Control, Page 24

  “I know perfectly well where your mother is, that’s not why Pm here.” He turned to the nine-year-old. “That phone call. Tell me all about it.”

  “Nothin’ to tell,” the nine-year-old reported. “This guy asked for you and when I said you weren’t home yet he said he’d call again and that his name was Beulah.”

  “Holy shit,” Kilgore said, before he could stop himself.

  He never swore and he could see the stunned look on his sons’ faces as he left the room. But he was that surprised to receive a phone call from Mr. R.E.L. (for the inevitable Robert E. Lee) Beulah himself. Obviously, the call meant trouble. But how deep and what kind there was no way of ascertaining.

  Kilgore went by the phone to wait.

  R.E.L. Beulah had once, in some long ago time, been a congressman from which southern state Kilgore had forgotten or never knew. He was reelected once and probably could have had the seat forever, but he decided not to run and rather to establish a law firm here in D.C. He was immediately successful at that too but then gave that up for what had become a genuinely remarkable if shadowy career. He was a presidential trouble-shooter. As simple as that. His name was never in the papers. No one knew him or who his friends were. But Ike used him and so did JFK and so did LBJ and RN too, Ford naturally. He was out in the cold somewhat during the Carter interregnum, but not too far out. And of course he was back now.

  “Have I the honor of addressing Mister Brian Kilgore?” Kil-gore had gotten the phone before the first ring was done and before he’d finished “hello” the flowery southern song was coming over the wire.

  “Yessir.”

  “My name is Beulah, sir, and I have heard a very great deal about you.”

  “That’s very flattering, sir.”

  “I would like very much the chance of addressing you in person.”

  “Whenever you want.”

  “I think now would be excellent. If you’re free.”

  “Of course.”

  “Splendid. We can talk more on the plane.”

  “Planer

  “We have to go to New York, sir. Some queries have been raised concerning the Trude Program.”

  Trude? Kilgore couldn’t figure it. Trude was the only ongoing project that was actually ongoing these days. The enlarged children in New Mexico had begun eating each other in the lab. The - Dream Stealing trial ran had turned into an unalloyed nightmare. The—

  “Just some queries that need answering.”

  “But everything’s been going well there.”

  “Then the answers will be easily forthcoming.”

  Kilgore was about to press the issue, but he decided one didn’t do that sort of thing to R.E.L. Beulah. He sighed, consoling himself that he had never traveled on this level before: private planes, limousines, police escorts. “You want me to arrange a meeting with Doctor Trude?”

  “I think for later this evening.”

  “Fine. I’ll do that, sir.”

  “We’ll catch the last shuttle, good-bye, sir.”

  The shuttle! Kilgore sulked a moment before calling New York, alerting Trude, packing a small case, going to the children, alerting them of his departure.

  They nodded their heads, but the truth was they were much more interested in Space Invaders. “Was he here?” they probably asked each other later. “Was that Father? Did he speak? Did he hug us? Your turn.”

  There was a long line waiting for the final 9:00 p.m. shuttle when Kilgore got there. He assumed there was a V.I.P. hideout some’ where but when he asked was told there was none, which meant either there was none or he didn’t look important enough to tell the truth to. Kilgore started studying the tine and was surprised to find, almost at the end of it, his round face wreathed in pipe smoke, Beulah.

  The man could have been any age starting with sixty. His white hair was magnificent, long, and in disarray, the result of his constantly rumpling his hands through it. His pudgy hands. Everything about R.E.L. Beulah was pudgy, if you were a fan of his.

  He stood probably five ten, weighed probably two fifty; strike pudgy, insert fat

  He perspired constantly, and often tied a handkerchief around his neck at the throat, a look he was affecting now. “My name is Brian Kilgore, sir,’’ Kilgore began, moving up next to the older man.

  “And I am the disrupter of your house and home, forgive me,’’ Beulah answered, his southern voice very loud indeed. “You may call me Bobby Lee.’’

  The line was beginning to move.

  They inched forward, each carrying an under-the-seat bag, an attaché case. “Perhaps when we get on the plane we can talk,’’ Kilgore said then.

  “Doubtful, sir,’’ Beulah replied. “My voice tends to boom along the aisles. I have learned through sad experience to avoid crucial conversations in the public halls of this world.’’

  Kilgore wanted to press a bit more again, to find out why they were taking this sudden night flight into what was clearly trouble.

  Best not, best not.

  They took seats near the rear, Kilgore helped Beulah get his under-the-seat bag under the seat, since the southerner was not skilled at bending. Then they both opened their attaché cases, took out papers, and began to read.

  The plane took off. “Tell me about this Trude,” Beulah said suddenly, the instant the forward motion began.

  “Smart.’’

  “Hell, son, we’re all smart, at least that’s the theory, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. I said tell me about him, I don’t know thing one.’’

  He’s not a nice man, Kilgore almost began. Trude’s a terrible man; cold, humorless, mean. But he’s on to something and that makes up for minor blemishes of character. “I find him delightful, personally. He may seen formidable at first, but when you pierce the armor—” He stopped. The old southern eyes were staring at him.

  “Never shit a shitter, son,” Beulah boomed. The woman in front of them turned, shot him a look. “My dear, forgive me, if my mother were around, I would not be able to sit for days.” Mollified, the woman turned away. Beulah turned to Kilgore. “As I said, I don’t know thing one, but it doesn’t matter, I’ll just have to make up my own mind when I meet him.” He sat back then and soon was breathing deeply, his face pale now, fatigue showing.

  Kilgore looked out the window for a while, then glanced over at what Beulah was reading. Some pages were half out of a folder. He saw a familiar name. With great care, he reached over and flicked the folder slightly open—revealing a dossier on Leo Trude —well thumbed. He knows all about him, Kilgore realized and his next realization followed hard upon: the old eyes were flickering, watching him. Or were they?

  Kilgore sat very straight for the rest of the silent flight, doing a great deal of wondering…

  “Leo Trude, this is Mr. Beulah, from Washington.” Kilgore put a slight but he hoped not overly noticeable emphasis on the last word, just to remind Trude that the fat white-haired man was one of import, not to be sniffed at.

  Alas. Beulah raised his hand to shake, Trude kept his at his side. This may be a long evening, Kilgore thought. Long and counterproductive.

  “I’ve been very busy,” Trude said. “Nights are excellent for serious thought.”

  Beulah looked around the immaculate office, settled himself in the widest chair, got out his pipe, studied the room again. “Son,” he said then to Trude. “I fear we are fated to be deadly enemies —me with my pipe tobacco, you with no ashtrays.”

  “Here,” Kilgore said, scurrying to the coffeepot, taking a mug, handing it to Beulah. “Make all the mess you want”

  “That’s what he’s here to do, isn’t it? Make mess.” Trude stood rigidly behind his desk, staring at Beulah.

  Beulah rumpled his hair, looked at Kilgore. “What was it you said on the plane? ‘I find him delightful, personally.’”

  “Leo’s very sensitive,” Kilgore said, knowing now it was his fate in life to see these other two both left the room alive and breathing, when this meeting was all over.


  “Leo doesn’t like intrusions,” Leo Trude said. “From the great unwashed.”

  “Would Leo like his balls handed to him on a platter?” R.E.L. Beulah asked of Kilgore. “Easily arranged.”

  “Leo, please,” Kilgore said, feeling very Thomas Deweyish as he mollified. “Mr. Beulah is not without clout. Take that as an understatement.”

  Trude sat, gestured for Beulah to begin.

  R.E.L. Beulah settled himself in the chair. Then he got out a pipe. Then he filled it with pipe tobacco. Carefully. Then he lit it. Carefully. Just before he blew the match out, he said one word: “Image.”

  The other two men waited.

  “Believe what I tell you is true. Back when the fifty-two hostages had just been taken, the military came up with a plan. Simply, that plan consisted of dropping in an enormous number of marines and to set up a murderous—an absolutely lethal field of fire surrounding the entire embassy. Instantly destroy anything that moved. And under that cover, to transfer the hostages from the embassy to the contiguous soccer field and helicopter them out.

