“Don’t be silly, sweetheart.” She held Keera’s hands and looked her up and down—mostly up as Keera was a foot taller. “You look wonderful! But it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you put on a few pounds, yes?”
Ben sighed, but Keera laughed and said, “I’ll try.”
They sat at the table.
Mrs. Teller lit the candles with matches, and Keera chanted the Hebrew blessing in her traditional Falash Mura tune, unique to the Jews of Ethiopia.
The two of them covered their eyes, and Keera repeated after her the Hebrew words. Ben then recited the blessing over the wine and bread.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Teller said. “I made matzo ball soup from scratch, with chicken legs, just the way you love it.”
“This is a message,” Ben explained to Keera, gesturing at the candles, bread, and wine. “She’s signaling that you’re the chosen one, and here’s how you do a Jewish dinner on Friday night, even if it’s Monday.”
His mother carried the soup bowls on a tray. “Is it a sin to encourage my only son, who’s dating a gorgeous med school student, to marry her before someone else—with more brains in his head!—steals her from you?”
Keera pretended to concentrate on the soup, but eventually she met Ben’s eyes and they burst out laughing.
Ben wiped his lips and chin with a napkin. “Sorry, Mom.”
“What’s so funny?” She slurped a spoonful of hot soup. “Life is not only about fun and games. Nothing wrong with taking responsibility for the people you love.”
“It’s a code,” Ben said. “She wants grandkids.”
“Is that also a sin? God forbid that my son should grow up a little, find a real job, and support you so you don’t have to work on Friday nights.”
“Mom!”
“He works pretty hard,” Keera said.
“Taking pictures?” Mrs. Teller collected the bowls. “I read an article in Modern Women magazine by a very famous psychology professor about how some people prefer photographs to actual life. They prefer to be observers rather than participants. Isn’t it interesting?”
“Fascinating.” Ben pulled his camera from the bag and snapped a few photos of his mother and Keera.
“You see?” Mrs. Teller went to the kitchen. “What did I tell you?”
Keera laughed. “Was he better as a boy?”
Speaking from the kitchen, Mrs. Teller said, “He wasn’t easy, I can tell you that. Especially in the years after…well, growing up without a father…he kept testing me. Every other day there was a note from a teacher about a schoolyard scuffle or a call from another mother about one of Ben’s pranks.”
He rolled his eyes.
“And I had to work to supplement the little allowance we received from the navy. I always worked in bookstores so that I could bring Ben with me. Even before he knew how to read, he’d sit on the floor and look through one book after another, searching for pictures. I think that’s when he fell in love with photography.”
Keera helped her bring the serving dishes to the table. “And now, as an adult, is he more like his father?”
“Oh, that’s a tough one.” Mrs. Teller considered the question. “They’re different. My husband, of blessed memory, was more matured. He had to be, with all the responsibility for the men under his command.”
“It must have been hard, even before you lost him.” Keera hesitated. “I mean, caring for a child while your husband was so far away.”
“But there was pride.” Mrs. Teller took a deep breath. “I was so proud of him! It’s different for young people today. You assume that all politicians lie, that all wars are wrong, that it’s all about money. You’re cynical, and maybe you’re right. Wars make some businessmen very rich. But we were raised by the greatest generation, the men and women who fought the Nazis. We were raised to serve our country. We believed Bush and Powell and Schwarzkopf when they said that Saddam must be kicked out of Kuwait, that it was a matter of liberty and international law.”
“And now?”
“Now?” She gestured vaguely. “Who knows? Did my husband die for freedom or for Exxon and Shell and their rich CEOs?”
“You don’t really believe that,” Ben said. “The first Gulf War was a just war. No despot would ever again invade another country after they saw what happened to Saddam in Kuwait in ninety-one.”
Mrs. Teller caressed his cheek. “Just like your father, an idealist, trying to save the world, yes?”
“That’s right, Mom. Every day.”
“Eat, children,” she said, “before the food gets cold.”
Ben forked a piece of meat and put it on Keera’s plate. “Eat! Eat! There are children starving in Ethiopia!”
Part III:
The Editor
Chapter 36
Ray ran NewZonLine.com from her late grandparents’ farm in northwest Montgomery County. A row of birch trees blocked the view from the country road, but up close there were visible signs that this was more than just another rural property. Three satellite dishes sat on the roof of the main house, which was covered with solar panels. An industrial-sized diesel-operated generator sat on a concrete pad next to an shed, where Ray’s pair of customized vans were parked. A video camera followed Ben as he walked up the steps to the front porch. The lock on the door clicked open and he entered small foyer. Only when the door behind him clicked locked, a second door unlocked, allowing him inside. There were two elevators. Ben skipped both of them and took the steps down to the basement.
Ray’s obsession with redundancy manifested again in the multiple plasma screens that covered the basement walls. Ray was sitting at a bank of keyboards, her back to a line of computer servers that hummed and emitted heat.
“Good morning,” Ben said.
“Here’s the man!” She beckoned him to a seat and pointed at a monitor. “Look at this rating chart. You’re still hot, baby.”
