by W.H. Harrod
No. That’s it. No more coffee. I’m already feeling the caffeine. I won’t stand a chance of getting any good information about Joseph Right if I show up as flaky as the old lady, reasoned Terrance while sitting alone in a fast-food, drive-through restaurant the next morning preparing for his anticipated confrontation with the landlady. During the previous, mostly sleepless night, he made the decision to either get valid information from the old lady this morning or else divulge everything he knew to his boss. No more fooling around with all of those unrelated questions about his hair, his eyes, his name, his birthplace, or anything else. If she didn’t come clean with some credible information telling him how to find out the true story behind this guy’s phony life, his scheme ended now.
He looked at his watch again for the tenth time in the last two hours. It read 8:41 a.m. or four minutes later than the last time he checked.
“That’s it; I’m going over there right now. I can’t just sit here any longer not knowing what’s going to happen. We’re either going to do this, or we’re not.” In an instant, Terrance got up and headed for the door, weaving his way through a group of retired patrons as they milled around the condiment counter before settling down at nearby booths for their daily chat sessions. All of a sudden, it seemed as if all the elderly people in the world intended to do their best to get in his way. Where did they all come from so suddenly? he asked himself while politely pushing his way through the chattering group of elders.
Within minutes of having gotten his car out of the parking lot, he pulled up in front of the house wherein lay his fate. She had to have received the paper by this time and seen for herself that he hadn’t gone ahead with any part of the story about Joseph Right. Seeing how far out on a limb his skinny butt was she surely must have expected him. His instincts told him right, as there she sat in the wooden swing on the large front porch. He leaped out of the car as soon as it came to a stop and bounded across the yard not bothering to go the few extra steps to find the sidewalk.
He dispensed with all formality, and put the deal before her. “Mrs. Bidwell, I’m sure you’ve seen the paper by now, so you know I’ve committed myself to this story. In fact, my rear end is only a few inches away from a buzz saw. So I need to know right here and now if you have any information for me that will cause me not to turn right around and go back to the office and print this story, revealing everything I know to this point?”
“Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Butler?” inquired Mrs. Bidwell in her usual socially accommodating tone of voice.
Terrance expected this diversion maneuver and deflected her attempt to put him off again. “No. No, I wouldn’t, Mrs. Bidwell. I will once more attempt to convey to you how close I am to going forward with the scant, yet sensational, information that I have. Now do you have anything new for me? I need to know right now.”
For the first time the old woman’s expression conveyed something other than cordiality. Her eyes grew cold and her glare left no doubt as to her changed attitude. The tone in her voice matched the coldness of her stare. “Mr. Butler, you’ve no idea of the seriousness of the affair you’re so intent upon getting yourself involved in. And I also know you’re bluffing. You want this story badly, and you will do almost anything to get it. Let me tell you right now, walking away is the best idea you’ve had, but you won’t do that because you’re an ambitious young man. You want it all. You believe this may be that big break you’ve been looking for. You will pay no heed to Shakespeare’s wise admonishment to, ‘Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts.’ Am I right?”
You could almost hear the hiss as the air went out of Terrance’s big plans. She’d nailed him straight on. He reacted the same way anyone else would when they have been laid so wide open. He sat there quietly as the truths revealed to him only moments before sank in. She’s right, he admitted silently. He needed this story, and he was prepared to risk almost anything to get it, especially a job at some small town newspaper. Having admitted this to himself, he decided to admit the same truth to his suddenly not so bucolic conspirator.
“Okay, you win. What you said is true. I do want this story badly, and I will do almost anything to get it. But, one thing you might want to keep in mind is if it’s not me who gets the story, whomever they replace me with will not, most likely, have any interest in holding off until they know Mr. Right’s side of the story. They will put it out as quickly and dramatically as they can and not worry about why something happened in the past. They are in the business of selling papers, and this will help them do just that.”
They sat looking at one another for sometime as they both reoriented themselves to their new relationship as co-conspirators. Terrance knew instinctively that the next move belonged to Mrs. Bidwell. For the first time, he realized, she also needed him. This story held importance for both of them, if for vastly different reasons.
Suddenly, as if someone hit a switch, the old lady’s expression changed back to that of the congenial hostess. “Mr. Butler,” she said softly, “I believe we understand one another completely, and I believe we are in positions to help one another. Let me warn you one more time, though, this is a very serious affair. If you or anyone else goes blithely snooping around into the past events of Joseph Right’s life, they may be surprised with the response they get. There are certain people and organizations still interested in many of the events that surrounded Joseph’s early life. As I understand it, they are ruthless, potentially violent people who will not hesitate to fall upon anyone who might be able to shed some light on certain historical events. If you choose to go forward with this story, your personal safety may be in danger. You will have to be discrete throughout or you will be found out. I can and will provide you with certain facts as I know them and other bits of information, but you will have to investigate and determine their true validity. Are we still in agreement?”
A wry smile crossed Terrance’s face for the first time. “Yes ma’am, we’re in total agreement. So where do I start searching?”
Again, Mrs. Bidwell took her time before responding. “I would encourage you to begin your investigation in Harmony, Illinois. The individual you will want to find out about is Howard Lansing Douglas, born March 14, 1951 in Holden, Illinois.”
“Was Joseph Right formerly Howard Douglas?” asked Terrance hurriedly.
“That’s what you’re going to find out for us by either going back there and checking things out first hand or possibly by employing those amazing Internet services I’ve heard of. That will be your decision, but again I warn you, there more than likely are people in various locations still very much interested in the whereabouts of Howard Douglas. I expect they will have any number of informers positioned at all the obvious agencies around the community. So, I’ll say it one more time—be discrete. Don’t let anyone know your real name or where you’re from. Never mention the name of Joseph Right to anyone in relation to Howard Douglas. Don’t expect me to confirm our relationship, for I will disavow any knowledge of what you’re doing. Don’t call me on the phone, as I will not talk to you except in person. Agreed?”
“Yes, I agree to do exactly as you say,” responded Terrance.
Mrs. Bidwell seemed pleased with Terrance’s answer. “Wonderful. I’m sure we’ll get along well on our little adventure. So, stand up and take off your shirt so I can see if you’re wired. Go on! Take it off! And I’d advise you to consider this as your first lesson in maintaining tight security. I’m waiting.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN