by Peg Herring
“Sad.” Examining the ramshackle building closely, Robin saw nothing to indicate any intent to improve the place. “How does he get away with calling that a benefit for orphans?”
Chris shrugged. “They’re not starving on the streets of Port au Prince. I guess that’s something.”
“But if I donate money, that isn’t what I picture contributing to.” She turned back to the first picture. “How does this so-called pastor live in a house like this and let fifty children live like that?”
“A combination of charm, brass cajones, and sleight of hand,” Chris replied. “If you signed up to support Niven’s Haiti Crusade, you’d get something like this.” He paged through until he found a flyer showing a much nicer building with a highly polished door. Smiling workers stood on the steps, surrounded by well-dressed, apparently happy children. “You have to read the fine print to learn that the Deep and Wide Church supports orphanages like this one.” He underscored the word with his finger. “The website has lots of that kind of wording. Niven doesn’t lie outright. He just lets people believe he does great things with their money.” Chris gestured at the photo of the elaborate house. “As you see, he spends most of it on himself.”
Holding her wrap to one side to avoid dripping juice on it, Robin examined the picture of the men. “Uncle Bill goes along?”
“I’m not sure how much he knows. Bill does his part onstage, but I don’t see any indication he has an active role in the running of the organization.”
She had no patience for that argument. “Before he agreed to represent the church, he should have looked into its work.”
“Come on, Sis. Do you think all those aging actors who push investment opportunities, reverse mortgages, and guaranteed life insurance bother to research the products they’re selling?” Chris dragged a French fry through some ketchup. “The money’s good, and they get to step back into the spotlight for a while.”
Robin thought of retired baseball players who’d lost her respect by doing crappy reality shows or hawking questionable products and ventures. “It’s all about attention.”
“Yup.” Chris closed the album.
“What kind of guy must Pastor Niven be?”
His mouth turned down at the corners. “Yardley Niven is the type real pastors wish would disappear in a puff of smoke.”
***
“We’re doing two KNPs at once?” Em seemed surprised but not averse to the idea.
Hua projected Chris’ pictures and documents on a large screen as Robin explained how Niven and Uncle Bill operated together to bring in millions for the Deep and Wide Church.
“They’ll require different approaches. It’s possible Bill doesn’t know the church fails to do what it claims.”
Hua gestured at the photograph of Niven’s estate. “Nobody could live like that without knowing it costs a great deal of money.” He zoomed in. “Mr. Uncle Bill has a cottage on the property—there.”
“Some cottage!” Em muttered.
Hua advanced the slideshow, projecting a picture of the two men shaking hands.
“Bill’s a figurehead, maybe shill is a better term,” Robin said.
“Then why mess with him?” Em asked. “Get the fake preacher.”
Robin sighed. “If we open Bill’s eyes to what’s really going on, we might be able to use him to get to Niven, who seldom goes anywhere without security.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Robin grinned. “To start with, we need a clueless little old lady. Can you think of a candidate?”
“I’ve got the little old lady thing down,” Em replied. “All I have to work on is the clueless part.”
Chapter Seventeen
Uncle Bill watched idly as the crew tore down the set for the taping just completed. They’d held a week of outdoor revivals under a huge white tent in Columbia, South Carolina, the last stop on their spring tour. The spot was beautiful, with flowers, shrubs, and trees blooming as far as he could see, creating color for the eye and soft scents for the nose. People worked busily around him, ignoring his presence, but he was used to that. Bill floated on the outskirts of the Deep and Wide Church, not a preacher, a singer, a tech or even a roadie.
Bill’s job was making the largely over-sixty crowd feel nostalgic. When they heard his highly sanitized stories about his old TV show, they imagined there was a point in the past when everything in America was wholesome and good. “Back then,” people were polite. Dialogue was clean. Kids were well-behaved. Folks cared about their fellow men. God was the center of all. Bill often reminded the audience of the final moments of each episode of his sitcom, when the family gathered, ate a meal together, talked casually and respectfully to each other, and prayed. No matter what had gone wrong in their lives in that week’s story, those last few seconds made everything right again.
