A Conspiracy of Fear Read online

  Besides having fame as a baseball player, Scott and I are involved in politics. We’ve contributed to a lot of good causes and campaigns all of which might have led to the next series of calls.

  My cell phone rang at 9:37. Only my mom has the number, but the caller ID said it was a 212 number. Washington DC? I don’t answer calls on the cell from numbers I don’t recognize. So I didn’t. At 9:45 my mom called. She said, “You have to answer your cell phone.”

  “I did. I’m talking to you.”

  “It’s the White House. The President wants to talk to you and Scott.”

  “The President?”

  Scott had been part of an athletes for Obama PAC. The minimum donation was a million dollars. They didn’t guarantee a call from anybody.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Just answer.”

  She hung up.

  Moments later it rang again. The same DC number. I called to Scott. He appeared in jeans, socks, and shoes but without a shirt.

  I said, “The President wants to talk to us.”

  “President of what?”

  “The United States.”

  I pressed the button to answer.

  “This is the White House calling for Tom Mason and Scott Carpenter.”

  He asked how we were, comforted us, reassured us, asked if there was anything he could do for us. He asked about Scott’s rehab and my school year. It was a seventeen minute call but he left the impression he would have talked with us for as long as it would have been necessary. Near the end he told us he’d be in town early the next week for a planned memorial service. He asked, “Are you going to the hospital to see the victims?”

  I confirmed we were.

  “One of the protesters was severely hurt and is the only one of them still in the hospital. Would you please be sure to stop in her room and give her my condolences. She wasn’t awake when I called.”

  We promised we would. I wasn’t sure how I felt about talking to someone who wanted to take away my rights, but how many favors had the President asked of me personally before? I would swallow my umbrage and take a page from Scott’s book.

  As we were getting ready to leave the house, Scott asked, “You okay?”

  “For now. It’s been a long time since I was shot at in the marines. We were in the middle of all those protests, but I didn’t think it would lead to violence, not in Chicago. Maybe I’m naïve. I guess anything can lead to violence anywhere in our society. The stupid fucks and their idiot guns are out of control.”

  Scott agreed.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Physically I’m not doing too bad. Emotionally, at moments I want to hit out and do something violent and make people suffer. But I can switch in an instant to thinking I’d rather stay here under the covers with you all day, and yes, that would possibly be fun, but I mean it in a cowering, hiding way which seems to be one valid response to this shit.”

  “I talked to Todd. You know how he tells us not to get involved and leave it to the police?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not this time. He also thought it might be a good idea to look into the Fulham thing.”

  “Why?”

  I told him about the conversation.

  He said, “I suppose we could. There’s gotta be stuff on the Internet.”

  “I’ll go with you to rehab today. While I’m waiting, I can hunt for information about his life on the Net.”

  Scott had meetings set up with physical therapists and more consultations with the team doctor. They’d be working with him first thing this afternoon.

  “You usually don’t come.”

  “I know. Today I’d like to.”

  “You’ll be bored.”

  “I’ll have Fulham’s shit to look up. I know it’s unrealistic to think we won’t be apart. We have different jobs, everything. For today, for this minute, I want to tag along.”

  “I’d like that, but we’re going to the hospital first, right?”

  Even without the phone call from the president, we would have gone. The people in the hospital were worse off than we were. I said, “I want to find out the latest on Sean. I haven’t seen anything in the news. I’d rather ask in person.”

  TWELVE

  Friday - 9:58 A.M.

  Scott had called his publicist again before we left the house so that Weston could insure that our visit would not be intrusive or unwelcome, and that we would not interfere with hospital operations. Weston had called back in fifteen minutes. Scott had put the call on speakerphone. The agent had said, “You didn’t tell me the President had called and that he was smoothing the way.”

  Scott said, “We didn’t know.”

  “It’s all set.” He gave us directions for going to the parking garage then to the floor where a hospital administrator would meet us and bring us, as unobtrusively as possible, to the floors where the wounded were.

  As per the President’s request, we stopped in to see the woman who had been hurt while demonstrating across the street.

  Outside her room, a woman in her fifties stood wiping tears. “How is she?” the administrator asked.

  “The doctor was in. He gave us mostly good news. She’ll be in the hospital for a while.”

  He introduced us. She nodded. “You were both wounded. And you’re visiting my mother. She hates gay people. I’m so sorry.”

  Scott said, “We’re glad she’s going to be okay. President Obama called me and asked me to convey his personal best wishes, along with ours, for her speedy recovery. Would you tell her that please?”

  She nodded, gulped, and said, “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  The administrator had given us a list of everyone who was still in the hospital. Walking back down the hall, a soft buzzer sounded and a herd of medical people rushed to a room about twenty feet away.

  We walked to a reception area. I recognized a few of the people from the night before. Ayrfield, the owner of the gallery, came up to us.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Scott said, “we wanted to stop and see how people were and visit with those who were up to it, or willing to have visitors.”

  He nodded.

  I asked, “What’s the latest?”

