Thurlow snorted. Norman said, “I’m sorry. I’ll look into it.”
“Norm, look, I know this day hasn’t produced yet, but let’s make it happen — right now, okay? Let’s get this tape filmed. How hard can it be just to hit Record? I’ll talk about the Helix; we’ll grow tenfold! Can’t you round up the crew and get us going here?”
But no. Norman looked like candle wax come down the shaft. He was melting, drooping.
“Norm, come on, cheer up, things will change once the ransom tape is out — you said so yourself. When have I ever let you down?” But the look on his face stayed put, and it was as if the specter of their history together scared out all the breathable air in the room.
“We just got word from the money,” he said, which was what he called Pyongyang. He pulled up a website, and there it was: a plaint from the North Koreans. Apparently, they appreciated how the Middle Eastern clubs communicated worldwide and, to similar effect, had usurped back-end control of websites unlikely to attract big notice. Today’s effort had been dumped in noise on the Birdhouse Network.
The message said they were not happy. They were concerned about the safety of their investment. They wanted reassurance that the Helix had not been imperiled by this hostage situation, and they wanted this reassurance in the form of words Thurlow was to speak on the ransom tape. They had instructed him to pay tribute to the most beloved leader Kim Jong-il but to do so in a way that would not expose their relations. By way of subtlety, Pyongyang had suggested he say, “In the tradition of the most beloved leader Kim Jong-il, and though I cannot speak with half as much wisdom as he, and though the DPRK is the most blessed and enlightened nation on earth, the ascendancy of which I cannot even hope to broach with what feeble ambitions are mine and my people’s, nonetheless, hello.”
Norman read over his shoulder.
“These people have some nerve,” Thurlow said.
“Maybe they just want what’s been promised them.”
“I promised to try to make them look good, that’s all. Everyone’s been promised something.”
“Great,” he said. “I’ll be sure to pass that on.”
Thurlow wanted to shoot him a look of such authority, it would crush the revolt in his heart. Except why bother? He noticed Norman’s Helix boutonniere was brass, not silver, only they had never ordered brass, so it was all clear. Clear like Vicki — one by one, down they went. Norman followed his eye—“You must be kidding”—and he wrested the pin from his lapel. He plunked it in Thurlow’s hand with the insolence of a kid surrendering his gum to the principal. Thurlow examined it with a magnifying glass he kept in the desk, and when he was satisfied the silver was just tarnished, the button was a button, he squirreled it away among other contraband, including a sunburst, a class ring, and an ivory cameo heirloom his new TC had cried about for an hour.
“What do you want me to write back?” Norman said. “Tell Pyongyang that everything is fine and not to worry.” “You should know a couple tanks just crossed the river. There’s kids giving the National Guard balloons and pie outside the stadium.”
“So much for the stealth of night,” Thurlow said.
“So much for everything,” Norman said back. He tossed a crumpled sheet of printer paper on the desk, which he’d obviously snatched from the garbage. It read:
If my wife comes here with Ida.
In exchange for the hostages, Ned, Bruce, Olgo, Anne-Janet, I request. I demand. The Helix requires.
On behalf of the Helix, I demand that for the release of the four detainees, Esme Haas and daughter Ida present themselves at my door for cookies and milk. Tea and cookies. Hot chocolate and pfeffernüsse, because what little girl can resist the spicy, chewy, finger-lickin’ euphoria of the German pepper cookie?
Christ fuck bring me my wife and daughter or I will kill myself. Or them. Or someone.
If my wife comes here with Ida.
In exchange for the hostages, Ned, Bruce, Olgo, Anne-Janet, I request. I demand. The Helix requires.
On behalf of the Helix, I demand that for the release of the four detainees, Esme Haas and daughter Ida present themselves at my door for cookies and milk. Tea and cookies. Hot chocolate and pfeffernüsse, because what little girl can resist the spicy, chewy, finger-lickin’ euphoria of the German pepper cookie?
Christ fuck bring me my wife and daughter or I will kill myself. Or them. Or someone.
Thurlow ironed the sheet with his palm. He summoned for calm — Will the calm in me please stand up? — and said, “Norman, why are you sifting through my trash?”
Norman shook his head. “It’s one thing to do this to me, but what about everyone else? They’re expecting something. Something great.”
“I wasn’t going to say all that on the tape, Norm. I was just messing around. You found it in the garbage, right? Where is your head?”
“Yeah? So what are you going to say?”
They gave each other the eye. When two people had been friends that long, the eye was murder. Thurlow decided to murder first and thought him the truth: Nobody wants to play the endgame of his life alone.
Norman leaned against the wall and murdered back: You are the collapse of all the hope I have ever had.
Thurlow said, “So you told the film crew to go home? No crew, no tape? Are we just supposed to walk out of here now, hands up?”
“There’s worse ideas.”
Thurlow didn’t even have to tell him to get out; Norman turned his back on him unbidden.
His study was locked, and his bedroom was the least solacing place on earth. He could get to a meditation parlor via one of the tunnels, but, with the encampment outside and the rigors of what was left to him of this day, he settled on his stepmother. She was not parent enough to reap from his flaws motive to hug him, but she might not curse his name, either.
The halls were quiet as he went to her quarters. He had hoped to find guards outside his parents’ door but was not surprised to find it unmanned. On the bright side, since there was nothing to keep Deborah from leaving, her being there was a gesture. She believed in him and wanted to help. That or, in her deafness and solipsism, she still had no idea what was going on. There were no windows on this side of the house, but there was still the noise of sirens and helicopters, and the special din of so many cameramen struggling for best sight line to the action. All part of what Thurlow imagined was a late stage in the day’s ratcheting into chaos.
He found her at the computer.
“What news?” he said, and by this he meant, What was up with his dad? She was accustomed to Wayne’s seizures, so he was not shocked to find her unruffled by his latest.
“I’m checking my Google,” she said.
Because Deborah did not understand the principle of the Internet, she did not understand how a search engine works. He found this charming but for the part where he’d told Dean to disconnect their cable line. All he needed was for her to be getting word of the siege from some blog or, God knows, IMing with the feds. Did the feds IM? There was something weird about that idea, hard to say what.
“You want to tell me about Dad?” He tried to lure her gaze from the computer screen to the mien of the worried son.
She closed the laptop.
He put his hand on hers. “He’s going to be all right, you know.”
“Of course he is. He’s in the bathroom. Tyrone’s getting a shower.”
Thurlow shook his head. He was beginning to despair of ever knowing again what went on in this house. When did his father get back? How did his father get in? Why wasn’t he told?
He found Wayne misting Tyrone with a bottle of Evian. He had stood the bird on the vanity and turned on the bubble show lights.