Spellbinder Read online

  She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly clear and shining. “For the same reason you and all the rest of us do,” she said. “We love him.”

  He had no argument about that. If someone had predicted that night years ago when Preacher came into his house in Oakland that he would find himself down in the broiling sun of the Texas panhandle with a Jesus freak it would have seemed too ridiculous to even pay it any mind. But here he was. And here she was. And all the rest of them.

  Sometimes he wondered if Preacher really knew the power he had over people. The way they listened to him and believed him and opened up to him. He really brought God right into their lives. All he had to do was settle down in one place and follow up on them. The money would keep on rolling in.

  But Preacher’s head wasn’t into that. Maybe he never even heard what they were saying, because when the subject of settling down and building a church would be brought up, a distant look would come into his eyes and he would answer with a patient voice. It was almost as if they were children and did not understand.

  “No. A single church is not my scene. The Lord has bid me not to plant my own roots but His and I hear His words even as He Himself has spoken them to His disciples.” He would pause for a moment and with the quotation from St. Mark end the discussion. “‘Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.’”

  Chapter Two

  By three o’clock Joe had already counted one hundred and eighty-seven cars and trucks parked in the field and four hundred ninety-one people, without counting the children, and there was still a long line of cars down the road waiting to enter the lot. He nodded in satisfaction. There would be a good turnout. Maybe more than eight hundred.

  The gospel music from the tape player in the tent blared through the four giant loudspeakers to the road. The beat was modern—gospel country western—and he could see the people responding to it with a warm, almost festive, air. The benches inside the tent were already filling up. There was seating for seven hundred and fifty people. He saw the six girls in their white flowing robes escorting the people to their seats and giving each one a small white-bound program, and smiled to himself. He knew the routine and it always worked.

  “Welcome in the name of our Savior Jesus Christ,” they would say with a smile as they sat the visitors and handed them a program.

  “Amen,” the visitor would usually say. “Thank you.”

  The girl would smile again and hold out her hand. “The charge for each program is one dollar. The proceeds, of course, go to the poor and needy in the name of our Savior.”

  There would be a moment’s hesitation, then the dollar would be forthcoming. Never was a program returned. The level of public exposure was too high and the visitor would be sure that the eyes of all his neighbors were on him.

  “Thank you, in the name of Jesus Christ,” the girl would say, putting the money in a small bag hung around her waist and turning back up the aisle for the next visitor.

  He took a quick last glance at the automobiles moving into the parking area then started back to Preacher’s RV behind the tent. This time he didn’t knock, just went up the steps and opened the door. “Preacher,” he called.

  “I’m in here,” Preacher answered.

  He went into the RV, closing the door behind him. Preacher was seated at the small desk, his sermon notes on small cards spread before him. Joe looked down at him. “Preacher, do you believe in God?”

  Preacher’s voice was surprised. “That’s stupid, Joe. You know that I do.”

  “If God sent you a miracle, would you recognize it?”

  A puzzled look came over Preacher’s face. “What are you talking about?”

  “I got a feeling,” Joe said. “A miracle’s goin’ to happen out there today.”

  Preacher was silent for a moment, then his voice grew suspicious. “What are you talking about?”

  “A man came by today while you were over at the Baptist Church. He was sittin’ in the back of a mile-long Mercedes limousine. He started out by wantin’ to throw us off’n his property and ended up by saying he would come to our meetin’ if I kep’ a front-row bench open so’s he can set by himself.”

  Preacher looked at him. “And did you?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Is he here yet?”

  “No,” Joe answered. “But it’s early yet. He’ll come.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Preacher was curious.

  “He asked me if you were an old-fashioned hellfire and brimstone preacher and I said you were. He said he didn’t hold with any of that sweetness and light horseshit. I told him to come back—you were his kind of man.”

  Preacher shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that. You know better.”

  Joe looked at him. “Couldn’t you do it just this once? A little old-fashioned gospel never hurt nobody.”

  “But that’s not my style,” Preacher said.

  Joe was silent for a moment. “I didn’t want to tell you this before the meetin’ but I guess I got to now. The men are all quittin’ if’n they don’t get paid in full after today’s meetin’. Going without ain’t their style neither. They got families to feed back home and they’re behind four weeks’ salary.”

  “They know they’ll get paid as soon as we get the money.”

  “Sure they do. But they kind of give up ever tryin’ to catch up. They see what’s goin’ down. And they know there ain’t enough to go round.”

  “With a good crowd,” Preacher said, “we can raise maybe two thousand today.”

  “And if we do, it’s gone before we get it. Two hundred dollars to rent the lot, another two hundred to the gas station, fifty dollars to the electric company for the power and lights, then half the take, a thousand, to the local church, and what do we have left? Five hundred fifty bucks. Take out the food money and we ain’t got enough to pay even one man’s back salary.”

  Preacher was silent.

  “You’ll have to ask Beverly for more money,” Joe said.

  “I can’t do that,” Preacher said. “She’s given enough already.”

  “Then you need a miracle,” Joe said. “Would you know one if you saw one?”

