AT OUR LADY’S, Arnold Kowalski brought in the ladder. The pilgrims wanted it in place, ready for the next miracle. His feet hurt, his hands hurt, and carrying that ladder up the platform steps was no easy task, but no one in the crowd offered to help. This was his penance, he figured, the price to pay for a refreshing of his own private blessing.
His personal crucifix was still around his neck, and judging from the recurrence of his pain, it must need recharging. He didn’t think anyone would get upset if he went up the ladder to, uh, dust off the crucifix. He was, after all, the church maintenance man.
He’d brought the ladder, hadn’t he? For all his trouble and pain he deserved access to the wonderful wooden image.
Setting the ladder carefully in place, he started climbing, one painful step at a time. He could hear the people beginning to stir behind him. He looked over his shoulder and produced his dust rag. “Church maintenance. Just gonna dust things off.”
They didn’t seem too sure about that.
He reached the top of the ladder, face to face with the image, and began to feign dusting as he carefully, stealthily pulled his crucifix from under his shirt. Leaning awkwardly—he still had the chain around his neck—he managed to touch the big crucifix with his own.
“Hey!” a man yelled. “What are you doing?”
“Uh . . . just dusting.”
“Whatcha got in your hand?”
And then it started. “What’s in his hand? What is he doing?”
People got out of their seats, ran for a better viewing angle. “He’s trying to steal the blessing! Look! He’s got another crucifix!”
People were running onto the platform for a better look—and they were mad!
“Get down from there!”
“You think I came all this way—”
“How dare you!”
The ladder started shaking.
“Oh no, no, please!” Arnold cried. A hand grabbed his ankle.
“OHH!”
The ladder shook again. Another hand grabbed Arnold’s other ankle. “Get down from there!”
“Well if he’s gonna get some, I’m gonna get some!”
“You’ll have to wait your turn!”
The lady who once had leukemia slapped the fat lady, who slapped her back, the procrastinator shoved them both, and Penny squirmed through the opening in the crowd trying to get to the ladder. A mob was forming on the platform and the ladder was beginning to teeter away from the wall.
Arnold was sure he was going to die.
There was a crash. A candle stand had fallen over.
“Now look what you did!”
“Look what I got!”
“Give me that!”
Slaps. Punches. Screams.
Arnold tried to climb down. Hands yanked him and he fell into the crowd. Now there was a free-for-all for the ladder. OOF! They were walking right on his back!
Father Vendetti came racing in, yelled something, waved his hands, yelled again. Nobody listened.
A burly character who’d been sitting in the front row reached the top of the ladder and grabbed the crucifix with both hands, making it wiggle on its wall mountings.
“Is it loose?” someone asked.
“Loose enough.”
“Yeah,” said the fat lady, “why does it have to be up there where we can’t reach it?”
A riotous yell went up from the crowd and the burly man started heaving and yanking.
Father Vendetti ran for his office and the telephone.
“GUESS WE’RE GONNA have ourselves a little parade,” said Matt Kiley, strapping down some loudspeakers in the back of the ranch’s big flatbed. “The Boss likes attention, ever notice that?”
Michael was yanking the starter rope of a small Honda gas generator anchored between some hay bales. It wouldn’t start.
“Choke it.”
“Where’s that?”
Matt flipped the choke up. “Try it.”
Michael yanked again, and the generator came to life.
Matt opened the choke and then switched on the PA. He spoke into the wireless microphone. “Hello, testing, testing.” His voice boomed out of the speakers, echoing off the ranch house and barn.
“Brandon Nichols, you are ready to greet your public!” He handed the microphone to Michael. “Go on, get out in front and try it out.”
Michael took the microphone and hopped down from the flatbed. For the first time since he’d knocked on the door of the Macon ranch house, he felt a little foolish.
“Come on,” said Matt, “let’s hear something prophetic!”
“Hello . . . testing . . .”
“Come on, come on! We’re driving through town, remember?”
“Let the, uh, ears of the multitudes be opened before the, the, uh, coming of the Lord!”
