This was his natural condition. He had given Earl a conditional blessing, and thought he meant it. But a certain part of him was not convinced, and that part of him continued its campaign of undermining all that he enjoyed and poisoning his life.
It is not right.
It was not right. You cannot lead armed men against legally sanctioned civil authority and commit violence. That is murder, it is insurrection, it is a form of treason. It does not matter how corrupt and despicable your antagonists are; if you do that, you become them, and once you become them, you have lost your soul.
He picked up his mail, found the usual accumulation of bills, circulars and advertisements, then came across something new. It was a personal letter from one Harold E. Perkins, of Washington, D. C.
Sam searched his memory. The search revealed no record of a Harold E.
Perkins, which Sam took to mean either he was losing IQ points fast in his quest, or that Harold E. Perkins was a complete stranger writing for money.
Sam opened the envelope, found a small, handwritten note card.
'Dear Mr. Vincent,' it began, I don't know if you remember me, but I am, or was formerly, the member of Congressman Etheridge's staff that his chief aide Mel Brasher sent to look for information on a David Stone, M.
D.' for you. I ascertained that none was available via Army Medical Service.
Since then I've left the congressman's employ and am now working for the Department of Atomic Energy in a clerk's capacity while going to George Washington University Law School at night.
I write you because of a small item I encountered in my duties of no import to anyone but which I thought you should hear about. I was examining records of nuclear material shipments from the Los Alamos Plutonium Laboratory to a facility in Maryland, called Fort Dietrich. I have no information on Ft. Dietrich, or what was being done there in conjunction with plutonium experiments, but I note that the information was cc-ed to a doctor at Thebes State Penal Farm, Thebes, Mississippi.
I don't remember the name, but it was definitely not Dr. Stone. I only noticed it because for some reason the word 'Thebes' leaped out at me, being somewhat unusual. The more I thought about it, the more I thought you should know about it.
I would like to ask a counter favor, if you don't mind. I think Mr.
Brasher got the wrong idea about me owing to certain events in the men's room, in which the Capitol Police apprehended me. I never really had a chance to explain the misunderstanding. I wonder if you'd drop him a line, telling him how much I've helped you out. Thanks so much.
Harold E. Perkins.
Sam turned this new information over in his head. Fort Dietrich again!
What on earth was going on at this obscure post in Maryland that now involved some form of nuclear materials from Los Alamos, and why on earth would all of this be reported to an unknown doctor in Thebes, Mississippi?
'Daddy?'
It was Caroline, his seven-year-old daughter, an adorable child who had her mother's blond hair and freckles and her father's serious intelligence, but also, from neither of them, a sense of humor and amazement.
'Honey, Daddy's busy now,' he said, too cruelly and too quickly.
'But the man said you had to sign,' she said.
'What?'
'The present. Someone sent you a present.'
'Oh, Lord,' said Sam. 'Who in hell would send me a present?'
'It's from New Orleans. From the Scott's Department Store.' 'Hmmm,' said Sam.
He rose wearily and followed his daughter out through a roomful of children, some his own, some his neighbors'. A delivery man stood patiently in the doorway, with a package under his arm and a clipboard with a form on it.
'Can I help you, sir?'
'Mr. Samuel Vincent, sir? That would be you?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, sir, I have a package on special delivery for you all the way from New Orleans's finest department store. Someone must think highly of you.' 'Not likely,' said Sam, quickly signing the form. Outside he saw the delivery truck, brown, part of the famous fleet of such trucks that worked faster and better than the U. S. mail.
'Very good, sir,' said the man. 'Here it is, and enjoy it.'
'Thanks.'
The children were excited. To them, packages were automatically a festive occasion, associated with celebrations such as Christmas or a birthday. Happiness was a package.
Sam carried the thing to the dining room table. Whatever it was, it was solid weight, about three pounds, with no rattle or gurgle in it, no sense of anything cloth or paper. Possibly a paperweight or possibly a set of old books, though it didn't seem big enough for that.
He examined it, and nothing surprised him. It was professionally wrapped, with his address typed cleanly on the address label and the return address denoted the store he knew to be one of New Orleans's most prosperous.
He tore the package open, and the brown paper revealed festive colored paper, merry and gay.
'It is a present,' said Caroline. 'Oh, Daddy, open it!'
'Sweetie, I'm sure it's just a business gift. Don't get your hopes up.
It isn't going to be a new doll.'
'Doll! Doll! Doll!' Terry, his youngest at three, began to cry. She loved presents. She loved dolls and prissy frilly things, and was still a sweet baby, still her daddy's favorite.
'Bet it's a ball glove,' said Billy, who was clearly projecting his own desires on it, for at six all he wanted was a ball glove like his two big brothers.
'Billy, it's a pewter mug from the State Prosecutor's Association or some such,' Sam said dourly, as he pulled off the wrapped paper, tore off the ribbons, and got the thing free to reveal a white paper box ensnared by a final gold ribbon, which could possibly hold a selection of books or shot glasses or a telescope or pair of binoculars.
'It's candy,' Caroline concluded, and she had a formidable sweet tooth, so that would please her immensely. 'Chocolate candy, with strawberries inside.'
'Could be candy, we'll soon see,' Sam said and pulled the ribbon loose.
'I bet it's jelly.'
'No, it's a dolly, I know it's a dolly.'
'It's a plastic airplane, betcha. Daddy, hurry. Hurry, Daddy!'
'Hurry up, please, Daddy!'
But Daddy couldn't hurry. Daddy had the ribbon half off the box, and he froze. He froze dead still and his face lost its color and its joy.
It was frozen into a mask and he himself seemed frozen in the odd position. He had the ribbon pulled tight, just almost to the breaking point, but he was holding it as if it were the rope to a boat or something in danger of floating away, and with his other hand he kept the package pinned to the table. He could feel an unusual tension in the ribbon, a tension that should not be there. But that alone wasn't the source of his sudden desperation. It was an odor that seemed to float up from the package, just a trace, but enough to re-create a whole world for him, and that terrified him.
'Caroline,' he said very carefully, 'I want you?'
'Hurry, Daddy, so I can have a?'
'Caroline!'
His voice stunned them.
'Caroline, honey, get these kids out of here. Get them across the street. Do it now, sweetie, do it now.'
'Daddy, I?'
'Sweetie, do what Daddy tells you, and don't let anybody come in here, do you understand? If Mommy shows up, keep her from coming in. And tell Mrs. Jackson to call the fire department and the police, and please, please, baby, do it right away!'
The Whipping House was never quiet now. This is how Bigboy investigated: with the calm, methodical,
