by Ray Garton
“Yeah, okay,” he said impatiently.
Nathan looked up at her and said, “No, I don’t, Mom, I’m—” She quickly dragged him away.
The cab took them to the tiny bus station in Grover where she bought two tickets to Los Gatos, charging them to her MasterCard, and they waited until the bus came to take them away. When Nathan protested, she hushed him firmly.
When they got home at nearly four in the morning, she put Nathan to bed and did not answer the phone when it rang. Mark returned the next day. They had been fighting ever since.
“I’m telling you,” Glenda said as she ushered her sons into her car in the parking lot of Chuck E. Cheese, “dump him. He’s a goner.”
“Look, Glenda,” Lauren said, ignoring the advice, “I swear I’ll pay you back for the pizza. I’m going to—”
“Will you forget about the damned pizza. What, you think it’s gonna break me? Listen, why don’t I take Nathan for the night. You’re going to bring him over in the morning anyway, and I don’t imagine things are going to be great when Mark comes home tonight. If he comes home.”
“That’s okay, Glenda. Really. I’d rather … well, it may sound stupid, but I’d rather have him close tonight. But thanks. And thanks for listening.”
“Anytime. See you in the morning, huh?”
“Yeah.”
On the way home, Nathan asked hesitantly, “Mom? What’d Glenda mean when she told you to dump Daddy?”
Lauren started crying again; she couldn’t help it. “Nothing, honey. She just… we were just talking. That’s all. That’s all.”
She could tell he didn’t believe her; he stared silently out the window all the way home, looking troubled, worried.
When they got home, the phone was ringing and Lauren picked it up quickly, snapping, “Hello?”
“Hi, hon. It’s me.”
She said nothing.
“Just wanted to tell you not to hold dinner for me. I’m gonna be late.”
It took courage to speak. “Late from what?” she whispered.
He chuckled. “From work.”
She started quietly, but her voice rose to a scream as she pressed the receiver hard to her ear. “From work? From work? What’s going on, Mark? Will you tell me that? What the hell have you done, you son of a bitch?”
There was a long crackling silence over the line, then he hung up.
Lauren put Nathan to bed early, spending more time than usual at his bedside. She was scared. For herself. For Nathan. But not for Mark. She realized, as she huddled beside Nathan’s bed, watching him doze off, that she no longer felt anything for Mark but contempt.
At least tonight, she thought. Mark had a way of changing the way she felt.
She drank an entire bottle of wine by herself that night, waiting on the sofa for Mark to come home. By two in the morning, she could stay awake no longer and trudged upstairs, undressed, and fell asleep immediately, drained by the alcohol.
Lauren awoke thirty minutes before the alarm went off the next morning. She looked around the room blinking, still dazed from the amount of wine she’d had, unused to its effect. She checked Mark’s side of the bed; it was cold and untouched.
Immediately depressed, Lauren went to the bathroom, washed her face with cold water, then headed out of the bedroom to wake Nathan, stopping in the doorway. She backed up.
The closet was open.
Mark’s side was empty.
She stared for long seconds, certain she was not yet awake and only dreaming. But she was awake. A thought struck her. Hard.
She bolted from the bedroom and ran down the hall, shouting, “Nathan? Nathan!”
When she entered his room, she stumbled to a halt in front of his closet. It, too, was open and mostly empty.
Lauren rounded the corner toward Nathan’s bed, sickened.
Nathan was gone.
5.
“Mr. Cross, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“My pleasure.”
Edmond Fiske and a short balding man at the table with him stood as Jordan was led to the table in a secluded corner booth. Fiske was about six two or three, darkly tanned with sun-lightened brown hair and clear hazel eyes. He was casually dressed in a powder-blue V-neck cashmere sweater over a cream colored shirt, and smoothly pressed pleated grey slacks. He looked physically powerful as well as financially; his shoulders were broad, his arms sizeable, and even his hands were large. Jordan tried not to let the man’s grip make him wince as they shook hands.
Jordan sat down and put the People magazine on the table. Somehow, it clashed glaringly with the table’s elegant setting. “Hungry?” Fiske asked.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Jordan opened the menu. “What do you recommend?”