  “I was present when that plan was presented to a number of experts familiar with Teheran. And one of them said, stunned and ashen, I remember his coloring today—’Do you realize how many people live in the embassy area? Do you realize how many people you’ll slaughter?9 The Pentagon brass gave their ‘you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs’ response. But this ashen gentleman was not to be intimidated. He said, ‘Instead of shooting everyone, why not cover the area with gas. We have a nerve gas that puts people to sleep for ten hours. Some of them wake up with headaches but that’s all. Blanket the embassy with nerve gas instead.’ And the Pentagon said, ‘Impossible. We can’t use gas. It’s bad for our image.’” He puffed on his pipe, shook his head. “Isn’t that a terrible story? Terrible but true.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” Trude said.

  “The same thinking is evident now, the proof being that I am here. There is no objection to what you’re doing, though you’ll have to clarify it for me eventually. But there’s a great deal of objection to your test subject. The reason I am here, Doctor Trude, is simply this: There is great resistance to moving forward with William Winslow. If this goes badly, or news gets out, I think you can see it might be bad for our image, using a man like that to spearhead events. With government approval. I’m sure you see the nature and depth of the problem.”

  “You want me to explain why Winslow is necessary?”

  “If you don’t convince me one hundred percent and now, you’ll have to forget Winslow and find others.”

  “Others?” Trude exploded. “Others!—”

  “—now Leo,” Kilgore said hopefully.

  “There are no fucking others as valuable/99

  “Leo, please—”

  “—get him out of here—I don’t have to explain any god damned thing to any god damned body if I don’t choose to—”

  Kilgore looked imploringly at Beulah. “Everybody’s under a lot of tension.”

  “Of course,” Beulah said quietly. “And he’s quite right—he doesn’t have to explain, God ordained no law—what is this place?”

  “Sutton Hospital.”

  “We own it?”

  “Yes,” Kilgore said. “The bottom floors are more or less standard. We keep these upper floors private, for whatever uses we see fit”

  “Fine. Well, unfit Mr. Trude—I want everything of his out of here—” Beulah looked at his watch. “By dawn. I want it immaculate. I want no trace of Doctor Leo Mark Trude visible to the naked eye. Consider him canceled.” He slowly stood, knocked out his pipe into the mug, made his way toward the door.

  “Can he do that?” Trude asked.

  And now the white head whirled around, the great voice thundered: “He just did it. You are gone.” He looked at Kilgore now. “I think you overestimate this fellow; I didn’t find him very smart at all.” He was at the door when Trude hurried to him, took his arm.

  “It is the tension, I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, but we’re so close and that makes for pressure but I genuinely repent what I said, believe me, please, I’m sorry, if you want me on my knees I’ll get on my knees, I’ll do anything, but you must not close me down, I’ll explain, in detail, as many times as you want, if I’ve caused you to become angry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “Apologize then and I’ll consider forgiveness,” Beulah said.

  Trude still clung to the southerner’s arm, stared.

  “I was being funny,” Beulah explained.

  “Then you’ll let me explain?”

  “On the condition that you’ll release my arm.”

  “I’m sorry,” Trude said, dropping his hands immediately; “I’m sorry if—”

  “Enough ‘sorrys.’ Just let me sit down and get my pipe lit.”

  Kilgore watched as Trude went to his desk, Beulah to the chair. So far he had done an absolutely foul job of refereeing things. But at least the combatants were still talking. Foul was probably downgrading himself. Foul plus was a more accurate grade. Foul plus as a referee, as a father, with two disdainful children, foul plus as a husband with a precariously ex-alcoholic wife, foul plus—cut the shit, he told himself sternly. Attention must be paid.

  “A dinner party,” Trude began. “In Sweden. Only the great and the famous. Six o’clock. Suddenly one of the guests cries—(A fire. A terrible fire has just broken out. In Stockholm.’ Now Stockholm is three hundred miles from the party, and the year is 1759 so communications as we know them do not exist. The party continues. The fire guest becomes increasingly agitated. It’s spreading. Oh, it’s spreading terribly.’ None of the other guests know what to do. Nothing to do, really. The fire guest begins to anguish—It’s close to my home now. My home will be destroyed.’ This goes on. The fire guest begins to go into the yard, then back to the house, then outside, back in, on and on. Hand-wringing. Despair. Then, at eight o’clock the fire guest says, ‘Thank God, the fire has been contained, it’s over.’ One of the women present asks about his house. ‘Quite remarkable—the fire was stopped three houses short of mine.’”

