A Hideous Beauty (21 page)

“And you think he influenced Douglas into killing Noonan?”

Doc shrugged. “A hunch. I just know I never liked the guy. He always acted like he was better than everyone else. Which is strange, because how can anyone from New Jersey think they're better than anyone?”

I laughed.

Doc laughed too, but his levity was short-lived. As he thought of what he was going to say next, he turned deadly
serious. “In the Ho Bo Woods,” he said, picking up the story, “when Douglas and Noonan were separated from the rest of the platoon, a grenade exploded near them. No real damage done. It stunned Noonan, knocked him out. Douglas said he saw an opportunity, a big one, the kind that can change a person's life.

“Noonan stirred and started to come around, so Douglas leveled him with the butt of his machine gun. Then he took one of Noonan's grenades—Douglas was very clear about this. He figured by taking one of Noonan's grenades, should anyone notice that he hadn't thrown one, his grenade count would bear testimony against him. Douglas pulled the pin, stuffed the grenade in Noonan's pants pocket, and rolled him over, face to the ground.”

The huge Montana sky stretched over us in silence. The only sound on Doc Palmer's farm was as a breath of wind whipped a cloud of dust past us.

Clearing his throat, Doc took up the story again. “He miscalculated, Douglas did, and got some shrapnel in his own leg. But even that worked to his advantage. He was an instant hero when the other soldiers saw him bloodied and limping and carrying Noonan's body back to the night defensive position.”

We sat there. The two of us. Mourning Noonan's death. But also, at least for me, mourning a day that would be sadder when I went to bed than it was when I woke up.

Doc slapped, then rubbed both legs. “I don't know about you, but I could use a drink. But I'll settle for a cup of coffee. Want a cup?”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I still have a couple of hours on the road if I'm going to make my flight.”

Truth was, I just wanted to be alone right now. My world had changed dramatically and it would take me some time to adjust.

“Word of advice?” Doc offered. “Don't mess with them. A smart man knows not to fight if he has no chance of winning.
There's no shame in picking your battles. Do what I did. Disappear, Mr. Austin. Plenty of land around here to do that. Once they see you're no threat to them, they'll leave you alone.”

Find a big hole, Mr. Austin.

Ten minutes later I was driving south on Interstate 15 mulling over my encounter with a dead man. His story. His advice.

I was angry with myself. I drove away without asking him what all that business was about having me take off my shoes.

My head hurt from thinking. When you write a book you create a world that has a sense of order to it. But since my book had come out, it seemed that every time I turned around someone was challenging that sense of order, and my grasp on reality. I kept hearing the same refrain played over and over—

Things aren't the way you think they are.

The first thing I was going to do when I got back to Washington was slap Doc Palmer's obituary on Ingraham's desk and tell him that for a man who is supposed to be dead, Doc has some interesting opinions on life and presidents.

Then what? Would I rewrite the book? Do an exposé on the president's medication addiction for the
New York Times
? It wasn't in my nature to be a muckraker reporter, but then I hated thinking that I'd been played for a patsy.

For the moment, though, out here under an endless sky, passing endless stretches of scenery, driving down an endless road, I was going to give it a rest. A brain can only take so much stirring up. After a while everything becomes murky, like an ocean bottom when the silt is fanned. It does no good to thrash around. You have to let the silt settle. And what better place to do that than on a Montana road?

I punched the radio
ON
button.

For some reason I remembered a television commercial from my youth. The scene is of a cowboy herding cattle in the great open spaces. He is listening to music on a transistor
radio, a live performance of a New York opera. Joining voices with the featured tenor, the cowboy belts out the signature aria from
Pagliacci.

Classical music in cowboy country. That might be fun. I pushed the search button and listened to the cascading lineup of stations, most of them country-western or news.

“. . . next week where President Douglas will attend several key fund-raisers. San Diego party officials have pulled out all the stops on the president's trip, knowing that this may be . . .”

San Diego.

I muttered the words of the president's warning to Christina. “Under no circumstances is Grant to go to San Diego. Is that clear? Hog-tie him if you have to, but keep him away from San Diego!”

Turning the radio off, I pressed the accelerator and calculated my new arrival time at Great Falls airport at the increased speed. I tried using my cell phone to call the airline. No bars showed on the display. I was still out of range.

I didn't know when the next flight was from Great Falls to San Diego, but I knew I was going to be on it.

After coffee and a nap, Doc Palmer nudged the screen door open with his elbow. His arms were full. One arm carried empty whiskey bottles; the other, his shotgun. Both had become a significant part of his daily routine. The whiskey helped him sleep better at night; and the shotgun . . . well, it helped him sleep better at night.

Maybe it was his Montana surroundings, but he felt like an old, retired gunslinger. He knew sooner or later they'd send someone to hunt him down. He knew they'd kill him. All he wanted was to get a shot or two off before he died, get a lick or
two in, just so they'd say that Doc Palmer didn't go down without a fight.

The empty bottles clanked in his arms as he walked into the barn and found his case of whiskey. He put the two bottles back in the carton and pulled out two fresh bottles.

When he turned around, someone was standing just inside the door of the barn. With the light behind him, he appeared as a flat silhouette. The figure was empty-handed, so Doc was startled, but not alarmed.

Doc took a couple of steps toward the stranger, ready to drop the whiskey bottles and raise the shotgun at the first sign of trouble.

The man made no move. He just stood there.

“Whoever you're looking for,” Doc said, “he's not here.”

