“What is it?”
HISSSSS. The television screen went snowy.
“Hey!” said the boys. “Right at the good part!”
Brett rubbed his leg. “It’s that shrapnel wound. It’s really poking me.”
“But—” Lori looked at the little jar on the mantel. The shrapnel that had fallen out at Brandon Nichols’s touch was still there.
“The shrapnel isn’t in there anymore.”
Brett recovered a little. “Eh, it hurts anyway. I don’t know why.”
“Why’d this thing stop?” Dan fussed, reaching above the television to tinker with the VCR.
“GET BACK!” Brett shouted, leaping to his feet, almost spilling the popcorn.
Dan leaped back, his hands quivering, startled and scared.
Howie sat on the floor wide-eyed and frozen.
“Brett . . .”
“Now just take it easy,” Brett said to . . . whom? He was looking toward the corner of the room near the television. “Lori, take the boys into the kitchen.”
“Why?”
“Do it now!”
“Come on, boys. Howie! Come on, get up!”
“What are you looking at?” Dan asked.
“Go with your mother.”
Lori looked in the same direction as Brett and saw nothing.
But she felt something. “Boys, get into the kitchen and stay there!”
“What do you see, Dad?” Dan was getting scared now.
“Go!” Lori herded the boys behind her as she backed toward the kitchen, watching her husband talk to the wall.
“Listen,” Brett was saying, “I don’t know what you want, but you made a big mistake coming in here.” His right hand was behind his back. He was snapping his fingers. A signal. “I can’t hear you. Speak up.”
She ran into the kitchen, yanked a locked box from the cupboard above the refrigerator, and opened it with a key hidden behind the flour jar. Inside was a 9 mm pistol. She grabbed a loaded clip from a drawer, slammed it into the pistol, and returned to the living room.
She stopped at the edge of the living room. She peered intensely in the direction her husband was looking but there was no one there.
Snap! Snap! Snap! He wanted the gun.
She saw nothing, but felt a jittery sensation, like standing on the edge of a cliff. Her pulse was hammering. Behind her the boys were starting to cry. Was her husband hallucinating? Dared she give him a loaded firearm?
He grabbed it from her forcefully, pushing her behind him, taking a shooting stance. “Freeze! Turn around slowly, put your hands on the wall!”
Whatever it was, it was beginning to move. He followed with his aim, the muzzle of the gun sweeping across the room toward the hallway. She could feel something getting closer.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
It didn’t stop.
“Stop!”
Her skin was tingling, like a static charge. She backed away.
She may have seen a shadow that didn’t belong— BANG!
The boys screamed. She jumped, her trembling hands went to her ears, her eyes searched and searched.
Brett aimed down the hall.
BANG!
The bullet slammed into the back door. Brett ran down the hall. “Hold it!”
She dashed into the kitchen, crouching, shielding the boys in a corner with her body as they screamed and cried. She heard the back door open, felt cold air crawling around her ankles. Her ears were humming from the shots.
The telephone rang, startling her like another gunshot. She was protecting the boys. She didn’t even think of answering it.
Brett slammed the back door and scrambled up the hall through a blue haze of smoke, limping and cursing.
The telephone rang again.
“He’s gone.”
The cop movie came back on the television. Shooting, yelling, sirens.
The telephone rang. She turned but did not rise.
In anger Brett grabbed the phone off the kitchen wall. “Henchle!”
Then, “Rod, get your butt over here, I’ve had a suspect right here in the house! The hitchhiker! That guy I told you about! He was right here in the house! What?” He listened, then cursed again. “Did you put her in custody?” His hand went to his leg and he bent a little, wincing in pain. “No, you did the right thing. I think it’s already hit the fan. Get Mark on the radio and get the two squad cars over here, one on Maple, one on Elm. I want the neighborhood combed for this guy.” He listened to another question. “Leave her there. We’ll sort that out later.”
He hung up, hurried into the living room to pause the VCR, then returned to the kitchen and his wife. He noticed the gun in his hand. He quickly removed the clip and set it aside. He touched her. “Lori, it’s okay. Boys, it’s okay, it’s all over.”
“What was it?” Dan cried. Howie was speechless with fear.
“It was a man I picked up on the highway some weeks ago. He sneaked in somehow. He’s gone now. You’re okay.”
Lori stood. The boys just held onto her legs and remained there as she asked, “The hitchhiker?”
“Yeah, the blond guy who told me Jesus was coming? That was him. I don’t know what he wanted, but—” He lowered his voice for the sake of the boys. “He was up to no good. We’ll have to lock the place up tight tonight. If you want I can take you to your mother’s.”
“The hitchhiker?” she asked again.
He nodded. He held her. “Yeah. I knew that guy was trouble the moment he pulled that stunt in the car.”
“Honey . . .” She was afraid to say it. “I didn’t see him.”
“It’s okay.”
She pushed him back just enough to look in his eyes. “No, really. I didn’t see him. I didn’t see anyone there.”
He returned her gaze with a blank look. “He was right there, right by the TV cabinet. He must have been hiding behind it.”
