“According to the introductory blurb, it was the last piece he ever published-more than twelve years ago.”
“But he’s not dead.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Then why the last?”
“Seems he was quite a controversial figure. Praised and damned but mostly damned. And he got tired of the controversy. He dropped out of his lecture tours and gave up his writing so that he’d have more time to dedicate to his research.”
“What’s the article about?”
Sam read the title. “‘Total Behavioral Modification through Subliminal Perception.'” And the subtitle: “‘Mind Control from the Inside Out.'”
“What does all of that mean?”
“Do you want me to read it aloud?”
Paul looked at his watch.
“It wouldn’t hurt if we knew the enemy before we went into Bexford to see the state police,” Jenny said.
“She’s right,” Sam said.
Paul nodded. “Go ahead. Read it.”
2:40 P.M.
Friday afternoon H. Leonard Dawson was in the study of his Greenwich, Connecticut, house, reading a long letter on lavender paper from his wife. Julia was one-third of the way through a three-week trip to the Holy Land, and day by day she was discovering that it was less and less like she had imagined and hoped it would be. The best hotels were all owned by Arabs and Jews, she said; therefore, she felt unclean every time she went to bed. There were plenty of rooms in the inns, she said, but she would almost have preferred to sleep in the stables. That morning (as she wrote the letter) her chauffeur had driven her to Golgotha, that most sweetly sacred of places; and she had read to herself from the Bible as the car wended its way to that shrine of both sorrow and everlasting joy. But even Golgotha had been spoiled for her. Upon arriving there, she found that the holy hill was literally swarming with sweaty Southern Negro Baptists. Southern Negro Baptists, of all people. Furthermore.
The white telephone rang. Its soft, throaty burrrr-burrrrburrrr was instantly recognizable.
The white phone was the most private line in the house. Only Ogden and Ernst knew the number.
He put down the letter, waited until the telephone had rung a second time, picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“I recognize your voice,” Salsbury said guardedly. “Do you find mine familiar?”
“Of course. Are you using your scrambler?”
“Oh, yes,” Salsbury said.
“Then there’s no need to talk in riddles and be mysterious.
Even if the line is tapped, which it isn’t, they can’t make sense of what we’re saying.”
“With the situation what it is at my end,” Salsbury said, “I think we should take the precaution of riddle and mystery and not trust solely in the scrambler.”
“What is the situation at your end?”
“We’ve got serious trouble here.”
“At the test site?”
“At the test site.”
“Trouble of what sort?”
“There’s been one fatality.”
“Will it pass for natural causes?”
“Not in a million years.”
“Can you handle it yourself?” “No. There are going to be more.” “Fatalities?” Dawson asked. “We’ve got people here who are unaffected.” “Unaffected by the program?” “That’s right.”
“Why should that lead to fatalities?” “My cover is blown.”
“How did that happen?” Salsbury hesitated.
“You’d better tell me the truth,” Dawson said sharply. “For all our sakes. You’d better tell me the truth.”
“I was with a woman.”
“You fool.”
“It was a mistake,” Salsbury admitted.
“It was idiotic. We’ll discuss it later. One of these unaffected people came upon you while you were with the woman.”
“That’s right.”
“If your cover is blown it can be repaired. Undramatically.”
“I’m afraid not I ordered the killer to do what he did.” Despite the riddle form of the conversation, the events in Black River were becoming all too clear to Dawson. “I see.” He thought for a moment. “How many are unaffected?”
“Besides a couple of dozen babies and very young children, at least four more. Maybe five.”
“That’s not so many.”
“There’s another problem. You know the two men we sent up here at the beginning of the month?”
“To the reservoir.”
“They were seen.”
Dawson was silent.
“If you don’t want to come,” Salsbury said, “that’s okay. But I have to have some help. Send our partner and-“