Eli (18 page)

And they did read. Almost every night. Right here. He, in his big leather chair, she on the floor beside him or up on his lap. This was their room. Their sanctuary. She loved it more than any place on earth.

On the floor a stack of magazines came into view. Then another. Then a pile of newspapers. They had been there in one form or another for as long as she could remember.

The door continued to open. Now the window came into view, its dusty oak shutters closed. On the shelf below sat his trophies, sparkling dully in the incandescent light. He always won trophies. She was proud of his trophies. And she often played with them on the floor, using them as dollies, having them talk to one another.

The laughter was louder. The words discernible.

The edge of the desk came into view. More stacks of papers, piles of books. Then his typewriter, whose rhythmic clicking would echo down the hall, lulling her to sleep at night.

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“Daddy . . .”

And finally, just past the desk was—

Julia forced herself awake. Her heart was racing and she was breathing hard as she glanced around the ICU, trying to get her bearings. Why she was still there, this late in the afternoon, was beyond her. She had an important decision to make. A decision that should be made only after she’d gotten some much-needed rest and could think more clearly. Maybe she was staying there out of some misguided duty or obligation. Maybe it was in hopes that she’d hear him speak again.

She didn’t know. All she knew was that she didn’t want to be there, not for one second. And yet she remained.

So, for whatever reason, Julia continued to sit in the tiny ICU cubicle, staring at her father’s near lifeless form. And there she would continue to wait.

v

“Hi, Bill.” Eli grinned as he reached out to shake the man’s hand. “I’m Eli Shepherd.”

For a moment Bill Johnson hesitated. He stroked his large handlebar mustache, staring at the outstretched hand. He wore black army boots, olive-green khakis, and had a Win-chester 30–30 complete with scope slung over his shoulder.

Eli continued to grin and continued to hold out his hand until the man reluctantly reached out and shook it. His two escorts were dressed similarly and armed with Colt .45 automatic handguns in their hip holsters. Both looked the other way, pretending to eye the press who were stationed just outside the compound’s gate some fifty yards beyond.

“You’re not really thrilled that I’m here, are you?” Eli asked.

“This is Ralston’s show, not mine,” Johnson replied. “I’ve been against it from the start.”

“Because?”

“You’re a Jew, ain’t you?”

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“Yes, I am, Bill. Born and raised. And these are my friends.” Eli turned to the three companions he’d asked to accompany him. The three who had walked from the RV, past the mob of reporters, and through the gates of the compound to meet at Bill Johnson’s Jeep.

“This is Leon Brewster,” Eli said. “He used to be a porn producer, now he’s part of the team.” Although neither Leon nor Johnson bothered to remove their sunglasses, the icy glare between them was impossible to miss. Eli turned to his left, motioning to his second companion. “And this is Trevor Walters; he used to sell his body on Hollywood Boulevard.” Johnson noticeably stiffened, and it was a stroke of wisdom that Trevor didn’t bother extending his hand. “And finally—” Eli reached over and rested a palm on Conrad’s shoulder. “Conrad Davis—maybe you’ve seen his work on TV. He’s a member of the liberal media.”

If Johnson’s look had been icy before, it was downright murderous now. Conrad cut a glance around the property.

Unlike the flat grasslands further west, this 340-acre ranch was nestled among hills, bluffs, and a small canyon cut by Elk Creek. There were also plenty of pine trees. Trees any number of paranoid militiamen could be hiding behind, taking aim, waiting for a signal to fire. Conrad was certain he’d been equally frightened sometime during his life, although, at the moment, he was hard pressed to remember when. Con-sequently, he responded the way the reporter in him always responded when afraid: by putting his opponent on the defense with questions. “Where’s Ralston?” he asked.

Johnson looked at him, then glanced down, mumbling something. It was so quiet that it was doubtful even the media, with their rifle mikes and parabolic reflectors, could pick it up.

“I’m sorry,” Eli asked, “what was that?”

Johnson looked up, holding Eli’s gaze. “He didn’t want to embarrass you by coming out. Said it would be a media circus and that you were already jeopardizing your reputation by doing this much.”

