The Chancellor Manuscript (21 page)

The Continental was approaching rapidly, its grill growing larger in the rearview mirror. But the traffic light was directly ahead; both cars would have to stop.

He had to control himself, control the pain in his head, and do what he had to do! The madness had to stop!

He pulled to the right side of the road behind the two automobiles and waited to see what the Continental would do. It swung into the left lane behind the single car but stopped directly alongside his Mercedes.

Chancellor snapped up the handle and leaped out. He raced over to the Continental and grabbed the door handle, pulling with all his strength.

The door was locked. He pounded on the window.

“Who are you?
What are you
doing
?”

The impassive face—a macabre mask of a face—stared straight ahead behind the glass. There was no acknowledgment whatsoever.

Peter shook the handle and smashed his hand against the window. “You can’t do this to me!”

The drivers in the other cars peered out their windows. The light had turned green, but no one drove away.

Chancellor ran around the hood to the driver’s window, yanking the handle, hitting the glass.

“You crazy bitch! Who are you? What do you want?”

The terrible pale face, concealed by the hair and the glasses and the hat, turned and stared up at him. It
was
a mask, horrible and totally impassive. White powder and set, tight lips outlined in fiery red lipstick. He was studying
some obscene giant insect made up to look like a ghastly clown.

“Goddamn it, answer me!
Answer me!”

Nothing. Nothing but that terrible stare from the mask of that terrible face.

The cars ahead started to move. Peter heard the gunning of engines. He held onto the door, mesmerized by the macabre sight behind the window; he pounded the glass again.

“Who—?”

The Continental’s motor roared. His hand loosened its grip, and the Mark IV lurched forward, speeding through the intersection and up the highway.

Peter tried to read the license. There was none.

“You crazy bastard! I’ll break your head open, Motherfucker!”

The words, roared in anger, were not his words. The first of the two trucks he had insanely passed in the curve of the highway had come to a stop twenty yards away. Above the step to the driver’s cabin, a door opened and a barrel-chested trucker climbed out, a lug wrench in his hand.

“You son of a bitch! You damned near ran me off the road!”

Peter limped to the Mercedes. He threw himself into the seat and slammed the door, his fingers slapping down the lock. The trucker was within feet now, the wrench held high.

The Mercedes’s motor was still running. Chancellor reached for the gearshift and pulled it back, his foot hard on the accelerator, his hand on the wheel. The 450 SEL exploded in a burst of power; Peter gripped and swung the wheel to prevent the car from jumping the curb. He straightened it out and sped up the road.

It was a nightmare. A goddamned
nightmare
!

He sat alone in the living room of his apartment for over an hour. The lamp on top of the piano was the only source of light; sounds of the New York night came through the partially opened window. He wanted the air, and the sounds were reassuring. He was still perspiring, and the room was cool.

He had to control his panic. He had to think. Someone was trying to drive him out of his mind. He had to
fight back; he had to trace the terrible mask of a face. He had to go back—to a country road in Maryland where the terrible face had first appeared.

What was the name of the patrolman in Rockville? Connelly? Donovan? He’d given it to the rental agency at Dulles Airport; he would call them and find out. Then he would call the patrolman and ask—?

The telephone rang. He winced and got up from the chair. The caller had to be the congressman from Virginia. No one else knew he was in town. Rawlins had said he’d telephone during the evening and they would set up a time and a place to meet.

“Hello?”

“Peter?”

It was Joshua Harris. Chancellor had forgotten completely about him. “Hey, I’m sorry, old friend. I had some problems. I just got in.”

“What’s the matter?” Alarm was apparent in Harris’s voice.

“I—” No, he would not tell Joshua. Not now. Everything was too confused. “Nothing serious. Car repairs. It took longer than I thought. Where are you?”

“I was about to leave for the restaurant. The Richelieu, remember?”

Yes, he remembered. But he could not sit through the leisurely pace of a meal at an elegant restaurant. He’d go out of his mind, wanting and not wanting to confide in his literary agent.

“Would you mind if we postponed for a day if it fits your schedule? To tell you the truth, I worked from four thirty this morning till four this afternoon. Then the drive.… I’m whacked out.”

