by Ray Garton
The telephone rang three times and Ethan and Loraina took turns answering it. Each call was from members of Ethan's congregation, who wanted to see how they were and if there was anything they could do.
"Ethan, are you going to be uncomfortable if I get my tape recorder out now and ask you a few questions?" Bent asked cautiously.
The pastor's eyes closed and he shook his head slowly. "No, Bent. Go ahead. I suppose it's the least we can do in exchange for such a fine meal."
Bent left the table and went to his bag, which was leaning against the wall just a few feet away, got his recorder, and set it in the center of the table. It was set to record for four hours. He pulled his chair toward the table and smiled as he turned the recorder on. "Just pretend it's not even there."
Ethan said, "You know, you are the most polite reporter we've come across so far."
"Well," Bent said quietly, "the way I see it, I have no business in your house at all. I'm an intruder. I'm just here because you've let me be here. I have a job to do, but that doesn't include anything you don't want me to do." Once again, he thought of what Barbara Bergenstern had told him to do, to get in good with the Walkers, to live with them if he could. He realized, quite suddenly, that he was doing as he'd been told without even realizing it.
"Well, we sure do appreciate that, Bent," Ethan said to him with a sad smile. "We really do."
There were a few minutes of small talk, then a long moment of silence, until Loraina said, "We haven't eaten a meal together at this table since Samuel."
Not "since Samuel disappeared," Bent noticed; just "since Samuel."
"Yes, usually we just eat on TV trays or our laps in the living room," Ethan said. "Usually watching TV, I'm sorry to say. Far as I'm concerned, all it's good for is the news and some of those nice nature shows, what few there are of those."
"Yeah," Loraina said, "not since Samuel."
Anice looked up at her mother. "When Sammy comin' back?"
Loraina stiffened a bit, but smiled. "Well, we're not-sure, sweetie. We'll see Sammy when it's time for us to see him."
Ethan took a piece of bread from under the foil and tore it in half, shaking his head slowly. He bit into it. Hard. Chewing as hard as if he were chewing a jawbreaker. Eyes darting back and forth for a while, until finally he looked at Bent.
That's when Bent saw it for the first time: the anger and frustration and fear roiling beneath the fragile surface of calm that Ethan was obviously fighting to maintain.
"What kind of questions did the police ask you?" Bent asked, hoping to take Ethan's mind off the question Anice had asked.
"Just what you'd expect them to ask, I suppose," Ethan replied.
Loraina added with a chuckle, "They just asked them ten or twelve times each."
"I suppose," Bent said, "they asked if you'd seen anything or anyone unusual in the neighborhood, huh?"
"Of course," Ethan said, patting his mouth with a paper napkin. "But who notices? We certainly weren't expecting something like this, so why would we be scanning the neighborhood for anyone suspicious-looking?"
"We do now, though," Loraina said quietly. "Something like this tends to open your eyes."
"What about the days or weeks or maybe even months before Samuel disappeared?" Bent asked. "You don't remember seeing anything in the neighborhood that you don't normally see?"
Ethan nodded. "Yes, they asked that one, too. No. Neither of us could think of anything."
"Nothing at all," Loraina said, her voice sounding sad.
"Like he just ... poof, just wasn't there, just disappeared." Ethan had stopped eating and was frowning again, big hands joined beneath his chin. His eyes squinted, looking at nothing in particular, and for a moment Bent thought he was going to cry.
The room was suddenly thick with tension and Bent knew it was time to divert the conversation for a little while. Ethan beat him to it.
"You know," he said, "no offense, Loraina honey, but this is just about one of the best meals I've ever had."
"No offense taken," she said with that half grin. She looked over at Bent. "You're gonna be lucky to get out of this house."
After a moment of forks clacking on plates, Ethan said, "You know, that's not such a bad idea, Bent. Our sofa folds into a comfortable bed. You'd be welcome to stay here while you're in town if you'd prefer it to a motel."
They took the bait, Bent thought shamefully. He thought about it. "I might take you up on that. Let me see how the motel works out. I've got a lot of people I want to talk to about this, so I'll be moving around a lot. Besides, I might be keeping some pretty late hours, and I wouldn't want to disturb you. But thank you for the offer. I'll think it over."
