For several moments she looked up at him, probing his face. Then she sighed and went back to toying with the suds.
“There is an appropriate response to that last line,” he said softly.
“I know.”
This time he found it more difficult to force the lightness into his voice. “I don’t think that was it.”
She spoke so softly he almost missed it. “I know,” she said again.
And with a deepening sense of gloom, he stepped back and picked up the towel again. They didn’t speak again until they were finished.
As they came out into the living room, Vera was just turning on the television.
“The ballet is on tonight,” Leslie murmured, still subdued. “Do you mind if we just stay here and watch it?”
So we don’t have to be alone and try to talk things out? he thought. But he just nodded. “That’s fine.” What had to happen tonight was going to be tough enough without her probing further to see what was bothering him.
They sat on the couch, across from her parents who were in the two easy chairs. On the television, the camera focused on the orchestra as it began that unique cacophony of sounds peculiar to a group of instrumentalists warming up. Suddenly Bryce rubbed the back of his hand. “Hmmm,” he said, looking at it. “I’ve got something sticky on me, from the dishes I guess. I’ll be right back.”
He went in the kitchen, turned on the water briefly, then moved quickly to the small desk where there was a pad of paper and a holder with several pens and pencils. “I need to talk with you alone,” he wrote swiftly. “Can we go outside?” In the other room, the orchestra’s tuning sounds died out.
He folded the paper into a small square, waited a moment until he heard the sound of applause, and then, as the orchestra began to play, he walked back into the living room. All three glanced up at him idly, then turned back to the television. He slipped the note under Paul’s arm as he passed, then gave him a quick, warning shake of his head as he looked up in surprise.
Paul waited almost a full minute before he quietly retrieved the note, and, holding it low, unfolded and read it. He looked at Bryce, then away. Three minutes later, he suddenly stood. “Sorry, dear,” he murmured, as he bent down and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’m too fidgety for television tonight. I think I’ll go dig around in the flowers for a while.”
Vera looked up at him surprised, but then, as though she was used to such unexpected turns, smiled. “Need some help?”
“No. You’ve been waiting to see this. I’m just going to putter.”
Bryce waited for almost five more minutes, then withdrew his hand from Leslie’s. “I guess I’ve got the same case of the fidgets as your father. I’ll go out and keep him company.”
There was a long, appraising look, filled with sadness. “All right,” Leslie finally said softly. “We’ll have some ice cream after this is over.”
“Good.” He walked out of the house into the backyard. Paul was bent over in the roses, using a small hand rake to stir up the ground around the plants. Bryce picked up a hoe and took a few desultory whacks at some small weeds. It was nearly sunset, and the late September air was still and pleasantly comfortable. But most important, unless Rodale and Burkhart were much more thorough than he thought, they were also free from any possible electronic listening devices.
Bryce stopped, leaned on his hoe, and gave Paul a long searching look. “Sir, may I ask you a question?”
Paul smiled, sitting back on his heels. “If you’ll answer one for me.”
“Okay.”
“Why is it you insist on calling me sir? Paul is just fine.”
Bryce laughed softly. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve asked me twice now, but…” He laughed again, a little embarrassed. “But when I think of who you are and what you’ve done, somehow it seems disrespectful for me to call you Paul.”
“I did no more than others.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t call them Paul either.”
He chuckled. “I give up. Okay, what’s the question?”
Bryce took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of the Declaration of Independence?”
Paul set the rake down slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you ask?” It was said slowly, almost as though it were forced from him a word at a time.
“Because I’ve seen it.”
“There is no such document.” It was flat and harsh, almost angry.
“I’ve seen it,” Bryce repeated slowly.
He shook his head stubbornly.
“I have it!”
For several seconds the penetrating eyes glared at him from the deep sockets that heightened the sense of gauntness in the face, then he picked up the hand tool and began digging at the earth again. “There is no such document,” the deep voice said again in a soft whisper.
