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Chapter Seventeen

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Uncle Bill watched idly as the crew tore down the set for the taping just completed. They’d held a week of outdoor revivals under a huge white tent in Columbia, South Carolina, the last stop on their spring tour. The spot was beautiful, with flowers, shrubs, and trees blooming as far as he could see, creating color for the eye and soft scents for the nose. People worked busily around him, ignoring his presence, but he was used to that. Bill floated on the outskirts of the Deep and Wide Church, not a preacher, a singer, a tech or even a roadie.

Bill’s job was making the largely over-sixty crowd feel nostalgic. When they heard his highly sanitized stories about his old TV show, they imagined there was a point in the past when everything in America was wholesome and good. “Back then,” people were polite. Dialogue was clean. Kids were well-behaved. Folks cared about their fellow men. God was the center of all. Bill often reminded the audience of the final moments of each episode of his sitcom, when the family gathered, ate a meal together, talked casually and respectfully to each other, and prayed. No matter what had gone wrong in their lives in that week’s story, those last few seconds made everything right again.

He never acknowledged that those scenes of peace and joy were all script and no reality. The audience didn’t want to know that sweet Amelia was actually a ten-year-old she-devil, or that Momma Kate had to be watched so she didn’t fill her water glass with Beefeater Gin before taping began. His audience didn’t want their fantasies corrupted with anything like truth.

Once Bill had taken the folks on his redacted stroll down Memory Lane, Yardley would step into the limelight. Waving his Bible and waxing poetic, he’d compare those “good times” to the terrible state of today’s world, so scary, so different. When he had them feeling just right, Pastor Niven told the folks how they could make things better “for God’s children.” Wallets slid from pockets and purses clicked open as people bought into the dream of making one small, dark corner of the world a better place.

There were moments when Bill was bothered by what he’d become, because he knew the donated money was spent on luxurious living for Yardley, his family, his staff, and for Bill himself. He’d heard the joking comments about Yardley owning nothing; the church bought every stitch of his very expensive clothing, every vehicle in his garages, every bottle of fine wine, and every meal. Bill shared in all of it, because Yardley, as he often said with a chuckle, was generous with other people’s money. The casual assumption they were entitled to the lion’s share of “God’s seed money” didn’t sit well with Bill. Still, he was pleased to be part of something so big, so noteworthy.

When the sitcom died in the late nineties, he’d spent a decade trying to duplicate the biggest success of his career. His beloved character had been like a member of the family, people said. Uncle Bill could be wise, he could be irritating, but he’d always been loving, like a real uncle. But Bill had been the victim of his own success. Casting directors said it was difficult to break the actor Dennis Parks out of the Uncle Bill shell he’d created. Though some character actors successfully transitioned to new roles, his character was too memorable, too lovable. Aside from a few jobs where he simply recreated the same persona, Parks had been finished in Hollywood before the millennium changed.

Then something wonderful happened. Bill met Yardley Niven at a basketball game, and they’d started talking. Niven was on the way up, having recently snagged a spot on one of the all-religious cable channels. He was putting together a team to entertain and edify believers, and he understood the show-business aspects of religion for the masses. He’d already signed a couple of successful gospel singers and located an open-air venue in California that looked great on television. He’d been looking for a face familiar to older audiences, a trusted sidekick to provide authenticity for a charismatic but unknown preacher.

Suddenly Uncle Bill was back. By some oversight, his studio contract hadn’t excluded him from using the name for his own devices, so Dennis Parks disappeared completely into the character he’d played for years, a little older, a little wiser, and eager to do good in the world. If Uncle Bill was in favor of Niven’s overseas missions, many who’d seen his face every week for twelve years felt it must be all right—no, better than all right. It was something they wanted to support.

“Excuse me.”

He turned to find an elderly woman at his elbow, leaning heavily on a three-footed cane. She wore a shapeless dress, support stockings with black lace-up shoes, and an enormous straw hat that hid her face until she looked directly up at him. Despite the shade the hat provided, she wore the kind of wrap-around sunglasses that fit over regular eyeglasses. Her closeness brought an odor that reminded him of long-ago locker rooms and strained tendons—Cream-something.

