The HAB Theory, page 27
She shut the door and strode briskly into the building as Grant got the car moving again. A few minutes later he was parking in the Superior Street garage across from the hospital. As he got out of the car with the portable recorder and briefcase in his hands, a long black Cadillac pulled up behind with two men in the front seat and one in the back. The latter was Alexander Gordon.
“You’re punctual, Mr. Grant,” he said, his dark face projecting from the open window. “Which is a good thing, because we’re going places. Bring your recorder and the tapes and let’s go.”
Grant was surprised at the encounter. “Go where?” he asked. “Aren’t we going into the hospital?”
“No. With that mob of newsmen waiting down there we’d lose a quarter-hour at least. We can’t afford the time.” He watched as the agent on the passenger side of the front seat got out and opened the back door of the Cadillac for the writer. Grant was ironically sure that more than simple courtesy was involved. He climbed in and settled himself beside Gordon, who continued, “We’re leaving for Washington immediately. We’ll be seeing the President as soon as we get there. I hope you’ve got some good solid information for him.”
“Washington! Gripes, Gordon, I can’t go like this. Look at me; I haven’t been to bed and I need a change of clothes and a shower and shave. I’m logy. That’s a hell of a condition for me to present myself to the President in. Can we swing by my house for just a few minutes, at least, to let me freshen up and tell my wife where we’re going?”
Gordon shook his head, took the briefcase from him, and placed it on the floor between his own feet. “No time,” he said curtly as Grant put his recorder on the floor between them. “Move it out, Ed.”
The big car lurched forward and went down the circular exit ramp with an almost continuous squealing of tires until it reached the bottom and straightened out. Gordon glanced at the briefcase and recorder.
“You said yesterday you couldn’t give me the tapes then because they were at your house and you didn’t want to go all the way out to Skokie to get them. Yet, you went directly from Marina City to Boardman’s and then directly back downtown from there this morning, and here you are with the tapes. Your cooperation with us, Mr. Grant, is leaving something to be desired.”
Gordon was obviously no man to underestimate at any time, and the writer was expressionless as he replied with a distinct chill to his voice.
“You’ve been having me followed, Gordon. I don’t like that.”
“Did you really expect you wouldn’t be?” There was no trace of sympathy in Gordon’s tone. “The world is full of things we don’t necessarily like, Mr. Grant, but we accept them because we don’t have any choice. In this present case, you don’t have any choice. None at all. You’re under a microscope, man, until we can decide just where in the hell you stand.”
7
“You certainly sound better than last time we talked, Pussycat.” Relief was evident in Susan Carpenter’s voice.
Anne smiled and switched the receiver to her other ear so she could lie more comfortably as they talked. “I am better, Mother. Much. All of a sudden he needs me — I mean really needs me — more than he ever has before.”
“That’s wonderful, dear. I’m so glad I’ve finally had a chance to see him.” Anne was bewildered. “See him? How could you have seen him?”
“On television, silly, where else? Haven’t you been watching? They showed him going into the hospital there. They tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t say much. Honey, this whole business is so exciting! What’s his connection with it all, anyway?”
“I really can’t talk about it, Mother. Only to say that it’s a lot more important than anyone realizes right now.”
“And you’re in on it, too?”
“Well, to a certain extent. Maybe more before long.”
“You’ll have to tell me all about it, Pussycat. Just think, my little Annie caught up in all this intriguing business. I’d never have believed it.”
Anne was silent, knowing her mother’s feelings would be hurt if she knew there was no possibility of Anne’s telling her all about it. Susan Carpenter had never been noted for her ability to keep things to herself. The pause in their conversation lengthened.
“You’re calling from the office, dear?”
“No. I’m in the apartment.”
Susan expressed instant concern. “Why? You’re not ill, are you?”
“No. Just pooped. I went in for a little while, but had to knock off. I didn’t get to bed at all last night and after about an hour in the office this morning I found myself nodding. Nothing to worry about.”
“Did you have fun, Pussycat?” A sly note crept in.
“Fun? When? What are you talking about?”
“Last night, with him. John. My God, Anne, he’s beautiful! If I’d known what he looked like before you and he got so firmly entrenched, I’d’ve been there getting my claws into him before you had a chance to.” She giggled.
Anne frowned. There was a quality to the words that she didn’t appreciate. Susan had spoken in a joking manner, but Anne knew her mother well enough to realize that there was a strong element of truth in what she said. And Susan was herself a very attractive woman. When Anne said nothing, Susan continued.
“Baby, how old is John?”
“Forty-six.”
“Forty-six! He looks so much younger than that. Do you know that means he’s only two years younger than I?”
“I know it, and I also know what you’re going to say next — that he’s eighteen years older than I.” Her voice took on a cold edge. “Hands off, Mother. Don’t even consider it! Not for one moment. I’m fighting one battle like that already. I don’t intend to engage in another. I mean it.”
“My, you are defensive, aren’t you? I’ve never liked it when you talk in that tone to me, Anne. You know that.”
The brittleness remained. “I know. We usually reserve that for our face-to-face encounters. Which is why we have so few of them. We both know that I’m aware of what you’re capable of, Mother, so I’ll say this only once.” There was measured menace in the words which followed. “He’s my man, now and always, and no one is going to get him away. No one!”
An exaggerated sweetness was in Susan Carpenter’s reply. “Someone already has, Pussycat.”
“No! He may be living with her now, but not for much longer. He’s mine, not hers. He knows it and I know it, and she’ll be finding out damned soon.”
“You really do need some sleep, Anne.” A stiffness was in her mother’s voice now. “It should have been self-evident that I was just teasing you about him. I have no interest whatever in your John Grant, except insofar as your interests are concerned. You’re altogether too touchy. I’d just as soon you didn’t call me when you’re in such an ugly mood.”
“A mood you inspired, Mother! And maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t have called. Maybe I just shouldn’t call you again, period!”
She slammed the phone down into its cradle and buried her face in the pillow. Her fists were tightly clenched and there was an anguished, wailing quality to her muffled voice. “He is mine! He is! He is!”
8
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. President. You’re looking better. I hope you’re feeling that way now, too.”
“Much better, Mr. Grant, thank you. I hope I’ll be back in the saddle at the White House again tomorrow, provided I can convince the doctors here that any further coddling is unnecessary.” He pointed to the corner of the large room where a three-cushioned, tomato-red sofa and three comfortable-looking armchairs of the same vinyl had been positioned in a circle around a low oval table with a slab of thick glass as its top. “Have a seat over there, if you will. You, too, Alex. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
As the President moved to the smaller table where he had eaten breakfast, his slippered feet made scuffing plops against the tile floor. If one were not sure, it was difficult to determine which of his feet was the one constructed of wood, steel and fiberglass. With his back to them he picked up the white telephone.
Grant rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. He put his briefcase and recorder on the floor by one of the chairs and sat down, hearing the cushion wheeze with escaping air as his weight settled. The graininess was getting worse and he wished now that he’d taken Gordon’s advice and tried to get a little nap during the flight. Though he’d washed and shaved in the big jet’s well-provided lavatory while en route, he still felt the discomfort of a shirt and underwear worn too long. He’d also have given almost anything to be able to kick off his shoes right now.
The time when he could have been napping had been spent reviewing the material he’d gathered during the night at Boardman’s and making as thorough notes as possible. On the way to the plane, Gordon had explained that the President could have no more delays; he must know immediately everything that Grant had learned. This had bothered Grant a great deal. He had expected to be giving a report sometime fairly soon — to Gordon if not to President Sanders — but he’d anticipated more time to prepare for it. He didn’t know how long this present session with the President would last, but he strongly doubted it would be long enough for a convincing presentation, even if he were well prepared. Certainly it precluded any chance of his catching some rest. He’d crammed as best he could from his own tapes and notes, making a hasty attempt at some form of organization, and all the while both his nervousness and fatigue had increased. He was also faintly irritated that the rush had been so great that there’d been no way to get calls off to Marie and Anne to let them know where he was going, nor any estimate of how long he’d be required to remain in the Washington area.
“Hazel,” the President was saying into the phone, “I’ve decided on a slightly altered situation here. I’ll want Oscar and Al in on this, too, along with Steve. They’re all available, aren’t they? … Good. Have them come in now … Yes … And change that lunch order from three to six … Yes, I got the letter from Mark Shepard and will dictate a reply after this meeting … Fine. Oh, I’ve also signed the letters that go to the families of those killed in that expressway disaster, so you can send them out whenever you’re ready … Sure, that’ll be fine.”
He hung up and walked back toward the two men. Alex Gordon, who had taken a seat on the sofa, came to his feet at once. Slower to react, Grant also started to rise, but the President waved him back.
“Sit still. We’re casual here. Sit down, Alex. The others will be in momentarily.” He sat down himself in the chair directly across the glass-topped table from Grant and smiled at the writer. “Alex says we jerked you away rather unexpectedly this morning. I apologize. At this point I didn’t have a great deal of choice. I realize you must be rather tired since according to Alex you’ve had no sleep. Perhaps our talk here will be lively enough to keep you going until we finish.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m sure I’ll keep alert.”
“You weren’t able to inform your wife of where you were going before you left?”
“No, sir.”
“Alex,” he swiveled his attention, “would you mind stepping out and asking Hazel to call Mrs. Grant to explain that Mr. Grant is here and probably will be in touch with her later on today?” He looked at Grant for confirmation and the writer smiled his thanks.
“Certainly, Mr. President,” said Gordon, rising again and starting away, but then he paused and looked back. “Perhaps, sir, Mr. Grant would also like to have his secretary informed as to his whereabouts.” Gordon looked at Grant, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“By all means, if he wishes it,” Sanders agreed.
Grant was startled and hesitated, considering, then nodded with a small, grateful smile. “I’d appreciate that, Mr. Gordon.”
As the black man stepped out, the President looked at Grant in a speculative manner. “I don’t want to get going on this,” he said, “until the others come in, but I do hope you have found some answers to the many puzzles that have been raised by this situation. The press is badgering for answers and I’ll have to admit that I’m every bit as curious as they to find out just what happened.”
“To a certain extent I’ll be able to explain, sir,” Grant said. “The whole matter is rather involved and I’m afraid it’s going to take a while to give you a fairly complete picture.” He stopped. The President had been listening closely and seemed disinclined to speak. Grant mentally braced himself and went on. “Mr. President, what I am going to say here may be the most—”
He broke off at a light rapping on the door, which was then opened. Preceded by Hazel Tierney, four men entered the room in single file. Grant recognized two of them — Gordon and Lace. The President stood, and so Grant rose also.
“Gentlemen,” Sanders greeted them, “come in.” He glanced at his personal secretary and pointed. “Hazel, the letters are on the table there. Unless it’s urgent, no more calls until we’re finished in here.” His eyes flicked to Grant and then back to her. “Which, I suspect, may turn out to be quite some time.”
“Yes, sir.”
As she moved to get the letters, the President faced the four men who had entered. “Gentlemen, this is Mr. John Grant. You are all aware of his reason for being here. Mr. Grant, you already know Mr. Gordon, of course, and am I correct in assuming you know Mr. Lace as well?”
“Yes, sir. We met at the hospital in Chicago.” He shook hands with Steven Lace and murmured, “Good to see you again.”
“These gentlemen,” Sanders held out his palm toward the other two, “are two of my principal advisers, Albert Jabonsky and Oscar McMillan.”
Jabonsky, the taller of the pair as well as the elder, was about six feet in height, with dense salt-and-pepper hair, a neat thin moustache and steely eyes behind rimless glasses. He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit and well-polished black shoes. He smiled in a perfunctory manner and took Grant’s offered hand, though there was no warmth in the grip.
