Time Sensitive

by Elyse Douglas

  “The letter further states that the man who might kill Sirhan might also attempt to assassinate Richard Nixon. Now, normally, I don’t spend much time or energy on these kinds of idle threats. I shoot them off to the FBI, CIA or Secret Service, but this one is different for a variety of reasons. First, there is a clear, detailed description of this Sirhan, as well as the man who is supposed to kill him, in order to stop RFK’s assassination. And what is quite extraordinary is how the letter states the exact time and location Sirhan will attempt to kill Kennedy. According to the communique, Robert Kennedy will be mortally wounded on June 5th, shortly after midnight, Pacific Daylight Time, at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. I’ll read the details from the letter. Steven reached into his shirt pocket for a pair of black-rimmed glasses and slipped them on.

  “Kennedy will start down a passageway narrowed by an ice machine against the right wall and a steam table to the left. Kennedy will turn to his left and shake hands with busboy Juan Romero—just as Sirhan Sirhan will step down from a low tray-stacker beside the ice machine, rush past the hotel maître d’hôtel named Karl Uecker, and repeatedly fire an eight-shot .22 LR caliber Iver Johnson Cadet 55-A revolver. The gunfire will wound five bystanders, including a 17-year-old campaign aide named Irwin Stoll and labor organizer and Kennedy supporter, Paul Schrade. All but Kennedy will survive.”

  Charlotte stared incredulous. “I don’t understand. How could anyone know these things? I mean, how could it be that specific: wounding five bystanders; a named busboy shaking Mr. Kennedy’s hand when he’s shot? The writer is surely just making the whole thing up.”

  Steven lifted his eyes. “An agent called the Ambassador Hotel in L.A. and confirmed that Juan Romero is a 17-year-old busboy, and he is scheduled to work tomorrow night. There is a campaign aide named Irwin Stoll, and we know who Paul Schrade is, don’t we? Needless to say, I contacted the FBI and the LAPD, and they are looking for Sirhan, and his possible killer, but I haven’t received any updates yet. I have also learned that AID, or the Agency for International Development, is also involved. They are a front organization that provides cover for the CIA. I don’t like their involvement, and I don’t like the people they hang out with, namely, members of the mob they have worked with since the Bay of Pigs.”

  Charlotte stood up and raked a hand through her hair. “It just seems like it could be an elaborate fiction.”

  “There’s more, Charlotte. Kent Reed mentioned something rather disquieting. He is aware that there are certain ongoing secret government experiments using clairvoyant talent and the use of telesthesia. Through intelligence, we have learned that the KGB is doing the same.”

  Charlotte’s interest sharpened. “What is telesthesia?”

  “In early occult and spiritualist literature, telesthesia was known as traveling clairvoyance, that is the ability to see remote or hidden objects clairvoyantly with the inner eye, or during alleged out-of-body travel.”

  Steven’s face twisted into distaste. “I don’t subscribe to this kind of thing, but Kent has connections with the subcultures of government and he is looking into it. What if we are dealing with the KGB? We have to consider all possibilities. I’d love nothing more than to have ignored this damn letter, but we don’t have that luxury. Not after JFK’s, Malcolm X’s and Martin Luther King’s assassinations.”

  Charlotte stared blankly at Steven, aware that he was locked in a struggling concentration.

  Charlotte asked, “I’m sorry, when did you say Sirhan is supposed to attempt RFK’s assassination?”

  “Tomorrow night, after midnight, so early June 5th, assuming, of course, that the FBI or the LAPD doesn’t find Sirhan, or that the unnamed assassin doesn’t kill him first. If RFK does not die tomorrow night, then I suppose we may consider the letter to be a hoax. On the other hand, we must still be alert to the possibility of an assassination attempt on Richard Nixon. The letter stated quite dramatically that the potential assassin is a military man, very smart and professional.”

  Charlotte corralled her thoughts. “But doesn’t it seem that if the letter is accurate, then it is a warning to stop both the assassin from killing Sirhan Sirhan, and Sirhan from killing Bobby Kennedy?”

  They sat in a bewildering, chilly silence.

