Free Jericho's Fall by Stephen L. Carter Page B

unusual visitors? Anybody who seemed suspicious?”
    About to dismiss the question, Beck had a thought. “There was one. A writer. Lewiston Clark. Red beard. He said he’s working with you on your autobiography.”
    “Working with me. That’s a hoot. Acts like he wants to be my Boswell, but what he really wants is to be my Iago. My evil genius,” he translated unnecessarily. “He’s a fool, Beck. A pushy little fool. Called a couple of times. He wants me to tell him secrets. But I don’t tell secrets. I keep secrets.”
    “He said you had something for him. Notes. Papers, maybe.” She eyed the thick document.
    “Then he’s a lying little fool.” A crafty look came over the tired face. “You remember him, Beck, don’t you? Young Mr. Clark?”
    “No. But he acted like he remembered me.”
    “I’m quite sure he did. You were rather a memorable undergraduate my dear.”
    She was surprised. “Was he at Princeton?”
    “Practically led the protests. Against me. Invaded my classroom. Figured he must have hit on you, the way you got around.”
    Beck let this thrust slip past her. She was recalling the incursions, the ragtag group of angry students who would barge into the seminar every other week or so, chanting their slogans, waving their signs. And she remembered, hazily, a scrawny kid with red hair—
    “That was him?”
    A nod. “G. Lewiston Clark himself. ‘G’ is for ‘Gordon,’ and that was what he called himself in those days. Gordon Clark. Arrogant little prick then, arrogant little prick now. Lewiston Clark. Get it? That’s theproblem with journalism today, isn’t it? Lot more interested in being clever than being wise. Gordon Clark. Think he wound up with a summa , didn’t he? A magna , anyway.”
    She shrugged. She had no idea. Those who drop out of college rarely keep close track of the achievements of those who finish.
    The hand came up and seized her wrist. “Don’t let him have it. My notes. Promise me.”
    “I promise.” She patted his hand. “What’s he up to? He said you’re working together. Why would he tell an obvious lie like that?”
    “I wouldn’t know, my dear. But Mr. Clark is the mercenary sort of writer. He writes only books that can get him on television. Scandals. Lies. If you want to know what he’s up to, find out who’s paying him.”
    While she considered this, he grinned again. “Now, don’t worry, Beck. My papers aren’t what Dak is looking for. Not sophisticated enough.” Whether he meant his old friend or the papers was unclear. “Don’t worry,” he said again, subsiding.
    “I won’t worry.”
    “Good girl.” The fire was gone again. “And ask Audrey. Don’t forget.”
    “I’ll ask her.”
    “It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “Don’t let Dak make you feel guilty. You don’t owe him anything. Neither do I.” His eyes were closed. All at once the words were an effort. “They forced me out, Beck. They shouldn’t have done that. They all got together. They forced me out, and now it’s my turn.”
    “Your turn to do what?”
    No answer.
    Rebecca waited a bit, whispered his name, stroked his hand. When he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, she bade him good night, kissed his forehead, stood up, headed for the door.
    “Becky.”
    The voice froze her. He had not called her Becky since—well, since. “Yes, Jer-Bear?” she said, the nickname slipping out before she thought about it.
    “It’s not my will.”
    She moved back toward the bed. He was trying to sit up, eyes alive with a desperate energy. “You told me, honey. Please rest.”
    He smiled, and slept.
    Or pretended to.
    (iv)
    She was tempted. She knew he wanted her to be. She had held his hand for a while, just like last night, but now was on her way to the door, and there it was, the very folder he wanted her to protect and also to finish, a couple of hundred pages, sitting there unguarded. She turned toward the bed. He was on his side, back turned toward her. He would