Masquerade

17

And so he did. For a while.

It did not take the Reverend David Benbow long to start the arduous journey back to a morally upstanding life. The very week of his confession and purpose of amendment before the Reverend Alfred Massey, David kept his date with Pamela Richardson. She did not answer the door clad only in mesh stockings and apron as propounded by The Total Woman. But it was almost that skimpy.

Pamela had no way of knowing this was to be a momentous evening during which her life was to be disrupted and her heart broken.

David had steeled himself against his own weakness and her desirability. She sensed something was amiss when he did not return her kiss. To arouse him, though he regularly needed little seduction, she had worn very little and what there was was easily removable. Somehow, as he seated himself in a distant, solitary chair and projected his awkwardness, she felt cheap and indecent.

He told her nothing she did not know. That their relationship was unfair to Martha. That their relationship was sinful in the eyes of God and the Church. That their relationship threatened his standing in the Church. She knew it was coming before he got to the part where he stated firmly that their relationship, for all of these reasons and more, must end.

She said nothing. There was nothing to say. She would not bring herself to beg or plead. The few tears that tracked erratically down her cheeks were the overflow of those she could not withhold. It was an embarrassing scene for him, a humiliating moment for her. After his tortured explanation of his inescapable decision, and with no spoken response from her, David left her apartment for, he felt sure, the final time.

It did not take the Reverend David Benbow long to rekindle his affair with Pamela Richardson.

There had been no change in David’s relationship with his wife. How could there have been? As far as Martha was concerned, all had been well, all was well, all would be well. She was unaware of any failure in their marriage. There was no way she could know her husband had found a gap and filled it with Pamela Richardson. Martha charged ahead as a realtor. The more successful she became the more involved she became and the more time she devoted to work.

David tried to fill the empty spaces with work and various professional involvements. Much of it was merely busy “make work.” He daydreamed a lot, and all of it involved Pamela. There were so many memories-every one of them pleasant if not rapturous.

Life during the separation was if anything, worse for Pamela. She did not even have the temporary relief of other involvements to distract her. So she was more than primed when the phone call came.

It was mid-evening Tuesday. Martha had not been home for supper. She’d phoned and told David not to expect her until quite late. They had planned to spend this evening together. They had scheduled dinner followed by a relaxing evening of leisurely foreplay and lovemaking.

It was the fact that the evening had been programmed. David had an easy time convincing himself of that. It wasn’t that he was weak. God knew how good he’d been, how hard he’d tried. But Lord love a duck, she could at least honor their appointment for an amorous evening.

David sat by the phone, staring at it until he was nearly mesmerized. At last he picked up the receiver and dialed the familiar number.

“Hello?” Her tone was tentative.

“Lonesome?” he asked gently.

Instantly, she melted. “For months,” she said.

“I’ll be right over.”

“I’ll be ready.”

So it began again. The same clandestine air; the same doubts, worry, concern, and above all, the same guilt.

David could not bring himself to return to Alf Massey. It would be too reproachable. He had promised, as part of the rite of reconciliation, save the mark. In time, David made an appointment to see a priest whom he had never met in a neighboring city, but whose prolific sectarian writings David had long admired.

The two spent a pleasant evening together at the elder clergyman’s home, talking mostly about their separate and different writing careers. Finally, David was forced to speak of the real reason he had come. He told the whole story, including his evening with Alf Massey, the ensuing virtuous interlude, and his recidivism.

“So,” the priest said, “what do you plan on doing about this situation?”

“I’ve come to seek your advice.” David leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intense. “This is not merely an immoral liaison. I have grown through my relationship with this wonderful woman. I am far more understanding with my parishioners, not so quick to condemn as I once was. I think it may be good for clergymen-at least some of us-to be in the state of sin, or what an unenlightened Church might consider the state of sin. Otherwise we too easily become sanctimonious bastards, condemning others whose temptations and failures we cannot understand.

“Besides,” David continued, “my love for and with Diane”-he would not use her real name-“has made me a better writer. . added a dimension to my work that was not there before.

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think,” the priest said, “you are trying to theologize a swollen prick.”

That pretty well did it. What could anyone say to so insensitive a clergyman? For the first time, David began to reevaluate the man’s religious writings. This time around David found the writings, formerly so admired, shallow and lacking in Scriptural depth.

