by Ron Hubbard
The Potomac River was a beautiful blue. The bridge a beautiful white. The Lincoln Memorial at its end, an impressive piece of Greek architecture glowing white in the afternoon sun.
And Heller had trouble. Mary was flailing about to a point where it was almost impossible to drive. She was bending over with cramps. She was letting out small screams. She was striking out with her arms. And she was saying over and over, “Oh, God, my heart!” alternated with “Oh, Jesus, I’ve got to have a fix!” And neither prayer was getting any attention whatever from the deities of that planet.
Heller was watching her and trying to hold her down more than he was watching traffic. The giddy and foolhardy spin of cars and trucks around the Memorial circle may not disturb the calm majesty of Lincoln’s huge statue inside, but it is designed to shatter less immortal nerves.
It was evidently plain to him that the combination of Mary and the traffic was a lot too much to cope with just now. He spotted a turnoff into the park which lies to the southeast of the Lincoln Memorial itself.
It is a very beautiful park: an unfrequented road and a pleasant pedestrian walk stretch out beside the Potomac River, separated from it by a wide expanse of lawn. It is one of the most quiet and lovely spots in Washington. The only trouble with it is the CIA uses it to try out their agent recruits in hidden sleuthing!
I freaked! Heller was stopping! I mourned my fate to be handling somebody without the slightest training in espionage. He should have known that Voltar agents have orders never to go near that park!
He had seen the drinking fountains which are paced every few hundred feet along the walk. He had probably sensed the false peace imparted by the beautiful willow-like trees between the path and water’s edge. He may have been attracted by the abundance of parking places. It must have been a hot day in Washington but the lawns were deserted here.
He stopped. Mary was in a momentary coma. He got out and went to the drinking fountain. He had an empty paper coffee cup. He managed to figure out how you turned on the fountain and rinsed and filled the cup.
At the car, he said, “Maybe drinking some water would help.” And, indeed, he was right. Withdrawal brings on heavy dehydration. He wouldn’t know that but he could probably tell from her dry and swollen lips.
She managed to drink a little bit of the water. Then suddenly she turned sideways, got her feet on the ground and, still sitting on the car seat, began to vomit.
He held her head, speaking in a low, concerned voice, trying to soothe her.
In his peripheral vision I saw the side and saddle of a horse moving up the road.
Heller looked up. A mounted National Parks policeman went about fifty feet back of the car, stopped and turned his horse around. He sat there looking at Heller and the car.
I thought, well, Gris, you should have made out your will because here we go! Heller has had it!
The park policeman was fishing a hand radio out. He began to speak into it.
I hastily turned up the gain. “…I know I’m supposed to use numbers to report.” Someone on the other end, his traffic controller, must be giving him a hard time.
Mary was trying to vomit some more but didn’t have anything to throw up.
The park policeman was saying, “But there ain’t any code number for a bullet hole in a license plate!… All right! All right! So it’s 201, suspicious car!”
Mary couldn’t sit there anymore. Heller opened the back door and pushed some baggage around. Then he got Mary and moved her to the back seat.
“…Yeah,” the mounted cop was saying. “Kid and a woman in it. No, I don’t know who was driving. I didn’t see them until after they’d parked… No, hell! I’m not going to… I’m ALONE here! I’m just Park Police, not James Bond! They could be a CIA plant or something… No! Shots would scare my horse… Well, send the God (bleeped) squad car then!”
I prayed Heller would get the Hells out of there. But he was bathing her forehead with bits of cool water on his redstar engineer’s cloth. I was so agitated I didn’t even write it down as a possible Code break.
In no time at all, a D.C. squad car slinked up near the horse. Two D.C. cops got out and talked in whispers to the mounted patrolman. I could barely pick it up. All I caught was “…those are Virginia plates so phone them in for a check.”
One of the cops was on his radio. Then the two of them, wide apart, walked toward the Cadillac.
Twenty feet away, the nearest cop drew his gun. “You, there! Freeze!”
