After a few blocks John gave it up. He bent over with his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath, cursing his luck. He thought about going back after the old man, but he suspected he was long gone by now.
So this is the end, John thought. No pipe means no dreams, and no Jillian.
Just then his phone buzzed in his pocket with a new message from Lisa.
Meet me at the Laughing Man
He wasn’t in the mood. He wanted to go home and sulk. Or he wanted to punch somebody. Or lie down and go to sleep. The last thing he wanted to do was sit at a bar and be friendly. With anybody. Even Lisa. But she did have his bag. And then he remembered that his car keys were in the bag.
He walked despondently back to the bar and quickly located Lisa at a corner table with two beers.
“So did you catch him?” she asked, as if it was a matter of no concern whatever.
He gave her a hard look.
“I don’t think you understand what this means to me,” he said. “I’ve smoked a lot of pipes, and I’ve never had these sorts of ... whatever is happening to me. It’s only that pipe that gives me ...”
“You mean this pipe?” she asked, holding it up triumphantly.
He stood in shocked amazement for a moment. Overjoyed. It was clearly his pipe. Or, rather, his grandfather’s. And he couldn’t imagine how she came to have it.
Then he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. He’d never done that before, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
“Genius,” he said. “Tell me.”
She was too pleased with herself to respond. She spent a few moments basking in his praise, tenderly sipping her Blue Moon and smiling like her mouth was going to break.
“Well,” she finally said, as John held the pipe and admired it as if it was an heirloom from ancient Egypt. “That guy you were chasing seemed too obvious to me. Like he was making a bit too much of a show. So I watched, and right before he made his first dash across traffic I noticed that he made a hand-off to some other guy.”
“Ah,” John said, simultaneously feeling duped and feeling a little better — realizing it wouldn’t have done any good to catch the kid.
“I realized what was going on and did some quick thinking. I guess I’m not all that creative because I decided to pull the same ruse on the old man. I hired some kid to steal the pipe from him.”
She laughed and shook her head. “You should have seen his face. He was furious. Oh. And you owe me $50,” she added.
“Is that the going rate for stealing a pipe these days?”
“Yes, I believe there’s a rate schedule posted in the park. D.C. regulations and all.”
“It’s well worth it,” he said, fishing the money out of his wallet. “And the drinks are on me,” he added, finally taking a sip from the Guinness she’d ordered for him.
“But what are you going to do now? This old man clearly has it out for you.” She looked concerned, and John had to admit that her concern was justified. Having an enemy was a new experience for him. He couldn’t always be watching his back.
“He’s not afraid to attack you,” she added, “or to hire goons to rob you. Who knows what he’ll try next.”
“It’s all so weird,” he said. “He’s the reason I have the pipe in the first place. But now he wants it back — I guess because I’m not playing the game his way.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Lisa said. “It’s your grandfather’s pipe, right? Isn’t that a little bit too much of a coincidence? It’s like this old man wanted you to have it. But how could he do that? You bought it on an eBay auction. It’s not like the seller can pick the buyer.”
“I’ve wondered the same thing,” John said. “And it gives me an idea.”
Chapter 8: A Retreat to the Shore
That evening John called Herman and asked for a week off. It was against company policy — you were supposed to give at least two weeks’ notice — but Herman realized John had some things to work out, and he’d certainly earned the time. He had seven weeks of vacation stored up, and he was in the office early every day. But there was concern in Herman’s voice, and … something else. Something he wouldn’t say, but wanted to.
John rented a car and a rustic cabin in Southern Maryland, right off Route 4 near Calvert Cliffs. It was an old summer camp that had been converted into a rental place, and it was perfect for John’s needs. Running water, a bed, a gas stove, and no telephone lines or internet.
An old couple owned the cabin and they were happy to take the week’s rent in cash.
The location was ideal. Quiet, somewhat off the beaten path, but close to a library and stores.
