The Visitation Part 14

"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, huh?" Brett asked.

He seemed embarra.s.sed. "That's what Mrs. Macon says."

"What do you say?"

"I am sent from G.o.d, 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 G.o.d thing."

"A G.o.d 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 c.o.c.ked 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 pa.s.sing cars as he worked in his motel office. He also learned of another benefit that came with perfect vision: One of the pilgrims pa.s.sing by on the sidewalk happened to be a very attractive young lady. "Well, h.e.l.loooo, 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.

"So you've heard from Kyle already."

"He's a very unhappy camper."

"Well, not to be critical, but he has a small mind. If anyone wants to consider me their Jesus, I allow them that. Kyle should do the same."

I had to laugh. "He's not wired up that way."

"So I gather. But how about you, Travis? I think you're ready to widen your world."

"I'm not about to believe a lie if I can help it."

He paused, I suppose to frame his question. "Why did you go to Minneapolis? Try to remember, Travis."

Brandon Nichols might not be Jesus, but he was supernatural. He knew all the right b.u.t.tons to push, all the perfect thorn-in-the-side memories to dredge up. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Fantasy, Travis. Like anyone else, you wanted a kinder reality, and I don't blame you."

"It didn't work."

"Well, that was then. The rules are about to change. My followers will be looking for a kinder reality, and they just might get it."

"Your followers?"

"Just don't blame them, Travis. You were there yourself, once. Oh, and Travis?"

"What?"

"Don't be like Kyle."