Acceleration Read online

  “Turn on the news, Alex,” he shouted as he shivered and turned off the water.

  “News again,” said Alex. “Face it, honey, we are no longer famous. We’ve been replaced by our playboy President.”

  Alex flicked on the television, however, and played with the remote. “No news,” she

  muttered. “I’m really getting sick of it.” Suddenly she straightened. “Wait, Sam, come here. Listen.”

  Sam entered the room while wrapped in his towel. He too had been brought up short by the words echoing across the room from the set.

  “President William Quint, on vacation from his ranch, has hosted a luncheon for FBI

  personnel to show his appreciation for their diligence and patriotism over the years. A celebrity from the latest hospital bombing is attending. He is FBI director Silas Jensen.”

  “Director Jensen, is there any progress on the search for perpetrator, Samuel Stone, the famous writer? Do they know yet why he and his brother, a scientist, would cause such destruction and death?”

  Alex felt sick as the face shifted to that of Silas Jensen. He looks so cool and confident, she thought, as she nervously ran her fingers along her silently parted lips.

  “We’ll find him,” Jensen said with no warmth. “In time. He can’t hide forever.”

  “Could you still answer my why question?” The female reporter was tenacious, Sam had to credit her with spunk.

  “We don’t know why. We think that he was having Iraq War flashbacks and just went off the deep end, taking his brother with him,” said Jensen.

  “What a crock!” Sam’s old anger was seething. Alex slipped her hand in his.

  Jensen continued. “Sam Stone is a dangerous man, to others and himself.”

  Sam’s picture was flashed on the screen. “Come on,” Sam said in frustration. “America knows me by now, how many times do you have to show my picture, Jensen?”

  A hot line number crept across the bottom of the screen. “Damn!” Sam sat dejectedly on the edge of the couch. “They never give up.”

  “Thank you, Director Jensen,” said the reporter. “Oh, Sir, we hear the hospital will be rebuilt.”

  Sam’s mouth fell open and a chill fell over him.

  “Yes, it just got a huge grant for its philanthropic research. We lost some good men in the explosion, however. So it will take time to get it back to its former success in research and care.” It was then that Jensen turned full view to the audience of millions.

  Jensen’s face was still scared horribly on one side.

  “Did Stone hurt your face, Sir?” the interviewer’s lovely eyes could not mask her repulsion too successfully.

  “Yes, when he killed my wife and daughter.”

  Killed! Sam hadn’t heard that accusation before. Alex exchanged a silent look of sympathetic understanding with him.

  Alex said softly, “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  Sam held her hand and whispered, “I know.”

  The show continued

  The reporter pursued coyly. She could be sweet when she wanted something and she wanted fame. “How, Sir? You’ve never told the media exactly what happened.”

  “It’s classified information for now, honey,” Jensen replied.

  “Honey,” bad choice of words, he thought. Too patronizing.

  Alex turned towards Sam. There was a different look on his face. “What are you thinking, Sam,” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Ah, no. You’re germinating with ideas,” Alex countered.

  “Let’s use her.” He said calmly.

  “Who? That lady?”

  “Yep. Why not? She’s smart and independent, and she doesn’t trust Jensen,” said Sam.

  Alex’s mouth fell open. “She could turn us in for the scoop of the century.”

  “Or not, for the scoop of the century. Maybe she’ll want the truth.” Sam was thinking fast now.

  “You think that you can trust her from just that telecast?” said Alex.

  “Yeah, but let’s put out a feeler first.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She shrugged. “Are you going to class first?”

  “I thought I might.” Sam got up. “I’d better throw on clothes though. Heather may not be able to handle my macho beauty.” He grinned triumphantly. “Silas Jensen, you made your first mistake. You acted like an ass. It’s going to come back and bite you. I’m going to see to that.”

  Alex laughed. It was good to see him gaining his old strength.

  Sam gave her a quick kiss and turned to finish dressing hurriedly. “I’m late. I’m late. For a very important date, with…Heather.”

