudden I see your face in the glass—” He burst out laughing
again and could hardly finish the sentence. 'And I thought, you know..,
hey, has anybody ever told you you look just like Jesus?” 'I've been
told that.” 'Oh man, you had me going. You had me going!” He wiped tears
from his eyes. 'Wait'll I tell Mona.” The man wiggled his index finger
in Norman's direction. 'Nice glasses.” 'Huh?” 'The glasses. Nice
glasses.” Norman sneered. 'Yeah, for Boy Scouts starting fires. My eyes
aren't very good.” 'May I see them?” Norman took them off and the world
became a blur, the man by the washers a dark-topped smudge above a
smudge of white. He extended the glasses, and saw the smudge reach out
to take them.

Their hands touched. There was a tingle.

Norman stumbled. 'Oops!” He put out his hand to catch himself.

He blinked.

His hand was perfectly clear, as was the chair he was leaning on.

Had he put his glasses on? He looked up. He could make out every detail
of the man's face, every hair of his beard, the depth of the -'dark
brown eyes.

And the man who looked like Jesus was holding Norman's glasses. 'Can you
see okay?” Norman looked, and saw, and replied with wonder, 'Yeah.”

'Good.” The man folded Norman's glasses, set them on a washer, and
turned for the door.

'Hey, wait. What did you do? How'd you do that?” The man only looked
back once, smiled, and gave Norman a little wave. Then he went out the
door and was gone.

Norman blinked several times, then rubbed his eyes. What had happened?
What was this? He looked up and could read the instructions on the
washing machine. He could clearly make out the reverse-painted hours on
the glass of the front door. What was the trick? He felt all over his
face for some kind of device. Nothing.

He reached for his glasses, unfolded them, and put them on. The
prescription was so strong and the image so distorted it made his eyes
water. He took them off and the world was crystal clear again.

Jesus, he thought, not swearing. Jesus.

He'd read the paper. He knew what the 'angels” had been saying. Had it
really happened? Was this a sighting like the others?

No. It was more than that. A lot more. Ifit had really happened.

He looked every direction, gawking at what he could see with no lenses
before his eyes. The prices on the wall, the selections in the candy
machine, the pattern of the linoleum. Old Mrs. Tobin came in, her same
crabby self, and found his stare offensive. 'What are you gawking at?”
'You look beautiful!” he exclaimed.

'Yeah, well put your glasses on!” He giggled with glee. 'They are on! I
mean, it's like they're on but they aren't! I can see you! I can see
everything! It's a miracle, that's what it is!” She put out her hand.
'Stay away from me.” He ran to the door and burst out of the building.
The whole, beautiful, clear-as-a-bell town of Antioch lay before him. He
clasped his hands to the sides of his head, crazy with joy and
amazement. He was staggering, stumbling, turning in every direction. He
could read anything and everything. VCRs repaired. Main Street, 200. In
loving memoiy ofJohn Nathan Anderson, husband, father and friend. No
parking within twenty feet. Kiley Hardware. Hey! His friend, Matt Kiley!

105

Matt had to see this! What am I talking about Mat seeing this! I'm the
one who can see! This is incredible!

He ran across the street and burst through the door. 'Matt!

Matt, you won't believe it! I can see! I can see!”

MATT wAs 5TANDING behind the counter, his hands resting gently on the
cash register to steady himself. He was trembling, gasping in shock and
disbelief, his eyes darting everywhere. A few feet away, his wheelchair
stood empty.

Bev Parsons, an employee, came out of aisle two with a question.

'Matt, we don't have enough—” Her hand flew over her mouth.

Norman touched Matt's shoulder. 'You—you're—” He stopped.

'He was here, wasn't he? You saw him.” Matt just nodded. 'Yeah. Yeah. A
guy with long hair and a beard.” Norman squealed, his face red with
excitement. 'It was Jesus!” 'Jesus.. .' Bev whispered in shock.

Matt scowled. 'You're crazy.” 'You're standing! Get a clue!” 'I'm
standing,” Matt admitted.

'You're ... standing.” Now Bev's hand was over her heart.

'What'd he do, what'd he do?” Norman urged. Matt lifted one hand from
the counter. His legs were steady un- der him. He reached toward the
shelves behind him, reenacting the event as he described it. 'He came up
here, and told me he wanted a screwdriver set—you know, these little
jeweler's screwdrivers—” 'Yeah? Yeah?” 'I said, ‘Go ahead and grab one
and I'll ring you up,' and he said, ‘Grab ‘em yourself,' and then he
poked me with his finger.” Norman slapped the counter.

'And I did,” said Matt. 'I wasn't thinking, you know.. .' He was
recovering from his shock. His voice was getting strong. He was
beginning to believe it. 'I stood up. I got up out of the wheelchair and
I grabbed the screwdrivers!” By now he shouted it. 'I grabbed the
screwdrivers! I grabbed ‘em!”

Norman shook Matt by both shoulders. 'Look at me, Matt! You see any
glasses? You see any? No glasses, Matt! I can see! I can see
everything!” His eyes fell on a pen on the counter. 'Pilot Precise V7
Fine Rolling Ball! See that? I can read it right where it is!” Then it
occurred to him. 'Where'd he go?” Matt looked around. 'I don't know.” He
looked at Bev. She just shook her head, still staring.

Norman was desperate. 'Where'd he go? Which way?” Matt shrugged. 'I
don't know. He paid for the screwdrivers and he left.” 'Come on, we
gotta find him!” Matt looked at the floor stretched out so far below
him.

'Come on, you can walk!” Matt put his hand on the counter and extended
his right foot.

It came to rest a short step away. Yeah. Sure. He remembered what this
felt like. He'd done it before. He could do it.

He did it. First another step, then another, then two more, and then he
was walking, around the counter, out into the store, past the rakes and
line trimmers, past the stacks of lawn fertilizer. By now he was jumping
a little, flexing his knees. He danced a little jig and Norman went
crazy.

They bolted out of the store, Norman reading every sign he saw, Matt
hopping, skipping, turning circles, the two of them laughing like
idiots.

They encountered a stranger and his wife. Both had cameras.

'Have you seen Jesus around?” Norman pleaded.

Their eyes got wide. 'No,” said the man. 'Have you seen him?” Matt and
Norman looked at each other. They started laughing and Matt started
dancing. 'Oooooh, have we!” said Norman.

AT THE FORDYCE HOME, Meg heard Sally answer the phone, gasp, squeal some
unintelligible questions, gasp some more, and then run out the front
door. It happened so suddenly and loudly that it scared Meg. She ran
into the living room and found the receiver dangling off the table and
the front door still open.

107

Something terrible must be happening, she thought. 'Sally?” By the time
she got to the front door, Sally was in the car and pulling out onto
Highway 9, headed for Antioch. 'Sally!”

A WILDFIRE HAD BEGUN in Antioch. The first spark ignited in the
laundromat, then spread to Kiley's Hardware and from there into the
street. First two visitors heard, then four more, then three customers
at Anderson's Furniture and Appliance. Norman waved down a carload of
visitors from Moses Lake and told them. Then the pilgrims at Our Lady's
heard about it, followed by the cloud watchers who presently had no
clouds to watch. Pagers began beeping, phones began ringing, and up and
down the street, through the storefronts, and back into the
neighborhoods, the fire spread: He has been seen. Have you seen him?
Wbere is he?

Brett Henchle got the call he'd been wanting ever since this weird stuff
began. Jesus had shown up at Kiley's Hardware, the caller said. Yeah,
Brett thought. It him, the guy I'm looking for my little angelic
huckster. He switched on his siren and flashers and got over there.

From where Brett parked, Matt's store looked like a stirred-up hornet's
nest. People in tight little clusters were squeezing past each other as
they came and went through the front door. More were arriving from
across the street, up the highway in both direc- tions, and from the
quiet neighborhood behind. And just as many were leaving, eager to fan
out in all directions and spread the news, whatever it was. They were
agitated, talking excitedly, creating a constant buzz in front of the
building.

Brett got out of the car, nervously checked his handcuffs, and felt for
his gun. Then he crossed the street. Those on the fringes greeted him,
'Have you heard? Have you heard?”

'Everybody take it easy,” he cautioned, putting just enough edge in his
voice to let them know there would be no unruliness today. 'Excuse me,
please,” he said, and worked his way through the door and into the
store.

He'd never seen so many people in Matt's store at one time, not

even during the big Christmas Open House. The front of the store was
packed, but no one was shopping. Some he knew, some were strangers. All
were excited and chattering. Cameras were flashing, camcorders were
blinking their little red lights. He could hear Sally Fordyce whining
from somewhere in the crowd, 'You don't understand! He's come here for
me! We have an appointment!” 'He's come here for all of us,” someone
responded, and everyone wanted to know, Where is he?

'Let's get organized and start searching,” one man suggested.

Finally, Brett could see Matt through the crowd, standing by the
checkout counter, answering questions and looking wide-eyed.

Hold on. Matt was standing?

'Brett, have you heard?” said Don Anderson. Brett was staring at Matt
when he replied, 'Tell me.” Jack McKinstry told him secondhand, then
Norman told him almost secondhand, prefacing it with his firsthand
account of what happened in the laundromat. When Brett finally made his
way up to Matt Kiley, Matt saw him coming, stepped out from the counter,
and did a little jig. The crowd went crazy.

Matt told Brett his story. He'd shared it countless times by now, but it
hadn't gotten old and he hadn't gotten tired of it. Neither had the
visitors pressing in close to hear it again.

As Brett listened, he almost felt foolish coming in here as a cop with
handcuffs and a gun. Just moments ago, he was on a case, hoping for a
lead in catching the hitchhiking con man. Now, as he heard Matt Kiley's
account ahd saw him standing, even dancing, the hitchhiker's words took
on a whole new meaning. Brett remembered them clearly, and now had to
steady himself against the counter as he muttered, 'My God....” 'Yes,
exactly!” several responded.

By now Sally was crying. 'You don't understand... I need ....

JIM BAYLOR was an ex-marine in his forties with a crew cut he'd kept
ever since boot camp and a low, growly voice befitting a 109

former drill sergeant. He wasn't a tall man, but he was built like a
solid, immovable rock and had a personality to match. Right now he was a
surveyor, but he'd been several other things over the years: draftsman,
carpenter, mechanic, plumber, electrician, painter, oil well worker. His
garage workshop was worth visiting because he still had every tool he'd
ever used in all those trades. He could build a house with the carpentry
tools that hung on the wall. He could fix any vehicle with the
automotive tools and specialized gizmos he kept on the workbench and in
a big red metal cabinet on wheels—things like a wheel puller, a spring
compressor, and a spark plug wire puller. In case anyone in Antioch
needed an oil well fixed, he still had adjustable wrenches big enough to
turn a tree. If nothing else, he could tell you how long, wide, tall, or
deep something was because he always carried a twenty-five-foot Stanley
tape measure clipped to his belt.

Jim was a hunter who stuffed his own trophies and had a room full of
them. He was a storyteller who could share his marine, hunting,
building, plumbing, and Alaskan oil adventures for hours, never raising
his voice but keeping you enthralled from beginning to end. He enjoyed
his friends, liked to get involved in projects that helped others, and
wasn't much of a whiner. He was a reasonable, logical kind of guy.

And he was married to Dee Baylor.

As near as I can recall his account, he first met Dee when she was
tending bar at a tavern near the marine base. She was as crusty and
feisty as he was in those days and could hold her own in any stare-down
or shouting match with any grunt or officer, she didn't care. She won
Jim's heart by showing an interest in him to the exclusion of every
other man who'd come through the place— something he took as a real
compliment. He always liked her because, though he could scare most
anyone else, he couldn't scare her. They were right for each other.

He insisted they still were. He loved her. But I could tell by the way
he kept finding excuses to come over and talk—well, work on something
and talk while we were at it—that he was troubled and perplexed.

Today the excuse was the shelves I wanted to hang in the bedroom. I
needed more space for books, I had a small aquarium I wanted to put back
into service, and I still had a portable CD player sitting on the floor.
My landlord was going to deduct the cost from my rent, so I went for the
idea. So did Jim. All I had to do was mention those shelves and he made
plans to come over.

So we worked, finding studs, drilling holes, setting molly screws, and
hanging shelves, and as we worked, we talked.

'Kinda glad the weather's cleared up,” he said, sweeping my newly
purchased stud finder along the wall. 'At least now I get to see more of
her.” He looked at me suddenly, as if he'd said something amiss. 'No
offense, now, right, Travis?” 'No, no offense.” 'I mean, Christianity's
fine, I've got nothing against it. We've talked about that.” 'Sure.”
'And I didn't say anything when she started speaking in tongues over our
dinner every night. I didn't want to get in her way if it meant so much
to her.” He found the stud and made a small pencil mark on the wall.
'And when she started dancing and whirling around, I didn't say
anything. She doesn't do it at home that much, so I don't have to worry
about my floor joists. I, uh. . .' His voice trailed off and he drilled
some holes.

'Yeah?” I prodded.

'I think maybe this cloud thing might be better for her. She might be
getting—don't tell her I said this—she might be getting too old and too
heavy to be falling down all the time. You ought to see the bruises she
used to come home with.” He added quickly, 'Now I know it wasn't you
knocking her down.” 'No, it wasn't me.” All I ever did was pray for her,
usually during our Sunday morning service, often at midweek Bible study.
She might have a cold, need some guidance from the Lord, or just need a
refreshing in the Spirit. It didn't matter. Whenever I took her hand or
rested my hand on her head to pray for her, I wouldn't get out more than
one or two sentences before my hand would be III

touching thin air and she would be on her way to the floor, 'slain in
the Spirit.” Sometimes a friend would be there to catch her and at least
soften her landing. Sometimes she'd go over with nothing but the floor
to stop her and you could hear her bones hitting the hardwood. Nothing
could stop her. I once asked her not to fall down, but she went down
anyway, unable to resist the power of God. The rest of the congregation
had gotten fairly used to it— sometimes the ushers would just step over
her when they had to collect the offering—but it often seemed a little
weird to new visitors. Adrian Folsom fell occasionally, especially if
Dee fell first; Blanche never did. Anyway, I knew better than to think
it was from any great anointing on my part.

Jim threw up one hand in resignation. 'She said it was God that knocked
her over.

'That could be.” It was a safe thing to say. I wasn't one to limit God,
but right now I had a real attitude about the subject, so I had to be
careful.

'But now she's watching the clouds and that's better. The worst she can
get is a kink in her neck. Have you met that new pastor yet?” 'Kyle
Sherman?” 'Yeah.” 'We've met.

'What do you think of him?” I had to skip over the first thoughts that
came to mind and find some nicer ones. 'He's young, but he's honest and
means well. I think he'll be all right.” 'Haven't met him yet, but I
know I'm going to. One of these days he's going to be knocking on my
door, trying to rope me in.” We' were ready to hang a shelf on the newly
installed brackets. We each took one end and lifted it into place. Nice
fit. 'I've already got my wife leaving me little notes and Scripture
verses on the fridge and the bathroom mirror. But if she thinks I'm
going to start talking in Chinese and dancing around and falling on the
floor, she's got another think coming.”

'How about watching the clouds?” THE VISiTATION

He threatened me with his hammer, and we laughed.

'Did I ever tell you about Al Sutter's combine?” he asked.

'You were going to.” He launched into a tale about Al Sutter's nephew
trying to run Al's thirty-year-old combine, and then we talked about a
Cadillac he was thinking of restoring. The gospel came up again after
that, with a few questions about Jesus and whether he ever went fishing,
which got us on the subject of fishing, which led to the fish and game
laws, which led to some political discussion, which got us back to
religion again, somehow. This was Jim's way, like putting cream and
sugar in a cup of coffee, and it worked for both of us.

As long as we kept the serious subjects mixed in with easier ones and
had some work to do, we felt comfortable and got along fine.

By the time he left that afternoon, we both felt a little better and I
had a beautiful new set of shelves.

And then the phone rang.

'Hello?” The voice was familiar, but quiet, subtle. 'I hope I'm not
disturbing you. I waited until your guest left.” I could feel a tease in
that last sentence, as if he wanted me to look around and wonder where
he was. I didn't bite. 'You didn't finish mowing John's lawn.” 'Tell him
to be patient. I'll get around to it next time.

I sat on the couch, taking only a quick sideways glance out the window.
I didn't see him, but that didn't surprise me. 'I suppose you know
what's been going 6n in town these last few days.” 'It's been exciting.
I've enjoyed it.” 'And I take it you're the one responsible.” He
chuckled. 'Hey, I'll take credit for some of it, but people seeing my
face in the mildew of a shower or a hedge, that's absurd.” 'What about
the clouds?” 'No, no, that's passe. It's been done.” 'Well, hasn't there
been a weeping crucifix before?” 'Mm. Not that many. But it got their
attention, didn't it?” 'Oh yeah. You made it on the evening news.” ‘‘3

'So I got what I wanted. We've created a buzz, as they say.” He seemed
rather tickled with himself. 'But what are you thinking, Travis? Are you
getting the point?” I fidgeted and shifted the receiver to my other ear.
'I didn't know there was a point.

'People need results. They need to see something. You know how it was:
‘Show us a sign so we can believe in you.' Give the people what they
want and they'll show up.” I dug deep for some patience. 'Doesn't it
bother you that I have no idea who you are or why you're even calling
me?” He ignored me. 'Be honest, Travis. Are you so much different from
them? Haven't you ever felt the way they do? Haven't you ever wished I'd
just do what you ask and not keep you guessing and waiting and
wondering? Up until now you've never even seen me.

I wonder if that's fair.” 'You can quit the masquerade. You're notJesus
and you know it.

He paused just a moment, and then I could hear him stifling a little
laugh, probably smiling. 'Humor me, Travis, just for the sake of
argument. You expected a lot from me when you were younger, remember?
You thought I'd heal Andy and Karla. You thought I'd get you out of the
shipyard. You thought I'd bring Amber back to you. You even thought I'd
given you signs and prophecies, remember?” If he was trying to scare me,
he was succeeding. I had no words as I groped my memory for any clue
about this man, any time or place I may have known him before.

'Travis, that's okay, don't worry about it. I'm only making a point. You
expected a lot from me and I disappointed you. That's part of what
you're dealing with, isn't it?” 'That was a long time ago. I was just a
kid.” 'So what happened to Andy?” I didn't answer.

He goaded me. 'Traaaavis... What happened?” I snapped at him. 'You're
God. You tell me!” THE ViSITATION

'Remember the next day at school, Travis? Remember his hands shaking?
Remember how scared he was?” I could still see Andy and Karla together,
confronting me in the lunchroom. Andy had skipped his insulin that
morning, and now he was reacting. They were asking me what they should
do. Karla was still wearing her glasses.

I told them, 'Just believe. Believe and you'll be healed.” We prayed
together, trusting God.

That afternoon, Karla took Andy home for some insulin. He made it
through okay.

The voice sounded soothing, as if trying to comfort me. 'So you can't
blame people for getting excited. I'm doing things, Travis.

I'm actually making things happen. I've changed.” I'd been holding back
the question because I knew he wouldn't answer it, but now there was no
other thought or question available. 'I want to know who you are.” He
didn't answer it. 'I healed Norman Dillard and Matt Kiley today. This
could have been good news, but not the teasing way he said it. 'You did
what?” 'I healed them, Travis.” He dragged out the word healed as if he
enjoyed making me hear it. 'Just like I'm supposed to do. Norman can see
without his glasses and Matt can walk. It's all over town by now. People
are going nuts.” I just wasn't going to fall for this. 'I'm going to
call Matt and ask him.” 'He isn't home right now. I think he's walking
around town showing off.” 'I'm calling him.” 'You'll have to talk to
Kyle Sherman first. He's about to call you. Talk to you soon.” Click. He
was gone.

I kept the receiver in my hand as I pressed the button to hang up my
end. Before I could release it, the phone rang.

'Hello?” ‘‘5

'Travis!” It was Kyle Sherman. 'Have you heard about Norman Dillard and
Matt Kiley?” I didn't want to hear about it from Kyle, but I did want to
hear about it. I finally said, 'Tell me.” He told me every detail.
Apparently the town was still in an uproar and Matt really was taking a
walk around the town to show off. 'Norman and Matt say Jesus did it.
They say he's in town, Travis. Remember what you said at the ministerial
meeting? Well, it's happened.” I sat there, not a word coming to mind.

'What do you make of it?” 'Uh, I don't know, Kyle. I have to think about
it.” But what could I think about the man who mowed half of John
Billings's lawn, called me after Jim Baylor had left, and knew all about
Andy and Karla? 'Did you see Matt yourself? Can he really walk?” 'Yes,
Travis. He can really walk. He's healed. And Norman can read things far
away without his glasses.” I just couldn't get into a conversation with
Kyle Sherman. Not about this.

'This isn't Jesus, Travis! You know that!” I kept silent.

'Hello?” 'I'm here. I'm thinking.” 'What's to think about? We have to do
something! We have to pray this thing into the open and come against
it—” 'I said I have to think about it!” Kyle heard the edge in my voice
and backed off a little. 'Okay.

You think about it. I'm going to pray about it.” 'Talk to you later.” I
hung up. But the truth was, I didn't want to think about it. I didn't
want to admit that somehow the man on the bill, on the mower, on the
phone, had invaded my life and plundered my memories. My memories!

The same memories that had all come back so vividly, so hauntingly, in
recent days, welcome or not.... ‘I

DID i HAVE FAITH when I prayed for Andy? I thought I did.

Andy got his insulin and pulled through okay. But he felt
discouraged—not because he hadn't been healed, but because going home
and injecting himself seemed like a cop-out, a surrender to doubt, a
lack of trust in God. Somehow, he thought, it had to be his fault that
the healing had not happened.

I was upset as well, and for a short, awkward time, we tried to do some
spiritual troubleshooting.

If I had faith, maybe Andy didn't have enough faith when I prayed. He
was pretty sure he did, although he was feeling a little uncomfortable
at the time, and that might have jammed the signals somehow.

How about sin in our lives? That could mess things up for sure.

I kept confessing everything I could think of and then started wondering
if Andy was still hiding something. Nothing dramatic happened, even with
more fasting.

Did we still have ongoing faith for his healing, or were we doubting? I
was sure I had faith and did all I could to stay sure.

'We need to pray this through and believe,” I said. 'God is testing us,
seeing if we really trust him. We have to hold onto the promise!”

That didn't make it any easier for Andy. He was the one needing the
insulin, risking death if he didn't get it, and feeling guilty every
time he did. Besides that, his parents did not have the spiritual
insight that we had, and told him he'd better stay on his insulin or
they would kill him before his diabetes had a chance to.

Amber suggested we should just give God more time to complete the
healing, and that concept, being open-ended, turned out to be the most
comfortable. We fell into it easily, naturally, and went on praising,
praying, and believing God. We were still counting on miracles, still
hearing and believing prophecies, still expecting great things.

But I never again laid hands on anyone for healing at a Kenyon—
Bannister meeting. No one ever said I shouldn't, and I never heard
anyone say they didn't believe in my gift. We just didn't talk about it.
Without a word or a spoken agreement, we let the whole matter slip
beneath the surface where it remained, right alongside the Question.

Karla still wears glasses to this day. Andy died from complications
related to his diabetes in 1985.

I DID NOT ENJOY such memories, but hey, I'd already been laboring over
them for months, bearing the pain in an honest effort to sort them out.
I didn't ask for, nor did I need, old what's-hisname stirring up the
pile.

He had certainly managed to stir up the town. Although he had made no
further appearances since the big Matt-andNorman incident, folks kept
right on believing and hanging onto their excitement. For Antioch, just
the fact that people were excited was exciting. The media remained
interested, but started dropping a few hints here and there: Competition
for a slot on the everung news was fierce. Whoever this guy was, he
would have to show up soon and do something worthy of television's
attention or the story would die.

Norman Dillard didn't want that to happen. Neither did Matt ‘‘9

Kiley, or Gary Fisk, who ran the Sundowner Motel on the other end of
town. Jack McKinstry was hoping the flow of business through his grocery
store would keep flowing, and Don Anderson had just stocked more cameras
and camcorders in his appliance store.

As for the ministers in town, I think they were mainly concerned with
helping the Ship of Church maintain an even keel.

Bob Fisher, the Baptist, was busy with the Fudd Revival, and that
occupied his mind until it was over. Afterward, Bob kept his Bible open,
admonished his congregation to do the same, and warned everyone not to
stray from that which was written.

Burton Eddy, the Presbyterian, made a veiled reference to the situation
in a sermon entitled 'What Hath God Wrought,” in which he extolled God's
lofty and unsearchable ways, whatever we might conceive them to be.

The crowds at Our Lady's spoke loudly enough for Father Vendetti. He had
nothing to add, at least for the time being.

Sid Maher, the Lutheran, said absolutely nothing about it.

Morgan Elliott, the Methodist, stayed out of the discussion as well.

Paul Daley, Howard Munson, and Andy Barker could have been out of town
for all the feedback we got from them.

Mostly, what Antioch got from its ministers was business as usual and
apart from that, silence. I figured they were waiting to see what might
develop before taking a position.

All except for Kyle, of course. He was still working on his position,
but he kept nothing inside during the process: The sightings, the
miracles, and the mysterious visitor were most likely the work of Satan,
he said, and the folks in his church—the whole town, for that
matter—needed to wake up.

As for me, I was hiding.

'TRAy, 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 its 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?” 121

'It's church stuff, isn't it?” I sat still and let her continue cuffing
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. Snz7p. '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 us ED 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,
hippielooking 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 Mart 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 see123

ing 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 AN5WERING 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.” 125

'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
discernment—” '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 WA5 LIKE A MINIPARADE ontheopenhighwayashortlittle 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 wireframed
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.

127

'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
d6cor, 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.” 129

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. It was easy to
see the glow in Mrs. Macon's face every time she looked Brandon's
direction.

'So you're a prophet of God, huh?” Brett asked.

He seemed embarrassed. 'That's what Mrs. Macon says.” 'What do you say?”
'I am sent from God, but I let people draw their own conclusions.” 'What
were you doing down at Mack's?” 'Buying groceries for Mrs. Macon.”
'That's right,” the widow confirmed.

'How did Mrs. Baylor end up on the floor?” Mrs. Macon answered, 'Slain
in the Spirit. It's a God thing.” 'A God thing. Right.” Brandon
volunteered, 'I touched her in greeting, and I guess falling down was
her religious response.” 'Did you heal Norman Dillard's eyes?” 'Yes.”
'And Matt Kiley?” 'Yes. Him too” Brett appeared mystified. 'Just like
that?” 'Yes.” Brett looked at the driver's license again. Nancy ventured
a glance over his shoulder. The photograph looked a little blurry, but
it was the same guy, all right. Brett asked, 'So you're from Missoula?”
'That's right.” 'How come I never heard about you before this?” 'I've
just begun my ministry.”

Apparently Brett was out of questions. He gave a little shrug.

'Well, Brandon, as far as I can tell you haven't broken any laws and you
haven't hurt anyone.” He allowed himself a quick little smile.

I guess the opposite is true. If none of these people has a complaint
and Mrs. Macon is happy and willing to have you here, I've got nothing
more to do.”

He handed the license back. Brandon reached out to take it and their
fingers touched.

Brett flinched as if he'd gotten a shock.

'Oh, excuse me,” said Brandon.

Nancy could tell Brett was trying to maintain his tough cop image, but
she also knew something strange had happened. The big officer's hand was
shaking. He pressed itto his thigh to steady it. 'Okay then...” His
voice was trembling. He cleared his throat.

'Guess that's it.

Suddenly he winced and grabbed his left leg just above the knee.

'Brett? What's wrong?” Nancy asked.

'Something's poking me.” He grabbed a pinch of his pant leg and shook it
out. There was a faint, clinking sound as three jagged pieces of metal
fell out onto the patio.

Mrs. Macon let out a little gasp. Nancy stared, her usual professional
poise surrendering to gawking amazement.

Brandon stepped forward, stooped, and picked up the three pieces.
'Vietnam, July 19, 1971. A grenade killed three of your friends—Franidin
Torrence, Emilio Delgado, and Rich Trenner. It would have killed you too
if Rich Trenner hadn't been standing in the way.” He stood, holding the
shrapnel in his open hand. 'He took most of it. These three pieces are
the only ones that hit you.” Brett held out his hand and Brandon dropped
the shards into his palm.

Mrs. Macon was beaming like a proud mother, wagging her head in wonder.
His face filled with fear and awe, Brett handed the metal shards to
Nancy, and as she examined them, he pulled up his pant leg.

Even the scar was gone.

So was Brett's tough cop image. He was visibly shaken, and could only
gaze at the young man in stunned silence.

Suddenly there was a voice. 'Yoo-hoo!” Dee Baylor, her friends, and the
television people came around the corner of the house.

'Well!” said Mrs. Macon.

‘3'

Brandon Nichols cocked his head. 'Now, now, I don't recall Mrs. Macon
inviting you up here!” Mrs. Macon grabbed his arm. 'Brandon, let's
invite them to have some tea! And the officer and Nancy too!” He
considered it, then playfully shook his finger at Dee and her friends.
'No cameras! Let's just be neighbors today!” Dee and her friends
immediately looked at the reporter and her cameraman. The cameraman got
his cue from the reporter and set the camera on the ground.

'Come on over!” said Mrs. Macon. She asked Brett and Nancy, 'Would you
like to stay a while?” Nancy was intensely willing. 'Oh yes!
Absolutely!” She gave the shards back to Brett.

Brett dropped the shards into his shirt pocket. His hands were still
shaking. 'Uh, no, thanks ... I gotta go.” He started backing away, still
unable to take his eyes off Brandon Nichols. 'Thanks anyway, I—” He
stumbled against a lawn chair and finally turned to see where he was
going. 'Uh, how do I...” Mrs. Macon hurried over and directed him. 'You
can just follow the walkway around the house to your car.”

'I'll ride back with...” Nancy looked at the reporter.

'Alice,” the reporter replied.

'I'll ride back with Alice.” Nancy and Alice gave each other a
thumbs-up. Now this was a story!

Brett stole one more look at the young man before turning on his heels
and getting out of there.

'He even looks like him!” he muttered.

I DIDN'T HEAR MUCH aboutthatmeetingupattheranchuntil Thursday. In the
meantime, Matt Kiley took some time Thursday morning to walk the length
of the highway through town, roughly a mile, allowing himself to be
photographed, videoed, and inter- viewed by whatever pilgrim or reporter
might happen along. For a man confined to a wheelchair for over a
quarter of a century, his rate

of recovery was remarkable. His legs, once thin and atrophied, seemed to
be filling out by the hour.

Norman Dillard still relished every sign, book, and newspaper he could
read. He even enjoyed trying to catch the license plates of passing cars
as he worked in his motel office. He also learned of another benefit
that came with perfect vision: One of the pilgrims passing by on the
sidewalk happened to be a very attractive young lady. 'Well, helloooo,
what have we here?” She didn't know he was watching her and didn't hear
him. It was a real kick.

THUR5DAY was Brett Henchle's day off. He was out in the driveway
shooting baskets with his two sons when his wife, Lori, brought him a
cordless phone. 'It's Kyle Sherman,” she said.

He made a face, bounced the ball to his sons, and took the phone,
sitting on the steps that led up to the house. Lori sat down next to
him, listening while she watched the boys continue dribbling and
shooting.

'Yeah, this is Brett.” Brett listened for a moment, then repeated for
Lori's sake, 'Uh-huh. You want to know about the Jesus impersonator up
at the Macon ranch. Right.” Brett listened a while longer. 'Pastor
Sherman, he's not claiming to be Jesus. His name is Brandon Nichols and
he's just a ranch worker from Missoula, Montana. Yeah, he really does
have a name. He even has a driver's license. He's for real.” Lori could
hear Kyle's voice squawking on and on as Brett rolled his eyes. She
could tell he was anxious to get back to the game.

'Well, I'd say he's religious, yeah, but he hasn't done anything
illegal. He's working for the widow, she's happy with his work, and
that's that.” More squawking, something about the people in church, the
pilgrims visiting town, blah, blah, blah.

'Listen! People can believe whatever they want about this guy.

If you think he's breaking the law, show me. Otherwise, this is none of
my business. You're the minister. You work it out. Okay. Bye.” ‘33

He clicked the phone off and handed it back to Lori. 'That guy's a pain
in the you-know-what.” 'A little hard-nosed, is he?” 'You should have
seen him at the ministerial meeting. ‘It's demons!' It's none of our
business, that's what it is! The guy's a pain!” 'Speaking of pain, how's
your leg?” she asked.

The question changed his mood. He leaped to his feet, ran in place, then
did some high kicks. 'What pain? I feel great!” He hollered to his boys,
'All right, let's get this game going!” She marveled. She'd never seen
him so alive. He seemed younger now than when she married him.

WELL, THE PILGRIM S ARE GATHERING,” said the smooth and soothing voice
on the telephone.

'At least we know you're not Jesus—Brandon, ' I replied.

'So you've heard from Kyle already.” 'He's a very unhappy camper.”

'Well, not to be critical, but he has a small mind. If anyone wants to
consider me their Jesus, I allow them that. Kyle should do the same.”

I had to laugh. 'He's not wired up that way.” 'So I gather. But how
about you, Travis? I think you're ready to widen your world.” 'I'm not
about to believe a lie if I can help it.” He paused, I suppose to frame
his question. 'Why did you go to Minneapolis? Try to remember, Travis.

Brandon Nichols might not be Jesus, but he was supernatural. He knew all
the right buttons to push, all the perfect thorn-in-the-side memories to
dredge up. 'What does that have to do with anything?” 'Fantasy, Travis.
Like anyone else, you wanted a kinder reality, and I don't blame you.”
'It didn't work.” 'Well, that was then. The rules are about to change.
My followers will be looking for a kinder reality, and they just might
get it.”

'Your followers?” 'Just don't blame them, Travis. You were there
yourself, once.

Oh, and Travis?” 'What?” 'Don't be like Kyle.” When the line went dead I
stood there, unable to move, unable to think. Why did I go to
Minneapolis, so many years ago?

My mind dredged up the only answer I had: Because God called me.

Or had he?

NOT LONG AFTER I turned eighteen, God assigned me the holy work of
discipling Amber Carr, the quiet girl from drama class who turned out
every Wednesday for the Kenyon— Bannister meetings. She didn't smoke,
and she seemed to maintain a quiet dignity while so many of the other
kids were Spirit-filled Christians but still basically nuts. She came to
me with her questions, I drew from the deep well of my experience for
answers, and we hit it off. She came over to my house and we talked
about the Lord. I went over to her house and we talked about the Lord.

When we weren't talking about the Lord, we went to the movies or to an
occasional concert. The rest of the time we just enjoyed how the Lord
had brought us together.

It was a great time of year to help a pretty girl grow in the Lord.

Spring was rolling around, the weather, though usually wet, was finally
warming up, and there were plenty of days nice enough to get outside and
walk on the beach. I found that the more time I spent with her, the
greater the intensity of my calling, until it seemed God wanted me close
to her, sharing my wisdom at every conceivable opportunity.

I remember the night I first kissed her. I did it in the name of Jesus
and strictly for his glory. From that point, we continued to glorify the
Lord in like manner whenever we got the chance, so often that my memory
of it includes no specifics, only one murky continuum.

Oh, but the ecstasy of it, the lofty, dizzying heights of joy! The glory
of the Kenyon—Bannister days had no glory like this glory.

This was a calling from the throne of God strong enough to make me drive
for miles when I had a car and walk for hours when I didn't, just to be
with her. Nothing else was as important as getting to wherever she was
to nurture her, protect her, instruct her, and participate in God's
unfolding plan—which now included, I was certain, both of us, together,
following his call.

The Lord began to confirm this to us separately. Amber had a dream about
us and then, that very morning, the old song by Herman's Hermits came on
the radio. It told her that, even though the young man she loved didn't
know much about anything, if she loved him anyway, God would use us to
make a wonderful world.

God spoke to me in signs and prophecies, which I recorded in a journal.
One day, while walking and praying, I saw a car go by with a license
number the same as Amber's birthday, and then I got a prophecy: This is
my choice for you, the path I have chosen. Walk ye in it. By the time we
graduated, we knew we would be married as soon as the Lord made a way.

There were, however, some logistical details to work out. Amber was
planning to start classes at the University of Washington in the fall,
while I had virtually no plans except to minister the gospel, whatever
that was supposed t6 mean. As the summer rolled by, she worked as a
motel housekeeper to raise money for college. I spent most of my time
playing my banjo. Her family threw their doubts right in her face. My
family tried lovingly to express theirs. I prayed for them all. None of
them—not even my dad, a man of God—realized what a powerful God we
served, and how God could intervene miraculously for those who were
totally sold out to him.

The clock kept ticking. Fall came around. In a few weeks, Amber would
actually start classes at the university and live with ‘37

her grandmother in the north part of Seattle. I had no job, no car, no
savings, no plans, and no miracle. Of course, it was not unlike God to
test our faith, to make us wait until the last possible moment before he
opened our Red Sea and saw us through safely.

The Red Sea didn't open. Amber started her classes and started learning
things I didn't know. After a summer of waiting on God and claiming the
miraculous, she was going somewhere, while I wasn't. She even started to
sound smarter than me.

Finally, bowing to pressure I was getting from all directions, I
acknowledged that having a job while waiting on the Lord wouldn't be
such a bad idea. Thus began a darker time than I had ever known in my
life.

COMPTON METAL FABRICATOR5 was a cavernous building on the ship canal in
Seattle, a drafty, metal shell with glassless windows and gaping doors
that let the cold wind through. Compton built crab boats, big metal
hulls that filled the building, brown with rust, dirty all over, cold
and dark inside. And the noise! Metal-bending machinery, air-powered
grinders, rattling guns, hammers. The place smelled of sparks from
grinders, arc welders, and cutting torches.

I got there at seven in the morning for my first day, a pristine and
godly young man among rough-hewn, crusty shipbuilders who seemed
obsessed with the obscene and knew only one adjective they applied to
everything. Bill, the supervisor, a burly, hard-hatted guy with a lisp
you didn't dare make fun of, handed me an air-powered grinder and set me
to work grinding off the metal beads left behind by the welders. The
thing weighed about ten pounds when I started in the morning. By ten
o'clock it weighed twenty, and by noon it weighed forty. I climbed all
over that rusty hull, up and down ladders and catwalks, inside and out,
lugging that machine and pulling the air hose after me. My mission was
simple: see the bead, grind the bead.

At four o'clock, nine hours and seventy years later, the big horn

sounded and the place finally got quiet. I walked out to the parking lot
with all the other guys in their dirty blue coveralls, got in Mom and
Dad's Oldsmobile Cutlass and headed for home.

And the morning and the evening were the first day.

And the second day was like unto the first.

And the third day was like unto the first and second.

By the fourth day, I had become a man of prayer more than I had ever
been before. Surely this was all a mistake. There must have been a
clerical error in heaven. An angel had put God's plan for someone else
in my file folder. I began crying out to God from below, above, and
inside that boat, trying to bring the error to God's attention. I never
heard back.

After about a week on the job, Bill asked me if I ever got
claustrophobia. When I said no, he sent me down inside the double hull
of the boat to rattle off the charred scabs of metal left by the welders
and sweep out the watertight compartments. It was like working inside a
metal coffin with just enough room to twist my body around and look for
scabs with a work light.

Buried alive in the hull of that crab boat, I prayed. I needed to hear
from God. I needed a sign, a prophecy, a word of knowledge, anything.
God was in control and had a plan, I was sure of it. I wouldn't be there
for long. God would get me out. I would marry Amber and we would go
somewhere clean, quiet, and glorious, not dirty, noisy, and humiliating,
and there we would serve the Lord happily ever after.

Every Sunday night, with Monday morning to look forward to, I prayed.

Every morning when the alarm clock rang, I prayed.

While perched on the high catwalks along the hull with my grinder, while
crawling inside the hull with a work light and ratding gun, while
sweeping out below deck while falling sparks from a torch burned holes
in my shirt, I prayed.

I prayed for God to change things, to make a way for me to minister for
him, to get me out of there. I was ready to hear him speak. I was ready
for any thought, any impression, any hint of anything else anywhere
else.

‘39

Finally, it happened. After two dirty, exhausting, deafening weeks at
Compton, an answer began to dawn like a faint glimmer of light from
heaven. I was at home with my folks, dead tired and about to go to bed
when a Billy Graham crusade came on the television. Mom, Dad, my older
brother Steve, and I all watched it, one wondrous and powerful hour of
songs and gospel preaching.

The bigness of it, the unique, unpretentious pageantry, and the crowds
of people streaming forward at Reverend Graham's invitation struck a
chord in my heart. I wanted to be a part of it. I didn't belong in a
dirty shipyard among all those crusty, cussing shipbuilders. I belonged
there, at that crusade, helping to spread the gospel.

I took the dream to bed with me and woke up with it in the morning. I
thought about it all the way to work and sang 'Just As I Am” as I picked
up my grinder at the tool crib. I thought about preaching, teaching,
prophesying, even playing my banjo for the Billy Graham Evangelistic
Association. I could act in a Billy Graham movie. I could sing a song at
a Billy Graham crusade. I could write songs, books, and Bible lessons. I
could counsel.

The more I thought about it, the more excited I got and the more I
prayed. This had to be it. God's calling. Of course! This short time in
the shipyard was to humble and prepare me, that was all. It wasn't meant
to last. My deliverance, the next step in God's masterful plan, was on
the way.

The very next weekend, I visited Amber and told her I was hearing from
God and carrying a burden to join up with Billy Graham I told her how
there could even be a connection between my playing bluegrass music and
working for Billy Graham: both had the initials BG. It had to be a sign.

She had never heard of Billy Graham so I had to explain it to her,
telling her all about the crusades and the Evangelistic Association in
Minneapolis and all the things I thought I could do there.

After she heard it all, she smiled and told me about a vision she'd
eceived from the Lord, a railroad boxcar with a big letter 'I” on

iii At the time she had no idea what it meant, but now we could terpret
that vision in a better light: Perhaps this suggested my

mode of travel to Minneapolis. We decided to write down anything the
Lord might give us. Things were cooking and we had to keep a record of
it. Someday it would make a great book.

Monday morning, seven o'clock, the big horn sounded. Armed with a broom
and rattling gun, I headed for the hull. Bill sent me down into the
double hull compartments again, this time to sweep, and to mark any
cavities in the metal with white crayon so the welders could come
through later and fill them in. Another helper had been there before me
and had decided to favor future generations with some lurid artwork. I
rubbed it out, and as I stood there, crayon in hand, God began to speak
some new ideas to me.

This was a time of preparation. I wrote a P on the wall to represent
that.

But soon there would come the call. I wrote a C on the wall.

I would go first, leading the way, blazing the trail. I wrote an L. And
then, having begun a wonderful ministry with Billy Graham, I would
return—I wrote an R—and bring Amber with me. I wrote an A. So there it
was on the dark, rusty wall of a crab boat under construction: PCLRA.
Where once a dirty picture had been, I had wntten an encoded prophecy in
the same awesome vein as Daniel's Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin. The
handwriting on the wall. It was God's plan for my life.

I called Amber that night and told her all about it. She was thrilled
because she'd received another vision from God that day, this time of a
huge banjo bridging Seattle and Minneapolis. The meaning was obvious and
we were giddy with joy.

Now it was only a question of timing. Right now I was being prepared,
but when would the call come? Perhaps we should set out a fleece as
Gideon did in the Book of Judges, a way for God to indicate his will in
a tangible way.

Well, the drumhead on my banjo needed replacing, but the size was
nonstandard and the guy at the music store said he'd have to special
order one. There it was, our fleece. Amber's vision of the huge banjo
verified that. 'Lord,” I prayed, 'when you want me to go to Minneapolis,
have that drumhead come in.

‘4'

I waited, and prayed, and worked at the shipyard another week.

And then the music store called. The banjo head I'd ordered had arrived.
The sign from God!

The next day, I went to Bill the supervisor and said, 'I have to quit.
God has called me to go to Minneapolis and work for Billy Graham.” He
didn't seem very impressed. He just got me my paycheck and went back to
work. I figured he'd never heard of Billy Graham either. I got out of
that big, drafty building and walked into the sunshine. Even the weather
was saying Yes! This is God's will for you!

The time had come to break the wondrous news to my folks.

They were godly, Spirit-filled people. I knew they would be thrilled.

As we sat at dinner that night, I made the announcement. 'God has called
me to work for Billy Graham. I'm going to Minneapolis.” They just sat
there, looking back at me, chewing, not saying a thing.

Finally Mom asked, 'What about your job?” 'I quit.” Dad asked, 'Do they
know you're coming? Have you written to them or called them?” 'No. I'm
trusting God. It's all in his hands.” I told them how my last paycheck
from the shipyard should be enough for a train ticket over there.

'Where will you stay?” Dad asked.

'Oh, God has that all figured out. I'm just supposed to obey and

I told them about the visions, and Mom got tears in her eyes.

Apparently she was deeply moved by the miraculous touch of God upon my
life.

'I'm ready to step out in faith,” I said. 'I'm ready to believe God and
go to Minneapolis.” 'Okay,” Dad said. 'Just be sure to buy a round-trip
ticket.” I left Seattle on a Sunday afternoon. Before the train was to
leave, I took the bus up to the north end of Seattle to say good-bye to
Amber. It was a tearful good-bye, but a moment filled with holy

expectation. We knelt together on the floor of her grandmother's living
room, our hands clasped in prayer, and praised the Lord for this moment,
this launching of a great mission. I paraphrased the Lord's words as I
told her, 'I go to prepare a place for you, and I will come again to
receive you, that where I am, there you may be also.” 'I'll wait for
you,” she replied, but her voice trembled a little.

Was it hesitation? Doubt? No, it couldn't be. Just emotion, that was
all. Anticipation of the great things God was about to do.

Then we kissed in the name of Jesus. Her kiss was less fervent than
usual, but I pushed the nagging thought out of my mind. This was God's
will. I would go and find my place, I would send for her, and we would
live together forever in service to the Lord.

With pack on my back, shipyard clothes on my body, and banjo and
briefcase in my hands, I caught the bus heading south to the King Street
Station. By four o'clock I was on a train bound for Minneapolis.

By now it was October. When the train arrived in Minneapolis on Monday,
the leaves of Minnesota were in their fall brilliance and the wind was
cold. As the train pulled into the station I looked across the railroad
yard and there it was, just as I had expected: a big railroad boxcar
with the letter 'I” on it. God had spoken! He was with me! I was moving
in the realm of the miraculous! The city was big, busy, and totally
alien to me. I had the address of the Billy Graham Evangelistic
Association written on a piece of paper, so with directions from a
porter at the train station, I set Out walking, the very picture of a
homeless vagabond.

I never got lost, not with the Lord guiding my every step, my every
turn. Sometimes a cloud overhead would take on a shape to point the way.
Once, a construction crane pointed left like a huge finger and I
followed. I walked for hours and saw a lot of the city.

Then I came upon Hennepin Avenue and knew I was closing in on Canaan.
God was faithful. Following the street numbers in descending order, I
walked and walked, block by block, until I came to the front door of the
Billy Graham Evangelistic Association.

This was the moment, and suddenly I felt nervous. How was ‘43

my faith? Did I still believe? I felt a little doubt, but refused to
acknowledge it. A doubt just like this one may have kept Andy Smith from
being healed, I reminded myself. There was no room for doubt in the
service of the Lord, only belief.

Drawing upon the Lord for courage, I opened the door, and went inside.

The receptionist, a nice lady in a white silk blouse and navy skirt,
looked up from her desk. I smiled at her the wayJesus must have smiled
to those who were hurting. Perhaps the Lord was going to give me a word
to share with her, a touch of healing, a message of hope.

'Would you like to talk to one of our counselors?” she asked.

Well, she must have been doing all right and didn't need a special touch
from God today. I said, 'Sure,” and she placed a call.

A nice man dressed in a suit and tie came into the lobby, shook my hand,
and directed me into a conference room. He had black, curly hair and a
moustache and I'd never seen him on television. When he introduced
himself, I didn't recognize his name. When I introduced myself, he
didn't seem to recognize my name either, and he didn't seem to be
expecting me. Somehow we got on the subject of happiness, and from there
he began to ask me what my idea of happiness was. By the time he asked
me howl thought I could obtain happiness, I figured he was getting ready
to share the gospel with me.

'OhI'm already saved,” I told him, and then figured it was time to
enlighten him and get this meeting on the right track. I recounted the
previous months of seeking and hearing from God—the signs and visions,
the prophecies, the fleece. I knew he would be impressed.

Well.. . he didn't break down crying or anything. But he did invite me
to pray with him as he asked the Lord to bless and guide me. Then he led
me to the receptionist's desk and told her I would need an application.

The receptionist disappeared behind a set of double doors and came back
with an application form several pages long. I took it and sat on the
couch again.

And then I stared at it. An application? I had not seen this in any of
my visions, nor heard about it in any of my prophecies. I began to try
to fill it out, and it started badgering me about my education and
experience. There were no blanks to fill in anywhere regarding my
prophetic gifts, my preaching and teaching ability, or even my banjo
playing.

At last I finished, saying all I could say about myself, which wasn't
very much, then went back to the receptionist and handed the application
to her. She thanked me for my interest, told me there were no openings
at the present time, and pressed a buzzer to let me out.

That was it? My big calling from God? It was over?

Faith, I reminded myself. You've got to have faith. There had to be
another door of opportunity somewhere. God wouldn't send me clear across
the country just to fill out an application and be turned away.

I recalled seeing the offices of World Wide Pictures on the other side
of the building, around the block. That had to be it. I wasn't supposed
to work in Billy Graham's office anyway. I was an actor, an artist, a
musician. I could serve God in the movies. I started walking.

The World Wide Pictures office turned out to be smaller than Billy
Graham's office, and I quickly realized that they didn't make the movies
there. But I pressed on, introduced myself to another lady receptionist,
and got myself another meeting with another well-qualified and
experienced man in a suit and tie. I repeated my story —the months of
seeking and hearing from God, the visions and prophecies Amber and I had
received, the vision of the banjo stretching across the country, the
prophecy I scribbled on the wall just like God did in the Book of
Daniel. All of it. He told me he was happy about all the wonderful
things God had done in my life, but he just didn't have any positions
available.

I was in and out of there in less than fifteen minutes.

I spent the night at the Y, and when morning came, I was still a man of
faith, trusting God to complete his purpose, but not hay‘45

mg the slightest clue why I should remain in Minneapolis. I walked back
across town to the train station and used the other half of my
round-trip ticket. As the train rolled westward, the long, seemingly
pointless journey began to make sense. God was testing me just as he
tested Abraham, to see if I would obey. Of course. Sometimes God asks us
to do things that don't make a lot of sense just to see how devoted and
obedient we are. Well, I was sure I passed the test, and that meant God
could trust me with the next step. I couldn't wait to get home and tell
Amber.

In Seattle, I went straight from the train station and caught a bus to
the north end of the city, where Amber lived with her grandmother. I
didn't know if she would be home or in classes at the university, but I
got right out there anyway, knowing it was all in God's hands.

Amber was home. My heart soared. I hugged her and kissed her and praised
the Lord.

Her embrace was not so enthusiastic, and she quickly let it fall away as
she asked, 'Well? Tell me what happened.” I told her about my two brief
visits in the offices on Hennepin Avenue and how they turned out. Then I
added how God had set this whole thing up as a test of my faith. 'I
passed the test,” I said, 'and that can only mean that wonderful things
are in store.” She nodded as if she knew all along what God would do.
Then she scribbled a little note and handed it to me.

She was resigning.

Although I'd been through some very abrupt changes in the plan over the
past few days, I still wasn't used to it. I had to ask her what she
meant, and she had to tell me in several different ways.

She didn't want to be my helpmate anymore. She no longer saw things my
way. It would be foolish for us to get married. She wanted to pursue her
education. There was no way our relationship would work out. We were
through.

Standing in her grandmother's living room with that note in my hand was
like standing in that lobby in Minneapolis. No position available. No
reason to stay. Dead end. I did the same thing here

as there. I responded in faith, seeing the miraculous hand of God even
in this. I smiled, put the note in my shirt pocket, and spoke
prophetically, 'You'll come back, and I'll wait for you.”

I HAD IT ALL PLANNED. Iwould give Amber some time to listen to the Lord
and sort it all out, then go to see her on Christmas Eve, the ideal day
for a heartwarming, tear-jerky reunion. I bought her a beautiful Bible.
I found just the right spot in a nearby park where we could walk, talk,
and embrace. I could see in my mind how she would run into my arms and
kiss me, big fluffy snowflakes falling all around us.

On Christmas Eve, I fasted and prayed all day. Nothing had worked out
from high school graduation up to this point, but now the time of
testing was over, now would be the big turnaround. Now all my faith
would be rewarded and the world would know that there was a God!

When I knocked on the door, her gift in my hand, she wasn't even there.
Her grandmother told me she was over at her boyfriend's house and would
be spending Christmas with him and his family. I left the Bible with the
grandmother and walked back to the bus stop, taking a short side trip
through the park where the tear-jerky reunion scene would never happen.

We didn't even get fluffy snow that day. It was raining.

In mid-January, I had my very last conversation with her by telephone.
She thanked me f6r the Bible and said she planned to use it in her Bible
as Literature class at the university. Apart from that, she had no other
use for it. Christianity was fine for me, but not right for her. She and
her boyfriend were now attending a Unitarian church and she felt far
more comfortable with that.

How can I say it? Finally, my foot came off the throttle. The wind went
out of my sails. My boiler blew a rivet.

It was a moment, that's all, a precise point in time when, at long last,
a different kind of belief broke through to me. For the first time, I
actually believed her.

‘47

She really was history. The love we had, transcendent and unassailable,
a divine gift, a special miracle forged in the foundries of heaven,
ended back in October, as quickly as her resignation. I had refused to
accept it, but right now, with my hand still on the telephone, I finally
let the truth in: our love was gone. It was over.

And then the dominoes began to fall.

That's the caveat that comes with being 'led by the Spirit”: if you dare
to question one thing, you have to question everything.

With Amber gone, what did that say about all those visions, signs, and
prophecies that God supposedly gave us? What did the Minneapolis debacle
tell me about my encoded prophecy scribbled on the wall of the crab
boat? Could I finally admit that boxcars with a big letter 'I” on them
belonged to Intermountain Railways and were commonplace in most every
major train yard in every major city in the country? Could I admit that
a banjo head on special order was bound to arrive sooner or later, God
or no God, fleece or no fleece? Could I face the fact that Billy Graham
and bluegrass having the same initials carried about as much meaning as
that license plate with Amber's birthday on it?

When I laid hands on Andy and Karla and prayed for their healing, God
didn't heal them. It wasn't a matter of the healing taking time or them
waiting until they had the right degree of faith, or any other
explanation we came up with. God didn't heal them. I thought I had the
gift of healing and didn't. I prayed for them to be healed and they
weren't. And as for all the shaking I did, well that's exactly what it
was: shaking I did.

As to the Kenyon—Bannister prayer meetings, the original fire had gone
out for want of logs on the hearth. The Kenyons and Bannisters were
still having their meetings and I suppose Mr.

Kenyon was still the bishop of the island, but nothing more remained.
David Kenyon had gone back east to college. Bernadette Jones had gotten
pregnant—contrary to Mrs. Bannister's prophecy, Barry the boyfriend
never became a Christian and they never furthered God's kingdom
together. Karla Dickens was living in j Seattle and pursuing a business
degree, while Andy Smith had

gotten his girlfriend pregnant, married her, and was currently trying to
make a living as a composer and piano teacher. Harold Martin, who once
tried to get me to smoke pot, was still smoking pot for all I knew,
getting into yoga and eastern religion, and working as a flagman for the
county road crew. Clay Olson had gone on to Bible college to pursue the
ministry, and Benny Taylor, his pimples now fading, was racking up
peffect grades at the University of Washington.

We used to be young, unstoppable soldiers of the cross, led by the
Spirit, taking the world for Christ as we marched arm in arm.

There was going to be a great revival, starting with us. We were on fire
and those who were lukewarm would have to get on fire too or eat our
dust.

But my fellow soldiers weren't there anymore. ‘While I was chasing
visions, signs, and prophecies all the way to Minneapolis, each of them
caught a different train and left while I wasn't looking.

In mid-October, I was eighteen, in love, full of the Spirit, and on a
train bound for Minneapolis. By mid-January, I was nineteen and a nobody
with nowhere to go, sitting on the bed in my room at home, plunking
absently on a brown, fifty-dollar banjo and feeling a new and
frightening kind of loneliness. Jesus seemed far away, and strangely
enough, I was content to leave him there. I didn't want to talk to him;
I feared and distrusted anything he might say to me.

I was saved, sanctified, born-again, and Spirit-filled, but Jesus and I
were strangers.

10

B RANDON HAD WARNED Mrs. Macon that there would be phone calls and
knocks at the door, and his prophetic gifts were right on the money.
Ever since that Wednesday afternoon tea, visitors were coming up the
long driveway to see the prophet, the Messiah, Jesus, the man claiming
to be Jesus, the Avatar of Christ, or anything else people thought he
was. On Thursday, just before Mrs. Macon and Brandon agreed that they
should get Brandon's ministry—and access to the ranch—organized,
scheduled, and restricted, the doorbell rang for the umpteenth time.

Mrs. Macon steeled her nerves and opened the door.

A young man stood there, dressed in cut-off jeans and a white tunic, a
shawl of some sort draped over his head and a long staff in his hand. He
couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. His beard was immature
and wispy, he was lanky, and his face was smooth and unwrinkled. When he
spoke, it was in a forced, un- natural British accent. 'Hello. My name
is Michael. I am seeking the Messiah of Antioch.” The widow looked over
her shoulder and beckoned Brandon with her eyes. He came to the door.
'Yes?” Young Michael immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed
low, his hand on his staff. 'All hail.” He looked up. 'God

has sent me to you. I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness,
prepare ye the way of the Lord.” Mrs. Macon had seen a good measure of
starry-eyed pilgrims and strange folks come by since yesterday, but this
young man was taking strangeness to a new level. She looked at Brandon,
wondering what he would do.

To her surprise, Brandon stepped forward, extended his hand, and rested
it on the young man's head. 'Michael, you are expected.” He gently took
the young man's arm and prompted him to rise to his feet. Then he looked
at Mrs. Macon. 'Michael will dine with us tonight. We have much to
discuss.”

THURSDAY EVENING, Jim Baylor was getting hungry and dinner was late. Not
that it was ever on time. It happened when it happened. But tonight he
came home from work and found little indication that it was going to
happen.

The house was messy. It was never really neat, but it had an especially
neglected look this evening, as if Darlene, their fifteenyear-old
daughter, had passed through when there was no one there to yell at her.

Dee was sitting at the kitchen table talking on the phone, and that
wasn't unusual either. But this evening she was intensely on the phone,
so much that she gave Jim one quick little wave to acknowledge his
presence and then went back to totally ignoring him.

'You have to meet him,” she was saying. 'Just one look in his eyes and
you know you're in the presence of God! He has the anointing,
absolutely!” Jim came closer. 'Who are you talking to?” She waved him
off and kept talking. 'Get up here as soon as you can. I don't know if
he really is Jesus, but.., oh, you just have to see him, that's all.
Once you see him, you'll know.” Jim surveyed the cluttered kitchen
table. They were supposed to be eating off that table right now, but
instead of dinner, Dee had a list of names in front of her with many
checked off and many ‘5'

more yet to be checked off. 'Dee, what are you doing? You gonna be on
the phone all night?” By now she'd shared all the information she had
with the party on the other end, so she went back to go over every
thought again.

'Anyway, that's what we did, we went up to the ranch yesterday and had
tea with him and Mrs. Macon—and that place was a palace! I know, some
women have all the luck!” Jim felt the sting of that and went into the
living room of the crummy, inadequate house he'd provided. Maybe he
could put away some of the things he'd sweated and toiled for so the
room wouldn't be such a mess. At least he could clear some space on the
couch he provided for his family so he could sit and read the paper,
which he also paid for.

'You should have seen that cute outfit she was wearing! She looks great
for her age!” He sat and perused the headlines, tuning out her voice as
he had unconsciously learned to do over the years. A door swung open and
slammed shut down at the end of the hall. Darlene came into the room,
her expression oblivious, her walk dazed and desultory like a week-old,
half-filled helium balloon. 'When's dinner?” she asked.

Jim looked over his shoulder at Dee in the kitchen, still on the phone.
Well, he might be able to get a response from his daughter.

He directed Darlene's attention to the socks, books, clothing, stuffed
animals, and other debris that had somehow blown into the living room.
'Darlene, pick all this stuff up and get it out of here.” 'When's
dinner?” she insisted.

'Get all your stuff out of here!” he repeated, and then went into the
kitchen again. 'Dee, you have a family, remember?” She made a face at
him but finally closed her conversation.

'Okay. Love you too. Bye.” She pressed and released the little button on
the phone, clearing it for another call. She consulted her list and
started dialing.

Jim pressed the button on the phone and leaned in close. 'You have a
family.”

She slapped his hand away from the telephone. 'Don't you tell me what to
do!” He put his hand over it and kept it there. 'How long have you been
talking on the phone here? The house is a mess, there's no dinner — 'You
want dinner, get it yourseW” she snapped, and her voice could be like a
trumpet when she was angry. 'You think this isn't important? We're being
visited—” She cut off her sentence.

'What?” 'You wouldn't understand.” The raucous sounds of MTV came
blasting from the living room. Jim hollered at Darlene, 'Didn't I tell
you to put away your stuff? Now get at it!” She wailed back, 'When's
dinner?” Dee slammed the receiver down and came unglued. 'I can't
believe this family! You think my only purpose on earth is to wait on
you two? You both have two hands!” Having once been a marine drill
sergeant, Jim was no stranger to yelling. 'I've been working all day
long with these two hands to put the food on this table that isn't on
the table! What have you been doing all day with your hands? Have you
even been home today?” Then they got into it, and not even MTV could
equal the racket. They yelled, raved, and waved their hands at each
other. Jim slammed some pans on the stove and she slammed them back in
the cupboards. She tried to tell him how unhappy she was while he tried
to tell her how ungrateful she was while Darlene flopped into a curled
position on the couch and withdrew from the fight, the family, the whole
unkind world.

Only the slam of the front door could break through the noise and get
Jim and Dee's attention.

'Oh, great, just great!” Jim fumed, storming into the living room.
'Darlene!” He flung open the front door in time to see her running down
the street. 'Darlene, come back here!” Dee yelled from behind him, loud
enough for the neighbors to hear, 'Don't yell! You want the neighbors to
hear?” ‘53

He grabbed his coat out of the hall closet and the car keys off their
hook by the door. 'I hope you're satisfied.” 'Yeah, blame me!” Dee went
back into the kitchen and picked up the telephone again, consulting her
list.

Jim went out to the car and drove off in search of his daughter.

AWAKE, PEOPLE OF ANTIOCH, and know for certain that the Lord has come to
you! See and behold, his winnowing fork is in his hand to separate the
wheat from the chain On which side will you fall?” His voice was a bit
shrill and his British accent had to be a puton, but Antioch was no
bustling city where street preachers could simply be ignored and
pedestrians could hide behind anonymity.

Michael, prayer shawl around his shoulders and staff in his hand, was
demanding attention and getting it. It was Saturday, and he'd positioned
himself on the highway between Kiley's Hardware and Anderson's Furniture
and Appliance, the center of town. Weekend pilgrims with cameras stopped
to take pictures. Newcomers stopped to ask directions. Natives like
Pastor Howard Munson stopped to grill him.

'So who are you now?” Howard asked him.

'I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of
the Lord!” said Michael. 'Make his paths straight! Every mountain and
hill—” 'Yeah, yeah, I know the rest,” Howard interrupted. 'But who are
you? What's your name?” 'Michael. It means, ‘Who is like God?”' 'And
what are you doing here?” Michael lowered his voice to conversational
level as others gathered around to listen. 'I have come to guide people
to the answer, to God himselfl In a distant land, God spoke to me and
told me to travel westward, but I knew not where—” 'A distant land?
Where are you from?”

'Chicago.”

'Then his clear word came to me. A newspaper carried news of a visitor
come to your town, a man some thought to be the Messiah, the Son of
God.” His eyes widened in anticipation of a real zinger.

'As I read more, I noticed the breakfast on my plate that morning
included bacon. By God's divine plan, the very morning I learned of the
Messiah I was eating a breakfast that rhymes with—” He held out his
staff, the crooked tip pointing toward the widow's ranch.

'Macon! My course was set, and just days ago, I found the object of my
quest! The Messiah of Antioch, the Savior of this age!” Howard shook his
head. 'Son, whoever that guy is, he isn't the Savior! Jesus is the
Savior!” Michael only raised his eyebrows with sweet, innocent insight.

'This man is Jesus!” That got the attention of a cluster of pilgrims.
'Jesus? Where?” Michael pointed his staff again. 'He awaits you today,
for the first time, at the Macon ranch, at two o'clock. Watch for the
signs.” 'The signs?” a man asked, his eyes darting heavenward.

'Cardboard signs that say ‘Macon ranch.' I put them up this morning.”

MICHAEL ‘ S ME5 SAGE was vague, but his announcement of an
open-to-the-public meeting was clear enough, and fell on eager ears.
Judging from the stream of cars and RVs heading up to the Macon ranch
that afternoon, the Messiah of Antioch was going to have a packed house.

Kyle Sherman wasn't about to miss it. Ever since the little tea party up
at the ranch, his telephone had been ringing and his congregation
buzzing about this Brandon Nichols character. Dee was plugging Nichols
for all she was worth, wooing new followers from among the congregation
and from other churches as well.

Roger Folsom, Adrian's husband, wason the brink of buying in.

Johnny Davis, Blanche's husband, wasn't about to buy in and was ‘55

having one heck of a time with Blanche. Brother Norheim was convinced
the Antichrist had arisen and was demanding to know what the church was
going to do about it. Folks like the Whites and the Foresters were
calling, asking him what he thought so they'd know what to think. The
church was in confusion, and it was time for the shepherd to get the
sheep back in line.

Kyle was going to address the whole matter on Sunday, so he planned to
have a thorough knowledge of his subject. His was one of the first
vehicles through the big stone gate. He had a microcassette recorder in
his right jacket pocket and a palm-sized camera in his left. On the seat
next to him was a spiral notebook for taking notes. If anyone in the
church dared to tell him, 'You shouldn't speak against this man without
hearing him first,” Kyle would be able to say, 'I've heard him, seen
him, taken notes on him, recorded him, and photographed him. I know
whereof I speak!” As he followed a van, a camper, and a huge motor home
up the Macon driveway, he was already rehearsing his Sunday sermon,
gripping the steering wheel as if gripping the edges of his pulpit.

'Can't you people get a clue? Jesus warned us about this! ‘False christs
and false prophets will rise and show great signs and wonders to
deceive, if possible, even the elect!”' Then he threw in a bitter,
parenthetical gripe: 'And a lot of help we're getting from the cops!
Brett Henchle's been bought! He's been bought!” The driveway came to the
brow of the hill, and Kyle could see the big Macon ranch house for the
first time. The van, camper, and motor home veered to the left, directed
into a pasture by Michael the Prophet/John the Baptist/Voice in the
Wilderness, now wearing a fluorescent orange vest and waving orange
traffic batons. Kyle followed, parking alongside the motor home. The
parade of vehicles poured in after him, parking in semi-neat rows on the
grass.

He got out of his car and found it fascinating, if not frightening, to
watch people arrive. Old pickups and vans were rolling in and parking
beside zillion-dollar motor homes. Nice cars, beat-up cars, old Fords
and new Mercedes all parked together. Kyle saw young, ragged folks with
dogs in their cars, gray-headed retirees

m garish summer shorts and white shoes, wheat farmers in jeans with big
belt buckles, housewives carrying babies. Some carried cushions, some
carried folding lawn chairs. The television folks were there, of course,
the reporters well-dressed from the waist up and the crew people
carrying cameras.

'Hey Kyle!” Kyle turned to see Bob Fisher coming his way. He stuck out
his hand and greeted the Baptist pastor. 'Boy, am I glad to see you!”
'Come to check out the ‘messiah'?” 'Exactly.” Bob looked around. 'Will
you look at this! We're talking a hundred people at least.” 'Any other
ministers here?” 'I saw Armond Harrison a moment ago.” Kyle winced. 'I
meant ministers of the gospel.” Bob laughed. 'Just you and me so far.”
They walked together toward the white paddock fence where the gate was
open—and guarded by none other than Matt Kiley and Norman Dillard.
Already some television camera people were coming back, turned away. A
retired couple, cameras in their hands, walked back into the pasture and
called to those still coming from their cars, 'They won't let cameras
in!” 'Hm,” said Bob. 'This guy has a thing about cameras.” Kyle said
nothing about the camera he was carrying, and felt no moral qualms about
it. The camera was going in with him, and that was all there was to it.
This 'messiah” had to be seen, known, and exposed. Kyle's only concern
was how to get a picture without getting caught. He'd just have to pray
for the chance.

They strolled nonchalantly through the gate, past Matt and Norman who
waved them in with the mantra, 'Come on in; no cameras please.” The
ranch house was a beauty. The big doors of the four-car garage were
open, beckoning to the gathering crowd. The widow's Town Car and her
late husband's awesome truck were parked in the circular driveway in
front of the house to make room in the garage for a sizable arrangement
of folding chairs.

‘57

'There's Nancy Barrons,” said Bob, nodding in her direction.

'Hey, and there's, uh, the Episcopal guy.” Kyle waved.

