The Dead Zone(126)

'Writer, are you?' The dark glasses glinted up at Johnny with renewed interest.

'Well, I'm trying,' Johnny said. Already he was beginning to regret his glibness. Yes, I'm a writer, I write in my notebooks, after the dark of night has fallen. 'Anyway, the essay's going to be about Hitler,'

'Hitler? What about Hitler?'

'Well ... suppose ... just suppose you could hop into a time machine and go back to the year 1932. In Germany. And suppose you came across Hitler. Would you kill him or let him live?'

The old man's blank black glasses tilted slowly up to Johnny's face, And now Johnny didn't feel drunk or glib or clever at all. Everything seemed to depend on what this old man had to say.

'Is it a joke, boy?'

'No. No joke.'

One of Hector MacKenzie's hands left the head of his cane. It went to the pocket of his suit pants and fumbled there for what seemed an eternity. At last it came out again. It was holding a bone-handled pocket knife that had been rubbed as smooth and mellow as old ivory over the course of years. The other hand came into play, folding the knife's one blade out with all the incredible delicacy of arthritis. It glimmered with bland wickedness under the light of the Congregational parish hall: a knife that had traveled to France in 1917 with a boy, a boy who had been part of a boy-army ready and willing to stop the dirty hun from bayoneting babies and raping nuns, ready to show the Frenchies a thing or two in the bargain; and the boys had been machine-gunned, the boys had gotten dysentery and the killer flu, the boys had inhaled mustard gas and phosgene gas, the boys had come out of Belleau Wood looking like haunted scarecrows who had seen the face of Lord Satan himself. And it had all turned out to be for nothing; it turned out that it all had to be done over again, Somewhere music was playing. People were laughing. People were dancing. A flashbar popped warm light. Somewhere far away. Johnny stared at the naked blade, transfixed, hypnotized by the play of the light over its honed edge.

'See this?' MacKenzie asked softly.

'Yes,' Johnny breathed.

'I'd seat this in his black, lying, murderer's heart,' MacKenzie said. 'I'd put her in as far as she'd go ... and then I'd twist her.' He twisted the knife slowly in his hand, first clock, then counterclock. He smiled, showing baby-smooth gums and one leaning yellow tooth.

'But first,' he said, 'I'd coat the blade with rat poison.'

2.

'Kill Hitler?' Roger Chatsworth said, his breath coming out in little puffs. The two of them were snowshoeing in the woods behind the Durham house. The woods were very silent. It was early March, but this day was as smoothly and coldly silent as deep January.

'Yes, that's right.'

'Interesting question,' Roger said. 'Pointless, but interesting. No. I wouldn't. I think I'd join the party instead. Try to change things from within. It might have been possible to purge him or frame him, always granting the foreknowledge of what was going to happen.'

Johnny thought of the sawedoff pool cues. He thought of the brilliant green eyes of Sonny Elliman.

'It might also be possible to get yourself killed!' he said. 'Those guys were doing more than singing beer-hall songs back in 1933.'

'Yes, that's true enough.' He cocked an eyebrow at Johnny. 'What would you do?'

'I really don't know,' Johnny said.

Roger dismissed the subject. 'How did your dad and his wife enjoy their honeymoon?'

Johnny grinned. They had gone to Miami Beach, hotel-workers' strike and all. 'Charlene said she felt right at home, making her own bed. My dad says he feels like a freak, sporting a sunburn in March. But I think they both enjoyed it.'

'And they've sold the houses?'

'Yes, both on the same day. Got almost what they wanted, too. Now if it wasn't for the goddam medical bills still hanging over my head, it'd be plain sailing.'

'Johnny...

'Hmmm?'

'Nothing. Let's go back. I've got some Chivas Regal, if you've got a taste.'

'I believe I do,' Johnny said.

3.

They were reading Jude the Obscure now, and Johnny had been surprised at how quickly and naturally Chuck had taken to it (after some moaning and groaning over the first forty pages or so). He confessed he had been reading ahead at night on his own, and he intended to try something else by Hardy when he finished. For the first time in his life he was reading for pleasure. And like a boy who has just been initiated into the pleasures of sex by an older woman, he was wallowing in it.

Now the book lay open but facedown in his lap. They were by the pool again, but it was still drained and both he and Johnny were wearing light jackets. Overhead, mild white clouds scudded across the sky, trying desultorily to coalesce enough to make rain. The feel of the air was mysterious and sweet; spring was somewhere near. It was April 16.

'Is this one of those trick questions?' Chuck asked.

'Nope.'

'Well, would they catch me?'

'Pardon?' That was a question none of the others had asked.

'If I killed him. Would they catch me? Hang me from a lamppost? Make me do the funky chicken six inches off the ground?'

'Well; I don't know,' Johnny said slowly. 'Yes, I suppose they would catch you.'

'I don't get to escape in my time machine to a gloriously changed world, huh? Back to good old 1977?'