Spellbinder (7 page)

And then, slowly, she would allow her eyes to open—as they were opening now. She was looking at her bed, with its ruffled canopy, damask spread, its elaborately embroidered pillow slips. She loved her bed. She loved the feel of its satin sheets against her skin. In bed, she always felt safe.

Now her gaze rested on a bookcase filled with mementos: her favorite books, her grandmother’s Bible, her mother’s collection of Dresden dolls, the framed snapshots of the children. She’d always preferred snapshots of Elton and Denise, rather than studio photographs. Children were meant to laugh and play and squint up at the sun, not pose for formal photographs.

Next she let her eye fall on the chaise, with its small sidetable and its floor lamp with the pleated silk shade. The chaise was covered in flowered chintz, matching a loveseat set against the far wall.

On the table beside the chaise, in the center of a small silver tray, a glass had been placed. The glass was cut crystal, and sparkled in the sunshine that came through the crisscrossed organdy curtains.

Every Sunday this same glass waited for her. It was a ritual. An offering, she sometimes thought.

Once more she allowed her gaze to circle the large, sunny room: first the bed, then the chaise and the loveseat—finally the vanity with its bench and, close beside it, the delicately carved French provincial armoire, where she kept her most treasured possessions. The room—these things—defined her life. Its four walls protected her.

Because, beyond this room, demons waited.

Pushing herself away from the door and slipping off her silk sandals, she walked across the thick woolen rug toward the vanity. The feel of the thick, luxuriant wool on her stockinged feet suddenly evoked a teen-age memory. She’d fled to the privacy of her room after her father had forbidden her to act in a class play, because the play was immoral. That night, she’d cried herself to sleep, the first of many times.

As if to inflame the wound, her eyes fell on a snapshot of her father, slipped under the glass top of her vanity. He’d been a tall, good-looking man, secretly vain. All her life, her mother had been grateful that he’d married her.

But her mother’s life had been short, only thirty-five years. A week before Katherine’s ninth birthday, her mother had killed herself with sleeping pills. In her coffin, her mother had looked prettier than she’d ever looked in life.

She trailed an idle finger across the glass as she turned finally to the armoire.

It was inside the armoire, on the bottom shelf. Waiting for her.

So, moving with grave deliberation, as ceremoniously as Austin might move for the camera, blessing the penitents, she opened the armoire’s door.

As always, it had been placed precisely in the center of the bottom shelf.

And, as always, she began to tremble as she reached with both hands for the bottle. It was the same secret, tremulous pleasure that had always overwhelmed her, ever since childhood. Sometimes the trembling made her sob. She’d never known why.

H
OLLOWAY STOOD WITH HIS
back to his desk, staring out across Prospect Park toward the improbably small, isolated cluster of skyscrapers that marked downtown Los Angeles. Except for the skyscrapers, miniatures in the distance, the city was flat and featureless, sprawling low and gray beneath an obscene yellow stratum of smog and smoke.

Forty years ago, he’d come to town with a single valise, a postal money order made out to himself for six hundred dollars and a letter from the manager of a local radio station. He’d been twenty-three years old, green as grass. The station manager had immediately tied him up for twenty-six weeks at a hundred twenty-five dollars a week—a fortune, he’d thought.

Three years later, in the spring of ’41, the same radio station had begged him to take a thousand dollars a week, week-to-week, no strings attached. He’d been twenty-six years old when they’d made the offer, and the world was bright with promise. He’d just bought his first tabernacle, a. decrepit I.O.O.F. hall in Pasadena. He’d owned a twin-six Packard touring sedan, his third Packard in two years. His Malibu apartment had looked out over the ocean. Every Wednesday, after prayer meeting, Marie Thatcher had come to his apartment in her own car. Thirty-three years old, twice divorced, Marie had taught him the art of love. He’d been a virgin until age twenty-two, when the wife of a Baptist minister had taken him to her husband’s vestry, and kissed him, and put his hand on her breast. Then, smiling dreamily, she’d stood in front of a moonlit window, undressing. Making love, he’d had a momentary vision of heaven splitting open before him, a thundering golden cleft between two pearlescent halves, spilling forth pleasure that had carried him soaring far beyond himself, free forever.

The woman had never let him make love to her again. Later—much later—he’d learned that she took neurotic pleasure in taking men to her husband’s vestry. Any man, any time. But never the same man twice.

