Grace

by Howard Owen

  “I don’t guess you know where he is.”

  “Not a clue.”

  Sarah came in to help out. She got in touch with four of the mothers of the missing boys, whose response was what you would expect from someone who has maybe carried a little flicker of hope over the years and has seen it quite possibly snuffed out, someone who has expected the worst and now has to live with it.

  By the time I’d filed the story, it was past eight thirty. As always, the really bad days are the best ones to be a reporter, and the time flew by.

  When I’d been fairly well assured that the copy desk wasn’t going to do violence to the story, I left.

  It took fifteen minutes to get to Cindy’s house. I was somewhat relieved to see that lights were on inside, which gave me hope that she hadn’t gone out on the town with parties unknown. It didn’t eliminate the possibility that she was spending a cozy evening at home with someone else. Who could blame her?

  But when she answered, in the kind of housecoat no woman would wear while entertaining overnight guests of the male persuasion, I figured I still had a chance.

  “Some date you turned out to be,” she said, but she smiled a little.

  Standing in the doorway, I gave her the sneak preview of tomorrow’s Willie Black special. She said she’d been following it on our online site, which I’d updated four times during the afternoon and evening.

  “You’re not a subscriber anymore?”

  “Who under sixty is?”

  She saw the hurt in my eyes and said she still gets the “special” weekend package we more or less give away.

  I asked her if she was going to ask me in.

  “What for?” she said. “Don’t you have a home?”

  I thought I’d take a chance.

  “It’s kind of cold sleeping by yourself on a night like this.”

  She shook her head, said my name three times, and wondered what she was going to do with me.

  I had a suggestion.

  “Well,” she said, opening the door wider, “come on in. I’m freezing my butt off. You’re letting all the heat out.”

  Maybe, I suggested, we could both use a little warmth.

  I RAN out and got a paper this morning from the market a couple of blocks from Cindy’s place.

  “Remains found in Alderman’s basement,” screamed the headline. “As many as six bodies; possible tie to Cole slaying,” said the subhead. We can’t say Artesian Cole’s death is related to those bodies, but it isn’t too hard to connect the dots:

  •Artesian’s body turns up.

  •It develops that at least four other kids fitting his general description have gone missing over two decades and were never found.

  •Eight days later, James Alderman is butchered.

  •Alderman was connected with the Children of God program, where he tutored, among others, Artesian Cole.

  •Eight days after that, half a dozen boys’ remains are found buried in Alderman’s basement.

  I wonder if my adoring publisher is already on her way back. But then I check the weather and see that it’s snowing in the Northeast and flights are being scrubbed left and right out of New York. Truly a Christmas miracle. I have two missed calls from Ms. Dominick on my cell. I’ll get around to those in a day or three.

  I have a couple of cups of coffee with Cindy and wonder out loud if she will still have me when I’m on welfare.

  “They’re hiring at Walmart,” she says. “Look, Willie, if I haven’t ditched you yet, after all the ways you’ve fucked up, a little thing like unemployment probably isn’t going to matter. We can always live with your mother. Oregon Hill will always take us back.”

  An involuntary shudder escapes me.

  “Just kidding,” Cindy says.

  There are some calls, though, that need answering.

  Kate wants me to know that there’s a pretty good chance Sam McNish will be released on sensibly priced bail today. Marcus has already been working on it, apparently. I tell her that I want to be there when he gets out. What I really want is to be there to whisk him into Marcus’s car for a nice, leisurely drive around town before we take him home, with the TV guys in hot pursuit.

  “I don’t think an exclusive is out of the question here,” I tell Kate.

  She agrees.

  “You broke in?” she says. “That’s a little extreme, even by your standards. Hell, Willie, you might be needing Marcus yourself pretty soon.”

  Could be, I agree, but it’s going to look like a terminal case of poor sportsmanship if L.D. locks me up now, after I’ve done his spadework for him, using a literal spade.

  “Well, I just hope you’ll still be able to pay the rent after all this shakes down.”

  Anyone who thinks my status as ex-husband will buy me a grace period with Kate Ellis doesn’t know Kate Ellis.

  The other call is from Big Boy Sunday. I appreciate the fact that he is using his cell this time instead of abducting me.

  “Looks like you did good, Willie,” Big Boy says. “I hear they’ll be springing that white boy today.”

  I start to ask him how he has that information, but I probably don’t want to know.

  I tell him that we still don’t have a bead on who murdered James Alderman, and the cops can’t say with complete certainty that those bodies have anything to do with his girlfriend’s late son.

  “Well, you know and I know what’s what,” he says. “Even the damn cops will be able to piece it all together now.”

  “Except maybe about Alderman. I mean, was he suddenly so wracked with guilt that he cut his own thumbs, dick, and balls off and stabbed and shot himself a few times for good measure? Seems a little extreme.”

  It’s as good a time as any to tell Big Boy that we need to talk.

  “What we need to talk about?”

  “Something I found at Alderman’s house. Something that concerns you.”

  “Ain’t nothing at that place that concerns me, Willie.”

  “Still, you’re going to want to hear this. Trust me.”

  He seems to be chewing on something.

