Spellbinder Read online

  Quickly Preacher ran his eyes down the page. However the old man had got his information, he had been thorough. He had it all. His parents, his schools, army service and discharge, the Community of God, the starting of the gospel movement. Even down to the money he had tied up in the Los Altos property, which he still owned, and the investment in the equipment for the gospel meetings. He handed it back to the old man. “It’s correct.”

  Jake Randle looked at the others. “I think I might have the man we’ve been looking for,” he said. “He’s young, thirty-four; Vietnam veteran, wounded, honorable discharge, Purple Heart, almost four years’ service. He’s devoted himself to bringing young people to Christ since he left the service, first with a religious community, then, when that was not broad enough, he decided to go on the gospel trail to reach more people if possible. He’s good-looking, clean-cut, all-American and single, and the ladies fall all over him while men respond to his appearance of strength. I feel we should enter into further discussions with this young man to find out if he can really fill the bill and if he genuinely has the same convictions that we do.”

  Preacher stared at him. “Just a moment, Mr. Randle. I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about, what you’re looking for.”

  Jake Randle looked up at him. “We’re looking for a religious leader who can rally America around him.”

  Preacher shook his head. “Why me? Certainly there are others far more well known than I—men who already have strong constituencies and influence. Billy Graham, Jerry Falwell, Oral Roberts, Rex Humbard, even young James Robison. With me, you have to start from scratch. Nobody really knows me.”

  Randle met his eyes. “That’s your advantage. We can make you whatever we want you to be. We have the money and the machinery. It all depends on whether we see things eye to eye.”

  Preacher was silent.

  “All those men you spoke about are good men,” Randle said. “But they’re wrapped up in their own affairs and are already big business, taking in twenty to thirty million a year. They have no motivation to get involved with someone else where they might lose control of their own thing. Besides, we think the American public is ready for someone new. It’s like show business, in a way. Each year television comes up with a new star. I feel that religion is in deep need of the same thing.”

  Preacher still remained silent.

  “Of course, you understand, it’s not merely your qualifications that have to be taken into consideration, Reverend Talbot,” Marcus Lincoln of Randle Communications said quickly. “We’d have to do some video tests of you and see what the research people think of your appeal. Sometimes the best people just don’t come over on the tube.”

  “That’s true,” Everett, the public relations man, added. “We’d have to see how well you work from prepared texts, off the cuff, how you handle the press, how fast you are on your feet, mentally that is.”

  Preacher looked slowly from one to the other. “I’m really flattered by all this attention,” he said. “What you tell me is fascinating. But so far no one has mentioned the thing that concerns me the most.”

  Randle looked up at him. “What’s that, Reverend Talbot?”

  Preacher looked down at him. “God,” he said. “Where does He fit into all of this?”

  Chapter Six

  The old man stared at him. His voice turned raspingly sarcastic. “Do you want to know where God fits into all this, young man? I’ll tell you.” He pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his gold-knobbed walking stick. He gestured out the window of the ranch house. “Many years ago, when I was a boy, every morning I walked four miles to a school just down that road. And do you know the first thing we did every morning when school opened? We gave the pledge of allegiance.”

  Still leaning on the stick, he placed his right hand on his heart. His voice grew strong. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

  He was silent for a moment, then sank back into his seat. “One nation under God. You know there are pinkos and liberals who want those words taken out of our schools? Is it any wonder that we lost in Vietnam? Is it any wonder that our children are into dope and drink and sex and lack of respect for their parents and country?

  “No. They’ve been watching the Eastern intellectuals and do-gooders ever since Franklin Roosevelt engaged in a steady giveaway program of this great nation’s wealth and assets to the lazy bastards in this country who prefer welfare to work, and to the rest of the world—including Soviet Russia, whose only ambition is to take us over and destroy us, just as they’re managing to do in more than half the world already.

  “I was thirty years old when Roosevelt was elected and I remember my pappy’s words when we got the news on the radio. ‘Mind you, son,’ he said, ‘it’s the beginning of the end. First, he’s goin’ to freeze our money and tax it all away from us. Then he’s goin’ to take us into war, just like Wilson, to free the world for democracy, and then, after it’s over, he’s goin’ to give it all away.”

  “That’s exactly what happened and what’s been happenin’ ever since. Now it’s time for right-thinkin’ Christian Americans to take their own country back into their own hands. We should have a right to say whether we like what’s goin’ on or not. We should get our own God-fearing standards back and stop impoverishin’ ourselves for the benefit of Reds and Jews and niggers. I, for one, don’t want to see what I worked so hard for disappearin’ into the hands of people like that.”

  He stopped, slightly out of breath, and looked around at the others. They nodded and murmured their approval. He turned back to Preacher. “Well, young man, have I made myself clear?”

  “Very clear,” Preacher said.

  “And what do you think?”

  Preacher looked thoughtful for a moment. “What were those wines you mentioned when I first came in?”

  “Bordeaux and burgundy.”

  “Well, sir,” Preacher said slowly, “it seems to me that you’re like a man crying with a bottle of wine under each arm. Imported wine at that.

  “Like I said, I’m not much at arithmetic, but I’m willing to bet that you’re worth a hundred, maybe five hundred times what you were when your daddy spoke those words to you, so it’s difficult for me to really understand what you’re crying about.

  “All I asked was a simple question. Where does God fit into all this? You haven’t answered that.”

  A silence fell in the room as the others looked at the old man. He stared at Preacher for a long moment. “Are you trying to tell me that I’m full of shit, Reverend Talbot?” he asked in a deceptively soft voice.

  Preacher’s voice was equally soft. “You said it, Mr. Randle, not I.”

  The old man’s face suddenly broke into laughter. “You got gumption, young man, I got to say that.”

  Preacher was silent.

  Randle turned to the others. “I was right,” he said. “This is the man for us. He don’t listen to nothing else. Only for what he believes. And that’s foursquare for God and country.” He turned back to Preacher. “Did I say that right, Reverend?”

  “Yes, sir,” Preacher nodded. “You said it right.”

  It was near one o’clock in the morning when the limousine brought Preacher back. As he got out of the car he saw the last of the canvas being loaded aboard the truck. He thanked the driver and started across the field to his van.

  Joe left the group of men around the truck and fell into step with him. “How did it go?”

  “Fine,” Preacher said.

  “Beverly and Tarz are waitin’ in your van for your decision on how much to give the First Baptist Church.”

  Preacher nodded, opening the door. “Come on in with me,” he said.

  Joe followed him inside and they went to the back of the van. Beverly and Tarz were at the table, each with a cup of tea in front of them.

  “You look ti
red,” Beverly said, glancing up. “Let me fix you a cup of ginseng tea.”

  Preacher shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”

  Beverly looked at Joe. “You?”

  “I’ll have a beer,” Joe said. He took a can of beer from the small refrigerator, popped it open and held it to his mouth. “Man, it’s dusty out there,” he said, putting down the beer can. “I can have the big truck on the road at nine in the morning.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Preacher said. “We’re staying right here. Tomorrow they can begin setting up again.”

  “But we’ve already sent out over a thousand dollars in deposits on the next two dates,” Beverly said. “We lose the money if we don’t make them.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Then we don’t have any choice,” she said. “There’s no way now we can give the First Baptist half the receipts. We won’t even be able to pay this week’s salaries.”

  “You give them the money we promised them,” Preacher said. “We haven’t cheated before, and I don’t intend to start now.”

  “You’ve got to be practical, Preacher,” she said heatedly. “It’s time you realized that you have to give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s. We’re going to need that money to live on.”

  Preacher reached inside his jacket and took out an envelope. He threw it on the table in front of them. “There’s ten thousand dollars in there. That should take care of things.”

  They stared at him. Joe was the first one to speak. “What’s going down?”

  “Mr. Randle wants us to do another gospel meeting from here.”

  Joe picked up the envelope and took out the money. “And that’s worth ten thousand dollars to him?”

  “He’s putting it on television,” Preacher said.

  Joe stared at him. “On TV?”

  Preacher nodded.

  Joe broke into a wide-faced grin. Excitedly he threw the money into the air, grabbed Preacher, and hugged him as the money fell around them like leaves from a tree in autumn. “It’s a miracle! What did I tell you? The minute I seen that man I knew there was a miracle in the makin’.”

  Preacher laughed. “It’s no miracle. He’s nothing but a selfish son of a bitch, but he thinks he can use us.”

  “Who cares what he thinks,” Joe said. “As long as he got the money to pay for it.”

  “I care,” Preacher said. “But the good Lord moves in His own mysterious ways. He wants me to carry the Gospel and Randle may just be the way He has found for me to do it.”

  “Whatever the way,” Joe said, looking heavenward, “thank you, Lawd.”

  Preacher smiled. “It’s not going to be easy. This won’t be just one of our ordinary gospel meetings. There’s a whole lot of people coming down here, starting tomorrow, to help set it up. They plan to make a whole production out of it. Television is a lot more complicated than just talking to a tentful of people.”

  Joe sank into a chair. “I’m not the least bit worried,” he said. “I think I’ll write my folks right now to watch for us on TV. We all goin’ to be stars.”

  “No,” Preacher said quietly. “Let’s not forget who the star of our show really will be.”

  “I know that,” Joe said quickly. “You goin’ to be the main star.”

  “Not me,” Preacher said, looking at him. “God.”

  Chapter Seven

  He came out of the van squinting in the bright sunlight. Joe came toward him. “They lookin’ for you over in the tent.”

  “I was just on my way there,” Preacher said. He looked toward the road. A giant trailer truck was backing carefully onto the field. “Another one?” he asked.

  Joe nodded. There were two slightly smaller trucks already on the field. “They takin’ no chances. They’re bringin’ on enough power to light up the city. The money old man Randle gave us has got to be chicken feed to what that equipment is costin’.”

  “I guess so,” Preacher said. “How’s it goin’ in there?”

