The New Elvis (22 page)

Ryan pulled two cards out of his wallet. “Seth found a DNA testing lab, and I was hoping you guys might provide samples to see of either of you are a match for me.”

“No problem,” Will said. “We’re great at giving samples, right, Dave?”

Dave was straight-faced. “I’m the best damn sample giver this country has ever seen.”

The funeral parlor Nancy chose for Wendall was near his old clinic, with plenty of parking for the hundreds of friends and acquaintances wishing to pay final respect. Logan flew in the morning of the wake and headed directly there from the airport via taxi. He got out, paid the driver, and stared at the white-columned, formidable building before he dared to enter.

He had missed saying good-bye to his uncle in person. Nancy said that Wendall was hanging in there, and she thought there was still time before she needed to pull Logan away from his job, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. Had she been in denial? Had she not been able to admit the end was so close at hand?

Logan spotted Nancy near his uncle’s casket in the field of floral offerings covering the wine-colored carpet. With her graceful neck and good posture, she looked like Grace Kelly in an outfit at odds with her personality. The black dress she wore was long with a high collar, long sleeves, and cuffs—a straitjacket confining her body but unable to stem the tide of her unwieldy grief.

Logan walked along the wall, wearing his rumpled suit for the third time that month, nodding at the men he recognized—Wendall’s golf buddies and poker pals who had been to the home. When he made it to Nancy, he lightly touched her linen sleeve. She turned and fell against him, a painful wail rising as she buried her face in his last clean dress shirt. He envied her the ability to let her feelings out. He felt numb and cold, in shock, going through the motions. Together, they stood over Wendall in his elegant, split-lid mahogany casket and gazed at him. He wore a silvery suit with a white dress shirt, opened at the collar. To Logan, he appeared gaunt, a wasted figure that couldn’t be the Uncle Coconuts who had played ball.
I do not like this thing called death. It erases everything as if it never happened, as if it were a dream
.

Nancy cupped Logan’s bent elbow and steered him to a hallway, away from the group of mourners. She found a bench and sat him down, but she remained standing perfectly still in her ghastly dress, a dress that wasn’t her at all, but neither did this day become her. She reached out to smooth the lapel on the rumpled suit she’d picked out with him so many years ago. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

Her voice was serious, quiet, intent. She had his complete attention.

“Your uncle said something right before he passed, something he wanted me to tell you. He said he knows that you know, and it’s OK, that sometimes rules need to be broken. And you have his permission to break this rule this one time. Because…” She struggled to recall Wendall’s exact phrasing, “these are special circumstances.”

Logan closed his eyes and remembered the night he met Ryan Wyatt at his uncle’s home in Vegas with incredible vividness. He remembered late that night, when he couldn’t sleep, when he crept downstairs, barefoot. He could still see the dim kitchen, illuminated only by the stove light, and he could see around the corner into the living room. He could still see Uncle Wendall burying a folder beneath old newspapers, and he could see how intent the good doctor was on hiding that paperwork and having its contents burned.

He recalled sneaking back upstairs, the floorboards silent, never betraying his footfalls as he climbed the sweeping staircase. He had tiptoed down the hallway and crawled back into bed, Elvis still playing on the stereo like he’d never left his room. But when Uncle Wendall stood by his open doorway and watched him feign sleep, Logan had to wonder if, for a split second, out of the corner of his eye, Uncle Wendall had seen him peer around the corner into the living room, knew he saw him bury the folder in the burn pile, and realized he would come back and uncover the truth.

He must have. Wendall had known all these years that his nephew, his boy, and, to the core of his being, his own child—for he had been there every step of Logan’s journey since the boy’s life had been destroyed—knew, and it was OK.

For once, the rules didn’t apply. Though only the shell of Uncle Wendell remained, his spirit already having moved on to bigger and brighter things, he knew, in parting, the greatest gift he could give his boy was the exceptional news that his hero, his comfort, the luminary who sang him to sleep at night, lived on in the form of a lad Logan’s own age named Ryan, and he knew that Logan would tell that young man that his father was The King. And it was OK.

