by Jim Stark
"Helen,” said Randall into the intercom, “could you come in now? And leave your LieDeck with Sandra on the way in, please."
Helen had been cooling her heels in the outer office for half an hour, wondering why she had been asked to come in at all, why she wasn't at her post in the Patriot compound at the estate, or better yet, asleep in bed. She handed her LieDeck to the secretary, walked into Randall's office, and sat down, apprehensively.
When Randall told her that Cam was leaving the company, without explanation, she was sorry to hear it. She'd had many disagreements with him over the years and couldn't remember ever liking the man, but still, she felt for him, and for his family.
On the other hand, she was extremely pleased to learn that she was to be the new head of Patriot Security. Unlike her best buddy Annette, she had a great and enduring love for the business. She had always assumed that when Cam retired, a man would be chosen to take over. This was her chance to prove that a woman could handle the job.
"Now that he's gone,” she said, “there's something I ought to tell you. He's had ... he's had Alzheimer's disease for more than a year—just a few early symptoms, nothing serious. We've been covering for him as best we could. He said if I ever saw the disease reducing his effectiveness, I should tell him, and he'd retire."
"I already knew,” said Randall. “Don't ask how. I was okay with that arrangement, but I couldn't accept that he lied about it.” He then asked Helen the critical question, the same one he'd put to Cam O'Connor.
"No, I haven't considered it,” she said, with a shocked look on her face. “Nor would I,” she emphasized.
"Why not?” asked Randall, in deadly earnest.
"Look,” she said, “I've risked my life for you before, and I'd do it again. It's my job. I accepted the risks when I signed on."
"But think about it,” suggested Randall. “You're at the lodge, the bombs are on their way over, you've got a dozen agents with guns, and we're just a few ordinary people—a middle-aged man, his wife, some kids, a taxi driver, and so on. I mean—"
"Mr. Whiteside,” said Helen deliberately, “the only thing I'd ask is that my staff and I be given a supply of suicide pills. You've got them in the bomb shelter, and of course it's prudent that you do. I don't want to die, sir—no one does—but I might, and if I have to, then I'd rather do so painlessly."
Randall was impressed. This was a person who knew her job, liked it, accepted it, and could be relied upon. Also, unlike Cam, she'd spoken the truth. “Agreed,” he said. “And thank you, Helen."
He swallowed hard, rubbed his eyes, and forced himself to explain to Helen the real reason why he'd had to fire his old friend. It was as hard for her to believe as it was for Randall to relay, and she found herself wishing she had a LieDeck with her to verify what she was hearing. But by the look on his face, the color of his skin, it had to be the truth.
Randall sat there without speaking for a few seconds after his careful explanation, and Helen Kozinski didn't dare move. Then he straightened his tie and got back to business. “Now, there's a couple of things we have to discuss. First, I want a tight perimeter around the lodge. I trust you can get it set up by noon today. Never mind it's already tight—I'm aware of that—I want it tighter. Second, I have to tell you who gets in the shelter, so you can enforce it. There's only room for thirteen people. Here's how I have it figured ... if you could take a few notes ... ?
"There's me and Doreen and the kids. That's five."
Helen knew there was always a chance her boss would suggest note taking, almost as if tape recorders didn't exist, but he was the boss, so she always had a small pad of paper and a pen with her. She pulled them from her inside vest pocket and began scribbling in her own shorthand: “Whites—5."
"I told Michael that Rebecca and her parents can come in,” Randall went on. “That's three more—eight so far."
"Eight,” repeated Helen as she wrote.
"I've got to let Victor in, and that means Winnie, too, so that's ten."
"Ten,” she said ... Randall Whiteside liked to be reassured that he had been understood.
"Steve is like family. He's staying at the manor. So that's eleven."
"Eleven."
"Bobby Thompson—I suppose you met him—well, I—uh—I made a commitment to keeping the little bastard alive, so I can't very well exclude him, so that's a dozen."
"Twelve."
"If it's war, we'll need the helicopter after, so I simply have to include Grant Eamer, but unfortunately, not his family. I spoke to him already ... and he reluctantly agreed. So that's thirteen, the full complement."
