The Visitation (17 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

Climb in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The widow’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh yes! Nancy Barrons! I read your paper all the time!”

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

“Won’t you come in?”

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

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

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

Mrs. Macon looked up at him with a motherly glint in her eye. “You want to know about the young man I hired.”

“Yes, that’s right, if you don’t mind.”

“Would you like to meet him?”

“I certainly would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what brings you to Antioch?”

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

Nancy could see suspicion in Brett’s eyes and felt a good measure of it herself. The widow was lonely, rich, and eccentric. Brandon Nichols was young, handsome, maybe even charming. 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.”

“Oh.”

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 it to 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—Franklin 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.

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
about that meeting up at the ranch until 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 interviewed 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.

THURSDAY
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.”

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 PILGRIMS ARE GATHERING,”
said the smooth and soothing voice on the telephone.

“At least we know you’re not Jesus—
Brandon,”
I replied.