by Ray Garton
He put his two small bags on the bed and began to unpack. He'd packed tightly — not lightly, but tightly. After unpacking, Bent hooked up his laptop and faxed to Fleck the Liberace story he'd written on the plane.
He turned on the television, turned it off a shopping channel, and stopped on some newswoman talking into a handheld microphone, leaving it there. It didn't matter what was on; he just wanted the noise as he settled in and relaxed. He went into the bathroom, took a quick shower, and as he came out, scrubbing himself with the towel, happened to look up at the television. He froze, then grinned.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said, sitting at the foot of the bed with his head craned back.
It was some kind of talk show, although instead of a studio, it was being shot on an enormous second-story balcony overlooking a sprawling, brilliantly colorful flower garden. He didn't watch much television, but the host — Sally Jessy Raphael — was well known enough for him to recognize. But he wasn't looking at her, he was looking at Deanna Brooks, one of the guests. Deanna had been Coll's girlfriend — and, occasionally, his fiancee — for over two years. Getting into bed, he propped his pillows up and watched as the show's theme music started and Sally turned to the camera saying, "We're coming to you from the balcony — one of many — of the Los Angeles mansion of Rex Calisto, a former Catholic priest who has built a fortune, an empire, out of, believe it or not, men's magazines and pornographic films, and is now known primarily as the publisher of Visions, a slick men's magazine that has been outselling both Playboy and Penthouse for the past three years. We're joined by child psychiatrist Dr. Deanna Brooks and feminist and writer Andrea Dworkin. When we come back, we're going to deal with the subject of children. How does pornography affect children, and how does Mr. Calisto feel about children seeing the things he produces? Be right back."
The camera pulled back and up to show the sizable audience seated with space to spare on the veranda as they broke into applause.
Bent whistled, impressed by the massive veranda and what he could see of the house. He'd seen it before, but he was always astounded by its sheer size. Calisto had another one just as big somewhere in Europe.
Even if he could afford it, Bent wouldn't want to live in a house like that. He had trouble finding his car in mall parking lots; he'd need a map to find his own bathroom.
An argument had broken out during the commercial break because when the show came back on, Deanna and Calisto were talking over each other in loud, firm tones.
Sally calmed them down so they would speak individually.
"As I was saying," Deanna said, "although there are no studies that can accurately measure the effect pornographic material has on children later in life, it is irresponsible for us to assume — "
"And how long will it take to find an accurate study?" Calisto asked. He was a tall, large man somewhere around a cosmetic surgery-enhanced fifty-five; — although he held his exact age very close to his chest — with a bronze tan that was most likely artificial and dark brown, sun-streaked hair that was most definitely artificial, at least on top. He was just beginning to soften in the middle, with a belly that pushed slightly at the white shirt he wore with his expensive, steel-gray silk suit. The tie was loosened and the collar unbuttoned enough to see tufts of kinky hair curling up from beneath it, enough to see the chains he wore around his neck if not the medallions that hung from them. His oddly full and somewhat pouty lips were always wet, and when he spoke, it was in a moist, rather throaty mumble. His voice was so quiet that when he spoke up, as he was doing now, he didn't sound much different from someone speaking in a normal tone. "How long will it take you to find the test that says what you want it to say, good doctor?" He was always polite. "Because, as I see it now, all the available studies have shown that children are not affected by — "
Suddenly Andrea Dworkin leaned toward Calisto, her enormous hips straining the denim of her overalls and spilling out from under the armrests of the inadequate-looking chair in which she was sitting. "Why do you have to have naked women in your magazine?" she shouted angrily. "You're always bragging about the quality of your fiction and your articles — so why do you need pictures of naked women if it's such a fine, high-quality publication?"
Sally tried to break in, but it turned into a shouting match between Andrea and Deanna with Calisto mumbling in the middle as Bent began to slide down his pillows, eyes gradually closing.