“Well, everything is good, but if you like, I can order for both of us. It will save time, and—” He smiled, exposing two strips of perfect ivory-white teeth. “—I want to see that you have the best meal on the menu.”
“Sure.”
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your schedule.”
“Not at all, Mr. Fiske. I usually break for—”
“Please, call me Ed. If we’re going to be working together, let’s drop the formalities. And this is Tom Gleason, editor at Trends.”
Gleason smiled and Jordan nodded at him, then said, “Well … I’m still not sure what you want from me or if I’ll be able to help you. And I’m especially not sure why …” He glanced at Gleason whose silence made him uncomfortable. “Well, I don’t mean to sell myself short, I’ll be the first to tell you I’m very good at what I do, but—”
“You’re wondering why I called you.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll get to that in a minute. I ordered wine,” he said as a svelte young waiter approached the table with a bottle, removed the cork and poured some in Fiske’s glass. Fiske tasted it, nodded thoughtfully and said, “Perfect, thank you, Des.” The waiter poured for each of them. Fiske breezed through their order efficiently, his sharp eyes darting up and down the menu, then dismissed the waiter with a sniff. “I chose you for three reasons, Jordan,” he said. “Your reputation, your location, and the fact that your license expires in a month.”
Jordan blinked. “My license?”
“Yes. I’ll explain in a minute. Did you read the article?” He nodded toward the magazine.
“Yes.”
“Aside from what you read, what do you know about Hester Thorne and the Universal Enlightened Alliance?”
“Not much, really. Just what I’ve read and heard. And each article seems to cover the same territory. It’s the most popular group in the New Age movement, endorsed by some big names in show business and even politics, particularly Sheila Bennet, who’s always writing a best-selling book about it between her movies and that nighttime soap she does, um … what’s it called? Empire, I think. Uh, let’s see, Hester Thorne was a lowly housewife who was visited by an ancient entity named Orrin, who now uses her as his mouthpiece. That sort of thing.”
“Yes. She was a housewife in your hometown, by the way. Redding.”
“That’s right. Um, you seem to know a lot about me, Mr. Fis—uh, Ed.”
“I do, but don’t worry. Just business. I always check out potential associates.”
Fiske smiled again, disarmingly, and Jordan believed him. Fiske glowed with wealth and power, but was without threat. For the moment, anyway.
“Tell me, Jordan, do you read Trends?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. I’m very proud of that magazine. I’ve worked hard to choose the right people—” He cast a smile of approval in Gleason’s direction, “—to make it something more than the average grocery-store fare.” He gestured vaguely at the People by Jordan’s elbow. “A little glitz, a little gossip, but only glitz and gossip not touched by the other magazines.
We don’t do publicity pieces, we do stories. And we do them differently than everyone else. It’s not going to win anybody a Pulitzer, but I’m proud to say that, when you’ve read all the latest, you can pick up Trends and read something new. That’s why, when I told Tom, here, that I wanted an article on the Universal Enlightened Alliance, I knew I wouldn’t get the same old tripe everyone else has written about the group. Tom heads up the Los Angeles bureau. He put several people on the story. One of them was sent to Grover.” Fiske turned to Gleason and cocked a brow, signaling him to take over.
“His name was Harvey Bolton,” Gleason said. “He was a good reporter. I knew he’d—”
“Was?” Jordan interrupted.
“I’m getting to that.” Gleason frowned and scratched the shiny patch of skin atop his head, choosing words carefully. “See, the reporters who work for Trends … they’re good reporters, all of them, don’t get me wrong. But I knew that if there was something odd about the Alliance, something that wasn’t right, Harvey would find it while another might not. I thought it best that those working on the story not know that Ed’s intention was to—” He glanced at Fiske cautiously before going on. “—to find something … new about the Alliance.”
“You were looking for dirt,” Jordan said.
Gleason quickly replied, “Not necessarily dirt.”
“My opinion of the Alliance is not a favorable one, Jordan,” Fiske said. “I was curious to see if we might be able to confirm it. But we didn’t want any of the reporters to find things that weren’t necessarily there. We didn’t want a biased story. We wanted them to find it on their own, so we thought it best not to tell them my reasons for requesting the story. That’s all. I’m not in the business of mudslinging.”