After checking in, John spent an hour on the porch smoking the first of six new blends. He was trying to be as scientific about it as possible and he kept a journal of what he smoked, and how that affected his mood and, of course, his dreams.
The first entry in his journal was a list of his working theories. It read as follows.
Theory 1 — The old man did something to my home computer so that when I thought I was placing a public bid on eBay, it was really just me and him on some sort of proxy site. My friend Blake is checking that out for me. If anybody can find it, he can. He’s supposed to send a note by snail mail to the caretakers here — under my assumed name. The cloak and dagger routine sounds silly, but for now I have to be careful.
Theory 2 — There’s some special ingredient in Edgeworth tobacco that suppresses the dreams and visions. But there’s something in Pop Pop’s pipe that encourages them with any other tobacco. Why would the old man give me the pipe and the Edgeworth at the same time? Why a plus and a minus? I need to do some research on Edgeworth. What’s in it?
Theory 3 — Proximity to Lafayette Park affects the visions, but not the dreams. At least I hope that’s true. Tonight will be a test.
Theory 4 — The old man tracked me a little too well. Maybe his pipe and mine are connected, and he has a way of tracking me. It sounds crazy, but everything sounds crazy right now.
He spent the afternoon puttering around the cabin and the wooded grounds, then switched to reading Calvin and Hobbes when he needed some intellectual stimulation. He walked down to the beach and the landlord told him he could use the row boat if he wanted. The crabs were pretty easy to catch about 30 feet offshore with a hand line and a net.
The cliffs were part of an early Miocene formation. He remembered “Miocene Pliocene Pleistocene Recent” from when he had to memorize the geologic column for a college course, but he had no idea how long ago any of them were, or what lived in the Miocene — except for horrendously large sharks. The area was well-known for big sharks’ teeth fossils.
A reason to go to the library, he thought. Read up on the local geology.
He considered going out for dinner to some local greasy spoon, but opted for a pot of coffee and a bowl of soup. He’d brought a few things to get by on, and he had eggs and kippers for the morning. He could replenish his stocks later. For now it was time to rest and lay low.
The cabin had a nice front porch. He set up a gas lantern, used a milk crate for a footstool, and put a cooler of cheap beer next to his chair.
No cell phone. No TV. No Internet. And no work in the morning.
* * *
John drove a rag top Ford Mustang down the gravel driveway to Jillian’s place. He hadn’t had much of an opportunity to look at it on his last visit, so he took a moment now to study its lines. It looked more like a cottage than a house, and John’s trained eye appreciated the cleverness of the design.
A moment later Jillian was letting him in the front door.
“Make yourself at home,” Jillian said. “I’ve got to gather a couple things and then we can go.”
When Jillian was ready he escorted her to his car and then drove in silence for a while.
A raccoon scratched at some scraps of his dinner that he’d carelessly left on the front porch, and for a moment John was halfway between the dream and his rus
tic cabin. The Jillian in his dream was really her, but not her. It was odd, but it all felt so natural. And so strange. Was this the Jillian he’d seen in the park? Could he ask her about it?
But then he drifted back to sleep and fell completely into the dream.
John parked the car in front of a house he didn’t recognize, and a minute later they were at a child’s birthday party. The house was littered with odd pagan symbols, and Jillian seemed right at home.
A strong breeze scraped a pine branch against the plain plywood shutters that hung above the screen window of his cabin, bringing John into that state of half-dreaminess in which dreams can be consciously directed. In a moment of clarity he focused on one topic and allowed his mind to drift back into sleep.
He found himself with Jillian in a small study, or library. He wasn’t sure if it was the house with the party, or Jillian’s house, or some other place entirely. And it didn’t seem to matter. The room itself seemed to focus his attention on a leather-bound book set in a place of honor among piles of esoteric and magical texts. Not that he had a chance to read their titles or study them, but since this was a dream, he simply knew what they were.
A haunting tune was playing in the background, tugging at his memory.
