9
And with that, J. Edgar Hoover set the receiver back down in its cradle.
He had been expecting Ruffin’s call for the past hour.
So it was done and the mission ahead of him was once again back on track.
He stared down at the piece of plain typing paper that the woman had typed her letter on.
“Dear Mr. Hoover,
“I am a school psychologist who, for the past year, has worked with a lovely, intelligent fourteen-year-old named Jessica Reardon. She has dreams of future events. Many of these events actually come true, sometimes to a terrifying degree. I know this sounds impossible, but it’s a fact.
“Lately, she has had dreams that President John Kennedy will be assassinated on November 22, 1963 at 12:30 p.m. (Central Standard Time) in Dallas, Texas.
“As you know, that is less than two weeks away.
“I’ve enclosed both my address and telephone number.
“Please contact me right away. I’m sure you’ll want to speak directly with Jessica. I can assure you that Jessica and I have kept her dream to ourselves.
“Yours truly,
Hoover put his face into his hands and tried to rub away sleep.
With the assassination plans so near to hand, this letter could have been a disaster.
How could anybody have guessed the time and place for Kennedy to be killed?
Well, now there wasn’t anything more to worry about. The girl with the dream and her hysterical counselor were threats no longer.
He lifted the receiver up again and dialed a familiar number from memory.
“I sure as hell hope you’re going to tell me that all this bullshit about dreams is over, Edgar.”
Hoover winced. He didn’t approve of swearing.
But then how else could you expect a swine like Lyndon Baines Johnson to act, anyway?
“Yessir, Mr. Vice President, it’s over and now we can get back to concentrating on Dallas.”
“Good,” Johnson said. “Good.”
The Man in the Long Black Sedan
A TV producer called me one night and said he really really liked my stuff and really really wanted to bring one and perhaps two of my novels to the tube as soon as possible. In the meantime — God, the guy was so excited he was nearly out of breath — in the meantime, see, he’s doing this syndicated package of half-hour horror programs and did I have anything he could do that was effective but cheap, something, you know, basic. Actually, I didn't but by this time I was just as excited as the producer, so next morning — still pretty much out of breath myself — I sat down and wrote this story and FAXed it to him and he was practically orgasmic on his return call from Hwood. He was sure his People would love it just as much as he loved it. He was sure of it. I never heard from the guy again.
At first light, the crickets still unceasing and the neighborhood dogs joining in, I eased from bed so as to not wake Ellen, and walked along the hardwood of the hallway to Christopher’s room. It was August and humid, and the floor was almost sticky against my bare feet.
Two of them lay in bed, my eight-year-old Christopher and his classmate Donny. They’d spent all day yesterday taking full advantage of hot blue summer and slept now in sweet exhaustion. Donny was his best friend, Christopher had confided recently. Donny liked to rent Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom just as often as Christopher did and his favorite Stooge was Shemp. You couldn’t ask for a better friend than that.
In the downstairs bathroom I gave myself what my mother always calls a sponge bath, afraid a full-force shower would wake Ellen. Ellen would have questions for which I would have no answers.
I dressed in a clean white button-down shirt and newly dry-cleaned blue slacks. Add a tie and you have the uniform I wear every day to the computer store I manage. Just before I left the bathroom, I stared with disbelief at the thirty-nine-year-old face fixed forlornly in the mirror. I’ve always felt a tiny shock of betrayal when I look on my mirror image, as if my real face had been stolen and an imposter put in my place. What I feel seems to bear no relation to the wry, even smug face I’ve been given.
In the basement, in a cabinet that locks with an ancient antique key, I found the Smith and Wesson .38 that had belonged to my father. Taking it to a cobwebbed window, holding it up to the dust and dawn, I turned it over and over in my slender hands, as if by doing so it would reveal some sublime secret about its purpose.
But of course I knew its purpose, didn’t I?
Harcourt is a Midwestern town of forty-two thousand. It wakes early. White milk trucks crisscross the wide streets and avenues, and paperboys and papergirls on quick new bikes toss their papers with reasonable accuracy on silent front porches still silver with dew. After college, I did not want to go back east. I wanted the furious rolling green of heartland summer and the vast cool shadows of its nights.
The motel I sought sits half a mile from the westernmost part of town. A one-floor, twelve-room complex with the office in the center, it is the sort of place I often stayed in as a boy, when my angry father and defeated mother spent their vacations driving across country in search of a peace neither of them would ever find.
The long black sedan sat in the last parking slot on the northern wing of the building. It was this year’s model but dulled by the dust of gravel roads. A red, white, and blue bumper sticker said STAND UP FOR AMERICA.
Oh, he was some ironic bastard, he was.
I pulled in next to him, took the .38 from the glove compartment, went up to his door.
Despite the noisy country-western music coming from the next room, I could hear his shower running.
He was making it damned easy for me.
I took out my credit card and went to work, looking around to see if anybody was watching. It’s never as easy as it looks on TV shows, opening doors this way, but most of the time it does work.
He had clothes laid out on the bed, a blue summer-weight suit, a short-sleeved blue shirt, a red regimental-striped tie, white Jockey shorts, and black socks. Beneath the clothes, the bed lay unmade and you could see black hairs on the pink pillow where he’d slept. The air smelled of steam from the shower and after-shave and cigarettes.
I sat down in a patterned armchair next to a nightstand with a phone and a copy of Penthouse that was probably his. He was very good. Very, very good. All these little bits of business to disguise who and what he really was. The magazine was a nice touch.
When I heard the bathroom door open, I got the .38 ready.
He was a short, chunky man of perhaps fifty, balding, jowly, and cross looking, like the crabby neighbor on TV sitcoms. He had a wide white towel wrapped around his fat belly and green rubber shower thongs that went thwack against his heels when he walked. On his right bicep was a tattoo of a panther. That was another nice touch, the tattoo.
He had his head down so he didn’t see me at first, but when he came into the room and raised his eyes, his first reaction was to get angry. Most people would be afraid — startled — to see somebody with a .38 sitting in their motel room chair. But not him.
“Who the hell are you?” he said, nodding to the gun, “and just what the hell are you doing in my room?”
“I know who you are. I know what you are.”
“What the hell are you talking about, pal?” He shook his head in disgust. “You want my money, right? And my wallet, too, I suppose. For the credit cards.” He scowled. “Nice little town like this, you don’t expect this kind of thing.” Keeping the towel modestly about him, he went over to the nightstand, his thongs thwacking against his heels again, and picked up his wallet and tossed it to me. “There you go, pal. Now put the gun away and get the hell out of here.” He didn’t sound so angry now. More disappointed in his luck.