by Stephen King
Ants, I thought. To him, the whole congregation looked like ants.
“It’s about that preacherman. I know that much.”
I kept quiet.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“You could say so, I guess.”
She nodded and sat back. “That’s all right. That’s fine. Just from now on, I want you to leave Brianna out of it. Will you do that? If only because I never suggested that you’d have done better to keep your elderly prick away from my daughter’s underpants?”
“She’s out of it. We agreed on that.”
She gave a businesslike nod. Then: “Hugh says you’re taking a vacation.”
“Yes.”
“Going to see the preacherman?”
I kept quiet. Which was the same as saying yes, and she knew it.
“Be careful.” She reached across the table and interlaced her fingers in mine, as her daughter had been wont to do. “Whatever it was you and Bree were looking into, it upset her terribly.”
• • •
I flew into Stewart Airport in Newburgh on a day in early October. The trees were turning color, and the ride to the town of Latchmore was beautiful. By the time I got there, the afternoon was waning and I checked into the local Motel 6. There was no dial-up, let alone WiFi, which made my laptop unable to touch the world outside my room, but I didn’t need WiFi to find The Latches; Bree had done that for me. It was four miles east of downtown Latchmore, on Route 27, an estate home once owned by an old-money family named Vander Zanden. Around the turn of the twentieth century the old money had apparently run out, because The Latches had been sold and turned into a high-priced sanitarium for overweight ladies and soused gentlemen. That had lasted almost until the turn of the twenty-first century. Since then it had been for sale or lease.
I thought I would have a hard time sleeping, but I went under almost immediately, in the midst of trying to plan what I’d say to Jacobs when I saw him. If I saw him. When I woke early on another bright fall day, I decided that playing it by ear might be for the best. If I hadn’t laid down tracks to run on, I reasoned (perhaps fallaciously), I couldn’t be derailed.
I got in my rental car at nine, drove the four miles, found nothing. A mile or so farther on I stopped at a farmstand loaded with the season’s last produce. The potatoes looked mighty paltry to my country boy’s eye, but the pumpkins were wowsers. The stand was being presided over by a couple of teenagers. The resemblance said they were brother and sister. Their expressions said they were bored brainless. I asked for directions to The Latches.
“You passed it,” the girl said. She was the older.
“I figured that much. I just don’t know how I managed. I thought I had good directions, and it’s supposed to be pretty big.”
“There used to be a sign,” the boy said, “but the guy who’s renting the place took it down. Pa says he must like to keep himself to himself. Ma says he’s probably stuck up.”
“Shut up, Willy. Mister, you gonna buy anything? Pa says we can’t shut down for the day until we get thirty dollars’ worth of custom.”
“I’ll buy a pumpkin. If you can give me some decent directions.”
She gave a theatrical sigh. “One pumpkin. A buck-fifty. Big whoop.”
“How about one pumpkin for five dollars?”
Willy and his sister exchanged a look, then she smiled. “That’ll work.”
• • •
My expensive pumpkin sat in the backseat like an orange moonlet as I drove back the way I had come. The girl had told me to watch for a big slab of rock with METALLICA RULES sprayed on it. I spotted it and slowed to ten miles an hour. Two tenths of a mile after the big rock, I came to the turnoff I’d missed before. It was paved, but the entrance was badly overgrown and heaped with fallen autumn leaves. It looked like camouflage to me. When I’d asked the farmstand kids if they knew what the new occupant did, they had simply shrugged.
“Pa says he probably made his money in the stock market,” the girl said. “He must have a lot of it, to live in a place like that. Ma says it must have fifty rooms.”
“Why you goin to see him?” This was the boy.
His sister threw him an elbow. “That’s rude, Willy.”
I said, “If he’s who I think he is, I knew him a long time ago. And thanks to you guys, I can bring him a present.” I hefted the pumpkin.
“Make a lot of pies with that, f’sure,” the boy said.
