There on the screen, sitting in the same chair the movie starlet had occupied a few minutes previously, was Nathaniel Gorham. And the host of “Good Morning, America” sat across from him, relaxed and smiling, as though having someone from eighteenth-century colonial America was not in the least bit out of the ordinary.
“Mr. Gorham, welcome to our show. It is indeed a privilege for us to have you here.”
“Thank you.” Gorham looked around. “So this is how they do this television thing? Amazing, just amazing!”
There was no mistaking it. It was the same deep voice, the same thin face and sharp angular features, the same piercing dark eyes that had confronted Bryce last night. And the costume—it looked totally authentic. His shirt was ruffled at the throat and sleeves, the coat black and long enough that if he were standing it would come to mid thigh. His pants, also black, ended at the knee. White stockings and buckle shoes completed the outfit. The only difference was the hair. Last night it had been loose and shoulder length. Now it was pulled back tightly from his face and fastened in a bun at the nape of his neck.
Once again Bryce’s mind was tumbling like a rubber ball down a coal chute. There had to be an explanation. He clenched his fists, feeling the edge of madness pressing in on him again. He forced his mind away from it, concentrating on the television set before him.
“Tell us more about this Council of the Founding Fathers,” the host was saying.
Gorham readjusted himself slightly, then nodded thoughtfully. “Well, all of us who were privileged to have had a part in the forming of this great country still get together on a regular basis.”
“In the world of spirits?” the host broke in.
“Well, I suppose you could call it that. We prefer to think of it as the adjoining sphere.”
“Could you name some of those on the council?”
“Well, there are all of the names you would recognize—Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Tom Paine, Paul Revere. There are over three hundred of us, actually. I wish all were as well known to this generation as the others. Every one played a part—along with thousands of others whose names are not in any history books.”
The host of “Good Morning, America” nodded thoughtfully. “We are most interested in hearing more about what this great council of yours does, Mr. Gorham. But first let’s take a commercial break.” He looked straight into the camera. “Stay right with us, we’ll be back in a moment.”
Bryce leaped to his feet as an idea struck him. Last night, in the encyclopedia, as he had been looking for Gorham’s name, there had been a full-color picture of the signing of the Constitution, the famous one—he couldn’t think of the artist—that hung in the Capitol building. He looked around, saw the book on the desk where he had dropped it the night before, and limped over to get it. He turned quickly, found the heading for the Constitution, then turned more slowly. There it was. Painted by Howard Chandler Christy. And below it, as he had remembered, was the little sketch that gave the key to the forty or so figures in the painting.
Bryce ran his finger down the names quickly, passing over George Washington’s and Ben Franklin’s. Then he saw it. Number twenty-two! Nathaniel Gorham. It was the man on the far left, nearly out of the picture. With his pulse suddenly pounding, he forced his eyes up to the copy of the painting. There was a involuntary gasp, then Bryce let the book down slowly until it sat on the desk.
One could dress in costume, and a television studio could bring on an actor posing as one of the founding fathers as a gimmick. But could they make him into the same man as the picture in the encyclopedia?
Suddenly he had another idea. He moved quickly to the television, turned on the video recorder, and checked to see if it had a tape in it. If there was some evidence, something to show to others, then he could validate his sanity. He punched the buttons and started the tape rolling, just as the host’s cheerful face reappeared on the screen.
“Once again, ladies and gentlemen, we have in the studio with us, Mr. Nathaniel Gorham, one of the original delegates to the Constitutional Convention held in 1787. Mr. Gorham, tell us why this group you call the Council of the Founding Fathers has sent you to visit the twentieth century.”
Bryce leaned forward, listening intently.
Gorham grew very serious. “Well, the primary reason is that we are still very much interested in what you people are doing with the nation we gave you.”
“And is the council pleased?”
“With some things, most definitely. You have come to greatness in so many ways.”
“But in other things…?” he prompted.
