Part 14 (1/2)
”Would you like to meet him?”
”I certainly would.”
She led them through an arched hallway with huge vases in alcoves, then through an immense, immaculate kitchen. ”He's a different kind of fellow, I have to warn you. Have you ever met a prophet of G.o.d before, Officer Henchle?”
Brett shot a glance at Nancy. ”No, ma'am, I can't say that I have.”
”Well, you have to make some allowances for them. They can seem a little abrupt and forward at times. But once you get to know Brandon you realize he has a heart of gold.”
She led them through a French patio door and onto a covered patio. There they found a young, dark-haired man busily at work putting up some hanging baskets for flowers.
”Brandon? The officer is here to see you.”
The young man turned, smiled, and offered his hand. ”Hi. Brandon Nichols.”
”Uh, Brandon, were you just down at Mack's Sooper Market in Antioch?”
He answered casually, without hesitation. ”Sure was. How's Dee? Did she recover all right?”
”She's doing just fine as near as I can tell. Uh . . . would you happen to have any ID you can show me?”
Brandon pulled a wallet from his back pocket and produced a driver's license. Brett studied it as Brandon explained, ”I just moved here from Missoula, Montana. I haven't had the license very long.”
”So what brings you to Antioch?”
”I hired him,” said Mrs. Macon proudly. ”He used to work for some rancher friends of ours in Missoula and came highly recommended. He's a wonderful worker, he's knowledgeable, he's diligent, and besides that, he's a prophet of G.o.d, and those you don't find too often these days.” She pointed to a small cottage built in the same style as the ranch house, facing them from the far side of the swimming pool. ”I've put him up in our guest house. That's my prophet's chamber, just like in Second Kings.”
Nancy could see suspicion in Brett's eyes and felt a good measure of it herself. The widow was lonely, rich, and eccentric. Brandon Nichols was young, handsome, maybe even charming. It was easy to see the glow in Mrs. Macon's face every time she looked Brandon's direction.
”So you're a prophet of G.o.d, huh?” Brett asked.
He seemed embarra.s.sed. ”That's what Mrs. Macon says.”
”What do you say?”
”I am sent from G.o.d, but I let people draw their own conclusions.”
”What were you doing down at Mack's?”
”Buying groceries for Mrs. Macon.”
”That's right,” the widow confirmed.
”How did Mrs. Baylor end up on the floor?”
Mrs. Macon answered, ”Slain in the Spirit. It's a G.o.d thing.”
”A G.o.d thing. Right.”
Brandon volunteered, ”I touched her in greeting, and I guess falling down was her religious response.”
”Did you heal Norman Dillard's eyes?”
”Yes.”
”And Matt Kiley?”
”Yes. Him too.”
Brett appeared mystified. ”Just like that?”
”Yes.”
Brett looked at the driver's license again. Nancy ventured a glance over his shoulder. The photograph looked a little blurry, but it was the same guy, all right. Brett asked, ”So you're from Missoula?”
”That's right.”
”How come I never heard about you before this?”
”I've just begun my ministry.”
”Oh.”
Apparently Brett was out of questions. He gave a little shrug. ”Well, Brandon, as far as I can tell you haven't broken any laws and you haven't hurt anyone.” He allowed himself a quick little smile. ”I guess the opposite is true. If none of these people has a complaint and Mrs. Macon is happy and willing to have you here, I've got nothing more to do.”
He handed the license back. Brandon reached out to take it and their fingers touched.
Brett flinched as if he'd gotten a shock.
”Oh, excuse me,” said Brandon.
Nancy could tell Brett was trying to maintain his tough cop image, but she also knew something strange had happened. The big officer's hand was shaking. He pressed it to his thigh to steady it. ”Okay then . . .” His voice was trembling. He cleared his throat.
”Guess that's it.”
Suddenly he winced and grabbed his left leg just above the knee.
”Brett? What's wrong?” Nancy asked.
”Something's poking me.”
He grabbed a pinch of his pant leg and shook it out. There was a faint, clinking sound as three jagged pieces of metal fell out onto the patio.
Mrs. Macon let out a little gasp. Nancy stared, her usual professional poise surrendering to gawking amazement.
Brandon stepped forward, stooped, and picked up the three pieces. ”Vietnam, July 19, 1971. A grenade killed three of your friends-Franklin Torrence, Emilio Delgado, and Rich Trenner. It would have killed you too if Rich Trenner hadn't been standing in the way.” He stood, holding the shrapnel in his open hand. ”He took most of it. These three pieces are the only ones that hit you.” Brett held out his hand and Brandon dropped the shards into his palm.
Mrs. Macon was beaming like a proud mother, wagging her head in wonder.
His face filled with fear and awe, Brett handed the metal shards to Nancy, and as she examined them, he pulled up his pant leg. Even the scar was gone.