"Thirteen."
"Now Sarah and Julia can bunk together,” he continued. “I mention this because there's one other person I'd like to have in there. Do you know who I mean?"
"I ... hope you mean Annette,” said Helen.
"I do,” said Randall. “If things go berserk, can she travel? Would she be okay outside the hospital?"
"It ... would be a risk,” said Helen, “but I'll get the drugs she needs into a package in case it comes to that. And thank you so much for making this decision, Mr. Whiteside. Annette wants to live so badly, and she's so much in love with Steve. The only thing is, if you wait until it's certain there's going to be a ... a real conflict, we'll never get her out. As soon as the chopper puts down on the hospital roof, it'll get swamped, like back in the nineteen-seventies when the Americans tried to get out of their embassy in Saigon."
"Okay,” said Randall, “we'll take her out ... this afternoon. You get her medication together and hire a doctor. Bring Annette over to the manor and we'll have the doctor live in. We'll tell him it's just for a month or two. Pay him whatever it takes. If worst comes to worst, Annette gets in the shelter, the doctor doesn't. Make sure it's a man doctor. I can't really justify my attitude, but I don't want to be in the position of turning a woman doctor away if war comes. Can you have this all together by five o'clock this afternoon?"
"I think so,” said Helen. “Anything else?” she asked as she stashed her pen and pad.
"Yeah, call me Randall, would you?” he said.
"Gotcha ... Randall,” said Helen, with a thumbs-up for the boss.
As soon as she left, Randall got on the phone. First, he called the lodge. Fortunately, Steve answered.
"Everything okay out there?” he asked.
"I guess,” said Steve. “That little bugger Bobby Thompson pasted me in the mouth about an hour ago."
"Jesus, I hope you pasted him back,” said Randall.
"Nah. He hits like a girl. I wasn't hurt, but he scared me good. I guess I'm still part priest underneath it all. I forgave him."
"Well, I'm not so sure I want to forgive him,” said Randall.
"Just ... let it go,” advised Steve. “It was partly my fault anyway. Victor gave him a LieDeck ... well, loaned it to him ... and I didn't know about it, and I lied about having been a priest when he asked me about it this morning. Michael told him last night that I used to be a priest, and then he also found out that Bobby was a victim of sex abuse by a couple of Catholic Brothers at St. Dominique's Boys School."
"Jesus,” said Randall, “no wonder he's so troubled. And no wonder he smacked you. He probably sees you as the enemy."
"He's with Grant Eamer on the helicopter now, buzzing around the lake,” said Steve. “I'll talk to him later, but I'm going to Ottawa in—"
"It would be better if you stayed at the lodge today,” said Randall.
"No can do,” said Steve. “Life goes on, crisis or no crisis. I'm going to Ottawa at noon. I've got a meeting at one o'clock, then Bill's funeral is at three, and after that I want to see Annette. She said she wanted to be alone today, but—"
"You don't have to,” said Randall. “She's being released. We can't tell her yet, but we're bringing her to the manor around five o'clock, maybe sooner."
"Fantastic,” said Steve. “I can't—"
"Listen, don't tell anybody about Annette coming back,
okay? And you can't tell Annette over the phone, either. It's important that you don't. And ... hold on a sec, would you?"
Randall had forgotten that he'd given permission for Bobby Thompson to play with the chopper. He put Steve on hold and buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Sandra, call Grant Eamer on his radio. Tell him that he's needed at the office, ASAP. Thanks."
He re-connected with Steve. “Sorry about that. I just realized that we need Grant here, so you can expect Bobby back in a minute. I hope you can deal with him. How are the Donovans doing?"
"Becky and her parents came out to the lodge this morning,” said Steve. “They're fixated on CNN while Bobby's out, and they're not too happy that they have to leave the TV off whenever Bobby's here. Poor Mrs. Donovan thinks it's the end of the world."
"I ... sincerely hope she's wrong,” said Randall.