Enough of advice. David was forced to admit that he was avant-garde, well ahead of his time. He thought of all the deadly dull sermons he’d heard preached by ninnies who were not conscious of any deliberate sin. Clergypersons who spoke down to the poor miserable sinners cowering in their pews. Better for those shepherds if they had sinned. Better for their congregations, their parishioners.

Well, he was sinning with considerable gusto. Not only was he sinning against Martha and with Pamela, he was lying more and more outrageously to Martha. And, he was convinced, he was becoming better. Not morally better, perhaps. But, somehow, curiously, he was becoming a better priest. More patient with those who claimed his time. More receptive to those who confessed their sins in shame and embarrassment. He was rather proud of that.

Nor was that all. He was becoming a better writer. More knowledgeable about the baser passions that motivated the Common Man.

It showed in the publisher’s appreciation of his third and latest manuscript. It showed in the book’s reviews and sales. This was only David’s third novel. Yet through it he moved up from bare survival to respectable sales.

As is customary, his publisher sent him copies of reviews of his book clipped from various newspapers and periodicals. His favorite came from a Boston paper. Among other things, the reviewer wrote: “Benbow exhibits remarkable insight into the mind of a woman bent on seduction. Inviting her victim into her web of intrigue, then suddenly turning from pursuer to pursued, from active manipulation to passive submission, Sarah proves herself the most effective seductress since Salome.

“Father Benbow must have heard some interesting confessions over the years!”

David had laughed as he showed that review and many others to Pamela. She, in turn, appreciated the pleasure of her anonymous debut in literature.

The ointment was not without its fly, however. David noticed a subtle change in the way some of his parishioners related to him, even some of the clergy as well. All were well aware of his literary accomplishments, of course. Most were proud of the honors bestowed on their pastor and/or friend. That wasn’t the problem.

Actually, David could not pinpoint the problem. It had something to do with his ability to describe illicit affairs with such evident authenticity. The same observation as that made in his favorite review. How could he know so much? Did he actually possess so vivid an imagination that he could transcend inexperience? Was he drawing from professional confidences? If so, was he careful to mask them sufficiently to avoid revealing real identities? Or could he possibly be projecting his own experiences? And if that were true, was he not chancing deposition?

To further complicate matters, David could not be certain he was not imagining it all. Guilty consciences frequently played tricks like this. David knew that to be so. And he was guilty, about that there was no doubt whatever. But it was this very guilt that was making him a better man, a better priest, a better writer.

In the end he leaned toward the theory that it was all in his mind. This was by far the more comfortable supposition. To speculate otherwise was to admit that his affair with Pamela threatened to bring him down, write finis to his ecclesial profession, his literary career, his marriage, to a most satisfying life that was getting better by the day.

Nonetheless, doubts lingered, sometimes haunting, his waking hours, occasionally invading his dreams.

Enter Klaus Krieg.

At first blush, David was flattered. It is one thing-and a marvelously wonderful thing-to be accepted by a publishing house. It is an even more heady experience to be sought after by a publishing house. And, beyond doubt, P.G. Press wanted him. Nor was P.G. Enterprises unknown to David.

He had watched the televised Reverend Krieg more than once. It was a professional interest. While David had no inclination to indulge in an Elmer Gantry-like fire-and-brimstone ministry, he was fascinated by Krieg’s ability to manipulate a diversified crowd.

David might never have paid any attention to the publications arm of P.G. Enterprises had it not been for that television ministry. As it was, he was barely aware that Krieg published books of a religious nature. Occasionally he’d seen some in bookstores and markets, but the garish covers had discouraged investigation.

When the contractual overture came from Krieg, David began looking into P.G. Press. He had been around long enough and had enough worldly experience to know about the nonexistence of the free lunch.

Among his upwardly mobile parishioners were representatives of many diverse professions. One in particular was a sales representative for a large commercial publishing house. David talked with this gentleman about the P.G. offer and was strongly advised against signing the contract. So he sent Krieg a brief, cordial, one-man-of-religion-to-another letter declining the offer without stating any reason for the rejection.

And that, David thought, was that.

But it wasn’t.

