The Visitation

by Frank Peretti

  Kim pushed with her feet, propelling her wheeled chair across to Nancy’s desk. “But it’s news.”

  Nancy waved her off, a little angry. “No, no, no, I don’t want to hear that excuse anymore. We’ve been using it for weeks.” On her monitor was the headline, A BETTER HOME FOR THE MESSIAH. Underneath was a full-color photo of the new public restrooms and showers under construction at the Macon ranch. “What in the world are we doing? This isn’t a news story. It’s another full-page ad!”

  Kim shrugged. “He’s employing local workers, buying materials from local businesses, drawing pilgrims from all over the country who spend money here. That’s news for this town. People want to know about it.”

  “But we’re helping him. Knowing what we know, we’re still helping him!”

  Kim nodded forlornly. “When I was up there to take the picture, Nichols’s people told me they wanted five hundred copies when the story ran.”

  “Yeah, free publicity. More clippings to put in their PR package.

  An endorsement, if you ask me! He’s using us just like he’s using everyone else in this town!”

  “What if we toned down the headline and didn’t call him the Messiah?”

  Nancy leaned back, folding her arms. “I notice we’ve never run a story on Mary Donovan.”

  Kim snickered. “Or Michael Elliott.”

  “Our own Virgin Mary and John the Baptist. Kind of like meeting Mickey Mouse and Goofy at Disneyland.”

  “So why haven’t we? The big papers have.”

  “Because . . .” An animated, geometric screen-saver started up on Nancy’s computer. She let it run. “We live here and we don’t want to hurt our friends—not to mention we’re covering our own rear ends. If we ever did an honest story about any of this, we’d be right alongside the big papers in showing how ludicrous it all is.” For the first time, Nancy looked at Kim. “But it’s going to blow up. Adrian Folsom’s talking to an angel, but have you seen how paranoid she’s gotten? And the other night, Rod Stanton and Mark spent a couple of hours looking for a ghost Brett says appeared in his living room: that hitchhiker he picked up months ago.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “We’ve got all these people and all this money coming into town. There’s building going on. Businesses are expanding and sticking their necks out, and for what? For this supposedly upgraded version of Jesus Christ who performs miracles but has a thing for women, is probably a crook, and—” It was a difficult realization. “And have you noticed how nobody’s really better off? Business is better, sure, but Matt Kiley’s nothing more than a thug, Norman Dillard looks at you everywhere but in the eye, Penny Adams is stealing again, Adrian’s paranoid, Brett’s, I don’t know, seeing things, and Don Anderson—”

  “Him too?”

  “Well . . . he’s not entirely there when you talk to him.”

  “Maybe he’s been playing with his toys too much.”

  “It’s going to blow up, and when it does, where’s this town going to be? We should’ve gotten a clue when we first talked to Nevin Sorrel—who’s now dead, of course.”

  “Definitely not better off. But what can we prove?”

  “No, take it to the next step. Say we can prove something. This late in the game, how’s the town going to react? We’re talking wallets and purses here, a mighty big balloon to pop, and we helped, Kim. That’s the sad thing. We beat the drum for this guy. We contributed to the problem.”

  Kim nodded. “I think I’m feeling scared.”

  “You and me both.”

  “So what now?”

  “We’re backing away. This guy’s a leaking gasoline truck, and when everything blows we don’t want to be in league with him. We can cover the story afterwards, and then who can blame us?” With a few quick keystrokes and moves of the mouse, Nancy erased the headline from the front page of Tuesday’s issue.

  “Are you going to tell Travis Jordan what we know?”

  “I’m sure it would be of interest to him, but—” Nancy stopped short, her brow crinkling.

  “What?”

  “The Harmons in Missoula . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have they ever seen a picture of Brandon Nichols?”

  SATURDAY MORNING, when I dialed the Macon ranch, Mrs. Macon didn’t answer her own telephone. A machine did.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the Ranch of the New Dawn. If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it now. Otherwise, remain on the line and an operator will assist you. Another gathering of the human family will begin at 2 P.M. today, Saturday. See you there.”

