The Man Who Heard Too Much

by Forrest, Richard;

  When the water temperature was minutely adjusted to his satisfaction, he daintily stepped into the shower, shut the glass door, and began to lather with Leffinwell soap, from a supply imported yearly from a small shop on Bond Street, London.

  The recollection that today’s column would be a blistering attack on the First Lady for her use of Air Force One on a theater junket to New York returned a modicum of good humor to the morning.

  Sperry was fifty-six, wealthy from his years as a major syndicated columnist, and unmarried through choice—living with anyone, regardless of sex, was untidy. He was grossly overweight. His days were carefully orchestrated to provide maximum comfort with minimum expenditure of physical effort.

  Soy Kuhn, his Vietnamese houseman, had breakfast prepared and served as Sperry rode down to the first floor in the small elevator installed a decade ago. Fresh flowers were arranged simply at the center of the table atop linen cloth. A four-minute egg rested in its cup next to cream-rich coffee and buttered croissants. Three newspapers, The Washington Post, The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal were arranged on the right in correct order.

  Sperry nodded to Soy and sat with a grunt before his egg. He sipped coffee and scowled at the headlines. The daily news was dull and that bored him. He began to slowly eat the single egg while devouring croissants.

  The day’s nagging thoughts began to circle. The first was quite personal and might prove to have an unsettling effect on his home life. He strongly suspected that Soy Kuhn was padding the household account. Of course that would have to be taken care of, and although that sort of thing might be a common custom, it would not do in Sperry’s life. He sighed. Soy had learned the daily routine well—breaking in a new man would be time-consuming.

  The second item was more delicate and more difficult to articulate. Some of his sources were holding back on him—he was certain of it. The last time he had experienced such a drying-up of information had been just prior to the abortive attempt to rescue the Iranian hostages.

  He glanced at the headlines again as if the information contained there might enlighten him as to what events of importance were being deliberately withheld. The previous day’s news seemed innocuous if not boring. He nostalgically wished for another Watergate.

  He was certain that something within the government was happening that J.J. Sperry did not know about, and that was intolerable.

  He allowed himself twenty-five minutes for breakfast and the reading of the newspapers. Soy would have the car outside with the motor running.

  Sperry Enterprises was housed in a suite of six offices with a view from Sperry’s private quarters of the nation’s Capitol. Several legmen and writers had desks in a room adjacent to Sperry’s, euphemistically called “the grunt cave.”

  Three associates were waiting in his office. It was the usual early morning strategy meeting, and Sperry began speaking before he reached his desk.

  “What about the First Lady’s trip?”

  “I have a Xerox of Air Force One’s flight plan along with the passenger list.” Sperry nodded curt approval. “Backup?”

  “A signed statement from a” waiter, two ushers at the Mark Hellinger Theater, and a doorman.”

  Sperry nodded almost imperceptibly toward a writer. “I want it by two.” The writer quietly left the room.

  “What came in on the phones?” The telephone was the lifeline of their business, and any call, no matter how innocuous or crackpot, was well screened and considered as a possible source or leak from high places. Sperry would always remember the soft-spoken accountant from GSA that he had nearly cut off and who ultimately revealed one of the greatest cost overrun boondoggles of his career.

  “It’s quiet,” one of the legmen responded. “One kidnapping by little people in a flying saucer, and another call from upstate New York. Some broad claims there’s a conspiracy in the government and wants to talk to you.”

  Sperry nearly smiled. “Scratch the kidnapping by the space invaders and give the woman with this week’s conspiracy the brushoff.” He nodded to signify the end of the meeting.

  An intuitive feeling, the same visceral reaction that had allowed him to uncover so much about so many for so long made him pause. “The woman with the conspiracy … did she leave a name?”

  “Bucknell. Sara Bucknell. Said she was on the road and would call back at ten. I’ll give her the brush …”

  “No,” Sperry snapped. “That name ring a bell with you?”

  “Bucknell? No. There’s a college by that name in Pennsylvania.”

  “Read the papers! Sara Bucknell is wanted for murder in New York. When she calls back, you better damn well see that she gets through to me.”

  Martin watched her cross the bright supermarket parking lot toward the car. Her slumped shoulders and downcast eyes informed him that the phone call had been unsuccessful. She climbed dejectedly behind the wheel.

  “He wouldn’t talk to you?” he asked.

  “He wasn’t at his office yet. They told me to call back, but they didn’t sound very enthusiastic. A man like Sperry probably gets a hundred crackpot phone calls a day.” She turned on the ignition. “And we’re going to be the hundred-and-first.”

  After leaving the A-frame outside of Horton they had turned in a northwesterly direction, taken Route 30 to Tupper Lake, and then Route 3 west until they were out of the Adirondacks area. It had been a roundabout itinerary but a safe one.

  Martin could sense the tenseness in her body as she drove. Although she seemed to be concentrating on the winding road before them, he felt a distant quality within her.

  “You know,” he said, “if Dr. Strickland didn’t believe us, how are we going to convince an important man like Sperry?”

