Characters in Firestarter

It was quarter past ten. He buzzed Rachel. “Is Albert Steinowitz here yet?” “Just this minute arrived, sir.” “Very good. Send him in, please.” 4 “I want you to take personal charge of the endgame, Al.” “Very good, Cap.”

And wasn’t that funny? Andrew McGee no longer had an account at the Chemical Allied Bank of New York, not personal checking, not business checking, not savings. They had all disappeared into thin air, and that was when he knew they really meant to bring the hammer down this time.

He spoke to his postmaster, as the man had suggested. The Teller postmaster was Bill Cobham, and Everett was in Cobham’s office for better than an hour. At times their voices came through the office door, loud and angry.

He could even pinpoint the exact moment. He had been having creamed chicken on rice with Ev O’Brian, Bill Wallace, and Don Grabowski, all in the English Department. Good friends, all of them. And as usual, someone had brought along a Polish joke for Don, who collected them.

There was also still half a case of Rival dog food on the floor—a legacy of Granther’s good old dog Bimbo—but Andy didn’t think it would come to that.

“And I want to talk to General Brackman in Washington, A-one-A priority.

“Charlie—” he began, but anything he had been meaning to follow with was suddenly gone. He was deeply troubled by Brad Hyuck’s memo and by the supporting telemetry readouts. The fact that Brad had trusted those final two paragraphs to print said much, and suggested more. Hockstetter himself was scared.

3 As Andy was tickling his daughter with his stubbly beard, Orville Jamieson, aka OJ, aka The Juice, and another Shop agent named Bruce Cook were getting out of a light-blue Chevy outside the Hastings Diner.

Deenie didn’t go yet because she hadn’t had first holy communion, but her brother Carl did. Carl was in the fourth grade, and he had to tell everything, even the time he sneaked into his mother’s room and took some of her birthday chocolates.

Charlene Roberta McGee, Charlie since . . . well, since forever. If they took you, Charlie, I don’t know what I’d do. 23 One last voice, his roommate Quincey’s voice, from six years ago. Charlie had been a year old then, and of course they knew she wasn’t normal.

“Off he goes,” one of the old-timers remarked. “Civil enough fella,” Jake said, and that closed the subject. Talk turned to other matters. Charles Payson stood in the doorway of his store, which hadn’t done three hundred dollars’ worth of custom all winter long, and watched Andy go.

Hortense kept the secret for about ten days before telling her best girlfriend, Christine Traegger. Christine told her husband and her best friends (all three of them) almost immediately.

His face was very horrible to look at, but he seemed pleasant enough, and his face was no worse than the face of little Chuckie Eberhardt back in Harrison.

… me that the waves are rather more even, suggesting a certain “controlled imaginative dexterity” (Clapper’s rather fulsome phrase, not mine). Could indicate she’s getting in control of it and can manipulate the ability with greater precision.

A fellow by the name of Clayton Braddock was neatly decapitated by a whirling slice of barnboard siding. The man next to him was cut in two by a beam that came whirling through the air like a runaway propeller.

His only close family connection was his mother’s sister, Aunt Cora, and she was getting well along in years. He went down the column of questions, checking NO, NO, NO. He checked only one yes question: Have you ever suffered a fracture or serious sprain? If yes, specify.

This time he heard Terri. “It was the van. They went away in a gray van, like the one David Pasioco’s father has.” “Thanks,” he said. Mrs. Dugan said not to mention it. The impulse came again, this time just to scream My wife is dead!

Charlie knew all about the Catholic confession room because her friend Deenie had told her. Deenie said you had to tell the priest all the bad stuff you had done all week long. Deenie didn’t go yet because she hadn’t had first holy communion, but her brother Carl did.

He was a football fan. Andy got the man, whose name was Dick Albright, to bring him up to date on the previous season—who had made it to the playoffs and how they went, who had won the Super Bowl. Albright kindled.