Putting on his automatic smile Bill said, “Yes?”

“I wanted to let you know you’re the best part of the Deep and Wide Worship Hour.”

“Well, thank you, but Pastor Niven does the real work.”

“But you’re his strong right arm, like he said.” She cleared her throat. “Would you sign my bulletin?”

Bill never tired of being asked for autographs. “Of course.”

The old woman leaned an elbow on the cane and began rummaging in her purse. “It’s right here.” A few seconds later she said, “I know I put it—I wanted to ask you but I was afraid. Then I said to myself, ‘Bernice, you might never get another chance.’” As she spoke, she continued to dig through the bag. The image of a gerbil hunting through wood shavings came to Bill’s mind.

“I can get you another one.”

She looked near to tears. “But I wrote down what you said about the children in Haiti and how they have toys now and can go to school.” Giving up on her purse, she glanced around. “Maybe it’s on my chair.” Her face cleared. “I’ll bet I laid it down to find my sunglasses and forgot to pick it up.” She put a hand on his arm. “Will you come with me? I know exactly where I was sitting, back there in the corner.”

Bill walked with her, matching his pace to her slow gait. She leaned heavily on his arm, keeping up a running patter on the way about how she’d driven up from a town to the south to hear Pastor Niven speak. “You’re the main attraction as far as I’m concerned,” she said coquettishly. “I always thought Uncle Bill was so handsome on TV, but you’re better looking in person. And you haven’t aged a bit.”

In the far corner of the tent, she stopped. “It isn’t here. I know I left it—” She pointed outside the tent, where a sheet of folded paper lay on the ground next to an equipment van with its sliding door yawning open. “Oh no! It’s blowing away.”

“I’ll get it,” he offered.

The woman smiled up at him. “You’re so sweet!”

Bill walked toward the van. When he bent to pick up the paper, something stung his neck. It was the last time things made sense for quite a while.

***

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As Em pulled herself into the passenger seat of the rented van with a grunt of effort, Robin looked at the limp figure Cam had dragged into the cargo area. “Are you sure he’ll be all right?”

“He’ll be fine.” Em settled her cane between her seat and the door. “The dose is pre-loaded and the syringe dispenses automatically. I told you a million times, any amateur can do it.”

“Further proof the world really is a scary place.” Robin concentrated on breathing normally. No emotion. Just do the job you came to do. Turning onto the street and entering traffic, she followed the GPS commands, doing her best to ignore the fact that she’d taken another step in a direction she didn’t want to go. Even Mark hadn’t stooped to drugging his victims. She had now surpassed her father’s iniquity.

When Em proposed drugging Uncle Bill, Robin had argued against it, citing the possibility of allergic reaction or a heart attack. Em insisted they—and Robin didn’t want to know who “they” were—had come a long way with such things. “He’ll have a slight headache when he wakes up. Otherwise it’ll be like a pleasant nap.” In the end, Robin had given in. For their plan to work, Bill had to be unconscious for several hours.

Robin soon wished it were she who’d been rendered unconscious. She was a nervous wreck from the moment Bill fell into Cam’s arms until she delivered him to what she hoped would be an eye-opening experience. First they drove to a small airport where Hua had arranged for a pilot to fly them to their destination in secret. She had invented an elaborate story about taking her sick father, a former missionary, back to the place where he could die among the people he’d served. The pilot didn’t believe it for a minute, but he didn’t care, either. Accepting half the money he’d been promised (Hua would provide the other half when they returned safely), he ushered them to a small plane that was literally held together with baling wire in places.

They waited until deep night before taking off. Though Robin understood why, it made the whole thing scarier. Did the pilot have adequate guidance equipment? Would the landing site be well-lit? Observing his nonchalance as he started the engine and went through his preflight checklist, she knew better than to voice her concerns. No turning back now.

