The Visitation (55 page)

“He has that kind of power?”

The doctor cocked an eyebrow. “The power over heaven and hell and who goes where, to put it simply.”

He looked at Lois, but she declined to look back.

“He’s still my husband,” she said in a whisper.

“Religion misused,” the doctor continued. “It’s not uncommon. He has the personality—and the followers, the chief of police being among them.” With an arched eyebrow he added, “Chief Gallipo has his own nasty part in this.”

“So . . . what happened to Justin?”

“He vanished. We never saw him again. Lois did get some letters occasionally.”

Her voice was still trembling when she said, “I didn’t get my first letter for two years.”

“But he went free. The whole matter was buried. Ernest Cantwell had his ministry to think about—I’m sorry, Lois.”

“No,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “That’s all right. It’s true.”

“The letters,” I said. “Did he have an address in Southern California?” “Yes. But that was all. He moved two years ago and I never heard from him since.”

“So he was in the Los Angeles area for two years.”

“Yes, I think that’s right. I don’t know where he was before that.”

“I believe he went to Missoula, Montana, after L.A., and from there he came to our town, just this spring. He’s using an assumed name, posing as someone else.”

“He’s still running,” the doctor suggested.

“And he’s still angry.”

“And still very dangerous. Do you have any idea, any plans at all, to stop him before you have an incident like we had here?”

“I’m not sure it hasn’t happened already.”

“What about the police?”

“He healed the war wound of our police chief.” They all groaned. “But more than the wound has changed.”

The doctor shook his head in wonder. “He hates and emulates his father all at the same time.”

“Well, he and his father are made of the same stuff. We
all
are. But I’m finally getting a clear picture: He’s going to self-destruct.”

They were silent, perhaps a little surprised, but I could see Lois nodding.

“How?” the doctor asked.

“Have you ever tried to be Jesus? Believe me, only the
real
one can manage that.”

“Amen,” Lois managed.

“But that brings me to the scars on
Justin’s
arms. Doctor, you said you treated those wounds.”

Dr. Sullivan looked at Lois and she gave him a barely visible, affirmative nod. “I believe we mentioned how Justin was sent to Illinois to live with his sister when he was fifteen. Again, the real reason was hidden from the public, especially from the church.”

“
Especially,”
Lois emphasized, then lowered her head and shook it mournfully. “Justin was like a wild horse with no way to corral him. Ernest was determined to have it otherwise. And things got out of hand.”

“What was it you said?” I asked Lois. “Something about Justin wanting to even the score with his father?”

“You can blame me,” the doctor interjected. “I treated the wounds in Justin’s arms, but I did nothing about the wounds to his soul. There was nothing to be done in this town, but I could have gone beyond this town for help. I could have done more.” He took a moment to compose himself. “But Justin was quickly sent off to his aunt’s in Illinois, so we thought that would be the end of it. He was several states away from his father, no one in town saw what happened, and the rest of us went on with our lives, keeping the matter quiet.”

Lois raised her eyes and looked into mine. “I found him in the back yard, and I . . . I held him in my arms. I prayed for him. I sang to him. But the Justin we once knew was gone. He never came back.” With frightened eyes she peered into the past. “And we had no idea what kind of . . . creature . . . had taken his place.”

The doctor drew another deep breath. “Seven years later, Justin nearly killed his father.”

Now I realized why Justin Cantwell had warned me,
Just be sure you find out everything
. I shifted my weight forward and said, “Tell me what happened in the back yard.”

I CLOSED THE MOTEL ROOM DOOR
behind me, rested against it, and let the tears come. I cried and cried, quaking against that door, wanting to slap myself, feeling so foolish, so blind.

Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me.

No, Justin Cantwell and I were not that much alike. Sure, our church worlds were similar. Both our dads were preachers. We read from the same Bible, learned the same doctrines, sang the same songs, followed many of the same rules.

But I had
never
been in such a place as Nechville—and I know I’d never been in such a place as Justin’s back yard.

I only thought I had, and I was acting like it—until Justin came to my town and I went to his.