“The Hoover book’s coming along, then?”

“Better and faster than I ever thought possible.”

“That’s fine, Peter. I’m happy for you. Strange, Tony didn’t tell me.”

Chancellor interrupted quietly. “He doesn’t know. It’s the longest outline I’ve ever turned in; it’ll take him days to read it.”

Why didn’t he just say he’d started the damned book?

“You’ll bring me a copy, of course,” Harris said. “I don’t always trust you two, left alone with all those words.”

“Tomorrow night, I promise.”

“Tomorrow night, then. I’ll switch the reservation. Good night, Peter.”

“Good night” Chancellor hung up and walked to the window overlooking Seventy-first Street. It was a quiet, tree-lined block, the sort of block that people associated with another time in the city.

As he looked out the window, he was aware of an image coming into focus. He knew it was not real, but he was incapable of stopping it. It was the macabre face in the Continental. He was looking at that terrible mask of a face! It was in the glass, staring out at him, unseen eyes behind the enormous dark glasses, the bright red lipstick painted with precision in a sea of caked white powder.

Peter shut his eyes and brought his hand up to his forehead. What had he been about to do before Josh called? It had something to do with that horrible image in the glass. And the telephone. He was going to use the telephone.

The telephone rang. But it had just rung a few moments ago. It could not be ringing again.

It was ringing. Oh, Christ! He had to lie down; his temple ached, and he was not sure—
Answer the telephone
. He limped across the room.

“Chancellor?”

“Yes.”

“Rawlins. How good are you in the morning?”

“Is that supposed to be a funny joke?”

“Huh?”

“I work in the morning.”

“That don’t concern me. You know a place here in New York called the Cloisters?”

“Yes.” Peter held his breath. Was that, too, a horrible joke? The Cloisters had been a favorite of Cathy’s. How many summer Sundays had they walked over its lawns? But Rawlins could not know that. Or could he?

“Be there at five thirty tomorrow morning. Use the west entrance; the gate will be open. There’s a path about four hundred feet north that leads to an open courtyard. I’ll see you there.” The phone went dead.

The Southerner had chosen a strange location, a stranger hour. They were the choices of a frightened man. Alan Longworth had once more triggered the fear; he would have to be stopped, this “retired” agent, this gun-slinger filled with remorse.

But it was no time to think about Longworth. Peter knew he had to rest. Four thirty would come quickly.

He walked into the bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and unbuttoned his shirt. He sat nearly at the edge of the bed. Involuntarily, his body slowly fell backward, his head sinking into the pillow.

And the dreams came. The nightmares.

The grass was moist with dew, the early light breaking in the eastern sky. Relics and statuary were everywhere, and gnarled trees that seemed transported through the centuries. The only thing missing was the music of a lute or gentle voices singing madrigals.

Chancellor found the path. It was bordered by flowers and led up a small hill toward stone walls that turned out to be a rebuilt garth of a thirteenth-century French monastery. He approached it and stood in front of an ancient archway. Inside the courtyard were marble benches and miniature trees in artistic isolation. It was eerily still. He waited.

The minutes went by; the early morning light grew faintly brighter, enough to pick up the glistening white of the marble. Peter looked at his wristwatch. It was ten minutes to six. Rawlins was twenty minutes late.

Or had the congressman decided not to come after all? Was the fear so great?

“Chancellor.”

Peter turned, startled by the whisper. It came from a cluster of bushes about thirty feet away, foliage that surrounded a wide pedestal on the grass. On top of the stand was the sculptured head of a medieval saint. Coming out of the shadows was the figure of a man.

“Rawlins? How long have you been there?”

“ ’Bout three quarters of an hour.” Rawlins walked toward Peter. No handshake was offered.

“Why did you wait so long to come out?” Peter asked. “I’ve been here since five thirty.”

“Five thirty-three,” said the Southerner. “I waited to see if you were alone.”

“I am. Let’s talk.”

“Let’s
walk.”
They started down the path that led away from the pedestal. “Something wrong with your leg?” asked Rawlins.

