Free The Vanishing by Bentley Little

editor to help Brian navigate the confusing waters of the newsroom the first few days— for no reason other than the fact that their desks were in close proximity—and Brian found that although they were an odd couple, he and the older man were surprisingly in sync in a lot of ways, especially journalistically. The two of them had hit it off almost instantly.
    ‘‘Hey, Wilson,’’ Brian said. ‘‘How goes it?’’
    ‘‘I have a small favor to ask of you. Would you mind accompanying me to my desk for a moment?’’
    ‘‘Sure. Hold on a sec.’’ Brian turned over the Xerox of his dad’s letter and minimized the gruesome picture on-screen—he didn’t want any of the Lowry reporters to think he was trying to horn in on their story—then followed Wilson to his workstation two cubicles away. The other man pushed his chair to the side, making space enough for both of them to stand in front of his neatly ordered desk.
    Wilson pushed the speaker button on his phone console and pressed a series of numbers on the keypad. ‘‘Listen to this message I received on my machine.’’
    He pushed another button, and from the speaker Brian heard a deep voice intone in a slow, carefully modulated voice: ‘‘I have been fucking her for more than a day and my erection will not stop. Oh no, it will not stop.’’
    Wilson looked around, lowered his voice. ‘‘I think it’s Bill Devine, the CEO of Oklatex Oil.’’
    ‘‘What?’’
    The other reporter nodded. ‘‘I’m working on a story involving the merger with British Petroleum, and I’ve talked to him half a dozen times. I’m pretty sure it’s his voice.’’
    ‘‘When did you get this?’’
    ‘‘It was left last night around midnight. Eleven fifty-seven, to be exact.’’ He pressed the button again and they listened to the message once more.
    Brian looked at him, shaking his head. ‘‘That’s really weird.’’
    ‘‘To say the least.’’ Wilson paused. ‘‘Are you busy?’’
    ‘‘Not at the moment. Why?’’
    ‘‘I’m scheduled to interview Devine in an hour. At his office in Century City. Would you like to accompany me?’’
    ‘‘Sure.’’
    Wilson smiled. ‘‘To be honest, I’m afraid to go by myself. I’d take a photographer, but it’s a financial piece and Jimmy won’t let me have one. Your presence would be legitimate, however. You could write a sidebar, a feature on . . . on . . . well, you’ll figure something out. Let me talk to Jimmy and see if it’s all right.’’
    Wilson walked into the editor’s office while Brian stood there and waited. On top of the other reporter’s desk he could see, next to the computer monitor and behind an old-fashioned pencil holder filled with pens arranged by color, a framed photograph of Wilson’s family: a handsome older woman and a stunningly beautiful teenage girl. His eyes shifted to the phone console, and he thought about the voice mail he’d heard.
    I have been fucking her for more than a day and my erection will not stop. Oh no, it will not stop.
    It was the robotic, mechanistic delivery of the words that seemed so chilling. Wilson was right: ‘‘Weird’’ didn’t cover it. The more he considered the message and its improbable source, the more Brian realized how completely insane the whole thing was.
    Wilson emerged from the editor’s office smiling. ‘‘You are doing a piece on the effect of the merger on Bill Devine’s philanthropic efforts in LA.’’ He held up a hand. ‘‘It’s reaching, I know, so let us make haste and leave before Jimmy changes his mind.’’
    They took Wilson’s car, a two-year-old white Cadillac sedan, and on the way he filled Brian in on the details of the BP merger and his impressions of the man himself. Wilson had met with Devine twice previously and had spoken to him on the phone half a dozen times more in the service of different stories over the past few years, and his image of the CEO was of a fiercely intelligent,