Bryce dropped the hoe and moved over to him, sitting on the grass to face him. “I know what you think. But I’m not trying to trap you. There’s something I must tell you.”
“I don’t want to hear it.” The look in his eyes was suddenly frightened, cornered.
“I give you my word that all you have to do is listen. Then if you tell me to go away, I will.”
“I don’t want to listen to you.”
“If you don’t hear what I have to say,” Bryce started, “what I must say, then—” His eyes dropped to the twisted, shockingly deformed hands, and he drew in his breath quickly, suddenly unsure of himself.
Paul Adams was watching Bryce’s face, and then his own eyes dropped to look at his hands. “Then what?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Bryce shook his head.
“Then what!” he said sharply.
“Then the evil and ugly men of the world will have won again.”
For almost a full minute there was silence except for the quiet scratching of the metal against the soil and the sound of a bus engine far off in the distance. Paul did not look up, just kept digging, but finally he said, with sudden firmness, “If you must, you must.”
Bryce leaned back, letting his breath out in a long sigh. And suddenly at that moment he knew he had to tell it all. From the beginning. He looked up. “This is going to sound insane.”
There was the tiniest crinkle of a smile around the corner of Paul’s eyes. “Perhaps that’s best, for I think it is insane of me to listen.”
And so he began. He had never told anyone all of it. Jessie Lambert had heard part. She knew about the wall of light and the second dimension, and miraculously she had believed him. They had never talked of it again, nor had she even hinted of it around Neal or the others. But now Bryce started long before that. He spoke of a fantasy world, of a great nation on the North American continent, forged from the fires of revolution and built on a remarkable document called the Constitution. He described the nation of 235 million people and what they had accomplished.
Then with a sigh, shifting uncomfortably on the grass, he began to speak of a young man—bright, aspiring, an aide to a U.S. senator—and of his attempts to change what he thought were faults in the system.
As Bryce talked slowly and without emotion, Paul Adams stopped his digging in the soil. The rake was laid aside. He sat down next to the tree. At first he watched Bryce intently, then he leaned back and the deep-set eyes stared off into space, as they had that first day Bryce had met him on the porch. He never interrupted, never asked a question, just listened with an intensity that was frightening.
Paul gave Bryce a flash of incredulous disbelief as he began to speak of a young woman challenging the bright young lawyer in front of national television. The look only deepened as Bryce went stubbornly on and told of the night a hitchhiker had appeared, and of what had followed. But as Bryce continued, describing the final bitter argument between him and Leslie, his journey north alone, and the events that followed, Paul seemed to retreat deeper and deeper within himself. The face became as stone, completely impassive and unreadable. And even as Bryce outlined the plans Lewis and Wesley Quinn had pro
posed for Paul Adams and of the ensuing arrest and confrontation with Mannington, he showed no reaction. None. He might have been carved from the trunk of the tree against which his back rested.
Finished at last, Bryce sat back, a tremendous sense of burden lifted from him. Believed or not, insane or not, it was a catharsis to tell it all, to put it into words, to completely uncork the bottle.
Idly, almost as if his hand belonged to another person, Paul’s fingers began plucking up individual blades of grass and letting them drop into his lap. Like Leslie, Bryce thought, remembering how she had done the same thing that day in the park.
Suddenly Bryce stood, feeling foolish, awkward, embarrassed, discouraged.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s…” He lifted his shoulders, let them drop again. “Like I said, it’s insane. Maybe I’m insane.”
For the first time in almost fifteen minutes, the figure stirred. “Several times,” Paul said in a low voice that was almost a hollow echo, “in the camps, I thought I was insane. Now,” he finished sadly, “I no longer know what is sanity and what is insanity.”
A tiny ray of hope lit Bryce’s face. “Then…?”
Finally Paul was looking at him again. He shook his head slowly. “It is an incredible tale.”