Now I was sorry. Desperately sorry.

M
ONDAY MORNING
, Michael Elliott felt called to go for a short, very spiritual walk across the rolling pastureland of the ranch. He took his staff in his hand, wore his prophetic mantel over his head and shoulders, and set out on his journey knowing not where it would take him—God would lead. As he walked along the white paddock fence, past horses lazily grazing, he looked frequently toward heaven, praising God and listening, always listening, for the next prophetic message, the next inkling of what God was about to do. He knew he must obey every word. He must watch for every sign. The Messiah had come, Antioch was the New Jerusalem, and he, Michael, blessed among men, was to be the Messiah’s messenger.

“I will obey, my Lord,” he said. “But speak the word, and I will obey. I am your servant.”

His heart soared. He felt filled with God, in tune with the divine, cosmic mind.

And greater works than these shall ye do.
The promise coursed through his soul like marching orders from on high.
Greater works.
These would require greater faith, greater obedience, but the world would behold and tremble, and then it would change. It would grow. A new thing would occur upon the earth, the news of which would make all ears tingle.

Michael raised his staff toward the heavens and sang forth in joy, turning the heads of some steers who grazed beyond a wire fence with bright plastic numbers on their ears.

He came to the pond, an acre of quiet water reflecting the deep blue of the sky and the June green of the gentle hills. Mr. Macon had built a fishing dock there, and his old skiff lay on a split rail rack by the shore. Across the water, four ducks paddled in formation, dipping their heads, rustling their wings, and conversing in duck-ese.

This was one of Michael’s favorite spots for reflection. He often took the skiff out just to float quietly, lie on his back, and watch the sky. The mud along the shore became his canvas, and his most recent etching—the word
ALLELUIA
in Gothic lettering—was still intact, though some ducks had waddled through it.

Standing at the end of the dock, he sniffed the natural, living odor of the pond, the scent of mud, algae, ducks and catfish. He received the kiss of the breeze upon his cheek and heard the song of the earth the breeze carried—the rustle of the spear grass, the lowing of the cattle, the murmur of the ducks.

Walk upon the water.

Below him, the pond was a sheet of glass, and his reflection nearly perfect.

Walk upon the water.

The voice was the same, the one he had always heeded and obeyed. It brought him to Brandon Nichols. It had led him through the streets of Antioch. It had opened his understanding to the mighty move of God.

Walk upon the water.

This was the Messiah’s pond. He was the Messiah’s messenger. All things were the Messiah’s—all works, all miracles, all things.

Greater works than these shall ye do.

As God tested Abraham, Gideon, Joshua, and even the first Christ in the wilderness, so now he, Michael, was being tested.

It is mine to obey,
he responded in his spirit.
Far be it from me to turn away from the voice of God.

He obeyed. He stepped off the dock.

IT WAS COLD THIS TIME OF YEAR!
Deep too. He thought he would drown before he finally grabbed hold of the dock and worked his way toward the shore hand-over-hand. Dripping and shivering, he clambered out of the water, shocked by the cold and by the very fact that he was wet.

Looking back, he saw his staff floating on the water, far beyond reach without a boat—or another swim. As for his prophet’s mantle, by now it was somewhere on the bottom.

FATHER AL VENDETTI
was rather surprised to see a sizable crowd once again sitting in the sanctuary of Our Lady’s, visiting quietly, eyes rarely wandering from the crucifix that hung on the wall. Some he’d seen before, in those few days between the first miracle and the advent of Antioch’s messiah. Penny Adams was there, apparently unhappy with her hand, though it looked all right. The young woman from Moses Lake who had leukemia was back without her husband, looking well physically, but strangely ill in her demeanor.

Others were new to this place, but Father Al had been told a little about their stories: the exceedingly fat lady who still wanted a miraculous reduction in her size; the young man who couldn’t get a million dollars out of Brandon Nichols and still hadn’t thought of working; the man who had important things to do but had to put them off so he could be healed of procrastination; the man wanting to be more sexually attractive, along with his three friends.

