Heathern (12 page)

"Sounds good to start," said Thatcher. "You're acting like
this is all something new to you, Bernard. You've just got to
figure out the best way to sell a new product-"

"Apples and oranges," said Bernard. The gray world
curtained the room's great window; it rained, several
hundred feet beneath us.

"I don't get you-"

"How do you sell a messiah, Thatcher?" Bernard asked.

"Above cost," said Thatcher, laughing. "In the fastest
way."

"You'd use television to do that?"

"How else?" Susie asked. "Weren't you referring to some
tests last week you could run?"

"Tests, eventually. That's not the problem here. If the
audience first sees Macaffrey on television, they won't see
him."

"Don't give me analysis bullshit, Bernard, that doesn't
make sense," said Thatcher. "What are you trying to say?"

"Explicate and deconstruct," Susie added.

Bernard rested his chin in his hand as if the weight of his head had proved too great for his neck. "A car needs gas,"
he said. "A messiah needs belief. Nobody believes anything
they see on television unless they've convinced themselves
they could see it in real life. His followers would tune in
every night, all twenty or thirty of them. Anyone else'll zap
right past."

"We can put any damn foolishness we want to on TV and
people believe it-"

"Apples and oranges," Bernard repeated. "When we put
most things on television it's not to make them believe, it's
to make what they're seeing their background. Assimilation
is what you aim for with television. Shooting your image
through the skull repeatedly that, eventually, enough of it
sticks that it seems to have always been there. That won't
work in the same way, this time."

"Eye the tube any day of the week," said Susie. "New
faces show every hour. Hundreds megatime it once they get
their minute, why shouldn't he if that's what's wanted?"
Looking to her husband, she lowered her voice, speaking to
him as if they sat beneath moonlight. "If he's a wash, cut
losses all the sooner."

Bernard gnawed the end of his thumb, drawing from the
cuticle a red droplet resembling a ladybug at rest. "Let's talk
image equivalency," he said. "People appear on television.
For a while someone might tune in specifically to see them.
Then a fresh distraction appears on a different channel.
Nobody knows what keeps people watching particular
things. A democracy of images is impossible to deliberately
subvert."

"We need the right sales pitch, Bernard-" said Thatcher.

"You're not pushing detergent. You want this fool to
show up one night after the news, claiming to be God. You
might as well put him on Telepsychic-"

"Negativity's showing," said Susie.

"Realism's showing. This necessitates serious real-world
preparation, and even then, every time he appears on television a certain symbolic worth will be lost unless we
exercise complete control over surrounding programming."

"Hell, we could do that," said Thatcher. "What if he got
on and performed some miracle?"

Bernard shook his head, glancing at me holding back his
laughter. "The only miracle Macaffrey seems able to perform is convincing otherwise sensible people that he's
anything other than a sociopath. So what if he could work
miracles? He could make the moon dance in the sky and no
one would believe it unless they saw it for themselves. No
one would. You know why? They'd be inside, watching it
on television."

"Can anything be done?" Susie asked. "I say dispose."

"If you want this done right it'll be a longterm project,"
said Bernard. "Longterm projects take a long time. Face it."

"So how do you propose we do this?" Thatcher asked.

"News of this ilk is most effectively transmitted only by
word of mouth," said Bernard. "The old-fashioned way.
Not to say we can't push buttons later on. Stooges can be
hired and trained to pass the disinformation we want
passed, as you know. Computer networks can be used after
the introductory period. We can't televise before attaining
saturation. Once we can rest assured that he's finally
seeable, he'll be heard as well." Bernard stood up to stretch,
having freed himself of confining ideas. "I hate to admit it,
but the timing is perfect for this tomfoolery. Our premillennial fields possess fertile ground."

"What's the timeline?" asked Susie.

"Two years, at least," said Bernard. "Unless interest flags
before then."

For over two years Thatcher had lived with the awareness
that when he wanted, he received. "Two years," he repeated. "It can't take that long-"

"It will," said Bernard. "Of course, we haven't fully
examined the premise that Macaffrey has, in the first place,
anything to say."