A minute or so later, he was sleeping fitfully as ugly images appeared again and again behind the closed lids of his eyes ...
2
As Bent parked at the curb across the street from the Walkers' house, he saw a small group of black people gathered at their door. He got out of his car and watched a moment, just to size up the situation.
It was a gray, cloudy day, and the streets and sidewalks were wet from an intermittent drizzle. A man and woman stood in the doorway, presumably Pastor Walker and his wife, while four others—two men and two women — faced them, backing away slowly, almost reluctantly.
In a-deep voice, the man Bent assumed to be Pastor Walker said, "Thank you so much for the food."
"Oh, yes," said the woman beside him. "It all smells so good."
"And thanks for those pies, Anita," the man added. "How'd you know lemon meringue was my strongest vice?"
One of the men in the group said, "You have our numbers. Please feel free to call."
One of the women said, "Yes, for anything at all. We're here for you."
"And you're in our prayers!" the other woman added.
"We know that," said the man in the doorway. "And we can't tell you how much we appreciate it."
The two couples walked to the curb and climbed into a station wagon parked in front of the house.
Apparently, the Walkers were being visited by friends, perhaps even members of Pastor Walker's congregation. Bent started across the street, wanting to catch them while the mood lasted.
Bent stepped up on the sidewalk as the station wagon drove away. The man and woman standing in the doorway began to back into the house and close the door.
"Excuse me!" Bent called, waving a hand. "Pastor and Mrs. Walker?"
They came back out again, cautiously but smiling.
"That's right," the man in the doorway said. "Can I help you?"
Before saying anything more, Bent hurried along their narrow walk, smiling as he climbed the crooked porch steps.
"My name is Bentley Noble. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. I'm, uh, a reporter." He said it apologetically. "If this isn't a bad time, I'd like to ask you a few questions."
Already, the guilt was burning in his gut like an ulcer, but he tried not to lose his smile, composure, or the appearance of authority and control that was so necessary to get through somebody's front door and get a story like this one.
"We've sure talked to a lot of reporters lately," Pastor Walker said wearily.
"I'm sure you have. But ... not like this. If you could just give me a few minutes of your time, I'm sure you'd understand that I'm not like all the others you've talked to."
Pastor and Mrs. Walker looked at each other for a moment, consulting without a word. Finally, she gave a little shrug and a tired half smile.
Pastor Walker smiled and said, "Well, come on in, Mr. Noble. You're welcome here."
"Thank you very much. And please, call me Bent. Everybody does."
"Bent, huh?" A deep chuckle rolled up from Pastor Walker's chest as he and his wife led Bent into the house. He closed the door behind them, then turned and shook Bent's hand firmly. He was a tall, thick man with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, a large, square jaw, and short-cropped hair. "Then you'd better call me Ethan. We don't take to formalities around here." He shook Bent's hand firmly, then nodded to the woman. "Bent, this is my wife Loraina."
She was plump, with a pleasant, pretty face, and eyes that sparkled although they sagged with exhaustion. She shook Bent's hand and directed him to the sofa, where he seated himself.
/> "Our little girl, Anice, is taking her midday nap," she said. "But she could pop in on us anytime, so don't be surprised. Would you like something? Coffee? Tea?"
He smelled coffee brewing, and asked for that. She left the room for the kitchen.
"So, Bent," Pastor Walker said, seating himself in a worn recliner across from Bent, "what can we tell you that we haven't told all the other reporters who've come in and out of our door?"
Bent took a deep breath and thought fast. "Well, my paper is interested in an angle of this story that I doubt the others have explored."
"What paper are you with?" Pastor Walker spoke casually, without an ounce of suspicion.
"Uh, I'm with the Global Inquisitor. In Los Angeles."
Loraina Walker returned then, handing out the coffee. Then she seated herself at the end of the sofa, a few feet from Bent.
