A Pagan's Nightmare

by Ray Blackston

  Lanny could not mask his confusion. “Was it the Middle Ages or the Dark Ages?”

  This return question served to ruin Ned’s test and put him on the defensive. “Don’t ask me hard details like that, man. I was a communications major.”

  “I never went to college,” Lanny confessed. He motioned Ned toward his Xterra. “You ready to roll? I need to get to Cocoa Beach and look for Miranda.”

  Ned shook his head and stepped toward the Quik-Stop’s door. “After we get some refreshments. Let’s think through this clearly and hope that our loved ones are somewhere safe.”

  Lanny followed behind and asked, “Do you even have loved ones? I mean you haven’t mentioned—”

  Ned cut him off with a single wave of his hand. “I have a best friend in the U.K., plus a few weekend party buddies here in Orlando—who are now missing. I got divorced twelve years ago. No kids. No siblings. Parents passed away.”

  And that was that.

  Inside the store, they avoided eye contact with the cashier and moved quickly to the glassed refrigerators. Ned selected the last six-pack of Coors Light while Lanny grabbed two bags of barbequeflavored Lays and some peanut butter crackers. The men toted their items to the counter, set them next to the register, and reached for their wallets.

  Cashier Boy frowned at their selection. “Um, sir, I’m not supposed to sell you that.” He pointed to the Coors Light. “The store owner is keeping that six-pack on display as a kind of souvenir.”

  DJ Ned put his hands on his hips and glared at the cashier boy. “Souvenir? One little six-pack is a souvenir?”

  “Sir, it’s from back before the—” Suddenly the cashier’s eyes grew wide. He glanced behind him at a photocopy tacked to the wall. Two black-and-white photos adorned the paper. “You’re… you’re the two guys I heard about on the news.”

  “News?” asked Lanny, fighting his fears by playing innocent. He and DJ Ned immediately recognized their likenesses in the black-and-white photos, as if both men had made a Most Wanted list. “What news?”

  “Yes,” the clerk said, sizing up his customers. “You’re, um, both in today’s paper, too.” He pointed to a stack of USA Today. The headline had nothing to do with war or politics or natural disasters. Today’s headline, just like the traffic report on the radio, was of a more personal nature:

  Reward Offered!

  Marvin the Apostle is offering the Big Reward, a seat on his purple

  velvet sofa (you’ll sit in eternity next to Marvin!) to anyone who captures

  and converts these two remaining rebels: Georgia native

  Lanny Hooch, and Florida native Ned Wallace, otherwise known

  as DJ Ned. Hurry! Three-day time limit!!

  Below those words were pictures of Lanny and Ned, two shots each, frontal and profile. Pale and shaking, Lanny backed slowly away from the counter. Hot and fuming, Ned flipped the paper over to see what other news could agitate his day. He skimmed the latest rumors of his and Lanny’s whereabouts, then noted a sidebar below the fold:

  Religious Lotto:

  Five lucky numbers will win tapes and DVDs

  of Marvin the Apostle’s inspiring lecture, “Housing Assignments

  in the Everafter.” Grand drawing this Sunday at noon!!

  Still behind the cash register, the clerk backed against the wall, as if unsure what he should do. DJ Ned dropped a twenty on the counter and nudged Lanny toward the door.

  “Who is this Marvin schmuck?” Ned muttered to himself. “I’ll punch him in the nose.”

  “Get in line,” Lanny said.

  They had just pushed open the doors to leave when the cashier shouted, “Sir, your change—”

  “Keep it,” Ned muttered. He did not see the cashier pull two pairs of handcuffs from under the counter.

  “Well then,” the cashier shouted, “how ‘bout accepting some free literature?” He held the handcuffs behind his back and came around the newspaper stand.

  Ned was already out the door. Without turning around he shook his head no. The clerk followed.

  At the car, Lanny glanced back and saw a flash of chrome cuffs. The cashier let the glass door slam shut behind him and strode toward them.

  “Ned!” Lanny shouted. “Look out.”