'Paul Daley.” 'What does he think of all this?” 'He says he's neutral,
but boy, is he hooked. He really wants to know who this guy is.” 'Just
like us. Oh, there's the priest, uh, Vendetti.” Michael the Prophet
stood out in front of the garage now, directing people inside. 'Fill all
the rows. Please move all the way down to the end to make room for those
still coming. Thank you. Thank you. Right this way. Second row now,
second row. That's it.” Kyle and Bob ended up in the middle of the third
row. The chairs were arranged in a wide fan pattern facing the back wall
of the garage. As far as Kyle could see, there was no pulpit or lectern,
only the workbench with Mr. Macon's tools still neatly arranged on and
above it. He spotted Sally Fordyce near the left end of the second row,
and in the first row, dead center, were Bonnie Adams and her daughter,
Penny. There were other familiar faces here as well, but also a
preponderance of strangers from out-of-town, among them the motor home
set bringing abundant riches from afar. The local business folks in the
crowd had to be noticing that.

All this time, the widow Macon had been standing on the steps leading
from the garage into the house, decked out in a blue denim western
ouffit with white fringe, silver buttons, and fancy white cowboy boots.
Her arms remained folded and her face serene as she regarded each
visitor taking a seat in her garage. As the last visitors still trickled
in from the pasture, she crossed the garage and stood in front of the
workbench, her hands clasped in front of her, and gave us all a
greeting. 'This is the day which the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice and
be glad in it!” Someone in the group let out a cowboy whoop.

She reminded everyone about the No Cameras rule, added a No Smoking
rule, and then told the story of how Brandon Nichols first came to the
ranch. It wasn't much of a story. He came to her door delivering four
sacks of groceries and needing a job. She recognized a prophet of the
Lord and hired him.

'But even now” she giggled, 'it's not for me to say who he really is and
where he is really from. I leave that up to you, just as he does.
Brandon?” The crowd broke into applause as the door to the house opened
and a young man made his entrance, smiling, nodding at the crowd,
shaking the hands that reached out. Kyle and Bob shot a glance at each
other. This was their first sight of him. He was dressed in modern
clothes—a white, long-sleeved shirt and white cotton trousers—but the
resemblance to the traditionalJesus was striking. Kyle reached into his
jacket and started the tiny tape recorder.

Nichols leaned against the workbench, looking relaxed, and scanned the
crowd. Then he spoke clearly, informally. 'I'd like to thank you all for
coming and tell you from the outset that we tend to be a little
unconventional up hereJesus was unconventional for his times—or if you
will, I was unconventional—” Several in the crowd laughed while several,
including Kyle and Bob, cringed.

'But whatever your religious background or belief system, don't worry,
there's something here for each ofyou—” He suddenly stopped, his eyes on
a woman in the front row.

'Pardon me, uh, Dorothy, is it? Your friends call you Dotty.” Dorothy
was one of the well-to-do folks from the motor homes.

She nodded while her husband and some friends looked her way, obviously
impressed that Brandon Nichols knew her name.

Nichols reached out and took her hand. 'No more arthritis, Dotty. You've
had enough.” She lurched, cried out, shook a bit, and began flexing her
hands, astounded and then ecstatic. She leaped to her feet, faced the
crowd, opening and closing her hands rapidly for everyone to see.

Nichols had to raise his voice to be heard over the excited clamor. 'If
I were God, I'd do something about the pain in the world. I have the
power, right? Why shouldn't I use it?” He casually reached out and
touched a long-haired young man who had come in a beat-up van. The young
man immediately jumped up and screamed with joy and amazement, touching
his ears.

‘59

'How's that?” Nichols asked.

'I can hear! I can hear everything!” His girlfriend jumped up and they
embraced. The young man wept, then looked around the garage and outside
as if seeing a whole new world. 'I can hear the birds! I can hear the
wind!” Nichols had to shout now. The crowd was really stirring. 'If God
is truly visiting you, then he should be willing to prove it. I have no
problem with that.” He gave his right hand a little twirl and suddenly,
as if by sleight of hand, he produced a small loaf of bread and offered
it to a little girl on the end of the second row. 'Hungry?” She took it
and bit into it.

'What do you say?” asked her mother.

'Thank you. He smiled at her as another loaf appeared in his hand, then
another, then another. He tossed them into the crowd as hands went up to
catch them. 'Why do you worry about tomorrow, what you shall wear and
what you shall eat, when you know that your God cares for you?” 'Let's
see what's up your sleeves,” a man wisecracked.

Nichols took it in stride. 'Not today,” he said, and then winked.

'Hm,” said Kyle.

Nichols motioned for quiet and the crowd settled into their seats, wound
up like springs.

'Don't forget me!” a woman in the back shouted.

'Alice!” said Nichols as if seeing an old friend after many years.

'Bad hip, right? Don't worry, we'll get to it.

Kyle looked over his shoulder and saw Alice squeal, her hands over her
mouth.

'This is incredible,” said Bob.

'Really incredible,” Kyle replied. He didn't know what to expect when he
arrived, but it certainly wasn't anything as direct and intense as this.

'WhenJesus came to earth the first time,” said Nichols, 'he went about
doing good. Well, why not now? And I'm not just talkingTHE ViSITATION

about myself. I'm talking about all of us. You may define me any way you
wish. Maybe I'm Jesus. Maybe I'm the reincarnation of Jesus.

Maybe I'm only a channel of his power.

'It doesn't matter. However I become Jesus for you, you have to be Jesus
to others and the time to start is right now!” 'Oh praise the Lord!” a
woman burst out. Kyle didn't have to look to know it was Dee Baylor, but
when he did look, he saw not only Dee but her two friends, Adrian and
Blanche. His hands were clenching into fists now and his stomach was in
a tight knot.

Bob must have noticed. He leaned over and said, 'Take it easy.

Just pray.” 'We have to come against this and bind it!” Kyle hissed.
'Let's get out of here alive first,” Bob replied, and Kyle could see the
fear in his eyes.

Bonnie Adams reached out to him and he touched her, apparently giving
her the jolt she desired. She flopped back in her chair, trembling.

Paul Daley and Al Vendetti were sitting together toward the back, both
wearing their black suit jackets and clerical collars, and both
spellbound, their mouths agape, their eyes intense. Paul Daley had his
hand over his heart. Al Vendetti was tightly clutching the jeweled cross
hanging from his neck. Behind them, Armond Harrison was actually smiling
and nodding in glad approval—until he saw Kyle. Then he gave Kyle a
warning with his eyes: Watch yourself hub.

Kyle couldn't alter the unkind facial expression he sent back. He was
too upset, his heart pounding, his stomach churning, his hands shaking.
'Antichrist,” he whispered. 'The spirit of Antichrist!” 'We can provide
for those in need,” said Nichols, producing several more loaves of bread
out of thin air and tossing them to waiting hands. One flew Kyle's
direction and he caught it for inspection. 'Listen, God cares about your
homes, your businesses, your health. He can bring new life to this
community if you're willing to get on board. Wouldn't it be wonderful if
people wanted i6i to visit Antioch because here, more than any place
else in the world, they could feel loved, welcome, and healed?” Norman
Dillard and Matt Kiley were grinning now, and Norman gave Nichols a
thumbs-up.

Kyle examined the little loaf of bread. It was like a small sourdough
roll. Nothing strange or unusual about it. He passed it along to someone
else, not wanting to keep it, much less eat it.

Suddenly Nichols looked grim and pointed. 'Sir, pardon me, no cameras.”
Every eye turned toward a skinny, cowpokish fellow in jeans and work
shirt standing in the back, a small camera to his eye. 'Nevin, really!”
the widow scolded.

Nichols found a reason to look away as Nevin hurriedly snapped two
pictures. Then Matt, Norman, and Michael grabbed him. He tried to get
loose. They tried to grab his camera. It turned into a disturbing
scuffle. The joy of the gathering chilled like a campfire doused with
water.

'He's not Brandon Nichols!” Nevin yelled, trying to keep an iron grip on
the camera while Matt and Norman almost carried him by the arms to
remove him. 'He's not!” 'Lean forward,” Kyle whispered to Bob.

'Huh?” 'Scratch your head or something.” Bob saw the small camera in
Kyle's hand and scratched his head.

Kyle got a few shots of the distracted Brandon Nichols through the crook
of Bob's arm. 'Okay, that's it.” He quickly slipped the camera back into
his pocket.

The widow was trying to explain, 'Shhh now, it's all right. Nevin used
to work for me before I fired him. I'm sure you understand.” 'Okay,
okay,” Nevin hollered in the distance, shaking the three men off. He
turned to leave, but pointed at Brandon Nichols and shouted the last
word as he went, 'He's lying!” Michael ran back to the garage and
grabbed the staff he'd left leaning against a post. 'Hear the Word of
the Lord, my people!

Let not the siren song of deceit wrestle the blessings of God from you!
The enemy roams about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour!
This man would rob you of your blessing!” He looked one more time as
Nevin Sorrel disappeared over the brow of the hill, and gave a shrug.
'He's crazy.” Brandon Nichols took charge again. 'We've gained a
valuable lesson, haven't we? Things haven't changed much since the first
time I was here. There are still those who would judge and condemn and
set themselves up as moral and spiritual lords over the rest of us.” His
eyes connected with Kyle's at that moment and then moved on. 'But why
let them? We can start again, start fresh right now. I'm willing to get
you started. The rest is up to you. Are you going to try loving and
accepting one another and enjoying your differences, or are you going to
go on hating and killing for another two thousand years?” Some
applauded, others said Amen, some said Right On, and some were still
bothered.

'Alice!” Nichols called. 'Lets get that hip taken care of so you can get
on with your life!” He ran around and touched her. She leaped to her
feet with a scream and started jumping and kicking. Nichols kept things
rolling, restoring some eyesight, removing a cancer, producing more
loaves of bread, healing more arthritis, and even causing a bald spot to
fill in.

Kyle recorded it until his tape ran out and even managed to snap a few
more pictures with Bob's help. He was over his initial shock by now, but
feeling as comfortable as a soldier who suddenly finds himself in the
very center of the enemy's camp.

'Adrian!” Nichols shouted, and Adrian Folsom leaped to her feet while
Dee and Blanche squealed. Nichols approached her, extending his hand
toward her face as he pronounced, 'You will have a special place in
God's plan for this town! Be listening, be watching, for you shall be a
voice for God!” He touched her, and she collapsed into the cushioning
arms of Dee and Blanche.

While Blanche fanned Adrian's face, Dee leaned in, expecting the very
next touch. Nichols moved on without meeting her eye.

163

Qob! Kyle thought. That hurt.

At three o'clock, just an hour after the meeting began, Mrs. Macon
signaled Brandon and then pointed to her fancy jeweled wristwatch. He
raised his hands in a gesture of blessing. 'Our time is gone.” People
began to protest, but he didn't waver. 'That's all for today. Spread the
word to your friends and come again tomorrow, eleven o'clock in the
morning.” Kyle and Bob both knew the significance of that time: It was
when their own morning services began.

Nichols ran over to the door through which he first emerged as the crowd
rose and applauded him. Then, with a Nixon-like farewell wave, he ducked
through the door.

'Good-bye, everyone!” said the widow. 'Thank you for coming.” A reporter
shouted, 'Can we have a moment with him?” She shook her head. 'He's not
here to do interviews. He's here to minister.” Sally Fordyce hurried
across the garage toward the widow, her eyes full of tears, her hands
clasped under her trembling lip. 'Mrs. Macon! I'm here! I've come to see
him! I'm. . .' Her words became unintelligible as she wept.

Michael took his staff in hand and started herding the crowd.

'Thank you for your presence with us today. Walk with God as you return
to your vehicles! The Lord bless you and keep you!

The Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

Watch your speed driving out.

'Mrs. Macon! I've, I've got to see him!” Sally cried.

Suddenly, Nichols appeared in the doorway again and aimed a warm and
welcoming gaze at Sally Fordyce. 'Sally!” he called, smiling and
beckoning to her.

She crumpled to her knees, shaking with emotion. He took her hand,
raised her up, and they disappeared through the door.

Kyle and Bob looked at each other.

'Sally Fordyce!” Kyle said. 'The one who saw the angel!” 'He has plans
for her.” Bob shook his head.

'Oh God forbid!”

THE CROWD MOVED toward the pasture, almost every one of them wearing the
same awestruck expression and talking about what they'd seen because
they had to talk about it. Dorothy, who for years had had arthritis, was
skipping, and showing off, Alice who once had a bad hip was prancing and
square dancing with her husband. People were passing bits of bread
around, sampling it and agreeing that it was the real thing. Matt and
Norman manned the paddock gate again, nodding good-bye to everyone as
they passed.

They were beaming.

Now that they were in the pasture and away from the house, the
television reporters took their microphones in hand and took full
advantage of their cameras. They spoke excitedly, even frantically into
the lenses. 'We have seen incredible things today! A woman with a bad
hip is now dancing! The legends of ancient times have become reality!”
One reporter could hardly speak, his emotions choking his voice as he
reported, 'Brandon Nichols touched me, just in passing, and I felt a
charge like electricity, and now, please look at my hand, can we get a
close-up of this? The severed tendons are like new.... It wasn't at all
difficult to grab someone for an eyewitness interview. Dorothy went on
camera, and so did Mice. A man turned around so the camera could see new
hair growing where his bald spot used to be.

Kyle and Bob moved with the crowd, speechless from horror and amazement,
but also because any comment they could make would be dangerous to
make'here. Kyle kept doing visual threesixties, trying to track down the
other ministers. He caught a glimpse of Paul Daley and Al Vendetti
already into the pasture, talking feverishly and visibly shaken. Armond
Harrison was still back at the ranch house, apparently having a little
conference with the widow. Sally Fordyce was out of sight, immediately
part of Nichols's inner circle.

A reporter nabbed Paul and Al and shoved a microphone in their faces. As
Kyle and Bob passed they could hear Paul stuttering a reply to a
question. 'W-we are in the presence of something 165

immeasurable, unfath—unfatha—unfathomable. . . I'm sorry, I am really
quite beside myself.” They hurried by, not wanting to be interviewed.

'We've got trouble right here in River City,” Bob said finally, and very
quietly.

'And some very serious preaching to do,” Kyle replied.

Tomorrow, he determined, he would be ready. He would go home right now,
get out his Bible, get on his knees, and arm him- self for baffle. His
congregation and the town of Antioch wouldn't know what hit them.

If only he'd known how armed and ready his opponents were.

IDIDN'T ATTEND Antioch Pentecostal Mission on Sunday morning, but Kyle
told me about it later, and I can imagine how it went. Attendance was
good, the same kind of attendance you see at annual business meetings
when there's a hot dispute in progress or a scandal has surfaced or the
pastor is about to resign. Anticipation was in the air, to put it
mildly. Kyle was so eager to preach he almost told the worship team to
skip the music, but he thought better of it.

I know Bud Lundgren, the big-bellied, flannel-shirted guitar player,
would have been difficult to disappoint. Once Bud had his day laid out,
he was like a bulldozer without a driver, pushing relent- lessly ahead
and impossible to turn around. As for Bud's wife, Julie, playing her
saxophone on Sunday morning was a matter of religious conviction, and
not playing could amount to a desecration of the Sabbath. Linda, Kyle's
trim little wife, saw the wisdom in going through with the worship
service and encouraged Kyle to keep it in.

The congregation and Kyle could use the uplift, she said.

So at five minutes to eleven, Linda sat down at the piano and got the
preservice music stated, a quick medley of worship choruses and hymns.
She swept through the chords and fills in a Pentecostal style

Kyle always admired. Bud wump-thumped a rhythm on his old £

electric guitar, and Julie made sure there could be no question anywhere
in the building what the melody of the song was. Kyle was primed for
preaching. His spirit was stirred and his adrenaline flowing. He was
humming the songs as he took his chair on the platform, but when the
little band came to 'Victory injesus,” he couldn't hold back any longer
and stated singing aloud. Some in the congregation joined in, some
fumbled with the hymn books trying to find the words, and some just sat
there not singing because that wasn't supposed to happen yet. Kyle
didn't care. He sang anyway, his eyes closed, his heat touching heaven.

The song service went well. Katie Kelmer, a vivacious lady with blonde
hair stacked high atop her head, led the singing in her flamboyant,
hand-raised style. Halfway through, Brother Norheim started 'Bless the
Lord, 0 My Soul” and everyone joined in. That was a good sign. He
usually did that in the evening service, but this morning he must have
been feeling an evening kind of anointing.

Dee Baylor, along with the Folsoms and Davises, skipped the service.
Brandon Nichols would be performing again that morning and they didn't
want to miss it. In addition, they probably suspected what Kyle was
going to say and didn't want to hear it.

But I have a good idea who was there: the Forester and White families,
brand-new in the faith and growing in the Lord; three generations of
Sissons; four generations of Bradleys; the Hansons, Parkses, Kelmers,
Hiddles, and Lundgrens. I know they stood with him that morning. He
heard their Arnens.

In my mind I can see and hear how Kyle's sermon came across.

I've heard Kyle preach, and when he's on a roll he's unstoppable.

At times he can have a weakness for rabbit trails, and sometimes a
particular illumination on the Scriptures will remain exciting to him
but vague to his listeners, but overall, he gets from point A to point
B, and persuasively. On this Sunday morning, by all accounts, he was on
track, full of steam, and to the point. He'd heard and seen enough and
it was time to get into the Word and settle the whole matter.

He launched his message from Matthew 24, repeating and ex169

pounding on warnings that came from Jesus himself: 'Take heed that no
one deceive you. For many will come in my name, saying ‘I am the
Christ,' and will deceive many,” and 'many false prophets will rise up
and deceive many,” and 'if anyone says to you, ‘Look, here is the
Christ!' or ‘There!' do not believe it. For false christs and false
prophets will rise and show great signs and wonders to deceive, if
possible, even the elect. See, I have told you beforehand. Therefore if
they say to you, ‘Look, he is in the desert!' do not go out; or, ‘Look,
he is in the inner rooms—' 'At this point, Kyle felt it appropriate to
add, 'Or ‘Look, he's up at the Macon ranch,”' and most of the folks
nodded or even chuckled.

He was shouting with righteous energy by the time he read, 'Do not
believe it. For as the lightning comes from the east and flashes to the
west, so also will the coming of the Son of Man be.” He made a pretty
strong point: Jesus coming to a crummy little wheat town in Eastern
Washington didn't quite measure up to lightning coming from the east and
flashing to the west. 'Folks,” he said, 'the Messiah came once, was born
in Bethlehem and grew up in Nazareth, not Missoula, Montana! I believe a
false christ has come to Antioch, and I intend to use the Scriptures to
make my case. Some are enthralled by signs and wonders, by a clever
selling job, but I say we test this so-called christ by the Scriptures.
As it says in Isaiah, ‘To the law and the testimony! If they do not
speak according to this word, it is because there is no light in them!”'
He got Amens to that. The people were with him.

Kyle took stern issue with Brandon Nichols's message, if there even was
one. The 'Jesus” up at the Macon ranch seemed happy to let people
believe whatever they wanted about him or anything else. The Jesus of
the Gospels claimed to be—and Kyle pounded this one in from several
directions—the way, the truth, the life, and the only means of access to
God. More than that, the Jesus of Colossians 2 was 'the image of the
invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, the creator of all things
visible and invisible, before all things, the beginning, the firstborn
from the dead, in whom all the ftdness of deity dwelled.” It was good
stuff. Stern stuff. He pulled

no punches. He got Amens and Praise the Lords and even some applause.

Then, for a big finish, he reminded everyone of the cross and the price
Jesus paid for our salvation. Holding his arms out to reenact the
crucifixion, he spoke of the Roman spikes that pinned Jesus to the cross
and then put out a challenge. 'MyJesus died for my sins and washed me
clean by his blood, and all creation will know this by the nail prints
in his hands! If this man is the Christ, where are the scars?” He looked
in the general direction of the Macon ranch and hollered, 'Show me the
scars that bought my salvation! Your tricks and healings and mind
reading are impres- sive, but I need to be saved from my sins! Can you
do that? Show me the nail scars!” Amens! Applause! Agreement!

By the time Kyle said his closing prayer, his people were steeled in
their convictions and the issue was settled. Kyle felt great.

He felt so great that he put all the main points of his sermon,
including Scripture references, into a letter and mailed it to Nancy
Barrons to print in the Antioch Harvester. That's how I first learned
the content of his message. That's how the whole town heard about it.

And that's when the cow manure hit the combine blades.

ARE WE JEALOUS, Reverend Sherman?

I had not known Nancy Barrons to be quite so personal and direct in her
editorials, but Kyle's letter, which she did print on the Op-Ed page,
must have aroused more anger than her cool professionalism could
contain.

When the word of a simple ranch hand draws more people in one weekend
than your preaching has drawn for as long as you have heen here, I see
in this fact a message. Perhaps Jesus is more than just a white,
middle-class, right-wing fundamentalist Republican. Perhaps he dwells
outside the walls of our respective instiiutions and defies our ‘7'

petty descriptions of him. Perhaps he is more concerned with people than
with opinion.

Everyone is free to see whatever he or she wants in this stranger at the
Macon ranch. Isaw a kindly doer ofgood who allowed everyone the dignity
of their own convictions. He touched and healed but did not judge, he
blessed and did not condemn. He dared to speak of the good in all of us
and inspired us to do some good in this world.

He was there for the people and not the other way around.

What a refreshing change: a Messiah who believes in us.

The town ofAntioch could use such a message. Certain clergy of Antioch
would do well to preach it.

As soon as I read Kyle's letter and Nancy's editorial I sank into my
couch, raked my fingers through my hair, and cried out for deliverance,
and not just for me. Kyle Sherman was more than an accident waiting to
happen; he was a disaster trying to happen. I already knew which people
were going to say what.

'HE COULD BE SUED for triple damages!” Burton Eddy squawked to Sid
Maher. They'd happened upon each other in Mack's Sooper Market and short
little Burton was red in the face. 'Hasn't he considered how much money
the widow's worth? She can hire a whole team of lawyers, believe me!”
Sid picked up a copy of the Harvester from Jack's news rack near the
door, and Burton took it upon himself to point out the Op-Ed page. Sid
read it and made a troubled face.

'Bravo for Nancy!” said Burton, tapping the page with the back of his
knuckles. 'Somebody needs to make it clear to the kid what the rules are
around here!” Sid made another troubled face. 'Rules? Burt, Kyle has a
right to his opinion.” Burton's voice grew a little cold. 'Are you
siding with him, Sid?” Sid got flustered. 'I didn't say that. I just
said he has a right to his opinion. This is the opinion page, isn't it?”

Burton put a hand on his hip and shifted his weight to that leg.

When his hips were crooked and his free hand was pointing, you knew he
meant business. 'This is a community, Sid, and we are professionals! We
have a duty to this town to keep things running smoothly in a spirit of
neighborliness. This kid is swimming against the current and he's making
waves!” Sid gave a weak nod. 'His biblical arguments are sound.” Burton
rolled his eyes. 'Sid, people don't want to hear what this kid thinks
the Bible says. That's the whole problem here.” 'Well... the letter is
divisive, that's clear.” 'It's trouble, Sid, just like we had with
Travis Jordan, and we don't need another round of that!” SuddenlyJack
McKinstry joined the conversation. 'It's bad for business too. I mean,
come on, what else does Antioch have going for it if people can't come
here and see the Messiah?”

'BUT HE ISN'T JESUS,” said Bob Fisher.

'I know that, I know that,” Paul Daley replied. 'But that isn't the
point.” They'd met each other while picking up their mail at the post
office. Neither wanted to get into this discussion, but each thought the
other did, so they both did.

'Of course it's the point! It's the whole point of Kyle's letter!” Bob
insisted.

'No, the point I'm trying'to make is that Kyle's letter makes a point
that brings out the point Nancy Barrons is trying to make: This Brandon
fellow has a right to be wrong.” 'She's saying it's right to be wrong?”
'No, no, no! She's saying even if you're wrong, that's your right.” 'But
what if you're deceiving others by being wrong? You think that's right?”
'He isn't deceiving others. He's letting them think whatever they want.
That's the point.” ‘73

'Well why is he even up there talking if people just think what they
want anyway? What's the point of that?” 'There doesn't have to be a
point. That's my point. Well actually, it's Nancy's point.” 'So you're
not making a point.

'NoI'm just trying to point out Nancy's point.” 'And we're having a
pointed conversation.” By now they were laughing.

'wELL, Kyle Sherman can come right in here and watch me run laps around
the store,” said Matt Kiley. 'He's a talker just like all the others but
he never made me walk!” 'He never fixed my eyes either,” said Norman
Dillard. They were standing in Matt's hardware store with the Harvester
open on the counter between them. 'Think I'll write a letter.” 'Think I
will too.” Then he punched his palm with his fist. 'Either that or show
him my own version of righteous indignation.”

'.1 U D GIN G, judging, judging!” said Armond Harrison, wagging his
head. 'It never ends! I thought we were finally going to get along in
this town!” Don Anderson was trying to help Armond pick out a new
propane space heater, but it seemed Armond had to talk out his
frustrations first. 'I should write a letter to the Pentecostal Mission
headquarters and tell them to quit sending such arrogant bigots to our
town! We were getting along fine without them!” Don knew the Pentecostal
Mission church had been in town long before Armond and his Apostolic
Brethren ever showed up, but he didn't want to get into that. 'Well, you
and your people have always been good customers.

'We have, haven't we?” 'Sure.” 'Always pay our bills, always come to you
for our appliances.”

'Sure.” Of course, Armond never hesitated to buy in bulk from a discount
supplier in Spokane, but he and his people often came in for smaller
items.

'And we've never told you what to believe, have we?” 'Well. . .' Don
shook his head, even though several of the Apostolic Brethren had been
nagging him and his wife about coming to one of their meetings. They'd
discovered real sexual freedom, they said, and suggested that without
Armond's teaching, Don and Angela were most certainly stunted in their
personal growth and development.

'I'm going to talk to the other ministers. I think this young upstart
needs to write a letter of apology. And I'll have a talk with Nancy
Barrons as well. There's no need to print such trash in her paper. 'Uh.
. . how about this 20,000 BTLI? I mean, if you're wanting to produce
some heat...

'ITt s GO N NA HURT my business!” said George Harding, the retired wheat
farmer. Being retired, he didn't even have a business until the pilgrims
came to town. He owned some nice shady land near a creek adjacent to the
Macon ranch and was just in the process of putting in a campground for
tents and recreational vehicles.

He had customers too, lots of them.

'Yeah, and what about mine?” said Gary Fisk, owner of the Sundowner
Motel, the only other motel in town. 'The motel's ftll every weekend and
most of the week. It's never been that way before this. If people like
this Reverend Sherman can keep their mouths shut I just might be able to
sell that place!” They were sitting in a booth in Judy's, and Judy was
standing there with her pad and pencil, waiting. 'Well it's bad for my
business too if you guys don't stop your yapping and order something!”

KYLE GOT PHONE CALLS, and they were nowhere near as enthusiastic as his
congregation was Sunday morning. Dee Baylor ‘75

called, of course, saying she was leaving the church and never coming
back. Johnny Davis, Blanche's husband, wasn't angry but still thought
Kyle should give Brandon Nichols a chance. Roger Folsom was angry and
climbed all over Kyle's case for 'picking a fight with such a nice guy.”
An anonymous caller said something about teaching Kyle love and
tolerance with a cattle prod. When Sid Maher called, he was neither for
nor against Kyle. He just wanted Kyle to know that some of the
ministers—he wouldn't say which ones—were upset with him and hoping he
would retract his unkind and judgmental words. 'I understand you could
be sued for triple damages,” he said.

On an up note, Bob Fisher called to pray with him and tell him he did
the right thing.

Then Melody Blair called. She was a girl in her late teens with a rough
background who'd just started coming to church. Kyle and Linda had put
in a lot of time and prayer getting her off drugs and into a steady job.
'I'm not sure I should trust you anymore,” she said in a troubled tone.

'Why? What's wrong?” 'Well, there was that letter you put in the paper,
and then I just got a letter from Jesus.

'A letter from Jesus?” Kyle wanted to ask which Jesus, but chose a more
general question. 'Where'd you get that?” 'That nice lady Adrian Folsom.
She said an angel spoke it to her and she wrote it down just for me.”
'Adrian Folsom?” Oh no. Now she was getting into it. 'What does it say?”
She read the note over the telephone. '‘My dear child: Behold, I have a
plan and a purpose for thee, shining clearer and clearer as the dawn of
a new day. Do not let the words of your pastor trouble thee, for the
light has not yet dawned upon his spirit. You must lead the way, for you
are chosen. Hearken to my words and receive my love, and I will show
thee a more excellent way, that you may show others.' It's signed,
‘Jesus.”' Linda told me later that in all their five years of marriage
she'd never seen Kyle so upset. She had to keep telling him to wait a
little while and pray before calling Adrian Folsom or driving up to the
Macon ranch to have it out with Brandon Nichols. He didn't want to call
me, which I could understand. I would have wrestled him to the floor and
sat on him, and I think he knew it. He didn't want to call Bob Fisher,
who would have been sympathetic, but would have advised him to keep
calm. He didn't want to be calm.

He just wanted to slug Satan and Adrian's angel and Brandon Nichols in
their respective noses and go out in a flame of glory if need be.

He finally did call Adrian Folsom, but she refused to talk to him. He
was in the flesh, she said, and could never understand anything as long
as he was in that condition. He tried to talk about the note she gave
Melody, but she told him no with a celestial tone in her voice and hung
up.

BY WEDNESDAY EVENING, Antioch was not a very peaceful town. People were
bickering from one end of town to the other, and strangely enough, the
biggest issue wasn't Brandon Nichols but Kyle Sherman. Did he have the
right, did he not have the right, was he judging, was he dividing, was
he being truthful or hateful, was he nitpicking, and didn't he care
about the town s best interests? Someone threw a rock through a church
window.

Kyle had to use his answering machine to screen his calls. Linda had to
ask Michelle White to pick up some potting mix and garden gloves at
Kiley's Hardware because Linda was afraid to face Matt Riley.

By Thursday, Kyle decided it was time to break the pattern. His
challenge about the nail scars was clear enough in his letter to the
paper, but if words could only generate bickering and biting, perhaps it
was time to make that same challenge face to face, in front of
witnesses. People still had eyes even if they didn't bother to think.

Brandon Nichols had announced another meeting at the ranch that
afternoon, and Kyle determined he would be there.

‘77

ACCORDING TO THE ANNOUNCEMENT going around town— Michael the Prophet
being the main source—the meeting was scheduled to start at two. Kyle
and Linda drove up the long driveway to the Macon ranch and found a spot
among the large fleet of vehicles already parked in the pasture—vehicles
from Washington, Idaho, Oregon, Montana, and a sizable contingent from
California. Kyle parked next to a motor home from Nevada.

'What are you going to do?” Linda asked. She was there to stand with
him, but she was scared. 'Well, I'm not going to get into a big fight
with him. But he has to be confronted.” She drew a deep breath trying to
calm herself and said in a quivering voice, 'Well, please be careful.”
'We'd better pray.” They clasped hands, said a prayer, then got out of
the car.

Things had changed since Sunday. Mrs. Macon's humble ranch hand was now
holding meetings in a huge, blue-and-white striped circus tent, and they
could hear his voice inside, coming over a PA system. Six portable
toilets stood in a neat row nearby. Ropes and flags marked out the
parking lot. He had obviously gained followers, both local and
out-of-state, and with those followers came money.

Gathering his resolve, Kyle started toward the tent, his gait like that
of a gunfighter, his eyes steady, his jaw set. Linda was nervous and
trembling, but stayed beside him, holding his arm.

They could hear Nichols talking rapidly, excitedly, saying something
about Antioch becoming a wonderful town, better and better, sweeter and
sweeter. He was getting laughs and Amens from the crowd.

Matt Riley and two strangers were posted outside the tent, wearing
little plastic badges that said 'Usher” but acting more like Secret
Service agents. The moment Matt spotted them approaching, he strode
toward them and put up his hand like a traffic cop. 'What can we do for
you, Reverend?” Kyle tried to smile. 'I've come to see Brandon Nichols.”
jIt was surprising—shocking, actually—to see how cold and mean Matt
Riley could be. 'If you're thinking of causing any trouble you might as
well turn around right now.” 'I just want to ask a question.” The two
strangers flanking Matt drew in closer as Matt replied, 'No way.” Kyle
looked directly and intensely into Matt's eyes. 'Matt, do you even know
who this man is? Do you really know?” Matt thought only a moment.
'Reverend, I don't much care.

He's done all right by me and I like what he says.” 'Even if he claims
to be Jesus? Wouldn't that be lying?” Matt only twirled his finger to
indicate Kyle should turn around. 'Better head back to your car.”
Suddenly, Brandon Nichols stopped his preaching and called over the PA,
'Matt, let Pastor Sherman in.” Kyle looked, but the tent walls blocked
any view of Nichols, and any view Nichols might have of them.

Matt looked over his shoulder, scowling and ready to argue, but Nichols
only said it again. 'Let him in.” Before stepping out of the way, Matt
poked Kyle's chest with his finger and warned, 'I'm going to be watching
you anyway, Reverend. You behave yourself.” The moment Kyle and Linda
stepped inside, every eye in the place was on them, and there were a lot
of eyes. At least a hundred people were there. For Antioch on a weekday,
that was a good crowd. Kyle made it a point to meet their gaze and not
shy away.

His heart was pounding and ‘his hands were starting to tremble.

Linda was still holding onto his arm, but shying behind him. He could
hear her praying in a whisper.

Brandon Nichols stood in front, a microphone in his hand, returning
Kyle's gaze down the wide center aisle. Again, he was dressed in white.
He smiled. 'Pastor Sherman, I'm glad you came.” He gestured and said,
'Come on up. Don't be nervous.” Kyle, with Linda following, went halfway
up the center aisle and decided that was far enough. Henoticed Matt and
his two fellow bouncers standing in the doorway behind them, ready to
move at Nichols's bidding.

‘79

'Friends, this is Pastor Kyle Sherman. Most of you know him as the man
who wrote the letter to the Harvester.” That really turned heads and
changed expressions in the crowd. 'That's why I'm glad he's here. I've
heard some pretty mean things said about him and I think we need to set
things right. We're all neighbors, remember? We have to stick together
if we're going to make this world work, isn't that what I've said?” He
looked at Kyle and spoke kindly, warmly. 'Pastor Sherman, I'm sorry for
all the trouble you've endured. I think you wrote that letter with the
best intentions and I take no offense.” He cast his gaze around the
tent, meeting everyone's eyes. 'Did you all hear me? I take no offense.
The time for that is over. It's time to talk, to share, to get to know
each other. Pastor Sherman wasn't trying to harm me. He simply had some
honest questions. I don't despise his questions, and you shouldn't
either. If we walk together long enough, and talk with each other long
enough, we'll find we really can be neighbors with a lot in common.
Isn't that right, Pastor Sherman?” Kyle could feel everyone in the tent
looking at him. He had to say something. He drew a breath and started
carefully. 'I want us to be friends and neighbors,” he said finally.
Nichols nodded deeply and affirmatively, as did his audience. 'I guess
I'm still having trouble with the introductions—you know, that very
first part of getting to know someone when they tell you who they are.
I—” They weren't going to like what he was about to say, but he had to
say it. 'I don't think you're being honest about who you are.” A woman
in the audience piped up, 'Well if you'd just listen for a change—”
'Alice,” said Nichols. She halted. He smiled at Kyle. 'You know me
already. Most everyone in this room had a good idea who I was before
they even got here.” 'I'm sorry, but you are notJesus Christ, the Son of
God.” Many in the audience became visibly tense, but Nichols simply
shrugged it off and gave a slight nod of concession. 'To some, I am not.
To some, I am. The same was true for the carpenter from

Nazareth.”

'No,” Kyle objected. 'I'm not talking about what others think.

I'm talking about who you really are. If these people are seeking Jesus
of Nazareth, they need to find the real one.” He looked about, raising
his voice so everyone would hear him. 'The real Jesus bore your sins on
a Roman cross two thousand years ago.

The real one suffered nails driven through his hands.” He looked
directly at Brandon Nichols. 'The real one set us free from the power of
sin. Can you say that about yourself?” Nichols hesitated.

Kyle hit him with another question. 'Where are the nail scars?

Everyone knows the real Jesus would have them.” Nichols remained silent
and motionless. The people remained silent. The place was so silent Kyle
could hear the breeze gently brushing the tent canvas.

Nichols sighed and dropped his gaze, a troubled look on his face, not a
word on his lips.

Kyle relaxed and let out a sigh himself. He looked around at all the
faces looking back. 'I'm not here to hurt or embarrass anyone, and I'm
not here to force my beliefs on you. I just wanted to make a point,
that's all. If you're looking forJesus, you need to know the real one—”
'Pastor Sherman.

Kyle—and everyone else in the room—looked at Brandon Nichols.

He was unbuttoning the cuffs of his long, white sleeves, the same
troubled look on his face. 'I. . .' He stopped, stole a glance
heavenward, and sighed again as he looked at Kyle. 'I didn't want to
press the issue. I didn't want to force belief on anyone. Thats all
we've done for two thousand years, and somehow... I just thought we
might do things differently.” He pulled his sleeves back and then
extended his forearms at waist height, palms up. 'Here they are.”
Several gasps rose from the audience. People in the front rows
half-stood, leaning, craning their necks to see.

i8i

'Come, Pastor Sherman. Come and see them. Place your hand on them. Touch
them, and believe.” Kyle came closer. A woman from the front row began
to whimper, falling at Nichols's feet. Other people were moving into the
aisle, getting in line to have a look. Dee Baylor was among them, and
met Kyle's eyes only long enough to give him a look of pity.

A man in front touched Nichols's arms and then nodded a confirmation to
all those behind him, his eyes filling with tears.

Kyle came face to face with Brandon Nichols and looked down at the scars
just above the wrists. They were elongated, ragged.

The scar tissue was a dull, off-white contrasting with his tanned skin.
Kyle touched them. They were real.

'I was nailed through the forearms, not the hands,” Nichols explained
softly, as if sharing something just between the two of them. 'It's the
way they did crucifixions.” Kyle stared at the scars, then into the soft
brown eyes, his mind confused but his heart dead certain. His words came
in a strained whisper. 'You are not Jesus Christ!” Nichols gazed down at
the woman weeping, hugging his feet, and at the crowd of followers
staring at him in awe. In a chilling, hushed voice he replied, 'I am
now.

12'YL E NEVER CALLED to tell me about his confrontation INwith Brandon
Nichols.

Thursday evening, Brandon Nichols did.

'I'm sorry it had to happen this way, but what else could I do, Travis?
He was trying to humiliate me in front of all those people.” I let my
back come to rest against the kitchen wall and tried to recover from the
news. 'What did he do?” 'He turned around and left. I guess there was
nothing more to say.

'So how did you get them?” 'What, the scars?” I was strained and
impatient and my voice betrayed it. 'Yes, Brandon, the scars. How did
you get them?” He answered curtly, 'They're nail scars, Travis. Do I
have to spell it out for you?” He calmed and went on. 'Anyway, I'm not
mad at him. He actually did me a favor, the same as you did for Armond
Harrison. Thanks to Kyle Sherman, I'm a victim, and that makes me the
good guy.” That pill was bitter and I could still taste it. 'You and
Armond must have had the same teacher.”

I

'And today I was Kyle's teacher. Hopefully he's a little wiser now, a
little less sure of things. Just like you and me.” 'Hey, don't lump me
in with you.” He snickered. 'Travis, come on, now. We're made of the
same stuff. We've both been down the same road, and we have the same
bruises. Kyle's just starting out, and today he got the same wakeup call
we did.” 'So what was your wake-up call?” 'Mm, not too different from
yours. Remember that evening service at Christian Chapel? You kind of
surprised yourself, didn't you? You didn't think you'd react the way you
did. That's how it was with me. I just woke up one morning and realized,
Hey, I'm not so sure I buy into this. It's nice to get a revelation like
that, but it puts you on the outside in a hurry, doesn't it?” The last
thing I wanted to do was agree with him, but reluctandy, even angrily, I
did. 'Yeah. It does.” 'At least Marian was on the outside with you. That
part I envy.” The image came to my mind instantly, still vivid and
clear. It was the first time we met. She was distraught, frantic, and
angry, but at the same time, the most beautiful blue-eyed, long-tressed
girl I'd ever seen. 'It's a good thing she was there.” 'I'm sorry I
never met her.” 'I guess I can't be too sorry about that.” 'But it's
tragic. Don't you see that?” 'See what?” 'I would have healed her.” The
phone went dead. Once again, Brandon Nichols had done it—found an old
doubt and thrown it in my face; ripped the scab from an old wound and
left me to bleed.

And remember.

v ER N. The one friend I had from earlier days in Seattle, a nice guy I
grew up with. We were in youth group together back at the Allbright
Gospel Tabernacle, and we were buddies in the Lord.

185

Both of us sang soprano in the youth choir until our voices changed—Vein
moved to the tenor section first and I followed six months later. We got
interested in girls about the same time and consulted regularly on the
science of observing them from afar. He was better at shooting baskets
and never missed an opportunity to remind me. I was better on the guitar
and enjoyed proving it. My model airplanes looked better, but his flew
better. When I prayed at the altar to get things right with God, he
prayed with me, and I with him. He was a good friend.

I hadn't seen much of Vein since my family moved from Seattle to that
little island, but with nothing else happening in my life, I decided to
track him down again. He was twenty-one, working for a local tucking
firm, rooming with two other guys, and starting to make a life for
himself. I was twenty, playing in a bluegrass band in a sleazy
waterfront bar in Seattle, still living at home, and spinning my wheels.
He was going to an exciting new church and couldn't wait to get me
interested. Despite my disillusionment, I was suffering from enough
spiritual hunger to take him up on his invitation.

Christian Chapel in the south end of Seattle was exciting, all right. I
used to think our little island church was dead and good old Ailbinight
Gospel Tabernacle was on fire, but Allbright was old and stale compared
to this place. When Vern first took me through the front door for a
Friday night meeting, the sound of the worship washed over us like a
tidal wave. The place was packed, and these people did nothing halfway.
They were all standing, hands raised, swaying like trees in the wind as
they sang the same joyous song over and over. The worship band was
cooking, tambourines jingling. The song had no intelligible words, for
each person in that congregation of hundreds was singing in tongues.

We found a place in a back pew. Vein set his Bible down and got right
into the flow of things, raising his hands toward heaven and singing
words to the song as the Spirit led him. I just stood there feeling
overwhelmed and awkward—overwhelmed because it was overwhelming; awkward
because all the guys had short, nicely

trimmed hair and I was in my wayward, wandering musician mode with
stubble on my face and hair down to my shoulders. They were wearing nice
shirts and slacks, and I was wearing an old shirt and blue jeans. All
the women were in dresses—long dresses. No pants anywhere. I began to
dread the moment when the song would end and people would open their
eyes and see me. They'd probably think I wasn't saved.

The singing switched to English and stayed there for another twenty
minutes or so. That helped. I knew a lot of the songs, so now I was on
familiar ground and could sing with everybody else. By the time the
singing ended and we all sat down, I felt better. No one seemed to be
staring at me or my hair. As a matter of fact, a few shorthaired guys
with thick Thompson Chain-Reference Bibles and thin black ties went out
of their way to shake my hand in greeting.

I could have gotten used to that church. Pentecostal worship was nothing
new to me—this was more intense, but I could have upgraded and it would
have been fun. The personal testimonies were encouraging. The Bible
study led by the pastor was right on the money and quite challenging.
The people seemed friendly enough.

Then the pastor decided to take some time to pray for the sick.

'I believe God wants to heal us tonight. If you have a sickness, an
infirmity, anything at all, I want you to come forward and receive your
healing in Jesus' name!” About fifty people went forward and gathered
around the pas- tor in a big huddle, laying hands on each other as the
pastor laid hands on the nearest of them. The pastor was invisible
behind all those bodies, but I could hear him praying and shouting into
his microphone, 'Be healed! We come against this sickness and infirmity!
Be healed!” as the congregation prayed along with him.

It was sweet and affirmative. There was nothing wrong with it.

I believed God could heal. I knew his Word promised it. I'd heard people
testify in the past that they had been healed miraculously and I
believed them. I grew up accustomed to expecting the miraculous.

But somehow, when Vein went forward with the others, it 187

brought everything a little too close. While he stood up there with his
hands on the shoulders of the others and their hands on his, his eyes
closed, his face uplifted, expecting God to heal his poor eyesight, I
felt embarrassed for him. While people all around me shouted in tongues
and wailed their petitions and Amens along with the pastor, I sat there,
silent and cringing.

When the huddle broke up and Vein came back without his thick glasses,
he was jubilant, convinced he wouldn't need them anymore. But I knew how
it would turn out. Soon enough, probably before we drove home that
night, he'd have to put those glasses on again.

I didn't ride home with Vein, however.

The healing idea really caught on. After the service, folks remained for
prayer around the front of the church, and it seemed everyone and anyone
was trying his or her hand at healing. A girl no older than sixteen was
praying for an older woman, her hands clasped to either side of the poor
lady's face and her arms shaking and quivering. It looked all too
familiar, except she was adding a th-th-th-th with her tongue every time
she drew a breath, and I hadn't thought of that one. Two of the
shorthaired, thin-tied guys were hollering at a disease in a friend of
theirs, embracing him as if they might squeeze the disease out. Folks
were kneeling at the pews, bent over the altar, and sitting on the
floor, all having very loud arguments with diseases.

I'd been here before, and didn't want to be here again. I watched from
the sidelines, trying not to look sick and in need of prayer as I waited
for Vein. He'd joined some friends who were sitting and kneeling around
a young woman lying on the floor, and they were wailing, sing-songing,
and shouting against a spirit of some kind. The girl on the floor did
not look well, and the longer they carried on the worse she got. There
was something unsettling about this too. It scared me. I worked my way
in closer, weaving around the kneeling and sitting clusters of praying
people, hoping I could overhear something without being noticed.

'Spirit, come out of her this instant!” a young man with a crew cut
shouted while holding the limp girl's hand.

A young woman kneeling by the girl's head kept kneading invisible bread
dough as she did a sing-song kind of chant in tongues.

The girl on the floor looked pale and she was limp enough to be dead.

'We come against you, spirit of diabetes!” said a rotund young lady in a
long, ruffled dress, waving her outstretched hand over the girl's body.

I took a long and careful look at the girl on the floor. 'Uh. . .

she? Imean. . .'was aboutasmuchaslgotout.

'Spirit, you are defeated! Come out!” the young man kept hollering, and
the woman kneading the bread dough had to have the loudest, shrillest
voice I've ever heard. I couldn't compete with the noise.

'Vein?” I said. His eyes were closed and he was praying feverishly.

Suddenly I heard one phrase come through the noise: 'Diabetic coma!” I
looked off to the side and saw a girl in a blue dress having a
nose-to-nose discussion with an older man. She was upset; he was trying
to calm her. I couldn't hear any more of what they were saying, but I
did hear that one phrase, and it was enough.

I felt guilty and troubled as I stepped over and weaved through the
people in prayer, but I was intent on getting out of there. Maybe I was
quenching the Spirit, walking in disobedience, hearkening to the flesh,
and deceived by the enemy, but I ran out of the sanctuary and into the
foyer, hoping to find a telephone. Around a corner and down a hall I
found a door standing open with a church office inside and a telephone
on the desk. I ran straight to it and grabbed up the receiver.

'Excuse me, can I help you?” It was an older, sharply dressed lady, and
I could tell this longhaired, blue-jeaned stranger barging in offended
her.

'I need to use the phone.” She reached to take it from my hand; 'This is
the church office and this telephone is for church business only!” 189

I wouldn't give it to her. 'There's a girl in there in a diabetic coma.
I have to call for help.” She didn't like me and she didn't believe me.
'What are you talking about?” I'd already banged out 911. Someone
answered right away.

'Hello, I'm at Christian Chapel and there's a girl here—” Footsteps
running in the hall! The girl in the blue dress burst into the office
and came straight at me. I thought she would claw the phone from my
hands. 'I need to use the phone! It's an emergency!” 'I've got 911 on
the line right now.” 'Tell them it's a diabetic coma.

'It's a diabetic coma,” I said. 'Christian Chapel.. .' I looked at the
girl in the blue dress. 'What's the address?” 'Two-three-three-zero
South Walnut,” said the Office Lady.

She was starting to believe.

I repeated the address into the phone.

'They're going to kill her!” said the girl.

I got the word from the 911 operator and passed it on. 'The paramedics
are on the way.” She looked toward the hall, anxious and angry. 'They'd
better let them in!” With that, she raced into the hall again. I
followed, with the Office Lady behind me. We could hear the praying
still going strong in the sanctuary. From all appearances, no one in
there had a clue what we were doing.

When the ambulance arrived with its siren wailing and lights flashing,
the girl and I led the two paramedics right up the center aisle to the
front of the church. Vern and his friends were still confronting the
spirit of diabetes and were quite startled when the paramedics pushed
their way in. 'Excuse us, please. Thank you.” Vein, bumped from his
station by one of the paramedics, got to his feet and looked at me as if
I'd betrayed the Lord himself. The young man in the crew cut tried to
argue with them, 'Sir, I'm telling you the truth, this is not a medical
problem!” The rotund gal with the ruffled dress just kept on praying,
kneeling as near as the

aid crew would allow. As for the young woman with the shrill voice, she
jumped to her feet, located the girl in the blue dress, and unleashed
the full power of that voice at her. The rest of the people just kept on
praying and wailing and praising, their eyes closed, their hands raised,
oblivious to what was happening. 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. Vein 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. Vein 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. Vein was walking toward me, and I knew a
sermon was coming. 'Uh, can I catch a ride?” ‘9'

'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.

s H A RON IV ER S ON 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 doctors care, and survived in spite of herself.

Most of this I learned from Vein 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.

ii: 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.” ‘93

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 AM. 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 RE5URFACED from the memory, I was seething, incredulous. The
audacity! The calloused impudence!

Get a grip, Tray, 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 knowwhat to
do with what she'd just said.

‘95

'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

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 speak- ing,
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?” ‘97

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 fficker 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.

13

I GAVE BRETT HENCHLE a call and he came out to the river to have a look,
puffing 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?

FRIDAY MORNING, halfway through my breakfast, I heard a lawn mower
cutting laps around John Billings's place. I knew John wasn't home, so I
had to wonder, Now what?

I stepped out on my front porch and looked across the street.

This was something new: an older, chubby fellow in lemon yellow shorts
riding a shiny red Honda mower. Did John hire this guy to do the job
Brandon Nichols never finished? Was this the apostle Paul, or perhaps
Abraham? Should I ask?

I tried to let it go and finish my breakfast, but two bites of Bran
Flakes later, I couldn't stand not knowing. I put down my spoon, went
out the door, and crossed the street. It didn't take long for the guy on
the mower to come buzzing around again. I waved hello, hoping he'd stop.

He did.

'Hi, neighbor!” he said cheerfully. 'Just finishing up the lawn here.”
He stuck out his hand. 'Andy Parmenter.” 'Travis Jordan. I don't think
I've seen you before. Are you from around here?” 'Nope, Southern
California. The wife and I are up here to visit Brandon Nichols for a
while.” He laughed as he said, 'Guess that doesn't come as much of a
surprise.” I smiled and wagged my head. 'No, no.” 'Brandon sent me down
here to finish mowing Mr. Billings's grass. Heh. Looks to me like Mr.
Billings already mowed it himself, but I guess it's the principle of the
thing. Brandon doesn't like leaving things undone.” Then he leaned
forward over the mower steering wheel and spoke intensely, 'Have you
ever met him?” 'Yes. On this very spot, as a matter of fact.” 'He's a
wonderful man, isn't he?” 'Is he?” 'Well just look at me. Retired
executive, rich, successful—and miserable, until we came up here. Now
here I am, sitting on a lawn mower mowing a stranger's lawn and feeling
like a real human being for the first time! Brandon will do that for
you!” 'Nice mower,” I commented.

'My contribution to the cause. I've already mowed George Harding's RV
park—that's where the wife and I have our motor home.” He reflected,
shook his head in wonder, and said, 'You just can't believe the sense of
community that's growing up at the ranch. People are helping, sharing,
loving each other. In all my life I've never seen anything like it. I've
never felt so glad to be alive.” He looked around the neighborhood.
'This town's a per201

fect place to start over and do things the right way. You're going to
see some changes around here!”

THE CHANGES 5TARTED that very day, without announcement or warning.
Norman Dillard didn't know what to think when six strangers showed up at
the Wheatland Motel with ladders, brushes, and rollers, ready to give
the old place a face-lift, free of charge. George Harding's dream of
converting some of his land into an RV park flashed into reality as Andy
Parmenter, his wife, and four other well-to-do Californians pitched in
money and labor to get the place up to snuff. The Sundowner Motel, Gary
Fisk's rundown enterprise, needed new plumbing and wiring; a plumber
from Yakima and an electrician from Seattle showed up together to do
something about it, compliments of Brandon Nichols.

Michael the Prophet became the energy, if not the brains, behind a
project to repaint the white line down the center of the highway through
town. A local artist joined that crew and painted colorful heads of
wheat at each intersection and rain clouds to mark the location of the
fire hydrants. 'Soon the multitudes will come,” Michael proclaimed as
the rented line painter wheeled by, 'and springs of water will burst
forth upon the land!”

'NO, NO, my life isn't different, it's—it's like it's real, it's a life.
It's like I've started living after being dead all my life. I just can't
believe it!” a young girl with green, braided hair told a television
reporter. She was operating a forklift, placing trees in big planters
along the street. 'My life used to be such a mess, and now it's, it's
like it's just together, you know?” 'We were doin' drugs,” said a big
guy in a red tank top with blue-black tattoos on his arms. He looked at
his two buddies installing the park bench near the new swing set in the
newly mowed and weeded park with the new sign out front, CEPHUS MACON

MEMORIAL PARK. 'Yeah, all of us, we were in the drug scene big time, but
that was a dead end.” 'And now you're disciples of Brandon Nichols, is
that right?” asked the newspaper reporter.

The man nodded. 'It clicked, that's all. Nichols knows.” His two friends
liked the sound of that. 'Yeah, Nichols knows!” they yelled.

Armond Harrison didn't look good in person and looked even worse on
camera, but that didn't stop him from waxing verbose when given the
chance. 'We are now coordinating with the local businesses to carry out
a major renovation of Antioch's historic district, hoping it will
represent what we are as a people, a melting pot of different
backgrounds, convictions, and ideals all living in harmony. This is, I
believe, what Antioch stands for, and this is the ideal to which Brandon
Nichols has lent his voice. At the core of our hearts, nothing is new
here. But the time has come to bring our common vision into a tangible
reality. We—” At this point, his lips kept moving but a reporter talked
over him. Those who saw the news clip say his lips moved without sound
at the beginning also, and the volume didn't come up until he got to
'—this is the ideal to which Brandon Nichols has lent his voice.” Armond
made it a point to get his people involved in the wave of goodness that
swept over the town. Many of them were skilled craftspeople—masons,
painters, dry-wallers, carpenters, concrete workers—and he wanted them
seen as they turned out and pitched m, helping, joining, working hand in
hand with the Nichols bunch.

He never bothered to mention that he and his people were being paid for
the work they did, meaning there was some hard practicality hidden
behind all that benevolence. Few of his people asked probing questions,
but all understood the money was coming from the direction of the Macon
ranch.

Even Penny Adams, the girl with the healed hand, was moving into the
realm of goodness. Out of the blue, she walked into Florence Tyler's
little clothing boutique and offered to vacuum and dust. Florence didn't
trust her, at least up until today, but things 203

seemed so magically different in the town that she got caught up in it
and gladly handed Penny a dust rag. Penny said nothing about what she
expected to be paid. She just set to work, humming quietly to herself.
Florence waited on customers, all of whom were buzzing about the changes
happening in the town, and she marveled.

I WA5 GLAD TO BE ON THE 5IDELINE5 watchingwhen the local ministers
started to react to all this. Sid Maher was happy, neighborly, and
neither for nor against it. Burton Eddy encouraged his congregation to
join up, pitch in, and be a part of it, for this kind of unity, he said,
was God's purpose for all of us on earth. Bob Fisher felt no hesitation
in questioning Brandon Nichols's doctrine and intentions, but apart from
that, he kept preaching according to the same format in the same order
of service he'd always had at his church. His people, being warned, went
ahead with a dessert auction and spaghetti social and hardly felt a
bump. Father Vendetti encouraged his people to participate with anything
that would be good for the town, but he reminded them that Our Lady also
had its own charitable programs that should not be neglected.

Paul Daley was quite flustered when he talked to me about it.

'I feel ambivalent,” he said. 'Nichols and his people are doing good
works and that's good, but by joining him in doing good, we could be
making his teachings and claims look good, which could be bad if Nichols
himself proves to be bad, which means it could actually be bad for us to
be doing all this good. But in not joining him to do good, we all look
bad.” He shook his head. 'Whew! He has us over a barrel, doesn't he?”

AT THE END OF THE DAY, Florence Tylerwas beginningto feel some
ambivalence of her own. After Penny Adams had dusted, vacuumed, and
left, Florence went to a dress rack to show a customer a cute flowery
dress and discovered the dress was gone. She said nothing to the
customer, but did take a look at the accessories rack, where

she discovered a bracelet and necklace were also missing. The customer
left without buying anything, and Florence, convinced she could have
sold that flowery dress, began to imagine how right it would be for
Penny's healed hand to be crippled again.

IN THE B Ac K of the Antioch Harvester and Office Supply, Nancy Barrons
was bent low over her desk, carefully checking some contact prints with
a magnifier. Kim Staples, her assistant, reporter, photographer, and lab
tech, stood nearby to hear Nancy verdict.

'I can't believe how everything's happening all at once,” Nancy
commented, her face only inches from the photo sheet.

'I ran my legs off today,” Kim reported, 'and I still didn't get it all.
I just got word there's a roofing party going on over at Maude
Henley's.” Nancy looked up from the prints. 'You're kidding.” 'I think
it's the same people who fixed up the flower beds in the park.” 'The
Berkeley transplants?” 'Yeah.” Kim pointed to a sheet of prints and
Nancy took a close look with her magnifier.

'Heh. Yeah. Kim...” 'Yeah?” 'Is that really that guy's rear end sticking
out?” 'Oh, did that get in the picture?” 'Man, with all this charity
going around you'd think someone would give him a decent pair of pants.
Oh brother.” 'What?” 'There's Armond Harrison again.” 'He was there.
What can I say?” Nancy straightened up to scan all the contact sheets
before her.

'He was at the sandblasting in the ‘historical district,' the painting
of the Wheatland Motel, the placing of the trees on Main Street....” Kim
pointed, 'And he was there for the refilling of the white line painter.”
205

'How many Armond Harrisons are there?” Kim gave a little shrug. 'He
likes to have his picture taken.” Nancy gave an irritated huff. 'We
ought to be charging him for all the free PR.” She started circling her
selections with a white marker.

'Okay, let's run this one of the sandblasting, and this one of the tree
planting. Is there a picture of the park without Armond in it?” Kim
tapped on one.

Nancy circled it. 'And then maybe you can get a shot of the roofing job
at Maude Henley's. But no Armonds and no rear ends!” 'You repeat
yourself.” Nancy laughed. 'I wasn't going to say it.” The bell over the
front door jingled. 'Ah, a customer.” Kim took two steps into the store
area and stopped dead in her tracks. 'Oh...” Nancy stood and looked
around the room divider.

As soon as the customer walked closer and removed his baseball cap, she
recognized Brandon Nichols.

'Iii,” hesaid. Anyone else could have come through that door and Nancy
would have felt relaxed and neighborly. The sight of Brandon Nichols
made her feel instantly. .. objective. 'Hello. What can I do for you?”
'I was wondering if you might have a few minutes?” Nancy looked down at
her desk. 'Um... I guess so.” He approached her as if he would offer his
hand. She nodded toward the chair. 'Have a seat.” He veered to the
chair, his hat in his hands.

She sat at her desk and put on a business smile. 'Well, I never expected
to see you come in here.” He smiled. 'You look great.” 'Thank you,” she
replied, taking it as flattery. She was wearing a loose knit blouse and
jeans, something appropriate enough for office, but not striking.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 'The reason the came
is, first of all, to thank you for your fair and understanding

treatment of everything we've been trying to do. Obviously, it's easy to
be misunderstood by the public at large and by the press, but I think
your reporting on our efforts has been a credit to your paper and a good
boost for the town.

'It's been interesting. Exciting. But do you mind if I ask you, where's
the money coming from to pay for all this labor and material?”
'Donations. A lot of the folks who've come to the ranch had money but no
purpose in life. Now they have a vision to embrace, something worthwhile
to invest in.

'Which is?” 'Excuse me?” 'Why are you fixing up the town? What's the
purpose?” He smiled, a dreamy look in his eyes. 'Maybe it's to get as
close as we can to heaven on earth, a clean and lovely place for the
spiritually seeking. And the work itself is a healing salve in people's
lives. It gives them the ability to create change with their own hands
and resources. In today's world that means a lot.” 'I suppose a cleaner,
brighter town would enhance your marketability.” 'It would be good for
everyone.” 'Okay.” 'But...” He nervously rubbed his hands together.
'What I said about the spirit of the town... that's another reason I'm
here. If I may, I'd like to speak up on Kyle Sherman's behalf.” She made
a curious face. 'I know that he' tends to be a little blunt— 'A little?”
He chuckled and flipped his hands palms up. 'Well, you know and I
know...” 'We know.” 'But I didn't come to Antioch to divide people. Mine
is a mission of peace and brotherhood, and given time, I have hopes that
Kyle Sherman and I can work things out.” 'That's a lot of hope.” He gave
a little shrug. 'Well. We have to start somewhere. I'll go first.” 207

'So you didn't care for my editorial?” He slid his chair closer and
lowered his voice a little. 'It was brilliant, almost surgical in its
precision. But it was cuffing.” 'No pun intended?” He laughed, gazing at
her. 'Oh, perhaps intended.” She felt his eyes on her, but tried to
quell the uncomfortable feelings that assaulted her. Of course he was
looking at her. They were talking. 'Um... I felt that Reverend Sherman
was trying to bar you from the neighborhood on purely religious grounds,
and from where I view history, that's something we've seen too much of
already.” 'Oh, I agree. It's people that matter, not what they believe.”
'So are you Jesus Christ?” He chuckled. 'It depends on who you ask.
People who wish to believe that may do so.” 'And if they don't?” 'They
just don't.” She leaned toward him. 'I want to know who you are really.”
'Brandon Nichols, ranch hand from Missoula.” 'Who used to work at the
Harmon ranch?” There was the slightest pause before he answered, 'That's
right.” 'I talked to the Harmons. They say you worked there for five
years. Why'd you quit?” 'It was time to move 'They never saw you do any
miracles, either. What changed?

First you're in Missoula herding cattle and horses and the next thing
anyone knows, you're in Antioch acting like Jesus.” He smiled knowingly.
'At first, Jesus was a carpenter in Nazareth, and the next thing anyone
knew, he was preaching in smagogues and turning water into wine.” 'Got
any family anywhere?” IHe slid his chair closer. 'I can see we have a
lot to talk about.

We should get together for lunch sometime, or perhaps dinner at the
ranch. I'd feel freer to discuss such things”—he reached out his
hand—”if there weren't other people around.”

She had a pencil in her hand. She held it out to intercept his hand
gently. 'Could you do me a favor? I'd like you to refrain from touching
me.” He withdrew his hand and leaned back in the chair. 'Certainly.”
'I've seen what happens when you touch people. Brett Henchie's never
been the same.” He seemed pleased at her observation. 'No, he certainly
hasn't, nor have the hundred or so others I've touched. But what I've
done for individuals I want to do for the whole town. This town needs a
special touch and I hope to provide that over the weeks and months
ahead.” 'Where are you from originally?” 'You mean, before Missoula?”
'That's right. Where were you born? Where'd you grow up?” 'It'll cost
you dinner with me.” He was smiling at her, waiting for an answer.
Something in his eyes chilled her.

She called 'Kim?” Kim looked up. 'Let's get a picture of Mr. Nichols to
go with our story. 'Sure thing.” Kim reached for her camera.

Nichols was on his feet. 'Not today.” 'C'mon,” Nancy prodded, 'it'll
only take a second.” 'The dinner invitation is still open. Call me at
the ranch.” He turned and hurried through the store and out the door.
Kim stood with her camera, eyebrows high with surprise.

'Wow. 'Like Superman and kryptonite,” said Nancy.

'Was he... hitting on you?” 'A....” Nancy turned to her desk. 'I could
never prove it to anybody.” Kim stood there, waiting.

'Yes, he was,” Nancy finally answered, and by now she was shuffling
through papers and yellow post-it notes trying to find a phone number.
Ah, there it was. Nevin Sorrel, Mrs. Macon's lanky, former hired hand,
had said he had something very serious to tell her about Brandon
Nichols. At the time he called, Nancy wasn't 209

interested in gossipy stuff from a resentful semiliterate, but she was
seeing things a little differently now.

AS FOR w H AT Morgan Elliott was thinking, I hadn't heard—that is, until
she called and asked to see me, which was the last thing I expected. I'd
mostly been friends with her late husband, Gabe, and apart from the
ministerial meetings, hadn't seen much of Morgan after his death.
Considering my reputation with the open-minded, liberal, and tolerant
faction of the ministerial—and her apparent alignment with that camp—it
seemed best to steer clear of her anyway.

Well, so much for that. What she wanted to see me about I had no idea,
but I now had an official, three o'clock appointment with Pastor
Elliott. I arrived promptly, parked in front of the Methodist church,
and went through the big double doors. A lady in jeans was mopping the
floor in the foyer and told me yes, the pastor was in her office,
located at the front of the sanctuary, through a door just to the right
of the chancel.

I'd forgotten how classy this old church was, and enjoyed my short walk
down the center aisle. This was a building in the old tradition, dark
stone on the outside, fancy woodwork and plaster on the inside, with a
high, vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows. The pews were stout and
hand-carved, the deep red cushions a later improvement. The original
floorboards under the carpet had been squeaking in the same places for
decades, and overhead were the black iron chandeliers that came by ship
and rail from England in 1924—Gabe told me all about it.

The door to the pastor's office was open and I could see Reverend Morgan
Elliott seated at her desk in a dark suit, white blouse, and dark blue
scarf. Her long, curly hair was pinned back today and she was working
intently, her round glasses perched on the end of her nose. Feeling some
anxiety, I knocked gently on the doorjamb.

She looked up and smiled, and then she stood, extending her hand.

'IL-li. Please come I shook her hand and took the chair facing her desk.
I had no idea

howl should conduct myself: As a friend? A neighbor? A fellow
professional? Maybe a condemned heretic. I'd just have to wait and see.

'So how in the world are you?” she asked, setting aside her work and
then resting her chin on her fingers.

'Doing all right.” It was a comfortable, generic kind of answer.

'How about yourself?” She didn't answer quicldy, and her answer wasn't
comfortable for either of us. 'I have some things I need to talk with
you about.” Uh-oh. I once had a vice principal who said exactly those
words in exactly that tone of voice. Not knowing whether to expect a
chat or a lecture, I ventured, 'This is kind of unusual, you and I
having a meeting.” She shrugged one shoulder. 'I'm taking a chance that
I've read you correctly. If I had this meeting with anyone else, I'd get
a party line, predictable answer or no answer at all. But you seem to be
in a different place right now.” 'A different place?” She cocked her
head to one side and gave an apologetic smile.

'You faced down Armond Harrison in front of the whole ministerial. You
organized a picket protest outside the theater when they showed an
X-rated movie. You led a March for Jesus down the highway through town.
You were pastoring Antioch Pentecostal Mission long before Gabe and I
got here, and we always knew what to expect from you.

I caught her point. 'Things have changed a little.” 'I'm guessing you're
on the outside. Things have to look different from out there. Do they?”
I stared at her, off-balance.

'Do they?” she asked again.

I knew the answer, but I was dumbfounded to hear Morgan Elliott asking
the question. 'Yes. They do. Things look a lot different. Not always in
focus, but definitely different.” 'Then maybe we can compare notes.
Things are starting to look different to me too, and I'm not sure what
to do about it.” She 211

looked at the ceiling and squinted as if seeing something in the
distance. 'I have this picture in my mind. I'm eighteen, getting ready
to leave home, and I'm standing out in the yard in front of my parents'
house in San Jose. I've got clothes in a big duffel bag and a guitar in
one of those cheap cardboard cases, and I'm leaving, heading out on my
own. But I'm looking back toward the front door, and my folks and my
brother and sister are standing there, calling to me, beckoning, telling
me to come back inside.

‘You don't belong out there, come back inside, you need to stay here.”'
She stopped abruptly and asked, 'Does any of this sound familiar?”
Maybe. 'Is there more?” She looked away, replaying the scene in her
mind. 'Part of me wants to go back. I mean, it was home. It was secure.
I liked living with my folks. It's not like I was rebellious.” 'Uh-huh.”
'But somehow, I. . .' Abruptly, she reached for a yellow legal pad on
her desk. 'Maybe we can talk about that later.” She nervously consulted
a list she'd scribbled on the yellow pad. 'I've been wracking my brain
all morning—well, for several days, actually— and I've narrowed down the
topics to three: My church and I aren't getting along; Brandon Nichols
isn'tJesus.. .' That was two. I sat there waiting. She sighed, looked at
the wall, built up her nerve, and gave me the third: 'Michael the
Prophet is my son.

I didn't react. I couldn't. I had to hear her say that again. 'Excuse
me?” She looked directly at me. She even leaned into it. 'Michael the
Prophet—you know, that crazy guy with the shawl and the staff and the
cut-off jeans—” 'And the phony British accent.

'That's the one. Michael is my son. Michael Elliott.” Slowly, jarringly,
the memory dawned. 'I remember you and Gabe talking about Michael. But I
never met him.” 'He didn't come to Antioch with us. He'd left home by
then, and had started his, his wanderings. We got lots of letters and
calls,

but he never came home again. He had to be... out there. He took in
about a year of college, then traveled to India to discover himself and
got dysentery. On the way back, he had himself baptized in the Jordan
River. He's, well, he's searching.” 'And now he's found Brandon
Nichols.” She gave a slow, painful nod. 'He thinks Brandon Nichols is
Jesus. He told me that to my face.” I didn't mean to smile. 'And you
have a problem with that?” She huffed in frustration. 'Isn't that the
limit? I guess I'm upset because he's my son.” Now that was fascinating.
'Huh.” 'I know what you're thinking.” I hesitated to say it.

