by Ray Garton
“Well, let’s see now. There’s the old jailhouse. It’s a museum now. Kids usually get a kick out of it. You got any kids?”
“No, not yet,” Cusack replied quickly, glancing at his wife.
“Okay. Well, you’ll want to do some hiking, of course, like you said. We got some good guides around here. And—uh …” Coogan tucked his lower lip beneath his big mustache, cocked his head back and squinted at the ceiling to give it a thought. “Well, our town is old and pretty, but not very exciting. ’Course, this weekend’ll be a different story. There’ll be a lot of parties and dances, the big spaghetti feed on Sunday, and there’s always the—”
“And the New World Festival,” Cusack interrupted.
“Uh … yeah.” Coogan shifted his weight from foot to foot behind the counter. Cusack’s mention of the festival revived the bitter confrontation he’d just had with his daughter, it sat up rigidly in his mind like a reanimated corpse on a mortuary slab. “Yeah, they’re having some, I don’t know, a confab of some kind this week. Today through Friday.”
Cusack nodded. “Uh … excuse my nosiness, but … well, I couldn’t help overhearing you and your daughter, and … well …”
“Yeah?” The word came out between closed teeth and Coogan tried to relax the suddenly tense muscles of his face; he didn’t like eavesdroppers, but it was a small store and this fellow seemed well-meaning enough. “Yeah,” he said again, but gently this time. “That’s what we were talkin’ about. The Alliance.”
“I didn’t know they were so controversial around here,” Cusack said.
Coogan chuckled without humor, muttered, “You’re reachin’ into a bucket of worms there,” then slapped a meaty hand on the six-pack of Pepsi. “This be all for you?”
“A bucket of worms? What do you mean by that?” Cusack wore a curious half-smile and leaned toward the counter with genuine interest. “Is there some sort of—” He shrugged, “—controversy? About the Alliance, I mean?”
Coogan smelled a rat. Actually, the smell more closely resembled that of a reporter, a profession with which Coogan, on the whole, had no quarrel—the last one he’d met had been a pleasant, straight-talking man who had, unfortunately, disappeared shortly after their meeting—but he disliked chicanery in any profession, and if this fellow was a reporter, he was a smoothly dishonest one.
“You a newsman, Mr. Cusack?”
He blinked, frowned, shook his head slowly and said, “No,” then laughed. “No, of course not. I—my wife and I—we run a chain of video stores in southern California.” He quickly removed a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it over. “Matinee Video, it’s called. We have two stores in Santa Barbara, two in—well, that’s not important. But no, I’m not a reporter. Why, do you get a lot of them?”
Coogan felt his cheeks warm as he looked at the card. He averted his eyes, pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up, shaking his head sheepishly.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I don’t mind reporters so much, as long as they’re up front about it. Don’t like the ones who sneak around, though.”
“Then … you do get a lot of them. I thought you said Grover wasn’t very exciting.”
“Well, it’s not. We don’t get a lot of them, but once in a while a writer’ll wander up here try in’ to dig up a little dirt on the Alliance, or just to do a story on ’em. Or maybe that actress’ll show up. Sheila Bennet? That’s about the most exciting thing happens around here. She pals around with some of them Alliance folk, comes up here now and then for their to-do’s. No doubt she’ll be here for this one.”
Cusack removed a twenty-dollar bill from his pants pocket and put it on the counter as Coogan rang up the purchase. “Do they find any dirt on the Alliance?” he asked, leaning his hip on the edge of the counter.
“Hmph. You ever read any dirt on the Alliance? Those that don’t believe in it just laugh at it like it’s a joke. Others talk about it like it’s some kind of important new school of thought. Like it’s a fresh way of looking at life and the universe and all that jolly juice.” He couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice.
“And what do you think it is, Mr. Coogan?” Cusack asked.