"Late hours are no problem," Ethan said. "You just keep it in mind. And don't worry, we won't make you cook."
"Not every night, at least," Loraina said playfully.
A little more silence, then, when he felt it was appropriate, Bent asked, "Have either of you seen a black car driving around here lately? An early seventies Mustang, flat black?"
Ethan and Loraina exchanged a long look, then he shook his head. "No, can't say that I have."
"Me, either," she said.
Ethan put down his fork and looked very seriously at Bent. "Why? Does that car have something to do with this?"
Bent held up a cautioning hand and smiled, shaking his head. "No, no, not that I know of, Ethan. That's something you'll have to expect from me, I'm afraid. Strange questions out of the blue. See, I'm kind of in a tough spot here. I've been given an assignment that requires me to turn in a story every week, but there's not a whole lot of information to report. Most of it will be about you, your family, but I'd also like to have something harder, maybe a few leads to turn in. So, I'm groping. Don't let any of my weird questions alarm you."
Ethan relaxed. "I see your position. Well, as I've told you before, we'll help any way we can."
"I appreciate that very much."
More silence as Bent wondered if he should ask his next question or maybe hold on to it for a while. He decided to give it a try.
"This, for example. Another weird question that really means nothing as far as I know, but ... could you explain to me the significance of an upside-down cross?"
Ethan flinched. "How do you mean?"
"Um, let's say someone has an upside-down cross hanging from their rearview mirror. Why would someone do that? What reason might they have for hanging it that way?"
Another frown, then: "Could be lots of reasons, I suppose. Could be that the driver is a fan of a particular rock group that uses that as their trademark, or logo, or whatever. There's a lot of that kind of symbolism in rock music these days, you know. Or it might be some poor soul, some former Christian, who has, in one way or another, been hurt by the church, hurt badly. Maybe they're angry. That happens a lot, I'm sorry to say. Unfortunately, we sometimes get so wrapped up in how we appear to those outside the church that we forget to pay attention to how we're treating our friends in the church. Yes" — he nodded — "I could see a hurt and bitter ex-Christian hanging a cross upside down from a rearview mirror."
Bent waited, but Ethan said no more. "That's it? Anything else?"
"Well" — Ethan shrugged — "I understand Satanists often hang the cross upside down to blaspheme, to mock the crucifixion, that sort of thing. But, from what I hear — I mean, I don't know much about this sort of thing — I don't see why someone'd want to go around advertising the fact that they're a Satanist by hanging a cross upside down from a rearview mirror."
"Christians advertise their beliefs by hanging crosses right side up from their rearview mirrors," Bent said, "and by putting stickers on their bumper that quote bible verses or praise Jesus."
Ethan cocked his head. "So ... you're saying maybe Satanism is just another religion, like Christianity?"
Bent shrugged. "I don't know."
Ethan shrugged, smiling. "Neither do I. But it's a thought, a thought." He took a bite of food and, a moment lat
er, said, "Okay, so you've asked another weird question. Mind if I ask why? Does it have something to do with the black car?"
Bent told them what Suzie Bastino had told him. "I don't know if it means anything at all. In fact, it probably doesn't. But I'm going to be talking to the police tomorrow and I'll bring it up. I'm sure that if they don't already know about it, they'll be happy to have the information." It was a lie. Bent wasn't sure who he was talking to tomorrow, and he wasn't planning on sharing the information with the police. Not yet, anyway.
"Who knows," Ethan said with a smile, "maybe you reporters are better at digging things up than the police."
"I doubt that."
The rest of the conversation was made up of small talk, although the recorder continued to run, just in case some valuable piece of information was tossed inadvertently onto the table.
The dessert — a strawberry-dumpling sauce over vanilla ice cream — was a huge hit with the Walkers. They ooohed and aaahhed over it as if it were a fireworks display and Bent enjoyed their enjoyment.
After dinner, they went to the living room with coffee. Bent put his recorder on the coffee table.
