Part 8 (1/2)
”What brings you to California?”
”I'm a graduate of Singing Hills High School. I came back to speak at an a.s.sembly.”
”That explains all the news trucks on Madison Avenue yesterday. It made me late for cla.s.s.” He set my book in his lap and folded his hands on top of it. ”So, Mr. Austin, describe this encounter you had. When did it happen?”
”You believe me?”
”Let's just say I'm being polite. I don't know what you're up to, but you don't strike me as a man of guile. And, quite frankly, Mr. Austin, you intrigue me. I've never seen people take such an instant dislike to anyone like they do you.”
”Do you know of any good Dale Carnegie courses?” I deadpanned.
”The encounter. When did it take place?”
”Yesterday. Following the a.s.sembly.”
”Where?”
”At the high school.”
The professor's eyebrows arched.
”In a teacher's office.”
He laughed. ”That's where you heard the chorus of voices, in a high school teacher's office? Are you acquainted with the teacher?”
”We were high school rivals.”
”And did he or she also hear the voice?”
I hesitated. ”Not exactly.”
How far was I willing to go with this? If word got out the president's biographer was hallucinating in California or consorting with gargoyle spirits, it was all over for me. The tabloids would eat it up.
To his credit, the professor respected my hesitation. He didn't press me.
”I went to his office to gloat,” I said.
As concisely as possible I narrated my history with Myles Shepherd and described how he tried to claim credit for my book's success, which prompted the professor to examine it for a third time.
”Is that when he told you to tremble before him?” the professor asked.
He sensed there was more. I could see it in his eyes. Somehow knowing that made the telling easier.
I told him how the light from the cla.s.sroom stopped at the office threshold; how I was rendered immobile; about the gargoyle things in the corner; how the room trembled and Myles Shepherd changed into a being of incredible light, all at once wondrous, then painfully draining; how the gargoyle things plunged into me; and how it all climaxed with the thunderous command to tremble before Semyaza.
Throughout the narration, the professor remained solemn. Stoic.
I described what it was like sitting in the parking lot, the muddy colors and nauseating odors. It surprised me how easily it all came out once I started, and how relieved I was to be able to tell someone. I told him everything. Everything except the part about the plot to kill the president. I left that out. I'm not sure why, it just seemed the right thing to do.
With a toss of my hands I signaled the end of my tale. He said nothing at first, just stared thoughtfully out the window at the desert garden. When he spoke, it was as though he dredged up his voice from a deep pit.
”A hideous beauty,” he said.
His response was so unexpected, I didn't catch it the first time. He repeated it for me.
”A hideous beauty. Wondrously alluring. Incredibly evil.”
”That's it!” I cried. ”That's it exactly!” A sense of relief washed over me. He not only believed me, he understood!
”Where is he now?” the professor asked.
”Myles? Well, actually . . . he's dead. Killed this morning in an accident on the freeway.”
The professor's jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists. ”No,” he said. ”He's not dead.”
”I saw the car, Professor. The charred body. It was him. You have to know Myles, he's not the sort of guy who would loan his car to-”
”That wasn't him,” the professor snapped. ”Believe me, he was not killed in that car.” Anger flashed in his eyes. So strong was his reaction, it took him a moment to fight it back.
My book hit the table with a thud.
”Why you?” he said.
”I beg your pardon?”
”Why you? What aren't you telling me?”
The question hit me hard. How did he know I was holding something back?
The book lay between us.
He was an intelligent man. He could see that this wasn't about a freelance writer. This was about the president. It was a logical conclusion.
But matters of national security were not something to be taken lightly. Telling a theology professor about an a.s.sa.s.sination plot against the president of the United States before warning the president himself didn't seem wise. Then again, I'd come this far. Maybe he could help me understand how Semyaza fit into the plot.
I decided to take a chance on him. ”He told me my work wasn't finished. That I was to write one final chapter. A chapter that would record the president's a.s.sa.s.sination.”
The professor nodded an emotionless nod. Did nothing alarm this man?
He released the brakes on his wheelchair. ”Mr. Austin, I suggest you find yourself a very big hole and hide in it.”
He wheeled himself toward the exit.
”Wait! That's it?” I ran after him. ”Find a hole and hide in it? We're talking about the president of the United States!”
The professor wheeled around to face me. He was all business. ”A man doesn't write an officially sanctioned biography of the president,” he said, ”without having contacts in the White House. I a.s.sume you've contacted them and warned them about the plot.”