That first time, he’d felt weak with release, utterly surfeited. But it wasn’t until he’d known Marie Thatcher that he’d truly experienced the full rush of sexual love. With Marie, he’d learned what love could mean. For him, there would never be another woman like her. He’d wanted to marry her. Many times, he’d asked her. But she would never agree to marriage, saying that her past would ruin him. Finally, one Saturday, he’d gotten a letter from her. She was leaving for St. Louis, she’d said. She was going to marry a high school sweetheart, a man who’d just inherited a wholesale heating oil business. It would be her third marriage.

Two months later, he’d met Katherine. She’d been nineteen years old, and had auditioned for a vacancy in his choir. She’d looked at him like Mary Magdalene must have looked at Jesus, her brilliant blue eyes moist with wonderment, rapt with adoration.

A year later, in 1942, they’d married. The wedding had been staged by Floyd Mangrun, who later directed the second unit of Ben Hur. After the ceremony, with Katherine at his side, he’d preached his first hour-long radio sermon. Price, five thousand dollars. He’d never felt so fulfilled, so completely confident of his destiny.

Behind him, a buzzer sounded. Reluctantly, he turned away from the window. The time for reverie had passed. Flournoy was waiting.

He slipped on his jacket, smoothed down his hair in front of the mirror and sat behind his desk. Now he pressed the intercom switch.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready for Mr. Flournoy, sir?”

“Send him in, Marge.”

“Mr. Elton Holloway would like to see you, too.”

“Regarding what?”

“He didn’t say, sir.”

He glanced at his gold desk clock, a Christmas present from Billy Graham.

“Give us a half hour. Then send Elton and Cowperthwaite and Reynolds in. Mr. Flournoy will stay. We’ll be discussing China.”

“Yessir.”

Moments later, the tall walnut door to the outer office swung open. Flournoy strode into the office without closing the door behind him. As always, Flournoy wore a conservative suit, an immaculate white shirt and a small-figured silk tie. His shoes, as always, were a gleaming black. At age forty-four, slightly balding, Flournoy was as slim as a matador. His eyes were as watchful and dangerous as a hired assassin’s. He never raised his voice—never revealed either anger or pleasure. Flournoy was a machine: completely efficient, utterly cold.

As Flournoy took an armchair facing the desk, the secretary tentatively smiled as she quietly closed the door. She’d always been a little frightened of Flournoy.

“What can I do for you, Austin?”

He allowed a long, deliberate moment to pass as he stared into Flournoy’s unrevealing gray eyes. Finally he said, “CBS called me last night, at home. They want to do a
Sixty Minutes
segment on me.”

Typically, Flournoy didn’t respond directly. Instead, giving himself time, he said, “How’d they get your number?”

Holloway smiled. “They have their sources, I imagine.”

Now Flournoy was ready with his response: “Is it about your China initiative?” Since Sunday, Flournoy had consistently referred to the China mission as an “initiative.” Signifying, perhaps, that Flournoy thought the idea smacked more of statecraft than evangelism. Of course, no one had ventured to ask Flournoy for an explanation.

Once more, Holloway smiled—then nodded. “Yes. They’re interested. Very interested.”

“What’d you tell them?”

“I said I’d call them today. Naturally, I wanted to tell you about it.”

Flournoy nodded over the tips of his fingers, allowing a long, deliberate moment to pass before he said, “I’m glad you did, Austin. Very glad. Because, to be perfectly candid, I have grave doubts about China. And this offer from
Sixty Minutes
might just confirm what I’ve been thinking.”

“I don’t follow you.” With an effort, Holloway hitched himself up straighter in his chair, lifting himself a little higher than Flournoy. Dropping his voice to a lower, graver note, he said, “What’re you getting at?”

“What I’m getting at, Austin, is that the
Sixty Minutes
crew are headhunters. You know it as well as I do. And I’m afraid—very afraid—that they’ll try to make you look silly.”

“They’re going to be talking about the China Crusade.” It was the first time he’d used the phrase, and he paused a meaningful moment, to emphasize the name he’d chosen. Finally he said, “They’re interested in the idea. It’s caught on, in just three days. And this is a golden opportunity to get some publicity. Free publicity, coast to coast.”

Now it was Flournoy’s turn to pause. Then, elaborately patient, he said softly, “Austin, I’m sure you recall your last, ah, appearance on
Sixty Minutes.
They were out for your scalp. And they damn near got it, too.”

