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Page 20.
Chapter 16.
 McCarthy again. Jeff, in his office, hollered for him to come in. It was three p.m.
"Look what I got," the detective said. He hefted a fat manila envelope.
Jeff closed the computer file he was working in and turned to accept the offered envelope. There was no return address. The addressee was J. Maxxon, c/o World Anaconda Publishing. "Is this what I am afraid it might be, McCarthy?"
The detective pulled off his wet raincoat. "Open it."
Jeff pulled out a 200 page typewritten manuscript with the title "The Future of The Race." The author was one Thomas Armaday. "Oh no," Jeff said.
"Oh yes dear boy," McCarthy said. "You are now one of the chosen. Mr. Armaday, whoever he is, has offered you the golden opportunity to publish his little diatribe about Aryan warriors, blonde goddesses, and the master race in general."
"I feel honored," Jeff said, holding the several pounds of paper as though they might explode in his hand.
"But this might cheer you up," McCarthy said. "I'm keeping tabs minute by minute. So far, at least a dozen of these things have surfaced in Raritania City. So you don't have to feel that you are necessarily the next one to dive into a clock."
"I'm exuberant," Jeff said. "Hey, look. It's a copy. What do you know? Our anachronist has decided to use some modern technology."
McCarthy nodded. "You're sharp all right. The crime lab is working on that. It's a photocopy. Technology unknown in the 1930's. It's the old manuscript, duplicated dozens of times by our pal. What does that tell you?"
Jeff looked up. "You tell me, Einstein."
McCarthy leaned close. "Mr. Armaday, for some reason that is probably very interesting, but currently unknown to yours truly, is tired of taking them a week at a time. He's shot-gunning the whole town. For all I know therefore, he's going to be throwing an editor an hour into the clocks."
Jeff rubbed a finger absently on the photocopied pages. "Or... or what? Is he getting impatient? Or is he running out of time? Is someone on to him?"
McCarthy rubbed bony fingers over his weary face. "The problem is, Maxxon, whom do we protect first? We've got people jumping at their own shadows now. So far, the press has been lukewarm on this; I mean, what are two murders when there are drug dealers wasting one another every couple of seconds? The minute we sound a general alarm, the press gets on it. We don't necessarily protect any more editors, but we have the heat of publicity down on us. What is that going to do to our friend? Drive him further underground?"
"My thought exactly," Jeff said. "But I don't know what the answer is. I have a hunch though. This bird is changing gears. He's desperate to get his point across. Why? Probably feels he has limited time. That's just a guess. He knows the police are watching every clock tower for miles around. I would say he used the clock towers to get attention. Now that he has attention, he could strike anywhere, anytime."
"You cheer me so," McCarthy said. "What about you? Are you safe?"
"No more than the others," Jeff said. He thought about his Special Forces training. He thought about the Walther PPK automatic in his glove compartment, the Beretta in his nightstand at home. "I might have a slight edge..."
McCarthy said: "What if we used you for a lightning rod? What if you said YES?"
"Oh no," Jeff said.
"Oh YES," McCarthy said. Seeing Jeff's look, he added: "COME on, Maxxon. It's your patriotic duty."
"Oh geez," Jeff said. "Okay. Do I get a bulletproof vest?"
"If you want," McCarthy said greedily.
"Okay, for crying out loud," Jeff said. Then he thought of HER. Lexa Whiston. Had she received a copy too? Was she in danger?
"By the way," McCarthy said. "This bird may have surfaced earlier this week."
"No"
"Yes. On the Joe Ramo show. Can you believe it? Dishwater radio, the bottom of the expose barrel. According to Cindy, the delectable mouthpiece who turns out to have appeal like a can of stale mutton tallow, a man owning our friend's description walked onto the show with a book titled The Future of the Race. It lasted ten minutes before he was laughed off the set, but when he left she said she got the crawlies up her spine. She's sure he packed a piece, and she said she has nightmares about the sizzle in his eyes. The point is, though, she ID'd our man, and he's definitely Albert Beering's boy. So what gives?"
Jeff felt the crawlies now, touching every one of his vertebrae. "I guess we'd better snare this turkey before he hurts anyone else, huh?"
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