He grabbed at it wildly, threw it on the floor, stamping hard on the flames, but suddenly the mattress exploded into a sheet of fire. Instantly the room was filled with a dense, strangling smoke.
Bryce leaped to the door, one arm thrown across his face. “Fire!” he screamed. He pounded against the wood. “Fire! Open the door!”
The lock rattled and the door was jerked open. The guard stared past him as Bryce stumbled out.
“Fire!” the man screamed. “Fire!” He turned and ran down the corridor, shouting for help.
Opening the door on the room fed oxygen to the flames. Bryce fell back, still choking and gasping for breath, as the flames snaked across his floor and caught the carpet in the corridor. There was a loud whoosh, and the whole hallway was blazing.
Two things hit Bryce at the same moment. First, that he was rapidly being cut off by the fire; and second, he stood in the corridor alone. He stared in the direction the guard had run,
then turned and darted up the hall in the other direction. He came around a corner and yanked on the nearest door. It was a room identical to the one he had been in. He leaped to the next door. A storage room, filled only with old furniture. The third and last door was locked.
He spun around and started back. Thick black smoke was rolling toward him now, and he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled blindly, feeling the heat rising sharply with every yard of progress he made.
The corridor in front of him was now a mass of flames, and the roar of the fire was deafening. He heard someone screaming and came up on one knee to peer through the fire. Dimly he could see the figure of his guard through the flames, shouting to him, waving wildly at him with both arms.
Bryce hesitated, feeling the heat searing into his lungs, knowing that he had only moments to save himself. He made a quick decision, dropped down on all fours again, and scuttled back the way he had come. He opened the first door and dove into the room, sucking in the cleaner air in huge gasps. One, two, three—he sucked in the air hungrily, storing as much as possible in his tortured lungs. Then he grabbed the blanket off the bed.
Moving swiftly now, he wrapped the blanket around his head, leaving only a slit for his eyes, wishing that he had even so much as a glass of water to wet it with. Then one more deep breath of air, and he stepped back out into the corridor. This time he did not go down on his knees. He peered for an instant into the thick smoke to get his bearings, then hurtled forward, running hard. As he reached the wall of flames, he threw himself through the air, into the wall of fire. There was the searing sensation of scorching flesh along his arms, the sensation that the inside of his throat was being cauterized, then blackness—instant, allencompassing blackness.
Chapter 33
The first thing Bryce was aware 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. Gradually, other things began to impinge upon his consciousness—the rhythmic droning of crickets, the deeper harmony of croaking frogs farther away. He turned his head, felt the wetness hit his face.
He sat bolt upright, the memory of the fire slamming back into his mind like the bolt of a rifle being shot home. He rubbed his hand along his other forearm. There was no pain. He breathed deeply. His throat felt fine.
Suddenly there was a sound behind him, faint, but growing rapidly louder. He stood, still half dazed, groping to pull everything into some kind of meaning. Then the headlights of a car came into view, flickering ghostlike through the trees. The car whipped past him about thirty yards to his right, the hiss of tires on wet pavement rising then falling rapidly in volume.
Bryce stared in shocked disbelief. He was in the meadow. It was night, and he was in the meadow. With a cry of surprise he broke into a stumbling run toward the highway.
The BMW was parked alongside the road. There were deep tire marks in the soft mud of the shoulder where he had slid off the pavement, tires locked in a hard skid. He rubbed his hand softly along the sleek metal of the automobile, unable to believe, not daring to hope.
He opened the door and slid inside, feeling the softness of the velvet upholstery, reaching out to finger the cassettes in the box he kept below the tape deck. It was all so familiar and yet strange, as though he had been away a long, long time. He shook his head in amazement. He had been away a long time!
The keys were in the ignition, and the engine started with a roar, then settled into its familiar low rumble. Was this why Gorham had said he couldn’t see him again? Had he brought him back? Still shaking his head in disbelief, Bryce shut the door, put the car in gear, and spun the wheel. The sports car made a sharp U-turn and headed south.
The town was small, and there was a road sign. Bryce slowed, letting the headlights flash on it, holding his breath. It was not Bollingbroke. Cannondale, said the sign. But the motel was right where he had expected it to be. He smiled inwardly. At least they didn’t call it the Dew Drop Inn, he thought. Cannondale Motel, the flashing neon announced. He pulled into the parking area and let the car come to a stop.
One other car was parked in front, and as he got out, he saw that the cafe was open. There was a woman behind the counter, and two men sitting in front of it drinking coffee. He changed directions and moved past the motel office and into the cafe. Jessie Lambert looked up and smiled at him as he entered. He stopped, unable to make himself quit gaping at her. The two men glanced around at him and then went back to talking in low voices.
“Hello,” Jessie said pleasantly. “May I help you?”
Bryce shook it off, forced a smile in return. “Uh…I’ve had a little car trouble. Do you happen to have a phone?”
She pointed to the far wall.
