The Language Of Cannibals

CHAPTER ONE

In the purple distance neatly scripted alphabet vultures with Zs for eyes soared in the thermals swirling over and around an alphabet volcano spewing what appeared to be incomplete, fractured sentences and clustered gobs of words that were half submerged in a river of blood red lava. Block-letter trees formed an oppressive jungle that appeared like a great fungus growth that was an infection on, rather than a part of, the land. The exhausted, hapless soldier who had wandered into this eerie and alien landscape was hopelessly entangled in a web of punctuation-mark vines. His boyish features twisted in anguish and horror as crablike creatures- rendered, like everything else in the landscape except the soldier, of a profusion of single letters and half-formed words or sentences-dined on his left leg. The foot had already been consumed, and a gleaming white shaft of bone protruded from the ragged flesh of his ankle, which was spewing blood of red and blue. I looked for some pattern, complete sentences or phrases, in the maelstrom of letters and words but couldn't find any; in this haunted place, the twenty-six letters of the alphabet were just the skeletal matter of mindless creatures that existed to rend, consume, and infect, not make sense. The painting, titled The Language of Cannibals, was by a man named Jack Trex, and I rather liked it. I found the notion of these flesh-eating letter-creatures food for thought.

The hand-printed placard taped to the wall beneath the painting identified Trex as the commander of the Cairn chapter of Vietnam Veterans of America, whose members were the sole contributors to the exhibit of art and crafts.

For some time, I'd been reading and hearing good things about Cairn, a small town on the banks of the Hudson River a few miles north of New York City. Noted for its many art galleries, antique shops, and fine restaurants, as well as its thriving community of artists, Cairn is a mixed society of very rich, some poor blue-collar families, and assorted celebrities who like their yachts close at hand but have tired of Connecticut and the Hamptons. Bed-and-board establishments, most of them operated by the blue-collar families who once supplied manpower for the now-defunct stone quarry on a mountain at the edge of town, have proliferated, and of late tour buses operating out of New York City bring weekend day-trippers to Cairn to enjoy street fairs, antiquing, or simply the bucolic atmosphere, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the occasional rock or movie stars who eat, shop, or stroll on the narrow streets of the small business district. For longer than a year I'd been meaning to spend a weekend checking out Cairn with some lady friend, or maybe my brother, but simply had never gotten around to it. Now I was in Cairn, but definitely not under circumstances I would have chosen.

Four days before, a troubled friend of mine died in this area. Certain specifics in the news reports of his death, most of which focused primarily on his notoriety and disgrace of the past year, did not square with the Michael Burana I had known. I was in Cairn to supply information and ask a few questions, not necessarily in that order.

It was a Friday evening in early August, and it had been oppressively hot for more than two weeks. Since March, Garth and I had been working on a particularly Byzantine case of industrial espionage, commuting at least once a week to Silicon Valley, and using our weekends to try to deal with Frederickson and Frederickson's mounting mass of paperwork, mostly detailed reports that had to be filed with our client. We were still at it, and I had no time for an outing, but I'd figured that the business I had to take care of in Cairn should take no more than one or two hours, a morning at most, and I'd planned to drive up early Saturday. But when the air conditioner in my apartment in our brownstone on West Fifty-sixth Street broke down in late afternoon, I'd decided to immediately head for cooler climes, namely someplace with air-conditioning in or near Cairn. I'd left a message for Garth, who was out meeting with our client's battalion of attorneys as they prepared for the impending court trial, had hopped into my modified Volkswagen Rabbit, Beloved Too, and headed for the George Washington Bridge. Assuming that all the bed-and-board places in town would be full, I'd checked into a motel on Route 9W, which forms the western boundary of Cairn. I'd immediately turned the air conditioner on full blast, showered and changed into fresh clothes, then gone out to get something to eat and poke around town.

I'd enjoyed a fine, inexpensive meal in an exquisite Thai restaurant housed in a converted diner next to an old-fashioned ice cream parlor that really is old, then gone out and started down Cairn's Main Street toward the river. I'd passed through the business district without attracting more than a moderate number of stares from people standing outside the various rock and jazz bars, then angled off onto a side street to investigate what appeared to be some fine old houses that probably date back to the turn of the century. I'd gone about a block and a half when I saw something across the street that caught my attention and brought me to a stop. A modest frame house that, according to the bronze sign planted in the front yard, had been the childhood home of one of America's finest artists had been converted into an art gallery, and the red, white, and blue banner hanging across the front rend Art of Vietnam Veterans. According to another sign on the lawn, this was the first day of the exhibition, and it looked to me like the doors had just opened. People were starting to go in, the majority of them pointedly ignoring the three young men who stood at the edge of the sidewalk in front of the gallery trying to pass out literature. The men, all of whom looked to be in their late twenties or early thirties, had longish hair and wore robin's-egg-blue T-shirts with the words COMMUNITY OF CONCILIATION: GIVE PEACE A CHANCE emblazoned in crimson across the front and back. Since the organization that called itself the Community of Conciliation was one of the reasons I was in Cairn, the presence of the three men on the sidewalk in front of the gallery had more than served to pique my curiosity.

I'd crossed the street, debating whether or not to try to engage the men in conversation. I'd taken a mimeographed flier from one of the men, then stepped back off the sidewalk to read it. The sheet, single-spaced, outlined the basic goals of the Community of Conciliation, a pacifist and environmental organization, and listed its activities, both worldwide and local. One of the local activities was crossed out, thus making it impossible for a reader's attention not to be drawn to it; a thin line had been drawn through the item, but the text beneath the ink was clearly visible. The deleted item, almost certainly meant to be noticed, read: "Wednesday night fellowship and counseling sessions with Vietnam Veterans of America."

