True believer - Nicholas Sparks [4]
“Whatever,” Alvin said, dismissing the scolding.
Meanwhile, flickering on the screen behind Diane Sawyer and Jeremy were the final moments of Jeremy’s performance on the daytime television show, in which Jeremy had pretended to be a man grieving the boyhood death of his brother, a boy Clausen claimed to be channeling for Jeremy’s benefit.
“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