The plane sounded like a poorly-calibrated wind-up toy, and the ride was bumpy and noisy. The pilot amused himself by singing not-so-current popular songs. As he attempted a Miley Cyrus tune, Robin hoped they wouldn’t come in like—

Don’t think about that. Think about puppies in a basket and angel food cake..

Though it was dark, she imagined the water below them. Was it the Atlantic or the Caribbean? If the pilot screwed up, either body of water would easily swallow them. And the landing—where would he set down in this mountainous area? Reminding herself of Em’s advice, “Do your research and then trust the experts,” she closed her eyes and surrendered to the hum of the motors and the pilot’s occasionally correct interpretation of a lyric.

At sunrise they landed in a field that seemed dangerously short. Robin thought her teeth might shatter when the wheels touched the uneven ground, but for all his bad singing and larcenous motives, the pilot was good at his job. Leaving the engines running, he helped her get the “patient” into the wheelchair she’d brought along.

Humidity hit her like a slap with a wet towel as she stepped down the rough wooden ramp. The view around her was both breathtaking and terrifying. They were on a Haitian mountainside, green with low vegetation. No sign of civilization was visible: no houses, no people, and no vehicles.

Promising to return in four days, the man climbed into his plane, turned it around, and left Robin in a cloud of dust with her unconscious “father” slumped beside her. She had to force herself not to run after the plane, pleading to be returned to the land of bathrooms and Wendy’s. Telling herself it was too late for that, she took out the DEET she’d brought along and began applying it to herself and Uncle Bill, covering all exposed areas. She’d already violated the guy’s humanity; she wasn’t about to expose him to the Zika virus too.

After twenty minutes of feeling more alone than she’d ever felt in her life, Robin heard a vehicle approaching. Soon an antique Land Rover bounced across the clearing as a cheerful, sunbaked driver waved a greeting. He seemed to expect Robin’s still-unconscious companion. These people were part of the drug trade, Hua had admitted, low-level workers who broke the law in order to eat regularly.

The driver spoke no English. When he held out a hand, Robin gave him a second envelope Hua had provided. After a glance inside, he loaded Bill into the vehicle and put the wheelchair in the back. Bill groaned a little at the movement but didn’t wake. Gesturing at the front seat, the driver indicated Robin should ride there. He turned the Land Rover around, and they bounced toward a road that seemed to go straight up. On the way, Robin got out at what passed for the local inn. Her prisoner went on, heading for the surprise of his life.

***

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Uncle Bill awoke confused, and when he opened his eyes, nothing looked familiar. He lay on a pill-y, matted blanket in a room with no furniture, only rough shelving laden with woven bags and oversized tin cans. Beside him was a plate containing a slab of bread, some kind of fruit he didn’t recognize, and a cup of water. Since his mouth felt like old wood, Bill drank the water all at once. When it was gone, he realized that had been unwise. He had no idea where the stuff had come from. It might be poisoned, or at the very least, unsanitary.

He tried to stand, but his head wasn’t ready for that yet. The room tilted to one side, and he had to brace himself against the wall. The old woman who’d claimed she wanted his autograph had led him into a trap. Taking his wallet from his pocket, Bill saw that his money and ID were still there. This wasn’t a robbery. Then he checked his pocket. His phone was missing.

Was he being held for ransom? That was frightening, since Bill couldn’t think of anyone who might pay to get him back. Neither of his ex-wives for sure, nor his deadbeat son. His boss? After some consideration he decided Yardley would pay, if only for the publicity it would bring. He could almost hear a future sermon decrying those who’d kidnapped “our Uncle Bill” in order to impede the work of the Deep and Wide Church.

The place was quiet. Crawling to the door on hands and knees, Bill was relieved to find that it wasn’t locked. In fact, it had no latch at all. Peering out, he saw an empty hallway. Since his head was still spinning, he went no farther. Pressing his back against the wall, he rested his head on his knees. What had happened? Why had he been brought here?

