“He’s with me,” Clausen could be heard announcing. “He wants you to let him go, Thad.” The picture shifted to capture Jeremy’s rendition of an anguished guest, his face contorted. Clausen nodded in the background, either oozing sympathy or looking constipated, depending on the perspective.
“Your mother never changed his room—the room you shared with him. She insisted that it be kept unchanged, and you still had to sleep there,” Clausen went on.
“Yes,” Jeremy gasped.
“But you were frightened in there, and in your anger, you took something of his, something very personal, and buried it in the backyard.”
“Yes,” Jeremy managed again, as if too emotional to say more.
“His retainer!”
“Ooooohhhhhhhhh,” Jeremy cried, bringing his hands to his face.
“He loves you, but you have to realize that he’s at peace now. He has no anger toward you . . .”
“Ooooohhhhhhh!” Jeremy wailed again, contorting his face even more.
In the bar, Nate watched the clips in silent concentration. Alvin, on the other hand, was laughing as he raised his beer high.
“Give that man an Oscar!” he shouted.
“It was rather impressive, wasn’t it?” Jeremy said, grinning.
“I mean it, you two,” Nate said, not hiding his irritation. “Talk during the commercials.”
“Whatever,” Alvin said again. “Whatever” had always been Alvin’s favorite word.
On Primetime Live, the videotape faded to black and the camera focused on Diane Sawyer and Jeremy, sitting across from each other once again.
“So nothing Timothy Clausen said was true?” Diane asked.
“Not a thing,” Jeremy said. “As you already know, my name isn’t Thad, and while I do have five brothers, they’re all alive and well.”
Diane held a pen over a pad of paper, as if she was about to take notes. “So how did Clausen do this?”
“Well, Diane,” Jeremy began.
In the bar, Alvin’s pierced eyebrow rose. He leaned toward Jeremy. “Did you just call her Diane? Like you’re friends?”
“Could you please!” Nate said, growing more exasperated by the moment.
On-screen, Jeremy was going on. “What Clausen does is simply a variation on what people have been doing for hundreds of years. First of all, he’s good at reading people, and he’s an expert at making vague, emotionally charged associations and responding to audience members’ cues.”
“Yes, but he was so specific. Not only with you, but with the other guests. He had names. How does he do that?”
Jeremy shrugged. “He heard me talking about my brother Marcus before the show. I simply made up an imaginary life and broadcast it loud and clear.”
“How did it actually reach Clausen’s ears?”
“Con men like Clausen have been known to use a variety of tricks, including microphones and paid ‘listeners’ who circulate in the waiting area before the show. Before I was seated, I made sure to move around and strike up conversations with lots of audience members, watching to see if anyone exhibited unusual interest in my story. And sure enough, one man seemed particularly concerned.”
Behind them, the videotape was replaced by an enlarged photograph that Jeremy had taken with a small camera hidden in his watch, a high-tech spy toy he’d promptly expensed to Scientific American. Jeremy loved high-tech toys almost as much as he loved expensing them to others.
“What are we looking at here?” Diane asked.
Jeremy pointed. “This man was mingling with the studio audience, posing as a visitor from Peoria. I took this photograph right before the show while we were talking. Zoom in further, please.”
On-screen, the photograph was enlarged and Jeremy motioned toward it.
“Do you see the small USA pin on his lapel? That’s not just for decoration. It’s actually a miniature transmitter that broadcasts to a recording device backstage.”
Diane frowned. “How do you know this?”
“Because,” Jeremy said, raising an eyebrow, “I happen to have one just like it.”
On cue, Jeremy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out what appeared to be the same USA pin, attached to a long, threadlike wire and transmitter.
“This particular model is manufactured in Israel”—Jeremy’s voice could be heard over the camera close-up of the gadget—“and it’s very high-end. I’ve heard it’s used by the CIA, but, of course, I can’t confirm that. What I can tell you is that the technology is very advanced—this little microphone can pick up conversations from across a noisy, crowded room and, with the right filtering systems, can even isolate them.”
