Costume Not Included

by Matthew Hughes

  "I don't think this is what Billy Lee had in mind," she said.

  It sounded pretty interesting to Chesney. "Eyewitness reports from Heaven aren't all that common."

  "Yeah, but I think the rev was expecting revelations, real straight-from-the-mind-of-God stuff. Not gossip and platty-whatsits."

  "Platitudes," Chesney said. "I guess he was expecting some kind of big change, all in the twinkling of an eye."

  He turned back to the screen. Obviously, chairs that swiveled were a new experience to the prophet. He was swinging from side to side, and now he did a complete rotation.

  "But what about the end of the world?" Hardacre was saying.

  Joshua quit swinging and made a what can I tell you? face. "It doesn't end, does it? The author just starts a new scroll–"

  "Chapter," said Hardacre.

  "Starts a new chapter, and keeps on going."

  "So what do you say to all those people who think it's all going to wrap up soon, and they'll be transported straight to Heaven?"

  The bearded man thought for a moment. "I heard an expression on the far-seer thing the other day. One person said to another, 'Get over yourself.' I think that's what I'd say to the people who think they're the heroes of the story." He smiled reassuringly into the camera. "I mean, look at how it has developed. It all started off very simple, just two teenagers in a garden with some animals. That didn't work, but he didn't stop there, did he? He added in more people, more places, more situations."

  The prophet swung around in another full circle. "Now he wants to try getting the characters consciously involved in the story. Who knows where that's going to lead?" He bit his lower lip, the beard jutting as he did so, then said, "Besides, once the story ends for good, that will be the end of Heaven, too."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Heaven's just part of the story," Joshua said. "The same as Hell is. When he's done, they're done."

  "But what about the angels and demons," Hardacre said, "the righteous and the damned? Where do they all go?"

  The prophet shrugged. "Back where they came from, I suppose. I certainly don't know. You're the one who figured it all out."

  Chesney switched over to the news channel, saw a breaking news announcement. A woman in a red suit with brunette hair that looked as if it had been lacquered solid was standing in front of Police Central, saying, "… conference expected soon, but the word around here is that there has been a significant break in the nine yearold mystery surrounding the disappearance of Cathy Bannister."

  "What kind of break, Angela?" said the weekend fillin anchor back at the studio.

  Angela began to answer, but just then a black Lincoln Town Car slid to the curb behind her. Out of the back seat stepped the chief of police. The woman in red rushed to push a microphone under J. Edgar Hoople's nose, and so did a whole gaggle of other well-coiffed and polished TV reporters, plus a few print and radio newsies who looked as if they had slept in their clothes, and probably had.

  "Do you expect an imminent arrest?" Angela asked, walking backwards as the chief thrust toward the front steps. "Has a body been recovered?" said someone else.

  Hoople grunted something his hand jerked up spasmodically. Angela ducked back as if she expected a blow, but the police chief was only signaling to a uniformed lieutenant at the top of the steps – the public affairs careerist whose office Captain Denby had commandeered – to get down into the scrum and rescue him. The PR officer shouldered his way into the press, then turned and ran interference for the chief until Hoople disappeared through Police Central's front doors.

  Then – it what was probably his bravest act to date as a police officer – the lieutenant turned and blocked the entrance as the reporters tried to force their way past. "Press conference at 1 o'clock!" he kept shouting, in response to every question they threw at him.

  Meanwhile, a producer and camera operator were just strapping themselves into a private jet about an hour's flight from the broadcast center where Hardacre rented studio time once a week. The producer's name was Janet Morrissey, and she worked for Hall Bruster, the czar of right-wing cable news network commentators whose hide still smarted from the flaying it had received when Bruster had been the target of a Billy Lee Hardacre jeremiad. The accompanying avalanche of mail and emails had been almost pornographic in their detailed descriptions of the infernal tortures awaiting the pundit. He still remembered the one about the Devil spitting on the red-hot iron.

  Bruster had caught Hardacre's interview with Joshua Josephson. He had also caught the weeks-long buildup to the so-called prophet's appearance, and been devoting time on his own broadcasts to mocking Billy Lee's pretensions to being a latter-day John the Baptist. Five minutes after Joshua hit the airwaves, Bruster called the private airport terminal where he kept his Citation jet and told the duty officer to round up a pilot and get the plane ready to fly. Then he had called Morrissey and told her to be at the airport with a camera operator ASAP. He was emailing her a string of questions to ask the preacher once she ambushed him with the camera rolling.

  Now, in his office in his mansion, the pundit was already writing his script for an upcoming program that would prominently feature Hardacre and his bearded wonder, who was still blathering away on the big screen across the room. Brewster looked at the last two words he had entered on his computer screen, highlighted them, then typed "beardy-weirdy" over them.

  He was looking forward to saying that, and a few other phrases. Maybe something about Mohammed going to the mountain and coming back with nothing but a mouse. He also made a margin note to mention the sandals.