"Yeah,” agreed Steve. “They were saying on TV that with martial law, nobody knows what's really going on in the States, or in Russia. CNN used a LieDeck and caught two U.S. government officials lying, and now the Americans have put the lid on information. Victor wanted to spend the day at Michael's cabin, to get away from all the commotion here at the lodge, but Michael and I talked him out of it. He's up in his room. I'm going to challenge him to a game of chess before I leave. I think he's—uh—starting to feel like he's responsible for all this."
"Winnie's with him, I suppose?” asked Randall.
"Actually, she's gone to Ottawa to—uh—do some shopping ... and visit Annette,” said Steve.
"Shopping!?"
"Yeah, shopping."
"Christ Almighty,” said Randall. “Okay, we'll bring her back on the helicopter when we pick up Annette. And listen, would you do me a favor? Tell the cook and the groundskeeper they can have a week off at full pay, okay? Send them home right away."
"Uh—okay,” said Steve.
One down, six to go, thought Randall as he hung up. Most of the other calls on his list were important, but only one was critical. He made that one next.
"Bertrand,” he boomed. “Randall Whiteside here. How are things at the RCMP?"
"Extremely busy,” said Joly. “I only took your call because I owe you. Actually, I owe Mr. O'Connor for including us when Dr. Pavay came up from the UN. Please, I'm in a bit of a hurry."
"Just one question,” he said jovially. “Are the Americans and Russians at DEFCON-ONE?” Randall had never done military service, but Whiteside Tech had been a defense contractor almost since its inception, so he knew soldier-speak. “DEFCON” stood for “defense condition,” and there were three DEFCON levels of war-readiness. DEFCON-ONE was where you definitely did not want to be—a “red alert,” both figuratively and literally.
There was a pregnant silence at the other end of the phone. “You know better than to ask me that,” said the commissioner. “The Russians didn't use their nukes during the first Cold War, and I ... don't believe they'll do so now. They've got nothing to win by doing something that ... crazy, and neither do the Yanks."
"Thanks,” said Randall, at which Joly hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Randall removed the rubber suction cup from the phone receiver. It was attached to the end of a short wire, and at the other end of the wire was a small jack, plugged into his LieDeck. When Bertrand said “I don't believe they'll do so now,” the red light blinked.
"Sandra,” said Randall into the intercom, “call Grant Eamer again. Tell him it's now a Code Beaver. And call Helen in her car. Tell her I want her to really expedite the plan we discussed."
"What plan is that?” asked the secretary.
"Just do it!” he said angrily.
Chapter 63
GOTCHA
Bobby Thompson got off the helicopter at the end of the dock and thanked Grant Eamer for the ride, especially for the few seconds that he had been allowed to actually hold the controls. He didn't know why the chopper had to return to the Whiteside plant, but he did know that he was suddenly alone again, and he felt the desperation creeping back as he turned towards the lodge.
Wilson Lake was alien ground. Everybody in Quyon knew that. And yet here he was, with a wimpy seventeen-year-old friggin’ rich kid, he thought as he walked down the dock. And a fat frog of a cook, and some fucked-up lying sonovabitch of an ex-priest. And then there's those other Whiteside kids, those two giggly girls, tearing around all over the fuckin’ place, and Michael's girlfriend and her dumb parents, and them asshole agents, trying to look like they got something to do. And then there's “old Mr. Zombie” himself, Victor Helliwell, the creep behind all them suicides and divorces ... and riots ... and his cleaning-lady whore.
Worst of all, Bobby was dry ... dry as dust ... dopeless. “I gotta get outta here, man,” he said aloud as he ran off the dock. There was only one cure for panic, and that cure was control—and dope, of course, if he could just find some.
"I gotta have the jeep for an hour or so,” he barked at Victor as he thumped in from the porch. “Where's the keys?"
"We might need the jeep here,” said Victor, without looking up. He was playing a game of chess with Steve Sutherland, and the immediate demands of a suicidal, drug-addled delinquent wouldn't yield to a Ruy Lopez opening. “Maybe Patriot could drive you. Where are you going?"
"Gimme the fuckin’ keys, man,” screamed Bobby as he danced from one foot to the other and tried hard to keep his chin from quivering.
There were only three rungs on this ladder, and Bobby had already covered the first two. Anything in the nature of a “no” would sadly lead to another assault. Two Patriot agents stood up and began edging their way towards Bobby, from behind. Both had their right hands tucked under their jacket lapels, in case.
