“And what about the amendment?”
Bryce snapped around, incredulous. “The amendment?”
“Yes. What are you going to do about it?”
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “You can’t give it up, can you?”
Gorham just looked at him steadily, his eyes dark pools that could not be fathomed.
“Well,” Bryce said, breathing heavily, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about the amendment. When I return to Washington the day after Labor Day, I start work for one Mr. Elliot Mannington. And we’re going to put together an organization that will roll through the states of this Union like a thunderclap through the Appalachians. You think I was committed before? Well, you watch me now!”
Gorham again made no response, just stared morosely out into the blackness of the storm. Bryce watched him out of the corner of his eye, his chest heaving with anger.
But Gorham’s next words caught him completely off guard. They were spoken so softly that Bryce had to lean over slightly to pick them up. They were also spoken with a sadness so deep, it left him staring at the man. “Is there no way I can change your mind, Lad?”
“About the amendment? Absolutely not!”
Gorham sighed, a sound of deep pain. “I truly regret to hear you say that. You leave us no other choice.”
Bryce snorted in disgust, and shook his head. “Oh, wonderful! Now come the dark threats, right? Shall we dance around the witch’s cauldron?”
But at that instant, lightning struck about a hundred yards off to the right of the road, directly in line with Bryce’s vision. He jumped sharply as the flash and shattering crack of thunder came simultaneously, rattling the car.
“Man!” he cried, “That was close!” He turned to see Gorham’s reaction, then his mouth dropped open. Nathaniel Gorham had disappeared!
Any thoughts of Gorham were instantly blotted out as another deafening crack slammed off to his right. He slowed the car, momentarily blinded by the intensity of the flash. He was coming around a curve, and the rain was coming down in sheets, making everything a blur. Suddenly he yelled. A blinding whiteness was coming at him, like the high beams of some gigantic vehicle in the dead of night. He slammed on the brakes, felt the back end of the car swing sideways, then screamed as it went into a slide and slammed into the wall of whiteness at close to thirty miles an hour.
There was no shattering crash, no splintering collision. There was one brief burst of whiteness so intense that it seemed to burn his retinas, then instant, all-consuming blackness.
The first thing Bryce was conscious of was the cold wetness along the whole back side of his body. The next was the incredible glitter of stars that filled his vision. He blinked once, then again. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that it had stopped raining and the sky had cleared. Gradually other things began to impinge upon his consciousness—the steady, rhythmic droning of crickets; then, in deeper harmony, the raspy seesaw of frogs further away; then, finally, the fact that he was flat on his back in deep, rain-soaked grass. Slowly he pulled himself up to a sitting position, the memory of the storm and Gorham and the blinding whiteness returning.
There was a sound behind him, faint but growing rapidly in volume. He turned toward it, saw a flickering, ghostly light flashing through a stand of trees. Then the headlights of a car came from behind the trees and whipped past him, the hiss of tires on wet pavement rising, then falling in time with the sound of the engine. He ran his hands through his hair, looking around wildly, seeing little because of the temporary night blindness caused by the headlights.
Half dazed, he stumbled toward the highway, instantly soaking his pants up to the knees in the rain-soaked grass. By the time he reached the road, his night vision was returning. There was only a quarter moon, low in the sky, but it was enough to show him, as he looked back and forth in dismay, that his BMW was nowhere to be seen. What had happened? He remembered blacking out as he hit the wall…That brought him up short. It had been somewhere around one thirty or two o’clock in the afternoon when he had stopped for Gorham. Now it was… He lifted his hand, turned his wrist until the face of his watch picked up the moonlight. He drew in a quick breath. It was nine thirty-six! He had been laying there for seven or eight hours!
Alarmed now, he tipped his head back and studied the heavens above him until he spotted the North Star. To the left was north, the way he had been driving. He remembered the small town he passed just before seeing Gorham. With sudden determination he turned to the right and headed south.
He had only gone about ten yards when he saw a flash of white on the ground in front of him. He changed directions slightly, leaned down, and picked up the sheaf of papers slowly. They were barely damp. He brought them up close to his face. The light was faint, but it was bright enough that he could discern the typewritten title: “Declaration of Independence.”
For a long moment he stared. This was the sheaf of papers Gorham had taken from his pocket, the papers from which he had read to Bryce. He looked around now, searching the empty roadside. There was nothing else. No car, no luggage, no other sign of Bryce’s having been here except for the papers Nathaniel Gorham had somehow left behind.
Bryce folded them slowly, stuck them in his back pocket, then turned and trudged southward again.
Chapter 13
The town was small, no more than half a mile in length from outskirts to outskirts, and there was no highway marker to identify it. The houses were also small and older frame structures. For the most part they were dark. He passed one or two with lights and nearly stopped, but up ahead, near what must be the center of town, he could see a blue neon light blinking on and off. Dimly he thought he could make out the word motel.
