As he pulled back into traffic, Pearson took one hand off the wheel to reach over and rustle at the brown paper bag, and peek in. “Poetry? Nathan Heller?”
“It’s a gift-for Jim Forrestal.”
“Touching. You must feel terribly guilty, taking money from the villain who put that patriot in the mental ward.”
Taking money from Pearson never bothered me other than the small amounts involved-but the son of a bitch was closer than he knew. I’d spoken to Dr. Bernstein again, yesterday afternoon, after checking in at the Ambassador, and he had once more stressed how well Jim Forrestal was doing, though he clearly had reservations.
“Both Dr. Raines and I are in general very pleased,” Bernstein had told me over the phone. “There’s been a marked improvement in Mr. Forrestal’s condition; he’s responding well to treatment.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“His moods of depression are still with him, however-he’s fine through the week, but by Saturday and Sunday, he’s descended into a state of nervous agitation and anxiety.”
“Why is that?”
“Consider it yourself, Mr. Heller-what happens on Sunday night?”
I winced. “Drew Pearson’s radio show,” I said. “Don’t tell me you guys let him listen to it!”
“We don’t allow him to listen to the radio at all, Mr. Heller-but on Monday morning, if I do not give Mr. Forrestal an oral summary of the broadcast, he becomes extremely agitated.”
“I wish I could convince Pearson to back off.”
“Mr. Heller, you touch on the very reason why I want you to see Mr. Forrestal.”
“What’s that?”
“You just let slip, yourself, that you and Pearson are in contact.”
“Well, I, uh …”
“One of the perquisites of practicing psychiatry in a military hospital, Mr. Heller, is an ability to do in-depth background research on your patients … in this case, I was aided by both the FBI and Secret Service. So I’m well aware that you have a business relationship with Drew Pearson, predating that of my patient becoming your client.”
“Okay, Doc, you caught me-but I’ve never sold either one of them out for the other.”
“Still, you’re not denying the conflict of interests.”
“I always looked after both their interests, to the best of my ability, and judgment.”
“I believe you. The problem is this: for whatever reason, Mr. Forrestal thinks very highly of you. You are one of the few associates in his life, business or otherwise, who remain untainted by any of his paranoid delusions.”
“That’s nice, I guess.”
“Mr. Forrestal is progressing very well. However-I believe he is at a stage in his recovery where news of what would seem to him a betrayal, by someone he trusted implicitly-
“Well,
“Oh, but that’s exactly what you must do.”
“What? Are you crazy, too, Doc?”
His voice took on a somber cast. “If Mr. Forrestal hears this news from anyone but you, the effect could be devastating. If you tell him yourself-not so much confess, but explain your dual loyalties, and assure him of your friendship, and that you have never betrayed him to Pearson, nor would you … that is the only chance he has of accepting, and coming to terms with, that deception on your part.”
“Christ, I don’t know, Doc-”
“Think of it as an apology. Make a gesture. Bring him a gift. You know that he loves to read. Why don’t you bring him a book of poetry? A book of poetry would be comforting.”
“I wouldn’t know what to buy.”
“A book of poetry would be comforting.”
“I heard ya the first time, doc.”
“Might I suggest Mark Van Doren’s
Which was why, the next afternoon, I’d asked Pearson to pull up in front of Jefferson Place Books to fill the doctor’s prescription. Now, that very volume in a paper bag on my lap, I resumed my meeting on wheels with the chief cause of Forrestal’s lingering illness, and perhaps the only obstacle to his return to mental health.
“D’you mind telling me why you went underground for nearly a month, Nathan?” Pearson asked pleasantly from behind the wheel. We were playing tag with streetcars on Pennsylvania Avenue at the moment, on our way for our third or fourth look at the Executive Mansion. “Little green men from outer space chasing you?”
“Worse. Big khaki men from the planet earth.”
“I don’t normally think of you as a coward, Nathan.”
“Do you normally think of me as stupid? I don’t buck the odds unless I have to.”
“This sounds like quite a story.”
“Well, I wouldn’t stop the presses just yet. I’m not sure you’re going to be able to use anything I’ve come up with.”
I started at the end, telling him how my investigation had made me so popular with the Air Force that I’d been invited for a special stay in the Walker base “guesthouse.”
“You’re going to have to go public about this,” Pearson said, his expression grave. Even his mustache seemed to have wilted.
“Why? They kidnapped me, and I got away. It’s not like I’m fleeing arrest, and nobody seems to be looking for me.”
“If I put this in my column, Nathan, it’ll be a life insurance policy: the Air Force will of course deny having done this to you, which will keep them, or any other government agency, from applying the strong-arm to you, in future.”
“No fucking way do I go public, Drew. They sent me a message, by grabbing me; I’ve sent them a message, by not reporting it. We’ll leave it at that.”
“All right …” He shook his head, in wonder. “… but you must’ve gotten close to something very big …”
“Yeah, about twenty-five feet by fifteen feet.”
I told him the rest of the story, referring to my spiral pad, which I’d brought along, not having written any of this up as a formal report. I went over every witness, from the mortician and the nurse to the insurance agent and the fireman, from the sheriff and his deputy to the radio broadcaster and the rancher, and of course Colonel Blanchard of the frat-house grin and ice-cold eyes. But it was base security chief Kaufmann’s tale of a crashed saucer, complete with outer space crew and military retrieval operation, that really got the columnist’s attention.
Or was it my matter-of-fact telling of the wild tale that really jarred him?
“Good God, man-you
I hadn’t actually admitted that to myself, but now I heard my voice saying, out loud, to Drew Pearson yet, “Yes. I think a flying saucer crashed near Roswell-and the government has it in storage somewhere, along with the bodies of the crew.”
“And one of these … creatures might still be alive? Kept in some secret installation?”
“Yes. These are credible witnesses, Drew, although there are inconsistencies-Glenn Dennis talks about bodies being exposed in the desert sun, torn by predators, while Frank Kaufmann swears the retrieval mission took place relatively shortly after the crash, and before sunup.”
“Perhaps other bodies were found later, thrown from the craft, and …” We were stopped at a red light; hands on the wheel, he glanced over at me, wide-eyed. “My Lord, will you listen to me, taking this seriously? Do you hear yourself talking, Nathan?”
“I do. And that’s the funny thing.”
“What is?”
“I’m absolutely convinced that these creatures exist, that a saucer crashed-and yet my instinct is, you shouldn’t go with this story.”
