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have to die now?
You're Mike Wallace, and that means hard as nails. You're Mike Wallace and you've earned, perhaps justly, a reputation as a "killer" with a sure instinct for the jugular vein. People, famous people, look on you with dread and curiosity. You have publicly probed their secrets, throwing tact, manners and mercy to the winds, exposing — for the world to see — the throbbing nerve of the human soul. You're Mike Wallace, who gives no quarter and asks none ... but today, at the simple sound of a ringing telephone, your lips go dry and your strong hands begin to shake.
For you are waiting for news of your son.
It has been three weeks now since Peter disappeared, three weeks since he left the group of students with whom he had been touring Greece, to walk alone to the isolated mountain monastery. No one has heard from him since; the State Department has notified his mother, your first wife Norma, that he is missing.
At first, of course, you shrugged it off. Peter's a big boy, you thought proudly, weighs one-seventy, stands tall — he can take care of himself. Maybe he heard of a tennis match somewhere, you thought, laughing. He'd been chasing them all over Europe all summer.
But now, weeks have gone by, and you admit to yourself that it isn't like Pete to let everyone worry about him this way. You begin to wonder if perhaps the hepatitis he had last summer has struck again . . . you hope to God he's not sick in some little mountain village . . . you pray there'll be news before his mother worries herself sick.
And now the telephone is ringing and instead of leaping for it hopefully as you have for days, you hang back; for some reason you wait. As last you pick it up — and then understand why you were afraid.
A body has been found. . . . (Continued on page 77)