  Finally he says he can meet me tomorrow. He gives me an address in a part of town I don’t particularly want to frequent without a bodyguard.

  “No. This one has to be on my turf.”

  I tell him to meet me at the Prestwould at two o’clock.

  “The Prestwould. Got damn! They won’t even let me in that place. Probably call the police when they see me standing at the door.”

  I assure him that this will not be the case.

  “There’s a big lobby there. Nice and open. And one more thing: I’d appreciate it if you’d leave the help in the car. Your disciples make me a little nervous.”

  He laughs.

  “They supposed to make you nervous, Willie. Hell, they make me nervous sometimes. But what makes you think you can give me marching orders these days?”

  I mention what I found. I also mention that I’ve mailed a certain piece of information to two people I trust, two people who won’t open that mail unless I disappear.

  He grunts and hangs up.

  THEY RELEASE Sam McNish on one hundred thousand bond at one thirty. Marcus Green posts it. He, Kate, and I usher McNish to Marcus’s car, past the cameramen and TV reporters. One of them actually hangs on to the door and almost gets dragged along as we pull away. I ask Marcus if it would be possible to stop and back over a couple of the more ambitious ones.

  There are a few protesters outside the jail. But anybody who can read pretty much knows they got the wrong man. None of them are exercised enough to join the news media in chasing Marcus down a city street. L.D. Jones chose to give this particular photo opportunity a miss.

  I’m sitting in the backseat, beside McNish. He appears to be somewhat stunned.

  “You were your own salvation,” I remind him. He looks confused.

  “The tip. About Alderman’s basement.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I just can’t believe . . . I couldn’t see
what was right in front of me. I could have stopped him. I could have saved Artesian.”

  I advise him to quit beating himself up. Nobody in this whole city had a clue what James Alderman was really like.

  “Yeah,” McNish says, “but I thought I knew him better than anyone else.”

  I tell him that I want to interview him, and that I’d like to do it today, before some other newshound finally tracks him down.

  He turns to me.

  “I owe you that. But can you give me a day? I just need to clear my head. I know you’re not religious, Willie, but I need to pray. I need to know where God wants me to go next.”

  I ask him how and where he hopes to do that without interruption. There’s bound to be a host of microphones and cameras waiting for him back at Grace of God. Somebody probably will be staking out the Prestwould and Marcus’s law offices.

  He shrugs.

  I have an idea. Not necessarily a good idea, but something.

  “How about Oregon Hill? My mother’s place isn’t on anybody’s radar.”

  We drive around behind Peggy’s, through the alley, and take him in through the back door, away from the eyes of her prying neighbors.

  I explain it all to Peggy, who is only mildly stoned. I emphasize the fact that McNish needs some quiet time.

  “Is it OK if I feed him?”

  “Yeah, that’d be good. But you might not want to offer him a joint.”

  “He probably could use one.”

  What the hell. It certainly wouldn’t be the first dope McNish smoked.

  He promises to talk to me tomorrow at noon.

  Marcus drops me off at the Prestwould. It is hard to believe that my workday is just starting. But there’s plenty to write about, even without Sam McNish’s interview.

  I ask Marcus, as I’m getting out, how he plans to make a buck off this, since the profit motive is what mostly drives him.

  “I mean, you probably don’t get to try him in front of a jury. I don’t think he’s going to need your services anymore.”

  “Not unless he’d like to slap the police department with a big-ass civil suit. Nah, I don’t think he’ll do that. It wouldn’t be charitable. Just look at it as my Christmas gift. Just call me ol’ Santa Claus. I probably won’t even bill him much for my services so far.”

  “Whatever you bill him,” I tell Marcus, “you ought to give me half.”

  He laughs.

  “Willie,” he says, “I wouldn’t insult you by offering you money when I know you’re just doing what any good honest journalist would do.”

  Hell, Marcus will get enough free publicity out of this to make it worth his while.

  Kate gets out of the car and gives me a hug as I head upstairs to change clothes and go to work.

  “Thank you,” she says. “And don’t forget the rent’s due on the first.”

  Not much chance of that. I wonder how long it’ll take Rita Dominick to get from Vermont to Richmond.

  If the meeting with Big Boy Sunday goes as expected, I might be able to give L.D. Jones a Christmas present he won’t forget.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tuesday

  McNish’s release is, of course, front-page stuff, but everybody with a TV knew about that before supper yesterday. The trick was to give them something fresh in this morning’s paper. I think we did that.

  Sarah was able to get an exclusive interview with Laquinta Cole. I would be too modest if I didn’t mention that I called Laquinta on my cell phone and asked her if the newspaper reporter who was coming over could talk to her without those pesky TV reporters around. I don’t know if Artesian’s mother has any warm feelings for me. I can imagine she is balled up enough in her own grief right now without having to worry about the needs of a damn reporter. But she is grateful that I helped Shorty get a job. I’m starting to regret her brother’s failure to shoot our publisher, although it would not have been a good career move on his part.

  And I do have a few snippets from Sam McNish, gleaned from our ride yesterday. The story coyly notes that Mr. McNish is in an undisclosed location, savoring his freedom.

