Man of Miracles

Jeb Kershaw, the sixth of ten children of a poor, illiterate coal miner, was born in a three-room shack, high in the mountains of West Virginia. Although the family had little in the way of worldly goods, they were rich in faith. Jeb's father, Thad Kershaw, worked ten-hour days in the mines, six days a week, yet still found the time to take his wife and kids to church every Sunday. Strict Baptists, the Kershaws often attended tent revivals on warm Sunday evenings, where even the youngest of the children was likely to get caught up in the religious fervor of the crowd. Jeb, especially, would loudly sing gospel hymns and join in every chorus of "praise the Lord," "amen" and "hallelujah!"

It is no wonder then that Jeb Kershaw developed a profound, unshakeable belief in God. As soon as he was able to read, the young boy poured over the pages of the Bible. He found great comfort in the words, even though he did not always understand their meanings.

One night before going to bed the thirteen-year-old was rereading the Book of Mark. He had read the Bible cover to cover at least a dozen times, but for some strange reason, the words now took on a new meaning. The enraptured young man's heart beat rapidly, and he underlined Mark 16, verses 15 through 18 with a red pen.

And he said unto them, go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned. And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

Jeb had a true epiphany. It was as though the words had been penned for his eyes only, that they carried a message meant only for him. He suddenly believed with all his heart that if his faith was strong enough, nothing could hurt him. That faith was put to the test three weeks later. While wandering along a mountain trail, meditating in the quiet and serenity of the West Virginia wilderness, Jeb came upon a deadly timber rattlesnake.

"And these signs shall follow them that believe," the teenager recited, his eyes closed as though in prayer. "They shall take up serpents."

"Them that believe," Jeb intoned over and over again as though reciting a mantra, "they shall take up serpents."

The snake abruptly went limp in his hands. It was not dead; it was only in some form of trance.

"Praised be the Lord!" Jeb cried out passionately, holding the poisonous snake in his arms, his face radiant with faith.

He walked home, never letting go of the dazed reptile. His mother, who had been hanging the laundry on the line, saw him coming up the dirt driveway.

"It ain't dead," he replied as he picked up the lid of the garbage can and temporarily placed the snake inside.

Jeb's response was unintelligible, for the words he spoke were in a language long dead, one neither he nor his mother could understand. Viola Kershaw was frightened. Had her son been bitten by the snake and lost his mind?

"And these signs shall follow them that believe: they shall speak with new tongues. Don't you see, Ma? It was the Lord that spoke through me, that protected me from the rattlesnake."

Sharing her son's child-like faith, Viola accepted his explanation without question.

"Do you know what this means, Ma?" Jeb asked. "It's a sign that I shouldn't go to work in the mines, that I'm meant to devote my life to God and spread His holy word."

Following what he believed was a predestined path, zealous Jeb Kershaw joined up with a self-ordained preacher from Tennessee who traveled throughout the Appalachian Mountains and spoke at tent revivals where his stern exterior and deep baritone voice never failed to put the fear of God into those sinners in attendance.

At first, Jeb's followers were few in number, but then word of the teenager's miraculous deeds spread from the small mountain communities to the suburbs and cities. By the time he was eighteen, Jeb was known throughout the Bible Belt; and before his twenty-first birthday, he gained national recognition as the "Man of Miracles," appearing on most major religious television and radio programs, CNN and even The Oprah Winfrey Show. Throughout his meteoric rise to fame, Jeb maintained his steadfast belief in the Lord. To him, his growing popularity was proof of God's will at work.

It was after concluding a televised revival in New York's Madison Square Garden that Jeb met Laszlo Grant. The West Virginia-born evangelist was leaving the Garden through a side door to avoid, for security reasons, the horde of desperate people camped outside the main entrance, all eager for absolution, divine guidance or a miraculous cure. Parked at the curb was a long black limo, its uniformed chauffeur patiently waiting beside the passenger door.

The chauffeur opened the door of the limo and out stepped a handsome, middle-aged man, elegantly attired in an Armani suit. The man reached into his pocket, took out a business card and handed it to Jeb. The buff-colored linen card, embossed with gold, read Morning Star Publishing, Laszlo Grant, Founder, CEO and Chairman of the Board.

"Would you mind if we sat down?" the publisher asked. "I have a bad leg, and I find it uncomfortable to stand for long periods of time."

Inside the car, the chauffeur opened a bottle of Dom Pérignon that had been chilling on ice.

"Pardon me; I forgot. You're a man of God. How about an Evian, then? Don't worry. It's just water."

As the two men drank their respective beverages, Laszlo announced, "I've been following your career with great interest."

"Sorry, wrong choice of words on my part. Anyway, I'm quite impressed with your rise to fame—excuse me—with the number of people you have been able to reach through your ministry."

"Amazing! Are you aware that a recent survey revealed that the top three religious figures in the world were the pope, Billy Graham and you?"