  ELEVEN

  J. Edgar Hoople was sweating under the TV lights in the first-floor shift-assembly room at Police Central that also did duty as a venue for news conferences. At the table next to him were Grimshaw, the crime scene specialist; Lieutenant Schmidt, the Public Affairs coordinator; and Captain Denby. Denby was holding up a photograph and an evidence bag, and the flash of photographers' strobes and the glare of the lights mounted on the shoulder-held video cameras were giving the police chief a blinding headache.

  He'd wanted to corner Denby before they faced the media, but the captain couldn't be found and he didn't respond to radio calls. Finally, Schmidt had been smart enough to use the department's system that could contact the GPS in police cars and find out where they were.

  "He's at 198 Kercher Avenue, chief," the PR officer said, "or at least the car is. Want me to send a unit to bring him in?"

  Hoople recognized the address. "That's the Bannisters'." Denby had stopped on the way to the press conference to inform the parents that their daughter's body had been found, so they wouldn't have to hear it on the news – or worse, suddenly find themselves besieged by reporters. "Yes, send a unit, but nothing over the radio. We'll need somebody to keep the ghouls away from the family. And have them tell Denby I want him back here forthwith."

  Forthwith, to Denby, apparently meant whenever the Hell he felt like it. So there had been no time for a private word before the press conference. The captain had pulled up in front of Police Central, accompanied by Lieutenant Grimshaw. They had immediately attracted a swarm of media, and Denby had invited them all to follow him into the briefing room. Schmidt, the public relations officer, had managed to ease in and establish some kind of order, giving the chief time to take a seat at the table.

  Now Denby was saying, "The ring was custom made. There's no question of identity. We have found Cathy Bannister."

  "Have the family been informed?" said the woman in red.

  "Yes. Moments ago."

  "What will happen to the body?"

  "We're dealing with bones," Denby said, "but we will attempt to establish a cause of death, and we'll sift the soil from the grave to see what turns up. Maybe one of the killers dropped something that will lead us to him."

  Hoople wanted to step in now and take control of the news conference. He nudged Schmidt. But Denby had started a feeding frenzy and there was nothing to do b
ut wait for the blood-scent to dissipate.

  "Captain Denby," said a print reporter, "you said 'killers.' Is there evidence that there was more than one perpetrator?"

  Denby delayed responding while he turned and looked straight at the chief. Anybody watching would have seen it as a deferential act, a look to see if the senior officer wanted to speak. But Hoople felt a jolt of ice-cold energy pass through him. He knew the meaning of that kind of look, had used it himself many a time in his years as a working cop: it was the look cops gave to a suspect when they knew they had the guy who did it. The chief froze then made a slight motion of the hand, as if to say, "Take it, captain."

  But he knew that a trained interrogator might interpret the gesture to mean, "Get that away from me!" And when he saw Denby nod and turn back to the reporters, a voice in the chief's head said, he knows.

  "We have information," Denby was saying, "that indicates more than one person was involved in Ms Bannister's death and disappearance."

  "What kind of information?"

  "From a confidential informant."

  "A confession?"

  "No." Then Denby smiled knowingly. "At least not yet."

  "Do you have suspects?"

  "No comment."

  "Is an arrest imminent?"

  "No comment."

  "Where was the body found?"

  Denby said, "The location has to remain secret until the scene of crime technicians have thoroughly canvassed the area. But why don't I let Lieutenant Grimshaw tell you everything that can be made public at this point."

  He settled back and crossed his arms while the lieutenant leaned forward and began to give the reporters a blow-by-blow account of how the grave had been located with probes, the soil removed, the ring discovered, the bones recovered. Denby's position gave him an unobstructed view past the backs of the PR and crime-scene lieutenants to J. Edgar Hoople's jowly profile. The chief turned and offered the captain a deadpan gaze. But the voice in his head kept saying it: he knows! He knows!

  "You've actually been to Heaven," Billy Lee Hardacre said.

  Joshua swung from side to side again, then unthinkingly crossed his legs. "Oh, yes."

  "Will you tell our viewers what it's like?"

  The prophet shrugged – Hardacre was growing less and less fond of that gesture – and said, "Well, it's about what you'd expect."

  Hardacre felt a trickle of sweat run down his chest. It was not the first. "Go on," he said.

  Another shrug. "Well, it's wonderful and perfect and you feel happy all the time. No, come to think of it, 'happy' is not the word. Blissful. Content." He leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out and crossed his sandal-strapped ankles. "Did you ever have one of those days when everything goes just right? Well, Heaven's like that, only it's every day. Oh, and it's always day, never night."

  "It sounds…" Hardacre searched for a word, decided on: "exciting?"

  "Oh, no," said the prophet, "it's never exciting. All you ever do, really, is contemplate Himself. That's blissful, of course. Every now and then you can take a break, but then there's nothing to do but prepare yourself for another stint of contemplation. Preparing yourself is also blissful." His brows drew down, and he nodded. "Basically, that's what I'm talking about. It's blissful. Bliss, bliss, bliss, and then along comes some more bliss."

