Night Film(4)

I walked to the bookshelf in the corner, beside the photograph of me in Manaus with my arm around a hecatao river trader, looking irritatingly happy and tan—snapshot from a past life—and poured myself a scotch.

I’d bought six cases of the Macallan Cask Strength during my 2007 three-week road trip through Scotland. The trip had been taken at the inspired suggestion of my shrink, Dr. Weaver, after Cynthia had informed me that she and my nine-month-old daughter were leaving me for Bruce—a venture capitalist with whom she’d been having an affair.

It was just months after Cordova slapped me with the slander lawsuit. You’d think out of mercy Cynthia would have rationed the bad news, told me first that I traveled too much, then that she’d been unfaithful, then that she was madly in love, and finally, that they were each divorcing their respective spouses to be together. Instead, it all came on the same day—like a quiet coastal town already hit by famine, further hit by a mudslide, a tsunami, a meteorite, and, to top it all off, a little alien invasion.

But then, maybe it was better that way: Rather early in the chain of disasters, there was nothing left standing to destroy.

The purpose of my trip to Scotland had been to start anew, turn the page—get in touch with my heritage and hence myself, by visiting the locale where four generations of McGraths had been born and flourished: a tiny town in Moray, Scotland, called Fogwatt. I should have known simply from the name it’d be no Brigadoon. Dr. Weaver’s suggestion turned out to be akin to learning my ancestors had arisen from the criminally insane ward at Bellevue. Fogwatt comprised a few crooked white buildings clinging to a gray hill like a couple of teeth left in an old mouth. Women trudged through town with the hardened faces of those who’d survived a plague. Silent red fat men blistered every bar in town. I thought things were looking up when I’d ended up in bed with an attractive bartender named Maisie—until it occurred to me she could feasibly be my distant cousin. Just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, you realize you’re standing on another trapdoor.

I downed the scotch—instantly feeling a little more alive—poured another, and moved to the closet behind my desk.

It’d been at least a year since I’d ventured in there.

The door was jammed, and I had to force it open, kicking aside old sneakers and blueprints of the Amagansett beach house I’d considered buying Cynthia in an eleventh-hour attempt to “work things out.” The million-dollar marital Band-Aid, never a wise idea. I pried loose what was obstructing the door, a framed photo of Cynthia and me, taken when we were touring Brazil on a Ducati, searching for illegal gold mines, so in love, it was impossible to fathom a day it might not be the case. God, she was gorgeous. I chucked the picture aside, pushed back piles of National Geographics, and found what I was looking for—a cardboard box.

I pulled it out, hauled it over to my desk, and sat back in my chair, staring down at it.

The duct tape I’d sealed it with was unsticking.

Cordova.

The decision, five years ago, to take the man on as a subject had been accidental. I’d just come back from an exhausting six-week sojourn in Freetown, a Sierra Leone slum. At about three in the morning, wide awake, jet-lagged, I found myself clicking onto an article about Amy’s Light, the nonprofit dedicated to scouring the Internet for Cordova’s black tapes, buying them, and destroying them. A mother whose daughter had been brutally killed by a copycat murderer founded the organization. Like the central murder in Wait for Me Here, Hugh Thistleton had kidnapped her daughter, Amy, from a street corner, where she was waiting for her brother to return from a 7-Eleven, took her to an abandoned mill, and fed her through the machinery.

An organization dedicated to keep Cordova from infecting our youth, declared the website. This mandate I found to be poignant for its sheer impossibility—trying to rid the Internet of Cordova was like trying to rid the Amazon of insects. Yet I didn’t agree with it. As a journalist, freedom of speech and expression were cornerstones—principles so deeply embedded in America’s bedrock that to surrender even an inch would be our country’s undoing. I was also staunchly anticensorship—Cordova could no more be held responsible for Amy Andrews’s gruesome death than the beef industry for giving Americans fatal heart attacks. As much as some people would like to believe, for their own peace of mind, that the appearance of evil in this world had a clean cause, the truth was never that simple.

Until that night, I’d hardly given Cordova a second thought beyond enjoying (and getting creeped out by) some of his early films. Wondering about the motives of a reclusive director was not my professional aim or my specialty. I tackled stories with stakes, where life and death were on the line. The most hopeless of all hopeless causes was where my heart tended to go when on the lookout for a new subject.

Somehow, at some point that night, my heart got into it.

Maybe it was because Sam had been born just a few months before and, suddenly faced with fatherhood, I was more susceptible than usual to the idea of protecting this beautiful clean slate—protecting any child—from the destabilizing horrors that Cordova represented. Whatever the reason, the longer I clicked through the hundreds of Cordova blogs and fansites and anonymous message boards, many of the postings by kids as young as nine and ten—the more insistent my sense that something was wrong with Cordova.

In hindsight, the experience reminded me of an alcoholic South African reporter whose path I’d crossed at the Hilton in Nairobi when I was there in 2003 working on a story about the ivory trade. He was on his way to a remote village in the southwest where a Taita tribe, close to the Tanzanian border, was dying out and was considered walaani—cursed—because no child born there could live longer than eleven days. We’d met at the hotel bar and after commiserating over the fact that both of us had recently been carjacked (validating the city’s nickname, Nairobbery), the man told me he was thinking about missing his bus the following morning, abandoning the story altogether, because of what had befallen the three reporters who’d gone before him to the village. One had apparently gone mad, wandering the streets stuttering nonsense. Another had quit and a week later had hanged himself in a Mombasa hotel room. The third had vanished into thin air, abandoning his family and a post at the Italian newspaper Corriere della Sera.