The weary, pleasant expression on Pastor Walker's face melted away as he leaned forward in his chair, his forearms on his knees. His voice was very low when he spoke — it rumbled up from deep in his chest like distant thunder — and his lips hardly moved at all. "I know that paper. I know what kind of stories it prints. I know what kind of things that paper feeds on. I assure you that my son's disappearance will not be one of them."
"Please let me explain, Pastor Walker," Bent said softly, leaning forward as well. "Our publisher, Barbara Bergenstern, has decided that the paper is greatly in need of a new image."
A deep, cold, and skeptical chuckle came from Pastor Walker.
"She feels that the stories for which the Inquisitor has become famous — or infamous — are no longer beneficial to our readers. Or to the country, for that matter. She feels that the Inquisitor, in its current form, is not properly serving its readers considering the emotional climate of the country. Just yesterday, we had a meeting in which she changed our entire policy in one fell swoop. She wants us to write stories of hope. Stories that will give our readers something to hope for, something to pray for. Like the return of your son." He paused for a moment as Pastor Walker continued to stare at him. "I promise that you'll be seeing some big changes in our paper in the very near future. And we want the first of those changes to be this story. The story of your son."
The pastor leaned back in his chair thoughtfully, still frowning, eyes still cold. "What's this about hope?"
"Our publisher thinks there are too many things in this world that make it easy for people to lose hope, to think that there's nowhere to turn. It's become too easy to give up. She wants us to start writing stories that give people something to grab on to and hope for, something that'll make this world look like not such a bad place after all." Then something hit him that he thought would work, and he said it: "We want to give our readers something to have faith in. You know the importance of faith more than most, Pastor Walker. You know the work it can do in a person's life. We think the story of your son will give that to our readers. Something to have faith in, to pray for. Our readers will follow it week by week—that's exactly what we plan to do, cover it week by week."
The pastor bowed his head slightly, swallowed, and licked his lips. "And what exactly is it about ... our boy's disappearance that will give your readers such hope?"
"It's going to give them something to hope for," Bent replied, quietly but earnestly. "And to pray for as well. We want to bring people back to their knees. You have to agree, that's a position most people don't take very often these days. We want to give them something to pray for and have faith in again."
Pastor and Mrs. Walker exchanged a brief glance, then looked at him again, staring quietly, as if waiting for him to continue. So he did.
"This is not just a onetime thing with our paper, I assure you," Bent said, looking back and forth between the two of them. "This is now our policy. This will be the first story of many others like it. And it could very well help in locating your son. We want to include pictures of the boy. Those pictures will be seen by millions across the country. Remember the Polly Klaas case?" He closed his eyes a moment, realizing he'd made a mistake. "I realize, of course, that that particular case didn't end well. But so many others have benefitted from nationwide exposure. I think the exposure this story would get in the Inquisitor could only help! Think about it — our paper is read by millions every month. People thumb through it while they're standing in line at the grocery store. Your son's face would be seen everywhere. That alone should be reason enough for letting us do this story. Along with that, we want to attack the central problem: child disappearances. We want to tell others how to protect their children from childnappers, and we'll go to experts for the information. In other words, Pastor Walker, we want this story to benefit our readers on a number of levels. But most of all, we want it to benefit you. You and your wife, and your son. This kind of exposure could possibly result in the return of your son."
The pastor thought for a long time, his fingers massaging his broad jaw. He leaned forward again and stared at the floor. "It's a noble thought. A grand gesture. Especially from a paper with the, uh... reputation that yours has built for itself." He rubbed his big hands together slowly between his knees. "How can I ... well, I don't want to give you the impression I don't believe you, Mr. ... uh, Bent." He looked at Bent and flashed a warm smile. "I wouldn't want you to take my question personally, because I know you have a job to do. But exactly why should I believe you? You know, I've heard some pretty awful horror stories about the things tabloid reporters will do to get a story. How do I know for sure you're telling the truth and that you're not just giving me a performance so you can get another piece of sick exploitation for the Inquisitor?"
