"No. He's returned to Wisconsin and is currently holed up in a lodge in the northern part of the state. Four of my people are with him."
"I see."
I refreshed our coffee supply and reseated myself. I didn't like this one at all and I resolved not to take it. I didn't like just giving Don a flat "No," though. His assignments had become a very important part of my life, and this one was not mere legwork. It was obviously important to him, and he wanted me on it. I decided to look for holes in the thing, to find some way of reducing it to the simple bodyguard job already in progress.
"It does seem peculiar," I said, "that Brockden is the only one afraid of the device."
"Yes."
"…And that he gives no reasons."
"True."
"…Plus his condition, and what the doctor said about its effect on his mind."
"I have no doubt that he is neurotic," Don said. "Look at this."
He reached for his coat, withdrew a sheaf of papers from within it. He shuffled through them and extracted a single sheet, which he passed to me.
It was a piece of Congressional-letterhead stationary, with the message scrawled in longhand. "Don," it said, "I've got to see you. Frankenstein's monster is just come back from where we hung him and he's looking for me. The whole damn universe is trying to grind me up. Call me between 8 & 10…Jess."
I nodded, started to pass it back, paused, then handed it over. Double damn it deeper than hell!
I took a drink of coffee. I thought that I had long ago given up hope in such things, but I had noticed something which immediately troubled me. In the margin, where they list such matters, I had seen that Jesse Brockden was on the committee for review of the Central Data Bank program. I recalled that that committee was supposed to be working on a series of reform recommendations. Offhand, I could not remember Brockden's position on any of the issues involved, but, Oh hell! The thing was simply too big to alter significantly now,…But it was the only real Frankenstein monster I cared about, and there was always the possibility…On the other hand, Hell, again! What if I let him die when I might have saved him, and he had been the one who…?
I took another drink of coffee. I lit another cigarette.
There might be a way of working it so that Dave didn't even come into the picture. I could talk to Leila Thackery first, check further into the Burns killing, keep posted on new developments, find out more about the vessel in the Gulf…I might be able to accomplish something, even if it was only the negation of Brockden's theory, without Dave's and my paths ever crossing.
"Have you got the specs on the Hangman?" I asked.
"Right here."
He passed them over.
"The police report on the Burns killing?"
"Here it is."
"The whereabouts of everyone involved, and some background on them?"
"Here."
"The place or places where I can reach you during the next few days, around the clock? This one may require some coordination."
He smiled and reached for his pen.
"Glad to have you aboard," he said.
I reached over and tapped the barometer. I shook my head.
The ringing of the phone awakened me. Reflex bore me across the room, where I took it on audio.
"Yes?"
"Mister Donne? It is eight o'clock."
"Thanks."
I collapsed into the chair. I am what might be called a slow starter. I tend to recapitulate phylogeny every morning. Basic desires inched then: ways through my gray matter to close a connection. Slowly, I extended a cold-blooded member and clicked my talons against a couple of numbers. I croaked my desire for food and lots of coffee to the voice that responded. Half an hour later I would only have growled. Then I staggered off to the place of flowing waters to renew my contact with basics.
In addition to my normal adrenaline and blood-sugar bearishness, I had not slept much the night before. I had closed up shop after Don left, stuffed my pockets with essentials, departed the Proteus, gotten myself over to the airport and onto a flight which took me to St. Louis in the dead, small hours of the dark. I was unable to sleep during the flight, thinking about the case, deciding on the tack I was going to take with Leila Thackery. On arrival, I had checked into the airport motel, left a message to be awakened at an unreasonable hour, and collapsed.
As I ate, I regarded the fact sheet Don had given me.
Leila Thackery was currently single, having divorced her second husband a little over two years ago, was forty-six years old, and lived in an apartment near to the hospital where she worked. Attached to the sheet was a photo which might have been ten years old. In it, she was brunette, light-eyed, barely on the right side of that border between ample and overweight, with fancy glasses straddling an upturned nose. She had published a number of books and articles with titles full of alienations, roles, transactions, social contexts, and more alienations.
I hadn't had the time to go my usual route, becoming an entire new individual with a verifiable history. Just a name and a story, that's all. It did not seem necessary this time, though. For once, something approximating honesty actually seemed a reasonable approach.
I took a public vehicle over to her apartment building. I did not phone ahead, because it is easier to say "No" to a voice than to a person.
According to the record, today was one of the days when she saw outpatients in her home. Her idea, apparently: break down the alienating institution-image, remove resentments by turning the sessions into something more like social occasions, et cetera. I did not want all that much of her time, I had decided that Don could make it worth her, while if it came to that, and I was sure my fellows' visits were scheduled to leave her with some small breathing space. Inter alia, so to speak.
I had just located her name and apartment number amid the buttons in the entrance foyer when an old woman passed behind me and unlocked the door to the lobby. She glanced at me and held it open, so I went on in without ringing. The matter of presence, again.
I took the elevator to Leila's floor, the second, located her door and knocked on it. I was almost ready to knock again when it opened, partway.
"Yes?" she asked, and I revised my estimate as to the age of the photo. She looked just about the same.
"Doctor Thackery," I said, "my name is Donne. You could help me quite a bit with a problem I've got."
"What sort of problem?"
"It involves a device known as the Hangman."
She sighed and showed me a quick grimace. Her fingers tightened on the door.
"I've come a long way but I'll be easy to get rid of. I've only a few things I'd like to ask you about it."
"Are you with the government?"
"No."
"Do you work for Brockden?"
"No, I'm something different."