Or a jack-o’-lantern, I thought as I turned into the lane leading to The Latches. Branches brushed the sides of my car. One with a bright little electric light inside instead of a candle. Right behind the eyes.
The road—that’s what it was once you got past the intersection with the highway, wide and well-paved—climbed in a series of S-turns. Twice I had to stop while deer lolloped across ahead of me. They looked at my car without concern. I guessed no one had hunted these woods in a long, long time.
Four miles up, I came to a closed wrought-iron gate flanked by signs: PRIVATE PROPERTY on the left and NO TRESPASSING on the right. There was an intercom box on a fieldstone post with a video camera above it, cocked down to look at callers. I pressed the button on the intercom. My heart was beating hard, and I was sweating. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
Nothing at first. At last: “How may I help you?” The resolution was much better than most intercom systems provide—terrific, in fact—but given Jacobs’s interests, that didn’t surprise me. The voice wasn’t his, but it was familiar.
“I’m here to see Daniel Charles.”
“Mr. Charles doesn’t see callers without an appointment,” the intercom informed me.
I considered this, then pushed the TALK button again. “What about Dan Jacobs? That’s the name he was going under in Tulsa, where he was running a carny shy called Portraits in Lightning.”
The voice from the box said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m sure Mr. Charles wouldn’t, either.”
The penny dropped, and I knew who went with that rolling tenor voice. “Tell him it’s Jamie Morton, Mr. Stamper. And remind him I was there when he did his first miracle.”
There was a long, long pause. I thought the conversation might be over, which would leave me up the creek without a paddle. Unless I wanted to try crashing the gate with my rented economy car, that was, and in such a conflict I was pretty sure the gate would win.
Just as I was about to turn away, Al Stamper said, “What was this miracle?”
“My brother Conrad lost his voice. Reverend Jacobs brought it back.”
“Look up at the camera.”
I did so. After several seconds, a new voice came through the intercom. “Come on up, Jamie,” Charles Jacobs said. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
An electric motor began to purr, and the gate opened on a hidden track. Like Jesus walking across Peaceable Lake, I thought as I got into my car and started rolling. There was another of those tight curves fifty yards or so further up, and before I was around it, I saw the gate shutting. The association that came to me—the original residents of Eden turned out for eating the wrong apple—wasn’t surprising; I had grown up with the Bible, after all.
• • •
The Latches was a vast sprawl that might have started life as a Victorian but had become a mishmash of architectural experiments. There were four stories, many gables, and a rounded, glassed-in addition on the west end that looked out on the valleys, dells, and ponds of the Hudson Valley. Route 27 was a dark thread running through a landscape that shone with color. The main building was barnboard trimmed in white, and several large outbuildings matched it. I wondered which one housed Jacobs’s lab. One of them did, of that I was sure. Beyond the buildings, the land sloped up ever more steeply and woods took over.
Parked under the portico, where bellmen had once unloaded the fancy cars of in
coming spa-goers and alkies, was the unassuming Ford Taurus Jacobs had registered under his own name. I parked behind it and mounted the steps to a porch that looked as long as a football field. I reached for the bell, but before I could ring it, the door opened. Al Stamper stood there in seventies-style bellbottom trousers and a strappy tie-dyed tee-shirt. He’d put on even more weight since I’d last seen him in the revival tent, and looked approximately the size of a moving van.
“Hello, Mr. Stamper. Jamie Morton. I’m a big fan of your early work.” I held out my hand.
He didn’t shake it. “I don’t know what you want, but Mr. Jacobs doesn’t need anyone disturbing him. He’s got a lot of work to do, and he hasn’t been well.”
“Don’t you mean Pastor Danny?” I asked. (Well . . . sort of teased.)
“Come on in the kitchen.” It was the warm and rolling Soul Brother Number One voice, but the face said, The kitchen’ll be good enough for the likes of you.
I was willing, it was good enough for the likes of me, but before he could lead me there, another voice, one I knew well, exclaimed, “Jamie Morton! You do turn up at the most opportune times!”