'Go on.” 'Well, we have heard it said that love means you don't question
or challenge another person's beliefs. But now we have a case in which,
because you truly love someone, you don't want them to be deceived.”
'Exactly.” 'So it matters to you what they believe.” 'And therefore I'm
upset that Brandon Nichols is deceiving my son.” 'How intolerant of
you.” She nodded. 'How very intolerant.” She rested back in her chair,
strong emotions just under the surface. 'But I know—I know—that Brandon
Nichols isn'tJesus, and if he isn'tJesus, then someone else must be, and
I'm very sorry we never told Michael.

Pardon me for baring my soul, but I'm haunted by the thought that he
believes in Brandon Nichols because there was nothing for him to believe
in at home.” 'For what it's worth,” I said, 'Brandon Nichols isn'tJesus,
and someone else is.

She said with a flourish, 'Thank you for saying so.” We were eye to eye
across that desk. 'So things are looking different now?” 213

She drew a deep breath and stared into the past. 'I was comfortable. I
had my ministry, my little bag of pet beliefs and nonbeliefs, my own
congregation of followers. But now I can't sit still. I can't rest. I'm
like my son.” She met my eyes again. 'I want to know something for sure.
Very radical idea, I know. And they—some of the people in my
congregation; the old guard, the pillars, the heavy givers—don't want me
to look. They're afraid of my asking. They like the old Morgan, the
cheerful little lady who smiled and made them feel good and never
ventured further than these four walls.” She added with a bitter note,
'The one who preached so much but said so little. They like Brandon
Nichols. They don't see anything wrong with him—just like Michael!” She
halted. Her eyes glistened with tears.

'So you're standing out in the yard again, and Mom and Dad are calling
to you to come back.” 'And I can't!” she said angrily, her voice
cracking. She reached for a facial tissue and removed her glasses to dab
her eyes. 'Excuse me.” I rested back in my chair, stunned that I would
have something in common with Morgan Elliott, of all people. 'So you're
on the outside too.” That touched just the right nerve deep inside her.
The tears overflowed, and she chuckled with embarrassment. 'I'm so
sorry.” 'It's okay."

She grabbed another tissue and blew her nose. 'I'm forty-two, an
ordained minister with a congregation—” She stopped, pulled in a deep
breath, and spoke in a steadier voice. 'And I don't know what I'm going
to do with myselfl I can't go back! I can't be what I was before, and
the people are getting worried and I don't know what to tell them.” 'And
Brandon Nichols brought all this on?” She shook her head. 'I was working
on it before this. He just pushed it ahead several spaces, that's all.”
'He pressed the issue.

'Well,” I said with a hint of sarcasm, 'I know your problem.

You just need to have a Quiet Time every day; you know, read your Bible
and pray.” 'I do!” I scowled. 'That's funny. It always works for
everyone else.” She caught my drift. 'So they tell me. Except I'm taking
the Bible too literally.” 'I've been told I'm backslidden.” 'I've been
told I'm starting to sound like a fundamentalist.” 'I need to come back
to the Lord.” 'I need to quit sweating the details and just love
everyone.

I started laughing. She started laughing. It was like having an inside
joke between us, and I could hardly believe it. In that little cubicle
in that staid old church in the center of that troubled town, two people
who hadn't laughed in quite a while found something they could chuckle
about together.

'So what can we do about Brandon Nichols?” she asked.

By now I couldn't help thinking that God had something brewing. 'I guess
we'll know when the time comes.” She smiled. 'God is here with us, isn't
he? Even on the outside.” We prayed, the Reverend Elliot and I. I think
it worked. As I left the church, I asked the Lord just what he was
doing, and as usual, he left me to figure it out.

At any rate, I was very glad she called. Glad I came. As she had said,
God was with us, even on the outside.

I hadn't always felt that way. ... 14

ARE SMELLS you never forget. Every once in a while FPllff just the right
combination of beer and cigarette smoke and immediately recall my short
and failing career as a bluegrass musician. I was nineteen going on
twenty, and still in a state of mind where what I wanted had to be what
the Lord wanted.

Consequently, it had to be God's will for me to be playing in dark
taverns with black light posters on the walls and aging waitresses
dressed in sequined, low-cut blouses. There had to be some kind of godly
mission in playing my banjo until two in the morning while I absorbed
cigarette smoke into my clothes.

Once an uncle asked me what I was doing, and I told him about my band.
He asked me, 'How many of them have you won to the Lord?” I answered
honestly, 'As many as wanted to be,” which was another way of saying,
'None.” Our group, the Mountain Victrola, was about as stable as it was
godly. The guitar player always had some weird chemical in his brain and
a recent message from somewhere unseen. The bass player had a standing
offer from another band that made better money, and he owned our PA
system. The mandolin player owned the station wagon we used to haul
ourselves around, but he was

catching flak from his 'old lady” and figured he'd have to quit. The
dobro player was constantly depressed and kept talking about joining up
with his brother in a fruit and produce business. We weren't very good
and we weren't improving, and most of all, we were poor. Fifty bucks a
night—for the whole band of five—was not what one would call a starlit
stairway.

There's a psalm that tells us not to be like a wild donkey that needs to
be bridled, and a proverb that says a wicked man will have his fill of
his own ways. Mix those two ideas together and you have a good
description of my spiritual state the last night I played with that
band. We were taking a break, sitting in a booth in the Cedar Tavern in
Seattle. It was after midnight, we still had two more forty-minute sets
of music to play, and there were about five people there to listen to
us. The place was dark and smoky. The jukebox was thumping. I could see
my underwear glowing through my clothes under the black lights. My
friends were smoking, griping about the money, and talking about what
they could be doing instead of this. I was sipping from a Coke and
pondering the same question.

Folks have asked me how and when God called me into the ministry, and
I've never had a definite answer. The way God designed me, I would have
ended up in the ministry eventually. I could have wandered around for a
few more years pursuing all sorts of dreams and ambitions—music, acting,
banjo making, ditch digging—but one overriding fact determined my
destiny: I loved the Lord deeply and wanted to serve him. Given that, my
being in the ministry was a foregone conclusion and only a matter of
time.

All I had to do was make up my mind, choose the right road, and stay on
it. That night at the Cedar Tavern, I did.

West Bethel College seemed the natural choice. It was strictly a 'Bible
Institute” when Dad we it there, and there was only one, not an East in
Wheaton, Illinois and a West near Portland, Oregon.

It's where he met Mom, and I still have Dad's big exhaustive concordance
with Mom's personal note in the front: 'To Wayne Travis Jordan upon
graduation, May 28, 1948, Bethel Bible Institute.” 217

Three of my dad's brothers graduated from there, and a majority of my
cousins. By the time my older brother, Steve, graduated from there in
1971, so many otherJordans had gone there over the years that the
professors kept getting Steve's name mixed up with theirs.

In the fall of 1973, the profs had to learn the name of still another
Jordan. I cut my hair, shaved my beard, bought a new Bible, and signed
up. At twenty-one I was a little older than most of my classmates, but
at least I'd worked some of the wild donkey out of my system. While my
classmates were squirting shaving cream down each other's pants and
puffing detergent in the main entry fountain, I just wanted to study.

And pray. I'd been wandering long enough and I loved being home again,
immersed in the Pentecostal culture I'd known since childhood. We called
each other 'brother” and 'sister,” said Praise God and Hallelujah
whether things were going well or poorly, raised our hands toward heaven
when we worshiped, and spoke in tongues when we prayed. God was free to
move among us, and he did. I felt safe here. The presence of God in the
chapel services was warm and familiar, and my faith became something I
could feel again, something deeply human.

It was a protected environment. Pentecostal students from all over the
country, and some from overseas, left their parents at home and came
here to be parented by the college their parents paid for. We had a
dress code and a hair code, strict rules governing dating, and required
church attendance—you had to file a report every Monday morning. Going
to a movie could get you expelled, and as for alcohol and tobacco, you
didn't even want to have the smell on you. We didn't dance, gamble,
swear, stay out late, or make out, and if anyone did, angels told the
dean about it every time.

I didn't mind the rules. I didn't agree with all of them, but I didn't
mind them. Shorter hair was easier to manage, I was a guy so it was okay
to wear pants, and I liked the church I was attending without fail every
Sunday.

As for romantic inclinations, the dean, the dorm parents, and the school
administrators didn't have to worry about me. I still regarded my love
life as something like electroshock therapy for smokers: Associate
enough pain with it and you can kick the habit.

Then, much to my surprise, I saw an old acquaintance again.

Halfway through the fall quarter, a girls' trio calling themselves The
King's Carillons—back in Bible school, every music group was a King's
this or a Master's that, besides all the different Maranathas going
around—sang their debut number in morning chapel, and they had my
undivided attention. For one thing, their style was really pushing the
edge. One of the girls was actually patting out the rhythm on her leg,
and I think I saw a few heads in the crowd bobbing with the beat. I was
certain this song did not come out of our black, shaped-note hymnals.

But what threw me was the alto standing in the middle. It was Marian
Chiardelli, the girl in the blue dress I encountered clear back at
Christian Chapel! I wondered why I hadn't noticed her around campus
before this, but taking a good look at her now, I could see she'd
changed since our long talk in the hospital waiting room. Her hair was a
little longer and had a gentle wave to it, and the silver barrette was
gone. Her eyes seemed bigger, and today they were sparkling as the
sunlight came through the chapel windows. Her figure was adequately
shrouded in a purple dress that met college specs, but it did not escape
my notice as being some- what improved.

Marian Chiardelli! I couldn't believe it. I knew this girl.., sort of. I
mean, we had met once. I wondered if she would remember me.

C. R. Barnsworth, the college president, preached that morning. I don't
remember much of that sermon—just him trying to get us all charged up
and repeating the phrase, 'fresh oil, fresh oil, fresh oil.” I was too
busy maintaining situational awareness as to Marian's location in the
chapel—front row, right side, fourth from the right—and trying to figure
out how I might intercept her on the way out, just to say hi.

219

C. R. finished, we stood to sing our closing song, Rick Parks, the
student body president, said the closing prayer, and we were out of
there.

I'd been sitting halfway back on the left side, in the middle of the
pew. She left the chapel through the right front door. I maneuvered,
dodged, and weaved through the body traffic, got to that door, and
pushed my way outside.

She was with someone.

His name was Loren Bullard—a junior, a superjock, at least a foot taller
than me and that much wider around the chest. A starter on the
basketball and football teams. A weightlifter. He played classical piano
with scale runs, rapid arpeggios and vast chord extensions. He drove a
great car. And he was a nice guy, really. He was bold and confident,
devoted to the Lord, and wanted to be a missionary.

I stood there a moment, watching them go down the brick walkway across
the campus, talking and laughing, just the two of them. They were a
charming couple. Marian had made a good choice, I had to admit.

Which didn't say much for me. My credentials—shipyardworking,
bar-playing banjo picker—looked pretty dim next to the glimmer of Loren
Bullard's.

Well, sometime I would say hi to her, just to say hi. Perhaps she would
remember me.

A WEEK OR SO LATER, my roommate, Ben, and Iwere trying to play a few
tunes in the Hub—that was what we called S. J. Marquardt Hall, the place
where we bought snacks, got our mail, and socialized. Ben had learned to
play guitar from a Peter, Paul, and Mary songbook and had no idea how to
play a bluegrass rhythm. I wanted to play Foggy Mountain Breakdown, but
for that song to work, the guitar has to be going boom-chunk boom-chunk.

All I could get out of Ben was sling-ading-adinga and it sounded awful.
I set the banjo aside, took the guitar again, showed him

again, talked it through again. 'Okay, bass string first, then brush
down, then alternate bass string, then brush down—” And then she came
in. Not since the hospital had I seen her so close. She had her hair in
a ponytail this time, and wore a color- ful blouse with a denim skirt,
kind of like a cowgirl. Our eyes met and, having no words come to mind,
I smiled.

She stopped and looked at me, and I could see recognition working its
way into her expression. 'Have we met before?” 'Sharon Iverson,” I said
softly, knowing the delicacy of the subject matter. 'Christian Chapel.
The hospital.” She put her hand over her mouth and replied with wide
eyes, 'You look so different!” 'Well, so do you.” And I meant every
word.

She shook my hand. 'What was your name?” 'Travis Jordan. This is Ben
Springfield.” We exchanged introductions and majors: Ben and I were both
Bible majors. I was heading for pastoral ministry, Ben felt called to
missions. Marian was undecided as yet, but leaning toward a business
major.

She noticed Ben's guitar still in my hands. 'That's right! You said you
were a musician! I love the guitar!” Ben grinned at me.

'We were just, uh, playing some bluegrass,” I said.

Her eyes brightened. 'Bluegrass!” And then he came in. The whole room
seemed to sink under the weight of his glory, and he drew attention like
a black hole sucking up all the light.

Marian jumped up and hurried toward him. 'You're late!” 'Sorry,” was all
he said, moving toward the piano in the corner of the room.

Marian and the other two King's Carillons followed after him like baby
quail after their mother, and gathered around the piano to work out a
new song.

Loren Bullard took one look at the sheet music they placed before him
and began to pound a veritable symphony out of that 221

old upright—scales, arpeggios, minor sixths, thirteenths, dominant
sevenths. The tall girl, Julie, started singing her lead part, then
Marian and Chris joined in, and it sounded hetter than good. Con-
versation in the room stopped. Kids out at the mailboxes came into the
room to see what record was playing.

I turned to Ben. He was watching and listening, his face—and his mind, I
suppose—a blank.

I handed him his guitar and reminded him, 'Boom-chunk, boom-chunk.”

WiNTER QUARTER, Marian Chiardelli and I finally landed in a class
together, Old Testament Survey, and occasionally sat near enough to each
other to exchange greetings and how-are-yous.

The prof put us on a committee to create a huge banner of an Old
Testament time line. She liked my cartoon renderings of Moses and
Abraham, and I liked her lettering.

'So you play the banjo too?” she exclaimed when I finally told her. 'You
have to play it for us sometime!” Loren Bullard accompanied me on that
same upright piano in the Hub, and what he could do for the King's
Carillons he did for Foggy Mountain Breakdown. That a guy with such
musical ability would deign to boom-chunk for a banjo player really
impressed me. He deserved Marian.

Thus Marian and I became friends, like a brother and sister in the Lord.
We served on committees and tackled school projects together. She gave
me advice on how better to socialize; I gave her advice on Loren. The
King's Carillons even asked me to critique how they looked on stage—I
used to be a professional musician, after all. It was a comfortable and
mutually affirming relationship.

Even so, the better I got to know her, the more I could sense she had a
hidden side. We could talk about Creation vs. Evolution, or whether we
were Pre-, Mid-, or Post-Trib; we could discuss politics and how
involved we should be; we could talk about my family and her family and
how each of us was raised and how we'd THE Vi5ITATION

want to raise our own kids whenever we had any with whomever we married.

But we couldn't talk about her. Not really. There was some kind of
terrible wound deep inside her, and every time our conversation came too
close, she'd shy away, change the subject, find something to laugh
about. I knew she was hurting and I hurt for her, but I couldn't help.

The other two Carillons, Julie and Chris, had to be privy to whatever it
was, because the three girls always made it to the altar after Saturday
night chapel so Julie and Chris could pray for Marian. The way she would
cry and her two friends wail and speak in tongues over her, I grieved to
think what awful burden she had to be carrying. I determined I would
pray for her as well. I couldn't pray for her in chapel because guys
could only pray with guys and girls with girls, but I had a workable
alternative.

Our church's missionaries always give out prayer cards to remind people
to pray for them. Prayer cards are usually a photograph of the
missionary or missionaries and their family, along with their name, the
country in which they are serving, and whatever additional information
will fit. You get a prayer card, take it home, post it somewhere, and it
serves as a prayer request every time you see it.

In the spirit of that tradition, I loaned Ben my camera so he could
sneak some pictures of Marian. Her image measured less than an inch tall
on the three-by-five prints, but I trimmed off the D. R. Smedley
Residence Hall, the H. L. Boren Library, and four of the trees along the
M. T Herschieser Memorial Walkway and taped what was left to my desk.
While studying, or while flossing my teeth before bed, I'd see that
miniscule photo of Marian Chiardelli and I'd say a simple prayer for
her: 'Dear Lord, please take care of Marian. Take away the pain in her
heart and grant her your grace and peace. Amen.” Then I'd pray for Loren
Bullard just to keep everything in balance.

THE HARVEST TIME 5OCIAL at West Bethel College was, for all practical
purposes, a Halloween party with all the evil elements 223

expunged. Everyone else in the Western world was dressing up in
costumes, bobbing for apples, and acting silly on October 31. The
students at West Bethel wanted to do the same, but in a Christian
context, and so it came to pass. Each year we decorated the B. R.
Maguire Gymnasium with fall colors, autumn leaves, and dried cornstalks,
then set up the hoop shoot, cakewalk, pie throwing booth, and dunk tank.
The guys would bring dates, we'd have a talent show and costume contest,
and we would go as nuts as kids at West Bethel College could go.

This year, the King's Carillons had their eyes on the costume contest
and were determined to win it. The Christmas before, Julie's church in
Anchorage had gone to great lengths to put on a gala Christmas musical
with a singing Christmas tree and choreographed nativity scene. They'd
constructed camel, sheep, and cow costumes for actors to wear and dance
around in, and a special donkey Mary could ride. That donkey was the
best part, something right out of Disneyland. The guy playing the front
end could bob the donkey's head, make its mouth move, and even bat the
donkey's eyelashes with a little lever. The guy playing the back end had
the tougher job: he had to carry Mary on his back. When Julie returned
from Anchorage in the fall, she brought that donkey with her, and she
and Marian stashed it in their room, keeping it top secret until they
could spring it on the rest of us.

Marian, Julie, and Chris signed up for the costume contest, putting down
their names for the judges in case they couldn't be recognized—something
worth extra points, by the way. They bought brown cloth and sewed in
shifts, repairing rips and tears, adding row upon row of brown fringe,
and tailoring the donkey's body to fit theirs. Since Chris was the
smallest, they appointed her to ride. Since this was a Harvest Time
Social and not a Christmas Social, they fashioned a beard and ragged
robe for Chris and dubbed the donkey 'Balaam's Ass.” The party was set
for October31.

October 30, Julie came down with the flu.

The day of the party, Marian pulled me aside and, with Julie and Chris's
blessing, broke the code of silence.

I wanted to help, but.. . 'You're sure you can't find someone else?” She
was begging me. 'Lori's going as Lot's wife and Sue's going as Noah's
Ark. I can't go asking all around because that'll spoil the surprise.”
'Can't Chris be the rear end?” 'She's supposed to be Balaam!” I thought
it through. I couldn't be Balaam; I was too big. 'Uh, what about you
being the rear end?” She was getting disgusted with me. 'We tailored the
front end to fit me, and besides, I can't carry Chris on my back, and
besides that, the donkey in the Bible was a girl!” 'I have to carry
Chris on my back?” 'Not all of her. You'll be holding my waist so I'll
carry some of the weight.” Holding her waist. Wow. I may have been
sinning, but boy, what a thought. It almost kept me from suggesting my
final out: 'What about Loren?” She looked down and even blushed a bit.
'Hey the one we want to surprise!” Oh, he was going to be surprised, all
right.

We got into the costume behind a van in the gymnasium parking lot.

Chris kept repeating her lines as she put on her ragged robe and white
beard. 'Because you have abused me. I wish there were a sword in my
hand, for now I would kill you!” Marian was already wearing the donkey's
front legs—baggy, fringie things with knobby knees and round black
hooves, held up by thick suspenders. It was the first time I'd ever seen
her in pants.

She held the rear legs while I stepped into them. 'What have I done to
you, that you have struck me these three times?” she said, rehearsing
the question Chris had already answered.

Chris and I lowered the donkey's neck and head over Marian and then I
bent over and grabbed Marian's waist while Chris draped the donkey's
body over me, and then a striped wool blan- 225

ket for a biblical-looking saddle. Marian and I crouched, and Chris
climbed on.

'Ohh,”I said when Chris's weight settled. This was going to be a long
night.

Chris whacked me with her stick, not meaning for it to hurt the way it
did, I'm sure. 'C'mon, you old donkey! Let's go!” Marian led the way
across the parking lot and I, with arms propped on her waist and Balaam
on my back, followed. I could see the ground passing below me, then the
steps up to the gymnasium, and finally the gymnasium floor. The party
was already in full swing as we entered, and the reaction from all the
partygoers was tremendously favorable. I could hear the gasps, applause,
and cheers.

Whack! Balaam hit me again.

Marian wiggled the donkey's head around and said, 'HawHEEE! What have I
done to you, that you have struck me these three times?” Chris hit me
again, and I felt it, and she said, 'Because you have abused me. I wish
there were a sword in my hand, for now I would kill you!” I could see
the feet of the students gathering around to see the show. They caught
on right away. 'Balaam's Ass!” 'Try donkey,” said someone else. Marian
kept walking around and I kept watching the gym floor passing under my
feet: the center line, the three-point line, the foul shot line. She
jerked that head around so much I thought we'd fall over. 'Am I not your
donkey on which you have ridden, and... you know, taken you places and
stuff?” If Scripture memorization was good for points, we just lost
some.

We made several circuits around the floor, repeating the same little
scene as Balaam beat his donkey on the backside, and then someone
finally helped Balaam get off and lead his donkey by the halter. I
thanked the Lord.

We stayed inside that costume for another half-hour because Marian
insisted we let the judges get the full effect. I could see drops of my
sweat falling to the gym floor and I could smell myself. Finally I heard
the voice of T N. Nelson, the dean of students, announcing that the
judges had reached a decision. The place fell quiet. Balaam got on my
back, gave me a whack, and we trotted to the front of the gym where a
plafform was set up. I could hear the tally sheet rattling in the hands
of T N. Nelson as he spoke.

'Third place goes to...” Suspenseful pause. 'Loren Bullard, as Samson!”
I could hear everyone applauding and I knew Loren was stepping up on the
platform. I'd heard that he borrowed a long hairpiece from one of the
girls. The chest and arms he didn't have to borrow. No doubt he was
scanning the crowd, wondering where his date was. Maybe we wouldn't win.
Maybe we could just lose quietly and get out of there.

'Second place goes to...” Same pause. 'Sue Dwightman, as Noah's Ark!”
The crowd hooted, cheered, and laughed. Sue was a real character and a
notable scale-tipper. I knew she'd be playing this for laughs.

'And.. .' This time he really milked the pauses. 'First prize...” My
back was aching. 'The winner is..

'Balaam's Ass,” somebody whispered wishfully. 'Julie Ford, Marian
Chiardelli, and Chris Anderson—” the crowd went nuts—”as Balaam's, uh,
donkey.” Marian squealed with delight while Chris bounced up and down on
my back cheering.

'HaaHEEEE! !' 'C'mon, you old donkey!” Whack!

We went up the steps onto the plafform, still one cohesive donkey and
rider, as everyone clapped and cheered and brayed like donkeys.

As if being rescued from under a collapsed building, I felt the weight
of the prophet lift from me, then the saddle blanket, then the donkey's
back. The air in the gym wafted over my body, cool and refreshing. I
stood, dripping wet, squinting in the light, stretching my spine.

227

From the expressions on the faces of all the biblical characters and
objects standing below me, I quickly surmised they were expecting to see
Julie Ford. Their eyes were wide. The guys were roaring. Some of the
girls had their hands over their mouths.

There were some red faces. I saw a few thumbs-up.

I looked at Marian, just taking off the donkey's head. She was drenched
in sweat herself, her hair stuck to her forehead, but she was beaming.
Loren just stood there grinning, shaking his head, applauding. She had
surprised him, all right.

Victory!

Chris, Marian, and I took a bow and received our blue ribbon.

It was a great moment.

But it wouldn't last.

I G U E s s Chris didn't get in trouble because she remained above it
all. Marian got in trouble because she headed up the team. I got in
trouble because I was right in the middle of it.

'You had to be aware of how inappropriate it would be!” T. N. Nelson
said, glaring at me across his desk.

I was standing in his office the morning after the Harvest Time Social,
prepared to receive my blindfold and last request. Sister Dudley, the
iron-jawed dean of women, sat to Brother Nelson's left. Brother Smith,
the balding and tough-surfaced dean of men, sat to his right. All three
looked grimmer than any Christian should ever look.

'Well?” Brother Nelson asked me in the arched manner of a holy
inquisitor, weaving and wiggling a fountain pen through his fingers.

'Sir, my main concern was how much they wanted to win.

Sister Dudley mimicked Brother Nelson's expression, but with her tight
lips and narrow eyes, she looked a lot scarier. 'And what else were you
thinking about?” 'How much my back ached."

She sniffed a derisive laugh and rolled her eyes. 'You enjoyed it!”

‘I thought she was getting personal. 'Ma'am, I could hardly enjoy
sweating under a hot blanket with a girl on my back and— ' I fell silent
as the dual meaning of my protest washed over me. Don't stop there,
Jordan. Your grave almost deep enough.

Sister Dudley fell backward in her seat as if she'd been slapped.

Brother Smith looked away so she wouldn't see him laughing.

'Uh, I don't think we need to pursue this any further,” said Brother
Nelson.

But Sister Dudley pursued it further. 'You did enjoy it!” Well, she
pushed me. 'Yes, ma'am, I did. I enjoy everything about Marian
Chiardelli, whether I'm in the same room with her or in the same
donkey.” Sister Dudley gasped. She even put her hand over her heart. It
looked like bad acting. 'Well I never!” I had once heard Robert Mitchum
use a line in an old western, and it had to have been stored in my
memory for this very moment. 'No, ma'am, I don't suppose you have.”
Well, I didn't have to submit to their corrective action. I could have
just left West Bethel forever. But to me, that would have been handing
the administration a victory, another notch to carve in their big black
Bibles. I was doing well at this school. I had good relationships with
most of my teachers. My grades were excellent.

I'd made some wonderful friends. Ben was getting to be a pretty good
guitar player. Most of all, God had called me to this school and to the
ministry that would follow, and I owed itto him to see it through.

So I stayed, and went on with my studies as usual, embracing my
punishment. My sentence was harsh, thanks to my temper and Sister
Dudley's indignity. They put me on probation and forbade me to be near
Marian for the rest of the quarter. I couldn't talk to her, call her, or
write to her. They put her on probation as well, and forbade her to have
any contact with me. They allowed me to keep the prayer card I'd taped
to my desk as long as I was praying, but I could only keep her head. The
rest of her would have to go.

Now her image only measured an eighth of an inch.

229

This was to be a cooling off period, they said, a time to get focused on
the Lord instead of each other. That was the most maddening thing about
it. Marian was Loren ‘ girl and they were picking on me! I heard no
accusations of immorality over Loren's bare Samson chest. How many of
the girls had enjoyed that? I discovered a lot about myself the first
few weeks of my pro- bation. I discovered how much anger I was capable
of, and how many different ways I could vent it without breaking
anything. I discovered how close I could come to swearing without really
doing it, and how limber my middle finger could be when separated from
the others. I allowed myself to ponder whether Sister Dudley truly ever
had, and wonder how holy and spiritual I had to be before I could reduce
my first two names to initials. All of which brought to mind the wild
donkey needing to be bridled. It took at least two weeks for that
question to work its way through, but I finally dealt with it: Was that
really me? Was God trying to show me the waywardness that still remained
in my heart? Was I really that rebellious and lustful?

My anger cooled. I adapted to the bridle. I prayed it through and
repented of my rebellious attitude. I read my chapters and turned in my
papers, I passed my quizzes and midterms. I plunked on my banjo, sitting
alone on my bed.

I got over it. I even forgave Sister Dudley. After all, what was I
losing anyway? Marian and I were just friends, just a brother and sister
in the Lord making a donkey of ourselves. We would always be friends,
and someday the whole incident would be funny.

A WEEK BEFORE THANK5 GIVING, I heard what sounded like a mob outside my
dorm window. My stomach turned. I ran to the window and looked, and sure
enough, an old college ritual was underway. Some poor guy had gotten
engaged and now his buddies and their buddies were carrying him up to
the pond beside the chapel. I didn't even grab my coat, but ran down the
hall, down the stairs, and out the door. By the time I got to the pond,
they'd already

thrown him in. He'd climbed out, someone had thrown a robe over him, and
now he was wiping his head with a towel.

I waited as he bent and dried his scalp. Then he straightened up,
laughing and waving at his well-wishing and mischievous friends.

I would live another day. It wasn't Loren Bullard.

BROTHER SMITH AND i had many conversations over that long fall quarter,
and we got close. He was an honorable man and never violated the
conditions of my probation. Nevertheless, he did pass information along
as he acquired it.

'I heard today that Marian and the girls have named that donkey Travis.
As I understand it, they feel they couldn't have won the contest without
your help—inappropriate as it was.” 'Yes sir.” 'You appear to be doing
all right.” 'Oh, keeping busy.” 'How did midterms go?” 'Better than I'd
hoped.” 'I understand Marian did well on her midterms, and it's also my
understanding that she prays for you daily. What are you smiling about?”
'Oh, nothing, sir.” 'But your smile does mean you're pleased at this
moment.” I nodded.

'Just wanted to deepen my own understanding, of course, in case someone
should ask me what I'm understanding these days.” 'Of course.” Such
conversations didn't happen every day, and they never seemed planned, at
least by me. Brother Smith and I would pass each other on campus, a
perfectly normal thing to do, and sometimes he just happened to be a
trifle more chatty. Once we passed each other in the chapel foyer and he
asked me my opinion of the shrubs by the front steps. 'Think they ought
to be pruned back?” 231

I looked through the window and saw shrubs, most of them bare this time
of year. 'Well, pruning never hurts.” 'That reminds me: Loren Bullard
has a friend thinking of getting a haircut. Loren thinks it would be a
great idea, but the friend thought a second opinion might be helpful.
Did I say something funny?” I wiped the smile off my face, but it came
right back. 'They want my opinion?” He shrugged and looked away as if
totally uninterested. 'The friend wants your opinion—but that's just my
understanding.” I thought it over. 'I think Loren should get used to his
friend having longer hair.” He nodded. 'I think the shrubs could be
pruned back, though.” I looked at them again. 'Sure. The shrubs could
be.”

ONE SATURDAY NIGHT in December, I came so close. Chapel had ended, and I
was sitting near the back because Marian and her friends usually sat
near the front. The altars were filled that night, but as the hour grew
late, the crowd dwindled to two guys and one girl praying separately,
and the trio praying in their usual spot on the right side. I watched
and listened as Chris and Julie just kept hammering away in tongues,
their hands on Marian's shoulders. It could have been an exact repeat of
so many other occasions, except that this time, sooner than I expected,
Julie and Chris called it quits, gave Marian a little hug, and left her
there alone.

Then it was just two guys praying, me sitting near the back, and Marian
weeping at the altar. Alone.

Sister Dudley had to be watching. I looked around the chapel and saw no
one else, but those grim, narrow eyes had to be somewhere. If God wasn't
watching, she was.

I sat glued to the pew as Marian wiped her eyes, stood up, and started
for the door. I didn't wave to her or make a sound. I even slouched a
little as if trying to hide.

Obedience. The word pounded in my mind. To obey is better than sacrflce.

Rebellion. I could feel the pang of guilt turning my insides. Rebellion
is as the sin of witchcraft. Submission.

Authority.

Sister Dudley.

I sat there until Marian was gone. Now it was just one guy praymg and me
sitting near the back, and Sister Dudley watching even if God wasn't.
And I bawled like a baby, my forehead resting on the back of the pew in
front of me.

ON DECEMBER 22, at three forty-five in the afternoon, I held my pen high
above my paper, began to hum the Hallelujah Chorus, and brought the pen
down in slow-motion to place a period on the last sentence of my last
final exam for the fall quarter. For me, the quarter was over. I had
mail to pick up and some packing to do before going home for Christmas,
but somewhere, sometime in the middle of all that, I absolutely had to
see Brother Smith.

I hurried to the front of the classroom, set my exam on the prof's desk,
told her Merry Christmas, and got out of there.

Brother Smith was waiting in the hall outside, still in his coat and
scarf.

I hesitated. Was he really waiting there for me? I smiled, said hi, got
into my coat, and just about walked on.

He wiggled his finger at me, beckoning.

My pulse quickened though I tried to act cool and collected.

'Yes sir?” He gave me a gentle shove on the shoulder, leading me toward
the door. 'The quarter's over, son. Now listen, things are happening
quickly and we're going to be cutting it close. Did you hear about Loren
and Marian?” . ,, - Oh no. I braced myself. 'No sir.

233

We pushed our way out the door and into the cold December afternoon.

'Their relationship is a thing of the past. It was over a long time
ago.” He had to nudge me. 'Keep walking.” 'It's over? You mean they
broke up?” He sneered and rolled his eyes. 'There was no enduring
relationship in the first place. The appearance was there, but listen,
I've watched students match up for years and I knew they were heading
opposite directions.” He snickered. 'And him losing the contest to you
and Marian didn't help.” 'Well why didn't you tell me?” 'I couldn't
burden you with it. You would have violated probation and you know it.”
Suddenly I felt scared. 'Oh brother. Now what do I do?” 'You listen real
careful, that's what you do.” We hurried down the brick walkway from the
chapel, watching for ice, the bare, black branches of the maples
overshadowing us. It seemed so still and deserted now. At least half the
student body had finished the quarter already and evacuated the place.
'Marian's out of the trio too. They asked her to quit.” 'What?” 'Sister
Dudley wouldn't divulge the details—” 'Sister Dudley!” '—but it's my
understanding that there's something amiss in Marian's life, something
she refuses to deal with. Julie and Chris felt it best to let her go.”
'You didn't tell me that either!” 'Same reason. But I've got one more
item for you.” I cringed as I said, 'Okay.” 'She's leaving West Bethel.
She won't be back.” 'She wont— He nudged me again. 'Can't you think and
walk at the same time?” 'What happened?” 'I don't know, but I'm not sure
she's making the right decision.

She's hurt, fed up, devastated, whatever. That's why you need to talk to
her, and that's why I came and got you.” 'Where is she?” 'I saw her
packing her car in the parking lot out in front of the women's dorm.” I
was getting nervous. My hands were shaking. 'Man... I haven't talked to
her in months.” We were coming to the women's dorm at that very moment.

The parking lot was just on the other side. 'Well, take my advice: Skip
talking about the weather.” 'Brother Smith.” I stopped walking again.
This time he stopped instead of nudging me. 'Do you think she loves me?”
He pointed toward the parking lot. 'The quarter's over. Why don't you
ask her?” He remained where he was. I ran down the walkway and around
the D. R. Smedley Residence Hall. There were a few cars left in the
parking lot and I immediately recognized Marian's blue VW fastback. The
back was open, there were suitcases and clothing inside. I planted
myself by that car and waited.

When she came out, she was dressed in a blue ski jacket, a crocheted
blue stocking cap.., and a pair of jeans. She was carrying only a small,
overnight case, her last item. I was hoping she would be glad to see me,
but the smile she gave me was brief, and strangely guarded. As she
walked to her car, her eyes seldom left the pavement.

'Hi.” She tossed the small case into the back of the car and closed the
rear door. Then she shook my hand. 'Long time no see.” 'Up close,
anyway.” She looked down again. 'Yeah.” 'I heard you were leaving. I
mean, leaving for good.” There it was again, that strange, evasive
fidgeting. She looked around, looked back at the dorm, anywhere but at
me, and said, 'Things haven't worked out.” 'I'm real sorry.” She looked
at me again, probably thinking the subject had closed.

235

'So am I. I guess I'll go home for a while, get a job, just wait and see
what the Lord wants me to do.” Now I started to fidget. 'Think we could
take a walk?” She hesitated. 'Just a short one?” She still wouldn't
answer. 'Hey, after this, it's good-bye, you know? We may not get
another chance.” She thought for a moment, and then joined me. We headed
for the lower end of the campus where the big maples formed a majestic
canopy over the groomed lawn and park benches. The wooden benches were
cold and deserted. Red leaves that had fallen after the caretaker's last
raking lay scattered on the grass.

'So, I hear you and Loren have parted company,” I said, afraid as I
spoke each word.

'We're still friends.” 'That's good.” Then we walked in silence. It
became clear that I would have to carry this conversation. 'Listen, for
whatever it's worth.. .' Brother.

Was there no subject I could start easily? 'I know you've been haymg
some kind of difficulty. I mean, I heard you were asked to leave the
trio, and I saw the three of you praying after chapel.. .' She just
looked away. 'But I want you to know, that means nothing to me. I don't
care. I mean, I still love you and I accept you and you're still my
friend, okay?” She sniffed a little chuckle. 'Chris and Julie told me
the same thing.” What was I to say to that? I groped for words. I
sighed. I got frustrated. Finally I came up with, 'Well I'm not them.”
She didn't seem overjoyed, but at least she looked at me.

'Travis, you don't know anything about it.

'I don't have to.” We came to a bench. It was dry enough.

'Could we just sit down a moment?” She sat. I couldn't. I was too
nervous. 'Marian, I just, uh, I just want to give you something to take
with you when you go, I mean, for whatever it's worth. I mean, this is
it, the last time we'll see each other, and, well, I just...” She was
looking at the ground and only occasionally looking at me. 'I just want
to say that, I've had some THE Vi5ITATION

time to really think about things, and I've decided—I mean, I know
what's important to me, more than anything else.” I had to push myself
to get it out. I counted the items, all two of them, on my fingers, my
hands only inches from her nose. 'Serving the Lord wherever he might
send me...” I couldn't get to the second one.

I was choking up. My voice was quaking as I finished. 'And having you
with me. Always.” Her lip quivered. She broke down. 'Please don't.” 'No,
I mean it.

She shook her head. 'Please don't say any more.” 'I have to. I'll hate
myself forever if I don't.” 'I can't . .

Well, I was going down in flames anyway. 'Then just let me say itso I'll
get it said. You can say no, you can walk away, you can go back home and
find God's will for you, whatever it is, but at least I gave it a shot.
Okay?” She didn't answer. I didn't wait for an answer. I fell to one
knee, right there by the bench, right next to that beautiful blue-jeaned
girl, and took her hand. It was trembling and one of her tears fell on
my thumb. 'Marian, I love you.” Now my voice fell all apart again. I
kept going. 'I love you and I believe God brought us together. Ever
since that time we first met you've been my girl, my dream, the only one
I've ever wanted.” I took a breath, but I did it quickly. 'Marian, if
you'll have me, I'd like for you to be my wife.” I was still holding her
hand. She didn't say anything.

'I, I know we haven't talked about it before this, but—” Her hand
squeezed mine. ‘Her eyes were streaming with tears.

'I'd like to.” I felt she might give a reason why she couldn't. I was
ready for anything: she wasn't a virgin, she couldn't have kids, she
already had kids, she was wanted for murder in six states. I didn't
care.

'Travis, I can't be the kind of wife you need. I'm just not right with
God.” But I knew the love I had for her was from the very heart of God
in the first place. It was so overwhelming, so rich and sweet.

I could love this woman as God loved, without qualification, without
requirement. I spoke gently, imploringly. 'Tell me.” 237

She whimpered, shook her head, and finally confessed, 'I can't speak in
tongues!” And then she let go all her pain, sobbing, her hands over her
face. 'I don't know what it is. Maybe I wasn't being honest with Loren.
I thought I loved him, but I was always thinking of you! I didn't mean
it! I love the Lord and I never wanted to grieve him...

I went slightly limp. After all the buildup, all the suspense, this was
the problem? 'Is.. . is that it? Is that what's wrong?” She didn't want
to look at me. 'Sister Dudley prayed for me, and Julie and Chris and all
the girls in the dorm, and I just can't get prayed for anymore. I just
can't go through that again.” I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket.
Thank God, it was brand-new, never used. I gently dabbed her eyes and
cheeks and even wiped the tears from our clenched hands.

Then I kissed her, right on the lips.

And she kissed me back! A wishful kiss, laden with sorrow that there
could never be another.

I cradled her face in both my hands and looked in her tear-filled eyes.
'Marry me. I wantyou, Marian. I wantyou to be my wife!”

SPLAsH! Ben told me it was coming and when. We rented a wetsuit and I
wore it under my clothes. I pretended to be none the wiser as I walked
out of the dorm and into the middle of a laugh- ing, roaring mob. I
never thought I'd feel so glad to be carried by all those arms. I never
thought I'd rejoice to be thrown into the pond in the middle of January.

But when I came up out of that water and heard the cheers of my friends
from the banks all around me, I felt I'd been baptized all over again. I
could look up and see heaven, and God was smiling.

MR S. MAC ON wasn't at all happy to see her former hired hand at her
door. It was Monday morning, she was tired and cranky, and Nevin Sorrel
could only mean trouble. 'What do you want?” He held his hat in his
hands and looked altogether contrite. 'I don't want no trouble at all,
Mrs. Macon, no trouble at all. I was just thinking that maybe, you know,
since things are bustling so much around here, you could use an extra
hand.” She began to close the door. 'We're fine.” He leaned forward in
earnest. 'How about Brandon—I mean, Mr. Nichols? There's work going on
everywhere around town.

There must be something I could do—and by the way, I apologize for any
trouble I've caused. It won't happen again.

Then a voice came from inside the house. 'Mrs. Macon, would that be
Nevin Sorrel?” Nevin hollered through the open door, 'Yes it is, Mr.
Nichols!

r I'm here to offer my services!” Brandon Nichols appeared, looking
freshly showered. He studied the lanky cowboy a moment, then asked,
'Who's the boss around here, Nevin?” 'You are, sir. No question about
it.”

'You know how to run a backhoe?” Nevin grinned and nodded. 'Been running
that very machine for years.

'We're developing a spring up in the willow draw. I have plans drawn up
but I need someone to do the excavation, lay the pipe, haul the
gravel... .' 'I've done all of that!” 'It'll pay twelve bucks an hour.”

'And you live here on the place.” Mrs. Macon balked at that. 'What?”
Nichols told her, 'He can have that trailer the Pearsons donated. We'll
park it out back of my place.” Then he told Nevin, 'I want you around
where I can keep an eye on you. No more goofing off.”

'No sir, not one bit.”

'No hanging out at the tavern and getting into fights.” 'No.” 'You're
the kid now, and I'm your old man. Got that?” 'I'll try to be worthy of
your trust, Mr. Nichols.” Brandon Nichols looked him up and down and
reached a decision. 'Okay. Start today. Make me proud of you.”

I PULLED ui in front of the little brick police station on the main
highway. Brett Henchle's squad car was still parked in front so I
figured I'd find him inside. I raffled off the days in my mind as I
pushed through the front door: Thursday I found the car... Friday,
Saturday, Sunday... well, maybe he had time to do some checking on
Friday or this morning.

He was seated at his desk behind the counter, going over some paperwork.
A cup of coffee sat on his desk, steaming and looking desirable. 'Hey
Travis, how's it going?” 'Oh, fine. How's the leg?” The question seemed
to embarrass him. 'It's okay.” 241

'Any information on that car in the river?” He shook his head. 'A dead
end. We'll probably just impound it and scrap it.” I could tell he
didn't want to get into it. That didn't matter to me. I did. 'You didn't
find out anything? Even with a license number, a make, a model?” 'The
car was probably stolen and ditched in the river. We can't find the
owner, we can't find the suspect. End of story.” 'So who is this owner
you can't find?” Now he was irritated. He reached for a file folder on
the corner of his desk and opened it. 'Somebody named Herb Johnson.

He used to work for a wrecking yard in Missoula but he quit. He used to
live in an apartment in Missoula but he moved. There's no forwarding
address.” He closed the folder and tossed it on the corner of his desk
again, his way of saying he'd answered all my questions.

'May I see it?” I said, indicating the folder.

He wrinlded his brow at me. 'Travis, just what are you fishing for?”
'I'm—” 'Just what do you think you're going to do that I haven't?” I
didn't want to offend him. 'Just curious, that's all.” 'Well the case is
still pending so it's confidential.” 'I thought the case was closed and
you were going to scrap the car.” He leaned back and clasped his hands
behind his head. 'That's right. Soon as we I)ull it out of the river
I'll button up the case and you can read to your heart's delight.” I was
looking at him funny.

'What?” 'The car's gone.” That was obviously news to him. 'What do you
mean, it's gone?” 'Somebody already pulled it out. I thought it was you.

He thought a moment. 'Somebody pulled it out? You sure?” 'Drove by there
just this morning. Saw the tire tracks, deep ruts, and no car.” THE
VISiTATION

He looked puzzled, but then he shrugged and went back to his paperwork.
'I'll look into it” Well, I thought, so wi//I.

iNEVER WANTED to resist the Lord if I sensed he was nudging me. When
Brandon Nichols took an intrusive interest in me, that was probably a
nudge, but okay, I didn't catch on. Kyle getting broadsided made the
nudge more noticeable, however, and Morgan Elliott's distress over her
son cinched it. I now considered myself officially nudged.

I went from the police station directly to Mike's Towing, only two
blocks away. Mike Downing had run his little tow truck business from the
same cubicle of a garage for at least ten years, and had a contract with
the local police and state patrol. Any time a vehicle broke down or was
abandoned on the highway or somewhere in town, the authorities called
Mike. If he didn't pull that car from the river, he might know who did.

I didn't drive into the yard surrounding Mike's garage. I valued my
tires too much, so I parked out on the street. Mike hauled hulks for
scrap, and over the years he'd gleaned from every hulk whatever he took
a shine to: a fender here, a bumper there, a headlight, a window, an
engine block, you name it. He had no specific place for anything, so
every piece lay where it first fell, filling the yard from fence to
fence. If you wanted to visit Mike's Towing, you definitely kept your
eyes on the ground, and you didn't even consider driving in there.

I found the lower half of Mike's son Larry in the garage. The upper half
was under the hood of a ‘57 Chevy and didn't know I was there until I
hollered hello.

'Yeah?” He was dirty but happy. 'Oh, Pastor Jordan, how are you?”
PastorJordan? It had been a while since we'd seen each other.

'Just fine. I came to see Mike.” Larry broke into his grin with one
tooth missing, then hollered, 'Hey Dad! Pastor Jordan's—” 'I heard him,”
came a rude reply from the back room. Mike 243

appeared, yawning and rubbing his messed-up hair. His lip was puffy, his
left eye was nearly swollen shut, and he had a sizable white patch on
his forehead. He could see the look on my face and explained without my
asking, 'I got in a fight.” 'So I see. How's the other guy?” He went to
a coffeepot sitting on a hot plate on the workbench.

'Oh, Matt looks about the same, maybe a little better. Want some
coffee?” 'No thanks.” It felt so strange to be asking, 'Matt Kiley?”
'Yeah, good ol' Matt. Can't blame him. I borrowed a set of wrenches from
his store three years ago and never did pay him. He was in a wheelchair
so it kind of slipped my mind, you know?” I was still incredulous. 'And
he came after you?” 'Well.. . I got in a few good licks myself, but he
got the price of those wrenches, let me tell you. The tavern's lost a
chair and a window, but they're still open. You lookin' for some tires?”

'I got some that'll fit your rig. Studded snow tires, real cheap.” 'Let
me think about it.

'What else you want?” 'I was wondering if you pulled a car from the
Spokane River.” That widened his good eye. 'From the river? Who went
into the river?” 'I'm not sure. But I found a car in the river Thursday,
and now it's gone.” 'Did you tell the cops about it?” 'Brett Henchle
knows about the car, but he didn't know somebody pulled it from the
river.” Now he looked perturbed. 'Henchle never told me about it.

The cops want a car pulled, they're supposed to call me.” 'But you
didn't pull any car out of the river since last Thursday?” 'No. And I'm
sure gonna find out why.”

WELL, said Morgan Elliott over my speakerphone, 'Brett Henchle isn't the
only cop on the planet.” THE VISiTATION

Kyle and I looked at each other across my kitchen table, the telephone
between us. She had a point there.

It was the first hush-hush meeting of the Jordan—Sherman— Elliott
underground resistance movement. Kyle even parked around the block and
came through my back yard to keep from being seen, which seemed a little
excessive to me.

'You know another one?” I asked.

'Gabe used to go hunting with a guy who's a cop in Sandpoint, Idaho. I'm
still good friends with him and his wife.” 'So, you're saying a cop in
Idaho can do a check on a car from Montana that's found in Washington?”
'Law enforcement people are all linked together by computer these days.
Any cop can find out who owns any car anywhere, it doesn't matter.

'Well okay.” 'What kind of a car was it?” Kyle asked.

'Ford LTD, probably early ‘70s. It was red where it wasn't covered with
silt.” 'Okay,” said Morgan, 'I'll pass that along. What about the
pictures?” Kyle answered as he leafed through the snapshots he'd just
gotten back from the drugstore. 'I got some good shots of Nichols's
face. I'll get some extra prints made up.” Morgan asked, 'So what if the
car doesn't belong to Brandon Nichols?” 'That won't surprise me,' I
answered, 'But that car went into the river during the spring run-off,
and that's the same time Nichols showed up in town. That and the Montana
license plate are enough to make me curious.” 'Plus Brett Henchle's
silence about it,” said Kyle.

'You think Nichols bought him by healing his leg?” Morgan asked. I
hesitated a little, but Kyle didn't. 'Absolutely. We're not going to get
one bit of help from him.

'So, okay. I'll get back to you as soon as I find out something.” 245

'Before you hang up, let's pray,” I said. 'I'd really like the Lord to
shield us a bit. I, uh, I don't want Brandon Nichols to know what we're
doing.”

'Two-Two-ONE-ONE-Two South Maurice. . .' Kyle flipped and folded and
gathered an unruly map of Missoula as we drove on the outskirts of the
town, looking for numbers, signs, anything. 'I don't know. I don't think
anybody actually lives around here.” The drive through Idaho and into
Montana had been beautiful, weaving through mountains and along rivers.
Missoula itself was nestled in a wide, flat valley, surrounded by green
hills and timbered mountains. This part of Missoula could be pleasing to
the eye as well, depending on how excited you got about metal buildings
and cyclone-fenced yards filled with big things: tractors, trucks, farm
machinery, concrete sewer and drainpipe, roof trusses. We passed a John
Deere dealer with a whole fleet of green tractors lined up along the
street, and then a masonry supply company with neat stacks of concrete
block, decorative stone, and a zillion different colors of brick. This
was definitely the guy part of town.

'Hey, wait, wait,” I said, releasing my foot from the gas pedal.

'‘Abe's.' The car owner's name is Abe, right? Abe Carlson?” Kyle looked
up and saw it too: a sheet of plywood painted white with big blue
letters: Abe's Auto Wrecking. It was hanging crookedly next to an
opening in still another cyclone fence, this one festooned with
automobile wheels painted red, white, and blue.

'That's it,” he said, reading the numbers under the name.
'Twotwo-one-one-two South Maurice.” I turned left and pulled up to the
opening, but took a moment to survey the place before driving in. We
were looking at an acre of dead cars in long rows, their carcasses
dented, hollow, and vacant, picked clean of chrome, glass, mirrors,
wheels, and anything else a living car might need in the world beyond
the fence. In the center of it all, like an old barge floating on a
multicolored sea of metal, stood Abe's big shack wearing hubcaps like
sequins.

'Maybe we should have called first,” Kyle suggested.

I eased the car down the long, jagged aisle toward the big blue shack.

Two pit bulls came charging out of a yawning garage door. A grisly
looking character in gray coveralls came quickstepping after them,
hollering their names so loudly it sounded like 'KAP!

FREET! GEBACKERE!!” 'Kap” and 'Freet” didn't hear him. They had a
mauling to at- tend to, circling the car, barking, growling, and waiting
for either of us to stick a leg out.

'HAll! GEDOUTHERE!” This guy had to be Abe. A face and bark like his
made me wonder why he needed dogs. He shooed them away, yelling and
banging on the nearest hulk with a tire iron. They both scampered into a
dog pen alongside the building and remained there while he slammed the
gate on them. I was impressed.

He returned to our car and may have smiled, at least around the eyes. I
rolled down my window. 'That's Casper and Frito. They just ate a
Jehovah's Witness. Whatcha after?” are you Abe Carlson?” 'Yeah. Who are
you?” 'Uh, may I get out?” He backed away from my door and I got out.
Kyle got out too and walked around to join me. We introduced ourselves
and told him where we were from.

The moment I mentioned the town of Antioch, he scowled at us. 'Youcops?”
no. Kyle here's a pastor and I teach the sixth grade.” 'Got a call from
a cop in Antioch. Is this about that car?” 'We—yeah. If we could—” 'I
got nothing more to say about it.” He turned and started walking away.

I turned to Kyle. 'Get the photos.” He reached inside the car while I
hollered after Abe, 'Could you just look at a picture for us?” 247

He turned. 'What?” Kyle handed me the photos. I said, 'Look at a
picture? These pictures right here?” He glanced thoughtfully at Casper
and Frito, then walked back.

I guess I got him curious.

I held up the best photo we had of Brandon Nichols, a nice shot of him
preaching in Mrs. Macon's garage. 'Do you recognize this man?” He took
one look and his expression turned so dark I almost backed away.

'You know him?” He nodded. 'That's Herb Johnson. Where'd you get this?”
I exchanged a glance with Kyle. 'Herb Johnson?” 'He used to work for
me.” Kyle asked with surprise in his voice. 'He worked here?” 'Yeah,
worked here for a year or so.” 'We thought he worked on a ranch
somewhere.” 'I don't know what he did before Hattie brought him over.”
'Who's Hattie?” I asked.

'My girlfriend. Herb was one of her tenants and he needed a job.” He
paused to spit on the ground. 'Worst mistake I ever made.” 'Your
girlfriend owns some apartments or something?” 'She manages a building
over on Myers Way. She gets some flaky characters in there. I about gave
Herb that car just so he'd leave.

Bingo. I tried not to look too excited. 'The, the, uh, Ford LTD?”
'Yeah.” 'So, did he buy it from you, or..

'I sold itto him cheap. He wanted to move on and I wanted to help him.”
'But the car was still in your name.” 'I've already been through all
this with that cop.” He started looking elsewhere.

I didn't want him getting away. 'Uh, Kyle took this picture on

a ranch near Antioch.” Abe stood still. 'Herb's working there, only he's
using another name. He's calling himself Brandon Nichols.” Abe cursed.
He looked scared. 'I don't need to hear no more.” 'But.., did the cop
tell you the car was ditched in the river? I mean, it looks like
somebody tried to hide it.

Abe waved me off, shook his head, backed away. 'I don't want to hear no
more. Now that's it. We're through talking and you guys can just get out
of here.” Kyle pleaded, 'We're afraid Herb might be up to something and
we were hoping you could—” 'GETOUTTAHERE!” Casper and Frito went crazy,
leaping against the fence of their pen. He headed their way with an
obvious intention. I got back in the car and Kyle followed my lead. We
got out of there.

i DROVE BACK into Missoula while Kyle flipped and folded and raffled the
map. 'Myers Way, Myers Way.. .' he mumbled, trying to find it.

'So let me think: Brett said he couldn't find the owner or the thief.
But he talked to Abe...” 'But Abe isn't the owner. He doesn't want to be
the owner.” 'Right, he wants to be through with Herb and the car.” 'So
it's Herb Brett can't find.” 'Because Herb's Brandon.” 'And the car was
never stolen because Abe sold it to Herb.” 'Unless someone stole it from
Herb.” 'But Herb Johnson never reported it stolen.” 'No, he just ditched
it in the river.” I got a hunch. 'Which could make sense if Herb is
trying to break all ties with his past and become somebody else.
Remember when I said it wouldn't surprise me if Brandon wasn't the
owner?” Kyle looked up from his map to exclaim, 'It sure scared Abe when
you told him Herb had a different name.” 'Yeah, like Herb Johnson might
not be Herb Johnson.” 249

'Which also means Brandon Nichols might not be Brandon Nichols.” 'So...
Myers Way..

Kyle went back to the map. 'Okay, turn right. We need to double back.”

WE FOUND MYERS WAY, a residential street lined with well-used cars and
low-cost fixer-uppers. The yards were small, many were unmowed, many
populated by mongrel dogs and rusting tricycles.

Aging McDonald's cups and hamburger wrappers lay fading along the street
curb, and graffiti marred the sidewalks. We found four apartment
buildings occupying the four corners of an intersection.

We could see more multi-units farther down the street. This could be a
long day.

Kyle knocked on the first manager's door. He'd never heard of anyone
named Hattie.

I went across the street and knocked on another door. A young mother
with an infant in her arms and a toddler in tow sent me two doors down.
The manager of this building didn't know a Hattie.

By now Kyle had checked the third apartment building. No Hattie.

I went to the fourth.

'Hattie Phelps?” said the manager, a young bachelor with a cluttered
computer desk in his living room.

'I don't have a last name, but she's the girlfriend of Abe Carlson.”
'Yeah, sure, I know her. She manages the Crestview Apart- ments.” He
stepped outside to direct me. 'Two blocks down, on the left.” The
Crestview Apartments were not high-rent property. The #4 building was a
sagging, wood-frame structure that instantly made you wonder how close
the nearest fire station was. From the street

I could count ten apartments, six below and four above. The wooden
stairway leading to the second floor was a lawsuit waiting

to happen. A leaky hose bib was feeding a permanent puddle in the small
courtyard. Kyle and I went to Hattie's door together, fully expecting
another pit bull to answer our knock.

It turned out Hattie was a very pleasant woman, a plump little lady in a
loud flowered dress who owned a cat but no dog. All we had to do was
mention Abe Carlson's name and she started talking right there on her
landing.

'Abe's a nice man, he really is. You just have to get to know him.”
'Well, he can sure control Casper and Frito.” She laughed a loud, cackly
laugh. 'So you met the dogs! Oh, my word!” She then proceeded to tell us
how many people had been frightened by Casper and Frito and where Abe
got the dogs and how they didn't seem to mind when she came around but
she would never take her cat over there. We let her talk, we laughed at
her wisecracks, we told her whatever we could about ourselves when we
got the chance. She could have carried on most of the conversation
without our even being there.

'Well anyway, what brings you two gentlemen clear over here?” I tried to
ease gently into the subject. 'We've just had someone move to Antioch
that we thought you might know.” I handed her the photograph and we
watched her face closely.

Her eyes grew large and her hand went over her heart. She drew a little
gasp and then looked up at us. 'He's in your town now?” 'Yes. He's
living on a ranch and preaching under a big circus tent. You may have
read about it in the papers.” She was puzzled. 'No, not Herb.. .' She
figured it out. 'He's preaching?” 'People think he's Jesus,” said Kyle,
'and he's letting them believe that.” She gasped again. 'I did read
about that! That's Herb?” I pointed to the photo. 'If Herb is the man in
this photograph, then it's Herb.” 'There was never a picture in the
paper and I think the name wasn't the same.

251

'He's going by a different name now.

She was afraid. The hand holding the photo was trembling and her other
hand was still over her heart. But she looked up at us and said
pleadingly, 'He's a wonderful man. You have to believe that.” 'Well...”
Kyle had to swallow before he spoke. 'There are many people who are
impressed with what he's doing.” 'He's a good man! I would never do
anything to harm him in any way. He knows that.” I asked her, 'Does the
name Brandon Nichols mean anything to you?” She gawked at me, still
plainly terrified.

'Did Herb ever mention that name?” 'No...” Her eyes seemed so vacant, as
if looking into another world. 'Herb's a wonderful man, very sweet.”
Kyle asked, 'Did he ever work at a ranch around here?” 'He was a good
worker. Abe loved having him around.” 'Well, yes, but did he ever work
on a ranch?” 'I don't know. I only know that he worked for Abe for a
while.”

'He rode horses. He went somewhere once to ride horses.” 'A ranch around
here, I suppose?” 'He was quiet, and clean, and never missed a rent
payment, and he was courteous.” I asked, 'Did he impress you as being a
spiritual man?” That got her going. 'Oh, yes! Very religious! You knew
that just being around him! He wouldn't hurt anyone, and I know he won't
hurt me!” 'Did he—” 'Because I'm on his side. He doesn't have to hurt
me, I'm his friend, I'm his neighbor. I'm Hattie. He knows me.” 'Where's
he from originally? Any idea?” 'California. He talked about Southern
California once in a while, but always fondly. He liked it here too, and
we liked him, didn't we? Of course we did.” I was getting a very creepy
feeling. She wasn't looking at us, but

beyond us. Kyle shot a quick glance over his shoulder just to be safe.

'Hattie?” I asked, trying to get her to meet my eyes. 'Are you all
right?” She pushed the photograph back at me. 'Please leave him be.

I'm his friend and he knows that. He's the most wonderful man in the
world. I loved having him for a tenant!” Kyle spoke gently. 'Hattie, do
you need us to pray for you?” He lightly touched her shoulder.

She jumped as if he'd given her a shock. 'NO! No! I don't need any
praying, not by you!” She looked past us as if seeing wolves lurking in
the neighborhood. 'I haven't really talked to you, have I? I haven't
told you anything.” 'Don't be afraid,” said Kyle. 'It's all right.” She
gave a little yelp and ducked inside her door, slamming it after her. We
could hear her whimpering behind the door, 'Go away! Just go away!” Kyle
squeezed his eyes shut and extended his hands toward her door. 'Lord
God, we bind the enemy in Jesus' name!” I pulled him by the arm. 'And we
leave Hattie in peace. Amen.” Neither of us said much on the drive back
to Antioch. In the silence, my mind began to move through a series of
inexplicable connections. Brandon Nichols... Herb Johnson. . . Abe and
Hae... and then further back, into the past, to places I thought I'd
never go again.... 16

TRAy,” said Marian, her arm tightly around me—it was a new and wonderful
sensation. 'Let's go ice-skating.” It sounded cold, and I'd just gotten
warm after my dip in the West Bethel pond. 'Ice-skating?” 'It's how I'd
like to celebrate!” she said.

I'd never been ice-skating before and the very thought, well, chilled
me. I'd done plenty of roller-skating with my old youth group, and
Marian insisted it wasn't that much different. I suppose she had visions
of us skating in tandem like those Olympic figure skating duos, arm in
arm, one leg stretched out straight behind us and our smiling faces
turned directly into a sixty-mile-an-hour wind while stirring orchestra
music came out of the sky. I had serious doubts that vision would ever
come true, but, hey, I'd gotten her father's blessing, my folks were
ecstatic, she was wearing the ring, I'd been thrown in the pond—what
else was there? We went skating. We did skate arm in arm our first time
out, mostly to keep me from falling and making a fool of myself in front
of all those little kids on the rink who could skate circles around me.
The first halfhour or so, I tried to enjoy it. Marian was having the
time of her ife. After an hour, I really did begin to have fun, and my
progress me a kiss once we were safely stopped and gripping the side
earned

2 2

rail. After another hour and a cup of cider in the cafe, I stepped up to
Marian, bowed with a flourish, and said, 'May I have this lap?” She
graciously accepted, extending her hand, and we managed to work our way
around the rink several times, my arm around her waist and my other hand
in hers—kind of like dancing, but it was skating, and that's different.
The music over the sound system was rock-'n'-roll and not very stirring.
We weren't sticking one leg out straight behind, and I wouldn't say we
were graceful.

But I remember the moment it connected for me: We were coming around the
turn near the cafe for the zillionth time. Her face was so young, so
close. I was holding her hand. The cafe was passing behind her in a soft
blur. There was a light in her eyes and a special smile that told me,
I'm yours. It's going to be us now, you and me, and I couldn't be
happier When we stepped off the ice to sit down and rest, she thought I
had something in my eye and I was too embarrassed to tell her I'd gotten
all emotional out there. That look! I could actually feel the depth of
her joy, the laughter in her heart. Our love became real in that moment.
I could finally believe it. Ever since that night in the hospital
waiting room, I never believed that such a lady as this would so gladly
accept my love and love me in return. I just didn't feel that lucky or
that blessed, and I still thought I had to be dreaming when I saw that
ring on her hand. But that moment, when she gave me that one special
look, I knew. I finally knew.

She would give me that one special look the day of our wed- ding. I
would receive it across the breakfast table almost every morning and
from the front pew every time I preached, year after year. I would look
for it and find it each night as she rested on her pillow and reached to
turn off the lamp. I would always catch a glimpse of it when I took one
hand from the steering wheel to grasp hers for just a moment. It spoke
volumes without a word. It was life to me. To the end, it never
faltered, and before she slipped away, she summoned it once again, for
one, fleeting instant, grasping my hand.

But this was the first time I saw it, and I can see it even now.

255

MARLAN AND I WAITED two years to get married. It gave us time to test
the relationship and decide if we could really stick together for the
long haul. It gave us time to finish our schooling—mine at West Bethel
and hers at a business college. It encouraged discipline and diligence
in our lives.

It almost drove us crazy.

It was a good policy, however, especially for me. Having been bowled
over and burned by love before, I was able to think just a shade more
clearly even while I climbed the walls.

Sister Dudley kept her eye on us, so we found times and places where God
could watch but she couldn't. Brother Smith didn't seem to worry, and we
gave him nothing to worry about.

She graduated in 1976 and worked until I graduated in June of 1977. A
week later, we were married in the Baptist church Marian's family
attended, the daughter of a Baptist marrying a flaming Pentecostal. She
was giddy with excitement and I wasn't even nervous.

Marian's sister, Lisa, was her maid of honor. My brother, Steve, was my
best man. By now, Dad was back in the ministry, and he performed the
ceremony. With obvious pride, he pointed out to everyone that I was
graduating, marrying, and taking my first pastoring position all in the
same year, just as he did over thirty years before.

As we stood in the reception line greeting our guests, it was like
having my whole life pass before me. Two old friends from the Mountain
Victrola showed up. The mandolin player was pumping concrete for a
living and had a baby daughter. The dobro player was now a partner with
his brother in the fruit and produce business.

My old friend Vein had married Susan—the gal with the shrill voice—and
they were still attending Christian Chapel. She was expecting and his
hair was getting thin. Mrs. Kenyon was still beyond plump but had
finally quit smok- ing and was attending a Charismatic Episcopal church
in Seattle.

Her son, David, who first introduced me to the Kenyon—Bannister praise
meetings, was pastoring a small church in Chehalis, Washington, married,
and raising two kids.

Karla Dickens, still wearing glasses, was married to an accountant and
had a daughter.

Andy Smith, the diabetic, was divorced and teaching at an avant-garde
music school in Seattle.

Clay Olson was about to leave for the mission field in Kenya.

Benny Taylor was still a long, tall, nerdy-looking fellow, still
brilliant, and hoping to get a job with a little garage-sized company
called Microsoft.

Harold Martin, our born-again purveyor of pot, wasn't there, and I
couldn't find anyone who knew where he was.

Brother Smith kissed the bride, shook my hand, and said, 'I'm at least
as happy as you are.

Sister Dudley gave Marian a gushing, loving hug. I expected she would
just shake my hand and move on, but she grabbed my shoulders, pulled me
into a hug, and gave me a peck on the cheek. Then she told me, 'You're
gonna love it,” and winked.

She was right. We loved it. We took our honeymoon in two shifts, first
in Ben's parents' cabin on Camano Island in Puget Sound, and then in
Victoria, BC. After that, we moved into a little apartment on a busy
artery in Seattle. On the first Sunday in July, we dressed up nice,
walked into a struggling Pentecostal Mission church in Seattle, and
began our ministry.

The year that followed was a greater education than the previous four.
We learned things they never taught us in Bible school, probably because
no one ever lived to come back and tell us about it.

Did I say it was a struggling church? That's incorrect. The pastor was
struggling. The church was content.

The pastor was Olin Marvin, an old Bible school chum of Dad's who
contacted me only a month before graduation. 'Hey, come aboard,” he told
me. 'We need fresh blood, someone with vision, someone with the old
Jordan fire.” Marian and I figured this was the hand of God. The only
other offer I'd had was from a church in Pocatello, Idaho, and that
seemed so far away from our friends and family that we hesitated. When
Pastor Marvin offered us a 257

position with a good salary and an apartment right in our own neck of
the woods, that sounded right. I would take charge of the youth program,
he said. I would preach on Sunday nights, and he and I would be like
partners in ministry. Marian wouldn't have to work, so she could be as
involved in the church as she desired.

In the intense days before graduation and the wedding, Marian and I
talked about our upcoming ministry as if it were a done deal, a plan set
in stone, the will of God. We would be married, we'd settle down in
Seattle, and then be part of a marvelous move of God. Almost every night
I lay in bed imagining what it would be like to preach to a whole
roomful of young people. I envisioned hundreds coming forward to receive
Christ while Marian played the piano and everyone sang an invitational
song, something like 'Just As I Am.” I could hear myself holding forth
on Sunday nights, see myself helping Pastor Marvin lead his church into
revival, awakening, and explosive growth. I had ideas, ideas, ideas, and
couldn't wait to implement them. We were going to take the city for
Christ.

On the first Sunday in July, there was no revival or explosion, but
there was an awakening.

Northwest Pentecostal Mission was a generally unheard of little chapel
nestled in the center of a closely packed Seattle neighborhood. Without
detailed directions through that complicated grid of streets you'd never
find it, and I suppose there were many folks who never did. Pastor
Marvin met us at the door, informed us there would be a board meeting
immediately after the morning service, and then hurried away. It was
Sunday morning, and he was understandably busy.

The sanctuary was pretty standard: dark, gluelam beams forming a sharp
A-line roof, red carpet running up the center aisle and down the sides,
a soaring chancel with a big cross hanging over the baptistry. The pews
could hold about two hundred. The Sunday school rooms were in the
basement, the undersized parking lot was on one side.

When the Sunday school hour began, everyone—adults, teens, and little
kids—gathered in the sanctuary for opening exercises, singing songs
like:

Deep and Wide Deep and Wide There's a fountain flowing deep and wide.

Deep and Wide Deep and Wide There's a fountain flowing deep and wide.