  "But what do you do there?" Hardacre said.

  "There's nothing to do. Doing is not what Heaven's for. It's just for being." He lifted a finger. "And, of course, contemplating."

  "But–"

  "I suppose that's why I used to go over to the other neighborhoods. Something to do."

  "Other neighborhoods?"

  "Of course, I was an anomaly." He looked away from the preacher and found the camera. "That's a Greek word. You may not be familiar with it. It means I was different."

  "Yes, but–"

  "The difference was that I was taken up in the flesh, you see. Not at first, but later. Most people – well, almost everybody – they leave the flesh down here and just the soul goes up. But I was a special case. So I was up there, warts, wounds and all." He frowned, remembering. "They had to make special allowances for me. I still got hungry, you see. And then there was the problem of what do to when the food…" – he made a pushing gesture with both hands – "went through. I had the only outhouse in Heaven." He paused, then said, "Where was I?"

  He looked over at Hardacre. The preacher was loosening his tie and collar. A sheen of sweat had formed on his face. In his hand was a sheet of paper with questions on it; he'd jotted them down while the prophet had been making his first remarks. Now he let the paper fall to the floor, raised a hand and opened his mouth to speak.

  But Joshua forestalled him. "Oh, yes, the other neighborhoods. Heaven's a big place. Many mansions, as someone once put it. Most souls don't notice the fences, though."

  "Fences?" Hardacre said. His voice had to struggle to get out.

  "Between the different… well, I keep calling them neighborhoods, but they're really different Heavens. One for the Muslims. One for the Hindus. The Zoroastrian one is quite interesting, though a little taxing. I didn't care for Valhalla. And the Elysian Fields," – he made a clucking, tutting noise with tongue and palate – "far too Greek." He looked at the preacher and said, "You do know that Judaea was ruled for centuries by the Greeks until we rebelled and fought them? Judah and the Hammer and all that?"

  Hardacre nodded. It was a reflexive action. He had a feeling that it was all running away from him, and nothing he could do would ever let him catch up.

  A white light began flashing on top of the camera that was looking at him over the prophet's shoulder. "Oh," he said, though his voice sounded in his ears like someone else's, "I see we're almost out of time. Please join us next week when we'll…" But for the life of him, he couldn't think of what he might be doing a week from now. Maybe writing novels again. Maybe just sitting around his mansion staring at the walls.

  The flashing light speeded up, and now it was joined by an amber bulb.

  Billy Lee reached for the control in his pocket. "Goodbye," he said.

  "Are you leaving?" said the prophet.

  Then the amber was replaced by red, the studio lights came up, and the cameras rolled back to their start positions.

  "We both are," said the preacher.

  • • • •

  Seth Baccala had not been watching the preacher and his guest. Nor did he normally have the television on and tuned to a cable news channel. But as he was working on the Paxton Life and Casualty strategic plan at his desk in his home office – old W.T. was leaving more and more of the running of the company to his executive assistant – the phone rang. Tressider's voice said, "Turn on the news," and hung up.

  Baccala went into the lounge and turned on the big screen just in time to see Captain Denby hold up the evidence bag with the ring in it and the photo of Cathy Bannister. He recognized both. He sank into a chair and listened with a growing sense of liquidity in his bowels as Denby talked about knowing there were multiple perpetrators involved in the young woman's death and disappearance. When the captain refused to confirm or deny the existence of a confession or whether he had suspects in mind, Baccala thought he might throw up.

  When Lieutenant Grimshaw began detailing the way the methane probe caught the chemical scent of decomposition, Baccala's breakfast spewed all over the rug. He didn't even bother to clean it up, but reached for the phone and had it recall the last number that had called him.

  "What are we going to do?" he asked when the lawyer answered.

  Melda said, "Denby may need some help. We should ask Xaphan."

  When summoned, the demon scratched the dense fur on top of its head and said, "You're gonna need to be a little more specific."

  "How can we fix it so that he gets a conviction?" Chesney said.

  "Depends on who you wanna see go over." The fiend ticked off fingers. "Now, Baccala you got at best for manslaughter and – what's the legal-beagle langu
age? – oh, yeah: interferin' wid a dead body. Tressider, same thing, but no manslaughter. Same for the guys who collected the body and dug the hole."

  "But somebody should pay," Chesney said.

  "Somebody already has," Xaphan said, "starting with the Bannister skirt, who pulled a fast one on Baccala. She was just supposed to take a peek at that file, not take no pitcher. And that guy that drove the van, Worrance, he's down in the smoke." A short and spiky thumb gestured downward.

  "Besides," – a pause to empty the half-filled tumbler of rum that had arrived with the demon – "there's no evidence. These guys was pros."

  "Maybe some evidence could, you know, turn up," Melda said.

  Xaphan's oversized eyes enlarged even farther. "Are you one of the good guys, or one of us?" it said. "Framing people is sposed to be bad juju."