“It’s an old football injury. Or a war wound. Take
your choice. I don’t want to walk. I want to hear what you have to say. I didn’t ask for this meeting, and I’ve got work to do.”

Rawlins’s face reddened. “There’s a bench over there.”

“There were benches inside the courtyard.”

“And maybe microphones.”

“You’re crazy. So’s Longworth.”

The congressman did not reply until they reached the white wrought-iron bench. “Longworth’s your partner, ain’t he? In this here extortion.” Rawlins sat down as he spoke. The dim light washed over his face; the bravado of seconds ago was fading.

“No,” answered Peter. “I have no partner and I’m not an extortionist.”

“But you’re writin’ a book.”

“That’s how I make my living. I write novels.”

“Sure. That’s why the Central Intelligence boys had a lot of soiled underwear in a ’round-the-clock laundry. I heard about that one. Thing called
Counterstrike!”

“I think you’re exaggerating. What did you want to tell me?”

“Leave it alone, Chancellor.” The congressman spoke in a flat voice. “The information you got ain’t worth a thimble of piss. Oh hell, you can ruin me, but I’ll save my butt legally; I can do that. Then you gotta answer for what follows.”

“What information? Whatever Longworth told you is a lie. I have no information about you.”

“Don’t bullshit me. I don’t deny I got problems. I know what people like you think of me. I use the word
nigger
in private more than you’d like to hear; I got a fondness for pretty black ass when I’m juiced up—’though, goddamn it, I suppose that could be in my favor; I’m married to a bitch whore who can blow the whistle on me anytime and take just about everything I got north of Roanoke. I may live with all that, boy, but I do my job on that Hill! And I ain’t no killer! Do you understand?”

“Sure. Just your normal, everyday plantation family. Very quaint and lovable. You’ve said enough. I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not!” Rawlins was on his feet, blocking Peter’s path. “Please. Listen to me. I’m a lot of things, but you can’t label me a redneck. No one with the brains to get naked out of the rain is any longer. ‘Cause the numbers and the motives ain’t what they used to be. The whole
world’s changin’, and to be blind to that is to invite a goddamned bloodbath. Nobody wins; everybody loses.”

“Motives?” Chancellor studied the southerner’s face. It was devoid of artifice. “What are you driving at?”

“I never blocked responsible change. But I fight like a trapped cat when that change is irresponsible. To turn over million-dollar decisions to folks who ain’t qualified, who
don’t
have the brains to get out of the rain, that only sets
everybody
back.”

Peter was fascinated, as he always was when the image and the substance clashed. “What has this got to do with whatever it is you think I’ve got?”

“I was
set up
in Newport News! I was fed a barrel of sour mash and taken down dark alleys I never saw. I may have humped that little girl, but I didn’t kill her! I wouldn’t know how to do what
they
did to her! But I know who did it. And those black bastards know I know. They’re worse than scum; they’re nigger Nazis, killin’ their own, hidin’ behind—?”

There was a spit of air behind them, somewhere in the distance. And then the unbelievable—the
inconceivable
—happened. Chancellor stared in terror, unable to move.

Rawlins’s mouth had sprung open. A circle of red had formed above his right eyebrow. Blood spewed out, gushing at first, then rolling down in rivulets over the ashen skin and unblinking eye. Still, the body
stood
, frozen in death. And then, slowly, as if in some horrible ballet, Rawlins’s legs gave way and his corpse fell over, collapsing in the wet grass.

A muted expulsion of breath came from Peter’s throat; a scream had been born, but no sound came, his shock beyond any cry of terror.

There was another spit; the air waves shattered above him. And another; there was a
ping
, and the earth exploded beneath him. A bullet had ricocheted off the bench! Whatever remained of his instincts propelled him off his feet; he dove to his left, rolling on the grass and lunging out of the target area. There were more spits, more furious explosions of grass and dirt. A fragment of stone whipped past his ear; inches closer and he would have been blinded or killed. Suddenly his forehead scraped a hard surface, the palm of his hand stinging as it pressed against jagged rock.
He had lurched into a monument of some kind, a medallion of stone surrounded by bushes.

He spun over on his back. He was hidden, but all around were the sickening thumps of bullets.