  As Charlotte eased back down into her chair, Steven got up, keeping his steady eyes on the letter. “But what is even more disturbing, Charlotte, is that at the bottom of the letter, your own personal secret access code is clearly written, as well as a top-secret project that I assume you are not even aware of. Do you know of a top-secret project called ARRAY?”

  Charlotte shook her head, feeling nauseous. “No…”

  Steven sighed. “It does lend a very troubling credibility to all the information in the letter, doesn’t it? Which is another reason we took all this business seriously.”

  Steven clamped his suspicious eyes on her. Charlotte squirmed in her chair, her mind stung by the information and allegation.

  “I don’t like this security breach, Charlotte. Is there anything about the letter you can tell me? Do you have any idea who might have written it? Can you tell me how someone, from the inside or the outside, got access to your security code?”

  Charlotte could only stammer out, “Of… of course not. No… I mean I don’t know, Steven.”

  “Well, I don’t think we’re dealing with a hippie sidewalk tarot card reader, are we? And it seems obvious that the writer of that letter is pointing a finger directly at you, so to speak.”

  A dark and fierce thought slid into Charlotte’s mind. Was the entire situation somehow connected to that old lady?

  Steven removed his glasses. “I’m sure you are aware that there will have to be an internal investigation into this, Charlotte.”

  Steven stared, Charlotte stared, and an icy silence grew between them.

  CHAPTER 27

  “I was thinking, maybe we should take a couple days off, go down to the Maryland shore for a few days. Maybe even stay through the weekend,” Charlotte said the next morning, Tuesday June 4th.

  Paul glanced up from his scrambled eggs, his eyes surprised and probing. “What? What did you just say?”

  He stuck a finger into his ear and wiggled it as if he wasn’t sure he was hearing properly. “I’m sorry, did you say take a couple of days off and spend a weekend together?”

  “Very funny,” Charlotte said, flatly, as she blew on her black coffee and watched it ripple.

  The family were gathered around the formica-topped kitchen table, having a rare weekday breakfast together. Charlotte was usually out of the house by 7 a.m.

  Bright sun streamed in from open windows, and yellow curtains billowed in a gentle breeze that carried the scent of honeysuckle and fresh cut grass.

  Lacey stirred her bowl of Fruit Loops, staring hypnotically into them, whispering as if casting a spell, while Lyn ignored her eggs and distractedly played with her blonde curls.

  “Please eat your eggs, Lyn,” Paul said. “You said you wanted eggs this morning.”

  “I don’t like eggs,” Lyn said.

  “Then why did you ask Daddy to make them for you?” Charlotte asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want something else?” Paul asked.

  Lyn brightened. “Pancakes!”

  Lacey snapped out of her daydream, slapped her hands together and flashed a smile. “Yeah, pancakes,” she exclaimed in rare agreement with her sister.

  “We had pancakes yesterday,” Paul said. “We can’t have pancakes every day.”

  Lacey pouted and went back to stirring her imagined cauldron of some witch’s brew and Lyn made a face.

  “Why can’t we have pancakes every day? Pancakes are good,” Lyn said. “I don’t like these eggs.”

  “If you eat your eggs this morning, we’ll have pancakes tomorrow,” Paul said. “We’ll call it pancake Wednesday.”

  Lyn knew she was being manipulated, but she knew her father was truthful. “Okay
…”

  She pushed her eggs around while Lacey picked up one single fruit loop to examine it. Charlotte stared at her handsome husband, recalling with new pleasure their lovemaking the night before. She’d arrived home late, showered and slipped naked into bed next to Paul, who was sound asleep. She’d gently awakened him with warm, wet kisses and mischievous fingers. Soon, she was on top of him and he’d responded with strength and passion.

  Afterwards, as they lay side by side, he whispered, “What happened?”

  “What do you mean?” Charlotte asked, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

  “When was the last time you’ve awakened and ravished me? Not that I’m complaining.”

  Her meeting with Steven had shaken and scared her, made her feel vulnerable. The last few days had been unsettling, to say the least, beginning with the bizarre conversation with that old woman. Charlotte knew something was out of sync, out of focus or just plain wrong. Did that old lady have something to do with the letter sent to the NSA? How could she? But how could it just be a coincidence?