It appeared that the Community of Conciliation was attempting to send a message to the people entering the exhibit, or the veterans themselves, but it hadn't seemed the proper time or place for me to try to pinpoint just what that message was. I'd folded the flier, put it in the back pocket of my jeans, and gone into the house-to almost immediately be confronted, surprised, and pleased by The Language of Cannibals.

I went looking for Jack Trex, to tell him how much I liked his painting. He wasn't hard to find. In the main viewing area, in what had been the house's living room, five men wearing flag-emblazoned name tags were standing in a tight circle near a fireplace filled with freshly cut flowers. The tallest of them was about Garth's size, six feet three or four, and solid. The man, dressed in khaki slacks, plaid shirt, and running shoes, seemed to be doing more listening than talking. When he stepped back to reach for his drink on a small table behind him he swung his left leg stiffly, moving in the slightly listing manner of someone who has either suffered a severe leg injury or is wearing an artificial limb. I walked closer, and a glimpse at the man's name tag confirmed that he was Jack Trex.

Standing near Trex's left elbow, just outside the circle, I waited patiently for someone to take polite notice of me. When nobody did I cleared my throat, twice. The second throat-clearing did the trick; the men stopped talking, loosened their circle slightly, and began looking around to see who was making all the guttural noises. I found myself looking up into five faces that reflected not so much hostility as irritation. Although the occasion was a celebration of their art and craft work, and thus they might be expected to act as unofficial hosts to the public, it was clear that they were not interested in talking to "civilians."

Jack Trex had thinning black hair that was graying at the temples, and a full mustache that was all gray. His pale green eyes shone with an intelligence and sensitivity that belied the rather vacant, remote expression on his face. Two of the other veterans wore camouflage vests over gray T-shirts; one of the men had hostile, mud-brown eyes, and wore his long, yellow hair in a ponytail held in place by a leather thong. The men in the camouflage vests were staring at me as if they'd never seen a dwarf before. The man directly to my left, a Hispanic, wore a heavy flannel shirt despite the heat. Directly across the circle was a spindly, emaciated-looking veteran who wore a blue polyester suit that was baggy on him and which only served to highlight the network of red, alcohol-ruptured veins in his nose and cheeks. Although they'd been carrying on an animated conversation before I came over, all the men were now silent, their expressions wooden as they stared at me.

"Excuse me," I said, addressing all of them, "I didn't mean to interrupt."

The emaciated man with the blue polyester suit and broken veins giggled nervously, an abrupt and grating sound. "I ain't seen anyone as small as this guy since I left 'Nam," he said in a high-pitched voice and giggled again. "Who let the VC in here?"

Under other circumstances his remark might have called for a razor-sharp rejoinder from my vast repertory of counter-putdowns, but I decided from the look of him that he already had enough problems; there was pain in his nervous giggle, the soul-ache of a man who must struggle at all times to try to speak and behave normally or risk falling into the scream I suspected was always lurking at the back of his throat, like the tickle of a cough. Certainly, a disproportionate number of our Vietnam veterans seemed to have more than their share of emotional and physical problems, and I hadn't come over to trade barbs with one of the nation's walking wounded.

Turning to Trex, I said evenly, "I just wanted to tell you that I admire your painting."

The big man's features softened somewhat, and he was obviously pleased. He nodded slightly and opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by the braying laughter of the man with the hostile, mud-brown eyes and pony tail.

"Jesus, Jack," the man with the ponytail said, "you finally found somebody who likes the smell of all that shit in your head. That painting of yours is the creepiest flicking thing I've ever seen. It doesn't make any fucking sense."

Trex glanced sharply at the man with the ponytail, and then at the man in the polyester suit. They both abruptly fell silent, and the ponytailed man looked down at the floor.

"Thanks," Trex said simply as he glanced back down at me, "I appreciate the kind words."

I didn't much care for this crew; there was too much alienation, too much insularity, too much thinly veiled hostility radiating from the men like body odor. But I also knew that such feelings were by no means unique to this small group. I tried to make some small talk, in a manner of speaking, and my conversational gambits were met with a modicum of polite, mumbled answers. The tension in the air remained. I felt like the cop who had accidentally wandered into the local gambling den; everyone was covering his hands and chips and waiting for me to go away.

After complimenting Jack Trex once again on his painting, I went away.

I fortified myself with a glass of white wine and some Jarlsberg cheese from a buffet that had been set up, then wandered through the rest of the rooms on the ground floor, examining the rest of the display of crafts and artwork. I saw nothing else that interested me. Jack Trex, with his primitive technique and sketchy command of material, was in no danger of becoming a professional artist, but there was real passion radiating from his canvas, feeling that belied the wooden, remote manner he displayed when I had tried to talk to him. I saw no comparable display of emotion in any of the other paintings, wood carvings, macrame, and pottery that constituted the rest of the show; it all seemed to me rather institutional, like baskets woven by mental patients during art therapy. There were lots of land- and seascapes, but they all lacked depth and feeling, like paintings of paintings or works executed by artists whose minds were on other things-which, I thought, was quite likely the case with some of them. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, it was called. There was no group that suffered more stress-related emotional and physical problems than America's Vietnam veterans, but with the obvious exception of Jack Trex's painting, none of that inner conflict was reflected in the work I viewed.