“We see some things that are deeply alarming.”
“Such as?”
“Well, just let me give you one example. When we drafted the Constitution, we went to great lengths to provide a set of checks and balances between the three branches of government. That was the only way we saw to create a strong central government and yet still keep it from becoming a tyranny. Yet today, you have created numerous so-called government agencies that violate this system of checks and balances.”
“In what way?”
“You’ve given some of these agencies not only the power to make laws, but also to adjudicate and enforce them. In other words, some of these agencies now have administrative power, judicial power, and legislative power all under one head.”
Gorham’s voice was rising in intensity. “And what is worse, these agencies are under the direction of people who are appointed officials. They are not elected by the people!”
The horror was so evident on his face that the host smiled. “Well, there are certainly plenty of people who would agree with you on that. And this new amendment that passed the Senate yesterday? A lot of people are saying that this will return government back to the people. How do you feel about that?”
Gorham smashed his fist down against the arm of his chair, startling even the host. “That is a damnable bill!” he roared. “Damnable! It cannot be passed. It threatens the very heart of the freedoms we fought for. You may as well gut the whole Constitution, for it breaks down the check-and-balance system almost completely. How can you have a strong president if he can be tossed out of office at every whim? And how can the Congress function without set terms of office? Already your senators and congressmen are so worried about winning the next election, they can hardly function. This amendment will put that completely in shambles!”
The camera had moved in tight on Gorham now. He leaned forward and peered into the lens. Bryce felt a sudden chill, as though Gorham were looking directly at him. “We gave the best blood of our generation to win liberty for ourselves and our posterity. Would you throw it away so cheaply? And with the very instrument we gave you to protect it? How can you be so blind?”
“Okay, Bryce, what is it you want me to see?” Senator Hawkes settled into the chair across from Bryce’s desk.
Bryce got up and walked to the cabinet and opened it up. He turned on both the television and the video recorder. “It’s only about a three-minute clip.”
He hit the play button then returned to his seat. The recorder clicked and whirred; then settled into a low hum, but the television screen was filled with snowy whiteness.
Bryce waited a moment or two, then got up and returned to the cabinet. He pressed the fast-forward button. He could hear the recorder respond, but still no picture appeared. “Hmmm. I thought it was right there.” He hit the stop button, then ejected the cassette. It was at the beginning, exactly as he had rewound it before he had left his apartment. He put it back in and fastforwarded it for a moment, then hit the play button again. But still there was nothing but a blank screen.
“Maybe it’s further in,” the senator suggested helpfully.
Grimly, Bryce leaned on the fast-forward button again, a sense of foreboding coming over him. Suddenly the screen filled with images, and he let off the button, stepping back.
The tape slowed to show a sleek Mercedes Benz sports coupe racing through th
e Swiss Alps. Bryce stabbed at the buttons and the tape stopped.
Bryce turned slowly, somehow not really surprised. “I guess I lost it.”
“Well, at least you got the commercial,” Hawkes said with a laugh. Then sensing Bryce’s disappointment, he added, more kindly, “What was it?”
“An interview on ‘Good Morning, America’.”
“You mean Michaelson?”
Bryce blinked. “Who?”
“Michaelson.”
Bryce was still uncomprehending, and Hawkes gave him an odd look.
“Representative Michaelson, Republican Representative Howard Michaelson, from Oregon. Our most vocal opponent in the House.”
“Oh, that Michaelson.” Bryce was groping wildly.
“Yes, they did a quick interview with him on the show this morning. Didn’t you see it?”
“I…I must have bumped channels or something. I didn’t see Michaelson. I must have recorded something else.”
“What?”
Bryce let out his breath slowly, shaking his head, feeling as though the ground were swirling around him. “I don’t know exactly who it was. Somebody talking about the Constitution.”
“And?”
“And…well, he made a point or two that could harm us. I…I wanted you to see it,” Bryce finished lamely. “See what you thought.”