(hmmm) and (hmmm) (hmmm) and (hmmm) There's a fountain flowing (hmmm)
and (hmmm).

(hmmm) and (hmmm) (hmmm) and (hmmm) There's a fountain flowing (hmmm)
and (hmmm).

Marian had attended Baptist Sunday school, and I had gone to Pentecostal
Mission Sunday school, but we both knew that song and had friends from
other denominations who also knew it. Our parents probably sang it in
Sunday school opening exercises just like we did. Now we were beholding
the next generation of Deep and Widers singing the song and doing the
'Deep and Wide” hand motions. It boggled my mind to think that kids all
over North America—maybe even, the entire Western Hemisphere— were hmmm
and hmmming this very moment, or according to their respective time
zones.

It also occurred to me that adults and teenagers all over North America
were sitting in opening exercises with the little kids, doing that song
for the zillionth time and feeling silly.

We were sitting in the back. I scanned the pews for the young people.
The best place to look was either in the very back or as far as anyone
could sit to the side. I counted about twelve, including two silly
girls, two stoics, and three Outsiders—cool guys making 259

a statement by slouching together as far away from the proceedings as
possible.

We sang a few more standards—”Stop and Let Me Tell You What the Lord Has
Done for Me,” and 'Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain.” Then the lady in
charge brought out the big plywood figure of Barney Barrel. Barney, a
wooden barrel, had long, skinny arms that formed a tipping scale with a
coffee can hanging from each hand, and it was his job to collect the
missionary offering. Today it would be the girls against the boys.
Sister Marvin, the pastor's wife, played the piano, we all marched
around the room, the girls put their offering in the pink can and the
boys put their offering in the blue. Today the girls won—I saw which one
put in the roll of pennies. Clever kid.

Finally we dismissed to our classes. Pastor Marvin would be teaching the
adult class in the sanctuary, but Marian and I wanted to check out the
teenagers in their classroom in the basement. We followed the Outsiders
downstairs and into a small, windowless, echoing room with folding
chairs, a low table, and a chalkboard.

The rest of the kids straggled in, talking and giggling among
themselves, but obviously a little quieter since two strangers were in
the room. Not one of them said hello or asked us who we were. I wasn't
about to let them get away with that.

'Hi ,'I said, jutting out my hand. 'Praise God, I'm Travis, and this is
Marian!” The first kid shook my hand and said hi back, looking
immediately at the floor.

'Whats your name?” I heard him mumble something like 'Bern.” I leaned
closer. I knew I was invading his comfort zone, but that was the idea.
'Say again?” He spoke up a little. 'Brian.” We went after the Outsiders.
'Hallelujah! Who are you?” Donny and Steve barely got their names out,
but Trevor spoke right up with his. Trevor seemed to be the leader. As
soon as he opened up, the other two did. I found out what grade they
were in,

and what some of their interests were. In the meantime, Marian had
struck up conversations with the girls. It was going well when the
teacher finally arrived.

She was a young, curly headed gal. She took one look at us and said,
'Hi. Who are you?” ‘Praise the Lord,” I said, reaching over some chairs
and kids' shoulders to shake her hand. 'Travis and Marian Jordan.” 'I'm
Lucy Moore. It's nice to have you visiting with us today.” Then she said
with a chuckle, 'Are you sure you're in the right class?” 'You bet,” I
said. 'I'm the new youth pastor.” She looked at me blankly for a second,
then smiled and shook her head. 'No, you're not.” Then she dove into the
lesson like a windup toy with the spring too tight and never made eye
contact with us again. Marian and I sat there quietly, hesitant to say
another word. I shot a glance at Trevor. He just gave me a shrug.

And there was the strangest smell in that room, like someone left a
dirty diaper under a chair. I saw a few noses wrinkle, but nobody said
anything, and I wasn't about to.

IT WAS ACTUALLY A RELIEF whenPastorMarvinhadusstand during the morning
service so he could introduce us. 'I'd like you all to meet Travis and
Mary Jordan, our new assistant pastor. He'll be helping us out with the
youth program and whatever else his hand finds to do, so make him
welcome.” He got Marian's name wrong, but at least we knew we were in
the right church.

'WHAT' S HE DOING HERE?” a board member asked before Pastor Marvin even
got his office door closed.

Pastor Marvin sat down at his desk and answered like a cornered witness,
'Well, we did discuss this, Bill.” Bill, a wiry, curly haired man in his
-fifties, had veins that stuck out on his forehead, and I think his eyes
may have been sticking out a bit too. 'You didn't discuss it with me!”
261

'I didn't know he was coming today,” said a shorter, thinner, younger
man.

Bill glared at the younger man. 'So he told you about it?” 'He said we
might try someone out. That's all I heard.” 'Well, I should have told
you he was coming today,” said Pastor Marvin. 'It's my fault.” 'You
shouldn't even have invited him without consulting with the board!”
'Bill,” said an older man with a lower lip that stuck out, 'we have
talked about it.” 'We've talked about it; we have not approved it!”
Pastor Marvin broke in, 'Gentlemen, before we start the meetrng I should
introduce Travis and Mary to you.

'Marian,” I corrected.

'Oh. I am sorry. This is Travis and Marian Jordan. Travis recently
graduated from West Bethel.” Then Pastor Marvin formally lntroduced us
to Bill Braun, the angry one; Ted Neubaur, the younger, thin one; and
Wally Barker, the older one with the lip.

'Uh, where's Rod?” Ted answered, 'He and Marcy had to go right home.
Trevor messed in his pants again.”

Bill rolled his eyes. 'Oh great!” Wally explained to us, 'Trevor's a
weird kid. He messes in his pants.

'He doesn't need to know that!” 'Well, he does if he's taking the
youth.” 'Well, what about Lucy? Has she been told about this?” No, I
thought.

Ted answered, 'She was pretty upset when I talked to her. She said he
came into her class and tried to take over.” 'What?” I said.

'We did no such thing!” Marian objected.

Ted continued, 'Shes' the one in charge of the youth right now.

Nobody told her these two were coming.

'Nobody told anybody anything!” Bill snapped. 'See? Now you've hurt
Lucy!”

'Well,” said Pastor Marvin, 'why don't we open in a word of prayer? Dear
Lord—” Let us live, I prayed silently, clutching Marian's hand.

The moment Pastor Marvin said Amen, Bill spoke the first words of the
formal meeting. 'And you announced his appointment from the pulpit!
Before we've even met him or got to know him!” 'I knew your dad,” Wally
told me with a smile. 'How's he doing, anyway?”

'Does he have another job?” Bill asked.

'We'll get to that,” said the pastor.

'This was something we talked about, remember? Wally, you're the
accountant. Tell him. Again.” Wally's face turned sad as he told the
pastor, 'We cant swing a full-time salary, especially since we've lost
the Cravens and the Johnsons.” 'We told you that!” Pastor Marvin
defended himself. 'I think we can do it.” 'If he has another job,” Bill
reiterated, and then he looked at me and cocked his eyebrows, expecting
an answer.

Now they were all looking at me.

'I... I understood that this was going to be my job.” 'What skills do
you have besides Bible college?” The question stung, not only because it
was mean-spirited, but because of how I had to answer. 'I don't have
any.” 'Get some.” 'Now Bill.. .' the pastor tried to admonish.

Bill came right back, 'I'm being honest. He can't work in a church this
size and expect a big church salary package. That's the truth of it.”
'Who's paying for the apartment?” Ted asked.

Bill's voice approached a squawk. 'What apartment?” 'We discussed that
as part of the package,” said Pastor Marvin.

'He has an apartment?”- It went on and on, with Marian and I cowering in
our chairs 263

while the pastor and the board argued right in front of us. I've never
had such an experience before or since then, watching my hopes dashed to
pieces while almost laughing at the absurdity of it. Finally, I
suggested, 'Why don't Marian and I leave so you can discuss this freely
among yourselves?” 'Yeah, fine,” said Bill.

'Okay,” said the pastor.

We got up to leave.

Bill didn't even watch us go. 'If he can get another job then maybe we
can work something out.”

MY 5HIFT BEGAN at 9 PM., as soon as the mall closed. My first task every
night was to scrub and shine all the public restrooms.

The toilets came first, then the sinks, then the stalls, walls, and
floors. My supervisor said each rest room shouldn't take more than an
hour, but after a week on the job I had yet to cut my time down to less
than two. I was working four nights a week and making five bucks an
hour.

The toughest toilets to clean were the ones that got clogged sometime
during the day but patrons kept using them anyway until the bowl was
full. Then the only way to clean them was to ladle the stuff into a
bucket, get the toilet unclogged, and ladle it back in again, flushing
it down in smaller loads. When I finished, I headed outside to get some
air, laughing at the sign on the back of the rest room door: Employees
Must Wash Hands Before Returning to Work.

This toilet in the north men's room was the worst I'd seen all week.

I flushed the last load and grabbed the toilet brush out of my tool
cart. Under my meticulous care, the porcelain bowl would soon be white
again.

With her business degree, Marian had landed a good job as acountant and
office manager for a small firm that manufactured valves and couplings.
Suffice itto say, she was making beter money than I was and providing
the bulk of our living, including Tdrauhc e apartment the church decided
it couldn't afford.

What skills do you have besides Bible college?

I wanted to slug that guy. Did he think four years of college counted
for nothing?

Well, apparently it qualified me to scrub toilets and sinks, refill soap
containers and towel dispensers, and mop the floors.

C'mon, let's go, let's go, let's get it down to an hour.

I moved to the next stall. Ah. The last patron's mother had taught him
well. This wouldn't take long.

My emotions and thoughts kept shifting back and forth from minute to
minute. First, I felt okay about it. As weird, disappointing, and even
maddening as it seemed, I accepted this as God's calling. He was using
this time to humble me. I needed to accept and embrace it. I needed to
stay put and see it through.

Then I thought of Minneapolis and the well-dressed man with the curly
hair and the lady in the white silk blouse and navy skirt.

After so many years, the image still made my stomach hurt. I felt like I
was standing in that office again, unqualified, unfit, inadequate, a
loser.

What skills do you have besides Bible college?

The answer was the toilet brush in my hand.

C'mon, Tray, two more stalls to go.

God was in control. He knew what he was doing, and he knew what I
needed. Then my heart sank and my arms went limp. I'd failed again. I'd
married the most beautiful woman in the world, given her high hopes, and
let her down. Shewas the one supporting us, not me.

I thought I was going to take the city for Christ, and now here I was,
alone and scrubbing toilets in the middle of the night.

My 'position” at Northwest Pentecostal Mission remained un- defined by
the pastor or the board. I wasn't associate pastor or youth pastor, I
didn't preach on Sunday nights, and Lucy Moore still had charge of the
youth Sunday school class. I did whatever was left to do—it was up to me
to think of what that was—and I got paid fifty dollars a month plus a
gas allowance to do it. I think Pastor Marvin tried to apologize once,
but his expression of regret 265

quickly shifted into a short homily about the Lord using all this to
show me the importance of sacrifice. It seemed rather convenient for him
to find a lofty, inscrutable purpose of God in his foul-up, but I held
my peace.

The church in Pocatello, Idaho, had found someone else for that
position. I checked.

IT WAS MARIAN, God bless her, who helped me turn it around—or rather,
turn myself around. I still remember the evening I lay on the couch with
my head in her lap. I had tears in my eyes, but she just stroked my hair
and told me, 'Travis, you're a man of God and this is your calling.
Don't worry about me having to work. Just be faithful. Whatever your
hand finds to do, do it with all your might. God will do the rest.” She
tilted my head toward her and I looked up into her eyes. 'And I will
always love you, T J. You're my man, and don't you forget it.” I called
Lucy Moore and apologized for all the misunderstanding. I didn't want to
take over, I told her. I just wanted to help.

Could I? She said sure.

At work that night I finished up each rest room in less than an hour.

Wednesday evening, one of my nights off, Marian and I showed up to help
Lucy with the youth meeting. I played guitar and helped lead the
singing. We goaded and challenged the kids during discussion times. We
did anything we could to help while letting Lucy be the boss. It
clicked. Before long we were all team teaching the Sunday school class.
We worked together planning a camping trip to Corral Pass, and it came
off without a hitch.

After I'd been on the job two months, the boss let me try my hand at the
big mall sweeper. Now that was fun, driving that thing up and down the
vast floor, buzzing past all the store windows and around the big
central pillars, singing praise songs only the Lord could hear. How many
shoppers ever got a chance to visit the mall as I did?

For the first month I took care of mowing the church lawn, and then
Lucy, Marian, and I organized a work day fur the youth group to mow,
weed, and fix up the church grounds. The kids did a great job, and we
were proud of them. I rewarded them by taking them all swimming.

Sister Marvin heard that some of the girls wore two-piece swimsuits and
walked right by the groomed lawn to give me a stem rebuke. It was the
first feedback I'd gotten from her.

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASS was perking up. We gotinto heavy discussions
about morality, sex, authority, respect for others, honesty, and what
the Scriptures had to say about it all. The kids opened up about school,
friends, parents, hopes and fears, what was cool and what wasn't. We
talked about Bible prophecy and how it could apply to happenings in the
Middle East. Even Trevor and the Outsiders got wrapped up in it. They
talked about inviting their friends.

When they didn't invite their friends, I asked them why not.

They said they didn't want their friends to have to sing 'Deep and Wide”
and 'Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain” and march up front to put money
in Barney Barrel.

Well, that seemed an easy enough problem to overcome. I told Lucy, 'Hey,
why don't we just have them come straight to class and not sit through
the opening exercises? They never get anything out of them anyway.” Lucy
balked. 'Um, we'll have to talk to Sister Dwight. She's the Sunday
school superintendent.” Sister Dwight didn't jump at the idea either.
'You'll have to bring it up at the next Sunday school teachers'
meeting.” 269

The meeting was after church the first Sunday of the month.

We were there and we brought it up. And that's how I got to know Sister
Rogenbeck.

She was an ancient lady who taught the primary class, and by the look on
her face you'd think we suggested denying the virgin birth and the
resurrection. She scolded me as she answered, 'The children are to be
together for the morning exercises!” Being young and inexperienced, I
tried to reason with her.

'Well, that's okay for the little kids, but the teenagers don't have any
interest in that stuff.” 'Then they can learn to have interest.” 'You
think kids who listen to the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin are going
to want to come here to sing ‘Deep and Wide'?” She crossed her arms and
looked toward the front of the sanctuary. 'They belong in the morning
exercises with everyone else!” From her body language I gathered she
thought the discussion was over.

It wasn't.

'Do you agree with her?” I asked Sister Dwight.

Sister Dwight gave me a deep, slow nod as if the Word of the Lord had
come down from Mt. Sinai.

'But aren't you the Sunday School superintendent?” She was mildly
offended. 'Of course I am.” I turned to Sister Rogenbeck. 'So what are
you?” She didn't answer but just kept looking forward, her arms crossed.

'Look at me.” Marian tugged at my arm but I ignored it and demanded,
'Look at me!” Sister Dwight became indignant. 'Travis, I don't think
this is appropriate!” Sister Rogenbeck's head and eyes turned toward me
only as much as necessary.

'Are you the Sunday school superintendent?” I asked her.

Sister Marvin's indignity surpassed that of Sister Dwight.

'Travis Jordan, that will be quite enough!”

'Are you?” 'No.” 'Do you hold any elected office whatsoever in this
church?”

'Then who are you to sit there and dictate policy to the rest of us?”
'Tray...” Marian whispered, tugging at me.

'My question was addressed to the Sunday school superintendent, and I
expect the decision to rest with her.” I looked straight at Sister
Dwight. 'It is your decision, isn't it?” 'Well—” Sister Rogenbeck huffed
rather loudly, 'They belong in the morning exercises!” 'I was asking
Sister Dwight,” I said.

But Sister Marvin answered, 'Travis, that's the way we do things!” I
stayed on that merry-go-round for another twenty minutes, going round
and round, hearing the same tune over and over and getting madder and
madder. In the end, I accomplished nothing more than getting everyone
upset, including myself. I was permanently angry with Sister Rogenbeck
and permanently in the gunsights of Sister Marvin. I never did get an
answer from Sister Dwight.

And our Sunday school class continued to sit through 'Deep and Wide” and
march to put money in Barney Barrel. It was, after all, the way we did
things.

But the Wednesday night youth meeting held great promise.

The time was all ours. We could lay out our own format. We painted
posters, made announcements, and got the kids making aunouncements. I
visited the junior high and high school as often as I could just to make
contact with the kids. Marian and I attended the games, the concerts,
the plays—anything that would get us close to them.

The meetings began to grow. We were singing, worshiping, getting excited
about Jesus. The fellowship hall began to fill up and we ran out of
chairs. The kids brought pillows and sat on the floor.

271

Shy Brian turned out to be a pretty good guitar player and I got him up
front to help me lead worship. Then a kid named Robbie joined us on
electric bass. As soon as they were clicking, I switched to doing fills
on my banjo, which I plugged in for volume. We got into the Word and the
kids started praying.

And then Sister Marvin called a meeting.

'I think you can find instruments more appropriate for worship!” she
said archly.

We were sitting in Pastor Marvin's office, just the Marvins and me. I
could tell she'd already had a pre-meeting with her husband to get him
in line.

'There's nothing wrong with our instruments,” I said. 'The kids are into
it. I've even got two of them playing up front.” 'Playing rock-'n'- roll
in church!” 'It isn't rock-'n'-roll. It's contemporary worship.” She
rolled her eyes in disgust. 'Well I don't believe that! I saw the
electric guitar!” 'That's a bass.” 'We could hear you clear upstairs.”
Pastor Marvin ventured, 'At least they were singing.” It was very bold
of him.

She stared a few daggers at him and then conceded, 'Well, I might be
able to put up with the guitar, but the banjo!” Then she rolled her eyes
again, sending a loud and clear message of disdain that I took
personally.

Pastor Marvin offered, 'Why can't Marian play the piano?” 'We don't have
one down there,” I answered. 'The only piano this church has is in the
sanctuary.

'Then maybe you should just join the adults upstairs,” said Sister
Marvin.

I thought of all those kids finally coming around, finally getting
excited because something new was happening, something just for them. I
thought of them having to listen to Sister Marvin play the organ and sit
through one of Pastor Marvin's sermons. 'That's not going to happen.

Bull's-eye. I hit her primer and the powder exploded. 'Excuse me?” I was
angry enough—and just plain right enough—to face her down. 'That's not
going to happen.” I turned to the pastor and said, 'Our youth group has
grown from a dozen to over forty and I expect it to grow even more if we
can just be left alone to do what we're doing. If that's agreeable with
you, then I'd like your approval.” 'We don't approve,” Sister Marvin
answered. 'Not at all!” I leaned over Pastor Marvin's desk, looking him
right in the eye and effectively blocking out the participation of his
wife. 'I would like your approval, sir.” He looked at her, and I could
read her signals in his face. 'Well, you're doing a good job, but you
need to be careful, Travis.” He glanced at his wife. No doubt he would
have to say more if he wanted dinner tonight. 'We'll have to talk about
it. We'll work something out.

The banjo stayed, as did the guitar and the electric bass. Pastor Marvin
declined to confront us, and the youth group grew to over sixty on a
Wednesday night. Sister Marvin derived no joy from that fact. Sister
Rogenbeck wouldn't look at me even if I was standing right in front of
her. Bill Braun, the board member, demanded I turn in every gas receipt
directly to him, and then he grilled me for any and all details.

TWO GIRLS, Cindy and Clarice, along with shy Brian and Robbie the bass
player, had formed a nice quartet and volunteered to sing a special
number for the Sunday evening service. Because they were there, about
twelve of their friends were there as well, so we had sixteen teenagers
willingly turning out for church on Sunday night. I was sure Sister
Marvin would be pleased.

When their turn came, Cindy, Clarice, Brian, and Robbie took their
places in the front of the sanctuary, nervous but excited. The two boys
started an introduction on their guitars, and— Amos Rogenbeck, Sister
Rogenbeck's husband, growled at 273

them from his reserved, exclusive, usable-only-by-a-Rogenbeck place in
the pew, 'Young people, I'll thank you not to stand in front of the
altar!” The musical introduction stopped cold. The kids didn't know what
to do. They looked at each other. They looked at me. I got up from my
seat on the plafform and showed the kids a better place to stand, over
in front of the piano.

Shy Brian whispered, 'What'd we do wrong?” 'Nothing,” I whispered back.
'Just sing for Jesus.” I'd heard them sing before and they were great.
This night, thanks to Amos Rogenbeck, their song fell apart and they sat
down humiliated. The incident was not wasted on their friends. After the
service, I scrambled to talk to as many kids as I could before they all
left bitter and disillusioned. Some got away, and I knew it would take
weeks to repair the damage.

But Brother Rogenbeck didn't get away. That would have hap- pened over
my dead body. I pulled him aside for a discreet, private confrontation.
'Brother Rogenbeck, you embarrassed and hurt those kids tonight—” 'They
should show respect for the altar!” 'They meant no harm by it. They were
nervous, they just wanted to sing for the Lord and minister—” 'Young
brats don't have any respect! You should be teaching them that!” I
grabbed his arm and got right in his face. 'Now you listen to me! These
kids mean the world to me and they just want to glorify Jesus. If you
embarrass them again—are you listening to me?—I'm going to embarrass
you. We're having a private meeting now, but next time it'll be in front
of everyone, you understand?” 'You need to show respect!” I would have
had a more fruitful conversation with a grapefruit.

WE WERE PUSHING SIXTY in attendance, almost filling the fellowship hall.
The worship music was great. Cindy, Clarice, Brian, and

Robbie finally got a chance to sing their number and do it right. The
kids spoke right up during our sharing time, telling the others what the
Lord had done in their lives over the past week. We had some new kids
attending. Everything was going great—until the night we discovered a
mouse behind the door.

The fellowship hall had rest rooms and a stairway at one end, a kitchen
at the other, and doors to the Sunday school rooms on the sides. As I
stood up to speak, I thought I heard a noise from the room directly
behind me and glanced at it. That door, like all the others, was closed.
I went on teaching, telling illustrative stories, cracking jokes,
getting laughs.

And then I heard the noise again. A squeak. Some rustling.

Two girls sitting in the front row started chittering to each other,
pointing toward the door and apparently seeing movement under it. Pretty
soon, five in the front row were looking. Finally, one of them squealed,
'There's a mouse in there!” Announce the presence of a mouse to thirty
teenage girls sitting on the floor and thirty teenage guys who would
love to catch it, and you will have a roomful of kids who aren't
interested in the triumphal entry. I went to the door.

'Don't open it!” a girl shrieked.

'All right!” said the guys.

I jerked the door open and everybody screamed.

It was Sister Marvin, sitting just inside the door with a notepad in her
lap. There was no other way into that room except through the fellowship
hall, so she htd to have been sitting there for over an hour. Her face
was so red I thought she'd pop a capillary.

'Oh,” I said, 'I'm sorry We thought you were a mouse.” And then I closed
the door again.

It took a little while to get the kids calmed down. Some gave no thought
to the pastor's wife lurking behind the door taking notes.

Some thought it was peffectly, classically funny and couldn't stop
laughing. I just went on with the Bible study and finished up the
meeting. The kids went home, and Lucy, Marian, and I cleaned up.

I don't know exactly when Sister Marvin finally came out of that 275

room, but it was after we were gone. I left the hall light on so she
could see her way out.

AFTER SIX MONTHS, the board voted to raise my salary to a hundred
dollars a month. Brother Bill Braun was adamantly against it, but the
other board members voted against him, and that sealed Brother Braun's
opinion of me.

I confess I didn't help matters. I failed to wear a tie one Sunday
night, which got me into trouble with the Rogenbecks, Peeleys, and
Schmidts. These formed a cadre of big givers in the church, a group you
wouldn't want disgruntled. Pastor Marvin offered to buy me a tie, but I
took the hint and never came to church again without one.

My hair got a little too long for their liking as well, but I let it
grow longer just to stretch them a bit. They didn't stretch.

About eight months into the ministry, Marian was sitting in a pew,
praying quietly while I prayed with some of the kids up front.

Sister Peeley and Sister Schmidt sat down on either side of her and
asked if she had any needs they could pray about.

'Well,” she said, 'you can pray for those kids up there. Isaac is from a
broken home, and Diane is coming out of a Satanist group.” 'Anything
else?” probed Sister Peeley.

'I'm witnessing to a girl at work and I hope you'll pray for her.

Her name is Susan.” 'But what about yourself?” they asked. 'Is there
anything we can pray for?

Marian already knew what they were after. Lucy had attended the women's
ministry meeting at which Sister Marvin shared her concerns about
Marian. Marian seemed overly occupied with a career instead of her
husband, she'd said. Marian seemed a little hesitant to let the Spirit
flow in her life. And, Sister Marvin asked, has anyone ever heard Marian
speak in tongues? The women compared notes and were a bit stunned to
find that none of them had.

Isn't she from a Baptist background? someone asked. Lucy said it

wasn't right to be talking about Marian this way, but Sister Marvin
replied, 'We have a problem and we need to discuss Now Sister Peeley and
Sister Schmidt wanted Marian to remain while they laid hands on her.
Marian and I already had an understanding. She scratched her nose, I got
her signal and stepped in.

'Pardon me,” I told all three. 'Marian, I think Lucy needs some help
praying for Diane.” Marian rose with her usual grace. 'Please excuse
me,” she said, and went to pray with Lucy and Diane.

Sister Peeley and Sister Schmidt opted to pray between themselves, but
they didn't stay long.

Marian was teasingly jubilant as we drove home. 'Well, now I have a
reputation too!” she announced, patting my hand. 'Why should you be the
one who gets all the attention?”

MY MINISTRY POSITION at Northwest Pentecostal Mission lasted one year
and five months, growing and dying at the same time. I got along grandly
with the youth, and by the end of our stay we had about eighty coming
out on Wednesday nights. The death of our ministry was something that
built over time, grievance by grievance, misstep by misstep, and
finished with a loud bang.

At the 1978 Christmas banquet, I threw the scales so out of balance that
no amount of devoted ministry would right them again.

The church had rented a banquet room at a local hotel and decorated it
to the hilt. The adults were decked out in their finest and sat at
formally decorated tables for a candlelight dinner. Lucy, Marian, and I
brought a youth choir made up of twenty-four kids, the girls in long
dresses, the guys in white shirts and ties. Marian played a rented
piano, Shy Brian and Robbie played guitar and bass, I directed, and
those kids sang some terrific arrangements of traditional carols as well
as some fun, upbeat songs. The evening was going great—up to a point. -
We'd just finished a comical rendition of 'Children Go Where 277

I Send Thee,” with costumed kids portraying Four for the four that stood
at the door, Three for the Hebrew children, Two for Paul and Silas, and
One for the little bitty baby born, born, born in Bethlehem, when
Brother Rogenbeck decided it was time for a loud, growling admonition:
'You'd better change your direction, young people! We're not here to
listen to this nonsense! We're here to worship the Lord!” I was facing
the choir with my back to the room, but I knew who it was. I had my
hands up, ready to start the next song, but my arms wilted and I could
feel my temperature rising. There were moans all over the room. I could
see the hurt in the kids' faces, the embarrassment and fear. Cindy and
Clarice had been through this before and weren't hurt but angry. As for
Shy Brian and Robbie— 'Why don't you just shut up?” Brian cried.

I turned. I could see Sister Marvin about to step in.

'No!” I said, looking at her and then all the others. 'No, he's
absolutely right. These kids have worked hard and done it prayerfully,
and they don't deserve this kind of treatment.” There were Amens and
expressions of agreement from some corners of the room. The rest just
stared at me, aghast. I caught a quick glimpse of Marian at the piano,
expecting her to give me her usual cautionary expression. Not this time.
She was on her feet, her eyes on fire, and on the very brink of saying
something if I didn't.

'Brother Rogenbeck,” I said, 'the last time you pulled a stunt like this
I told you if you did it again, I'd correct you in front of everybody.
Well, here we are.” He just glared back at me through his thick glasses,
his jaw set and his face like stone.

I stepped closer to him, demanding his attention—what there was of it.
'Apparently, in all your seventy-some-odd years of life, no one ever
taught you as simple a thing as common courtesy.

Well, sir, I'm going to teach you, so you listen carefully. When these
kids are up front doing anything for the congregation—and I don't care
what it is—you are to sit quietly and keep your mouth shut. That's the
courteous thing to do. You may think it's holy and

ii

righteous to spout off and hurt my kids' feelings, but you're not being
holy, you're being a jerk.” I could see Sister Marvin seething out of
the corner of my eye, but I also saw Pastor Marvin nodding in agreement.
I felt vaguely aware that I was about to torpedo my ministry at this
church, but by now, after so much of this stuff, one thought washed like
a tidal wave over all the others: To heck with it! I took another step
toward Brother Rogenbeck. 'You keep quiet, Brother Rogenbeck—you hear
me? Because the next time you open your mouth and hurt my kids, before
God and this congregation, I promise I'll personally knock you right on
your Stay-Dries. Is that understood?” My kids applauded and cheered.

There were gasps of horror all over the room—and a few cheers.

But apparently three out of the four board members weren't cheering.
Wally Barker was the only one who thought I should stay.

The banquet took place on a Friday night. Pastor Marvin and Wally Barker
came by to give me my last paycheck on Saturday.

The board had trouble deciding whether I should be paid for my
participation at the banquet, but Wally finally prevailed and they
agreed to prorate my December check for the first two weeks. I got fifty
dollars. Pastor Marvin told me in several ways that he wasn't unhappy
with me, and then he asked me not to show up at the church again. It
would only stir up the hornet's nest, he said. I never went back.

Lucy kept the youth group going, but finally married and moved away. The
youth ministry dissolved, and the older folks got their church back just
the way they liked it.

I've never forgotten that year and five months, nor have I ever been
able to settle in my mind how I could have done better. I could have
been less feisty. I could have submitted more to the leadership over me.
I could have kowtowed to Sisters Marvin, Rogenbeck, Peeley, and Schmidt.
Maybe rebuking Brother Rogenbeck did set a bad example in front of the
kids. I was young and headstrong back then, I admit.

279

But still. . . there was so much good that happened during those days,
so many things that I know will last. Some of those kids came from home
situations that never would have gotten them saved, to put it mildly,
but they're still serving the Lord today.

Somehow, Trevor Neilson got the kinks out of his mind and quit messing
in his pants. His mother sent me a thank-you card.

And there were good-bye and thank-you cards from the kids, too. ...

'HEY TRAVIS, you okay?”

Kyle was driving us back from Missoula. I guess I'd gotten a little too
quiet.

'I'm—” I didn't expect my throat to be so tight. I swallowed.

'I'm okay. I was just thinking about things. Thinking about..

'Yeah?” 'My wife used to say something to me that you might benefit from
hearing,” I said at last. 'Kyle, you're a man of God and this is your
calbng, so don't worry. Just be faithful. Whatever your hand finds to
do, do it with all your might. God will do the rest.” Then I added, 'And
Kyle, don't let anybody put out your fire, you hear me?” Kyle hadn't
been inside my mind or privy to my memories for the last hundred miles,
so he looked a little quizzical. 'Okay.

Thanks for that.” The highway blurred in front of me. I rubbed the tears
out of my eyes so I could see the mountains and the blue sky over Idaho.

AT OUR LADY of the Fields, Arnold Kowalski, his hat in his hands, moved
slowly down the center aisle, passing through the squares of sunlight on
the floor and looking up at the crucifix on the wall. He was the only
one there, the only one who still believed. The pilgrims were gone,
along with the reporters and their cameras. The fame had moved to the
Macon ranch.

But Arnold's faith was here because the crucifix was here. The stranger
at the ranch he didn't know, but this image had been a part of his life
for years. He'd dusted it, polished it, straightened it, respected it.
It had touched his pain and taken it away. His faith was here.

He looked around to be sure he was alone, then walked slowly toward the
platform, his head bowed in humility and reverence, counting twelve
steps between each genuflection. Every step hurt just a little. His
joints were complaining again, but it wouldn't be for long. He still
believed. He was wearing a tie today. He'd combed his hair before
leaving home and once more after removing his hat. He'd blessed himself
with holy water before entering the sanctuary. He'd recited twelve Hail
Marys and twelve Our Fathers.

Father Vendetti had mentioned taking the ladder down and

puffing it away, but Arnold had put off doing it, knowing he would need
it as soon as he had prayed enough to be worthy. He stepped on the first
rung, feeling the pain, then climbed slowly, his eyes on the carved face
crowned with thorns.

When he had climbed to the same level as the wooden Christ, he reached
into his pocket and pulled out the small crucifix that had hung on his
bedroom wall for decades, a gift from his mother.

‘With great care and reverence, he had drilled a small hole in the top
and threaded a neck chain through it.

'See?” he said, holding it before the wooden eyes. 'I have you at home
too.” He extended the crucifix until it touched the one on the wall.

Nothing happened. Everything was safe so far. He pressed the smaller
cross flat against the larger, then rubbed it up and down as a child
would rub a nail across a magnet, reciting the Lord's Prayer and another
Hail Mary. Then he said, 'I know there's plenty of blessing in there. I
know you won't mind.” Satisfied after a few final strokes, he hung the
little image around his neck and blessed himself before the image on the
wall.

'Thank you.” He descended the ladder, then put it away as Father
Vendetti had asked. The blessing was close to him now, and would go with
him everywhere, every moment. There would be no more pain.

I COULDN'T BELIEVE Brett Henchle was actually pulling us over. I was the
kind of driver who obeyed the law out of my love for the Lord and not
for fear of punishment, and therefore I never went over the speed limit
even if there were no cops around. Well, that little policy didn't work
this time. As soon as we passed Judy's Eat-a-long and Tavern, Brett was
behind me, his lights flashing.

'What'd you do?” Kyle asked.

I felt rather snide. 'Went to Missoula to trace that car.” Kyle glanced
backward. 'You think so?” 'ATe'll see.” 44 283

I rolled the window down as Brett walked up alongside, noting how he
kept his billy club in his hand until he was right outside my window.
'Hi, Travis,” he said, slipping the club into the loop on his belt. 'In
a little hurry, aren't you?” I spoke politely. 'I was going less than
twenty-five miles per hour, and twenty-five is the posted speed limit.”
He leaned against the car, his hands on the window sill. 'My radar told
me otherwise.” I glanced at Kyle. 'I have a witness.” He stooped in
close, his eyes invisible behind his gold-rimmed sunglasses. 'Okay, I'll
come right to the point. I know where you've been and I know what you've
been doing. I shouldn't have to re- mind you that's my job and none of
your business.

I thought I might reason with him. 'Brett, come on, we've known each
other for years—” He put his finger in my face. 'This isn't a
discussion, Travis.

This is a heads-up for both of you. I'm watching. You make things
difficult for this town, I'll make things really difficult for you.

Those are the rules.” 'Don't we have to break the law first?” He almost
smiled. 'That'll be my call, won't it? Now let's have your license and
registration. I clocked you going forty.”

WE MET in Morgan Elliott's office. Both Kyle and I had qualms about it,
but she insisted. 'Michael is my son,” she said. 'This Brandon or Herb
or whoever he is afready knows he has to deal with me.”We told her about
our trip and what we had learned. We also told her about our encounter
with Brett Henchle on the way into town.

She cocked an eyebrow at Kyle. 'Looks like you were right.” 'Nichols is
out to make friends,” Kyle observed. 'People with power, people with
money.” 'Like Mrs. Macon,” I added.

'And the business folks like Norman and Mart,” said Morgan.

'And as many of the local clergy as he can muster to his side.”

'Armond Harrison, for one.” 'Absolutely, and as many of the other
ministers Armond can guilt-trip into joining. Burton Eddy is almost a
confederate by now. Sid Maher and Paul Daley don't like Nichols/Johnson,
but they aren't going to say a word against him.” She sneered. 'They
don't wish to seem intolerant.” 'So where do you stand?” Kyle asked her.

I almost objected to his forwardness, but Morgan answered directly,
'That man is not Jesus.” Kyle was not rude in tone, but he was still
being Kyle. 'What about the real Jesus? Have you met him personally?”
She paused to consider the question, and then answered, 'No.” Then she
added, 'But that can change—” 'We can pray right now—” 'At the proper
time.” She shifted her focus toward me. 'So what now?” 'I think it's
time I had a little talk with Brandon Nichols,” I said.

'I'll go along,” said Kyle.

no. Let me do it. He and I have talked before, and it's always been just
the two of us.” 'Are you sure, after what Abe and Hattie told us? I
don't know ..

Even Morgan seemed uneasy. 'I'd be careful not to be alone with him.”
'He came to me first, as if he wants me in his confidence,” I told them.
'I think we could talk freely. There might be a way to get through to
him, maybe unravel whatever his problem is.” 'I haven't told you yet,”
said Morgan. 'Nevin Sorrel is dead.” Kyle took the news badly, but I was
only vaguely familiar with the name. 'Who is that?” 'Remember the guy I
told you about?” asked Kyle. 'He was there at the meeting in the garage.
He's the other guy who tried to take pictures of Nichols.” Now I started
taking the news badly. 'You're kidding.” 'He used to work for PArs.
Macon before Nichols came along,” Morgan explained. 'From what Michael
tells me, Mrs. Macon fired him and hired Nichols, and Nevin was not
happy about it.

285

'He broke up the meeting.” Then Kyle added with dramatic force, 'And he
said Brandon Nichols was not Brandon Nichols! He said Nichols was
lying!” 'He was right.” 'What happened to him?” I asked.

'Nichols hired him back,” said Morgan. 'Michael told me he was working
with Nichols on a water project, developing a spring up in the hills
somewhere. Apparently, Nevin was riding his horse back from the project
when he fell off and hit his head. His foot was caught in the stirrup,
so the horse dragged him all the way back to the corral. At least,
that's the story. Nobody actually saw it happen.

'He was working with Nichols?” I wanted to verify.

'According to Michael.” 'Nichols hired him?” Kyle asked. 'After that
scene in the garage, he still hired him?” 'Michael says Mrs. Macon was
against it, but Nichols wanted Nevin to live on the place and work for
him. You can draw some nasty conclusions.” Kyle shook his head at me. 'I
wouldn't go up there alone.” He and Morgan waited for my answer.

I thought it over and said, 'You two just pray for me. I'll be all
right.”

5ATURDAY, at least three hundred people from almost as many faraway
places filled the folding chairs under the blue-and-white striped big
top, and Brandon Nichols/Herb Johnson held forth in a glorious manner.
It was the first of his meetings I'd ever attended, and I could quickly
see why Kyle got so upset and wrote that letter to the paper. This guy
could sell snow to an Eskimo. The healings were dramatic to say the
least, and all the wonderful talk—of love, brotherhood, peace, safety, a
new world—just went on and on, and the people ate it up. I recognized
several familiar faces: Matt Kiley was in the back, apparently an usher;
Michael Elliott was helping direct traffic and bring prophetic comfort

wherever needed; Dee Baylor and Adrian Folsom were present, but not
sitting near each other, which was a little unusual. Don Anderson the
appliance dealer actually went forward with the other petitioners,
wanting a special blessing for his business.

Before Nichols preached, several went to the podium to give testimonies.
All I had to do was mentally substitute a few key names and
words—”Brandon” forJesus, for example, or 'follower” for Christian—and
the testimonies could have come right out of a Sunday night church
meeting.

'My life used to be a mess,” said a young professional from Colorado. 'I
had a great job running a resort in Vail and I was making plenty of
money, but it just didn't satisfy. Something was missing.

Then I found Brandon, and that's made all the difference!” 'I became a
follower two weeks ago,” said a young woman from Redding, California,
'and my life has never been the same. I used to be on drugs, but now
that's over. Brandon—” Then she giggled and said, 'I like to think of
him by his real name,” and everyone chuckled at what she was implying.
'Brandon has brought real meaning to my life and I love him dearly.”
Then Andy Parmenter, the retired executive from Southern California,
stood behind the podium and said, 'Brandon has dramatically affirmed
what I have always believed, that whatever it is, I can do it. There's
no mountain too tall to block your path if you just believe in yourself.
I think this little town is going to become a world-renowned showplace
for exactly that principle! We are here, we are strong, we have what it
takes to build a better world. So don't miss out. Get on board. Let
Brandon touch your life and believe!” He sat down to whoops and
applause.

Nichols sat on the platform listening to all this and obviously enjoying
it. Sitting to his immediate right was, of all people, Sally Fordyce.
One look told me she was a total, 100 percent follower— and maybe more.
She was wearing a long white dress that matched his white tunic, and the
shawl and sandals made her look like a biblical character. There was an
obvious affection between them.

287

They touched and held hands frequently. Their eyes met as they shared
the laughter. When someone praised him, she would stroke his shoulder.
My guess was that she no longer went home to Charlie and Meg at night.

Sitting to Nichols's immediate left was Mary Donovan, the Catholic
friend of Dee Baylor. I didn't know her very well, only that she tagged
around a lot with Dee. She was wearing a long, blue dress and a shawl
over her head, like every statue of the Virgin Mary, and she seemed to
be acting very.., shall we say, icon-like?

Nichols gave her a kindly, playful nudge, and she giggled with
embarrassment. The audience picked up the idea. 'Mom!” they called. 'God
bless you, Mom!” She rose slowly, gathering her shawl about her head and
taking small steps with a fluid, dancer-like gracefulness. She
approached the podium and then, both hands extended, said airily,
'Blessings to you all!” 'Blessings,” they echoed back. 'Today the Lord
has done great things, and holy is his name! He has touched the weak and
made them strong. He has brought wealth to the needy and courage to the
fainthearted. Be thankful, one and all. Be thankful!” 'Thank you,”
rippled through the audience, and Nichols nodded back.

'From the earth comes water, from the water comes new life.

Be thankful, one and all!” 'Thank you,” they repeated.

And Nichols smiled and nodded again.

They have a regular liturgy going here, I thought.

But just who is Mary Donovan supposed to be? They're calling her Mom.
The Mom? I had to wonder what Dee, Mary's former mentor, must be feeling
about all this. Maiy was getting the attention now.

4This was too much.

I noticed Nancy Barrons standing in a doorway of the tent with

Mrs. Macon. The two were talking quietly, but Nancy didn't appear to be
acting as a reporter today. If I learned Nancy had become a follower I
knew I would scream.

The moment Nichols rose to speak, he told the crowd, 'Turn to someone
and say, ‘This world needs someone like you.' Go ahead.” Someone turned
to me and said it, but I didn't even turn. I had made up my mind long
ago I'd never turn to anyone and say anything ever again, but mostly, I
was stunned. Where'd Nichols pick up that little routine?

'Folks, I'll have you know, we are now officially countyapproved!”
Everyone cheered. 'The spring is developed, the water system is
upgraded, the storage tank is in, and we have our permit for the new
headquarters! The porta-potties will soon be a thing of the past!” More
cheers.

'But wait, I see something,” said Nichols, closing his eyes, seeing
spiritually. 'I see a spirit of doubt in this place, clinging to minds,
spreading a poison of fear and anxiety. Do you feel that today? Do you?”
Several muttered affirmatively.

'BEGONE!” His shout made me jump, as it did others. There was a wail
from the crowd as, supposedly, the spirit of doubt departed.

More cheers and applause.

I had to do some praying. This whole thing was bigger and moving faster
than I had imagined. What in the world was I doing here? Would Nichols
even have time to talk to me?

TWO HOURS LATER, Brandon Nichols and I were walking along the white
fence that bordered a large horse paddock. As it turned out, he saw me
in the audience as soon as the meeting began and couldn't wait to take
this walk with me. We weren't necessarily alone. We could talk
privately, but Matt Kiley and two other men stood across the paddock to
keep an eye on things.

289

He was giddy with excitement. 'Things are moving right along, Travis,
faster than I'd hoped!” 'So I see,” I replied with a lack of enthusiasm.
'I was surprised.

I really was.” 'Give the people what they want, they'll come.” 'It's
quite a show.” He paused and leaned on the fence. 'It always is.
Everywhere, every Sunday.” He looked directly at me. 'Am I right?” I saw
no need to get into that. 'We need to talk about Herb Johnson.” He only
smiled. 'Maybe we should talk about that speeding ticket you got from
Brett Henchle.” I took a breath and made a decision not to get angry.
'I'll con- test it in court and probably get it thrown out. I wasn't
speeding, I have a peffect driving record and a witness, I know the
judge, and the judge knows me. There, we've talked about it.” I waited,
then I prodded, 'Herb Johnson.” 'Herb is a plant you grind up and put in
soup. Call me Brandon.” 'I talked to—” 'To Abe. And Hattie. I know. They
have terrible memories if they can't even remember what my name is.” 'So
you do remember them. Well they remember you, and Abe remembers the
car.” Now he got impatient with me—what did I expect? 'Travis, you

Didn't you learn anything? People are people and they always will are
way behind and way offi You sat through the whole meeting.

be people, and people don't care what I am or who I am, they care

about what I provide. Give them what they want and they'll think what
they want. You can go to Missoula, you can go to LA., you can dig up
whatever you want, but it'll only make you the bad guy, K notme.”

I frowned. 'What's in LA.?” He looked away and laughed. 'Travis, please
tell me you're not a hypocrite.” 'Are you going to answer any of my
questions?”

'I'll do better than that.” He turned toward me, his elbow on the fence.
'I'll tell you my intentions.” I was skeptical and made no effort to
hide it. 'Knock me over.” He gave a sly smile. 'I intend to take this
town for Christ.” I knew what he really meant. It felt like a hot needle
going through my heart but I tried not to flinch. 'I can't believe the
gall you have.” 'Travis, come on, now. You've tried the same thing, be
honest.

Outreaches and bus ministries and youth evangelism, anything to bring
the people in. It's all a big game, Travis. It's called building a
kingdom, having followers, changing the order of things, and I'm better
at it. You got some, but I got more. It took you fifteen years.

It took me a few weeks. Argue with that.” 'It's a big lie, Brandon!” He
slapped the fence and rolled his eyes in a circle that could be seen for
miles. 'Travis, Travis, how many times do we have to go over that? It
doesn't matter! I produce! I provide results! I get things done! While
your God is stalling and hem-hawing and forcing you to make excuses for
him, I'm right here, right now. You can't compete with that.” He got
close and pointed his finger at my heart. 'And you can't stop it,
either. People will let you define their beliefs, did you know that?
Give them a homey feeling, give them security, and they'll give you
their minds and hearts. That's how I'm going to control this town,
Travis. First the adults, and then their children.” He leaned back
against the fence and stretched his neck. 'It's scary how easy it is.”
He snickered. '‘I see a spiritof doubt!' As soon as I saw it, so did
they.” 'And you're saying you didn't?” He gave me a comical shrug.
'Maybe I did, maybe I didn't, but how's anybody going to know?” Then he
pointed at my chest again and said with wild eyes, 'Turn to somebody and
say, ‘I do everything he tells me!' Go ahead!” I turned away, disgusted.

'Travis! Travis! Don't go hypocritical on me now! You've had the same
doubts about this whole racket that I have! Or are you 291

sitting alone in your house on Sundays because you still buy all this
stuff?” 'Stuff”I muttered. The word had a private meaning for meat least
until now.

'Stuff's he agreed. 'The game.” He gripped the fence tightly as anger
filled his eyes. 'Herd them in, herd them out, brand them, shear them. .
. butcher them!” He hit the fence with the heel of his hand, a snarl on
his lips. He recovered, calming himself. 'Travis, I hope you realize
we're both angry at the same things. We've been in the same places, felt
the same pain.” 'We're different, Brandon. Way different.” He wagged his
head. 'No, we're not. Not at the core. You're mad and I'm mad.” He
thought a moment, then suggested, 'If there's any difference between us,
Travis Jordan, it's that I'm doing something about it while you're still
trying to make up your mind. So let me be as friendly as I can: Make up
your mind and do it soon. I'm going to own the people of this town—their
wills, their money, their children. They are going to give themselves to
me because I'm a better Messiah and I play a better game. Now I've let
you into my circle of confidence because I know you really do see things
as I do. I know we could work together. But the opportunity won't last.”
'I can't let you do it.

'I am doing it.” With his hand, he signaled across the paddock.

'You know Matt Kiley, of course. Now that his legs are working so well,
he can help you find your way out of here.”

i DROVE TO THE BOTTOM of the driveway and through the big stone gate.
Kyle was sitting on the ground across the road, his back against a fence
post, waiting. I parked the car, got out, and sat beside him.

'How'd it go?” he asked, but I could tell his face was already mirroring
mine—quite unhappy.

'We need to pray for this guy.” THE Vi5ITATION

We sat there together on the bank beside the road, a pasture at our
backs and the Macon ranch on the wide, gradual hill before us, and
prayed. My emotions were a swirling mixture. I loathed the man's evil
and cunning, but felt so deeply sorry for him. It angered me to hear him
suggest we were so much alike, but I knew he was dredging soil from my
soul that he recognized in his own, and as much as I knew my own heart,
I knew his.

And knowing his heart, I feared for those who followed him.

DON ANDER5ON WAS A GADGET GUY. He sold appliances, CD players, VCRs,
remote controls, stereo headsets, radiocontrolled models,
radio-controlled doors and light switches, key chains that chirped,
bedside environmental sound machines and ultrasonic pest repellers—just
to name a few—because he loved that stuff. A sigu hung in the front
window of his Pepto-Bismol pink appliance store: 'Better Life Through
Creative Technology.” The store was his own little world where he could
surround himself with myriad little plastic boxes that beeped, blurped,
lit up, entertained, informed, and did zillions of other amazing things.
It was a wonderful kingdom to rule, when he could.

But sometimes his subjects would get the better of him. Once a customer
brought in a VCR that ate tapes. He fixed it, the customer took it home,
and that very night, the thing ate her collector's edition copy of Gone
with the Wind. Once a remote control for a customer's television
wouldn't switch the channels but would open the garage door. He knew how
to lick that: He just switched the frequencies around. This time when
the customer tried to change channels, the lights in the house dimmed,
and the FM radio started searching for another station.

Right now he was having to deal with a CD player that wouldn't go
around. There was no other problem with it. It just wouldn't go around.
He couldn't make it go around, and that vexed him severely. A radio
scanner that wouldn't scan also vexed him, and if he couldn't get a
decent solenoid for Mrs. Bigby's washing machine he'd have to refund her
money.

293

Don's sovereignty over his little kingdom was far from complete.

Even the gadgets in his home could be wayward and noncompliant, and his
wife, Angela, never missed an opportunity to remind him about it. Just
as a plumber's wife will complain about her clogged sink and running
toilet that never get fixed, so Angela often reminded him of the stereo
that only played on the left side, the hair dryer that didn't turn on at
all, and the television that kept blinking in and out.

Don had trouble remembering the stereo or the hair dryer, but the
television got his attention almost every evening, and especially this
evening. There was a prizefight coming in live over the satellite dish,
a fight he'd paid forty dollars in advance to view. Now, as he sat there
with his dinner on a TV tray and his wife looking for something to read,
the tube blinked out.

'NO!” he wailed, almost knocking his dinner over.

'Too bad,” Angela said with a curt little smile, thumbing through her
House and Garden.

He set aside the TV tray and approached the big television with the
massive oak cabinet, forty-four-inch screen, and surround sound. He
stood before it, he spoke to it, he gestured. It only hissed and threw a
snowy picture at him.

'Gotcha stumped?” Angela asked.

'No!” he growled. It was just that problems like this took precious time
to figure out, and he didn't have time. The fight was going to start in
a few minutes—and knowing the champ's record, it would only last a few
minutes. 'C'mon, c'mon. . .' He banged the television on the side. That
didn't work.

'You have tools, don't you?” No time, no time. Too much trouble.

He could feel Angela on the couch behind him, enjoying her magazine and
trying to pretend she wasn't really enjoying this.

4Nuts! He'd been up to that Brandon Nichols character and received some
kind of magical touch from him, something to help his business. Angela
didn't think much of that either, and maybe she was right. Nichols gave
him a touch on the forehead, he felt a tingle, he went home, his
television didn't work. End of story.

So it was mere impulse, and perhaps a little sarcasm, that caused him to
reach out and touch the television in the same histrionic, Brandon
Nichols fashion.

He felt the tingle again, and the picture tube came on with a flash. The
champ was winning thirty seconds into the first round.

'Yes!” Angela looked up. 'What'd you do?” He ducked behind his TV tray,
his eyes glued to the screen.

'Uh, just tweaked it, you know, adjusted the do-jiggy.” She went back to
her magazine.

He saw the rest of the fight—all four rounds—and then stole into the
bathroom for a little appointment with Angela's hair dryer.

This is nuts, he kept telling himself, but he pulled it out of the
drawer by the sink, plugged it in, and gave it a little touch. He felt
the tingle again. The dryer came to life.

All right, all right, one more time now, just to be sure. He walked—if
he hurried, Angela might notice—into the den, strolled nonchalantly by
the stereo, and gave it a tingly tap. Without his having to touch the on
button, it came to life and played beautifully out of both sides.

Don looked at his trembling hand. 'This is... this is incredible!” He
looked around the room, counting all the gadgets. The implications were
staggering.

'I can't lose!” he said. People were coming from miles around to have
Brandon Nichols touch their bodies. Would they do the same for their
gadgets and appliances? This could be the dawning of a new day for
Anderson's Furniture and Appliance!

Angela came into the room, pleasantly surprised at the full stereo
sound. She even had to speak loudly. 'You fixed it! You genius, you!”
'Yeah,” he said, awestruck at his new ability. 'Pretty impressive, huh?”
King of the gadgets, that was Don Anderson.

ADRIAN F OL so M closed her eyes and listened for the voice of the angel
Elkezar, her pen poised over a sheet of stationery. Sally 295

Fordyce sat nearby, unconsciously wringing her hands in nervous
anticipation, waiting to hear a word from the Lord. Suddenly, Adrian
smiled as if listening to a voice on a telephone, and began to write.
'Mm-hm. Mm-hm. Uh, what was that again? Mm-hm.

Okay.” Sally was in Adrian's home with Brandon's permission. 'Let Adrian
tell you,” he said. 'Let her bear witness.” Adrian finished writing, and
turned toward Sally, the letter in her hand. 'You'll like this.” Sally
leaned forward, still nervous.

Adrian, her reading glasses on her nose, began to read. '‘This is a
mystery of my true church, that all God's children should be one, with
no sense of other. As my servant is in unity with the Christ, so you are
in unity with him, and the oneness that you are in spirit, you portray
in your bodies. Fear not to submit to him and let your body be his, for
this is higher than flesh. This is spirit, and all that is spirit is
one.”' Then Adrian grinned, anticipating what she would read next.
'‘Just as my servant is in unity with the Christ and you are in unity
with him, so your friend Mary Donovan is in unity with the Virgin
Mother, Michael Elliott is in unity with John the Baptizer, and you...'
'Adrian smiled teasingly at Sally.”'.. . are in unity with Mary
Magdalene, whom the Christ loves as his own flesh!”' Sally was not so
thrilled, and made a face. 'Mary Magdalene?” Adrian glowed. 'Isn't that
incredible?” Sally only looked at the floor, her head quivering little
nos.

'That's not incredible. It's crazy. I'm not Mary Magdalene.” Adrian
tried to explain. 'Well, remember how Jesus said that John the Baptist
was Elijah? This is the same kind of thing.” 'Brandon yelled at me last
night. That doesn't sound like Jesus loving Mary Magdalene.” Adrian
puzzled over that one a moment. 'That's possible. Even God got angry
with Moses.” Sally didn't buy that either. 'I was too tired to have sex,
Adrian.

Brandon got all mad over a stupid thing like that. That doesn't sound
like God or somebody at unity with the Christ or whatever he's supposed
to be.”

Adrian gasped. 'Oh my..

'What?” 'It's Elkezar. He's speaking again.” She turned to her table and
started writing. 'Oh my. Oh my oh my.” Sally looked over her shoulder.
'What? What's he saying?” She could read Elkezar's words as Adrian wrote
them: 'Remember the fate of Korah and Miriam.” 'Who's Korah?” she asked.

Adrian's voice was hushed with fear. 'Korah led a rebellion against
Moses in the wilderness. The earth opened and swallowed him up, him and
his followers.” Sally was about to back away, but Adrian grabbed her
arm. 'Miriam stood against Moses and the Lord struck her with leprosy!”
Sally sank to her knees, weak with fear. 'I thought he loved me!”
'Brandon loves you! This threat is from God.” Sally thought it over. It
didn't take long. 'I'd better get back.” 'Brandon will receive you.
You'll be safe there.” Sally kissed Adrian on the cheek and hurried out
the door.

Adrian stared at the paper before her with its cryptic message.

'Elkezar. I've never known you to be so harsh.” She felt an icy breath
of wind at her back, though the curtains at the window did not stir and
the houseplants did not waver. She felt it again. Her skin crawled as
she turned and saw nothing, but felt something there. 'Is that you?”
There was no answer.

'Elkezar? Is that you?” He had never hidden from her before, never
lurked like a prowler, but now she could feel him watching her, just out
of sight. 'I gave her your message. She's going back to the Christ right
now. You saw her go, didn't you?” She felt as if cold, heavy lead was
filling her stomach. She began to tremble. 'Elkezar? Please, don't tease
me now.” It was the eerie stillness that scared her, the deadness in the
air, the chilling cold. The waiting.

297

He stood there—somewhere—his presence like a poison, the pendulum on the
wall clock swinging away the seconds, Adrian's short, frightened little
breaths the only sound.

At last, without a word, he turned away. She could feel him retreating
slowly, taking his own time, letting the effect linger as hideous terror
seeped out of the rooms and hallways in small, agonizing degrees.

Several minutes later, only when she was sure it was safe to do so, she
stirred, turning once again to the paper on her desk.

Now it read, 'So also for Adrian.”

JACK MC KIN S TRY was having doubts, but neither he nor his wife Lindy
dared say anything for fear of jinxing business. The Sooper Market was
doing well. Mack's was still the prime location where the denizens of
the Macon ranch got their groceries, and Michael the Prophet came
through almost every day to post flyers and announcements of coming
meetings. Brandon Nichols and his followers always plugged the store to
the pilgrims coming through, just as they talked up the other businesses
in town. It was best not to tamper with a good relationship, but just
keep sacking up those groceries and filling the tills.

But how were they supposed to handle a visit from the Virgin Mary?

Sure, they knew who Mary Donovan was. She'd been a regular customer and
they knew her by name. She was a friend of Dee Baylor. Since she was a
young divorc&, it was safe to assume she wasn't a virgin. But here she
was, decked out in a robe, shawl, and sandals, pushing a cart up and
down the aisles, grocery shopping for Mrs. Macon and.. . her son.

'Oh, he used to love this when he was little!” she exclaimed, taking a
box of Cap'n Crunch off the shelf. Then she'd stroll past the bread and
bakery shelves recalling, 'Oh, these are just like the ones he
multiplied on the shores of Galilee! I was so proud!” She picked up a
jar of tartar sauce. 'My son will provide the fish!”

Jack had a good guess that, if she had a grocery list, she wasn't
following it. Mrs. Macon wasn't going to be happy about this. He hurried
to join Mary near the frozen vegetables. 'How you doin', uh, Mary?” 'My
soul doth magnify the Lord,” she replied. 'And behold, these peas are on
sale!” He opened the freezer door to grab some. 'Yeah, they sure are.

How many packages do you need?” She giggled. 'Jesus can start with just
one and take it from there.” He put one package in her cart and then
craned his neck to see her grocery list. 'You finding everything okay?”
'He leadeth me beside the still shelves and restoreth my memory.” He
could see the list—and the contents of the cart. 'Uh, you sure you need
all these olives?” She looked at the dozen cans strewn in the cart and
mused, 'Blessed is he whose quiver is full of them, for we lack oil and
our lamps have gone out.” 'Well, yeah, your list says olive oil. That's
on aisle twelve.” 'Oh, thank you. I will turn aside and see this great
sight.” She stopped when she saw bags of popcorn. 'Jesus was such a
creative child! He could pop popcorn by the breath of his nostrils!” She
threw four bags into the cart. 'He'll be so excited!” Jack hurried back
to the checkout counter. Ringing up groceries he could deal with. Mary
as Virgin Mary was a little out of his realm.

'Should we call Mrs. Macon?” Lindy asked from her cash register.

He thought only a half-second and then shook his head.

Don't meddle, he thought. Don't mess things up.

JIM BAYLOR was in his basement sharpening the lawn mower blades when he
heard the front door slam and the heavy footsteps of his wife thumping
and creaking over the floor joists. She had been to another meeting up
at the Macon ranch. She was getting to be a regular Nichols junkie,
always going back for more spiritual happy 299

pills. Yep, she was laughing again. She laughed from the front door to
the kitchen, and then from the kitchen to the bathroom. After the toilet
flush rushed through the black pipes over his head, he could still hear
her laughing in their bedroom and then back in the kitchen again.

He hated when she was like this.

Now he heard smaller thumps leaving the living room and gomg into the
kitchen. That would be their daughter, Darlene, roused from her place in
front of the television.

'Wuzzofunne?” came Darlene's voice. Coming through the floor, 'What's so
funny?” was a bit muffled.

Jim figured out that Dee said, 'The Spirit's trickling through me, and
it tickles!” She started laughing again. A chair squawked over the floor
and thump! Dee sat down.

Well, is she gonna cook this time? Jim wondered. He figured he'd better
make sure, much as he longed to keep his life as simple as sharpening a
lawn mower blade.

When he got to the kitchen, Dee was doubled over the table, red in the
face, eyes full of tears, laughing herself silly.

'What's so funny?” he asked.

She couldn't answer, not then, not ten minutes later. It was much worse
this time. She'd been giddy before, tittering and giggling, praising the
Lord and seeing something humorous in everything, but tonight she was
out of control, maybe out of her mind. He couldn't handle it, so he
returned to the basement.

Mower blades he could handle.

He could hear her moving around up in the kitchen, still laughing, but
calming down to intermittent giggles. She was opening cupboards and
drawers. Good. She'd come down from her spiritual high long enough to
fix dinner.

Then the joists started creaking overhead and he could hear her feet
shuffling about as she sang. She was dancing up there, shuffling in
circles.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and Darlene hollered down the
stairs, 'Dad, would you make Mom stop?” 'Is she cooking dinner?”

'I don't know.

'Well, see what you can do to help her.” He could hear Darlene walk into
the kitchen. The shuffling stopped, although he still heard some
giggles. Then he heard water running.

And Darlene screaming.

He bolted up the stairs and ran for the kitchen, passing Darlene coming
the other way, drenched. He got into the kitchen in time to see Dee
dancing in circles, waving the sink sprayer over her head and drenching
everything including herself.

'Thou hast turned my mourning into dancing for me,” she was singing.
'Thou hast put off my sackcloth!” 'Dee!” He grabbed the hand holding the
sprayer and got a good dousing before he wrested it from her. 'Are you
crazy?” She calmed. 'Oh, I'm sorry, honey.” He put the sprayer back in
its place. 'Look at this mess!” He grabbed a towel from the rack by the
sink and started wiping.

'Gonna get the French fries now,” she tittered and sang, dancestepping
to the refrigerator. She opened the freezer side, took out a bag of
frozen French fries, zipped it open, and dumped the French fries all
over the kitchen table. 'Dinner's on!” She thought that was funny, and
collapsed into a chair, hysterical with laughter.

Darlene stood in the kitchen doorway, her wet hair matted to her
forehead, her expression pathetic. 'You want me to order out again?” Jim
was standing in a puddle of water and the towel in his hands could hold
no more. Dee was still laughing, starting up again each time she looked
at the French fries strewn on the table. 'Yeah, I guess so.” 'What do we
want? Pizza?” 'How about Chinese? The Wah Hing ought to be open.” Dee
looked at him. 'Chinese!” she cackled, then exploded with more giggling.

Jim envisioned chow mein, rice, sweet-and-sour ribs, and fortune cookies
all over the floor. 'Make it a pizza. Something plain and simple.” 301

'MAT T K IL E x, if you ever show your ugly face around here again I'll
rearrange your nose and mash it into the highway myself'.” Judy Holliday
could take quite a bit of irritation before she got riled, but now she
was threatening and cussing a blue streak, and had a frying pan in her
hand to back up every word. She was standing over Matt Kiley, and he was
lying in the front doorway, half-inside and half-out.

'And don't you get none of your blood on my carpet!” Judy's
granddaughter Gildy brought a towel for Matt to dab his face and head.
'I think you'd better leave.” Judy turned on Irv the trucker, the winner
in this particular brawl even though he didn't look like it. 'Go on, go
in the washroom and wipe that blood off before you drip on something.
Greg, go with him, and Linda, there's some iodine and bandages above the
freezer. Go on, all of you!” She turned back to Mart, still lying at her
feet in the doorway. 'I don't see you moving!” He tried to move and got
as far off the floor as his knees before he teetered forward again. At
least now he was a few feet farther outside.

'He's out far enough,” Judy observed. 'Gildy, get my towel back.” She
knelt gently and took the towel from Matt's swelling face.

‘‘Sorry."

'Mmph,” he said with swollen lips. He rolled and managed to sit up,
looking up at Judy standing in the doorway. 'Why's Irv get to stay?”
'‘Cause you're the ornery cuss that started this whole fight and you
know it!” she answered. 'Dumb cluck! You knew how Irv feels about that
truck of his and you called it names anyway!”

'He had it coming! Used to call me little four-wheels, and I couldn't do
a thing about it!” 'Well, my late husband's got more brains than both of
you, and he's been dead twenty years! Now git!” Mart struggled to his
feet, his face still smarting as if Jrv's big fist were still buried in
it. This hadn't turned out the way he planned.

He should have been able to whup Irv, whup him good. It should have been
Irv staggering out of Judy's and not him.

His legs felt weak and he had trouble standing, but it wasn't just
because Irv had made a milkshake out of his brains. He'd been wondering
about himself even when he went into Judy's. He just didn't feel the old
strength. He expected a good fight would bring it out.

Well, he expected wrong. It used to be there, but not tonight.

The power had faded when he wasn't watching.

He stumbled and almost fell.

My legs, he thought. My legs.

What happens when all the guys I've whupped find out?

I gotta see Nichols and get this fixed.

KYLE AND I 5POKE OFTEN bytelephone orin person over the next few days,
and prayed for the people who came to mind: Don, Adrian, Mary, Dee, and
Mart being among them. We also discussed a hunch that kept nagging me
but seemed terribly farfetched. He thought I should check it out, but I
kept stalling. It would be hard enough just for me to make the phone
call—I really did not want to talk to those people again. Once I got
someone on the line, what in the world would I say? How could they have
any idea if Nichols!

Johnson had ever been there?

Still, I couldn't shake the notion that our local messiah wanted me to
make that call. He had mentioned LA. and gave me the turn to somebody
and say” routine. He was too subtle, too cunning, for that to be a
blunder. 'We're both angry at the same things,” he said. 'We've been in
the same places, felt the same pain.

Herd them in, herd them out.” He was dropping clues.

He had to know I'd been down there—just like him.

On Thursday, nearly a week after my conversation with Nichols/Johnson, I
got the number from information and placed a call to Los Angeles.

303

'Hello,” said a cheerful female voice. 'Thank you for calling The
Cathedral of Life. Our Sunday morning services start at seven,
eight-thirty, ten o'clock, and eleven-thirty; our evening service starts
at 6 PM. Our Wednesday evening service begins at 7 PM. Childcare is
available for all services. If you know your party's extension, you may
enter it now. For a ministry menu, press 9.” I pressed 9.

'For nursery and Sunday school, press 1. For youth ministry, press 2.
For college and career, press 3. For young marrieds, press 4. For family
ministries, press 5. For seniors, press 6. For singles, press 7. For
weddings and funerals, press 8. For more options, press 9.” I could feel
my throat tightening up. I often had that problem when Marian and I
lived down there. I pressed 9.

'For men's ministry, press 1. For women's ministry, press 2. For
children's ministry, press 3. For counseling, press 4.” A counselor may
have known him. I pressed 4.

'For marriage counseling, press 1. For addictions, press 2. For
financial counseling, press 3. For other counseling, press 4. To learn
how you can begin a new life in Jesus Christ, press 5.” I banged 4.

A lady's voice came on the line. 'Norm Corrigan's office.” 'Hello, my
name is Travis Jordan and I'm calling from Antioch, Washington.” 'And
are you calling for counseling?” 'No, 'Well this is the counseling
department. Did you dial the right extension?” 'It's all right. I wanted
the counseling department. I'd like to speak to one of the pastors or
counselors.” 'Are you currently attending The Cathedral of Life?” I
stifled a witty comeback and answered her question. 'No, I'm living in
Antioch, Washington.” 'Are you attending a church there?”

ft

'Uh. . . listen, I'd like to speak to a pastor.” 'Are you currently
receiving counseling from a minister at your own church?” 'I am not
calling for counseling. I need to speak to a pastor, somebody in charge,
please.” 'Well, you've called counseling.” 'Then how about connecting me
with Dale Harris's office?” 'Thank you.” Praise music came over the line
as I waited. 'Great and mighty is he, Great and mighty is he, Great and
mighty, Great and mighty, Great and mighty is he...” 'Pastor Harris's
office.” 'Hello. This is Travis Jordan. I'm calling from Antioch,
Washington and I'd like to speak to Pastor Harris.” 'Is he expecting
your call?” 'No.” 'Pastor Harris is unavailable. I can connect you with
someone on the pastoral staff.” 'Okay. Sure.” 'Great and mighty in the
morning, Great and mighty at noon, Great and mighty in the evening,
Great and mighty all the day through..

'Norm Corrigan's office.” 'Hello. This is Travis Jordan from Antioch,
Washington. I'd like to speak to, uh—” The name escaped me. 'The
pastor.” 'Well, this is Norm Corrigan's office. Did you wish to speak to
him?” 'Is he someone in charge?” 'Oh, yes.” 'Then I'll speak to him.”
'He's out of the office right now. Would you like to leave a message on
his voice mail?” I don't know why I fell into it. 'All right.” 'Hello.
This is Pastor Norm Corrigan. I'm away from my desk right now or on
another line. You can leave me a voice mail mes305

sage after the beep, or dial one-two-two-zero to speak to my assistant,
Joanne Billings. God bless you and have a great day.” I decided to try
for Joanne Billings. 'One-two-two-zero!” I muttered as I pounded out the
numbers.

