Authors: Stephen Coonts
Hatred. In her foolish weakness and selfishness she abandoned everything for that white powder. Abandoned the children, him-yes, him-was it hatred or rage?
Love. Yes. If there were no love there would be no hatred. Just soffow.
And then he was outside himself, staring at this man from an angle above, watching him walk, seeing the meaningless gestures and the twitching of the facial muscles, knowing the pain and knowing too that somehow none of it really mattered.
It didn’t, you know. Didn’t matter. The kids would grow into adults and make their own lives and forget, and he would keep getting up every day and shaving and going to the office. Age would creep over him, then decrepitude, then, finally, the nursing home and the grave. None of it mattered. In the long run none of it mattered a damn.
Yet there he was, standing there imprisoned on this tired old earth, being ripped apart.
“Lisa, tell your mother what you’ve been doing in school.”
The child prattled about mice and gerbils and short stories. Elizabeth kept her eyes on her plate, on her food, concentrated on using the knife and fork at the proper time, on handling the utensils with the proper hands. She patted her lips with the napkin and carefully replaced it in her lap.
“Susanna, your turn.”
The child was deep into a convoluted tale of fish and frogs when Elizabeth scooted her chair back a moment and murmured, “Excuse me.” She bent down for her purse.
Liarakos snagged it. “I’ll watch it.” His wife stared at him, her face registering no emotion. Then it came. A snarl which began with a twitching of her upper lip and spread across her face.
Liarakos flipped her the purse. She caught it and rose fi-from her chair and went along the hall toward the downstairs half bath.
“You girls finish your dinner,” he said.
“Is Mommy going to stay?”
“No.”
They accepted that and ate in silence. They finished and he shooed them upstairs. Minutes later Elizabeth came back to the dining room, gliding carefully, her face composed.
He sat in silence watching her eat. She picked at the food, then finally placed the fork on the plate and didn’t pick it up again. “Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?”
“No. “Could you give me a ride or some money for taxi fare?”
“You can get wherever you’re going the same way you got here. Good-bye.”
“Thanos, I-was
“Good-bye, Elizabeth. Take your purse and go. Now! Don’t come back.” “Thanks for-was
“if you don’t go right now, I’ll physically eject you.”
She stared at him for several seconds, then rose. After half a minute he heard the front door open, then click shut.
Harrison Ronald looked at his watch for the fortyfifth time. Two hours and three minutes until he had to be there.
He examined his face in the broken mirror over the cigarette-scaffed dresser-would they read it in his face? He could see it written all over his kisser, plain as a newspaper headline. Guilt. That was what was there. Old-fashioned grade-A guilt, the kind your momma always gave you, shot through with cholesterol and saturated fats and plenty of salt and sugar. I did it! I’m the snitch! I’m the stoolie! Whitey
this chocolate Tom to tattle on all you shit-shoveling and pack your black asses off up the river.
If Freeman asked him the question his face would shatter like frozen glass.
Two hours and two minutes.
Coffee? He had had three cups this evening. That was more than enough caffeine. No booze. No beer. No alcohol, period.
God, he was going to get stinking drunk tomorrow night. He was going to go on a world-class bender and stay yellow-puke drunk for three whole days.
If he was still alive tomorrow night, that is.
Two hours and one minute. A hundred-and-twenty-one minutes.
He picked up the automatic and ran his fingers over it. He would take it with him tonight. In ten months he had never carried a gun, but tonight … Maybe it would give him an edge, since they wouldn’t expect it.
Two hours flat.
Captain Jake Grafton was feeling expansive. He had had a delightful day with his daughter, Amy, and had finished most of his Christmas shopping. Callie had gone by herself to buy Amy’s presents and presumably one for Jake. He had glimpsed her sorting through his clothes this morning, probably checking sizes. This evening the captain smiled genially and let his eyes rest happily on Amy Carol, then on Callie at the other end of the dinner table. Two beautiful women. He was a very lucky man.
The captain’s gaze moved down the table to Toad Tarkington, who was paying no attention to anyone except his wife, Rita Moravia, who sat beside him. Tomorrow Toad would probably have a crick in his neck. Rita was also the object of Amy’s undivided attention. Amy adored the navy test pilot, but this evening as she regarded Rita a curious expression played about her features. When Callie’s gaze met Jake’s, he nodded toward Amy and knitted his brows into a question. His wife shook her head almost imperceptibly and looked away.
