Our Child of the Stars

by Stephen Cox

  Sighing, she went into the bushes and did what she had to, feeling bitterly cold and uncomfortable, then helped Cory. When they got back, she found the external tap had frozen solid.

  ‘Cory, get in the car,’ she said, ‘where it’s warmer. Dad and I need to talk, grown-up stuff.’

  When he was back under his blanket, Gene hugged her hard. ‘I just . . . I can’t stop thinking about Mom and Dad,’ he said. ‘And everyone else they’ve arrested – Roy and Janice and—’

  She didn’t want to sound unsympathetic, but right now, they had bigger worries. ‘What’s our plan?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d like to get a new car, but I don’t see how. I guess we head due east and cross the border somewhere less obvious? Or maybe find somewhere to hole up for a week or two? We could break into a vacation house or something. They can’t keep the border shut for ever.’

  Molly shivered. It was time to share her heretical idea with Gene. ‘When we knew and no one else did, things were okay, but now, the government knows and they’re after us – and they’re lying about us . . . but no one else knows the truth, so that’s the worst of all possible worlds . . .’

  Gene grunted.

  ‘They’ve locked up our friends and they’re whipping up this spy nonsense so we’ve got no way to help our friends, and we put anyone who helps us in danger. Even if we do get into Canada, they’ll try to find us. Or the Canadians may hand us over.’

  ‘Sure, but what else can we do? It sounds like you’ve got a plan.’ Gene was looking at her now, trying to read her mood.

  ‘We need some powerful friends to help hide us,’ she explained, ‘to rein in the FBI and get our friends free. We need to make it so that if anything happens to us, the Feds know there’ll be trouble.’

  Gene frowned. ‘Powerful friends? The Democrats? The Teamsters? The Mob?’

  ‘Maybe the answer to lies is the truth. Maybe we should tell a journalist and they can tell the whole world.’

  He blinked. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘We have Cory, don’t we? We have walking, talking proof that we’re telling the truth and the government’s lying. The press will want to know who’s been arrested, on what charges? Surely open courts and a free press is better than this. And . . . and the Moon landings and the new meteors in Siberia? Maybe they’re all connected.’

  He was actually listening, not shouting her down, so she went on, ‘If the government finds us, we’ll disappear; most likely, they’ll take Cory away, and I don’t even want to think what they’ll do to our little boy. But if we give someone the story, the government can’t make us disappear, can they? Or at least that way we might have a fighting chance . . .’

  ‘And where do we go?’

  ‘Canada. Or hide out in some little town miles away.’ She might never see Amber Grove again, and nothing could be as it was, but anywhere the three of them could be safe, that would have to be their home.

  ‘Okay, I see where you’re going. But who could we trust? Walker Cronkite?’

  ‘Or Dahlia Diamond.’

  Gene grunted like a water buffalo. ‘Not that shill. She’s a phoney.’

  She gave Gene a savage look. ‘You’re a man. You don’t understand.’

  Gene ignored that and went on, ‘I mean, who do you speak to if you call a TV station? Some underling of an underling, right? We’ll sound like a crank call. The government hiding a spaceship . . . ? It only works if we trust the person we tell.’

  They kicked around a few more ideas: Stan Vogel, who’d written a magisterial piece about the Meteor for the New York Times. Seymour Hersh, who broke the national shame, the wicked crimes of the My Lai massacre. Isaac Asimov, a science fiction guy Gene read who was firmly against the war. Rolling Stone managed to be anti-establishment without being crackpot. But how could they know what they were really like, how they would react?

  It was always hard to trust people you hadn’t met.

  ‘We need someone who won’t freak out,’ Gene said.

  They seemed to be moving from whether to how and Molly wanted to get warm.

  Gene hesitated, then, ‘Listen, don’t shoot me down in flames. Carol Longman.’

  Molly blinked. ‘That woman who cornered you while I was up at the farm? Gene, the way you talked about her, she sounded like a terrier with a bone . . .’