He never acknowledged that those scenes of peace and joy were all script and no reality. The audience didn’t want to know that sweet Amelia was actually a ten-year-old she-devil, or that Momma Kate had to be watched so she didn’t fill her water glass with Beefeater Gin before taping began. His audience didn’t want their fantasies corrupted with anything like truth.
Once Bill had taken the folks on his redacted stroll down Memory Lane, Yardley would step into the limelight. Waving his Bible and waxing poetic, he’d compare those “good times” to the terrible state of today’s world, so scary, so different. When he had them feeling just right, Pastor Niven told the folks how they could make things better “for God’s children.” Wallets slid from pockets and purses clicked open as people bought into the dream of making one small, dark corner of the world a better place.
There were moments when Bill was bothered by what he’d become, because he knew the donated money was spent on luxurious living for Yardley, his family, his staff, and for Bill himself. He’d heard the joking comments about Yardley owning nothing; the church bought every stitch of his very expensive clothing, every vehicle in his garages, every bottle of fine wine, and every meal. Bill shared in all of it, because Yardley, as he often said with a chuckle, was generous with other people’s money. The casual assumption they were entitled to the lion’s share of “God’s seed money” didn’t sit well with Bill. Still, he was pleased to be part of something so big, so noteworthy.
When the sitcom died in the late nineties, he’d spent a decade trying to duplicate the biggest success of his career. His beloved character had been like a member of the family, people said. Uncle Bill could be wise, he could be irritating, but he’d always been loving, like a real uncle. But Bill had been the victim of his own success. Casting directors said it was difficult to break the actor Dennis Parks out of the Uncle Bill shell he’d created. Though some character actors successfully transitioned to new roles, his character was too memorable, too lovable. Aside from a few jobs where he simply recreated the same persona, Parks had been finished in Hollywood before the millennium changed.
Then something wonderful happened. Bill met Yardley Niven at a basketball game, and they’d started talking. Niven was on the way up, having recently snagged a spot on one of the all-religious cable channels. He was putting together a team to entertain and edify believers, and he understood the show-business aspects of religion for the masses. He’d already signed a couple of successful gospel singers and located an open-air venue in California that looked great on television. He’d been looking for a face familiar to older audiences, a trusted sidekick to provide authenticity for a charismatic but unknown preacher.
Suddenly Uncle Bill was back. By some oversight, his studio contract hadn’t excluded him from using the name for his own devices, so Dennis Parks disappeared completely into the character he’d played for years, a little older, a little wiser, and eager to do good in the world. If Uncle Bill was in favor of Niven’s overseas missions, many who’d seen his face every week for twelve years felt it must be all right—no, better than all right. It was something they wanted to support.
“Excuse me.�
�
He turned to find an elderly woman at his elbow, leaning heavily on a three-footed cane. She wore a shapeless dress, support stockings with black lace-up shoes, and an enormous straw hat that hid her face until she looked directly up at him. Despite the shade the hat provided, she wore the kind of wrap-around sunglasses that fit over regular eyeglasses. Her closeness brought an odor that reminded him of long-ago locker rooms and strained tendons—Cream-something.
Putting on his automatic smile Bill said, “Yes?”
“I wanted to let you know you’re the best part of the Deep and Wide Worship Hour.”
“Well, thank you, but Pastor Niven does the real work.”
“But you’re his strong right arm, like he said.” She cleared her throat. “Would you sign my bulletin?”
Bill never tired of being asked for autographs. “Of course.”
The old woman leaned an elbow on the cane and began rummaging in her purse. “It’s right here.” A few seconds later she said, “I know I put it—I wanted to ask you but I was afraid. Then I said to myself, ‘Bernice, you might never get another chance.’” As she spoke, she continued to dig through the bag. The image of a gerbil hunting through wood shavings came to Bill’s mind.
“I can get you another one.”
