“Who knows,” he added quickly, “maybe you can show me the error of my ways.” He paused, then smiled. “Or vice versa.”
“I…That’s very nice, but I think I’d better not.”
“What?” he asked in amazement. “Can this be the same Leslie Adams I met in battle today in front of national television? Surely your faith is sufficiently strong to face the infidel.”
She looked at him steadily for a long moment, then slowly a smile crept into her eyes. “Do you really think a device as transparent as that can work on someone who deals with a hundred and seventy teenagers every day?”
He pulled a face. “It was the best I could think of on the spur of the moment. Perhaps I should have slapped you on both cheeks with my glove.”
The smile stole downward to soften her mouth. “It would probably suit my nature better.”
He grinned. “Well, then, let’s call it a duel. What do you say?”
“All right, you’re on.”
“Great! Pick you up at seven-thirty?”
“Fine. See you then. And thanks again for the ride.” He watched her run lightly up the walk and into the house. As the door shut behind her, Bryce started the engine and flipped on the lights. He reached down and turned on the tape deck. As the music from “Lieutenant Kije” enveloped him again, he smacked the steering wheel once with the flat of his hand. “And how about that?” he asked no one in particular.
Chapter 4
As Bryce pulled back onto one of the main streets of Arlington, he decided to swing over and pick up the Capital Beltway that looped all the way around the metropolitan area. He was in no particular hurry to get home, and on the Beltway he could give the BMW its head and let his mind savor the events of the day.
From the time he was ten, Bryce Sherwood knew he did not want to follow in his father’s footsteps and pursue a medical career. This was a severe disappointment to his mother, but, surprisingly, not to his father. Theodore B. Sherwood was a pragmatic man, and rather than trying to push his son in a predetermined direction, he began to lay opportunities before Bryce like some kind of experiential smorgasbord. As a nationally famous heart surgeon, there were few financial limitations to what he could offer; and being on the faculty at the Harvard Medical School only added to the broad base of social contacts and growth opportunities Bryce was given. Boston, with its rich historical and cultural heritage, provided a fertile seedbed for a bright and inquisitive mind, and summers spent yachting and fishing in Cape Cod also added to his formational experiences.
By the time Bryce entered an exclusive prep school, he knew he was going into law and then into a public career. Nothing deflected him from that point on, and his father saw to it that the proper connections were made on the way up. His mother had not really completely forgiven him until Elliot Mannington had come to the house some four years ago and told them that Senator Benjamin Hawkes was looking for a legislative aide. At first she had balked. “Aide” hardly fit her concept of a move upward, but when Mannington, with some amusement, explained what this would mean for Bryce, she, from that moment on, became a fierce advocate and total supporter of his life’s career.
Bryce laughed quietly to himself. His mother—so slight and diminutive, so elegant in every respect, so Boston, even though she was not a native—would be absolutely beside herself with joy when she learned what the CCR had offered her son today.
Bryce took his foot off the accelerator and let the BMW slow. He was approaching a major intersection and could see the signs directing him to the Beltway. Then suddenly he stiffened. Leaning casually against a light pole was a hitchhiker. Bryce blinked, trying to clear his vision. It couldn’t be! But this time his car was moving slowly, and the man was directly under a streetlight. There were the same round features, the same shoulder-length hair, the same long jacket that looked like it had come fresh off the racks at Goodwill Industries. And most unmistakably, it was the same haunting, mysterious smile that sent chills coursing up and down Bryce’s spine.
Stunned, Bryce just stared as the car rolled slowly past the man. Instinctively, his eyes lifted to the rearview mirror as he passed. For a second or two he tried to make his eyes adjust, then he yelled and slammed on the brakes, whirling around to stare out the back window. The lamp pole was still there, the street brightly lit. But the sidewalk was empty!
A woman in a van swung out around him, laying on the horn. There was a clipped burst of obscenity. But Bryce neither heard nor saw. There was no one there!
