The Rule of Nine (6 page)

“You won't say anything,” she says. “Not about what I told you. Not about our source.”

“Why not? If I've been as emasculated as you suspect, maybe there's something I want that they can give me in return.”

“Like what? Courage?” She's up out of her chair. “You're no lion and this ain't no yellow brick road. Just the same, you won't tell them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because refusing to help me is not the same as helping them. And you know as well as I do that they can't be trusted.”

“And I thought I was a skeptic.”

“Every government in the world thinks it owns the cartel on virtue,” she says. “Of course, none of them would use the bomb. Those that have it would love to get rid of it, but they can't. They need it to keep other less noble and more warlike pricks from using it on them. And the angels who don't have it would never pursue it, unless of course they have an excess of spent fuel rods that need to be put to some useful purpose, wasted resources being a terrible sin. In the meantime, bombs like the one on your truck have become war surplus, like old canteens and frayed fatigue jackets. I used to ask how long before some nutcase on a crusade got his hands on one. Now I guess I'm gonna have to come up with a new question, because we both know the answer to that one, don't we?”

I don't answer.

“Have it your way.” She slings the briefcase over her shoulder, stands up, and heads for the door. As she gets there, hand on the knob, she stops to look at me one more time. “You're a hard sell,” she says. “You're sure there's no way I can persuade you? Make no mistake. It's a watershed event. News of this would flash around the world before you could blink. It would force people to wake up. It would produce a backlash that those in power would not be able to ignore. Right now they're asleep. What is it going to take to get their attention? Do you have any idea how many people would have died if that device had detonated? This office probably wouldn't be here,” she says. “And we must be at least two miles away.”

“You know a lot. It was nice meeting you. And thanks for the stage direction. I'll try to keep the dogs from humping my leg.”

She smiles. “You do that.”

“One piece of advice. I'd stay away from Mr. Diggs. He's not as understanding as I am.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. If you try to lie your way into his office, he won't have any
difficulty at all ginning up anger. And as for his body language, you may find yourself suspended by your panty hose from the flag-pole in front of his office.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I'll be sure to wear pants,” she says. “I'm pretty good at it.”

I make a mental note to call Herman and warn him.

D
ad, what is your problem? I'm just going out with a friend for the evening. I'm not running away. Though the thought has occurred to me.” Sarah stands near the foot of the stairs in the entryway, her arms folded as she taps her toe nervously on the hardwood floor. She looks at me with a twinkle in her eye and a maternal smile on her face, like flashing neon that says, “Poor Dad's slipping around the bend.”

“I know, but it seems like I never get a chance to see you anymore.” I'm just getting in from the office and Sarah's getting ready to go out.

“You mean, besides the three months camped out together in the condo?”

“I know. That couldn't have been fun…”

“How can you say that? Do you know any other girl who gets to pick up her dates with an armed agent riding shotgun in the front seat? ‘Hello, Bill. This is Special Agent Smith. He'll be frisking you before we leave.'”

“It couldn't have been that bad,” I tell her.

“Yeah. You weren't there. Most of my dates were more interested
in the driver than in me. One of them wanted to see his gun. Then he wanted to know how he could apply.”

“I wouldn't go out with that guy if I were you.” I drop my briefcase on the floor and pry my dress oxfords off my feet without untying them.

“Not to worry, Dad. I'm sure he won't call again. That is, of course, unless he's filled out his application and wants to file it.”

It is a sore point with my daughter. And it's not the first time that cameras and paparazzi have stalked us in our own house. It has happened before during trials.

At this moment she looks so much like her mother, Nikki, she could pass for her sister, auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail and the same dappled freckles across the nose.

“But you could stay home tonight,” I tell her.

“Dad, I'm twenty-two. I've been away at college for four years, on my own. Nobody was there to take care of me and I made it just fine. You have to learn to let go,” she says.

“I know. You're right. I just need a little more time to get used to the idea. You have to remember, you're all I have left.”

She glances at me. The sarcasm melts from her face as she drops the defensive posture and the folded arms. “Oh, Dad!”

In two strides she closes the distance between us, throws her arms around me, and we hug in the hallway, right next to the old register clock hanging on the wall. “I'm not going anywhere,” she says. “I'll always be around. You're not going to lose me.”