He came down the hall, limping slightly and listing to starboard. His hair, now almost completely white, had continued to draw back from his temples, exposing arcs of shining scalp. The blue eyes, however, were as sharp as ever. His lips were drawn back in a smile that looked (to my eye, at least) rather predatory. He passed Stamper as if the big man wasn’t there, his right hand held out. Today that one was ringless, although there was one on his left: a simple gold band, thin and scratched. I was sure the mate to it was buried beneath the soil of a Harlow cemetery, on a finger that was now little more than a bone.
I shook with him. “We’re a long way from Tulsa, Charlie, wouldn’t you say?”
He nodded, pumping my hand like a politician hoping for a vote. “Long, long way. How old are you now, Jamie?”
“Fifty-three.”
“And your family? Are they well?”
“I don’t see them much, but Terry is still in Harlow, running the oil business. He’s got three kids, two boys and a girl. Pretty well grown now. Con’s still stargazing in Hawaii. Andy passed away a few years ago. It was a stroke.”
“Very sorry to hear it. But you look great. In the pink.”
“So do you.” This was a baldfaced lie. I thought briefly of the three ages of the Great American Male—youth, middle age, and you look fuckin terrific. “You must be . . . what? Seventy?”
“Close enough.” He was still pumping my hand. It was a good strong grip, but I could feel a faint shake, just the same, lurking beneath the skin. “What about Hugh Yates? Are you still working for him?”
“Yes, and he’s fine. Can hear a pin drop in the next room.”
“Lovely. Lovely.” He let go of my hand at last. “Al, Jamie and I have a lot to talk about. Would you bring us a couple of lemonades? We’ll be in the library.”
“Now, you’re not going to overdo it, are you?” Stamper was looking at me with distrust and dislike. He’s jealous, I thought. He’s had Jacobs all to himself since the last tour ended, and that’s just the way he likes it. “You need your strength for your work.”
“I’ll be fine. There’s no tonic like an old friend. Follow me, Jamie.”
He led me down the main hall, past a dining room as long as a Pullman car on the left, and one-two-three living rooms on the right, the one in the middle graced by a huge chandelier that looked like a leftover prop from James Cameron’s Titanic movie. We walked through a rotunda where polished wood gave way to polished marble, our footfalls picking up an echo. It was a warm day but the house was comfy. I could hear the silky whisper of air conditioners, and wondered how much it cost to cool this place in August, when the temperature would be a lot more than warmish. Remembering the workshop in Tulsa, my guess was very little.
The library was the circular room at the far end of the house. There were thousands of books on the curving shelves, but I had no idea how anyone could possibly read in here, given the view. The west wall was entirely made of glass, and I could look out over leagues and leagues of the Hudson Valley, complete with cobalt river shining in the distance.
“Healing pays well.” I thought again of Goat Mountain, that rich people’s playground that was gated to keep hicks like the Morton family out. Some views only money can buy.
“In all sorts of ways,” he said. “I don’t need to ask if you’re still off the drugs; I can see it in your complexion. And in your eyes.” Thus having reminded me of the debt I owed him, he asked me to sit down.
Now that I was actually here and in the presence, I hardly knew how or where to begin. Nor did I want to with Al Stamper—now serving as assistant-cum-butler—due with lemonades. It turned out not to be a problem. Before I could find some meaningless chit-chat to pass the time, the ex–lead singer of the Vo-Lites came in, looking grumpier than ever. He set a tray down on a cherrywood table between us.
“Thank you, Al,” Jacobs said.
“Very welcome.” Speaking to the boss and ignoring me.
“Nice pants,” I said. “Takes me back to the days when the Bee Gees quit the transcendental stuff and went disco. Now you need some vintage platform shoes to go with.”
He gave me a look that wasn’t very soulful (or very Christian, for that matter), and left. It would not be a stretch to say Stamper stamped out.