  ‘And that’s what we need, isn’t it? She’d walk over her grandmother for a story, but she respected me too: she walked away, didn’t she? And Witness is read all over the world. They hid that Bolivian diplomat and got him out of the country for the CIA piece. They can’t be written off as some hippie-drugs-and-UFO rag. The rest will follow their lead; I’m sure of it.’

  ‘They seem tight with the government – suppose they don’t publish? Or hand us over?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget, Miss Longman is pushy and ambitious and she’s frustrated as hell that her editor reined her in. If Witness wouldn’t run it, I think she has the guts to take it to someone else. So: we give Witness a deal, the story of the century and they hide us, and their lawyers get our friends out of jail.’ He stroked his chin, the skin sore where his beard had been.

  There was a long, long pause.

  ‘It’s a risk,’ Molly admitted. But she’d written Carol Longman’s phone numbers in her notebook. Somewhere, somehow, she’d thought they might need them.

  Gene said, ‘Everyone needs to know about Cory’s people. I’ve always thought that. It’s painful to know what’s the right thing . . .’

  ‘Were you sure, when you first saw him? Sometimes we just have to make a call and live with it.’

  Another long pause. Maybe he was thinking of all their endless discussions about what they might do, where they might go.

  A little purple face was looking at them through the window. Molly needed to get in the car; she was losing feeling in her feet.

  *

  Gene dialled the number for Witness and Molly, pressing her head to the phone as well, heard the receptionist say, ‘I’m sorry, Miss Longman is not available. No, I don’t know when she’ll be back. There may be someone taking messages in Features.’

  Features ‘didn’t expect Miss Longman to phone in until after Christmas’.

  Gene dialled her home but got nothing. He hung up.

  There was a third number in Molly’s notebook, the one she’d hand-written on the back of her card: CL hideout. Yet again, the phone rang and rang, then rang some more, and Gene was reaching out a finger to end the call when, finally, a woman’s voice said, ‘Hiya. Who is this?’ It was a friendly voice, a Western accent.

  Gene, taken aback, asked, ‘Is Carol Longman there?’

  ‘In the bathroom,’ the woman said. ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gene. ‘Um . . . could this phone be tapped?’

  The woman didn’t sound at all taken aback. ‘It’s a friend’s house and the phone is in someone else’s name. It’s safe.’

  ‘Look, it’s Gene Myers, from Amber Grove.’ He stumbled over his words. ‘Carol said if ever we wanted to talk . . . Well, we do, but it has to be now.’

  ‘Right, hang on, I’ll get her. Don’t go.’

  Even Molly could hear the hog-hollering call – ‘Carol! Gene Myers! Amber Grove!’ Then there was something they didn’t catch.

  Maybe this is a plot. Maybe they’re working with the FBI . . .

  The woman said, ‘She’s coming. Give me your number, in case you’re cut off.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Gene, fingering a pocket-full of coins.

  After a couple of minutes, they heard, ‘How nice to hear from you, Mr Myers.’

  ‘You told me you knew the army was feeding you a line about the lake and everything. Well, we know exactly what the army’s hiding, what went on at the hospital, and we can prove it. But we need to know we can trust you.’


  ‘I hear the FBI have rounded up a couple dozen people, maybe more, around Amber Grove, claiming some communist spy scandal, and there are apparently two spies at least on the run. Can you help me with that too?’

  ‘The spy thing’s not true,’ Gene said. ‘They’ve arrested our family and friends, people who’ve helped us. They’re not spies, and we need to help them.’

  ‘Right.’ She went silent.

  Molly reached for the phone, but Gene wasn’t giving it up. ‘We’ll tell you the whole story, and it’s a big one,’ he promised. ‘We’ll give you everything you need. In return, you help get our friends out. And protect our family.’

  ‘So what’s the story?’

  ‘We need to talk protection – hiding us, maybe for a long time.’