Bryce put a hand to his forehead. What was happening to him? Once more he peered down the empty sidewalk. Feeling like an idiot, and yet fighting a sudden trembling in his hands, he turned off the tape deck, then hit the power door-lock button. With the hair on the back of his neck prickling, he released the clutch and slowly moved away.
Getting onto the beltway was completely forgotten now. Barely conscious of where he was going, he moved deeper into a quiet residential neighborhood, his mind searching for some logical explanation, feeling a sense of madness creeping up on him.
Suddenly he started. The hamburger! Of course! His secretary had gotten him a hamburger for lunch. He had taken two bites, then left it until he had returned from the Mannington party. Without thinking, he had finished it and the lukewarm soft drink over the last of his paperwork. That meant the meat had been sitting out for several hours!
Bryce slapped the steering wheel and laughed out loud. That was it! He had gotten some bad hamburger. Relief flooded over him like a wave. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he slowed the car, pulled a U-turn, and headed back the way he had come, fighting the temptation to open the windows and sing something ridiculous.
And then he turned the corner.
This time the man was standing directly in the center of the road, once again in the circle of light from a streetlamp. Both hands were up, and he was smiling pleasantly into Bryce’s horrified stare.
“No!” Bryce punched his foot down on the accelerator, swung the wheel hard, and rocketed out and around the man, engine howling. He went through the next intersection at close to fifty, not even seeing the stop sign. There was a white blur off to his right, a squeal of brakes, a blare of a horn. Bryce jerked his foot off the accelerator, his eyes snapping up to the rearview mirror.
A Volkswagen convertible with a teenage boy and girl was stopped in the middle of the intersection. He had missed them by no more than inches.
Shaking violently, Bryce let the BMW roll to a stop. He shut off the engine, forcibly loosened his grip on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, then another, then cautiously lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror.
He hoped to see a man standing in the street. Mentally, he was prepared to see nothing. But nothing could have prepared him for the face that filled the mirror, grinning at him happily!
Bryce screamed, then jumped so sharply he nearly ripped the shoulder belt out of its mount. He whirled, his mouth agape, then screamed again. The man was sitting in the back seat, smiling pleasantly back at him!
“Good evening!”
At that moment Bryce’s instincts took over. He clawed wildly at the seat belt. As he felt the catch snap and the belt release him, he lunged for the door, yanking hard on the handle. It wouldn’t open. Terror drove him like a madman. The power door lock! Something in the far recesses of his mind screamed the words at him. He stabbed at the button so hard he broke a fingernail. There was no corresponding click. He hit it again and again.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bryce saw the man lean forward over the seat. “Lands a mighty, Boy!” said the deep voice. “Settle down! I’m not going to hurt you.”
Bryce raised one shoulder and heaved with his full strength against the door. Nothing! He began to hammer at the window with his fist. Somewhere in the wild haze gripping him, Bryce heard the man speak again, half to himself. “Bad choice on my part, I guess.”
Suddenly the man was standing outside the car, in the full glare of the headlights. Bryce jerk
ed up short, staring, not comprehending. He spun around. The back seat was empty!
He whirled back around, too stunned to move. The man had one foot propped up on the bumper, hands in his coat pockets. “There, is that any better?” he said.
But Bryce had passed into one mode and one mode only, and that was escape. He cranked the ignition. Nothing! He hammered the wheel with his fists, tried it again. The engine was grinding, but there was no answering roar of power. Desperate now, he swung his feet up and started hammering at the passenger door.
“Sherwood!” the man barked sharply, “get hold of yourself!”
Bryce blinked as that registered, and his feet came to a stop.
The man peered at him through the windshield. “Good heavens, Boy. I expected surprise, but not stark terror.”
“You know my name?” Bryce whispered, barely audible.
“Of course I know your name. You think I just pop in on anyone like that?”
