the Forgotten Man (2005) (11 page)

"Well, I'm not going to let anything happen to you, dear, you can be sure of that!"

He pulled out a shiny black Kimber .45-caliber semiautomatic, and waved it overhead.

"Silver bullets! In case it's a werewolf!"

Mrs. Hansen, who well knew about the Father's gun, rolled her eyes and turned away, smiling in spite of herself.

"You put that thing away before you hurt yourself!"

"The Lord will keep me safe; it's the werewolves who better watch out."

Father Willie was no stranger to firearms, as Mrs. Hansen and everyone else who worked at the church knew. Father Willie was an avid sports marksman, and the gun had been a Christmas gift from his youngest brother. Having gotten Mrs. Hansen to smile, Father Willie slipped the pistol into his jacket, caught up to her in the hall, and saw her out to her car.

Set back from the main road and surrounded by pines, the small parking lot seemed deserted with only two cars remaining, one being his Le Baron, the other her four-wheel-drive Subaru. Father Willie had always thought the middle darkness of early spring lent his church a cloak of isolation, though now the parking lot seemed unusually dark.

She said, "Don't you work too late. You're not a young man. And don't get into that port wine until you're home. I don't want the police finding you on the side of the road."

"Drive safely, Mrs. H. I'll see you tomorrow."

Father Willie held the door for her, then watched her drive up the narrow road into blackness. He snuggled his hands into his pockets, his right hand just naturally finding the pistol's grip. As Mrs. Hansen's headlights disappeared, he saw his breath in the moonlight and suddenly realized why it was so dark-the two enormous security lamps that automatically came on when it got dark, hadn't. The lamps were perched on their poles like two dead owls.

Father Willie made a mental note to tell the custodian in the morning, then started back to his office.

"Father?"

The voice startled him, but then Father Willie saw the man's embarrassed smile. The smile put him at ease.

"Gosh, Father, I didn't mean to scare you. I thought you saw me."

The man was large and fleshy, with a receding hairline and soulful eyes. His hooded sweatshirt made him appear even larger, standing in the shadows like he was, with his smile floating in darkness. Father Willie smiled awkwardly, too, because he was so startled that he was sure he squirted a whiz. Age brought a weak bladder.

"I know we've met, but I don't recall your name. Sorry."

"Frederick - Frederick Conrad, not Freddie or Fred - I work for Payne Keller, myself and Elroy Lewis."

"That's right. Payne."

Father Willie remembered. Frederick had once come to Mass with Payne, and when they were introduced, Frederick had pointed out that his name was not Freddie or Fred, but Frederick. Now Frederick shuffled closer, and Father Willie thought his eyes seemed lonely and cold.

"I know Payne's been seeing you, Father, and I'm hoping you know what's going on."

"What do you mean, son?"

"Payne's missing. He hasn't been home and he didn't tell me or Elroy he was going, and we're left with his station to run. Tell you the truth, I'm worried. It's not like Payne to just up and go like this. I'm scared."

Father Willie stood thinking. He had no wish nor right to share the matters of counsel with a parishioner, but Payne had spoken often of Frederick Conrad, and Father Willie himself had grown concerned about Payne's absence. Payne was a troubled man, so deeply troubled that Father Willie often probed him for the possibility of suicide.

Father Willie saw the concern on Frederick's face, and weighed what he could offer.

"Payne didn't tell you he was going away?"

"No, sir, and I'm getting scared. I'm thinking I should call the police."

Father Willie thought calling the police might not be such a bad idea. His conversation with Mrs. Hansen about folks gone missing had put the spook into him, though he also knew that Payne had made plans.

"Frederick, I don't think you need to call the police just yet. If you're truly worried, you should follow your heart, but Payne was planning a trip to Los Angeles. That much I can say. I didn't know he would go so soon or be gone so long, but he did tell me he was going."

Something like a ripple worked across Frederick's face, and his eyes grew smaller.

"Why Los Angeles?"

"I can't really get into it, Frederick. Suffice it to say that Payne felt the need to make peace with himself. You ask him when he gets back."

Frederick wet his lips.

"Can you tell me how to reach him?"

"I'm sorry."

"Well, he just left us, Father. We have this station to run."

Father Willie wanted to go home, but Frederick didn't move. The priest already regretted the conversation, reminding himself this was why you could never tell people anything - they always wanted to know more, and seemed to feel it was their right.

"I really don't know what else to tell you. Maybe tomorrow you should call the police like you said."

Father Willie tried to turn, but Frederick caught his arm, and the force of it almost pulled Father Willie off his feet.

"He was planning this trip? It was Los Angeles, you said?"

"I think you'd better calm down."

"Why was he going to Los Angeles?"

Father Willie stared into Frederick's eyes, and felt a fear he had not known since his days volunteering on death row at the penitentiary. He found the pistol in his pocket, and gripped it, then came to his senses. He let go of the gun. He drew his hand from his pocket and patted Frederick's hand, the same hand that held tight to his arm.

"Let go, son."

The eerie wrongness faded from Frederick's eyes, and he made an embarrassed smile.

"Jesus, I can't believe I did that, Father. I'm sorry. I'm just so worried about Payne, is all. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course I can. Let's talk about this tomorrow."

"I'm just worried, you know."

"I can see that."

"Listen, will you let me confess to you? I'm not a Catholic, but would that be okay?"

"We can talk, son. You can tell me anything you need to say. Let's talk about it tomorrow."

"I want to confess, is all. Just like Payne. I got a lot to get off my chest. Like Payne."

Father Willie wanted to comfort this man, but could not divulge that Payne's anguish had remained private. Payne had never confessed, not the things that most tortured him. Payne wanted to confess, knew he desperately needed to confess, but he had not yet found the strength. Father Willie had been seeing Payne as a counselor to help him find that strength, but - so far - had failed.