A close friend of mine to whom I owed my life, a very mysterious and multigifted man by the name of Veil Kendry, was not only a Vietnam veteran but a world-class artist whose works now hung in private collections and museums all over the world. From Veil I had learned not only a great deal about the catastrophically rending effect the Vietnam War had had upon the men who fought there but also about the pain and potential in the human heart in general; from Veil I had learned of, and witnessed, the power of art to transcend-and, finally, to heal- that pain, sublimating rage, violence, and vague hurt. But the artist first had to be willing to communicate, to try to describe the shapes and colors of the maelstrom within. Again with the sole exception of Jack Trex, I saw no one in this place making such an effort-not judging by the flat, emotionless quality of the work I examined.

I decided that there was a great deal of emotional repression in the Cairn chapter of Vietnam Veterans of America. It depressed me.

Before leaving I decided to view The Language of Cannibals once more. I left the main viewing area, turned down the corridor where Trex's painting was hanging in its out-of-the-way, dimly lighted setting. I stopped a quarter of the way down the corridor and studied the man who was studying the painting. He was about five feet nine or ten, with the compact frame and erect bearing of a former athlete who was fastidious about remaining in good shape. He had a full head of chestnut-brown hair, razor-cut in a short, conservative style. He was wearing a finely tailored, brown seersucker suit, light blue shirt and brown tie, pale brown loafers with tassels. Seen in profile, he had small ears, high, pronounced cheekbones, a strong mouth and chin. I felt I'd seen him somewhere before and that I should know who he was.

The solid man in the seersucker suit seemed totally absorbed in the painting, unaware that I was studying him. I watched as he leaned forward, peering closely at individual sections, apparently trying, as I had done, to find some meaning in the strings and clots of the letters themselves. After a few moments he backed away a step, leaned to one side and then the other in order to view the painting from different angles.

He wasn't a movie or rock star; I was certain of that. And he wasn't a celebrity in the usual sense.

He was. . the confidant of, an aide to, a celebrity. Ah.

The man's name was Jay Acton, and I had seen him-very briefly, in an unguarded moment when he was unaware that he was being photographed-in a PBS documentary on extreme right-wing influences in America.

Jay Acton was an aide to-and, the documentary had strongly hinted, the intellect and strategist behind-a curious fellow by the name of Elysius Culhane, the self-styled "last of the conservative purists." Culhane's words in his syndicated newspaper column and over the air on the political television talk shows he regularly hosted or appeared on were sometimes insightful, but always abrasive, and were raptly absorbed by millions of Americans.

To me, the man was a baying full-mooner. I considered Elysius Culhane a not-so-subtle Nazi sympathizer, a shameless hypocrite, a zealous ideologue, and an aggressive intellectual thug. He was a master of language, despite a slight speech impediment that caused him to occasionally slur two or three words together, but this man's language was not a descriptive or analytic tool for carving truth. It was just one more weapon to be used against what Culhane perceived as America's enemies-"godless communism" in general and all Russians in particular, glasnost and perestroika and the crumbling of the Evil Empire or no, liberals, moderates, humanists, women who had abortions and doctors who performed them, the Supreme Court, unmarried people who did not practice chastity, homosexuals, and any nation, institution, or individual not reflecting or espousing "Christian values," as he defined them.

In his autobiography, If You're Not Right You're Wrong, rumored to have been ghostwritten by Jay Acton, Culhane described his upbringing as the "runt" in the rough-and-tumble world of a Roman Catholic, working-class family with eleven children headed by a hard-drinking father and a manic-depressive mother who spent more time in mental hospitals than her home. I'd thought his father sounded more than a bit abusive, single-handedly ruling his brood of children with fists and a leather strap, but Culhane had written glowingly of a childhood dominated by a father who "taught me what real values are, and wasn't afraid to lay on the leather when you got it wrong." He had been educated in Roman Catholic schools run by priests, nuns, and brothers who "brooked no nonsense when it came to the meaning of the blood of Christ and America's hallowed place in God's plan for the world." Near the end of the book, after coming perilously close, within a verb or two, to calling for a coordinated, preemptive nuclear attack on Russia, China, and the "Arab world," he lamented the fact that all American children had not had the benefit of his upbringing. Elysius Culhane was always looking to lay on the fists and leather, at home and abroad.

Culhane had cut his political teeth as a fund-raiser in the political twilight world of Lyndon Larouche, a fact he denied but which had been confirmed by a number of reporters, then left when Larouche's ship began to sink under the combined weight of too many preposterous conspiracy theories, charges of widespread mail and credit card fraud, and increasingly frequent visits from the IRS.

He landed on his feet, running, when, through powerful connections he'd made while working for Larouche, he was taken on board by successive conservative administrations that found him, at least for a time, useful as a bulwark against right-wing critics. Then Kevin Shannon was elected president- an event in which Garth and I played no small part, albeit by default, and through no choice of our own-and Culhane was out.

Out, maybe, but by no means down. Quite the contrary.

Within a short time after Shannon's inauguration, Culhane was signed for a syndicated column, and began popping up all over the place on various television news and talk shows as a "spokesman for the right." He certainly caught on in this post-Vietnam world among a segment of the population living in an America that no longer quite fit their notion of what America had once been, and should be. Culhane's was an "us against them" view of the planet-and by "us" he by no means meant all Americans, but only those who shared his views; those who perceived things differently were "dupes of the Russians" at best, and at worst traitors.

