The Miracle Stealer (9 page)

Volpe said, “Whatever you think is best,” but I could tell by her tone she wasn't pleased.

The Reverend didn't seem to notice. “I'd like to meet the family before the service. I understand the boy lives with his mother.”

“Nancy's been through a great deal. After Daniel's accident, her husband, a man of slim faith, left her.”

“So she's alone, then?”

“She has another child, a teenage daughter who is causing, well, complications.”

“That would seem to be the role of teenagers in our world.”

He chuckled and I couldn't help but smile. It was his warm voice, I convinced myself, that made it hard to dislike him.

“Reverend,” Volpe said, “have you ever considered coming out of retirement full-time? The world has lost its way. It needs men of great conviction.”

“I'm old, Sylvia,” the man said. “Old and tired. Besides, preachers do their work on TV now. No one goes to tent revivals.”

“If they knew you were available, many would invite you to their churches. Halls can be rented.”

“You sound like a manager.” The old man laughed. “The whole notion is tempting, but we know the source of temptation. It would take a great sign to get me back on the road. Something truly extraordinary.”

“Daniel is extraordinary.”

This froze my blood and caught that preacher's attention. He took a big breath and said, “So you say.”

Volpe pressed her advantage. “The two of you together, you'd make a powerful team for the Lord.”

The preacher rocked on his boots and I could tell his mind was working. Finally he said, “I'm open to the will of God. We'll pray for His guidance.”

They kept talking as they walked out, but I couldn't hear what else they said. As I slipped out from under the pew, my mind rolled through what sounded like their plans for Daniel. They wanted to take my brother away, drive him off in that white bus and go on a nutjob miracle tour of America. I pictured the
Reverend's tent set up in a field somewhere, with Daniel inside, fevered and pale, waiting for those in need of healing.

Since Volpe locked the church doors behind her, I had to crawl out through the same window I'd broken into. As I hiked back to my hidden kayak, the matches felt silly in my hand. The whole notion of burning down the church seemed childish, unsophisticated. I needed a more subtle strategy.

Paddling north on the lake, I thought about some of the things Jeff had said. He was right about one thing: The problem was that I had to find a way to make folks stop believing. Something had to happen, like in those stories I'd read of defrauded miracle workers. Somehow I needed to convince everyone that Daniel was a fake, a hoax like the Scarecrow thought he might be.

All of this was settling into my head as I passed McGinley's Cove. And I stopped paddling and laid back, let the kayak drift, and listened to the silence of the lake. I heard the water gently sloshing up against the rocks on the shoreline. I saw the huge open mouth of the cave and the cliff that rises up two hundred feet, to the Lookout that Michelle Kirkpatrick sailed her car over on prom night, wearing the dress Mrs. Bundower sewed for her. I don't believe much in visions, but as I was imagining what that must have looked like, I could almost see the car racing over the edge. Something was wrong with the image, and I saw that the car wasn't Michelle Kirkpatrick's, and the driver was me. As I floated on the water, the Anti-Miracle Plan came to me, fully formed. I knew what I had to pull off before that church service next Sunday and I knew exactly how my hoax would work. Best of all, I finally felt confident in what I needed to do next: get a car and find some blood.

T
he very afternoon of the Sunday when I had my Anti-Miracle vision, while my mother and Daniel were again over at the Abernathys' and the true believers of Paradise attended the regular weekly service in the church I hadn't burned down, I called Jeff on the phone and asked if he'd help me pick out a decent used car.

“What do you need a car for?” he asked.

He was anxious, no doubt, concerned that this might be the first step in my fledgling career as a kidnapper. But the question was inevitable, one my mother would surely ask too, so I had a lie ready. “Getting back and forth to Lock Haven. I'll come home some weekends, help out around the compound.”

There was a pause while Jeff decided whether or not to believe me. “Can't do much on a Sunday,” he said. “Nobody's open. How about tomorrow?”

“You're not too busy getting set for Paradise Days?” Opening festivities were scheduled for the end of the week.

“My dad can do without me for a few hours.”

Jeff said he'd come by for me about ten and we hung up. I know as much about cars as Jeff does, probably more. If he had guessed that I was lying about needing his help or my reason for wanting a car, I couldn't tell. The truth of course was that any car
I did get had no chance of ever making it to Lock Haven, or anywhere else other than McGinley's Cove. As far as Jeff goes, I just wanted to see him.

Monday morning when Jeff pulled in, Daniel and I were on the front porch, studying a spiderweb we'd found in the railing.

“There's a fly all wrapped up,” Daniel told Jeff. “But we can't find the spider.”

“Maybe he's taking a walk.”

My mother came out, holding her third cup of coffee with two hands and blowing across the top of it. Jeff snatched off his Penn State baseball cap and nodded earnestly. “Morning, Mrs. Grant.”

“Hello, Jeff. It's good to see you again.” Her voice was sincere, and I could tell she was pleased that Jeff, a stabilizing force in the life of her erratic daughter, had reappeared on the scene.

“Don't buy anything today,” my mother said to me. “I may be able to help you out.”