The leather-bound book said “The journal of Gunter Schmitt.”
Then the words of the song started to form in his mind.
Winter nights we sang in tune,
Played inside the months of moon ....
He looked up in shock at Jillian as he realized the meaning of the song. She looked back at him with a scornful, mocking expression, and then laughed at him openly with a cruel, biting laugh that cut him right to the heart.
He woke with a jolt on the bed in the cabin, reached for his journal and added a line.
Gunter Schmitt. Magician. “Other Jillian’s” lover.
His heart was beating furiously. He checked his watch. Two fifteen. He lay back on his pillow for a long while, staring at the words he had written, wondering what it all meant. At the least he was starting to understand the connections between the various players in this drama.
Eventually he drifted back into an uneasy sleep in which he dreamed of a succession of chess boards with different styles of pieces arranged in various patterns. Each chess board was a world, and each style of piece was a character in that world. There were thousands of boards, all playing different games. But some of the games were very similar. The pieces made the same moves. But somehow the pieces knew that they were playing different games.
A whiff of smoke rose from one of the pawns on one of the boards. He looked closer and it turned to look at him with a wicked and threatening smile. It was the old man. Gunter Schmitt.
* * *
“Damn!” John said aloud as soon as he lifted his head off the pillow, which brought on a rush of dizziness and a throbbing ache in his head. And then he was sorry he’d said anything because it provoked another wave of pain.
Fortunately he had a bottle of aspirin in his toilet kit, which was on the nightstand next to the bed. He took two and spent the next hour in fitful sleep, hoping for the drug to take effect before he had to get up.
By seven he realized he wasn’t going to sleep, and lying in bed miserable didn’t seem as nice as getting up and finding some fuel. Coffee and ... what? He hadn’t drunk that much the previous night. Just three beers. So hair of the dog didn’t seem in order. But ... what the Hell. He was on vacation. He pulled a glass bottle of Starbucks coffee out of the frig, poured it in a tumbler and added a couple ounces of bourbon on top, then he grabbed a shrink-wrapped cinnamon bun and headed to the front porch, hoping the fresh air would help.
After a half hour he fell into blissful sleep on the reclining chair until one of his fellow campers woke him. It was a little boy who was terrorizing the squirrels with rocks and acorns.
Not in the mood to cook his own breakfast, he decided to drive up to Prince Frederick to get on the outside of a couple of eggs. His head was clearer, and he might have been tempted to have a morning smoke, but he felt a touch precarious, as if any little thing might set off a wave of nausea or a pounding ache.
The drive north on Rt. 4 was a little more crowded than he’d expected, but of course for the rest of the people on the road this was a work day, and this was the major thoroughfare into the city from southern Maryland. Traffic moved along, but everyone else was rushed, and he was trying to relax.
Bob Evans looked like the perfect choice, and after a pleasantly plump waitress who called him “hun” served up three eggs over medium, a buttermilk biscuit, crisp bacon and a large supply of surprisingly decent coffee, he felt like he was at the top of his game, or at least close enough. If there had been a used bookstore to browse, or an antique store to study, he’d have been a pig in slop. As it was he finished his breakfast and made his way back down the road. He noted the Outback and the Sakura steak houses for later in the week, and decided it was time to do a little research.
A local pointed him to the public library, which had several internet-connected computers. At 9:10 on a Monday morning he had no competition for the terminals, and he hoped Gunter Schmitt had no way of monitoring or interfering with his web searches from down here.
He started with Edgeworth. From what he could read on the various pipe forums it seemed to be a well-regarded “dime store” option. An “every day” sort of tobacco. A blend of Virginia, Burley and Cavendish. It got decent reviews, which only confirmed John’s impression. It was a fine smoke, and if he had to make do with Edgeworth for the rest of his life, he could live with that.
But he really wanted to know what was peculiar about it, and for that he had to speak with someone. It took a few searches to get a phone number for the company that had distributed the product.
