The Visitation (37 page)

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.

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 contest it in court and probably get it thrown out. I wasn’t speeding, I have a perfect 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 are way behind and way off! You sat through the whole meeting. Didn’t you learn anything? People are people and they always will 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 L.A., you can dig up whatever you want, but it’ll only make
you
the bad guy, not me.”

I frowned. “What’s in L.A.?”

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 spirit of 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 sitting alone in your house on Sundays because you still buy all this stuff?”

“Stuff,” I muttered. The word had a private meaning for me— at least until now.

“Stuff,” 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.”

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 ANDERSON WAS A GADGET GUY.
He sold appliances, CD players, VCRs, remote controls, stereo headsets, radio-controlled 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 sign 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.

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.

Nuts! 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 FOLSOM
closed her eyes and listened for the voice of the angel Elkezar, her pen poised over a sheet of stationery. Sally 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.”