The FBI had a file on Norma’s youngest brother, Don. Don had been involved with the SDS in the middle sixties and might have been briefly involved with a plot to firebomb a Dow Chemical Company office in Philadelphia.

He could even pinpoint the exact moment. He had been having creamed chicken on rice with Ev O’Brian, Bill Wallace, and Don Grabowski, all in the English Department. Good friends, all of them. And as usual, someone had brought along a Polish joke for Don, who collected them.

None of them had been at the Manders farm, and none of them was armed except for John Rainbird, who had the rifle, and Don Jules, who carried a .22 pistol.

That still doesn’t tap you into—” “Go see Dr. Noftzieger,” Rainbird said kindly. “Ask him how many ways there are to tap into a computer once you have access on a time-sharing basis.

… at just past nine, Pynchot’s former assistant, Dr. Nutter, had come in with Andy’s walking papers. Nutter, a tall, balding man in his late fifties, was bumbling and avuncular. Sorry to be losing you; hope you enjoy your stay in Hawaii; wish I …

… psychologists had put the combination report and prospectus together under the overall direction of Dr. Patrick Hockstetter, a clinical psychologist and psychotherapist. He was, in Cap’s opinion, one of the ten or twelve most astute minds at the Shop’s disposal. At the …

You’re running a little behind, aren’t you?” Pretty girls could get away with this; if it had been Duane’s day on the front desk, he could not have done. Cap was not a supporter of women’s liberation. “My top gear’s sticking, darlin.” He put his thumb in the proper slot.

The money rattled into her bag and she went on. 6 Eddie Delgardo sat in a hard plastic contour chair, looking up at the ceiling and smoking. Bitch, he was thinking. She’ll think twice about keeping her goddam legs closed next time.

… Tammy Upmore’s house or even having lunch with Eileen Bacon. Nevertheless, his nerves cranked up another notch. They were nearly screaming now. He left the Union building and half walked, half ran to the station wagon, which was in the Prince Hall parking lot. He drove across town to Lakeland.

He could even pinpoint the exact moment. He had been having creamed chicken on rice with Ev O’Brian, Bill Wallace, and Don Grabowski, all in the English Department. Good friends, all of them. And as usual, someone had brought along a Polish joke for Don, who collected them.

There were parents and grandparents, in-laws . . . and, as in every family, a few outlaws. One of Irv’s nephews, a boy named Fred Drew whom he had met only three or four times, had a little pot garden growing in his backyard in Kansas, according to Tarkington’s papers.

“Fire-training,” Cap mused. “Which is only to say that, like my brother and his boy Freddy, they made a complex. You have quoted me that analogy, Captain Hollister, so let us examine it for a moment. What is toilet-training?

The only one that had engaged Rainbird’s attention fully was the course in safecracking, taught by an aging burglar named G. M. Rammaden. Rammaden had been sprung from an institution in Atlanta for the specific purpose of teaching this craft to new Shop agents.

“Thank you.” She paused, just for a moment. You got to know their voices. Mike, Louis, Gary. You got pictures of how they must look in your mind, the way you got pictures of how the DJs you heard on the radio must look. You got to like them.

“It would be good to go into this with a friend,” she said, and looked at him with her direct blue eyes. “I really am a little scared, you know. George was so—I don’t know, adamant.” “Why? What did he say?” “That’s just it,” Vicky said.

Orville Jamieson and his new partner, George Sedaka, were on an airplane. Four hours later, as Andy and Charlie were sitting down to a game of five hundred rummy, the supper dishes washed and drying in the drainer, the letters were on Cap Hollister’s desk.

“You understand what happened to the two men in Ohio? The men that tried to take his daughter away?” “I worked with George Waring,” Jules said evenly. “That guy could burn water making tea.” “ln this man’s outfit, that is not so unusual. I only need us to be clear.

As if that damned little girl were a personal jinx, the only two women he had cared deeply about since the death of his mother had both died of cancer this winter—his wife, Georgia, three days after Christmas, and his personal secretary, Rachel, only a little over a month ago.

