Teagarden racked his brain, but could think of nothing.
“Dulles, Andrews and Baltimore are all farther from Capitol Hill than Reagan National,” he said.
“Right, and you’re not going to land at any of them either. Hang on, I’ve got to plot new coordinates. Give me a minute. I’ll get right back to you.”
Chapter One-Hundred-Two
Washington, D.C.
The news flew as fast as the X-47.
It wasn’t just broadcast and social media that spread the news, but rapid-fire word of mouth caused a crowd to quickly gather around Washington and along the National Mall. Offices emptied. Traffic stopped. From the Kennedy Center to RFK Memorial Stadium, people looked to the skies.
From her remote control station at Boca Chica Key, Captain Eva Ghent saw the gathered masses and opted to give them a show for her dad’s arrival as a latter day Prometheus. She maneuvered the X-47 in a series of concentric circles that tightened with each subsequent loop. She circled the city, the Northwest quadrant, the Washington Monument. Finally, as arranged, she lined up for approach to land on East Capitol Street, the urban avenue leading to the front door of America’s seat of government.
The crowd grew quiet as the sleek, triangular ship descended. The pavement had been rapidly closed to traffic. And it was plenty long, longer than the landing deck of the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan where this remotely piloted jet would be stationed when tapped for service into the U.S. Navy. As for width, that was no problem. The X-47 could be programmed to land in Times Square if need be.
It eased from the sky, nose toward the west, looking like a true spaceship bearing strange tidings for the people of Earth. The wheels first touched down at the intersection of East Capitol and Third Street. Thousands of heads pivoted to watch it roll past Second Street, past the Supreme Court Building and the Library of Congress, past First Street and onto the Capitol grounds. Just beyond the visitor’s center, its nose labeled Little Bomber-Bot turned ninety degrees to point due south and came to an easy stop at the east steps, the main entrance to the U.S. Capitol Rotunda.
Teagarden thought of making some sort of joke, perhaps asking, “Are we there yet?” But he didn’t have time.
“There you go, Dad,” his daughter said, as the gull wing doorway swooshed open. “Good luck at the House hearing.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Outside, a rollaway ladder not being available, Capitol Hill police arranged for a power truck with a cherry picker bucket to help him egress from the X-47. Next to the truck was a limo, and next to the limo stood Cynthia, Sheriff Klumm and House Speaker Henry Wayne Alderman of Louisiana. Beyond them, long lines of Metro police officers stood at attention. A few days earlier, they wanted to shoot him down in the street. Now, he was the object of their protection.
He gently kissed Cynthia, who was on crutches, as she whispered, “I love you,” into his ear. He shook hands with Sheriff Klumm, who said, “I apologize, sir.” He shook hands with House Speaker Alderman, who gestured to the limo and said, “Here’s our ride to the House hearing room in the Rayburn Office Building.”
Chapter One-Hundred-Three
Saturday, August 17, 2019
Bethel, NY
Classic rock blasted all week from just about everywhere.
It pulsated in earbuds, roared from old-fashioned boom boxes and speakers inside cars, houses, pitched tents and hundreds of camper trailers. Those who couldn’t get a parking spot on or near hallowed ground settled for parking along Route 17B, the narrow highway that cut through the village of Bethel. It was a nationally watched event. And everywhere there were camera crews recording the three-day celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the great Woodstock Music Festival. The TV anchors gave a blow-by-blow account of the past, cutting away to half-century-old film clips of the real event.
“Fifty years ago at this hour Arlo Guthrie was playing Coming into Los Angeles….” and, “Fifty years ago at—this—hour, Santana was playing Soul Sacrifice…”
Knowing her father was tiring of it, Eva turned off the television set at mid-morning, the third day of the golden anniversary. She also knew he’d turn it back on for the afternoon ballgame.
It was a great joy for Teagarden to have all the people he loved safely gathered under one roof, including Pangolin and Cynthia. The day was his fiftieth birthday and Marnie’s third. Eva worked to make certain it was a happy one, starting with breakfast where Marnie’s granddad and her real dad showered her with pre-party presents and kisses before the real party, set for later in the evening.
Part of the day was set aside for tying up loose ends. He wrote letters of condolence to “the lost list.” There was the Carney Family in Bethel; the Gelayeva family in Chechnya; Ms. Myrna Shelbourn in Arlington; the brother of Danford Shackton in D.C.; and finally to the Sloan family in Dayton, Ohio, where first cousins Scotty and Jimmy lived and attended college. It wasn’t much, but until something better or more meaningful came along, it would have to do. He was bombarded with book and movie offers to tell the story of his ten days on the run. One respected publisher wanted to call it American Prometheus. A TV show suggested Ten Days that Shook America’s Soul.
If he did eventually accept a book offer, he planned to share proceeds with the families who lost loved ones because of the national tragedy that exploded like a cancer decades after the behavior that caused the disease.
On the sundeck, he logged on to Dan Jones’ e-mail, using the password “yellow4submarine” one last time:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Oh Dan, that’s wonderful. We are so excited to hear the news. And I promise not to make judgments about your need to flee your home obligations.
