by John Edward
Now, ten years later, she had returned to South Junction. The schoolhouse she had financed had been in use for three full school years. All the kids she had originally met in the café had long since graduated and moved on, but when she returned to the little eatery for a bite before visiting the building, a dozen or so students came in at midday, just like the first time, and ordered their patties and soft drinks for a quick lunch.
Willi Steenberg walked from the café to the South Junction primary school in the early afternoon with tears in her eyes.
CHAPTER
79
Melbourne, Australia
As Dawson sat with his cell phone on the edge of his bed talking to his friend, Bobby Anderson, again, he saw President John F. Kennedy.
Kennedy reached up to brush a fall of hair back from his forehead, and he smiled at Dawson. “That’s all right, finish your call,” Kennedy said to him. “We’ll talk later.”
Dawson wondered how he could be seeing a long-dead president—and hearing him. Kennedy folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the desk. Then the image morphed into that of an animal—a majestic, fearsome king of animals. Dawson saw before him the same lion he had seen when he was in the car on the way to the radio station this morning. As before, the lion was animated, with human characteristics.
“Do you see that lion?” Dawson asked President Kennedy.
In fact, he hadn’t actually spoken, as he was still engaged in conversation with Bob Anderson. In some weird way, he was able to think of these words and images and not lose his focus on the conversation with Bob. He realized that he was multi-thinking and reacting.
“Of course I see the lion,” Kennedy answered. Now the two images—lion and human—were separate. The handsome president pointed to it. “It’s right there in front of us. How could I not see it?”
The balding, chubby-cheeked man who had appeared at the foot of his bed half an hour earlier now appeared alongside Kennedy. He picked up the newspaper that Dawson had been looking at earlier, and turned it so that Dawson could see the front page. Though he was too far away and the type too small for Dawson to be able to read the individual articles, he saw again, as he had seen in the car, disconnected words that grew in font size and became boldfaced, and then floated off the page to hang in the air in front of him.
JOY … CANCER … BELFAST … MERE … CHRISTIANITY … NOVEMBER
“Perelandra,” the balding visitor said. Kennedy nodded as if he understood completely what it meant.
Dawson’s fingers started tingling and shaking. His dizziness came and went, and he began getting a weird clarity about his thoughts.
“Dawson, are you still there, buddy?” Anderson asked.
“I’m here.”
“Good. I thought for a moment I had a dropped call.”
“Bob, what is Perry Landra?”
“What?” Anderson’s response was sharp, almost annoyed that Dawson had suddenly changed the direction of the call with such an unrelated, and totally meaningless question.
“What is Perry Landra, or maybe it is Perry Landers. It might be one word, like pere landra, or perrylandra? Does that mean anything to you? I keep hearing in my head.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about? Dude … that has nothing to do with what I am saying to you. Are you listening? Have you heard anything I have said to you?”
“Yes, I’ve heard everything,” Dawson said. “All the bodies that have been found in Belfast have one thing in common, markings and cuts on the body that were done postmortem. And they aren’t just slashes and disfigurements. They are numbers or letters, sometimes both, always in the same place. And just inside the left thigh are the words Viva Domingo carved on every one of them.”
“So you have been listening.”
“Yes, I’ve been listening. Bob, I have to go now, I have to do an interview. I’ll call you back, and if you need any more help from me, call me.
“Any more help? Yeah, I’ll do that, if I need—any more—help.” Anderson set the phrase “any more” apart from the rest of the sentence to emphasize the fact that he didn’t feel as if he had gotten much help in the first place.
Dawson caught the inference. “I’m sorry, I guess I wasn’t that much help, was I? Let me think about it. If I come up with any ideas, I’ll call you back, I promise.”
“That’s all right,” Anderson said. “And thanks, Dawson. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”
The room phone rang almost as soon as he punched off the cell phone call.
“Mr. Rask, this is Jack.”
“Who?”
“Jack, your driver, sir. You have another interview in one hour. I’m downstairs.”
“Oh. Thank you, I’ll be right down.”
Dawson hung up the phone and looked around the room: President Kennedy, the same little man, and the lion had all gone away. Dawson idly wondered if he was going insane. He also wondered about continuing his tour given the events happening back home, but it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it.
CHAPTER
80
Dawson was at another radio interview, and as his publicist explained, this one would air during drive time and reach the entire country, so it would be good for sales.
He was met by Tony Gordon, a smiling man with white hair and beard, wearing glasses that reflected so much that most of the time his eyes were hidden.
“I heard about your show with Jim Mayer,” Gordon said. He laughed. “The entire country has heard about it.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me this morning.”
“Oh, please don’t apologize,” Gordon said. “As far as I’m concerned, that pompous ass got just what he deserved. I promise you, our interview will be on the friendliest possible terms.”
“Thank you.”
The host escorted Dawson into the broadcast booth. There was a newscast on at the moment, which gave Dawson time to settle into his chair and wait for the interview to begin.
