He reached into his pants and pulled out a key. “I’ve got Room 105, first floor. We can talk there. It’ll be more comfortable than the car. You go first.”
He handed her the key. Without a word she took it, got out of the car, and splashed across the parking lot at a full trot. Once in the room she grabbed a threadbare towel from the bathroom and was rubbing her hair when Lewis entered and locked the door behind him.
“It’s not fair to be always bitching,” he said. “You know how risky it is to be seen together. And I don’t mean by Collinson or Pomeroy. Pam, I don’t even stay in places that have phones in the rooms. I have to use pay phones, and have to pay cash every day before I can stay that night. You and I can’t go out to eat together, go to the movies, or even go bowling together. Even when I pick you up, you have to duck in and out of the car and I have to have the top up.”
Pamela paused in her toweling and turned toward him.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. It’s hard for you too, back here. It’s just that, well, being here, I thought I could help, you know, make a difference. This is better than any chance I ever had in Portland to do something that matters.”
Ginter swallowed hard and nodded. He moved to a chair and sat down.
“Speaking of Portland,” he said. “I had another question about your friend. How was Arthur going to get on that ship to blow it up?”
Pamela shrugged. “He had a friend in—”
Ginter waved her off. “I know all that. You told me. A friend in the Harbor Guard. He’d get Arthur on the ship. But what doesn’t make sense is that you said that Arthur was staying in Boston because things had gotten hot for him up in Maine.”
She nodded. “Since he tried to blow up that guy in Portland.”
“But if things were so hot for him that he had to hide out in Boston, then that means they knew who he was,” Ginter said. “In that case there’s no way he gets past anyone to get on any ship, fake ID or no.”
“I don’t know,” Pamela said, and frowned. “Maybe that’s why he never tried it. Maybe he knew he’d never get on the ship. It did seem like he was planning it forever.”
“Why not just give the bomb to his friend?” Ginter persisted. “Just set it and tell him where to place it. His friend obviously knew ships, being in the Harbor Guard. Why did Pomeroy have to get on that ship himself?”
“God, Lewis!” Pamela stood up. “Questions, questions, questions. How the hell would I know?”
She moved over to his chair and stood in front of him. The rain pelted against the glass.
“I have my own question, Lewis,” she said, locking her eyes on his. “Why’d you bring me here? We could have ridden around and talked.”
Lewis Ginter didn’t answer. He remained immobile for several seconds before slowly standing up. He put his right arm behind her and pulled her close. Her eyes remained locked on his but she didn’t resist.
He held her there, their faces inches apart, while neither spoke.
Pamela slowly placed her right arm on the small of Lewis’ back.
“I thought you were going to try this in your apartment in Cambridge,” she whispered. “The night we left. I thought that was why you asked me there.”
He nodded. “It was.”
“That night, the answer would have been no.”
She smiled then, and reaching up with her mouth she closed her eyes. It was exciting; it was always exciting, especially the first time, but here, in Dallas, in 1963…
Ginter pushed her back toward the bed. She reached back with her left hand and felt for the mattress. When she touched it, she dropped down while holding his kiss. She kicked her feet out on the bed and lay back. Already he was working on her blouse. She knew she had to say something, it was awkward, it was never a good time, she didn’t want to stop, but still…
She pushed him away gently. He sat back, bewildered.
“Lewis, I, I’m not on the pill back here. My prescription is back in 2026.”
His mouth curled into a smile and he reached back and removed his wallet from his back pants pocket. He held it up in front of her.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she laughed. She put her hand to her mouth. “When did you get them?”
“Cambridge,” he said. “And don’t worry, we’ve got a long ways to go before we worry about the expiration date.”
Paul and Amanda walked into the Senate Office Building and took the elevator straight to Senator Strom Thurmond’s office without passing through metal detectors or security checks. At every turn he expected someone to stop him, but no one did. They walked into the Senator’s reception area without an appointment and were greeted by a woman behind the desk who smiled. Behind her a door stood partially open into what Paul surmised was the Senator’s private office.
When the receptionist inquired as to their business, Amanda handed her a sealed plain white business envelope with no writing on it. “Please tell the Senator that Dr. Hutch and Dr. deVere are here from MIT and would like to speak with him briefly.”
The woman frowned, took the envelope, and turned it over in her hand before disappearing through the rear doorway. His heart pounding, Paul sat next to Amanda on an overstuffed couch. The woman returned and said icily, “The Senator will be with you shortly.”
Paul had stomach knots. Each time the door to the hallway opened Paul expected a trail of police to tumble in and arrest them. Twice, messengers dropped off paperwork to the receptionist who gave them the same bland smile she had offered Paul and Amanda.
Amanda appeared calm and collected. Whenever the hallway door opened, she looked straight ahead while Paul cast panic stricken looks around the room.
The phone on the receptionist’s desk buzzed. After listening for a few seconds, the receptionist informed them that the Senator would see them. She led them to the door but did not announce them. Rather, she merely closed the door behind them, leaving them alone in a large room with deep blue walls covered with photographs. A man sat behind an immense desk. He neither stood to greet them nor introduced himself.
Paul estimated him to be about 60. He spoke with an unmistakable drawl.
“I’m not accustomed to getting notes like this from unscheduled guests and I want to know the meaning,” he said.
Despite the words, the man spoke without hostility. In his hand he held the white envelope that had now been slit open across the top. The single sheet that had been inside was not in view on the desk.
Amanda sat in one of two chairs opposite the desk. She looked at the one next to her and Paul took it. He had barely settled in when she began.
“Senator, do not believe for one moment that we are here to do you harm. We are American patriots in every sense of the world. I am Dr. Amanda Hutch, and this is Dr. Paul deVere. We are both associated with MIT, although if you check, you won’t find us currently listed on the faculty list.”
The Senator placed the envelope on the desk and leaned back in his swivel chair. He put his hands together in front of him with his fingertips touching, and carefully studied his visitors.
“What makes you think that anything in this letter of yours is true?” he asked cautiously.
“Senator,” Amanda answered, “that letter talks about something that happened a long, long time ago. You were what, maybe 22 years old? The girl was a domestic servant in your parents’ house, just a teenager.”
Amanda shrugged. “How we know doesn’t matter. It’s true. You know it. We know it. We have proof of it. And you don’t want it coming out. We are willing to make sure that it doesn’t.”
“You want something,” the Senator said. “What is it?”