  ‘Mr Myers, snow is forecast, there’s a roaring fire here and my hair’s dripping wet. Of course I’m fascinated, even two days before Christmas, and I’m sure we can help. I’d just love to know what we’re talking about.’

  ‘Are you going to help?’

  ‘If we’re coming up against the FBI and the army, I need to know it’s worth my time.’

  ‘This . . . well, yes, it’s worth your time. It’s pretty much the biggest story ever.’ Gene was fumbling his words again.

  Molly took the phone. ‘This is Molly Myers. Miss Longman, this story is bigger than Pearl Harbor. You can take the story and get a hat full of Pulitzers, or you can be the guy who turned down the Beatles. It’s your choice, but our next call is Stan Vogel at the New York Times.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Myers. He’s a good guy, Stan, but he doesn’t work much this time of year. And if you call him, he’ll need more than big claims.’

  ‘Let’s meet and we’ll show you the evidence.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And if you don’t agree it’s the biggest story of your career, we’ll let you call the FBI. Get the scoop on our arrest.’

  A brief pause, then she said, ‘Neither of you strike me as lunatic, so okay, let’s meet. Where are you?’

  ‘Where are you?’ Molly replied.

  ‘A log cabin in the woods. The nearest town is Wynneville. I could be there by three p.m.’

  They’d passed through Wynneville; a place like Amber Grove, charming, with wide streets and a bridge over a river. It was only an hour away, if they put their foot down, and if the snow held off. Molly recalled seeing soldiers on the streets, so there must be an army base nearby, and there would be police too . . . but was there any other choice?

  ‘We could make three o’clock,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Let’s meet at the Arcade, it’s in the square. Very historic, you can’t miss it.’ She sounded amused. ‘Storm, my photographer, asks if she’ll get a Pulitzer too?’

  ‘The photographs will be astonishing. Twenty dollars says she wins a prize. If we’re delayed?’

  ‘Call Hoffman’s Guesthouse in Wynneville. Hoffman is a friend.’

  When Molly hung up, she and Gene stared at each other in silence, wondering if this was the right thing.

  ‘Head south,’ Molly said at last. Away from the border.

  *

  Molly didn’t think her nerves could get tighter, but as they drove into Wynneville she realised she’d been mistaken. In another life, this was the sort of place you might mooch around for a happy hour or two. The streets were lively with Christmas shoppers, interspersed with a scattering of men in khaki uniforms. She drove briskly over the bridge and headed towards the Square, where to her alarm, an army band was playing festive tunes for a Santa shaking a collecting tin. So many eyes. How well could she spot a trap? she wondered. How quickly could one be organised? We need a different car.

  ‘I thought we should drive by and see what we can see, Moo-moo,’ said Gene.

  ‘Okay, but if Miss Longman did call the FBI, they’ll have people all over. So do we all walk out, or just one of us? It feels wrong meeting somewhere she knows and we don’t.’ Her guts grumbled. Too many people.

  ‘Maybe see if we can get to the Arcade from behind?’

  ‘Worth a try.’

  ‘When meet nice lady?’ said Cory. ‘When we meet nice lady, will we have supper then or later?’ The bundle of blankets with just two eyes visible looked out of the window. ‘Too many people, not safe hide.’

  ‘We know, sweetie-pie.’ She tried not to imagine them attacked in the streets. Cory might raise some demonic vision, a sea-monster rampaging across the snow, sending the children in their woolly hats and scarves running screaming. The story that would spread, of her child, the Other, the Monster, was almost too much to bear.

  In the fading light she passed two men trying to get a piano into the back of a truck. Three women looking in a store window. A little boy holding a sled like Cory’s. A man in a dog-collar unlocking the church door.

  ‘There – that’s them! They’re early too,’ Gene said. ‘Cory, stay hidden.’

  Molly drove past the two women walking on the sidewalk ahead of them. Carol Longman wore an elegant winter coat and a sweeping hat, a city hat, not a town hat. Beside her was a broad-shouldered woman dressed for the country, a camera bag slung over her shoulder. They were deep in conversation.