May I make an appointment with Dr. Landman after your return, just to make certain everything is fine?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I have decided to make a trial reconciliation. But NO guilt about NYC, which I love and will return to in a heartbeat. Am arriving on Amtrak at Quincy Station on Saturday.
Surrounded by those he loved, Teagarden silently saluted Dan for going home to his family. He’d contemplated sending a full explanation for the mysterious piggy-back e-mail about Hollywood, German beer halls, drinking, smoking, Washington committee hearings, and all the rest. He changed his mind after seeing their effort to reconcile. Tendering the whole story could make things worse. Best to let them kiss and make up without tempting them to cash in on their fifteen minutes of fame.
Next up was Camp Summer Shevat.
His daughter and future son-in-law didn’t want to fight the crowds, so they stayed home with Chopper to listen to the rock-and-roll celebration from the sundeck while Cynthia and Teagarden waded into the masses and neighboring woods. They walked toward the compound on Zabłudów Boulevard where he secretly downloaded the Dear John File on that second day of his “odyssey,” as many in the news media were calling it. He knocked on the bungalow door.
“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Cynthia said.
“What shall I do with this?” he asked, Torah in one hand, a clothes hanger dangling over the other shoulder. Inside the zipper bag was a new suit of Hasidic clothing, complete with tzitzit vest and prayer strings of the same large size as the one he’d stolen.
“The resident may not have returned since your visit,” she said. “You could just leave it in the closet.”
He checked the door. Unlocked.
She stayed on the rickety porch while he entered and hung the clothing bag inside the small wardrobe cabinet and put the replacement Torah on the bedside table. Cynthia may have been right about the occupant. He clearly hadn’t returned. The two-room space had been ransacked. The furniture was upside down, the mattress ripped open. The old computer had been dismantled and the hard drive was missing.
It was like stumbling upon archeological evidence of Mc
Canliss’s work during a previous era. If the Coast Guard hadn’t finally killed him with a drone, he’d now be facing criminal charges, along with his old boss Paula Trippler and two dozen others nobody ever heard of. It was happening primarily because of damaging testimony from Clyde Anderson Tolson’s diary, and a man named Walter Natujay, recently retired from the FBI, who The New York Times identified as the whistle-blower, code named Orpheus. Once he received full amnesty, Natujay confirmed every aspect of Teagarden’s story.
“Okay, only one more thing to do,” he said to Cynthia back on the porch of the bungalow.
On the way home, they stopped at the office of Sheriff Curt O. Klumm. He was out, maintaining order during the Woodstock anniversary celebration, as were all his deputies. His secretary, however, was in. So was a black Labrador named Missy, a ward of the sheriff’s office who had a litter of six puppies just turned eight weeks old. They were confined to a big box in the back room beside the ancient Xerox machine.
Teagarden picked out two puppies, a blond and a chocolate, paying the secretary three hundred dollars for each with his newly issued MasterCard which, the secretary assured him, would be passed on to the local SPCA.
“What are you going to call them?” Cynthia asked as they walked home along hills celebrated as hallowed American ground, each carrying one of the squirming pups.
“Well, I plan to call the blond Coco-Too,” he said. “He’s my fiftieth birthday present to myself. But the name of this other little fellow will be up to Chopper, since he’s going to be a present for her third birthday.”
Halfway home, they stopped for Teagarden to point out the approximate location on the hillside where he was born in a makeshift tent while Country Joe called out his Fish Cheer and played “I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag,” for an audience of four hundred thousand.
“I was a preemie,” he said. “Mom thought it was safe to go to the concert. Ha, little did she know that I’d be coming along during the show.”
“Kind of like me,” Cynthia said.
“How so?”
“Well, little did I know that you’d be coming into my life, too.” She took his arm and leaned to him for a kiss. “Sam, my instincts about you were right. From the start, I knew you were a good and smart man. Now I know you’re as honorable as they come.”
He responded to her lips with tenderness.
During their embrace, rock music of the American past vibrated around the countryside. The words were mostly about love and sex, but occasionally there were lyrics about war, peace and truth.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to a number of people who assisted in reading and critiquing the manuscript as it evolved. They include Carol Pettis, my friend since fourth grade; Graham Smith, whose encouragement was particularly gratifying as he is a connoisseur of the genre; Penelope Ghartey; Jessica Broome; Stephen Weiss; Lisa Weiss, who read it a dozen times; and Barbara Shapiro who provided masterful copyediting guidance.
Many thanks to Eric Campbell and Lance Wright of Down & Out Books for shepherding the manuscript into print and e-book form.
Finally, to the Coen Brothers—call me.
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Gray Basnight worked for almost three decades in New York City as a radio and television news producer, writer, editor, reporter, and newscaster. He lives in New York with his wife and a golden retriever, where he is now dedicated to writing fiction.
GrayBasnight.com
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BOOKS BY GRAY BASNIGHT
The Cop with the Pink Pistol
Shadows in the Fire
Flight of the Fox
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