Special Topics In Calamity Physics Part 31

"I'm sixteen," I admitted.

"And you said you work for who?" who?"

It wasn't a good idea to keep lying; as Dad said: "Sweet, your every thought walks through your voice holding a giant billboard advertis.e.m.e.nt."

"Myself. I'm a student at St. Gallway, where Hannah taught. I-I'm sorry I lied before but I was afraid you'd hang up again and I"-frantically, I stared down at my CASE NOTES-"you're my only lead. I happened to meet your father, the night he died. He seemed to be a fascinating person. I'm sorry about what happened."

It was a detestable thing to do, to drag people's deceased family members into it, in order to get what one wants-any mention of Dad dead, I'd doubtlessly sing like a magpie-but it was my only hope; it was obvious Ada was on the fence between hearing me out and hanging up and leaving the phone off the hook.

"Because," I went on shakily, "your father and the rest of your family were, at one time, friends with Hannah, I was hoping-" "Friends?" "Friends?" She spit out the word like it was rancid avocado. "We were not She spit out the word like it was rancid avocado. "We were not friends friends with that woman." "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought-" "You thought with that woman." "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought-" "You thought wrong." wrong." If before her voice had been miniatured and poodled, now it was rottweilered. She didn't go on. She was what was commonly called in the gumshoe world, "one h.e.l.luva cemented dame." I swallowed. "So, then, uh, Ms. Harvey-" "My name is Ada Rose Harvey Lowell." "Ms. If before her voice had been miniatured and poodled, now it was rottweilered. She didn't go on. She was what was commonly called in the gumshoe world, "one h.e.l.luva cemented dame." I swallowed. "So, then, uh, Ms. Harvey-" "My name is Ada Rose Harvey Lowell." "Ms. Lowell. Lowell. You weren't acquainted with Hannah Schneider at all?" Again, she didn't say anything. A car commercial was a.s.saulting her living room. Hurriedly, I scribbled "None?" in my CASE NOTES under question #4, "What is the nature of your relations.h.i.+p with Hannah Schneider?" I was just about to move on to #5, "Were you aware of her scheduled camping trip?" when she sighed and spoke, her voice stark. You weren't acquainted with Hannah Schneider at all?" Again, she didn't say anything. A car commercial was a.s.saulting her living room. Hurriedly, I scribbled "None?" in my CASE NOTES under question #4, "What is the nature of your relations.h.i.+p with Hannah Schneider?" I was just about to move on to #5, "Were you aware of her scheduled camping trip?" when she sighed and spoke, her voice stark.

"You don't know what she was," Ada said.

Now it was my turn to stay silent, because it was one of those dramatic comments that come up halfway into a sci-fi action movie, when one character is about to inform the other character what they're dealing with is not "of this earth." Still, my heart began to clang in my chest like a voodoo funeral march in N'awlins.

"What do do you know?" she asked with a note of impatience. "Anything?" "I know she was a teacher," I tried quietly. This elicited an acerbic, "Heh." "I know your father, Smoke, was a retired financier and-" "My father was an investigative you know?" she asked with a note of impatience. "Anything?" "I know she was a teacher," I tried quietly. This elicited an acerbic, "Heh." "I know your father, Smoke, was a retired financier and-" "My father was an investigative journalist" journalist" she corrected (see "Southern she corrected (see "Southern Pride," Moon Pies and Tarnation, Moon Pies and Tarnation, Wyatt, 2001). "He was a banker for thirty-eight years before he was able to retire and pursue his first loves. Writin'. And true crime." Wyatt, 2001). "He was a banker for thirty-eight years before he was able to retire and pursue his first loves. Writin'. And true crime."

"He wrote a book, didn't he? A-a mystery?" "The Doloroso Treason "The Doloroso Treason was was not not a mystery. It was 'bout the illegal aliens and the Texas border and the corruption and drug smugglin' that goes on." a mystery. It was 'bout the illegal aliens and the Texas border and the corruption and drug smugglin' that goes on."

(She callously squashed the word aliens; aliens; it became it became Aileens.) Aileens.) "It was a huge success. They gave him a key to the city." She sniffed. "What else?" "It was a huge success. They gave him a key to the city." She sniffed. "What else?"

