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