Diane inspected the pin with apparent fascination. “And you’re certain that this was indeed a microphone and not just a pin?”
“Well, as you know, I’ve been looking into Clausen’s past for a long time now, and a week after the show, I managed to obtain some more photographs.”
A new photograph flashed on the screen. Though a bit grainy, it was a picture of the same man who’d been wearing the USA pin.
“This photo was taken in Florida, outside Clausen’s office. As you can see, the man is heading inside. His name is Rex Moore, and he’s actually an employee of Clausen’s. He’s worked with Clausen for two years.”
“Ooohhhhh!” Alvin shouted, and the rest of the broadcast, which was winding down, anyway, was drowned out as others, jealous or not, joined in with hoots and hollers. The free booze had worked its magic, and Jeremy was deluged with congratulations after the show had ended.
“You were fantastic,” Nate said. At forty-three, Nate was short and balding and had a tendency to wear suits that were just a bit too tight in the waist. No matter, the man was energy incarnate and, like most agents, positively buzzed with fervent optimism.
“Thanks,” Jeremy said, downing the remainder of his beer.
“This is going to be big for your career,” Nate went on. “It’s your ticket to a regular television gig. No more scrambling for lousy freelance magazine work, no more chasing UFO stories. I’ve always said that with your looks, you were made for TV.”
“You have always said that,” Jeremy conceded with the eye-rolling manner of someone reciting an oft-given lecture.
“I mean it. The producers from Primetime Live and GMA keep calling, talking about using you as a regular contributor on their shows. You know, ‘what this late-breaking science news means for you’ and all that. A big leap for a science reporter.”
“I’m a journalist,” Jeremy sniffed, “not a reporter.”
“Whatever,” Nate said, making a motion as if brushing away a fly. “Like I’ve always said, your looks are made for television.”
“I’d have to say Nate’s right,” Alvin added with a wink. “I mean, how else could you be more popular than me with the ladies, despite having zero personality?” For years, Alvin and Jeremy had frequented bars together, trolling for dates.
Jeremy laughed. Alvin Bernstein, whose name conjured up a clean-cut, bespectacled accountant—one of the countless professionals who wore Florsheim shoes and carried a briefcase to work—didn’t look like an Alvin Bernstein. As a teenager, he’d seen Eddie Murphy in Delirious and had decided to make the full-leather style his own, a wardrobe that horrified his Florsheim-wearing, briefcase-carrying father, Melvin. Fortunately, leather seemed to go well with his tattoos. Alvin considered tattoos to be a reflection of his unique aesthetic, and he was uniquely aesthetic on both his arms, right up to his shoulder blades. All of which complemented Alvin’s multiply pierced ears.
“So are you still planning a trip down south to investigate that ghost story?” Nate pressed. Jeremy could fairly see the wheels clicking and clacking away in his brain. “After your interview with People, I mean.”
Jeremy brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and signaled the bartender for another beer. “Yeah, I guess so. Primetime or no Primetime, I still have bills to pay, and I was thinking I could use this for my column.”
“But you’ll be in contact, right? Not like when you went undercover with the Righteous and Holy?” He was referring to a six-thousand-word piece Jeremy had done for Vanity Fair about a religious cult; in that instance, Jeremy had essentially severed all communication for a period of three months.
“I’ll be in contact,” Jeremy said. “This story isn’t like that. I should be out of there in less than a week. ‘Mysterious lights in the cemetery.’ No big deal.”
“Hey, you need a cameraman by any chance?” Alvin piped in.
Jeremy looked over at him. “Why? Do you want to go?”
“Hell yeah. Head south for the winter, maybe meet me a nice southern belle while you pick up the tab. I hear the women down there will drive you crazy, but in a good way. It’ll be like an exotic vacation.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be shooting something for Law & Order next week?”
As strange as Alvin looked, his reputation was impeccable, and his services were usually in high demand.
“Yeah, but I’ll be clear toward the end of the week,” Alvin said. “And look, if you’re serious about this television thing like Nate says you should be, it might be important to get some decent footage of these mysterious lights.”