It was a song-and-dance revue that played very nicely in Peoria, and a good many other places as well. While I might consider Elysius Culhane a monumental pain in the ass, a national embarrassment, and a transparent demagogue dispensing apocalyptic visions that bore no relationship whatever with reality, a very large mass of people considered him little less than a potential savior of America.

According to the PBS documentary, stating an opinion reflected in a number of articles I'd read since then, the eminence grise behind Elysius Culhane's relatively rapid rise to his present position of celebrity, power, and wealth was none other than the mysterious, rarely seen Jay Acton. Acton was the strategist who'd found the right formula to successfully mix hot air, flaming oratory, flammatory ideas, and uncanny skill at obfuscation into a potent brew that fueled an increasingly powerful political infernal medicine of divisiveness and hatred.

I wondered what Jay Acton was doing in Cairn, at this art exhibition.

"Dr. Robert Frederickson, I presume?"

Ah, again. Jay Acton was in Cairn, at this art exhibition, because his boss was here.

I turned around to face Elysius Culhane, who was standing directly behind me. I was used to seeing him in close-up on a television screen, perspiration filming his high forehead and upper lip as he leaned forward to launch into one of his harangues about "cleaning up the soul of America." On television he always loomed large, and I was surprised to find that he was no more than five feet six or seven, stocky. He was wearing an expensive gray silk suit with a cream-colored shirt, patterned silk tie, and black alligator shoes. His graying black hair was combed straight back. He had piercing black eyes, a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once and not properly set. There was a comma of scar tissue at the corner of his right eye. His deep tan nicely highlighted the unnatural white of his capped teeth. I thought he looked like a Hollywood version of a mobster, but then I was prejudiced.

"Elysius Culhane," I replied. When I shook the hand he extended I noted a slight tremor.

"I'm flattered that you recognize me," he said with a disingenuous smile that indicated he certainly wasn't surprised I'd recognized him.

"Do I detect a note of false modesty? You're the celebrity here, Mr. Culhane, not me."

"From what I've heard about you, I wouldn't think that you'd be one of my viewers."

"I don't know what you've heard about me," I said with a little bit of my own disingenuous smile, "but the fact of the matter is that you're pretty hard to avoid these days if you watch any news shows at all."

He smiled thinly and nodded, obviously pleased with my observation. "Well, you and your brother aren't exactly just faces in the crowd, are you? It seems to me that I've been reading and hearing about the exploits of Mongo the Magnificent, ex-circus headliner turned criminology professor and private investigator, for years. You're quite a colorful character, and I'm pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," I said, trying as best I could to mask my lack of enthusiasm.

"You're in partnership now with your brother, aren't you?"

"You're very well informed, Mr. Culhane."

"It's my business to be informed, Dr. Frederickson, especially as it concerns the waxing and waning of political fortunes in Washington."

"You must have the wrong dwarf, Mr. Culhane. Frederickson and Frederickson has nothing to do with politics or power in Washington."

Culhane narrowed his eyelids and pursed his lips. "Now I think it's you who's displaying false modesty. It's well known in the circles I travel in that you and your brother are personal friends of the president, as well as of that aging, cagey old fellow who's director of the Defense Intelligence Agency."

Elysius Culhane's tendency to slur words together was becoming gradually more pronounced, and he seemed slightly nervous. It occurred to me that he was digging for something.

"You'd better get some new sources, Culhane. Kevin Shannon would probably be highly amused to hear me described as a friend of his. He knows how I feel about politics and politicians."

"Oh? How do you feel about politics and politicians?"

"Anybody who expresses a desire to run for any office should automatically be disqualified."

"An interesting notion."

"Not original. Power doesn't necessarily corrupt, but power always holds a fascination for people who are easily corrupted."

Culhane's highly polished manner was growing a coat of tarnish; his smile had wrinkled into something approaching a sneer, and something that looked very much like contempt was glowing like banked coals in his black eyes. "Come now, Frederickson. Would you deny that Frederickson and Frederick-son has grown enormously wealthy and powerful because of business that has been steered your way by this administration?"

"If it has, I don't know about it. I assume that Mr. Shannon and his associates have better things to do than steer business our way. Sometimes they even make decisions I agree with."

"Surely you're aware that yours is the investigative agency of choice for those corporations and individuals who want to stay in the good graces of this administration."

"I'd like to think that Frederickson and Frederickson is the investigative agency of choice for corporations and individuals who want topflight investigatory work done."

His sneer was becoming even more pronounced. "I've offended you."

Ordinarily I would have considered it time for a tart exit line, but I continued to experience the feeling that Culhane was after more from me than casual conversation. I couldn't imagine what, but my curiosity was sufficiently strong to keep me toe-to-toe with him for a while longer. I glanced over my shoulder, found that Jay Acton was gone. "Not at all," I said, returning my gaze to the other man. "You were suffering from a misconception, which I hope I've corrected. I've observed that not many people ever get a chance to get a word in edgewise with you, much less enjoy the opportunity to try to straighten you out on some of your quaint notions."

He didn't much like that, and he flushed slightly. "I've even heard it said that you and your brother, with certain knowledge in your possession, could perhaps have prevented the election of this accursed administration; I have to assume that the same information could bring down this administration. It wouldn't be hard for a neutral observer like myself to conclude that more than natural market forces have been at work in your firm's huge and relatively recent success. There may be powerful people who don't want to see you or your brother. . disgruntled."

