He’d seen enough of them. He didn’t want to know any more. In his private thoughts, he always referred to The Casting Agent as just that: The Casting Agent. He went to some trouble not to think of him by his real name, but to assign to him the same cartoonish unreality that the killer had evidently believed his victims to possess. If he had been unable to credit the six young boys with the dignity of their individuality, then Zandt felt it was the least he could do to consign The Casting Agent to the same fate.
In the meantime he worked the usual drug-, love-, and profit-related murders. He drank with colleagues, listened to Nina talk about her attempts to connect Josie Ferris, Elyse LeBlanc, and Annette Mattison’s disappearances. He had dinner with his wife, drove his daughter places, went to the gym.
On May 15th 2000, Karen Zandt left school at the end of the day. She didn’t come home.
At first her parents assumed the best. Then the worst. A sweater was delivered three endless weeks later.
Zandt called Nina. She arrived very quickly with two colleagues. The parcel was unwrapped. This time there was no name embroidered on the sweater inside, and it was not Karen’s sweater. Hers had been peach in colour; this was black.
There was a note tucked into it, laser-printed in Courier on a paper stock used in offices and homes across the country.
Mr Zandt,
A ‘delivery’. You’ll have to wait for the rest.
I have seen thy affliction and
the work of thine hands, and rebuked thee.
The Upright Man
A month after that, the body of Annette Mattison was found in a canyon in the Hollywood Hills. Same condition as Elyse LeBlanc, same lack of forensic evidence. No other girls were abducted, at least none whose disappearance was subsequently marked by the delivery of a garment.
No other bodies were ever found.
After two hours the Promenade was nearly deserted. Barnes and Noble and Starbucks were shut. People shuffled past the bench periodically, winos on their way to the Palisades for the night, pulling neat little trolleys with their belongings. They saw a man who sat with his hands lying open by his sides, eyes staring straight down the street. No one pulled over to ask for money. They steered clear.
Eventually Zandt stood up and dropped his empty cup in the trash. He realized that he could have gone into the bookstore and established what points within it could have given The Upright Man a vantage from which to watch for Sarah Becker. Though there was no physical evidence for this, Zandt believed he staked out his victims carefully before striking. A few didn’t, most did. It could have been that Karen had been a special case; The Upright Man making a point. Zandt didn’t think so. The girls were too similar, the disappearances too immaculately wrought.
Barnes and Noble could wait, possibly for ever. He had allowed Nina to convince him to come back. He had wanted to believe that this time it would be different, that he would be able to do more than run around the city, chasing his tail, shouting in the night, never finding the man who had taken his daughter from him. Who had taken Zandt’s life in the palm of his hidden, rabid hand, and crushed it to death. Tonight he didn’t believe it any more.
He walked back to The Fountain, picking up a few groceries on the way. The lobby of the apartment building was empty, with nobody behind the desk. There was no Muzak, and little reason to believe that there was anyone apart from him inside. The elevator ascended slowly and fitfully, letting him know that its was a difficult task.
While he waited for water to boil he stood and watched the television, as CNN did its best to reduce the world’s complexity to bullet points a businessman could parrot over lunch. After a few minutes it cut back to a breaking story. A middle-aged man had walked down the high street of a small town in England, late in the morning. He’d had a rifle, with which he’d killed eight adults and wounded fourteen others.
Nobody knew why.
I was sitting in the passenger seat of my car with the door open. It was just after eight in the morning. I had a latte in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. My eyes were wide and dry and I was already regretting the cigarette. I used to smoke. I smoked a lot, for a long time. Then I gave it up. But during the night, which I had spent driving slowly and aimlessly down unlit roads as if trying to find the exit from an endless system of tunnels, I’d come to believe that smoking was the only thing that was going to help. Once you’ve smoked for a while, there are situations where you’re always going to feel something’s missing if you don’t have a tube of burning leaves in your hand. Without a cigarette you feel friendless and clueless and alone.
I was parked on the main street of Red Lodge, a small town maybe a hundred and twenty miles southeast of Dyersburg. I was sitting in the car because the shop where I’d bought the coffee – a spick-and-span little place where the staff wore aprons and dimply little smiles – was adamant in its resistance to the tobacco arts. The quality of coffee a place sells these days is in inverse proportion to the likelihood of them letting you have a cigarette while you’re drinking it. The latte was extremely good: they had smokers’ heads stuffed and hung on the wall. I’d bad-temperedly taken my coffee to go, and watched through the windshield as Red Lodge gradually came to life. People walked to and fro, opened up little stores selling stuff you buy to prove you’ve been on vacation. Some guys arrived with pots of paint and started making a house on the other side of the street look more lovely. A few tourists appeared, bundled up in ski wear to the point where they were almost spherical.
I got halfway through a second cigarette, winced, and threw it outside on the ground. It wasn’t helping. It was just something to feel guilty about. Plus I gather it’s bad for you. Knowing that my willpower is about as weak as the light from the farthest star on a cloudy night, I grabbed the pack off the dash and tossed it toward a trashcan, which was nailed to a nearby pole and emblazoned with wholesome civic slogans. The pack went in without even touching the rim. No one was there to see it. They never are. It must be weird, being a professional basketball player. People are there to see it when you get them in.
I hadn’t checked out of the hotel. I’d just taken the video out of the machine and left the room. I was probably thinking of going to the bar, but this time even my withered sense of propriety had deemed this an inappropriate response. Instead I’d found myself walking outside to the car, getting in, and driving away. I drove slowly around Dyersburg, twice crossing the place where my parents’ car had been totalled. The video sat on the passenger seat beside me. The second time I went over the crossing I glanced at it, as if this would help in some way. It didn’t, and only made me shiver, a frigid little spasm too small for anyone else to see.
After a while I achieved escape velocity and left town. I wasn’t working from the map, merely following the roads and making turns when it occurred to me to do so.
I eventually found my way onto I 90 as the sky was beginning to lighten. I realized I needed coffee, or something, and took the turn that led me to Red Lodge at about the time things were beginning to open up.
I felt hollow and light-headed. Hungry, perhaps, though it was difficult to tell. My mind was worn smooth, as if it had thrashed for too long and too hard in the wrong gear.
There was no question that it was my parents in the oldest two passages on the tape. There seemed little reason to doubt that it had been my father