  “I’ve been considering that. Sperry’s an investigative reporter, he’ll have contacts all through Washington. If we give him specific information, I think he’ll be able to corroborate it through other sources. At least that’s what I’m hoping,” she added wistfully.

  “We better do something about these license plates,” Martin said.

  “Oh, my God! He gave the number to the police.”

  “I could switch the plates,” Martin said. “If we could find a car that wasn’t going any place for a while, we might get away with it all the way to Washington.”

  “Good idea. I wasn’t thinking. Look in the glove compartment, will you? See if there are any road maps.”

  Martin fumbled with the compartment’s catch until it fell open. He sorted through papers before pulling out a folded map. “Here’s one of New York and Pennsylvania.”

  “Chart us a course toward Washington, through Pennsylvania but keeping to back roads and secondary highways. We can’t risk any major roads where the State Police will be alerted.”

  Martin opened the map and stared at it blankly. Sara glanced over at him and her face softened. “You’ve never read a map before?”

  He blushed. “No, but I guess there’s always a first time. Let me puzzle it out.”

  Martin slowly plotted a course down the state through Noonville to Utica, and then by back roads to Cooperstown and into Pennsylvania at Hancock. It was a winding and circuitous route, but would probably keep them away from the State Police.

  “We had better get new plates soon,” he said to her after they had discussed their route. “If we pull into a restaurant at ten, I’ll switch with an employee’s car. You can call Sperry while I switch plates. They might not notice the switch until late today when they leave work.”

  “If then,” she said.

  J.J. Sperry typed with two fingers on a battered Underwood upright that he resolutely refused to give up. His staff had been at him for months to install one of the new word processors, but his attachment to the ancient machine was irrevocable. He typed the last sentence of his rewrite of the day’s column:

  “And so, fellow taxpayers, this little junket by our royal First Lady and three of her bridge playing cronies cost you and me a total of $15,43
2!”

  He sat back in satisfaction as he signaled for his secretary. He loved it. He just loved putting the boots to a First Lady.

  Eddy Robinson, the youngest of the legmen, responded to the buzz for his secretary. “We’re staked out,” the reporter stated flatly. “There’s a guy across the hall and two more in the building lobby. Probably a car down the street.”

  J.J. Sperry smiled malevolently. “Excellent. That means they think we’re onto something important. I wonder what it is. Any idea what agency’s watching?”

  “They have the dress and polish of federal people.”

  Sperry smiled again. “Wonderful. You had better get out your electronic gadgets and sweep the phones to see if we’re tapped. Then, let’s put our heads together and figure out what in the hell we’re supposed to know, or getting close to knowing, that they don’t want us to know.”

  His phone buzzed and he snatched it from the cradle. “Yes?”

  “Miss Bucknell is on six,” the receptionist said. “You wanted her put right through.”

  Sperry depressed the button for line six, leaned back in his chair, and let his voice lower to its most mellow register. “Miss Bucknell. How good of you to call. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I have some information concerning a conspiracy … something called Operation Barbados. I would like to speak with you in person. Could I have an appointment for tomorrow?”

  “That wouldn’t be too wise, Miss Bucknell. I am afraid that certain governmental agencies have my office under surveillance. I would assume that includes my home also.” He glanced up at Eddy in the doorway and the young reporter shook his head to indicate the phones were clear. “Now, I have a room perpetually reserved in Virginia. Go to the Wheelwright Motel in Arlington and ask for the keys to Mr. Jefferson’s room. Do not call back here. I will call you there tomorrow at two.”

  For the first time since the sequence of events had begun, Sara felt an inner buoyancy. They had help—they were in contact with a professional who could get verification of Martin’s story. “Two tomorrow. Mr. Jefferson’s room at the Wheelwright Motel,” she repeated. “We’ll be there.”

  “Goodbye, then.” Sperry hung up with a delicate touch and smiled again. “Call our New York contacts,” he snapped. “Get me all you can on this Bucknell woman and whatever the hell she’s supposed to have done.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sara turned off the briskly pelting shower, stepped out of the tub, and began to towel dry. She felt cleansed and invigorated, and with the new-found help of J.J. Sperry, the nightmare of Ray Heath’s death would begin to fade. Tomorrow they would be in Virginia, and by noon they would have checked into the motel Sperry had designated.

  There was the sound of a key in the lock. She called out, “That you, Martin?”

  “How does a barrel of Kentucky Fried Chicken and some bourbon hit you?”

  “Hits me pretty damn well.” She wrapped herself in a large towel and brought two glasses from the bathroom’s medicine chest.

  Martin was sitting on the edge of the twin bed nearest the door. The box of chicken was neatly centered on her bed as if an offering. Next to the bottle of liquor on the side table, a plastic ice bucket brimmed with cubes.

  “You have found the secret of modern living,” Sara said with a lilting laugh as she sat on the bed.

  “Which is?” He looked at her and smiled.

  “Motels provide oodles of ice.”

  He smiled at her again and their eyes met. “The cooler’s right next to our door. I could hardly miss it.” He took the glasses from her, poured a large dollop of bourbon, put in cubes, and handed her a glass.

  Sara held up her drink in toast. “To tomorrow and Mr. J.J. Sperry.”