  Alex threw a pillow at him.

  “Oh, patience, pretty lady. I’m just enjoying my cover.” He picked up the pillow and threw it back. “Eh, I’m too old for Heather. Guess it will just be you and me, and Lizzy.”

  “I rather like that, that’s better. Now out into the cold.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I’m going.” He grabbed his sweater and was gone.

  “Sam, take your jacket!” Alex ran to the door, but he was gone. She muttered to herself. “Samuel, you forgot you were no longer in California.” Her eyes grew sad. “Be careful, Sam.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Professor Sinclair, do you think an author must only write about what he knows? What if he is fascinated with another field? Can he become affective writing about it?”

  “Mis-ter?” Sam squinted across the stage lights. “What is your name, young man? I like to know who I’m addressing, and I consider your question important.”

  “Edward Allen, Sir.” The young man’s voice responded eagerly.

  “Mr. Allen, absolutely he may write about other fields, given the prerequisites of research and interest in it. Both are usually recommended. You must care deeply about your subject.” What a hypocrite I am, thought Sam. I stopped caring. However, I do write about characters I like or ideas or issues. I guess, I do care.

  “Gentlemen and Ladies,” Sam said. “Our time is up and enough on my opinions. Tomorrow we’ll consider in depth a true giant in the field, Mr. Steinbeck. Please consult your syllabus for reading background and be prepared.”

  Sam tried to exit the stage quickly, but his students bound up and detoured him from getting near the door with their human barricade. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy talking to them, but he was suddenly tired. Maybe it was watching the news. He shouldn’t do that before class.

  “Professor Sinclair…Professor, do you expect…Sir…”

  Sam held up his hand. He felt exhausted. “We’ll talk more Tuesday. I’ll answer all your questions then. Make a note of them. Thank you.”

  Sam pulled his grey sweater across his broad chest and crashed through the assemblage that swarmed excitedly in his path. He managed to get to the door and exited quickly into a swirling snow storm. “Just what I need to get out of my mood, a blizzard,” he laughed at the irony. It might clear his mind, however. He felt refreshed at the thought of walking in the beautiful falling snow.

  Sam sprinted towards the student union. Coffee, hot brew, and a sandwich. That’s what he wanted. And perhaps he’d get a daily paper. That should cheer him up, he mused sarcastically. He actually wanted to be alone. Feeling the bitter cold outside, Sam buttoned his sweater tighter. I wonder if I stand out like a trans-planted Californian?

  By the time he had eaten his quick lunch, the winter had gathered even more force. Sam started out the door, but a student stopped him.

  “Professor!”

  Sam turned.

  “Sir, may I stop you for a minute. It’s me again, Edward Allen, from class. I usually go just by Eddie though.”

  Sam groaned inside. “Eddie, I’m rather tired today. Would you mind if we talked before or after the next session?”

  “It’s just that…” Eddie began hesitantly. “I just want to read your books.” He gained

  confidence. “Could you give me a list of them?”

  Sam suddenly felt the danger o
f his cover falling off. “Eddie, I don’t mean to be rude, but my books are not what you should be reading.”

  “Sir, let me be the judge of that. I’ve read the authors for your class, now I wish to read your works, assuming you have any.” Eddie lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Sir. I was being rude.”

  Sam couldn’t help but let a smile escape. “Whoa, you are gutsy and honest. Let’s start over. Maybe I’ll get my energy back. Join me for coffee, Mr. Eddie Allen?”

  “Yes, Sir, I’d like that very much.” Eddie took a deep breath and followed Sam back into the cafeteria area and its line.

  Neither said a word for a few minutes. Sam finally cleared his throat. “Eddie, tell me, are you writing now and/or planning to do so?”

  “I’m writing now but haven’t published.”

  “Do you want to get rich at it?”

  “Yes, Sir.” The boy looked so happy. Sam felt old.

  “Don’t write. Very few get rich from writing.”

  “I know there are no guarantees,” said Edward. “I also like writing, a lot.”