  Kilgore looked at the white-haired man. He was lighting his pipe again, the eyes betraying nothing.

  Trude went on. “Three days later, by horseback, news from Stockholm. A fire had broken out. It had broken out at precisely six o’clock. It was contained at precisely eight. And it stopped three houses from the fire guest’s home.”

  “Fascinating,” Beulah said. “Startling and fascinating and if I wanted verification would I find proof in Nostradamus, or the Star or the Enquirer?”

  Trude actually smiled. “I know how much you would like that. Believe me, it would make your life so much simpler if everything could be scoffed away. However, in this case, the man whom I have termed the ‘fire guest’ was named Emanuel Swedenborg and if you’ll call Harvard or Cal Tech or M.I.T. they’ll all concur that he is generally accounted to be the greatest scientist in the history of Scandinavia. And the teller of the incident, the witness who wrote it down, was only Immanuel Kant, the most somber and serious of philosophers, I think you’ll agree.”

  “He’s certainly not a lot of laughs to read,” Beulah said finally. Then he said, “This is all all true?”

  “Yes it’s true and it’s nothing! Listen to this—America now, early this century. Kentucky boy, nice enough, God-fearing, all that, normal family—oh, there are hints, premonitions—snakes seem to enjoy his father, they curl around his legs. And this boy, when he’s born, he cries for a month, won’t stop crying, nothing can be done to make him give up his tears—until an old ex-slave lady takes a needle and boils it in water and pricks a tiny hole in his nipples—and milk flows from his breasts,”

  “And the crying stopped?” Kilgore asked.

  “As the milk flowed. And life became normal The lad grows up, becomes a salesman, loses his voice—crippling to the success of a salesman. If you can’t talk, you don’t sell,
and he wants to get married and nothing helps so he goes to a man versed in hypnosis and is hypnotized. And he can talk. Normally. But when he comes out, his voice is gone again.” Trude paused for a moment. “Please understand one thing in all that follows—we are talking of a genuinely decent man. Not educated well, not aggressive, just a young man with a terrifying problem. For which there seems no solution.”

  Beulah pulled on his pipe, got it glowing.

  “Now it’s suggested that he go under again and this time try and tell about what’s wrong, give all the symptoms. So under he goes and he’s in this second hypnotic trance and suddenly this strange voice says, this new, powerful, voice intones ‘WE HAVE THE BODY’ and gives a lot of medical talk, words the young man had never used in his life.”

  “Getting a little hard to believe,” Beulah said.

  “Not too hard for the hypnotist though—he said to this voice, ‘I’ve got a stomach problem, can you help me?’ And again, booming ‘WE HAVE THE BODY’ and another medical talk complete with suggested stomach cures. Well, this time when he comes out he’s talking and the hypnotist follows the medical advice and his stomach is cured. Now this is a small southern town and you don’t keep news like that quiet. Other people start coming to this guy for help. Only by now he’s learned to put himself under and ‘WE HAVE THE BODY’ and medical adyice. And cures.”

  “For how much money?” Beulah wanted to know.

  “Tell you in a second. Word continued to spread. And people would write and say, ‘Can I come to see you, I live in New York’ or ‘I live in Maine’ and he would tell them not to come, because he wouldn’t know what to look for anyway, he was ignorant of medicine. ‘Just tell me your symptoms and where you are.’ So they’d write where they were living and what their problems were and he’d go into a trance and ‘WE HAVE THE BODY’ and he would tell them what to do. And people would come to expose him and he would help them because if it was false he wanted to know about it—but everyone who came to expose him left believing. Because Edgar Cayce did it for forty years and he never took a fucking penny and he had a cure rate of ninety percent, how high do you think Denton Cooley’s cure rate is?” This last was spoken loudly, almost shouted, at the southerner.