The Visitation (32 page)

“Maybe we should have called first,” Kyle suggested.

I eased the car down the long, jagged aisle toward the big blue shack.

Two pit bulls came charging out of a yawning garage door. A grisly looking character in gray coveralls came quickstepping after them, hollering their names so loudly it sounded like “KAP! FREET! GEBACKERE!!”

“Kap” and “Freet” didn’t hear him. They had a mauling to attend to, circling the car, barking, growling, and waiting for either of us to stick a leg out.

“HAH! GEDOUTHERE!” This guy had to be Abe. A face and bark like his made me wonder why he needed dogs. He shooed them away, yelling and banging on the nearest hulk with a tire iron. They both scampered into a dog pen alongside the building and remained there while he slammed the gate on them. I was impressed.

He returned to our car and may have smiled, at least around the eyes. I rolled down my window. “That’s Casper and Frito. They just ate a Jehovah’s Witness. Whatcha after?”

“Uh, are you Abe Carlson?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“Uh, may I get out?”

He backed away from my door and I got out. Kyle got out too and walked around to join me. We introduced ourselves and told him where we were from.

The moment I mentioned the town of Antioch, he scowled at us. “You cops?”

“Uh, no. Kyle here’s a pastor and I teach the sixth grade.”

“Got a call from a cop in Antioch. Is this about that car?”

“We—yeah. If we could—”

“I got nothing more to say about it.” He turned and started walking away.

I turned to Kyle. “Get the photos.” He reached inside the car while I hollered after Abe, “Could you just look at a picture for us?”

He turned. “What?”

Kyle handed me the photos. I said, “Look at a picture? These pictures right here?”

He glanced thoughtfully at Casper and Frito, then walked back. I guess I got him curious.

I held up the best photo we had of Brandon Nichols, a nice shot of him preaching in Mrs. Macon’s garage. “Do you recognize this man?”

He took one look and his expression turned so dark I almost backed away.

“You know him?”

He nodded. “That’s Herb Johnson. Where’d you get this?”

I exchanged a glance with Kyle. “Herb Johnson?”

“He used to work for me.”

Kyle asked with surprise in his voice. “He worked
here?”

“Yeah, worked here for a year or so.”

“We thought he worked on a ranch somewhere.”

“I don’t know what he did before Hattie brought him over.”

“Who’s Hattie?” I asked.

“My girlfriend. Herb was one of her tenants and he needed a job.” He paused to spit on the ground. “Worst mistake I ever made.”

“Your girlfriend owns some apartments or something?”

“She manages a building over on Myers Way. She gets some flaky characters in there. I about gave Herb that car just so he’d leave.”

Bingo. I tried not to look too excited. “The, the, uh, Ford LTD?”

“Yeah.”

“So, did he buy it from you, or . . .”

“I sold it to him cheap. He wanted to move on and I wanted to help him.”

“But the car was still in your name.”

“I’ve already been through all this with that cop.” He started looking elsewhere.

I didn’t want him getting away. “Uh, Kyle took this picture on a ranch near Antioch.” Abe stood still. “Herb’s working there, only he’s using another name. He’s calling himself Brandon Nichols.”

Abe cursed. He looked scared. “I don’t need to hear no more.”

“But . . . did the cop tell you the car was ditched in the river? I mean, it looks like somebody tried to hide it.”

Abe waved me off, shook his head, backed away. “I don’t want to hear no more. Now that’s it. We’re through talking and you guys can just get out of here.”

Kyle pleaded, “We’re afraid Herb might be up to something and we were hoping you could—”

“GETOUTTAHERE!”

Casper and Frito went crazy, leaping against the fence of their pen. He headed their way with an obvious intention. I got back in the car and Kyle followed my lead. We got out of there.

I DROVE BACK
into Missoula while Kyle flipped and folded and rattled the map. “Myers Way, Myers Way . . .” he mumbled, trying to find it.

“So let me think: Brett said he couldn’t find the owner or the thief. But he talked to Abe . . .”

“But Abe isn’t the owner. He doesn’t
want
to be the owner.”

“Right, he wants to be
through
with Herb and the car.”

“So it’s
Herb
Brett can’t find.”

“Because Herb’s
Brandon
.”

“And the car was never stolen because Abe sold it to Herb.”

“Unless someone stole it from Herb.”

“But Herb Johnson never reported it stolen.”