  I remained on the line and got the operator. “Hello, Ranch of the New Dawn.”

  “Hello. This is Travis Jordan and I’d like to speak with Mrs. Macon.” I didn’t really have anything to say to her. I just wanted to find out if she could talk on her own telephone.

  “Mrs. Macon is unavailable. Would you like to talk to her assistant?”

  Mrs. Macon has an assistant? “Okay. Sure.”

  Hold music started playing. I about fell over.

  “Hello, this is Gildy. How can I help you?”

  “Gildy? Gildy Holliday?” Judy Holliday’s granddaughter who used to wait on me at Judy’s!

  “Oh, is this Travis?”

  “What are you doing up there?”

  “Taking care of Mrs. Macon. You know, cooking, cleaning, answering the phone, helping her get around.”

  “Since when?”

  “Two weeks ago. I’m lovin’ it. It’s a nice house to work in and the money’s good.”

  “So how is the widow?”

  She sighed. “Not very good. Sometimes she’s there and sometimes she isn’t—if you know what I mean.”

  That answer I was not expecting. “Are we talking about Ethyl Macon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who used to be married to Cephus Macon?”

  “Sure.”

  “The lady who owns the ranch?”

  “Well, the corporation owns it now, but she still lives here. It’s a good thing because the stroke really put her down.”

  Was I on the right planet? “What stroke?”

  “Haven’t you heard? She had a stroke two weeks ago.”

  I had to recover from that blow before I could ask the next question. “What corporation?”

  “Well, New Dawn. Brandon Nichols and the widow signed a deal before her stroke.”

  I was stunned. “Things happen fast up there.”

  She laughed. “You ought to see it.”

  “I’m planning on coming to the gathering this afternoon.”

  “Just pardon the mess. We’re building, you know.”

  “HEY, KYLE. Want to go to a meeting?”

  “You read my mind.”

  I picked him up and we headed for the ranch. “You don’t have to say or do anything,” I told him. “I just need you praying. This one’s going to be tense.”

  THEY WERE BUILDING, all right, although at this point the new rest room and shower facility was still more mud and mess than building. The concrete slab was poured, the rough-in plumbing sticking up through it. Open ditches for sewer lines and drainage were all around it—barricaded for safety. A sign posted in front showed the architect’s drawing of what it would look like. It was going to be nice, the envy of any national park.

  Just in time too. We’d driven by George Harding’s place on the way and quickly estimated a minimum of a hundred trailers and RVs parked in his still-developing RV park. As we came up the hill to the ranch and into the parking area, we estimated another hundred up there, not counting all the cars.

  And now there were two circus tents side by side, joined like Siamese twins with the middle wall removed and the stage centered between them. Brandon Nichols—for that was his name for these folks—would now be performing in the round for a crowd approaching six hundred. Ushers with red shirts and walkie-talkies directed the flow of people coming in. A six-piece band—two guitars, bass, drums, keyboard, and a
female vocalist—were performing feel-good songs like “Everything Is Beautiful,” “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” and “What a Wonderful World.” Matt Kiley was serving as head usher now. We avoided him, finding two seats halfway back and in the middle. From there, we could see a roped-off corridor from the stage to a tent door that led to Mrs. Macon’s house. That had to be where Elvis—excuse me, Nichols—would make his big entrance. By two o’clock, almost all the folding and plastic chairs were taken and the two tents were filled with the excited, preshow murmuring of the crowd.

  I also heard babies and kids, lots of them, and noted that a good number were loose, running up and down the aisles, chasing and hollering, falling and crying. Apparently, the New Dawn Corporation hadn’t yet thought about childcare, and many parents had chosen not to be responsible for their children. I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

  It was two o’clock and folks were still trickling in, still talking among themselves as they looked for seats. I kept on smiling.

  The drummer in the band let out a drum roll.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters,” announced the pretty, female vocalist, “please welcome our Messenger of the New Dawn, Brandon Nichols!”