“Go out a little farther,” Matt directed. “We’re getting some feedback.”
This is dumb, Michael thought. He’d never spoken a test prophecy before. He walked several yards out in front of the truck, talking as he went. “Let those who have seen no mercy now see mercy! Let those who are hungry come and dine! Let the blind see the light of the Messiah come to this place!”
The back door of the ranch house opened and Brandon Nichols walked out from under the patio roof and into the sunlight, his image reflected in the swimming pool.
His hair was neatly combed, parted in the middle, and cascading to his shoulders. His beard was shaped and trimmed. He was wearing a white robe and mantle, and biblical leather sandals. The full sleeves of his robe were just short enough to reveal the scars on his arms. He looked like a piece of religious artwork, and he was ready. Mary Donovan followed him, her robe and shawl perfectly in place, her eyes full of wonder.
“Let’s go,” he said.
MONA DILLARD knew she would lose her mind. As if she wasn’t sickened and frightened enough over dirty-eyed Norman, now it turned out that the couple who’d rented Number Eight weren’t really a couple. They were two halves of two other couples, and one of the other halves, a semimaniacal black belt, was kicking on the door, trying to smash it in, yelling and swearing.
“Now, now you stop that!” Mona pleaded from a safe distance across the parking lot. Where, oh where, was Norman?
The brute just kept kicking. “Sutter, you’re gonna pay for this!”
Another kick. A woman inside screamed. A man inside screamed something about being sorry and making a mistake and why don’t we talk about this.
The door caved in. The brute ran in. A woman ran out, hands over her head, screaming, while all hell broke loose inside. A lamp went through the window and landed in several pieces on the concrete. Then a suitcase.
Then Sutter.
Mona ran to the office to call the police.
ADRIAN FOLSOM opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and pulled out the remaining stationery she’d purchased for her special ministry. She wouldn’t be needing it anymore.
“Is that all of it?” asked her husband, Roger.
“This is it. I wrote . . .” She consulted a list she kept in the box, counting all the names. “I wrote fifteen letters from Elkezar to all these people.”
Roger was dismayed. “Fifteen!”
“I thought he was—” Adrian winced with shame and embarrassment. “I thought he was an angel of God. I really did.”
“Where is he now?”
“Oh, I don’t know! He’s a spirit, Roger! You can’t just go out and find him.”
“Well he’d better take his business elsewhere, that’s all I’ve got to say.” He shouted to the air, “You hear that, Amazar?”
Adrian whispered, “You’ll scare Melissa! And his name’s Elkezar.”
“He knows who I mean.”
She looked at the list of names in her stationery box. “I’ll have to write back to every one of them and tell them to throw the letters away.”
Roger nodded with a smile. “I’m feeling better already.”
Just then, they heard the voice of their gr
anddaughter Melissa, playing in the living room. “Hi! What’s your name?”
Roger and Adrian exchanged a look, then ran.
Five-year-old Melissa and Jillie, the schnauzer, had been playing fetch with Jillie’s ball, but now they stood in the middle of the room looking up at . . . nothing. Melissa was making a face. “That’s a funny name. I’m Melissa.” Seemingly in answer to a question, she looked at Jillie and said, “This is Jillie. She won’t bite you.”
Adrian and Roger stood frozen in the hallway.
“Melissa,” Adrian said, her voice trembling with fear she tried not to show, “would you come here please?”
Melissa looked their way but didn’t move. She was still talking to someone. “This is my gramma and grampa.” She told Adrian and Roger, “This is Alka-Seltzer. That’s his name; I’m not making it up.”
“Melissa! I want you to come here this instant!”
Melissa shrugged and came toward them. Adrian stepped forward, reached, and yanked Melissa to her side. Then she scanned the room, her eyes darting wildly for any stirring, any shadow or sign.
Jillie was the best sign. She was still looking up at something no one else could see.
Melissa got fussy. “He wants to play with me!”
“Alkanar . . .” said Roger.