"I think you grossly underestimate yourself, son. You do have the ability to work miracles, do you not? Never mind answering," Laszlo said when he saw the embarrassed look on the evangelist's face. "I'll get to the point. I would like to publish your biography."

"I don't think I like the idea. I try to keep my personal life separate from my religious work."

"If the book sells as well as I believe it will, it could mean millions of dollars."

"Those millions of dollars could go a long way in funding your evangelical crusade."

"Aren't there millions, if not billions, of souls around the world that still need to be saved?" Laszlo asked, tempting the young man. "Just think of the good you could do."

Skye Heatherton was a tall, slender blonde who looked more like a fashion model than a true crime writer. As she sat in Laszlo Grant's private office, she crossed her long, shapely legs and stared at the publisher intently, as though trying to detect an ulterior motive.

She laughed, took a cigarette out of the gold box on his desk and lit it with a jeweled lighter from Tiffany's. (Whoever said crime didn't pay obviously wasn't referring to defense attorneys or true crime authors.)

"Okay, I wasn't born yesterday. I've seen enough of the world to know that evil exists, and sometimes it even dwells in the hearts of those who profess to be holy and righteous. My tendency toward nihilism aside, religion—be it a saint like Mother Theresa or a child-molesting priest—is not my forte. My books have been about serial killers who prey on innocent victims, men and women who murder their spouses or parents who kill their own children. Now you ask me to write a book about a snake handler, for Christ's sake!"

"An excellent choice of phrasing, my dear: for Christ's sake. Our Mr. Kershaw's faith in his Lord is unshakeable. He has gone so far as to drink the venom of poisonous snakes, and it hasn't harmed him. He has spoken in tongues, and on several occasions has even healed people by 'laying on of the hands.'"

"Kershaw is no charlatan; he's the real deal. But let's get back to the business at hand. I want to publish his biography. For the past several years, you have been my most successful author, so I'm offering this assignment to you first. Of course, if you don't think you're capable of handling it, I can ask Yvette Delacroix. I hear she's thinking of leaving Burgess."

Skye put her cigarette out on the publisher's marble floor and announced, "I want fifty percent above what I got on my last advance and a fifteen percent share of the profits, including any television or movie deals."

Laszlo Grant arranged for Skye Heatherton to travel the revival circuit with Jeb Kershaw in order to learn as much as she could about the Man of Miracles. Once she had agreed to take on the task of writing his life story, she threw herself into the project with unbridled enthusiasm. She not only interviewed the evangelist several hours a day, but she also questioned his parents, siblings and everyone involved with the evangelical crusade.

Jeb, who had no experience with romance and little contact with women other than his mother and sisters, was dazzled by the glamorous writer. Skye was well aware of the young man's attraction to her, and she shamelessly used the situation to her advantage. She readily accepted his dinner invitations and on more than one occasion had submitted to his embraces. A worldly and ambitious woman, she would even have gone so far as to sleep with the evangelist, but Jeb never attempted to seduce her.

Months passed, and Skye made good progress on her book as the relationship with Jeb continued. There were still romantic dinners and stolen kisses, but nothing more.

"It's odd," Skye confessed to her publisher one day over lunch. "He seems like he's really interested in me, yet he doesn't make a move."

"Jeb Kershaw is a paradigm of virtue; he's more interested in the saving of souls than in the sins of the flesh."

Jeb, however, was neither a pedophile nor a homosexual. On the contrary, he had fallen deeply in love with the woman who was writing his biography, but he was still an innocent at heart and believed that sexual relations between a man and woman should be contained within the bonds of matrimony. He was only waiting for Skye to complete the book, at which time he intended to propose to her.

Three weeks before Christmas Jeb Kershaw made the national news once again. While conducting a revival meeting in Murfreesboro, Arkansas, he laid hands on a dying woman and cured her of the cancer that had been slowly consuming her.

"It must make you feel godlike to have saved that woman's life," Laszlo said when he saw Jeb a week after the healing.

"I didn't do anything, Mr. Grant. I'm just God's instrument. The glory is all his."

Laszlo's dark eyes were piercing, and they made Jeb uncomfortable whenever the publisher's gaze bore into him.

"It's the Good Lord who heals the sick and brings salvation to those who seek it, not me."

"You don't have any faith, do you?" Jeb asked in a moment of true insight. "You're not a follower of Christ."

"Because I know what makes money. There are a lot of gullible people out there who will want to read your story."

Jeb was not offended by the publisher's brutal honesty. He had met nonbelievers before, and they didn't bother him at all. They were like lost sheep, and the Good Shepherd would no doubt reclaim them when the time was right.

"How's the book coming?" Jeb inquired when Skye met him for dinner prior to a scheduled revival in Biloxi, Mississippi.

"To be honest, I'm having some difficulty deciding on an ending; however, in another week or so, the first draft should be done."

"You can say that again! When the draft is finished, I'm going to take a week off and sit on a beach in Bermuda before I return to Massachusetts to begin the editing process."

"I won't need to interview you anymore. I've got all the information I need. Besides, you should be happy to see me go," she teased. "You won't have me looking over your shoulder anymore."

