Chapter 20
Frank Curtis always did what he was told. As long as it was Greg Grom who told him what to do.
Frank Curtis had infinite respect and measureless affection for Grom. Every word President Grom uttered resonated with ageless wisdom. Every action Grom took was purposeful and correct. Doing Grom's bidding was so gratifying.
Not everybody understood that, including his best friend since college, Randall Switzer, who would say, "I don't get it. You used to hate that guy, Frank."
"I never hated Greg!"
"Yeah, you did. You told me you did. You said he was the biggest moron ever to belong to Mensa."
"I never said that!"
"You called him an ambitionless, egoist jerk-off."
"Never," Frank Curtis had protested.
"The point is, you used to despise this little schmuck, and now all of a sudden you think he's God's gift to you."
"Don't call him a schmuck, Switz," Frank warned.
"I won't call him a schmuck if you admit that you used to say he was indolent as a sloth but with less personality."
Switz had been Frank's best friend for twenty years, but not anymore.
Frank's wife wasn't much better. "Frank, tell me the honest truth, honey," she demanded finally. "Are you gay? Are you having relations with this young man?"
Frank shook his head sadly. "Pauline, you know I am not gay."
"But Frank, I don't understand this obsession," Pauline wailed. "You're missing work, you're constantly away from home. Whatever this boy wants is your top priority, and everything else comes second. Where did this come from, Frank? You've never acted this way before-it's an infatuation!"
"Pauline, it is simply my respect and admiration for an important and powerful man."
"Powerful?" Pauline snorted.
"He's the elected president of Union Island!"
"It's just a small town that happens to be surrounded by water. If the place didn't make so much money on tourism, the mayor's position wouldn't even be a paying job."
Frank had not cared to continue that discussion. If Pauline Curtis couldn't show a proper level of respect for President Grom, then she could just go to hell.
Just that morning his boss had turned against him, too. "Professor Curtis, is this young man blackmailing you?" asked University Director Jack Holdsworth.
"Of course not! A ridiculous suggestion."
"I cannot think how else a rather unimpressive graduate student-a student you once fervently disliked-could turn you into his errand boy," the university director observed. "He's got you jumping through hoops. You've spent all your vacation days and personal days in his service-not just this year's, but next year's, as well. Hear me out-a few years ago, when Mr. Grom was our student, you disciplined him in a way that he may have found humiliating, although you were perfectly justified. It seems to me that he may have been angry enough to dig up some sort of dirt on you and use it against you."
"Nothing could be further from the truth," Professor Curtis insisted.
The university director sighed. "Well, I'm not going to pressure you on this, Professor, but I am also not going to authorize another day off so you can go propitiate this young hoodlum."
"Hoodlum-?"
"Go to your classroom, Professor."
Professor Frank Curtis left the office of the director of the university, but he didn't go to his classroom. He got in his car and he drove away. Out of town. Out of Virginia. Maybe he'd never go back.
His wife, his friends, his fourteen years of tenure in the department, all those things could wait. Right now he had an important job to do. It was important because Greg Grom said so.
He had been driving for hours when he spotted the tour bus a couple of miles ahead of him on the interstate. He closed to within a half mile and set the cruise control to pace the bus at sixty-six miles per hour, then opened the window and held the digital camera outside to avoid the windshield glare. With one hand he fumbled to get the tiny display adjusted so he could see it, then to max out the digital zoom. It was difficult getting the extreme close-up of the bus into the viewfinder while keeping the car from veering off the road.
When he finally got the tour bus in the shot, he snapped of few dozen high-resolution images and put the camera on the dashboard to see his results.
It was the latest top-of-the line digital camera for use by professional wildlife photographers, and had all kinds of bells and whistles that were beyond the understanding of a professor of anthropological studies. Somehow, though, he managed to take several high-quality shots. There were close-ups of the shoulder of the road that were crisp enough you could count the stones. Quite a few images of the surface of the highway showed contrast so vivid you could practically feel the texture of the concrete.
Only the last few shots finally managed to get the bus in the frame. A fender with some mud spots. The back window with a brilliant reflection of the late-morning sun. And finally, the top of the bus-and two people sitting there.
"Well, I'll be!" Curtis exclaimed. Then he squinted into the display. "Dammit!"
He tried shooting another round of photos. His aim got better but his frustration mounted. The third time he managed to get a total of six shots of the roof of the bus, but he was so irritated with the result he felt like ripping out his comb-over.
He plugged the camera into the data port on his phone and E-mailed the best of the photos while hitting the speed dial for a voice call. "This is Professor Curtis, Mr. President."
Greg Grom sounded tense. "Took you long enough, Frank," his former student said. "I expected you an hour ago. Did you get the camera?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you get good shots of the bus?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Well, come on, Frank, were they there or not?"
"Yes, sir," Curtis said. "A white man and an old Asian. You can see them plain as day relaxing on the roof, as comfortable as you please."
"Oh shit, Frank!"
Professor Frank Curtis, Ph.D., always followed President Grom's orders without question. This time was no exception. Still, he couldn't stifle the grunt that accompanied the sudden but successful effort.
"What's the matter with you?" Groin demanded.
"Nothing, sir. Excuse me, sir. It's just a habit, I guess."
"What's a habit?"
"When I-you know," Curtis stammered.
"Frank, I haven't got the foggiest clue what you're talking about."
"Just following instructions, sir," the professor said, embarrassment mixing with disgust at the smell and the squishiness. "I sent you the shots, sir."
GREG GROM DOWNLOADED the files onto his laptop. They were so big they seemed to take forever, but the high quality was worth the wait. It was amusing to think how much the professional-grade digital camera had to have cost the old fart.
When the first image filled the screen, Grom wasn't amused anymore.
There they were, sitting on the roof. It was weird; it was eerie. Except for his strangely thick wrists, the white guy could be any one of fifty million Caucasian adult males in North America. The senior citizen from the Far East was another story. He looked too frail to get across the sunroom at the nursing home without a walker. He looked underfed, and it seemed as if the billowing silks of his geisha outfit should have taken him into the air like a kite. And yet he sat cross-legged and relaxed. He looked like he was meditating, for crying out loud.
Grom magnified the image, muttered an insult at the old fart on the phone and moved on to the next image. Then the next.
"You moron, there's not a single good shot of their faces!" he said into the phone.
"I know, Mr. President. But it is very strange. Everything else is perfectly in focus."
What the hell was the old loser talking about? Grom magnified the next shot until the lounging white guy filled the screen. The dark blue T-shirt was perfectly in focus. Grom could count the neat stitches on the expensive Italian loafers with the ruined soles. But the face was unidentifiable, as if his features had been moving too fast for the camera to focus on.