McMillan, on the other hand, dressed in a medium-brown herringbone double-knit suit and dark brown patent leather shoes, was almost as opposite as he could be from Jabonsky. Of considerably less than average height and rather heavy-set, only a few scattered strands of brownish hair stretched across the top of his shiny pink scalp. He appeared to be in his early forties and his brown eyes were lively and alert, often squinching together with the amiable smiles he wore so frequently, as now when he shook hands vigorously with Grant.
At the President’s gesture as he sat down, the others seated themselves. Sanders and Grant resumed their previous seats and Gordon took the chair between them. The other three sat on the sofa. As soon as all were settled, the President spoke again.
“Mr. Grant was just telling me that what he has discovered during his talk with Mr. Boardman and subsequent to that will take some time to relate. I’ve ordered some lunch for us, which should be here before long, and if there is no objection, I think we can move along with our discussion as we eat. Mr. Grant,” he faced the writer, “you had begun saying something as these gentlemen entered. Would you care to pick it up there?”
“Yes, sir.” Grant moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. He could feel that his palms were wet with perspiration. “I was saying that what I will tell you here today may be the most important subject that has ever been brought to your attention.”
Sanders pursed his lips. “Important in what way, Mr. Grant?” he asked quietly.
Grant took the plunge. “For the preservation of mankind, Mr. President.”
For a moment there was utter stillness in the room, broken only by the barely audible whine of a far-off jet. Sanders shifted his eyes to Jabonsky and McMillan for a moment and then, with an elbow on the arm of his chair, gripped his chin between thumb and forefinger,
“You don’t mince words, do you, Mr. Grant?” There was a faint sense of humor underlying the words. “All right, suppose you tell us about it.”
Grant leaned forward with his forearms on the arms of the chair and spoke earnestly. “My talk with Herbert Boardman lasted for just under fourteen hours, and we covered a great deal of ground. I taped the entire conversation” — he indicated the recorder with an offhand gesture — “and it may be that at some future time you will want to hear what was said in its entirety. I’m sure now, however, that you’re more interested in a summary as succinct as I may be able to give it.”
At the President’s nod, he continued. “I should perhaps assure you first of my thorough conviction that Mr. Boardman was the agent of no other person or organization. The reasons I say this will become clear as I go along. Mr. Boardman acted solely on his own and, as you’re aware, he wished to make it appear his intent was to kill you, when actually it was not.”
“If I may interject a comment here, Mr. President,” Gordon said, continuing as the President’s eyes settled on him. “We have located the man in Chicago who made the special ammunition for Boardman. Run-of-the-mill gun hobbyist named Roy Bujalski. Very frightened. He came forward on his own and told how Boardman had gotten him to make the ammunition, supposedly to shoot a neighbor’s dog that had been terrorizing him and his daughter. He said Boardman claimed he didn’t want to kill the dog, but just stun it to teach it a lesson. Bujalski checked out reasonably clean, so we’re not holding him.”
“Thank you, Alex,” Sanders said. “Please go on, Mr. Grant.”
Grant continued, methodically and thoroughly, boiling down the extensive conversation with Boardrnan to its prime essence — a task made simpler than he thought it would be because he had more or less done the same thing already with Anne. If anything, his presentation, more organized than Boardman’s, was also more convincing. There was, while he was speaking, a considerably divergent range of reaction from his listeners. Surprisingly, the least amount of reaction came from Alexander Gordon. The Secret Service chief sat with heavy-lidded eyes boring unwaveringly into Grant’s, his expression impassive. At the other end of the reactive spectrum, Steven Lace obviously was deeply upset by what he was hearing, frequently glancing at the President and his advisers to see how they were responding. The White House press secretary had actually paled several times as the significance of what Grant was saying was driven home to him, and he seemed to vacillate between utter disbelief and strong conviction with mercurial unpredictability.