  Ayrfield shook his head. “They’ve upgraded all but two who are still in intensive care in critical condition. The others are expected to recover.” He staggered.

  “Have you gotten any sleep?”

  “I may never sleep again.” He brandished his coffee. “But the police and everyone! They’ve been hounding me. I own the gallery, but I don’t care about any of that. My husband is one of the ones who has just been upgraded. He’s going to be fine.” Tears began but he brushed at them. “I’ve got to stay strong for him.”

  “You will,” I said. I gave him a brief hug. I hadn’t realized one of the victims had been his husband. That and the pressure of this awful event having happened at a place he owned must be tearing at him. I hoped the poor man could get some sleep soon.

  Darryl entered the reception room and hurried up to the coffee machine. We walked over to him. He looked up and gave us a wan smile. I asked, “How are Mr. Fulham and the other members of the entourage?”

  “Caleb Howk is dead, but you know that from last night.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “I didn’t really know the members of the entourage. I get Mr. Fulham ready for his day, make sure he has his meds, is clean, and has his meals. He handles those guys himself, mostly.”

  “If it’s okay, we could stop in and see him before we go.”

  “He’d like that. When he was awake last night, he kept talking about how kind you were.”

  “Any change since last night?”

  “About the same. He’s in and out of consciousness, and they aren’t sure why. They want to monitor him for a little while longer.” He left.

  Scott’s publicist and a hospital administrator entered the room and asked to speak with him. They walked off down th
e hall to the right. Approaching from the left was the man in the burgundy blazer from the entourage. He had slings around both arms. His white pants were spotted with blood.

  THIRTEEN

  Friday - 10:17 A.M.

  He looked at the bandage on my head. “How are you?”

  “Just a scratch. You?”

  “I fell and broke both arms as I was running, but I’ll be okay.”

  I said, “We weren’t introduced.”

  “I’m Franklin McMullen, owner of GAY Press, the imprint that is going to publish Mr. Fulham’s biography. It looks like he’s going to be okay.”

  “I’m sorry for the loss of Caleb Howk.”

  “He was a good guy. A great writer. I’ve known him since college. He was amazing with words.”

  I murmured, “I hope everyone else and yourself recovers.”

  “If any of us will ever get over this.”

  I shook my head, “I’m not sure what effect this will have on the rest of our lives, but we’re alive and at least we have the chance, and with luck, the time to recover.” I began to move off. He reached one of his injured arms out to me.

  He said, “I wanted to ask, what did Peter Fulham say to you yesterday?”

  “I’m sure that’s between him and me.”

  His voice turned snotty and menacing. “I’m sure it’s not. He’s got a contract with GAY Press for his life story. He may not understand it, but he signed it.”

  “I think he deserves some consideration for his age. It is his story.”

  “That man has been fucking with us, and now he confides in you. You! A nobody! It’s his fault that all this happened last night.”

  I was appalled. Being in the midst of such woeful carnage might unhinge the strongest human. Maybe being angry at Fulham was one way to get his emotions out and deal with horror and loss. Maybe he was a colossal asshole. We’d all been through a lot. I know everyone deals with grief in their own way. Howk’s death must have hit him hard.

  I swallowed my umbrage. I chose to go with kindness and mystification.

  I asked, “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “That old fool constantly talks about cabals and conspiracies going back decades. He’s always warning us that being around him is dangerous.”

  “It turns out he was sort of right.”

  “Hah! As if he could have predicted this.” He tapped his bandaged arms. “He can’t predict shit. He’s a sad old fool.” He sighed. “But I think there’s a story here.”

  “In the massacre?” My mouth must have been agape the way the mouths of the crowd are open in the Zero Mostel version of The Producers as the camera pans to their reaction at the opening of Springtime for Hitler.

  “I only mean as a writer. Not a ghoul. I’m not an awful person. I’m a writer and as well as the owner of the press. I’ve already posted pictures and a story on social media about my experience. People are clamoring for more.”

  No doubt they were, or at least he hoped so. Publicity from a horror? He wouldn’t be the first. I detested him.

  As I began to turn away, he placed a hand on my arm. Because of his wounds and the slings this was awkward and brought our faces within inches of each other. He said, “I could publish you and Scott’s autobiography. You know that’s a story people would want to read.”

  Deals in the midst of death? Was he mad? Or a desperate or smart businessman taking advantage of a rare opportunity?

  I said, “You’ve got a tragedy to milk for all it’s worth. If Scott or I decide to tell our story someday, we’ll remember your offer.” I didn’t say that whenever I remembered his offer, the word ‘never’ would flash like neon in the front of my brain.

  He continued, “Of course, writing can be a daunting task for those who aren’t used to it.” He squeezed my arm with his well-manicured hand. “Even I have days when I’d rather be doing anything but writing. Of course, we’d provide you with a ghostwriter. Neither of you would have to do anything but chat with a writer a few times. We’d do all the rest.”