She began to feel another fear—a fear for her husband’s sanity. “Sweetheart, that cabinet’s right up against the wall! You can’t hide back there!”
He backed away. “You didn’t see him? He was standing right there!”
She could only shake her head no.
“Didn’t you see him run down the hall?”
She switched subjects. “What did Rod say?”
Brett stood in the middle of the kitchen looking disoriented.
“He arrested Penny Adams tonight.”
“Oh no.”
“She’d been shoplifting from Florence Lynch’s store. He and Florence went over to Bonnie Adams’s place and found a closet full of stolen merchandise.”
“And she just got her hand back.”
Brett winced again, his hand on his leg. “Yeah, just like I got my leg fixed.”
She didn’t understand. “What?”
He picked up the gun again and slammed in the clip. “It’ll be okay. I’ll get it straightened out.”
He went into the hall and grabbed his coat from the closet.
“You’re not leaving!” Lori pleaded.
“The town’s falling apart. I can’t just sit here.”
He kissed her and limped out the door, leaving her alone, bewildered and afraid. Dan and Howie would not let go of her.
MONA DILLARD didn’t know how to feel: happy or troubled, encouraged or frustrated. The Wheatland Motel was seeing all kinds of changes and enjoying a steady flow of business. Norman had a great brainstorm—a costly one, but it worked out: They converted two of their units to kitchenettes, and the moment they were ready they were rented—by the month—by some of Brandon Nichols’s followers. A steady stream of pilgrims took up the rest of the rooms, and now Norman was thinking of buying the old auto shop next store, razing it to the ground, and putting in a whole new wing. Things were going great—for the business.
Things were not going so great between Mona and Norman.
Oh, things seemed okay on the surface, but in her mind she was plagued by misgivings, by the nagging questions that can
bother a woman when her man seems . . . uninterested. He’d been busy and preoccupied, of course, but it was more than that. It was . . .
Well, it had to be another woman. It was unthinkable, but that’s what she thought. She had no direct knowledge, but she was sure of it. He was looking elsewhere.
But it was worse than that. It was hard to describe, harder to believe, but she could sense a shifting, leering menace in his eyes that had never been there before, as if a different mind had moved in behind them, lustfully gazing everywhere else while looking toward her with disdain. She and Norman weren’t talking much. She couldn’t look at him. He showed no desire to look at her.
Today, she was trying to bury her worries by concentrating on linen inventory: what they had, what they needed, and how much of each. She was rummaging through the supply room, counting sheets and towels shelf by shelf, trying to figure out Norman’s rotation system. Managing the supply room was usually his job, but he’d been busy with the kitchenettes, so the task had fallen to her.
When she pulled a stack of folded sheets from a top shelf, a magazine slid out and fell on the floor.
It was not necessary to pick it up or even look closer to know what kind of publication it was. The glossy photo on the cover told her all she would ever need to know. She backed away, clutching the folded sheets as if they would soften the pain now spiking through her heart.
Was this the other woman? No doubt she was not the only one.
Mona threw the sheets aside and reached up on the shelf, just above eye level, to feel for more. There were more. She pulled one out, saw it, dropped it, then pulled out another.
She dropped it as if it were a poisonous snake baring its fangs, then backed away, clutching the sheets to her breast. Time froze, and so did she, her arms wrapped around the stack of folded sheets, gawking at the images on the floor. Every pain she had ever felt— and thought she could avoid by working in this room—tumbled back upon her.
She’d buried herself in this task to forget her troubles with Norman, but now . . .
AS SOON AS I returned from Southern California, I thought it important to discuss with Morgan and Kyle what I’d discovered, as little as it was, and to plan our next course of action. Kyle had church commitments that evening, but said Morgan and I should meet anyway. I called her and suggested we meet over dinner.
“Uh, where can we do that?” she asked.
It was a valid question. She was a minister, and it wouldn’t look right for her to have a man in her home. I wasn’t a minister anymore, but I was still concerned about appearances, and we both knew it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to be in my home either. If we met at Judy’s it would look like we were meeting socially, and the town was too small with too active a grapevine for something like that.
“Why don’t we get out of town?” I suggested. “Maybe some place in Spokane.”
“That would be more prudent,” she said.
“Where would you like to go?”
“Oh, why don’t you pick a place and let me know?”
“All right.”
That, too, was an overwhelming question. This was going to be a meeting with a professional lady of distinction. We couldn’t go to McDonald’s or Burger King. It would have to be a place with some class, some atmosphere, but not too much because this wasn’t a date. What did she like? I knew of a nice Italian place with great salads, but you usually had to sit and wait for a table.
There was a Japanese, juggle-the-knives restaurant, but it wouldn’t be a good place for a serious discussion. I liked Mexican, but the salsa would have me blowing my nose all evening. We could try Mongolian barbecue, but building your own meal from raw meat and vegetables seemed too informal. There was a nice steakhouse overlooking the Spokane River. The falls would be spectacular this time of year, but that might seem presumptuous.
“WOW!” she said. “Look at those falls!”