Evidently Krieg had some sort of inability to take no for an answer. Periodically, he would write David, always finding a fresh angle on which to hang another invitation. David began deliberately postponing a response to such proposals, hoping Krieg would get discouraged or resigned, or lose interest, or experience any reaction that would cause him to cease and desist. But nothing seemed to work.

Things got even more intense after the publication of David’s third and latest book nearly a year ago. Father Emrich and the Reluctant Convert received nearly unanimous favorable criticism in the periodicals that deigned to review it. And, though sales were only slightly better than that of his previous work, that was satisfactory.

David’s continued success triggered an increased effort by Krieg to sign him. But oddly, the Reverend’s communications no longer called for a formal reply. In fact, Krieg’s missives now consisted almost entirely of propaganda highlighting P.G. Press’s achievements. Krieg made quite clear what manner of success he envisioned for David once he were to enter the fold. His overtures required no reply; they merely overflowed with information about the rosy future beckoning David.

Under the weight of all this literature, and freed of the necessity to respond, David read all or most of what he was sent from P.G. Press, then filed it all in the wastebasket. But he had to wonder where all this was leading.

The other shoe had dropped some six months ago with an invitation to the Reverend and Mrs. Benbow to visit P.G. Enterprises just outside Mission Viejo, California.

Martha said it was quite out of the question for her. She had several major closings scheduled, and trusted no one else to handle them. But she strongly encouraged him to go. It would be a nice break for him; he needed one; no sense waiting for her to have time for a vacation, not with sales doing so well.

Finally, with many misgivings, David accepted the invitation. All that Martha said was true. He needed the refreshment of some time off and away. And in truth, he was curious to see for himself the complex institution that was P.G. Enterprises. The compelling argument he gave himself was that the visit might end Krieg’s full-court press to sign him to a contract. David had said no to the proposition in every possible way but face to face.

It was at the end of March-not a bad time to trade Illinois weather for that of Southern California-that David Benbow visited P.G. Enterprises, all expenses paid.

On arrival, David was given a complete tour of the vast complex. He was properly impressed. He had no reason to doubt Krieg’s characterization of the television studios as state-of-the-art. The cathedral itself was a gigantic atrium that ascended endlessly toward heaven.

During that extended weekend, David was ushered about by interchangeably bright, mostly blond, young men and women, who seemed never to stop smiling. His quarters were flawless. His every want was seen to, in many cases anticipated.

Friday and Saturday evenings he dined with the Reverend and Mrs. Klaus Krieg. Mrs. Krieg-“just call me Betsy”-seemed to dote on every word that fell from anyone’s lips, but especially those of her husband. As far as David could determine, Betsy had no original thoughts-nor, for that matter, many thoughts at all. But she was gorgeous and well kept. David quickly learned to enjoy looking at her and to expect nothing of substance from her. Betsy and her husband appeared to get on wonderfully. He treasured her and she appreciated him and all he provided for her.

Sunday night, David’s final evening in this lavish complex, was memorable. He sensed it would be even before he learned he would be dining alone with the Reverend Krieg.

If everything, particularly the meals, during these three days had been without flaw, tonight’s dinner was as close to perfection as one could come this side of heaven. It seemed that Krieg had somehow researched Benbow’s eating habits. Nearly all David’s favorites were served: vichyssoise, Caesar salad, lamb (medium-rare), new red potatoes, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, red fruit gelatin, double chocolate cake.

The preludial white wine gave way to a fine red with the meat. Coffee was served, and a bottle of cognac placed on the table.

Krieg lit a cigar and contentedly exhaled a thick cloud of aromatic smoke. As far as Benbow was able to tell, Krieg smoked cigars at every opportunity except when someone present would be offended. Although he was not a smoker, David enjoyed the aroma of both pipe and cigar. Krieg apparently knew that. Not once did he ask David; somehow he knew.

Krieg seemed to examine the cigar as he spoke. “Have you enjoyed the weekend?”

David smiled. “That has to be a rhetorical question.”

Krieg returned the smile. “Good, good. I was hoping it would be restful. It pays to get away from the grind from time to time.”

“How about yourself, Klaus?” They had been on a first-name basis from the moment David arrived. He knew some referred to Krieg as “Blitz” but this privilege of so addressing him had not been extended.

“Me?”