  “Good. It can be satisfying.” Sam stirred his coffee absently. He rather wished the kid would find another idol. His writing career was a thing of the past. He was another person then. Now he was like a colt in a stable that didn’t know where or how to run. He didn’t want to talk and maybe he shouldn’t. He couldn’t let anyone get to know him, not yet, and certainly not this innocent kid. Sam started to get up. I need to take off. We can talk more next week. Don’t worry. Just enjoy writing.”

  “Sir, wait, you remind me of someone.” The boy looked honestly puzzled.

  “Sure, Hemingway. It’s the beard.” Sam rubbed his beard and chuckled playfully.

  “No.” Eddie shifted in his seat. “Did you ever write mysteries?”

  Sam felt that he’d forgotten how to breathe. “No. Not my field of interest. Well, Mr. Allen, it’s been pleasant meeting you. I don’t mean to be mysterious or rude. I just don’t like to talk about my work.”

  “But…” said Eddie.

  “Keep writing. You’re a fine young man.” Sam said. “We’ll talk next week, I promise.” Sam rose and hurried out the door.

  Eddie stared after him in confusion. What had he said wrong? Was he too much of a pest? He figured he’d just slammed his grade deep into the pits. On top of that, the man he’d grown to idolize over the months probably now figured that he was an irritating little jerk. Eddie sank his elbows on the table and groaned.

  A voice piped up. “You didn’t do any better than I did.”

  Eddie looked up into the gorgeous eyes of the school’s most famous female, Heather St. James. “Yeah?” He looked back down at his now cold coffee. “I struck out pretty badly.”

  “Hey, don’t feel that way. I don’t. He’s special. Let’s compare notes,” said Heather.

  “What notes,” Eddie said dejectedly. “I didn’t even get to first base.”

  “Neither did I. Now the why is intriguing. Come on, let’s go to my place. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Eddie looked up warily.

  “No no, it’s not what you think. I just want to talk. I’m really very serious,” Heather said quietly.

  “Me too. “Eddie scrambled up and stood beside her. He figured he was a good head shorter. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Let’s do it,” Heather needed a partner in her quest for answers.

  #

  “It’s him, I know it is.” Heather held out the book jacket to Edward. “Do you really go by Edward? It’s a bit stuffy.” Heather gathered her long legs under her body as she sat and leaned against the wall by her small bed. “He might be very handsome under that beard, and what a terrific disguise. If it’s true, we’ve got one hell of a story.” She threw up her arms in excitement.

  “Eddie,” Eddie said softly. “I sometimes go by Eddie. Now, I think you’re nuts here. I know he looks familiar, but Sam Stone, the writer and now murderer, here in Middletown U.S.A. Sure!... I said that sarcastically, sorry.” Eddie stood up and tossed the book back on the shelf. “Anyway, how could he get a job here as a professor so fast and without a background check.”

  “The man had money. And probably he has friends in high places.” Heather returned.

  “If he has such friends, how did he get into such a mess?”

  “Yeah. Hey, did you ever see him on a talk show? I have. His voice is just like the Professor’s. I’m very good with voices, among other things.” She laughed and flipped her long red hair. “Just kidding about the other things, Eddie. But really, the voice is the same. Look I made a disc of his interview last year. He’s talking about writing. I wanted to save it so I did. Listen and think about the lecture today. I taped that on my phone. I’ll play both.” She crawled off the bed and plopped in the disc.

  They listened intently as Heather repeatedly punched between the disc recording and her phone recording. Sam’s voice played:

  “You must care deeply about your subjects, but probably every writer does.” Sam Stone laughed with his host.

  “He’s right,” Eddie quipped. “Every writer does. It sounds like him.”

  “Now listen to his voice and look at his eyes and the book jacket picture. It’s him, I know it.” She paused the picture. “I’ve wanted to do this. Heather pulled out assorted colored pencils and began sketching over Stone’s face. “See grey hair and a beard.”

