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by Bury the Lead (retail) (epub)

  An earnest-faced teenage girl with acne and spiky hair smiled at me encouragingly.

  “Oh, Lord,” I muttered, and she nodded helpfully before bowing her head.

  I didn’t hear any of Randolph’s actual words, too distracted by this anchor holding me in place. I felt too warm, suffocated by the excess of emotion. I concentrated on my breathing―in and out, slow and steady―on holding down the sensation of panic blossoming in my chest as Randolph’s voice rose and fell to the rhythm of sobs and sniffles.

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  “Amen! Amen, amen.”

  The mob gave their consent. Heads lifted, voices rose. There was a surfeit of hugging and back-slapping. Suddenly too many curious eyes were turning in my direction.

  I pulled my hand free and stepped out of the circle. Randolph spotted me, his eyes lighting up.

  “Jeff! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  I smiled, a painful effort. “Yeah, me neither. Do your thing, man.” I gestured to his too-interested parishioners. “I’ll catch up with you when the place clears out a little.”

  His eyes dimmed as he realized I likely wasn’t there for spiritual counsel. “Sure thing, Jeff. Do you want to wait in my office?”

  Yes, please. Don’t tell me Christians aren’t loving and merciful.

  “Sure.”

  He waved me toward a doorway to the right of the altar. “Down that hallway. On the left. Door’s open. There might even be some hot coffee still.”

  Aw, damn it. He could probably smell the beer on my breath. Oh, well. I wasn’t trying to fool anyone. I escaped into the dark, cool hallway with a sigh of relief. Small crowds were worse than big ones, I realized. You can disappear at a megachurch, but there is no missing the regard of three grandmas, four miserable middle-aged men, and a passel of teenagers. Never mind the sharp gaze of the newly-abandoned Angela.

  Randolph was right. There was coffee. I poured a cup and dropped into an over-stuffed chair to wait. I scanned the titles on his bookshelves with a bored eye.

  The Screwtape Letters.

  Now there was a narrator I could relate to.

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  It was at least twenty minutes before Randolph made his way back to the office and closed the door quietly behind him. I put my phone away.

  Randolph didn’t talk like most preachers I knew, nor did he look like most preachers I knew. I don’t imagine that there is an actual spiritual moratorium on red-headed pastors, but he’s the only one I’ve ever seen. Add to that the hint of ink peeking out of his shirt-collar and the boyishness of his spectacled face, and he just isn’t what I’d expect. Tiny Baptist churches on the edge of the Western Slope probably don’t have an excess of great theologians lining up at their doors, though. And for all his unconventionalness, Randolph was well-liked. Probably all that peace and love stuff he liked to advocate.

  He sat down on the other side of the desk and smiled cheerfully at me, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour and a half faking it. Because obviously he had to be faking at least some of it. Nobody could possibly believe all that eternal being of love crap. At least, nobody who had spent so much as two days in the real world. Religion was a useful vehicle for the manipulation of positive social behavior, that was all.

  The scary thing was who got to decide what behavior was positive.

  “What can I do for you, Jeff?”

  “I heard a mutual friend of ours got into a spot of trouble this morning.”

  Randolph’s face darkened. “Yes, I have heard that trouble was partly of your own making.”

  “Do you seriously believe that, Willis? Did you read the paper yourself?”

  “I did. And I admit it never occurred to me to make the leap that other people have made. But I am sufficiently in the minority to think that there might be something to it.”

  I spread my hands. “You know me better than that, Willis. I like old Whithers. He’s never hurt a soul, that I know of. I came to you to see if there is anything more that you know. Maybe someone who had it out for him for a while, who took advantage of these stories to stir things up?”

  “You may be giving people too much credit, Jeff. I can’t see anyone fostering a secret grudge against him, waiting for the day when he can manipulate an entire town into beating the man up. Or worse. I think it’s no more than what it appears to be. People read, people decided, people acted.”

  I groaned. “Then people are stupid.”

  Randolph shrugged. “I can pretty much guarantee you those stupid people are convinced they acted on your information.”

  The worst crimes of emotion are love crimes, not hate crimes. – Mykel Board

  I wasn’t sure what emotion I was trying to swallow. Frustration? Anger? Hate? A weird satisfaction?

  “Well, can you at least tell me how he is doing? I assume he’s downstairs as we speak.”

  Randolph smiled a little wryly. “You do know me too well, Jeff. Yeah, he’s downstairs. Only a few cuts and bruises, I think. I told him that I wanted him to stay out of sight for a few days. He’s not thrilled, but I promised him a few home-cooked meals from Alli if he stayed put.”

  I nodded. “He’s not an indoor creature by nature, but that sounds wisest to me.”

  “Do you want to see him?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want him to think that staying here obligates him to be on display. He knows where my office is if he wants to come yell at me. He gets doughnuts there almost every week.”

  Randolph shook his head. “And people think you media types are all crusty assholes. See how sensitive you are.”