Heller stood up straight. I prayed, no, no, Heller. Don’t do something crazy! At that range they can kill you! And I don’t have the platen!
The nearest cop was motioning with his gun. “All right, kid, move over there and lie down on the grass, belly to ground.”
Heller moved to the spot and lay down. He kept his head turned toward the cop.
“All right,” said the cop. “Where’s your driver’s license?”
There was a scream from the car. Mary had come to with sudden energy. “It’s in my purse! That kid is just a hitchhiker. This is my car!” It was nearly too much for her. She sank back panting, holding her chest.
I realized now she was not a true psychologist. The whole purpose of the subject is to throw suspicion and responsibility on others either to get them in trouble or to protect yourself — which amounts to the same thing. But even though it was a violation of psychology behavior rules, I gratefully accepted the help.
The first cop detoured over toward the car and dug around to find her purse. He found it and looked at her license.
“Oh, God,” moaned Mary. “Please, please get me a fix!”
The effect was electric. “A hop head!” said the first cop. He made a signal to the other cop to cover Heller and then began yanking the suitcases out of the car. He was going to look for dope!
He opened the sports carry-all, rummaged in it and then threw it aside. He grabbed one of Heller’s cases, unstrapped it and flopped the back up.
“That’s the kid’s baggage,” moaned Mary.
The cop reached in. He said, “Ouch, God (bleep) it!” He pried a multihooked bass plug off his hand and sucked his finger. Gingerly, then, he held up an old fishing reel and stirred at the mess of line. He said, “Cameras and fishing gear. Jesus Christ, kid, you sure do an awful job of packing. You could ruin some of this stuff.” He slammed the case closed.
The other cop was well back with a gun on Heller.
The first cop opened Heller’s second case.
“Jesus!” screamed Mary. “Get me a fix! Can’t anybody hear me?” And then she leaned out of the backseat and began to dry vomit.
“Candy!” cried the first cop. “Dope concealed in candy!” He turned to the other cop. “You see, I knew there’d be dope here. They hide it in candy!”
He gingerly evaded more fishhooks and untangled a candy bag from fishing line. He opened the bag and took out a piece. He got a jackknife from his pocket and cut the sweet in half. He touched one of the halves to his tongue.
Disappointed, he threw the cut pieces and the paper in the general direction of a Don’t Litter! sign. He got another bag open and did the same thing.
“Ah, hell,” he said. “It’s just candy-type candy.”
The second cop said, “Joe, I figure if there was any dope in that baggage, this dame wouldn’t be going through withdrawal.”
The first cop closed Heller’s grip and then hauled out Mary’s suitcase and got it open. “Hurray!” he shouted. “I knew it! Here’s a dope kit complete!” And he held it up so his partner and the park patrolman could see it. “This is illegal as hell even if there is no dope! I knew I could catch them out!”
Oh, Heller, I prayed. Just keep on lying there. Don’t do anything.
Mary had come out of a spasm of dry retching. She tried to get to the first cop, “That’s my kit! I’m a doctor! My diploma is right in that bag!”
The first cop didn’t even bother to push her back into the car and she collapsed, dangling
half out of it.
The first cop disgustedly found it. “She’s right.” He dropped the suitcase shut and stood up. “Aw, (bleep), there’s no smack here.”
The second cop gestured with his gun to Heller. “You can get up, kid. You’re clean.”
I sagged with relief. I knew exactly what the prisoner felt when they told him he had been reprieved.
Heller got to his feet. He went over and tried to get Mary back into the car.
Heller suddenly saw a plain, green sedan quietly roll up and stop. The first cop said, “Oh, (bleep). It’s the FBI.”
Two very tough-looking characters got out. They wore box coats. Their hats were gangster-type hats.
As one, they drew and flashed their I.D. folders.
The first one had a puffy face and a sagging lower lip. “I’m Special Agent Stupewitz, FBI.”
The second one said, “Special Agent Maulin, FBI.” He was a huge, hulking brute of a man.
