The Visitation (62 page)

“Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. I’m shaking a bit, but I’m okay.”

MORGAN DROPPED INTO THE CHAIR
nearest the door, not bothering to take off her coat, a flurry of dark possibilities at the threshold of her imagination. “Tell me what happened.”

She heard a quick recap of our excavation, what we found, and how all hell was breaking loose at the ranch even as we spoke. She didn’t hear about Cantwell’s boast regarding her.

“Travis, can you leave? I want you to come home—I mean, go home—I just want you out of there and safe.”

“I’m safe, Morgan.”

“I want to
see
you safe.”

“We need Michael.”

“Travis, we are not talking about Michael, we are talking about you and where you are and how I feel about where you are!”

“The police need to know the layout of the house—you know, rooms, hallways, how to get in and out. Michael would know that, and he’s good at drawing maps.”

Take a breath, Morgan, take a breath
. “I’m not sure where he is.” “What do you mean?”

“I called your house but he didn’t answer.”

“Oh brother. I tried calling him too. No answer.”

She was trying not to worry. She was failing. “I’m going over there. He might be asleep. He’s a sound sleeper.”

“Hey, that’s what we can do: Swing by there and get him and then both of you come up here.”

“You can’t be serious!”

PARKER WAS STANDING
right by me, waiting.

“Morgan . . .” I still had Cantwell’s vicious boast in my mind. “I’d feel better if you were here. I mean, I’m surrounded by police, and right now I’d rather you and Michael were too.”

“You got him?” Parker wanted to know.

“Morgan?”

She gave in reluctantly. “The Macon ranch?”

“Just head out the highway. You’ll see the cop cars, believe me. And listen—” I told Parker, “Uh, Sheriff, I’d count it a great favor if you could send somebody down to my place to make sure everybody’s okay, that they get here all right.”

“Where do you live?” Parker didn’t wait for an answer but hollered around, “Anybody know where this man lives?”

“Hello, Morgan?”

“I’m listening, Travis. I’m
still
listening.”

“Uh, hold on . . .”

Brett Henchle hurried forward, got a quick briefing, and volunteered. “Uh, it’ll be Morgan Elliott—you know, the minister lady—and her son—he used to be that radical prophet.”

“Don’t worry.” Then he touched my shoulder. “By the way: You were right.” He ran to his car.

“Morgan, Brett Henchle’s going to meet you at my place to make sure you get up here okay, so just wait for him, all right?”

“BRETT HENCHLE?
Travis, were you present when we discussed him?”

“He’s snapped out of it. He’s talked to Sally Fordyce, he’s had to quell a riot, he’s had to clean up wormy loaves of bread—and now he has a homicide on his hands. He’s with us now, really.”

Everything was happening very fast and not at all sensibly. She put on the brakes, took a deep breath, and regrouped. Like it or not, it was time to rise to the occasion and take charge of her part in it. “All right, Travis. I’ll get Michael and wait for Brett Henchle, and we will meet you up at the Macon ranch.”

“Love ya.”

“Good-bye.”

She ended the call—then replayed the last few lines in her mind. “Ohh!” Now she wanted to kick herself. Love ya!
Love ya
, and all she said was
good-bye?

Travis, how could you do this to me!?

She turned on her heel and went out the door. She didn’t mean to slam it—at least, that’s what she told herself.

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW
about this Matt character?” Parker asked me.

“He’s a decorated Vietnam vet. He’s intensely loyal. He held off the Vietcong by himself so his buddies could make it out in a chopper.”

Parker looked toward the ranch with regret in his eyes.

“Don’t . . . don’t hurt him. Please.”

Parker didn’t get a chance to reply. Another deputy was handing him a cell phone. “Sheriff, we got him on the line.”

“Nichols?”

“It’s him.”

Parker pushed the phone at me. “I understand you know him better than anyone. Talk to him. Calm him down.” I hesitated. “Just get him talking, get things on an even keel.”

I took the phone and gingerly held it to my ear. “Hello. This is Travis.”

“My, my, my, what a gathering!”

“Yeah, they’re throwing quite a party down here.”

“Parker isn’t smiling.”

