John B. Calvert, Jr. (Class of ’71): “The Assassination of John F. Kennedy: Time to Reopen the Investigation?”
Louis A. Solomon (Class of ’74): “Electronic Stimulation of the Brain: A Preview of Things to Come.”
There’d been a curious buzz when Lou stepped to the podium wearing not the standard suit and tie but a scientist’s white smock. The buzz turned to puzzled laughter when, after some brief introductory remarks, he explained to the audience that to better illustrate the possibilities of this exciting new frontier of science, he’d commissioned a team of neurosurgeons to implant electrodes into the various regions of the brain of a volunteer, who would now join him on the stage for a live demonstration.
He’d signaled toward the back of the room, where a solemn Bronco Billy, also in a white smock, stood next to Gordie. They started down the aisle toward the front amidst puzzled whispers from the audience.
Billy held in his left hand his portable tape deck, which he’d disguised to resemble a control panel. His right hand grasped the upper arm of Gordie, who was dressed in blue hospital scrubs. Gordie’s face was blank, his eyes dull. A cable ran from the top of the tape deck to the back of Gordie’s neck, where it disappeared under the ACE bandages wrapped around his head. A dozen or so nails poked out from the bandages, and each one had a tiny blinking light attached to it.
Billy escorted Gordie to the front and helped him onto the stage. Then he handed Lou the tape deck, helped Gordie take a seat next to the podium facing the audience, and backed offstage as Gordie gazed vacantly at the audience.
They began the demonstration with stimulation of a part of the medulla oblongata, dating back, Lou explained, to our reptilian ancestors. He tossed a leaf of lettuce on the floor in front of Gordie, turned a knob on the control panel, and then dramatically pressed a button. Gordie flinched and then dropped forward onto his hands and knees, instantly transforming himself into a Galapagos turtle. He slowly munched on the lettuce as the audience erupted into laughter.
Gordie kept them howling and applauding throughout a fifteen-minute tour de force of bizarre and dazzling impersonations. At the end of the performance, the audience gave them a ten-minute standing ovation. At the end of the competition, the judges gave them first prize.
“Turns out you were wrong, too,” Lou said to Gordie.
Gordie frowned at him from the bed. “About what?”
“Don’t you remember what you said at the end of that night?”
“No.”
“You disappeared from the victory party. I found you sitting on the steps of Thompson Chapel. Sitting alone in the dark and all depressed.”
Gordie smiled sheepishly. “Oh, yeah.”
“Remember what you said?”
“No.”
“I told you that you were a celebrity and that everyone at the college was talking about you. I asked why you were sitting alone and moping. You said that you’d realized that being famous for one night at a little college in New England meant absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things. ‘How can you say that?’ I asked you. Your answer was, and I quote, ‘Twenty years from now, no one on this goddamned planet is going to remember who won the goddamned Hutchison Prize our year or what they did to win it.’”
Lou paused and smiled. “Looks like you were wrong, pal. At least one special woman on this goddamned planet remembered.”
Gordie grinned. “Glad I was wrong.” Then his expression grew serious. “Sally thinks I should go back to writing screenplays.”
Lou looked up from buttoning his shirt. “Maybe you should.”
“And leave advertising? I don’t know. The bread’s good.”
“Not if you’re not happy.”
Gordie leaned back in bed, his fingers laced behind his head. “I’m definitely in love.”
The phone rang.
Billy answered it. “Oh, hi. Sure. Nothing much. Yeah, he’s right here.” He held the phone toward Lou. “It’s Ray.”
Lou took the phone. “Well?” he asked.
***
“Hawthorn, Hawthorn, Hawthorn,” Gordie mumbled.
The three of them were huddled above the map of Massachusetts opened on the motel room dresser.
“Here it is.” Billy pointed to a spot about thirty miles northwest of Barrett.
“That’s where they’re staying?” Gordie asked.
“According to Ray,” Lou said, “Reggie’s American Express had a charge there two days ago.”
“Are they still there?” Billy asked.
Gordie reached for the phone. “Only one way to find out.”
He dialed directory assistance and got the number for the Hawthorn Inn in Hawthorn, Massachusetts. He frowned as he waited for the connection to go through.
“Reggie Pelham, please,” he said into the phone.
He looked up with a grin and covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
“She’s ringing his room,” he whispered.
The hotel operator came back on the line and said something to him.
“Uh, no thanks,” he said into the phone. “I’ll just try back later.”
Gordie hung up the phone and pumped his fist. “We got those miserable pricks! Got ’em right in the old crosshairs!” He was beaming. “Let’s go nail them.”
“Not yet,” Lou said.
“Why not?”
“We need some more information.”
“Like what?”
“For starters, their room number—or numbers.”
“Good point,” Gordie said, reaching for the phone.
“Whoa,” Lou said to him. “Not so fast. They’re not going to give you someone’s room number over the phone. And if you call back now, they’ll get suspicious. Even worse, they may mention something to Frank or Reggie. We don’t want those guys any more on guard than they already are. Let’s just slow down. We need to plan the next move carefully.”