When he thought he could trust his legs Bill stood up, using the door frame for support. His head ached, and his back was stiff from the hard dirt floor. Rubbing it, he looked out into a hallway. To his right an exterior door sat crookedly in its frame. Rot at the bottom allowed dirt and probably cold night air to penetrate. Turning the opposite way, he went down the hallway. Two large rooms a few feet down faced each other, both filled with cots that were closely spaced and precisely aligned. There was only one inhabitant at present, a child whose eyes were glazed with illness. His arm drooped over the side of the cot and grazed the floor. The cots were all child-sized, and each had a thin blanket pulled over it, some arranged neatly, some less so.

Beyond the bedrooms was a dining area with a kitchen at the back. Dead insects littered the floor, and live ones scurried away at his approach. Stacks of faded plastic bowls rested on a long counter, and a dented tin bucket held what looked like an equal number of spoons. The room smelled of something old and yeasty, but he saw nothing that looked like food.

A small room off the kitchen held two adult-sized beds, an assortment of clothing hung on wooden pegs, and a battered dresser with a pitcher and basin atop it. This room had a door that locked from the inside with a metal latch. The occupants could close themselves in and keep others out.

At the end of the hallway was a second exterior door, even more deteriorated than the other. Opening the loose, rusty handle, Bill leaned out to see a bare yard where two dozen children between three and seven years of age waited in line, silent and wary. On the only tree in sight, a rope swing hung suspended from the single branch sturdy enough to support it. The others watched as the boy who occupied the swing went back and forth, his thin legs pumping. A wide-hipped woman with a turned-down mouth glared at them and at one point spoke in a tone of warning. Though he understood none of the words, Bill deduced from the pantomime she acted out that if the children displeased her, she’d cut the swing down with her knife. There was nothing else in the yard that remotely resembled playground equipment.

Removed some distance from the building was an extended shed with a door hanging crookedly against its frame. When a child hurried inside and closed himself in with a sharp bang, Bill realized it was an outhouse. In his youth he’d heard of one-holers and two-holers. If his guess was accurate, this was a four-holer.

Voices at the front of the house made him turn and retrace his steps. In the hallway he met a second woman, thinner than the other but no happier-looking. She held the door open as a second group of children came inside. These kids were older, perhaps up to age fourteen, and they’d apparently put in a hard day’s work. Most stumbled along as if exhausted; all of them were sweaty and dirty. When the woman saw Bill, she spoke to the children, who trooped obediently into the dormitory rooms, boys to the right and girls to the left.

Approaching, the woman said something in a language Bill didn’t understand. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Do you speak English? English?” She merely glared at him.

He stepped outside, and the woman made no attempt to stop him. There was a dusty street, a couple of huts, and not much else. He had to get help, but where? Was he in Mexico? South America? Somewhere else? Wherever he was, he felt completely isolated.

Turning back to the woman he said, “Please. Get me out of here. Call my friends. They’ll pay you.”

One brow rose in disdain, and she rattled off several sentences, pointing sharply at the room where he’d been sleeping. He got the message. He was confined to quarters.

Sitting on the floor with his feet splayed in front of him, Bill ate the bread and fruit he’d ignored earlier. His stomach called loudly for more food, but no one came to offer anything.

With nothing to do and no one to talk to, the hours passed slowly. One child or another peeked in from time to time, some shyly, some looking mischievous. Most wore T-shirts of adult size, some so long that they looked like dresses. The older boys wore loose shorts and the girls had long skirts that were dirty and ragged around the bottom. Several times Bill tried to entice them to speak, but they glanced nervously down the hallway and disappeared.

The house again went silent, and he heard children’s voices outside. Leaving his room, he looked out the window to find they were clustered in small groups, some watching passers-by, some talking in low tones, and some inventing games that required no equipment. No one approached the swing, where the wide-hipped woman stood like a centurion, forbidding its use. In the kitchen the other woman directed several of the older children with sharp commands as they prepared the evening meal. She glanced at him and then pushed one girl and slapped another in an apparent attempt to make them hurry.

Bill went back to the room. Where was he? How did he get here? Why had someone, presumably the old woman, arranged it? None of those questions had answers he could fathom.