I was going to have to try to ignore the gross insult, because the first part of his statement happened to be true, and Elysius Culhane was the last person in the world I wanted to know. The knowledge he'd referred to could not only topple an administration but send a lot of people, including Garth and me, to prison. The realization that Elysius Culhane, with his complex web of confidants, contacts, and rumor-mongers, was sniffing the shreds of flesh left on these particular political skeletons chilled me.

I smiled, said, "You've got to be kidding me."

"Is it true?" he asked in a flat tone. A bead of perspiration had appeared on his upper lip, just as if he were on television, and he quickly wiped it away.

I smiled even harder, baring my teeth. "If it was, would I tell you?"

"There might come a time when your sense of patriotism and duty to your country will-"

"What are you doing in Cairn, Culhane?"

The interruption seemed to throw him off balance. He stared at me for a few moments, obviously debating whether or not to pursue his examination of my sense of patriotism and duty to country, apparently thought better of it. "I live here," he said with a shrug. "I moved from Washington to Cairn just about a year ago."

"Oh. Nice town."

"And you? Would you, uh. . be here on business? I can't imagine what there would be in Cairn that would require or test the keen investigative skills of the famed Mongo Frederickson."

"You're too kind. Actually I'm just visiting; I happened to be passing by here, saw there was an art show, and decided to check it out."

"See anything you like?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," I replied, turning around in the otherwise empty corridor and pointing toward Jack Trex's dimly lighted painting. "I was rather taken with that work over there."

Culhane grimaced, as if something he'd had for lunch or dinner had just repeated on him. "Really? I don't like it at all. It doesn't make any sense, and it's depressing. In fact, I recommended that it not be included in the exhibit, but since the artist is the commander of this particular chapter of Vietnam Veterans of America, I was overruled."

"You recommended that it not be included? What are you, the local censor?"

"No," he replied in what I may only have imagined was a wistful tone, perhaps missing my sarcasm. "I underwrite a good many activities of the Vietnam veterans; as a matter of fact, this exhibit was my idea, and I'm sponsoring it. That painting has no place in a show like this. It does nothing to improve the image of the Vietnam veterans; it gives people the wrong impression. I think it was Patrick Buchanan who wrote that the food you put in a man's mind is at least as important as the food you put in his stomach."

"By golly, that sounds almost Marxist. I think most people would rather have food in their bellies and be left alone."

"That painting is just garbage, and it's not good for people to eat garbage."

"You think image ranks high on the Vietnam veterans' list of problems?"

"Yes. I think their image ranks high on the nation's list of problems. They're perceived as a bunch of drug addicts, alcoholics, adulterers, and sissies who can't handle stress."

"I always thought they were perceived as a group of fighting men who have some special problems because they were unfortunate enough to have been caught up in a special kind of war we weren't really prepared to fight."

"They have problems because they fought in a war America lost, Frederickson," Culhane said with real emotion, his slur once again becoming pronounced. "America now has special problems because it fought a war and lost, a war that was lost because of fuzzy-headed thinking and cowardly actions by leaders like Kevin Shannon. The Vietnam veterans were betrayed; the country was betrayed. Many of these men don't really understand that to this day. When they do understand it, and when they, or men like them, can be unleashed to fight communists once again and win for a change, they'll feel better. The country will feel better. When people see a painting like Trex's, their image of the veterans is that they're a group of cowards who blame America for what happened to them. It's defeatist."

"An intriguing political and artistic analysis."

"You're patronizing me."

"What do you expect me to say, Culhane? You expect me to argue with you? I'm not interested in politics, and I'm even less interested in political discussions. Sometimes I suspect that strong political ideology, like religious fervor, has a genetic as well as a cultural basis. Maybe they're just two faces of the same psychological phenomenon."

"You don't believe in God? You don't believe in your country?"

"I believe in gravity, mathematics, and mystery, as a friend of mine once said. As far as my country is concerned, I'm constantly amazed that our institutions have enabled us, at least so far, to survive the band of fools we keep on elevating to positions of power, not to mention the dunces, liars, thieves, and hypocrites."

"You're naive."

"Hmm. Does that mean you don't agree with me?"

"What does that painting mean?"

"I wouldn't presume to try and second-guess the artist. You probably wouldn't see it the same way in any case."

"What does it mean to you, Frederickson?"

"It means Jack Trex probably wouldn't see it the same way as you either."

Elysius Culhane studied me for a few moments, looked down at the floor, then back at me. I had the impression that he was making an effort to calm himself. "I'm enjoying this conversation immensely, Frederickson," he said at last. "May I suggest that we continue it tomorrow? I have a rather nice home on the river. Why don't you join me tomorrow afternoon for cocktails?"

"I won't be here that long, Culhane, and I don't believe you're enjoying this conversation. What do you really want from me?"

Again Culhane flushed, and he averted his gaze. His smile had become a grimace. He took a deep breath, slowly let it out. "All right, that's blunt enough," he said. "What I'd like is to talk some more about your relationship with Kevin Shannon."

"You mean you want me to tell you what you think I know that could hurt the president and his administration."

"Some people say you and your brother know more about some of this country's vital secrets than the director of the CIA."

"You know, Culhane, I can never tell if you're putting me on. I read your columns and listen to you on television; you're the one who's the obvious recipient of leaks of classified information. Every time there's going to be a vote on the defense budget, you come up with some of the most wondrous information."

"You may not always feel as anti-American as you do now. You-"

"Who said I feel anti-American?"

"There may come a time when your opinions will change."

"Meaning that I'll see things your way?"

"If and when that time comes, you may want to make some moves that could help your country. If you'll share information about Shannon with me, I'll make it worth your while."