Frederick stepped away and slipped his hands into his pockets.

"Let's go inside, Father. I won't keep you. I know you want to go."

"We can talk tomorrow. Whatever it is, it will keep. You can come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

"That's right."

"You're sure it was Los Angeles, where he went? You won't tell me why, but you know it was Los Angeles?"

"Payne's reasons are between himself and God."

"I'll have to go find him. I got no other choice."

"We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Okay, tomorrow. I can find him tomorrow."

Father Willie turned away, but didn't have the chance to slip his own hands back into his pockets. Something powerful lifted him off his feet and carried him struggling to the side of the church. He glimpsed a truck hidden in the darkness.

He did not see the blade, but felt it.

Chapter 16

W hen I first came to Los Angeles, I made the drive on Route 66, mostly because of an old television series I enjoyed as a child, two cool guys played by Martin Milner (the rich mama's boy trying to come into his own) and George Maharis (the rootless loner from the wrong side of town), off in search of themselves and adventure along America's pre-interstate coast-to-coast highway (Route 66). Route 66 began in Philadelphia and tracked its way through the center of the country to L. A. where it merged with Sunset Boulevard, then Santa Monica Boulevard , rolling inevitably west until it reached the amazing amusement park that bloomed along the length of the Santa Monica pier. I had followed the highway to its end, not running from but going to, like Milner and Maharis, searching until I reached the sea. It wasn't the first time I had sought out an amusement park, and now I sought one again. I left my home that night amid the deepening sense that some important business I started a long time ago had remained unfinished. I drove back to the ocean and parked on a bluff overlooking the Santa Monica pier, not so far from Stephen Golden's home in Venice. I got out of my car, climbed over a low fence, and stood at the edge of the bluff. Below me, the lights of the Ferris wheel and the roller coaster spun across the black sea. The bluff was fragile from erosion and uncertain in its nature. Signs warned the unwary not to cross the fence because more than once the precipice had calved like ice from an iceberg, but the earth felt firm to me. Maybe I didn't recognize the danger.

I watched the swirling lights, and wondered if Herbert Faustina had also come to this pier.

Once upon a time I ran away to join the circus. I ran away because my mother told me my father was a human cannonball. Do you think that's silly? My mother never told me my father's name, or showed me a picture, or even described him. Maybe she didn't know these things. Neither my grandfather nor my aunt knew any more than me. After a while, it didn't matter whether he was a human cannonball or not; her description was my truth. If she said my father was a human cannonball, then he was a human cannonball.

I searched, but I did not find him. In my boyhood fantasies, he sometimes came to find me.

Learning a Trade Wilson The private detective was a short oval man named Ken Wilson. He wore a dark gray business suit and tan Hush Puppy loafers that didn't go with the suit. Creases cut his jacket and pants because of the long drive, but he smelled of Old Spice and he checked his hair before he got out of his car. Appearance was important in his line of work; people were suspicious of someone ill-kept.

Wilson was one hundred sixty-two miles from home, having made the long drive to collect a fourteen-year-old runaway named Elvis Cole. This was the third time Wilson had tracked down the kid, and at least one other dick had worked for the family before him. Wilson had to hand it to the kid, he had perseverance. He kept trying to find his father.

The carnival was set up at the edge of a small town in a field used mostly for crop dusters. Wilson left his car in the parking area and walked through an arched gateway beneath a shabby banner that proclaimed: Ralph Todd's 21st Century Shows Diversions!!! Twin rows of tents swallowed anyone who walked through the gate, but not before running them past roach-coach food stands and game arcades that Wilson suspected were magnets for pedophiles. Everything looked patched together and poorly maintained. Wilson thought that if this was the twenty-first century they could keep it.

The manager's trailer was at the opposite end of the midway behind the tents that housed the featured attractions: Whores billed as "exotic dancers," a freak show featuring a three-eyed cow, and, behind a final banner, the midway's star attraction, the Human Fireball... See him flash thru the sky like a blazing meteor!!! Wilson cynically noted that every banner ended with three exclamation points. The future was hyperbole.

A dwarf who smelled of vegetable soup pointed Wilson between the tents to a silver Airstream trailer. It was dull and spotted with grime. A small sign on the door read MANAGER. The manager would be a Mr. Jacob Lenz, with whom Wilson had spoken. Mr. Lenz would be expecting him.

Wilson rapped at the door and let himself in without waiting to be asked. Time was money.

"Mr. Lenz? Ken Wilson. I appreciate your cooperation."

Wilson offered his hand.

Lenz was a broad, heavy man with lined skin and small eyes. He stood to take Wilson's hand, but he didn't look happy about it.

"I just wanna get this straight, you know? I don't want any trouble with the family."

"There's no trouble. He's done this before."

"I can't keep track of all the people around here. Kids come, they go, I don't know who belongs to who. I just wanna do the right thing."

"I understand."

Wilson took out a picture and held it up. It was a black-and-white school photograph taken two years earlier.

"Now let's be sure we're talking about the same boy. Is this Elvis Cole?"

"Yeah, that's him, but he tells everyone his name is Jimmie."

"His name was Philip James Cole until his mother changed it. He used to go by Jimmie."

"She changed his name to Elvis?"

Wilson ignored the question because the answer left a sour ache in his stomach. Wilson felt bad for the kid. Here was this little boy, one day out of the blue, his mother changed his name to Elvis; not Don or Joey - Elvis. Here's this poor kid with no idea who his father is because the crazy bitch won't tell anyone, and bammo - she feeds him a bullshit story that his father was a human cannonball. Wilson believed that parents should be licensed.