Coogan’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead like coarse, wiry caterpillars and he looked at Cusack questioningly, chin tucked downward. “You really want to know? Most people aren’t interested in my opinion these days. Even when they say they are. My opinions aren’t … what’s the word? Hip.”
“I’m interested.”
Coogan bagged the six-pack slowly, debating his words. He’d always tended to guard his words closely when speaking of the Alliance, but he was losing tolerance for the group. He could see no good in what it had done to his daughter and what it might do to his grandchildren, and his most recent confrontation with Paula reinforced that attitude. He decided to stop holding back.
“I think the Universal Enlightened Alliance is a godless, evil lie. And if you can show me when a lie—an evil one with no goodness or love in it, never mind an innocent little white one—ever did anyone any good, I can show you where you’re wrong.”
Cusack frowned. “Well, I don’t know a whole lot about the Alliance, but I’ve seen Hester Thorne on TV and read about her in magazines. All she ever seems to talk about is love and harmony and … well, things like that.”
“She also says that each person is a god, and a god is a being who doesn’t make mistakes. I know some good people, but I’ve never met anybody doesn’t make mistakes. Far as I’m concerned, there’s only one god, and turning your back on that fact so you can say you’re a god, is not something I’d call wise.”
“Are you a religious man?”
“I don’t need religion to believe in god. But … that’s just my opinion.” Coogan smiled. “How much gas you want, Mr. Cusack.”
“I’ll go out and fill it up.” He fished keys from his pocket and turned to leave.
Mrs. Cusack stepped forward and quietly said, “It’s none of my business, Mr. Coogan, but you seemed concerned that something might have happened to your daughter’s children. Do you think the Alliance has done something to—”
“Honey?” Cusack called over his shoulder suddenly. “You wanna come out and do the window while I fill up?”
Coogan saw something odd cross her face then. Her eyes closed and she pulled her lips between her teeth; her whole body seemed to lose some of its strength and her shoulders fell. Then she opened her eyes, tried to smile, but failed, and followed her husband.
Watching them as they left the store, Coogan sensed a tension between them as Cusack spoke without looking at her; they walked out of sight and, a moment later, a grey sedan—not what he’d expected—pulled up to the tanks with Cusack at the wheel. They both got out, Cusack filing the tank as his wife washed the window. Cusack came back in alone, smiling.
“Twelve bucks,” he said.
“Hope my opinion didn’t offend you,” Coogan said, making change. “But you did ask for it.” “Not at all.”
“Your wife seemed upset, and I thought—”
“No, we weren’t offended. In fact, we’d like to see you again while we’re here. Maybe have lunch? Our treat.”
“Well, that’d be nice. You can always find me here or at the diner.”
“Great. It’s been a pleasure talking with you, Mr. Coogan. See you around.”
As he watched Lorne Cusack leave, Coogan felt a pang of guilt for his suspicion, but it didn’t last long. He tossed the apple-juice bottle into a wastebasket, smiled and muttered, “There’s still some good ones out there, lord. It’s nice to know.” But his smile was short-lived because an instant later, he thought of his grandchildren and once again began to feel afraid.
2.
“I told you to let me do the talking,” he said, pulling out of the gas station parking lot.
“I’m sorry, okay? B
ut you don’t seem to understand that this is my work and you are here as a favor, not as an assistant. I don’t need you to speak. If I do, I’ll tell you when and what to say.”
They rode in silence for a while and he didn’t look at her as he drove the car over the hill toward the hotel. When he heard her sniffles and quiet sobs, he clutched the wheel tightly and sighed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For crying. I’m sorry. But I’m scared. I know he’s here somewhere. I know it. And if something’s happening to children, like that old man seems to think—”
“I apologize,” he said. “All right? I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But this is important. I don’t want to spoil my cover.”
When she spoke again, her voice was iced with sarcasm. “My apologies, Mr. Cross. In my emotional state, I inadvertently put my son’s safety above your … fucking … cover.” She found a tissue in the glove compartment and wiped away her tears.