  “They’re changin’ the girls’ dresses to powder blue from white,” Joe said. “They say that fifty percent of the TV’s in the country is still black and white and on them white comes out dirty gray.”

  They came up to the tent. Preacher lifted the flap and stepped inside. The whole of the interior had been changed. Gone were the wooden benches, replaced by velours-covered golden folding chairs. Red carpeting covered all the ground now and there were batteries of lights placed all around the tent. Additional spots were suspended on racks over the platform. The giant photograph of Preacher with words Jesus wants you! that served as a backdrop had been replaced by a silver-white diorama on which different scenes would be projected through the course of the meeting.

  Carefully Preacher picked his way over the cables along the ground to where Marcus Lincoln was standing with a group of men. Preacher nodded as he was introduced to Jim Woden, who was the director, Mike Bailey, his chief assistant in charge of script and continuity, and Perry Smith, the director of photography.

  Lincoln smiled at him. “What do you think, Reverend?” he asked, gesturing around the tent.

  Preacher returned his smile. “It’s something else, Mr. Lincoln. I never thought there was so much work just to film a gospel meeting.”

  “It’s more than just filming the meeting, Reverend,” the director said. “We have to keep in mind that we’re also giving them a show. Since we go on the air at different times all over the country, we have no way of knowing who our opposition will be and if we don’t keep the viewers interested every minute, they’ll just flip the channel to a rerun of ‘I Love Lucy.’”

  “The audience is not like the people who come to the meeting. Those people come because they are interested, but the viewer doesn’t have to go anywhere. He just stays in his living room and by turning that dial goes anywhere he wants,” Lincoln added.

  “Do you have your script—I mean, your sermon—ready, Reverend?” Bailey asked. “It’s not that I’m rushing you, but we’ll need it so that we can program our shots and camera angles.”

  “Beverly’s typing it now, Mr. Bailey,” Preacher said. “It should be ready in about an hour. But mind you, it’s not a prepared speech. Just notes on cards to remind me of what I plan to talk about.”

  “That’s good enough, Reverend,” Bailey said.

  “We’ve been talking among ourselves, Reverend,” Lincoln said, “and we’ve come up with a few ideas we think will add a positive note to the program.”

  “We can always use a little help,” Preacher said. “I’d like to hear them.”

  “At the opening of the show, we thought a helicopter shot of the cars pulling into the lot and the people going into the tent would be interesting,” Woden said. “We have the helicopter standing by if you okay it.”

  “I think that’s fine,” Preacher said.

  “We also think those barrels of water in front of the platform look a little phony. They mess up the visual of the shot.”

  “But they’re important,” Preacher said. “I need them to get the people to come and be baptized.”

  “I know that, Reverend,” Woden said respectfully. “But you put a crowd of people in front of those barrels and nobody can see what’s going on. On a small screen it will look like a bunch of ants crawling all over each other.”

  Preacher thought for a moment. “I don’t know how else to do it.”

  “You have a stream filled with water out at the back of the tent,” Woden said. “That could be like the river Jordan.”

  “There’s no way I can get a tentful of people down there in that creek,” Preacher said. “They’ll all be here in their best Sunday go-to-meetin’ clothes and they don’t plan to go swimming in them.”

  “We have a way to get around that,” Woden said. “We won’t really need them. If you start by leading the girls down to the stream and begin baptizing them, I can arrange for a hundred professional actors and actresses to be here mixed in with
the crowd. They can start going in. It will all look spontaneous and natural. You’ll be surprised at what happens then. Once you get them started you’ll have a lot more people in that stream than you ever dreamed of.”

  Preacher looked at him silently. “That’s not honest, Mr. Woden. Those people aren’t really looking for salvation.”

  “How do you know, Reverend?” Woden asked. “They’ll all be told what to do. Whether they do it or not is up to them. And if they decide to do it, maybe it is salvation they are seeking, whether they know it or not.”

  Preacher was silent.

  Lincoln gestured with his hands. “This program is costing Mr. Randle a lot of money. He’s betting it all on you to pull it off. But no matter how good you are, or how convincing you are, it won’t be enough. If you want people to come back and turn you on every week, you have to come up with a socko ending. There isn’t a program on the air that doesn’t need it, because that’s what keeps them coming back to you every week. And believe me, Reverend, this is a socko ending.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Lincoln,” Preacher said. “I don’t want to do anything that would cheapen the word of God.”

  “It won’t, Reverend. Believe me, it won’t. If anything, it should come over on the screen as a massive reaffirmation of faith,” Lincoln said quickly.

  Preacher still hesitated.

  “I have an idea,” Woden said. “Supposing I bring fifty people down here tomorrow morning and we try it. Then we can see it on the playback and if it doesn’t work, we’ll forget it.”

  Preacher looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll agree to that. But if I don’t like it, it won’t go.”

  “You’re the boss,” Woden said.

  Preacher looked at Lincoln. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all we have for the moment,” Lincoln answered. “We’ll check with you if we come up with anything else.”

  “Then I’ll get back to my van,” Preacher said.