“Yes, there’s no sign that you ever take a break.”

“This. .” Krieg’s expansive gesture seemed to encompass the entire P.G. kingdom, “. . this is my vacation. It’s all I wanted. All I ever aimed for.”

If this is the whole ball of wax, David thought; if this is everything you want, why have you been bugging me to work for you? But, to remain the gracious visitor, he said only, “Well, it does seem to have just about everything a man could want.” He drained his coffee cup.

“More?” Krieg leaned toward the coffee pot.

“No, that’s plenty. What a marvelous dinner!”

“Yes, it was good, wasn’t it?” Without asking, Krieg filled the bottom curve of two snifters with cognac and offered one to Benbow. “Come. .”Krieg stood. “Let’s go to the gallery.”

Taking their glasses with them, the two moved out onto an arcaded balcony three stories above the grounds. P.G. Enterprises was built on elevated terrain. From this vantage, they could easily view the countryside. The evening lights of Mission Viejo, largely residential, were beginning to go on.

It was a cool, pleasant evening; the view was tranquil, a perfect dinner was being serenely digested; the cognac generated an agreeable burning sensation in his throat. “God’s in His heaven; all’s right with the world,” came to mind. But somehow, God seemed to have very little to do with any of this. Strange; the place was named for Him. P.G.: Praise God. Ostensibly, God’s work was being done here. The two standing on this balcony were men of God. But there was no denying David’s conviction that God was at best a secondary figure in P.G. Enterprises.

After a prolonged silence, Krieg spoke. “It’s not the panorama of Chicago-your country-or for that matter the hills of San Francisco, or the skyline of New York, but it is restful, peaceful. . don’t you think?”

Benbow nodded wordlessly.

“You know, David,” Krieg went on, “there is one thing that hasn’t been mentioned once during your stay here.”

Benbow very well knew what had been missing: the point of it all-his signing a contract to write for P.G. Press. However, he kept silent.

“This is a beautiful site,” Krieg went on, “in a beautiful corner of the world, where the weather is always beautiful. Don’t you feel it, David? Isn’t this a bit of heaven on earth?”

Benbow gave this a few moments’ thought, then said, “I’d have to agree: It’s all you say it is.”

“Then you can understand why we want to share it with everyone we can. It’s like wanting every human soul to be admitted to the eternal presence of God in that heavenly land where there are many mansions.”

Benbow recognized the familiar tone that he’d heard so often while watching the messianic presence of the Reverend Klaus Krieg on television. Does he turn himself on, David wondered. Is it a self-fulfilling wish? “Wait a minute, Klaus. I thought we were only indulging in figures of speech. This place may be ‘a bit of heaven on earth’ metaphorically, but it’s not literally heaven. We’ve got to go some before we get there. And I’m confident that the real heaven will be beyond the wildest dreams of even P.G. Enterprises.”

Krieg guffawed. “Of course, David. . of course. You gotta pardon an old war-horse who’s never quite left tent revival meetings behind him. Bit of an exaggeration there, I’m afraid.

“But seriously, you know, if you were to become a member of the team, so to speak, this would be a second home to you. We’d put it right in the contract.” His expansive gesture included everything within the horizon, the greensward, the sky, Mission Viejo with its twinkling fairytale lights and superb climate. “All of this, David-all of this would be yours.” Pause. “Praise God!”

Krieg’s words struck a resounding chord in Benbow’s memory. Didn’t he know, David wondered; wasn’t he aware of what he’d just said? It was right out of the Synoptic Gospels. The classic scene of the devil tempting Jesus. David had used the text so often he knew it verbatim: “Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; and saith unto him, ‘All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.’”

The parallel was so striking, at least to David, that he thought it incredible that it might not have occurred to Krieg. Krieg promising him all of Mission Viejo and a slice of P.G. Enterprises if David would fall off his high horse and sign the blasted contract. He felt like borrowing the words of Scripture: “Get thee hence, Satan: for it is written, ‘Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve.’”

Benbow regarded Krieg intently. Apparently, he was oblivious to the similarity of his statement to that famous passage of the Gospel. Still, David harbored doubts. Krieg, after all, was a preacher. Who should be more familiar with Scripture? Did he have some sort of defense mechanism that blocked any comparison between him and Satan? David thought the latter supposition more probable.