  It will take awhile to figure out who all those forever-lost kids were whose bodies were dug up in James Alderman’s basement. There are actually two more bodies than there are grieving mothers. It speaks volumes that we have kids in this city who disappear and have nobody interested enough to mention it. It isn’t something the Chamber of Commerce and tourism folks are likely to be trumpeting.

  I DON’T think Rita Dominick is back in town yet. I say this because when I enter the building at nine thirty, nobody seizes my ID card. And L.D. probably is ass deep in alligators and hasn’t had time yet to have me arrested as a cat burglar. So, still working and still free.

  I make a few calls. Sarah is one of the few employees in the newsroom at this hour. Everyone’s trying to use those vacation hours before they turn into pumpkins on January 1. She says she’s headed out to talk to some of the mothers. She’s also gotten a tip on who one of the other boys, as yet unnamed, might have been.

  “So what else do you have up your sleeve?” she asks me. “Are you going to tell our readers tomorrow who killed James Alderman?”

  I tell her it all depends.

  “I was kidding. Really? You might have something on that?”

  “Like I said, it depends. First, though, I’ve got to do an interview with the Reverend McNish.”

  I haven’t bothered to tell Sarah that I have him stashed away. She looks a little hurt. Not the first time a woman has felt shut out by my tendency to keep my cards close.

  I apologize to her and assure her that I never doubted she could keep a secret.

  “I was just so busy yesterday. I’m sorry. I should have let you know.”

  “Well, yeah. It would have saved me some work. I’ve been trying to find him myself.”

  I ask her if she’d like to come along to Peggy’s for the interview.

  “No. I don’t think so. I have to talk to a couple of the mothers. But I can’t tell you which ones.”

  Touché.

  Peggy fixed a late breakfast for McNish and Awesome Dude, and the two men are having an interesting theological chat when I get there. Awesome seems to be under the impression that reindeer were somehow part of the original nativity scene. McNish is gently correcting him.

  “Willie,” Awesome says, “this dude really knows his Scripture and shit.”

  McNish and I go back into the bedroom where Andi and my grandson sleep. It’s the same one where I grew up, and the place still smells the same. The window I cracked trying to chip golf shots into a trash can is still there, unfixed. I’m willing to bet you could find some of my old baseball cards in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Peggy isn’t so much sentimental as indifferent when it comes to changing things.

  I ask McNish what hope he has for preserving Grace of God.

  “Well,” he says, “I do own the building. To my knowledge, I haven’t done anything to get it condemned, although I’m told my neighbors have done a pretty good job of trashing the place.”

  The way he says “neighbors” is about as close to a show of venom as I’ve seen from Sam McNish. I ask him if he’s bitter.

  “Bitter? No. Not really. They want a nice neighborhood, and Grace of God scared them, especially the kids’ program. I’ve got no complaints, and I welcome them all to come worship with us.

  “I just wish people could see that we’re all in this together. Kids who get thrown to the wolves on the other side of town are our problem too. Even if your heart doesn’t get it, your head ought to.”

  He says he understands why Stella Barnes might have thought he was a suspect in Artesian Cole’s murder. I note that he is more understanding than I am.

  He smiles and shakes his head.

  “I could have been more kind to her.”

  He already has plans for getting things up and running again in the New Year. He said he contacted some of the aides and mentors yesterday aft
er I dropped him off. Some of them are interested in coming back. Some aren’t.

  “Worst scenario? We move to another neighborhood and start over. But the kids and their parents? They’re ready right now.”

  He reaches into this weather-beaten satchel and pulls out some letters. There are five of them, all written by boys who were in the Children of God program. I read enough of them to know Sam McNish hasn’t lost his flock. Even before the facts more or less exonerated him, those kids had.

  “And I have a whole stack that our worshippers sent me,” he says. He pulls out a pile of letters three times as big as the one from the kids.

  I ask him about James Alderman. He’s obviously given his late mentor a lot of thought. He seems as confused as everyone else. He can’t quite get his mind around the idea that there might be pure evil in the world. He seems so naive I want to put him in bubble wrap.

  “I have always thought evil grew like cancer. Neglect or cruelty or mental illness or hardship of some kind embedded itself. And I thought it was treatable, curable.”

  He shakes his head.

  “This, though, this is something else. I’ve heard about monsters like that Bundy guy who were evil for no apparent reason, but even then I thought there must be something that could explain it. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  I get the impression Sam McNish is a man to whom uncertainty is a new phenomenon, one that he’s going to have to wrestle with.

  We talk for forty-five minutes. Then he turns the gun on me.

  “What about you, Willie? What do you believe in?”

  Usually this is where I remind my subject that I’m there to ask questions, not answer them. This time, I feel the need to say something.

  I tell him I believe in social justice, the Golden Rule, cold Millers, and forgiving women, in no particular order.

  “And God?”

  I tell him I’m not smart enough to know that one.

  “Smart doesn’t have a lot to do with it,” he says. “But let me ask you something: If you’re not sure, wouldn’t it be a good idea to err on the side of caution?”

  It isn’t something I think about much, maybe because it leads to some uncomfortable answers.