“Who are you?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Nathaniel Gorham.” The man waited, expectantly, then his face fell. “You don’t recognize it?”
Bryce could do no more than shake his head.
“Figures. If I’d said George Washington or Benjamin Franklin then you would have perked up. But Nathaniel Gorham? No.”
Bryce was still staring, the words only half registering.
“But my name’s right there next to theirs.”
“Right where?” Bryce echoed, still too stupefied to make sense of what the man was saying.
“At the bottom of the Constitution. Big as life, just like Ben’s and General Washington’s.”
Gorham watched him for a moment, then shook his head sadly. “Well, I can see this isn’t the time to try to talk this out. Look, Son, I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that he lifted one hand and instantly disappeared!
Bryce looked around wildly. There was nothing. Not outside, not in. He jerked around to check the back seat. Nothing! Tentatively he reached for the keys, still looking around trying to find the man. But he was gone.
The engine caught on the first try and roared into life. But as Bryce reached for the gear lever, hand trembling violently, the power window on the driver’s side suddenly started downward. He jerked his hand away, but no part of his body was even near the switches.
“One other thing,” Gorham said into his ear.
Once again Bryce jumped sharply enough to crack his head on the ceiling. Gorham was at his window, his face not two inches from Bryce’s.
“At least you had the good sense to take that young lady home.”
“Leslie?” Bryce echoed numbly.
He nodded. “Now there’s an intelligent young woman. Has her head on straight, as you moderns would say. She’s an Adams, you know. Fifth great-granddaughter of John Quincy. He has a right to be proud.”
He noticed the look on Bryce’s face.
“Blood always tells, I say.”
And once again he was gone, leaving Bryce to stare at nothing but empty air.
It was past ten when Bryce climbed the stairs to his apartment. But instead of stopping at his door, he went up one additional flight and knocked hard on the door of apartment 5-B. He heard a muffled voice, so he hammered again. Finally the door opened a crack, hitting the chain.
“Mr. Chapman?”
“Bryce? What the…?” The door shut again, there was a brief rattle, then it opened widely to show a middle-aged, balding man in a rumpled bathrobe.
“Roy, look, I’m sorry to bother you this late. But I need to borrow an encyclopedia.”
“What?” He was staring at Bryce, not believing what he had just heard.
“An encyclopedia. You know, like the Britannica or something. Don’t you have one?”
“Of course, but…” His eyes narrowed. “Have you been drinking?”
“I don’t drink,” Bryce said curtly. “Please may I borrow the encyclopedia?”
Chapman took a breath, shaking his head. “I suppose. Which one?”
“Which one?”
“Yes, which one? Or do you want to borrow the whole set?”
“Oh. No, I…C. I need the C volume.”
Chapman nodded, shuffled away, and was back in a moment. “You can keep it until tomorrow.” He rolled his eyes.
“Thanks. Thank you very much.”
In his apartment, Bryce didn’t even sit down, just dropped his briefcase and his suit coat and started thumbing rapidly. “Constantine, Constantinople,” he murmured. “Ah, Constitution, U.S.” He skimmed quickly through the article, then suddenly stared. There it was, the list of delegates from each of the colonies. He started slowly down the list, finger pointing, hardly daring to breathe. Then very slowly he sat down, his eyes reading the names of the two delegates from Massachusetts—Rufus King and Nathaniel Gorham.
Chapman had obviously gotten back in bed, and Bryce had to bang on his door louder than before. The door opened, and there was an instant groan. “I thought I told you to—”
“I’m really sorry, Roy. But I need G, too. Could I borrow the G volume?”
And it was in there as well. Not more than a paragraph, but it was there! “Nathaniel Gorham (1738-1796). One of the original signers of the United States Constitution. Served in the Massachusetts legislature during the Revolutionary War from 1771 to 1775. Also served several terms in the Continental Congress, including a term as president of that group in 1775. Supporting a strong central government, Gorham chaired an important committee in the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia and was one of the instrumental figures in the drafting of that document.”