“Elkezar,” Adrian corrected.
“Elkezar, get out of the house. Right now. You’re not welcome here!” Even his voice was shaky.
Jillie watched something move through the room, then followed it past the kitchen and toward the back door, her eyes locked on it, panting, trotting, and leaping playfully, but not barking.
The back door opened by itself and Jillie dashed into the back yard.
“Jillie!” Adrian cried, running after her. “Jillie, come back here!”
“Adrian!” Roger ran after her with Melissa at his heels.
Jillie snarled and then yelped. Adrian flung the back door open and stepped onto the walkway.
She screamed, stepping backward, turning her face away, covering her eyes.
Roger grabbed Melissa, but too late. She saw it too, and shrieked, burying her face in his leg.
Jillie lay twisted and dead on the grass, eyes vacant, legs crookedly skyward, her innards strewn about the yard in torn lengths and pieces.
JIM BAYLOR didn’t even get through the police station door before he bumped chests with Deputy Mark Peterson coming out.
“Hey, whoa there!”
“In a hurry, Jim!”
Jim followed, almost running alongside, as Mark strode toward his truck—the town had three officers and two squad cars, and it was his day to be the odd man. “What’s the deal on Sally Fordyce?
You gonna do anything?”
“We’ve got it on the list, Jim. That’s all I can tell you.”
“On the list? What’s the matter with you, didn’t you see what that creep did to her?”
Mark was wound up tight and not feeling kind. “Jim, our phones are ringing themselves off the desks. We’ve got fights, we’ve got riots, we’ve got destruction of property—Brett’s out on a call, Rod’s out, I’m heading out, and we’re still not going to get to everybody. Sally’s okay, she’ll live, she has time to press charges and go through the process. We can’t mess with her case today.”
He opened the door to his pickup and climbed in.
“You’re supposed to be doing your job!”
Mark’s hand was on the door handle, ready to close it. “I am doing my job, or don’t you have eyes?”
“I don’t believe this!”
“Jim!” Mark took a breath, a moment to calm himself. He let go of the door handle. “If you’d like to help, you can corral that wife of yours before she kills somebody. Brett just saw her driving through town like a nut case. He would have pulled her over if he wasn’t trying to calm a riot at the Catholic church.”
Jim was shocked. “You talking about Dee?”
“How many wives do you have?” Mark grabbed the door handle again. “Take away her car keys and we’ll get to Sally Fordyce quicker, okay?”
He slammed the door shut and drove off, emergency lights flashing.
I’d better get home, Jim thought.
I WAS TIRED AND EMOTIONALLY SPENT as I pulled into Antioch. All the way from Nechville to Dallas, then to Seattle, then to Spokane, then all the way home to Antioch . . . I wanted my couch, if not my bed. Nothing, I thought, would dissuade me from my course. Not the mobs scurrying around the streets of Antioch with their cameras and recorders. Not the people running from the Catholic church with—was that a wooden foot in that lady’s hand, and were those two guys fighting over a wooden arm? Not the—oh brother, was this another Jesus?
He was standing on the sidewalk near the Laundromat signing autographs and having his picture taken with smiling visitors.
He had the traditional long hair and beard, but he could have put some more thought into his outfit: a tan bathrobe with tee shirt and jeans underneath, and a circle of plastic, dime-store ivy for a crown of thorns. I rolled my window down and caught his southern accent: “Well, verily, verily, I say to y’all . . .”
No, not even him. Not even—oh no. There was a fight going on in the park. It looked like some of Justin Cantwell’s followers were having it out with some of Armond Harrison’s. They’d been working together on that park, and now they were fighting in it.
I just wanted all the more to get home, close my door. . . .
Kyle had left a note on the door and a message on my answering machine. I’m sure if I’d turned on my computer I would have found an e-mail from him too.
I called him, he said he’d call the others, and I doubled right back to the Methodist church. By now it was late afternoon. The meeting was bigger this time. Not only were Kyle and Morgan there waiting for me, we also had some guests: Nancy Barrons and Gildy Holliday.