Jordan nodded.
“Harvey was hungry for something big,” Gleason continued. “Something that would draw attention to him. He was married recently, starting a new family, and, well … he needed to improve his income. So I told him we wanted to cover the Alliance and sent him to Grover. As far as he knew, it was just another assignment, but I knew if there was something to find, he’d find it.”
“And he did,” Jordan guessed as Gleason sipped his wine.
“That’s right. He called me at home from Anderson at about two o’clock on the morning he was supposed to return to L.A. He was excited, said he’d uncovered something big, although he wasn’t quite sure what. Not yet. I wanted to make sure it was for real before I gave him the go-ahead to pursue it, but we were cut off. I found out later there was a bad electrical storm that night, so I’m guessing that was the cause. Before we were cut off, though, Harvey told me he might be in some danger.”
“Did he say why?”
“Said he might have pissed some people off, but he didn’t say how. Later that morning, about seven or so, he called again.” Gleason reached beneath the table and brought up a briefcase, put it on his lap, opened it and removed a microcassette recorder. “I recorded most of the call,” he said, putting the recorder on the table and turning it on.
The tiny speaker crackled and a rasping, strangled voice spoke through the long-distance hiss: “—got me, Tom … puh-please, Jesus, help me … th-they’ve—”
“Harvey? Is that you, Harvey?”
The voice dragged in a desperate breath. “Yuh-yes, Tom, please, Jesus Christ, you guh-gotta help me, please!”
“Where are you?”
“A monster, Jesus, they sent … a fucking … monster—”
“Where are you?”
Silence.
“Harvey? Answer me, where are you?” Nothing.
Gleason turned the recorder off. “That’s all there is,” he said.
Jordan asked, “Is that the last you heard from him?”
“Not quite.” Gleason opened the briefcase again and removed a thick manila envelope. “The day before, Harvey had Fed-Exed this to the office.” He handed it to Jordan.
Inside were Xeroxes of magazine and newspaper clippings, handwritten notes and photographs, and two microcassette tapes. A quickly scribbled note was paper-clipped to the top of the stack.
Tom—
Read these carefully in the order I’ve stacked them, then tell me: what’s wrong with this picture? Please don’t laugh this off. Give it a chance. We’ll be in touch.
H.B.
“I take it you’ve read these,” Jordan said.
“Every one of them. Several times.”
“And what is wrong with this picture?”
With a glance at Fiske, Gleason shrugged and said hesitantly, “I’m … not really sure. It’s obvious Harvey was convinced something was wrong, but I just don’t see it.”
Jordan turned to Fiske. “How about you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see it, either.”
“Did you go to the police with this?”
“The police sniffed around for a couple months, said they went to Grover and questioned some people. I have no reason to believe otherwise, but they found nothing and closed the case.”
“You don’t think they did enough.”
“I think they did what they could. The police are limited in what they can do. Limited by time, their work load, money, and most of all, by the law.”
“Which is why you’ve called me.”
Fiske nodded and smiled as he took a piece of bread from the basket on the table and buttered it slowly. “You want me to find him.”
“Oh, I think he’s dead.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No reason. Just a suspicion. I want you to find out if I’m right.”
“And if you aren’t?”
“Find him, bring him to me, and I will deal with whoever is responsible. If he’s dead, I want you to find out who did it, how, and why.”
“What about you, Mr. Gleason? Do you think Harvey Bolton is dead?”
Looking at the recorder, Gleason said, “Well … he didn’t sound too healthy the last time he called me.”
The waiter brought their salads and all three men spread their napkins on their laps.
“Let’s finish our business after lunch,” Fiske said.
As they ate, no one mentioned Harvey Bolton; they chatted, instead, about sports and politics.
As soon as they finished their dessert, Fiske turned to Gleason and said, “You mentioned some business you had in town, Tom.”
“Oh, yes, yes.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I’m late already.” He quickly gathered his things together, and when Jordan handed him the manila envelope, he shook his head and said, “No, that’s yours. You’ll need it.” He scooted out of the booth, stood, and shook Jordan’s hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Cross.”