  “Hemingway,” said Eddie.

  “Yeah,” She laughed, but Eddie wasn’t smiling.

  Eddie looked at her “I think you’ve got something, but why would a famous writer do the terrible things that guy did?”

  “Let’s ask him.” Heather’s eyes were deadly serious.

  “When?”

  “Now.” She jumped off the couch. “I know where he lives.”

  “Are you crazy? He’ll either kill us or laugh in our faces.” Eddie shook his head.

  “I have protection.” She proudly pulled a gun from her drawer by the bed.

  “Whoa! Where did you get that? Do you know how to use it? Anyway, I think he’s innocent,” said Eddie.

  “So do I. I just have a feeling though, that it’s him. Plus, my mom works for the news network. She’d die for this story. We could become famous or get rich. Either way- are you with me?”

  Eddie nodded his head, as he put on his jacket.

  Heather jammed the gun into her coat pocket and grabbed her hat and gloves. “I wish it were a little warmer out. I hate confronting a terrorist when I’m freezing my body?”

  “Yep,” Eddie was amazed. Heather was not the sex-crazed airhead of her reputation.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sam’s face was burning from the cold. Rather stupid of him to not wear a jacket. He spied the lights from the town businesses ahead. They seemed to glow invitingly. His feet padded quietly on the soft blanket of snow beneath him. He held out his arms and stretched. Hey, cold is a state of mind and body; then he shivered. More like body. The temperature must have plunged. His first mid-western winter. New York snowfalls were exciting, but this is gorgeous. He might grow to like it, if he had a jacket, he thought. He felt like he was back in time, when life was simple, all black and white, no greys. There were bad guys that were caught, at least in the movies. Even death was dignified. There was no fuss, no mess. True, there were tears, but that went with living. Physical pain, he could understand, but not madness, idyllically speaking that is. At least that’s the way I like to remember it. Oh, Caroline, I miss you. And dear Alex, are you home safe and warm. I’m cold. I’ll get warm for a few minutes in this shop.

  Sam swept into the small store and stomped the snow from his feet in the doorway. Rows of books met his sweeping gaze. A bookstore, delightful!

  “You still open?” He felt a need to respond to the quiet look of the clerk. “Pretty snowfall, isn’t it?” Sam felt relaxed here and rather jovial. He loved being around books, just holding them made him tingle inside. There was so much to learn. He wished h
e could read them all. Funny, he felt that way when he was a kid. It never seemed to go away- that crazy curiosity.

  He stopped abruptly and stared. In front of him stood a six-foot tall poster of himself. “Sam Stone Mysteries,” the sign said beside it. I’m famous, he almost blurted out the words. He felt like laughing insanely. He couldn’t take his eyes off the poster. The eyes seemed to follow and return to him. He casually picked up one of the books, his books, and read a jacket title- “Mystery Writer’s Last Novel Before Insanity,” Sam quietly lowered the book down onto the pile. He didn’t authorize that book jacket, did Ben Gallagher, or the publisher? Well, at least we’re both getting rich, sort of. He shrugged. He needed to stop taking everything so seriously. He was stuck over a thousand miles from his life, a life he had thought he didn’t want. Now he wasn’t so sure. He wondered what Susie was thinking about all this. Had she found someone else? Why not, she deserved better than he could give right now. Anyway, he was nuts about Alex. He’d been very lucky to have met such fascinating ladies. No need to complain, except for the horror at the hospital. Sam suddenly felt eyes on him. He turned around and met the eyes of the shopkeeper.

  Sam thought fast. “Ma’am, you wouldn’t like to sell me a cup of that magnificent smelling coffee, would you?” he said. It sure felt like a good idea. He offered his most charming smile. Actually, he really would like some hot coffee. And it worked.

  “All right, Mister. I guess I can spare a bit. I really want to hear the news though. You want to sit and listen too?” The lady was old but sharp. “Be nice though. I won’t put up with anything but good manners… I’m Agnes.” She extended her hand. He clasped it firmly.