Part 22 (1/2)
”I'll call you after the funeral.” She cut the connection.
Not a second pa.s.sed before my phone rang. ”Hail to the Chief.”
”Christina.”
”Did I wake you?” she asked. ”What time did you get in?”
”You didn't wake me.”
For the moment I offered no further explanation. When Christina learned I was in San Diego, she was going to go ballistic. ”I have only a few minutes,” she said. ”Was the trip worth it?”
”I interviewed Doc Palmer.”
”He's alive? Grant, why would they . . . we'll get into that later . . . what did he say?”
”To say that his version of events bears little resemblance to what I wrote in the book is an understatement.”
”Did you show him the chapters?”
I knew she was referring to the thirteen chapters that contained a coded threat to the president.
”I did.”
”And . . . ?”
”He laughed. But it was a sympathetic laugh. Does that make sense? And he told me . . . Christina, when you were with the president, did he seem . . . did he appear to be . . . you know, sedated?”
”He was sitting on the floor in his pajamas, Grant.”
”What about his speech?”
Christina gave it some thought before answering. ”He was . . . lucid . . . maybe a little slow. His eyes looked tired. But then, when he stood up, he seemed to rally. I guess he could have been on medication.”
I digested this. It could mean something. But then again, it could just mean the president was tired.
”Grant, what is this all about?”
”Doc told me some things that were disturbing.”
I wanted to tell her more. To tell her all of it. I was aching to tell someone. I wanted to hear the words come from my own mouth to see if they sounded as crazy as they did in my head.
”Listen, Grant . . . I gotta go. I stepped outside to make this call. Let's get together for dinner. You can tell me all about it then. DeLugo's at eight. Gotta go. Bye.”
She hung up before I could tell her I wasn't in Was.h.i.+ngton. I speed dialed her number. A familiar mechanical voice told me her cell phone had been turned off. Smart girl. If Ingraham pulled his Gestapo act again, there wouldn't be any messages to listen to.
But tonight she's going to think I stood her up.
The phone rang. I didn't recognize the number. ”h.e.l.lo?”
”How long will you be in San Diego?”
The sound of Sue Ling's voice brought a smile to my face. Jana must have called her.
”Word gets around fast in this town,” I said.
”The professor wants to talk to you.”
”At the moment, I don't know for sure what my schedule is. I'm in the process of working it out.”
”Work out a time to meet the professor. It's important.”
”I don't know if I can promise anything. You of all people know what I'm up against. You're the one that found the coded message.”
”The confession.”
”It's not a confession!” I protested. ”It's a setup and I still don't know who's behind it, and until I do I'm vulnerable. The Secret Service could shut me away for a long time.”
”Talk to the professor. He can help you.”
I doubted that the professor's fixation on angels would serve any useful purpose, but I hesitated saying anything to Sue. She wasn't objective when it came to the professor. ”Look, Sue . . . the professor's a good man, and I know he means well, but not everything is an angel conspiracy.”
”You're right,” she admitted. ”But this is.”
”Tell you what . . . let me see how my schedule works out. Give me a number where you can be reached and I'll-”
”Meet me.”
I found myself smiling. It was the first friendly thing she'd ever said to me.
”When?”
”Right now.”
She was going to try to talk me into meeting with the professor, that much was clear. It was a risk going. I'm not very good at saying no to attractive women.
Sensing my hesitation, she said, ”Meet with me now and Jana will join us after the funeral.”
”You can guarantee that?”
”I can.”
”Where do you want to meet?”
Abdiel paced as he dictated. He moved back and forth in front of the professor's desk. It was a tight s.p.a.ce, barely enough room for him to turn around with his broad shoulders. Every so often he would knock a hat from the hat rack in the corner, or brush against the professor's collection of knickknacks that lined his book shelves. Three paces was all it took for him to cover the distance. Each day when they began, it took several turns for him to adjust to the limited s.p.a.ce, but once he got into the telling, he no longer seemed to be bothered by it.
Other teachers' offices, though this same size, didn't have this problem. It was an old building and the rooms didn't conform to modern codes of handicap accessibility. The professor made do.