  “Are you asleep?” Paul asked, turning his body toward her, lifting up on an elbow. “Or have you tuned me out, tuning into some secret code at the NSA?”

  “Sorry, no. I guess I’m just… I don’t know, happy to be home with you and the girls.”

  She rolled to face him, seeing him in silhouette, and brushed his warm cheek with two fingers. “You do know that I love you very much, don’t you? Almost from the first time I saw your slender body and that cowboy shirt with pearl buttons. I liked those pointy cowboy boots too.”

  “Well, I am from Austin, Texas, ma’am,” he joked, in a thick southern drawl.

  She laughed a little, enjoying the intimacy. “I loved those careful eyes and that dimple in your chin, like Cary Grant’s.”

  Paul’s voice was soft and tender. “I’ve always known you love me, Charlotte. I also know that when you leave me and the girls from time-to-time, both literally and emotionally, you’ll eventually return to us. Welcome back again, Charlotte.”

  And then he held her in the soft curve of his arm, and they fell asleep.

  Across the breakfast table, Charlotte gazed at Paul, as if she were trying to solve a problem. He noticed.

  “Is everything all right?”

  She allowed her eyes to explore his rugged face, the classic lantern jaw and the often amused, twinkling eyes. He had always been there for her, right from their first date, only a month after her mother had committed suicide. Charlotte had cried for days, blaming her cool, reserved and emotionally absent father.

  With tears swimming in her eyes, she’d confessed to Paul, “My family had more issues than a magazine stand. My parents should have divorced.”

  Paul was a good listener, a good friend, and then a sweet and generous lover. He’d consoled her and been patient with her and loved her for who she was.

  “Don’t worry, Charlotte, you’ll eventually find a way to forgive your father. He’s suffering too, you know. We all have certain capacities to love, some less, some more.”

  Charlotte wondered if she was more like her father than her mother. Was she cool and reserved and often emotionally absent?

  Returning to the present moment, Charlotte nodded, in a half-smile. “Yes, I’m all right. I’m good, in fact. So, what do you say we blow off today and tomorrow and go to Ocean City or Virginia Beach, or New York… or anyplace?”

  “I wish I could, but I’ve got that Nestlé ad campaign due by Monday. I’m going to have to work most of the weekend to finish it.”

  Charlotte sipped her coffee, staring down. “It was just an idea.”

  “What about next weekend?” Paul asked.

  Her eyes shifted uneasily. “Yeah, maybe.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Charlotte felt like a caged lion. She worked for a time, then paced, then smoked, then drank another cup of coffee—she’d lost track of how many cups she’d consumed—performing every task with nervous distraction. Her agitated thoughts wouldn’t settle or focus.

  In a meeting with a colleague, she was impatient and irritable, communicating in a brusque, hurried way. Time seemed to stop. She glanced at her watch incessantly, as well as at every clock she passed in the hallways and in the conference room.

  She called Paul three times. He was in meetings. She called Florence to check on Lacey and Lyn. The girls were down the street at a friend’s house. Had Florence already told her that? Yes. Her mind was a tangle of dread and fear.

  It was Tuesday, June 4th.

  Charlotte sat at her desk, staring disconsolate. Where was the old woman at that moment? If there was an assassin, where was he?

  By late afternoon, Charlotte stood at her window, gazing out at a ragged tear of light piercing through dark purple and heavy gray clouds, and she watched an airplane arrowing skyward until it disappeared.

  She had to go home. Having dinner with Paul, Lyn and Lacey would help to distract her and steady her frayed nerves. There would be no conversations about the old lady or the letter to the NSA or anything having to do with her work. Promptly, at 5:30 p.m., Charlotte left the office and drove home.

  Charlotte awakened abruptly. She glanced at the clock on the night table. It was 2:34 a.m. She gently left the bed, grabbed a robe and belted it as she started down the stairs, putting a fist to a yawn.