Stupewitz walked up to the park patrolman and the two DC. cops. “This is out-of-state business — Federal! Move aside!”
Maulin went around to the back of the car and read the license. “This is the car, all right. Look at that bullet hole!”
Stupewitz gestured a Colt .457 revolver at Heller. It looked like a cannon. “Stand up and face that car, kid. Put your hands on the roof and spread-eagle, legs apart.”
Heller did as he was told. That artillery could have blown him apart!
The first D.C. cop said, “He’s just a hitchhiker. This is the woman’s car.”
Maulin said, “Filled with bags of dope.”
The second D.C. cop said, “There’s nothing in the bags but cameras and fishing gear. There ain’t even any dope in the candy.”
Stupewitz said, “You’ve got it all wrong, brother. That’s why you locals have to have the support of the FBI. Without us, you’d just breeze along in total peace!”
Maulin said, “We got the whole story from Virginia.”
I thought, well, Gris, it’s too late to make a will now! Heller will be finished so quick, there won’t be time.
Stupewitz had his gun trained on Heller. “What’s your name, kid?”
Mary came to, threshing about. “Don’t talk to them kid!”
Heller didn’t answer Stupewitz.
Stupewitz said, “Kid, do you realize it’s a felony not to give your name to a Federal officer?”
Heller didn’t answer.
Stupewitz made a signal to Maulin. Maulin drew his gun from his back belt, trained it on Heller from a distance. Stupewitz stepped up to Heller and began to frisk him.
I was certain I knew what was coming now. It was too late even to pray.
Stupewitz got to the papers in Heller’s jacket. He yanked them out. He looked at them.
Suddenly Stupewitz drew off to the side, away from the other cops and Heller. He made a frantic beckon to Maulin. Maulin kept his gun on Heller but sidled around to get close to Stupewitz.
I frantically turned up more gain. I got wind in the trees. I got some birds. I got the far-off siren of an ambulance getting louder. But I couldn’t make out anything Stupewitz or Maulin were saying as they examined the papers. I could see them whispering but as they were using their lips the way criminals do, talking from the side of the mouth, I couldn’t even read the words.
An ambulance came up. It was marked GEORGETOWN HOSPITAL.
The attendants offloaded in a flash of white and stretchers. They opened the opposite door of the car, looked in at Mary and then grabbed her. She was so far gone, she didn’t even fight. She did manage a faint, “So long, kid.”
Heller, despite FBI orders, ducked down his head and yelled, “NO! Don’t kill her!”
An attendant glanced up from trying to get Mary straight so they could get her out of the car and onto the stretcher. “Kill her? You’re dead wrong, sonny. She needs our help. We’ll take good care of her.”
Heller said, “You promise not to kill her?”
“Sure, kid,” said the attendant. And they had Mary on the stretcher. Stupewitz sidled to the attendant, whispered something, showed his badge. The attendant shrugged.
Heller looked toward Maulin. “Can I put her bag in that ambulance?”
Maulin made a tight wave with his gun. Heller got her purse and bag, walked over to the ambulance and put them in. The ambulance rolled away with Heller staring after it.
Stupewitz came back. He was pointing to the government car. “Get in there, kid.”
Heller didn’t. He walked over and closed his bags and put them in the trunk of the Cadillac and locked it, pocketing the separate key. Stupewitz then urged him into the front passenger seat of the government car.
Maulin got under the wheel of the Cadillac. He drove off.
Heller said, “NO! Our car!”
Stupewitz said, “Stop worrying. It’s going to the FBI garage.”
The DC. cops and park patrolman were muttering and shaking their heads.
So was I!
Stupewitz started the government car and they sped away.
The jaws of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had closed on Jettero Heller. And the worst of it was, typically, they didn’t even realize they had the fate of the planet between their vicious teeth! Stupid (bleepards)!
Chapter 3
They got out at the FBI building on Pennsylvania Avenue and someone whisked the car away.
Stupewitz said, “Don’t try to run. You could get shot.”