But Father Al wasn’t quite as familiar with the common motivation these and the hundred others freely acknowledged among themselves: They couldn’t get it at the ranch, so they were going to get it here.

He moved among them, greeting them, asking if there might be anything he could do to meet their spiritual needs. Might he pray with them, or hear their confession? He would be happy to conduct a special mass just for them.

“I’m not Catholic.”

“Not now.”

“Uh, you’re standing in the way.”

“How often does it cry?”

“Is this going to cost us?”

“What is this, a commercial?”

Their message was clear: He was intruding.

An intruder in his own church!

He retired to his office and closed the door, weighing a new fear he hoped was ill-founded. He wanted to believe these pilgrims were the same as they were before: pious, penitent, humbly petitioning. This was Monday morning, he told himself, that time of rude awakening that can bring out the bad side of people. Surely he had only
imagined
their tense expressions, edgy voices, and scavenger eyes.

Even so, an ominous possibility made him shudder:
Suppose the crucifix doesn’t cry?

IN THE VACANT LOT
beside Mumford’s Machine Shop, Dee Baylor sat alone on the hood of her car, watching the sky. There were no clouds overhead and only a few near the horizon, but this was where the Lord had spoken, and this was where the joy had been. Now Adrian had her angel and Mary had become the Virgin Mary. Blanche had long since pooh-poohed the whole thing and gone back to church. Brandon Nichols wasn’t seeing anyone today.

But the sky was still here, right where Dee had left it, and if it took all day to see one little cloud bearing a word of hope to her soul, she would remain here.

A car drove into the parking lot and two couples climbed out, one older, one younger. They had cameras and binoculars and ran up to her eagerly.

“Is this where you see the Virgin in the Clouds?” the older man asked.

Dee felt her heart soar. The Lord had brought these seekers to her. The miracle would return and she would guide them. “This is the place. If you have faith and a willing heart, God will speak to you.”

The young man checked the sky and smirked. “There aren’t any clouds.”

“There will be.”

“We don’t have time for this!” said the older lady.

“What about the trees in the park?” asked the young lady. “Somebody saw Jesus and Mary there yesterday.”

“Let’s go!” said the older man.

Dee called after them, “But this is the place!”

“You can have it!” the young man mocked.

And just that quick, they were gone.

Dee’s heart sank, but she remained there, sitting on the hood of her car. The clouds would return. She had faith.

“
HOW MUCH
do we really know about this guy?” asked Richard, the real estate broker from Wisconsin.

“Everything we need to know,” replied Andy Parmenter, the retired California executive. “He’s a messenger of God—”

“No, no, now come on, that’s a cop-out and you know it!” said Weaver, the CPA from Chicago.

“There’s something he’s not
telling!”
warned Richard.

“Like
everything
, maybe?” said Weaver.

They were gathered around the front of Andy Parmenter’s big motor home, all three of them in sour moods they’d been working on for days.

“It hit me this morning,” said Real Estate Richard. “Here we are in this RV park with—what?—three hundred other people?”

“Four hundred, I think,” Weaver the CPA offered.

“I’m
still
waiting to have my water turned on, I’m smelling the sewage from sixty other vehicles in my row that isn’t going anywhere, it’s just sitting in the sewer lines—”

“The whole system’s backed up.”

“And we’ve got kids crying and couples fighting and radios blaring while I’m trying to sleep—”

“And who’s that loud-mouthed prophet lady over in Row Four?” “Which one, Moses’ sister, Miriam, or Isaac’s wife, Rebecca?”

“She doesn’t know when to shut up, does she? Who’s listening to her?”

“Your
point
, Richard!” Andy demanded. “Get to your
point
!” Richard leaned forward and gestured like an angry Italian. “My point is, this morning it hit me: I am not better off than I was back in Wisconsin. Back there I had a house and a job and people who looked up to me. I didn’t
like
it, it didn’t feel like it was
about
anything, but—” He looked around the RV park hastily laid out on George Harding’s property. “What’s so great about this? I may as well be back in Wisconsin!”