"You'd pay me?"

"Of course."

"I love it. Is betrayal high on that list of what you call 'Christian values'?"

"Supplying information that will hurt the enemies of this country isn't betrayal."

"Do you really believe that Kevin Shannon is an enemy of this country?"

"Unwittingly, perhaps, but his actions make him a dupe of the communists."

"Culhane, has it ever occurred to you that there are people in this country who believe that the American right wing has been, and continues to be, a greater threat to our personal liberties than the communists ever have been, or will be? You guys are always talking about getting government off the backs of the people, but what you really mean is that you want the government to get off the back of business. It doesn't bother you at all, in fact you like it, when the government goes snooping into our bedrooms and libraries. Total social control has always been a wet dream of the far right. I don't mind the government auditing my taxes, Culhane, but I sure as hell don't want it auditing my mind."

The color drained from Elysius Culhane's face. He shifted his weight slightly, like a prizefighter, raised a thick index finger, and stuck it in my face. "You're what's wrong with this country, you fucking dwarf communist! People like you are the reason this country is going down the toilet!"

I was studying the finger in front of my face, trying to decide just what I wanted to do with it, when there was a sudden loud screech of brakes from the street, then movement and shouts from the people in the other room. Culhane turned in the direction of the noise, and I decided it was better to leave his finger alone than risk a lawsuit for assault. I brushed past him in the narrow corridor, went into the main viewing area to see what all the excitement was about.

It looked as if the house had listed and thrown everyone to the front; people were crowded in the entranceway and at the windows, staring at something outside.

A woman shouted, "Atta boy, Gregory! Way to clean up the sidewalk!”

Being of diminutive stature occasionally has it advantages. I was able to slip, sidle, and squeeze through the clot of people in the entranceway and make my way out to the porch, where I maneuvered around more people until I was able to claim a spot at the railing.

The screech of tires I'd heard had, I assumed, come from the Jeep Wagoneer that was now resting half up over the curb with its nose on the sidewalk at about the spot where the three men from the Community of Conciliation had been passing out their fliers. One of the blue-shirted Community members was sitting on the ground, ashen-faced and stunned, his fliers scattered around him. The other two men were trying unsuccessfully to hold their ground against a heavyset man, presumably the driver of the wayward Jeep, who kept advancing on them, bumping first one Community member and then the other with his barrel chest as he snatched at the fliers in their hands. The big man wore camouflage fatigues and a khaki tank top. He wore his blond hair cut very short on the top and shaved on the sides. I decided he was too young, probably in his early twenties, to be a veteran of anything more serious than Grenada. Except for the black sneakers he wore, and the fact that MPs and commanding officers take a very dim view of servicemen driving up on sidewalks and bullying civilians, he looked as if he might have just stepped out of a Marine barracks or boot camp.

A woman from the Community of Conciliation had joined the group since I'd come in. She was now standing by herself on the other side of the sidewalk bisected by the nose of the Jeep, her back straight, head high, and chin thrust out as she held aloft a neatly lettered cardboard sign stapled to a wooden stick. Whatever message the three men had been trying to convey with their fliers, there was nothing subtle about the message on the woman's sign. It read: STOP THE DEATH SQUAD.

There was something vaguely familiar about the woman, and I moved a few steps to my left in an effort to get a better angle of her face. She was tall and slender in her jeans and blue T-shirt that outlined small but firm breasts. I put her in her mid-forties. She wore steel-rimmed glasses that glinted in the light from the streetlamps, which had just come on. The most striking feature about her was her long hair, a light blond that was almost white, dramatically streaked with gray and hanging almost to the small of her back. The hands that clutched the wooden stick seemed too large for the rest of her frame, with the nails unpolished and cut very short.

They were hands I'd seen before playing an acoustic guitar as well as or better than any of her equally famous contemporaries as she'd sung her protest songs in a dulcet, achingly beautiful soprano.

Shades of the 1960s: antiwar protests, sit-ins, civil rights marches, Pete Seeger, Harry Peal, Judy Collins, Dylan, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Baez. The middle-aged woman standing on the sidewalk, defiantly holding up her sign, was none other than Mary Tree, one time "Queen of Folk," and my brother Garth's all-time secret heartthrob for more than twenty-five years. Although Garth had always disagreed with her pacifism, and a good deal of her politics, he'd bought every one of her records as soon as they were released, and had attended all of her concerts throughout the sixties and seventies whenever she appeared in the New York area. Then the war ended, the "Me Generation" blossomed into adolescence and adulthood wearing hundred-dollar sneakers and pushing five-hundred-dollar baby carriages, and Mary Tree's popularity faded like Puff the Magic Dragon, along with most of the protest movements of which she had been such an integral part. Her concerts became rarer, in smaller and smaller arenas. The woman who had once been able to sell out Madison Square Garden ended in tiny coffeehouses similar to the ones in which she had begun her career. And then she disappeared from public view altogether, and no more records were released. Garth was heartbroken, and he finally got around to transferring all of her records to tape about one playing or two before the needle on his record player would have broken through the vinyl. We both wondered what had happened to her. Now I knew; she'd apparently been living in Cairn, working with the Community of Conciliation.

It appeared that Mary Tree was about to have her commitment to pacifism sorely tested.

The burly young man with the thick chest and potbelly had tired of bumping the two standing Community members around, had finally snatched their fliers out of their hands and shoved both of them to the ground, where they sat, hands to their faces as if to ward off blows. But their tormentor had lost interest in them and was stalking back across the lawn toward Mary Tree.

