Eli
Page 23
Sniffing quietly, she turned to him and answered. “Do what he says, Connie. Whatever he says, do it.”
v
Julia’s drive between Pasadena and Thousand Oaks seemed even faster than the night before. And for good reason. Her mind churned with a dozen conflicting thoughts and emotions. Today would be the day. Granted, she could drag things out, turn it into a long and costly legal battle, keeping Roseanne and her all-too-eager spawn at bay while steadily draining their inheritance. But what would be the purpose, especially with the doctor’s prognosis:
“It is my opinion your father’s coma is irreversible.”
Other words stewed and boiled in her mind, some spoken, some written:
I do not want life-sustaining treatment to be provided or continued if . . .
“You would have declared him dead?”
“Jesus . . . Jesus Christ . . .”
“. . . your father is already dead.”
“. . . if you are incapable of carrying out his order, then it is your responsibility to relinquish . . .”
“Jesus . . .”
“I’ll never ever let anything bad happen to you.”
“Pinkie swear?”
“I gave your Grandpa my word a long, long time ago. And you know what I always say?”
“I know, I know . . . you’re only as good as your word.”
The Janss Exit came so quickly that once again Julia nearly missed it. She veered to the right, barely catching the ramp, then took the same route through town as she’d taken the morning before—through the same sleepy neighborhood, the same abundance of trees, and the same faint aroma of horses and dry grass.
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She turned into the hospital’s driveway and was startled by the double row of speed bumps. They’d no doubt been there the day before; she just didn’t remember them. She pulled in a few spots from where she had parked yesterday, and this time rolled down the windows an inch for the heat.
Turning off the ignition, she opened the door and stepped into the morning sun. She closed her eyes and turned toward the brightness. Once again she let it bake into her face, hoping the heat would somehow melt away the tension.
But, of course, it didn’t.
She thought of her mother. If she’d caught the same flight Julia had, and if she had successfully rented a car, she’d already be at the hospital grilling whatever physician was on duty. She was a determined lady, almost as determined as Julia . . . except for one fatal flaw. Her heart. Her mother was too soft, too full of mercy and grace. Much of that could be attributed to her fierce love for family—a love that had blinded her to her husband’s betrayals. But there was another reason for her softness: her faith. A faith that, Julia had to admit, exceeded anything she or her father had ever understood.
Granted, she and Dad had kept the woman pacified—they said prayers at mealtime, went to church, participated in fund-raisers. There was even a time when her mother had managed to talk him into teaching first-grade Sunday school with her. But none of it stuck. At least not for Dad. And certainly not for Julia. On more than one occasion the two of them had conspired on ways to skip church. Sometimes their plans worked, like suggesting they take a drive up the coast (family drives were another one of Mom’s weaknesses). Other times they weren’t so successful. Like the Sunday morning Dad had an incredibly high fever, 107, Mom estimated by the way the mercury stuck to the top of the thermometer. And the scam might have worked if he had remembered to straighten the lampshade around the bulb after heating it up. Then there was that unfortunate incident with Binky the cocker spaniel.
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They just wanted him to appear sick enough for them to stay home and offer him some comfort. How did they know a single Alka Seltzer tablet could generate so much foam, and for so long?
In short, neither Julia nor her father were what you would call religious people. But that had never deterred her mother.
“Jules . . . Julia!”
She turned to see her mother quickly crossing the parking lot. Her shoulder-length, salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back. She wore her favorite calf-length summer dress and, of course, those clunky white tennis shoes. She always wore the tennis shoes.
“Hey, Mom,” she called as she started forward to greet her.
“You didn’t have to come, you know.”
“I know, I know.”
“I mean it’s not like he’s a part of your life anymore.”
“I know.”
They met near the center of the lot and embraced. Julia had intended just a casual greeting; after all, they saw each other at least once a week—Mom made certain of that. But for a moment, Julia wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t let go. It was as if she was eight years old again, clinging to Mommy, wanting her to make everything all better.
Her mother must have sensed something, for she did not let go either . . . until Julia fought back the emotion and finally pulled away. But for some reason, she could not look directly into her mother’s eyes. Instead, she directed her gaze toward the hospital.
“Are you okay, Sweetheart?”
Julia nodded. “Sure.” But she knew her mother wasn’t buying it, not for a moment. “We’d better go in and see what’s happening.”
Her mother nodded. And though she could still feel the woman’s eyes searching her, Julia turned and they started for the hospital.
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v
Conrad stood beside Suzanne as the backhoe rumbled and groaned, digging into the soft red earth. They were near the back of Cedar Grove Cemetery, the oldest of Lebanon’s cemeteries. It was rich in history, with many of the tombstones dating as far back as the Civil War. In fact, General Hatton himself was buried beneath this hallowed sod. And unlike the newer cemetery across the street, this one still flew the Confederate flag. High above loomed ancient cedar boughs, protecting the crowd from the late morning sun, while at the same time steaming and dripping from an earlier downpour.