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  “Tell me all you know about Sperry,” Martin said.

  She began. “Well, he’s a modern muckraker who’s syndicated in hundreds of newspapers. He’s very careful what he writes, and is hardly ever proven wrong. His columns carry a lot of weight, Martin—enough weight to get us out of this mess.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t believe us?”

  “I think he will. Your information is too specific. You even have the map coordinates.” A quick flash of alarm passed over her face. “You do remember everything, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  She held up her glass again. “Then here’s to a new life.”

  Martin smiled again, drained his own glass, and mixed two more drinks. He sat on the bed so that their knees touched.

  The drinks were helping, Sara thought. For the first time in days the lumpish feeling inhabiting her abdomen faded. Nerves tensed during their wild flight from Ray’s house had carried an overextended burden too long, and now that she began to relax, a deep warm lethargy seeped through her.

  Martin seemed in slow motion as he stood and ceremoniously moved the container of chicken onto the dresser. He placed his drink by the bottle and turned to sit next to her. His arm went over her shoulder and she nestled her head against him.

  “We’ve had a tough go, you and I, Martin,” she said sleepily.

  “It will be better,” he murmured huskily. His hand tilted her chin and their lips met. “I like you … I like you a lot.”

  She returned the pressure of his lips. “I like you too, Martin.” She hesitantly tried to draw away, but his hand against the back of her head held them both locked together. “Martin …”

  “Sara, I …” She reached to push him away and her covering towel fell from her body. She fumbled for the towel, but found that she was being forced slowly back onto the pillow. Her arms went by her sides as his weight shifted over her. “Martin,” she gasped. “Please.”

  “Let me,” he said. It was nearly a groan.

  “No, Martin. Not like this. Please!” Her fingers dug through the cloth of his shirt, but his passion seemed to increase. My God, she thought. She was going to be raped in a motel in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, by a man she trusted.

  Her fists pounded against his back. His eyes, inches from hers, were glazed and uncomprehending. She grabbed his hair with both hands and shook his head back and forth. Hurt replaced the dull look in his eyes and his motion ceased.

  “Not like this, Martin. It doesn’t happen this way.”

  He sat up. “I’m sorry,” he said with a guttural sound.

  “It’s my fault. I … I’ve been running around like …” She cast a deprecating wave over her nude body. “I wasn’t thinking and you had no way of knowing.”

  “Knowing?” he questioned. “No, I didn’t know.” Without a further word he released the latch on the door and walked into the night.

  Althea lay awake in the hospital bed sorting through confusing information. Strickland had informed her that she would be released in the morning, and he had made arrangements for an appointment on the following day with a New York City plastic surgeon. “One of the best,” he had told her.

  There was no further word from Rutledge, although a large bouquet of roses had arrived in the room sent by an anonymous donor. She knew who had sent them.

  Her last talk with Rutledge had been unsatisfying. She detected a distance in his manner, a detachment that she found more than disconcerting.

  He would know everything by now. His sources would have given him a full report on everything that had transpired.

  She wondered how she fit into the new scheme of things.

  She had failed him and now she was suffering for that failure, but she wondered if that were enough to satisfy him.

  Fowler and the woman were still at large. Somehow, in the doctor’s car, they had avoided detection and were now … where? Washington, of course. She went through a mental list of the letters she had destroyed which Sara and Ray Heath had written concerning Operation Barbados. Their next step would be a direct contact with one of those addressees.

  She considered the names, discarding some, shunting others aside, utilizing her full knowledge of Washing
ton politics to decide.

  She settled on two names: the investigative columnist J.J. Sperry, and the senator from Kansas, Harris Crowell.

  Those were the men she would contact if the situation were reversed.

  Yes. She would go to Washington in the morning. The plastic surgeon would have to wait. She must redeem herself.

  With the decision made, she closed her eyes in preparation for sleep. Seconds later she heard the room door opened a few inches very slowly. The light from the hospital corridor outlined a figure in the entry way. The door opened further and a nurse, dressed in a white pants suit uniform, stepped into the room. The nurse held a hypodermic needle at eye level, pointed to the ceiling as if it were a miniature lance.

  At least this one was kind enough to attempt not disturbing her patients, Althea thought.

  God, another injection.

  She wasn’t due for any more medication! She was leaving the hospital in the morning.

  Her muscles tensed as the nurse moved stealthily across the room and stood for a moment by the foot of the bed. Althea’s eyes were closed, one arm flung out, and her breathing forced into a slow normal rhythm.

  The nurse moved toward the arm hanging off the side of the bed. She held the syringe up toward the light from the hallway, depressed the plunger slightly, and then prepared to thrust the needle into Althea’s arm.

  In one fluid motion, Althea’s extended hand chopped into the nurse’s larynx, while her other hand gripped the wrist holding the syringe.

  The nurse staggered back. She released the needle into Althea’s hand as both her hands clutched at her throat. She gasped for breath and voice but only harsh choking sounds issued from her mouth.

  Althea swung her legs from the bed and followed the woman across the room. Her hand darted out again and then a third time as she slammed the fingers into the woman’s esophagus.