During the thousand-mile drive from Dallas, they’d gone over every detail of how they’d infiltrate the church. Evans would introduce himself as John, his real name. (Pete was a childhood nickname that stuck. If anyone asked for his identification, it would prove he wasn’t lying about his identity.) The main question they wanted answered: Was Tilton attending the church? If so, what was his role? And did other members of Tilton’s congregation follow him to North Carolina?
Evans knew the investigation went beyond Tilton. He was going undercover to scrutinize Word of Faith Fellowship. The Trinity Foundation had received several reports that the church, led by a middle-aged cultlike leader named Jane Whaley, abused its congregants.
But right then, he needed a place to make camp. He’d been an Eagle Scout, so he knew exactly what to do. He found a flat spot, cleared away sticks and stones, and pitched his tent. He asked an old man at a nearby house if he’d be OK there and got the all clear.
The Word of Faith Fellowship compound was less than a half mile away. He’d studied maps of the property, and already knew the shortest route to the front gate.
Getting inside would be the next puzzle. Evans couldn’t walk into a service unannounced or knock on the door of the pastor’s study and ask for help. This was no ordinary American church. He’d have to be invited in.
Every morning Evans rode his bicycle to the local service station and washed up in the restroom. In town, he approached as many people as possible with his hard-luck story, and a mechanic offered him work and a place to stay on his property. After three weeks in Spindale, Evans finally met some Word of Faith Fellowship members, owners of a local diner. Evans told them how his faith kept him strong even through trying times. How he had been unemployed and had to leave behind his hometown and family to find work.
The couple was impressed. To them, Evans was a decent Christian guy trying to live through a bad patch—a perfect candidate for the church. They invited Evans to a Sunday service, and he quickly accepted. He called Holloway to tell him the news.
That Sunday, as Evans dressed for church, he once again rehearsed his cover story. No slipups. And when he was ready, he jumped on his bicycle and headed down Old Flynn Road. As he pedaled up the drive into Word of Faith’s neatly manicured campus, he felt out of place. The men and women were dressed up like they were going to a White House dinner. Evans was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, an old pullover shirt, and a windbreaker. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t there to join the church; this wasn’t for real. Still, it was a bit unnerving. He could feel the stares.
It didn’t take long. As soon as he got close to the church buildings, several men with sunglasses moved toward him. But the couple who owned the restaurant appeared, waved off the security team, and ushered Evans inside.
Not only did he attend that Sunday service, but he showed up again that evening, and again on Wednesday night. It didn’t take long for Jane Whaley to notice him. His third time in the church she pointed to him and shouted, “You have a generational curse. We better get those demons out of you.”
Evans had seen other congregants, including children, blasted into submission. It was an extreme practice of peer pressure, emotional manipulation, browbeating. Ushers kept buckets nearby because some congregants yelled and cried until they vomited. (The spiritually cleansed were expected to clean up after themselves.)
Now it was Evans’s turn. While the bulk of the congregation sang choruses, he was taken to a chair near the front of the sanctuary. A bucket was placed by his feet, and more than a dozen people surrounded him. Nothing could have prepared him for the shrill, ear-piercing screams and guttural groans. The people swung their arms and punched at the air like they were fending off ghosts.
“Devils, come out!” they yelled. “We bind you, Satan. Get back. We rebuke you in the name of Jesus!” Others began babbling in strange languages. Although it sounded like gibberish, Evans knew they were “speaking in tongues,” a common practice in the Pentecostal world. If that wasn’t enough, a man began slapping Evans’s back. Another grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
Keep it together, Evans told himself.
Easier said than done. His chest heaved as he struggled to control his breathing. His ears rang, his head pounded. He was getting dizzy. He just wanted it to end, but the believers were determined. Finally, after an hour, the shouting stopped. Evans was exhausted and nauseated. He bent over and spit phlegm in the bucket at his feet. Evidently that was what they’d been waiting for.
“Praise God!” the congregants shouted.
Evans was shocked, but he soon learned it could have been worse. That same evening, after an hours-long blasting, he saw a man vomit blood. He quickly discovered that nobody except Jane Whaley was immune to demons. She’d even call out her own husband from the pulpit.
“Sam, you’ve got those demons,” she’d say. “You better go take a seat, and let’s get ’em out of you. Take hold.”
In the church’s matriarchal world, Sam Whaley could offer no resistance. Like everyone else at Word of Faith Fellowship, he obeyed his wife. He took the chair near the stage, closed his eyes, and was blasted for a good forty-five minutes. Evans couldn’t imagine what went through Sam’s mind during his wife’s deliverance session. When it was over, Sam looked like a beaten dog.
* * *
Evans fit in well at the auto-repair shop. His boss liked him, and eventually let him use one of their cars. He began volunteering at the church—cleaning, painting, whatever was needed. One evening after the service, Whaley pulled Evans aside and scolded him about his clothing.
“God’s children should always wear priestly garments,” Whaley said. “God demands that all of His followers wear the most royal of outfits when they come to worship.”
“But these are the only clothes I have,” Evans said. “You know I’ve been down on my luck lately. I’ll buy some better clothes soon as I have enough money.”
Whaley pulled a big shopping bag from behind her lectern and handed it to Evans. “These are for you,” she said. Inside were expensive-looking clothes: slacks, dress shirts, and a stylish, knee-length black wool coat, nicer than any jacket Evans had ever owned.
“These are gifts from Joe English,” Whaley said, motioning toward a clean-cut man with a slight paunch and short black hair. With his suit and tie, the forty-something English looked like a successful businessman.
Evans turned to English. “Thank you, sir. This means a lot to me.”
English only nodded. He didn’t say a word, but Whaley filled the silence.
“Well, I expect you’ll be dressed more appropriately for the house of the Lord at the next service, right?” she said.
“I sure will, Jane. Thank you again,” he said.
Evans had heard English sing at the church a few times. The guy had a powerful voice that filled the room, and his face lit up when he sang.