“My guest today is the well-known and most accomplished American author Dawson Rask. Mr. Rask, welcome to the Gordon Hour.”
“Thank you.”
“Has anyone ever compared your work to that of C. S. Lewis?” Gordon asked.
“C. S. Lewis? No, I don’t believe so. Though to be honest with you, I’m not that familiar with the works of C. S. Lewis, other than The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. And I must confess that I have never even read that.” Startled by the reference to his visions, he wondered where this was going.…
“Well, I say that because in your book The Moses Mosaic, there is battle between good and evil, your protagonist fights what one could call demons as he travels toward the ultimate goal. Some of these demons are only in his head, in that he is following false leads, and some are real, but it is up to the reader to discern which are real and which are in his imagination. And in the final denouement, we learn that there is an unseen order, and we must adjust ourselves harmoniously with that order. Would you say that is a fairly accurate interpretation of your book?”
As Dawson listened to Gordon’s question, which was more of a dissertation than a question, he saw a handsome young man with strong jawlines and a squared chin. He was wearing the uniform of a World War I soldier, complete with the pie-pan helmet worn then. He was smiling at Dawson and nodding in agreement with everything Gordon was saying.
“I must confess that no one has ever made that comparison to me,” Dawson said. “And I had never looked at it in quite that way. But now that you tell me your take on it, I can see why the comparison would be valid. And, I hasten to add, I am extremely flattered to have my work compared to that of C. S. Lewis—or even to be mentioned in the same breath, as far as that goes.”
“Of course, when you consider that Screwtape is a devil, and not just any devil, but head of one of the chambers of hell, you get a much better perspective. He is someone who understands human weakness very well,” Gordon said.
<
br /> “What? I’m sorry, what did you say?” Dawson touched his headset as if to indicate that it had cut out on him.
“I said that when you consider all the obstacles your character must surmount, that he goes through a veritable hell, you have a better understanding of his human strengths and weaknesses,” Gordon repeated.
“Uh, yes, that’s true,” Dawson fumbled, then tried to refocus.
As the interview continued, the World War I soldier disappeared. Neither his appearance nor disappearance shocked Dawson, nor did the disjointed words Dawson was now hearing—words such as cancer, Belfast, Bernagh, and Warney.
“How long will you Belfast be with us here in Australia?”
“I’ll be heading back to the States tomorrow,” Dawson replied.
“I do Bernagh hope you have enjoyed your stay with us. Of course, the unpleasant episode with Jim Mayer being the Warney.”
“It has been most productive and pleasant—for the most part,” Dawson said with a grin.
The interview continued for the entire hour, during which time they spoke of writing, and of his experiences and how they helped his writing.
“I feel that experiences are to a writer what automobiles are to a car dealer. A car dealer who has no automobiles on his lot cannot stay in business. A writer who does not have a backlog of experiences cannot write.”
“Interesting concept,” Gordon said. “My guest today has been Dawson Rask. Mr. Rask, it has been a rare privilege,” he said. “Please, if you are in Australia again, stop by and do the show with me again.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your insight and this opportunity,” Dawson replied with the slightest bit of distraction between what he heard and what he thought he heard.
Dawson was escorted back to the lobby where Jack, his driver, was waiting for him.
“Did you hear the interview?” he asked.
“Yes, they had it on the speaker,” Jack answered.
Dawson wanted to ask if Jack thought his performance was a bit off and if he thought it odd that Gordon did not make even one mention of the assassination of the President of the United States.
CHAPTER
81
Returning to his hotel room, Dawson opened his laptop, thankful for wi-fi, and checked into his gmail account. His box had ninety-three emails. At first, the emails pertained to his book and PR tour.
To: DARbook
From: Willoughby
Caught you on the radio. Loved the way you told Mayer what he could do with himself. I served with Americans in Vietnam. Like I’ve told all my friends, you Yanks do have a way with words, even if you do have a strange accent.
After about thirty emails talking about his book, or the promotion tour, or asking him to read something they had written, so he would recommend them to his publisher, he began reading emails pertaining to the assassination.
To: DARbook
From: RKurt
I don’t mean to sound too crass and commercial here, but as your agent I feel obligated to always look out for your best interest. Given your relationship to the president’s son, I wonder if you might consider writing a nonfiction book talking about Marcus and how he is coping with the death of the president. Let me know what you think.
Richard
“I can’t believe you,” Dawson said aloud. He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to call him. Finally he decided to send an email.
To: RKurt
From: DARbook
No. No. And just in case you don’t understand, DEFINITELY NO. To you and to the rest of America, he was the president. To Marcus, HE WAS A FATHER. I have no intention of capitalizing on this in any way, shape, or form.
Dawson
The email had angered Dawson, but the feeling faded just as quickly. Richard was, after all, the quintessential agent, interested only in his next deal. And the truth was, he was a very good agent, and exceptionally honest, a trait that Dawson appreciated. He would send a follow-up email later on, ameliorating somewhat his harsh reply to Richard’s suggestion.