“Thanks.” He pulled his eyes away from her, noting that she was starting to get uncomfortable with his scrutiny. Déjà vu was one thing, but this was eerie, almost as disconcerting as when he had gone in the other direction.
He moved to the phone, reaching into his pocket without thinking. Then as he withdrew his hand, it hit him. He had coins. American coins! He patted his back pocket, then took out his wallet. He opened it, fingered the driver’s license slowly, feeling the dreamlike aura coming over him again. Bryce Sherwood, 435 Winwood Drive, Apartment 4A, Chevy Chase, Maryland. Was there really such a person? That seemed so long ago now. But there was his Diner’s Club card, American Express, and VISA.
He punched a quarter into the coin slot quickly and hit the 0 button.
“Yes, may I help you?”
He hesitated, holding his breath.
“Operator. May I help you?” the voice said again.
“Yes, uh…I’d like to make a long-distance call to Boston, please.”
“And how would you like that billed, sir?”
He let out his breath in a sigh of relief. “Credit card.”
“Number you are calling and your credit card number?”
He gave her the phone number as he flipped to his credit card, then read her those numbers too.
“Thank you for using AT&T.”
“You are most welcome,” he said, more loudly than he intended. He saw Jessie turn and give him a curious look. He smiled at her, and turned back as the call clicked through and started to ring.
“Hello.” The voice was muffled and very sleepy sounding.
“Mom?”
“Yes? Is this Bryce?”
“Hi, Mom!” He leaned against the wall, suddenly no longer trusting his voice.
“Bryce, is everything all right?”
He laughed. “Everything’s fine, Mom.”
“Bryce, it’s nearly midnight. Are you okay?”
“I’ve never been better.”
“Are you sure?”
There was a sudden audible sigh. “You’re not coming tomorrow.”
That caught him off guard. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, are you still coming?”
“You mean for Labor Day?”
“Of course.” There was a pause. “Are you sur
e you’re all right, Bryce?”
He smiled, wishing he could reach out and put his arms around her. “Yes, Mom. I’m fine. Is Dad there?”
“Yes, he’s right here.”
There was a pause, then his father came on. “Son, is that you? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, Dad. Did I wake you?”
“Oh, no,” he said, then, “well, not really.”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to say hi, hear your voices.”
This time the pause was considerable.
“You sound a little bewildered.”
“I…I guess I am. What day is it?”
The silence stretched out for several seconds. “It’s Thursday.”
“What date?”
“August twenty-eighth.”
So he was back to the same night he had left! He leaned back against the wall.
“Bryce, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. Really. I just came from a long meeting. Look, tell Mom I won’t be able to come up tomorrow. Something’s come up, but—”
His mother’s voice cut in from another extension. “Bryce, you promised!”
“Mom, I know. And I’ll come up in the next week or so. You have my word. And for Thanksgiving.”
“You said you weren’t coming for Thanksgiving.”
“I know what I said, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be home.”
“Wonderful.” Then almost instantly, “Are you still bringing this Leslie?”
He laughed. “Yes, Mom. I think for Christmas too.”
“Really!”
He really chuckled now. “You and Dad will like her. Very much.”
“Wonderful! No wonder you’re not making sense.”
Suddenly tears welled up in his eyes as he realized how much he would give if he could sit down with these two wonderful people and just talk.
“I’ve got to run, Mom. Sorry I woke you.”
Now she laughed, teasing him. “If you bring a young lady home with you for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, you can call me any time of the night you want to.”
“Good night, Mom. Good night, Dad.” He hung up the phone and sat there for some time, just looking at nothing.
He drove all night, stopping only once for gas and a large soft drink with lots of ice to keep him awake. Dawn was just lighting the sky as he pulled into the carport stall beneath his apartment, unloaded the car, and took his things upstairs. He looked around, still half unable to comprehend that he was back. Then he walked to the phone, picked it up, hesitated. For a long moment he just stood there. Then he set the phone down, went into the bathroom, and started the water running in the shower.
He slept until ten, got up and dressed, then forced himself to jam down some breakfast. Twice the phone rang, but he ignored it. He had two people he wanted to talk to, but in circumstances of his own choosing. Until then, there was no one else he felt like speaking to. Six weeks had been wiped off the slate. He couldn’t go charging back into life as though nothing had changed.
While he started into the city with the intent of going directly to the office of Elliot Mannington, as he came down Sixth Street, on sudden impulse he turned right onto Constitution Avenue and drove slowly west, past the Ellipse, past the Washington Monument and the White House. The haze was thick and the late summer air heavy. Traffic slowed to a crawl, horns honked angrily as tempers flared, but Bryce rolled down his windows, savoring it all like a hungry man savors the smell of hot bread cooking in the oven.
He went all the way around the Mall, circling the Lincoln Memorial twice, then finally pulled in next to the Jefferson Memorial. He got out and walked slowly around the gleaming white columns, letting the sea of tourists and schoolchildren ebb and flow around him. He went inside and stood for a long time, staring up at the statue of the nation’s third president. And then, finally, he let his eyes move upward to the frieze that ran all around the inside of the dome. Taken from a letter written to Benjamin Rush in 1800, it said simply: “I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.”