It was partway open. It always was, per regulations. There was a gun in there. Gloria was a crack shot, just as Rachel before her had been. “Cap, are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” “Ought to keep that shut,” Cap said.

All he thought of was how excited his girlfriend, Glyn, was going to be. Glynis kept telling him that driving a taxi was a dismal, unexciting job. Well, wait until she saw his dismal, unexciting five-hundred-dollar bill.

It was Irv’s turn to think. “There were two guys like that in the A&P,” he said. “Talking to Helga. She’s one of the checkers. Looked like they were showing her something.” “Probably our picture,” Andy said. “They’re government agents. They’re working with the police, Irv.

“Knock your eye out,” the man on the bike agreed. “Have a good one, Henry.” He reached the front of the northernmost of the two homes, dismounted his bike, and put down its kickstand.

“You could? You really think you could?” “I could change with Herbie someday. See him. Tell him you’re okay. Well, not tell him but pass him a note or something.” “Oh, wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

He was very much the B feature on the program. The doctor in charge of testing him was a man named Herman Pynchot. He was in his late thirties and perfectly ordinary except for the fact that he grinned too much. Sometimes all that grinning made Andy nervous.

Shirley McKenzie kept the secret for almost a month before telling her best girlfriend, Hortense Barclay. Hortense kept the secret for about ten days before telling her best girlfriend, Christine Traegger. Christine told her husband and her best friends (all three of them) almost immediately.

He shook it out and lit a second. Like the dour New England preachers of old (from whom she had been a direct descendant), Hulda McGee had no liking, understanding, or tolerance for the simple and slightly stupid male pleasures.

… give the two fugitives a lift belonged to Irving Manders, RFD #5, Baillings Road, Hastings Glen, New York. It was just past twelve-thirty P.M. 10 The lunch was very nice. Charlie ate like a horse—three helpings of chicken with gravy, two of Norma Manders’s hot biscuits, a side dish of …

None of the old-timers who sat around Jake Rowley’s stove in the Bradford general store had much liking for Vermont ways, them with their income tax and their snooty bottle law and that fucking Russian laid up in his house like a Czar, writing books no one could understand.

FILE, he tapped. CAPTAIN JAMES HOLLISTER 16040/ATTENDED FUNERAL OF HERMAN PYNCHOT 14409 W/ANDREW MCGEE 14112 F4 FILED, the computer returned. FILE, Rainbird tapped back, CAPTAIN JAMES HOLLISTER 16040/CURRENTLY SHOWING SIGNS OF GREAT MENTAL STRESS F4 609, the computer returned.

So then there were three. Since 1977, when the long-dormant Lot Six project had suddenly got red hot again, a fellow named James Richardson, who now lived in Los Angeles, had been under constant covert surveillance.

The comic-book philosophy of Jim Paulson in a nutshell. Take good care of the little stranger.” “Sure,” Andy said, brushing his eyes. He put the five-dollar bill in the pocket of his corduroy coat. “Charlie? Hon? Wake up. Just a little bit longer now.”

He dialed the number and Joan Dugan answered. “Hi, Joan,” he said, and now the shock was aiding him: his voice was perfectly calm, an everyday voice. “Could I speak to Charlie for a second?” “Charlie?” Mrs. Dugan sounded doubtful. “Well, she went with those two friends of yours.

His name was John Mayo. “The guy’s a stringer. He works for DIA as well as us.” “Just an ordinary whore,” the third man said, and all three of them laughed in a nervous, keyed-up way. They knew they were close; they could almost smell blood.

Then he leaned forward and got Rachel again. “Is John Rainbird there?” “Yes he is, Cap.” “Give me another five minutes and then send him in. I want to talk to Norville Bates out in the service area. He’s the head honcho until Al gets there.”