Twenty minutes later, Lou dialed the number.
“Good afternoon,” a cheerful female voice said. “Hawthorn Inn.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lou said. “This is Mike Richards at Airborne Express, Detroit office. We’re checking on a package delivered to one of your guests earlier this week.”
“Is there a problem, Mr. Richards?”
“No reason to think so, ma’am. I’m in Quality Control. This is just a random confirmation check. Strictly routine. Keep the troops on their toes, if you get my drift.”
He paused and glanced over at Billy and Gordie. Billy raised his eyebrows nervously. Gordie gave him the OK sign.
“With respect to this delivery,” Lou continued, “our Springfield office shows a small package drop-off at your establishment on the evening of June thirteenth. That package was addressed to a Mr. Francis Burke. Did you have a Francis Burke registered at your establishment on June thirteenth?”
“Let me see.” A pause. “Yes, we did.”
“You’re sure, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes. According to the book, I registered him myself. On June twelve.”
“And were you the one who would have received our package on the evening of the thirteenth.”
“No, that would have been Harold. He works evenings.”
“I see. Does your establishment have a standard procedure for handling packages?”
“We certainly do. If it’s small enough, we place it in the room slot at the front desk. If it’s too large to fit in the slot, we place a note in the slot and hold the package in the vault.”
“Okay,” Lou said. “And which slot would that have been for Mr. Burke, ma’am?”
“Um, that would be 209.”
“209, eh? And why that number?”
“Because that is his room number.”
“I see. So the person on night duty at the front desk would have placed it in Mr. Bu
rke’s mail slot. Now is there anyone else who could pick up his mail?”
“Certainly not. Unless, of course, someone else is registered in that room with him.”
“I see. And would that have been the case for Mr. Burke on that night?”
“I don’t believe—oh, yes. There is another gentlemen in there. A Mr. Pelham. There are two beds in there. Doubles.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m going to mark this delivery down as confirmed. Just for my records, your name is?”
“Virginia Brandon. Mrs. Virginia Brandon.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. You’ve been very helpful. On behalf of Airborne Express, we hope you have nice day.”
“You, too, sir. Thank you.”
Lou hung up and turned toward the other two.
“Not bad,” Gordie said.
Lou said, “We’ll go there tonight after six.”
“Why not now?”
“That woman registered them. She’s more likely to know what they look like than the guy on night duty. We’ll wait until she gets off, which is just fine. We need some time to think this one out.”
Gordie frowned. “I’m still not clear on the details here.”
Lou shrugged. “Me neither.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Gordie was out of the question. Unless Harold had been in a trance for the past several days, he would know in an instant that he had never before seen this short, burly, balding, bearded guy who was claiming to be one of the inn’s guests.
Billy disqualified himself, knowing he’d be way too jittery to pull it off.
Which left Lou. Though his hair and his eyes were darker than Frank’s, the two were roughly the same height and build. By no means a perfect match, but way closer than the others.
Which is why, at twenty minutes past six on the evening of June 14, 1994, it was Lou Solomon who climbed out of the minivan at the edge of the commons in the center of Hawthorn, Massachusetts. He heard the minivan pull away as he walked across the commons, across the freshly mown grass, past the wood bandstand and the granite Civil War monument, toward the Hawthorn Inn, which faced the commons on the other side.
The plan was for Gordie and Billy to park in back, come in through the rear entrance, and meet him upstairs at Room 209. They’d confirmed that the room was empty. Five minutes ago, Gordie had called the inn from a pay phone and asked for Reggie. There was no answer in his room.
Small comfort, Lou said to himself as he placed his hand on the entrance door, took a deep breath, and stepped into the lobby.
He faltered a moment, overcome not by nerves but the rush of memory. Straight ahead was an enormous stone fireplace with three long logs stacked inside. Couches and upholstered chairs were arranged in a cozy semicircle in front of the fireplace. An enclosed library was off to the right, and the front desk was to the left. On an antique table near the front desk was a big pewter bowl filled with shiny red apples.
The lobby of the Hawthorn Inn was almost identical to the lobby of the Woodstock Inn in Woodstock, Vermont.
There was no fire in the fireplace. Too late in the spring for that.
It had been winter in Vermont. A snowy afternoon. He’d been out for a hike through town while Andi stayed back at the inn. She’d been spotting again and feeling nauseous. The snowflakes—big fluffy Vermont ones, the kind you could actually catch on your tongue—had been floating down out of the gray sky for hours. He’d paused at the front door of the inn to stamp his feet on the mat. There’d been a fire in the big fireplace. Andi was curled on the couch in front of the fire, an apple in her hand as she read an old hardback edition of Winesburg, Ohio that she’d found in the inn’s library.
As she told him later that day, she’d just finished “Adventure”—the story of a prim spinster who is suddenly overwhelmed by yearning during a violent thunderstorm one night. She disrobes and runs naked into the rain, seeking something—passion? salvation?—but returns wet and ashamed and alone. The story closes with her staring at the bedroom wall and struggling “to face bravely the fact that many people must live and die alone, even in Winesburg.”