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Conrad glanced over his shoulder at the cameras and reporters recording every second, most in telephoto close-up.

Ralston might be a gun-toting fanatic, but he had more media sense than Eli.

Leon, who Conrad suspected had more bravado than brains, confirmed that suspicion by asking, “So you’re telling me we come all the way out here and your boss, he isn’t even going to meet us?”

Refusing to look at Leon, Johnson spoke to Eli. “He said it would be best for
you,
if he didn’t come out and if you didn’t come in.”

Eli nodded, then asked, “What does he want me to do for him, Bill?”

“He said”—Johnson cleared his throat—“and these are his words not mine. He said if you’d just give the order, his daughter would be healed.”

Eli looked on, saying nothing.

Johnson shifted uneasily, then continued. “He said he understands authority. When he gives a command, he knows it will be obeyed. He says it’s the same with you. That all you have to do is give the order, and it’ll be done.”

Conrad was both surprised and relieved. Maybe this public relations nightmare would end before it went any further.

Maybe they wouldn’t even meet Neil Ralston. If Eli could simply heal long distance, and Conrad suspected he could, then maybe there was a way to seal this rupture of immense political incorrectness before they drowned in negative opinion.

At least that’s what he hoped . . . until he looked over and saw Eli. Once again he was smiling. Only it wasn’t Eli’s usual smile of enjoying another’s company. This was a smile of amazement. And wonder. Without another word, he turned to the crowd of reporters behind him and called out, “This is incredible!” He raised his hand and pointed down the dirt road toward the canyon where Ralston’s headquarters were hidden. “I tell you this—in all of America, I have not run into a man of such great faith!”

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Cameras clicked. Videotapes whirred. And Conrad lowered his head in despair. Any hope of repairing the blunder had instantly vanished. If there had been any way for Eli to make the situation worse, he had just found it. The image of him pointing down the road, proclaiming Ralston’s great faith—well, there wasn’t a newspaper in the country that could resist printing it, not a television news show that wouldn’t broadcast the sound bite. How long had it taken Eli to speak the sentence? Five, six seconds? In those brief seconds, Conrad had known it was over. All of his hard work, all of his weeks of shaping and packaging and positioning had been destroyed. Completely. So quickly and with so little effort.

Further comments were shared, but Conrad barely heard.

Goodbyes were exchanged, and to everyone’s relief, except perhaps Eli’s, the meeting came to an end. The four of them turned and headed back toward the RV as Johnson and his men climbed back up into the Jeep. Of course, the press was already swarming outside the gate, repositioning themselves for the onslaught of questions they would fire at Eli, for the accusations and conclusions they would imply. Conrad scanned the crowd for familiar faces and caught a glimpse of McFarland and his crew from EBN. No surprise there. This would be child’s play for them. The last word to discredit Eli, the final nail in his coffin.

Conrad glanced up the road and spotted the gray Taurus, the one with the government plates. Not only would the press eat them alive, but Eli’s words of praise for Ralston wouldn’t exactly endear them to the U.S. government, either.

Six seconds and it was over. One simple sentence. That was all it took.

They exited through the gate and entered the swarm of reporters. There was nothing Conrad could do to stop them now. The feeding frenzy had begun:

“Eli, how long have you been a racist and does that—”

“Are you going to use your gifts to defend Ralston should federal troops decide to—”

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“Are you renouncing your Jewish heritage and—”

Conrad glanced to Jake’s RV. It was only ten feet away. But ten feet with this crowd was as good as a mile.

“How long have you and Ralston been—”

“Does this confirm your hatred of the American govern—”

And yet Eli seemed virtually unfazed, even stopping to ask one reporter about his ailing wife. Then suddenly, over the noise and commotion, Johnson’s voice cut through. “Eli

. . . Eli!”

The crowd quieted, and Eli turned.

Johnson stood in the Jeep holding out his cell phone. “It’s Ralston!”

The reporters grew silent. Now there was only the sound of wind through the grass and trees.