Two Wilson County deputies and two Lebanon police officers did their best to hold back the press and curious onlookers. And there were plenty of both. Conrad guessed about two hundred fifty. He recognized some of the reporters, though most of the networks used talent from their local affiliates . . .
except in the case of Gerald McFarland. Lately, every time they turned around, McFarland was there with his crew. It had become clear to everyone, perhaps even to Eli, that EBN’s interest was more than just news. It was now a personal vendetta—if not for McFarland, then at least for his boss, Dr.
Kerston.
There were other onlookers . . . like the silver-gray Taurus with the government license plates. It was parked on one of the other lanes, windows rolled up, engine idling. The two men never bothered to get out. They didn’t need to. They could make their observations and file their reports more easily from the comfort of the air-conditioned vehicle.
Then there were the locals. Disturbing the rest of the dead did not go down well in these parts—and it had given the citizens plenty of opportunity to work themselves into a frenzy.
In fact, if Suzanne’s family had not been such long-time and good friends with one of the county judges, it was doubtful a permit would have been issued. But it had been issued. It had taken three days, but it had been issued.
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“Okay, hold it!” the head groundskeeper, a small stocky man, shouted. “We’ve hit the vault.”
The backhoe driver dropped his machine into neutral and let it idle.
The groundskeeper motioned to another worker, a young Latino, who nodded and hopped into the narrow, four-foot-deep hole with a shovel. The backhoe operator climbed off his rig and joined him. They began scooping off dirt and digging around the lid of the concrete vault.
Even from where he stood, some twenty feet away, Conrad cou
ld smell the damp, musty earth. The odor concerned him. He knew nothing about embalming, had no idea how long its effects lasted, but he knew the body had now been in the ground four days. Four days. Surely, some decomposition had to have set in. And with that, most likely the smell. Conrad had smelled rotting flesh in hot, humid conditions once before—when he was just out of college and covering the last few months of Vietnam. It was not something he wanted to smell again . . . or subject Suzanne to, especially if the source of that smell was her brother’s body. But when he had confronted Eli earlier about the issue, his response was the same as it had always been. “Trust me, Connie—this will help you see the glory of God.”
Of course, “seeing the glory of God” was not necessarily what the crowd had in mind. It certainly wasn’t uppermost in the mind of Suzanne’s sister. Initially, Cindy had opposed exhuming the body, threatened to use every option she had to stop it—until Eli had pulled her aside and they had talked, one-on-one—until, an hour later, she had emerged from the family room, unable to hide the tears in her eyes. But even that had not been enough to change her heart. Far from it. In fact, it was only after Suzanne had given her sister her word that she would quit following Eli should this little exhibition fail, that Cindy finally agreed to persuade Judge Whitman to issue the permit.
To see the glory of God.
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A lot was riding on this morning. And for Conrad, it brought yet another question. Why had Eli suddenly agreed to start displaying his miracles? Surely he knew how fast word of this would spread. He’d even given in to Keith’s persistent naggings about picking up another video camera (the last had been destroyed in Jake’s camper) to get it all on tape.
Why the sudden turnaround? What was Eli up to now?
Conrad was jarred back to the scene by the clanking of a chain. The workers were attaching it to the vault lid. A moment later, they were attaching it to the backhoe.
And that’s when he saw her—Julia. It had been five years, but he recognized her instantly as she approached the group on the other side of the grave.
“Suzanne . . .”
“I see her.”
Conrad started toward her, but Suzanne caught his hand.
“No, Connie.”
“What?”
“Let her come to you.”
“But—”
“You’ll scare her off. She sees us. If she wants to talk, she’ll come over.”
Conrad hesitated, unsure.
“It’s got to be her choice.”
There was that word again. Choice. He still didn’t understand, not entirely. Then again, it wasn’t the first time he’d failed to grasp their indefinable, female logic. He saw their eyes connect, didn’t miss the quiet exchange of nods between them. Then, almost as an afterthought, Julia tossed a glance his way, giving him a nod as well, although exerting half the effort and far less enthusiasm.
“See,” Suzanne said, “she’s already coming around.”
This was obviously a new definition of “coming around.”
Once again, Conrad started toward her. And once again, Suzanne gripped his hand. “No, Connie. Not yet.”
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He looked at Suzanne, still not understanding. The backhoe revved up again. Both turned as the chain tightened and the lid to the vault slowly rose. It dangled a moment before being lowered onto the wet lawn. Once again, the young Latino lowered himself into the hole, this time preparing to attach the chain to the coffin. But he’d barely entered before Eli stepped from the crowd and started toward the grave.
All eyes shot to him.
Obviously unsure what to do, one of the deputies moved toward Eli, indicating that he should come no closer. Eli slowed to a stop not ten feet from the hole. Everyone grew very still, the silence broken only by camera crews repositioning themselves.
Like everyone else, Conrad’s eyes were glued to Eli. The young man was no longer wearing his trademark grin. In fact, he wasn’t smiling at all. Instead he was a study of deep concentration . . . and compassion. He closed his eyes a moment.
