Miracle (38 page)

“Where is He?” Mel murmured, and B.T. glanced up from his laptop and then back down at it again, typing steadily.

Mel turned to the map of Colorado. Beulah. Bonanza. Firstview.

“Even if your—epiphany—was real,” B.T. had asked him this afternoon, “couldn’t you have misinterpreted what it means?”

Well, if he had, he wouldn’t have been the first one. The Bible was full of people who had misinterpreted prophecies. “Dogs have compassed me; the assembly of the wicked have enclosed me,” the Scriptures said, “they pierced my hands and my feet.” But nobody saw the Crucifixion coming. Or the Resurrection.

His own disciples didn’t recognize Him. Easter Sunday they walked all the way to Emmaus with Him without figuring out who He was, and even when He told them, Thomas refused to believe Him and demanded to see the scars of the nails in His hands.

They had never recognized Him. Isaiah had plainly predicted a virgin who would bring forth a child “out of the root of Jesse,” a child who would redeem Israel. But nobody had thought that meant a baby in a stable.

They had thought he was talking about a warrior, a king who would raise an army and drive the hated foreigners out of their country, a hero on a white horse who would vanquish their enemies and set them free. And He had, but not in the way they expected.

Nobody had expected Him to be a poor itinerant preacher from an obscure family, with no college degree and no military training, a nobody. Even the wise men had expected Him to be royalty. “Where is the
king
whose star we have seen in the east?” they had asked Herod.

And Herod had promptly sent soldiers out to search for a usurper, a threat to his throne.

They had been looking for the wrong thing. And maybe B.T.’s right, maybe I am, too, and that’s the answer. The Second Coming isn’t going to be battles and earthquakes and falling stars, and Revelation means something else, like the prophecies of the Messiah.

Or maybe it wasn’t the Second Coming, and Christ was here only in a symbolic sense, in the poor, the hungry, in those in need of help. “As ye have done this unto the least of these—”

“Maybe the Second Coming really is here,” B.T. said from the bed. “Look at this.”

He turned the laptop around so Mel could see the screen. “Watch, therefore,” it read, “for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh.”

“It’s a website,” B.T. said. “www.watchman.”

“It probably belongs to one of the radio evangelists,” Mel said.

“I don’t think so,” B.T. said. He hit a key, and a new screen came up. It was full of entries.

“Meteor, 12-23, 4 mi. NNW Raton.”

“Examined area. 12-28. No sign.”

“Weather Channel 11-2, 9:15 a.m. PST. Reference to unusual cloud formations.”

“Latitude and longitude? Need location.”

“8.6 mi. WNW Prescott AZ 11-4.”

“Denver Post 914P8C2—Headline: ‘Unusually high lightning activity strikes Carson National Forest. MT2427.’”

“What do you think that stands for?” B.T. said, pointing at the string of letters and numbers.

“Matthew 24, verse 27,” Mel said.” ‘For the lightning cometh out of the west and shineth even unto the east, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.’”

B.T. nodded and scrolled the screen down.

“Triple lightning strike. 7-11, Platteville, CO. Nov. 28. Two injured.”

“Lightning storm, Dec. 4, Truth or Consequences.”

“What about that one?” B.T. said, pointing at “Truth or Consequences.”

“It’s a town in southern New Mexico,” Mel said.

“Oh.” He scrolled the screen down some more.

“Falling star, 12-30, 2 mi. W of U.S. State Hwy 191, west of Bozeman, mile marker 161.”

“Coma patient recovery, Yale—New Haven Hosp. Connection?”

“Negative. Too far east.”

“Possible sighting Nevada.”

“Need location.”

Need location.” ‘Go search diligently for the young child,’” Mel murmured,” ‘and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him.’”

“What?” B.T. said.

“It’s what Herod said when the wise men told him about the star.” He stared at the screen:

“L.A. Times Jan 2 P5C1. Fish die-off. RV89?”

“Possible sighting. Old Faithful, Yellowstone Nat’l Pk, Jan. 2.”

And over and over again:

“Need location.”

“Need location.”

“Need location.”

“They obviously think the Second Coming’s happened,” B.T. said, staring at the screen.

“Or aliens have landed at Roswell,” Mel said. He pointed to the convenience store entry. “Or Elvis is back.”

“Maybe,” B.T. said, staring at the screen.

Mel went back to looking at the maps. Barren Rock. Deadwood. Last Chance.