My wife, Nikki, Sarah's mother, died more than fifteen years ago, leaving the two of us to fend for ourselves. As I hold Sarah the clock ticks in my ear and floods my mind with memories of a million happy mornings; of hastily cooked breakfasts, tuna sandwiches in waxed paper, fruit and cookies tossed into brown paper bags. And always capped by the hectic morning road race to school. I still drive the old yellow Nissan, the one I used ten years ago to ferry Sarah back and forth. A hundred and fifty thousand miles and I cannot bear to part with it. I am afraid that when it dies, so
will I. It is my time machine, filled with remembrances of better days, echoes of laughter, and a few tears. I love the grown woman who returned from college, but I miss the little girl who once sat next to me in that big yellow car.

While she still has her arms around me, I start in again. “I just thought that maybe you could stay home tonight and we could enjoy an evening together.”

“I know, but I already made plans to go out with Jenny.” She gives me a final squeeze, slides her arms from around my shoulders, and looks at her watch. “She should be here any minute. You've never met Jenny.”

“No.”

“She's really nice. You'll like her.”

“I'm sure I will. Listen, I've got an idea. I could order out, get a movie, whatever you girls want to watch. If there's someone else you want to invite, call 'em up. Now that you're back in town, I'd like to meet all your friends. And you know me, by ten o'clock I'll hit the sack and you guys can have the run of the house.”

“Gee, we could put on our pajamas and have a sleepover.” She rolls her big brown eyes toward the ceiling and laughs. “Dad, please…”

She turns and glances through the double-glazed window in the front door, then checks her watch again. “Late as usual. Jenny's a lot of fun, but she needs a clock.”

“You can do whatever you want. Have a party. Drink. Bring in guys. I don't care. But why not do it here?” I tell her.

Sarah turns back and looks at me. “What is this? What's going on?”

“What do you mean?” I give her a look of innocence.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” she says.

“No. Why?”

“Dad! I mean it.” She folds her arms again and looks at me straight on—the brown-eyed truth machine.

“I swear. There's nothing.” My voice rises half an octave in denial.

“Are you sure?” She puts the same female glare on me that Joselyn Cole used to unravel me in the office. Where they learn this I don't know. You could bottle it and dispense with trials by jury. “I don't believe you.” She comes to the same conclusion Cole did. The woman was right. Children and dogs, they'll get you every time.

I shrug my shoulders and shake my head. “There's nothing,” I tell her. I raise my right hand, three fingers held tightly together.

“What's that?”

“Boy Scout sign,” I tell her.

“When were you in the Scouts?”

“You don't have to belong to know the sign.”

“Exactly, and stop trying to change the subject.” Sarah studies me for a couple of seconds. “Dad, I'm worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Because you're a basket case. I know we've both been through a lot. The last several months haven't been easy for either of us. But it's over. Look out there.” She points toward the front window in the living room. “The cameras are gone. Those people are off our front lawn. And unless we've moved to hell, they won't be coming back. You don't have to worry anymore.”

“I know.”

She glances down toward the floor for a moment and collects her thoughts. “You know, Dad, I've been thinking. It might be good if you got some help,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“I'm talking about professional help,” she says. “Since what happened at North Island you're not the same person anymore. You're never happy. You're always worried. It seems like you're constantly looking over your shoulder, as if something bad is about to happen. Is there some reason for this?”

“No…I guess I'm just…well, you know…”

“No, I don't!”

“A little jumpy!” I snap at her.

“That's what I mean. You need help,” she says. “I know you don't want to talk to me about what happened that day. And if it makes you uncomfortable, I understand. But you need to talk to somebody.”

She stands there looking at me.

At first I don't say anything. When the words finally come out, it's as if they are emitted from some feeble golem-like ghost buried in the depths of my soul—“I'm all right.”

“I don't know everything that happened that day, only what I read in the papers. But I know it must have been awful. It had to be—the noise, the violence, people being shot and killed like that. I am guessing that you saw a lot of it.”

“You know what they say: ‘As long as the right people get shot.'” I try to make light of it.

“Don't even joke,” she says. “It doesn't matter whether they were good or bad or what they were doing. They still died and you had to watch it. There's no shame in seeing a therapist,” says Sarah. “There is such a thing as post-traumatic stress.” She pauses for a moment and looks away. “I didn't want to say anything, but I found the pistol in your nightstand.”

Whoops!

“When did that start?” she asks. “We've never had a gun in the house before. Not that I know of.”

“No. You're right.” A set of headlights flash as a car turns into the driveway out in front.

“I should have told you. Thorpe, you remember, the man from the FBI. He told Harry and me and Herman that there's probably nothing to worry about, but until they tie up all the loose ends, it wouldn't be a bad idea to keep some form of self-protection in the house.”

“What kind of loose ends?” says Sarah.

“Nothing you need to worry about. Go ahead and have a good time with your friend. Do you have your cell phone?”

She nods.