I glanced to my right, up the street toward the town's business district, expecting-hoping-to see an approaching police car. The street was empty.

To my left, Jack Trex had pushed his way out onto the porch and was about to go down the steps when Elysius Culhane caught up with him, grabbed his arm, and went up on his toes in order to whisper something in the veteran's ear. Trex angrily shook his head, and Culhane whispered some more. Trex appeared to hesitate, then abruptly pivoted on his undamaged right leg and pushed his way back into the house. Aside from the few people acting as an impromptu cheering section, it didn't look like anybody in the house or on the porch was inclined to do anything but watch.

The man in the camouflage fatigues and khaki tank top had reached Mary Tree and was crowding her. He stuck his flushed face close to hers and shouted obscenities. Mary Tree's response was to stand her ground and hold her sign even higher.

Suddenly the man stepped back three paces, did a little hop, then abruptly spun clockwise and leaped into the air. His right leg shot out, and he executed a near-perfect roundhouse high kick. The side of his foot caught the stick Mary Tree was holding at just the right point, with just the right velocity, snapping it cleanly an inch or two below the cardboard sign, which went flying through the air to land on the lawn about twenty feet in front of me.

The high aerial kick and clean breaking of the stick was an expert move, very difficult to do, and definitely not the kind of martial arts maneuver you expect to see executed by a heavy man with a gut. The young man had surprising speed and advanced expertise in either karate or tai kwan do. That made him a dangerous man-not only a loose cannon but a loaded one.

After her initial startled reaction, Mary Tree glared into the man's face, then turned and marched up the lawn. She threw aside the stick, then bent over to retrieve the sign. But the man was there a step ahead of her, and he'd planted his foot on the sign. When Mary Tree gripped the edge of the cardboard with both hands and tried to free it, the man shoved her shoulder with his stomach, pushing her to the ground and knocking her glasses askew. As she straightened her glasses and tried to get up, the man moved forward and planted his legs on either side of her body, forcing her down onto her back. Then, still straddling her, the man grabbed his crotch and began to grind his hips in her face, all the while continuing to scream obscenities. Mary Tree crabbed backward, trying to get out from between the man's legs, but he kept shuffling forward.

There was still no sign of the police and no indication that anyone else intended to do anything.

Ah, well; as it was, Garth was going to be very displeased with me for playing spectator for so long. I vaulted over the railing onto the lawn, strode forward, and picked up the picket stake Mary Tree had discarded.

"I think you've made your point, pal," I said to the man's back, and then goosed him hard with the jagged end of the stick.

He whooped and went about three feet straight up into the air, releasing his crotch and grabbing with both hands at his insulted anus. He landed and wheeled around to see whence had cometh his discomfort. I didn't like what I saw at all. The young man's eyes, one of which was slightly cast, were the color of milky green jade; I saw madness glittering there, along with murderous rage. His mouth was half open, revealing small, gapped teeth. He was alternately panting and growling like an animal.

He obviously hadn't enjoyed being goosed, and in a moment of absolute mental clarity, I understood that he intended, at the very least, to break things in me. This man with the milky green eyes and small teeth was definitely not a partner with whom I was going to spend a lot of time on the dance floor.

His right hand darted out and grabbed the end of the stick in my hands, and he yanked. I immediately released my grip so as not to be pulled to him, then ducked beneath a hard, straight side kick that would have bashed in my face and snapped my neck if it had landed. The man was definitely serious. The momentum of his kick carried him forward, and by the time he regained his balance, with his feet slightly apart, I was already behind him and launching my own aerial act. I sprang up and back, whipping my right foot up between his legs and burying the toe of my sneaker in his groin. I landed on my back on the grass, immediately kipped to my feet, and walked around to the front of the man to see what kind of damage I had done.

Not surprisingly, the young man's jade-colored eyes had gone wide with shock and pain. His face was almost the color of blood. His mouth opened in a wide O as he clutched his groin with intent, slowly sank to his knees, and doubled over until his forehead rested on the lawn. He was once again making loud whooping sounds as he struggled to suck air into his lungs.

I turned at the sound of brakes, saw not one but two white Cairn patrol cars, each with a single policeman, pull up on either side of the Jeep. The policeman got out, and one walked toward me while the other headed toward Mary Tree and the three other Community members, who had gathered together at the far end of the sidewalk.

When I turned back I found the man in the tank top on his hands and knees, crawling toward me and grabbing for my legs. I jumped back not a millisecond too soon, and his ham-size right hand grabbed empty air. He was obviously not greatly impressed by the presence of the two policemen, if he even knew they were there. With the two uniformed cops on the scene, I could have easily afforded to keep backing away, playing matador and bull, until one or both of them stopped him. But I simply didn't feel like it. With the memory of his foot flying through the air toward my head, I found I was feeling a tad resentful and out of sorts.

As the man on the ground continued to growl and crawl forward, swiping at my legs with one hand as he cupped his groin with the other, I studied his head with its shaved sides. It looked hard, and there was simply too much paperwork waiting for me on my desk to risk breaking my knuckles or hand. As the policeman came abreast of me, I stepped around him to the fallen man's side, squatted down, cocked my right arm and wrist, and then sprang upright, hitting him with the heel of my hand precisely at the juncture of neck and jaw. His head snapped back, and the rest of his body followed. He landed on his side, rolled over on his back, and lay there with his legs splayed and twitching. He was out.

