T he crowd had grown. How that was possible, I have no clue, but the spillover factor was unbelievable. Where there had been two thousand people, there were now three or four thousand. If the fire marshal had appeared, we would have been closed down. People were parking at restaurants and gas stations up to a mile or so away and walking down to the park. The state of Florida would have been proud of their park, but the natural beauty, the river, and the Intracoastal Waterway was not what the crowd was coming to see.
The buzz was out that Cashdollar had made it back for the last event of the weekend. I couldn’t fathom how much money the man would collect tonight.
“It’s going to be a night to remember, Skipper.” Styles smiled, a sly look on his face.
Even more satellite trucks lined up inside the camper village, and a Fox News affiliate had a camera positioned outside the tent. Local news stations were lined up inside and camera flashes popped every quarter of a second. Standing on the ground, looking up at the truck, I saw James pose every once in a while.
“So, when do we go in?” I wanted a decent seat.
“We don’t.”
“Daron, Cashdollar is making his debut. Less than twenty-four hours after being shot, he’s going to preach. We should be in there.”
We were probably already in trouble for not telling the authorities what we’d witnessed. I wanted to see Cashdollar’s spin on the event.
“Skipper,” I hated that name, “everyone will be in the tent.”
“Yeah? You think?”
“I’m banking on it, son.”
“And we’re not going?”
“No.”
“So not everyone, just -”
“Almost everyone.”
And the crowd continued to file in. Past our truck, past the police armed guard, through the opening in the canvas. And they filed and they filed and they filed.
Finally, with three hundred or more people outside the entrance, and several hundred lined up on the road past our truck, Crayer’s donuts, and the rest of the vendors, the sermon started. The speakers blared outside the yellow tent and the choir started singing. It was going to be one hell of a night.
“Ten minutes, son.”
We stood there as LeRoy spoke. “Today,” the voice echoed from the speakers, “in the last twenty-four hours, Reverend Preston Cashdollar was shot. No one knows the reason, but a threat on his life brought a serious threat to this ministry. God steps up, brothers and sisters. God works miracles. Tonight, it gives me a great honor to welcome back our own, the Reverend Preston Cashdollar.”
The crowd erupted, screaming louder than I’d ever heard. They shouted out hosanna, whistled, cheered, and screamed. In the midst of the greatest commotion I’d ever witnessed, including a John Mayer concert and a Dave Matthews show, Daron grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me away.
We fought our way around the outside of the tent, bumping into people every second. Finally we had rounded the left side of the big monstrosity and we were standing in front of the office. The first thing I noticed was the padlock wasn’t on.
“I’m going up.” Styles gave me a cold look.
“You’re crazy.”
“You said it yourself, son. Everyone will be inside the tent, seeing if miracles really do come true.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Come on up with me.”
“Look, man, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but the last time you were in there, you almost got killed, and you almost killed someone.”
“Won’t happen this time, Skipper. Everyone is inside big yellow. The last thing they’re going to worry about is someone inside their trailer.”
He walked up the wooden platform and twisted the handle. The door opened, and he stuck his head in.
“Come on up, buddy. Nobody here.”
I’d been through a lot. I didn’t understand most of what was going on around me, but for some reason that escapes me today, I figured at this point I had nothing to lose. I put my foot on the stair and walked up to the landing. Styles was standing there, waiting for me.
“Nobody here but us chickens, Skipper.”
In my high school history class we had a chapter or a page or maybe just a paragraph on Napoleon Bonaparte. The French general had a quote that I memorized, not because I understood it, but because I thought it was cool. Now, I understood it. And it made perfect sense. Men are moved by only two things. Fear and self-interest. I think that talk-show host Barry Romans said the same thing. Fear and self-interest. And I was in agreement. That quote pretty much summed up the last three days.