Andi had just read the final line when Lou returned. He’d remembered that she’d looked up with tears in her eyes, her lips quivering slightly. She’d been wearing faded Levi’s and a wheat-colored crewneck sweater over a green turtleneck. As he’d gazed at her—at those almond-shaped green eyes and full lips and strong nose and dark curly hair—he’d realized again that his wife was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and that marrying her had been the one truly significant accomplishment in his life.
Both facts were still true, Lou thought as he forced himself back to the present and the task at hand. He looked toward the front desk. There was an elderly man shuffling through papers. Harold?
As Lou approached, the man looked up from his papers.
“Yes?” he said, peering over his reading glasses in a friendly way.
Lou gave him a sheepish grin. “If I keep losing my key, Harold, you’re going to add a special locksmith charge to the room.”
Harold slipped off his reading glasses and placed them in his front shirt pocket. “Lost your key, eh?”
Lou nodded, chagrined. “Second time. First was yesterday afternoon. I accidentally left it in my room when I went to lunch. I must have done it again.” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Brandon you had to give me another one. She’ll think I’m bonkers.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Harold grinned and joined the conspiracy. “Mum’s the word, Mr.—?”
“Burke,” Lou said, forging ahead. “Room 209.”
“Our secret, sir.”
Harold chuckled and turned toward the room slots. He found the slot labeled 209, reached in, removed a spare key. He turned but then paused with a frown. He studied Lou, pressing the key against his cheek. “Burke, you say?”
Lou tensed. “Yes?”
“Virginia left me a note regarding you. Something about a package?”
Lou smiled. “You mean that Airborne Express delivery?”
“Yes, that is exactly it.”
“I happened to be out front when the delivery guy pulled up in his truck. I had him give me the package. Is there a problem?”
Harold seemed relieved. “Oh, not all. Not one bit. Virginia received a call from the courier service today. Apparently, they wanted to confirm that you had received the delivery, sir.”
“You can tell her I did.”
“I will do that. But—” he winked as he handed Lou the room key “—I will say nothing about this minor mishap, sir.”
As Lou took the key with his right hand, he reached into his pocket with his left hand and removed the five-dollar bill he’d placed there. He pressed the bill into Harold’s hand and said, “Thank you.”
“Oh, my. Thank you, Mr. Burke. Thank you very much.”
Lou took the stairway up to the second floor. Gordie and Billy were waiting outside Room 209. Gordie had the two-wheel dolly and Billy had the rope.
“Any noises in there?” Lou asked in a whisper.
They shook their heads.
Lou knocked on the door and glanced up and down the hall. Empty. After a full minute had elapsed, he inserted the key and opened the door.
***
Thirty minutes later, they were back in the van.
Gordie banged his fist on the dashboard. “Damn!”
Lou frowned. “They’re not taking any chances.”
They’d found nothing in the room but clothes, toiletries, and reunion materials.
“They probably did what Ray said we were going to do,” Billy said. “Put her in a bank vault or a storage locker.”
Gordie shook his head with frustration. “How the hell are we supposed to find her? Storage companies won’t tell us a thing. Neither will t
he banks. And I’m sure as hell not in the mood to play Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Tomorrow’s the fifteenth,” Billy said.
“And two days later is D-Day,” Gordie said. “Dammit. We’re out of time.”
Lou started the engine and pulled the van out of the parking lot behind the Hawthorn Inn. They drove in silence back to Barrett.
Chapter Forty
An hour later, Lou poured the last of the second pitcher of beer into Gordie’s mug. They were in a booth at the Rusty Scupper. Back in college the Rusty Scupper was the place to take a special date or to have your parents take you when they came to visit. But school was out, and the crowd tonight had that smarmy young professional look. Up at the bar were two twentysomething guys in Brooks Brothers suits chatting up a pair of women. The guys puffed on cigars and sipped what appeared to be martinis.
Lou surveyed the rest of the restaurant. With the exception of a foursome of blue-haired ladies two tables away, and what looked like a husband and wife in a booth along the side wall, Lou, Gordie, and Billy were the oldest patrons that night.
Lou’s gaze held on the couple in the booth. The man looked about his age. The woman—well, she was around the age Andi would have been. They were leaning toward each other across the table and holding hands as they talked.
“Where would we even start?” Gordie said.
The question snapped Lou out of his reverie.
“Inside their heads,” he said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Gordie said.
“Think about them,” Lou said. “Here are two guys with a big investment in that statue. Lots of time and lots of emotion and lots of money. Especially money, right? Think of what they had to pay for that helicopter hijacking alone.”
“But what does all that mean?” Billy asked.
“Here’s what it might mean,” Lou said. “They’re just a day and a half away from their moment of glory. You know they’re going to want to make sure that moment is truly glorious, right? They want the scene of her return to be unforgettable. Agreed?”
Gordie and Billy nodded.
Lou said, “So that means they’re probably planning to do something a little more dramatic than driving onto Remington Field with Sirena sitting in the bed of a Ford pickup.”
The Sirena Quest Page 19