Skye shrugged with indifference and replied, "We spent some quality time together, but, unfortunately, all good things have to come to an end."

"Why on earth would I want to get married? I have my career to think of. I don't have time for marriage."

"You won't need to work; I can support you. We'll spread God's word together; and later, when the children start arriving, you'll have another career: being a mother."

"Are you from the Stone Age? I know you're naive, but do you honestly believe I'd give up a successful writing career to change diapers and travel through the South with a snake handler?"

"Work? You handle poisonous snakes. You convulse, roll on the floor and speak in strange languages. Your revival meetings are not religious services; they're more like a carnival sideshow. You'd fit right in with the bearded woman, the fat lady and the two-headed calf."

Jeb got up from the table and left without a word, unable to bear any more of her opprobrious comments. The apostate's words had pierced his heart.

It was a hot, humid summer night, the third week of August. In an attempt to fight the stifling temperatures, the perspiring spectators sitting inside the canvas tent waved cardboard fans in front of their faces to cool themselves. Not even the industrial-sized oscillating fans positioned on each side of the makeshift stage offered sufficient relief from the blistering heat.

Jeb, deeply upset by Skye's rejection, entered the tent without looking at the faces of those who had come to hear his message. The people in the audience joined in with the choir in singing gospel hymns and eagerly reached out their hands to touch him as he made his way down the aisle to the stage. But he paid them no mind. When he finally turned and faced the assembly, he noticed Laszlo Grant, looking calm and cool in another Armani suit, sitting in the front row. Incredibly, he was the only person in the audience who was not sweating. Again, the publisher's piercing black eyes bore into Jeb's and seemed to penetrate his soul.

The singing came to an end, and at that point, Jeb would normally have roused the congregants with his own effusive religious fervor. On this occasion, however, the evangelist simply stood silently on the stage, staring out at the upturned faces of the people sitting in the uncomfortable wooden folding chairs inside the hothouse of a tent. He had never before questioned the work he was doing or the good he was accomplishing, but now he did. Had all the men, women and children who came to see him that night and in the past done so to seek salvation and God's love, or had they merely come out of curiosity or a desire to be entertained?

From his seat in the front row, Laszlo closely examined the expression on the Man of Miracles' face. The look in Jeb's eyes spoke volumes. The publisher had seen that look of uncertainty countless times before.

It doesn't really matter whether they believe, he reasoned with himself. What matters most to the Good Lord is that I believe. I do, and I will continue to let God speak through me. Those who seek salvation will listen.

He addressed the audience and once again quoted Mark 16: "And these signs shall follow them that believe."

On cue, one of Jeb's assistants walked into the tent, carrying a large wooden chest, its lid tightly closed.

"In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents."

A roaring "Amen!" was heard throughout the crowded tent, followed by an even more jubilant "Hallelujah!"

Jeb opened the lid of the chest, reached inside and picked up a four-foot-long cottonmouth.

"I believe in you, my lord," he shouted. "Although I pick up the serpent, my faith with protect me."

The evangelist held the snake at arm's length and looked at the animal's face. Its eyes, dark and piercing, reminded him of Laszlo Grant's. West Virginia's Man of Miracles turned quickly and saw that the wooden folding chair on which the publisher had been sitting moments earlier was now empty.

Suddenly, a series of sharp pains made Jeb wince. He looked at his forearm and saw the swelling, discoloration and fang marks.

Several women in the audience screamed, and dozens of people ran toward the stage to help. Laszlo, who was standing near the exit at the rear of the tent, reached into his pocket, took out his cell phone and called an ambulance.

Laszlo Grant and Skye Heatherton sat together in the first-class section of a Delta 767 headed north to Boston's Logan Airport.

"I can't wait to get back home," the writer said as she sipped a glass of red wine. "I hate the South. It's too damned hot and humid!"

"Before I had to include another damned chapter in the book. Oh, well! It's all for the best. What better way to end a biography than with the death of the book's subject."

"No matter. Your book will be a huge success," Laszlo predicted as he saluted his companion by raising his champagne glass in her direction.

"I want to thank you for giving me the opportunity to write it. You knew I wasn't too eager to accept this assignment at first, but ...."

"Enough. You did an excellent job—as I knew you would—and I won't forget it."

"Not really. For thousands of years, I've corrupted God-fearing men. Our snake-handling evangelist wasn't any more difficult than the others."

As the internationally famous bestselling true crime writer watched her mentor and master, she briefly saw him as Jeb had seen him in his final moments: the dark, piercing, merciless eyes and the deadly, venomous fangs.

"In fact," Laszlo continued proudly, "false modesty aside, I have a better winning percentage than the New York Yankees!"

"Not at all, my dear," the publisher admitted, gently squeezing one of the author's shapely legs. "Ever since I first set out to tempt Adam, I've relied on help from women like you."

A serpent once tried to tempt Salem by offering him--what else? Godiva chocolates.