So I didn’t say no. I was glad to see you take her. But, Irv, what if Johnny Gordon or Ray Parks had been out today and had just happened to drift over to see what you were doing, like they sometimes do?” “Honey, they didn’t.” But Irv sounded uneasy.

6 Dr. Joseph Wanless had suffered his stroke on the same day Richard Nixon announced his resignation of the presidency—August 8, 1974. It had been a cerebral accident of moderate severity, and he had never come all the way back physically. Nor mentally, in Cap’s opinion.

“Good morning, Josie,” the elderly gent said. “Hi, Cap. You’re running a little behind, aren’t you?” Pretty girls could get away with this; if it had been Duane’s day on the front desk, he could not have done. Cap was not a supporter of women’s liberation.

Norma asked. Hofferitz looked at their plates. “No—but if I was to, it looks like you wouldn’t have to dish up anything new,” he said dryly. “Will she have to stay in bed for long?” Irv asked. “Ought to have her down to Albany,” Hofferitz said.

These friendships stretched all the way back to Vicky’s best friend in the first grade, a girl named Kathy Smith, who was now Mrs. Frank Worthy, of Cabral, California, and who had probably not spared a thought for Vicky Tomlinson in twenty years or more.

“Farm truck,” he said. “That’s what I remember, too,” Ray said. He glanced around and saw Lena Cunningham’s large moon face peering out the motel office window at them. She saw him seeing her and the curtain fell back into place.

… but now he was screaming, big, tough, nine-year-old Leon Hollister was screaming “Go get Daddy!” and tears were running down his cheeks as he held his puffing leg between his hands and as three-year-old Cap Hollister turned to do what his brother said, terrified and blubbering, it had slithered over …

It was sort of a relief. 6 At quarter of ten, John Rainbird slipped into the small monitoring room near Charlie’s quarters. Louis Tranter, a hugely fat man whose buttocks nearly overflowed the chair he sat in, was watching the monitors. The digital thermometer read a steady sixty-eight degrees.

He could see the splintery wicker creel in the bow of the boat, he could see the red tire patches on Granther McGee’s old green boots, he could see his own old and wrinkled first baseman’s mitt, and looking at it made him remember that he had Little League practice …

… the pavement, his face twisted in anger and terror . . . and the young woman placidly raising baby Michael to her shoulder to burp him. He entered the flow of turnpike traffic without looking. A horn blared; tires squalled. A big Lincoln swerved …

The owner made a halfhearted gesture with the knife, and OJ’s face seemed to light up. “Come on, man,” he said, half-laughing. “Come on. Let’s see you try.” Mike put the knife down beside the toaster and suddenly cried out in shame and outrage: “I fought in Vietnam!

“One item,” she said. “I was just getting to it. Mike Kellaher says she asked to go out to the stable this afternoon and see a horse—” “Yes, that’s fine,” Cap said. “—and she buzzed back a little later to say she’d like to go out at quarter of one.”

… Coast of Texas; this fellow, whose name was Milo Breedlove, had a family of seven to support, and one whisper from the government would send Milo’s whole desperate house of cards tumbling and put them all on the state, common bankrupts. A cousin of Irv’s (twice removed; he thought he …

Like Mommy with her double-crostics and Mr. Douray down the street in Port City, always making bread. When they had enough at his house, he’d make some for other people.

You talked baseball with Mr. Hammond on Laurel Lane as he everlastingly trimmed his hedges. Mr. Hammond was with IBM (“Which stands for I’ve Been Moved,” he would tell you endlessly as the electric clippers hummed and buzzed), originally from Atlanta and a rabid Atlanta Braves fan.

She got ready to say so . . . and then it came together in her mind and a dizzying burst of bewildered excitement ran through her. (Mr. Merle! He’s like Mr. Merle!) Mr. Merle had been one of Daddy’s executives when they were in New York.