I glanced at Parker. “No, he sure isn’t. Not too many of them are. So how are you doing?”

“Oh, well enough. I have my own little family up here, ready to stand with me and go out in a flame of glory. This is the New Jerusalem. We can’t let it fall to the infidels.”

“Do they
all
feel that way?”

“Well, just the ones that matter: Matt, Mary, Melody—”

“What about Morgan?”

He laughed. “Rest easy, my friend. She’s not here.”

“Who else, Justin? Who’s in there with you?”

He only sighed. “Why don’t you go home, Travis? You can’t do any good up here.”

“I’m supposed to be the negotiator. You and I are supposed to talk things out.”

“Oh, right. I give you a list of my demands, they say they’ll think about it, they cut off our water and power and blast us with loud music for a few days, and then they storm in and shoot all of us. That
is
what we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“Hey, it’s your call, right? I told you not to make things worse for yourself.”

“Go home, Travis.”

“What about our discussion?”

“It’s hard to speak freely and openly when there are a million cops around.”

“We may not get another chance.”

“Oh, we will, you can count on that. Hey, gotta go.”

“I met your father, Justin. Boy, now there’s something we can talk about.”

“TRAVIS! Go. Home.”

He hung up. I let Parker know. Parker signaled the men standing by him. “Okay, let’s cut the power and water. Have those floodlights arrived?”

“On their way,” said a cop with “POLICE” emblazoned on the back of his jacket.

“Let’s get a better phone system going here, something we can monitor.” He addressed me. “Can you get him on the line again?”

I shrugged. “I can always ring the number. I don’t know if he’ll answer.”

A deputy with a handheld radio had gotten the word. “The RV village is secure.” He listened further. “There’s no resistance and a lot of them want to leave.”

Parker sniffed a sneering chuckle. “Loyal followers!” He ordered, “Okay, search and screen each vehicle and roll it out of there, the whole village, one by one. We’ll eliminate the hiding places and tighten the perimeter.”

MORGAN HAD NEVER BEEN INSIDE THE HOUSE
but she knew where it was, and thankfully, she didn’t have to navigate the main street through town to get there. The local fire department was out, lights flashing. The ambulance was deployed, lights flashing. Antioch’s second squad car was blocking access to the damage zone, lights flashing, and some county sheriff’s vehicles were on the scene as well, lights flashing. The center of town had become a major wreck on the highway.

Myrtle Street, on the other hand, had quieted down. The porch lights were on up and down the block, and an occasional TV screen glowed blue through a front window. She drove as far as the highway barrier at the west border of the town, and there, on the right, was my little bungalow. The porch light was on there too, and lights were on inside. The shades were drawn

She went through the front gate, up the short walk, and onto the porch. The front door was unlocked. She knocked, cracked it open, and called, “Michael? Michael, it’s Mom.”

No answer. She looked over her shoulder for the approach of Brett Henchle, but realized she had to be well ahead of him. The ranch was several miles out of town, and he’d have to drive through some of that chaos on the main street before he could turn off to get here.

She went inside to wait, and immediately, unintentionally began to acquaint herself with how Travis Jordan lived and kept house. The living room wasn’t too bad. A model airplane, still in progress, lay on a table on the back porch. The kitchen was a mess with empty root beer bottles on the table, and two pieces of cold Canadian bacon pizza on a plate.

The bedroom was just off the dining room and the door was open. She debated for just a moment and then stole quietly in to have just a quick look. The bed was made, and that pleased her. The stuffed lion and lamb posed against the pillows made her smile. Books were neatly perched on the shelves, and an aquarium, home to four tropical fish and one tiny frog, gurgled peacefully.

She heard a noise and turned. Nothing there but the messy kitchen and two pieces of cold pizza.

The bedroom closet was along the wall to her immediate right, closed off with bifold doors. She was tempted to take a peek in there as well, but drew the line right where she stood. Privacy was privacy. Besides, there was a smell in here, like body odor.
He has some dirty tee shirts hiding somewhere
, she thought,
and I don’t want to find them
.

