“Judy! This is nonsense.” I heard the rattle of an automatic from somewhere outside. “There’s still fighting. You can’t drug me while there’s still fighting!”
“Not fighting. Just mopping up. You’re not needed for that. Now lie quiet while I’m injecting!” Her voice had acquired the ring of authority that went with her white coat. She looked down at me, helpless on the table, and her words came hard and clear. The words of the Wise Woman. “Go back and re-live being ordered to kill Gerald Futrell.”
I passed out with her command reverberating in my skull.
I woke slowly into a dream. But a dream of unique completeness. A dream which included every perception, every sensation. After the first few moments I forgot it was a dream. I only remembered that it was a fine April afternoon on the Chesapeake, that Grainer and I had taken Gloria and Helga sailing. I was lying half-asleep on the port locker, the boat moving gently under me, the sun warm on my bare chest. When I opened my eyes I could see white sails curving above me and blue sky beyond.
“You awake, Gavin?”
That was Arnold Grainer’s voice. I raised my head and looked around. We were coasting along under a light breeze a few kilometers off the Eastern Shore. And he was at the wheel. Helga had my hand on her lap. Gloria was kissing my ear. Two beautiful women. Like everybody in Grainer’s employ they were superb performers. Like most people in his personal service they were his devoted admirers. And because he treated me as an intimate on these pleasure expeditions both girls were gladly intimate with me.
He looked at me and laughed. “Gav—maybe we should anchor and let me relax too!”
“Fine!” I disengaged myself from the girls and went forward to furl the jib and drop the anchor as Grainer brought the sloop into the wind. The Coast Guard cutter discreetly escorting us hove-to a couple of kilometers astern. The watching chopper drifted down to land on the beach. Ashore the primary campaigns were in full swing. Grainer had lost Maine and only held Massachusetts by the barest margin. The politicos expected New York to finish him and were preparing to celebrate his rejection; here on the Chesapeake the President and I prepared to enjoy ourselves.
I snugged down the boat, then went back to the cockpit. Grainer had already taken Gloria into the cabin. Helga had slipped out of her bikini and was waiting for me on the starboard cushions.
Afterwards I dozed off and only woke when Grainer came up the companionway, a bourbon in each hand. He gave me one and said, “Helga, go and help Gloria fix supper.”
She kissed me and disappeared below. Grainer sat down. I sipped my bourbon and waited. One of my jobs was to act as a wall against which the President could bounce ideas. After a moment he asked, “How do you think the Convention will go?”
“You’ll take it. Not by much. But you’ll get the delegates.” He knew that already, so there was something else he wanted to bounce off me. I pulled on my slacks, then my sweater. It was growing cooler as the afternoon waned.
“I will! I must! I’ve got to finish the job. The most important job any President ever tackled.” He sat, nursing his bourbon, watching me drink mine. “The girls have been bugging me about Futrell. They’re scared of him.”
“Futrell’s ruthless. A real bastard. They’re afraid that if—” “If anything happens to me he’ll silence everybody close to me? Is that it?”
“More or less.” I shrugged. “Futrell likes to play it safe. And the only safe way to silence anybody is to silence them permanently.”
“Like I silenced Shantz?”
I looked into my glass. “I didn’t hear that! Anyway, Shantz deserved what he got. The girls don’t. They’re afraid that Futrell will assume that they’ve picked up more than they have and he’ll—well—take precautions. They’d be happier if he wasn’t AG.” I took another mouthful of bourbon. “So would I! He’s turned the Secret Service into a Secret Police.”
“I know! I know! The goddamn thing is that’s what I may need! And that’s why I need Futrell.” He swirled his whiskey. “I’ll tell him to leave the girls alone—whatever happens.” “Whatever happens? What might happen?” The sun, the love-making, the bourbon, were all combining to make me sleepy. Even had I been interested in the machinations of politicians I was too drowsy to care. “What do you expect to happen?”
Grainer leaned forward across the cockpit. Our knees were almost touching, his face was directly opposite mine. I felt the aura of his power more intensely than I had ever felt it before. “Gav—there are people who’ll try to kill me if they think I’m likely to win in November.”
“After New York they’ll know you will! Arnold—what—” Under his stare I could only ask weakly, “What do you want me to do?”
“Protect me if you can. Protect Futrell if you can’t.”
That didn’t make sense, but I was too sleepy and confused to question the logic. Grainer was saying something about Futrell’s ruthless dedication when Gloria called him down to the cabin and I fell asleep.
I was partly awakened by Helga shaking me, clamping her hand over my mouth, hissing in my ear. “If anything happens to Arnold—kill Futrell! Kill him before he kills us!”
That made more sense. I mumbled, “If Arnold’s killed, 1 kill Futrell. Yes! I hate that bastard.”
Helga was gone; Grainer was back in the cockpit, cursing because he’d given me too much of something. I managed to sit up. He was gripping my arm. “Do you understand, Gavin? Do you understand what you’ve been told to do?”
“Sure.” I struggled to order my thoughts, but everything was confused and hazy. In the middle of the haze Grainer’s eyes burned like twin fires and from out of it Helga’s voice echoed in my ear. “Yes, Arnold. I know what to do.”
“And you will forget about this conversation?”
“I will forget about this conversation.” I’d forget gladly.
He let me fall back onto the cushions, and said something about Gavin having had too much bourbon and to let him sleep it off.
I returned from my dream to my reality. The straps were hurting my wrists. The light was blinding my eyes. My mind was aching from the blow.
“Gavin—are you all right?” Judith’s voice, anxious and insistent.
I saw her face. Gray and drawn. “Yes. I’m okay. Safe to untie!” I sat up as the straps were freed. Barbara was staring at me as though I were a ghost rising from a grave.
“You remembered?”
“I remembered!” I put my face in my hands. Rubbed my aching eyes. I remembered Helga and Gloria. Both murdered by Futrell’s men. As he had meant to murder me. The Pen had saved me. “Every detail!” I staggered as I got down from the table.
Barbara caught me, steadied me. “You’d better sit down.” There was compassion in her gray eyes, the first I had ever seen in them. “You look like hell!”
“Feel like I’ve been there.” I recovered control of my legs. “I’ll be all right. The fighting? What’s happened?”
“Fighting finished hours ago. Chuck Yackle arrived with reinforcements. Landed on the far side of the Point and came charging across it like the US Cavalry.”
“Oh Christ!” I had seen religious fanatics charging Troopers. “How many killed?”
“None! A lot of bruises and a few cracked ribs from falling on the rocks. That’s all. By the time Yackle got here Futrell had almost persuaded the soldiers that the best thing they could do was to fix those two gunships and take off. Yackle’s arrival with ten boats and eighty rifles convinced ’em. So they did—leaving most of the civilians behind. I’ve got ’em locked up in separate cells. Maybe they’ll tell us what all this is about.” If Judith wore her present expression when she asked them they’d tell her without further persuasion. “Where’s Futrell?”