  Ned had just opened his trunk to put the six-pack into his cooler. He reached in and brandished a tire iron, holding it high overhead.

  “Just keep your distance, Zealot Boy.”

  The cashier paused near the hood before stepping back to the store’s entrance, dangling the handcuffs in his right hand. “Someone will catch you two, ya know. You can’t run far.” He raised his empty left hand and flashed them a blue plastic wristband with WWMD on it.

  “What is that?” Ned asked, still holding the tire iron.

  “What Would Marvin Do,” the cashier replied. He attached the handcuffs to his belt buckle and ran back inside the store and picked up the phone.

  Ned insisted on driving, so he and Lanny sped away in the Mercedes, fearing they’d be followed.

  “We leave the South tonight,” Ned insisted, “maybe even the country.”

  Lanny kept watch behind them. “But. . . but I’ve got to find Miranda. She’s the only thing that I really value.”

  “You saw that headline. They’ll all be after us now.”

  For several miles both men remained silent, minds turning, grasping for answers. Finally certain that they weren’t being followed, Lanny turned to face the front and said, “How can that Marvin guy know that there’s a purple velvet sofa in the front row of heaven? I’m not even sure there is a heaven.”

  Ned chewed on the question for a moment. “Beats me. Maybe it’s one of those prophecy things.”

  In forty minutes they’d driven past downtown Cocoa, then over a bridge and a marsh and to the entrance of Pelican’s Harbor Retirement Homes. At the fifth house on the left—which looked exactly like all the other houses on the left—Lanny spotted Miranda’s parents’ car, a beige Buick. On the small front porch sat a black leather travel bag.

  Lanny jumped out, hurried past the Buick, and ran to the front door. Ned remained standing beside his vehicle, unsure of how to help.

  A note was taped above the doorknob of the house. It was written on a sheet of computer paper, and Lanny immediately recognized Miranda’s handwriting. He pulled the paper from the door and, before reading the note, tried to turn the knob. Locked.

  Monday, 8/17

  Mom and Dad,

  It’s now 10:15. Didn’t you remember that yon were driving me to the airport at 10:30? When I came back from my jog I was thinking you’d be here. Also, Lanny UMS been trying to call me on my cell, but somehow all I get are the messages, not the actual call. Lanny is suck a joker. He said that a BP station, in, Atlanta is charging non,-Christians $6.66 per gallon, for gas. Imagine that!

  I’ve, tried to call your cdl but all I get is beeps. Same for Lanny’s.

  I can, still make my 11:45 flight if We hurry. In cast you return, here and I’m not around, I’ll be out looking for you down at the marina. That’s the only place I figure you could be. Surely you didn’t take off again for the Bahamas!

  If I dont find you, I’ll probably call a cab. Oh, Lanny left a second message that he would be willing to drive here to get me. With gas so high, I wish he, would reconsider. But that is so sweet.

  I’ll find you two shortly.

  Love,

  M

  When he finished the note, Lanny could barely think. He pounded on the door but got no answer. He peered in the windows but saw no lights. He opened the black leather travel bag, saw some clothes that looked like Miranda’s, but nothing else. Finally he wrote on the back of Miranda’s note:

  8/18 2:35 p.m.

  gone to the marina to look for you.

  Lanny

  He taped the note back to the door, ran over to Ned’s Mercedes, and climbed in.

  “Head to Bluewater Marina,” he said, anxious to get going.

  “
No sign of her?” Ned asked and backed out of the driveway.

  “Just hurry, man.”

  My wife tried to burn Larry’s manuscript.

  On Friday morning I came downstairs to make toast and orange juice—and found Angie kneeling in front of our fireplace. Keep in mind that this was August, in Atlanta, and the woman had lit gas logs.

  Our relationship had endured moments like this in the past. She had burned a copy of Larry’s Aliens Invade Billy Graham Crusade manuscript the previous fall. Well, truth be told, I had offered her the matches for that one.

