The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  “What happened to Justin Cantwell?”

  “He vanished like he was never there. I’ve read a few things in the paper about Jesus showing up in Antioch, but I didn’t have a clue it was him, not until you came down here asking questions.”

  “So how are you and your husband doing?”

  “We’re still working it out. It hasn’t been easy.”

  “Does he . . . does he know you’re talking to me about all this?”

  “I told him I was going to call you today.”

  “And what was his response?”

  “He had to leave. The College and Career department has a meeting this morning. But that’s . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know if you’ll be able to understand this, but it’s part of the story so I’ll tell you. I almost couldn’t help being drawn to Justin Cantwell. He was the first man in my life I could really talk to. He understood me, he understood my pain, he took the time to talk with me and, you know, just share his feelings about things.” She took a breath to clear her mind. “I did not know my father. I can’t say that I know him now. We never really talked, never spent time together— unless it was in church. Hey, as long as I played the piano or led the choir or worked in the church office, we had a relationship. It was mostly professional, but at least we had something.”

  I could feel my insides twisting a little. “I, uh, I think I do understand.”

  “That’s what people don’t realize: On the surface, it’s a wonderful church and we have a happy, Christ-filled family. Dad likes to brag about his kids in public, but my sister, Judy, is divorced and bulimic and my brother, Sam, is an alcoholic. My oldest brother, Dale Jr., turned out pretty well, but that’s because he’s just like Dad. He’s in the ministry, pastoring a church in Oklahoma. As for me and my husband, Tom . . .” She dropped off in midsentence.

  “Did Tom go to Horizon Bible College?”

  “Yes.” She sounded surprised.

  “And he talks and thinks like your dad.”

  Now her voice carried her amazement. “Have you met him?”

  “No. But he’s on the pastoral staff, isn’t he?”

  She laughed. “So you’ve been to our church.”

  “I’ve seen how it works.”

  “Dad handpicks every associate. I love Tom. But he’s Dad’s kind of man. All church. They fuel each other. It’s all they talk about. I should have seen it coming. It’s as if you can’t love and serve the Lord by being with your family, you have to be doing church stuff.”

  Ah yes, the stuff. “I’m sorry.” I really was.

  “Again, I don’t expect you to understand, but in our home, you had to be involved in the church to feel like part of the family. Dale and I could play the game, Sam and Judy couldn’t.” She gave a bitter chuckle. “I was always at the church, so Dad used to talk to Sam and Judy through me. He’d say things like, ‘Tell Sam I like that paint job on the house,’ or ‘Tell Judy she should sell that car and get an automatic.’ Sam used to brag about being a pagan just to send a message. Dad never picked up on it. Maybe the affair was my way of sending a message to Tom. Sometimes I think he may have received it, but sometimes not.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “The same rule applied. So they’d fight a lot. Then she’d run into the bedroom to cry and he’d go out and cut the grass. Nothing ever changed that I could see. She threatened to leave him once, but then she felt so guilty about it that she ended up asking him to forgive her. I wanted to scream.”

  “And . . .” Pieces were coming together in my head even as I formed the question. “Justin Cantwell knew all about this, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “He could tell you all about it, just like he’d been there.”

  “Just like he’d been there. So, we just clicked, you know what I mean? Our hearts touched and he showed compassion and love and warmth—and it didn’t have to be church related!” Then she asked, “Is he doing the same thing to someone up there?”

  I was too blown away to answer. I had to think.

  “Mr. Jordan?”

  “Oh yes. Definitely.”

  “You have to warn whoever it is. Don’t let him do it. Listen, he’ll come on at first like he’s—well, like he’s Jesus himself.”

  “Right.”

  “But he’s not a healer, Mr. Jordan—I don’t care how it looks. He knew about my hurt, but he didn’t heal it, he just brought it out and made it worse. I think he looks for people to share his anger and his hurt and then he brings out the worst in them. He uses them.”

  “Do you know anything about his background, where he’s from, who his family are?”

  “Once I saw a letter he got from Nechville, Texas, just the envelope. He told me it was from his mother.”

  “Nechville . . .” I asked her to spell it and wrote it down. “Did you catch his mother’s name?”

  “Lois Cantwell. He wouldn’t talk about her, or any of his family, for that matter. He’s bitter, and having known him and the way he knew me, I can guess where the bitterness came from. He knows the Christian language. When he joined our choir, he already knew the worship songs. He could raise his hands and praise the Lord. He could pray and quote from the Bible. He talked about Jesus and used Jesus’ name just like a real Christian. He’s been there.”

  “But it didn’t go well for him.”

  “That would be an understatement. But Mr. Jordan, think twice before you pity him. He’s not just a wounded soul. He’s a destroyer, with a destroyer driving him. He never did miracles while he was here. A little prophetic insight, maybe, just enough to carry out his agenda. But if what I’ve read is true, that demon is still growing, and now it’s in your town. Better be prayed up.”

  Twenty-Four

  NANCY BARRONS stared at the image on her computer monitor, then sighed, dropping her gaze. She wagged her head, her face despondent.

  Kim Staples didn’t notice. She was busy at her own computer, tapping keys and moving her mouse, pasting and assembling Tuesday’s paper. “Uh-oh, I’ve got a problem.”

  “We’ve all got a problem,” Nancy replied.

  Kim turned from her monitor, hoping Nancy would look her way. “See here? Kiley Hardware’s full-page ad landed right opposite Anderson Furniture’s full-page ad at the center spread. You think that’s too much ad all in one place? Nancy?”

  Nancy rested her forehead on her fingertips, and gave her screen a less-than-enthusiastic glance. “I can’t run this story.”

  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 Disneylan
d.”

  “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 up-graded 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 p
ermanent. 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!”