Need location, he thought. Maybe he and Cassie and whoever had written “Too far east” on the website had all misinterpreted the message, and it was not “west” but “West.”

He turned to the gazetteer in the back. West. Westwood Hills, Kansas. Westville, Oklahoma. West Hollywood, California. Westview. Westgate. Westmont. There was a Westwood Hills in Kansas. Colorado had a Westcliffe, a Western Hills, and a Westminster. Neither Arizona nor New Mexico had any Wests. Nevada didn’t either. Nebraska had a West Point.

West Point. Maybe it wasn’t even in the west. Maybe it was West Orange, New Jersey, or West Palm Beach. Or West Berlin.

He shut the atlas and looked over at B.T. He had dozed off, his face tired and worried-looking even in sleep. His laptop was on his chest, and the Gideon Bible he had stolen from the Holiday Inn lay beside him.

Mel shut the laptop off and quietly closed it. B.T. didn’t move. Mel picked up the Bible.

The answer had to be in the Scriptures. He opened the Bible to Matthew. “Then if any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or there; believe it not.”

He read on. Disasters and devastation and tribulation, as the prophets had spoken.

The prophets. He found Isaiah. “Hear ye indeed but understand not; and see ye indeed but perceive not.”

He shut the Bible. All right, he thought, standing it on its spine on his hand. Let’s have a sign here. I’m running out of time.

He opened his eyes. His finger was on I Samuel 23,
verse 14. “And Saul sought him every day, but God delivered him not into his hand.”

All the roads were open, and, from Grand Island, clear and dry, and the fog had lifted a little.

“With roads like this, we ought to be in Denver by tonight,” B.T. said.

Yes, Mel thought, finishing what B.T. had said, if you fly back with me, we could be there in time for the ecumenical meeting. Nobody’d ever have to know he’d been gone, except Mrs. Bilderbeck, and he could tell her he’d been offered a job by another church, but had decided not to take it, which was true.

“It just didn’t work out,” he would tell Mrs. Bilderbeck, and she would be so overjoyed that he wasn’t leaving, she wouldn’t even ask for details.

And he could go back to doing sermons and giving the choir plenty of warning, storing the star, and keeping the pilot light going, as if nothing had happened.

“Exit 312” a green interstate sign up ahead said. “Hastings, 18. Red Cloud, 57.”

He wondered if Cassie was already at Willa Cather’s house, convinced she had been led there by
Bartlett’s Quotations.

Cassie had no trouble finding signs—she saw them everywhere. And maybe they are everywhere, and I’m just not seeing them. Maybe Hastings is a sign, and the truck full of mirrors, and those stuffed toys all over the road. Maybe that Chinese fingertrap I got stuck in yesterday was—

“Look,” B.T. said. “Wasn’t that Cassie’s car?”

“Where?” Mel said, craning his neck around.

“In that ditch back there.”

This time Mel didn’t wait for an “Authorized Vehicles Only” crossing. He plunged into the snowy median and back along the other side of the highway, still unable to see anything.

“There,” B.T. said, pointing, and he turned onto the median.

He had crossed both lanes and was onto the shoulder before he saw the Honda, halfway down a steep ditch and tilted at an awkward angle. He couldn’t see anyone in the driver’s seat.

B.T. was out of the car before Mel got the car stopped and plunging down the snowy bank, with Mel behind him. B.T. wrenched the car door open.

Cassie’s green tote bag was on the floor of the passenger seat. B.T. peered into the backseat. “She’s not here,” he said unnecessarily.

“Cassie!” Mel called. He ran around the front of the car, though she couldn’t have been thrown out. The door would have been open if she’d been thrown out. “Cassie!”

“Here,” a faint voice said, and Mel looked down the slope. Cassie lay at the bottom in tall dry weeds.

“She’s down here,” he said, and half-walked, half-slid down the ravine.

She was lying on her back with her leg bent under her. “I think it’s broken,” she said to Mel.

“Go flag a semi down,” Mel said to B.T., who’d appeared above them. “Have them call an ambulance.”

B.T. disappeared, and Mel turned back to Cassie. “How long have you been here?” he asked her, pulling off his overcoat and tucking it around her.

“I don’t know,” she said, shivering. “There was a patch of ice. I didn’t think anybody’d see the car, so I got out to climb up to the road, and that’s when I slipped. My leg’s broken, isn’t it?”