Neither of them had spoken for nearly five minutes. While David pondered this singular proposition, Krieg appeared simply to be enjoying the evening: the food, the drink, the weather; the comfort and security of his P.G. empire.

“Well?” Krieg said at length.

David responded with a wordless, quizzical look.

“See here, David,” Krieg said, “P.G. Press has been romancin’ you for quite a spell now. You had to know that’s what this weekend was all about. We want you. I want you. When you gonna sign that contract?”

David’s quizzical look turned to one of wonderment. “But Klaus, I’ve given you my answer-many times more than once.”

“You haven’t given the right answer yet.”

“It’s the only answer I’ve got.”

“You got somethin’ against money, wealth?”

“Of course not, Klaus. I’m a priest. I know what it is to stretch a meager salary. But we’re doing all right now, between Martha’s income and my salary. . and, of course, the books.”

“You could make more with me, a lot more.”

“Maybe”-a noticeably more resolute tone crept in-“maybe not. Maybe I would not be able to deliver what you would demand of me.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Advice from a friend.”

“Sales reps don’t know everything there is to know about the publishing business. They’re just out there beatin’ the pavement and talkin’ to bookstore owners and the chains.”

“How did you-?” David didn’t complete the question. He wouldn’t have said anything if he hadn’t been so startled: How did Krieg know the advice came from a sales representative in his parish?

Quickly, David recovered. “Look, Klaus, I happen to believe the advice, and I respect the person who gave it to me. I simply don’t want to chance signing with you. If you want me to say I am flattered you want me so badly, I’ll gladly say it. Just about any author would be pleased, complimented beyond measure, to be courted as perseveringly as you have me, especially with this lavish weekend. But it doesn’t matter what you say, Klaus; my answer is no.”

“It might matter what I say.”

“What do you mean?”

Krieg swirled the last sip of cognac around the bottom of the snifter. “There’s Pam.”

“What!”

“Pamela Richardson.”

Her full name! God! How did he know? How did he know what food was David’s favorite? How did he know who had given him the advice to steer clear of P.G. Press? How did he know about Pam? How in hell did he know!

“Right about now, you’re probably wondering how I know.”

Was he clairvoyant?

“Now look, David, when I want something I get it. It’s happened just about all my life. ’Course I don’t get a fix on just anything. I make sure I really want it ’fore I go after it. But, then, when I decide this is what I want, why I just go out and get it.”

Impossible! No one can do that, get whatever he wants. On second thought, he’d have to amend that: No one he knew could do that. But then he didn’t intimately know anyone in Krieg’s income bracket. Oh, there were his wealthy relatives, of course. But he hadn’t had any contact with them in years. Maybe it was true; maybe if money was no obejct, maybe you could get whatever you wanted.

But Krieg was not going to get David Benbow by default. Maybe there was a bluff to call somewhere here.

“Pamela Richardson,” David said. “Someone I’m supposed to know?”

Krieg burst out laughing. “I’d say so-even in the Biblical sense. You’ve had carnal knowledge of her lots and lots of times.” He took a black notepad from his jacket pocket and began leafing through it. “Would you like some dates?”

Could he still be bluffing?

“So, you have dates in a notebook. That means nothing. It’s no more than your word against mine.”

From the corner of the balcony railing, Krieg picked up a large manila envelope. It had been there all the while, but David hadn’t noticed it.

Krieg removed the envelope’s contents and fingered through a series of 8? 10 glossy photos. He handed them to David, who looked at them one by one. They were black-and-white shots of him and Pam-almost everywhere: walking arm-in-arm down a tree-lined street, picnicking on the grass of a public park, dining in a restaurant. All very innocuous-yet pictures of almost every time in recent memory that they had chanced being together publicly. He had expected the stereotypical sleazy bedroom shots. He was greatly relieved.

“So? I have been in the company of a young lady a few times. Is there any law against that? God or man’s?”

“David, David. .” Krieg shook his head. “You must have caught on by this time. C’mon, you’re a smart kid. I know more about you than anyone-your mother, your wife, your mistress, anybody. I just showed you the tip of the iceberg. I thought you’d be impressed that I knew who touted you out of signing my contract. Then there’s knowing every blessed thing you like to eat, that you don’t mind cigar smoke-pipes, for that matter-the name of your mistress. Weren’t those fine, clear shots of you and Pamela?

