psychosomatic problems—actually do the healing themselves, as I’m sure you know. But others have been healed by virtue of the secret electricity. Although God gets the credit, of course.”
His teeth showed briefly in a cheerless spasm of a smile.
“Let me pose you a hypothetical situation. Suppose I were a neurosurgeon and you came to me with a malignant brain tumor, one not impossible to operate on but very difficult. Very risky. Suppose I told you that your chances of dying on the table were . . . mmm . . . let’s say twenty-five percent. Wouldn’t you still go ahead, knowing that the alternative was a period of misery followed by certain death? Of course you would. You’d beg me to operate.”
I said nothing, because the logic was inarguable.
“Tell me, how many people do you think I’ve actually healed through electrical intervention?”
“I don’t know. My assistant and I only listed the ones we felt we could be sure of. It was pretty short.”
He nodded. “Good research technique.”
“Glad you approve.”
“I have my own list, and it’s much longer. Because I know when it happens, you see. When it works. There is never any doubt. And based on my follow-up tracking, only a few suffer adverse effects later on. Three percent, perhaps five. Compared to the brain tumor example I just set you, I’d call those terrific odds.”
I was a turn back, on the phrase follow-up tracking. I’d only had Brianna. He had hundreds or even thousands of followers who would be happy to keep an eye on his cures; all he had to do was ask. “Except for Cathy Morse, you knew about every case I just cited, didn’t you?”
He didn’t reply. Only watched me. There was no doubt in his face, only rock solid certainty.
“Of course you did. Because you keep tabs. To you they’re lab rats, and who cares if a few rats get sick? Or die?”
“That’s terribly unfair.”
“I don’t believe it is. You put on the religious act, because if you did your stuff in the lab I’m sure you’ve got right here at The Latches, the government would arrest you for experimenting on human subjects . . . and killing some of them.” I leaned forward, my eyes on his. “The newspapers would call you Josef Mengele.”
“Does anyone call a neurosurgeon Josef Mengele just because he loses some of his patients?”
“They’re not coming to you with brain tumors.”
“Some have, and many of those are living and enjoying their lives today instead of lying in the ground. Did I sometimes display fake tumors when I was on the circuit? Yes, and I’m not proud of it, but it was necessary. Because you can’t display something that’s just gone.” He considered. “It’s true that most of the people who came to my revivals weren’t suffering terminal illnesses, but in a way such nonfatal physical failings are worse. Those are the ones that allow folks to live long lives filled with pain. Agony, in some cases. And you sit there in judgment.” He shook his head sorrowfully, but his eyes weren’t sorrowful. They were furious.
“Cathy Morse wasn’t in pain, and she didn’t volunteer. You picked her out of the crowd because she was foxy. Eye candy for the rubes.”
As Bree had, Jacobs pointed out that there might have been some other reason for Morse’s suicide. Sixteen years was a long time. A lot could happen.
“You know better,” I said.
He drank from his glass and set it down with a hand that was now visibly shaking. “This conversation is pointless.”
“Because you won’t stop?”
“Because I have. C. Danny Jacobs will never spread another revival tent. Right now there’s a certain amount of discussion and speculation about that fellow on the Internet, but attention spans are short. Soon enough he’ll fade from the public mind.”
If that were so, I’d come to batter down a door only to discover it was unlocked. Instead of soothing me, the idea increased my unease.
“In six months, perhaps a year, the website will announce that Pastor Jacobs has retired due to ill health. After that it will go dark.”
“Why? Because your research is finished?” Only, I didn’t believe Charlie Jacobs’s researches would ever be finished.
He turned to contemplate the view again. At last he uncrossed his legs and stood, pushing on the arms of his chair to accomplish it. “Come out back with me, Jamie. I want to show you something.”
• • •
Al Stamper was at the kitchen table, a mountain of fat in ’70s disco pants. He