Bryce laughed shortly, mirthlessly. “You’re telling me? At least you didn’t laugh in my face. That’s what I would do, if I had heard it from someone else.”
“I believe you believe it.”
“Thanks,” Bryce said, suddenly profoundly discouraged, knowing he had lost. “I suppose I ought to be grateful for that.” He stood again. “I think it’s best if I go now. Tell Leslie I’m sorry.” He forced a smile. “But somehow ice cream seems a little anticlimactic right now.”
The frail figure got slowly to its feet. “We’ll talk more tomorrow,” he said wearily.
Bryce just nodded forlornly. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he answered. “I’ll come around to say good-bye to Leslie.”
It was nearly midnight when Paul Adams stole quietly out of bed, put on his robe, and tiptoed to the door. He stopped as Vera stirred and made a soft sound in her sleep, but she quieted and lay still again, and he went out and shut the door carefully behind him. As he moved down the hall, he paused momentarily at the next door. A slight frown wrinkled his brow as he thought of his daughter and the young man who loved her. Then he slipped out of the house and into the soft patterns of moonlight and shadow that dappled the backyard.
He moved to the deeper shadows beneath the tree, where he had sat earlier that evening and listened to the fantastic tale of Bryce Sherwood. With a tired sigh, he lowered himself against the rough bark of the trunk and closed his eyes, trying to sort it all out. Subconsciously, he began to massage the twisted knots of one hand with the bumpy fingers of the other. For half an hour or more he sat like that, motionless except for the slow and gentle movement of his fingers.
He started, hearing a soft sound nearby, feeling a quick surge of fear, but almost instantly he smiled at himself. There was nothing but the familiar shapes of flowers and shrubbery around him. There were no sounds but the softness of the breeze rustling the trees.
Then suddenly, he cried out. In the darkness, directly in front of him! Something was there! He tried to scramble backward, away from it, but he was already against the trunk of the tree and only succeeded in scraping his skin against the rough bark, even through his robe.
With eyes gaping and heart pounding hard, Paul Adams stared, frozen into immobility. It was almost as though the moonlight itself was taking form. Gradually the figure of a man became fully visible, glowing softly in the shadows. The face was narrow and angular, though the eyes were kindly and held open amusement. The white hair was pulled back and tied at the back of his neck. The man wore a long coat, and there were ruffles at his throat and wrists.
As the figure became fully visible, he bowed slightly at the waist. “Good evening, Dr. Adams.”
Paul swallowed hard, pulling his legs up underneath him in preparation for flight.
“There is no need to fear. I assure you, I mean you no harm.”
“What…Who are you?” he stammered.
The man smiled kindly. “Don’t you know?” The voice was as soft as the night breeze.
Paul gave a quick, frightened shake of his head.
“Think about it.”
And then understanding came. “Nathaniel Gorham,” Paul breathed.
Gorham nodded, quite pleased. “It is a pleasure to have the privilege of meeting you, sir.”
Chapter 27
Paul Adams stopped on the sidewalk, just short of the screen door that led onto his front porch. “Are you sure the house has been bugged?”
“No.” Bryce took a deep breath. “I’m only going on the probabilities. Neither Mannington nor Burkhart make many mistakes. You’ve probably been monitored for some time, possibly since your return from the work camps, but almost certainly in the past week since they got onto me.”
“And it’s got to happen in there?”
Bryce nodded. “If it is bugged and Leslie and Vera react in a way that seems forced or unnatural, we’re dead before we start.”
The older man sighed. “I’ve never lied to Vera.”
“We’re not going to lie,” Bryce said patiently. They had gone over this at his apartment, after he had finally gotten over the shock and then the elation of having Paul Adams show up at his door at 6:30 A.M. to tell him what had transpired during the night. “But we can’t tell them everything. Not here. Not even in the car because it may be bugged too. We’ll tell them about Mannington later, but not until we’re sure, absolutely sure, that there is no chance Mannington is listening.”