For several minutes Bryce just stared, reading it over and over, his mind whirling. Then suddenly he shut the book and walked swiftly to the desk. He found the phone book that covered Arlington County, Virginia, and turned to the A’s and started looking for the name of her street.
“Hello?”
“Leslie?” Thank heavens she had answered and not one of her parents. “This is Bryce Sherwood.”
“Bryce?” Any sleepiness in her voice was instantly dispelled.
“Yes. I’m really sorry to bother you, but—”
“What?”
Any guilt was swallowed up in the urgency of his quest. “Leslie, this is going to sound stupid, but I need to ask you something.”
There was a long pause, then a very tentative “All right.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be…“ Suddenly the absurdity of what he was doing hit him, and he let out his breath in a little self-deprecating laugh. “You’re really going to think this is strange.”
“I’m listening. Go ahead.”
“Well,” he said lamely, “I was thinking about your name on the way home. You wouldn’t happen to be a descendant of John Quincy Adams, would you?”
If the first pause was a long one, this one went on for what seemed like the rest of the summer. “Yes,” she said, finally. “Why?”
“Do you happen to know what the relationship is?”
“Yes, he is my fifth great-grandfather. But why?”
“Well,” he said, feeling suddenly very cold again. “I just suddenly got to wondering about it. I…Thank you very much, Leslie. Sorry I bothered you.”
“Is that all?” There was no mistaking the perplexed tone.
“Uh…yeah. See you Friday night.” He hung up the phone gently and turned to stare at the encyclopedia opened up on the couch in front of him.
Chapter 5
Bryce made one last swipe with the razor, ignoring the bloodshot eyes that stared back at him from the mirror, then glanced at his watch. It was already a minute past seven o’clock. He grabbed a towel and moved quickly into the living room of his apartment and turned on the television. The pleasant voice of the host of “Good Morning, America” came on immediately. Bryce watched for a moment, wiping the last of the shaving cream off his face, then moved back into his bedroom and finished dressing. The brief news summary carried a one-line item on the passage
of the Hawkes/Larkin bill, but he only half listened to the other news, the weather, and the stock-market reports.
Several times his face pulled into a frown as his mind jumped back to the bizarre happenings of the previous night, but each time he thrust the thoughts away quickly. He would try to sort out that experience when he had some quiet moments.
He walked into the kitchen as the show’s host began to introduce their first special guest, the star of a controversial television series. He screened out the inane chatter as he got a glass of orange juice, a bowl of “Total,” and a piece of toast.
As they took another commercial break, Bryce rose and took his dishes to the sink. He stopped long enough to jot a note or two on a pad. The senator had a speech to give to the Washington Press Club tomorrow, and he was mulling some phrases over in his head. By the time the advertisements had finished and the voice of the host came back on, Bryce was in brushing his teeth in the bathroom, only half listening again now, his mind already practicing some of the phrases to see how they felt. He reached for a glass and turned on the water.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the affable host of the show was saying, “in our news summary, we heard about yesterday’s significant Senate victory on the Hawkes/Larkin bill.”
Bryce shut off the tap, took a swallow of water from the glass and began to rinse out his mouth.
“Our next guest will have to do with that Senate action yesterday.”
Curious, Bryce stopped, cocking one ear.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to our studio a very special guest. Here by special permission of the Council of Founding Fathers is Mr. Nathaniel Gorham, one of the original signers of the Constitution of the United States.”
The glass slipped from Bryce’s fingers and hit the washbasin with a crash, spraying the front of his shirt and pants with water and glass.
Bryce crossed his bed in two great leaps, lost his balance as he hit the floor, and slid into the chest of drawers, cracking his shin hard against the corner. With a yelp of pain, he grabbed his leg and half hopping, half hobbling made it into the living room. He stopped, staring, then slowly sank down onto the couch. The nightmare was starting all over again.