Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

The phone rang.

“I’d better answer this,” Stanton said, picking it up. “Hello?”

“This is the White House operator,” a woman’s voice said. “I have the president for you.”

“Yes, of course.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “It’s the president,” he whispered to Liz.

She lay back and pulled the covers over her head.

“Marty?”

“Yes, Will. How are you?”

“I’ve been better. I suppose you’ve heard about this Inquisitor thing.”

“Somebody showed it to me late this afternoon. I’d never even heard of that publication until that moment.”

“I’ve heard of it, and it can be troublesome. It’s not so much that anybody really believes what they write, it’s the fact that the mainstream press, once they’ve seen something there, have a basis to start asking questions.”

“Well, if they start asking, I’m prepared to answer them.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Worse comes to worst, we have on our side that you and Betty are practically divorced, so both you and Liz are single. You are practically divorced, aren’t you?”

“We are. In fact, we were supposed to get the signed settlement today, which is the last step before getting a decree from a court.”

“That’s good. I’m prepared to back you with the press, Marty, but I think it’s in your interest to tell them the truth. We don’t want this to come back and bite us on the ass later.”

“I understand, Will, and I appreciate your confidence.”

Liz was making her way across the bed and was now exploring Stanton’s crotch with her tongue.

Stanton gave a little gasp.

“Sorry, Marty,” the president said. “What was that?”

“Mosquito, Will.”

“I didn’t know they had mosquitoes in Denver in late October.”

“It’s probably been trapped in this hotel since August,” Stanton said, running his fingers through Liz’s hair.

“We’ll talk again,” the president said. “Good-bye for now.”

“Bye, Will.” Stanton hung up and gave his undivided attention to what Liz was doing to him.

Todd Bacon began making phone calls first thing in the morning, and he soon found a late-model Bonanza for rent. He called Greyfield Inn on Cumberland Island, where he knew the owners. He managed to book a room for two nights and got permission to land on the grass-and-sand strip near Stafford Beach, in the middle of the island. He also got their help in renting an old pickup truck that a local owned and arranged for them to leave it for him at the strip.

He checked out of the hotel, drove out to the airport, and presented his pilot’s license and medical certificate to the renters of the Bonanza. Then he took half an hour’s checkride, to show them he could handle the airplane.

“You’ll do,” the other pilot said, and Todd performed a respectable landing. He gave the people his credit card number and was given the keys to the airplane.

He turned in his rental car, tossed his bag into the rear of the Bonanza, started the engine, and took off in perfect weather. He didn’t file a flight plan; instead, he flew toward Stone Mountain, the second-largest piece of granite in the world, at two thousand feet above ground level, in order to stay under the Class B airspace of Atlanta, then, when he was clear, climbed to twelve thousand and leaned out the engine. The airplane would do better than 180 knots, and he had a decent tailwind, too.

As he flew south and east the landscape flattened and became more agricultural, and two hours later he was descending, with Cumberland Island in sight. The island was the typical leg-of-lamb shape, with the pointed end at the south, and he was at two thousand feet when he spotted the airstrip. As he anticipated, half a dozen of the island’s wild horses were grazing on the strip, and he flew over at fifty feet to scatter them before he turned and lined up for landing. He had to dodge a couple of potholes left by the rooting feral pigs that were common on the island.

He saw the rented pickup at the end of the field, taxied up to it, and cut the engine. He locked the aircraft and looked around for others. There were none in sight. He got the pickup started and drove slowly around the perimeter of the field, checking to be sure that no airplane was tucked away in the trees.

Satisfied, he drove south on the island’s only road toward the inn. Cumberland Island had been bought after the Civil War by Thomas Carnegie, brother of the steel magnate Andrew Carnegie, as a family retreat. Carnegie buit a large mansion for his family, manned by a village of three hundred workers who tended to the house and the island. He had no sons, but as his daughters grew into womanhood, he built a house for each of them, one of which, Greyfield, was now the inn.

He parked in front of the colonial house, with its huge live oak trees out front, dripping with Spanish moss. He checked into his room, found a book in the inn’s library, and sat in a rocker on the front porch reading and listening. Any airplane landing on the island could be heard from here.

A young woman brought him a glass of iced tea, which he accepted gratefully. “Tell me,” he said, “have any other airplanes landed on the island today or yesterday?”

“None at all,” she replied, “though we’re expecting a couple tomorrow, carrying a wedding party. The wedding is day after tomorrow, and some of them are staying here.”

“Thanks,” he said, and went back to his book.

As midafternoon passed, Todd got into the pickup again and drove north. Using a local map he found the slave village, where he stopped and got out. There were a few tiny cottages, all unoccupied, and the church. Todd walked around it, looking underneath, where there was only a crawl space behind latticework. He walked into the church and found an elderly black woman sweeping it out with a homemade broom.

“Good afternoon,” she said to him.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. You getting ready for the wedding tomorrow?”

“That’s right, suh,” she said in the low-country accent of the locals.

“It’s a pretty church,” he said, looking around.

“We likes to think it is,” she replied.

“Good day, then,” he said, and left.

“And de same to you, suh,” she replied, and went back to her sweeping.

She was the only person Todd had seen on the island outside the inn, and he didn’t think Teddy Fay was good enough at disguises to pass for an old black lady.

Todd drove on north, stopping once to watch a couple of good-sized alligators in a stream. He passed Plum Orchard, a Palladian mansion built by Carnegie for one of his daughters, now unoccupied. He saw deer, armadillos and other small wildlife, and hundreds of birds. He reached the beach and drove farther north, passing what must have been a flock of five hundred brown pelicans grouped on the beach.

He turned around and drove south on the beach at thirty miles an hour and saw not a soul until he reached the turnoff for the inn, where he saw a man filling potholes on the narrow road. He was back at the inn in time for a nap, and he left his window open to catch the sound of an airplane, which didn’t arrive.

He had an excellent dinner at a long table in the dining room with other guests and chatted with a few people. He had an after-dinner brandy, then retired to his room and his book.

Todd dozed off, then woke and switched his bedside light off and slept.

He was wakened in the night by the sound he had been waiting for. A small airplane was flying over the island to the north. He checked the bedside clock: three-ten a.m. Todd got out of bed, dressed, strung his holster on his belt, and crept out of the inn. He got the pickup started and drove north. There was a moon out, and he didn’t need headlamps, so he switched them off.