But Richard had given him an idea. Dawson had become friends with Marcus—and indeed with the whole First Family—as a result of a fan letter Marcus had sent him. He had been quite surprised to get a letter from the White House, and even more surprised to discover that it was written not by the President, but by Marcus Jackson Jr.
… I think your books are great. All Presidents write books when they leave office. When my dad leaves office I know he will write a book as well. I will have to tell him how much I like his book, but I know it won’t be as good as your book.
Dawson had visited the White House shortly after that, having been invited by POTUS. Marcus greeted him enthusiastically, holding up a copy of one of Dawson’s books that he wanted autographed.
“Please don’t tell my dad what I said about I won’t like his book as much as I like yours,” Marcus had whispered when he had a chance to speak to him without being overheard by his parents.
Dawson put his finger over his lips. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said. Marcus smiled broadly, delighted that he and his favorite author had entered into a conspiracy of sorts.
Thinking about that, Dawson very much wanted to call the White House and see if his little buddy was okay. He knew, though, that he would not be able to get through to him. He looked at the clock, then at the time chart. It was eight o’clock here, so that meant it would be four in the morning in Washington. It wouldn’t be appropriate to try calling anyway.
He did, however, feel compelled to write Marcus a quick letter. Even if he was not able to speak to him for a while, he wanted to get his thoughts and emotions on paper. He called up a new Word document on his laptop.
Marcus,
I know this is a very difficult time for you. And I know that telling you the entire world is sharing your sorrow doesn’t make it any easier. But I just wanted to take this opportunity to …
“To what?” he asked aloud.
He looked through the window of his room and down onto the parking lot below. He saw a family unloading luggage from their car and he watched them for a moment, almost envious of them, of their shared love, contentment, and completeness within their family unit. He thought of Mary Beth. No doubt they would have had a family now.
He looked back at the screen to reread what he’d written, so he could continue with the letter.
Nothing he had written was on the screen. Instead, he saw the words:
DAWSON WILL YOU ASSIST US
WESTON HAS RETURNED
THE LION MUST ROAR
WORMWOOD HAS BEEN WAITING
PERELANDRA IN PERMANENT DANGER
Dawson stared at the words on the screen for what seemed like no more than a few seconds. Where had the words come from? What did they mean?
When the phone rang, it startled him. He looked at the time on his cell phone and gasped. It was now nine o’clock! One entire hour had passed since he wrote the first words of his letter to Marcus. That didn’t seem possible.
The caller ID showed that it was Bob Anderson calling.
“Bob, it’s four A.M. there, isn’t it?” Dawson asked. “What are you doing up so late?”
“Is it that late? I haven’t been paying attention. Those disjointed words you blurted out before?”
“Yeah, like I said, I’m sorry about that.”
“No, don’t be sorry. I ran your info and it’s interesting.”
“Interesting in what way?”
“Does the name Jack Lewis ring any bells for you?”
“No … I don’t know any Jack Lewis.”
“What if I tell you what his real name is, and not what his friends call him? His real name was Clive Staple Lewis.”
Dawson knew exactly in that moment who Bob was speaking about. C. S. Lewis, the writer. And, oddly—or maybe not so oddly the way things were going—the very writer that the interviewer Gordon had compared him to.
When there was a long,
pregnant pause before Dawson replied, Anderson chuckled.
“Tell me, Dawzy … did I pass your literary test? I’ll just bet you thought I had never heard of C. S. Lewis, didn’t you?”
“I’ve no room to talk,” Dawson said. “Truth is, though I’ve heard of him, I’ve never actually read him.”
“That word you gave me? Perelandra? That’s the name of one of his books,” Anderson said. “That’s what led me to C. S. Lewis.”
Dawson felt as if he were in a carnival hall of mirrors. “All right, well, I’ll be here if you need me,” Dawson said.
“When did you say you’re coming back?”
“I’ll be on the plane tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I am flying through L.A. And as you had said you were in the town for a little bit, maybe we could get together during my layover.”
“That sounds great. And yeah, I made that flight once,” Anderson said. “It’s almost twenty hours. I don’t envy you.”
“I’ll be in touch when I get back,” Dawson said.
Dawson punched off the telephone call and continued to stare at the monitor. The words had not left the screen. Was he finally losing it? Could it be exhaustion? The traveling? The time zone? What? “Maybe I’m finally losing it,” Dawson said out loud to anyone who could possibly be listening.
Where was JFK? Or C. S. Lewis, for that matter, if indeed that’s who the strange little man was? And just what was the deal with the lion? The unreality of the situation, of these visions or hallucinations, had him confused. And why should he even care whether they ever showed up again? Dawson suddenly felt a wave of sadness come over him and he found himself near tears. He hadn’t really cried since Mary Beth died. Was he having a breakdown, due to all the stress he had been under, all those unresolved feelings of love and despair that he had shoved deep down inside? Dawson rubbed his eyes and decided to take a short nap. He needed some relief—some break from all of it …