We had a table right next to the windows. White tablecloth, cloth napkins, an oil candle in the middle, two forks. She was wearing a dark purple dress with long, sheer sleeves and delicate silver earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders. I’d settled for a sport jacket and tie, but wore a cream-colored shirt, less formal than a white one.
We started looking over the menu, talking about what we were in the mood for.
“You ever done any singing?” I asked offhandedly, not looking up.
She replied offhandedly, “Star Cloud Marmalade.”
I couldn’t find it on the menu. “What’s that?”
“The rock group I sang with. We did two albums and once warmed up for Led Zeppelin.”
I dropped my menu. “You really did sing in a rock group?”
She nodded. “I probably scarred my vocal cords. But we were quite good if I may say so, and I emulated Janis Joplin.”
“Vocally,” I tried to qualify.
“Gabe rescued me from the drug scene before I ended up like her.”
“‘There, but for the grace of God . . .’”
“‘. . . would have gone I.’”
“How did you meet Gabe?”
“He was a youth minister at a Methodist church and a friend introduced us. I liked him the first time we met, and we ended up falling in love. I’d done a lot to mess up the world. Gabe and I did what we could to put it back together again, at least our little corner of it. We were together fourteen years.”
“I liked him.”
“I liked Marian.”
The waitress came and took our order. I went for a steak. Morgan decided on a spinach something-or-other.
I told her about my visit to The Cathedral of Life. She listened raptly, her fingers on her chin, often chuckling at my account. Our dinners came and we gave them half our attention.
“You really said that to Miles Newberry?”
“I wouldn’t have been so bold twenty years ago.”
“Justin Cantwell,” she mused. “I wonder if we’ll find another name beyond this one.”
“Our local messiah isn’t telling.”
“But he still talks to you. He still tries to pull you in. That really interests me.”
“He’s looking for someone to share his bitterness and disillusionment.”
“No doubt.” She smiled and cocked her head. “So do you?”
The thought chilled me. “I don’t want to end up like him.”
“So how did he end up the way he is?”
“The same way I got where I am, to hear him tell it.”
“That’s spooky.”
The waitress checked back. “Everything okay here? Can I get you anything?” The food was great and we were fine. She made her exit.
“So how are things with you?” I asked.
“Better.” She smiled a whimsical smile. “Remember that list of three items from our first meeting?”
I probed my memory. “You and your congregation aren’t getting along, Brandon Nichols isn’t Jesus . . . and Michael the Prophet is your son.”
“The third one is still a problem, but the first two . . .” For a moment she looked at the falls outside the window. “I’m moving into an irreversible situation. Jesus has become an issue for me, and some—not all—in the congregation don’t want me going there.”
She smiled. “Still, like it or not, I’m there. I’m starting to address him by name, starting to view my faith as a relationship. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
I tried not to fully express my joy lest I embarrass her in public.
“I know what you mean.”
“Travis, I’ve been to seminary. I’ve been an ordained minister for ten years, and I was married to an ordained minister for fourteen. Gabe and I did all we could to bring out the best in people, but—it’s one of those things you only see looking back—there was always an evasive, missing element: relationship. Jesus was a religious abstraction, a historical figure we discussed and debated but didn’t know.” She looked around the room. “Some of my parishioners would make an issue of my
having dinner with an evangelical, fundamentalist, Pentecostal whatever-you-are, but they’d be missing the point. It’s not my church or your church or which tradition is right or how many candles we light—it’s knowing Jesus for who he is.”
Oh, I was enjoying this. “Preach on, sister.”
She preached on, leaning so low toward me that her earrings almost went in her spinach. “And I think that’s Justin Cantwell’s problem. Plenty of church, but no relationship.” She settled back in her chair and thought a moment, the white, cascading falls reflected in her glasses. “Maybe Michael’s problem too.”
“But . . .” I really wanted to ease her pain. “There could be a new beginning here, a new twist to the story.”
She gave a weak smile. “Let’s hope so. Who knows? Maybe if Michael’s mother knows the real Christ, she can somehow wean him from a false one.”
I smiled at her. “I’ll concur with that.”
She abruptly switched subjects. “So how long did you pastor in Antioch?”
“About fifteen years.”
She leaned back as if for a better view and said, “Tell me about it.”
“Oh, there’s not much to tell. . . .”
“How’d you wind up in Antioch in the first place?”
I closed my eyes and could see the memory playing through my mind like an old home movie. Some memories just never fade. . . .
IT WAS A CALLING that made no practical sense. Marian was working at her company in Los Angeles and doing well. I had my teaching degree and some great prospects for employment in elementary education. Our budget was finally starting to look healthy. We’d moved to a bigger apartment and bought new furniture. We even had a second car.
And then Dad called. Some folks wanted to start a Pentecostal Mission church in a little eastern Washington town called Antioch.
He just thought I might like to pray about that. No pressure; he was just letting me know. I said I’d pray about it, and I did—“Dear Lord, I hope they find somebody”—and immediately put the subject aside. It came back. Sitting in our living room and hearing the police helicopter circling the neighborhood for the fifth straight night got me thinking about living in a quiet place and being a pastor again. Then I thought of Northwest Mission. No way, I thought. Never again.