… her never to mention it to Mr. Raucher—that he would explain it later. But he never had. Sometimes Mr. Raucher would bring her slices of kielbasa which she would eat while watching TV. And now, looking at John’s smile, which seemed so strange and …

You nodded on the street to Mrs. Bacon, who had lost her husband and had since been remarried to vodka—and she looked it; the honeymoon with that particular gentleman was playing …

Mrs. Flynn from Laurel Lane walked past with a bag of groceries in a wheeled caddy, her paunch as round and tight as a soccer ball under her …

… woman, and she could understand that because Stan Gurney was still a good-looking, vital, virile man at fifty-five, and she had slowly gained one hundred and sixty pounds over the years since the second-to-last child had left for college, going from the one-forty she had weighed at marriage to an …

How he had dreaded looking into Mrs. Mishkin’s room and seeing Charlie’s seat empty, her books stacked neatly inside her desk: No, Mr. McGee . . . she went with your friends about two …

The man on duty, Neary, swung around when Hockstetter came in. “Cap came down to visit her around five,” he said. “She turned her nose up at supper. Went to bed early.” Hockstetter looked into the monitor. Charlie was tossing restlessly on top of her bed, fully dressed.

Five horses lay wounded or dead on the grass and in the driveway. A few others had run away, and Necromancer was among these, his tail waving like a battle flag. “The girl!” someone screamed, pointing at the stable doors. “The girl!” It was too late.

We’re pleased to know you.” “Me too,” Charlie said, still more interested in the chickens than in the woman—at least for the moment. “I’m Norma Manders,” she said. “Come in. You’re welcome.” But Andy saw the puzzled look she threw at her husband.

He heard it frequently in his dreams . . . and saw that questing, drowning, bloodstained hand. 18 The green car whispered along the airport feeder road toward the Northway entrance ramp. Behind the wheel, Norville Bates sat with his hands firmly at ten and two o’clock.

The name of the third man was Orville Jamieson, but he preferred to be called OJ, or even better, The Juice. He signed all his office memos OJ. He had signed one The Juice and that bastard Cap had given him a reprimand.

23 John always rode with her, but in her dreams Charlie rode alone. The head groom, Peter Drabble, had fitted her out with a small, neat English saddle, but in her dreams she rode bareback.

After a slight pause, Andy checked “no” to that one, thinking, In this brave year 1969 who hasn’t used them? He had been put on to this by Quincey Tremont, the fellow he had roomed with in college. Quincey knew that Andy’s financial situation wasn’t so hot.

cup, added Cremora and then sat down and thumbed the intercom. “Hi, Rachel,” he said. “Hello, Cap. Dr. Wanless is—” “I knew it,” Cap said. “I knew it. I could smell that old whore the minute I came in.” “Shall I tell him you’re too busy today?”

It was absurd, but he knew it. And the man’s name was . . . Andy groped for it, and he got it. The man’s name was Ralph Baxter. He smiled. Ralph Baxter. Good deal. “I feel okay,” he said. “How’s that other fella?” “What other fella’s that, Andy?”

… I know who’s involved in all the Lot Six tests in any way is a Dartan Pharmaceutical rep named Ralph Steinham. And he’s fifty-five or so.” Andy looked at the GA for a long time without saying anything. Ralph an illusion? Well, maybe so. It had all …

4 John Mayo was with an agent named Ray Knowles. They were on their way out along Route 40 to the Slumberland Motel. They were driving a late-model tan Ford, and as they rode up the last hill separating them from an actual view of the motel, a tire blew.

So I didn’t say no. I was glad to see you take her. But, Irv, what if Johnny Gordon or Ray Parks had been out today and had just happened to drift over to see what you were doing, like they sometimes do?” “Honey, they didn’t.” But Irv sounded uneasy.

Rich McKeon was halfway down the lawn, sitting astride a miniature tractor-lawnmower. Cap stood looking at him with his arms crossed behind his back for a moment and then went over to the Mr. Coffee in the corner. He poured some coffee in his U.S.N.