Jordan shifted behind the wheel and ran a hand through his dyed hair, which still felt strange; he’d shaved it back in front and thinned the top to give the illusion of a receding hairline.
“Look, if you want us to find your son,” he said, “you have to do it my way. All right? I don’t want to sound callous, but—”
“Oh, you’re not callous, Mr. Cross,” she laughed humorlessly. “A callous person is one who has developed a hard shell to protect his feelings. You have no feelings.”
You knew this would happen, Jordan thought. You knew it.
From the beginning, he’d had doubts about his decision to bring Lauren Schroeder with him. Deep in his gut, murmuring somewhere within the folds of his intestines, a small, quiet voice had warned, You’lll … beee … sorrrryyyy.
“Let’s just forget it, okay?” he said, trying hard to sound congenial but with only marginal success.
She stared out the window silently.
The temperature inside the rented car seemed to drop several degrees.
“Please keep in mind,” he went on, still trying, “that I’m not here specifically to find your son, I’m here to gather information for my client, who, by the way, is picking up the tab here. I want to find your son, and if he’s here, there’s a very good chance we will.” Then, with emphasis, he added, “But only in the process of gathering my client’s information, which means we have to do it my way.”
“Then why don’t you just let me do this myself, so I can get this damned coloring out of my hair and concentrate on finding Nathan.”
“You can’t do that now because you’ve already been seen as Bonnie Cusack and you could damage my cover.”
“Ah!” She rolled her eyes. “Your cover again.”
Jordan’s knuckles cracked as he clenched the wheel again. This was not the same woman—the desperate vulnerable woman—he’d met in the Sheraton several days ago.
“It would not be a good idea, Mrs. Schroeder, for you to look for your son on your own.”
“Because of your cover?” she snapped. “You’re afraid I’ll—”
“No, not because of my cover.”
Curiosity slowly broke through her angry mask then. “Why?”
Jordan had told her nothing of his reasons for coming to Grover and didn’t want to, but now that he had involved her, he supposed he would have to tell her something to keep her in line with what he had to do.
“Earlier this year,” he said, “someone came to Grover asking questions about the Alliance. Pretty innocent questions, as far as I can tell. But for some reason, this person disappeared and it’s beginning to look like this person was kidnapped, possibly murdered. Does that answer your question, Mrs. Schroeder?”
She thought about that a moment, absorbed it, then turned toward him, cocking a knee up in the seat. There was fear in her voice when she spoke. “Then there is something going on here. Something bad.”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m—”
“And if Nathan is here, then I’m right—he might be in trouble.” Her voice trembled and cracked when she leaned toward him and said, “He might even be dead.”
Bad idea, Jordan thought. “No, I’m not saying that, Mrs. Schroeder, I’m just saying that if we’re going to look into the Alliance—for my purposes and yours—we’re going to have to do it very carefully, and since this is my job, I would like you to believe me when I say I know what I’m doing. All right?”
Her frightened eyes stared at her hands for a while as her fingers wrestled lightly with one another.
“All right?”
“I’m … sorry,” she whispered, covering her forehead with a palm. “I’m … please understand that I’m just … scared.”
“I understand that. But you have to understand that we’ve got a much better chance of finding your son if we do this my way.”
She nodded and looked out the window again.
It had not been a hasty decision to bring Lauren Schroeder with him to Grover. He knew she would be very emotional and sometimes irrational under the circumstances, but he knew something else, too. He knew that a single man on his own was not half as trustworthy to the average person as a man accompanied by a woman identified as his wife. The chances of Lauren solidifying his cover—and perhaps even making the assignment less difficult and somewhat less time-consuming in the process—outweighed all of the drawbacks. Largely because the drawbacks were, for the most part, personal ones.
Jordan did not enjoy keeping company with women on his own time, not to mention working with one. But, for a million dollars—at least—Jordan could tolerate a lot.