Good question, Bent thought as he stared back at the big man. Then he got an idea. "That's no problem." He stood, removed his wallet from his back pocket, and fumbled through it as he sat down again. "I'm gonna give you my AT&T credit card. Then I'm gonna give you the direct number to my boss's office so you won't have to go through his secretary. Then — " He pulled out the card, leaned forward, and handed it to Pastor Walker, who took it hesitantly. " — then I want you to call him and ask him the very questions you just asked me. His name is Bernie Fleck. You can call him Bernie. He won't mind. Please call him. I want you to know that everything I've said is true."
The pastor stared at the AT&T card as if he'd just been handed a squid.
Bent said, "Please, Pastor Walker, I want you to call — "
"Ethan."
Bent smiled, more relaxed now that they were suddenly back on a first-name basis. "Tell him I'm here and we've been talking. Ask him anything you want. He won't mind."
"What if he's busy, or — "
"If you tell him who you are, he'll take your call. I promise."
Pastor Walker thought about it for a long moment, stroking the card with his thumb. Then he nodded and said, "Okay. I'll give him a call. Excuse me while I go to my office for a bit."
He left the room, leaving Bent and Loraina alone. They talked nervously while sipping their coffee.
"Were those people from your congregation?" Bent asked.
"Our visitors? Yes, they were. They've been so good. I mean, not just them, but everyone in the church." She covered her mouth with four fingers and laughed almost girlishly. "I tell you, they've dropped by and called so much that sometimes I wish they weren't so concerned. But I think it's wonderful. I really do."
"Is someone standing in for Ethan?"
"Oh, no. He wouldn't have it. The assistant pastor — he's a young man, he and his wife just had their first baby — he's been telling Ethan he'd be happy to stand in for him. But Ethan's always said that putting together a sermon strengthens his faith. I guess that's why he's kept at it these past three weeks. He needs it. And I'm glad he has it."
"What do you have, Mrs. Walker?"
She chuckled. "Loraina." Bent smiled. "Well, I have Ethan. He's really a wonderful source of strength and support. I guess we have each other. And our church. Like I said, they've been so good to us, so eager to hel
p in any way. They put up little posters all over town. Had them printed up with their own money, from their own pockets. And I have god. We both have god. That's our ... generator, I guess you could say. And we have Anice. Our little girl. She's our anchor. She doesn't even know how much she helps us, but she does."
She bowed her head, sipped her coffee, and there was a long silence between them, until Pastor Walker returned, sitting in the recliner with a long sigh.
"Your editor told me pretty much the same thing you told me, Bent," he said. "Apparently, your paper has changed its policy. So, if it's okay with my wife — " He turned to her. "Loraina? You heard everything I did. Any objection?"
She thought about it a moment, her pleasant face darkened by a frown. Then her eyebrows raised high and she said to her husband, "No objection from me. It might help."
"Then I see no reason to turn you away, Bent," the pastor said.
Bent tried hard not to show his relief; he kept it inside, locked away, and simply smiled at them, nodding as he said, "I'm very happy to hear you say that. I'm really not here to take advantage of your tragedy, and I'm glad you realize that."
They both smiled at him warmly ... and he wanted to die, wanted the earth to just open up and swallow him for good. He knew that was what he deserved. But, of course, that did not happen. Instead, he just sat there smiling back, melting with guilt beneath their smiles.
"So how can we help you with your story?" Pastor Walker asked.
"Well, I'm afraid we'll have to go over the whole story again. I know you've probably told it a thousand times, but I'll need to hear it. In your own words."
They nodded slowly.
"Then I'll probably cover a lot of the same ground the police and other reporters have covered. I'll talk to the neighbors and find out what they saw or heard. I'll talk with the police, try to keep up with their efforts to find your boy, maybe find out how many other children in this area have disappeared, how often it happens. That sort of thing. I'll want pictures of you, inside the house and out, pictures of your boy's room, the street you live on. Even your church, preferably with you at the pulpit, Ethan."