As Gleason left, Jordan thought the abrupt departure must have been planned ahead of time. He wondered why Fiske wanted to be alone with him.
Removing a thin silver cigarette case from the shirt pocket beneath his sweater, Fiske said, “I think it would be best if you let go of all your other clients, Jordan.” He offered Jordan a cigarette, then lit it for him before lighting his own. “Providing you decide to take this on, that is.”
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“No, it’s not. But I have faith in you, Jordan. You’re a chameleon. You’re very resourceful, responsible, and loyal to your clients.”
“If you don’t mind my asking … how do you know that?”
“My people have looked into your work. Your reviews are all glowing. Your clients are very pleased with your work.”
“I keep the names of my clients confidential. How did you—”
“Nothing, Jordan, is truly confidential.”
“I see.” Jordan stiffened; he made no attempt to conceal his anger. “Well, if your people are so fucking effective, why do you need me?”
“Because you can do what it would normal
ly take half a dozen of my people to do and you can do it better because you’re only one person. You’re very … creative.”
“You’ve watched me.”
“Yes. A little. That shouldn’t upset you, Jordan. You do it, too. You know it’s just business. And you were only observed while working.”
Jordan said nothing. He knew how completely one’s privacy could be stripped away, and he didn’t like the idea of some—any—of his being invaded. It angered him, offended him, even more so because Fiske did not even try to keep his surveillance a secret. He flaunted it with a smirk and his arrogance made Jordan grind his teeth.
“I would never hire someone without checking them out first, Jordan, whether it be an investigator or a gardener.” Then, casually, after taking a long drag on his cigarette, he added, “Especially considering the amount of money I plan to spend on you.”
Jordan nodded slowly, suddenly feeling a bit less hostile toward Edmond Fiske. “You understand this is going to take time. Months, maybe a year or more. I can’t make any guarantees.”
“I realize that. That’s why I suggest you concentrate solely on this and release your other clients.”
“Even then,” Jordan said, “I might come up with nothing.”
“I understand. But I have faith in you.” He gave Jordan a brilliant smile. “How does one million sound?”
Jordan fingered his napkin, allowing no reaction to show on his face. “One million,” he said flatly, nodding.
“For starters, of course. And absolutely all expenses will be covered.”
Jordan nodded again. He told himself silently to stop nodding like an idiot and accept the offer. But something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it yet, but something about the whole thing was slightly off center.
“Jordan? That’s not enough?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. I’m just … thinking.”
“Ah.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Fiske—”
“Ed.”
“—Ed, I’d like to know exactly why you don’t like the Alliance.”
Fiske cocked a brow and his tanned forehead creased. He said nothing for a moment, sweeping his tongue around inside his mouth, seeking out stray bits of food. Then: “Let me put it this way. I’m very rich. I’ve worked hard for what I have, I wasn’t born to it. I’ve done a few things that were less than generous, less than compassionate, in acquiring what I have. Even some things that I regret now when I look back on them. But I’m happy to say I’ve never actually hurt anyone and I’ve always been very honest about my intentions. Under the leadership of Hester Thorne, the Universal Enlightened Alliance has become a very wealthy and powerful organization. They have taken money from people hungry for spiritual fulfillment and meaning in exchange for the tallest pile of steaming fly-eaten bullshit I have ever heard in my life, and believe me, I’ve heard some good ones. A centuries-old entity speaking through a woman who barely finished high school? Come on, Jordan, if you were an all-knowing being who had some great truth to share with the world, would that be your first choice for a spokesperson? And crystals that are supposed to heal cancer and heighten one’s psychic abilities? Crystals that also cost a lot of money? I think they are damaging lives, and though I have little sympathy for anyone who would buy into such a ridiculous philosophy, I am offended by all the Alliance stands for. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Orrin is going to save the human race from itself, as Miss Thorne claims. Maybe not. That’s irrelevant. What is relevant is the disappearance of one of my employees who was investigating them. I think maybe he came across something that might prove the Alliance to be a fraud. Maybe not. He’s gone. That’s the only important thing right now.”