"You know," he said, "I must admit, you folks seem to be holding up awfully well under the circumstances. I've never had children, but I honestly don't know if I could possibly handle it, myself."
Ethan said, "Well, maybe we're not holding up quite as well as you think." His voice was low, serious, and very sad. "But we do have our faith in god. Without that, I don't think we'd hold up at all. And you wouldn't believe the support we've gotten from the congregation of our church. They've done so much ... putting up copies of Samuel's picture all over town, even going door to door asking if people have seen him. They call, they drop by with food, offering to help in any way. That means more than you know, Bent. The bulk of whatever strength we have comes from our church and our lord."
"Even, um ... Bent cleared his throat, leaned forward, and lowered his voice, nearly to a whisper. " ... even if you never see Samuel again?"
Although his eyes were weary and sad, Ethan gave Bent a strong smile. "Our lord is more powerful than whoever took our little boy. We know things will turn out for the best in the end. We know because he's promised us."
"Are you saying it was god's will that Samuel be kidnapped?"
"Absolutely not." For a moment Ethan became Pastor Walker as he leaned forward and put one elbow on one knee, frowning, lips turned downward at the end. When he spoke again, his voice rolled up from his chest as if he were at the pulpit. "Any fool tells you it's god's will for harm to come to any child — to anyone, I don't care who — then you can kick 'em in the shin and say it came from me. My god wills no harm to no one. He watches, and when it happens, He hurts ... but most of all, He remembers. And the day will come when he pulls those files and all accounts will come due."
"But why would he allow it to happen in the first place?"
"That's for him to know. When the day comes, we'll find out. Lotta people like to call it Judgment Day. I like to think of it as the first day of school," he said quietly, a slight smile playing around the comers of his mouth, "when we all finally learn why we've gone through the things we've gone through down here on this painful planet ... when he takes us home and puts his hands on our shoulders and says" — he lowered his voice to an impassioned whisper — " ‘Thank you for going through all that ... and still believing in me.' "
Very slowly, Bent's mouth broke into a smile and he said sincerely, "Someday, Pastor Walker, I would like to listen to you from the pulpit."
Ethan's lips were trembling, but he leaned back, relaxed, the trembling stopped, and he smiled. "Bent, you are welcome in my church anytime you want to come."
8
When Coll opened the door of his apartment, he was grinning. He gripped Bent's hand and shook it as he entered the apartment, then they embraced for a moment, slapping each other on the back.
"Good to see you, friend," Coll said in that voice that sounded like the rumbling of distant thunder.
"Good to see you, too. It's been too long."
"Way too long."
Bent held up his overnight bag. "I may be too tired to drive back, so I brought this just in case."
"No problem. We'll be happy to have you."
"We? Did I interrupt something?"
"Oh, no, no." Coll slapped his thigh and called, "Hey, Borgnine, c'mere, fella!"
A squat, wrinkled Shar-pei waddled into the room and sniffed cautiously at Bent's legs, then stepped back and grinned up at him wetly, pink tongue bobbing in and out of his mouth.
"You've been accepted," Coll said.
"There's enough skin on that animal for two dogs and a pup."
Coll leaned down and roughed the dog up playfully. Borgnine growled harmlessly and gnawed on Coll's hand. "Yeah, he knows how to use every bit of it, too, so don't try any funny stuff." Coll stood. "C'mon, get comfortable. And you — " Coll looked down at the dog, clapped his hands once, and pointed in the direction from which the dog had come. " — take your skin back to your pillow." Borgnine followed orders and waddled away, folds of golden-furred skin jiggling as he moved.
Bent removed his coat and Coll put it in the hall closet, then led Bent into the living room, where he dropped his bag and plopped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, looking around.
"Hey, this is a pretty nice place," Bent said. It was all dark wood and thick tan carpet, shelves of books, a fireplace with a few flames dancing weakly, and a print of Munch's "The Scream" glaring into the room from within a dark wood and brass frame. " 'The Scream,' huh?"
