The Collection

house he heard the muffled sound of Pam's voice as she comforted Amy, and he knew that this was really happening.

He should open the door, he knew. He should confront these people. But something about that bunched fist and the look of angry determination on the pounder's face made him hesitate. He was frightened, he realized. More frightened than he had been before he'd peeked through the curtains, when he'd still half thought there might be a monster out­side.

I will Skin your Children and Eat Them.

These weirdos were connected somehow to Washing­ton's note. He knew that instinctively. And that was what scared him.

He heard Pam hurrying across the living room toward him, obviously alarmed by the fact that the pounding had not yet stopped. She moved quickly next to him. 'Who is it?' she whispered.

He shook his head. 'I don't know.'

He peeked again through the split in the curtains, study­ing the strangers more carefully. She pressed her face next to his. He heard her gasp, felt her pull away. 'Jesus,' she whispered. There was fear in her voice. 'Look at their teeth.'

Their teeth? He focused his attention on the men's mouths. Pam was right. There was something strange about their teeth. He squinted, looked closer.

Their teeth were uniformly yellow.

Their teeth were false.

George Washington had false teeth.

He backed away from the window. 'Call the police,' he told Pam. 'Now.'

'We want the letter!' The voice was strong, filled with an anger and hatred he had not expected. The pounding stopped. 'We know you have it, Franks! Give it to us and we will not harm you!'

Mike looked again through the parted curtains. All four of the men were facing the window, staring at him. In the porchlight their skin looked pale, almost corpselike, their I eyes brightly fanatic. The man who had been pounding on f the door pointed at him. Rage twisted the features of his face. 'Give us the letter!'

He wanted to move away, to hide, but Mike forced him­self to hold his ground. He was not sure if the men could ac­tually see him through that small slit, but he assumed they could. 'I called the police!' he bluffed. 'They'll be here any minute!'

The pounder was about to say something but at that second, fate stepped in and there was the sound of a siren com­ing from somewhere to the east. The men looked confusedly at each other, spoke quietly and quickly between themselves, then began hurrying off the porch. On their arms, Mike saw round silk patches with stylized insignias.

A hatchet and a cherry tree.

'We will be back for you!' one of the men said. 'You can't escape!'

'Mom!' Amy called from her bedroom.

'Go get her,' Mike said.

'You call the police then.'

He nodded as she moved off, but even as he headed to­ward the phone, he knew with a strange fatalistic certainty that the police would not be able to track down these people, that when these people came back-and they would come back-the police would not be able to protect him and his family.

He heard a car engine roar to life, heard tires squealing on the street.

He picked up the phone and dialed 911.

He left Pam and Amy home alone the next morning, told them not to answer the door or the telephone and to call the police if they saw any strangers hanging around the neigh­borhood. He had formulated a plan during the long sleepless hours between the cops' departure and dawn, and he drove to New York University, asking a fresh- faced clerk in ad­ministration where the history department was located. Fol­lowing the kid's directions across campus, he read the posted signs until he found the correct building.

The secretary of the history department informed him that Dr. Hartkinson had his office hours from eight to ten-thirty and was available to speak with him, and he followed her down the hallway to the professor's office.

Hartkinson stood upon introduction and shook his hand. He was an elderly man in his mid- to late sixties, with the short stature, spectacles, and whiskers of a Disney movie college professor. 'Have a seat,' the old man said, clearing a stack of papers from an old straight-backed chair. He thanked the secretary, who retreated down the hall, then moved back behind his oversized desk and sat down him­self. 'What can I do for you?'

Mike cleared his throat nervously. 'I don't really know how to bring this up. It may sound kind of stupid to you, but last night my wife and I were... well, we were sleeping, and we were woken up by this pounding on our front door. I went out to investigate, and there were these four men on my porch, calling out my name and threatening me. They were wearing powdered wigs and what looked like Revolu­tionary War clothes-'

The old man's eyes widened. 'Washingtonians!'

'Washingtonians?'

'Shh!' The professor quickly stood and closed his office door. His relaxed, easygoing manner no longer seemed so relaxed and easygoing. There was a tenseness in his move­ments, an urgency in his walk. He immediately sat back down, took the phone off the hook, and pulled closed his lone window. He leaned conspiratorially across the desk, and when he spoke his voice was low and frightened. 'You're lucky you came to me,' he said. 'They have spies everywhere.'

'What?'

'Dr. Gluck and Dr. Cannon, in our history department here, are Washingtonians. Most of the other professors are sympathizers. It's pure luck you talked to me first. What do you have?'

'What?'

'Come on now. They wouldn't have come after you un­less you had something they wanted. What is it? A letter?'

Mike nodded dumbly.

'I thought so. What did this letter say?'

Mike reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the piece of parchment.

The professor took the note out of the plastic. He nodded when he'd finished reading. 'The truth. That's what's in this letter.'

Mike nodded.

'George Washington was a cannibal. He was a fiend and a murderer and a child eater. But he was also chosen to be the father of our country, and that image is more important than the actuality.'

'Someone else told me that.'

'He was right.' The professor shifted in his seat. 'Let me tell you something about historians. Historians, for the most part, are not interested in truth. They are not interested in learning facts and teaching people what really happened. They want to perpetuate the lies they are sworn to defend. It's an exclusive club, the people who know why our wars were really fought, what really happened behind the closed doors of our world's leaders, and most of them want to keep it that way. There are a few of us altruists, people like my­self who got into this business to learn and share our learn­ing. But the majority of historians are PR people for the past.' He thought for a moment. 'Benjamin Franklin did not exist. Did you know that? He never lived. He was a com­posite character created for mass consumption. It was felt by the historians that a character was needed who would em­body America's scientific curiosity, boldness of vision, and farsighted determination, who would inspire people to reach for greatness in intellectual endeavors. So they came up with Franklin, an avuncular American Renaissance man. Ameri­cans wanted to believe in Franklin, wanted to believe that his qualities were their qualities, and they bought into the concept lock, stock, and barrel, even falling for that absurd kite story.

'It was the same with Washington. Americans wanted him to be the father of our country, needed him to be the fa­ther of our country, and they were only too happy to believe what we historians told them.'

Mike stared at Hartkinson, then looked away toward the rows of history books on the professor's shelves. These were the men who had really determined our country's course, he realized. The historians. They had altered the past i and affected the future. It was not the great men who shaped' the world, it was the men who told of the great men who j shaped the world.

'You've stumbled upon something here,' Hartkinson said. 'And that's why they're after you. That note's like a;