'Hello, you've reached Joanne Billings, Pastor Norm Corrigan's
assistant. I'm away from my desk right now or on another line. You can
leave a voice mail message after the beep, or dial pound-starnine-nine
for an operator to assist you.” 'Pound... star.., nine.. . nine... 'The
Cathedral of Life. How may I direct your call?” I sighed and actually
groped with my hands as I tried to think of what to say next. 'Can I
talk to someone in charge, uh, preferably a pastor?” 'I can connect you
with our counseling department. 'No, no, I was just there. How about. .
. is there a pastor I might talk to?” 'Great and mighty is he, Great and
mighty is he...” 'Hello. This is Pastor Norm Corrigan. I'm away from my
desk right now or on another line. You can—” I slammed the phone down
and sat there quaking with an old, familiar anger. Things hadn't changed
much at The Cathedral of Life. If anything, they'd gotten worse.

I'd have to go down there.

But I didn't want to. Didn't want to set foot in the place ever again.
The very idea dredged up painful memories for me, memories I'd rather
just forget. ...

MY FIR5T CRACK at the ministry, and I'd blown it. After we were cast out
of Northwest Pentecostal Mission on our ears, I spent at least a month
wallowing in self-doubt, self-pity, and self-flagellation. I never heard
a peep from anyone, but still I imagined the talk circulating through
the denominational district: 'Look out for Travis Jordan. He's a
hothead. He's cantankerous, disrespectful, and big-mouthed.” I would
have agreed.

Well, I asked myself, what can I learn from this? What the Lord trying
to teach me?

I supposed the Lord was trying to teach me to be more coolheaded and
cooperative, more respectful. I had some repenting and changing to do,
most of which took place on my knees— scrubbing toilets. No more of this
young ruler conquering the world for Christ stuff. Next time—if there
was a next time—I'd be thinking more in terms of what it meant to be a
servant, in submission to the authority God placed over me. After all,
God loves a servant's heart.

Fortunately, Marian stood with me. 'Travis, you don't think I knew what
I was marrying? I don't have any misgivings. A few bruises, sure, but I
got them by standing with you.” I remember her resting her arms on my
shoulders and looking at me with

admiration—and maybe a little mischief—in her eyes. 'When you stood up
to Brother Rogenbeck—” She drew in a breath and let out a deep sigh. 'A
little more patience might have been a good thing for both of us,” she
admitted, 'but that didn't mean Sister Marvin wasn't an old busybody. As
for Brother Rogenbeck, the only reason his head is wrinkled is because
it's low on air.” Thankfully, our loss of the ministry position did not
have a significant impact on our monthly income. Marian still had her
job at the hydraulic valve and coupling company, and I still had my
janitorial job at the mall. Even so, we were restless.

'We'll try again,” she said. 'We'll trust God, and we'll try again.” 'If
God will have me,” I retorted.

'I'm not worried,” she said. 'He knows you.” It's typical of the Lord to
close one door only to open another.

A month after Northwest Mission threw us out, Marian's company offered
her a higher paying position with the parent company in Los Angeles.

'Hey,” she said, 'you could go to school down there and get your
teaching degree.” That seemed prudent. I'd always felt that, were I not
a pastor, I would just as soon be a teacher, and I minored in education
at West Bethel. ‘With the credits I had earned so far, I was within easy
reach of a teaching degree—a safety net should I get booted out of the
ministry again, or be unable to re-enter the ministry at all.

We saved our money, applied for some grants, filled out some paperwork,
and went through that open door in the spring of 1979. We found a small
apartment, I enrolled at UCLA, and we settled in for a two-year stint.

That's how we started attending The Cathedral of Life. According to the
Christian grapevine, it was the place to be. Pastor Dale Harris was
reputed to be an incredible teacher. Anybody who was anybody went
there—actors, recording artists, Spirit-filled billionaires who flew
Lear jets. I don't know what I was thinking when I decided we should go
there. I guess I expected I would learn something from such a godly man.
Perhaps I would gain new wisdom and 309

insight into the ministry Maybe I'd get my spiritual cobwebs cleared out
just by being shepherded, nurtured, and pastored by someone so highly
respected. I was ready to submit to good leadership. I was ready to do
it right. While getting my degree and widening my skills, I could submit
to mature, godly leadership and deepen my spiritual walk.

Looking back, I think I did learn things I never would have known
otherwise. It just didn't happen the way we expected.

When we showed up at the Cathedral for our first Sunday, we discovered
church as we'd never experienced church before. We were accustomed to
arriving for church, greeting our friends, shaking hands and jawing with
the pastor, casually finding our way inside, and sitting down. We had
never worried about finding a place to park, never seen 'FULL” signs on
the first, second, and third parking areas, never been directed down
side streets by parking attendants in fluorescent orange vests with
walkie-talkies. We'd never been to a church where the congregation
worshiped in shifts and you had to be early for your shift or wait for
the next one.

We'd never had the church door closed in our faces and locked by a
polite usher who placed a sign in front of the door: 'SERVICE FULL. NEXT
SERVICE AT NOON. DOORS WILL OPEN 11:45.” There were four Sunday morning
services. We arrived entirely too late for the seven o'clock and
eight-thirty services, but on time for the ten o'clock, which was still
too late. Enough people had already gathered on the front steps and down
the sidewalks to fill the sanctuary before we could get through the
front doors. We ended up standing on the front steps of the church under
the midmorning sun with a few hundred other people we didn't know, not
yet aware that none of these people knew anyone else either. Little
introductory conversations started up throughout the crowd. Marian and I
met the people immediately around us. 'Hi, I'm Travis, this is Marian.”
They were Bob andJoan, Mike and Carol, James, Ronny, and Andre. Marian
told them how she worked for a company that manufactured hydraulic
connectors and valves. I told them I was

going to UCLA, working on my teaching degree. They told us how they sold
real estate, custom—painted expensive cars, managed a Taco Bell, went to
school. After that morning, we saw one or two of them from a distance,
but never met or talked with them again.

At 11:45, the rear doors opened. The third shift flooded out onto the
streets, sidewalks, and parking lots, combining their numbers with the
fourth shift still arriving and throwing the main avenue and surrounding
neighborhood into gridlock.

As for those of us already waiting at the front door, we poured like
floodwater into the sanctuaiy; moving down the aisles and filling the
pews to the music of piano, organ, worship leader, and three-voice
worship team. Folks all around us knew the drill; they were taking up
the song even as they moved along the pews to sit down: 'Making melody
in your heart, unto the King of kings..

They were raising their hands, getting into the worship. The place was
already cooking.

Marian and I joined in. She wasn't a tongues-speaker, but she was a
God-lover and a hand-raiser. We knew the songs and we were enjoying it.

The good things we'd heard about this church were true. The worship was
robust, joyous, and heartfelt. Emotion was natural and flowing, without
excess. The song leader at the pulpit was a handsome, articulate man who
sang with gusto and displayed his joy with dignity. The worship team
standing to one side, two women and a man, were polished and well
dressed, each with a cdor- coded microphone. The pianist and organist
were polished and coordinated—they even had an intercom between them.

This church seemed to cater to the educated. Anyone who spoke from the
platform spoke well, using words like 'problematic,” 'specificity”
'pedagogical,” 'well—orbed” and even college-brewed hybrids like
'distantiate.” You never heard a double negative, and I never caught
anyone using 'where” and 'at” in the same sentence.

There had to be teachers in the congregation. Cool.

Pastor Dale Harris lived up to our expectations and then some.

A man of medium height and broad build, he was animated, per3"

sonable, and articulate, and he loved to work the audience. 'The
psalmist says that praise is comely for the upright, which you can take
to mean that praise and worship lift the countenance. When you praise
more, you look better. Turn to somebody and say, ‘You look like you've
been praising the Lord.' Go ahead.” Marian and I turned to the people on
either side of us and said at the same time they did, 'You look like
you've been praising the Lord,” and then we all had a pleasant, social
laugh about it.

Pastor Harris taught out of Ephesians that morning and we hung on his
every word. It was great stuff, insightful and eloquently presented.
When he was finished he gave an altar call, and even that had a nice
touch of no-nonsense sophistication: 'We offer you two questions. The
first is, Do you know Jesus? The second question is simple and direct:
Would you like to? If you'd like to know Jesus, after the closing prayer
just slip through this door to my left and our pastoral staff will meet
with you, pray with you, and show you how to find him. We're not set up
here to argue or debate. You know the answers to the questions I've
offered. You know what to do.” We sang the closing song and I saw six or
seven people go to that door. Souls finding Jesus! What a feeling!

At the close of the service I decided I'd like to go to the front and
greet Pastor Harris, just let him know who we were, where we were from,
and how happy we were to be in the service. We stepped into the aisle
and had to swim against the current—everyone else was heading the
opposite direction. I looked around all the heads, returning smiles as I
tried to see up front. I couldn't see him anywhere.

'I think he's gone,” said Marian, holding my hand so we wouldn't get
separated.

I kept going anyway. I'd never been to a church like this and I didn't
know any better.

We broke into the clear near the front of the sanctuary and found one
man standing near a door to the right of the plafform.

He was either an associate pastor or an usher. He had that man-rncharge
look about him. 'Good morning,” he said.

'Good afternoon,” I said, aware of the time. I shook his hand and
introduced us.

'Miles Newberry,” he said. 'Associate pastor.” 'We just moved down from
Seattle. I'm going to UCLA, working on my teaching degree, and Marian's
working for.. .' I went on. I thought it would be okay to be
conversational.

An usher came up. 'Miles, did you check with Ron about the alternate
scheduling? I don't think we're reading off the same page.” Miles said
to me, 'It's good to have you with us this morning.

Have you filled out a visitor card?” 'Oh.” We had. I dug it out of my
jacket pocket. 'Yeah, here you

But Miles was talking to the usher. 'The page is right. Ron is wrong and
I told him that.” He saw the visitor card in my hand.

'No, don't give it tome. It's supposed to go in the offering plate.

Were you here for the offering?” Suddenly I felt a little stupid. 'Uh,
yeah, sure. We just didn't have it filled out in time.” He shook my hand
again. 'Well, next time just drop it in the offering plate. It's nice to
have you here.” Then he turned to the usher. 'Henry and Al have it
squared away. Let them handle it.” Marian tugged at my hand.

I thought I was still having a conversation with Miles Newberry.

'I'd like to say hello to Pastor Harris.

Miles Newberry smiled. 'I'll tell him you said hello.” He went back to
the usher. 'We're implementing it this Sunday but locking it in next
Sunday. That's the mix-up.” Marian got the hint long before I did and
tugged at my hand again. I finally followed.

'Elvis has left the building,” she said.

I looked again toward the empty platform and toward every door where
people hurried to join the gridlock. No Pastor Harris.

As a matter of fact, no pastor at all. This wasn't the chatty, leisurely
after-service leaving we were used to—this was an evacuation.

'Please keep moving toward the doors,” said another usher, his 313

hands extended to press upon our backs if need be. 'We need to clear the
building.” Well, I thought, this is how they do things in LA. I have a
lot to learn.

Because we were the last shift, we could go out any door we wanted.
Marian and I chose the front door again, and walked sev- eral blocks
back to our car.

'Pretty neat service,” I commented.

'They move you through there quick, don't they?” she replied.

'Yeah.” At the moment I wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

'He snubbed us.” 'Huh? Who?” 'That Miles Blueberry or whatever his name
was.

'Well, I don't think he meant it. He was busy.” 'The usher was more
important than we were, didn't you notice?” 'Well.. .' I did notice, but
I didn't want to fuel any negative feelings by saying so. 'It's a big
church; they have to keep things running smoothly.” 'Then the church is
more important than us.” I wanted to try the church for a while. This
was Southern California, I told her. People down here are used to
standing in line two hours for a three-minute ride at Disneyland. They
did hours of business by cell phone just waiting for a chance to pull
onto

Ventura Boulevard. Everywhere they went was far and through traffic, so
they described distances not in miles but in minutes.

There was more to do than time to do it. Churches could get so big that
the pastor couldn't possibly stick around to greet everyone.

We could learn to live with that. We could get used to it. It was a
different world down here.

I gradually talked her over to my side. That was in the days when I
prided myself on my logical, empirical way of viewing things and figured
she responded too much from emotion.

Actually, she had already seen the end from the beginning. We made The
Cathedral of Life our church home, and just as I was raised, we never
missed a service. We were there Sunday

morning for whatever service could fit us in; we turned out Sun- day
evenings and always got in, even if we had to watch the service on
closed-circuit television in an overflow room; we were there every
Wednesday night without fail. We planned our day in order to make it to
the Young Marrieds Sunday school class, one couple among fifty other
couples. When there was a business meeting, we were there, on time,
thoroughly studied, and ready to vote.

This was a deeply religious matter for me. It was time for me to humble
myself and submit to God-appointed authority. If the man of God was
sharing the Word, it was our duty to be there.

So we were always there, humble and submitted. For ten straight months
we waited on the front steps for the ushers to unlock the doors, entered
praising the Lord, and got out fast so the ushers could lock them again.
In every service, we stood when told to stand, sat when told to sit,
raised our hands, clapped our hands, said Amen, and turned to greet
those around us the moment we were told to do so. Every Sunday the
pastor told us to turn to someone and say to them whatever catchy phrase
he wanted us to say, and we always turned and said it, laughing a social
laugh at the cuteness of it. If Pastor Harris warned us against being
prideful and self-willed, we repented and prayed that the Lord would
help us be more childlike and submissive. When he said he saw an ugly
spirit of pride attaching itself to members of the body to make them
rebellious, we believed him. When he spoke about laughter being good for
the soul, we all broke out laughing.

We even did what we were told when sitting in the ovefflow room watching
Pastor Harris on television. The image on the screen would tell us to
stand, clap, greet one another, say something to somebody, repent of
this or that, and say Amen if we agreed, and we did it. It was a little
bizarre at first, responding and talking to a television image that
didn't see or hear us.

It seemed odd to turn to a total stranger at Pastor Harris's prompting
and bare our souls—what we were feeling, what we were hearing from God,
what we wanted to change in our lives, what temptations were still a
snare to us. But we did it, and we got used to it.

315

wE w ER E NE to the Young Marrieds Sunday school class: fifty couples
wearing nametags and setting their own trend in polyester. During the
brief coffee and fellowship time, we tried mingling. I stepped up to
meet two young urban professionals, nose to nose in a theological
discussion over Styrofoam cups of coffee.

'Don't you think the Pauline approach is epistemological, at least in
part?” said one.

'Well, only if you bring epistemology to bear on the order of the list,”
said the other.

'But I'm not talking about the specificity of the order.” 'You can't
force the specificity.” 'Oh no, not at all.” 'I think Paul intended a
general, well-orbed presentation. Otherwise the whole list becomes
problematic. We're distantiating election and free will.” 'But there
should be a distantiation, that's what I'm saying!” Should I say hello?
Would that be interrupting? Should I wait for them to notice me standing
there? Should I stick my nametag on my forehead?

They never noticed me standing there and never paused long enough for me
to enter in. They just went on with their discussion, talking like
Pastor Harris and oblivious to my presence.

Perhaps I needed to learn the vocabulary. Perhaps I needed to comb my
hair straight back and get a pair of white shoes and a white belt.

Marian tried to join a conversation between three mothers.

'Well, sometimes I spank her on her bare bottom,” said one, 'but you're
talking heavy logistics!” The second shook her head shamingly. 'But you
have to deal with that spirit of rebellion! The correction has to be
felt.” 'I tried the Gerber peaches but they gave Jamie the runs,” said
the third. 'I'm going through more diapers.... 'Try the peas,” said the
first. 'Buddy loves the peas.” 'But Jamie hates peas.”

The second lady leaped on that one. 'Ah-ah-ah! Rebellion!

Deal with it!” Marian decided it wouldn't be courteous to introduce
herself.

Kids were the subject here, not hydraulic valves and couplers. No one
asked her who she was anyway.

We met back at the refreshment counter and picked up a cookie for each
of us.

'Well,” said one gal to her friend, 'I can't tell you the details or
I'll speak it into existence.” 'It depends on how you phrase it, I
think.” We headed for our seats.

'How often do you make love?” Miles Newberry asked another couple as we
walked by—he could have been a doctor asking about their frequency of
bowel movement.

Conversations in that class were a little hard to get into.

B UT YOU could get into a program. The Cathedral of Life had programs,
conceived and administered from the top down, and no program, event, or
activity ever materialized without a logo. The morning service had a
logo: the sun rising with little Y-shaped people praising the Lord in
front of it. Wednesday night's logo was a long, winding trail with a
glowing mountain in the middle and on each end. The Young Marrieds class
had a Y-shaped father and Y-shaped mother with little Y-shaped kids.
Every class, every activity, every age group, had a logo.

Our Young Marrieds class was a program with its own program, Young
Marrieds Fellowship Night. Once a month, someone at the top would sort
through the roster cards and assign each couple to a group of four
couples. That group would then go out together and fellowship—go to
dinner, play miniature golf, whatever the group coordinator decided. We
all wore tee shirts with a classy looking YMFN logo on the front and a
scripture, 'Endeavoring to keep the Unity of the Spirit in the Bond of
Peace—Ephesians 4:3,” on the back. The next month, someone would shuffle
the cards so 317

we never went out with the same people twice. To hear Miles Newberry
tell it, this was to ensure a 'well-orbed” relationship with the rest of
the body of Christ. We went along with it, tapping colored golf balls
through windmills and past waterfalls and carrying on superficial
conversations, all the while stifling suggestions from Satan that the
church was picking our friends for us.

I REALLY HAD A HARD TIME gettingitthroughmyheadthatThe Cathedral of Life
did not need nor desire my help. Every church I had ever been a part of
always needed help with something, whether it was teachers for the
Sunday school or volunteers to clean the building once a month or just
greeters to stand inside the doorway and pass out bulletins to people
arriving. I was ready to be a servant, to do things the right way, to
humble myself and be useful somewhere, somehow.

'We already have a trained staff,” said the youth pastor. 'Thanks
anyway.” 'The banjo?” said the music minister with a half-smile. 'Why?”
The chief usher shook his head. 'I've got all the greeters I need.

You'd have to complete a greeter program anyway, and that would require
a year's membership.” 'We'll talk about it, brother,” said Miles
Newberry, and we never did.

They did everything and had no procedure for dealing with two unknown
faces emerging from the multitude and wanting to do something.

So month after month we continued to show up, hurry in, praise the Lord,
hear the Word, and hurry out with the thousands.

We put our tithe check into the offering plate and supported those
highly trained, handpicked folks who ran all those programs with all
those logos. Surely we could get used to feeling unknown and unneeded
every Sunday. Someday we would conquer the cynicism we felt every time
we turned to greet those around us, knowing the likelihood of ever
seeing them again.

After all, this was our role as members.

THE ROLE OF THE PASTORAL STAFF, apparently, was to create and maintain
the proper image.

Pastor Dale Harris took full advantage of video, which seemed
reasonable, given the size his task would have been without it. The
drawback for us was the subtle awareness that crept in as we sat with
hundreds in an overflow room watching his image: To all the thousands,
whether in the sanctuary or in the overflow room, an image was all he
was and ever would be.

When we joined the church as members, we gathered in the overflow room
with about thirty others for a new members' orientation and welcome
meeting. Pastor Harris came in to greet us; and I'd never seen him so
close. I'd never heard his voice unamplified. I'd never seen the natural
color of his face or the blemishes on his jaw. He said a few words of
introduction, and then we watched a video recording of him speaking to
us about the duties and obligations of church membership.

'Unity, unity, unity,” he said. 'As God has brought us together to be
stones in his temple, so we must be set in place by his Spirit and
mortared to one another by love. We are a worshiping church,” he said,
'and in our meetings we strive to touch the throne room of God in our
praise of him.” 'Oh dear,” he said. 'Pardon me, but if this is not your
heart, if you do not wish to enter the presence of God with us in this
way, please don't join the church.

'We are to be of one mind,” he said, 'an army marching together.” These
were fair and honest words, and on their face they were agreeable
enough. It was only in the months that would follow that we realized the
prerequisite for such unity: the abandonment of our wills and judgment
to the organic will of the thousands, which, in turn, was controlled
every Sunday by the man at the top.

The man we did not know.

When the video ended and the screen went to snow, he returned to extend
to us the right hand of fellowship and welcome us into the congregation.
I can still see the face of one young man weeping, embracing Pastor Dale
Harris. He was home now, part of the family. He'd found a shepherd.

319

Months later, I would reflect on that moment and wonder, Did that young
man know that this was the only time he would ever embrace his pastor?
Did he consider that his pastor would never again touch or look him in
the eye? This pastor would never turn aside to greet him by name or
return his smile from the platform. After this evening, his face, his
name, his very existence would drop from the pastor memory and the
pastor would retreat once again behind his phalanx of associates who
spoke his jargon and kept the machinery running from behind those dark
cherry office doors.

After this evening, Pastor Dale Harris would once again be a face, a
voice, a two-dimensional, unknowable, untouchable image, and all of us
would become unseen, unknown, nameless faces in the sea of thousands,
all marching in step.

I don't suppose that young man thought of such things at the time.

When I embraced the pastor I wasn't thinking of such things either.

But I think Marian knew it all along.

IT TOOK MY SISTER, Rene, tohitus overthe headwithit. She'd been hitting
me over the head with her big sister wisdom ever since we were kids, so
she had no qualms or hesitations. She came to visit us in the spring
when we'd been at the Cathedral for ten months and been members for six.
When we took her to church with us on Sunday morning, it was the first
time she'd ever been there.

We got to the sidewalk at our usual time, but for some reason the main
sanctuary filled up before we could get in. The ushers, standing in a
long, tight line like traffic cones, directed us downstairs into the
overflow room where the television was set up. We and three hundred
other people went through the Sunday routine in front of that tube,
worshiping, greeting one another, saying things to each other, asking
the stranger on either side a personal question about their
spirituality, hearing the message, and then getting out of there,
walking along another line of living traffic

cones. Rene wasn't much of a participant that morning. She just sat
quietly, listening, observing, and being a courteous guest.

Sunday evening, she didn't become difficult, but she did ask with
wonder, 'You're going back there again?” I knew Rene wasn't an avid
churchgoer. Our strict, church-first upbringing seemed to have had the
opposite effect on her. 'Well,” I said, 'it's how we do things. It's
part of our covenant with the Lord and with our local church body. If
the man of God is sharing the Word, it's our duty to be there.” She
looked horrified, but said nothing.

She came with us to the Sunday night meeting, and this time we got into
the main sanctuary but had to sit up in the balcony. I was a little
nervous because she was new and hadn't had a chance to learn the balcony
rules.

'Make sure you keep your purse tucked under your seat,” I instructed
her, talking close to her ear so she could hear me over the worship
music. 'We have to keep the aisle in front of us clear.” We managed to
find some seats at the very front of the balcony.

Uh-oh. There were a lot of rules here.

'Uh, make sure you keep your Bible beside you, not on the railing.” She
moved down the pew ahead of me toward the wall.

'No, don't sit there, you'll block the television lights. And don't
touch the brass railing; the fingerprints dull the shine.” She sat down
slowly, looking at me and giving me time to stop her in case that was a
wrong thing to do. I nodded to her that it was okay.

An usher hurried up. 'Pardon me, we're trying to keep this row clear.”
There were already thirty people moving down the row behind us. He
called to them, 'We have to keep this row clear, folks. Sorry.” We
backed all the way out and found the next row up. It was a thirty-foot
pew and there were enough bottoms to far exceed that capacity. Rene sat
across the aisle from us and got out her pen to jot something down. I
tried to warn her, but— Too late. An usher tapped her on the shoulder.
'Excuse me. We can't allow fountain pens in the balcony.” 321

She put her pen down, stroked her forehead a moment, and then looked up
at the usher. The worship singing was full and spirited, but I imagine
half the balcony could hear her question. 'Is there anything else I'm
not supposed to do? Do you have a list I can read? Is there a class I
can take? Is there any way I can save you the trouble of harassing me!?”
I had seen people get booted out of the balcony before. I started to
cross the aisle.

A second usher stopped me, his hand on my chest. 'Sir, please sit down.
You're disturbing the service.

I sat down. My sister was going nose to nose with an usher and about to
be removed, and I sat down. Marian gaped at me. 'What are we doing?
Rene's in trouble!” Rene was gathering her things. 'Travis, I'm
leaving!” She stood and waved to the people in the balcony. 'Good-bye,
everyone!

Happy churching!” Marian and I got up.

An usher held up his hand at chest level in front of us. 'Please sit
down—” Marian maintained a mature dignity and poise. 'Stand aside,” she
told him, 'or I will scratch your eyes out.” He stood aside. Marian
followed Rene and I followed Marian, cringing to think how grieved the
Holy Spirit must be.

We tried to keep up with Rene as she stormed down the sidewalk, heading
for our car in parking area two. Knowing Rene, I was aware she'd been
patient to the point of sainthood, but now her time had come. She'd seen
it all, heard it all, digested it all, and she was ready to comment.
'Why, oh why do you subject your- selves to this?

'Well, it's a big church in a big city—” I started to say.

'That is religious, God-tripping, cockamamie—” I won't complete her full
description of my excuse. 'Have you lost your mind?

That's not a church, it's a Christian factory!” 'They have to control—”

She stopped and looked back at the building, pointing. 'Do they even
know who you are?”

'Well, it's—” 'Do they? Does anyone at that church know who you are?”
Marian answered, her own pain showing, 'Not really!” 'You say it's your
church home. Does it know when you're home? Does it even care?”

I tried to shrug it off. 'You get used to it.” 'NO!” She grabbed my arm,
on the verge of tears. 'Don't get used to it, Travis! Don't you ever get
used to it! Don't let them do this to you!” We went back to our little
apartment, had soup and sandwiches, and talked until close to midnight.
To summarize the whole evening, we were hit soundly over the head by an
outsider who still had eyes to see. We broke down and wept, finally
getting in touch with the pain we'd been trying to suppress for ten
months. We concluded that the Cathedral did not attract people like
Rene, and accepted the truth that the Cathedral could never hold much
attraction for us either.

We never went back.

But more than a year later, we continued to receive a monthly calendar
and letter from Pastor Dale Harris, telling us how much we were loved
and how he appreciated our continuing participation and support.

WE FOUND ANOTHER CHURCH, alsowell spoken of, andwere astounded and
relieved to find that there was nothing seriously wrong with us—we
weren't in the wrong; we were just in the wrong church.

We met the pastor the first Sunday and he remembered our names the next
Sunday. We could easily join conversations with people just like us and
made friends immediately. We got to know the pastoral staff the way
people get to know people, and we didn't even need nametags!

And we could serve! When the pastor announced they needed help carrying
in folding chairs, we leaped at the chance and just about cried from the
joy. Next we handed out bulletins at the door 323

and welcomed people coming in. I got out my banjo and helped with the
worship at our Wednesday night home group meeting.

Three months later, I was leading a home group myself.

So we grew in the Lord. We learned, we matured, and when we finally left
Southern California, we had made friends for life. After the Cathedral,
it was surprising how easy it was.

I DON'T CON5IDER MYSELF 5CARRED orwounded bythe Cathedral of Life
experience, but I admit I picked up a few quirks. I never believe
anything just because a big-named Christian leader

says it. I never do anything I don't want to do just because a pastor,
presuming to be the voice of God, tries to coerce me with guilt or
threats. I no longer respond to visions God gives to others about what I
should or should not do, think, or be. And since the Cathedral I have
never, and will never again, turn to someone and say something the
pastor tells me to say. Never.

WHEN I TOLD THEM about my telephone encounter with The Cathedral of
Life, Morgan and Kyle laughed, then apologized for laughing and offered
to help me out with airfare to LA. So with teeth gritted, I called the
Cathedral one more time, got bounced all around the premises by
secretaries and answering machines, and finally—miracles still
happen!—got an appointment to see Associate Pastor Norm Corrigan on
Tuesday, June 9, at ten in the morning, for one hour.

Tuesday, June 9, at nine-thirty in the morning, I was there, dressed in
suit and tie and ready to go nose to nose.

The new building was spectacular. Stone, brick, and acres and acres of
tinted glass. Fountains, walkways, trees, shrubs, and tons of beauty
bark and lava rock. Inside, miles of rich carpet and fine woodwork.
Sitting areas the size of major hotel lobbies. Fine furniture, high
ceilings, and massive chandeliers. A huge brass plaque bearing the names
of all those who gave ten thousand dollars or more to the building
project.

The receptionist in the front lobby sat inside a circular reception desk
the size of a ten-person hot tub. She pulled out a map and traced a
route for me to follow to the administrative offices. I thanked her, and
holding the map before me, set out.

I took a brief side trip to peek through one of the ten rear sanctuary
doors. The sanctuary reminded me of some of the finer performing arts
centers around the country. It was capacious, hightech, and very, very
nice.

I moved on, guided by the map, walking down one hallway, then making a
right turn into another, fascinated by the mixture of emotions and
attitudes churning within me. On the one hand, I felt dazzled and
excited. What a success story! On the other hand, I still had a chip on
my shoulder: If anybody tried to play the bureaucrat or hassle me I
wasn't going to take it. Was anyone going to recognize me? My eyes
darted about, looking for familiar faces or pictures on the wall to tell
me who was still there. How about the usher who harassed my sister,
Rene? Hopefully he'd let me read the list of don ‘ts for this building
before asking me to leave. I wondered if Miles Newberry was still there,
still teaching the Young Marrieds Sunday school class. It would be the
Middle-Aged Marrieds by now. I envisioned the logo: the letters MAM
resting in an empty nest.

And what if I actually bumped into the pastor of this place?

What would I do? What would I say?

The answers that came to mind betrayed my attitude: You'll never bump
into him because begets in and out of here through a secret tunnel. Even
fyou did see him, he'd be flanked by at least two associates and on his
way somewhere important.

I rebuked myself, asked the Lord's forgiveness, and pressed on.

I could see a wall of glass at the end of this hallway, with two glass
double doors and an office space beyond. As I approached, I could make
out the bold gold letters on the glass: 'The Offices.” I went through
the doors. Beyond the reception desk were six office cubicles and six
secretaries, and beyond the cubicles was a hallway with lots of dark
cherry doors on either side. I told the receptionist who I was and with
whom I had an appointment, and she directed me to a long, overstuffed
couch where I could wait.

From where I sat, I could see down -the hallway with the dark cherry
doors and make out some of the brass nameplates. The 327

names I could read I didn't recognize. It had been almost twenty years.
As for those big, double, paneled doors at the end of the hall with
their own secretary sitting at a desk nearby, they could only belong to
the man who was unavailable for telephone calls and would take three
months to see if I made an appointment: Pastor Dale Harris.

I held a black leather valise in my lap. It contained every scrap of
information I possessed about Brandon Nichols, alias Herb Johnson,
alias.., whoever he claimed to be when he had been here. Ifhe had been
here. That was still a strong hunch, but not a certainty. This whole
visit could turn something up, or it could end up a waste of dwindling
time and scarce cash.

I still had fifteen minutes until my appointment—fifteen minutes and
another hunch that might expedite my visit. There was a water fountain
between the hallway and me. I rose casually from the couch, helped
myself to some water, and then walked casually down that hall past all
the closed cherry doors. Most of the names were new. Richard Drake. Ben
Montesque. A few others. Ah, here was Norm Corrigan's. I kept walking.
Miles Newberry! He was still around!

Then I stood before the desk of Pastor Harris's pleasant, middle-aged
secretary. She looked up.

'Can I help you?” 'Hi. I'm Travis Jordan from Antioch, Washington. I
have an appointment with Norm Corrigan in fifteen minutes.” She
indicated the couch I'd just come from. 'If you'd like to take a seat,
Pastor Corrigan will be right with you.” 'Oh, I've already checked in.”
I opened my valise. 'I thought while I was waiting I might see if you
could help me out.” I read the name plate on her desk. 'Uh, Mrs.—or is
it Ms.?” She smiled. 'It's Mrs.” 'Mrs. Fontinelli, a man has come to our
town who, in certain ways, is claiming to be Jesus Christ.” That raised
her eyebrows and, I hoped, piqued her interest. 'We're trying to find
out who he really is, and by certain hints he's dropped we think he may
have

attended this church at one time. Have you been here at the Cathedral
for very long?” 'Ten years or so.

I handed her a photograph of Nichols/Johnson. 'Have you ever seen this
man?” This gal would never win at poker. Her reaction was so strong you
could read it a mile away. 'Um. . . my word.” She looked down at her
desk and would not look up at me. This was one of those silent, awkward
moments, but it gave me time to consider: If Pastor Harris's secretary
instantly recognized one face out of thousands and had such a strong
reaction, that said a lot.

'I take it you've encountered this man before?” 'Yes.” She volunteered
nothing beyond that.

'Have you been Pastor Harris's secretary for very long?” She seemed glad
I asked her a question she could easily answer.

'Oh, um, five years.

'And was it during that time that you encountered this man?” She tried
to compose herself. 'Um, who was it you were here to see?” 'Norm
Corrigan.” She tapped the photo lying on her desk. 'Were you seeing him
about this?” 'I sure was.

She made a little o with her mouth and nodded to herself. Then she
picked up her telephone. 'Could you.. . excuse me? Please, have a seat
on the couch?” 'Sure thing.” I took back the photograph and walked
slowly, hoping, even praying, I'd be able to overhear what she said into
the telephone. All I could make out was 'Tammy... talk to Norm.., we
need Miles... I sat down on the couch and watched the little stir my
photograph and questions caused. One of the six secretaries at this
end—her name card said Tammy Orenfeldt—was stealing little sidelong
glances at me as she and Mrs. Fontinelli spoke in hushed 329

tones. 'Yes,” I heard Tammy say, 'for ten o'clock. All right, I'll ask
him.” Both secretaries hung up at the same time. Tammy punched in
another number and said, 'I need to interrupt you.” Mrs. Fontinelli made
a quick call herself and then ducked into Miles Newberry's office while
Tammy hurried down the hall and ducked into Norm Corrigan's.

I knew Brandon Nichols was the kind of man who would not allow himself
to be lost in the crowd. One way or another, he would make himself
known, especially to the leadership—especially to the pastor he could
describe so well and seemed so bitter against.

Now a man who had to be Norm Corrigan came out of his office and crossed
to Miles Newberry's as Tammy came back to her desk acting like she
wasn't watching me. There was a three-person conference going on in
Newberry's office. I checked my watch. My appointment with Corrigan was
coming up. I wondered what their line would be. The door opened. Norm
Corrigan hurried back to his office, Mrs. Fontinelli hurried back to her
desk, and Miles Newberry came strolling down the hail toward me. He was
graying nicely and had put on a little more weight. He looked good for
being twenty years older. I knew he wouldn't notice whether I looked
different.

'Hi,” he said, extending his hand. 'Miles Newberry. And you are... I
stood, shaking his hand. 'Travis Jordan. I have an appointment with Norm
Corrigan—” I looked at my watch. 'Right now.” 'Norm's had something come
up. May we talk?” It felt funny to be standing eye to eye with this man,
having his undivided attention. Twenty years ago, he promised we'd do
this.

'Okay.” We went into his office and he closed the door. Rather than sit
behind his desk, he sat in one chair facing me as I sat in another.

It didn't exactly make me feel more comfortable, but I appreciated the
protocol.

'Now, what can we do for you?” he asked.

'I imagine you've heard from Mrs. Fontinelli,” I said. 'I'm here

trying to find out anything you can tell me about this man.” I gave him
the same explanation I gave Mrs. Fontinelli and showed him the same
photograph.

He was not at all happy to see it. He scowled, drew a deep breath,
sighed it out, then asked me, 'What do you intend to do with this?” 'I
need to know who he is, who he really is, and how I can deal with him. I
need to know his background and what would motivate him to get into this
false christ routine. If you can tell me anything you know about him,
I'd greatly appreciate it.

He ignored my question. 'What makes you think he was here at this
church?” 'He talks like he was here, and he's very bitter.” Gops. That
sounded unkind, but then again, it was true.

Miles Newberry chuckled—to shed my unintentional stab, I thought. 'Well,
this is a big church and we get all kinds. Not everyone who comes
through here is going to be happy with us.” I wanted an answer to my
first line of questions. 'Do you know this man?” 'Not personally, no.” I
noticed his body language. We were in his office, but he was the one
acting cornered. 'But you know who he is?” I could sense reluctance in
his answer. 'Yes. We know who he is.” 'So he did attend this church for
a time?” 'I already told you that.” 'Actually, no. You didn't.” 'Well,
he did.” 'And when was that?” He looked at the ceiling. He took another
breath. He was clearly not comfortable. 'I would guess two or three
years ago.” 'Did he have a name?” He looked at me curiously. I
explained, 'He's used two different names that I know of and I'm
suspecting a third.” He whistled his amazement, but said nothing
further.

This guy was not a bubbling spring of information. 'Is there a problem
here? I feel like you don't want to talk about this.” 33'

'You have to understand that we do a lot of counseling here and that we
hold a lot of information in confidence.” 'Even his name?” 'Well..,
please don't take offense, but we don't know who you are. We don't know
what you're going to do with the information.

We have relationships and confidences we have to protect. I'm sure you
understand.” 'Perhaps I should tell you what this man is doing to our
town.” I recapped Nichols/Johnson's career, showing Miles Newberry some
news articles from the local paper as well as from the bigger papers in
Seattle and Spokane. 'I can understand your wanting to protect whomever
he may have hurt, but given the circumstances, I'm not so sure you'd be
wise to protect him.” Newberry studied the articles. 'So now he's
healing people?” 'I've seen him do it.” His pain was showing as he
handed back the articles. 'When he was here, he went by the name Justin
Cantwell.” Then he conceded, 'And he was trouble.” I waited for him to
elaborate, but he didn't.

'What kind of trouble?” 'I can't go into that.” 'Justin Cantwell.” I
wrote it down. 'Any idea where he was from? Any background?” He sighed.
'I need to talk to some people before I can give out any more
information. Will you be around tomorrow?” This was a major frustration
and I didn't try to hide it. 'I have to fly back tonight. It's one of
those round-trip discount things.” 'Well, leave us a number and we'll
call you.” Now where had I heard that line before? 'What about Pastor
Harris? Does he know anything about Cantwell?” 'I'll have to ask him.”
'Let's ask him now.

'He's unavailable right now.” 'Is he here on the premises?” 'He's
unavailable.” I tried to control the emotion in my voice. 'He always
unavailable. What about Norm Corrigan?”

Miles Newberry shrugged. 'He wouldn't know anything about this.” 'He's
new on staff?” 'That's right.” 'But Mrs. Fontinelli's run into this guy.
The photograph really upset her.” He nodded. 'She was here then.” 'So it
makes sense that Pastor Harris knew him.” He got tense. 'Are you digging
for something?” 'Only because it's buried. Please don't take offense,
but I have a very dangerous man deceiving my town according to an
agenda, my friends and I spent a good deal of money getting me down
here, and when you stonewall on behalf of Pastor Harris, I get
uncomfortable. If you know about Cantwell and Mrs. Fontinelli knows
about Cantwell, it's inconceivable that this hasn't somehow touched
Pastor Harris. I'd like to talk with him.” His eyes narrowed. 'Before we
go any further, I need to warn you about something.” I was listening.

'This church has been appointed by God as a light in this city.

It has his blessing and his mandate to spread the gospel and make
disciples.” He indicated my valise. 'If you try to cause this church any
harm with this information, you'll be opposing God, and that's never
advisable.” I stopped. Twenty years ago, his warning would have scared
me.

Today, I felt vindicated. 'Reverend Newberry, when I attended this
church, I always sensed that kind of attitude trickling down from the
leadership. I never thought I'd hear anyone verbalize it.” He gave me a
curious look. He was about to ask me, so I told him, 'Yeah, my wife and
I attended this church about twenty years ago.

I don't expect you to remember me because you never knew me in the first
place, and it's obvious you don't know me now, or you wouldn't have said
what you just said to me. But I thank you for your candor, and I'm sure
I can count on your help.” I leaned toward him, eye to eye. He was going
to regret not 333

sitting behind his desk. 'I need to hear from anyone who has had direct
dealings with Justin Cantwell, and if that includes Pastor Harris, I
need to hear from him, not you on behalf of him. No more running
interference, okay? No more puffing me off. The devil's at work in
Antioch and we don't have time for that.” He returned my gaze for a
moment, and then nodded as if in agreement. 'Leave me your number.”

BRANDON NICHOL5 chuckled and lovingly petted Matt Kiley on his bowed
head. 'Get up, Matt. No need to grovel.” Matt Kiley was on his knees in
the straw before the Messiah of Antioch, ready to plead, bargain,
cajole, do anything to get his strength back. The moment the Boss
touched him, he felt it coursing through him. His arms, his back, his
legs were strong again, maybe even stronger. He leaped quickly to his
feet, flexing and stretching.

'All there again?” the Boss asked, holding Matt at arm's length and
inspecting him.

Matt was about to answer, but his throat choked with emotion.

He nodded instead. They were standing in the barn at the Macon ranch.
The Boss was supervising as two new followers unloaded a truckload of
oats, stacking the sacks on a pallet.

The Boss nodded toward the feed sacks. 'Let's try those arms out.” Matt
put up his dukes and gave the sacks a few solid punches.

His legs felt like powerful springs under him. He danced, bobbed, weaved
like a boxer. WHAM! WHAM' He pounded dents in the sacks. It felt great.

'Yeah!” he hollered, then threw his arms around the Boss. He'd never
been a hugger before this.

The Boss was pleased. 'All right, then. You have your strength.

But remember, Matt: Your strength comes from me. It's mine, for my use.
No more wasting it in foolish brawling!” 'Okay. You got it. Oh!” He
remembered something, and j reached into his pocket. 'The other
merchants asked me to give

you these gift cards. You can use them to get discounts on lodging,
meals, just about anything in town. Pass them out to the pilgrims.

It's our way of saying thanks.” 'Tell them thanks for 'My Lord!” called
Michael the Prophet, hurrying into the barn.

'Armond Harrison is here!” Nichols's eyes brightened as he turned to see
Armond Harrison and a lovely young lady walking in with Michael. 'Hello
and welcome!” Harrison shook hands with Antioch's Messiah, then
introduced the young lady. 'This is Gail, the one we talked about.” The
Messiah was delighted. Gail was in awe. Harrison told her, 'He'll take
good care of you, and trust me: You'll be a different woman when you
leave here.” 'Michael, take her to her room in the guest house. I'll be
along shortly.” Michael gave a little bow and then led Gail along with a
touch of his hand.

'Her husband's gone,” Armond explained. 'In the navy. She's had some
real problems with that.” Nichols gave a wise and understanding nod.
'She needs comfort. Fulfillment.” He smiled. 'Don't worry.” Armond
smiled. 'I won't.” 'Cindy, the young woman I spoke to you about, is a
gentle sort and reasonably well-adjusted. But I've told her she could
benefit from the communal environment you have with your group—and, of
course, your wisdom regaiding..

'Of course.” As they left the barn, chaffing enthusiastically about
their mmistry relationship, Matt only sighed with envy. The Boss always
got what he wanted.

DON ANDERSON was turning around repair jobs so quickly people were
starting to comment on his speedy service. He was careful never to let
visitors see him using his special gift, and of335

ten he'd tinker away with his tools just for show. But in the week that
followed that special touch from Brandon Nichols, he had cleared almost
every item to be repaired from the shelves of his workroom. Now he was
actually getting a little bored, and started tinkering just for the fun
of it.

Some more repair jobs came in today. The Steens' VCR wouldn't
rewind—until he touched it. He made out a bill for how much time it
would have taken him to fix it.

It would have taken him three hours. . . well, more like four.., to fix
Lonny Thompson's tape deck that wouldn't go around. With one touch that
took less than a second, he made it go around. Lonny was still going to
be billed for four hours.

An electric mixer came to life again, as did a wireless doorbell.

Don spent most of his man hours just writing up the bills.

Then there was the Boresons' CD player—a nice one with a rotating deck
that held five CDs at once. The rotating deck didn't rotate. He hit the
open button and it slid open. Hm. Kenny Boreson left a heavy metal CD in
this thing. No wonder the deck was malfunctioning.

Then the craziest notion came over Don, and he ran his finger in a
circle around the face of the CD as if he could actually read the
digital recording through his fingertip. It was just a silly whim, but
still he wondered— Somewhere in his head he could hear some raging,
wailing, wildfire guitar work, every blasting, distorted note like a
toothache set to music. It was giving him a toothache.

He removed his finger. The sound stopped.

He looked at his fingertip. Nawww, he thought. Don, now you re leaping a
little too high.

Well... there were other CDs in the store. A little experiment would
settle any doubts. He found one of Mozart and no sooner picked it up
than he heard the opening strains of Symphony No.

40 in G Minor. He shifted his gentle hold on the CD so that his fingers
rested in another spot. Symphony No. 39 in E-flat.

Man oh man, he thought, what else can I do?

WHEN JIM BAYLOR came home from work, the house was quiet.

In this household, such quiet was seldom a normal or good thing, and it
made him uncomfortable.

'Dee?” No answer. His first thought was that she was up at the ranch
again, lingering after the afternoon meeting, all gaga over Mr. Messiah
and forgetting her starving family at home. But this was Wednesday and
Mr. Messiah wasn't holding any meetings on Wednesdays.

He went into the kitchen, then the living room. 'Dee?” 'What?” Her voice
came from the bedroom, low and muffled, and she certainly wasn't
laughing.

He hurried down the hall and to the bedroom door.

She was curled up in a near fetal position on the bed, hugging a pillow
to her head, her expression just this side of death.

'Dee? What's wrong?” She muttered into the pillow. He could hardly hear
her. 'What do you care?” Jim hated it when something would happen to Dee
that he just couldn't understand and didn't know how to fix. He
suspected this might be one of those times. 'What's bothering you?”
'Nothing.” He approached the bed and sat on the edge. She rolled over,
turning her back to him. 'Just leave me alone.

You always do anyway. You don't care about me. Nobody does.” 'Sure I
care about you. I lQve you. You're my wife.” 'If I died you'd all be a
lot happier.” Jim tried to tell her that wasn't true and Dee kept
talking about how worthless she was and how no one loved her and how she
wanted to die, and the conversation went around and around on the same
merry-go-round for several minutes. Finally, Jim got impatient enough to
ask, 'What happened, did Brandon Nichols hurt your feelings?” That
raised her temperature a little. 'What do you care?” 'You know what Jack
McKinstry told me? He said Mary Donovan thinks she's Mary—you know, the
Virgin Mary.” 'Yeah, so what?” 'And I hear Adrian's talking to an angel.
Did you hear about that?” She curled up tighter. 'Will you just get out
of here?” 'Dee, maybe you're just bugged because they've got this stuff
happening to them and none of it's happening to you.” She flipped over
like a fish on a rock. 'You don't know anything, Jim Baylor! How could
you? You don't know the Lord, you don't care, and you don't know diddly
squat about spiritual things or what God's doing on the earth, so don't
try to tell me—” He matched her volume, and by now it was getting high.
'You don't think I know anything? Hey, I'm not laying on the bed like
some kind of beached whale—” Her strength was returning. 'What did you
call me?” '—wanting to die.” More strength, more voice. 'What did you
call me?” 'I'm not the one who spilled frozen French fries all over the
table and cha-chaed for Jesus while my family went hungry!” 'That was
the joy of the Lord!” 'We could squirt each other and then dance a bit!
Maybe look at the clouds. It'll be a blast!” She nearly screamed, 'That
was the joy of the Lord!” 'What joy of the Lord? You're lying here
wanting to die! What kind of joy is that?” 'You wouldn't understand!” 'I
understand you lying on the bed feeling sorry for yourself!

XVhat's that, the pits of the Lord?” She let out a war cry and threw the
pillow at him.

'Yeah, that's it, that's it!” He backed out the door, angrily pointing
his finger at her. 'Go ahead and stew! We'll see if Brandy boy comes to
cheer you up again!” 'Aaaaaghhh!” She reached for the lamp to throw, but
he slammed the bedroom door and stomped down the hall.

He got out of the house. He'd eat atJudy's tonight. Maybe he'd get good
and drunk too.

'I LL B ET you never imagined you were so enlightened.”

I'd no sooner come in the door than the phone rang. It was Brandon
Nichols alias Herb Johnson alias Justin Cantwell. I halfexpected this
call. 'Hello, Justin.” He betrayed no reaction to my use of his third
name. 'Did you talk with Pastor Dale?” I sat on the couch, smiling at
his question. 'Pastor Dale was unavailable.” 'Oh really?” 'I talked to
Miles Newberry.” He laughed. 'Ah, good old Miles. A man you can talk to
for hours and never really meet.” I had to laugh. 'That was the feeling
I got.” I quickly added, 'But he says you were trouble, Justin.” 'I was.
They all came within a fraction of an inch of being embarrassed. As the
saying goes, I wish I'd had a camera. But did you notice, Travis?
There's something different about you. You've grown. The old game hasn't
changed, but you have.” I suppressed a little chuckle. He was right. 'I
used to buy everything that guy said.” 'And you did what he told you to
do.” 'Oh yes.” 'And you felt guilty whenever he said so.” 'Oh yeah.”
'And any misgivings were your fault, every time.”

'And this time he tried to scare you.., but you didn't scare.

Why is that?” 'I've been trying to figure out why.” 'You weren't born
yesterday, that's why. Time's gone by, water flowed under the bridge.
Their game only works on certain people and you don't fit the profile
anymore.” 339

'I think that's a good thing.” 'Ohit's good, Travis.

'Sometimes it can feel pretty miserable.” 'I'm not worried. Day by day I
can see you coming around.

The more you try to find out about me, the more you discover about
yourself. It's just like I've always told you, we're very much the same.
Of course, you didn't find out much, did you—about me, that is?” 'Miles
gave me another name for you. That's number three now.” 'But you don't
know if that's the right one, either. How much time are you willing to
waste tracking it down?” 'I don't know. I think it would help greatly if
you'd stop the charade and just tell me who you are.” 'Stop the
charade?” He laughed a spiteful laugh. 'And be the first man of God on
the face of the earth to do so?” 'Hey, c'mon now, you know that's not
fair.” 'No malice intended, Travis. That's just the way it is. Ministers
are supposed to have their lives together and be an example.

They're supposed to have all the answers. Well, they don't, so they
pretend because they have to.” 'Some of them get sick of pretending.”
'And I commend you.” His voice turned bitter. 'But some of them love
pretending. It gives them a rush to think of all the people they're
fooling.” Suddenly he mimicked the tone of a fiery, southern preacher.
'You are a sinnuh, saved by grice! Come to Geee-sus and you shall be
clean—then follow me, ‘cause I make the rules!” 'Salvation by grace.
Christianity by performance.” 'You have been there! Travis. Move on. Let
it go. You've grown since the Cathedral. You can keep growing. I still
have a place for you.” 'Hm. Get out of one charade so I can join the
biggest charade

'I'm not worried.” of all? I'll have to think about that one.”

'And I'm sure you have nothing more to say to me about yourself.”

'Not today.”

'Good-bye, then.”

NANCY BARRON5 sat at her desk in the back oftheAntiochHarvester and
Office Supply, listening to hold music on her telephone.

It was usually this way whenever she called the county Health
Department.

Finally, 'This is Pete Jameson.” 'Hi, Pete. This is Nancy Barrons.” 'Oh,
hi, Nancy. What's up?” 'I've got some questions about that water project
up at the Macon ranch. You inspected that, didn't you?” 'Uh, yeah. Let's
see, that was an upgrade, wasn't it? A new storage tank and three
pressure tanks.” 'What about the water source?” 'Uh, that was a private
well.” 'And?” 'What do you mean, and?” 'I was talking to Mrs. Macon the
other day and she told me they had to develop a spring two miles behind
the house.” 'Not for me, they didn't.” 'You didn't require an
alternative water source?” He laughed at the silliness of it. 'No.
Cephus Macon upgraded that well for commercial use just before he died.
I required a new well head and some weatherizing of the weH house, but
that was it.” 'You didn't require them to develop that spring?” 'No. I
didn't require or inspect development of any spring.” 'Okay. Thanks.”
'Let's have dinner sometime.” 'Check your calendar and call me.”

'You got it!” Nancy hung up and turned to Kim. 'I was right.” WHILE
JUSTIN CANTWELL was workinghis magic at the Macon ranch, Brett Henchle
was doing his best not to think about it. It was Deputy Rod Stanton's
shift, his turn to serve and protect the town, so tonight Brett sat at
home with his wife, Lori, and their two boys, Dan and Howie, enjoying a
rented movie on video. They were watching, of all things, a cop movie.
The obligatory car chase was just starting.

'Okay, watch now,” said Brett, taking popcorn from the big bowl he was
sharing with Lori. 'They're gonna turn into that alley and hit some
garbage cans.” The bad guys' big Lincoln screeched and fish-tailed into
a narrow alley, bashing aside some garbage cans, sending them flying.

'Now they're gonna splash through some water.” The bad guys' car,
followed by the cops' car, hit a big puddle in the alley, sending up
sheets of spray while the long telephoto shot made the cars appear right
on top of each other.

'Dad,” Howie whined, 'you're ruining it.” 'Next they're gonna crash
through some construction bafflers.” 'Dad!” The bad guys were cornered.
They screeched through a tight

141

turn and into a construction site, splintering several construction
barriers.

'There's gotta be a flip coming up somewhere.. .' Brett mused.

The bad guys roared up a street, swerved to avoid an oncoming truck, hit
the back end of a parked truck— And sailed into the air, twisting upside
down. Their car came down in slow motion on top of some other cars, then
flipped again, landing in the street.

'Cool!” said Dan.

'So much for those guys,” said Lori.

'They'll live,” said Brett.

The bad guys climbed out of the inverted car and ran, shooting at the
good guys.

'Have you seen this before?” Lori asked.

'Didn't have to,” Brett replied. 'It's the same every—” He winced,
grabbing his leg.

'What is it?” HISSSSS. The television screen went snowy.

'Hey!” said the boys. 'Right at the good part!” Brett rubbed his leg.
'It's that shrapnel wound. It's really pokingme.” 'But—” Lori looked at
the little jar on the mantel. The shrapnel that had fallen out at
Brandon Nichols's touch was still there.

'The shrapnel isn't in there anymore.”

Brett recovered a little. 'Eli, it hurts anyway. I don't know why.”
'Why'd this thing stop?” Dan fussed, reaching above the television to
tinker with the VCR.

'GET BACK!” Brett shouted, leaping to his feet, almost spilling the
popcorn.

Dan leaped back, his hands quivering, startled and scared.

Howie sat on the floor wide-eyed and frozen.

'Brett..

'Now just take it easy,” Brett said to... whom? He was looking toward
the corner of the room near the television. 'Lori, take the boys into
the kitchen.” 343

'Why?” 'Do it now!” 'Come on, boys. Howie! Come on, get up!” 'What are
you looking at?” Dan asked.

'Go with your mother.” Lori looked in the same direction as Brett and
saw nothing.

But she felt something. 'Boys, get into the kitchen and stay there!”
'What do you see, Dad?” Dan was getting scared now.

'Go!” Lori herded the boys behind her as she backed toward the kitchen,
watching her husband talk to the wall.

'Listen,” Brett was saying, 'I don't know what you want, but you made a
big mistake coming in here.” His right hand was behind his back. He was
snapping his fingers. A signal. 'I can't hear you. Speak up.” She ran
into the kitchen, yanked a locked box from the cupboard above the
refrigerator, and opened it with a key hidden behind the flour jar.
Inside was a 9 mm pistol. She grabbed a loaded clip from a drawer,
slammed it into the pistol, and returned to the living room.

She stopped at the edge of the living room. She peered intensely in the
direction her husband was looking but there was no one there.

Snap! Snap! Snap! He wanted the gun.

She saw nothing, but felt a jittery sensation, like standing on the edge
of a cliff. Her pulse was hammering. Behind her the boys were starting
to cry. Was her husband hallucinating? Dared she give him a loaded
firearm?

He grabbed it from her forcefully, pushing her behind him, taking a
shooting stance. 'Freeze! Turn around slowly, put your hands on the
wall!” Whatever it was, it was beginning to move. He followed with his
aim, the muzzle of the gun sweeping across the room toward the hallway.
She could feel something getting closer.

'Stop or I'll shoot!” It didn't stop.

'Stop!” Her skin was tingling, like a static charge. She backed away.
She may have seen a shadow that didn't belong— BANG!

The boys screamed. She jumped, her trembling hands went to her ears, her
eyes searched and searched.

Brett aimed down the hall.

BANG!

The bullet slammed into the back door. Brett ran down the hail.

'Hold it!” She dashed into the kitchen, crouching, shielding the boys in
a corner with her body as they screamed and cried. She heard the back
door open, felt cold air crawling around her ankles. Her ears were
humming from the shots.

The telephone rang, starding her like another gunshot. She was
protecting the boys. She didn't even think of answering it.

Brett slammed the back door and scrambled up the hall through a blue
haze of smoke, limping and cursing.

The telephone rang again.

'He's gone.” The cop movie came back on the television. Shooting,
yelling, sirens.

The telephone rang. She turned but did not rise.

In anger Brett grabbed the phone off the kitchen wall. 'Henclile!” Then,
'Rod, get your butt over here, I've had a suspect right here in the
house! The hitchhiker! That guy I told you about! He was right here in
the house! What?” He listened, then cursed again. 'Did you put her in
custody?” His hand went to his leg and he bent a little, wincing in
pain. 'No, you did the right thing. I think it's already hit the fan.
Get Mark on the radio and get the two squad cars over here, one on
Maple, one on Elm. I want the neighborhood combed for this guy.” He
listened to another question. 'Leave her there. We'll sort that out
later.” He hung up, hurried into the living room to pause the VCR, then
returned to the kitchen and his wife. He noticed the gun in 345

his hand. He quickly removed the clip and set it aside. He touched her.
'Lori, it's okay. Boys, it's okay, it's all over.” 'What was it?” Dan
cried. Howie was speechless with fear.

'It was a man I picked up on the highway some weeks ago. He sneaked in
somehow. He's gone now. You're okay.” Lori stood. The boys just held
onto her legs and remained there as she asked, 'The hitchhiker?” 'Yeah,
the blond guy who told me Jesus was coming? That was him. I don't know
what he wanted, but—” He lowered his voice for the sake of the boys. 'He
was up to no good. We'll have to lock the place up tight tonight. If you
want I can take you to your mother 'The hitchhiker?” she asked again.

He nodded. He held her. 'Yeah. I knew that guy was trouble the moment he
pulled that stunt in the car.” 'Honey.. .' She was afraid to say it. 'I
didn't see him.” 'It's okay.” She pushed him back just enough to look in
his eyes. 'No, really.

I didn't see him. I didn't see anyone there.” He returned her gaze with
a blank look. 'He was right there, right by the TV cabinet. He must have
been hiding behind it.

She began to feel another fear—a fear for her husband's sanity.

'Sweetheart, that cabinet's right up against the wall! You can't hide
back there!” He backed away. 'You didn't see him? He was standing right
there!” She could only shake her head no.

'Didn't you see him run down the hall?” She switched subjects. 'What did
Rod say?” Brett stood in the middle of the kitchen looking disoriented.

'He arrested Penny Adams tonight.” 'Oh no.” 'She'd been shoplifting from
Florence Lynch's store. He and Florence went over to Bonnie Adams's
place and found a closet full of stolen merchandise.” 'And she just got
her hand back.”

Brett winced again, his hand on his leg. 'Yeah, just like I got my leg
fixed.” She didn't understand. 'What?” He picked up the gun again and
slammed in the clip. 'It'll be okay. I'll get it straightened out.” He
went into the hall and grabbed his coat from the closet.

'You're not leaving!” Lori pleaded.

'The town's falling apart. I can't just sit here.” He kissed her and
limped out the door, leaving her alone, bewildered and afraid. Dan and
Howie would not let go of her.

MONA DILLARD didn't know how to feel: happy or troubled, encouraged or
frustrated. The Wheatland Motel was seeing all kinds of changes and
enjoying a steady flow of business. Norman had a great brainstorm—a
costly one, but it worked out: They converted two of their units to
kitchenettes, and the moment they were ready they were rented—by the
month—by some of Brandon Nichols's followers. A steady stream of
pilgrims took up the rest of the rooms, and now Norman was thinking of
buying the old auto shop next store, razing it to the ground, and
putting in a whole new wing. Things were going great—for the business.

Things were not going so great between Mona and Norman.

Oh, things seemed okay on the surface, but in her mind she was plagued
by misgivings, by the nagging questions that can bother a woman when her
man ses... uninterested. He'd been busy and preoccupied, of course, but
it was more than that. It was... Well, it had to be another woman. It
was unthinkable, but that's what she thought. She had no direct
knowledge, but she was sure of it. He was looking elsewhere.

But it was worse than that. It was hard to describe, harder to believe,
but she could sense a shifting, leering menace in his eyes that had
never been there before, as if a different mind had moved in behind
them, lustfully gazing everywhere else while looking toward her with
disdain. She and Norman weren't talk347

ing much. She couldn't look at him. He showed no desire to look at her.

Today, she was trying to bury her worries by concentrating on linen
inventory: what they had, what they needed, and how much of each. She
was rummaging through the supply room, counting sheets and towels shelf
by shelf, trying to figure out Norman's rotation system. Managing the
supply room was usually his job, but he'd been busy with the
kitchenettes, so the task had fallen to her.

When she pulled a stack of folded sheets from a top shelf, a magazine
slid out and fell on the floor.

It was not necessary to pick it up or even look closer to know what kind
of publication it was. The glossy photo on the cover told her all she
would ever need to know. She backed away, clutching the folded sheets as
if they would soften the pain now spiking through her heart.

Was this the other woman? No doubt she was not the only one.

Mona threw the sheets aside and reached up on the shelf, just above eye
level, to feel for more. There were more. She pulled one out, saw it,
dropped it, then pulled out another.

She dropped it as if it were a poisonous snake baring its fangs, then
backed away, clutching the sheets to her breast. Time froze, and so did
she, her arms wrapped around the stack of folded sheets, gawking at the
images on the floor. Every pain she had ever felt— and thought she could
avoid by working in this room—tumbled back upon her.

She'd buried herself in this task to forget her troubles with Norman,
but now...

AS 50 ON A5 I returned from Southern California, I thought it important
to discuss with Morgan and Kyle what I'd discovered, as little as it
was, and to plan our next course of action. Kyle had church commitments
that evening, but said Morgan and I should meet anyway. I called her and
suggested we meet over dinner.

'LTh, where can we do that?” she asked.

It was a valid question. She was a minister, and it wouldn't look right
for her to have a man in her home. I wasn't a minister anymore, but I
was still concerned about appearances, and we both knew it wouldn't be
appropriate for her to be in my home either. If we met at Judy's it
would look like we were meeting socially, and the town was too small
with too active a grapevine for something like that.

'Why don't we get out of town?” I suggested. 'Maybe some place in
Spokane.

'That would be more prudent,” she said.

'Where would you like to go?” 'Oh, why don't you pick a place and let me
know?” 'All right.” That, too, was an overwhelming question. This was
going to be a meeting with a professional lady of distinction. We
couldn't go to McDonald's or Burger King. It would have to be a place
with some class, some atmosphere, but not too much because this wasn't a
date. What did she like? I knew of a nice Italian place with great
salads, but you usually had to sit and wait for a table. There was a
Japanese, juggle-the-knives restaurant, but it wouldn't be a good place
for a serious discussion. I liked Mexican, but the salsa would have me
blowing my nose all evening. We could try Mongolian barbecue, but
building your own meal from raw meat and vegetables seemed too informal.
There was a nice steakhouse overlooking the Spokane River. The falls
would be spectacular this time of year, but that might seem
presumptuous.

'wow!” she said. 'Look at those falls!” We had a table right next to the
windows. White tablecloth, cloth napkins, an oil candle in the middle,
two forks. She was wearing a dark purple dress with long, sheer sleeves
and delicate silver earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders. I'd
settled for a sport jacket and tie, but wore a cream-colored shirt, less
formal than a white one.

We started looking over the menu, talking about what we were in the mood
for.

349

'You ever done any singing?” I asked offhandedly, not looking up.

She replied offhandedly, 'Star Cloud Marmalade.” I couldn't find it on
the menu. 'What's that?” 'The rock group I sang with. We did two albums
and once warmed up for Led Zeppelin.” I dropped my menu. 'You really did
sing in a rock group?” She nodded. 'I probably scarred my vocal cords.
But we were quite good if I may say so, and I emulated Janis Joplin.”
'Vocally,” I tried to qualify 'Gabe rescued me from the drug scene
before I ended up like her.” '‘There, but for the grace of God.. .'‘
would have gone I.”' 'How did you meet Gabe?” 'He was a youth minister
at a Methodist church and a friend introduced us. I liked him the first
time we met, and we ended up falling in love. I'd done a lot to mess up
the world. Gabe and I did what we could to put it back together again,
at least our little corner of it. We were together fourteen years.” 'I
liked him.” 'I liked Marian.” The waitress came and took our order. I
went for a steak. Morgan decided on a spinach something-or-other.

I told her about my visit to The Cathedral of Life. She listened raptly,
her fingers on her chin, often chuckling at my account. Our • dinners
came and we gave them half our attention.

'You really said that to Miles Newberry?” 'I wouldn't have been so bold
twenty years ago.” 'Justin Cantwell,” she mused. 'I wonder if we'll find
another name beyond this one.” 'Our local messiah isn't telling.” 'But
he still talks to you. He still tries to pull you in. That really
interests me.” 'He's looking for someone to share his bitterness and
disillusionment.

'No doubt.” She smiled and cocked her head. 'So do you?”

The thought chilled me. 'I don't want to end up like him.” 'So how did
he end up the way he is?” 'The same way I got where I am, to hear him
tell it.” 'That's spooky.” The waitress checked back. 'Everything okay
here? Can I get you anything?” The food was great and we were fine. She
made her exit.

'So how are things with you?” I asked. 'Better.” She smiled a whimsical
smile. 'Remember that list of three items from our first meeting?” I
probed my memory. 'You and your congregation aren't getting along,
Brandon Nichols isn't Jesus... and Michael the Prophet is your son.”
'The third one is still a problem, but the first two...” For a moment
she looked at the falls outside the window. 'I'm moving into an
irreversible situation. Jesus has become an issue for me, and some—not
all—in the congregation don't want me going there.” She smiled. 'Still,
like it or not, I'm there. I'm starting to address him by name, starting
to view my faith as a relationship. I'm sure you know what I mean.” I
tried not to fully express my joy lest I embarrass her in public.

'I know what you mean.” 'Travis, I've been to seminary. I've been an
ordained minister for ten years, and I was married to an ordained
minister for fourteen.

Gabe and I did all we could to bring out the best in people, but— it's
one of those things you only see looking back—there was always an
evasive, missing element: relationship. Jesus was a religious
abstraction, a historical figure we discussed and debated but didn't
know.” She looked around the room. 'Some of my parishioners would make
an issue of my having dinner with an evangelical, fundamentalist,
Pentecostal whatever-you-are, but they'd be missing the point. It's not
my church or your church or which tradition is right or how many candles
we light—it's knowing Jesus for who he is.

Oh, I was enjoying this. 'Preach on, sister.” 35'

She preached on, leaning so low toward me that her earrings almost went
in her spinach. 'And I think that's Justin Cantwell's problem. Plenty of
church, but no relationship.” She settled back in her chair and thought
a moment, the white, cascading falls reflected in her glasses. 'Maybe
Michael's problem too.” 'But...” I really wanted to ease her pain.
'There could be a new beginning here, a new twist to the story.” She
gave a weak smile. 'Let's hope so. Who knows? Maybe if Michael's mother
knows the real Christ, she can somehow wean him from a false one.” I
smiled at her. 'I'll concur with that.” She abruptly switched subjects.
'So how long did you pastor in Antioch?” 'About fifteen years.” She
leaned back as if for a better view and said, 'Tell me about it.

'Oh, there's not much to tell... 'How'd you wind up in Antioch in the
first place?” I closed my eyes and could see the memory playing through
my mind like an old home movie. Some memories just never fade....

IT WA5 A CALLING that made no practical sense. Marian was working at her
company in Los Angeles and doing well. I had my teaching degree and some
great prospects for employment in elementary education. Our budget was
finally starting to look healthy. We'd moved to a bigger apartment and
bought new furniture. We even had a second car.

And then Dad called. Some folks wanted to start a Pentecostal Mission
church in a little eastern Washington town called Antioch.

He just thought I might like to pray about that. No pressure; he was
just letting me know. I said I'd pray about it, and I did—”Dear Lord, I
hope they find somebody”—and immediately put the subject aside. It came
back. Sitting in our living room and hearing the police helicopter
circling the neighborhood for the fifth straight night got me thinking
about living in a quiet place and being a

pastor again. Then I thought of Northwest Mission. No way, I thought.
Never again.

I mentioned Dad's call to Marian. 'They're dreaming,” I said.

'Maybe not,” she answered, but said nothing more.

A week later, a voice from my past called: Brother Smith, the dean of
men when I was in Bible college. He now held a position with the
Northwest District of the Pentecostal Mission, and noticed how I'd taken
pains to maintain my credentials. Perhaps I'd be interested in taking a
new church in Antioch, Washington.

'Well who's running it now?” I asked. I didn't want another territorial
battle with somebody already there.

'Nobody,” he said. 'You'll have to run the whole show, start it from the
ground up. It'll be your church, Travis. It'll be your vision.” Brother
Smith was no stranger to my nature, or my illustrious ministry career
thus far. He knew I'd find the opportunity tantalizing.