  The previous fall, however, our finances were good. I had just sold several projects and put six months of living expenses in the bank. Now here we were, ten months later, depleting our savings to pay our mortgage and the college tuition for our son, Zach, a sophomore at Auburn.

  Not today, Angie dear

  I crept up behind her and plucked the first three chapters from her hand just as she was about to insert them into the flames. Oddly, I found the whole thing comical—my wife kneeling on Berber carpet in her gym shorts and Braves T-shirt, about to torch Larry’s work because it offended her.

  “You know there are several copies of that, honey,” I said, folding the papers and stuffing them in my bathrobe pocket. “Two have already been sent out to L.A.”

  Angie remained kneeling, facing the flames and nodding her head. “I know,” she said softly. “But I’m worried about you, Ned.”

  I stood behind her with outstretched palms. “Don’t you understand, honey? I can’t sit around and hope that some famous screenwriter will just knock on the door and want me to go sell his stuff and earn a big advance from which I’ll get fifteen percent. I have to pound the pavement and sell something.”

  She reached out and turned off the gas logs. “I could support us.”

  I knelt beside her and tried to explain my motivation. “Angie, your editing work brought in nine-thousand dollars last year. Six the year before that. If I don’t sell something soon we’ll have to live under an 1-85 bridge with what’s his name.”

  “Victor?”

  “The guy we gave our chicken wings to after the Braves game.”

  “His name is Victor. Me and two other ladies from my women’s group take him meals.”

  “Well, we’d be Victor’s neighbor, complete with his ‘n her cardboard bedrooms.”

  “Are you saying you want me to get a full-time job?”

  My fragile male ego took her offer as an insult. “No, of course not. You want to balance part-time work and volunteering at the church, and you should stay with it.” I tried to change the subject. “Ya know, I was just thinking that you and I haven’t slow-danced in the kitchen in a long while.”

  Great timing, Ned.

  Angie sat back and folded her arms around her knees. “What I’d really like is to talk to Larry in person about his story.”

  I stood and forced myself not to overreact. “But you were about to set flame to it.”

  “Oh, Ned, I knew you had other copies. You always have other copies. I just didn’t want this in my house. Can you imagine what our friends at church will think if you agent this? If you attach our good name to ‘believers kidnap pagans’? Not to mention my coworkers at the journal.”

  I glanced at my watch and tucked the papers under my arm. “Honey, um, I have to meet a client in a bit, and you know how traffic is…. I’d better scoot.”

  I leaned down and kissed her cheek—which was all she offered.

  My meeting was actually a day’s worth of phone calls. I just said what I did on instinct, to bow out gracefully and avoid argument. Truth was, not only had I sent two copies to L.A., I’d received an inquiry from a studio exec. Perhaps this would amount to nothing; he certainly was nowhere near the point of discussing numbers. In my business, “numbers” were all that mattered. When someone said they were going to send numbers, it meant that an offer was forthcoming, that their initial interest in a project was about to be, well, monetized.

  In our bedroom I exchanged my bathrobe for a white button-down, an orange Tennessee tie, and pleated khakis—my usual summer garb.

  I left the house in a hurry and backed my Saab into the street. At the first stoplight I caught myself thinking like an amateur agent. My mind would not stop sifting through possible deal amounts. Five figures? Did I dare dream of six? Then I began calculating fifteen percent of various sums and comparing them to our debt.

  Debt be gone?

  Possibilities swarmed in my head, and I hardly remembered pulling into the second deck of the parking garage. It was there, while my car idled and the AC blew, that I called Larry.

  He didn’t even answer with a greeting. “The shoes fit now, Ned. Turns out I had swollen feet, due to all my pacing in the park, wondering about my future and hoping you were going to sell this thing.”

  I reclined my seat and said, “Things look… interesting.”

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘interesting’?” He sounded like he was eating.

  “What are ya munching on, Larry?”

  “Bagels… from Atwanta Bwead Company.”

  “Plain, right?” Larry was even more anti-butter than he was anti-prude.

  “Wight. Now what about ‘interesting’?”

  “I mean there’s a possibility of interested parties.”