  “Don’t you be an asshole, Willis.”

  He laughed. “Part of being a good pastor is being able to relate to your parishioners. You know you are always welcome to come to church for something other than information.”

  “Oh, no. Not likely. But thank you.” I shook his hand. “Have a good night.”

  * * *

  I didn’t go home. I walked to the office in long, hungry strides that ate up the sidewalk as my mind raced.

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  Purpose. People craved purpose like they craved air. If you handed them purpose wrapped in a pretty package, they would unwrap it and claim it as their own like a child claiming a birthday present.

  I dodged into a gas station and bought all the papers they had left: a Denver Post, a Wall Street Journal, a New York Times.

  Could people possibly be manipulated as easily as all that? I thought of the recent rise in hate groups across the country, the latest emergence of the KKK in Grand Junction. I thought of the viciousness of the divide between the political parties during this last election, a viciousness that the final results had done nothing to assuage. So many stories swimming out there in the political sea―Russia, the EU, North Korea, military appropriations, civilian contracts―enough to feed any conspiracy theory espoused by either side. All you had to do was line up the events as if they occurred in linear fashion and let the crowds draw what they thought was their own conclusion.

  That was the key, of course. Ensure that they believed the conclusions they drew were entirely their own. And keep them inundated with too many facts to ever decipher independently of one another.

  After unlocking the office door, I threw on the lights. In the darkness of the late spring evening, I knew I was lit up like an actor on a television show, but I didn’t care. It felt weirdly symbolic: the beacon of light illuminating the darkness and ignorance of the community. But this lighthouse could as easily entice the sailors nearer to the craggy rocks as shine the safer course.

  Scissors and tape. I spread the papers out on the editing table and started snipping out headlines and story blurbs at random. I tossed the remnants of the papers into the trash and began taping
up my salvaged bits on the wall beside my desk. Deliberately I avoided looking too closely as I selected one after another, focusing on size and shape rather than content as criterion for placement.

  Standing back, I regarded what I’d done.

  Interesting. Almost as many stories on sex offenders as on political issues.

  I imagined strings and push-pins, linking stories at random ’til somehow, each story touched every other one.

  I thought of an autistic boy, flapping his hands and staring at the wall. I thought of Ada spray-painting graffiti on a bathroom wall. I thought of a martini onion rolling across a sticky bar floor, coming to rest against the foot of a withered homeless man who stared at me accusingly. I thought of blood.

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  Andy Watson eyed my wall o’headlines warily as he wandered into the office Monday morning.

  “Are you preparing to mount an insanity defense or something?”

  I looked up from my computer. I’d finally found some inspiration for a new marketing strategy and was currently composing an email to Belichek’s accounting department that I thought would get me the couple of weeks I needed to make progress.

  “Aren’t all writers supposed to be a little mad?”

  Andy filled his coffee cup, sniffed it to make sure it wasn’t burnt yet. “Writers, yes. But most of us like more sanity from newsies.”

  I snorted. Who says newsies?

  “That stings, Andy. It really does.”

  “Probably not as bad as those stones hitting Whithers were stinging yesterday.”

  I stopped typing.

  “Really, Andy? You too? How is it that everybody in this town wants to hold me responsible for rampant idiocy in the street?”

  Andy shrugged, settling his heft into the chair across from mine. He appeared undaunted by my effort at outrage. “Let’s say I’m totally wrong. What are you doing with that crime show wall you’ve got going on there?”

  Damn it.

  “I’m … intrigued.”

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  “Connections between seemingly unconnected events have impacted my life lately. I’d like to explore the idea.”

  Andy took a long, slow swallow.

  “You’re a smart guy, Jeff. But sometimes when smart stagnates, it gets brackish.”

  “It’s like you don’t even care how insulting you are.”

  Andy smiled. “I’m too old and too jaded to care about things like that. But I do care about you. I also care about this town, strange as that is even to me. And there is a unique danger posed by a man who is both brilliant and bitter.”

  I laughed without humor. “Brilliant men don’t end up as barely-there editors as weekly papers in one-stop Colorado towns, Andy. You’ve said what you really think. Don’t ruin it with flattery now.”

  “No,” he leaned forward, “I haven’t said what I really think. But I’m saying it now.” He gestured toward my newspapered wall. “The only obstacle on that path is you. I hope you can turn yourself back. I know Ada hurt you. But that doesn’t mean you get to hurt everyone else.”

  I scoffed. “I’m not exactly an evil mastermind here, Andy. I don’t know what you think I’m going to do, but it’s pretty straightforward from where I sit. Report days’ old news, make locals feel like celebrities, and sell the occasional ad. That’s it.”

  Andy nodded and pushed himself out of the chair. He didn’t go back for his second cup.

  “All right then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Maybe it was Andy’s melodrama, but the door chime sounded as ominous as a battle trumpet when he left.