The next three weeks saw three more contestants eliminated, leaving Ryan, Seth, and two women to vie for the
It Factor
crown. The more the judges complained that Ryan hadn’t discovered his own identity or found his niche in the music industry, the more people at home voted for him to stay in the competition.

On a night when most of the cast and crew were already asleep, Ryan had the overwhelming urge to talk to Bea, but she wasn’t answering her cell phone and wasn’t on her computer to answer his instant messages. Ryan would have called the house but didn’t want to wake her parents. It was well after midnight, and he and Seth had to be up early to choose which Beatles songs they’d sing on the next show.

Seth looked up from his laptop. “Don’t forget we have to tape ‘Going Home’ segments this week.”

“What’s that?”

“Come here. I’ll show you one from last year on YouTube.”

Ryan pulled his desk chair over beside Seth’s and sat.

Bethany Green, a contestant who looked like Betty Boop but talked like a trucker, entered a gymnasium filled with students screaming her name and waving banners. The high school principal declared that this would be Bethany Green Day forevermore, and the mayor stepped forward to give her a hug and an oversize key to the city. After a drive through the streets of Minneapolis, Bethany and her parents arrived at a modest white clapboard house with a sagging porch. Bethany gave a tour of her room, where she showed off her archery trophies, and then joined her parents on the porch, where three overstuffed, chintz-covered chairs had been placed so the three could chat and share fond memories of what Bethany was like as a child.

Ryan sighed. He did not look forward to going through that with his parents.

Seth was far from crestfallen by the prospect of returning to Austin, Texas, where his dad told him they had planned a big barbecue and parade in his honor.

“Hey, wait, I forgot to show you something.” Seth entered a web address, and a dozen thumbnails appeared alongside a Skype window.

Ryan sighed. “I didn’t get to chat with Bea today. For some reason, I really feel like I need to talk to her.”

“I know you miss her. Check this out.” Seth’s eyes darted around ‘til he located where the volume control for the Skype window was and pointed at the screen. “I’m already logged in.”

The handle SethSings87 appeared in a box below the Skype window, where people were chatting. The site was called The Sixth Realm.

“You pay for credits and get live readings with psychics. I was thinking maybe you could ask a medium who your dad is.”

Ryan sat up straighter. “Are these guys legit?”

“There are two thousand of them registered to give readings, and they’re all over the world. Of course, they’re not all logged on at the same time. And to answer your question, some are just card readers, and some have their thumbs up their ass, but there are a few who are spot on with some really amazing stuff.”

“Like what?”

“OK, well, there’s this medium named Redd Hansel. He’s on TV in the UK. I went into a private reading with him, and he described how my grandfather died, what he looked like, and some things about him no one would know.”

Ryan’s curiosity was piqued. “For instance?”

“My grandfather always liked to take out his wallet, pull out all his credit cards, and say, ‘Look how many I’ve got’. It was a totally lame thing to do, and we always laughed at him, but the point is, Redd said, ‘Your grandfather is showing me his wallet and taking out charge cards and stacking them on the table. There’s a whole pile of them. Does this mean anything to you?’ My jaw hit the floor, I’m telling you. That is not something many people do. And there was other stuff, too. Redd said, ‘I see tractors around him. Oh, a lot of tractors.’ My grandpa was a tractor dealer. How many of those do you know?”

Ryan was beginning to feel a sense of excitement. “OK, I’ll talk to this guy. Is he online now?”

Seth found Redd’s thumbnail, clicked on it, and the screen widened, showing Redd at his computer, drinking from a huge mug. His face was plump, and his eyes glittered from behind his round-framed glasses. His comb-over was sandy, and his smile was crooked. Ryan liked him at once.

In the conversation box, Seth typed
hello
.

“We can see him, but he can’t see us. We have to type our questions,” Seth explained.

Recognizing Seth’s user ID, Redd’s voice boomed through the speaker.

“Hi, Seth. How are you?”

Good
, Seth typed.
Is now a good time for a private?

“You bet.”

Seth clicked the on-screen button that said “private reading”.

“I’ve got twenty-nine dollars in credits,” he told Ryan. “That should be good for six or so minutes.”