One of those female things, Jake Grafton concluded, that men are not expected to understand or concern themselves about. He sighed.
Across the table from the Tarkingtons sat Jack Yocke and his date, Tish Samuels. Tish was a lovely person, with a pleasant smile and kind word for everyone. In several ways she reminded Jake of his wife, like the way she held her comhead, the way she listened, her thoughtful comments…. Tish also listened intently to Rita as she finished telling a flying story. When Rita concluded, Tish smiled and glanced at Yocke.
Whether the reporter knew it or not, the woman was obviously in love with him. Yocke seemed mellow, more relaxed than he had been the first time he was at the Graftons”. Or perhaps it was just Jake’s mood that made him seem that way.
As usual when he was relaxed, Jake Grafton said little. He nibbled his food and took sparing sips of wine and let the conversation flow over him.
Callie turned to Yocke and said, “I’ve been reading your stories on Cuba. They are very, very good.”
“Thank you,” Jack Yocke said, genuinely pleased by the compliment.
Callie led him on, and in a few moments Yocke was talking about Cuba. Toad even tore his attention away from Rita to listen and occasionally toss in a question.
At first Yocke’s comments were superficial, but it seemed as if the company drew him out. Even Jake began to pay attention.
“…the thing that impressed me was the sense of destiny that the people had, the common people, the workers. They were gaining something. And then I realized that what they were talking about, what they wanted, was democracy, the right to vote for the leaders who made the laws. You know, we’ve had it here for so long that we’ve become bLW. It’s fashionable these days to sneer at politicians, laugh at the swine prostituting themselves for campaign money and begging shamelessly for votes. And yet, when you’re up to your eyes in dictatorship, being ordered around by some
self-appointed Caesar with big ideas in a little head, democracy looks damned good.”
His listeners seemed to agree, so Yocke developed the thought: “It’s ftinny, but democracy rests on the simplest premise that has ever supported a form of human government: a majority of the people will be right more often than not. Think about it! Errors are part of the system. They are inevitable as the political currents ebb and flow. Yet in the long run, a shifting, changing majority will be right a majority of the time.”
“Will these countries which are embracing democracy for the fiMore time have the patience to wait for the su s and to tolerate the errors?” Jake on asked, the first time during dinner that he had spoken.
Yocke looked down the table at the captain. “comI don’t know,” he said. “It takes a lot of faith to believe in the good faith and wisdom of your fellow man. Democracy will stick in some places, sure. I think it needs to get its roots in deep though, or it’ll get ripped up by the first big blow. There” s always someone promising instant salvation if he could just get his hands on the helra and throttle.”
“How about democracy in America? A fad or here to y”…fl
“Jake Grafton!” Callie admonished. “That a question!”
“It’s a good one,” “Yocke told her. “One of the common errors is to get rid of the system. We’ve got a lot of problems in America and two hundred and fifty million people advocating solutions. I should know-I make my living writing about the problems.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Toad Tarkington said, and grinned. “I don’t know the answer,” Jack Yocke told him.
“I don’t think anything could make us give up our republic,” Callie declared.
“What do you think, Captain?” Tish Samuels asked.
Jake snorted. “The roots are in deep all right, but if the storm were bad enough…. Who wants coffee besides me?” As Callie poured coffee, Jake saw Rita speaking softly to Amy. The youngster listened, her face clouding heavily, then she abruptly fled the room.
Jake folded his napkin and excused himself He didn’t get past Callie. She thrust the coffeepot at him, then followed Amy into the bedroom.
“How do you want it, Toad?” as Jake leaned over the lieutenant’s shoulder. “In the cup, if possible, CAG.”
“Rita, have you picked up any new lines to teach this clown? His act is getting real stale.”
Rita grinned at Jake. “I know. I was hoping that. since he works in your shop now you could give him some help.”
“You work for Captain Grafton?” Jack Yocke asked Toad.
“Maybe I should go visit with Callie and Amy for a minute,” Rita said, and rose from her chair. She came out of it supplely, effortlessly. Toad and Jake watched her until the bedroom door closed behind her.