“No, he just ditched it in the river.” I got a hunch. “Which could make sense if Herb is trying to break all ties with his past and become somebody else. Remember when I said it wouldn’t surprise me if
Brandon
wasn’t the owner?”

Kyle looked up from his map to exclaim, “It sure scared Abe when you told him Herb had a different name.”

“Yeah, like Herb Johnson might not be Herb Johnson.”

“Which also means Brandon Nichols might not be Brandon Nichols.”

“So . . . Myers Way . . .”

Kyle went back to the map. “Okay, turn right. We need to double back.”

WE FOUND MYERS WAY,
a residential street lined with well-used cars and low-cost fixer-uppers. The yards were small, many were unmowed, many populated by mongrel dogs and rusting tricycles. Aging McDonald’s cups and hamburger wrappers lay fading along the street curb, and graffiti marred the sidewalks. We found four apartment buildings occupying the four corners of an intersection. We could see more multi-units farther down the street. This could be a long day.

Kyle knocked on the first manager’s door. He’d never heard of anyone named Hattie.

I went across the street and knocked on another door. A young mother with an infant in her arms and a toddler in tow sent me two doors down. The manager of this building didn’t know a Hattie.

By now Kyle had checked the third apartment building. No Hattie.

I went to the fourth.

“Hattie Phelps?” said the manager, a young bachelor with a cluttered computer desk in his living room.

“I don’t have a last name, but she’s the girlfriend of Abe Carlson.”

“Yeah, sure, I know her. She manages the Crestview Apartments.” He stepped outside to direct me. “Two blocks down, on the left.”

The Crestview Apartments were not high-rent property. The building was a sagging, wood-frame structure that instantly made you wonder how close the nearest fire station was. From the street I could count ten apartments, six below and four above. The wooden stairway leading to the second floor was a lawsuit waiting to happen. A leaky hose bib was feeding a permanent puddle in the small courtyard. Kyle and I went to Hattie’s door together, fully expecting another pit bull to answer our knock.

It turned out Hattie was a very pleasant woman, a plump little lady in a loud flowered dress who owned a cat but no dog. All we had to do was mention Abe Carlson’s name and she started talking right there on her landing.

“Abe’s a nice man, he really is. You just have to get to know him.”

“Well, he can sure control Casper and Frito.”

She laughed a loud, cackly laugh. “So you met the dogs! Oh, my word!” She then proceeded to tell us how many people had been frightened by Casper and Frito and where Abe got the dogs and how they didn’t seem to mind when she came around but she would never take her cat over there. We let her talk, we laughed at her wisecracks, we told her whatever we could about ourselves when we got the chance. She could have carried on most of the conversation without our even being there.

“Well anyway, what brings you two gentlemen clear over here?”

I tried to ease gently into the subject. “We’ve just had someone move to Antioch that we thought you might know.” I handed her the photograph and we watched her face closely.

Her eyes grew large and her hand went over her heart. She drew a little gasp and then looked up at us. “He’s in your town now?”

“Yes. He’s living on a ranch and preaching under a big circus tent. You may have read about it in the papers.”

She was puzzled. “No, not Herb . . .” She figured it out. “He’s
preaching?”

“People think he’s Jesus,” said Kyle, “and he’s letting them believe that.”

She gasped again. “I did read about that! That’s Herb?”

I pointed to the photo. “If Herb is the man in this photograph, then it’s Herb.”

“There was never a picture in the paper and I think the name wasn’t the same.”

“He’s going by a different name now.”

She was afraid. The hand holding the photo was trembling and her other hand was still over her heart. But she looked up at us and said pleadingly, “He’s a wonderful man. You have to believe that.”

“Well . . .” Kyle had to swallow before he spoke. “There are many people who are impressed with what he’s doing.”

“He’s a good man! I would never do anything to harm him in any way. He knows that.”

I asked her, “Does the name Brandon Nichols mean anything to you?”

She gawked at me, still plainly terrified.

“Did Herb ever mention that name?”

“No . . .” Her eyes seemed so vacant, as if looking into another world. “Herb’s a wonderful man, very sweet.”

Kyle asked, “Did he ever work at a ranch around here?”

“He was a good worker. Abe loved having him around.”

“Well, yes, but did he ever work on a ranch?”

“I don’t know. I only know that he worked for Abe for a while.”

“So—”

“He rode horses. He went somewhere once to ride horses.”