At that angle, it had to be. “I think it probably is,” Mel said.

She turned her face away in the dry weeds. “My sister was right.”

Mel took off his jacket, rolled it up, and put it under her head. “We’ll have an ambulance here for you in no time.”

“She told me I was crazy,” Cassie said, still not looking at Mel, “and this proves it, doesn’t it? And she didn’t even know
about the epiphany.” She turned and looked at Mel. “Only it wasn’t an epiphany. Just low estrogen levels.”

“Conserve your strength,” he said, and looked anxiously up the slope.

Cassie grabbed at his hand. “I lied to you. I wasn’t offered early retirement. I asked for it. I was so sure ‘Westward ho!’ meant something. I sold my house and took out all my savings.”

Her hand was red with cold. Mel wished he had taken his gloves back when the kid from the carnival offered them. He took her icy hand between his own and held it tightly.

“I was so
sure,”
she said.

“Mel,” B.T. called from above them. “I’ve had four semis go by without stopping. I think it’s the color.” He pointed to his black face. “You need to come up and try.”

“I’ll be right there,” Mel called back up to him. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Cassie.

“No,” she said, clutching his hand. “Don’t you see? It didn’t mean anything. It was nothing but menopause, like my sister said. She tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.”

“Cassie,” Mel said, gently releasing her hand, “we need to get you out of here and into town to a hospital. You can tell me all about it then.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, and let go of his hand.

“Come on, there’s another truck coming,” B.T. called down, and Mel started up the slope. “No, never mind,” B.T. said. “The cavalry’s here,” he said, and, amazingly, he laughed.

There was a screech of hydraulic brakes. Mel scrambled up the rest of the way. A truck was stopping. It was one of the carnival’s, loaded with merry-go-round horses, white and black and palomino, with red-and-gold saddles and jeweled bridles. B.T. was already running toward the cab, asking, “Do you have a CB?”

“Yeah,” the driver said, and came around the back of the truck. It was the kid Mel had picked up, still wearing the gloves he had given him.

“We need an ambulance,” Mel said. “There’s a lady hurt here.”

“Sure thing,” the kid said, and disappeared back around the truck.

Mel skidded back down the slope to Cassie. “He’s calling an ambulance,” he said to her.

She nodded uninterestedly.

“They’re on their way,” the kid called down from above them. He went over to the Honda, B.T. following, and stuck his head under the back of it. He walked all around it, squatting next to the far wheels, and then disappeared back up the slope again.

“He says his truck doesn’t have a tow rope,” B.T. said, coming back to report, “and he doesn’t think he could get the car out anyway, so he’s calling a tow truck.”

Mel nodded. “I saw a sign that said the next town was only ten miles. They’ll have you in out of the cold before you know it.”

She didn’t answer. Mel wondered if perhaps she was going into shock. “Cassie,” he said, taking her hands again and rubbing them in spite of what he’d told the kid about frostbite. “We were so surprised to see your car,” he said, just to be saying something, to get her to talk. “We thought you were going down to Red Cloud. What made you change your mind?”

“Bartlett’s,”
she said bitterly. “When I was putting my tote bag in the car, it fell out onto the parking lot, and when I picked it up, the first thing I read was from William Blake. ‘Turn away no more,’ it said. I thought it meant I shouldn’t turn south to Red Cloud, that I should keep going west. Can you imagine anybody being that stupid?”

Yes, Mel thought.

The ambulance pulled up, sirens and yellow lights blazing, and two paramedics leaped out with a stretcher, skidded down the slope to where Cassie was, and began maneuvering her expertly onto it.

Mel went over to B.T. “You go in with her in the ambulance,” he said, “and I’ll wait here for the tow truck.”

“Are you sure?” B.T. said. “I can wait here.”

“No,” Mel said. “I’ll follow the tow truck to the garage and find out what I can about her car. Then I’ll meet you at the
hospital. What time’s the earliest flight home from Denver tomorrow?”

“Flight?” B.T. said. “No. I’m not going home without you.”

“You won’t have to,” Mel said. “What time’s the earliest flight?”

“I don’t understand—”

“Or we can drive back. If we take turns driving we can be back in time for the ecumenical meeting.”

“But—” B.T. said bewilderedly.

“I wanted a sign. Well, I got it,” he said, waving his arm at Cassie, at her car. “I don’t have to be hit over the head to get the message. I’m out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter on a fool’s errand.”