“Hmmm. Too bad you lost it.” For a moment, Hawkes gave him that shrewd, appraising look that Bryce knew so well, then finally shook his head and moved to the door. “Why don’t you write me a summary of what it was?”
As the senator shut the door, Bryce once again walked to the cabinet and started the recorder. He rewound it to the beginning then stared at the blank screen as the whole thing replayed through to the point where the commercial appeared. Then he sat down slowly and stared out the window at the nation’s capitol.
Chapter 6
Bryce leaned forward in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck slowly as he stared at the computer screen, rereading the concluding lines of the speech he had just written. He nodded in satisfaction. It was good. Good enough to give to the senator for his review in the morning.
In fact, it had been a good three hours—not only because he was pleased with the product, but also because it had kept his mind occupied with something besides Nathaniel Gorham. He raised his hands to the keyboard again, typed in the commands for filing the document, shut the computer off, and stood up. The building was quiet now. It was nearly six, and the rest of the staff had left over an hour ago. He liked this time of night best. No phones, no constituents dropping in with this or that request, no media people pressing for information.
At that moment the phone in his secretary’s office started to ring. He grabbed his phone and pushed the line that was blinking. “Senator Hawkes’s office.”
“Yes, is Mr. Sherwood there?”
It was a feminine voice, pleasant, with just a trace of huskiness to it. His mind raced, trying to place it. “This is Mr. Sherwood.”
“Oh, hello. This is Leslie Adams.”
Of course. He smiled. “Well, hello. This is a surprise.”
Slight hesitation. “I didn’t know if you’d still be in the office or not.”
“Just finishing up.”
“I see. Well, I…”
There was a short pause, and he sensed what was coming.
“I’m sorry, but a problem has come up with Friday night.”
“Oh?”
“There’s been a meeting called. I have to be there. I really am sorry.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps some other time.”
It had been a long and frustrating day. And playing games had long ago ceased to interest him. He took a breath. “Look, Leslie, I’ll tell you what. We’ve both been out of high school for a while now, so let me ask you straight out. Do you really mean that about some other time, or is that just a polite way of saying, ‘I’d really rather skip it’?”
There was a soft intake of breath, a pause, then finally she laughed. “That is the straightest talk I have ever heard from a politician.”
He smiled back, softening a little. “And that non-answer makes you as good as any politician I’ve ever heard.”
“No evasion, I was just a little bit taken aback by your question.”
“So?” he pressed.
“Well, I would have to admit that I am a little nervous about the coming duel, as you call it, but no, this is not a polite brushoff. I really do have a meeting that’s just been called, and I really do have to be there.” There was a brief pause. “And I really would like to do it some other time.”
“How about tonight?” he asked bluntly.
Silence.
He relented a little, feeling a twinge of guilt for his abruptness. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s been kind of a crazy day here. Why don’t I just call you sometime.”
“Could you give me an hour?”
Now he was the one caught by surprise. “What?” he finally managed to say.
“I promised Frank—the president of our group—that I’d finish a project for him, but I can be finished in an hour.”
“You’re serious?” he asked, more pleased than he had expected to be.
“Why not? You keep slamming these stinging serves into my court. So I’m returning one. Did you really mean it about tonight, or was that just an attempt to call my bluff?”
“I really meant it.”
“Then I accept.”
“Great! Do you like Chinese, Mexican, or Italian food?”
“Mexican,” she said without hesitation.
“Wow!”
“Wow what?”
“Thank you for not saying, ‘It doesn’t really matter to me, Bryce, whatever you like.’ That is refreshing honesty for a change.”
“Ah, the heavy burdens of the single male.” There was just the tiniest trace of tartness in her voice.
“Sorry, I was trying to compliment your honesty.”
“And I’m sorry. I tend to bristle too easily.”
“Probably a good characteristic in a duel.”
She laughed.
“So, seven o’clock then?”