He straightened, looked up again into the bronze face of the man from Monticello, then turned and walked swiftly to the car.
“Well, well,” Mannington said, getting up from his desk to come around and shake Bryce’s hand. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
Bryce inwardly recoiled at the presence of the man, then caught himself. This is not the same man, he repeated to himself. This is not the same time, nor the same circumstances. You cannot react as though it were. He stuck out his hand. “Hello, Elliot.”
Mannington ushered Bryce to a chair, picked up the golden cigarette case, started to offer it to Bryce and then remembered he didn’t smoke. He took one out, lit it, then sat back.
“Senator Hawkes called. He thought you had agreed that you would meet with that delegation from the Iowa legislature this morning.”
There was no mistaking the chiding in the tone as he waited for his star pupil to provide an explanation. Bryce sat back. There was no point in trying to sidle into this one. “Look, Elliot,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry, but I’ll be turning in my resignation this afternoon.”
If he had pulled a pistol out and put it to his head, he couldn’t have stunned him more. Mannington’s hand froze in midair, leaving the cigarette dangling. His mouth dropped. The dark eyes widened perceptibly. “You what?” he cried.
“I know this is totally unexpected, but some things have changed.”
Mannington lowered the cigarette slowly, the eyes narrowing and the line along his jaw hardening. “Say that one more time.”
“I’ve learned some things in the last few days, Elliot. I can no longer support the twenty-seventh amendment to the Constitution. You’ll have my letter of resignation within the hour.”
The dark eyes were suddenly chilling, and Bryce saw in them the same look he had seen in the eyes of the minister of internal affairs. “If this is your idea of a joke, Bryce, I—” He jerked forward. “Did Senator Hawkes put you up to this?”
“No. I’ll not be going back with Senator Hawkes either.”
Mannington got up from his desk slowly, the muscles in one cheek twitching. “Are you telling me that after all I’ve done for you, you’re just going to up and quit on me?”
“I am resigning as national chairman for passage of the twentyseventh amendment. Yes, that is what I am saying.”
Mannington swung around, his hand coming down in a sweeping arc to catch a stack of papers on the corner of his desk and send them hurtling across the room. “Do you know who you’re talking to?” he shouted.
“Yes, I certainly do,” Bryce responded calmly.
“After all we’ve promised you? The senatorship, a shot at the White House? And you walk in here and tell me you’re resigning?”
“I guess that’s about it.”
“You…” He swung around again, livid, swearing as he slammed down his fist on the desk. “I’ll see that you never work in this town again.”
He was up on the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth, fists clenched. “Is that clear, Mr. Bryce Sherwood?” he shouted. “You’re through!”
Bryce stood up and smiled faintly. “No, actually, I think I’m just beginning.”
He stopped in the hallway of Arlington High School outside the door that said “Leslie Adams” on the nameplate. He looked through the small window with the triangular wire mesh embedded in the glass. She was at the blackboard, chalk in hand. He could hear her voice coming softly through the door. He straightened his tie, pulled at his sports jacket, then opened the door and walked in.
Leslie was just turning to write something on the board when she heard the sound behind her. She turned back, a tentative smile just starting to form. This seemed to be Bryce’s day for stopping people in midstride. Like Mannington, she too froze in position, chalk half raised, her body partially turned toward him.
“Bryce?” she blurted
.
A quick murmur of interest and surprise rippled through the classroom as he nodded. “Hello, Leslie.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, actually, I came to give you something.”
And with that he stepped forward, swept her up in his arms, and kissed her, long and hard.
Instantly the class erupted. There were oohs and ahs, catcalls, whistles, and applause, and one student near the back punched his fist into the air and shouted “All right!”
Bryce ignored it all, just held her tight, even as she started to struggle. Finally he let her go and stepped back. One hand flew to her mouth, her face turned instantly scarlet, and her eyes looked as his must have on the night he first saw Nathaniel Gorham.
Bryce swung around to the class, bowed slightly to the nowwild applause, then raised his hands. “Class dismissed!” he shouted.
For an instant they just stared at him in disbelief, then bedlam really broke loose.
“Wait!” Leslie cried. Students half out of their chairs or already on their way to the door, stopped.
Bryce turned to face their teacher.
“You…You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“School isn’t out for another half an hour.”
He smiled at her. “It is for these kids.”
“All right!” the same kid hollered again, and this time there was a stampede for the door.
“Hold it!” Bryce hollered. The first one, just opening the door, stopped short. The others bumped up against him like freight cars behind a switch engine.
“What class is this?” Bryce demanded.
“U.S. history and government,” one of the girls shouted back.
He swung around and pointed to the small flag hanging from a holder in one corner. “Do you know the Pledge of Allegiance?” he asked them.
There was a chorus of yesses.
“C’mon back in here. If you can say the Pledge of Allegiance properly, you’re excused.”
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 113