  Preacher’s expression was suddenly grim. “I might. If you pointed him out to me.”

  “I won’t have to point him out,” Joe answered without a smile. “He’ll be settin’ by himself on a bench in the front row. His name is Jake Randle.”

  ***

  After Joe had gone, Preacher stared down at the small cards spread on the desk in front of him. They had come a long way from the God of peace and love that he had preached at the Community. That was a God of tolerance and understanding who reached out and heard the prayers of all men, who sent them His Son as the Redeemer so that all who would accept the Christ could come to Him. But that was a God of another time, another place. A God of a world disillusioned with itself, the materialism of its society, the sickness and horrors of its wars. A God for children.

  But the children were all grown up now. And today’s God, though the same God, was more the Jehovah of the Old Testament than the Christ of the New Testament. This was the God of vengeance, of punishment, who would condemn to everlasting hell all who would not accept His Son as Christ the Messiah. And no deviation from His word as written would be tolerated, no other interpretation would be allowed. Man was born in sin and would die in sin unless he came to Him and was washed in the Blood of the Lamb and reborn.

  Preacher closed his eyes. It was the same God, the same God, the same God. What had happened to Him that he could not see? Or was it that he had been blind and could not see that it had been there all the time until that day that the police cars roared down the hill into the Community?

  ***

  There had been fourteen policemen in four cars. They came to a halt in front of the meeting hall in a cloud of dust. Preacher had looked around for Ali Elijah but he was already gone, disappeared at the first glimpse of them on the hill road. Relieved,
Preacher went outside as the policemen got out of the car.

  A policeman came toward him, pulled his gun from the holster and waved it at Preacher. “You! Turn around and put your hands against the wall!”

  Preacher stared at him. “What’s this all about?”

  “Just do as you’re told!” another policeman said.

  Silently, Preacher began to turn around as some of the girls came out of the building. “All of you!” a policeman shouted. “Over here!”

  They looked at Preacher with frightened eyes. He nodded imperceptibly. Slowly they moved toward him.

  “Check all the buildings,” another voice said. “There has to be more of them than just these five.”

  Preacher placed his hands flat against the wall of the building and leaned toward it. Roughly, a policeman patted him down. “He’s clean.”

  Preacher put his hands down and turned toward them. “Now, can you tell me what’s going down?”

  The policeman who had searched him didn’t answer.

  “This is private property,” Preacher said. “Do you have a search warrant?”

  A heavyset man with a lieutenant’s insignia on his uniform came toward him. “We have a warrant.”

  Preacher took it from his hand and looked at it.

  “I can save you the trouble of reading it,” the officer said. “We’re looking for drugs, dangerous weapons and stolen property.”

  Preacher felt a sense of relief. At least it wasn’t Ali Elijah they were looking for. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “We’re a religious community.”

  The policeman stared at him. “That’s what Manson said when they went down to the Spahn ranch.”

  “We’re not the same,” Preacher said.

  “Maybe,” the policeman retorted. “But all you hippies look alike to me. You even look like him with your long hair and Jesus beard.”

  “I didn’t know looking like someone was a crime,” Preacher snapped. He shook his head sadly. “I don’t get it. We’ve been here three years now and never had any trouble. Why the beef?”

  The policeman was vague. “We caught a few squeals.”

  “From town?” Preacher asked. “We’ve always gotten along with everyone there. Check with the bank. Check with the housewives. Quite a few of them get their fresh fruit and vegetables from us.”

  “Not no more they won’t,” the policeman said. “The city council just revoked your vendor’s license.”

  Preacher stared at him. “They had no reason to do that.”

  “They don’t need any,” the lieutenant answered. He paused for a moment. “Mind if we look around?”

  “I don’t have any choice, do I?”

  The policeman shook his head. He gestured and the other policeman scattered, two each to a building. Two remained with him. “We would like to see the driver’s licenses or ID’s of everyone here,” he said. “We also want to see registration slips of all the vehicles.”

  Two of the policeman came back with Charlie and Melanie. Charlie’s face was flushed with anger. “The pigs pulled us away from the stove in the middle of making dinner. Now it’s going to be ruined.”

  “Too bad,” one of the policeman said sarcastically. He pushed her roughly. “Over against the wall with the others.”

  “Keep your hands off me, pig,” Charlie snapped.

  “Take it slow, Charlie,” Preacher said softly. Beyond them he could see other policemen coming from the field with the three girls and the Mexican day workers who had been working there.

  The lieutenant waited until they were all together. “Are there any more of you?”

  Preacher shook his head. “No.”

  “He’s right, Lieutenant,” one of the policemen said. “The report said there were ten girls.”

  “Okay,” the lieutenant said. He turned to Preacher. “I’ll start with your license.”

  It took them almost three hours to complete their search and at the end of it, all they had to show was two half-smoked joints found in the cab of the pickup. He showed them to Preacher. “Any more like this around?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Lieutenant,” Preacher said. “I’m not in the habit of saving clinchers.”

