The Visitation (36 page)

“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 calling, 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.

A
T 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 putting 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?”

“We’ll see.”

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 remind 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 already 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 Matt,” 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.

“Uh, 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 Mrs. 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.”

“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.”

SATURDAY,
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” for Jesus, 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. 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.
Mary
was getting the attention now.

This 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 county-approved!” 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!”