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  The congregation roared with him, “Amen!”

  Preacher raised the young man to his feet. “Now, young man, in the words of our blessed Savior Jesus Christ, ‘Go, and sin no more.’”

  He stood there as two of the girls led the young man to the side flap of the tent and let him out, then turned back to the congregation. “Now, are there those among you who will come forth willingly to wash their hands and be baptized in the holy water from the river Jordan, or must I go back among you and drag each of you, willingly or unwillingly, to salvation?”

  There was a moment’s silence, then a man rose at the rear of the tent. “I will come, Brother Talbot!” Then, another man at the far side of the tent, then a woman, and suddenly the aisles were crowded with people coming for salvation.

  Preacher climbed the steps of the platform and went to the podium. His voice rolled through the sound system. “You are washing yourselves in the same water of the holy river Jordan that once washed our Lord Jesus Christ. As I have mentioned, this water has been brought to you at great expense, so use it sparingly, for there is just enough to go around. And to those of you who want to contribute to bringing more of this holy water of salvation to the others who will follow, you may place five dollars, or even more if you wish, in the small box next to each barrel. Our saintly young usherettes will thank you as I thank you in the name of our Savior Jesus Christ.

  “And may I also add that half of the money received here today will be turned back to your own First Baptist Church of Randle, Texas, Dr. John Lydon, pastor, at whose kind invitation we have been able to come here and preach the Gospel.”

  He then came down from the platform and pressed the hands of each person as each turned from the spigots and went out of the tent through the flap at the side. It took more than an hour until the tent was empty of all the congregation except one. Jake Randle was still sitting on his solitary bench, his hands resting on his gold-knobbed walking stick, watching Preacher.

  Preacher returned the man’s gaze without speaking.

  After a moment, the old man got to his feet and turned to walk up the aisle.

  Preacher called after him. “Will you not come forward and wash your hands in the holy water, Mr. Randle? Or are you so free of sin that you do not need to?”

  The old man turned, leaning heavily on his stick, and looked at him. “You’re a fake, Mr. Talbot,” he said in a rasping voice. “There’s no more river Jordan water in those barrels than there is in that dried-up crick out back.”

  “If you believe that, Mr. Randle,” Preacher said, “then will you come with me for a moment?”

  The old man looked at him; he hesitated, then nodded. Preacher led the way slowly through the tent flap. Behind him the girls were already picking up the contribution boxes and taking them to the van where the money would be counted.

  In silence, Preacher and the old man, followed by his bodyguard, walked down to the banks of the creek. The old man stared, at first in disbelief, then in wonder. The creek was half full, the water running in a sparkling stream down toward the farmland.

  Jake Randle looked at Preacher. “It’s a miracle,” he said in a suddenly husky voice.

  Preacher shook his head. “No, Mr. Randle. It’s not a miracle. At one o’clock this afternoon, the sluice gates were opened on the Pecos River Valley Dam for the first time. The water was expected to be here by four o’clock.”

  Jake Randle was silent for a moment. When he spoke, there was a new respect in his voice. “Will you come to dinner tonight, Mr. Talbot?”

  “Reverend Talbot,” Preacher said.

  “Where did you receive your ordination?” Randle asked.

  “Christian Unity College in Sioux Falls.”

  Randle looked at him shrewdly. “That’s a mail-order college.”

  “Maybe,” Preacher said. “But it’s a valid Christian school.”

  Randle nodded. “All right then. Reverend Talbot, will you join me for dinner tonight at eight o’clock?”

  “If you will send your car for me, Mr. Randle,” Preacher said. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Chapter Five

  He stepped out of the closet-like shower in the RV and, taking a towel from the rack next to it, began to dry himself. Charlie’s voice came from beyond the curtain that separated the bathroom from the rest of the interior. “Care for a toke?”

  “I need something,” he said. “I’m wiped out.”

  She lifted the curtain and came in. She was still wearing the white dress of the usherettes. He took the small rolled joint from her hand and put it in his mouth. She held the match for him.

  He took a deep toke and nodded. “This is good.”

  She smiled. “Nothing but the best. Turn around, Preacher, I’ll dry your back for you.”

  She took the towel from his hand as he turned his back. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “Tarz and Beverly are counting the money,” she said. “Everybody else is cleaning up.”

  He moved over to a little window and looked out. The tent was already down and the men were rolling the canvas on the poles. The benches were being moved on the forklift back to the truck. He took another deep toke and turned back to her. “That’s enough,” he said. “I feel good now.”

  She looked at him. “That’s nothing.”

  He laughed, taking the towel back from her. “I wouldn’t look too good if I showed up for dinner at old man Randle’s stoned out of my mind.”

  “I don’t know why you’re even bothering with him,” she said. “I hear he’s so tight that he can squeeze the buffalo off a nickel.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “One of the men who pass the plate up at the church told me. When he does show up for the services, which is not too often, all he gives them is a silver dollar.”

  Preacher laughed. “Sounds like him.”

  “Then why are you going?”

  “Curiosity, I guess. Besides he asked me. I figure he must have a reason.” He wrapped the towel around his waist. “Let’s go and see how we’re doing.”