She looked near to tears. “But I wrote down what you said about the children in Haiti and how they have toys now and can go to school.” Giving up on her purse, she glanced around. “Maybe it’s on my chair.” Her face cleared. “I’ll bet I laid it down to find my sunglasses and forgot to pick it up.” She put a hand on his arm. “Will you come with me? I know exactly where I was sitting, back there in the corner.”
Bill walked with her, matching his pace to her slow gait. She leaned heavily on his arm, keeping up a running patter on the way about how she’d driven up from a town to the south to hear Pastor Niven speak. “You’re the main attraction as far as I’m concerned,” she said coquettishly. “I always thought Uncle Bill was so handsome on TV, but you’re better looking in person. And you haven’t aged a bit.”
In the far corner of the tent, she stopped. “It isn’t here. I know I left it—” She pointed outside the tent, where a sheet of folded paper lay on the ground next to an equipment van with its sliding door yawning open. “Oh no! It’s blowing away.”
“I’ll get it,” he offered.
The woman smiled up at him. “You’re so sweet!”
Bill walked toward the van. When he bent to pick up the paper, something stung his neck. It was the last time things made sense for quite a while.
***
As Em pulled herself into the passenger seat of the rented van with a grunt of effort, Robin looked at the limp figure Cam had dragged into the cargo area. “Are you sure he’ll be all right?”
“He’ll be fine.” Em settled her cane between her seat and the door. “The dose is pre-loaded and the syringe dispenses automatically. I told you a million times, any amateur can do it.”
“Further proof the world really is a scary place.” Robin concentrated on breathing normally. No emotion. Just do the job you came to do. Turning onto the street and entering traffic, she followed the GPS commands, doing her best to ignore the fact that she’d taken another step in a direction she didn’t want to go. Even Mark hadn’t stooped to drugging his victims. She had now surpassed her father’s iniquity.
When Em proposed drugging Uncle Bill, Robin had argued against it, citing the possibility of allergic reaction or a heart attack. Em insisted they—and Robin didn’t want to know who “they” were—had come a long way with such things. “He’ll have a slight headache when he wakes up. Otherwise it’ll be like a pleasant nap.” In the end, Robin had given in. For their plan to work, Bill had to be unconscious for several hours.
Robin soon wished it were she who’d been rendered unconscious. She was a nervous wreck from the moment Bill fell into Cam’s arms until she delivered him to what she hoped would be an eye-opening experience. First they drove to a small airport where Hua had arranged for a pilot to fly them to their destination in secret. She had invented an elaborate story about taking her sick father, a former missionary, back to the place where he could die among the people he’d served. The pilot didn’t believe it for a minute, but he didn’t care, either. Accepting half the money he’d been promised (Hua would provide the other half when they returned safely), he ushered them to a small plane that was literally held together with baling wire in places.
They waited until deep night before taking off. Though Robin understood why, it made the whole thing scarier. Did the pilot have adequate guidance equipment? Would the landing site be well-lit? Observing his nonchalance as he started the engine and went through his preflight checklist, she knew better than to voice her concerns. No turning back now.
The plane sounded like a poorly-calibrated wind-up toy, and the ride was bumpy and noisy. The pilot amused himself by singing not-so-current popular songs. As he attempted a Miley Cyrus tune, Robin hoped they wouldn’t come in like—
Don’t think about that. Think about puppies in a basket and angel food cake..
Though it was dark, she imagined the water below them. Was it the Atlantic or the Caribbean? If the pilot screwed up, either body of water would easily swallow them. And the landing—where would he set down in this mountainous area? Reminding herself of Em’s advice, “Do your research and then trust the experts,” she closed her eyes and surrendered to the hum of the motors and the pilot’s occasionally correct interpretation of a lyric.
At sunrise they landed in a field that seemed dangerously short. Robin thought her teeth might shatter when the wheels touched the uneven ground, but for all his bad singing and larcenous motives, the pilot was good at his job. Leaving the engines running, he helped her get the “patient” into the wheelchair she’d brought along.