“That was two years ago. This is a new crew. I know. I checked. And besides, I don’t quite agree with you, Howard. It was a dogfight, yes. But I don’t think I came off second best, necessarily.”

“But that’s exactly my point. Second best or first best, we don’t need another dogfight on network television.”

“This business is built on publicity, Howard. You know it as well as I do. Our people, when they see the interviewer trying to do a job on me, they’ll get mad. They’ll give the network hell. And, like as not, they’ll send us a check, to show they’re with us. Believe me. I’ve seen it happen. And, besides, don’t forget the old saying: ‘I don’t care what you say about me, just so long as you spell my name right.’”

Raising one hand in a gesture of tightly controlled impatience, Flournoy said, “All right, let’s let that go for a minute. Let’s talk about this China thing.”

“The China Crusade, you mean.”

Inclining his head in a condescending little nod, Flournoy said, “The China Crusade. Right.” His voice was edged with displeasure at being prompted. But, still, he’d said it—called the mission by its new name. Satisfied, Holloway relaxed in his chair, waiting for the rest of it:

“I didn’t say anything at the Council meeting on Sunday,” Flournoy began. “I didn’t want to oppose you in public. But the fact is that I have doubts about the whole idea. What concerns, me, Austin—and I’m going to be brutally honest about this—is that I frankly wonder whether you’ve got the stamina for something like this. Never mind whether it’s a good idea. That’s a separate question. I’m talking about your health. Your heart, specifically.”

“It’s not my heart that you’re worried about, Howard. It’s the profit picture. That’s all that concerns you.” Locking his eyes with Flournoy’s, he spoke quietly, coldly.

Flournoy didn’t reply—didn’t flinch—didn’t drop his eyes.

“Am I right?”

Flournoy raised his elegantly tailored shoulders, disdainfully shrugging. “If you want to put it like that, Austin, then my answer is obvious. Without you, we don’t have a profit picture. So it amounts to the same thing, really.”

“Well, now—” Smiling, he settled back in the chair, hands spread wide on the walnut desk top. “I’m glad to hear you say it. And, to be generous—and also accurate—I’ll be the first one to admit that, without your expert help over these last ten years, the profit picture wouldn’t be half what it is now. Maybe not a tenth of it, for all I know. But, still, you’re missing one essential point, Howard.” He paused, drawing a deep, experimental breath. Today, the small demon inside his chest had been quiet. Breathing was easier. So, without overextending himself, he could take a few moments to enjoy Flournoy’s admission that he was indispensable. He could afford to sermonize:

“The point you’re missing,” he said, “is precisely the one I tried to make on Sunday. Which is to say, Howard, that this ministry and myself are inseparable. We’re one and the same. The ministry is me, and I’m the ministry. Which is to say that my ministry is an extension of me. That fact—that
truth
—should be self-evident to you, Howard. Because it’s certainly evident to almost everyone else.

“Now, I take it as kindly meant, when you express your concern for my health. You don’t want me to die. Not now. And, God knows, I don’t want to die. Between you and me, the prospect terrifies me. But just because I don’t want to die, that doesn’t mean that, every year, I don’t want to do more than I did the year before. Because, believe me, I do. I’m a famous man, Howard. I don’t say that boastfully. I say it to explain what moves me to do what I do. Because people become famous—in America, at least—precisely because the more they get, the more they want. Not too long ago, if you remember, I had my picture on the cover of
Newsweek
. And you probably thought I was pleased. And I
was
pleased, too—for about one whole minute. And then I started wondering about
Time
and
U. S. News
.

“So now we come to the China Crusade. And you’re doubtless saying—like so many inside the organization are probably saying—that I’m crazy to take on a challenge like that with a bad heart. And, just on the bald evidence—on logic—I’d certainly have to agree with you. But the problem is, Howard, that you miss the essential point. Which is, Howard, that I’ve just about run out of worlds to conquer. At first, getting the faithful to send in their dollar bills was a challenge. And building this Temple—raising the money—that was a challenge. The Philippines and Africa—sure, they were gratifying. But I’d no sooner done it, than it paled on me. And besides, there’s no trick to evangelizing backward people. All you do is pass out trinkets with the prayer books—and then write it all off against profits from America. But the Chinese, that’s a different matter. The Chinese are smart. And they’re tough, too. They’re worthy adversaries.