  The band started a peppy tune, the crowd rose to its feet applauding and cheering, and in came Nichols, decked out in white tunic and glittering gold jewelry, and sporting a brand-new wavy permanent. He waved and smiled as he ascended the stage, then held both hands high over his head like a fighter entering the ring. The applause went on for a good, long minute.

  “So where’s Sally Fordyce?” Kyle asked me.

  Nichols was onstage alone, without Sally Fordyce in a biblical robe, or the Virgin Mary Donovan. The size of the crowd could have explained why we didn’t see Dee Baylor or Adrian Folsom, but perhaps they weren’t here, either. I recognized some of Armond Harrison’s women sitting toward the front, but apart from them, this was a crowd of strangers.

  Nichols sighted us in the crowd and his smile faded for an instant. He forced it back, flashing some teeth in our direction as he said to the crowd, “We’ve come far, haven’t we?” The crowd cheered again.

  We didn’t cheer, but I did flash a smile back at him, and he must have caught the meaning in it. He had trouble getting started.

  “Well, anyway, here we are, and, uh, we’ve got, we’ve got things to do today, yes sir, it’s, uh . . . how are you all doing?”

  After a few false starts he finally got his talk rolling, telling some stories, getting some laughs, and encouraging everyone about how wonderful they were. I didn’t catch most of what he said. I was more interested in the edge in his voice, the tenseness in his walk, the way he kept drumming his fingers against his thigh. I looked around the tent. Was anyone else noticing the same thing? Possibly. A man leaned and whispered an observation to his wife and she nodded, watching Nichols intently.

  I looked around. The kids were still loose. There were gaggles of latecomers still wandering around and chatting in the back.

  Kyle’s eyes were open, but his lips were moving vaguely. He was praying. Good. I did some praying myself, but never took my eyes off Nichols.

  “And that’s why we where with—why were whennit—” One more try. “That’s why-we-were-where-we-were when . . .” He was flustered but kept going, his voice tense and his good humor strained. He was trying to promise us a better world, trying to convince us how such a dream was in our hands. He lost his train of thought and stopped cold. He backed up, picked it up again, hurriedly mumbled some point about how we could achieve heights our parents never dreamed of—

  “I WANT IT QUIET IN HERE!” It was a sudden, alarming flash of temper. The people sitting near me reacted as if they’d been slapped. He pointed to some kids running up the aisle in front of him. “Whose children are these?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I want them out of here! NOW!”

  A burly usher grabbed the arm of a little boy running by, whip-cracking him and hauling him in. The kid screamed bloody murder, kicking and punching as the usher carried him toward an exit. His mother popped up out of the vast, seated crowd and started hollering for him, tripping over chairs and feet trying to get out of her row.

  “Take him out!” said Nichols, and then he pointed to some other children still running loose. “And those too! That girl, and that girl, and those two boys, and that one running back there! Get them out of my sight!”

  Now there was a murmur in the crowd. People were looking at each other, whispering, concerned. This isn’t like Jesus, I could imagine them saying. Kyle and I drank it all in. I caught myself smiling again and put my hand over my mouth.

  Parents were popping up all over the crowd, working their way into the aisles, hollering, clapping, and finger-snapping at their kids. Some returned to their seats with their fussing children in tow. Many headed for the exits, indignant. For several minutes, two couples had to chase their kids around the tent and actually catch them before hauling them out, kicking and screaming.

  Nichols pointed an accusing finger and sighted down it at some latecomers meandering around in the back. “And you people! You’re late! Do you have any idea what message that sends to the rest of us, or to me? Now find your seats and please stop your talking!”

  Now this was quite a show. Brandon Nichols stood there like iron, scanning the crowd with a seething expression, waiting for his orders to be fulfilled. When it was quiet—nervously, tensely quiet—he said, “I hope today will set a precedent in your minds. We may be under a tent, but this is not a circus, nor is it a playground, and I am not here to compete with unruly children and gabby latecomers!” He drew a breath. “Now. Where was I?”