"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," said
Thatcher. "Where is he right now?"

"Gus is babysitting him in my office. I left the television
on to keep them calm. They seemed to hit it off, which I find
inconceivable. Dealing with Macaffrey's like dealing with
an idiot savant, but then I suppose Gus has had so much
practice with Jake-"

"I say disinvest," said Susie.

"That's what you've said all along, darlin'-" Thatcher
began.

"Keelhaul," she said. "Let the sharks have him."

"Got to do some R and D first," said Thatcher. "I'm
optimistic. He'll probably come in handy meanwhile. I got
a few things in mind. Go to it, Bernard. I trust you." Susie
seemed considerably more troubled by Thatcher's verbal
cuddling of Bernard than she ever did of her husband's
physical assaults upon me; her jealousy was always professional, and I doubted that she took me seriously enough to
worry. Rarely was I jealous of Susie; then, essentially,
because he admitted to hearing her when she spoke.

"Let's go see how our boy's doing, Joanna." Bernard rose
to follow.

Thatcher motioned for him to retake his seat. "Fill Susie
in on what we were talking about while we're gone," he
said.

"There's something needs doing you're avoiding?" she
asked. "Afraid you'll get your hands messy?"

"Darlin', there's such a thing as being too cynical. Come
on down to your office when you're finished, Bernard. Call
first."

Bernard's quarters were at the far end of our floor.
Creeping through a lacing of halls, attempting to keep up
with Thatcher, I let my eyes pass over the hundreds of
photos attached to the walls, each holding the image of a
Dryco product. I wondered to myself if the shot of Lester
might be larger, for ideology's sake if for no other. When we spoke our sound bled into the building's breath, droning all
around us as we wandered its lungs.

"You have a cat's smile," I said, seeing his grin swell so
that I believed his face might burst. "Where's the canary?"

"Trying to swallow the cat, seems to me," he said. "We'll
get into it momentarily, hon. Macaffrey can help us out a lot
sooner than they think, that's for sure-"

"How?" I asked, almost running to keep up with his long
stride.

"Ears," he said, shaking his head, glancing at the walls.
"Can't tell you how pleased I am you and Macaffrey get
along so well."

"That's big of you," I said. "I get along with anyone I can
talk with."

"Talk? Looked like Siamese twins when you two came in
this morning. Messiahs have a great need for affection, I
guess."

"Thatcher, he's-"

"You must feel like a dinosaur," he added, with
unsurprising tact. "Nothing wrong with robbing the cradle
long as you're not the one has to change the diapers."

Unexpected chords transposed the melody of his song.
Curious to discover how he might deal with the situation as
he seemed to perceive it, I refrained from explaining the
nature of my relationship with Lester, not that he had any
right to know of it in the first place.

"I'm glad you're taking this so well," I said. "I thought
you might be upset."

"Oh, hon, it's only business. We all play the whore
sometime." Before I could comment on that remark he
added: "How'd Bernard convince you to do it?"

"Bernard has nothing to do with this," I said. "I told you
Lester came back here-"

"Oh," he said, looked at me, and smiled. "So it was your
idea after all. That's a good sign. I knew my influence'd
wear off on you eventually. That's real good."

You get nowhere participating in a conversation with a
ventriloquist who perceives you only as a new dummy; I
said nothing more. Lester and Gus stood beside the desk in
Bernard's office, their backs turned toward the door. Gus
circled around before we entered. The commercial playing
on TV was one of Dryco's; the spot commanded the viewer
to enjoy life. One inspiration after another onscreened as
the narrator sang: pink children romped with golden dogs,
Christmas lights of a dozen colors outlined the gables of a
Victorian house, oreads and naiads lounged on skislope
and surfside, barely hidden beneath particolored shreds of
quilt; innumerable scenes of a perfect world's perfect people flashed by, scenes that to my eye could have been filmed
perhaps on Mars, but never on Earth, not any longer.

"Who knows?" Thatcher asked.