“That’s assuming there are even any lights to film.”
“You do the advance work and let me know. I’ll keep my calendar open.”
“Even if there are lights, it’s a small story,” Jeremy warned. “No one in television will be interested in it.”
“Not last month, maybe,” Alvin said. “But after seeing you tonight, they’ll be interested. You know how it is in television—all those producers chasing their own tails, trying to find the next big thing. If GMA is suddenly hot to trot, then you know the Today show will be calling soon and Dateline will be knocking at the door. No producer wants to be left out. That’s how they get fired. The last thing they want to do is to have to explain to the executives why they missed the boat. Believe me—I work in television. I know these people.”
“He’s right,” Nate said, interrupting them. “You never know what’ll happen next, and it might be a good idea to plan ahead. You had definite presence tonight. Don’t kid yourself. And if you can get some actual footage of the lights, it might be just the thing that GMA or Primetime needs to make their decision.”
Jeremy squinted at his agent. “You serious about this? It’s a nothing story. The reason I decided to do it at all was because I needed a break after Clausen. That story took four months of my life.”
“And look what it got you,” Nate said, putting a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “This may be a fluff piece, but with sensational footage and a good backstory, who knows what television will think?”
Jeremy was silent for a moment before finally shrugging. “Fine,” he said. He glanced at Alvin. “I’m leaving on Tuesday. See if you can get there by next Friday. I’ll call you before then with the details.”
Alvin reached for his beer and took a drink. “Well, golly,” he said, mimicking Gomer Pyle, “I’m off to the land of grits and chitlins. And I promise my bill won’t be too high.”
Jeremy laughed. “You ever been down south?”
“Nope. You?”
“I’ve visited New Orleans and Atlanta,” Jeremy admitted. “But those are cities, and cities are pretty much the same everywhere. For this story, we’re heading to the real South. It’s a little town in North Carolina, a place called Boone Creek. You should see the town’s Web site. It talks about the azaleas and dogwoods that bloom in April, and proudly displays a picture of the town’s most prominent citizen. A guy named Norwood Jefferson.”
“Who?” Alvin asked.
“A politician. He served in the North Carolina State Senate from 1907 to 1916.”
“Who cares?”
“Exactly,” Jeremy said with a nod. Glancing across the bar, he noticed with disappointment that the redhead was gone.
“Where is this place exactly?”
“Right between the middle of nowhere and ‘where are we exactly?’ I’m staying at a place called Greenleaf Cottages, which the Chamber of Commerce describes as scenic and rustic yet modern. Whatever that means.”
Alvin laughed. “Sounds like an adventure.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll fit right in down there, I’m sure.”
“You think so?”
Jeremy noted the leather, tattoos, and piercings.
“Oh, absolutely,” Jeremy said. “They’ll probably want to adopt you.”
Two
On Tuesday, the day after his interview with People magazine, Jeremy arrived in North Carolina. It was just past noon; when he left New York, it had been sleeting and gray, with more snow expected. Here, with an expanse of blue skies stretched out above him, winter seemed a long way off.
According to the map that he’d picked up in the airport gift shop, Boone Creek was in Pamlico County, a hundred miles southeast of Raleigh and—if the drive was any indication—about a zillion miles from what he considered civilization. On either side of him, the landscape was flat and sparse and about as exciting as pancake batter. Farms were separated by thin strands of loblolly pines, and given the sparse traffic, it was everything Jeremy could do to keep from flooring the accelerator out of sheer boredom.
But it wasn’t all bad, he had to admit. Well, the actual driving part, anyway. The slight vibration of the wheel, the revving of the engine, and the feeling of acceleration were known to increase adrenaline production, especially in men (he’d once written a column about it). Life in the city made owning a car superfluous, however, and he’d never been able to justify the expense. Instead, he was transported from place to place in crowded subways or whiplash-inducing taxicabs. Travel in the city was noisy, hectic, and, depending on the cabdriver, sometimes life-threatening, but as a born and bred New Yorker, he’d long since come to accept it as just another exciting aspect of living in the place he called home.