"Yeah, I figured that pretty much captures the way I feel most of the time when I'm working on a book. You wouldn't believe it," Coll said, shaking his head. He stood in the middle of the room wearing jeans and a baggy maroon cotton shirt, hands stuffed in his back pockets, elbows jutting. "It's hell sometimes, trying to get information from cops who are already overworked, dealing with the people — the people! — families, you know, where, say, person A hates person B, so person A tries to angle the story in a way that makes person B look bad, but which is not exactly accurate, which really throws a wrench into the whole thing. And sometimes, when I talk to the criminals themselves ... y'know, the killers? The perps, as the cops call 'em? Sometimes ... I just want to cut loose, just go nuts, just scream in their faces, hell, strangle 'em if I could get close enough. So, that picture gives you a pretty good idea of how I feel — and sometimes how I look — when I'm working."
"So what are you working on now?"
"Myself. You want some tea? I'm making some tea."
"Sure." Bent relaxed on the plush, cloudlike sofa until Coll returned with steaming cups of tea and put them on the coffee table. The two men sat at opposite ends of the sofa, facing each other with one knee up on the cushion.
Coll produced a pack of cigarettes and lit up.
"I'm out," Bent said. "May I?"
"Sure, I've got a couple cartons. Have as many as you want. Quick, before they're illegal." He handed the pack to Bent, who helped himself.
Once a cloud of smoke hovered over them, Bent asked, "So, you're not working on anything right now?"
Coll waved a hand through the air, trailing smoke from his cigarette. "Nah, I can take a rest. I wrote three in a row pretty fast, I mean, bang-bang-bang, y'know? So I'm just kicking around right now, trying not to think about work. About what I do."
"You have a problem with what you do?"
"Well ... do you know there are people out there who read nothing but this stuff? These true crime books? Yeah, that's all they read, like they think all these things — murder, rape, and, um, well, mutilation, molestation, you name it — like they were all performed just for their entertainment. It'd be one thing if they'd read horror fiction, or something like that, you know? Stephen King, Dean Koontz, those guys. But no, no, they want the real stuff. They want it to be true, real life stuff. Fiction isn't good enough. Sometimes it makes me feel like a whore, writing b
ooks about real crimes — and some of them pretty damned hideous, I'll tell you — for the entertainment of people who apparently get their jollies from the misery and death of others."
Bent was sipping his tea when Coll finished and he pulled the cup away from his mouth quickly, coughing. Then he leaned his head back and laughed hard with a bit of tea dribbling from his chin. When he was finished, he looked at Coll, who appeared rather confused by Bent's reaction, and said, "Welcome to the fucking club, my friend! Now you know what I've been going through."
"Hey, nobody forced you to go to work at the Global Inquisitor."
"Oh, what, somebody broke into your office at the Times and put a gun to your head and told you that you had to start writing nonfiction crime books, huh?" Bent laughed some more, then puffed on his cigarette.
Coll smirked. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he said after a while.
They talked for some time, had more tea and more cigarettes as they talked about their days at the Times and wondered what some of their old coworkers were doing. They chatted a little about their close calls with booze and about how tough it was to stay away sometimes, about how, some days and some nights, it seemed their lives would end if they didn't get hold of a bottle in five seconds.
Then Bent's story came up. Bent told Coll about the dinner in great detail, told him everything that was said.
"I don't envy you," Coll said quietly.
"Thank you. And what do you mean?"
"That boy won't be found. They'll be lucky if he's found floating in a river or a canal someplace, maybe the ocean, so bloated they'll have a tough time identifying him. And that's only if they're lucky. He could be in another country right now, for god's sake. That's what they do sometimes, you know. They snatch these kids and sell 'em to perverts in other countries who've made orders — I mean specific orders, color, age, size, that sort of thing — through these networks."
"Networks? What networks?"
"Computer networks. The information superhighway, son. Or maybe the boy showed up in ads in newspapers and magazines all across the country — hell, all over the world — using code words that nobody notices. They buy and sell these kids like wheat or flour. There's a fucking child stock market out there. Some kids are sold to parents who are so desperate to have children they're willing to buy them illegally, but that's only a very, very few. Some are used a sex slaves for very wealthy pedophiles. Others are used in kiddie porn movies and magazines. Some are used — well, quite a few, really — in snuff films."