I glanced up toward the porch, found myself gazing into a crowd of faces wearing thoroughly astonished expressions. The four veterans Jack Trex had been speaking with were there, at the foot of the steps, but Trex was nowhere in sight. I hadn't seen Jay Acton since he'd disappeared from the hallway where Trex's painting was displayed. Elysius Culhane was standing on the porch near the spot where I had been; his mouth was actually open, and he was slowly shaking his head. There was no sign of a friendly face.

I turned around to face the policeman, who had sad, almond-colored eyes and a droopy mustache to match. His name tag said McAlpin. He was looking back and forth between the unconscious man and me, disbelief clearly etched on his face.

McAlpin finally fixed his gaze on me. "Who the hell are you?"he asked, his tone more than a bit incredulous.

"My name's Robert Frederickson, Officer. I-"

"Wait over there," he said curtly, pointing to the patrol car parked to the left of the Jeep.

I dutifully strolled across the lawn to the patrol car, leaned against the hood, and cradled my right wrist, which I was afraid I'd sprained in my effort to avoid breaking my hand on the young man's head.

Elysius Culhane and the veteran with the yellow hair and ponytail had come down off the porch and were trying to help the conscious but obviously disoriented young man in fatigues and black sneakers to his feet. All the while, Culhane was talking rapidly to the patrolman named McAlpin, who was making notes on a pad. The man whose jaw had hurt my wrist finally made it to his feet and angrily shook off the hands that were supporting him. He swayed a bit, and his milky green eyes finally came into focus-on me. He lurched forward, but his way was immediately blocked by Culhane, the ponytailed veteran, and McAlpin, who reached for his nightstick. The heavyset man stood still, but he continued to glare at me, raw hatred in his eyes. I resisted the impulse to wave at him.

Twenty yards down the sidewalk, to my right, the second policeman was talking to Mary Tree and the three others from the Community of Conciliation. The folksinger and her companions looked distinctly more delighted and amused than upset. They kept glancing, nodding, and smiling in my direction, but when Mary Tree and one of the men tried to walk over to me they were stopped by the policeman. The woman laughed and blew me a kiss; thinking of how Garth would eat his heart out when I told him this story, I grinned and blew her one back.

The second policeman walked across the lawn to McAlpin, who was standing with the end of his nightstick pressed against the young man's chest while he listened to the fast-talking Culhane. The two policemen stepped away a few paces and conferred in whispers. Both men nodded, then returned to their respective groups.

The burly young man continued to glare at me, obviously oblivious to whatever negotiations were being conducted on his behalf. He only had eyes for me.

Down the sidewalk, the second policeman was forcefully pointing the four members of the Community of Conciliation up the street, away from me. After some more waves and nods in my direction, they moved away. The policeman got in his car and drove off.

McAlpin seemed to be lecturing the young man in fatigues, occasionally tapping him on the shoulder with the nightstick for emphasis. When he finished, Culhane, the ponytailed veteran, and a few other people ushered the young man back up the steps and into the house-but not before he cast one last baleful glance over his shoulder in my direction.

McAlpin came back across the lawn to me, studied me for a few moments as he absently stroked his droopy mustache. He seemed vaguely surprised that I hadn't grown any taller during his brief absence.

"Nobody else wants to press charges, Frederickson."

"Really? What do you have to do in this town to be arrested?"

He wasn't offended. On the contrary, something that might have been amusement moved in his almond-colored eyes. "Those people picketing out here could have been charged with trespassing."

"They were standing on the sidewalk."

"I didn't hear any of them asking for you as his lawyer," McAlpin said, and shrugged. "Be that as it may, it was their decision not to press charges. They don't want to spend money for a lawyer. Besides, a lot of people around here would think those commie shitheads got what they deserved. And as far as they're concerned, the asshole got more than his comeuppance." He paused for a few moments and studied me some more, as if he was still waiting for me to grow larger. "You really put the wood to him, Frederickson. I'm sorry I wasn't here to see it from the beginning."

"Me too," I replied, rubbing my sore wrist. "Who is the asshole?"

"Nobody you ever want to mess with again. What about it?"

"What about what?"

"You satisfied with the arrangement? I need your consent, since you were a party to the disagreement. Since you ended up the winner by a knockout, I figure you've got no charges to make. Right?"

"Right. It never even occurred to me."

"Okay," McAlpin said as he snapped his notebook shut, then stepped around me to open the door to his car.

"Officer?"

He opened the door, looked up. "Yeah?"

"Is your chief in?"

McAlpin hesitated, frowned slightly. "As a matter of fact, he is. But you said-"

"I know what I said. I was planning on stopping around to see him in the morning anyway, but I figure now's as good a time as any. Can you tell me where to find the station house?"

He thought about it, then held up his hand. "Wait a minute, Frederickson," he said, then got in the car, closed the door, and rolled up the window.

I watched him as he picked up the receiver of his car radio and signaled on it. There began a lengthy conversation, during which I could feel eyes watching me from inside the house. Almost five minutes later McAlpin finally replaced the receiver in its cradle, rolled down the window, and motioned to me. In addition to the continuing incredulity in his eyes and voice, there was now something new, and I thought it might be respect.

"The chiefs heard of you, Frederickson," McAlpin said. "Get in. I'll drive you there."

I got in the front, and McAlpin pulled away from the curb. When I glanced back, I could see that Jay Acton had joined Elysius Culhane. The two expensively suited men were standing on the sidewalk, watching the departing patrol car. Jay Acton's rather handsome face was impassive, but Elysius Culhane looked positively dyspeptic, and perhaps worried.