“A ranch around here, I suppose?”

“He was quiet, and clean, and never missed a rent payment, and he was courteous.”

I asked, “Did he impress you as being a spiritual man?”

That got her going. “Oh, yes! Very religious! You knew that just being around him! He wouldn’t hurt anyone, and I know he won’t hurt me!”

“Did he—”

“Because I’m on his side. He doesn’t have to hurt me, I’m his friend, I’m his neighbor. I’m Hattie. He knows me.”

“Where’s he from originally? Any idea?”

“California. He talked about Southern California once in a while, but always fondly. He liked it here too, and we liked him, didn’t we? Of course we did.”

I was getting a very creepy feeling. She wasn’t looking at us, but beyond us. Kyle shot a quick glance over his shoulder just to be safe.

“Hattie?” I asked, trying to get her to meet my eyes. “Are you all right?”

She pushed the photograph back at me. “Please leave him be. I’m his friend and he knows that. He’s the most wonderful man in the world. I loved having him for a tenant!”

Kyle spoke gently. “Hattie, do you need us to pray for you?” He lightly touched her shoulder.

She jumped as if he’d given her a shock. “NO! No! I don’t need any praying, not by you!” She looked past us as if seeing wolves lurking in the neighborhood. “I haven’t really talked to you, have I? I haven’t told you anything.”

“Don’t be afraid,” said Kyle. “It’s all right.”

She gave a little yelp and ducked inside her door, slamming it after her. We could hear her whimpering behind the door, “Go away! Just go away!”

Kyle squeezed his eyes shut and extended his hands toward her door. “Lord God, we bind the enemy in Jesus’ name!”

I pulled him by the arm. “And we leave Hattie in peace. Amen.”

Neither of us said much on the drive back to Antioch. In the silence, my mind began to move through a series of inexplicable connections. Brandon Nichols . . . Herb Johnson . . . Abe and Hattie . . . and then further back, into the past, to places I thought I’d never go again. . . .

T
RAV,”
said Marian, her arm tightly around me—it was a new and wonderful sensation. “Let’s go ice-skating.”

It sounded cold, and I’d just gotten warm after my dip in the West Bethel pond. “Ice-skating?”

“It’s how I’d like to celebrate!” she said.

I’d never been ice-skating before and the very thought, well,
chilled
me. I’d done plenty of roller-skating with my old youth group, and Marian insisted it wasn’t that much different. I suppose she had visions of us skating in tandem like those Olympic figure skating duos, arm in arm, one leg stretched out straight behind us and our smiling faces turned directly into a sixty-mile-an-hour wind while stirring orchestra music came out of the sky. I had serious doubts that vision would ever come true, but, hey, I’d gotten her father’s blessing, my folks were ecstatic, she was wearing the ring, I’d been thrown in the pond—what else was there? We went skating.

We did skate arm in arm our first time out, mostly to keep me from falling and making a fool of myself in front of all those little kids on the rink who could skate circles around me. The first half-hour or so, I tried to enjoy it. Marian was having the time of her life. After an hour, I really did begin to have fun, and my progress earned me a kiss once we were safely stopped and gripping the side rail. After another hour and a cup of cider in the café, I stepped up to Marian, bowed with a flourish, and said, “May I have this lap?” She graciously accepted, extending her hand, and we managed to work our way around the rink several times, my arm around her waist and my other hand in hers—kind of like dancing, but it was skating, and that’s different. The music over the sound system was rock-’n’-roll and not very stirring. We weren’t sticking one leg out straight behind, and I wouldn’t say we were graceful.

But I remember the moment it connected for me: We were coming around the turn near the café for the zillionth time. Her face was so young, so close. I was holding her hand. The café was passing behind her in a soft blur. There was a light in her eyes and a special smile that told me,
I’m yours. It’s going to be us now, you and me, and I couldn’t be happier.

When we stepped off the ice to sit down and rest, she thought I had something in my eye and I was too embarrassed to tell her I’d gotten all emotional out there. That
look!
I could actually feel the depth of her joy, the laughter in her heart. Our love became
real
in that moment. I could finally believe it. Ever since that night in the hospital waiting room, I never believed that such a lady as this would so gladly accept my love and love me in return. I just didn’t feel that lucky or that blessed, and I still thought I had to be dreaming when I saw that ring on her hand. But that moment, when she gave me that one special look, I knew. I finally knew.