“Do you mind telling me where you're going tonight? You don't have to if you don't want to.”

She shakes her head. “No, no, it's all right,” she says. “I think we're doing Café Coyote for dinner. It's a Mexican place in Old Town.”

“I know it,” I tell her.

“And then I think we're going to a club somewhere in the Gaslamp area. I don't know the name. Jenny's been there before.”

“That's okay.”

“If you want me to stay home, I will,” she says.

“No. That's all right. You go and have fun. And don't worry about anything. It's fine.”

The doorbell rings. Sarah grabs her coat and opens the door.

“How are you?”

“Sorry I'm late.” There is a lot of chatter and giggling at the door.

“Come in. I want you to meet my dad.”

A second later a tall, blond young woman, nicely dressed, long legged and a little ungainly, steps through the door and under the lights in the entry hall. She looks well scrubbed, blue eyes and rosy cheeks, wearing a nervous smile and high heels that make me think of a newborn fawn trying to find its footing. She is gripping a tiny sequined bag to her stomach with both hands so tightly that the little glass beads are about to pop off.

“Jenny, I'd like you to meet my dad. Dad, this is Jen.”

“Is it Jen or Jenny?”

“Either one,” she says.

“Well, it's good to finally meet. Sarah's told me so much about you I feel I already know you.” I reach out. She releases the death grip on her purse and gives me a fleeting fingertip shake.

“Same here.” She nods and smiles and does a little nervous genuflection on the tall stiletto heels.

Take off the makeup, put her in tennis shoes, jeans, and a T-shirt, shrink her down ten years, and Jenny could pass for any in the battalion of Sarah's “little friends.” This was the legion of noise, the siege of laughter and yelling that rampaged through the neighborhood with light sabers and squirt guns a decade ago. Even now sometimes when I see one of them, grown and tall, and I have to look at them to say hello, if someone asks me who they are, I will slip and refer to them as “one of Sarah's little friends.” My daughter gets angry. She tells me not to say it, especially in front of them; her dad, the loose cannon. Of course I would not. But if I live to be a hundred and see them with grandchildren, in the crevices of whatever is left of memory, to me they will always be part of that lost and noisy brigade—“Sarah's little friends.”

“So you guys are doing Mexican tonight, is that it?” I ask.

Jenny glances at Sarah and smiles. “And then I thought we'd go to a place downtown.”

“A club?” I ask.

“Yeah. Place called Ivy. They have good music.”

“Listen, you guys have a good time,” I tell them. We all head toward the door.

“I'll be home by two.” Sarah kisses me on the cheek. “Don't wait up.”

“You have your key?” I ask.

“Got it, Dad. And don't worry. We'll talk more tomorrow,” she says as they head to the car.

“Good night. Have fun.” I stand outside under the porch light watching as Jen's Camry slides down the driveway and backs into the street. A few seconds later the taillights fade into the distance and disappear down the block.

 

He sat in a rickety ladder-back chair that wobbled and teetered just a little each time he leaned forward to type.

The room was small and dark. It resembled a closet more than an office. A single naked lightbulb hung from a wire dangling from the ceiling, just above his wispy strands of unkempt gray hair. The shiny crown at the back of his balding head gleamed with illumination, revealing only a subtle hint of the energy and purpose that blazed within.

The Old Weatherman could almost feel the political ground shifting beneath his feet as he pounded the letters on the computer's keyboard. Outside, turbulent public attitudes turned like a weathervane in a cyclone. It was a sign of the times, a measure of people's fears and their uncertainty about what lay ahead.

The window of opportunity was already beginning to close. He had only months for the entire train of events to play out. The doctors had told him that he would be dead by then. The cancer was already in his lungs and brain. No matter. He had time. He would set in motion the change that would take America into the future, a transformation of the system that no politician or political party could ever bring about; he would “breach the monastery.”

Back in the late sixties and early seventies, when they were young and stupid, they set off isolated bombs in federal buildings and courthouses around the country. Such a waste. None of it had any effect except to give Nixon the excuse to crack down on all forms of dissent. Other than to cause some localized terror and largely regional headlines, their actions failed entirely to bring about their ultimate goal, a permanent change to the system. One that would take the country in an entirely new direction, away from the corporations and the capitalist underpinnings that had taken America down the wrong path since its inception.

Then, in 2001, foreign terrorists struck the World Trade Center. Flying commercial jets loaded with fuel and passengers into the twin towers, they killed more than three thousand people. They also hit the Pentagon, causing hundreds more to die. And
what was the effect? Did they bring down the country? No. Did they destroy the U.S. economy? No, at least not immediately.