“We could go on, David, but I wanted to spare you the tapped phone conversations, the tapes of all those amorous affairs that took place in her apartment-we erased the small talk, gossip, and things like that, and concentrated on the sexy sounds and sweet nothings. Do you really want me to trot out all that. . really?”

David slumped, figuratively and literally. He had to admit that it was feasible that Krieg, immorally and technically, had procured all he claimed to. Benbow had never been so embarrassed. Not even as a child. Someone had shredded his privacy and recorded his most secret words and intimate actions. He gave hardly any thought to begging Krieg for mercy. The man had made it crystal clear that he got what he wanted. And he wanted David.

Shame gave way to an intense anger. “Klaus, this is blackmail!”

Krieg smiled ruefully and shrugged.

“It’s blackmail!” David repeated. “And you, a Christian minister! Have you no shame!”

“Me? I didn’t sneak around to a young lady’s apartment-a vulnerable young lady. .”

Vulnerable. It was the word used by the Reverend Massey that had so affected Benbow. Had Krieg bugged that conversation too? By now, David would have put nothing past the man.

“I didn’t sneak around to a vulnerable young lady’s apartment,” Krieg repeated, “to seduce her and carry on an adulterous relationship after having been advised to break it off not once but twice! And you think I should be ashamed!”

“All right, all right,” David said. “I’ve sinned. I won’t excuse myself.

But I failed. I was weak. Your sin is coldly deliberate. Your sin is full of malice. And you won’t get away with it. How is it going to look for a minister of the Gospel to admit that he’s been no better than a peeping Tom? You’re going to degrade yourself. You may even destroy yourself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think so, Father Benbow. If you recall, it was a fellow minister who turned in Jimmy Swaggart, and he suffered no ill for it. But that isn’t part of my plan. You see, I have numerous friends in the fourth estate. There are ways of leaking information. Why, Father, I wouldn’t even be involved. Somebody else. And, far from destroying myself, I know for a certainty that the news media will be grateful. Indeed-grateful.”

David felt a strong urge to pitch Krieg off the balcony. The impulse was brief. Later, on reliving the scene, Benbow had to admit to himself that the real reason he hadn’t done it was that the fall probably wouldn’t have killed the bastard. David was deeply ashamed to realize that the very moral consideration of murder had had nothing to do with his holding back.

At this point, at least all the cards were on the table. David now knew clearly what the stakes were. And Krieg seemed to hold all the aces. Yet David was not quite ready to throw in his hand.

But first he had to buy some time.

Benbow did his best to introduce a tone of surrender, submission, entreaty to his voice, as he stated that this could, indeed, be an unrefusable offer, but that these revelations had come unexpectedly, that he’d need time to consider all the ramifications of signing with P.G.

Krieg countered that Benbow had had plenty of time-years-to weigh every possible consequence. This was decision time.

Benbow, affecting to try to be as reasonable as possible, acknowledged that Krieg was, of course, free to act now, spread the slander, and ruin Benbow’s careers, marriage, life. But, he said, it was clear Krieg had not gone to all that trouble and expense for the purpose of defamation of character, but rather as a most impressive bargaining chip, in order to force Benbow’s signing with P.G. Since Krieg had already waited years, as he himself had admitted, what was so difficult about giving him just a little more time? After all, Krieg wanted Benbow’s signature on a contract, not his head on a pike. The head was destined for hanging only if the signature was not forthcoming.

With some reluctance, yet with the acknowledgment that basically Benbow’s point was well taken, Krieg agreed to wait a bit longer. But, he warned, his patience had worn thin; an affirmative response had better damn well be forthcoming, or. .

Finally, in a pretense of some sort of conciliation, Krieg assured that the destruction of David’s reputation was the furthest thing from his intention. So there need be no fear of a premature revelation. On the other hand, David must know the consequences of an ultimate rejection of the contract. There could and should be no doubt that Krieg was ready and able to make public David’s secrets. To reckon otherwise would be to risk certain destruction.

The Reverend Father David Benbow returned to his rectory a sober and worried man. Martha detected the mood but could not pierce the curtain David had drawn about himself.