  A short pause. “You’re serious?”

  “Well, it’s still very early.”

  “Ned, I really hope this works out. For both of us. And I hope I spelled all the words correctly. You know what a perfectionist I am.”

  What I said next was only to temper his enthusiasm. “Angie tried to burn your manuscript this morning. She doesn’t think our Baptist roots jive with the content of your story.”

  Larry sighed into the phone. “I wish people would cut me some slack. This story may not be what she thinks.”

  “I’ll give you slack. It’s Angie I’m worried about.” I glanced down at my tie and smoothed out a wrinkle. “Your story has got my wife in a tizzy, plus… I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  This time the pause was longer, as if he was now leery of me. “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Are you still seated?”

  “Yeah, why? You coming over to join me for breakfast? I eat alone way too often, ya know.”

  “No, I’m just getting to my office. But I need you to be honest and answer something.”

  “Um… I guess that would be okay.”

  “I need to ask you if you have recently been inside an evangelical church, and do you have any close friendships with people who are members of one?”

  He sighed again. “Nope, haven’t been. No real friends there, either. Just you, the gregarious Ned Neutral.”

  “And yet you’re trying to write the next big thing for them?”

  “For whom?”

  “People of faith, Larry. Isn’t that who you’re writing for?”

  “Well. . . other folks, as well. It’s for everybody, Ned. Everybody who can appreciate good storytelling.”

  “But it’s twilight zone, Larry. Your first six chapters are all twilight zone. And now… now our hero is on his way to a marina to search for Miranda?”

  Larry paused again, and this time he seemed uncomfortable. “The shrink I’ve been seeing says the next chapters are some of my best, that I reached deep for these, all the way back to the Sunday school brainwashing, which I’m not going to discuss with you today.”

  “C’mon, Larry. I’m your friend. Just one anecdote… please?”

  A long pause. “She made me stand in front of the class and hold an eraser in my teeth… for three consecutive Sundays. I was six years old and coughing up chalk dust.”

  I knew that Larry was receiving some sort of therapy for some sort of past misfortunes. But that was the extent of my knowledge. Our relationship was agent/client, and we both did a fine job of avoiding personal issues. Except, of course, for his dating shenanigans.

  Not sure how to respond, I remained in my Saa
b and turned the AC on high. “So, what about the real Miranda? Have you seen her again?”

  “Our second date begins in less than an hour.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to take her to a golf course to walk barefoot on lush fairways at sunset?”

  “Nope. We’re touring the city on MARTA.”

  “Your second date is on public bus routes?”

  “I have to see how she’ll fit in with Atlanta’s diversity. That stuffs important to me, ya know.”

  I shook my head and wondered if other agents had clients like this. “And Miranda actually agreed to go on this so-called date with you?”

  “She’s crazy ‘bout me, Nedster. I can tell.” He spoke quickly, like he wanted to end our call.

  I got out of my car, locked the door, and walked across the second level of the parking deck, phone to my ear. “One last thing. Does Miranda know yet that she’s the love interest in your story?”

  Larry allowed this pause to linger before he whispered into the receiver. “Not a clue.”

  At the elevator I ended the call. Two minutes later I stepped out onto the 22nd floor and was met by gold chains, gold watch, and turbo cologne—all accessories to his pinstriped suit. Rocco-the-commercial-real-estate-salesman worked, and perhaps lived, across the hall from my office. We shared an administrative assistant, though he and I rarely visited.

  But today he was right there, grinning with his hand extended. “How are ya, Nedster?”

  “Good, Rocco. And you?”

  Rocco was born to sell high-priced cars to stupid people. But somehow he had worked his way up to selling high-priced shopping centers to smart people. Or so he claimed.

  His handshake was even stronger than his cologne, his teeth whiter than bleached rice. “Ned, I hear ya got something hotter than beach property. Something a good Catholic like myself might find entertaining?”

  I moved past him, smiling. I pulled my office key from my pocket and unlocked my door.

  “Yeah, Rock, you’d like the irreverent parts.”