It was a motel, and a small cafe, now closed, which together carried the rather questionable title of “Dew Drop Inn.” Beneath that, the offerings of the place were listed in peeling paint—“T.V. in every room. Telephone.” Singular, Bryce noted. Not “telephones,” just “telephone.” He shook his head and checked his watch as the neon flashed on again. It was a few minutes before eleven.
Walking to the door that had an “office” sign over it, Bryce paused. At first he thought he was going to have to roust someone out of bed, because the office was dark. But now he could see a faint light coming from a back room. From the bluish glare and the way it varied in intensity, he decided someone was still watching television. He raised his fist and knocked sharply.
He waited a moment, then knocked again, more firmly. A light came on, blinding him momentarily. Then he glimpsed a figure of an older woman who came into the office. There was the click of a lock, and the door opened slightly.
“Yes?”
“Hello. May I use your phone?”
She looked him up and down carefully, then peered past him. She was in her late fifties, perhaps early sixties. The face was narrow, the cheeks hollow, almost gaunt, the eyes quick but holding a promise of pleasantness. She was obviously suspicious but didn’t seem frightened. She finished the check behind him and looked back at him.
“My car’s been stolen.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“Is there a police station in town?”
She shook her head.
“I was afraid of that. Then may I use your phone?”
“I’m sorry, but state law requires that you be a guest to use the phone.”
“What?” Bryce had heard sick excuses before, but that was the most transparent ploy for business he’d ever run into.
Her eyes were troubled, not wanting to meet his. “I’m really sorry. But I could lose my business permit.”
Bryce opened his mouth to fire off a hot retort, then shut it suddenly. Unexplainably, he believed she was telling him the truth. “Is there a public phone in town so I could—”
Again she was shaking her head.
“Then could you call the police for me? Tell them my car has been stolen.”
She took a breath, fumble
d nervously with the doorknob, not meeting his eyes. “I can, but the nearest ISD station is Norwalk.”
“ISD?”
She nodded, not reading the question in his voice. “They likely won’t come this late, unless it’s really serious.”
“My car has been stolen! What do they want, a dead body across the hood?”
“It would be better if you waited until morning.”
“All right,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Do you have a room? Then I’ll call them myself.”
“Yes, I have a room.” Suddenly her eyes were pleading. “But please believe me when I tell you that you are making a serious mistake if you call them tonight.”
Bryce scanned her face, trying to fathom what it was that he saw there. But finally he gave up. The weariness was on him like a blanket. He didn’t give one whit at this stage if there were some fat, backwoods sheriff who was going to be in a foul mood for being yanked out of bed, but he wasn’t going to fight this woman over that. Once he was checked in, he would call whomever he wanted. “Just give me a room,” he said tiredly.
She nodded and stepped back, opening the door wider. Bryce entered, following her as she went to the small counter. The television was playing softly, a man’s voice speaking. Bryce listened absently as she fussed behind the counter. It was some kind of documentary on farming.
“Here,” she said, pushing a registration card and ball-point pen at him.
He took them, noting the heading on the card: “Dew Drop Inn, Bollingbroke, Connecticut. New England Confederation.” He looked again at the last three words. New England Confederation. Maybe it was the motel chain. He gave a short laugh. A chain of two, maybe. And for that matter, Bollingbroke wasn’t the name of the town as he remembered it. But at this point the tiredness was seeping deeply into him, and he didn’t trust his memory in the least.
He filled out the card in quick bold strokes. As he looked up, he caught her looking curiously at his clothes. Suddenly he remembered that he was still quite damp from his trip through the meadow.
He looked at himself, then laughed briefly. “I had to cut through the field. I got a little wet.”
She nodded, knowing he had caught her in her open appraisal, but not seeming to care. She took the card, read the name and address, then slowly looked up at him again, one eyebrow arching upward. But all she said was, “That’ll be eight dollars.”
Bryce reached for his wallet. Eight dollars? Was that just for the room or did he get a bed with that? He took out a ten and slid it across to her.
She glanced at the bill, then shook her head, and slid it back toward him. “Sorry.”
That caught Bryce completely off guard. “What?”
“I can only accept local currency.”
“What?”
“Local currency only.”
“Local currency only?” He fought to keep from screaming at her. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“There’s a bank in the general store. You can exchange it in the morning.”
Bryce just stared at her, trying to make that register. Shaking his head, he took out his American Express card and tossed it onto the counter. Again she picked it up. Again there was a curious look on her face. She turned it over slowly, examined the back, turned it again, examined the front.
Bryce took a breath and bit his lip to keep hold of his temper. “Don’t tell me you don’t take American Express either.”
“What is it?”
He rolled his eyes heavenward, pleading for help. “How about VISA? Or Diners Club?”
There was no change in her expression, just the same look of blankness. He picked up the ten-dollar bill again and shoved it in front of her. “And you’re telling me you won’t take cash?”
She started to shake her head, then her eyes dropped to the bill. Suddenly she snatched it up and stared at it. She moved slightly so the light fell on it. She read something on the front of it, then her eyes lifted to stare at him, now for the first time frightened. “You’re from the United States of America?” she asked in half a whisper.