  Gene had been staring all around. ‘I can’t see anyone official,’ he reported. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Molly parked, but left the engine running, just in case. She opened the door and got out. The winter air was sharp after the stuffiness of the car.

  ‘Miss Longman?’ she called. ‘We’re early.’ Keep it normal, she told herself. This is only the chance encounter of an old friend . . .

  The journalist’s face showed surprise – but only for a moment. ‘We spoke,’ she said.

  No name, good. ‘Thanks for coming,’ said Molly. ‘We’ll drive just you to what you need to see.’

  ‘I’m Storm,’ said the tall woman with the Western accent. She smiled, but she wasn’t taking any nonsense. ‘Photographer, driver, bodyguard, and she’ll not be getting in your car alone.’

  Should she talk to them here? Gene could be ready to drive away. Or was that too risky?

  ‘I’m keeping watch,’ Gene said. There weren’t any FBI or soldiers in sight. There was a woman with a shopping bag pulling along that boy with the sled. Across the street, a bearded man wearing a naval sort of coat and cap was smoking in a doorway. It was too public.

  Carol took some more steps towards Molly, her gloved hands out to show they were empty. Storm followed unhappily behind.

  ‘Good faith,’ Carol said, with a practised smile. ‘Here I am.’

  Molly held up her own hands. ‘My son: he’s a secret. The government’s after him. That’s why we need you.’

  ‘Well, no one told me you had a child,’ the journalist said, looking a little surprised. ‘We can try to protect your family, but I need to know what’s going on. If you’re tied up in this spy thing, the FBI cuts deals all the time. We have good lawyers who can help.’

  ‘And you promised me my Pulitzer,’ Storm said. ‘We’ll protect your family, Scout’s Honour, if we get the story.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘Holy cow!’

  Carol brought her hand up to her mouth. ‘Lord! What on God’s good Earth is that?’

  Molly looked to see Cory, muffled in blankets, showing them his face through the window. Surely Cory in the flesh was all the proof anyone needed.

  Molly said, ‘So, I tell you who he is, where he comes from, what the government’s hiding and why they’re chasing us. You protect us, help get our friends out. Oh, and we get copy-approval. Or we call the New York Times instead.’

  ‘This’s just some sort of parlour trick,’ Carol said.

  Molly’s gaze darted to the smoking man and the boy with the sled, who were watching them. Where they stood, surely neither could see Cory.

  ‘Come closer.’ But as Carol stepped
next to the car, Molly, her heart pounding, realised she had misplayed this; the journalists could quite easily grab her.

  But all Carol did was open the rear door, very slowly, and squat down to look under the blanket. ‘Hello,’ she said, looking intently into Cory’s face.

  Molly knew Cory could read people, not perfectly, but he had not hidden . . .

  ‘I am Cory Myers and I am pleased-to-meet-you.’ He adjusted his scarf up over his mouth.

  Now Storm was squatting down too. She reached out a hand and Cory shook it. He wasn’t wearing gloves. Would anyone notice his hands?

  Carol stood back up and her eyes were shining. ‘Oh, Mrs Myers, I think we have a deal. We so have a deal! Follow us and we’ll get out of here. The place is swarming with soldiers.’

  The boy with the sled was being dragged past the car, protesting. From that angle, what could he have seen? Nothing, surely.

  *

  As they headed north, following the Jeep, the clouds thickened and the first new flakes of snow began to fall. Storm took them on a brief stretch of highway, then onto the back roads.

  Molly and Gene had discussed ditching their own car, but even though they’d bet everything on the journalists, to lose their own means of escape felt suicidal.

  Molly played word quizzes with Cory while Gene drove: how many animals could he think of with at least six letters in their names, and spelling, and mental arithmetic, until he dozed against her.

  Soon the trail closed in, woods rising up on either side. The car skidded occasionally, and Gene swore, gunned the engine and inched forward, trying to feel his way across the icy surface. She wondered if they would need a tow on the steepening track.