“He says his daughter is well. Says she’s up and walking around, as good as—” He cupped his hands and shouted to make certain he was heard. “He says she’s as good as new!”

Eli smiled. And during the momentary surprise of the crowd, he turned and disappeared into the RV.

v

“All I’m saying is that it’s time to start fighting fire with fire.”

“Connie, I can appreciate your frustration, but—”

“No! You cannot appreciate it. You cannot appreciate it, because you don’t understand it! You don’t know a thing about how corporations are run in this world.”

The dozen men standing inside Eli’s cramped room at the Holiday Inn grew very quiet. To Conrad’s recollection this was the first time anybody in the group had openly challenged Eli. But it was time. Yes, his message was revolutionary, his truths penetrating, but for his own good, for the good of the group, it was time to make him see.

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had said that it was time to reintroduce to them the concept of health and hygiene. Other members outside the inner circle were doing the same with their own cars, RVs, and campers. Some had rented rooms, hoping for a couple good nights of rest before heading back out on the road. For most, it was a welcome time of rest and relaxation. For Conrad it was time to refocus, to evaluate, and to insist that Eli make some serious midcourse corrections.

“Look.” Conrad reached over to the stack of newspapers on the dimly lit counter behind him. He read the headlines of each, while dropping them one by one on the table in front of Eli.
“‘Cult Leader Embraces Racism,’ ‘Miracle Worker
Opposes Religion,’ ‘Is This a Traveling Jonestown?’”
Conrad pointed to the pile. “And these are the reputable papers. You don’t even want to know what the tabloids are saying.”

Eli looked up at him and answered quietly, “I don’t suppose it would help if they printed that Neil Ralston and I talked by phone for a good hour last night?”

“He called you?” Keith asked.

Eli nodded. “Told me he’s starting to read the Bible—that he’s considering renouncing his activities, maybe even turn himself in to the authorities.”

The news caught Conrad off guard, but only for a second.

“Great, now every racist in the country will hate us as well.”

He leaned over the table, trying to make the man see reason.

“Eli, no one is interested in those types of details.”

“I know, I know.” Eli smiled, making it clear he’d heard the lecture before. “All they’re interested in is selling papers.”

Conrad shook his head. “Not anymore. You’ve made too many enemies. Now they’re looking for ways to stop you.”

“Or destroy you,” Keith added.

“Oh, that’s rich,” Leon scoffed. “The man, he’s healing souls everywhere we go, and they’re trying to destroy him?”

“It has nothing to do with souls,” Conrad said. “It’s about attacking spheres of power and influence. You can’t strike out at these guys without being struck back in return.”

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Eli raised his deep, dark eyes to Conrad’s. “I’m only speaking the truth, Connie.”

Once again the honest simplicity caught Conrad off balance. It took a moment to find his anger and tap back into it.

“We’ve been over that before. There’s nothing wrong with telling the truth.” He reached for a file folder on the counter.

“There is, however, a problem with attacking someone’s ministry.” He opened the folder to reveal three legal complaints.

“Or being sued for defamation of character.”

Eli stared at the papers in disbelief. “Those are ministries suing me?”

“Of course. You don’t smack Dr. Kerston on national TV

or humiliate organizations like the Cathedral of God without expecting repercussions.” He motioned to the documents.

“And it doesn’t stop here. These people’s influence goes deeper than simply using the courts to drain you with legal fees.” He turned to Keith who stood at the other end of the cluttered table. “Tell him about the cancellations.”

Keith produced a handful of slips. “We’re getting these every day now. Some saying you’re too controversial. Others that you’re a heretic or crazy or a tool of the devil.”

Will Patton sighed heavily. “We’ve heard all them complaints before.”

“Yes,” Keith agreed, “but now even the ministers who used to support you are denouncing you. Partially because of the negative media coverage—”

“And partially because of their superiors,” Conrad added.

“You have no idea the influence such powers can have inside
and outside
the religious community. You know that Dr. Kerston’s people are in the midst of creating a third political party.”