"None but God." By this ritual Gus signaled that he'd
deafened the room's ears and blinded its eyes. The windowpanes rattled as they vibrated within their frames,
shaken by the air conditioner's wind, assuring that none
without could eavesdrop by discerning the tones with
which our voices caused the glass to waver. Thatcher,
collapsing into the leather chair, lifted his feet onto the
desk, knocking the photo of Bernard's wife against the
drawing of their son. I sat next to Lester, on the sofa, took
his hand and squeezed it.

"What have they done to you?" I asked.

"Bored me to death," he said. "Till we came in here,
anyway. Gus and I get along pretty good."

"How's it hanging, Macaffrey?" asked Thatcher. "You
need anything, just ask Joanna. She'll see to your every
need. I guess you figured that out already-"

"Call me Lester."

"Nothing like a first-name basis. Lester, I got something I
want you to take a look at. See if you can pick up anything
from it."

"What do you want picked?"

"Anything in bloom," said Thatcher. "Here you go, bud.
Looks like a list, doesn't it?" Lester studied the note for a
minute after Thatcher passed it over to him. "Can you see
who wrote it?"

"Of course not," said Lester. "Does this have anything to
do with the employee who was murdered?"

I knew no more showed in my face than I noticed
showing in Gus's; Thatcher tried to give the impression of
one lobotomized, but his eyes held the most disconcerting
blend of desire and fear, the look of a molester listening for
unexpected interruptions, and finding himself knifed by his
victim. He looked to me, as if wishing to see my confession;
he saw nothing. "It does," he said. "Somebody's in something bad and I'd like to help 'em out before they get in over
their head."

Lester, returning the note to Thatcher, wriggled himself
deeper into the sofa, that his shoulders might brush against
mine. "I'm sure you have the best intentions. What do you
know about the note so far?"

"Mahaica's name of a port in Guyana," said Thatcher.
"Michael Moseley is the pseudonym of a local exporter
down there, we're pretty sure-"

"Mystic means the one in Connecticut," Lester said.

Thatcher received this knowledge as if hearing the weather report, and I could only imagine that the earlier shock
was still insulating his system from the effects of repeated
jolts. "You're sure about that?" Lester nodded. "How?"

" I don't know why," said Lester. "It came to me."

Thatcher looked Lester over as if measuring him for size.
"That's to be expected, I suppose. All right, then. Sounds
likely as anything. Let's take it and fly. Hey, Gus? Seem to
you there might be something to interest us in Mystic?"

"It could seem that way."

"Look into it. It's funny, you know," he said, taking two
folded documents from his jacket pocket. "You never know
what'll turn up where. Looked for one thing this weekend and found something else entirely. Something might shine
a different light on Jensen's killing, seems to me."

"What?"

"He's not dead."

Early on in our relationship Thatcher conceived the
notion that his secretary was attempting to eavesdrop upon
his office conversations by means of radio waves, projected
through the fillings in his teeth. After she was retired,
electronic equipment was found in her desk; it was never
discovered for whom she also worked. Though Thatcher's
manias were many-and in my absence he could have
fallen prey to any of them-there could be no discounting
the possibility he might, again, be right.

"I know a dead man when I see one," said Gus.

"You never saw him dead," Thatcher said. "Close to
death, but that's not close enough."

"Where is he, then, if he's still alive?"

"Don't you think I'm trying to find out? Now, if there'd
been a body, would it have gone to Campbell's in accordance with the usual perks?"

Gus nodded. "Personnel would have handled arrangement, not Security."

"I am correct, though?"

"As an unmarried employee," Gus answered, "Jensen's
body would have been taken to Campbell's for standard
treatments and the cremains would have been urned as
per."

"We'd never have known he didn't make it to Campbell's
if I hadn't called to follow up. Funeral records aren't
automatically sent to our floor, it seems. Things get too
damn compartmentalized in this outfit. From here on out,
anybody in this company sneezes, I want their file on my
desk. Got me?"

"Because the body didn't get there doesn't mean he's still
alive-"

"You think somebody wanted a souvenir?"

"What did the doctors say?" I asked.