Jack opened the door and ushered her into the hall. Movement to his left caught his eye and he turned in time to see a man in a hat and a dark suit moving quickly down the hall and ducking out of sight into the elevator alcove. He had a sense that he'd been standing outside the door a few seconds ago.
Listening? he wondered. Somebody watching me? Or watching Olive? Or just somebody heading for the elevator?
He considered heading down to the alcove to get a better look at the guy, but dropped the idea when he heard the elevator bell ring. He'd never make it in time.
He turned back to Olive. "If you learn anything about You-know-who, be sure to let me know."
"I will. And remember," she said, a fearful need growing in her eyes. "If Melanie calls again—"
"I'll ask her. I promise I'll ask her."
"Bless you. I'm in 812. Call me as soon as you have any news, no matter how late the hour."
Jack closed the door and sighed with a mixture of relief and pity. One very disturbed woman. At least he hoped she was. None of that could possibly be true, could it?
Nah. Jack figured he didn't know much about the End Times, but he did know a lady who should probably be on some heavy-duty medication while she was waiting for them.
5
Jack sat with Lew during Professor Roma's welcoming address. He was less interested in the words—some mishmash about "confluence of ideas" and "spreading the Truth" and "ripping the cover off' and so on—than, in the man.
Roma—sans monkey—wore a very dapper light gray Armani suit with a black collarless shirt buttoned to the top, giving him the appearance of a very rich and hip minister. Much as Jack hated to admit it, the guy was a mesmerizing speaker. He prowled the little stage with a cordless mike, gesturing dramatically, speaking without notes. Sincerity and dedication fired his every word. Here was a man with a mission.
The biographical sketch in the rear of the program book said he was a native of South Carolina and now a professor of anthropology at Northern Kentucky University.
Jack wondered how a college professor afforded Armani suits. Maybe he did a lot of public speaking, because he seemed to have a gift. He'd seized this audience of about three hundred. They listened in rapt attention, breaking into applause every time he paused. The crowd itself surprised Jack. The SESOUPers were older than he'd expected. The average age had to be forty-plus. Lots of gray heads in the audience, which was pretty evenly divided between the sexes, but almost exclusively white—he'd seen only one black face since he'd entered.
He'd been anticipating more picturesque types, and indeed he'd spotted a few ethereal, long-haired New Agers, and the inevitable bearded fat guy doing the Michelin Man thing in a stretched-to-the-limit "Abductees Do It In Space" T-shirt, but mostly he saw lots of old guys wearing white shoes and string ties with a flying saucer cinch, matrons in warm-ups and polyester pants suits, nerdy engineer types with pocket protectors and suspenders. The home towns on their badges were in states like Colorado and Missouri and Indiana.
On the whole, what was so striking about SESOUP's members was their very ordinariness. Middle America seemed to be heavily into conspiracies.
Jack didn't know whether to be heartened or dismayed.
After the standing ovation for Roma's address, everyone streamed into a large adjoining room for the cocktail reception. Jack watched singles, couples, groups greeting each other with smiles and hugs.
"Looks like a pretty friendly group," he said.
Lew nodded. "They're good people. A lot of us know each other from other similar organizations. Most are like Melanie and me—no close living relatives, not much in common with their neighbors. For many of us, these conferences are almost like family gatherings." He held, up a couple of drink tickets. "Thirsty? I'm buying."
"I thought you didn't drink."
"I'm making an exception tonight."
"Okay. I'll take a beer. Anything as long as it's not made by Anheuser-Busch."
As Lew threaded his way through the crowd toward the bar, two middle-aged women stopped before Jack.
The taller of the pair introduced herself as Evelyn Something-or-other, a big, chunky blonde wearing a bright red dress, little white socks, and shiny Mary Janes on her tiny feet—all Jack could think of was an old comic book character…Little Dot's voracious friend…
Little Lotta.
"I'm the program chairwoman?" Evelyn said. It sounded like a question. In fact, just about everything out of her mouth sounded like a question. "Lew told me about your experience? We're planning on holding panels? You know, with experiencers? Would you care to participate?"
"No, thanks," Jack said. "I'd rather not."
Evelyn smiled sympathetically. "I know there's some controversy? I mean, about your being here? But that shouldn't put you off? It's good to share? And the audience? It will be totally nonjudgmental?"
"I really don't have all that much to tell," Jack said. "I hardly remember a thing about it." How true, how true.
"I can fix that," said the other, a hawk-faced, anorectic-looking woman.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Evelyn. "This is Selma Jones? A memory-recovery therapist?"
Selma fixed him with an intent share. "I've helped many, many experiencers regain 'lost' hours. I can help you."
And maybe turn me into an Olive Farina? Jack thought.
"Maybe some other time."
"Well, if you, you know, change your mind?" Evelyn said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "About the panel? You'll let me know?"
"Sure. Thanks for asking. You're very kind to care."
He meant that. She seemed sincere. And it couldn't hurt to have an ally or two among the membership.
The pair moved off, and Jack looked around for Lew.
He spotted him limping toward him with a Bass Ale in each hand. He had a trim, middle-aged man in tow.
"Jack," Lew said, handing him a bottle. "I want you to meet one of SESOUP's more prominent members, Jim Zaleski."
Jack had read about Zaleski in the program book which described him as "the world's foremost ufologist who has devoted his entire life to unexplained aerial phenomena and alien manifestations." In person he appeared to be in his late forties with thin lips, hornrimmed glasses, and longish dark hair that he repeatedly brushed off his forehead.
"Lew says you're the last one to hear from Mel," Zaleski said, giving Jack a quick handshake while his voice did light speed. "Want to talk to you about that. Got plans for breakfast tomorrow?"
"Nothing firm: a couple eggs, maybe bacon, but I could go the pancake route."
Zaleski didn't even blink. "Great. Meet me down in the coffee shop about eight. We'll talk." He clapped Lew on the shoulder. "Gotta run, Lew. Gotta work the goddamn room."
As Zaleski melted into the throng, Jack told him about turning down Evelyn's offer to be on the experiencers panel.
"Did I do the right thing?"
Lew nodded. "I'd say so. Keep things as vague as you can. The more you tell, the less interesting you'll be."
"Well, thank you very much."
Just then Lew reached out and grabbed the shoulder of someone passing by, a stocky older man with short gray hair.
"Miles! Miles, I want you to meet someone." The man stopped and turned their way. "Miles," Lew said. "This is Jack Shelby. I told you about him earlier. Jack, this is Miles Kenway."
Kenway's handshake was firm and lingering. He had a lined face and a military bearing. He wore a snug herringbone sport jacket, and appeared to be in good shape.