Then, after taking a deep breath and tilting his head toward the sky, he half shouted, half prayed:
“Father! Thank You for hearing me!”
Except for the idling backhoe, everything remained silent.
“I know You always hear me, but I am praying this so that they can finally believe it is You who have sent me!”
A longer pause this time. A few of the crowd fidgeted.
Most remained unmoving, watching in silent anticipation.
Slowly Eli opened his eyes and lowered his head until he was staring down at the coffin in the grave. And then he shouted. They were only two words, but they were spoken with ringing clarity and absolute authority:
“Michael . . . arise!”
His voice barely finished echoing against the cedars when the worker in the grave cried in alarm and scrambled from the hole. The crowd pressed forward to see. But there was no movement. Nothing. Except a faint noise. A quiet scraping.
Then muffled pounding.
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“Get me a Phillips head!” the groundskeeper shouted to his assistants. “Somebody get me a screwdriver!”
One was produced, and instantly the man dropped to his stomach and reached down to the coffin lid. The pounding and scraping grew louder, more violent.
The crowd leaned forward, exchanging nervous glances with each other.
Conrad strained to listen. Were those muffled cries? Others appeared to hear them, too. So did Suzanne. Her grip tightened on Conrad’s arm.
Suddenly, the coffin lid flew open. The groundskeeper leaped back with a scream as the crowd gasped. And for good reason. Because there, down in the casket with the top half of its lid thrown open, Suzanne’s brother was struggling to sit up. Gasping for breath, filled with panic from being trapped inside, he looked around, wild-eyed, obviously disoriented.
“Somebody help him out,” Eli ordered.
A handful of men moved to action. The rest of the crowd pressed in for a better look, breaking past the officers who were moving forward just as curious and openmouthed as the rest. Suzanne released Conrad’s arm and started pushing her way through the crowd to her brother. “Michael!” she cried,
“Michael!”
But Conrad remained behind, unmoving. He vaguely took notice of the news crews pushing and shoving forward, of the shouts and cries. It was true. Just as Eli had predicted. He glanced down at his watch. It was only 11:45 A.M. In a matter of minutes, videotapes would be sent back to stations and beamed to networks where they would be edited in time to make every national and local news program of the evening.
It was an amazing feat of publicity. Better than anything he or Keith could have dreamed up. In less than six hours, Eli Shepherd, who had been written off as an egotistical crack-pot, would become the talk of an entire nation. Perhaps the world.
“That you might see the glory of God.”
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Conrad glanced around and spotted McFarland standing off to the side, watching his own cameraman fighting the fray for a better angle. Unable to resist the temptation, Conrad strolled over to him. “So.” He cleared his throat, smiling mischievously. “What do you think of our boy now?”
But, when McFarland looked up, Conrad was surprised to see a face filled with sadness.
“Well?” Conrad continued to goad.
McFarland shook his head and quietly answered. “You have no idea what you’ve done, do you, Connie?”
The seriousness of his tone made Conrad uneasy. “Well, we’ve certainly raised the stakes, if that’s what you mean.”
But McFarland did not respond. Instead he looked back over toward the crowd, who were helping Michael out of the grave and onto his feet. Then, ever so quietly, almost indiscernibly, he
repeated:
“You have no idea what you’ve done . . .”
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P A R T T H R E E
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C H A P T E R
T W E L V E
JULY 4 HAD FINALLY ARRIVED, AND OPENING CELEBRATIONS FOR DR.
Kerston’s City of God were in full swing. Every state digni-tary who could be there was there. Every politician courting Dr. Kerston’s sizable voting block who could show up, showed up. And so did the people. According to radio reports, by two o’clock over twelve thousand faithful, many of them prayer and financial partners, had passed through the twelve-foot-tall “Pearly Gates” and entered the grounds. Here they were greeted by high-school and college-aged “angels”
only too helpful to pass out maps that directed them to the International Food Court (where they could “eat the food mis-sionaries eat”) or to the fitness gym (“to make that temple of God a heavenly body”) or to the video arcade with games rewarding players for their godly deeds, or to God’s Gifts and Goodies, or to the water park complete with all manner of giant slides as well as a dazzling Parting of the Red Sea attrac-tion where, for a recommended donation of $7.50 (tax deductible), participants could actually experience the thrill of walking on the lake bottom with walls of water on both sides. Then, of course, there were the folks in animal costumes from the Noah’s Ark exhibit who strolled the grounds only too happy to have their picture taken with Mom and Dad and the kiddies.
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But the crowning glory was the Worship Center. Besides the fifty-two-bell carillon (one more bell than the Cathedral of God in Aurora, making it the largest carillon in the world), there was the actual sanctuary. When all three balconies were filled and the glass walls on either side rotated opened to include the sitting area of the courtyards, the place could pack 12,750 people. Impressive. Everything about the City of God was grand and impressive, and Dr. Kerston had every reason to be proud.