“They’re cut good,” Billy said, “turning black already. They’re a mess.”
Dee Dee said, “I don’t want to lose the nails, Blake.”
“You won’t,” Blake mumbled, trying to pull away from Obie.
Obie stared at him, sweat broke out on his forehead, and he started to shiver. He dropped his hand from Blake’s arm and took a step backward; his face felt strangely numb, as if he were going to faint, or had just got up or something. They were all staring at Blake, and Wanda said it in a tone of awe and absolute belief, “A healer! My God, we’ve got a healer!” Obie staggered, was caught and steadied by Everett, and he stood weeping, open-mouthed, dizzy, and enlightened.
After that Blake appeared on stage with Obie. He did nothing, said nothing, but cures happened and he was blessed. Endowments were set up for him, in his name, some to be administered by trusts, others to be handled by Obie.
And three years after joining the group, seven months as an active participant in the services, Blake tried again to run away, and this time was successful. At a revival in Birmingham he managed to climb into the trunk of a ’59 Ford and hide there until the owners drove off to their home twelve miles from the tent. When they stopped the car, he waited for an hour, got out and started to walk north, keeping to the woods and unpaved roads, living on nuts and berries and stolen corn. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t care, so long as it wasn’t back with Obie and his gang. He knew he couldn’t go back to Matt and Lisa. Obie would simply take him again, this time with lawyers and policemen. He would hide in the cities until he was grown up and no one could tell him what to do, and then he would be a doctor and work with his father.
Obie stamped up and down his hotel room muttering to himself. No one else in the room dared speak. Dee Dee studied her nails; Billy smoked and drank; Wanda sighed and heaved herself up and down in a chair trying to get comfortable; it was getting harder all the time to find a comfortable chair. Everett Slocum sat behind a temple of fingers and prayed inaudibly.
“I’ll give him ten minutes longer,” Obie said. “Then out.” He was talking about Merton, the chief of his security forces. Merton was in his thirties, tall and very thin. He had bad vision that required thick lenses for correction. Unable to adjust to contacts, he wore massive black-framed glasses. His long straight hair was black also. He was an ex-F.B.I. agent. He had joined the Bureau after college with the intention of receiving training from it, and then quitting, and this he had done. His own agency had been getting along all right when Obie hired him four years ago, but since then Merton had flourished beyond all expectations. Privately he had decided that working on the side of the holies was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Obie needed a drink. For the first time in almost a year he realized that he wanted and needed a drink. He examined the thought, looked at Billy with his never empty glass, and shrugged. He couldn’t remember when he had stopped drinking. And smoking. He had stopped smoking also, without being aware of it. Now he wanted a cigarette and a drink. There was a knock on the door and he yanked it open.
“Well?” he demanded. Merton scowled and shrugged as he entered the room.
“Nothing. Daniels hasn’t left home in the past week. His wife is there. They didn’t snatch the kid. I told you he upped and walked out. Like he did before.”
“And I told you to find him and bring him back.”
“Yeah. Look, Obie, we need pictures in the paper, and local police help. I got twenty men on this, and that’s not enough. One shot on TV could have him spotted in a day, but this way… ”
“No publicity,” Obie said. Merton poured a drink for himself and downed it in a gulp then poured another. Obie’s urge to have a drink was gone now, and he was feeling something else. His eyes narrowed as he tried to pin it down. Very slowly he said, “Supposing this was all planned. All determined. He comes and stays with us for a couple, three years, then vanishes again. He’ll be back. We got to get things ready for his return.” Wanda stirred and her eyes widened as she watched him. Dee Dee looked blank and half asleep. Billy studied the contents of his glass and finally nodded.
“That’s how to play it,” he said.
“Play it? Play it!” Obie swung around to glare at Billy and there was fire in his eyes. “I play no games, Billy. I had a vision. He’ll be back when the time comes, but when he comes back this time he’ll expect to find his house in order. This is Armageddon now. Here. We are the advance guards, the banner carriers. There are only two camps, Billy. The camp of the godly, and the camp of the unbelievers. The atheists, Communists, whatever you call them. The ones who will not be led into the light. Time has run out for them. It’s our turn now. The word has been spoken and the word is Now. He came to us to show us his powers, and he is gone now to study and to sharpen his powers. When he returns he will be in person the God that we saw through him.”
He talked on, his voice exultant now, swept up in his own words, and Billy, watching him, looking at the others in the room who were carried along with him, thought: “Well, I’ll be goddamned, he has swallowed his own line of crap.”
INTERLUDE THREE
Special to the N.Y. Times
Crowds estimated to be well over one hundred fifty thousand filled the new Coliseum outside Detroit tonight. They came on crutches, in wheelchairs, accompanied by nurses and companions: thin unhappy-looking people, sick people, fat people. They filled the auditorium and when Bloke Daniels Cox took his place alongside Obie Cox you could feel the tension in the atmosphere mount. The sermon was long, and during it Blake didn’t move. He might have been asleep. Then Obie Cox prayed to God, beseeching Him to manifest Himself through Blake, and the boy looked at the people. He didn’t make a motion; he didn’t speak; he merely looked at the people. And the people responded magically. Headaches vanished; sight brightened; wobbly legs became strong; crutches were left behind; wheelchairs abandoned…
Editorial from the Detroit Daily News
Articles on articles, speeches on speeches, where and when will it all end? The Voice of God Church has grown from an idea in the head of a country boy to an organization that today numbers in the millions. The facts are these: Obie Cox has a magnetic personality and probably the greatest stage presence of any man in living memory. He has chosen his lieutenants with supreme core; they have functioned exactly as they should. When his church faltered, he introduced his son, who has even more charisma than the father. The church got over the hump that could have spelled its demise. Such unerring intuitive grasp of what his congregation will accept and believe is uncanny. We don’t know if the boy is a genius. It doesn’t matter if he heals; they believe he does. What does Cox actually give his believers? Permission to lie, cheat, hate. And prophecies of catastrophes. He hedges all bets, covers all angles, and gets converts…
Testimony from tile transcripts of the A.M.A. hearings regarding the “cures” credited to Blake Daniels Cox (cont.)
Q. Now, Mrs. Siddons, you were telling us yesterday about your spontaneous cure…
A. Yessir. You see, my doctors always said that there wasn’t much they could do about a case so advanced like I was. You know, appendicitis out, and gall bladder; and most of my stomach, and spleen and kidney…