“I don't need any money,” I told her. Over the last few years, between my time at the
Gazetteer
and handyman jobs around town, I'd saved up nearly a thousand dollars, plenty for a car with the minimal requirements I needed.

“Have you thought about the insurance?” she asked. “You'll have to pay that every month.”

Daniel scooted down the steps, away from the tension, and Jeff flopped his hat back on his head as he followed. I hadn't considered insurance because I wouldn't need the car for more than a week, and given my true intentions, I was pretty sure taking out insurance would be fraud. But I couldn't tell her that. “I'll get a part-time job up at school,” I said.

“You should focus on your classes,” my mother said. “You buy the car. I'll pay for the insurance.”

I cocked a sideways glance at her, wondering what she was up to. The night before, she'd tried to talk me out of the whole thing, telling me I should save the money, that she and Daniel could drive up and get me whenever I wanted. Now she seemed eager to help. I didn't say no, but we both understood my silence to mean I accepted her offer. Staring over my shoulder and holding her coffee, my mother smiled. I turned and together we watched Daniel and Jeff peeling bark from a fallen branch, searching for signs of life.

As we rolled north on Roosevelt Road, Jeff suggested that we drive up to Hawley or even the Auto Mile over by the mall in Scranton. I explained that dealerships are rip-offs, then unfolded a week-old
Gazetteer
classifieds page from my back pocket. I'd highlighted a half dozen cars for sale, all local, and already called to get the addresses. Jeff kept his eyes on the road and was quiet, and I realized only then that I might have hurt his feelings. Guys, I've figured out, like to be the ones who make decisions. Maybe he'd had some bigger plan, like getting something to eat at the Applebee's in Hawley. We'd driven there once during my sophomore year, just after Jeff got his license.

“How about we just hit a few of these first?” I offered. “Then get some lunch and go from there?”

Nobody but me would have noticed the slight smile this brought out, but I could tell that, indeed, he saw our time together as a kind of date, and if I'm to be honest, I guess I did too. “Sounds good,” he said. “Where to?”

The first two addresses were both busts. Fred Shoemaker's Volvo, hiding sheepishly in his garage, needed headlights and a brake job. At the second stop, Marty Kipplewick showed us his mom's Ford, in pristine condition except for the huge V in the front bumper. Mrs. Kipplewick was slowly losing her eyesight to macular degeneration, and she apparently hadn't seen a fire hydrant when she went to park on the grass at a garage sale. While Jeff and I inspected her car, she stood in a window on the second floor of her home, looking down on us with a neck brace and no expression. I wondered if she could see us at all.

The route to the third house brought us alongside one edge of Roosevelt Park, and through the pines I could make out plenty of activity on the great lawn. In the far parking lot, by the hookups for the RVs, that white school bus sat like a sphinx. I felt the urge to tell Jeff about the reverend with the hiking boots and the full extent of my plans. But he was the one who spoke. Apparently noticing where my attention was focused, he said, “Folks around town are calling them Pilgrims.”

I turned to him. “Calling who Pilgrims?”

“The ones living in the park.”

He looked at me and I stared back.

“I figured you'd heard about this. At first, everybody thought they were just the usual early bird potheads in town for the festival, or some of the New Agers who can't get enough of the fairy fort. But that's not the case, according to the crowd up at the Dog Bar last night.”

“Spit it out, would you?”

“A lot of those people camped out in the park, the Pilgrims—they came here on account of Daniel.”

I whispered, “Shit,” and looked back at the field, though now it was far behind us. “How many are there?”

“Don't know for sure. Some say a hundred. They're going into the lake, Andi. Baptizing themselves.”

“Hang on now. Who's saying all this?”

“Candace Hoffstetler. And Tommy.”

In high school, Candace started a rumor that she was pregnant just to get some attention. As for Tommy Wirkus, if he was at the Dog Bar, he was drinking and probably trying to hit on Candace. “Sounds like a bunch of crap to me. Freaking Pilgrims.”

“Tommy heard it from Volpe. She's been down there to the park and talked to them.”

I scratched my forehead. Maybe kidnapping Volpe would solve my problems. “Now I believe this story even less.”

“Don't snap at me. I'm just telling you what I heard.”

I told Jeff I just wanted to get on to the next car.

Frank Dettweiller, a semiretired plumber, was riding his red lawn mower back and forth across his lawn when we pulled up. He wore a white paper mask for his allergies. When he saw us, he cut the engine and pulled the white mask down off his face, so it hung like a weird necklace. “Hey there, hey there!” he shouted as he waved.

Jeff and I walked up the hill through the freshly cut grass and the clippings clung to our sneakers.

“Looking for some wheels, huh?” Mr. Dettweiller said to us.

“Like I said on the phone,” I told him.

He led us around the side of his house, and when I saw the car parked in the driveway, I knew our search was over. It was a blue Buick Skylark, huge and square and ugly, the last of the
gas-guzzler armada from the mid-eighties. The right front quarter panel was green and the hubcaps were mismatched. Frank said, “She's got a hundred and eighty thousand miles on her and the AC is busted. The radio only gets AM and the clutch is a bit finicky.”

“I hope those aren't the good points,” Jeff said.