  As she paced the living room, the themes from the day before kept crowding in on her. Should she have forced Paul to take her and the girls on a trip? Was it possible something horrible was going to happen to them? Was that old lady the writer of the letter to the NSA? Was she involved in some sort of KGB clairvoyance project? If so, why did she warn her that something was going to happen? Was she feeling guilty about being a Russian spy?

  She was startled when she heard Paul’s footsteps. “Charlotte, what’s going on? Why are you up? It’s late, or early,” he said, with a wide, cavernous yawn.

  Should she tell him? But where would she begin?

  “Nothing really. I have a little indigestion, that’s all. I guess I’m not used to being home for supper and eating Florence’s fried chicken. I ate too much.”

  Paul approached her and rubbed her back. “I got your messages today. I called you back. Did you get my message?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your voice sounds tense. Anything you want to talk about?”

  “No… It’s just work.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  Charlotte put her face in her hands and shook her head.

  “That means you’ll be working late again tonight, right?”

  Charlotte’s voice began small and apologetic. “Well… There is something pretty serious going on.”

  “Isn’t there always? Not that I’m criticizing your dedication to your job.”

  “Yes, you are, and maybe you should.”

  “You just don’t sound like yourself, and you called me three times today and you were home at 6:30 and you avoided talking to me after the girls were in bed. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Charlotte lowered herself in her chair. “I just wish we’d gone away.”

  “If it means that much to you, then let’s do it. In the morning, I’ll tell boss Charlie that I have to leave town on family business, and I’ll take my work with me.”

  Charlotte sighed, and it made a whooshing sound. “It might be too late.”

  “What do you mean, too late? Charlotte, what is going on?”

  A curtain of rain slid across the windows. Startled, Charlotte pivoted toward it.

  “I didn’t know it was supposed to rain,” she said.

  Paul knew by now when it was futile to ask questions. He walked to the liquor cabinet, took down a half bottle of brandy, found two snifters, and poured them each a couple of ounces. He brought her a glass and they toasted, the snifters chiming.

  “Here’s to rainy nights and a pretty wife,” he said.

  She smiled. “Such a romantic.”

  Paul too
k a sip. “Why not? Maybe we should start a fire and make love.”

  “And what if the girls wake up and find us?”

  He shrugged. “Then they’ll learn about the birds, the bees and the Vances, romping in the living room.”

  But Charlotte remained remote. They sat on the couch and listened to the rain in silence. Charlotte sipped her drink slowly, pensively. Paul knew that when she was in a mood, she was not interested in the birds and the bees. He took the rest of the brandy in one go, got up and returned to the cabinet, pouring himself another. He tossed it back like a shot and set the glass down.

  “Come back to bed, honey. I’ll smother you with kisses and sing you Beatles’ songs.” The booze had loosened his mood and he began to sing, very off key, as he took her hands and tried to lift her from the couch. “He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah… with a love like that, you know you should be bad…”

  Charlotte laughed. “It’s not ‘bad,’ it’s ‘glad’. And for heaven’s sake, stop singing. You have many talents, Paul, but one of them is definitely not singing.”

  She remained seated.

  Paul dropped her hands. “Okay, well I’m going back to bed. I’ll sleep like a baby now.” He stooped and kissed her. “Good night, darling,” he said softly, then ambled down the hallway and up the stairs.

  At 3:35 a.m., Charlotte was taking the snifters to the kitchen when the phone rang. Within seconds, she’d snatched the green wall phone receiver. “Hello?”

  “Charlotte, it’s Steven Case.” He sighed. “Robert Kennedy’s been shot.”

  The blood seemed to drain to her feet. “Did it…” she stopped, unable to release the words, not wanting to release the words.

  “Yes, Charlotte. It all happened exactly the way the letter stated it would happen.”

  Charlotte felt her knees grow rubbery. Her mind seemed to go into spasm.

  “Will Bobby live?”

  Steven shook his head. “Doubtful. He has a bullet in the brain. He’s at Good Samaritan Hospital.”

  Charlotte dropped into a kitchen chair, trembling. “Is there any word about the other guy? The man who was supposed to kill Sirhan?”