Then she saw the picture beside the bed, and paused. It was Marian, looking the best she’d ever looked in one of those perfect hair, hand-to-chin studio poses. She walked quietly, even respectfully, around the bed and to the nightstand to take a closer look. This was Marian in her prime, before the cancer and chemotherapy. Morgan couldn’t resist. She had to touch it, then pick it up, charmed by Marian’s smile, saddened by the loss. She could identify. She had a picture of Gabe by her bed.

She looked over her shoulder.

Nothing there but shelves, a banjo, and the door to the kitchen. Sometimes light reflected off the inside of her glasses and made her think she was seeing something. That must have been what it was.

Plus the fact that she was nervous and still hadn’t found her son.

And afraid, maybe. Just a little afraid. Not that there was any reason to feel fear, not in this place, not in Travis Jordan’s house.

She turned her back to the wall and looked all around the bedroom. The only sound was the gurgling of the aquarium. Everything looked fine. It didn’t
smell
fine, but—

She didn’t know what was in that closet, did she? She hadn’t looked in there.

Well, she hadn’t looked under the bed, either.

Every child’s silly fear. Monsters in the closet and a bogeyman under the bed. Fear for no reason.
Enough!

“Michael?”

No answer. He simply wasn’t here.

She walked out of the bedroom—FRONTDOOROPENED! She jolted.

“Hello? Reverend Elliott?” It was Brett Henchle.

She wilted.

She found some air, drew it in deeply, and sighed it out, her hand over her heart. “Officer Henchle, you scared me to death.”

He smiled, embarrassed. “Whoa, sorry. Do you know why I’m here?”

She managed a smile although she was still trembling. “I think we’re both here to get Michael, only he isn’t here.”

He immediately turned grim. “Where is he?”

“I, I don’t know. He’s been gone a while, I think. Travis and I have both called him but there’s been no answer . . .” Her legs felt wobbly. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

“You okay?”

She pulled a chair from the kitchen table, sat down, and didn’t answer until her head was between her knees. “A little overwrought, I guess. Too much excitement . . .”

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

She didn’t trust him enough not to raise her head and watch him go to the sink. He no longer stood between her and the front door. She thought of running.

Control, Morgan! Come on!

NANCY BARRONS
and Kim Staples made it to the ranch after news hounding and shooting several rolls of film in town. With a word to the police from Kyle and me, they were permitted under the yellow barrier tape and into the thick of the action. The main attraction right now was the slow, relentless parade of campers and motor homes coming down the driveway, each one bearing a red tag indicating it had been searched.

“The end of Cantwell’s heyday,” Nancy commented.

“We don’t know how many are still with him in the house,” I replied. “But he’s keeping hostages.”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be writing another editorial, something I hope will bring some balance to the first one. Sorry for the trouble.”

Kyle smiled. “Well, praise God.”

“Kyle!” someone shouted from beyond the yellow tape. “Travis!”

It was Bob Fisher, the Baptist minister. He was standing out there with Howard Munson the independent Pentecostal, Sid Maher the Lutheran, and Paul Daley the Episcopalian. We hurried down to the tape and ducked under to their side. They were full of questions and concern. Could they help? Was there anything they could do?

“Pray,” said Kyle. “Just pray that no one gets hurt, that somehow the Lord will open the eyes of Cantwell’s followers and bring freedom to the hostages.”

“Cantwell?” Paul Daley asked. “Who’s Cantwell?”

Explaining the new name meant telling a lot of the story. While Kyle began the account, I stepped aside to watch the police setting up floodlights and loudspeakers along the brow of the hill. No doubt they were setting up speakers and lights all around the house.

“He’s not going to like being surrounded,” I said.

“What was that?” Nancy asked.

“I’m not too sure how he’s going to respond to being surrounded by all the . . . authority figures. It might be too much like the fence . . .”

Nancy moaned, “I think you’re right.”

“If he feels corralled . . .”

“FEELING BETTER?”
Brett asked.

Morgan had downed most of the glass of water he’d brought her and was sitting upright. She nodded. “I’m with you. Just needed some time to steel my nerves.” Her heart was still racing.

“We’d better find Michael.”

“He probably decided to walk home—to my place. You may have noticed, he likes to walk.” She saw my telephone next to the couch in the living room, and crossed over to it. “I’ll see if I can reach—”