Streaks of sunlight came through the branches of tall pines and spattered the car as Jordan drove through the gate of the Sleeping Woman Inn. Neither of them spoke as he maneuvered the car down the winding narrow road until he eased to a stop in front of the enormous white building.
“Now remember,” he said. “Bonnie and Lorne Cusack. Please, try to smile. You’re on vacation. You’re seeing something you’ve never seen before and you’re impressed. Okay?”
She nodded.
“And,” he added, “when we get into the room, we keep this up, right? The names, the vacation, the whole thing. If you have to tell me something that’s too revealing, write it down until I say it’s safe to speak. Okay?”
Another silent nod, but the fear was leaving her eyes by slow small degrees.
As they got out of the car, Jordan kept his eye on her, worried that he would come to regret his decision.
It hurt Lauren to walk into the Sleeping Woman Inn; she felt an actual physical discomfort, a clutching in her chest as she entered the lobby with Jordan. It seemed that if she were to look to one side, Mark would be with her, and Nathan would be on the other, looking around with open-faced amazement at the extravagant lobby. She forced herself to smile as they went to the front desk, but inside, she felt ill.
Jordan paid for their room at the desk and a young blond man in a white suit carried their bags to the elevator. He let them into the room and just inside, Lauren stopped and stared at the bed with a sinking feeling in her gut. There was just one king-size bed. She glanced at Jordan as he fished a tip out of his pocket, then back at the bed again, wondering why this part of their “cover” had not occurred to her before.
“If you need anything at all,” the young man said, “my name is Mitch.”
“Thank you very much, Mitch.” Jordan closed the door behind him and turned in time to see Lauren pointing to the bed and opening her mouth to protest. He quickly held up a hand and shook his head. “Beautiful, isn’t it, honey?” he asked, his voice so natural and relaxed that it seemed to belong to someone else.
She nodded distractedly, then realized she was supposed to speak and said, “Yes … yes, it is,” but what she really wanted to do was groan because she was suddenly overwhelmed by the certainty that this was all a big stupid mistake.
Jo
rdan went to his suitcase on the bed and removed a small black box the size and shape of a pocket calculator with a switch, two dials, and a short antenna on one end. He plugged a tiny earphone into the box, put the plug in his ear, and flipped the switch.
“Whyn’t you turn the TV on,” he said. “I’m gonna unpack.” But he didn’t unpack; he walked around the room, slowly scanning the walls, furniture, and telephone with the antenna on the box pointed forward like a gun.
Lauren wanted to take her bag and leave without hesitation, just as she had taken Nathan and left Mark the last time she’d visited the hotel. But if Jordan was right and this was the best way to find her son, she’d go along with it. For now, anyway …
She crossed the room to the television, switched it on, and a powerful voice immediately filled the room.
“—godless system of belief with godless leaders and confused followers and chief among those leaders is a woman who would have you believe that you—not the creator of the universe, not Jesus Christ, but you—are a god. You have all the answers you need and you can do no wrong—you can only do what’s right for you. Now tell me, ladies and gentlemen: whatever you may think of my ministry or the Christian church in general, do you see any truth in that? The Universal Enlightened Alliance wants you to think it’s the truth, but I’ll tell you the truth: Hester Thorne, like the devil himself, wants … your … soouullll!”
At first, Lauren blinked with surprise as the picture began to materialize on the screen; as she sat in a room in a hotel owned by Hester Thorne, someone on television was comparing her to the devil. Then the face took form and she recognized Reverend Barry Hallway and chuckled quietly.
He was the most popular televangelist in the country; he had a strong influence on most of the country’s political leaders, including the president—with whom he had lunch once a month—as well as most of the country’s major corporations. Eight years ago, Hallway had formed the American Moral Allegiance (the AMA), of which there were millions of card-carrying members, all of whom were eager to boycott any store, magazine, company or corporation that Hallway felt was offending god. When Reverend Hallway spoke, the leaders of the country—both political and financial—listened.