  She took a quick toke, then pinched out the joint carefully and followed him into the rear of the van. He walked down to the end where Tarz and Beverly were sitting at the table, the money stacked in neat piles in front of them.

  Beverly looked up at him. “Forty-one hundred and sixteen dollars,” she said.

  He let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty good.”

  “More than double anything we ever took in before,” she answered.

  “I wonder why?” he asked thoughtfully.

  Joe’s voice came from behind him. “You gave ’em what they want, for a change. They don’t want sweet talk from their preacher. They want the shit scared out of them by hellfire and damnation.”

  Preacher looked at him. “You really believe that?”

  “I sure do,” Joe said. “You didn’t see their faces. I did. When you began beating up on Tarz, they loved every minute of it. As far as they were concerned you were beating the shit out of the devil.”

  “And my teeth still ache to prove it,” Tarz said. “I’m glad you don’t do that every time.”

  “I’m sorry,” Preacher said quickly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Tarz laughed. “I’m not complaining. It was worth the money.”

  Joe cleared his throat and looked at Beverly. “You want to tell him or shall I?”

  “I’ll tell him,” Beverly said quickly. She looked at Preacher. “We’ve been talking among us. We think you shouldn’t give the church more than four hundred dollars.”

  Preacher shook his head. “We promised them half.”

  “They won’t know the difference,” Joe said. “Charlie found out that they don’t even take in two hundred dollars at Sunday collections. That’s twice that amount. They’ll be happy as pigs in shit.”

  “It’s not honest,” Preacher said.

  “It’s not honest not to pay the men for their work neither,” Joe said. “
I figger we owe more to our own folk than we do to the others. After all, they didn’t do nothin’ to help us. We paid for everything ourselves, rent, gas and electricity. Four hundred’s more’n enough for them.”

  Preacher was silent.

  “If you agree to that, Preacher,” Beverly said, “we can pay each of our men this week’s salary plus one week’s back pay and still have some left over.”

  “That way, everybody’ll be happy,” Joe said. “Don’t forget it’s goin’ to cost us this week. Our next meeting’s on Thursday. That means four days without any money comin’ in.”

  Preacher looked at them. “Let me think on it,” he said. “We’re not pulling out of here until tomorrow. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

  He walked to the front of the RV and pulled shut the curtain that separated it from the rear. He turned to the wall and pulled down the bunk and stretched out on it. He put his hands under his head and stared up at the ceiling. Money. Why was it that it always came down to money?

  The curtain rustled and he turned to see Charlie come through it. She sat down at the foot of his bunk. “You’re all uptight. I can tell,” she said. “Maybe you can use another few tokes.”

  He shook his head. “I’d better not.”

  “They ain’t all wrong,” she said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I know it’s none of my business,” she continued. “And the girls ain’t complaining, mind you. But I know they’re not too happy. It’s not just the money, it’s that we don’t have fun no more like we used to. We’re always jumpin’ from one place to the next and never get a chance to stay in one place long enough to even see a movie. And we can’t smoke or drink or party like we used to because if people catch us, we’re all finished. And most of all, we miss being with you. At night, you’re always alone in this van and you never ask any of us to come in and pass the time with you.”

  “You can’t preach one thing and be another,” Preacher said.

  “We’re not saying that you should,” she said quickly. “But we’re none of us saints. What do you do when you get horny? Jack off?”

  He stared at her without answering.

  “I’m sorry, Preacher,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be fresh.”

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  The tears began to roll down her cheeks. “Why did they have to chase us out of the Community, Preacher? Things were so beautiful when we were there.”

  He took her hand. “I don’t know, Charlie. I’m sure God has His own reasons to let it happen. Maybe it was His way to test us.”

  “It’s not fair, Preacher. It’s just not fair.” She bent over suddenly and kissed his exposed genitals, then rose quickly and went to the curtain. “Don’t forget, Preacher, that we love you,” she said and was gone before he could reply.

  He lay there silently for a moment, then sat up slowly. It was almost seven o’clock and he would have to dress. The old man’s car should be here for him almost any minute now.

  ***

  The big black car made the forty-mile drive in thirty minutes from the time they left the city until they drove under the weather-beaten wooden arch over the private driveway that had the words RANDLE RANCH burned into it with a hot branding iron. From the road to the giant sprawling ranch house was another two miles.

  Preacher, looking out the window, saw the private airstrip and hangar on the way to the house. Three small jets, two helicopters and a twin-engined Cessna sat out on the field. Here, too, as at the main entrance, a uniformed armed guard came out of a small house to look at the car as they went by, his broad-brimmed cowboy hat pulled down over his face. A half-mile further on, they came to a whitewashed split-rail fence surrounding the house itself. This time there was a gate and still another guard came and swung it open for them to drive through.

  Now they were no longer driving through flatland fields. This was a carefully landscaped desert garden, complete with shrubs, cactus plants, trees and flowers and a man-made lake that ended almost at the foot of the long green lawn that fronted the house. Slowly the car came to a stop at the entrance. Preacher looked through the glass partition that separated him from the chauffeur and the bodyguard. They sat without moving, without even turning around to look at him or speak to him, just as they had during the drive. A man came down the steps of the house and opened the door for him.

