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 incoming 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.