And I did. My own church! No religious machinery already in place. No
customs or traditions to fight against, no one to say, 'Well that's the
way we do things here!” No Sister Marvins, no Brother Rogenbecks. Just
Marian and me.

I tried to talk myself out of it, reminding myself that for the first
time in our marriage we had some stability, some hope for a normal life.
But the more I talked to the Lord and myself—aloud, pacing about the
apartment—the more stirred up I got and I couldn't sit still. 'It'll
never work,” I told the mirror. 'Would it work?” I asked the Lord.

What about Marian? She hd a good job with a great salary and chance for
advancement. I couldn't ask her to move to Antioch, Washington! I looked
for Antioch on a map. It was marked with the tiniest little circle
available. She'd never go for it.

Brother Smith gave me some phone numbers in Antioch. I made some calls
and got some details.

I knelt by our bed and prayed some more. After I rose from my knees, I
started preaching to the empty apartment. I already had a great idea for
my first sermon. I'd talk about relationships, I thought. We didn't have
a big city church, but we had each other, and that was what mattered!

353

Oh brother. What's Marian going to think?

'Lord, if this is your will, then speak to Marian's heart. Give her a
peace. No, not peace. Make her excited! Make her want to do it!” I was
excited. The more I thought about it, the more excited I got. I couldn't
wait for Marian to get home.

I was out of school and still waiting on a steady job, so I was pulling
my weight by fixing dinner every night. Marian would scribble out
instructions each morning and I'd give it my best shot.

That night, when she got home, I served up pork roast and stirfried
vegetables over rice, and brought up the subject of Antioch.

'How many are in the church now?” she asked.

'Well, I talked to a guy named Avery Sisson. Right now there's him and
his wife and their four kids.” She held her fork in midair. 'And?”
'That's it. Right now there's no Pentecostal Mission church in that
town.” 'Why should there be?” She wasn't trying to be difficult. It was
a fair question.

My answer was just as fair, I think. 'I don't know. According to Avery,
there isn't another Spirit-filled church in Antioch, and ac- cording to
Brother Smith, the district thinks it's time to get a church started
there. Avery's looked at a church building. It used to be an old
Congregational church, but now the guy next-door owns it. He says we can
rent it or buy it from him.” 'And what would we do for a living?” 'Avery
says I can work for his brother in construction until I get a teaching
job. Antioch has a grade school and a high school.” She took another
bite of stir-fried vegetables, chewed a while, thought a while, and then
said, 'What are you feeling, T J.?

What's in your heart?” I looked down at my plate, a little reticent. 'I
think maybe I'd like to find out more.., you know, think about it.” She
reached over—we always sat close together—and tapped on my heart.
'What's in here?” I took a moment to search out the answer. 'I just... I
just want to do, you know, what Jesus did: I want to go about doing
good.

Win some souls, change some hearts, bring some light into this world. I
want to tell people about Jesus because he's a wonderful Savior and
Friend.” 'You think God put that in there?” I actually got choked up.
'Since I was a kid.” She gave me that smile that always made me feel
like a conqueror, and then she rose and hugged me from behind. 'Then
we'd better check it out.”

MR. F RAM ER owned the building, and met us there. 'It needs a little
fixing up. It hasn't been used for a church in fifteen years.” Standing
there on Elm Street with Avery Sisson, his wife, Joan, and Marian, I saw
only future potential, not present condition.

The plywood over the windows, the paint peeling off the lap siding, the
wrinkled, moss-covered roofing didn't discourage me at all. This was an
adventure, a vision to be fulfilled.

'How's the roof?” Marian asked.

'It leaks,” said Framer.

'What about plumbing?” I asked.

'Just a sink in the basement and no toilet. There's an outhouse out
back.” 'Any pews?” 'Burned ‘em. There's nothing in there but a bunch of
lockers.” The old chapel sat forlornly in the middle of an unmowed
field, looking as discarded and neglected as the rusting harrower,
burned-out van, and immovable old bulldozer that sat in the grass
alongside it.

Mr. Framer led us through the grass and weeds to the front steps. 'That
bulldozer belongs to my son. He can come and move it if you want. I
don't know where that harrower came from.” 'What happened to the van?”
'Kids set it on fire. I was hoping to sell it, but now..

The front door sounded like it hadn't been opened in a while.

Inside, Mr. Framer turned on the lights—the building did have 355

electricity and four simple chandeliers hanging from the vaulted
ceiling. It was cold in there. It smelled musty. The floor was old
tongue-and-groove planking painted gray.

All we could see was lockers. Stacks of them. Rows of them.

Ugly, green battered lockers.

'My son got these lockers when they tore down the old high school. I
don't know what he was planning on doing with ‘em, but they've been
sitting in here for eight years and I'll be happy to get rid of ‘em.” I
squeezed through the lockers to the front and found the platform and the
square footprint of unpainted planking where the pulpit used to stand. I
stood on that spot and looked back at my congregation—three people and
maybe Mr. Framer, standing among the lockers. I could see pews in that
room and a hundred people filling them. I could see sunlight coming
through the windows, feel the warmth of the oil stove, and hear the
sound of singing. I could see people kneeling at the front pews and at
the foot of the platform. There were Bibles and hymnals in every row,
and boxes of Kleenex up front.

And the bell! 'Does the bell work?” Mr. Framer walked to the back of the
room and unlooped the rope from its hook on the wall. He gave the bell
three gentle yanks to get it rocking, and then we heard it ringing from
the steeple outside, clang, clang, clang, like a sound out of history, a
sweet, oldtimey voice of hope reawakening in a new generation. Marian
broke into a wide grin and clapped.

'Praise God,” I said, and beckoned to Marian. She joined me on the
platform and looked out over all those lockers in the yellow light of
the chandeliers. 'What do you see, Marian?” 'We could put the piano over
there. And maybe we could get some carpet to run up the middle and
sides. We need a cross, a big cross to go on that wall. What about
classrooms?” Mr. Framer looked at us funny. 'It's got a basement with a
sink, that's all.” We went down the steep, narrow stairs. The basement
wasn't

much more than a crawlspace barely high enough to stand in. It was dark
and tomblike, smelled of earth and dead mice, and the floor timbers hung
low above our heads, festooned with spider webs.

'We could divide this into four, maybe five classrooms,” I envisioned.

'Where are we going to put the bathrooms?” 'There's an outhouse out
back,” Mr. Framer reminded us.

I tried the sink. The water came out a rusty brown. 'We could fit a
kitchen in here, I suppose.” 'It's going to be a lot of work!” 'All in
good time. A building does not a church make. We could meet in our home
while we're fixing this place up.” 'As soon as we get a home.” We could
read each other's eyes. This was it. We had to be here. This was where
God wanted us.

'We'll take it.”

WELL, it needs a lot of fixing up, but if you want to put the work into
it, I'll count that as rent.” To this day I'm not sure what it was, a
storage shed or an old bunkhouse or perhaps a shop. It sat out behind
Mrs. Whiffield's place between her barn and her chicken coop, roughly
ten feet deep and forty feet long, with a sagging shed roof, three
doors, eight four-paned windows in the front and four in the back. It
had shiplap siding on the outside, ad on the inside, bare studs and the
backside of the shiplap. It was divided into three rooms, all cluttered
with farm machinery, engine parts, old lumber, poultry feeders and
brooders, and broken bales of straw. The middle room had a toilet and
sini. The wiring was exposed and very basic: a bare light bulb in each
room and maybe an outlet or two nailed to the bare studs.

The roof was good. Mrs. Whitfield had it redone just a few years ago.
The floor was good—as much as I could see under all the junk.

357

'What do you think?” I asked Marian.

She cringed, and then she gave the place her best try. 'That could be
the living room. This could be the kitchen, and maybe we could put a
wall in here to make this the bathroom. We could make a bedroom out of
that last room, but we'll have to put in a closet.” 'Dad'll help us. If
it's church, he's in.” 'My dad'll help too. He loves doing things for
his kids.” Avery nodded confidently. 'One month and you won't know the
place.” I turned to Mrs. Whiffield. 'We'll take it!”

WE WERE STAYING with the Sissons, sleeping on a borrowed hide-a-bed in
their garage and sharing two bathrooms with Avery, Joan, and their four
kids. Our small, apartment-sized collection of furniture and almost
everything else we owned was locked in a rented storage space in
Spokane. We would be living in a renovated shack between a barn and a
chicken coop, and pastoring a church without a usable building for
who-knew-how-long. Neither one of us had gainful employment and we had
only three to four months of savings.

But we were the happiest we'd been in five years of marriage.

M ARIAN AND I pastored in Antioch for fifteen years. We lived in five
different houses, worked at ten different jobs.

I didn't draw a full-time salary from Antioch Pentecostal Mission until
we'd been there ten years.

Antioch Mission began with Avery and Pete Sisson and their families, and
we met in Avery and Joan's living room. Within the year, we moved into
the old church building we rented from Mr. Framer, and three years after
that we finally got an indoor toilet.

We bought that building from Mr. Framer in 1987, the same year Marian
and I got burned out of our home. We started our new building in 1990,
were approved for occupancy in 1995, and moved in Easter Sunday.

On my last Sunday in November of 1997, the church was well established
in its new building on the west side of town, on a quaint knoll just
above the highway. There were one hundred and fifty in the congregation,
a bank account in the black, a big yellow bus that ran well, a good
youth program, and the church's name on a fancy, sandblasted sign out
front.

Fifteen years. A journey that felt so long and was over so soon, in a
little town few people ever heard of. Fifteen years. Ninety

1 O

three souls saved. Twenty-three weddings. Fourteen funerals. A small
retirement account, no real estate, a little savings.

When I left the ministry, I was alone, and wondering what in the world I
thought I'd been doing all that time.

MORGAN AND I declined a dessert but asked for coffee.

And then she just looked at me, studying me. I regretted sounding so
depressed at the end of my recap. My stories tended to end on a blue
note these days.

'Give me some names,” she said.

'Beg your pardon?” She gave a half-shrug and picked up her coffee cup.
'Just some names. People you remember from those fifteen years. Tell me
some stories.

JOE KELMER. He was in his fifties, a rancher with five hundred acres
south of town. I was working with Pete Sisson's crew, preparing to pour
a slab for a new stable out on his place. Pete, Johnny Herreros, Tinker
Moore, and I were knee-deep in a ditch, digging footings and hurling
dirt like a chain gang when Joe came out to see how we were doing, his
hands in his jeans pockets, his face a little glum. It wasn't like him.
Usually he'd come over to check on our progress and talk so much he'd
hinder it.

'How's it going?” We told him fine, and Pete said we were hoping to get
the steel in and pour by the day after tomorrow.

'So how's Joe today?' Pete asked.

'Oh, not too good,” he replied, sitting on an overturned five gallon
bucket. 'My bowels ain't worth the poop that goes through ‘em.” 'What's
the problem?” I expected one of Joe's typical complaints about the
water, his wife's cooking, or his advancing age.

'Cancer,” he said. 'Just found out this morning.” We stopped digging.
'Doc says they'll probably have to take the whole thing out.” 361

We all stood in the ditch, our shovels in our hands, trying to adjust to
the news and wondering what we could say.

'We'll have to pray for you,” said Pete. 'Get old Travis here to lay
hands on you and get the Lord to chase that cancer out of there!” Oh,
thanks a lot, Pete! Set me up, why don ‘tyou?

But Joe just got up like a tired old man and said, 'You'd better keep
working. I'd like to see this barn while I'm still around.” Then he
left.

I first met Joe and Emily Kelmer on another project the year before, and
immediately returned, more appropriately dressed, for a pastoral call.
It turned out they considered themselves Catholics, meaning that was
their background, but they never attended mass and had never been inside
Our Lady of the Fields. They didn't have much use for my ministerial
side, but they did appreciate my skill with hammer and saw and shovel
and said so.

After Joe gave us the news, I did pray for him. I led the guys in prayer
right there in the ditch that day, and Marian and I remembered him in
our prayers every evening. I trusted God. There was no way in the world
I could predict what the Lord would do, but I trusted him.

Well, God is never short on surprises. Joe told me he hadn't been inside
a church since the day he and Emily were married, but the very next
Sunday, he and Emily came into our little church on Elm Street arm in
arm. We'd been meeting in that building for close to three years. The
lockers were finally gone. Avery and Pete had recently completed a labor
of love: a pulpit, a communion table, and a matching cross for the back
wall. For now, we were using any chairs folks could bring from
home—folding chairs, lawn chairs, plastic chairs, and dining chairs. Joe
and Emily went right to the front row and sat in two green, plastic
patio chairs.

I was leading some opening worship choruses, playing my guitar while
Marian played the piano, but I let the others keep singing while I
ducked aside and greeted Joe and Emily.

'Okay, Travis. I'm here,” he said. 'You can go ahead and pray for me.”

I went back to leading the singing, my mind half on what I was doing and
half on what I would have to do in a few minutes. It's easy to pray for
colds and flu, final exams, and unsaved loved ones.

Most of those things work themselves out in God's own good time. Colon
cancer doesn't do that. The worship was sweet. Mine was intense.

'Folks,” I finally said, 'a lot of you knowJoe and Emily.” Those who did
said hi, and Joe and Emily said hi back. 'Joe here because he needs
prayer.

Joe stood and faced the thirty or so people who had gathered.

'I'm not a religious man. Haven't had much time for God most of my life.
But that doesn't mean he isn't there and can't hear me if I want to talk
to him, you know what I mean?” 'Amen,” some said. 'Praise God.” 'And I'm
hoping he won't mind if I decide to come to him now after waiting so
long.” He paused, perhaps to gather his resolve, perhaps to corral his
emotions. 'I have colon cancer. You know how it is, you get sick and you
think you'll get over it and before long you've waited too long. The
doctor says—” He stopped. Crying was something Joe Kelmer didn't believe
in. He took a breath. 'He says they'll have to take the whole thing out,
put me on chemotherapy, pump me full of drugs and whatever. Won't be
able to take a crap like most people—excuse me, I didn't mean to say it
that way.” He turned and faced me. 'Anyway, I made God a deal. If he
takes this cancer from my body, then I'll give him my attention, first
thing, above everything, the rest of my life. If he'll give me my life,
I'll give it back to him. And that's about I absolutely did not know how
this was going to turn out. Joe was either going to have a great reason
to serve God or a great reason not to, at least in his thinking, and it
was hard to be comfortable about it.

And then, when he came forward and stood facing me, ready to be prayed
for, I couldn't banish old memories from my mind. I 363

could just see myself standing in front of Andy Smith and Karla Dickens
back in the old Kenyon—Bannister days. I could remember the episode with
Sharon Iverson, the girl with diabetes who almost died at Christian
Chapel.

Well, Lord, I prayed, you know all about that. You know I don't want to
get into any kind ofpretensions or showiness. I didn't ask for this. You
brought it about, and now, here we are, that all I know. Here we are.

Joe was waiting.

I took my little vial of olive oil from the back of the pulpit and put a
drop on Joe's forehead. 'This oil is a symbol of the Holy Spirit,” I
told him. 'In the Book of James it tells us to anoint the sick with oil
and pray, and the Lord will restore the sick. Do you believe that, Joe?”
He shrugged. 'Sure, why not?” 'Let's pray forJoe,” I said, beckoning to
the Sisson brothers and Bruce Riddle, my elders, to join me. We laid
hands onJoe, and then I prayed. I don't remember much of my prayer. I
said something aboutJoe wanting a touch from God, and humbling himself
in meek petition, and I know I requested that God would just glorify
himself inJoe's body, in the name ofJesus.

And just like that, it was over. 'Thanks for coming, Joe.” 'Thank you,
Travis,” was all he said as he sat down.

They stayed for the rest of the service, received love and greetings
from all of us, and then left.

Monday morning we were framing up the walls of the new stable and
wondering how Joe was doing. He never came out of the house and we
didn't hear a thing from Emily or anyone else.

We remembered him in prayer at lunch time.

Tuesday, it was the same thing. We watched the house to see if any cars
were gone, and one was. Maybe Joe was in the hospital.

Maybe he was in for tests, chemotherapy, or even surgery to have his
colon removed. We couldn't find out.

Wednesday morning, after we'd put in about an hour, Joe came out to see
us, his hands in his jeans pockets, his cowboy hat set firmly on his
head.

I

'Hey Joe,” I said, 'how's it going?” He looked straight at me, that old
Joe Kelmer half-smile on his face, and said, 'Guess who doesn't have
cancer anymore?” The silence that fell over us was just as long and
awkward as when we first heard the bad news.

I was being cautious, I guess. I actually said, 'Who?” Joe gave his
chest two little taps with his thumb.

We were amazed. That's all there was to it. 'You're kidding!” 'Praise
God!” 'Are you sure?” 'What'd the doctor say?” 'Went in on Monday.” He
laughed. 'I told the doc something was feeling different all of a sudden
and he got me right in like it was an emergency. They about took me
apart trying to find something wrong. They spent two days at it and—” He
gave his hands a quick wave like an umpire signaling safe. 'It's gone.
I'm clean!

They can't figure it out. But I know.” We couldn't believe it. We looked
at each other.

He almost touched noses with me. 'Jesus healed me. He answered your
prayer, and he answered mine.” He backed off and addressed all of us.
'So you boys might want to knock off for a while. Emily's got some
coffee on and we can microwave some cinnamon rolls. We're gonna give our
lives to Jesus. You just tell us what to do.” When the apostle Paul told
the Philippian jailer 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and you shall be
saved, you and your whole household,” his words could have applied
perfectly to Joe and his family. On Wednesday, Joe and Emily knelt in
their living room with me, Pete, Johnny, and Tinker, and received Jesus
Christ as their Lord and Savior. On Friday, Joe and Emily's daughter,
Claudia, and her husband, Nate, knelt in the same living room and turned
their lives over to Jesus.

On Sunday, Joe and Emily sat in the same green, plastic chairs, and
Claudia and Nate sat right next to them. Their son, Larry, and his wife,
Shirley, had come from Oregon to fill out the row, and they dedicated
their lives to Christ that morning. Joe was not a shy man, and if you
bought a horse from him or sold him feed or asked him directions or
called to sell him a maga365

zine subscription or just pumped some gas for his truck, you heard about
Jesus and what Jesus had done for him. He wasn't one to debate or hard
sell, but it was hard to argue with his testimony.

Norm Barrett, the diesel mechanic, along with his wife and three kids,
came to the Lord because ofJoe Kelmer. Bud Lundgren, our permanent
guitar player, got saved while he and Joe were out bass fishing, and
Bud's wife, Julie, our permanent saxophone player, got saved while
shopping with Emily. The Barretts and the Lundgrens shared Jesus with
other friends, some of them got saved and shared with their friends, and
for a while we had ourselves a nice little revival rippling through
town.

And it all started with Joe Kelmer.

BRUCE HIDDLE. He was a good-looking guy in his thirties, an electrical
engineer for Washington Water Power. He had a sweet wife named Annie and
two cute kids, Jamie and Josh. In May of 1990 he displayed a quiet peace
and faith in the Lord that became an example to the rest of us.

Bruce and his family were returning from a visit with Annie's folks in
Electric City, driving a long, monotonous two-lane late at night. Bruce
was at the wheel, Annie was on the passenger side, the kids were secured
in child seats in the back.

The last thing Bruce remembers was the oncoming headlights of a large
vehicle, most likely a truck. There was nothing amiss.

The truck was in its own lane. They passed each other, going opposite
directions.

And then Bruce woke up in a daze, in the dark, his body numb, slumped
against his shoulder restraint. The kids in the back seat were
screaming. Blood was streaming from his forehead and dripping off his
chin. Beads of shattered windshield lay like gravel on the seats, in his
lap, on top of the dashboard. The car was leaning precariously,
apparently in a gully beside the highway. He reached for Annie, but felt
rough wood. A twelve-inch log had come through the windshield and now
lay where Annie's head and shoulders

should have been. He twisted around, trying to see the kids. They were
spattered with blood, flesh, and Annie's blonde hair.

A logging truck had lost part of its load just as the two vehicles
passed. A log, perfectly timed and aimed, went through the windshield of
Bruce's car, missing Bruce and killing his wife. The truck driver pulled
over and became incoherent when he saw what his lost load had done.
Another motorist saw the wreck and went in

search of a telephone.

I was working as dispatcher for the volunteer fire department that night
and took the emergency call. I sent out the dispatch, telling the
volunteers there'd been a fatality accident, but I had no idea the
accident involved a family from my church. When the aid crew arrived and
radioed back, I got the news. By that time, Bruce and the kids had been
trapped in their car for over an hour. Numb with shock, I remained at my
post, coordinating communications and crews until Pete Sisson burst into
the station and bumped me from my chair. 'I'll handle it. Get going.”
Bruce and the kids were airlifted to a hospital in Spokane, and that was
where I found them. Bruce had broken ribs and facial lacerations. The
kids had minor injuries from flying glass and seat restraints. He was
coherent, but we didn't talk. There were no words, only shock and an
insurmountable disbelief.

Annie was gone. Instantly. Before any of us could fathom that we had
lost anything, she simply wasn't there. We could not believe it that
night. We could scarcely believe it the next morning.

Shock did not give way to grief until well into the next day.

And then the questions came: With miles and miles of open road, why that
truck, that car, together at that time in that place?

Why was the accident so ruthlessly, savagely perfect?

Like everyone else, I drew upon my faith for comfort and tried to share
that comfort as best I could. But inside, I was asking the same
questions as everyone else, knowing there would never be answers.

There was no funeral, only a memorial service once Bruce had healed
enough to attend. All who knew and loved Annie were there, and took
turns sharing their thoughts and remembrances. I spoke briefly about the
need to trust God in all circumstances, for 367

his ways are unsearchable. I reminded everyone that Annie, knowing
Jesus, was in a better place and just fine, but I could feel my insides
quaking and I teetered on the brink of tears with every sentence. After
we sang our last song, I stole quietly into a back room, sat down with
my face in my hands, and lost it completely. Oh dear Lord, why? Why
Annie? What's Bruce going to do now? What about Josh and Jamie?

I didn't hear anyone come in. I just felt a hand on my shoulder and
heard a quiet whisper, 'It's okay. . . it's okay.” I reached up and
touched the hand touching me, then looked into the scarred,
black-and-blue face of Bruce Hiddle. He sat down, put his arm around my
shoulders and let me cry, not saying another word. I was supposed to be
the minister bringing comfort to the grieving, but I was drained of
comfort. Bruce, a quiet serenity showing through his scars and his
tears, was ready to share what he had.

In the months that followed, Bruce often got tearful, at any time, in
any place, usually without warning, but he didn't seem self-conscious
about it. 'It's for Annie,” he would tell people.

'Don't worry, it's just something I have to do.” The rest of the time,
he was the friend, daddy, and brother we all cherished, with a glow
about him that the scars and the stitches could not extinguish. The
scars eventually faded. The glow still remains.

'It's Jesus,” he always explained. 'He knows the answers. He'll work it
out.” Two years later, the Lord brought Libby McLane into Bruce's life,
and in the summer of 1992, they were wed in our little church on Elm
Street. Josh and Jamie stood with their dad and their new mom as I
performed the ceremony, and once again, I teetered on the brink of tears
with every sentence.

'It's okay,” Bruce whispered to me as he held his bride's hand.

'It's okay.”

MR. FRAMER. He said he'd been to church already and didn't need any more
of it. Well, we saw no need to argue with that, but church wasn't the
question, Jesus was.

But although Mr. Framer didn't need any more religion, he did need a
haircut. Marian volunteered and gave him a trim every two weeks. Having
accepted her help, he was ready to accept mine, and so I helped him put
a new roof on his house over several weekends.

The next thing we knew, he was mowing the church grass every week
without anyone asking him. When we started running a bus ministry around
town, he was the guy who provided the bus and kept it running.

Four years after we started renting the church building, he fi- nally
came to a Sunday morning service, slipping in behind a group of folks to
escape notice. I saw him come in but didn't make a big deal out of it. I
just winked at him. We played that little game for the next few months,
long enough for him to discover he could talk to just about anyone in
that church without something spooky or 'religious” happening to him.

Only when I was sure it was safe did I ask him about Mrs. Framer, and
why she was not attending church with him. He didn't give me a clear
answer that Sunday, but the following Wednesday he gave me a strong
enough hint.

He brought over a portable, battery-powered chemical toilet for us to
install under the basement stairway. That way, he said, the ladies
wouldn't have to trek out to the outhouse during a service, but could
fulfill their natural obligations with some comfort and delicacy. I
could tell he thought very highly of his gesture, so I didn't refuse it.
We put the toilet under the stairs and nailed up a plywood wall and a
thin little door with a springed hinge.

A chemical toilet is a box-shaped contraption with a toilet seat on top
that doesn't flush to an outside sewer or septic system. It has two
tanks inside it, one for fresh water and chemicals, the other to hold
all the flushed waste. When you're finished and you press a little
button, the electric pump kicks on, the blue water and chemical mix
swirls around the bowl, and the toilet tucks away your contribution in
its holding tank.

The toilet Mr. Framer gave us was comfortable. I know that from personal
experience, and others would agree. As for delicate, well, that toilet
just couldn't keep a secret. The electric pump was 369

loud, and it would grind on forever, announcing to the entire
congregation seated upstairs that a modest user had just finished and
would be rejoining the service directly. If that wasn't announcement
enough, the slam of that plywood door was.

And then there was the smell. Though intended for the ladies and their
need for comfort and privacy, it's just a fact of life that one good
toilet among forty churchgoers is going to get used by everyone. Our
little camping toilet wasn't meant to handle a load that size, and it
didn't.

No matter. As soon as that toilet was in, Mrs. Framer came to church.
The Framers heard the gospel every Sunday for two more years, and
finally came forward to receive Christ one Sunday night.

Nothing tragic had occurred in their lives. There was no crisis or
desperate material need to make them turn to God. They were just ready,
that was all. It was time.

But I do credit the Framers with our board's unanimous decision to do
'whatever was necessary” to get a septic system approved and a real
flushing toilet installed. That motion was seconded and carried within a
month of the chemical toilet's arrival, and when we
installedmen'sandwomen'sflushtoiletrestroomsinthebasement, the Framers
were there to cut the ribbon.

RI c H WATKINS. A former biker, now a trucker, with long, black hair in
a ponytail and eagles, skulls, snakes, and naked women tattooed all over
his huge arms. When we marched for Jesus down the main highway through
town with signs and placards proclaiming his name, Rich happened to be
in the tavern and stepped outside to watch us go by. Some of his
drinking buddies laughed at us, but Rich just read our signs and
listened to us sing. I saw the on his face and thought, Dear Lord,
protect us. That guy looks oO:;je pulled up in front of our church on
his Harley Sunday ike trouble.

morning, sat quietly through the whole service, and then said to me
afterward, 'So this where you find Jesus?” 'It sure is,” I said.

'Well, I've decided I gotta square up with my old lady, but I'd better
get right with God first, know what I mean?” I prayed with him, led him
to Christ, and eventually met his wife, Clarice, and their four
children. Now this guy was one monumental discipling job. He'd never
been to Sunday school or had any kind of Christian upbringing, so Marian
and I and our church family had to do it all. We had to teach him the
subtleties of doctrine, concepts such as, You don't usually lead a
person to repentance by breaking a beer bottle over his head, and such
fine points as, Turning the other cheek doesn't mean you walk up and
moon somebody you don't like.

He's still growing in the Lord, and recently took a big step we were all
proud of: He volunteered to go into the public schools and give the kids
a no-holds-barred lecture about staying off drugs.

The kids love his presentations. The parents and teachers do too,
especially since we finally broke him of the habit of referring to Satan
as 'that dirty SOB the devil.” If I ever needed a mental image of the
early Simon Peter, I just imagined Rich Watkins and I had it.

GUY FORBES. He ran the local movie theater. When he showed an X-rated
movie, I got some of the other pastors and their churches to join us in
picketing the theater both nights. I thought he'd be mad at us—many of
the folks going into the theater were—but he called me that week and
apologized for showing the movie. We got together for lunch after that,
got to know and trust each other, and later started up our own,
impromptu movie rating committee between the two of us. He didn't always
go along with the other half of the committee, but we reached more
agreements than disagreements, and our town enjoyed a little more peace
because of it. He has yet to get saved, but we have a strong, mutual
respect.

B 0 B F I s HER, Paul Daley, the Sisson brothers, Jake Helgeson, Ruclie
Whaler, Tinker Moore, and twenty other guys and gals who 37'

showed up the night our house caught fire. You never appreciate your
neighbors quite so much as when you're in trouble, and that night, when
Marian turned away from some French fries to answer the phone and a
grease fire broke out, we owed those folks everything. The fire took out
most of the kitchen and blackened the rest of the house, but thanks to
the faithful folks of the volunteer fire department, most of our
belongings made it through. After the fire, the town almost buried us in
clothing, food, dishes, and utensils to replace what we had lost. I'd
done a lot of visitation around town, knocking on doors to get
acquainted with people, but I don't know that I ever met as many folks
as when we were in need and they came by to help out.

Antioch's a great town, it really is.

THAT FARMHAND—I never learned his name. Tom something.

He was working for George Harding during harvest and got his foot caught
in a combine auger. I was driving the truck and heard him screaming. By
the time we shut the machine down and got him out, his ankle had made at
least two full rotations.

'Pray for me, preacher!” he kept screaming.

I touched his ankle—very gently—and prayed, 'Lord, please heal this leg,
please restore it in Jesus' name.” He was back at work the next day,
climbing all over that ma- chine as if nothing had happened.

He moved on after harvest. I don't know if he ever got saved.

LANCE MONTGOMERY; Tiger, Cecily, and Moira Bradley; Ron and Vicki Hanson
and their sons, Ned and Tom; the rest of the youth group and a fair
share of the town. One of the kids got an old 8mm home movie camera, and
I got an idea. I wrote a script and our youth group made a movie, a
fifty-five minute epic shot on location in and around the town of
Antioch. The whole production cost us

five hundred dollars and took a year to film. We staged a big car

wreck, burned down a barn painted to look like a house, kept our
characters in constant peril until they got saved, and pulled in as many
people as we could to be extras and walk-ons. By the time the movie
premiered in the high school auditorium, at least a hundred folks came
to see it because they were in it. The film was grainy and jerky.
Sometimes our actors sounded like munchkins and sometimes they sounded
like dopey giants talking through molasses. Sometimes the movie camera
picked up the local radio station and we got music and news along with
dialogue, but our show was a hit and we broke even. I don't think the
showing of the film won any souls to the Lord, but the making of it
helped us get to know a lot of folks around town, and they all heard the
gospel in the process.

The youth are grown up now and starting families of their own, but they
fondly remember their brief and meaningful stint in the gospel movie
biz, and I can't think of any who are not serving the Lord today.

LORRAINE BRADLEY, Mrs. Framer, Libby Hiddle, Emily Kelmer, and all the
wonderful ladies in the church who brought dinner over while Marian was
sick. They had it all scheduled out, every day of the week. They cooked,
they cleaned, they did our laundry, they helped me get Marian in and out
of the car, they helped me get her to and from the hospital....

MY c OFF E E cu was cold and empty. I was staring at it, wishing I could
hide in it.

'You can stop,” said Morgan.

I had been enjoying the stories up to this point. 'Okay.” She touched
the back of my hand. 'Thank you.” I shrugged. 'You asked. I hope I
delivered.” 'I loved it.” I looked at my watch. 'Man, is it that late?”
'Time flies.”373

I pushed away from the table. 'It's been a great evening.”

'It's been absolutely wonderful. Thank you.” She rose from her chair and
I held her coat as she slipped into it.

'So anyway, I might be hearing from the Cathedral—that is, if they
remember to call me—” She held up her hand to stop me. 'I don't think
that's what this evening was about, do you?” Maybe I was unwilling to
explore it. 'I'm not sure what you mean.” She buttoned her coat as she
looked up at me over her glasses.

'All those people, Travis. They're still with you, right in here.” She
tapped on my heart. 'When you go home tonight, don't think about old
what's-his-name up at the Macon ranch. Think about them. They're what
the last fifteen years were all about. They're what Jesus is all about.
Old what's-his-name can't touch that.” We came to the restaurant in
separate cars and left the same way. All the way home I reflected on the
evening, warmed and healed by Morgan Elliott's discerning spirit,
soothed by the acceptance I saw in her eyes. I had to wipe some tears
away as I drove.

I hadn't felt this kind of kinship with anyone since Marian went home.
Maybe we could have dinner again sometime. Maybe we wouldn't need a
particular reason.

Perhaps we could even go in the same car.

W H ERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Florence Lynch had been cranky to begin with,
but after waiting until past her bed time for a cop, any cop, to show
up, she was beyond cranky and not to be trifled with.

Brett Henchle stepped through her front door and into her living room,
nervous and agitated. 'We had another incident across town—” 'Well what
about my incident? You keep me waiting here all night.. .' Florence went
to her dining room table and grabbed up the list she'd compiled. 'I have
it all right here. Two dresses, three hair combs, two bracelets, four
blouses, and a pair of shoes.” She handed itto him and he looked it over
with a certain detachment.

'I caught her red-handed, in the very act. Did Rod tell you?” no... 'She
was trying to sneak out of my store with the Stoendegger— that's the
purple dress—” she pointed to the list in his hand—”this one right here.
A hundred and twelve dollars retail. She was wearing it under her own
dress, but I saw the hem sticking out. Rod and I went over to Penny's
house and—” She snuffed and rolled her eyes.

j'Have you ever smelled that place? The carpet's woven marijuana!

H as to be! And the clothes Bonnie Adams wears! No wonder Penny was
stealing from my shop.” 'So that's where you found the rest of this
stuff?” 'In Penny's closet and right on top of her dresser! Oh, Bonnie
Adams had a fit, just screaming at Penny and slapping her around.

But you know what? All Penny did was sit there and shrug and flip her
hair out of her eyes. I don't think she's a bit sorry.” 'Well, I'm sure
she is.” 'You're sure she—what? You've got to be kidding! You've hauled
her in before, several times! Rod told me!” 'Yes, but that was—” 'ThaCs
why he jailed her. She can't be trusted.” 'I'd still like to talk to
her. Penny's not a bad girl at heart. If she spends some time in the
jail this evening and gets a good talking to, we may not have any more
trouble from her.” She gawked at him. 'You're dreaming, right?” 'No,
I'm—” 'Well, wake up. I'm pressing charges!” It was easy to tell he
didn't like that news. 'You're asking for a lot of trouble, a lot of
time, a hearing, a trial—” Perhaps he was hard of hearing. She said it
slower and louder.

'I'm pressing charges! You're a police officer! Now see to it!” He
grabbed his leg and winced. 'Did.., did Rod get your statement?” 'Yes,
he did. And he told me to write up this list of the stolen merchandise,
so now you have it.” He turned toward the door, and yes, he was
definitely limping.

'Well, I'll get back to you in the morning.” He pulled a card from his
pocket and scribbled a phone number on the back. 'If you decide to
change your mind you can call me at home.” He handed the card to her.

'That's highly unlikely!” By now she was angry with him.

'Penny Adams is a thief, she's always been a thief, and this town needs
to be rid of her once and for all.?' He answered with an edge in his
voice, 'Yes, ma'am,” and went out the door.

377

DON ANDER5ON awoke from a restful sleep, disturbed by a strange, low hum
he'd never heard in the house before. He raised his head from his pillow
and listened. It sounded like a sixty-cycle hum, the same noise
sometimes picked up by amplifiers and sound systems. Had he left
something on?

He got out of bed, careful not to wake Angela, and went into the living
room to check the stereo. It was off. The television was off. The
fluorescent lights in the kitchen were off. The furnace wasn't running.

He listened to the refrigerator. Wow! He could hear everything that
compressor was doing: the whir of the motor, the highpitched rushing of
the Freon through the condenser. There was a sixty-cycle hum down in the
middle of all that noise, but it wasn't the hum he was after. Where was
it coming from?

He walked down the hallway toward the bedroom again, still hearing the
hum like a steady note in his head. The bathroom light was on. He
reached for the light switch on the wall and clicked it off.

The humming stopped.

Oh. The wall switch. He clicked it on again.

There was that hum. He bent close to the switch and listened.

Well.. . it wasn't just in the switch.

He straightened slowly, his ear close to the wall. Then he moved a foot
or two down the hall, still listening. Then he backed up again. He
raised as high as his tiptoes, then squatted. He shook his head in
amazement.

He could hear the wire in the wall—or more exactly, the electric current
flowing through it. He could hear where the wire was, which way it went
up the wall, where it turned. Incredible!

He chuckled with delight. Like his other new abilities, this could be
useful. Imagine being able to find wires in walls, maybe cables
underground, maybe hear bad connections or short circuits!

He clicked off the light—the humming stopped—and headed for the bedroom,
grinning to himself in the dark. This was going to be great.

Back in bed, he listened again for the hum of the wires. Not too

many things were turned on right now. The house was dark and quiet. Good
enough.

But what would it sound like during the waking hours, when things got
turned on and power was flowing through the wires?

Well, he'd worry about that in the morning. He rolled over and closed
his eyes.

What was that? It sounded like an ant doing a tap dance on his night
stand. Tick, ticka tick tick tick, ticka tick tick tick.

He rolled over and looked. Too dark. He clicked on his bedside lamp. The
wires in the wall hummed.

Angela woke up and groaned, 'What're you doing?” 'Checking out a noise.”
He reached for his digital watch. The moment he touched it, the little
tap dance came through loud and clear, TICK TICKA TICK TICK TICK TICKA
TICK TICK TICK He put the watch down.

'What noise?” Angela asked.

'Oh, it was just my watch.” 'Your watch?” He clicked off the lamp. The
humming stopped.

Angela went back to sleep. Don lay there, eyes open, wondering whether
he should be worried as the sound of his watch kept tap dancing in his
ears, tick, ticka tick tick tick. .

F LORE N E LY N H lay in her bed, troubled and tossing, dreaming of a
deranged and bug-eyed Penny Adams reaching out and grabbing things.
Penny was ghostly, transparent around the edges, drifting and floating
through Florence's house with long, sticky fingers clutching after
everything in sight, and Florence kept chasing her, never keeping up,
trying to stop her, screaming at her.

Penny just laughed a witchy laugh and kept grabbing, grabbing, grabbing,
taking dishes out of the cupboard, knickknacks off the shelf, a scarf
from around Florence's neck. Stop that, put that back, put it hack,
that's not yours! More witchy laughing, green, fuzzy teeth, the touch of
long, cold fingers— 379

Florence awoke with a jerk, her heart pounding, her face slick with
sweat, the darkness like a mask over her eyes.

Terrified. A nightmare. She tried to calm down. She couldn't.

It was a nightmare! she told herself. It's over now. It wasn't over. Her
terror would not subside. With a death grip around flstfuls of down
comforter, she covered her face up to her eyes and searched the deep,
endless darkness of the bedroom.

A man was standing in the corner.

The terror felt like a hammer blow to her heart. Her throat constricted,
her hands trembled.

His gaze emerged from the blackness like dim, yellow headlights emerging
through thick smoke. There was something vaguely recognizable in their
expression, a glint she'd known for years and hadn't seen in ten.

'Louis!” she gasped. 'Louis?” The form of her dead husband inched toward
her, the darkness receding like tidewater from the old gray shirt and
jeans, the pale, veined skin of the face. Except for the unbroken glare
of those eyes, he looked the same as the moment he died. The pale, blue
lips were moving but there was no sound.

She managed to breathe again, in short, shallow gasps. 'Louis.

What is it?” He raised his finger and shook it at her, his eyes angry
and scolding, his lips forming the word no. No, no, no!

She no more than felt the question forming in her mind before she had
the answer. She knew what he was trying to tell her.

PENNY ADAMS was not asleep, but she was comfortable, lying on a cot
under clean, warm blankets. Compared to some of the other jails she'd
occupied, this cell wasn't bad.

Even so, she felt disappointed. Her new hand was supposed to be
something magical, something shielded from hassles.

been in and out of Anderson's and Kiley's with all kinds f great stuff
and they never noticed. Florence Lynch never he'd

noticed either—until today. That's what Penny couldn't figure out. Where
did she slip up? What killed the magic?

People could be so weird, getting all shook up over a few dresses, a few
blouses, a few watches and CDs. She liked them, she wanted them, Don
Anderson and Matt Kiley and Florence Lynch never even missed them, so
what was the big deal? They had plenty of stuff and she didn't, and that
wasn't fair. What good was having a new hand if you couldn't use it?

She heard the front door open and footsteps moving across the front
office floor. She sat up in time to see Brett Henchle come through the
cellblock door, the keys to the cells in his hand. He was wearing
civilian clothes and hadn't combed his hair. He must have gotten out of
bed to come down here.

'Well,” he said, 'you're still awake.” She shrugged and flipped a lock
of hair out of her eyes.

He paused outside her door. 'You don't know how lucky you are. I just
got a call from Florence Lynch. She says to let you go, to forget about
the whole thing.” Way cooh she thought, but said nothing.

'So I'm going to let you out of here, but I want you to do us all a
favor. You listening?” She looked up at him. 'Sure.” 'You got a new
hand, maybe from God, and I know he wouldn't do that just so you can go
on stealing. So try to do something else with it. This town doesn't need
the trouble, and neither do I, and neither do you. You got it?” She knew
how to answer. 'Okay.” He unlocked the cell door. 'Get your coat. I'll
take you home.” She followed him out of the station and to the squad
car, feeling relieved and giddy. Maybe the magic was still there.
Officer Henchle was in a good mood, going easy on her.

She also noticed he wasn't limping like before.

WHEN MY TELEPHONE RANG Friday morning, it could have

been Kyle Sherman calling for an update, or maybe Jim Baylor call381

ing to talk about Dee. Bob Fisher still called once in a while just to
call; Bruce Hiddle orJoe Kelmer called occasionally to make sure I was
still breathing. My sister, Rene, called whenever there was family news;
it could have been Morgan Elliott following up on last night's dinner
meeting (I would have liked that). I was ha/f expecting a call from the
Cathedral, probably from Miles Newberry or some other well-screened and
thoroughly instructed Cathedral associate, but I still considered that
too much to hope for.

There was no way in the world I could have expected this caller.

'Travis Jordan?” 'Speaking.” 'Mr. Jordan, my name is Elise Brenner. My
maiden name is Harris. Dale Harris is my father.” I sank onto the couch,
more than a little intrigued. 'The Dale Harris? Pastor of The Cathedral
of Life?

'One and the same. Have I caught you at a bad time?” 'No, no, no, I'm
free, I'm okay.” 'I understand you visited my dad's church a little
while ago.” 'That's right.” 'Did you talk with my father?” I broke into
a grin and hoped she didn't hear me chuclde. 'No.

He was unavailable.” 'But you did talk to Miles Newberry.” 'Uh, yeah,
that'is, that's right. I, uh, talked to Miles—uh, Pastor Newberry.”
'About a mutual acquaintance? Justin Cantwell?” I leaned forward,
pressing the receiver to my ear. 'That's right.

He, uh, he was going to get back to me.” 'He won't. None of them will.
Mr. Jordan, it's only by a fluke that I heard about your meeting with
Miles. They weren't about to tell me. They don't like this sort of thing
getting out.” 'Why are you calling me?” 'Because I know Justin Cantwell
and I can tell you about him, hich means I have to tell you about him.
It would be wrong not j about to. The others—my father included—don't
want anyone to know him because it would be too embarrassing.”

I grabbed a notepad I kept by the phone and flipped to a clean page.
'So. . . you understand who I am and what my needs are?” 'Mm. Fontinelli
told me. You remember her, my dad's secretary?” 'Oh yes, Mrs.
Fontinelli. She seemed like a nice lady.” 'One of the nicest. She's like
a second mom. She told me about your visit and how the staff handled it.
She's a professional and she does her job, but she's a friend too. She
wasn't going to tell me unless I asked her, but I asked her, so she told
me.” 'Okay.” 'This conversation is going to be confidential, all right?”
'All right.” She took an audible breath. 'I'm married to one of the
associate pastors at the Cathedral, Tom Brenner. I used to be the head
of the music department at the church. I directed the choir, ran the
worship team, organized the Christmas and Easter pageants, all that sort
of thing. Three years ago, Justin Cantwell auditioned for the choir and
we put him in the tenor section. That's how I got to know him.

To make a long story short, we ended up having an affair.” I tried to
keep my voice from betraying my wide-eyed facial expression. I see.”
'Now, you have to consider who my father was. He had a monstrous church
with three services on Sunday morning, a book deal with a major
publisher, a television ministry, a tape ministry. He was a district
presbyter for our denomination and serving on the board of Horizon Bible
College. He had a professional, big time booking agency to line up his
outside speaking engagements and another company managing annual
vacations to the Holy Land with his name in the logo. He had a
well-trained professional pastoral staff and we had ourselves an
efficient, smooth-running church with a multimillion dollar annual
budget. Mr. Jordan, I guess I've made it clear, my dad was successful
in.. . well, the popular word is, the ministry.” 'Oh yes. Anybody can
see that.” 'So, next thing you know, his daughter, married, with three
kids, has an affair with a stranger from the teeming masses of that 383

congregation. The, uh, powers-that-be—the board, the pastors, and my
father—feared it would mar the image of the church and the pastor. They
thought it could snarl the ministry's momentum—let the church roll on,
as the song goes. I was ashamed and felt foolish. My husband's ministry
was going to be in jeopardy as well. So we got together, prayed about
it, and then, to put it simply, we covered it up. The church kept me on
staff through Christmas— hey, it was the big Christmas pageant, they
couldn't let anything jeopardize that—and then they let me take an
indefinite leave of absence in January. My husband went right on serving
as an associate pastor, doing all he could to act normal, to keep the
College and Career department rolling while we worked things out. The
official word was that I'd worked very hard and needed a rest and time
to be with my family—which was true. It just wasn't the whole truth.”
'What happened toJustin Cantwell?” 'He vanished like he was never there.
I've read a few things in the paper about Jesus showing up in Antioch,
but I didn't have a clue it was him, not until you came down here asking
questions.” 'So how are you and your husband doing?” 'We're still
working it out. It hasn't been easy.” 'Does he... does he know you're
talking to me about all this?” 'I told him I was going to call you
today.” 'And what was his response?” 'He had to leave. The College and
Career department has a meeting this morning. But that's..

'Yes?” 'I don't know if you'll be able to understand this, but it's part
of the story so I'll tell you. I almost couldn't help being drawii to
Justin Cantwell. He was the first man in my life I could really talk to.
He understood me, he understood my pain, he took the time to talk with
me and, you know, just share his feelings about things.” She took a
breath to clear her mind. 'I did not know my father. I can't say that I
know him now. We never really talked, never spent time together— unless
it was in church. Hey, as long as I played the piano or led the

choir or worked in the church office, we had a relationship. It was
mostly professional, but at least we had something.” I could feel my
insides twisting a little. 'I, uh, I think I do understand.” 'That's
what people don't realize: On the surface, it's a wonderful church and
we have a happy, Christ-filled family. Dad likes to brag about his kids
in public, but my sister, Judy, is divorced and bulimic and my brother,
Sam, is an alcoholic. My oldest brother, Dale Jr., turned out pretty
well, but that's because he's just like Dad. He's in the ministry,
pastoring a church in Oklahoma. As for me and my husband, Tom.. .' She
dropped off in midsentence.

'Did Tom go to Horizon Bible College?” 'Yes.” She sounded surprised.

'And he talks and thinks like your dad.” Now her voice carried her
amazement. 'Have you met him?” 'No. But he's on the pastoral staff,
isn't he?” She laughed. 'So you've been to our church.” 'I've seen how
it works.” 'Dad handpicks every associate. I love Tom. But he's Dad's
kind of man. All church. They fuel each other. It's all they talk about.
I should have seen it coming. It's as if you can't love and serve the
Lord by being with your family, you have to be doing church stuff” Ah
yes, the stuff 'I'm sorry.” I really was.

'Again, I don't expect you to understand, but in our home, you had to be
involved in the church to feel like part of the family. Dale and I could
play the game, Sam and Judy couldn't.” She gave a bitter chuckle. 'I was
always at the church, so Dad used to talk to Sam and Judy through me.
He'd say things like, ‘Tell Sam I like that paint job on the house,' or
‘Tell Judy she should sell that car and get an automatic.' Sam used to
brag about being a pagan just to send a message. Dad never picked up on
it. Maybe the affair was my way of sending a message to Tom. Sometimes I
think he may have received it, but sometimes not.” 'What about your
mother?” - 385

'The same rule applied. So they'd fight a lot. Then she'd run into the
bedroom to cry and he'd go out and cut the grass. Nothing ever changed
that I could see. She threatened to leave him once, but then she felt so
guilty about it that she ended up asking him to forgive her. I wanted to
scream.” 'And. . .' Pieces were coming together in my head even as I
formed the question. 'Justin Cantwell knew all about this, didn't he?”
'Yes.” 'He could tell you all about it, just like he'd been there.”
'Just like he'd been there. So, we just clicked, you know what I mean?
Our hearts touched and he showed compassion and love and warmth—and it
didn't have to be church related!” Then she asked, 'Is he doing the same
thing to someone up there?” I was too blown away to answer. I had to
think.

'Mr. Jordan?” 'Oh yes. Definitely.” 'You have to warn whoever it is.
Don't let him do it. Listen, he'll come on at first like he's—well, like
he's Jesus himself.” 'Right.” 'But he's not a healer, Mr. Jordan—I don't
care how it looks. He knew about my hurt, but he didn't heal it, he just
brought it out and made it worse. I think he looks for people to share
his anger and his hurt and then he brings out the worst in them. He uses
them.” 'Do you know anything about his background, where he's from, who
his family are?” 'Once I saw a letter he got from Nechville, Texas, just
the envelope. He told me it was from his mother.” 'Nechville.. .' I
asked her to spell it and wrote it down. 'Did you catch his mother's
name?” 'Lois Cantwell. He wouldn't talk about her, or any of his family,
for that matter. He's bitter, and having known him and the way he knew
me, I can guess where the bitterness came from. He knows the Christian
language. When he joined our choir, he already knew the worship

songs. He could raise his hands and praise the Lord. He could pray and
quote from the Bible. He talked about Jesus and used Jesus' name just
like a real Christian. He's been there.” 'But it didn't go well for
him.” 'That would be an understatement. But Mr. Jordan, think twice
before you pity him. He's not just a wounded soul. He's a destroyer,
with a destroyer driving him. He never did miracles while he was here. A
little prophetic insight, maybe, just enough to carry out his agenda.
But if what I've read is true, that demon is still growing, and now it's
in your town. Better be prayed up.” NANCY BARRONS stared at the image on
her computer monitor, then sighed, dropping her gaze. She wagged her
head, her face despondent.

Kim Staples didn't notice. She was busy at her own computer, tapping
keys and moving her mouse, pasting and assembling Tuesday's paper.
'Uh-oh, I've got a problem.” 'We've all got a problem,” Nancy replied.

Kim turned from her monitor, hoping Nancy would look her way. 'See here?
Kiley Hardware's full-page ad landed right opposite Anderson Furniture's
full-page ad at the center spread. You think that's too much ad all in
one place? Nancy?” Nancy rested her forehead on her fingertips, and gave
her screen a less-than-enthusiastic glance. 'I can't run this story.”
Kim pushed with her feet, propelling her wheeled chair across to Nancy's
desk. 'But it's news.” Nancy waved her off, a little angry. 'No, no, no,
I don't want to hear that excuse anymore. We've been using it for
weeks.” On her monitor was the headline, A BETTER HOME FOR THE MESSIAH.
Underneath was a full-color photo of the new public restrooms and
showers under construction at the Macon ranch. 'What in the world are we
doing? This isn't a news story. It's another full-page ad!”

Kim shrugged. 'He's employing local workers, buying materials from local
businesses, drawing pilgrims from all over the country who spend money
here. That's news for this town. People want to know about it.” 'But
we're helping him. Knowing what we know, we're still helping him!” Kim
nodded forlornly. 'When I was up there to take the picture, Nichols's
people told me they wanted five hundred copies when the story ran.

'Yeah, free publicity. More clippings to put in their PR package.

An endorsement, if you ask me! He's using us just like he's using
everyone else in this town!” 'What if we toned down the headline and
didn't call him the Messiah?” Nancy leaned back, folding her arms. 'I
notice we've never run a story on Mary Donovan.” Kim snickered. 'Or
Michael Elliott.” 'Our own Virgin Mary and John the Baptist. Kind of
like meet- ing Mickey Mouse and Goofy at Disneyland.” 'So why haven't
we? The big papers have.” 'Because...” An animated, geometric
screen-saver started up on Nancy's computer. She let it run. 'We live
here and we don't want to hurt our friends—not to mention we're covering
our own rear ends. If we ever did an honest story about any of this,
we'd be right alongside the big papers in showing how ludicrous it all
is.” For the first time, Nancy looked at Kim. 'But it's going to blow
up.

Adrian Folsom's talking to an angel, but have you seen how paranoid
she's gotten? And the other night, Rod Stanton and Mark spent a couple
of hours looking for a ghost Brett says appeared in his living room:
that hitchhiker he picked up months ago.” 'You're kidding!” 'We've got
all these people and all this money coming into town. There's building
going on. Businesses are expanding and sticking their necks out, and for
what? For this supposedly up389 graded version of Jesus Christ who
performs miracles but has a thing for women, is probably a crook, and—”
It was a difficult realization. 'And have you noticed how nobody's
really better off?

Business is better, sure, but Matt Kiley's nothing more than a thug,
Norman Dillard looks at you everywhere but in the eye, Penny Adams is
stealing again, Adrian's paranoid, Brett's, I don't know, seeing things,
and Don Anderson—” 'Him too?” 'Well.. . he's not entirely there when you
talk to him.” 'Maybe he's been playing with his toys too much.” 'It's
going to blow up, and when it does, where's this town going to be? We
should've gotten a clue when we first talked to Nevin Sorrel—who's now
dead, of course.” 'Definitely not better off. But what can we prove?”
'No, take itto the next step. Say we can prove something. This late in
the game, how's the town going to react? We're talking wallets and
purses here, a mighty big balloon to pop, and we helped, Kim. That's the
sad thing. We beat the drum for this guy. We contributed to the
problem.” Kim nodded. 'I think I'm feeling scared.” 'You and me both.”
'So what now?” 'We're backing away. This guy's a leaking gasoline truck,
and when everything blows we don't want to be in league with him. We can
cover the story afterwards, and then who can blame us?” With a few quick
keystrokes and moves of the mouse, Nancy erased the headline from the
front page of Tuesday's issue.

'Are you going to tell Travis Jordan what we know?” 'I'm sure it would
be of interest to him, but—” Nancy stopped short, her brow crinkling.

'What?” 'The Harmons in Missoula...” 'Yeah?” 'Have they ever seen a
picture of Brandon Nichols?”

SATURDAY MORNING, when I dialed the Macon ranch, Mrs. Macon didn't
answer her own telephone. A machine did.

'Hello, you've reached the Ranch of the New Dawn. If you know your
party's extension, you may dial it now. Otherwise, remain on the line
and an operator will assist you. Another gathering of the human family
will begin at 2 PM. today, Saturday. See you there.” I remained on the
line and got the operator. 'Hello, Ranch of the New Dawn.” 'Hello. This
is Travis Jordan and I'd like to speak with Mrs. Macon.” I didn't really
have anything to say to her. I just wanted to find out if she could talk
on her own telephone.

'Mrs. Macon is unavailable. Would you like to talk to her assistant?”
A/Irs. Macon has an assistant? 'Okay. Sure.” Hold music started playing.
I about fell over.

'Hello, this is Gildy. How can I help you?” 'Gildy? Gildy Holliday?”
Judy Holliday's granddaughter who used to wait on me at Judy's! 'Oh, is
this Travis?” 'What are you doing up there?” 'Taking care of Mrs. Macon.
You know, cooking, cleaning, answering the phone, helping her get
around.” 'Since when?” 'Two weeks ago. I'm lovin' it. It's a nice house
to work in and the money's good.” 'So how is the widow?” She sighed.
'Not very good. Sometimes she's there and sometimes she isn't—if you
know what I mean.” That answer I was not expecting. 'Are we talking
about Ethyl Macon?” 'Yes.” 'Who used to be married to Cephus Macon?”
'Sure.” 'The lady who owns the ranch?” 39'

'Well, the corporation owns it now, but she still lives here. It's a
good thing because the stroke really put her down.” Was I on the right
planet? 'What stroke?” 'Haven't you heard? She had a stroke two weeks
ago.” I had to recover from that blow before I could ask the next
question. 'What corporation?” 'Well, New Dawn. Brandon Nichols and the
widow sigued a deal before her stroke.” I was stunned. 'Things happen
fast up there.” She laughed. 'You ought to see it.” 'I'm planning on
coming to the gathering this afternoon.” 'Just pardon the mess. We're
building, you know.”

'HEY, KYLE. Wanttogotoameeting?” 'You read my mind.” I picked him up and
we headed for the ranch. 'You don't have to say or do anything,” I told
him. 'I just need you praying. Thisone's going to be tense.”

THEY WERE BUILDING, all right, although atthis pointthenew rest room and
shower facility was still more mud and mess than building. The concrete
slab was poured, the rough-in plumbing sticking up through it. Open
ditches for sewer lines and drainage were all around it—barricaded for
safety. A sign posted in front showed the architect's drawing of what it
would look like. It was going to be nice, the envy of any national park.

Just in time too. We'd driven by George Harding's place on the way and
quickly estimated a minimum of a hundred trailers and RVs parked in his
still-developing RV park. As we came up the hill to the ranch and into
the parking area, we estimated another hundred up there, not counting
all the cars.

And now there were two circus tents side by side, joined like Siamese
twins with the middle wall removed and the stage centered

between them. Brandon Nichols—for that was his name for these
folks—would now be performing in the round for a crowd approaching six
hundred. Ushers with red shirts and walkie-talkies directed the flow of
people coming in. A six-piece band—two guitars, bass, drums, keyboard,
and a female vocalist—were pefforming feel-good songs like 'Everything
Is Beautiful,” 'Don't Worry, Be Happy,” and 'What a Wonderful World.”
Matt Kiley was serving as head usher now. We avoided him, finding two
seats halfway back and in the middle. From there, we could see a
roped-off corridor from the stage to a tent door that led to Mrs.
Macon's house. That had to be where Elvis—excuse me, Nichols—would make
his big entrance. By two o'clock, almost all the folding and plastic
chairs were taken and the two tents were filled with the excited,
preshow murmuring of the crowd.

I also heard babies and kids, lots of them, and noted that a good number
were loose, running up and down the aisles, chasing and hollering,
falling and crying. Apparently, the New Dawn Corporation hadn't yet
thought about childcare, and many parents had chosen not to be
responsible for their children. I smiled. I couldn't help it.

It was two o'clock and folks were still trickling in, still talking
among themselves as they looked for seats. I kept on smiling.

The drummer in the band let out a drum roll.

'And now, ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters,” announced the
pretty, female vocalist, 'please welcome our Messenger of the New Dawn,
Brandon Nichols!” The band started a peppy tune, the crowd rose to its
feet applauding and cheering, and in came Nichols, decked out in white
tunic and glittering gold jewelry, and sporting a brand-new wavy
permanent. He waved and smiled as he ascended the stage, then held both
hands high over his head like a fighter entering the ring.

The applause went on for a good, long minute.

'So where's Sally Fordyce?” Kyle asked me.

Nichols was onstage alone, without Sally Fordyce in a biblical robe, or
the Virgin Mary Donovan. The size of the crowd could 393

have explained why we didn't see Dee Baylor or Adrian Folsom, but
perhaps they weren't here, either. I recognized some of Armond
Harrison's women sitting toward the front, but apart from them, this was
a crowd of strangers.

Nichols sighted us in the crowd and his smile faded for an instant.

He forced it back, flashing some teeth in our direction as he said to
the crowd, 'We've come far, haven't we?” The crowd cheered again.

We didn't cheer, but I did flash a smile back at him, and he must have
caught the meaning in it. He had trouble getting started.

'Well, anyway, here we are, and, uh, we've got, we've got things to do
today, yes sir, it's, uh. . . how are you all doing?” After a few false
starts he finally got his talk rolling, telling some stories, getting
some laughs, and encouraging everyone about how wonderful they were. I
didn't catch most of what he said. I was more interested in the edge in
his voice, the tenseness in his walk, the way he kept drumming his
fingers against his thigh. I looked around the tent. Was anyone else
noticing the same thing? Possibly. A man leaned and whispered an
observation to his wife and she nodded, watching Nichols intently.

I looked around. The kids were still loose. There were gaggles of
latecomers still wandering around and chatting in the back.

Kyle's eyes were open, but his lips were moving vaguely. He was praying.
Good. I did some praying myself, but never took my eyes off Nichols.

'And that's why we where with—why were whennit—” One more try. 'That's
why-we-were-where-we-were when.. .' He was flustered but kept going, his
voice tense and his good humor strained. He was trying to promise us a
better world, trying to convince us how such a dream was in our hands.
He lost his train of thought and stopped cold. He backed up, picked it
up again, hurriedly mumbled some point about how we could achieve
heights our parents never dreamed of— 'I WANT IT QUIET IN HERE!” It was
a sudden, alarming flash of temper. The people sitting near me reacted
as if they'd been slapped. He pointed to some kids running up the aisle
in

front of him. 'Whose children are these?” He didn't wait for an answer.
'I want them out of here! NOW!” A burly usher grabbed the arm of a
little boy running by, whipcracking 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 thtow in some jokes about the kid and latecomer problem
but getting half-laughs for his trouble.

395

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 KI LEY 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 penned 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 397

m 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
wrinide 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 porchwhere 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. 399

'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.

'Tray, 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— 401

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.”

It 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.”

4Q i

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 the edge of town.

'Now the dispatcher' 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 backnp. 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 anotherJesus 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, yogurteating 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.

405

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

'What's he saying?” Sally asked.

I rolled down my window. Brett Henchle was pulling up right behind me,
his siren still blaring.

'Can we get through here, please?” I shouted, and I didn't sound nice.
By now I had a real gripe against false christs messing up my life.

This one approached my window, whip in hand. 'No motor vehicles, sir!
Thou shalt not pollute the air, a gift from the Father's own hand!” 'We
have to get to the clinic!” 'It is written, my town shall be a house of
prayer for all nations, but you have turned it into a garbage dump!”
'This isn't your town, bub!” 'I'll get him to move,” said Kyle, opening
his door.

'What?” I said, but it was too late to stop him.

'Extinguish your engine, my beloved,” said the christ, 'and partake of
the clean air God has—” 'Excuse me!” said Kyle, coming around the front
of my car.

The phony Jesus brandished his whip as if defending himself.

'Touch me not!” Brett Henchle cut his siren and got out of his car.

Kyle held out a dollar. 'See this here?” 'You would bribe the holy one
of Israel?” Some pilgrims were moving closer, cameras ready. A woman in
pink shorts and a plastic sunhat touched him, stood there a moment, then
turned to walk back to her friends. 'I didn't feel anything,” she
reported.

Kyle held the dollar out, coaxing the christ toward the left side of the
road. 'Whose face is this, and whose inscription?” The christ took the
dollar and looked at it. 'George Washington.” 'You're standing in
George's road, did you know that?” The christ looked down at George's
pavement.

'Render unto George the things that are George's..

'Can I keep this dollar?” the christ asked.

'Okay, hold it,” said Brett Henchle, striding from his car, pushing
through the pilgrims, his club ready.

But a woman in a biblical ouffit got there first, embracing the christ.
'Son! My beloved son!” The christ looked baffled. 'Who are you?” She
stepped back and gave him the classic mother look, her hands on her
hips. 'I happen to be your mother!” Wow. Another one.

Brett was getting close.

'You'd better go,” Kyle told me.

I knew Kyle was sacrificing himself. I gave him a nod of thanks and
eased forward through the gathering bodies.

'Travis! Don't you leave!” Brett warned, pointing his night stick at me.

I hollered out my window, 'Just meet me at the clinic!” and kept going.

In my mirror I saw a four-way spat going between Brett Henchle, Kyle,
the christ, and his long-lost mother. Then Rod joined up and they had a
five-way going. Antioch was definitely an exciting place to visit.

I reached the clinic in two minutes. Charlie and Meg Fordyce were
already there and took Sally inside. They'd gotten the word around.
Morgan Elliott was also there, along with Jim Baylor, Joe and Emily
Kelmer, and Bruce Hiddle. They all saw Sally's condition before her
parents hurried her through the door, and now they gathered around me.

'Don't worry about a thing, Travis,” said Joe.

Morgan put one arm around me, gave me a quick hug, and let go.

'We'll see whose side old Henchle's on,” said Jim.

Brett Henchle screeched to a halt right beside my car and almost fell
out, he was so upset. 'Travis—” Then he regarded the others standing
around me and balked a little. 'Now folks, I wouldn't recommend getting
involved in this.” 'Come into the clinic and have a look at Sally,” I
said. 407

'First I'm taking you in!” 'No you're not,” said Joe. 'He was
transporting an injury victim. It was an emergency.” 'I'll be the judge
of that!” Rod Stanton drove into the parking lot of the clinic with Kyle
sitting in the back of his squad car.

Brett nodded toward his backup and said, 'It's over, folks. Now unless
you all want to be arrested, you'll stand aside and let me do my duty.”
'I think you'd better take a look at Sally and do your duty!” Jim
demanded.

'Let's do it,” said Rod.

Brett jerked his head around and glared at his deputy. 'I'm giving the
orders here, deputy!” Then he noticed Kyle wasn't handcuffed. 'Where are
his cuffs?” 'He's not under arrest.” It wasn't just a statement of fact.
It was an act of defiance, and I could tell Rod knew it. 'He hasn't done
anything wrong, and besides that, he helped me quell that second Jesus
situation.” 'Nobody's getting arrested here today,” said Joe.

'Unless it's Mr. Brandon, the home wrecker and lover beater!” said Jim,
jabbing his finger toward the ranch.

'Brett,” I said, 'I'm hoping your loyalty is still to the law and to
this community. If so, I'm sure you can understand my not stopping—”
'You resisted an officer, Travis! You resisted an officer, fled an
officer, disobeyed an officer, acted like a jerk, made an officer look
like a jerk..

'Don't give us that ‘officer' business!” said Kyle. 'You're not an
officer of the law—you're an officer for Brandon Nichols and you know
it!” Brett turned deliberately and put his hand on his gun. 'You want to
say that again?” Bruce interceded. 'Officer, I think Kyle is asking you
to clarify

where your loyalties lie: with the law, and justice, and the good of
this community, or with Brandon Nichols. Just who's calling the shots
here?” Brett just stood there, stuck.

Rod tapped Brett's arm with the back of his fingers. 'C'mon.

Let's talk to Sally and take it from there.” For an agonizing moment,
the only sound was Brett's labored, angry breathing.

Finally, abruptly, Brett started toward the door of the clinic, but not
without barking a few 'last word” orders. 'I want this parking lot
cleared! If you've no business here, then clear out! Now!” I tagged Kyle
and Morgan. 'Let's get to a phone.”

I HELD THE RECEIVER to my ear and dialed the number I got from
information. 'Come on, now, time's getting tight.” I was sitting in
Morgan's office at the Methodist church. Morgan and Kyle were sitting in
the church office behind the foyer, listening in on a speakerphone, its
microphone muted. We all listened as the telephone rang at the other end
once, twice, three times, four times— 'Hello?” The voice sounded grumpy,
gravelly, and a little slurred.

'Hello, is this the Cantwell residence?” 'Yeah, who's this?” The man
could have been drunk. It was hard to understand him.

'Hello, I'm Travis Jordan. I live in Antioch, Washington. I sup- pose
you've read about us in the papers—”

'Oh. Well, I'm calling to speak to Lois Cantwell.” 'She's not home right
now.” This guy could never get a job telephone soliciting, that was for
sure. He could get a job discouraging solicitors.

'Well then, is this Reverend Ernest Cantwell?” 409

'Yeah, who's this?” I told him who I was again. 'I think we might have a
mutual acquaintance. Would you by any chance have a son named Justin?”
There was silence at the other end, but I could hear a labored
breathing.

'Are you there?” 'I don't have a son named Justin, no.” 'Any relation at
all named Justin?” 'No.” 'Do you have a son?” 'No!” The tone of his
voice told me otherwise.

'Well... I happen to know a Justin Cantwell who hails from Nechville,
Texas, and has a mother named Lois.” 'I don't know any Lois, either.”
Oh? 'Uh, excuse me, sir, but you just told me Lois wasn't home right
now. I'm calling a number listed under both your names, Ernest and Lois
Cantwell.” 'Don't call this number again!” Click.

I hung up and sat back to wait for Kyle and Morgan to journey through
the church sanctuary and join me. As they entered the office, I looked
up at them for their reaction.

Morgan shrugged a little. 'I gness I'm not surprised.” Kyle patted his
pockets symbolically. 'Anybody got change for airfare?” 'I could sell my
mother's old watch,” Morgan quipped.

'GILDY!”

The scream raffled the house and made Gildy Holliday jump in her seat.
She was already nervous and frightened. She'd been working at the quaint
desk just off the kitchen, writing checks to pay the help and compiling
a grocery list, when she heard the crashes, tinides, and rips coming
from the guest room. That was Nichols's room now.

He'd decided the main house was more to his liking than the guest
cottage, the big kitchen more practical for his parties, the larger,
more elegant guest bedroom more conducive to his romantic flings.

But the arrangement also put him under the same roof as Gildy with no
walls or bars between them. She didn't answer him, but clicked off her
computer, threw the corporate checkbook into a drawer, and grabbed her
coat. It was time to get out of there.

Brandon Nichols was moving through the house like a man possessed, his
footsteps quick and pounding, his breath chugging.

She headed for the back door— He was there, his eyes like those of a
stalldng panther, his hair dangling like black lightning bolts across
his brow. He moved toward her.

She ran behind her desk to keep it between them.

'Call Brett Henchle!” The voice was low and sinister. 'My room's been
vandalized!” She picked up the telephone receiver on her desk but
hesitated to dial, staring at him.

