Chapter Twenty-Two #3
“No,” she says. “Just like with the angels, I heard someone say my name. Crystal. Crystal … I opened my eyes and there he was. Brother Ezra was standing there, at the foot of my bed.”
The way she says it, so matter-of-fact, sends a skittering cold under my skin. Goose bumps erupt on my arms and down the back of my neck.
She takes a deep breath and says, “I could barely see him. He was shadowed. My room is so dark … but I know it was him. Only, instead of black, he seemed to be dressed in white. He told me that I needed to carry a message to his church.”
“And the message was that he would appear tomorrow at dawn?”
She says, “Yes. And then he told me to close my eyes and lie back down. So, I did. And next thing I knew, it was later and he was gone…”
“Crystal…” I say. “You know there’s a thing called hypnagogia where—”
“I know what it is,” she says sharply. “I’ve read about it before. When I was a teenager and my visions started getting stronger. That’s not what this is!”
“Okay.” I say. “It’s just—”
“You don’t believe me either,” she says, fresh tears filling her eyes. “You’re like everyone else. I thought you were different.”
“Different?”
“Because of your aura,” she says, desperately. “Because your aura is different.”
I pick up my coffee and take a big drink, hoping to hide the skeptical smirk that I can’t manage to stifle.
“It’s … like oil in the sun. Like a Japanese beetle.”
I try to ignore the fact that most people view Japanese beetles as pesky incomers who buzz into town, eat up all the verdant beauty in sight, and leave nothing but the skeletal remains of dying plants behind.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I have to ask questions. It’s my job.”
She shrugs like it doesn’t matter and then asks, “Are you going to go up the hill tomorrow? Will you go and witness the miracle?”
I shake my head. “I doubt it.”
Her eyelids are heavy as she scrapes the very last remnants of soup out of her bowl.
Her lips are stained orange from the tomato.
There’s something sweetly pitiful about the image.
There’s no question that, underneath all the talk of angels and auras and visions, Crystal is dealing with some powerful emotions, powerful problems. She needs help and more than I can provide.
“You gonna be okay?” I ask.
She nods. Her orange-stained mouth spreads in a childlike grin and she bobs her head.
“I’m sorry for crying everywhere. Sometimes I just don’t know how to handle it all. Sometimes I just need someone to listen to me and then I feel better. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says. “For listening. And for the food. I feel a lot better.”
“Come on,” I tell her as I get to my feet. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
Crystal tells me her address and then, head leaned against the window, she falls asleep. It’s almost thirty minutes out winding, hilly roads into the little gully on the outskirts of the county where Crystal lives. I pull into the gravel drive behind an old Buick.
“Oh good,” Crystal says, waking up as I park. “Mom’s back. Hey, thanks again for the food and the ride. It’s been a long day.”
“Get some sleep,” I tell her.
She slides out of the Bronco and trudges up to the house.
A screen door opens and a woman with a ton of blond hair piled on her head comes out to greet Crystal.
The woman—still wearing a janitorial uniform—waves at me.
Then, she says something to Crystal that I can’t hear, wraps her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and guides her inside.
I pull away from the place and head back toward Mount Zion. On the way, I call Katie. It’s the first chance I’ve had to tell her about the latest development.
“A mountaintop resurrection?” she says. “You mean like Jesus? Returning to speak to his followers? That’s crazy. I mean … This is all so crazy. Should I come to town?”
“Honestly, Katie, I think it’d be a waste of time.
I spent the last hour with the young woman who supposedly saw him and she’s not the most reliable witness.
I don’t think she exactly made it all up but …
Look, I think your father had a powerful effect on the people around here.
And some of those people are taking it harder than others. ”
“So, you don’t think my father’s going to suddenly appear on a hilltop tomorrow at dawn?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t. I don’t know where his body is yet or what happened to him, but I think I’m beginning to get under the surface of it. Whatever I find might not be pretty. Are you sure you want me to stay on it?”
There’s a pause and then she says, “Yes. Yes. Stay on it, Annie. I need to know what happened.”
We say our goodbyes and then, when I’m almost back to town, my phone buzzes again.
“Chief?” I answer. “What’s going on?”
“We got the receipts back from the Walmart corporate office,” he says. “They found a purchase of a brass doorknob and dead bolt set along with some white paint and wood putty.”
“How’d they pay?” I ask.
“Cash.”
“Shit,” I say, but then realize why Dishman’s calling me. “But we can go back through the footage. Just looking at that time stamp.”
“Exactly,” he says.
“On my way.”