  He was a tall man in striped pants, swallowtail jacket, starched white wing collar and black bow tie. He bowed slightly as he opened the car door. “Welcome to Randle Ranch, Reverend Talbot,” he said in a faint British accent.

  Preacher got out of the car. “Thank you.”

  The butler gestured. “This way, sir.”

  Preacher went before him up the steps to the door. Another man opened the door for them and closed it after they had gone through. Preacher blinked his eyes. It was a tremendous entrance foyer. The beamed ceiling and rustic paneled walls contrasted incongruously with an irregular white and black marble floor and a sparkling crystal chandelier that belonged more in a European palace than in a Texas ranch house.

  “Mr. Randle and the other guests are in the library,” the butler said.

  Preacher nodded. Now he was glad he’d worn his dark suit, white shirt, narrow, neat black tie, and highly polished black Western boots. He paused a moment before a mirror. He looked good. And the lapel pin, a small American flag with a cross superimposed over it, didn’t hurt. It combined patriotism and religion into respectability. The butler swung open a massive wooden door.

  The library was a large room, all wooden oak bookshelves lining the walls, filled with leather-bound books. They covered three sides of the room. Giant floor-to-ceiling sliding panel windows covered the fourth side. The furniture was heavy—massive, overstuffed, dark leather couch and chairs and Mexican wooden tables. A large desk with three telephones and a massive chair were on the far end of the room, and in the corner was a telex whose quiet clatter formed a background to the conversation in the room.

  Three men were standing in front of the winged armchair in which Jake Randle was seated. There were two women seated in chairs opposite him and between them a log-filled fireplace roared the chill away from the night. Conversation stopped as they turned to watch Preacher approach.

  The old man didn’t rise from his chair. He extended his arm. “Reverend Talbot.”

  “Mr. Randle,” Preacher acknowledged. The old man’s grip was firm and strong.

  Randle turned to the others. “This is the young man I was telling you about,” he said. “Reverend Talbot, I’d like you to meet some of my friends and associates who flew down from Dallas and Houston especially to meet you.”

  Preacher looked at him. He didn’t let the surprise show in his face. “It would be an honor to meet your friends, Mr. Randle.”

  The old man nodded. “First, the big man near you, Dick Craig, president of Americans for a Better Way; next to him, John Everett, president of Everett and Singer, public relations; the gentleman on the end is Marcus Lincoln, president of Randle Communications. We own and operate five TV stations in major cities and over one hundred and thirty radio stations around the country; before the year is over we’ll have our own satellite in operation.”

  Preacher shook hands with each man in turn, murmuring the man’s name so that he would not forget it. He turned back to the old man questioningly.

  “Last, but not least, the two ladies. In the chair on your left, Mrs. Helen Lacey, president of the Christian Women’s Council.”

  Preacher bowed over the hand of the silver-haired middle-aged woman. “Mrs. Lacey.”

  Her glance was appraising, her voice cool. “Reverend Talbot.”

  “The lady on the right is Miss Jane Dawson, executive vice president of Randle Computer Services, Incorporated. Don’t let her pretty face fool you; she’s one of the mathematical geniuses of our time.”

  Preacher smiled as he took her hand. “I’m impressed, Miss Dawson. I’ve never been able to make
a column of figures add up to the same figure twice.”

  The young woman laughed. “Then obviously, Reverend Talbot, you need a personal computer.”

  He nodded, smiling, and turned back to Randle. “I didn’t expect such distinguished company.”

  “It was a last-minute idea,” Randle said. “Would you like a drink before dinner? We have an excellent bourbon.”

  Preacher shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  Randle looked at him shrewdly. “Temperance?”

  “No. It’s just that I can’t handle hard liquor. I’ll take a glass of red wine if you have it.”

  “Bordeaux or burgundy?”

  Preacher laughed. “I’m afraid that’s a little beyond my reach. Gallo or Christian Brothers is more my style.”

  Randle chuckled. “Bordeaux. You’ll like it. Nothing is better than a good claret. Besides, it will sit well with dinner. We’re having Texas steaks from my own spoon-fed beef.”

  Dinner was a quiet affair. Most of the conversation, initiated by the old man, had to do with Preacher’s activities. By the time dinner was over, Randle knew that there were twenty-one people involved in the gospel troupe, that they averaged three meetings a week and were barely able to make expenses. After dinner they went back into the library for coffee.

  Cognac and cigars were passed around and all the men joined in except Preacher. He and the ladies lit cigarettes; the older woman also had a brandy.

  Randle was back in his chair in front of the fireplace. He looked up at Preacher. “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about?”

  Preacher nodded. “I have to admit to being curious.”

  “Since this afternoon I had a little rundown done on you.” From a magazine rack next to his chair he picked up a file folder and opened it. He took a sheet of paper from it and handed it to Preacher. “That’s a complete biography on you. Look it over and tell me if it’s essentially correct.”