Humidity hit her like a slap with a wet towel as she stepped down the rough wooden ramp. The view around her was both breathtaking and terrifying. They were on a Haitian mountainside, green with low vegetation. No sign of civilization was visible: no houses, no people, and no vehicles.
Promising to return in four days, the man climbed into his plane, turned it around, and left Robin in a cloud of dust with her unconscious “father” slumped beside her. She had to force herself not to run after the plane, pleading to be returned to the land of bathrooms and Wendy’s. Telling herself it was too late for that, she took out the DEET she’d brought along and began applying it to herself and Uncle Bill, covering all exposed areas. She’d already violated the guy’s humanity; she wasn’t about to expose him to the Zika virus too.
After twenty minutes of feeling more alone than she’d ever felt in her life, Robin heard a vehicle approaching. Soon an antique Land Rover bounced across the clearing as a cheerful, sunbaked driver waved a greeting. He seemed to expect Robin’s still-unconscious companion. These people were part of the drug trade, Hua had admitted, low-level workers who broke the law in order to eat regularly.
The driver spoke no English. When he held out a hand, Robin gave him a second envelope Hua had provided. After a glance inside, he loaded Bill into the vehicle and put the wheelchair in the back. Bill groaned a little at the movement but didn’t wake. Gesturing at the front seat, the driver indicated Robin should ride there. He turned the Land Rover around, and they bounced toward a road that seemed to go straight up. On the way, Robin got out at what passed for the local inn. Her prisoner went on, heading for the surprise of his life.
***
Uncle Bill awoke confused, and when he opened his eyes, nothing looked familiar. He lay on a pill-y, matted blanket in a room with no furniture, only rough shelving laden with woven bags and oversized tin cans. Beside him was a plate containing a slab of bread, some kind of fruit he didn’t recognize, and a cup of water. Since his mouth felt like old wood, Bill drank the water all at once. When it was gone, he realized that had been unwise. He had no idea where the stuff had come from. It might be poisoned, or at the very l
east, unsanitary.
He tried to stand, but his head wasn’t ready for that yet. The room tilted to one side, and he had to brace himself against the wall. The old woman who’d claimed she wanted his autograph had led him into a trap. Taking his wallet from his pocket, Bill saw that his money and ID were still there. This wasn’t a robbery. Then he checked his pocket. His phone was missing.
Was he being held for ransom? That was frightening, since Bill couldn’t think of anyone who might pay to get him back. Neither of his ex-wives for sure, nor his deadbeat son. His boss? After some consideration he decided Yardley would pay, if only for the publicity it would bring. He could almost hear a future sermon decrying those who’d kidnapped “our Uncle Bill” in order to impede the work of the Deep and Wide Church.
The place was quiet. Crawling to the door on hands and knees, Bill was relieved to find that it wasn’t locked. In fact, it had no latch at all. Peering out, he saw an empty hallway. Since his head was still spinning, he went no farther. Pressing his back against the wall, he rested his head on his knees. What had happened? Why had he been brought here?
When he thought he could trust his legs Bill stood up, using the door frame for support. His head ached, and his back was stiff from the hard dirt floor. Rubbing it, he looked out into a hallway. To his right an exterior door sat crookedly in its frame. Rot at the bottom allowed dirt and probably cold night air to penetrate. Turning the opposite way, he went down the hallway. Two large rooms a few feet down faced each other, both filled with cots that were closely spaced and precisely aligned. There was only one inhabitant at present, a child whose eyes were glazed with illness. His arm drooped over the side of the cot and grazed the floor. The cots were all child-sized, and each had a thin blanket pulled over it, some arranged neatly, some less so.
Beyond the bedrooms was a dining area with a kitchen at the back. Dead insects littered the floor, and live ones scurried away at his approach. Stacks of faded plastic bowls rested on a long counter, and a dented tin bucket held what looked like an equal number of spoons. The room smelled of something old and yeasty, but he saw nothing that looked like food.