Much later a shy girl brought his dinner, the same three items he’d had earlier. It was hardly enough to keep a man alive, but from her manner he guessed it was the best these people had. Bill thanked her, accompanying his foreign words with gestures so she’d understand. The girl bowed her head in acknowledgement and went on her way.

He heard sounds in the dining area as the children came inside and ate. As soon as they finished, they were sent to the sleeping rooms. Bumps and scrapes sounded from there for a while. Then the sounds quieted, and the night took control.

***

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Three of the longest days Bill had ever experienced followed. He spent the first day hoping someone would come and explain what was going on. His stomach growled almost constantly in objection to his meager diet. His rear became numb from sitting on the hard-packed floor. If he left the building no one stopped him, but the half-dozen houses made of scraps of wood and metal were mostly deserted during the day. The few people he met going about their daily tasks smiled and nodded politely. None of them seemed curious about him. None of them spoke English.

On the morning of the second day, Bill started walking downhill, expecting at any moment to be stopped. Though a pack of half-starved dogs followed him hopefully, no one else paid much attention. A half-mile or so down a very rough road, he came to a coffee plantation set on the hillside. Hundreds of plants grew on both sides, their dark green, waxy leaves resembling small Christmas trees. Adult men and women pruned the plants with deft movements. The children from the orphanage gathered up the branches and took them away. This was where the people of the village spent their days.

Bill looked past the plantation, where the road descended even more steeply. Would someone stop him if he tried to continue down the mountainside? Could he manage the rocky descent without hurting himself? How far would he have to walk to get help? In the end, the steep path, the hot sun, the humidity, and self-doubt deterred him. At his age and with the extra forty pounds of fat he carried, it was best to stay where he was. No one had hurt or even bothered him. Aside from being hungry he wasn’t suffering, and he admitted, he was curious about all this. Who were these people, and why had he been brought to this ungodly place?

The children’s caregivers, who were more like guardians than givers of care, frowned whenever he showed his face. The girl who waited on him was sweet, but she answered his questions in her own language, speaking so softly he almost couldn’t hear her. It didn’t matter. He understood nothing of what she said anyway.

Having no other choice, Bill used an outhouse for the first time in his life. He was repulsed by the smell, leery of what might be crawling around in there, and surprised to find there were no partitions between seats. The holes were almost always occupied, so giggling boys sat on either side of him each morning. He was grateful the girls understood he didn’t want their company.

Sometime after noon on the third day, a man approached where Bill sat in a tiny spot of shade beside the front door. He looked like a character from an old movie, a caricature of the Hispanic sleazebag in a white suit no longer white. His hair was greasy and lay in clumps alongside his face, and a well-chewed toothpick hung from one corner of his mouth. None of that mattered when the man greeted him. “Good day, sir. I am Martìn.”

Though the accent was strong, Bill was thrilled to hear English. Rising, he brushed the dirt off his rear, though his clothes were by now past saving. “Thank goodness! I can’t even figure out what language these people are speaking.”

“Creole, sir. Many Haitians prefer it to French.”

So he was in Haiti. A shadow crossed Bill’s mind, but he pushed it away. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but I can pay. Just tell me how much it will take to get me home.”

The toothpick shifted to the other side. “You don’t like it here?”

“I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I have...work to get done.”

“The women. They have treated you well?”

“Fine.” He frowned. “There isn’t much here for those kids. Don’t they have school or something?”

His visitor huffed derisively. “Educating these children would be a waste of time and money, my friend. They are trash, collected from city streets after their parents abandon them.” He nodded toward the road. “Here they are taught meaningful work.”

“At the coffee plantation.”

Martìn nodded vigorously. “Work is good. Without it they will become troublemakers, you know?”

Bill shook his head. “The women aren’t exactly kind to them.”

“Here is not like the U.S.A.” He leaned closer, and Bill caught the stink of his suit. “Their job is not to fill their heads with words and numbers. We are preparing them for life.”

Though afraid to ask, Bill had to. “Who do you work for?”

“The Deep and Wide Church of Our Triumphant God,” Martìn said proudly. “We are one hundred percent supported by the congregation of Pastor Yardley Niven.”