But Heller was not running. He was looking up at the gray-green marble facade and spelling out the HUGE, raised, gold-lettered sign that said:
J. EDGAR HOOVER
The letters were feet high and it spread so wide he had to turn his head to read it.
“Are we going to call on J. Edgar Hoover?” said Heller.
“Don’t be a smart (bleep), kid.”
Heller said, “But I really never heard of him.”
That got to Stupewitz. “Jesus! They sure don’t teach history anymore!” He came very close to Heller and thrust his puffy face forward. “Look, you heard of George Washington.” He pointed a quivering finger at the huge sign. “Well, J. Edgar Hoover was ten times what Washington ever was! The REAL savior of this country was HOOVER! Without him, the real rulers of this country couldn’t run it at all!” He gave Heller a hard shove toward the entrance and muttered to himself,
“Jesus, they don’t teach kids anything these days.”
Via elevators and stairs, pushing from time to time, Stupewitz got Heller into the first of a small pair of offices that adjoined. Stupewitz pushed Heller into a chair with an unnecessary “Sit there!”
Maulin came in. Stupewitz glared at Heller. “You’re in serious trouble. You better not get any ideas of trying to run out of here because there are guards and guns all over the place. Be quiet and be good!”
They went into the second office but the door was ajar. They were whispering so I turned up the gain. I couldn’t get what they were saying because, in some adjacent office, someone was being beaten and screamed now and then.
Heller had a partial view of Stupewitz through the slightly open door. The agent was at a desk, working with a phone. Maulin’s huge bulk was attentively leaning over behind him.
“I want to talk to Delbert John Rockecenter, personally,” said Stupewitz into the phone. “This is the FBI… Then put me on to his confidential secretary.” He covered the phone and said to Maulin, “Rockecenter is in Russia arranging some loans to keep them going.” Then to the phone, “This is the FBI in Washington. We have a matter here…” The screams in the adjacent office drowned the next words. Then he covered the phone and said to Maulin, “They’re putting me on to Mr. Bury, one of the attorneys from their firm, Swindle and Crouch. Bury handles all such matters.”
They waited. Then Stupewitz got his connection. “Hello, Mr. Bury? I got one hell of a surprise for you. Is this a totally secure, confidential line? Oh, bug tested just this morning. Good. Now listen. We are Spe
cial Agents Stupewitz,” and he rattled off a whole series of identification and addresses, “and Maulin,” and he rattled off Maulin’s. “Now, have you got all that for sure?”
Apparently Mr. Bury had. So Stupewitz spread out Heller’s papers in front of him and began to read. He read the birth certificate, the diploma, the grades. “Got all that? I just wanted you to know there’s no mistake.… Yes, we have the boy right here. To prove it, here’s his description,” and he rattled it off. “…no, he hasn’t talked to anybody. We made sure of that.”
Stupewitz now shot a gleeful grin back at Maulin. Then he said into the phone, “Now, don’t be upset, Mr. Bury. But he’s wanted in Fair Oakes, Virginia, for assault and battery of two police officers, both hospitalized… yes, he apparently did it with an iron bar when they weren’t looking… yes, amounts to attempted murder. Also suspicion of car theft, speeding, refusal to halt. Fugitive… Right. And apparent possession of narcotics… Right. And the Federal offense of seeking to smuggle them across state lines… Right. And, as a minor, cohabitation with a known prostitute… Right. Also the Mann Act — crossing state lines for immoral purposes… Right. And refusal to divulge identity to a Federal officer.”
I realized Heller could get life, the exact original thing planned for him.
Apparently some smoke was coming out of the phone. After a moment, Stupewitz went on. “Wait now, Mr. Bury. I’m just telling you this. The woman won’t talk. We have the records, we have the car, we have the boy… No, no reporters know anything about this. The name was not even known in Fair Oakes… No. We’re the only ones who know.”
Stupewitz was now the one listening. Mr. Bury must be talking hard and fast. “…Yes, Mr. Bury,” said Stupewitz. “…Yes, Mr. Bury… Yes, Mr. Bury… Yes,