Now it was Bryce’s jaw that dropped.
She dropped the bill back on the counter as though it were suddenly hot. “You can pay in the morning,” she said hurriedly, pushing a key at him. “Room one-oh-six. Around the side, then down the hall.”
“What was that crack about the United States supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I…I was just curious. The bathroom’s at the far end of the same hall. So’s the telephone.”
Bryce stifled a groan. Bathroom, singular. Telephone, singular. What kind of burg had he fallen into? “Thank you,” he said wearily, taking his key. He couldn’t resist one parting shot. “They don’t shut off the telephones at night, do they?”
She shook her head, ignoring his tone. “There will be a charge of five cents added to your bill for each call.”
“Five cents?” Then he laughed, on the verge of wildness. “How did Ma Bell ever miss this place?”
She just watched him, eyes veiled.
“Five cents is fine. Thank you very much.”
The room was tiny but neat and comfortable. Baseboard electric heaters ran beneath the window. There was a framed photograph of a man in a military uniform with lots of ribbons and medals whom Bryce did not recognize. It hung above the single, narrow bed that was covered with a plaid bedspread. The television was as tiny as the room. Half curious, Bryce clicked it on. It was black and white. A head shot of a man in a suit appeared, and as Bryce turned up the volume, he realized it was the same voice he had heard in the office. The man was droning on about farm production, and Bryce turned the channel. Nothing. He clicked it again. Then again. Nothing. Really surprised now, he went all the way around the thirteen slots. Only the farm report. Shaking his head as much in disbelief as in disgust, he turned it off again, made sure he had his key, then stepped out into the hall and went to the phone.
By the time Bryce had gone through his third operator, his head was pounding. “Look,” he said, trying with every ounce of willpower left in him to hold his patience, “all I want to do is call Boston. I have given the operator the number, I have given you the number. I know the number is correct. It has been the same number for the past seventeen years. It’s my home, for crying out loud!” He took a deep breath, then spoke more pleasantly. “Did you get the area code correct?”
“What is an area code?”
“What is an area code?” he yelled. “Tell me you’re joking!”
There was no response, just the sound of her steady breathing.
He tried again. “Boston’s Area Code is six one seven, then five five five, three two—”
“I am sorry, Sir,” came the curt reply.
This was definitely the voice of a night supervisor. And if she looked like her voice sounded, Bryce pictured her as broad shouldered, barrel chested, and big enough to eat hay and pull a wagon.
“I don’t know if this is some kind of joke,” the curt voice continued, “but there is no number like that in the Boston area. There is no number even close to that. Now if there is anything else we can do for you, please let me know.”
Bryce threw up his hands. “All right. Let’s try something else. Can you connect me to Maryland. The area code is—”
“Maryland?” The voice deepened with a sudden note of suspicion.
“Yes, you know Maryland? Mary. Land. Just north of Virginia.”
“I know where it is,” the voice answered him coldly.
“Okay, then, I want to call Maryland. The number is—”
“Give me the number of your permit please.”
That stopped Bryce cold. “My what?”
“Your permit.”
“You mean my credit card?”
“No, your permit. You must have a government permit to place a call out of the country. I need the number of the permit.”
“Out of the country?” Bryce shouted. “Maryland?”
There was a long pause, and h
e pressed one hand against his forehead. “Okay, okay. Let’s go very slowly. I know it’s late. Perhaps you’ve had a long day. How about connecting me with the police station in Norwalk.”
“The police?”
Bryce gritted his teeth. “Or the county sheriff, or whatever they happen to call themselves in this part of the country.”
“You mean the ISD station?”
There it was again. “What is the ISD?”
This time the pause was positively deafening.
“I asked you what ISD stands for.”
“Internal Security Division.”
“Is that the state police?”
“Sir, what is your name?”
“My name?” Bryce repeated in exasperation. “Why do you need my name?”
“Just give me your name if you will.”
“Bryce Sherwood.”
“And where are you calling from?”
He blew out his breath, then lost the battle with his patience. “I am calling from a narrow hallway just outside the public bathroom in a little motel called—yes, ladies and gentlemen, called— believe it or not—the Dew Drop Inn. Not the ‘Do Drop In.’ No, that’s D-E-W D-R-O-P I-N-N. It is not one of the world’s finer hotels, but it will do for the night. And so, Ms. Supervisor, whoever you are, if you could simply place a call for me, I am no longer fussy about which call it is. I will take any call. Boston, Maryland, or even this ISD station if you will. Then I will go back to my small and totally inadequate bed, snuggle in for the night, and try to get some sleep.”
“Which room are you in?”
“Room one-oh-six. What! You want to come and see it for yourself?”
“I will call the ISD station in Norwalk for you. If you return to your room I will call you when I have them on the line.”
And with that there was a sharp click and the line went dead. For several seconds, Bryce just stared at the phone in disbelief, then slammed it back onto the receiver and stalked back into his room. Fifteen minutes later, when the phone had still not rung, he kicked off his shoes and lay back. Three minutes later he was sound asleep.
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 96