The chart tracked the total visitor traffic on the NewZonLine.com website and rated each story based on the number of hits by visitors who stayed on the story for more than eight seconds, which was the minimum time it took for an Internet-savvy person to absorb a headline, a photo, and the essence of one paragraph of text. Ben’s last news flash from the Camp David Scenic Overlook was at the second spot, right behind a report about an alleged shooting at the president’s reelection campaign office in Waterloo, Texas.
“It’s yesterday’s news,” Ben said.
“It’s the dead body.” She manipulated a mouse to bring the news piece onto another screen. “They love it. Do you?”
Ben stared at the photo. It was the one showing Zachariah Hinckley just before his death, lying on the ground at the bottom of the precipice, looking up at Ben. But his face was no longer blurred as in the photo Ben had sent to Ray yesterday. Rather, Zachariah’s face was clear and easily identifiable. “Take it down,” Ben said. “It’s not the photo I sold you.”
“Same one,” Ray said. “And, not to be too lawyerly, but our standard agreement says that we can edit and alter the material we buy from you to improve its accessibility to readers. And this,” she pointed at the chart, “proves my point. People are dying to see someone else dying—it’s a magnet!”
“Where did you get his face?”
“My genius programmer unscrambled it.”
“The Romanian?”
“She’s in Latvia, actually.” Ray laughed. “Talk about globalization. I’ve never spoken to her, but she’s a wiz with images and as cheap as a wild goat.”
“How did she do it?”
“Something about the original algorithm staying with the file. You can ask her.” Ray scribbled an e-mail address on a piece of paper. “But be warned—she’ll ask you to sponsor her for a green card.”
Ben glanced at the piece of paper and dropped it on the desk. “I don’t care about the software. It’s th
e principle.”
Ray maneuvered her electric wheelchair to another keyboard and pulled up a spreadsheet on one of the screens. “Here’s your account. I threw in another two-fifty. It’s only fair.”
“I don’t want the money.” He pointed at the photo. “This man served in the Marine Corps and was injured so you can sit here safely and play God.”
“Are you turning Republican on me?”
“I’m an Independent. And you better take down the photo, or we’re done doing business.”
“I thought we’re just starting. What’s with all the secrecy?”
Ben sat down and told her about Zachariah’s journal, the meeting with Rex, and what happened at the Silver Spring Ward with Palmyra, the bishop, and the young missionaries.
Ray listened intently, glancing at the screens every few seconds, but not interrupting. When Ben was done, she leaned back in her chair. “It’s interesting, but where’s the story? You don’t have evidence of anything.”
“I have the journal.”
“A bunch of text on your own iPhone? Who said you didn’t write it yourself?”
“I can find evidence.”
“The vanishing Ducati? The floppy disk that never was?”
“They’re both traceable,” Ben said. “But I can’t do it on spec. It’ll take money. I need to set up surveillance on Porter, Bishop Linder, Palmyra, maybe pay off someone inside the LDS Church to steal copies of their computer data. There must be a record of Morgan being baptized as proxy for these heroes.”
“Pay off someone on the inside? What are you smoking? Those Mormons are more straight-laced than my grandma.”
“Give me some credit. There’s meat to this story, and I can dig it out of the freezer.”
“And then what? Even if you have proof that Joe Mormon was baptized on behalf of a bunch of Medal of Honor winners, then what?”
“The guy’s running for president!”
“So? He’s a religious man, and that’s what they practice. Nobody wants to know the details. There’s no juice in a story about some Mormons in a bath, chanting prayers. It’s not interesting, and frankly, there’s something endearing about it. I mean, they’re trying to save the lost souls of American heroes. Even if you don’t believe in it, you can see the good intentions behind it.”
“What about stealing the data from the Department of Veterans Affairs?”
“Zachariah Hinckley stole it fifteen years ago. Now he’s dead. Case closed.”
“Not if I manage to retrieve that floppy disk from Porter with Morgan’s own handwriting on it.”
“In your dreams. If it ever existed, which is questionable, it’s been destroyed already.”
“And what about Zachariah’s death? This thing could explode into a full-fledged murder investigation!”
“What murder? You’re speculating.” Ray turned the wheelchair halfway to face another computer, which had just beeped. “Hey, look at this baby!”
An incoming e-mail brought a photo of a three-car accident in Olney. Two of the drivers were hitting each other. With a few key strokes, Ray bought the photo and published it under the tagline: Fender-bender turns into bloody fistfight. Within seconds, the piece rose into the Top-50 news list.
Another ping signaled a new e-mail.
“I have to return to work,” Ray said. “The people are hungry.”
“For the next pound of flesh?”
“Violence sells.”
“Obviously,” Ben said. “Will you help me? I’ll give you exclusive on the story.”
“Not interested.” She was already working on her keyboard.
“Do you want me to start doing business with the competition?”
“Nobody will front you money for this ghost hunt.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Forget the Mormons.” Ray turned to face him. “I’m saying this as your friend, not just as your publisher. Nothing good will come from it. Chasing Morgan for his church work smacks of religious persecution. A witch hunt. It’s un-American.”
“It’s my job.”
“You’re doing well selling accident photos. Or, better yet, find me a juicy murder-suicide. That would be worth a pile of cash!”