… got back to the building Cap and Andy had left only minutes before, he was so wild-looking that Richard, on door duty, grasped the gun inside his drawer. “What—” he began. “The alarm, the alarm!” Jules yelled. “Do you have auth—” “I’ve got the …

Then, using the code book, Rainbird told the computer whom to inform of the cancellation: Victor Puckeridge and his aide, Richard Folsom. These new instructions would be in the midnight telex to Andrews, and the plane on which he was to hitch a ride would simply take off without him.

Outside, someone called out hoarsely, “Richie! Where the fuck areya?” and Andy cringed back in his chair as if he had been threatened. He licked his lips.

The postman, Robert Everett, put the mail in a bag, swung the bag into the back of his blue and white truck, and then drove on to Williams, another small New Hampshire town in Teller’s zip-code area.

Sally Bradford was going to put out, and if she really believed that crap about him having had a vasectomy, it served her right. And then let her go running to her hick schoolteacher brother if she wanted to.

… on the road—get a load of gravel from Sam Moore’s gravel pit and put it down in the worst of the ruts, cut back the brush, and get Sam himself to come down with his old dragger and even it out. The camp road’s other, broader fork led down to …

The files he showed us. It’s your brother and my nephew Fred and Shelley, and—” “—and all those people back in Poland,” Norma said. “Well, maybe he was only bluffing about that. I pray to God he was.

The deposited mail consisted of Andy’s six letters and a postcard from Miss Shirley Devine, a fifty-year-old maiden lady, to her sister in Tampa, Florida. Across the lake, Andy McGee was taking a nap and Charlie McGee was building a snowman.

10 Until he was in his late sixties, Dr. Hofferitz, an inveterate bachelor, had slept with his longtime housekeeper, Shirley McKenzie.

… another woman, and she could understand that because Stan Gurney was still a good-looking, vital, virile man at fifty-five, and she had slowly gained one hundred and sixty pounds over the years since the second-to-last child had left for college, going from the one-forty she had weighed at marriage to …

“There’s Tom and Steve,” Bruce said. Across the street, a light-brown Pacer had pulled into a parking slot just vacated by a farm truck.

T. B. Norton, the shift supervisor, looked up from the paperback he was reading. “No overtime for punching in early, Injun.” “Yeah?” Rainbird said. “Yeah.” Norton stared at him challengingly, full of the grim, almost holy assurance that so often goes with petty authority.

… hair done, she could have been over at Tammy Upmore’s house or even having lunch with Eileen Bacon. Nevertheless, his nerves cranked up another notch. They were nearly screaming now. He left the Union building and half walked, half ran to the station wagon, which was in the Prince Hall …

They had pulled out her nails to find out where Charlie was. Charlie had been spending two days and two nights at her friend Terri Dugan’s house. A month or so later they had been planning to have Terri over to their house for a similar length of time.

His face had aged fifteen years. “Cap, Senator Thompson’s aide is here with those figures you asked for on Project Leap.” “No calls for the next ten minutes,” Cap said, and clicked off.

OJ reached under his jacket and readjusted The Windsucker in its holster. “There’s Tom and Steve,” Bruce said. Across the street, a light-brown Pacer had pulled into a parking slot just vacated by a farm truck. Two men in dark suits were getting out of the Pacer.

… her eyes open and glazed and dead, was Vicky Tomlinson McGee with a cleaning rag stuffed in her mouth. There was a thick and sickening smell of Pledge furniture polish in the air. He made a low gagging noise and stumbled backward. His hands flailed, as if to drive this …

Then, using the code book, Rainbird told the computer whom to inform of the cancellation: Victor Puckeridge and his aide, Richard Folsom. These new instructions would be in the midnight telex to Andrews, and the plane on which he was to hitch a ride would simply take off without him.

“I think you had better listen to me before you take any action you might regret later,” Whitney Tarkington had replied quietly and politely. Norma looked at Irv, and Irv had nodded. Her hand fell away from the call button. Reluctantly. Tarkington had a briefcase with him.