“Yeah,” Toad said to the reporter. “CAG can’t get rid of me. Actually I have been of some small service to Captain Grafton in the past in his epic struggles to defend the fi-ee world from the forces of evil and all that. I suggested yesterday that he buy a Batmobile and I’d keep it over at my place until he needs it. He doesn’t have a garage here.”
“What do you two do over in the Pentagon?” Yocke asked.
“It’s very hush-hush,” Toad confided, lowering his voice appropriately. “We’re drafting top-secret war plans to go into effect if Canada attacks us. We figure they’ll probably take out the automobile plants in Detroit first. Surprise attack. Maybe a Sunday morning. Then-was
“Toad!” Jake growled.
Tarkington gestured helplessly at Tish Samuels, who was grinning. “My lips are sealed. Anyway, it’s a real daily of a tip-top secret, which as you know are the very best kind. If the Canadians ever find out. .
As they cleared the table, Jake said to Toad, “Rita seems to be fully recovered from that crash last year.”
“She’s got some scars,” Toad said, “but she’s amazed the therapists. Amazed me too.”
They had the dishes in the washer and were in the living room drinking coffee when Amy and Rita came out of the bedroom holding hands. Both looked like they had been crying. Callie headed for the kitchen and Jake trailed after her. “What was that all about?”
“Amy worships Rita and has a crush on Toad.” Callie rolled her eyes heavenward. “Hormones!”
“Ouch. Callie smiled and gave Jake a hug. “I love you.”
, woman. But we’d better get back to our pests.”
“Aren’t you glad we invited Jack Yocke?”
“He’s a good kid.”
Fear increases exponentially the closer you get to the feared object. Harrison Ronald made this discovery as he drove toward Freeman Mcationally’s northwest Washington house. He could feel it, a paralyzing, mind-numbing daze that made him want to puke and run at the same time.
He was paying less and less attention to the traffic around him, and he knew it but couldn’t do better. That was another thing about fear-a little of it is necessary, keeps you sharp, makes you function at peak efficiency in potentiafly dangerous situations. But too much of it is paralyzing. Fear becomes terror, which numbs the mind and muscles. And if the ratchet is loosened just a notch, the terror becomes panic and all the muscles receive.one message from the shorted-out brain-flee.
He drove slower and slower. When the traffic lights turned green he had to will himself to depress the accelerator. A man in a car behind raced his engine and gunned by with his middle finger held rigidly aloft. Ford ignored him.
In spite of everything, he got there. He eased the car down the alley and into a parking place behind Mcationally’s row house. The guard was standing in the shadow of a fence. Ford killed the engine. He was not going to retch, no sir. Under no circumstances was he going to lot himself vomit.
“Now or never,” he said aloud, comforted by the sound of his voice, which sounded more Or less under control, and opened the door. The guard walked toward him with his
hands in his coat pockets.
Oh, damn! This is it!
,ally Z?”’
“Yeah, man.” 64Ain’t nobody in there. You’re supposed to go over to the Sanitary and pick up a load.”
He stood there beside the car staring at the man. It didn’t compute. Think, goddamn it! Think! The Sanitary
Bakery … “The guard’Il meet you there. Ford turned and reopened the car door. He seated himself, then tried to remember what he had done with the key. Not this pocket, nor this … here! He stabbed it at the ignition. Turn the key.
ne running a tidal wave of relief rolled over
With the engi him. He pulled the shift lever back a notch and let the car drift backward, toward the alley.
Everything’s cool. Everything7’s cool as a fucking ice cube.
Look behind you, idiot. Don’t hit the pole.
shadows he backed out into
As the guard returned to the the alley and fed gas.
The relief turned to disgust. He had sweated bullets all day, for what? For nothing!
Maybe he should just split. Why not? He had proved to himself he could make it through today. That was the main thing. Nothing’s going to happen tonight, and why should he deliver another load of shit for Freeman Mcationally? The feds already had enough evidence for 241 counts on an indictment. Why add another?
What are you proving, Harrison? You’ve had no sleep, you’ve been scared shitiess for ten months, you killed a guy, you got enough evidence to send Mcationally and friends up the river so long that crack will be legal when they get out, but you have to be alive to testify. Why dick around with it another night? Don’t lose sight of the main thing-you’ve made it through today.