Ben got up to leave. “Is it political? Do you support Joe Morgan? Is that it?”
Ray laughed. “Get me photos of Joe Mormon screwing an altar boy behind his wife’s back, and I’ll publish it in a second. But this baptizing stuff isn’t sexy. It won’t excite readers.”
“That’s the only criteria?”
“Ride safely, buddy. And say hello to your better half.”
“You do the same.” Ben gestured at the Latvian’s e-mail.
“I’m waiting for Keera’s brother.”
“She’s an only child.”
“Still poling at Wisteria’s Secret?”
“Until the spring,” Ben said, halfway up the stairs. “She’s graduating in May, starting residency at Johns Hopkins.”
“Better marry her before she becomes a doctor and realizes you’re an inadequate match.”
“Ha!” Ben walked up the stairs.
“You could become her househusband.” Ray’s voice came from the intercom by the front door. “Show her you can cook, clean, wash, change the kids’ diapers. It’s pretty acceptable these days.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Outside Ray’s house, next to the driveway, a stream ran down a shallow crevice. The banks were lined with frost where the sun couldn’t reach. Ben watched the dark water running. It was still early, and he zipped up his riding jacket to keep warm. The conversation had not gone the way he had hoped, and Ray’s decisive rejection to the story was unsettling.
The iPhone vibrated. A text message from an undisclosed number. He opened it.
Mr. Teller, Please meet me today at the site of the accident. I can be there at noon. No photos or recordings please. God’s blessings. Palmyra Hinckley.
It was half past ten a.m. and Ben realized he could easily make it to the Camp David Scenic Overlook on time. He typed a one-word reply: Confirmed.
Chapter 37
Ben rode down Main Street in Thurmont. Being the only motorcycle in sight, it was a very different experience compared to riding with hundreds of others on Sunday. A few flags still hung from poles, but the barriers and cheering crowd were gone, and everything else was back to normal—with the exception of election signs and stickers all over town.
He made the turn onto the winding road. Posted speed limit was 45 mph. A second sign warned against littering—$250 fine!—and a third warned of deer crossing the road.
Riding through the hills, now completely alone, he began to relax. The road did not connect to another town, and the weekend traffic of sightseers was gone. It allowed him to go faster, take the turns with a deeper leaning, and accelerate with full throttle. It made him smile.
A light-blue Chevy Suburban was parked at the Camp David Scenic Overlook. As Ben was dismounting his bike, Palmyra Hinckley emerged from the Suburban, accompanied by an elderly man in a long winter coat and silver-rimmed glasses.
“Hi.” She had been crying, but her posture wasn’t bent under the sorrow. She shook Ben’s hand firmly. “Let me introduce Dr. Neibauer. He’s been a great help to us.”
Ben shook the man’s hand as well. “Family physician?”
“I’m a psychiatrist,” Dr. Neibauer said. “Zachariah was my patient.”
Palmyra walked to the edge and looked down. Dr. Neibauer put his arm on her shoulder. Ben waited.
After a few minutes, Palmyra said, “I wanted to see…where Zachariah died.”
“That rock,” Ben pointed, “over there, that’s where he was lying when—”
“When you took his photo?” She said it with bitternes
s. “Do you think God approves of such disgrace?”
Dr. Neibauer patted her arm.
“It’s wrong! A dying man deserves respect! And privacy!”
Ben pulled out his iPhone, found the first e-mail he had sent Ray from the accident site, and opened the photo attachment. “This is the photo I sent to my editor. You can see that I blurred Zachariah’s face.”
Palmyra looked at it. “So…how?”
“Technology,” Ben said. “They removed the blurring and published it.” He pulled up the Internet, found NewZonLine.com, and scrolled down the news headlines to the accident report. “I told my editor this morning to take down the photo, or I’ll never do business with her again.”
“Thank you. Please forgive me for accusing you unjustly. I’ve never imagined being in such a situation. A scandal. We’re good people.” She wiped tears. “How could all this happen to us?”
“Perhaps,” Dr. Neibauer said, “it would be helpful for you to hear Mr. Teller describe the events of Sunday.”
She nodded.
Ben told them about the festive atmosphere at the launching area, passing through Thurmont with the annual Marine Corps Veterans’ Ride, the column of motorcycles on the winding hilly roads, the stars-and-stripes Harley passing everyone at high speed, the crash site, and the state police investigation, which concluded that the accident was the result of reckless driving. “But I don’t believe it,” he said. “Your husband was in trouble, wasn’t he?”
“It’s personal,” she said. “Please respect our privacy and not publish anything untoward. I believe that the good Lord will reward your consideration.”
Ben nodded. The sound of a passing car drew his attention—a beige pickup truck with dark windows that drove by quickly, disappearing around the curve.
“My husband was a sick man,” she said. “He came back from Kuwait almost twenty years ago completely broken—in body and in spirit. The navy did what they could, with God’s help, and Zachariah was back on his feet. Our community helped us build a life together. A good life. We worked hard, raised children, and did our best to honor the Lord and earn the right for exaltation in the afterlife. Have you read the Book of Mormon, dear?”
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