Again there was the sigh of resignation. “All right.” He opened the screen door. “This isn’t going to be easy, you know.”
“You’re telling me,” Bryce answered glumly.
“Leslie…” Her father stopped, then shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what she’ll do.”
The line along Bryce’s jaw tightened. “Well, waiting isn’t going to make it any easier. Let’s go.”
The women were waiting in the living room, faces tense, eyes full of anxiety. Paul had left a note that Leslie was not to go to school, nor was Vera to go to work, until he returned. Little wonder they were on edge.
Paul walked over and sat down next to Vera and took her hand. Bryce stood awkwardly near the bookshelves, not meeting Leslie’s worried, questioning gaze.
Paul took a deep breath and plunged right in. “For several weeks we have suspected that Bryce Sherwood, alias John H. Carrol, alias John B. Carrol, was not all that he was representing himself to be.”
Leslie’s eyes dropped, and Bryce saw that her fingers were twisting at her belt.
“We were right,” Paul said quietly. “He is not from the ministry of education, which he has already confessed. Nor is he from the government, sent here to spy on an aging old dissident—” he shot a look at Leslie, “as some of us thought.” He took a deep breath. “Actually, he is a member of the resistance movement.”
There was a quick intake of breath from Vera, a sudden wide-eyed shock from Leslie.
“He has come to us—to me, with an offer, an opportunity.”
Vera paled and was staring at Bryce, suddenly frightened.
“It’s something that will have a profound effect not only on me, but on both of you as well. You need to hear what he has to say.”
Leslie’s eyes were suddenly blazing. “No!” she cried.
“Yes, Leslie,” Paul said softly, “we must at least listen to him.”
She whirled on her father. “Stop it! Stop it this instant!”
The vehemence caught all of them by surprise, even her mother.
“We do not have to listen to him! We must not listen!”
Bryce stepped closer to her. “Some things cannot be stopped, Leslie.”
“Go away! Leave us alone!” she cried.
“As a matter o
f fact,” he said quietly, “I am leaving this morning.”
She blinked, and her lower lip trembled slightly. “Then go,” she said in a bitter whisper. “I knew all along that you meant nothing but danger to us.”
“Nothing?” he asked in a low voice.
She looked away. “Please! Can’t you just leave us alone?”
“I invited him to come this morning,” Paul broke in with sudden determination. “We will hear what he has to say.” He looked up. “Go ahead, Bryce.”
Bryce did so, quietly and fighting to control the pain he felt as he saw the anger and alienation on Leslie’s face. He told them of Lewis and Jessie and Neal. He spoke of Wesley Quinn, an agent for the United States government, and of his proposal and the pivotal part that Paul Adams could play in it all. He said nothing of Elliot Mannington and Colonel Anthony Burkhart.
“They’re waiting for me somewhere in West Virginia,” he finished quietly. “If I bring Paul Adams with me, we’ll begin immediately. If I don’t…we’ll go ahead on our own, do the best we can.”
Leslie was crying softly now. “You have no right to ask him to go with you,” she said. “No right!”
Bryce shook his head. “And you have no right to ask him to stay.”
“He’s my father!” she shouted.
Bryce stepped up to her, looking down into the angry face. She looked away but he gently took her chin in his hand and turned her back. “No, you listen!” he pleaded with infinite gentleness. “Leslie, I know how you feel. I understand your fear for him, the horror of all he’s gone through. But daughter or not, you have no right to make this decision for him.”
Bryce’s voice softened even more. “If he says no, I’ll turn and walk out that door without another word. I know what he’s done. There’s not a man alive who will think the less of him if he stays here. He’s paid the price. Far more than you or I. That’s right!” he said fiercely, as she started to shake her head. “Far more than you or I. And so, I cannot speak for him.” He straightened, sorrowed by what he had to say. “And neither can you.”
There was a deep sigh of pain from Vera as she turned to her husband. “You have already made up your mind, haven’t you?”