Summit by Richard Bowker

be optimistic about receiving a response."
    "A yes or a no." Hershohn gave his phone number to the flunky and hung up.
    He was sweating. He needed a drink. He had just threatened the Central Intelligence Agency.
    Why was Fulton doing this to him?

 
     
     
    Chapter 9

     
    The key words "Moscow" and "psychic" meant that the transcript of the conversation was forwarded automatically to Bill Sullivan. When he saw it, he called Celia immediately. "Ten minutes," he pleaded. But he was in the red now, and she couldn't possibly fit him in before tomorrow afternoon.
    Very little work got done the rest of the day. Afterward, he drove back to his pleasant, empty ranch house in his pleasant Virginia suburb, and he tried to stay away from the beer beckoning to him from his refrigerator. His lawn needed mowing; he got out the old gas mower and did a nice job, even raking the grass up after he was done, happy for once to have the mindless chore to keep him occupied. He had told himself a hundred times to sell the place and move to some high-rise condo where he wouldn't have to worry about chores. But he could never bring himself to do it, and tonight he was grateful for his indecision.
    When he had put the mower and the rake away, he fixed himself a hamburger and tried to watch television. A basketball game was on. It was the playoffs, and the Celtics were one of the teams, but he couldn't get interested. Bunch of guys with gland problems running around in their underwear. Someone touches them and they go whining to the ref they've been fouled. How could anyone get excited about that? He turned it off after a while, stared longingly at the phone, and finally made a call.
    "Hello?" a female voice answered. Distant, suspicious, familiar.
    "Hi. It's me."
    "Oh. What do you want?"
    "I'd like to speak to him. If it's okay. Nothing important." He was sweating.
    A brief silence as she decided his fate. "Hold on," she said.
    He held. He heard a muffled conversation, then the clatter of the receiver changing hands. "Hi, Dad!" a young voice called out.
    He smiled. "Hi, Danny. How's my favorite left wing?"
    "Great. I got an A on my social studies paper. It was about the Statue of Liberty."
    "Wow. Congratulations. You know, maybe when you come see me this summer we could visit the Statue of Liberty."
    "No kiddin'! That'd be awesome."
    "Well, it's just an idea. We'd have to check with your mom and all. Are you doing a lot of swimming?"
    "You bet. It's pretty hot here. I'm working on my breaststroke."
    "Breaststroke, huh? You'll have to teach me that one."
    "Sure thing."
    He kept the conversation going for a few more minutes, until Danny said his mom wanted him to go finish his homework. "Okay, kid. I love you. Let me talk to your mom."
    "Sure, Dad. Love you too."
    Then Sullivan's ex-wife was on the phone again, and his smile automatically faded. "Sorry to bother you, Maureen," he said. "I just had an urge to talk to him."
    "That's okay," she replied.
    He could picture her down there in Florida, her mouth a thin line, her eyes weary but alert, defensive. What he had destroyed in her had not yet been brought back to life; maybe it never would be. "We were talking about his social studies paper," he said. "I thought maybe I might take him to New York this summer and see the Statue of Liberty."
    "New York City's a dangerous place," she said. "I think he's too young."
    "But millions of kids go there, Maureen. He'd be safe with me." I'm a trained professional killer, he wanted to shout at her. I can protect my own son. But he didn't.
    "I don't think so," she said. "Not this year."
    No sense arguing with her any further. He knew that tone of voice. "Okay," he said. "Well, I'll talk to you later."
    "All right."
    He hung up, and then he couldn't think of any reason to hold off any longer, so he went to the refrigerator and got out the first beer, and the evening was over.
    But some things are never over. Through the boozy haze and the late-night sweat he was