Martha was not the only one puzzled by David’s uncharacteristic transformation. Pamela had never seen her lover in such an unremittingly dark frame of mind. It affected their total relationship. They barely spoke, and on those occasions when they did, he would become lost in thought at any point in a conversation. She took special pains with dinners; he scarcely touched them.

And, as a unique event, he had become impotent, at least with respect to her. She had no means of knowing he remained sexually active with his wife.

Pamela was convinced by the evidence that overwhelmed her that her affair with David Benbow was over, presently and permanently. She scarcely paid attention to the words David used to tell her.

He knew what was wrong, of course. Krieg’s threat was so imminent and far-reaching that it exacerbated Benbow’s guilt. If it were not for his affair with Pamela, Krieg would have nothing, no hold on him whatever.

There was no way of eradicating the affair retroactively. No way, in the face of all Krieg’s evidence, that David could claim that it had never happened. It got so that every time he was in the presence of, or saw, Pamela his fatal folly was brought home to him ever more forcefully. She became the personification of his downfall. Not that he thought for a moment that the entire mess was Pam’s fault. No, the fault lay in David’s groin. But he could not amputate any of his organs. His sole recourse for any measure of personal peace was to end the affair and see Pam no more.

He did not take too kindly the fact that, after their breakup, she took up with several young men of promise, according to all reports. She seemed to be having a marvelous time while he wavered between helpless hatred for Krieg and the no-win situation of his dilemma. Should he sign and risk his career or refuse and risk his career? And what of his soul?

Like Professor Henry Higgins, he was indignant that his erstwhile protege was using the devices and maneuvers he’d taught her. Under his guidance she had grown from being an ugly duckling with a distracting and disconcerting nervous tic to become a Carmen-like seductress. In quick order, Pam narrowed the field, singling out a promising bank executive several years her junior. After a brief engagement, they were married-not by the Reverend David Benbow.

Her marriage threw David into an even deeper funk. It was as if his love affair had not only been pronounced dead; it had been entombed.

And for all of this he had Klaus Krieg to thank-overlooking, for the moment, his own culpability for initiating the affair with Pam. For a while, David had been so obsessed with Pam and her happiness in the face of his misery that he had virtually lost sight of Krieg’s ultimatum.

With Pam’s marriage and the ultimate end of their relationship, David recalled with horror that there was some sort of time limit to the ultimatum. Although he hadn’t set any specific date, Krieg had made it clear that David was running out of time.

However, with no recent contact from Krieg, David decided to let bad enough alone. Unless he were blessed by some unforeseen circumstance that would free him from Krieg’s clutches, Benbow would have to sign. It would take no more than a moment or two to sign the stupid contract. So why not wait until there was utterly no more room for maneuvering? Meanwhile, who could tell; something might happen.

Then the invitation arrived. In effect, it was a command performance from Krieg to attend a writers’ workshop at Marygrove College in Detroit.

The invitation was innocent enough. Not unlike many another invitation he’d received, as had other published authors. The difference was the small paragraph explaining the role of Krieg in this conference. It would be meaningless except to someone obligated to Krieg.

David knew. It was time. Unless. .

David’s attention focused on the other three proposed faculty members. He had heard of them. Two of them were first-time authors, but all had garnered good notices.

David studied their names. He had no way of knowing. But, supposing. . just supposing they were in the same or a similar boat as he. It was not inconceivable. Supposing all, or one or another, were being sought by Krieg for his stable. Supposing there was a kindred soul in that group. Could something be worked out? What? Strength in numbers? Together might they not be able to effect the “miracle” that would eliminate Krieg as their tormentor?

Contact with them would have to be discreetly handled.

He couldn’t write or call any of them now. Not without betraying his humiliating situation. Contact would have to be made in person-and even then only circumspectly.

He would have to wait until they had assembled at the college. He would consider it indicative if all the invited accepted. Difficult to think that all would have schedules that permitted attendance at the same workshop. If every one of them accepted and was present, that would indicate the possibility that they were united in a reluctant bond to Klaus Krieg.

Sound them out as judiciously as possible. Who could tell what might transpire? Maybe, just maybe, this dilemma might find a satisfactory conclusion. Maybe God would not have to intervene. Maybe they could do it themselves. Praise God!