The idea of using his own phone bothered him. He had no idea how deep undercover he had to go to avoid detection, but the whole point of this week away was to get off the grid, rest, do some thinking and some research. A pay as you go phone at 7-11 seemed like a safe bet, and after a little while he had the thing up and running. If the old man was good enough to trace him on a new phone then he was simply too good and there was no point in trying to evade him.
It took a few calls to find the right company, and even then the conversation went nowhere until he asked for a supervisor. After an hour of working his way through the staff directory he eventually found himself speaking to James Miller, who seemed to know something.
John couldn’t bring himself to tell the guy that Edgeworth was the only cure for his mystic crystal visions, so he claimed to have a question about the blend for a book he was writing. He’d bought a can that didn’t seem right, he claimed, and he wondered if there had been any change in the recipe.
“Edgeworth was a blend that used tobacco from a lot of different sources,” Miller explained. “But there’s one common ingredient that’s been in every batch since we started production. I’m not exactly sure why, but we always used tobacco from one particular field in Fairfax, Virginia. A few years ago that field was sold to a developer. Shortly after that we stopped producing Edgeworth. It never made any sense to me. It was a popular product, and I didn’t think the tobacco from that field was all that good.”
Miller had reserved a pallet of the old blend, and he even managed to keep a small store of the leaf from that field in Fairfax, just out of his own curiosity. He invited John to drop by some time and smoke a bowl with him on the porch.
“Truth is I’m on leave from my job this week,” John said, “so if you’re serious about the offer, any evening this week would be great, starting with tonight. And I’d be happy to bring along a bottle of your favorite brand to go with the smoke.”
“Tonight’s as good as any,” Miller said. “The missus is away on a church retreat.”
He gave John directions and said he had simple tastes in bourbon, so they agreed to meet at 7:30.
“Oh, one other thing,” John asked. “If you don’t min
d, what’s the address of that field in Fairfax. My grandfather used to live in Fairfax, and he’s the one who introduced me to Edgeworth. It’s a long shot, but ... I’m wondering if there’s some connection.”
John scribbled down all the information on a small note pad and headed back to the library. His week off was turning into more work than he’d intended, but it was interesting.
He collected some preliminary information and then set off for the appropriate county land office in Virginia. He took down notes on everything he couldn’t photocopy or conveniently capture with his camera, and left with far more information than he’d ever dreamed.
After a simple lunch at a local sandwich shop, he decided to visit the old field. Based on the information from the land office he found the edge of the property, which was at the top of a gently sloping hill. He lit his pipe and stood on the edge of the hill, trying to take in the scene. A few single family homes had been built on the hill, but it looked as if the builder had lost his financing, or run into some other trouble, for large parts of the field had been cleared but not developed.
John saw something that intrigued him and he worked his way through the undeveloped parts to a small bit of land that looked untouched by plow or tractor. There was a small piece of woods — maybe a half an acre — with a clearing in the middle. Then he noticed the plants growing along the edge.
It was tobacco. He cut two leaves off one plant, rolled them up like a cigar and put them in his pocket. Then he pushed on into the woods to look at the clearing.
He had a strong sensation that he was on consecrated ground, as if this was a burial place, or the site of an old church. But he couldn’t find anything but trees and grass and dirt.
On a whim he stood in the center of the clearing, removed the tobacco from his pocket and smelled it. Deeply. He tried to breathe in as much of its aroma as he could.
John wasn’t sure if he was fooling himself or being silly, but he had a growing sense that this place was special to him in some way. He looked around — at the trees, at the sky, at the horizon, at the ground, and then he surveyed the general landscape. He realized this patch of trees was pretty young. None of them could have been more than 30 years old. And he noticed the land dropping off at a pleasant slope to the east, and he wondered .... If I wanted to sit on a hill and shoot rabbits, where might I sit?
The Five Lives of John and Jillian Page 31