  I didn’t like the empty, sick feeling his words had left in the pit of my stomach. Was I as transparent as all that? And what did Andy know, anyway? The fact he’d been a wildly successful businessman in the big city didn’t mean he got to play the part of all-knowing shaman out here in the boondocks.

  Blustering to one’s self, while satisfying, always feels mildly pathetic. But I kept going.

  Besides, I was not accountable for the stupidity of the masses. Not accountable didn’t mean unwilling to profit, though. And the curious part of my brain wanted to know exactly how far this could go.

  People wanted purpose? People wanted connections? Wanted explanations, a reason for the random and irrational and unjust? Fine. I could give that to them.

  I pulled my new stack of newspapers out of my desk drawer and set to cutting and taping.

  Let’s see where this takes us.

  I texted Dayla.

  Can you come in to work tomorrow? I’d like to start a new advertising initiative.

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  Dayla looked at me inquiringly. “Explain this to me again? I want to make sure I get it right.”

  “We’re going to try a less-conventional kind of advertising. Not the usual eighth-page, quarter-page ads, color or black-and-white, all that nonsense. People just glance right over those, searching for the stories. So we’ll give them a story. We’ll call it embedded advertising. And we’ll charge double what we charge for the regular ads.”

  Dayla seemed unconvinced. “We’re struggling now to get regular ads. You think people will pay double?”

  I grinned. “I know they will. Think about what happened last Sunday. We sold every paper, right? People were scrummaging around town, looking for copies by noon. And there weren’t any.”

  “That wasn’t exactly our finest hour, last Sunday,” Dayla muttered disapprovingly.

  “Imagine if instead of only crime statistics, we’d included the names and addresses―and specialties―of the local dispensaries? That would have been some prime exposure.”

  “That would have been unethical!”

  “Nonsense.” I brushed her objections aside. “People have a right to know these things. In fact, we could do a whole feature just on the dispensaries. We could interview the owners, discuss their business plans, what benefits they see to the community in their operations, what each of them have to offer that is unique to their storefront.

  “There you go right there. Call the dispensaries and give them first crack at this. They are always looking to brush up their image. Especially after that HIDTA report. The ones willing to pay the imbedded advertising fee will be the ones we feature in the article.”

  Dayla pursed her lips. “I still don’t see how that isn’t dishonest.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. I knew I should bring Dayla along gently, but her sensibilities were downright entertaining.

  “Tell me how it is dishonest. We will only be reporting the absolute truth. Facts. We won’t make up a thing. Any opinions expressed will be in quotes. It just so happens that how we report the truth will be an economic advantage to a particular viewpoint, and we will get to share in that economic advantage.”

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  Dayla shook her head slowly. “You do make it sound on the up-and-up. But it doesn’t feel right. How can we be independent if we choose our stories based on advertising money?”

  “How can we be independent if we pull our stories off the AP? How do they decide what to cover and not to cover? Do you have any idea how difficult it was to find details on that terror attack that occurred in London yesterday? I found it buried under a story about how the president may or may not have known that Abraham Lincoln was a Republican. Don’t tell me that the major news sources don’t pick and choose which stories to feature and promote based on their own interests.”

  “Hmmm. I suppose that’s true. What did happen?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? The same article that said one terrorist acted alone stated that eight people were arrested
in overnight raids in London. You decipher that.”

  “You’d think that would be the biggest story of the morning.”

  “You might. But it’s not. Now, why don’t you start calling the dispensaries? I don’t know how many there are, exactly, but they seem to be on every street corner in and out of town.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Feeling triumphant―because, you know, bending my office assistant to my will was the equivalent of taking over a small Central American country―I headed to my desk and the fresh stack of newspapers awaiting the cutting board. Dayla shot a sidelong glance at me as I began pasting new headlines on my wall, but wisely kept her own counsel. For now, anyway. I knew it wouldn’t last. That’s the downside of hiring a grandmother. They are bursting with wisdom to share.

  The upside is they tend to bring in a lot of leftovers. Neither Ada nor I had been much in the kitchen department, so home-cooked food was always a treat.

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  Ruthlessly I pushed thoughts of Ada aside and perused my headlines.

  It was a challenge, I concluded, to maintain cynicism without eventually drifting into full-out paranoia. Stringing these headlines together like this, I could arrive at a variety of competing conclusions, once I accepted that the connection between them was real. I could then attempt to discern the most likely, most logical of those possibilities. However, even at that, I was at the mercy of which stories actually made headlines.

  How much information did I not have?

  I was still perturbed by the number of news apps I’d had to peruse this morning to get the actual facts, such as they were, on the London attack. Oh, there’d been plenty of peripheral stories. Stories that distracted and gave enough details that readers might think they were being informed while missing all of the hard facts. Stories about trending hashtags, a remarkably obtuse online attack on the mayor of London by the son of the president, the resilience of the English populace in the face of fear, the brave actions of the first responders. But the news―exactly what had happened, who had done it, what we knew about any other combatants―that news was buried in all the ephemera.