Doc heard a rustling sound behind him. Holding his ground, he glanced over one shoulder, then the other. There were two more of them, black and featureless, standing in the shadows. The back of the barn was closed off. They must have already been in the barn waiting for him. Doc saw no weapons. That meant they were sneaks, and sneaks were never up to any good, but were usually scared off with a gunshot blast or two.

“I don't have anything worth taking,” Doc said. “Leave now and no one gets hurt. I'm going to give you only one chance.”

They didn't move. The three of them just stood there, not making a sound. Doc dropped the whiskey bottles, one of them broke in half, spilling spirits in the dirt. He pointed the shotgun at the man standing in the barn door, figuring he was the leader.

“I'm telling you, you're wasting your time. There's nothing here for you.” He could hear fear in his voice.

The figure in the doorway took a step back. With one foot, he stepped on the heel of the other foot and kicked off a shoe. Then he kicked off his other shoe.

Doc saw the man's feet. He gasped.

The figure said, “Douglas told you about us, did he?”

Doc had seen some strange things in his life, but nothing like this. The man's feet didn't reach the ground. He stood a good inch above the dirt.

He approached Doc. He made no footprints.

As he came closer, Doc was able to get a better look at him. “Thorson!” he cried.

Yet Thorson hadn't aged. He looked the same as he did in Vietnam, and he grinned the same insufferable grin that made Doc grit his teeth.

“Actually, it's Semyaza,” he said.

Lightning fast, Doc lifted the shotgun at the man's chest and fired three quick rounds.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

The man didn't flinch. The blast went right through him. His chest, his clothes were undisturbed.

Doc lowered the shotgun, resigned to his fate. “I knew if you really existed, someday you'd come for me,” he said. “The boy. Austin. You wanted him to find me.”

“He needed to hear what you had to say.”

Doc nodded. The shotgun clattered to the ground. “Do me a favor? Make it quick.”

The grin appeared again. “Oh, we will kill you, Doc. Make no mistake about that. But not for years. You're far more use to us alive than dead.”

Movement in the rafters caught Doc's attention. He heard skittering sounds, like rats in an attic. Only these rats were whimpering. And they had faces, the faces of medieval gargoyles, leering down at him with hungry eyes.

There were dozens of them—no, more—in the corners, in the shadows, the far reaches of the rafters . . . hundreds of them.

They strained to come down, but something was stopping them. What?

In the next instant, Doc knew. They were waiting for a signal. With the slightest of nods, Semyaza granted their request.

The first one hit Doc in the back, clawing its way into him. An instant later, another hit his chest; another, his head. At each place, the first one to enter him met some form of natural barrier, but once that was broken through, the others streamed in effortlessly.

Doc's head filled with a thousand voices.

He sank to his knees. He screamed, but he couldn't hear himself—the shouts in his head were louder than the shouts from his throat.

He could feel them moving inside of him, wrestling for room, elbowing their way deeper and deeper, tearing at his spirit, snapping and tearing it like dogs fighting over a scrap of meat.

Doc remained aware of his surroundings. He could see Semyaza and the others. They oversaw the possession with compassion in their eyes, not unlike what he would expect to see on the faces of Red Cross workers handing out bowls of food to starving children.

Then, the three were gone. Vanished. Leaving Doc Palmer alone on the floor of his barn with a thousand voices screaming in his head.

CHAPTER
16

I
t felt good to pull on a clean pair of socks. I had coffee grounds between my toes from Shelby to Great Falls, then for four hours in the air with a layover in Salt Lake City, a shuttle to the rental car company, and even when I registered at the historic U.S. Grant Hotel in San Diego. Next time I tracked a dead man in Montana I would be sure to use his garden hose to clean my feet before driving away.

Other than the gritty feeling in my shoes, the trip from Montana to California was uneventful, just the way I like my flights, and the final approach into Lindbergh Field was spectacular. Whenever I fly into San Diego I request a window seat on the port side. Starboard side passengers get a nice view of Balboa Park, but it's nothing compared to the picturesque panorama of the bay, the strand, and the San Diego bridge.

The bridge is two majestic miles of blue, curved ribbon stretched across mission arches that rise up to two hundred feet above the bay, tall enough for naval ships to pass under, the
exception being the humongous aircraft carriers that are docked on the Coronado side of the bay at North Island.

Nothing says San Diego to me like this bird's-eye view of the bridge set against a deep blue, rippling bay that is splattered with dozens of white sails. To me, it says, “Welcome Home.”

I think we were somewhere over Nevada when I decided that on this trip I was going to treat myself to a classy hotel for winning the Pulitzer Prize. What better way to do that than to stay at a hotel with history?

Originally built in 1910, the U.S. Grant had recently undergone a $52 million renovation. Thirteen presidents had lodged here and the clerk was giddy when he informed me that the fourteenth would soon be arriving and that if I'd be staying that long I might encounter a few minor inconveniences due to heightened security.

“I can imagine,” I replied.

“But it'll be worth it, don't you think?” he said, bouncing on his feet. “To be able to tell your grandchildren that you once stayed at the U.S. Grant at the same time as President Douglas?”

I didn't tell him I'd stayed at the White House and at Camp David with the president. I didn't tell him I'd slept on Air Force One on the way to Paris with the president. Neither did I tell him that I hoped to do more than just stay in the same hotel with the president.

As I signed the register, I wondered what he'd say if he knew that in my biography I'd threatened to kill the president. This time anonymity worked in my favor.

My plan was simple. Gain an audience with the president. Achieving that goal . . . well, not so simple. The key was Jana.