  The lieutenant turned back to the other policemen. “Did you see anything else that might be incriminating?”

  “There’s a whole bunch of big sharp knives in the kitchen,” one of the policemen volunteered.

  The lieutenant looked at him in disgust. Another policeman spoke up. “We could search the girls. There’s no telling what they have hidden under their dresses. I heard—”

  The lieutenant’s voice was annoyed. “Don’t be a jerk. You know damn well we need a police matron to do that.”

  “Maybe we can just pat them down?” the policeman suggested.

  “You lay a hand on me,” Charlie snapped, “and I’ll have your ass in court.”

  “Shut up, Smitty,” the lieutenant said. He turned to Preacher. “You’re clean for now but we’re not finished yet. We’re going to keep an eye on you. Just one mistake and we bust the place wide open. We don’t want people like you around this town.”

  They all stood in silence as the police cars drove back up the hill. Finally, they turned to Preacher. Charlie asked the question that was in all their minds. “What do we do now?”

  He looked at them for a long moment before he answered. “Go back to work,” he said. “I’ll go into town tomorrow and get it all straightened out.”

  But even as he spoke, the policeman’s words echoed in his ears. And he knew that he’d meant exactly what he said.

  Chapter Three

  The attitude in the town had changed. Preacher felt that the very next day when he went up to the bank. Before the bank president had been cordial and relaxed. Now he was guarded and uncomfortable when Preacher was shown into his office.

  “I guess you heard that our vendor’s license has been revoked,” Preacher said.

  Mr. Walton nodded. “I heard something to that effect.”

  “I don’t know why they did that,” Preacher said. “I was wondering if you could put in a good word for us. We’ve never given any trouble to anyone in town.”

  “The city council makes its own decisions,” Mr. Walton replied. “They don’t like it if someone tries to influence them.”

  Preacher stared at him. That wasn’t exactly the truth. When he had originally applied for the license, Mr. Walton had been an enthusiastic sponsor. “What’s wrong, Mr. Walton? What’s changed?”

  Mr. Walton didn’t meet his eyes. “Perhaps some of the stores complained that you were costing them business.”

  Preacher shook his head. “You know better than that. Most of the smaller stores dealt with us. Actually they were the biggest customers we had.”

  The bank president was silent.

  “We depend on that income to pay our bills. Even the mortgage payments. We’re in real trouble if we can’t market our produce.”

  “I can’t help that,” Mr. Walton said.

  “Then what do we do?” Preacher asked.

  Mr. Walton looked up at him. “You could sell the property. The bank would be happy to find a purchaser for you. As a matter of fact, we know of several parties that are interested.”

  Preacher nodded. The writing was on the wall. Even the bank wanted them out. “But we’ve put a lot of money into it.”

  Mr. Walton grew more confident. “We can see to it that you come out whole. Perhaps even make a profit.”

  “And if we don’t sell?”

  “That’s up to you,” the bank president said. “But my loan committee has taken a very strong position. I’m under instruction to see that the loan payments are received on schedule. I cannot extend any further leniency.”

  Preacher got to his feet slowly. He looked down at the bank president still seated behind his desk. “We’re not bad people, Mr. Walton. All we ask is an opportunity to live in peace and pay our own way.”

  The bank president looked up
at him. His voice was low, as if he was afraid that he would be overheard. “I know that, Mr. Talbot. But I’m afraid there is nothing I can do. My hands are tied.”

  Preacher nodded without speaking. He started for the door. The banker’s voice stopped him.

  “Keep in mind what I said, Mr. Talbot. If you should decide to sell the property, we have some parties that are genuinely interested.”

  “I will, Mr. Walton. Thank you,” Preacher said and closed the door behind him.

  At City Hall the clerk was disdainful. “You can appeal the council’s decision if you want but it won’t do any good. They already made up their minds.”

  “I would still like a hearing,” Preacher said.

  “Okay, if that’s what you want, I’ll put you down for the next meeting. That will be next month.”

  “Isn’t there anything sooner?” Preacher asked.

  “The city council only meets once a month. They already had this month’s meeting,” the clerk said.

  Preacher walked out into the parking lot. There were two policemen standing next to his pickup. One had just finished attaching a ticket to his windshield wiper. He took it off and looked at it. Illegal parking.

  He turned to the policemen. “How come? I paid the meter.”

  The policeman gestured to the sign at the entrance: NO TRUCKS ALLOWED. Preacher looked at it and then down the lot. There were several other pickups parked there. They didn’t have tickets.

  “What about them?” he asked. “I see they didn’t get any tickets.”

  “We didn’t get to them yet,” the policeman replied. He stared at Preacher without moving.

  “You going to?” Preacher asked.

  The policeman nodded. “Sure. But right now it’s time for our coffee break. We’ll get to them later.”

  Silently, Preacher got into the truck and pulled out of the lot. In the rearview mirror he could see them looking after him until he turned the corner. He glanced at his fuel gauge. The tank was almost empty.

  He pulled into the gas station they always did business with. “Fill it up, Mike,” he said to the man who came out of the office.