Jacobs picked up his lemonade and sipped. From the bits of pulp floating on the surface, I deduced it was homemade. And from the way the ice cubes clittered together when he set it back down, I deduced I hadn’t been wrong about the palsy. Sherlock had nothing on me that day.
“That was rude, Jamie,” Jacobs said, but he sounded amused. “Especially for a guest, and an uninvited one, at that. Laura would be ashamed.”
I let the reference to my mother—calculated, I’m sure—pass. “Uninvited or not, you seemed glad to see me.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Try your lemonade. You look hot. Also, if I may be frank, a bit uncomfortable.”
I was, but at least I wasn’t frightened anymore. Angry is what I was. Here I sat in a gigantic house surrounded by a gigantic swatch of ground that no doubt included a gigantic swimming pool and a golf course—perhaps now too overgrown to be playable, but still part of the estate. A luxurious home for Charles Jacobs’s electrical experiments in his later years. Somewhere else, Robert Rivard was standing in a corner, probably wearing a diaper, because bathroom functions were the least of his concerns these days. Veronica Freemont was taking the bus to work because she no longer dared to drive, and Emil Klein might still be snacking on dirt. Then there was Cathy Morse, a pretty little Sooner gal who was now in a coffin.
Easy, white boy, I heard Bree counsel. Easy does it.
I tasted my lemonade, then set it back down on the tray. Wouldn’t want to mar the expensive cherrywood finish of the table; goddam thing was probably an antique. And okay, maybe I was still a little scared, but at least the ice cubes didn’t clink in my glass. Jacobs, meanwhile, crossed his right leg over his left, and I noted he had to use his hands to help it along.
“Arthritis?”
“Yes, but not bad.”
“I’m surprised you don’t heal it with the holy rings. Or would that qualify as self-abuse?”
He gazed out at the spectacular view without replying. Shaggy iron-gray eyebrows—a unibrow, actually—drew together over the fierce blue eyes.
“Or maybe you’re afraid of the aftereffects. Is that it?”
He raised a hand in a stop gesture. “Enough insinuations. You don’t need to make them with me, Jamie. Our destinies are too entwined for that.”
“I don’t believe in destiny any more than you believe in God.”
He turned to me, once more giving me that smile that was all teeth and no warmth. “I repeat: enough. You
tell me why you came, and I’ll tell you why I’m glad to see you.”
There was really no way to say it but to say it. “I came to tell you that you have to stop the healing.”
He sipped more lemonade. “And why would I do that, Jamie, when it’s done so much good for so many?”
You know why I came, I thought. Then I had an even more uncomfortable thought: You’ve been waiting for me.
I shook the idea off.
“It’s not so good for some of them.” I had our master list in my back pocket, but there was no need to bring it out. I had memorized the names and the aftereffects. I began with Hugh and his prismatic interludes, and how he had suffered one at the Norris County revival.
Jacobs shrugged it off. “Stress of the moment. Has he had any since?”
“Not that he’s told me.”
“I think he would have, since you were there when he had the last one. Hugh’s fine, I’m sure. What about you, Jamie? Any current aftereffects?”
“Bad dreams.”
He made a polite scoffing sound. “Everyone has those from time to time, and that includes me. But the blackouts you suffered are gone, yes? No more compulsive talking, myoclonic movements, or poking at your skin?”
“No.”
“So. You see? No worse than a sore arm after a vaccination.”
“Oh, I think the aftereffects some of your followers have suffered are a little worse than that. Robert Rivard, for instance. Do you remember him?”
“The name rings a faint bell, but I’ve healed so many.”
“From Missouri? Muscular dystrophy? His video was on your website.”
“Oh, yes, now I remember. His parents made a very generous love offering.”
“His MD’s gone, but so is his mind. He’s in the sort of hospital sometimes referred to as a vegetable patch.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Jacobs said, and returned his attention to the view—midstate New York burning toward winter.
I went through the others, although it was clear he already knew a good deal of what I was telling him. I really surprised him only once, at the end, when I told him about Cathy Morse.