“Fine. Do you know where the Cooper Building is on Third Street?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be out front.”
“Great, I’ll see you then.”
Bryce watched the six o’clock news and was relieved that there were no surprises. No weird stuff. And in fact, the reports on the passage of the proposed amendment were overall very favorable. Several polls were showing a 65 percent approval rate from the people.
Just as the news was finishing, the phone rang again, this time on his private line.
“This is Bryce.”
“Bryce, Elliot Mannington.”
“Oh, hello.”
“Listen, I’ve just got a minute. I’m glad I caught you. The full board met this morning. Your appointment is finalized.”
“Great!”
“I talked to Senator Hawkes a few minutes ago and gave him the news.”
“Oh.” Bryce felt a stab of disappointment. Senator Hawkes had been very good to Bryce Sherwood, and he had wanted to tell him personally, break it as gently as he could.
“He was disappointed, of course, but he’s pleased for you. Can we meet sometime tomorrow, start working out the details of the transfer?”
“Sure.”
“Shall we say three-thirty at my office?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. See you then.” And he hung up.
It was a quarter to seven when Bryce straightened the papers on his desk, stood, and put on his coat. He checked to make sure everything was off, then started out. He made it to the doorway of the outer office when he suddenly froze in midstride. He turned back slowly, feeling the hair on the back of his neck start to rise. The sharp click from inside his office had been unmistakable. Now he jumped, his eyes widening as a new set of sounds came clearly from his doorway. There w
as no mistaking what it was. The combination of buzzes, beeps, and hums was as familiar to him as the sounds of his BMW. It was his computer booting up!
In one instant he grabbed an umbrella that hung on a coat rack behind the secretary’s desk, and lunged toward the door, the umbrella poised to strike. There was a sharp crash as the door flew back and hit the wall, then Bryce pulled up short, dumbfounded.
The office was empty! It was still full daylight, and Bryce’s chair and computer were fully bathed in the last rays of the sun. No one was there!
He whirled around, jerked the door back, and looked behind it. Nothing!
Then suddenly he jumped, nearly dropping the umbrella. The keyboard started to click! Someone was typing, slowly, almost hesitantly. In one leap he was on the other side of the desk, his umbrella-sword pointed at the space beneath his desk—the only place left where a person could escape detection. Nothing!
Bryce lowered the umbrella slowly, chills racing up and down his back, his breath coming heavily as he stared at the computer terminal. The cursor was blinking steadily on a new line. Directly above it were the words, HELLO, BRYCE SHERWOOD.
Then, even as he stared, there was a distinct click, and on the screen the letter “T” appeared.
Bryce clutched at the umbrella, raising it like a ball bat, and took one step toward the computer. Then the “H” key clicked down and up. He stopped, too shocked to move further, and watched as slowly but inexorably one key after another clicked and the letters appeared on the screen.
T-H-I-S B-E-A-T-S A Q-U-I-L-L A-N-D A-N I-N-K-W-E-L-L-!
No! It couldn’t be! He tossed the umbrella on the desk and leaned over the keyboard, his mouth tight. He was a competent typist and his fingers fairly flew.
W-H-O A-R-E Y-O-U-?
There was a two- or three-second pause and then a key clicked. Once again, slowly, as though each key had to be sought for, the next line began to fill.
W-E-L-L-, I-T I-S-N-’-T B-E-N F-R-A-N-K-L-I-N-.
Bryce stared, then fell back two steps. There over the keyboard, looking almost like flecks of dust in the sunlight at first, but gradually forming, appeared two hands. At first totally transparent, they quickly took on form and shape. They were big and well worn, the knuckles gnarled and scarred. The fingers were searching back and forth, then suddenly stabbed at a key, then another. Now wrists began to materialize, then black sleeves and white ruffles protruded from them, and finally the rest of the body formed rapidly—the broad shoulders, the finely cut head with the nose sharp and aquiline in profile.
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 90