  “Why would you think insulting me and demeaning my intelligence would be a good way to convince me to work with you?” Maybe Fulham didn’t like them for a good reason. That didn’t excuse the old guy’s rudeness, but now McMullen was racing to the top of the all-time most crass person I’d ever met list.

  I disentangled myself from his grip. He reached out again, but I yanked my arm away. He had the grace to look chagrined. He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. Please.”

  I hesitated.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m not like this. I’ve only slept a little. This is so awful. I’m so, so sorry.”

  My pity stopped my anger.

  He continued, “There are just so many gaps in what he told us. I think he has an important story to tell, an older gay man who played baseball in a time of fear and blatant discrimination. It’s an important story.”

  “And maybe decades old salacious gossip.”

  He had the grace to look chagrined and said, “I suppose, yes. He’s made claims about being intimate with a lot of ball players. We’re never going to be able to prove that, and we probably won’t be able to print it. We’ve spent forever trying to find somebody to confirm even one of his stories.”

  “People publish unconfirmable stuff all the time. That gay call boy in Los Angeles published that memoir where he claimed he did it with all kinds of famous people.”

  “But we’re a small press. Big publishers can afford to deal with huge nuisance lawsuits. In my company, there’s only two of us on full time salary. The rest are all authors or editors doing piece work.”

  “You need his story, and you need it to be a best seller.”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Um, yeah.”

  “He told me he wanted to talk to me. Perhaps you and he can work something out, so I can give you notes after I’m done talking to him some more.”

  “Why does he trust you?”

  “He said he thought I’d understand his life because I’m married to a baseball player.”

  “Hell, I’ll marry a pitcher for the Cubs if it would get me his story.”

  “He doesn’t seem to be very pleasant.”

  “I need money. I’m willing to put up with a lot.”

  “Nor does Fulham seem to trust people much.”

  “Most of the time I can’t figure the old guy out. Sometimes I think he’s a devious, selfish old shit, and he’s just stringing us along because he thinks it’s funny. That Darryl says his mind is okay. I guess I agree.” He pulled in a deep breath. “I’m sorry for sounding like such a shit a few minutes ago. I’m just upset. I’m alive, but people are dead. My friend is dead. We’ve been working on this project for over a year. I guess I got a little out of control. I apologize.”

  “We’ve all been through something horrific. Don’t worry about it. You talk to Mr. Fulham, and I’ll talk to him. Perhaps we can work something out.”

  I proceeded toward where I saw Scott down the hall speaking with several people.

  FOURTEEN

  Friday – 10:52 A.M.

  As I walked toward him, I heard snuffling and weeping from inside a room. I could see in. It was the man in the entourage who had been wearing jeans. I’d comforted him just before paramedics took him away. He lay in the bed with his upper torso inclined forty-five degrees. Tears ran down his cheeks, snot and goo oozed from his nose. No one was nearby. I stepped in and found a box of tissues and held it out to him. He caught sight of them but didn’t move. “Help me,” he said. “I can’t move. I can’t breathe.” His voice sounded mushy. I worked several tissues into a flat mass and held them to his nose. He blew. I threw them away and used some more of them to wipe his face.

  “Where’s the nurse?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. They all rushed off when that soft buzzer sounded. I can’t move. None of them will tell me anything.”

  I sat next to him on the bed.

  “Last n
ight, what did they say was wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know.” He began to cry again.

  “Is there someone I can call for you?”

  “They’re on their way, thanks.” He shook his head. “Caleb is dead. Jim Traverno was my, was my.”

  I held his hand. “You were close.”

  “I was falling in love. I could see settling down with him, and he’s dead.” More tears. “And I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and no one will tell me, and I’m scared.”

  I held him in my arms. After he stopped snuffling and his tears were under control, I disengaged from holding him. I used more tissues to wipe his face then sat on the bed and held his hand.

  He asked, “Are you guys okay?”

  “Physically we were lucky. One of my former students is in critical condition. I helped him come out in high school.”

  “I’m sorry.” He sniffed. “All I had was this project and maybe a relationship.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Eliot Libnum. I was going to do the actual writing with Caleb Howk, who was also our researcher. I own part of the press or rather I have a small investment in it. Well, the investment is small, but it was all the money I had. I got nothing besides all this. I was an English major in college. I’ve strung along and strung along for years and now it’s all going to shit.”

  “How well did you know Caleb?”

  “He just came on board in the last few weeks. He seemed to be a decent guy.”

  “You only had a researcher for a few weeks?”

  “We’ve had a series of them. Mr. Fulham can be difficult. You saw him at the gallery last night. He can be rude and short tempered. I think he uses his old age as a shield against the accusation that he’s just a mean spirited shit. I kind of like the old guy when he isn’t being a shit. I think he does that mostly because he thinks it’s funny. We’ve had a series of guys. They all quit. There’s no guarantee of a big payoff although we’re hoping, and Franklin has sunk a lot of money into this. All of Caleb’s manuscripts had been rejected by major publishers. He was doing temp work while he wrote the great American novel, and this came along as a side job.”