  He went on for a while, trying to throw in some jokes about the kid and latecomer problem but getting half-laughs for his trouble. His talk came to an anticlimactic ending, and I sensed that all of us—including Nichols—were just as happy to have it over.

  He moved on to the spectacle he was known for: going to people in the audience, apparently with no prior knowledge of who they were or what their problem was, and touching them. He ventured into the audience and started healing bad eyes, bad knees, bad lungs . . .

  A short but very fat woman came running down the aisle, reaching out toward him. Matt Kiley and two other toughs waylaid her and started walking—and almost dragging—her back to her seat. “You haven’t helped me!” she screamed at Nichols. “Look at me! Just look at me!”

  He’d been trying to ignore her, but finally pointed at her and growled into the wireless microphone, “It’s not my fault you’re fat! You’re fat because you lie around eating Big Macs and bonbons all day! Now sit down in however many chairs you have back there and be quiet. I’ve already touched you twice!”

  He did his best to recover his momentum, working his way around the two big tents, naming and healing sicknesses and sometimes granting favors. I watched in fascination. This used to be easy for him, but not tonight. People were getting out of their seats, clogging the aisles, shooting out their hands to touch him. “Back in your seats, people! Get back in your seats!” He had to repeat the same order, and then his head swiveled and his hair flew out sideways as he angrily searched the room. “Where are my ushers?”

  Matt and his heavies could only hold so many back before others broke through the line. They were wrestling with four or five petitioners when a young, trench-coated man broke through and almost tackled Nichols. Nichols spun around and gave the man a shove that floored him. “Don’t touch me! Just keep your hands off, all right?” He beat away another hand reaching toward him. “Get away! I told you before, I don’t heal procrastination! And you! If you want a million dollars, try working! What do you think I am, a genie?”

  A man behind me quipped, “Welcome to earth, God!”

  Kyle and I cracked up, careful to do it quietly.

  WHEN MATT KILEY bumped up against me with an invitation to meet with Nichols, he made it sound as if I had no choice. I followed him into Mrs. Macon’s living ro
om to find Antioch’s Messiah pacing and cursing, his brand-new perm getting a little frizzy. “Get out of here, Matt! If I need you I’ll call you.”

  Matt didn’t take kindly to being barked at, but he left us alone.

  Justin Cantwell—that’s what I now called him—went to Mrs. Macon’s mini-bar and poured himself a drink. He did it so hurriedly I thought he’d spill it. “Travis, you are wasting your time, as always. There is nothing to discover in Nechville, nothing that you don’t already know. You’ve already been there, believe me!”

  “I have to follow it up. You ought to know that.”

  I thought he’d throw his drink at me, but he contained himself. “LIES! All you will hear is lies! Travis, they’ve done the same thing to you as to me: It’s all your fault! You’re the one who’s out of step, out of God’s will, full of sin, destined for hell! You’re the one who has to give up his questions and fall in line! You’re the one who has his whole life shredded to pieces—” He spread his arms and drawled like a southern preacher. “All, uh, in the nime of raaghteousness!”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  He gulped from his drink and leered at me. “You think you can analyze me? There’s no fear here, Travis! Not of you, not of the kid preacher you dragged along. Why’d you bring him, anyway? For backup?”

  “Of course.”

  He just rolled his eyes at me. “Oh, I’m petrified!” Then he took another swallow. “I am upset, that’s obvious. I’m upset at you and your refusal to let the slightest clue penetrate that skull of yours. I’m upset at all those people out there and all their crap!” He paced in tight little circles, his hand messing up his permed hair. “The people in George Harding’s RV park think they should have equal time parking up here like the others, the people parking up here want lifetime spaces and special rest room privileges. They bring all their kids but nobody wants to take charge of them. Some don’t like the music. Some want more music. The chairs are too hard. It’s too hot in the tent. It’s too cold. I’ve got a bunch of old people who won’t sit anywhere but clear in the back and then complain because they can’t hear. I’ve got another bunch who are always late—always!— and have a different excuse every time! I’ve got four different factions in a big fight over what to do with our Web site—and we don’t even have a Web site!”