“It’s time we laid all our cards on the table,” said Nancy. “This town’s in trouble.”
“I’m ready,” I said.
We sat down in Morgan’s office and Morgan closed the door.
ON THE WEST END OF TOWN, near the vacant lot next to Mumford’s Machine Shop, Matt Kiley brought the big flatbed hay truck to a halt. Justin Cantwell, robed and ready, climbed out of the cab and took his place on the flatbed. Michael the Prophet, wireless microphone in hand, walked out ahead. The Virgin Mary Donovan took her place behind, and a gaggle of about thirty Macon ranch hangers-on, arriving in cars and RVs, gathered behind her. Andy Parmenter and his wife were there—Andy looked a little bruised, but they were still believing. George Harding came along hoping to improve his business. Melody Blair had brought extra pins along, in case Brandon’s robe needed adjusting. She just wanted to keep the Messiah happy.
From where he now stood, Cantwell could look south and see the little hill with the cottonwoods near my place where he first came eye to eye with that pitiful, burned-out former minister. Looking ahead and to the left, he could see the church that minister no longer pastored sitting on the knoll above the highway.
“Let’s take this town!” he hollered, pointing ahead like a general commanding a charge.
The band and the female vocalist had quit. Matt had a cassette player on the front seat. He hit the play button and an old Reader’s Digest collection of inspirational favorites started broadcasting from the speakers: “When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high . . .”
Michael stood there a moment, looking bewildered. Matt tooted his horn at him and he jerked to life. “Uh, behold he comes forth, his power in his hand, to touch this land and bring forth new life!”
The procession began, and already, heads of wandering pilgrims were turning.
WE HUDDLED in Morgan’s office, and although we were alone, we still spoke quietly as if an enemy could be listening. I shared my Nechville experience with everyone, and if they felt concern before that, I doubled it.
“Just got a call from Adrian Folsom,” Kyle reported. “If Elkezar left, i
t was on a bad note.” He told us about Elkezar, Melissa, and the horrible death of Jillie. “I’m going to get over there and get that whole problem prayed through.”
“She’s back in the fold, I take it?”
Kyle nodded, but seemed sorrowful. “I’m just sorry it had to happen this way.”
“I need to have a good long talk with Sally,” said Morgan. “She’s afraid to be left alone, afraid her ‘angel’ might show up again.”
“Well, all of these people need to come clean with God and rebuke these things in the name of Jesus,” said Kyle. “That’s what Bob Fisher told that member of his congregation to do, and the thing hasn’t been back.”
“Brett’s still looking for the hitchhiker,” said Nancy. “He’s convinced the man, the thing, whatever, was in his house.” Then she said something to Kyle that surprised me. “Looks like your little theory about demons was right.” She caught us all staring at her.
“Well they aren’t angels—just take a look outside!”
MICHAEL KEPT WALKING ahead of the truck, staying right on the white line he helped paint down the middle of the street. “He is, uh . . . he’s . . .” Suddenly Michael wasn’t sure. He forced the words out. “Come to him, all ye who are weary and are heavy-leaded— uh, heavy-laden—and he will give you best! His yoke is in his hand to separate the cows from the goats and the wheat from the flakes, and his words are a mighty wind to quake the hay stalks of confusion that roll through the oceans of grief and pain and . . . you know, other messy stuff . . .” His British accent was failing him.
Now Matt was playing a gospel album by Elvis with the Jordanaires: “Then sings my soul . . .”
And Justin Cantwell, the Messiah of Antioch, waved to the crowds, blew them kisses, made sure they could see the scars on his arms, and tossed them loaves of bread he produced out of thin air. “I am he,” he cried. “I am he and there is no other!”
It was working. Cameras were flashing, camcorders were blinking. Young and old scrambled after the loaves. People were running up to the truck, reaching for a touch and getting one.
“Come to me! I will hear your cries! I will give you blessing!”
The tone in his voice and the steely glare in his eyes would have made his daddy proud.