His eyes were darting about the room as if watching a swarm of tiny,
invisible demons. 'Torn up! Broken! Everything a disaster, a disaster!”
He noticed she hadn't dialed. 'Well, call them!

Somebody's been here! It's a senseless, despicable act of hatred!

We have enemies, Gildy! They're trying to destroy us!” He stopped in the
middle of the room, wiping drool from his mouth with the back of his
hand. 'Trying to destroy us. Hate. It's everywhere, all around. Notify
the staff! We're going to heighten security tonight! No one comes or
goes. We're locking the place down.” 'I'll tell them,” she said weakly,
still holding the receiver but not calling.

Now he seemed dazed by his own anger, scanning the room, slowly turning
as if searching. 'That bedroom is swimming with evil. It's crawling.
It's alive. I can't sleep there anymore.” 'You can sleep in the third
bedroom. No one's using that room right now.” He nodded, his eyes still
crazy. 'Good. Don't call the cops.” She 4"

put the telephone down. 'They don't need to know. Nobody needs to know.
Nobody.” He moved toward the hall as she stood behind her desk watching
his every move. 'You can't trust them anyway.

You can't trust cops. They stand by and let horrible things happen to
you, did you know that? They stand by. . . just stand by...” 'I need to
check on Mrs. Macon.” He nodded. 'Go ahead. Go.” Then he laughed,
apparently at himself. 'Don't mind me. I'm just a child of the devil.”
He headed down the hall to his room and closed the door behind him. She
heard him roar like a madman. There was another crash. A piece of
furniture hit the door. The house quivered. A window broke.

Gildy buttoned up her coat, went straight to Mrs. Macon's room, knocked
lightly, then went in. In a matter of minutes, she emerged again,
carrying Mrs. Macon, now wearing a robe and wrapped in a blanket. The
widow's eyes were open, but she seemed oblivious to the fact that she
was being carried hurriedly down the hall and through the kitchen. Gildy
went out the back door, put the widow in her car, and drove away.

KYLE, MORGAN, AND i put our heads together, pooled our bank accounts,
and called the travel agent. She could get me into Dallas/Fort Worth
where I could rent a car to drive to Nechville, and fit it into our
waning budget f I flew out of Spokane that night and out of Seattle at
one in the morning. I had to brace myself before agreeing, and then it
was settled. Kyle left for home. I remained with Morgan in her office.

'What is it?” she asked.

After months of playing Justin Cantwell's strange game, things were
becoming clear. 'I know what I'm going to find in Nechville.” She
nodded.

'You know what Marian said when we found out she had lung cancer?” I was
still sitting at Morgan's desk. She sat down across from me and listened
as she always did. 'I didn't know what to say.

I didn't know what to tell her or what to do, and she just said,
‘Travis, take me ice-skating.”' The vision flashed across my mind: We
were kids in our twenties, I had my arm around her waist and her hand in
mine, and the world was rushing by us—we were in our forties, on the ice
again, and she was giving me that one, special look.

A wave of emotion hit me and I could hardly speak my confession. 'I
could barely remember how. It'd been so long... Morgan heaved a troubled
sigh. 'I should have gone fishing with Gabe. He asked me so many times,
but always ended up going with his buddies. I had to stay here,
studying, fulfilling some counseling appointments I could have scheduled
for another time.

Hey, it was ministry. I was doing it for God. And now I've never been
able to understand why I never got it through my head: I was his first
choice for a fishing buddy. His first choice, and I never went!” I found
a smile somewhere, passed it on to her, and wiped the corners of my
eyes. 'I think Marian and I enjoyed ministering together. We lived it,
we talked about it, we spent our days and nights immersed in it. But now
I'm afraid..

'Mm-hm.” 'I'm afraid that, that maybe it was the ministy that defined
us, that somehow it was church that summarized what we were. We were the
program, the preaching, the Sunday school, the youth choir, the bus, the
building, but were we ever us? When Marian died, it hit me so hard and
so cruel: all the church stuff was still there—the service schedule, the
song sheets, the visitation committee, it was all still there. But
Marian was gone. The church stuff would always be there in one form or
another, always needing, always demanding—but there was only one Marian,
only one chance to know her, and that was over.

'You know, we prayed around the clock for Marian's healing.

The whole church fasted and we had people assigned to twentyfour
one-hour shifts. Dee and her friends tried to speak a healing into
existence. I got a note from somebody who said they had a 413

dream: If I'd dip Marian seven times in the baptistry she'd be healed.”
My little laugh was sad. 'I almost tried that.

'I took her to some faith healing meetings. You know the kind: You go in
there and some loud, flamboyant evangelist with big hair starts laying
hands on people and they start falling over while the organ player runs
his finger down the keyboard. It was strange, I guess, kind of hokey.
But when you're grasping... 'I believe God could have healed Marian. I
still believe the Lord heals—I mean, look at Joe Kelmer. Bang! Healed,
just like that.

'But can you figure God out? All the things we tried, all the faith and
the methods. . . and the shadows on her x-rays just kept getting bigger,
kept spreading. They took out her left lung and the shadow spread to her
right, and then the cancer started popping up other places.

'I think she knew—I mean, clear back when she wanted to go ice-skating
again. She always had a special intimacy with God, an inside line or
something. I think she knew. But she stuck by me: She hoped right along
with me, and we fought together against the whole idea of her dying, and
we both tried to faith our way out of it. But we, uh, we finally got a
clue—or I got a clue. God has his ways. He just plain has his ways. By
the time she died it was almost a nonevent, we were so ready for it.

'She was holding my hand, and I could feel the moment she slipped away.
It was June 12, 1997, just five months after we saw those first x-rays.”
I drew a deep breath and sighed it out, bringing my recollections to a
close. 'God will do what God will do.” Morgan studied me a moment, then
asked, 'Do you still trust him?” I had no trouble nodding yes.

'Then you're one up onjustin Cantwell.” That came as a revelation, and
it made me chuckle. 'When did that happen?” She had a playful delight in
her eyes. 'Sometime afterJustin got having to show you what you did
have—and to show me.” She here. As you said, God has his ways. Maybe it
took a bitter man not

reached across the desk and took my hand as tears filled her eyes.

'Jesus was hiding, that's all. Hiding in the memories—all the places
you've been, all the people you've known, all the paths he's walked with
you, whether you understood it all or not.” She paused to reflect, then
told me, 'What Justin Cantwell wouldn't give for just one good memory.”

iPACKED A SMALL BAG with enough clothes and necessities for an overnight
in Texas, and drove to Spokane to catch an eleven o'clock flight to
Seattle. The flight from Seattle to Dallas/Fort Worth would arrive
around six-thirty in the morning, Dallas time.

The drive to Nechville would take about three hours, which meant I'd be
arriving in that little town just in time for Sunday morning services.
Needless to say, I wouldn't be sleeping much.

AR MON D H AR RI SO N finally left Anderson's Furniture and Appliance
after bickering over the price of a television and whether or not the
stand should be included or be extra. Now Don Anderson was alone in his
big glittery store, surrounded by washers, dryers, televisions, CD
players, VCRs, DVD players, all shapes and sizes of radios, telephones,
toys, CDs, cassettes... And he had to get a handle on his new ability.
He had to control it, channel it, rein it in, and use it in some
orderly, controlled fashion. If he didn't... He could hear the lights
overhead humming at him like a swarm of bees, so loud it was hard to
hear someone talking to him from across the store. Well, okay, he could
always stand closer to someone talking.

When he started up a kerosene heater to demonstrate for a customer, it
roared like a toilet refilling after a flush. He had to ask the customer
to repeat himself a few times. Well, it only made that noise when it was
running. He could always turn it off—and hope he'd never need the heat.

415

But the CDs—oh, the CDs! All he had to do now was touch the plastic
cases and they would start playing in his head, right through the
shrink-wrap! He put one of the girls in charge of stocking the CD rack
and left it to her to sell them as well.

And now there were the radios! He could hear them all over the room,
wailing and thumping the rock stations, crooning the easy listening
stuff, or garbling out the news and sports, no less than fifty of them
at once—and they were all turned offi Maybe he could tune them all to
the same station, something sweet and relaxing.

He went to the first radio, a portable CD/Cassette/AM-FM Virtual
Surround Sound unit. All he did was touch the tuning knob and he could
hear the station as if he were wearing headphones.

He twirled the knob until he heard the kind of music they play in
elevators. Ah. He could live with that. He went to the next unit,
another portable stereo, but this one bigger, with more bells and
whistles. He set the station.

Hey, this was going to work!

See there, Don? One step at a time! We'll get a handle on this—I hope, I
hope!

Then it occurred to him. Sure, there were no less than fifty radios on
display in the store. He could get to them easily. But there were at
least a hundred more in unopened boxes stacked under the shelves and in
the back room, and he could hear them too!

Oh, man. This was going to be a long night.

As he headed for the counter for a carton knife, he passed by the
washing machines. Oh no, now what? It sounded like a squadron of B- 17s
flying overhead. He leaned on a washer— The rumble made him jump. He
could feel it all through his body. 'NO!” He faced the washing machine,
staring it right in the

control knob, and pleaded with it, 'You're not running! You're not
turned on! You're not even plugged in!” It rumbled at him. Its companion
dryer rumbled too. The whole row of washers and dryers rumbled like
circus lions in a cage.

He backed away. The rumbling quieted a little. They seemed

to be consulting one another, rumbling and mumbling. Could he live with
this too?

'You don't scare me,” he muttered.

They RUMBLED at him.

It scared him to death.

MAT T K IL E y burst through the door of his hardware store, startling
Bev Parsons, his soft-spoken right-hand gal. 'How's it going?” She was
checking out a customer, and held her peace until the customer stepped
out the door. Then she showed a sour side he'd never seen before. 'If
you expect me to run this store all by myself, I expect to be paid
accordingly.” He brushed past her. 'You're not running it all by
yourselF.” She was never one to be forward, but today she was angry
enough. She followed directly behind him, down the aisle past the lawn
sprinklers and garden sprayers, talking to his back, but getring it
said. 'I've kept track of the hours I've been here running this whole
operation while you've been up at the ranch, and let me tell you, I
might as well own this place!” He stopped and turned so fast she ran
into him. 'You think you're the only one who has problems? If anything
happens to Brandon Nichols, we could all be out of work!” He continued
to- ward the back of the store.

She followed him. 'What do you mean?” 'I mean he has enemies! Somebody
came right into the house and trashed his room!” He reached the gun
counter. 'Barney!” 'Yeah?” Barney Myers replied from the automotive
section.

'Let's have the key to the gun cabinets!” He turned to Bev.

'Happens every time. Somebody starts doing the right thing and somebody
else decides they have to harass him. Well nobody's gonna harass Brandon
Nichols, not if I've got anything to say about it!” Barney brought the
key, and Matt opened the gun display case.

He reached for a semiautomatic pistol, ripped off the price tag, and 417

slipped it in his coat pocket. 'Get me two cases of 9 mm rounds, those
hollow points, and two boxes—no, make that four boxes of 12-gauge
shells, 00 buckshot.” Barney selected the ammo cartons while Matt took a
shotgun from the rack behind the counter.

Bev's voice quavered with fear. 'But you can't just shoot somebody!”

Matt took the boxes of shells from Barney. 'Well they don't have to
break into Brandon's house either, now do they? Thanks, Barney.” He
hurried around the counter and up the aisle again.

'They don't have to get near him, they don't have to come on the
property, they don't have to come nose to nose with me. It's all up to
them. Close up tonight, same as usual. I'll be back sometime tomorrow.”
‘4 I wA5 DR ivi N G across Texas in the early morning, covering miles
and miles under a golden dawn, and feeling continually deceived by the
crumpled, wrongly folded road map on the seat beside me. Maps of Texas
still have to fit in your car, so they make Texas look smaller than you
first assume. Twice I was sure I'd missed a town or a turn, only to find
it thirty or forty more miles down the road. Nechville looked like a
quick trip, but it was three hours at legal speeds, as promised.

The lady who rented me my car told me I would probably smell Nechville
before I saw it, and she was right. At first, I thought something in my
car was overheating or shorting out, but I soon discovered it was just
the wind coming through my vents after blowing through Nechville's
stockyards and oil rigs. It smelled like a herd of cattle tarring a
roof, the scent of manure and ammonia interlaced with the stench of
black crude. Undoubtedly the people of Nechville had long ago learned to
live with it, since the town wouldn't be there at all without it.

I drove by the stockyards, the ground trampled and fertilized to a
thick, gamy black under hundreds of hooves, and saw the oil wells on the
right and the left nodding slowly, emphatically, yes, yes, yes.

Slowing to twenty-five miles per hour, I passed the city limit sign— A T
A

NECHVILLE, population 2,125. It was not a bad little town at first
glance, almost a Texas version of Antioch. They had a feed store, a
tractor and implement dealer, a True Value Hardware, even a local
appliance store—only it wasn't Pepto-Bismol pink.

So here I was, a stranger in a strange town in the middle of the vast
state of Texas and feeling like it. Now what?

I pulled over at a service station to top off the tank and check the
yellow pages of a phone book. As I flipped the phone book open, I was
praying for help and guidance. I could feel butterflies in my stomach.

Churches, churches... I would know it when I saw it. It wouldn't be
Catholic, Methodist, Lutheran, or Baptist. I was guessing it would
be—how shall I say it?—hyper-Pentecostal. Judging from Justin Cantwell's
bitterness and the reception I got from the Reverend Ernest Cantwell, it
would be stridently, strictly, inflexibly, legalistically, pharisaically
Pentecostal. There would be a long list of complex, tangled, sometimes
contradictory, often hypocritical, but absolutely essential requirements
and taboos defining what it meant to be a Christian. I was familiar with
that kind of church and glad I never had to attend one. I was guessing
that Justin Cantwell did.

My finger stopped on a promising possibility: The Nechville Church of
the True Gospel.

'Good morning and praise God,” said the cheerful male voice.

'True Gospel.” 'Hi. What time is your service this morning?” 'Sunday
school's at nine forty-five and morning worship's at eleven.” 'Is Pastor
Cantwell preaching?” 'Oh, absolutely. You can't hold him back. Think you
can join us?” 'I'll be there.” 'Well you're gonna hear the truth. That's
what we're all about.

And your name is?” I said 'Thanks a lot” cheerfully and hung up. They'd
picked the right guy to answer the phone. If I were them, I sure
wouldn't want the pastor doing it.

421

I checked my watch. It was just before ten, so I had an hour. I asked
the man at the cash register how I might find the church and he drew me
a map. Then I returned to my car and drove through town in no particular
hurry. I didn't want to attend Sunday school because I'd be sitting in
the adult Sunday school class where I'd have to introduce myself to
everyone else, and most likely Reverend Cantwell would be teaching. I
wanted a chance to get a feel for the place first. Now I'd be the timid
visitor sitting in the back.

What happened next had to be the gentle, guiding hand of God. I was
driving by a quaint, wide-porched home on Main Street and spotted a sign
in the yard: H. K. Sullivan, MD. I got a hunch, I felt in my spirit that
I should stop, and so I did.

Parked across the street, I took a moment to rethink it. I didn't know
how many doctors were in this town, probably not many.

Whenever and however Justin Cantwell got those scars on his arms, this
doctor might know about it, or perhaps know the doctor who did. There
was a car in the driveway. I thought I saw someone in the backyard. It
couldn't hurt to knock on the door and ask.

DR. HOWARD 5ULLIVAN was in his seventies, dressed in work jeans and a
tee shirt advertising Imodium A—D. He sat beside Mrs. Sullivan on their
couch while I sat opposite them, waiting for the doctor's verdict on the
photographs I'd handed him.

'So now he's claiming to be Jesus,” he muttered.

'He's allowing people to believe and say that about him,” I qualified.

The doctor laid the photos out side by side on the coffee table,
studying them. His wife held his arm, her eyes troubled.

'There's a whole lot I could tell you about him, but I can't.” I closed
my eyes and sighed in disappointment and frustration. Don't be rude, I
reprimanded myself. 'You do understand my situation?” He nodded. 'I sure
do. More than you think. And I want to help you, but I can't tell you
anything without the Cantwells' consent. That's just the way I do
things.”

'Is his name Justin Cantwell?” The doctor nodded. 'I can tell you that.
Yes.” 'Was he ever a patient of yours?” The doctor nodded again but said
nothing.

'Did you treat the wounds in his forearms?” I didn't get a response.
Mrs. Sullivan pulled her husband's arm and said, 'I don't think you'd
better go any further.” 'I did, said the doctor.

'Honey, now that's all!” she warned him, and then she told me, 'This is
a small, close-knit little town and we watch out for our neighbors. If
we violated any trust, we wouldn't survive here.” 'Talk to the
Cantwells,” said the doctor, picking up the photos and handing them to
me. 'Please. I want to help you. I want to bring this whole sad story to
a close.

'They'll be in church pretty soon,” said Mrs. Sullivan, looking at the
mantel clock. 'That would be a good place to meet them.” 'He'd have to
behave himself in front of his congregation.” She jabbed him. 'Honey!”
Then she told me, 'You may not get far with Pastor Cantwell, but I think
Mrs. Cantwell will be sympathetic. Work on her if you can.” 'All I need
is their consent. I need to hear from them that I can talk to you.”
'It's the Church of the True Gospel, is that right?” 'Over on Dunbar
Street, two blocks down, turn left, three blocks on the right.”

IT WAS AN OLD BRICK BUILDING with thick concrete steps and a blue neon
'JESUS SAVES” sign bolted to the top of the facade. Worshipers were
gathering, moving from the gravel parking lot, approaching from either
direction on the sidewalk, dressed in their Sunday best, toting their
Bibles. It might mean different things to different folks in different
parts of the country, but, for these people in this part of the country,
they looked very religious.

I was parked across the street. I checked my tie in the rearview 423

mirror—it was black; very safe. I ran a comb through my hair— recently
cut, with ears and collar uncovered. I'd already given my face a
once-over with a small travel razor. I had a suit coat ready on a hanger
and a good-sized Bible on the seat. Hopefully, I would look righteous
enough not to disturb anyone.

I stepped out of my car, slipped into my suit coat, straightened and
adjusted everything, and crossed the street, returning whatever smile or
greeting came my way. The piano and organ were already playing the
prelude. I followed the other folks up the front steps.

Passing through the door, I noticed a yardstick tacked to the doorpost
for measuring the height of hemlines. I'd heard about that practice, but
this was the first time I had actually seen it.

Being a Pentecostal, I gravitate toward the livelier kind of worship.
I'm not a dancer, jumper, or roller, but I like a good tune, a catchy
rhythm, and lyrics that express how I feel about my Savior.

This church had them. The worship was great—a little protracted and
repetitious for my taste, but nobody else seemed to mind, so neither did
I. The young fellow leading worship did plenty of jumping, and when he
spoke I recognized the cheerful voice I'd heard on the telephone.

But I wasn't prepared for the pastor, the haggard, graying wraith
sitting in a wheelchair on the platform. He clutched a huge Bible in
blue-veined, seemingly palsied hands and glared at everyone. Sure, he
smiled frequently, raised his hands in praise, sang the songs, and
shouted Hallelujah, but his eyes never lost that steely glare and he
never lost that weird hunch either, like a buzzard perched in a dead
snag waiting for his next meal to die. This was Reverend Ernest
Cantwell? This was Justin's daddy? I had food for thought already.

They went through announcements and some testimonies, and then it was
the reverend's turn to preach. When he raised his arms to grip and
propel his chair wheels, I saw that big buzzard again, ruffling his
wings, ready to fly. He wheeled up to a specially made, lowered pulpit,
set his big Bible on it, and then gaffed our attention with those eyes.

'I would that you were either cold or hot,” he began, and I recognized
the voice I heard on the telephone, a coarse, ragged, booming voice you
didn't trifle with, slurring the words. 'But since you are lukewarm, and
neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth!” 'Amen,” they
said. 'That's right.” 'The axe is already laid to the roots, and every
plant that does not bear fruit will be cut down and thrown into the
fire!” 'Save us, Lord! Amen.” 'I looked throughout the nation for a
righteous man, and I found none! There was none righteous, no, not one,
and my anger was kindled against my people and it repented me that I had
made them and set them on a hill, but woe to them, for now that hill
will be brought low!” 'Amen!” 'So come out, my people! Come out from
among them and be ye separate, for great is their destruction, and their
destruction is nigh at hand, and the smoke of their destruction shall go
up like the smoke of a furnace forever and ever!” The locomotive started
rolling, leaving the station, gaining speed... 'Our nation is ripe for
judgment!” 'Amen!” 'Our towns and our cities are ripe for judgment!”
'Amen!” 'The church is ripe for judgment!” 'Yes!” 'And you are ripe for
judgment!” 'Amen! That's right!” 'Did you hear me? I said you are ripe
for judgment!” 'Lord save us!” 'You are ripe for judgment!” 'Amen!” 'I
said YOU are ripe for judgment!” With a steady, pounding cadence he went
down the universal 425

list of vices, added a few of his own—sports on Sunday and cable TV—and
condemned them all. He warned the President, he warned Congress, he
warned Hollywood, and he warned the game shows and soap operas. He dealt
in depth with the horrible things God had planned for sinners like us
and told us he'd learned how hot hell was—at least ten times the heat of
a nuclear blast, the difference being, it lasts and lasts. With help
from the song leader he took off his suit coat and then wiped the sweat
from his brow. He kept going, hot and heavy, wheeling from one side of
the platform to the other, his weak and faulty arms swatting invisible
bees, his voice bouncing off the walls.

For forty minutes he scared the bejeebers out of us, and when our terror
of God and judgment had reached just the right level, he broughtJesus
into it, rolling along at such a clip that 'Jesus” was 'Jesus-uh” and
'judgment was 'judgment-uh.” The place was rocking with the rhythm of
his words: He'd say it, we'd answer; he gave it, we took it; he shouted,
we praised; back and forth, back and forth, yea and Amen. Finally, he
gave the invitation and folks began moving to the altar to pray as
Sister Cantwell, white-haired and serene, softly played 'Almost
Persuaded” on the organ.

So this was Sister Lois Cantwell. I had to wonder about her. She seemed
so gentle, so small, such a contrast to the fiery, rough-hewn reverend.
She was dark-skinned too, probably of Hispanic or Native American
descent. Recalling Mrs. Sullivan's advice, I thought I might approach
her first.

I got my chance as the service ended and the refreshed and rededicated
saints filed out. 'Sister Cantwell?” She was still seated at the organ,
just saying good-bye to a sister in the Lord. She extended her hand.
'Hello. And you are?” 'Travis Jordan. I was wondering if I might have a
word with you and your husband?” I dropped a hint. 'I'm from Antioch,
Washington.” That didn't faze her. 'My, you're far from home, aren't
you?” 'Yes, ma 'So what brings you here?” I

I braced myself, lowered my voice, and said, 'Justin Cantwell.” That did
faze her. She placed her hand over her heart and I thought she'd stopped
breathing. 'Who are you?” 'I'm Travis Jordan,” I repeated. 'I'm a
schoolteacher from Antioch, Washington. I was also a minister in the
Pentecostal Mission church for over fifteen years.” 'Have you seen my
son?” she nearly whispered.

'Yes, I have. He's in Antioch. We've visited on many occasions.” She was
obviously starving for news, any news. 'Is he all right?

What's he doing?” 'Hello!” With a booming, gravelly, slurred voice, the
reverend rolled up. 'Ernest Cantwell!” He offered his bent, half-limp
hand.

'And who might you be?” 'Travis Jordan,” I said, knowing his toothy
smile was going to vanish the moment I said more.

Sister Cantwell said it first. 'He knows our son.” The reverend seemed
perplexed. She further clarified, 'Justin.” The smile vanished and that
glare intensified. 'So what are you doing here?” With my eyes I
indicated that other people were still around.

'Is there someplace we could talk privately?” 'What about?” 'About
Justin,” his wife whispered with a plea in her voice.

'Conway!” the reverend hollered, and a man near the door immediately
turned our way. He was big and had those cold, animal eyes required of
any good tavern bouncer. Oh brother, I thought, I'm going to get thrown
out of here.

'Ernest. . .' Sister Cantwell pleaded.

Reverend Cantwell spun his chair around and started wheeling toward the
center aisle, zigzagging between folks visiting and praying. 'Conway,
open up the office. We have to meet with this, this, whatever he is.” I
stood there. Sister Cantwell gave me a gentle touch on the arm, prodding
me. 'Please.” - I weaved past the petitioning saints and down the center
aisle 427

with Sister Cantwell right behind me and Conway the bouncer dead ahead.
He had opened a door on the left side of the foyer and now stood there
while the reverend wheeled inside. I followed the reverend, and the
reverend's wife followed me.

We were in the pastor's office. He wheeled himself behind his desk and
hollered to Conway from there, 'You want to hang around, Conway? I might
need you.” Conway nodded a slow, insider's kind of smile, and closed the
office door as a sheriff would close a jail cell.

'Have a seat,” said Cantwell.

His wife already occupied one of the two available chairs. I planted
myself in the other, my Bible and valise in my lap.

The reverend glared at me a moment, then at his wife, then snapped at me
with a flicker of his hand, 'So, speak!” I reached into my valise and
pulled out the photos and news clippings again. This was getting to be a
routine. I passed the photos to Mrs. Cantwell, explaining who I was,
where I was from, and what was going on up there—and how a young man had
come to town acting like some kind of new, improved messiah. At first
sight of the photos, Mrs. Cantwell gasped, her hand over her mouth.

Tears filled her eyes.

'Conway!” the reverend yelled, and the door burst open.

Conway looked ready to pummel me. 'I want to see these pictures!” Conway
walked right in front of me, grabbed the pictures from Mrs. Cantwell,
and handed them over to the reverend.

'Stick around,” the reverend ordered, and Conway took his place against
the door like an obedient, 280-pound Doberman.

Cantwell studied the photos one at a time, his hands inept and fumbling.
Then he threw them spitefully on his desk. 'So what?” My eyes drifted to
a picture on the bookshelf: Reverend and Mrs. Cantwell in their earlier
years. Reverend Cantwell was standing.

Cantwell didn't appreciate my looking at it. He reached over and tried
to grab it, fumbling the picture frame so that it fell face down with a
loud smack. The cuff of his shirt sleeve was unbuttoned. I saw a jagged
scar on his forearm, but looked away before

he knew it. Conway stepped in and positioned the picture safely on the
shelf, face down.

'Is this man your son?” I asked, indicating the photos.

'Our son is dead.” Mrs. Cantwell groaned in anguish. 'Ernest, don't say
that!” He only reaffirmed it. 'Justin is dead as far as I'm concerned.

He's dead to this house, dead to this church, dead to this town. We
don't want to see him again.” He used both hands to gather up the
pictures. 'And we don't appreciate your bringing him back!” He handed
the photos to Conway, who handed them back to me.

'Sir, I'm not so sure I want him in my town either. I'm not here to
defend him or meddle with the past—” 'Then don't!” Mrs. Cantwell
pleaded, 'Ernest—” He pointed a jagged finger at her. 'And you be still!
I've said all I'm going to say about this. Conway, show this man to the
door!” Conway opened the office door and, valuing my life, I took my
cue. I packed up my photos and clippings and got out of there. I could
hear Mrs. Cantwell sobbing as I left, and her husband barking at her,
'Stop that! Just stop that right now! He's dead! He's dead!” Conway not
only showed me to the door, he accompanied me clear across the street to
my car. I scanned the surrounding street and sidewalks. Some people were
still around, meaning there would be witnesses if this guy clobbered me.
Unfortunately, they seemed to be making it a point not to look in our
direction. We reached the car and I pulled the keys from my coat pocket.

'Uh, listen, Conway, I'm not trying to stir up trouble. I have trouble
and I'm trying to get some help. If you know anything—” 'Let me give you
some advice.” These were the first words I'd heard Conway speak. 'Go
home and take care of your own problems, and don't bring ‘em back here
again.” He lowered his voice but didn't sound any kinder. 'Justin
Cantwell is pure poison. That's all you need to know. I ran him in
several times and I never saw anybody come closer to being the devil
than that kid.” 'You ran him in?” 429

'I'm the cop around here.” 'Oh.” That did not make me feel safer.

'He's probably told you some really juicy tales about us, but he's a
liar. He'll lie to you like you wouldn't believe. Everything he says is
a lie.” I thought of the scars on Cantwell's arms and asked, 'How did
Pastor Cantwell end up in a wheelchair?” 'Car wreck, six years ago.” He
jerked his thumb toward my car door. I unlocked the door and climbed in.
Conway held the door open so he could deliver his final message. 'Get
out of town, Mr. Jordan. Get out fast, and don't come back, you got it?”
I nodded and started my engine. 'Got it.” So ended my visit to the
Nechville Church of the True Gospel.

B UT MY vi s IT to the town of Nechville was not about to end so
abruptly. Morgan, Kyle, and I had assumed I would actually be able to
talk with someone and would need the time, so we included one night's
stay at a motel in the budget. I'd flown all night and driven all
morning and I was tired. I was going to spend that money. I found a
little motel at the far end of town and got a room. It was cheap but it
was clean, and the bed was more than adequate for a man whose eyes were
burning for sleep and whose heart was pained with frustration.

I lay there on top of the bedspread, my wrist on my forehead, my eyes
closed. The glaring expression and harsh voice of Reverend Cantwell kept
replaying in my mind, as well as the tears and timid pleadings of Justin
Cantwell's mother. If 'Justin Cantwell” was the question, the answer was
sealed behind her tears and her husband's defiance. I saw in her a
mother mourning for a wayward son; I saw in him a dog growling, barking,
and lathering from inside a parked car.

'Precious Lord,” I prayed, 'there's got to be a way.” After fifteen
minutes of stewing and praying, I opened my eyes.

I was injustin CantwelPs hometown. Until Cantwell himself had an

overwhelming change of heart—something on the order of getting saved—I
would never be closer to the truth than I was right now. I was nearly
exhausted but could not sleep because I had to know.

And I would know. God help me, before I left this town, I would know. I
knelt by the bed and, in prayer, grabbed the hem of Jesus' garment.
'Dear Lord, You've brought me this far. Please open the door.”

'HI. I'm sorry to disturb you again, but if we could just talk—” The
doctor's wife didn't wait for me to finish pleading. The moment she saw
me, she swung the door open and invited me inside.

Dr. Sullivan was sitting in a comfortable chair across from the sofa,
still wearing his work jeans and tee shirt. He acknowledged me with his
eyes and a warm smile but didn't say anything. I gathered he was waiting
to get a reaction from me.

Sister Lois Cantwell was sitting on their couch, clutching a crumpled,
wet handkerchief in her hands and weeping. The moment our eyes met, her
sobs broke forth again and she covered her face. 'Oh, praise God, praise
God!” 'I would say so,” said Dr. Sullivan. He extended his hand toward
another chair. 'Have a seat. It's good to see you again.” 'Really good,”
his wife agreed.

I sat across from Sister Cantwell. Mrs. Sullivan sat beside her, her
hand on Sister Cantwell's, and softly explained, 'Lois told us about
your visit at the church this morning.” I had to ask, 'So where is
Reverend Cantwell?” 'He's home taking a nap,” Lois answered. 'I told him
I was going to go see Laurie for a while.” 'I'm Laurie,” Mrs. Sullivan
explained.

'And now here you are,” said the doctor. 'We thought you'd left town.” I
was stunned and afraid to presume what would happen next.

'How is my son?” Lois asked.

43'

Now, that was a tough question. I tried to consider how I would answer,
and it took time. 'He's. . . he's all right physically, as far as I can
tell.” 'And what is he doing? Tell me again.” I took it slow, but didn't
try to soften it. 'He's allowing himself to be regarded as a new,
improved version of Jesus. He's perform- ing miracles, healing the sick,
the lame, and the blind. He's preaching a new, superpotent religion that
helps people have faith in themselves and what they can do. He's set up
headquarters at a ranch near town, and pilgrims are coming to Antioch
from all over the country. The local economy is booming and people are
excited.” It was interesting how news that sounded so good could produce
such horrified reactions.

'My God,” said the doctor.

Lois silently shook her head in horror, then said in a barely audible,
trembling voice, 'I'm so sorry.” I added, 'I believe he's out to prove
he can be a better Jesus because he's quite unhappy with the real one—or
at least his idea of the real one.” Lois absorbed that for a moment and
then replied, 'How could he feel otherwise?” Dr. Sullivan leaned forward
and asked her, 'Are we going to tell him?” She nodded emphatically,
without hesitation.

The doctor was at a loss. 'Where do I start?” Lois started,
straightening a little, looking directly at me. 'Justin is my son, but I
have to tell you, his miracles are from the devil.

All his power comes from Satan. If he has touched or healed anyone,
those people are in desperate trouble. Desperate trouble!” She looked at
Dr. Sullivan as if needing his help.

Dr. Sullivan began, 'The, uh, the accident—” Lois jumped in again. 'He
was.. . he was just so angry at our church, at everything we were doing.
He hated going, he hated our religion. He went the other way. Clear the
other way. He...” She looked at the doctor again.

'He's a ticking time bomb,” he said, 'and when he explodes, there are
terrible results.” He kept looking at Lois as if to get her okay to
proceed. 'I don't know what I believe about the devil, but something is
driving him. There's more there than just an angry young man. A severe
psychosis, perhaps, or—” 'He prayed to the devil. He told me that.” 'Or
indeed, something diabolical, something more than hu- man, more than
evil.” 'We had to send him away. He couldn't be around his father
anymore.” 'The accident. Let's get that out.” Lois fell silent, her eyes
closed in pain, her fist holding the wadded handkerchief over her mouth.

Dr. Sullivan directed all his attention toward me. 'You met Ernest
Cantwell?” 'Yes.” 'So you understand he was severely injured some time
ago. He has only partial use of his lower body and impaired use of his
hands. His speech is affected, as well as some of his memory.

Now—” he met the eyes of the others—”the rest of the town has been told
he was in a car wreck, and that's been the popular belief for over six
years.” He looked at me again. 'But there was no car wreck. No one has
ever seen a wrecked car. The local police never looked into it, never
investigated, never reported anything—” 'Excuse me. Would that be
Conway?” They all nodded knowingly.' Dr. Sullivan said, 'I understand
you met him as well. Conway Gallipo is our chief of police and he's also
head deacon at the church.” He looked at Lois as he told me, 'I guess we
could say he's Ernest Cantwell's right-hand man.” Lois nodded in
agreement. 'His muscles, his bodyguard.” Lois nodded again. The doctor
looked at me. Anyway, he was helpful in spreading the myth that Ernest
was in a car wreck. The Cantwells—mostly Ernest—didn't want anyone to
know that it was actually... that it was Justin.” I vividly recalled the
pitiful wreck of a man in a wheelchair.

'What are you saying?” 433

'It's, uh, it's the time bomb I told you about. Justin and his father
did not get along—” 'We had to send Justin up to Illinois to live with
my sister,” Lois blurted. 'We told people it was just so he could get to
know the rest of the family.” 'I don't think that story worked very
well,” said Laurie.

'No,” said Lois. 'People weren't blind.” 'Well, let's not get things all
confused,” the doctor cautioned.

He turned back to me, 'Justin was fifteen when they sent him to
Illinois.” 'It was to save him from his father,” Lois blurted out, 'and
maybe, just maybe help him get away from all the anger and the hate.”
Then she added, 'And it was also to protect my husband's ministry. I
knew he couldn't continue the Lord's work with such a terrible problem
at home.” She dabbed her eyes and continued.

'Justin stayed with my sister until he was eighteen, and then we brought
him back. Everything seemed all right for three years. He acted
different, like he'd met the Lord at my sister's church, like he really
wanted to serve the Lord. He got active in our church, he sang in the
choir, he led us in prayer and prophesied. People thought he'd changed.
Somehow, he got along with Ernest.” She stopped. I could see the pain of
the memory flashing through her eyes. 'But he was waiting, just waiting
for the right time, the right moment. He bought a gym and set it up in
the basement—he was still living with us—and he kept working out,
getting strong, really developing his body. And then, it wasn't too long
after his birthday—he'd just turned twenty-two——he found that moment.”
Laurie interjected, 'But weren't there some woman problems in all this?”
Lois nodded, obviously sad to be reminded. 'He was sleeping around. One
of the girls was the daughter of a deacon. And that's what set it off
Ernest found out about it and came after him, and— 'She stopped
abruptly, her face and hands quivering. 'Justin was at home, waiting for
him. I just thank God I wasn't there to see it. I was at a women's
meeting. I think that was part of Justin's plan too, to even the score
with his father when I wouldn't be there to see

Dr. Sullivan picked up the narrative. 'I don't think there were any
witnesses to the actual beating, but when Lois came home.. .' Lois broke
down again, sobbing as Laurie put an arm around her. The doctor took a
ragged breath and continued, 'Ernest was in the back yard. He'd been..
.' Now he was having trouble telling it. 'He'd been beaten repeatedly
with a baseball bat. Nine of his ribs were broken. His sknll was
fractured. He was bleeding from head wounds and unconscious. And.. .' He
held out an arm and indicated the forearm just above the wrist. 'He was
nailed—literally nailed, like a crucifixion—to the apple tree in the
back yard with spikes about—” he held his index fingers apart about
eight inches—”that long. The spikes were still in his arms when the
ambulance brought him into the clinic. I had to remove them surgically.

'Some of the tendons were severed. He had several operations, but never
fully recovered the use of his hands. There were spinal injuries that
partially paralyzed him from the waist down. It's a wonder he's alive at
all, hanging from his arms with broken ribs.

He would have suffocated if Lois hadn't found him.” I was horrified and
incredulous. 'And people think this was a car wreck?” The doctor allowed
himself a slight, cynical smile. 'That's what you'll hear on the street.
But there are police and paramedics and medical personnel—and this
doctor right here—who know otherwise. Up to this point, none of us has
said anything. Ernest came to this town first and he still holds the
high ground. He can make things difficult for anyone who invites
trouble.” 'He has that kind of power?” The doctor cocked an eyebrow.
'The power over heaven and hell and who goes where, to put it simply.”
He looked at Lois, but she declined to look back.

'He's still my husband,” she said in a whisper.

'Religion misused,” the doctor continued. 'It's not uncommon.

He has the personality—and the followers, the chief of police being
among them.” With an arched eyebrow he added, 'Chief Gallipo has his own
nasty part in this.” 435

'So ... what happened tojustin?” 'He vanished. We never saw him again.
Lois did get some letters occasionally.” Her voice was still trembling
when she said, 'I didn't get my first letter for two years.” 'But he
went free. The whole matter was buried. Ernest Cantwell had his ministry
to think about—I'm sorry, Lois.

'No,” she said, dabbing her eyes. 'That's all right. Its true.

'The letters,” I said. 'Did he have an address in Southern California?”
'Yes. But that was all. He moved two years ago and I never heard from
him since.

'So he was in the Los Angeles area for two years. 'Yes, I think that's
right. I don't know where he was before that.” 'I believe he went to
Missoula, Montana, after LA., and from there he came to our town, just
this spring. He's using an assumed name, posing as someone else.” 'He's
still running,” the doctor suggested.

'And he's still angry.” 'And still very dangerous. Do you have any idea,
any plans at all, to stop him before you have an incident like we had
here?” 'I'm not sure it hasn't happened already.” 'What about the
police?” 'He healed the war wound of our police chief.” They all
groaned.

'But more than the wound has changed.” The doctor shook his head in
wonder. 'He hates and emulates his father all at the same time.” 'Well,
he and his father are made of the same stuff. We all are.

But I'm finally getting a clear picture: He's going to self-destruct.”
They were silent, perhaps a little surprised, but I could see Lois
nodding.

'How?” the doctor asked.

'Have you ever tried to be Jesus? Believe me, only the real one can
manage that.” 'Amen,” Lois managed.

THE Vi5iTATION

'But that brings me to the scars on Justin arms. Doctor, you said you
treated those wounds.” Dr. Sullivan looked at Lois and she gave him a
barely visible, affirmative nod. 'I believe we mentioned how Justin was
sent to Illinois to live with his sister when he was fifteen. Again, the
real reason was hidden from the public, especially from the church.”
'Especially, 'Lois emphasized, then lowered her head and shook it
mournfully. 'Justin was like a wild horse with no way to corral him.
Ernest was determined to have it otherwise. And things got out of hand.”
'What was it you said?” I asked Lois. 'Something aboutJustin wanting to
even the score with his father?” 'You can blame me,” the doctor
interjected. 'I treated the wounds injustin's arms, but I did nothing
about the wounds to his soul. There was nothing to be done in this town,
but I could have gone beyond this town for help. I could have done
more.” He took a moment to compose himself. 'ButJustin was quickly sent
off to his aunt's in Illinois, so we thought that would be the end of
it. He was several states away from his father, no one in town saw what
happened, and the rest of us went on with our lives, keeping the matter
quiet.” Lois raised her eyes and looked into mine. 'I found him in the
back yard, and I... I held him in my arms. I prayed for him. I sang to
him. But the Justin we once knew was gone. He never came back.” With
frightened eyes she peered into the past. 'And we had no idea what kind
of... creatvre. . . had taken his place.” The doctor drew another deep
breath. 'Seven years later, Justin nearly killed his father.” Now I
realized why Justin Cantwell had warned me, Just be sure you find out
everything. I shifted my weight forward and said, 'Tell me what happened
in the back yard.”

I CLOSED THE MOTEL ROOM DOORbehind me, rested against it, and let the
tears come. I cried and cried, quaking against that door, wanting to
slap myself, feeling so foolish, so blind.

437

Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me.

No, Justin Cantwell and I were not that much alike. Sure, our church
worlds were similar. Both our dads were preachers. We read from the same
Bible, learned the same doctrines, sang the same songs, followed many of
the same rules.

But I had never been in such a place as Nechville—and I know I'd never
been in such a place as Justin's back yard.

I only thought I had, and I was acting like it—until Justin came to my
town and I went to his. Now I was sorry. Desperately sorry.

MONDAY MORNING, Michael Elliott felt called to go for a short, very
spiritual walk across the rolling pastureland of the ranch. He took his
staff in his hand, wore his prophetic mantel over his head and
shoulders, and set out on his journey knowing not where it would take
him—God would lead. As he walked along the white paddock fence, past
horses lazily grazing, he looked frequently toward heaven, praising God
and listening, always listening, for the next prophetic message, the
next inkling of what God was about to do. He knew he must obey every
word. He must watch for every sign. The Messiah had come, Antioch was
the New Jerusalem, and he, Michael, blessed among men, was to be the
Messiah's messenger. 'I will obey, my Lord,” he said. 'But speak the
word, and I will obey. I am your servant.” His heart soared. He felt
filled with God, in tune with the divine, cosmic mind.

And greater works than these shall ye do. The promise coursed through
his soul like marching orders from on high. Greater works.

These would require greater faith, greater obedience, but the world
would behold and tremble, and then it would change. It would grow. A new
thing would occur upon the earth, the news of which would make all ears
tingle.

Michael raised his staff toward the heavens and sang forth in joy,
turning the heads of some steers who grazed beyond a wire fence with
bright plastic numbers on their ears.

He came to the pond, an acre of quiet water reflecting the deep blue of
the sky and the June green of the gentle hills. Mr. Macon had built a
fishing dock there, and his old skiff lay on a split rail rack by the
shore. Across the water, four ducks paddled in formation, dipping their
heads, rustling their wings, and conversing in duck-ese.

This was one of Michael's favorite spots for reflection. He often took
the skiff out just to float quietly, lie on his back, and watch the sky.
The mud along the shore became his canvas, and his most recent
etching—the word ALLEL UJA in Gothic lettering—was still intact, though
some ducks had waddled through it.

Standing at the end of the dock, he sniffed the natural, living odor of
the pond, the scent of mud, algae, ducks and catfish. He received the
kiss of the breeze upon his cheek and heard the song of the earth the
breeze carried—the rustle of the spear grass, the lowing of the cattle,
the murmur of the ducks.

Walk upon the water Below him, the pond was a sheet of glass, and his
reflection nearly perfect.

Wa/k upon the water The voice was the same, the one he had always heeded
and obeyed. It brought him to Brandon Nichols. It had led him through
the streets of Antioch. It had opened his understanding to the mighty
move of God.

Walk upon the water This was the Messiah's pond. He was the Messiah's
messenger.

All things were the Messiah's—all works, all miracles, all things.

Greater works than these shall ye do.

As God tested Abraham, Gideon, Joshua, and even the first Christ in the
wilderness, so now he, Michael, was being tested.

It is mine to obey, he responded in his spirit. Far be it from me to
turn away from the voice of God.

44'

He obeyed. He stepped off the dock.

IT WAS COLD THIS TIME OF YEAR! Deep too. He thought he would drown
before he finally grabbed hold of the dock and worked his way toward the
shore hand-over-hand. Dripping and shivering, he clambered out of the
water, shocked by the cold and by the very fact that he was wet.

Looking back, he saw his staff floating on the water, far beyond reach
without a boat—or another swim. As for his prophet's mantle, by now it
was somewhere on the bottom.

FATHER AL VENDETTI was rather surprised to see a sizable crowd once
again sitting in the sanctuary of Our Lady's, visiting quietly, eyes
rarely wandering from the crucifix that hung on the wall. Some he'd seen
before, in those few days between the first miracle and the advent of
Antioch's messiah. Penny Adams was there, apparently unhappy with her
hand, though it looked all right. The young woman from Moses Lake who
had leukemia was back without her husband, looking well physically, but
strangely ill in her demeanor.

Others were new to this place, but Father Al had been told a little
about their stories: the exceedingly fat lady who still wanted a
miraculous reduction in her size; the young man who couldn't get a
million dollars out of Brandon Nichols and still hadn't thought of
working; the man who had important things to do but had to put them off
so he could be healed of procrastination; the man wanting to be more
sexually attractive, along with his three friends.

But Father Al wasn't quite as familiar with the common moti- vation
these and the hundred others freely acknowledged among themselves: They
couldn't get it at the ranch, so they were going to get it here.

He moved among them, greeting them, asking if there might be anything he
could do to meet their spiritual needs. Might he pray with them, or hear
their confession? He would be happy to conduct a special mass just for
them.

'I'm not Catholic.” 'Not now.” 'Uh, you're standing in the way.” 'How
often does it cry?” 'Is this going to cost us?” 'What is this, a
commercial?” Their message was clear: He was intruding.

An intruder in his own church!

He retired to his office and closed the door, weighing a new fear he
hoped was ill-founded. He wanted to believe these pilgrims were the same
as they were before: pious, penitent, humbly petitioning. This was
Monday morning, he told himself, that time of rude awakening that can
bring out the bad side of people. Surely he had only imagined their
tense expressions, edgy voices, and scavenger eyes.

Even so, an ominous possibility made him shudder: Suppose the crucifix
doesn't tiy?

IN THE VACANT LOT beside Mumford's Machine Shop, Dee Baylor sat alone on
the hood of her car, watching the sky. There were no clouds overhead and
only a few near the horizon, but this was where the Lord had spoken, and
this was where the joy had been. Now Adrian had her angel and Mary had
become the Virgin Mary. Blanche had long since pooh-poohed the whole
thing and gone back to church. Brandon Nichols wasn't seeing anyone
today.

But the sky was still here, right where Dee had left it, and if it took
all day to see one little cloud bearing a word of hope to her soul, she
would remain here. A car drove into the parking lot and two couples
climbed out, one older, one younger. They had cameras and binoculars and
ran up to her eagerly.

'Is this where you see the Virgin in the Clouds?” the older man asked.

Dee felt her heart soar. The Lord had brought these seekers to 443

her. The miracle would return and she would guide them. 'This is the
place. If you have faith and a willing heart, God will speak to you.”
The young man checked the sky and smirked. 'There aren't any clouds.”
'There will be.” 'We don't have time for this!” said the older lady.

'What about the trees in the park?” asked the young lady.

'Somebody saw Jesus and Mary there yesterday.” 'Let's go!” said the
older man.

Dee called after them, 'But this is the place!” 'You can have it!” the
young man mocked.

And just that quick, they were gone.

Dee's heart sank, but she remained there, sitting on the hood of her
car. The clouds would return. She had faith.

'HOw MU c H do we really know about this guy?” asked Richard, the real
estate broker from Wisconsin.

'Everything we need to know,” replied Andy Parmenter, the retired
California executive. 'He's a messenger of God—” 'No, no, now come on,
that's a cop-out and you know it!” said Weaver, the CPA from Chicago.

'There's something he's not telling!” warned Richard.

'Like everything, maybe?” said Weaver.

They were gathered around the front of Andy Parmenter's big motor home,
all three of them in sour moods they'd been working on for days.

'It hit me this morning,” said Real Estate Richard. 'Here we are in this
RV park with—what?—three hundred other people?” 'Four hundred, I think,”
Weaver the CPA offered.

'I'm still waiting to have my water turned on, I'm smelling the sewage
from sixty other vehicles in my row that isn't going anywhere, it's just
sitting in the sewer lines—” 'The whole system's backed up.”

'And we've got kids crying and couples fighting and radios blaring while
I'm trying to sleep—” 'And who's that loud-mouthed prophet lady over in
Row Four?” 'Which one, Moses' sister, Miriam, or Isaac's wife, Rebecca?”
'She doesn't know when to shut up, does she? Who's listening to her?”
'Your point , Richard!” Andy demanded. 'Get to your point!” Richard
leaned forward and gestured like an angry Italian. 'My point is, this
morning it hit me: I am not better off than I was back in Wisconsin.
Back there I had a house and a job and people who looked up to me. I
didn't like it, it didn't feel like it was about anything, but—” He
looked around the RV park hastily laid out on George Harding's property.
'What's so great about this? I may as well be back in Wisconsin!” Andy
shook his head impatiently. 'Richard, you have to be willing to
sacrifice.” 'What sacrifice? I didn't come here to sacrifice! I came
here because you told me Nichols could produce.” 'He can't produce!”
said Weaver.

'Wait a minute, Weaver!” said Andy. 'He healed your bald spot, didn't
he?” 'My bald spot? My bald spot? Winnie and I came all the way out here
and she still has her hay fever and she still bugs the heck out of me
and now my motor home's in mud up to the axles! And you want me to be
happy about a freakin' bald spot?” 'So leave!” Andy snapped.

'Uh-uh!” said Richard. 'I'm coming to my point here: You're the one who
talked us into this!” 'I sold my house, remember?” said Weaver, who
started poking Andy in the chest. 'You told me to sell my house, so now
I'm sitting in the mud with that stupid motor home in a wheat field with
a wife I can't stand who has hay fever!” Andy grabbed the poking finger
and pushed it away. 'Don't touch me again, Weaver!” - 'Why? You gonna do
something about it?” This time Weaver shoved him.

445

Andy outweighed him. His shove put Weaver on his back in the stubble.
Richard got into the fight, then Weaver again. Andy's neighbor sided
with Andy and threw his weight into it. Weaver resorted to straw and
mud, Richard to lots of high kicking, Andy to more shoving and a little
biting.

A bigger crowd would have gathered to watch, but theirs was not the only
fight worth watching. Over on Row Four, Dorothy who once had arthritis
and Alice who once had a bad hip were in the middle of a
face-scratching, hair-pulling catfight over whose grandkid broke out a
window, and Row Two had two fights involving six people and plenty of
black, sticky mud to make it interesting.

'AND WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” BrandonNichols growled as Michael came in the
back door to the house dripping wet. Nichols was standing on a chair
while Melody Blair worked hurriedly, pinning the hem of his new white
robe.

'I'm afraid I've taken a swim.

Nichols's fiery eyes glared at him through his disheveled hair.

'You went swimming when I need you?” He snapped at Melody, 'Are you
through?” 'Just a few more pins and—” 'The people need some
enlightenment! They need their eyes opened! Who put their bodies
together? Who put bread in their stomachs and hope in their hearts? TELL
ME!” Michael jumped a little at Nichols's outburst but answered loyally,
'You did, my Lord! You and only you!” Nichols gave a slight nod of
approval though the anger did not leave his face. 'Then we'll have to go
over it again for the sake of those who've forgotten! Did you hear
there's another messiah in town?

There's somebody else telling people he's the christ! In my town!”
Michael was quite dismayed. 'How can this be, when you are the Christ?”
Nichols glared at nothing, half in a world of his own. 'Sally Fordyce is
a poison to us. She's lying. We'll have to take care of that. And Mrs.
Macon. . .' He cursed. 'I fault myself for hiring

Gildy Holliday.” Nervously, he swept his hair from his face with his
fingers. 'We've got a lot to do and not a lot of time. Michael, who is
the Christ?” 'You are, my Lord.”

'Who, Michael? Who is the Christ?” 'You and only you.” Nichols leaned,
pointing his finger, his eyes like cold, white marbles. 'WHO IS THE
CHRIST, MICHAEL?” Michael shouted back, 'You are!” Nichols nodded
approvingly. 'Simple. It's as plain as anything can be. We just need to
tell them, Michael, and keep telling them until they get it. We're going
into town today. We're going to make it abundantly clear!” 'You—you're
going into Antioch?” Nichols screamed toward the hall. 'Mary!” The voice
of the Virgin Mary Donovan came from a distant room in the house. 'Yea,
my son?” 'Be ready in ten minutes!” Then he glared at Michael. 'Put on
some dry clothes and then go out and help Matt prepare the truck.

You're my prophet, Michael. You're going to prophesy.” He reached down
and swatted Melody on the head. She cowered, fearing another blow.
'Hurry it up!”

AT OUR LADY' 5, Arnold Kowalski brought in the ladder. The pilgrims
wanted it in place, rady for the next miracle. His feet hurt, his hands
hurt, and carrying that ladder up the plafform steps was no easy task,
but no one in the crowd offered to help. This was his penance, he
figured, the price to pay for a refreshing of his own private blessing.

His personal crucifix was still around his neck, and judging from the
recurrence of his pain, it must need recharging. He didn't think anyone
would get upset if he went up the ladder to, uh, dust off the crucifix.
He was, after all, the church maintenance man. He'd brought the ladder,
hadn't he? For all his trouble and pain he deserved access to the
wonderful wooden image.

447

Setting the ladder carefully in place, he started climbing, one painful
step at a time. He could hear the people beginning to stir behind him.
He looked over his shoulder and produced his dust rag. 'Church
maintenance. Just gonna dust things off.” They didn't seem too sure
about that.

He reached the top of the ladder, face to face with the image, and began
to feign dusting as he carefully, stealthily pulled his crucifix from
under his shirt. Leaning awkwardly—he still had the chain around his
neck—he managed to touch the big crucifix with his own.

'Hey!” a man yelled. 'What are you doing?” 'IJh. . . just dusting.”
'Whatcha got in your hand?” And then it started. 'What's in his hand?
What is he doing?” People got out of their seats, ran for a better
viewing angle. 'He's tying to steal the blessing! Look! He's got another
crucifix!” People were running onto the plafform for a better look—and
they were mad!

'Get down from there!” 'You think I came all this way—” 'How dare you!”
The ladder started shaking.

'Oh no, no, please!” Arnold cried. A hand grabbed his ankle.

The ladder shook again. Another hand grabbed Arnold's other ankle. 'Get
down from there!” 'Well if he's gonna get some, I'm gonna get some!”
'You'll have to wait your turn!” The lady who once had leukemia slapped
the fat lady, who slapped her back, the procrastinator shoved them both,
and Penny squirmed through the opening in the crowd trying to get to the
ladder. A mob was forming on the plafform and the ladder was beginning
to teeter away from the wall.

Arnold was sure he was going to die.

There was a crash. A candle stand had fallen over.

'Now look what you did!”

'Look what I got!” 'Give me that!” Slaps. Punches. Screams.

Arnold tied to climb down. Hands yanked him and he fell into the crowd.
Now there was a free-for-all for the ladder. QOF! They were walking
right on his back!

Father Vendetti came racing in, yelled something, waved his hands,
yelled again. Nobody listened.

A burly character who'd been sitting in the front row reached the top of
the ladder and grabbed the crucifix with both hands, making it wiggle on
its wall mountings.

'Is it loose?” someone asked.

'Loose enough.” 'Yeah,” said the fat lady, 'why does it have to be up
there where we can't reach it?” A riotous yell went up from the crowd
and the burly man started heaving and yanking.

Father Vendetti ran for his office and the telephone.

'GUESS WE' RE GONNA have ourselves a little parade,” said Matt Kiley,
strapping down some loudspeakers in the back of the ranch's big flatbed.
'The Boss likes attention, ever notice that?” Michael was yanking the
starter rope of a small Honda gas generator anchored between some hay
bales. It wouldn't start.

'Choke it.” 'Where's that?” Matt flipped the choke up. 'Try it.” Michael
yanked again, and the generator came to life.

Matt opened the choke and then switched on the PA. He spoke into the
wireless microphone. 'Hello, testing, testing.” His voice boomed out of
the speakers, echoing off the ranch house and barn.

'Brandon Nichols, you are ready to greet your public!” He handed the
microphone to Michael. 'Go on, get-out in front and try it out.” Michael
took the microphone and hopped down from the 449

flatbed. For the first time since he'd knocked on the door of the Macon
ranch house, he felt a little foolish.

'Come on,” said Matt, 'let'is hear something prophetic!” 'Hello.. .
testing.. .'

'Come on, come on! We're driving through town, remember?” 'Let the, uh,
ears of the multitudes be opened before the, the, uh, coming of the
Lord!” 'Go out a little farther,” Matt directed. 'We're getting some
feedback.” This is dumb, Michael thought. He'd never spoken a test
prophecy before. He walked several yards out in front of the truck,
talking as he went. 'Let those who have seen no mercy now see mercy! Let
those who are hungry come and dine! Let the blind see the light of the
Messiah come to this place!” The back door of the ranch house opened and
Brandon Nichols walked out from under the patio roof and into the
sunlight, his image reflected in the swimming pool.

His hair was neatly combed, parted in the middle, and cascading to his
shoulders. His beard was shaped and trimmed. He was wearing a white robe
and mantle, and biblical leather sandals. The full sleeves of his robe
were just short enough to reveal the scars on his arms. He looked like a
piece of religious artwork, and he was ready. Mary Donovan followed him,
her robe and shawl perfectly in place, her eyes full of wonder.

'Let's go,” he said.

MONA D IL LARD knew she would lose her mind. As if she wasn't sickened
and frightened enough over dirty-eyed Norman, now it turned out that the
couple who'd rented Number Eight weren't really a couple. They were two
halves of two other couples, and one of the other halves, a semimaniacal
black belt, was kicking on the door, trying to smash it in, yelling and
swearing.

'Now, now you stop that!” Mona pleaded from a safe distance across the
parking lot. Where, oh where, was Norman?

The brute just kept kicking. 'Sutter, you're gonna pay for this!”
Another kick. A woman inside screamed. A man inside screamed something
about being sorry and making a mistake and why don't we talk about this.

The door caved in. The brute ran in. A woman ran out, hands

over her head, screaming, while all hell broke loose inside. A lamp went
through the window and landed in several pieces on the concrete. Then a
suitcase.

Then Sutter.

Mona ran to the office to call the police.

ADRIAN FOLSOM opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and pulled out the
remaining stationery she'd purchased for her special ministry. She
wouldn't be needing it anymore.

'Is that all of it?” asked her husband, Roger.

'This is it. I wrote.. .' She consulted a list she kept in the box,
counting all the names. 'I wrote fifteen letters from Elkezar to all
these people.”

Roger was dismayed. 'Fifteen!” 'I thought he was—” Adrian winced with
shame and embarrassment. 'I thought he was an angel of God. I really
did.” 'Where is he now?” 'Oh, I don't know! He's a spirit, Roger! You
can't just go out and find him.” 'Well he'd better take his business
elsewhere, that's all I've got to say.” He shouted to the air, 'You hear
that, Amazar?” Adrian whispered, 'You'll scare Melissa! And his name s
Elkezar.” 'He knows who I mean.” She looked at the list of names in her
stationery box. 'I'll have to write back to every one of them and tell
them to throw the letters away.”

Roger nodded with a smile. 'I'm feeling better already.” 45'

Just then, they heard the voice of their granddaughter Melissa, playing
in the living room. 'Hi! What's your name?” Roger and Adrian exchanged a
look, then ran.

Five-year-old Melissa and Jillie, the schnauzer, had been playing fetch
with Jillie's ball, but now they stood in the middle of the room looking
up at.. . nothing. Melissa was making a face. 'That's a funny name. I'm
Melissa.” Seemingly in answer to a question, she looked atJillie and
said, 'This isJillie. She won't bite you.” 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 andJillie dashed into the backyard.

'Julie!” Adrian cried, running after her. 'Jillie, come back here!”
'Adrian!” Roger ran after her with Melissa at his heels.

Julie 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.” 453

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 WA5 TIRED AND EMOTIONALLY 5PENT 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, Mart 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. Mart had a cassette player on
the front seat. He hit the play button and an old Reader 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. Mart 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!” 455

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 clean with God and rebuke these things
in the name ofJesus,” 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 heavyleaded—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 raffled 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 else457

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 blanldy. '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, appar- ently 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 459

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 itto 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 returned my gaze.
'From what you've told us about Cantwell, he may have done more than
that.” ‘4 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.”

A6T

'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!” Rod came back, 'I'm
trying to break up a fight right now.” Brett was already heading for his
car. 'Rod, I want this guy!” 'Okay, I'm rolling!”

JIM BAYLOR burst through his front door. 'Dee?” No answer.

'Dee?” The other car was in the driveway. She had to be here. He ran
into the kitchen. Her purse was on the table. She was home, all right.
'Dee?” 'I'm in the bedroom,” she finally replied. Her voice sounded low
and strange.

He hurried down the hall. 'You okay? Mark Peterson says he saw you
ripping through town—” She was sitting on the end of the bed with his
.357 Magnum revolver in her hand.

He froze in the doorway. He tried to smile. 'Hey, Dee. What's, what's
up?” 'Ichabod,” she said, her eyes cold and brooding. 'My life is
Ichabod, our house is Ichabod, and it's all your fault!” 'Ichabod. Who's
that?” 'The clouds never came and the blessing is gone—and it's because
you drove them away! You and your spirit of unbeliefl” 'Uh, Dee? Why
don't you just put that gun down—” 'If thine right eye offend thee,
pluck it out!” She pointed the gun his direction and— 463

He was already on the floor when it fired and a slug punctured the wall
behind him. 'DEE!” She jumped to her feet, clasping the gun in both
hands. 'Purge out the old leaven and let there be a new lump!” Should he
wrestle her, try to take the gun?

She was aiming it again. He scurried, half crawling, out of the doorway
as the gun fired and another slug hit the wall.

BANG! She was in the hall now and the bullet went right over his head.

He ran.

NANCY LEANED TOWARD US, hervoice hushed and intense. 'I talked to Pete
Jameson, the county health inspector. He never required an additional
source of water for Cantwell's building project, so Cantwell never had
to develop that spring up in the willow draw. But he had Nevin dig a
huge hole up there, bigger than was needed. Nevin thought there had to
be something else going on besides a water development—but then he had
that ‘riding accident' and came back dead.” I turned to Kyle the same
time he turned to me. 'The car,” I said.

'The car!” he echoed.

'What car?” Nancy asked.

'The car that might be buried in that big hole!” I answered.

'Let's go!” said Kyle, jumping to his feet.

'Let's plan,” I said, and he sat down again.

ROD TOOK THE HIGHWAY. Brett took the back road behind the grain
elevators. No sirens, no lights. They were hoping they could surprise—
'Got him!” Rod hollered into his radio. 'He's behind the building right
now!” He screeched and fish-tailed off the highway, rolling and bouncing
through a yard and a flower bed and finally into the overgrown field
behind the Sundowner Motel. Brett came the other

way, hitting his brakes on the gravel road and sending up a cloud of
dust.

The Sundowner Motel was a long, one-story building with ten units and
plain, evenly spaced, rear windows. Their man, wearing sunglasses and a
low hat, was standing just outside the ninth window when they converged
on the scene. Now he took off running.

Rod and Brett were out of their cars in an instant, Brett closest to the
suspect, about to head him off. But Brett was limping on that leg of
his. The suspect got by him and headed up the road toward the grain
elevators.

'Don't lose him!” Rod hollered, then got back in his car and rolled like
a tank through the field and onto the gravel road. He turned left,
heading around the block, hoping to block the suspect's route of escape.

DON AND ER SO N crouched behind the counter like a soldier under siege,
eyes darting about, fists clenched, looking for his next move, his way
of escape.

The washing machines were rumbling like Patton's tanks, mobilizing,
marching, forming a blockade to trap him. The CD players were screaming
and cheering and the televisions, with their big, gray eyes, were
watching his every move and giving away his location.

Of course, the customers in the store had no idea what Don was so
agitated about. Was he just kidding around or what?

'No, no way!” Don whispered. 'Not today!” The CDs on the rack were
scraping and scratching like little flat rats, trying to dig and gnaw
their way out of their shrink-wrapped boxes. They wanted him. He was
their jailer!

The radios were blaring like an angry mob, hopping, rocking, and
rattling on their shelves as their ringleader, a Sony Surround Stereo,
bellowed in a deep, slow-speed voice, 'When Don Anderson screams his
last, hear it first on K-I-L-L! You want Death?

We've got it!” 465

'We're bad, we're bad, we're bad, we're bad!” sang the others.

'Radio Kay Eye Double Ell!!” Don feared it would come to this. He had
brought a baseball bat to the store just in case. Now he intended to use
it.

A million angry bees swarmed through every wire in the place, fighting
to get out, to get to him.

The radio control race cars were spinning their wheels, wearing their
way out of their boxes, wanting to run over him.

The metal detector on the wall was beeping, probing, bending and weaving
like the head of a cobra, trying to send a signal that would fry his
fillings.

The microwaves were inviting him in.

The flashlights were looking for him.

The international power converters were trying to step down his nervous
system.

The remote controls were jamming his brain.

And the washers and dryers kept marching, marching, rumbling and
rocking, getting closer and closer, closer and closer— 'YAAAAAAI-IHHH!!
!' He leaped over the counter with his baseball bat and pulverized a
radio control car.

Crunch! Smash! Radio after radio went flying from the shelves.

Rattle, crack, crinkle! The CDs flew like Frisbees and fluttered like
snowflakes.

'YAAAAA!!” The customers cleared out as Don started discounting all the
washing machines. Off went a lid, off went a door, a stacked washer and
dryer toppled like a crumbling tower. He smashed away a shelf, then a
row of TVs, and then his bat went through the gas line feeding the
store's furnace. He smelled the stench of leaking gas.

'Try to poison me, will you?” he screamed, and dispatched a row of clock
radios.

MICHAEL KEPT MARCHING alongthatwhite line, prophesying to the point of
pitiful fabrication. 'Though an army of evil rises against

him, still the good of his hands and the fire of his mouth will be felt
and seen, beginning here, and spreading there, and waking people up from
their slumber of unbelief and making them, uh, pay attention to what's
going on, for he is come to... to, uh, do good works in the earth.. .'
Brother what am I saying? What am I doing?

Suddenly, he heard a vicious, villainous laugh from somewhere behind
him, so wicked that he spun around, looking for danger.

It was the Messiah. He was leaning over the side rail of the flatbed,
pointing and laughing, his teeth bared in a snarling grin.

The mean old Mary had come out second best to Virgin Mary Donovan. With
her shawl in tatters, her face scratched and her nose bleeding, she lay
on the sidewalk as her son in the bathrobe comforted her and the
tourists took more pictures.

'I am he!” the Messiah bellowed tauntingly, his eyes crazy, his hair
flying. 'Hey, Cracker!” he hollered to the cowering christ in the
bathrobe. 'You're next! Any time, Cracker, any time!” Then he
materialized some more loaves and tossed them to the crowds.

'Come and get it, my children! Come to me!” Matt kept driving as another
Reader's Digest inspirational favorite played over the loudspeakers,
'Who made the mountains, who made the trees..

Uninvited, maybe even unseen by Cantwell, big, blustery Armond Harrison
got a leg-up from some of his men and climbed onto the flatbed. As his
followers cheered and the crowd snapped pictures, he smiled, waved back,
then held up the Messiah's hand like a referee announcing the winner of
a boxing match. 'We're standing with you, Brandon! All of us!”
Harrison's people let out one big, organic whoop.

Justin Cantwell smiled, waved, and eased Harrison toward the edge of the
flatbed.

Then Cantwell shoved him off, right on top of Harrison's followers who
collapsed like a house of cards under his weight.

'I am he,” Cantwell reminded him, 'and there is no other!” He returned
his attention to the crowds. 'Come to me! Whatever you need, I will give
it! I am the one and only Messiah in your future!” 467

Matt stuck his head out the truck window. 'Michael! I don't hear any
prophesying out there!” Michael turned his eyes forward again. He kept
walking, but not a word would come to his lips.

Here came a vendor selling picture postcards of Jesus in the clouds and
bumper stickers that read, ISA WHim INANTIOCH, WASHINGTON, or ISA WHer
INANTIOCLI WASHINGTON.

They passed a booth where a man sold Antioch billed caps and tee-shirts
that boasted, 'I saw Jesus in Antioch, Washington.” You had your choice:
a picture of a farmer Jesus driving a combine or a jazzy, comic art face
of Jesus between two sheaves. The Virgin got a tee shirt too, a more
reverent pose of her standing on the curve of the earth, arms
outstretched over the wheat fields of Antioch.

A barbecue-on-wheels had come to town, selling ribs and hot dogs, and
right next to that was an out-of-nowhere artsy booth featuring little
crosses, bookends, napkin holders, jewelry, and even Bible covers made
from. . . used lumber from Antioch, Washington?

Sirens and screams broke through the din. People started running out of
the way and Michael stopped dead in his tracks. Matt jammed on the
brakes. Here came Rod Stanton in his squad car, blowing his siren,
flashing his lights, easing from a side street onto the main highway as
the crowds scurried aside. He stopped in the middle of the street,
jumped out of his car, searched through the crowd, then got back in and
kept going.