He bent over the keyboard and began to type to Redd.
I’ve got a friend here who doesn’t know who his birth father is. Can your guides provide any information?

“What’s your friend’s name and date of birth?”

Ryan Wyatt
, Seth typed.

“October 3, 1988,” Ryan said, and Seth entered that, as well.

“I see a somewhat overweight gentleman with dark hair, and he’s showing me his hands. He’s wearing a lot of rings and looks a lot like Elvis Presley.”

We think his dad might have been an Elvis impersonator because his mom received sperm from a bank in Las Vegas
, Seth typed.

“Very possible,” Redd said. The man I see has a large ego and some might consider him pious at times, yet he can also be very generous and charming. He’s showing me a wardrobe full of jumpsuits. I definitely feel he’s an entertainer and that many know his name and he is considered successful. But there is darkness around him, and I’m seeing the symbol of a broken heart over his left shoulder. I usually see that when someone is divorced. There is also a sense of disconnection, a surreal feeling like he is not aware of his surroundings. I get that sometimes with drinkers.”

“His name,” Ryan whispered. “Can he tell us his name?”

Seth laughed. “You don’t need to be quiet.”

He typed the question Ryan asked.

Redd thought for a moment. “All I’m seeing is a flashing billboard with Elvis’s name in lights. His dad must have really loved The King.”

The Super Shuttle ride from LAX to Logan’s apartment was uneventful, but when he arrived, his door was broken, and his place was packed with detectives investigating a break-in that had occurred while he was in Vegas.

Marilyn and Tom stood where Logan’s bank of computers had been and watched a technician dust for prints.

“You won’t find anything,” Marilyn told them.

Logan tried to contain his rising panic. His vial of Elvis’s hair and his framed photo of his Siamese cat were no longer beneath his bedside lamp, which had been knocked over. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out his tablet, typed a note, and handed it to Tom.
What happened?

Tom ran a hand through his hair and frowned. “There was a break-in last night. How they knew you were out of town is anyone’s guess.”

A detective brushed by Logan and stopped. “How who knew?”

Marilyn exploded. “I told you. People at
Flash
want me dead!”

The third detective in Logan’s tiny apartment stepped forward. He had a pad out, and his nametag read “Det. Hume”. “People at
Flash
, you say? Anyone in particular?”

Marilyn couldn’t keep her voice down. “Cecil Bertrand, who’s probably taking orders from Alastair Neville, who’s disappointed I didn’t like to sleep with him whenever he flew in from England. You do know I was raped, beaten, and left for dead in a Venice motel room, right? They do tell you guys these things, right? Not that anyone was caught or charged, because you were probably bought off.”

Detective Hume looked at her like she was crazy and wrote something on his pad. Logan could see it from where he stood. He’d written “Bertrand” and
“Flash”
down in black ink at an angle, ignoring the blue rule-lines on the page.

Tom had his arm around Marilyn as he moved her to Logan’s bed and sat her down on the edge of the now-bare mattress. The blanket and sheet were in a pile on the floor, and the pillowcase had been removed from the pillow before it was slit, scattering white, snowy clumps of polyester fiberfill around the room.

Detective Hume looked at Logan. “This your place? How long were you gone?”

Logan held his hand out to Tom, who gave him back his iPad. He typed his answer while Hume looked at Tom, puzzled.

“He doesn’t talk,” Tom explained, turning to Marilyn. “And no one’s going to get you. Anywhere you need to go, I’ll be with you, and they do
not
want to mess with me.”

“What if there are four of them? An entire gang of guys with guns?”

Tom shook his head. Trying to reassure her was pointless, so he turned his thoughts to security. “I knew Logan’s door was flimsy. He should have had a better door. And better locks. And an alarm.”

Hume read Logan’s note aloud. “Gone overnight. Left yesterday morning. Uncle’s funeral in Vegas.” He handed the iPad back to Logan and wrote something down. The other detectives were done dusting for prints and taking photos. They joined Hume, and the three detectives stood there, looking cramped in the tight quarters.

Marilyn rose and took a step toward them. “Do you know a guy with the LAPD named Allan Griffin? He’s not with the CHP, but he chased me down while I was on the freeway and planted a tracking device on my car.”