The Visitation (31 page)

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.”

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 want
you
, Marian. I want
you
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 laughing, 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.

M
RS. MACON
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! 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.”

“I’ll take it!”

“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 UP
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 rattled 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.”

“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 wrinkled 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 pull 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.”

He looked puzzled, but then he shrugged and went back to his paperwork. “I’ll look into it.”

Well,
I thought,
so will I
.

I NEVER 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?” Pastor Jordan? 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 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?”

“No.”

“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.”

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.”

“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. “Two-two-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.