I ran my hand along the side of the car, sensing her pride and strength. The front was a massive grille with a bumper big enough to sit on. This car was exactly what I needed, a battering ram on wheels.

Jeff popped the hood and began inspecting the engine. “Where'd this relic come from?”

Frank wiped the gathering sweat from his forehead. “She was my big brother's, lived down in Bethlehem. Damn cirrhosis finally caught up to him. She was sitting in his garage for years, and I've got no use for her. Runs pretty good.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Jeff said, and he and Frank exchanged solemn nods.

I opened the front door and settled in behind a steering wheel that looked swiped from a pirate ship. Jeff slammed the hood and shrugged, suggesting he'd seen nothing that concerned him. Frank gave me a thumbs-up and I reached for the single key in the ignition. The engine roared to life like an airplane's, and the seat beneath me rattled. The car felt alive, and eager.

Jeff, still acting like he was in charge, must have seen the shine in my eyes and asked Mr. Dettweiller what he wanted for it. The old man wiped the sweat from his brow, shrugged. “Say, eight hundred dollars.”

Jeff didn't say anything. I just gripped the wheel and pictured
the steep stretch of road that leads down to the Lookout over McGinley's Cove. Mr. Dettweiller said, “That price is negotiable, but she's a solid car.”

Through the open window, I asked if we could take it out for a test drive. Before he could answer, Mr. Dettweiller sneezed and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. While he wiped at his nose, Jeff said, “Before we could make an offer, we'd want Lute to take a look at it too, give it a once-over.”

Given my intentions, it never occurred to me to have the car inspected. But I couldn't explain that to Jeff. Mr. Dettweiller came around and stuffed the hanky back in his pocket. He knelt down in the dirt, bringing his face level with mine. “Of course, of course. Whatever you guys need. Take her for a spin, get the old girl out on the road. No rush at all. Truth is, nobody else has even called about her.”

“I appreciate the favor.”

“It's no trouble, Anderson,” he said. And here he reached through the window, patted me on the shoulder. “Anything for you and your family.” I turned and looked into those red-rimmed eyes and I remembered seeing Mr. Dettweiller up at the UCP, squeezing his eyes tight in prayer.

 

Fifteen minutes later, I swung the Skylark into the parking lot of Victorio's and parked beside Jeff. “How's she ride?” he asked me when I got out.

I told him the truth. “That clutch is a bitch. But the brakes are good and she hugs the asphalt pretty tight, especially on the curves.”

“Hard for something this big not to. That sucker's half tank. Probably gets three gallons to the mile.”

I laughed and we headed inside. When we pushed through the double glass doors, a few heads turned and a sort of hush seemed to come over the place. Some people stared right at us. Just about everybody in town knew Jeff and I had once been a kind of couple. At the counter, Jeff ordered two plain slices. I got a Caesar salad. While they started on our food, we took a booth in the back. Jeff asked, “You want to run it by Lute's, see if he can't kick the tires?”

I noticed our table hadn't been wiped down and pinched some napkins from the mirrored dispenser. “I guess so.”

“It's not worth eight hundred dollars.”

“Mr. Dettweiller'll take six.” The way the old man looked at me back in that driveway, I didn't doubt that he would take even less, but I didn't feel good about trading on Daniel's reputation.

“Probably so. Just be sure that it'll get from Lock Haven back to Paradise. Lots of steep hills between here and there.”

The table was clean now, but I kept pushing the napkins around in slow circles. I wondered how far it was from Penn State to Lock Haven, if Jeff would like me to drive over and visit him some weekends. Then I caught myself and realized that my mind was slipping. I was indulging my own cover story, imagining the car beyond the next week. I was about to ask Jeff if I should take twelve credits or fifteen my first semester when a large figure came up beside our table. “Tell me something good,” Gayle said.

From the grin on her face, I could tell she was pleased to have caught Jeff and me together. She held a white paper bag, and I
knew she'd called ahead for lunch like she always did. I wondered what the grease stain on the bottom meant for her diet.

“What's happening?” Jeff asked.

“The usual this time of year. I'm already sick of Paradise Days and the damn thing didn't even start yet,” she said. “College filling your head with radical ideas?”

He nodded. “Just like it's supposed to.” He excused himself to go fetch our food.

After a brief silence, Gayle turned to me. “Daniel doing okay?”

“For now.” I looked over at Jeff, who was behind a guy arguing about his order. “Did you hear this B.S. about Pilgrims down in the park?”

Gayle shifted the bag from one hand to the other. “I saw a bunch of out-of-towners heading into the woods the other day, up by the fairy fort. Albert Crawford told me some of them have come to be made whole.”

“Made whole?”

“That's the term Albert says they're using.”

I ripped my napkin in half without realizing I was tugging on it. “Any chance these Pilgrims came in with a wacko in a white bus?”

Gayle shook her head. “Bus belongs to Leonardo Castille. Went by the name Reverend Castle, the Fortress of Christ, when he ran the fire-and-brimstone circuit in western P.A. and Ohio long time back. In his prime, he was a certified Bible-thumper, but apparently he's mellowed with age. I thought I might track him down for an interview, but I'm swamped. You interested?”

Jeff returned, carrying a red tray.