And now, here came another christ, a blond one carrying a whip and
yelling something about pollution, filth, and greed. He tried to
overturn the barbecue-on-wheels in righteous rage, but it was too hot to
handle and too heavy to upend. The owner scurried around and slapped him
a few times, this way and that, and he moved on, dragging his whip. He
had a mother too, who followed him, sharing bites of pocket bread filled
with sprouts.

A skinny pilgrim in a straw hat stepped up to Michael, munching on a hot
dog and grinning as if something was funny. 'Michael!

I'm confused! Which christ is the real one? Do you have a word on that?”

Michael had no word. No word at all.

Then a gunshot rang out, and Jim Baylor ran onto the highway from a side
street, scrambling in circles, screaming something about his crazy wife.

Behind him came Dee, waving a gun in the air and prophesying—”Thou art a
robber and a jerk, and thy time has come!” People scattered like
frightened rats as she fired the gun and ran by, but then they laughed
and took pictures. The sight was so ridicubus it had to be a show!

But wait. A young girl had fallen to the street, her shoulder bleeding.
There were screams. This was no show.

The Messiah was laughing again.

AMID SCREAMS, RUNNING, AND RUCKUS, Don Anderson came swinging and
shattering his way out the front door of his store, yelling like a
warrior, swinging and battling unseen enemies on every side. A teenager
wearing a walkman happened to be nearby, and Don went after the walkman.
'Take that!” He shattered the walkman, breaking the kid's pelvis. 'Don't
let them get you! Take them out! It's every man for himselP.” The kid's
father tried to grab the bat away and Don opened his skull. A lady in a
sunhat got it next, collapsing to the street, her camera and the wrist
that held it shattered.

The front door of Don's store was broken and hanging open.

Penny Adams saw that as an invitation and stepped inside to help
herself. Her life ended three seconds later.

Some say she did something to cause a spark. Some say it was Dee
Baylor's last bullet that missed Jim and went through the store's front
window. The explosion and fireball incinerated any way of knowing for
sure, blowing out the store's front windows.

Flame and shards shot out, killing fourteen people on that side of the
street, setting four parked cars on fire, and breaking the windows out
of a plumber's Supply and beauty shop directly opposite.

The Messiah looked behind him to see the conflagration, the 469

burning cars, the screaming people, and flaming bodies. He raised his
hands heavenward and rejoiced.

Don Anderson, now a block away, saw his own store go up in a fireball
and shouted 'YES!” Then he saw a hair dryer in the front window of the
pharmacy and promptly broke the glass. 'Roast me, will you?” 'Let me
handle it!” said an RV lady from the Macon ranch, who quickly helped
herself to the hair dryer.

'Partake, my people!” the Messiah cried, his wounded arms outstretched.
'The bounty of the earth is yours! Partake!” Even as the appliance store
and the adjacent structures went up in flames, windows began to break
all over town—some with stones, some with boots, some with tire irons.
The people began to partake.

HER EYES BLINDED AND STINGING from smoke, her hair singed by heat, Dee
fled from the inferno, stumbling, bumping into other frantic bodies,
trying to run, trying to see. She bowled headlong into another woman and
they both went sprawling. A stolen box of hot curlers broke open, the
rollers tumbling and scurrying along the gutter. 'Now look what you've
done!” the woman yelled.

At that moment Dee realized she no longer had the gun in her hand.

Across the street, another window shattered. Folks started helping
themselves to paper, pens, and office supplies from the Antioch
Harvester office while Kim Staples, shrieking in anger and terror, tried
to fend them off with reams of paper and boxes of pens.

The souvenirs, art, and trinkets fashioned from used lumber from Antioch
went next, and there was nothing the poor wood carver could do about it.

The ribs and hot dogs were too hot to steal and the vendor too tough.

The blond christ with the whip had encountered the southern

christ in the bathrobe, and now they were duking it out, rolling,
kicking, and biting in the street.

The Messiah's prophet was cringing and tongue-tied, and the Virgin
Mother was clinging to the back bumper of the truck, cowering like a
frightened child. Unflustered, even ecstatic, Justin Cantwell threw out
some more loaves. 'Come and partake!” He began singing along with the
recorded music, 'Walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain..

The loaves landed on the pavement, ignored. His sheep weren't interested
in bread anymore. They wanted toys.

No matter. The flatbed kept rolling, the music kept blaring, and Justin
Cantwell kept right on singing as the town came apart all around him.

ROD FLOORED THE GAS PEDAL. After losing his man between houses and
trees, he spotted the suspect again and shouted into his radio, 'He's
heading up Maple, the three hundred block!” The suspect ducked down an
alley and through a yard.

Rod drove down the alley. 'He's running through the Wimbleys' yard!
Should come out right in front. I'm going on foot.” He stopped his car,
leaped out, and started running through the yard as a German shepherd
chased and snapped at him and a cat in his path panicked and ran up a
tree. The suspect ran into the street. Rod bolted into the street to cut
him off.

SCREEECH!

A hard, steel bumper clipped Rod at the knees, flipping him onto the
hood of Squad Car One. He tumbled against the windshield and then rolled
off onto the pavement, dazed and bruised, with one knee snapped
sideways.

Brett jumped out of Car One and limped after the suspect.

'Halt! Halt or I'll shoot!” The suspect ran.

Brett grabbed his leg, then crumpled to the sidewalk. He pulled his gun,
aimed. The suspect was looking back... 47'

Mark Peterson darted out of an alley and collided with the man, tackling
him to the ground. With a knee in the man's back, he slapped on the
cuffs.

Brett hobbled up the sidewalk, gun in hand. 'Mark! What timing!” 'Heard
the radio,” he answered, yanking off the suspect's hat and sunglasses.
Then he backed one step away, surprise all over his face.

The suspect was Norman Dillard.

OUR HUSHED, CLOSED-DOOR MEETING broke up the moment we heard the gas
explosion. We ran out on the front steps of the church to see what had
happened. Several blocks up the Street, flames were billowing out of the
appliance store, making black silhouettes of the scurrying mobs. The
town looked like an anthill set on fire.

'It's Armageddon!” said Kyle.

Nancy was down the steps in an instant, obviously concerned for her
newspaper office and store.

The siren atop the volunteer fire department began to wail.

Five volunteers were already rolling out the fire trucks.

'Oh Lord,” Morgan groaned. 'Oh precious Lord, that's Michael!” We all
spotted him, walking out in front of the big flatbed truck.

There was no question who the character riding on the flatbed was.

'What are we going to do?” Kyle asked.

'Same plan, everybody,” I said. 'Kyle, meet me at my place.” I turned to
Morgan, 'You have to go to that engagement dinner. Try to act normal.
We'll call your cell phone.” Then I dashed to my Trooper.

I drove tight up the center line of the highway and then slowed to a
careful, deliberate crawl, weaving my way through the looters with my
windows rolled up and my doors locked. I had an appointment with that
flatbed, that ludicrous one-vehicle parade with

Justin Cantwell waving to the crowds and the voice of Elvis singing
about believing that 'for every drop of rain that falls a flower grows.”
Michael Elliott was walking in front of the truck, a microphone in his
dangling hand, and I could tell from his face and posture that he was
having the same, woeful awakening I once had.

It was time to grab that kid.

I pushed forward, braking as a lady ran by with a lamp and two kids ran
by with computer games still in the boxes. Broken glass littered the
street and crunched under my tires. The whole town was cast in a
flickering, orange glow.

When I was within two blocks of the flatbed, Justin Cantwell's eyes
locked on me with radar precision and remained there. I stared right
back and kept rolling, not straying from the center line. After one
block for each of us, his truck and my Trooper came bumper to bumper in
the middle of the street, and Cantwell's parade came to a halt.

Matt Kiley leaned on the horn. I put my gearshift in park. I had the
Messiah of Antioch's undivided attention and I was going to seize the
moment. I wanted him to read in my eyes that he no longer had advantage.
I'd been to Texas, and now I knew him the same as he knew me.

I understood those scars he was trying to show off. I could clearly
imagine the fence in his back yard on that blistering day in Texas. I
could see how the galvanized spikes went through those arms and into the
fence rail, and how they tore his flesh as he struiggled. I could
imagine the pain, the terror, the horrible bewilderment of a
fifteen-year-old accused of being 'full of the devil,” an embarrassment
that needed to be corralled.

I understood, and I wanted him to know.

He knew, all right. He turned away quickly, but I caught it in those
crazed eyes, in that sweating, wild-haired visage backlit by orange
fire. I had breached his mystique, and by doing so, deflected his power.
That could make me his closest confidant—or his most dangerous enemy.

Enough. I turned my eyes away and searched for Michael. He was 473

standing beside my rig, staring as if he couldn't believe what was
happening. I lowered the power window on his side. 'Michael, hop in.” He
came closer, looking at me puzzled.

'I'm Travis Jordan. I know your mom.” That turned a light on. 'Oh.”
'Climb in.” He climbed in.

A loaf of bread landed on my hood. I saw other loaves flying through the
air, bounding off the big truck, bouncing off my rig.

The loaf on my hood had been bitten into, and now green worms were
crawling out of the bite.

So, Justin's product quality had gone south and people were finding out.
I knew that would be the script from now on. It was time to get out of
there.

I slammed the Trooper into reverse and left Cantwell with his public. At
the first cross street, I got off the highway just as Brett Henchle and
Mark Peterson came on the scene in Antioch's two squad cars, sirens
wailing and lights flashing. Was that Norman Dillard in the back of Car
One?

In my mirror, I could see Antioch's two fire trucks arriving on the
scene, and two volunteer firemen raced by me in their private vehicles.
Crossing Elm Street, I stopped to let an ambulance roll by with its
lights flashing. I found out later it was carrying Rod Stanton.

The folks along Myrtle Street were out in their yards, clustering with
their neighbors, looking up at the black plume of smoke rising only
blocks away. I kept driving toward my place, glad it was as far away
from the war zone as a home in Antioch could be.

I noticed Michael was fighting back tears. When he lost it completely, I
put a hand on his shoulder.

'Michael, let me tell you about the time I took a trip to Minneapolis.”

JIM BAYLOR peeked out from the alley near Florence Lynch's boutique. The
fire trucks were getting water on the blaze. Brett

Henchle and one of his deputies were fanning out, night sticks in hand
and whistles in their mouths. Loot thudded, crashed, plopped, and
tinkled to the street as the looters emptied their hands and ran for
cover. The two scrapping christs suddenly found they had something in
common—their fear of cops—and slunk off in different directions. Jim
tried to see Dee through all the smoke, steam, and confusion, and
finally spotted her.

No, no, no! She was joining up with that crowd of Nichols Nuts around
Brandon Nichols's big tnick! They were clambering onto the truck as
Nichols and anyone else afready aboard reached down to pull them up.
They were clearing out, and Dee was going with them!

Jim ran out of hiding. 'DEE!” She didn't hear him. Maybe she was
ignoring him.

'DEE! !' A gray-haired executive in lemon yellow shorts offered his hand
and pulled her up.

Jim broke into a run. He couldn't let her go with this bunch.

'DEE! Wait a minute! Stop!” Nichols banged on the roof of the truck cab
and Matt Kiley got rolling, turning off at the closest cross street and
roaring away from the trouble.

Jim almost tripped over his gun lying on the sidewalk. He checked which
way the cops were looking, timed his move carefully, and recovered it.
It was empty now, but he could remedy that.

He tucked the gun in his belt, draped his shirttail over it, and got out
of there.

MICHAEL CALLED H15 MOTHER from my place to tell her he was okay and with
me, and then we sat at my kitchen table eating microwave pizza. I
recounted my story about Minneapolis and then, for good measure, told
him about my Nechville trip. Hearing my accounts brought him as much
enjoyment as a stomach cramp, but it was medicine he needed at the time,
and he hung on every word. I threw in some sweetener as often as I
could, telling him in dozens of ways that there really was a Savior—he
just wasn't 475

Justin Cantwell. For one thing, Justin Cantwell was too small. The real
Jesus was greater than the best show any man could put on. He was
greater than any building you could put him in or any tradition you
could wrap around him or any expectations you could impose on him.
Throughout my life, in a variety of ways, I'd tried to do all four of
those things, but now I was learning—again—that it's only when you're
willing to know him on his terms, for who he is, that you really start
to know him at all.

I could see some light bulbs coming on in his head. They were dim, but
they were coming on. I was thankful just to have him in my house, quiet
and sitting still, so I could work him through all this. When the
daylight began to fade, I checked the clock on the wall. Kyle was due at
any time, and we still needed a map.

'Michael, I need to ask you a favor.” By now he was ready to tackle the
job as a moral duty. 'Here's the ranch house,” he explained as he drew,
'and the main driveway.

But you can't go in that way if you don't want to be discovered.

The spring development is in the willow draw, way up in back....”

IT TOOK BOTH COPS to contain Don Anderson's one-man war against the
great technology takeover. He thought the handcuffs held a personal
grudge against him. The squad car meant to slam his leg in the door. The
speed radar was aiming at him—he could feel it homogenizing his brain.

Mark found one fleeting moment when either Don's head, arm, or leg
wasn't protruding and got the door shut. 'Whew! What's gotten into him,
anyway?” Brett was somber, staring as the crazed appliance dealer
screamed and pounded against the car window. 'He has a bad case of
Brandon Nichols—just like the whole town.” Mark surveyed the damaged
storefronts and littered streets.

They wouldn't know the extent of the fire damage until the flames were
out and the smoke cleared. 'Guess the honeymoon's over.” Then he had to
ask, 'But what about your leg? I mean...” 'I'm taking it back.” Brett
felt his leg, then flexed his knee. 'It's

just about normal—I mean, the way it was before Nichols messed with
it—and it can stay that way.” Don was still hollering, something about
the squad car having indigestion in its fuel line. 'You'd better get Don
to the clinic. He needs a shot or something. I'll lock up the window
peeper—and then I'm gonna call the county sheriff and get us some help.”

MICHAEL SKETCHED EVERYTHING OUT, showing me how the 'willow draw” was a
small valley between rows of hills two miles north of the ranch house.
The hills could be seen from the house, he said, but not the valley
between them. Cantwell could have been doing most anything up there
without being discovered.

Hopefully, Kyle and I would have the same advantage.

The disadvantage was the ranch's backhoe. Michael couldn't be sure where
it was.

'The last time I saw it, it was in the low red barn, but the tractor
might not have the backhoe attachment on it. They don't have that hooked
up when they're stacking hay.” 'Oh brother.” 'But here's the other way
to get in..

He went to the opposite edge of the paper. 'Figure on about six miles
across here—” He drew the north highway, then a road entering the ranch
from the north side. 'There's a gate, but you can just open it. Make
sure you close it behind you, or the cattle will get out. Then you
follow this road..

The road penetrated vast rangeland, then forked: The north fork led into
the hills and the willow draw between them. The south fork led back to
the house.

'What are the chances of navigating that road in the dark?” Michael
seemed hesitant to answer. 'Physically speaking?” I knew more was
coming. 'Right.” 'There's nothing out there to bump into, except maybe a
cow.

There, uh, there might be another problem, though.” 'Go ahead.” 477

It embarrassed Michael to be afraid, but his fear was real, and it
showed. 'When you're up at the ranch, you can feel it.” He struggled for
words, got flustered, then tried, 'Have you ever had somebody sneak up
on you from behind, and something told you they were there right before
they jumped you? That's the way it always feels up at the ranch, like
somebody's there, just out of your field of vision. You can turn your
head but you still won't see them.

They don't jump out and scare you or anything, but they're around. And
that's why... Ctwell... always seems to know every- thing. He has other
eyes working for him. I used to think they were angels...” He stared
into space—and maybe some terrifying memories. 'I wouldn't go up there
in the dark.” A knock at the door made me jump. The door cracked open.

'Hello?” 'Yeah, Kyle, come on in. Michael, have you met Kyle?” Kyle
strode directly to the kitchen table and gave Michael his best pastor's
handshake. 'Praise God! It's great to see you free of that mess up
there!” Michael didn't know how to reply to that, but I just indicated
the map he was drawing. 'He didn't actually see them dig the spring, but
he knows where it is.” 'I've got two shovels in my car.

Grave robbers, I thought grimly. ....... okay. But what we really need
is a backhoe. We aren't going to have all night.” Another knock at the
door. 'Travis?” Jim Baylor! This was no casual visit. Jim was breathing
hard, sweating, and agitated, and he was wearing a sidearm. I didn't
even have to guess the source of the trouble before he said it. 'He's
got Dee.” He told us his story and we told him ours.

'Hey, I've got a backhoe!” he said.

'I know,” I replied, nodding a strong hint at him.

By the look in his eye, you'd think I'd invited him to help us sneak
under a farmer's fence to steal some corn.

Michael did not look so gleeful.

'Let's have a word of prayer here,” I suggested, 'and then we'll get
started.” We gripped hands in a circle and yes, we all prayed.

i GOT MY CELL PHONE and called Morgan. She was still at the engagement
dinner, but would be heading home soon. 'Be very careful,” she said. 'I
want to see you again.” 'Talk to you soon.” I put the cell phone in my
coat pocket.

BY THE TIME KYLE AND I reachedthenorthgatetotheMacon ranch, there was
barely enough light to see it. The sun had set, and only a thin band of
pink remained on the horizon. Overhead, the sky was shifting from indigo
to black and the stars were coming out. Jim Baylor got there five
minutes after we did, chugging up the shallow rise in his big dump tuck,
headlights blazing, his backhoe on a trailer. Michael said he'd rather
wait at my place, so it would be the three of us. He was right about the
gate, though.

All we had to do was swing it open. We moved quickly and got inside the
fence before any other traffic came by.

I felt like I was doing an Isuzu Trooper commercial, taking my trusty
rig into the rugged outback over rough roads and uneven terrain and
doing it in the dark, no less. Kyle kept studying Michael's map with a
penlight and peering out through the windshield, trying to find the
landmarks Michael had noted. The dirt road, still rutted and soft in
places, weaved and wound, rose and fell, went on and on. We often passed
small, idle bunchings of the Macon herd, resting by the road, grazing in
the fields, paying us little mind. Jim stayed right with us, his
headlights bright in my mirrors. After five miles I could make out the
soft, roundish lines of the hills that sheltered the willow draw.

We came to the grade, climbed, bumped, and wound our way upward, then
dropped into a valley on the other side.

479

I saw a distant, vague form in my headlights. 'I think I see the dead
tree.” 'Uh.. .' Kyle checked the map. 'It should have a feeder on the
south side.” I slowed and swerved the Trooper that direction. The
headlights finally caught a white planked cattle feeder with a dozen
head of cattle dozing or munching.

'Okay,” said Kyle, 'straight on for another mile, then left where you
see the willow grove.” A mile later, we found the grove and turned left.
There had been some work here. The road was wider. It had been scraped
and spread with coarse gravel. We came to a wide, flat area.

'Here's the turnaround,” said Kyle.

'And there's the fence,” I said.

Michael had come through.

I drove into the turnaround and circled to where I'd be out of Jim's
way. He rolled in, found a good spot, and shut down his engine. When his
headlights winked out, the darkness moved in like a presence on every
side, heavy and close, almost a liquid we could feel between our
fingers. Our flashlight beams seemed pitifully weak in opposing it, like
three tiny fireflies in a vast cavern. While Jim set about unchaining
his backhoe, Kyle and I went to scout out the gully on the other side of
the fence.

There wasn't much to see. Apparently, this used to be a boggy area
filled with weeds and willow saplings. Now it was cleaned and carved
out, filled with washed rock, and dammed with pressure treated timbers.
A pipe ran out under the dam, with a large gate valve to control flow.
It was neat and simple.

Clean too.

'What are we looking for?” Kyle asked.

'A car.” 'Well, I mean.., you know, how do we—” I was shaking my head.
'I don't know.” All we could see in our roving cones of light were the
wide,

graveled turnaround, the post and wire fence to keep cattle out of the
gully, a little bit of bare, brown soil where the gully had been scraped
out, and a thin, green mantel of grass just coming up wherever the
original soil had been disturbed. One fresh, car-sized hole, recently
dug and then covered over, would have been nice. Beyond our little
circle of light, coyotes yowled and yapped somewhere in the same valley,
and shadows, only shadows, provided cover and hiding for any kind of
beast or spirit to come close.

Was it just Michael' paranoia creeping into me? No, I had some of my
own. I'd dealt with Justin Cantwell myself. I knew what it was to be
watched by eyes that were. . . somewhere.. . but not really there.

CLANG! I jumped.

It was Jim, dropping a come-along on the deck of his backhoe trailer. He
was working efficiently, but for me it wasn't fast enough.

I kept my light moving, both to search and to cut through the shadows to
make sure they were empty. I could hear Kyle muttering little
Pentecostal prayers. It wasn't paranoia. He was feeling it too.

Jim started up the backhoe, and its headlights and floodlights chased
the shadows from a sizable piece of ground, a precious piece of
illumined real estate we could stand and defend. While the engine warmed
up and the lights consoled us, he walked along the fence line, eyeing
the ground, digging in his heel here and there.

'What do you think, Jim?” The sound of my own voice startled me.

He leaned over the fence at the lower end of the turnaround and pointed
his floodlight into the gully. 'This here's fill dirt, fill gravel.” He
came to where we stood and studied the dam and catch basin. 'Eh, they
didn't work those banks much, just filled in between em with the rock.
But lower down... they put some dirt in there.” He went to his truck and
grabbed a shovel from the cab.

'Somebody hold my light.” I held his flashlight while he went along the
fence, stomping the shovel in and spooning up the soil every few feet.
'Eh, yeah, you see that? This stuff here is new, it's fill.” Kyle and I
looked at him 481

like two disciples of digging awaiting wisdom from the master.

'This shoulder's new. It'is all fill. Let's give it a scratch.” He
climbed into his backhoe and backed up to the lower corner of the
turnaround overlooking the gully, his floodlights illuminating the work
area. He lowered the first outrigger, a big hydraulic foot to stabilize
the machine for digging. The backhoe tilted as the outrigger contacted
the ground. He lowered the opposite outrigger. It contacted the ground—
And kept sinking, breaking through. We heard something crinlde.

Jim cut the throttle on the backhoe and hopped out. We ran up, our
lights searching the broken ground around the foot of the outrigger.

There was broken glass down there, and beyond that, a dark cavity.

Kyle had Jim's shovel. He reached into the hole and scraped out some
dirt and gravel. I recognized the chrome around the doorpost and the
vinyl roof.

'That's it!” My voice squeaked a little, but I hardly noticed.

Jim said nothing. He just climbed into the cab again, repositioned the
machine, gunned the throttle, and started digging. Kyle and I stood as
close as safety allowed, our lights and eyes following every scoop of
dirt he took from atop and around that car. In no more than ten minutes
he'd cleaned out a ditch along the car's right side.

Kyle and I jumped in with our shovels to do the delicate unearthing in
the wash of his floodlights. Jim's outrigger had shattered and broken a
hole through the front passenger window.

We cleared away the dirt and then broke out the rest of the window so we
could search the car's interior with our lights. We saw nothing but the
rundown interior—the seats, steering wheel, dashboard, and
ashtrays—still coated with brown slime and river mud.

It still smelled like the river... And maybe something dead.

We crawled out of the hole and I hollered up to Jim, 'Let's get into the
trunk.”

He jogged the backhoe a few feet sideways and started scooping again,
lifting the dirt and gravel out of the hole like big scoops of flour.

The car was sitting level and upright, the roof no more than a foot
below the graveled surface of the turnaround. Jim moved his big bucket
deftly over the rear end of the car, pulling loads of dirt from the
trunk lid. The bucket's teeth creased the metal a few times, but we
didn't care. We figured the trunk lid was going to receive far worse as
soon as the dirt was gone. As soon as Jim took out his last scoop, Kyle
and I hopped into the hole to finish the job, scraping and hurling the
wet clay. We got the trunk clear, and just to take a crack at it, pried
on the trunk lid with our shovel blades.

It was jammed tight. I couldn't see Jim behind those bright floodlights,
but I knew he was watching. We got out of the hole so he could take his
turn.

He drove around to the side of the hole so he could get the bucket teeth
up under the lid from behind. Kyle and I stood opposite, light beams
fixed on that seam.

Jim curled the bucket and the trunk popped open.

There was something in there.

Jim swung the boom aside and set the bucket on the ground.

He reduced his throttle to idle and centered the floodlights. Kyle and I
stepped into the hole again, the soft, wet clay sloughing and sliding
under our feet, our flashlights aimed at the object in the trunk as if
they were protective weapons.

Now we didn't just mell something. The stench, the thick, nauseating
atmosphere came at us like a wave, worse than a dead rat in the attic,
or a cat's corpse under a back porch, or a run-over possum in the road
ditch. I turned away for some fresh air. Kyle was ahead of me. We hadn't
even seen what it was.

I breathed a moment, then tried again, my mouth and nose buried in the
crook of my arm.

'What is it?” Jim called.

We had only told him about possibly finding a buried car. We hadn't told
him what might be inside.

483

Every surface in the trunk was brown with river silt. I discerned the
shape of a blanket, silty brown, with something underneath.

With my free arm I extended my shovel, dipped the blade under the
blanket, and lifted it aside.

'Aaaaww!” I know Kyle didn't mean to holler. It just happened.

Jim found words, but I can't repeat them.

The remains of a face glistened wet and brown in the floodlights, the
eyelids crinlded and sunken into the sockets, the decaying lips shrunk
back from crooked teeth. Shoulder-length hair lay matted on the trunk
floor, patches of black showing through the brown. Under the mud
coating, we could recognize jeans, a denim jacket, and cowboy boots. The
throat was sliced open.

Kyle had already cleared the hole and was gasping for fresh air topside.
I followed, coughing, clawing with my hands, acid rising in my throat. I
slipped in the wet clay and fell against the side of the excavation.

The cell phone in my coat pocket shrieked and stopped my heart. I rolled
onto my back, the rotting corpse before my eyes.

It bleeped again. Answer meAnswer me!

I pulled it out, could barely get my shaking fingers around the antenna
to extend it, and flipped it open. 'Yeah,” I gasped, 'Morgan?”
'Surprise!” Terror knotted my stomach, and I fought for air. The eyes
were here. By reflex I searched for them, trying to see into the
darkness beyond that pit. Finding nothing, my gaze could only return to
that rotting, muddy mask grinning in the floodlights.

Cantwell spoke for the corpse, his voice low and taunting.

'Looks like you founnnnd me.” I couldn't speak. I could only stare.

He became himself. 'C'mon, Travis, say something. Tell me how it feels
to know so much.”

I tried to form a word. It wouldn't come.

'Maybe you should climb out of there and get some air—”

The word came. 'Better! It feels better!” He laughed at me.

'I'm, I'm looking at your bottom line, Justin! I'm looking at what you
produce! I've got my answer!” His voice went cold. 'You've got nothing!
I am he, and I hold the keys of life and of death—” 'Oh no! You're,
you're dreaming, Justin! But it's over. This is the end of the dream,
right here.” 'We are not finished with our discussion, Travis!” 'We're
not? What could you possibly have to say after this?” 'You mean you
STILL DON'T GET IT?” His voice was so loud it distorted in the phone.
'What's it going to take to get through to you? Life and death are in my
hands now, and it's my call! I'm not nailed to the fence anymore,
Travis, or haven't you noticed?” 'Justin. It's over.” 'No. We're not
finished. Take a good look in front of you, Travis! I give life and I
take it away. That means I can bargain with it. So it's not over. I'm
not alone up here, remember?” That twisted my stomach another turn.
'Justin... don't make things worse for yourself—” 'That would be
impossible!” 'Don't, don't make it worse. Please. Those people trust
you—” 'I trusted God! Now give me another reason!” I struggled,
stammered. 'Justin, you don't have any options. If you try to hold out
you'll only get yourself killed.” 'I won't be the first one to go. Make
sure everyone knows that.

And while you're at it.. .' He trailed off. Silence.

'What?” 'Tell them I have Morgan.” I FOLDED THE CELL PHONE shut and
fumbled to get it back in my pocket as I clambered, stumbling and
slipping, out of the hole. Kyle and Jim grabbed my hands and yanked me
to the top.

'That was Cantwell,” I said. 'He's got Morgan!” 'OhJesus,” Kyle prayed.
'OhJesus, help us!” 'He's got Morgan?” said Jim. 'What's he doing,
taking hostages?” 'C'mon!” I urged them toward my Trooper. 'There's
somebody watching us and I don't know if it's spirits or—” 'We rebuke
them inJesus' name!” said Kyle.

Jim drew his gnn. 'What about Dee? He must have her too!” 'He'll have us
ifwe don't move.” 'My machine..

'I don't think they'll shoot your backhoe. It's us I'm worried about!”
Jim scanned the darkness and saw my point. He ran with us.

We jumped in my Trooper and I threw gravel getting out of there. The
road dipped, jolted, shook us this way and that. I tried to steer around
the bigger holes and ruts, but I didn't take my time—I didn't have any.

I tossed my cell phone to Kyle. 'Call 911. Tell them about Brandon
Nichols in the trunk of that car, tell them about Morgan and Dee.”

48

Kyle's finger hesitated over the 9 button. 'They're going to give this
to Brett Henchle.” 'Tell them it's a, a cult thing, it's big. We need
the county sheriff, the state police, lots of help. Cantwell's at the
ranch right now with hostages, and he's a killer. We've all seen that!”
'Why's he holed up at the ranch?” Jim wondered. 'If I was him I'd run.”
Kyle pressed in the number and put the phone to his ear. He pulled it
away. I could hear the crackle and static from where I sat.

'No reception here,” he said.

I hit the gas.

WELL, thought County SheriffJohn Parker, I knew it would come to this
sooner or later We should have had a betting pool on when I'd get the
call.

He was no stranger to the religious movement in Antioch. He and his
deputies drove through Antioch regnlarly. They'd seen the pilgrims,
noise, and hubbub. They'd watched it building for months. They didn't
interfere. This was Brett Henchle's jurisdiction, his turf, his problem.

But now Parker was driving his own squad car behind Brett Henchle's,
rumbling slowly up the Macon driveway in the dark.

Henchle said he needed at least two cars to show up at the ranch to make
the arrest. He needed a strong presence, he said, so Brandon Nichols
would know they meant business. No lights or sirens, just presence.

Okay, Parker could do that. He'd afready sent four deputies into Antioch
to help the town's one remaining cop restore order. If things got
stickier, Parker was ready to bring in still more backnp, even the state
patrol, if he had to. This cult stuff could get complicated very
quickly. Weird too. Henchle had said, 'Don't let him touch you, whatever
you do.” It would be interesting to see how Henchle planned to arrest
this guy without touching him.

They came over a rise and Parker saw the ranch house. There were some
exterior lights on in front and a few lamps in the windows, but other
than that the place was dark. To the left of the 487

house, dimly lit by some yard lights, were two huge circus tents joined
together, and in front of them a small block building—it could have been
rest rooms—under construction. To his left was a ramshackle community of
recreational vehicles, campers, and tents, gas lanterns burning, some
campfires ffickering. By the looks of it, this messiah could be booked
on health code violations if the other charges didn't stick.

Parker smiled sardonically. Yeah, getting the charges to stick, that was
the rub. Domestic violence, assault and battery, inciting a riot,
malicious mischief, holding a parade without a permit, and—this was the
best part—littering. The other charges were more serious, but the
littering charge had the better story behind it. Henchle said Nichols
had tossed hundreds of loaves of wormy bread all over the street in
Antioch and just left them there. And where did he get the loaves? Great
story. Great story.

Henchle followed the paved, circular driveway to the front of the house,
and Parker followed Henchle. Some curtains moved, shadows hurrying
behind them, and Parker quit smiling. With a glance, he checked the
shotgun mounted against the dash. This wasn t a high crime district.
They weren't busting this guy for weapons violations, crack cocaine, or
bank robbery. Even so, Nichols had plenty of friends up here, it was
dark, and as yet Parker hadn't seen a face, friendly or otherwise. If
these people were armed— Without warning, the rear window of his car
shattered. He saw the flash of a muzzle from a living room window. He
flopped down for cover, his hand wrapping around the shotgun.

Another shot. Breaking glass. That had to have been Henchle's car.

Parker stole a look. There was a shadow in the window, the outline of
someone's head.

He saw a flash, and heard three shots. The right side of Parker's
windshield shattered. Another shot pinged off his fender.

The situation: an armed assailant in the house in front, a whole
community of hostile campers behind. Not workable. 'Henchle, let's get
out of here!” Henchle's engine roared and his tires squealed. Parker
jammed

his own car into gear, his head just high enough to follow Henchle in a
tight one-eighty away from the house and down the driveway.

Two more shots just missed as he went over the rise.

His radio squawked, and the dispatcher came on. Something about a body
being found on the Macon ranch...

I WA5 BACK ON THE HIGHWAY, racing toward town and just coming by the
main entrance to the ranch when I saw the lights of two vehicles
speeding down the driveway. When they reached the highway they spun
around, halted, and lit up all the lights they had. I slowed. Cops. Just
what we needed.

Kyle got reception. He was talking to the 911 operator. 'Yeah, Macon
ranch. He has followers up there and—” 'Looks like Henchle,” I said.
'And the sheriff.” I pulled up and stopped. Sheriff Parker ran up to my
window.

'Get outta here! You're in a crime scene!” 'We're at the entrance now,”
Kyle said into the phone.

'The caller is at the entrance now” said Parker's radio.

'We're the ones who called in!” I said.

'My wife is up there!” Jim yelled.

Parker turned from us and replied to his shoulder mike, 'Say again.” 'I
think we're talking to the sheriff now,” said Kyle.

'The caller says he's talking to a sheriff right now,” said Parkers
radio.

Parker's smirk showed the extent of his amusement. 'Okay, I got ‘em.
They're right here in front of me. How's that backup?” 'En route.” He
turned to us. 'All right, what've you got?” Both Parker and Henchie were
ready to listen. We tumbled out of the Trooper and then stumbled over
each other's sentences trying to our story: Morgan/Dee/hostages/buried
car/dead Brandon/cult situation/dangerous.

489

Henchle sniffed a bitter chuckle. 'We came up here to arrest him for
assault. The Sally Fordyce thing.” 'He's got Morgan,” I repeated.

'And he's got Dee,” Jim hollered.

'So we've got problems,” said Parker. 'We need to contain the area.
Where's that other road onto the ranch?” Kyle pulled out Michael's map
of the ranch and Parker studied it with his flashlight, speaking into
his shoulder mike. 'North 102, mile marker 20. Look for a gate.” He
asked us, 'How far does this road penetrate before it splits?” 'About
three miles,” I replied.

'How far to the ranch house from there?” I had to admit I didn't know.
Michael didn't tell us.

Brett Henchle had a cell phone of his own. He was flipping through his
notepad. 'I've got the ranch's number here somewhere...” I saw flashing
lights come around the distant corner to the south and more coming over
the horizon to the north. Parker was getting his backup.

'Kyle.” I reached for my phone, still in Kyle's hand. I punched in my
home number. 'I'll get Michael on the phone. Maybe he can tell us some
of the distances on that map.

Brett Henchle got through. 'Hello? This is Henchle, Antioch police. Who
am I speaking to? Matt?” We looked at each other. Matt Kiley!

'Matt, this Brett Henchle. Somebody just shot at us.” Brett crinkled his
forehead. He was hearing a bad response. 'Now just calm down. You don't
have to shoot anybody, nobody's going to do anything that stupid. We're
going to talk about it, that's all.” I wasn't getting an answer at home.
I ended the call. 'Is Morgan up there?” 'What about Dee?” asked Jim.

'Put your sidearm in your vehicle and leave it there,” Parker warned.

'Is Morgan Elliott up there with you?” Brett asked. 'Travis Jordan wants
to know.” He heard an answer, then handed me the phone. 'He wants to
talk to you.” 'Hello, Matt?” Matt's voice was agitated, his words rapid,
as if he were back in the foxholes of Vietnam. 'They aren't coming
anywhere near Brandon, Travis! If they come up here I'll shoot ‘em!”
'Okay, okay. Listen, nobody's moving right now, we're just sitting down
here trying to figure out what to do.. .

'They're not going to arrest him! That man gave me my legs!” 'Okay.
Message received. Matt, can I, can I talk to, uh, Brandon? Can you get
him for me?” 'He's here. He's here in the house.” 'Well can I talk to
him?” 'He's on the other line.

'What other line?” 'You know, the other line, line two. We've got two
lines up here.” Who in the world could he be talking to?

'What's he saying?” Brett Henchle wanted to know.

I waved to Brett and the others to stand by. 'Uh, Matt, have you seen
Morgan? Is she all right?” 'Dee!” Jim whispered at me.

'How should I know?” Matt came back.

'Well is she there?” 'DEE!” Jim hissed.

'No. She's not here. Dee's here.” 'She's there,” I told Jim.

Jim tried to grab the phone, yelling at it, 'She'd better be all right,
you hear me? You touch her and I'll kill you, so help me God!” With
Kyle's gentle help I got the phone back. 'Sorry, Matt.

You've got some folks really upset down here.” 'Dee's okay,” said Matt.
'Tell Jim she's okay.” 'She's okay,” I told him.

'But I'm gonna do what I gotta do, Tray. I mean, I lost my legs once
trying to fix the world, and I can do it again.” 49'

'I understand.” Brett took the phone back. 'Yeah, Matt? This is Henchle.
Listen, we've got no gripe with you. But Nichols has some really
terrible things to answer for, some things you don't know about.

No, I'm not lying. Matt, come on, you don't want to be an accessory. All
you have to do is put your gun down and walk out of there. . .

'Why aren't we talking to Nichols?” Parker asked.

'He's on another line,” I said. 'The ranch has two lines.” 'Well let's
get the number!” He started signaling Brett.

Other cars were arriving, lining the highway shoulder with lights
flashing. State police and sheriff's deputies were blocking off the
highway, working the airwaves, scrambling for containment.

I got my own phone out, praying that Morgan would be at home.

'How many hostages are up there?” a patrolman asked me.

'Well. . .' I had to turn my phone off in the middle of Morgan's number.
'It's a religious group. There are hostages and there are followers. I
don't know how many of each, how many are being held there and how many
want to be there.” 'Oh great.” 'There could be as many as a
hundredfoiowers. There's a whole RV park up there.” 'Jonestown all over
again.” 'Maybe.” The patrolman moved on, barking orders to subordinates.
I'd never seen so many cops appear so suddenly in the middle of the
prairie. I punched in Morgan's number again.

'TRAVI5?”

I almost collapsed from relief. 'Morgan! Are you all right?” 'I'm fine.
I just caine in the door.” 'How are you? Where are you?” That
conniving/jar, I thought.

Sheriff Parker butted in. 'Where's the guy who drew the map?”

'Hang on, Morgan.” To Parker, 'Uh, I've got his mother on the phone
right now.” 'Does he know the layout of the house and grounds? If he
does, we need to get him up here. We'll send a squad car if he needs a
ride.” 'All right. Morgan?” 'Yes, Travis.” She sounded impatient. 'I'm
at the ranch—well, down on the highway in front of it.” More sheriff's
deputies arrived, then some formidable police vans.

I could see police officers in flak vests and helmets hustling up the
hill in the dark, fanning out to contain the house and the RV village.
'The place is swarming with cops.” 'Are you all right?” 'I'm okay. I'm
shaking a bit, but I'm okay.”

MORGAN DROPPED INTO THE CHAIR nearest the door, not bothering to take
off her coat, a flurry of dark possibilities at the threshold of her
imagination. 'Tell me what happened.” She heard a quick recap of our
excavation, what we found, and how all hell was breaking loose at the
ranch even as we spoke. She didn't hear about Cantwell's boast regarding
her.

'Travis, can you leave? I want you to come home—I mean, go home—I just
want you out of there and safe.” 'I'm safe, Morgan.” 'I want to see you
safe.” 'We need Michael.” 'Travis, we are not talking about Michael, we
are talking about you and where you are and how I feel about where you
are!” 'The police need to know the layout of the house—you know, rooms,
hallways, how to get in and out. Michael would know that, and he's good
at drawing maps.” Take a breath, Morgan, take a breath. 'I'm not sure
where he is.” 'What do you mean?” 'I called your house but he didn't
answer.” 'Oh brother. I tried calling him too. No answer.” 493

She was trying not to worry. She was failing. 'I'm going over there. He
might be asleep. He's a sound sleeper.” 'Hey, that's what we can do:
Swing by there and get him and then both of you come up here.” 'You
can't be serious!”

PARKER WAS 5TANDING right byme, waiting.

'Morgan. . .' I still had Cantwell's vicious boast in my mind.

'I'd feel better if you were here. I mean, I'm surrounded by police, and
right now I'd rather you and Michael were too.

'You got him?” Parker wanted to know.

'Morgan?” She gave in reluctantly. 'The Macon ranch?” 'Just head out the
highway. You'll see the cop cars, believe me.

And listen—” I told Parker, 'Uh, Sheriff, I'd count it a great favor if
you could send somebody down to my place to make sure everybody's okay,
that they get here all right.” 'Where do you live?” Parker didn't wait
for an answer but hollered around, 'Anybody know where this man lives?”
'Hello, Morgan?” 'I'm listening, Travis. I'm still listening.” 'Uh, hold
on. .

Brett Henchle hurried forward, got a quick briefing, and volunteered.

'Uh, it'll be Morgan Elliott—you know, the minister lady—and her son—he
used to be that radical prophet.” 'Don't worry2 Then he touched my
shoulder. 'By the way: You were right.” He ran to his car.

'Morgan, Brett Henchle's going to meet you at my place to make sure you
get up here okay, so just wait for him, all right?”

'BRETT HEN C H L E? Travis, were you present when we discussed him?”

'He's snapped Out of it. He's talked to Sally Fordyce, he's had to quell
a riot, he's had to clean up wormy loaves of bread—and now he has a
homicide on his hands. He's with us now, really.” Everything was
happening very fast and not at all sensibly. She put on the brakes, took
a deep breath, and regrouped. Like it or not, it was time to rise to the
occasion and take charge of her part m it. 'All right, Travis. I'll get
Michael and wait for Brett Henchle, and we will meet you up at the Macon
ranch.” 'Love ya.” 'Good-bye.” She ended the call—then replayed the last
few lines in her mind. 'Ohh!” Now she wanted to kick herself. Love ya!
Love ya, and all she said was good-bye?

Travis, how could you do this to me!?

She turned on her heel and went out the door. She didn't mean to slam
it—at least, that's what she told herself.

'WHAT DO YOU KNOW about this Matt character?” Parker asked me.

'He's a decorated Vietnam vet. He's intensely loyal. He held off the
Vietcong by himself so his buddies could make it out in a chopper.”
Parker looked toward the ranch with regret in his eyes.

'Don't.. . don't hurt him. Please.” Parker didn't get a chance to reply.
Another deputy was handing him a cell phone. 'Sheriff, we got him on the
line.” 'Nichols?” 'It's him.” Parker pushed the phone at me. 'I
understand you know him better than anyone. Talk to him. Calm him down.”
I hesitated.

'Just get him talking, get things on an even keel.” I took the phone and
gingerly held it to my ear. 'Hello. This is Travis.” 'My, my, my, what a
gathering!” 'Yeah, they're throwing quite a party down here.” 495

'Parker isn't smiling.”

I glanced at Parker. 'No, he sure isn't. Not too many of them are. So
how are you doing?” 'Oh, well enough. I have my own little family up
here, ready to stand with me and go out in a flame of glory. This is the
New Jerusalem. We can't let it fall to the infidels.” 'Do they all feel
that way?” 'Well, just the ones that matter: Matt, Mary, Melody—” 'What
about Morgan?” He laughed. 'Rest easy, my friend. She's not here.” 'Who
else, Justin? Who's in there with you?” He only sighed. 'Why don't you
go home, Travis? You can't do any good up here.”

'I'm supposed to be the negotiator. You and I are supposed to talk
things out.

'Oh, right. I give you a list of my demands, they say they'll think
about it, they cut off our water and power and blast us with loud music
for a few days, and then they storm in and shoot all of us. That is what
we're talking about, isn't it?” 'Hey, it's your call, right? I told you
not to make things worse for yourself.”

'Go home, Travis.” 'What about our discussion?” 'It's hard to speak
freely and openly when there are a million cops around.”

'We may not get another chance.” 'Oh, we will, you can count on that.
Hey, gotta go.” 'I met your father, Justin. Boy, now there's something
we can talk about.” 'TRAVIS! Go. Home.” He hung up. I let Parker know.
Parker signaled the men standing by him. 'Okay, let's cut the power and
water. Have those floodlights arrived?” 'On their way,” said a cop with
'POLICE” emblazoned on the back of his jacket.

'Let's get a better phone system going here, something we can

monitor.” He addressed me. 'Can you get him on the line again?” I
shrugged. 'I can always ring the number. I don't know if he'll answer.”
A deputy with a handheld radio had gotten the word. 'The RV village is
secure.” He listened further. 'There's no resistance and a lot of them
want to leave.” Parker sniffed a sneering chuckle. 'Loyal followers!” He
ordered, 'Okay, search and screen each vehicle and roll it out of there,
the whole village, one by one. We'll eliminate the hiding places and
tighten the perimeter.”

MORGAN HAD NEVER BEEN INSIDE THE HOU5E but she knew where it was, and
thankfully, she didn't have to navigate the main street through town to
get there. The local fire department was out, lights flashing. The
ambulance was deployed, lights flashing. Antioch's second squad car was
blocking access to the damage zone, lights flashing, and some county
sheriff's vehicles were on the scene as well, lights flashing. The
center of town had become a major wreck on the highway.

Myrtle Street, on the other hand, had quieted down. The porch lights
were on up and down the block, and an occasional TV screen glowed blue
through a front window. She drove as far as the highway barrier at the
west border of the town, and there, on the right, was my little
bungalow.' The porch light was on there too, and lights were on inside.
The shades were drawn

She went through the front gate, up the short walk, and onto the porch.
The front door was unlocked. She knocked, cracked it open, and called,
'Michael? Michael, it's Mom.” No answer. She looked over her shoulder
for the approach of Brett Henchie, but realized she had to be well ahead
of him. The ranch was several miles out of town, and he'd have to drive
through some of that chaos on the main street before he could turn off
to get here.

She went inside to wait, and immediately, unintentionally be497

gan to acquaint herself with how Travis Jordan lived and kept house. The
living room wasn't too bad. A model airplane, still in progress, lay on
a table on the back porch. The kitchen was a mess with empty root beer
bottles on the table, and two pieces of cold Canadian bacon pizza on a
plate.

The bedroom was just off the dining room and the door was open. She
debated for just a moment and then stole quietly in to have just a quick
look. The bed was made, and that pleased her.

The stuffed lion and lamb posed against the pillows made her smile.
Books were neatly perched on the shelves, and an aquarium, home to four
tropical fish and one tiny frog, gurgled peacefully.

She heard a noise and turned. Nothing there but the messy kitchen and
two pieces of cold pizza.

The bedroom closet was along the wall to her immediate right, closed off
with bifold doors. She was tempted to take a peek in there as well, but
drew the line right where she stood. Privacy was privacy. Besides, there
was a smell in here, like body odor. He has some dirty tee shirts hiding
somewhere, she thought, and I don't want to find them.

Then she saw the picture beside the bed, and paused. It was Marian,
looking the best she'd ever looked in one of those perfect hair,
hand-to-chin studio poses. She walked quietly, even respectfully, around
the bed and to the nightstand to take a closer look.

This was Marian in her prime, before the cancer and chemotherapy. Morgan
couldn't resist. She had to touch it, then pick it up, charmed by
Marian's smile, saddened by the loss. She could identify. She had a
picture of Gabe by her bed.

She looked over her shoulder.

Nothing there but shelves, a banjo, and the door to the kitchen.

Sometimes light reflected off the inside of her glasses and made her
think she was seeing something. That must have been what it was.

Plus the fact that she was nervous and still hadn't found her son.

And afraid, maybe. Just a little afraid. Not that there was any reason
to feel fear, not in this place, not in Travis Jordan's house.

She turned her back to the wall and looked all around the

bedroom. The only sound was the gurgling of the aquarium.

Everything looked fine. It didn't smell fine, but— She didn't know what
was in that closet, did she? She hadn't looked in there.

Well, she hadn't looked under the bed, either.

Every child's silly fear. Monsters in the closet and a bogeyman under
the bed. Fear for no reason. Enough!

'Michael?” No answer. He simply wasn't here.

She walked out of the bedroom—FRONTDOOROPENED!

She jolted.

'Hello? Reverend Elliott?” It was Brett Henchle.

She wilted.

She found some air, drew it in deeply, and sighed it out, her hand over
her heart 'Officer Henchie, you scared me to death.” He smiled,
embarrassed. 'Whoa, sorry. Do you know why I'm here?” She managed a
smile although she was still trembling. 'I think we're both here to get
Michael, only he isn't here.” He immediately turned grim. 'Where is he?”
'I, I don't know. He's been gone a while, I think. Travis and I have
both called him but there's been no answer. . .' Her legs felt wobbly.
She shook her head, tying to clear it.

'You okay?”

She pulled a chair from the kitchen table, sat down, and didn't answer
until her head was between her knees. 'A little overwrought, I guess.
Too much excitement... 'I'll get you a glass of water.” She didn't trust
him enough not to raise her head and watch him go to the sink. He no
longer stood between her and the front door. She thought of running.

Control, Morgan! Come on!

NANCY BARRON5 and Kim Staples made it to the ranch after news hounding
and shooting several rolls of film in town. With a 499

word to the police from Kyle and me, they were permitted under the
yellow barrier tape and into the thick of the action. The main
attraction right now was the slow, relentless parade of campers and
motor homes coming down the driveway, each one bearing a red tag
indicating it had been searched.

'The end of Cantwell's heyday,” Nancy commented. 'We don't know how many
are still with him in the house,” I replied. 'But he's keeping
hostages.” 'Kyle?” 'Yeah?” 'I'll be writing another editorial, something
I hope will bring some balance to the first one. Sorry for the trouble.”
Kyle smiled. 'Well, praise God.” 'Kyle!” someone shouted from beyond the
yellow tape. 'Travis!” It was Bob Fisher, the Baptist minister. He was
standing out there with Howard Munson the independent Pentecostal, Sid
Maher the Lutheran, and Paul Daley the Episcopalian. We hurried down to
the tape and ducked under to their side. They were full of questions and
concern. Could they help? Was there anything they could do?

'Pray,” said Kyle. 'Just pray that no one gets hurt, that somehow the
Lord will open the eyes of Cantwell's followers and bring freedom to the
hostages.”

'Cantwell?” Paul Daley asked. 'Who's Cantwell?” Explaining the new name
meant telling a lot of the story.

While Kyle began the account, I stepped aside to watch the police
setting up floodlights and loudspeakers along the brow of the hill. No
doubt they were setting up speakers and lights all around the house.

'He's not going to like being surrounded,” I said.

'What was that?” Nancy asked.

'I'm not too sure how he's going to respond to being surrounded by all
the.. . authority figures. It might be too much like the fence Nancy
moaned, 'I think you're right.” 'If he feels corralled. .

'FEELING BETTER?” Brett asked.

Morgan had downed most of the glass of water he'd brought her and was
sitting upright. She nodded. 'I'm with you. Just needed some time to
steel my nerves.” Her heart was still racing.

'We'd better find Michael.” 'He probably decided to walk home—to my
place. You may have noticed, he likes to walk.” She saw my telephone
next to the couch in the living room, and crossed over to it. 'I'll see
if I can reach—” 'HOLD IT! HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!” She jumped and then she
froze, hands half-raised and trembling. She turned her head.

Brett Henchle wasn't talking to her. He was looking into the bedroom,
sighting down the barrel of his gun. He motioned to her, get back. 'TURN
AROUND SLOWLY AND PUT YOUR HANDS AGAINST THE WALL!” She ducked behind
the far end of the couch, her heart pounding. She managed a prayer, only
three or four words, then concentrated on breathing.

Brett advanced on the bedroom, gun extended. He disappeared through the
door. 'AGAINST THE WALL! SPREAD ‘EM!” Something jingled: His handcuffs,
she thought.

Morgan heard sounds of scuffling and blows. Books thudded and crashed to
the floor. A body hit the wall. She half rose from her hiding place,
longing to help.

A shot went off. She dropped behind the couch again.

A sound like tearing cloth, the impact of a punch. Brett cried out m
pain. More scuffling.

Quiet. Then feet stumbling, dragging.

A hand came through the door, grabbing the doorpost, steaking the paint
with blood.

Brett's face appeared, twisted, shaken, pale. He stared at her, tying to
form words. He gagged and drooled red. She jumped up to help him. He had
prevailed, but he was hurt. He— His body lurched forward, and his torso
slipped from around a 501

bloodied blade that remained poised in the air, the handle invisible
within the doorway. He collapsed, coming down on his knees, then
buckling forward, his head thumping on the vinyl flooring.

The knife entered the room, followed by the hand that held it.

The bloodied hand ofJustin Cantwell.

—_ ‘4 SCi)

D RE55ED IN WHITE but bloody as raw meat, Cantwell leaned against the
doorpost and gazed at her, eyes crazed, knife ready.

Morgan ran for the door. A man stood there, Near Eastern in
appearance—olive skin, black curly hair, a wicked gaze. He reached for
her. She spun away.

The Hitchhiker was right behind her, looking pale and dead, his blond
hair hanging limply to his shoulders. He didn't grab for her. He just
stood in her path, smiling a toothy grin.

She went for his face with the heel of her hand—he wasn't there. She
fell forward, off-balance.

Justin Cantwell caught her, clamping his bloodied hands around her
wrists. His hands were cold like steel, their grip unbreakable. He
reeked of sweat—the smell from the bedroom—and blood. She struggled and
kicked, twisted, but he got behind her and twisted her arm behind her
back. His knife went to her throat.

'Uncle?” His tone was mocking and patronizing.

The Hitchhiker was back, right in front of her. Near Eastern approached
from the front door, taking his time, his eyes menacing. She squirmed
and pulled, and the tip of the knife poked her neck like a hot needle.
She cried out.

'Uncle?”

She held still, gasping, whimpering. The knife had to be cuffing her.
She was going to die.

'I can't hear you.

She formed the word several times before she could finally ut- ter it in
a quaking whisper. 'Uncle.” The tip receded. 'That's better.” A third
figure appeared from nowhere, dressed in white and looking like an
angel. The three came close, lining up like a wall before her.

'You saw what I did to Officer Henchle?” Fathei receive my spirit... She
swallowed, then nodded.

'And you see my friends?” She couldn't believe it even as she nodded
again.

'So you know your options are limited. As a matter of fact, you don't
have any.” 'Oh, Jesus... The knife jabbed her neck. 'Say that name again
and I will surgically remove it” His 'friends” were a vision she could
not blink away. 'Who are they?” 'They came to my rescue when God didn't.
We've been a team ever since.

'Are they... He snickered. 'Who do you want them to be?” Near Eastern
suddenly gained weight, turned pale and gray, and stared at her through
the sunken eyes of an old man: Louis Lynch, Florence's dead husband.

The man in white suddenly wore a dark suit and turtleneck, the same
as...

His face changed, shifted, became... Gabe Elliott. He smiled and nodded
to her.

No greater pain could have gone through her heart. 'NOOOO! !'

THE POLICE WERE 5TILL WAITING foravan from the phone company that would
provide exta phones and monitoring equip505

ment. I had to use their cell phone to call the ranch's second line one
more time.

'Hello?” It was Cantwell.

'Justin, this is Travis.” 'I thought I told you to go home!” 'I have to
know—” Click.

CANTWELL TOS5ED HIS CELL PHONE onthekitchentableso he could finish duct
taping Morgan to a chair. 'The miracle of call forwarding,” he
explained. 'But he's going to figure it Out. We'll have to be ready when
he does.” 'You could have escaped.” Morgan said it in a very quiet
voice.

She had agreed to his offer: If she kept her voice quiet, he wouldn't
tape her mouth shut. If she cried out he would slit her throat. It was a
solid offer. The body of Brett Henchle lying in a pool of blood at her
feet convinced her.

'My loyal followers think I did. They're buying me precious tlme.

'Then why don't you?” He cinched down the last strip of tape around her
wrists and stood back to admire her helplessness. 'I still have to
settle my dispute with your boyfriend—if he ever gets here! I was
waiting for him, not you and Henchle!” 'What about my son?” She thought
he would strike her. 'Your son! The traitor? The turncoat? The coward?”
'Where is he?” His anger cost him some strength. His face paled and he
dropped into another chair. 'Don't worry about him. It won't do him any
good.”

I CALLED THE RANCH S FIRST LINE.

Matt answered, 'Yeah?”

'Matt, can you tell me how many are in the house with you?” 'About
twenty.” I got ready to write. 'I need to know their names.” 'I don't
know all their names.” I could feel Sheriff Parker's eyes on me. 'Matt,
the police need to know who's up there. You have to give them a good
reason not to come storming in there right now.” 'Mary Donovan.” I wrote
her name down. 'All right. Who else?” 'Dee Baylor.” 'All right.” He went
silent. 'IA/ho else, Matt?” 'Brandon's here.” 'Yeah.” 'And there are
twenty others.” I heard a commotion behind me and turned. A motor home
had come to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, and the door was
opening. Jim Baylor stood right below that door, and let out a whoop
when his wife, Dee, appeared, hopping out and embracing him. They
started kissing, explaining, apologizing. The scene should have had
music.

'Um, Matt, Jim Baylor would like very much to talk with his wife. Would
that be possible?” 'No. She's with the others. We have ‘em all
confined.” Jim waved at me as he led his wife away. She was crying,
clinging to him. I told Matt, 'Okay Then how about some more names?” 'I
told you, I don't know their names.” 'Then how about getting Brandon on
the phone?” 'You have to call the other line. That's what he says.”
'Well he can't be that far—” I felt a turn in the gut.

'Just call him on the other line.” 'Well. . .' I didn't want Matt to
know my own thoughts were running me over so I forced myself to say,
'Okay. I'll call on the other line.” I ended the call. Parker was
muttering something but I didn't hear it.

507

Cantwell had eyes. He didn't need to be here to know what the cops were
doing or whether Sheriff Parker was smiling.

Parker asked me, 'Well?” 'Matt won't, uh... I'll give it another whirl.”
No. Cantwell wouldn't want to be surrounded or fenced in.

Fences were a big issue in his life. So he wouldn't hole up at the
ranch, would he?

'Are you going to dial that thing?” Parker demanded.

I dialed the ranch's second line. It rang repeatedly without an answer,
and then a recording came on: 'The cellular phone you called is not
answering. Please try your call again later.” 'No answer?” Parker asked.

'I have to talk to Dee,” I said, handing him the cell phone. 'JIM! Hold
up!” Jim and Dee waited near the front gate. The loudspeakers on the
hill were playing Jimi Irlendrix and the floodlights made it look like a
night baseball game was in progress. Television reporters were standing
just on the other side of the yellow tape, talking into their
microphones and looking back at their cameras. The whole landscape was
flickering with white, blue, red, and amber sweeps from the police
vehicles.

We hadn't finished our discussion, he said, but we would. I could count
on it.

Go home, Travis. Go home.

'Dee,” I asked, ducking under the yellow tape to get to them.

'Is Brandon Nichols up there?” She was still wiping tears from her eyes.
'I don't want to see him. Not anymore. I feel like a fool.” 'But did you
see him?” 'No. He wouldn't even come out of his room to talk to me. He
wouldn't talk to anybody. People are leaving. He's just.. . I just want
to go home!” Jim gave her a squeeze and led her along. 'C'mon, hon.
We'll get you home. Thanks, Travis. Thanks for everything.” 'You too,
Jim.”

I took out my own cell phone and punched in Morgan's number. 'The cell
phone you have called is not answering. Please try again later.” I
punched in my home phone number. My hand was shaking so much that I got
it wrong. I punched it in again. I felt sick.

The telephone rang, and then— 'Okay, we are ready to talk,” said Justin
Cantwell. Before I had time to think it, he added, 'Don't look around,
Travis. Don't say anything, don't signal anyone. I have someone here
who'd like to speak with you.” 'Travis?” It was Morgan's voice,
trembling with emotion, her little rasp unmistakable. 'Travis. I love
you too.” The end of her sentence broke apart as she started to cry.

'So I wasn't lying the first time,” said Cantwell. 'I was just a little
early. Do we have an understanding?” Not far from me, Kyle and the other
ministers continued to pray in a circle. I knew I had help.

'We still have to have our discussion,” I said.

'So come home, Travis. Alone.” 'I'll be right there.” I came up with
some lame excuse I can hardly remember, something about being sick,
tired, or incompetent. I don't know. But I told Parker I was leaving for
a while and ran to my Trooper.

I climbed in, closed the door, started the engine, then bowed my head to
pray, gripping the steering wheel tightly enough to reshape it. I
intended to burst ‘into desperate prayer. I was going to tackle,
wrestle, and grapple with God, crying out in earnest supplication for
Morgan's life and my own and for the tattered soul of Justin Cantwell. I
was going to bind and rebuke the powers of darkness and cast them out. I
would be waging holy warfare in the heavenlies. It was going to be a
struggle— Before you pray.., said the Lord.

I looked up. It was quiet inside the Trooper, and suddenly, strangely
quiet in my heart. It threw me. What happened? One moment I was ready to
leap into the fires of hell and whip-in-the509

spirit whatever evil forces might come my way, and the next moment—well,
I felt as if I were sitting in heaven. I saw nothing unusual—no visions,
no angels, no lightning bolts or faces in the sky. The same cruel, crazy
world was in full swing outside my windshield: The lights were still
flashing, the cops were still running around, and the floodlights were
still there, along with the TV cameras.

But I felt as if I were somewhere else.

How can I describe it? Jesus was in the Trooper with me. I would never
presume to put words in his mouth, but I felt him saying, Could we take
a moment to review?

I let go of the steering wheel and listened.

MORGAN 5AT QUIETLY, praying only in her mind, her wrists anchored to the
arms of the chair, her ankles taped together and immobile between the
chair legs. Cantwell was sitting at the table, leaning on his left
elbow, breathing hard, the knife dangling in his right hand. Though he
looked fatigued, the vicious, animal expression never left his eyes. He
had made no effort to clean any of the blood off himself. If anything,
there seemed to be more blood than before. A pool of red was gathering
in his chair and he was sitting in it.

'So you're one of them, aren't you?” he asked.

'One of... whom?” He leaned forward and held the knife under her chin.
'You're a church lady, aren't you? One of the ‘reverends.' Did Travis
tell you what I did to a ‘reverend'?” His raging eyes were only a foot
away. She could smell his breath, his sweat, the blood, now spoiling
like meat left out too long. Near Eastern, the Angel, and the Hitchhiker
were hovering, lingering, present in the room, sometimes visible, always
felt. The house had become an outpost of hell.

It made the peace she felt all the stranger to understand. She never
would have expected this enveloping sensation of rest, as if she were
somehow separated by a holy capsule from all that was occurring around
her. It settled over her the moment her struggle was over and her
options gone—the moment Cantwell's last strip of tape went around her
wrist and there was nothing more she could do but trust.

Her voice was steady and gentle as she replied, 'He mostly told me what
the ‘reverend' in your life did to you.” He leaned back, letting the
knife rest in his lap. 'Maybe he did find out everything.” He looked
down at Henchle's body. 'Did he tell you who else was there?” Morgan
thanked God as she recalled the name. 'Uh, I think the name was
Gallipo.” Cantwell looked pleased. 'Conway Gallipo, Nechville's
permanent chief of police! Very good.” 'Travis pieced it together, the
part about Gallipo. He figured it would take two people: one to hold
your arms, the other to drive the nails.” He waved his knife in her face
as he lectured, 'That should tell you a lot about me and why we're
sitting here right now.” Victoriously, he placed his foot on Henchle's
back. 'This little act of God was for Gallipo's sake.” He saw her
grimace. 'Hey, come on.

You didn't trust Henchle either—” He straightened and looked around the
room like a guard dog alerted by a noise.

Morgan felt a stirring in the room, a cold flutter in the air, a sense
of alarm—on their part.

Then she heard the slam of a car door.

THE BUNGALOW LOOKED cozy andinvitingTheporchlight was on, and warm
lamplight created a glow behind the drapes.

But itfe/t cold and sinister, and I knew the devils were inside. I stood
by the gate for just a moment, gathering my thoughts and reviewing what
the Lord and I had discussed all the way down here, that he and history
were on my side. There was never a 5"

moment or aspect of my life God didn't have his hand on, and this little
adventure was no exception. All I had to do was walk into the house and
let him take it from there.

I knew Kyle and the others were still praying. I said a last prayer of
my own and stepped through the gate. I had never regarded myself as a
man of keen spiritual discernment. Sure, I could usually get an inkling
that something or someone wasn't quite right, but it was Marian who
could sense the presence of a demon and be correct every time. I used to
wonder and even ask her how she did it and what it felt like. Tonight I
didn't have to wonder. I could feel a presence in my house as directly,
as pungently, as any man could feel a hateful stare or a poisonous
taunt. I gazed at the drawn drapes as if the spirits might be looking
back at me from behind them. I glanced into the tops of the trees, a
little surprised not to see some shadowy creature perched in the limbs.

They were watching me, waiting for me, expecting to play the game by
their rules. Come on in, they dared me.

I continued down the walkway and stepped onto the porch.

I heard some movement inside. The scraping of a chair. Morgan gasping. A
muttered threat.

I called through the door, 'Justin. It's Travis. I'm coming in.” There
was no reply, although I did feel a painful twist in my gut as if I were
stepping off a cliff. I took hold of the doorknob.

We're ready, they seemed to say. Come on in.

Well I'm ready too, I thought, and we're coming in.

I turned the knob and opened the door slowly.

The first thing I saw was Justin Cantwell in my dining room, streaked
and stained with red, gripping Morgan by the hair and holding a knife to
her throat. The second thing I saw was the tape that bound her to the
chair. The third thing was Brett Henchle, dead on the floor. I was
sickened but not shocked. I remained still.

Cantwell was breathing hard, shaking—and desperate.

'Hi there.” I thought my voice would crack or quiver, but it didn't.
'It's me.”

'Close the door!” he hissed.

I closed the door.

'You weren't here for the first part of our meeting!” he said, nodding
at Henchle's body. 'But you can see who's in charge!” I raised my hands
so he could see them, then went slowly to the chair by the door and sat
down. 'I'm all ears.” The ceiling felt low, as if the joists were
supporting a mountain.

Breathable air seemed scarce. Though I had just come through the front
door, I felt it would not open again. The house, with only three living
people in it, felt suffocatingly crowded.

Cantwell released his grip on Morgan's hair and she shook the kink out
of her neck. By leaning shakily on the back of her chair, he made it to
the table. By steadying himself against the table, he worked his way
back to his own chair and sat down.

'Justin,” I said, 'you're hurt.” He ignored me. 'You see, Travis?” His
voice was weak. 'I've played a better game. I've healed more sick, fed
more hungry, brought hope to more hopeless, and now I even decide who
lives and who dies. People are afraid of me!” He slumped forward, his
elbow on his knee, his head drooping. 'And that makes me God!” I
shrugged. 'If you can't trust him, be him. Is that how it works?” 'It
works.” 'So I see. I can also see you need a doctor.” He raised his head
and grinned at me. 'I got what I wanted ever since my back yard.” 'What
was that, Justin?” His head sank again and he spoke to the floor. 'Not
to be nailed to the fence anymore.” I hurt for him, even in the midst of
the terror. 'I hear you.” 'You've been there. You know what I'm talking
about.” I had to set the record straight. 'Justin, I haven't been hurt
nearly as much as you have. I was discouraged, I was fed up—” 'But you
know what I'm talking about!” 'Yeah. I do.” 513

'So where do you stand?” 'Justin,” I said, staring at his abdomen,
'you're bleeding.” He leaned toward Morgan, brandishing the knife.
'Don't change the subject, Travis!” 'Okay. Easy.” He relaxed and I
continued. 'Listen, we were both angry. We were both fed up. We both had
wounds and questions. But Justin, my problem was with the church, with
all the church stuff. Your problem is with God. There's a difference.”
His eyes bored into me as he displayed the scars on his arms.

'I'm perfectly willing to blame them both.” I pressed it, hoping I
wouldn't set him off. 'But your father wasn't speaking for God, and
Jesus didn't nail you to that fence.” He grimaced as if feeling the pain
again, then wagged his head.

'The point is past arguing!” I argued anyway. 'Remember when your mother
came home and got the hammer and pulled the nails out? Remember when she
held you and sang to you? That was Jesus. He took the nails.

He doesn't drive them.” For the briefest moment, his face softened as if
he were recalling the moment.

'I met your mom. I can see Jesus in her.” The hardness and loathing
flowed into his face again. 'She's the one who got beaten, torn down,
and pushed around every day of her life.” 'It wasn't Jesus who—” 'It was
Jesus who let it happen. Don't tell me you can't see that.

You've had forty years to see it” I wasn't going to lie. 'Justin, after
forty years of knowing Jesus and just a few months watching you, I've
decided I can trust him.” He absorbed the blow, then snickered and shook
his head.

'You're just like Mom. You love losing.” 'No. I love winning. It just
takes longer.” He jolted, his eyes darting about the room as if watching
a frightful vision. I figured his invisible henchmen weren't too happy
by now. When his gaze finally returned to me, he was weaker.

'Well, I love winning too. Daddy found that out.” He waved his knife at
the body on the floor. 'And.., and Gallipo. He found out.

And God's finding out!” He stared at me a long moment, his body swaying
like a drunkard. 'And you're going to find out too, Travis!

Just you wait!” '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 itto 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 herand 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.” 515

Just as they ve been doing all along, I thought. 'The party 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.

12 PH4OGU12

THE 'S IEGE 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 5UMMER, 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 Vein, 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 519

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 whatJesus
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, Travisjust as a
father carries his son, in all the way that you went, Unti/you came to
this place.

He was still the same old God, ordering my life and doing all things
well.

............... The End ...............