"Okay,” Victor reluctantly conceded. “You can have the jeep. You promise to be back in an hour?"
"Yeah, yeah,” said Bobby. “Just gimme the keys, man? I just want to go to Ray's to get some smokes, eh?"
"They're in the ignition,” he said. “Drive carefully."
Bobby wheeled around and ran out the door. A few seconds later, Victor winced as the jeep roared to life and squealed out of the garage.
"Say goodbye,” said Steve, as he turned his attention back to the game he was losing, and thoughtlessly pushed a doomed pawn.
"To the jeep or the jerk?” asked Victor as his bishop ate the pawn.
"With any luck, the jerk,” Steve opined. “More likely both."
* * *
Bobby couldn't wait to impress his chum Geoff Farley with the new jeep. He skidded to a stop on the fringe of Quyon, in front of the ancient farmhouse where Geoff lived with his grandmother, and honked the horn repeatedly. “Let's go, let's go,” he yelled as he half-stood in the open-topped vehicle, holding the steering wheel between his knees. Nothing happened, so he let out a shot of his super-whistle, the one that could startle a gopher halfway across a pasture. Still no Geoff. Finally, Barbara Farley threw open the front door of the wooden farmhouse, flailing her whole, flabby arm at Bobby in a manner that suggested: “Get lost, arsehole."
"Where's Geoff?” he hollered.
"He's at Ray's,” shouted Mrs. Farley. “Did you steal that—"
Bobby was seated and gone before the question got fully posed, and two minutes later he blew into the parking lot at Ray's. He parked the jeep under the RESTAURANT—RESTAURANT—RESTAURANT sign, where everyone would be sure see it, and see him getting out of it in his new leather jacket. He walked up to the door ... walked cool, collected, powerful, in control ... everything the jeep was and he wasn't.
"Geoffeeee,” he drawled. “How's it hanging, buddy?"
"Where'd ya get the jeep, man?"
"It's mine ... to use, anyway."
"Yeah, but where did—"
"None of your fuckin’ business, man,” he said as he sat. “I got it. That's all you need to know."
With a little prodding from Geoff, the truth came out, almost as if Bobby was dying to tell it. Not the whole truth about how he'd ended up at Whiteside's—that was a de
ep, dark secret, he said—but he told Geoff that he was staying out at the lodge on Wilson Lake for a while. “Until I get tired of it,” he boasted, loudly.
Boys talk big when they feel small, thought Claire. “What'll it be, Robert?” she asked. Bobby hated it when she called him Robert, which was why she did it. The rules at Ray's were straightforward. You got a full point when you got somebody's goat or when you didn't let them get your goat; half a point if they got your goat a little bit but you zinged them right back “better'n what you took by way of incoming fire."
"Robert?” she repeated into the boy's eyes, doubling her score.
"Just a Coke,” said Bobby, effectively conceding the game. “And a pack of smokes. Du Maurier."
Claire wrote it down ever so slowly while standing at the side of the table. Another point. Three-nothing so far. Then she ambled off slowly, erasing and rewriting something on her receipt pad, making it harder for them to restart their urgent conversation, harder by maybe ten seconds. “Big tip coming from that table,” she said as she passed Ray at the cash.
"Shutout?” asked Ray.
"Four to zip, I figure,” she said as she stuffed her receipt pad into an apron pocket and headed for the kitchen.
"Jeeze, I heard they got a bomb shelter out there,” said Geoff as soon as Claire was definitely out of earshot.
"Yeah, they do. I seen it,” said Bobby. “So?"
"Jesus, Bobby, you don't know what the fuck's going on, do you? Have you been watching any TV?"
"No. Why?"
Geoff told Bobby Thompson about the Romanian crisis, about how the TV showed the whole left-hand side of Russia on fire with tanks and bombers, and how they said that President Barker of the United States had a heart attack and was dying, probably, and that most people were saying that the Russians were going to use their nukes, and about how the United States wasn't saying anything, but everybody figured they were going to use their nukes too. “This is the last flush, man,” said Geoff, “or close to it."