"I-I know your father drowned at Hannah's house."

She gasped again; this time it sounded like I'd slapped her across the face in front of a hundred guests at a toffee pull. "My father did not"- not"-her voice was trembly and shrill, the sc.r.a.pe of Lee Press-On Nails down pantyhose -"I- Do you have any idea who my father was?" Do you have any idea who my father was?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"He was. .h.i.t by a tractor-trailer when he was four four riding his tricycle. Broke his back serving in Korea. Got trapped in a car that went over Feather Bridge and riding his tricycle. Broke his back serving in Korea. Got trapped in a car that went over Feather Bridge and then then went out the window like they do in the movies. He'd been bit went out the window like they do in the movies. He'd been bit twice- twice-once by a Doberman, another time a Tennessee rattler, and almost had a shark attack off the coast of Way Paw We, Indonesia, only he'd watched a special on the Nature Channel and remembered to punch it straight in the nose, which is what they tell you to do when one's comin' at you only most people don't have the guts to do it. Smoke did. did. And now you're tryin' to tell And now you're tryin' to tell me me his medication mixed with a little Jack was going to finish him off? Makes me sick. He'd been takin' it for six months and it had no effect, his medication mixed with a little Jack was going to finish him off? Makes me sick. He'd been takin' it for six months and it had no effect, period. period. That man could be shot in the head six times and he'd go right on-you mark my words." That man could be shot in the head six times and he'd go right on-you mark my words."

To my horror, her voice tore a hole on "words"-a sizable hole by the sound of things. I wasn't positive, but I think she was crying too, an awful held-back hiccuping sound that faded into the mumbles and elevator music of the soap opera, so you couldn't tell the difference between her drama and the one on television. It was very possible she'd just said, "Travis, I'm not gonna lie and say I don't have feelings for you"-not the woman on the TV, and it was also possible the woman on the TV, not Ada, was crying over her dead father.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just kind of, confused-"

"I didn't put it all together 'til later," she sniffled.

I waited-enough time for her to st.i.tch together, however crudely, the hole in her voice. "You didn't put what. . . together?" She cleared her throat. "Do you know who The Night.w.a.tchmen are?" she asked. " 'Course you don't. . . don't even know your own name, probably-"

"I do, actually. My father's a political science professor."

She was surprised-or maybe relieved. "Oh?"

"They were radicals," I said. "But apart from an incident or two in the early seventies, no one's sure if they actually existed. They're more a-a beautiful idea, fighting against greed-than something real." I was paraphrasing bits of "A Quick History of the American Revolutionary" (see Van Meer,Federal Forum, Vol. 23, Issue 9,1990). Vol. 23, Issue 9,1990).

"An incident or two," Ada repeated. "Exactly. So then you know about Gracey."

"He was the founder. But he's dead, isn't he?"

"Other than one other person," Ada said slowly, "George Gracey is the only known member. And he's still wanted by the FBI. In '70 ... no, '71, he killed a West Virginia Senator, put a pipe bomb in his car. A year later, he blew up a building in Texas. Four people died. He was caught on tape so they made a sketch of him, but then he dropped off the face of the earth. In the eighties there was an explosion in a townhouse in England. Homemade bombs. People had heard he was livin' there, so they a.s.sumed he was dead. There was too much damage to recover the teeth on the bodies found. That's how they identify, you know. Teeth records."

She paused, swallowing.

"The Senator killed was Senator Michael McCullough, Dubs's uncle on his mother's side, my great uncle. And it happened over in Meade, twenty minutes from Findley. Dubs said it all the time when we were growin' up: Til fly to the ends of the earth to bring that sonuvab.i.t.c.h to trial.' When Dubs drowned, everyone believed the police. They said he'd had too much to drink and it was an accident. I I refused to believe it. I stayed up all night goin' through his notes even though Archie cussed me out, said I was crazy. But then I saw how it all went together. I showed Archie and Cal too. And refused to believe it. I stayed up all night goin' through his notes even though Archie cussed me out, said I was crazy. But then I saw how it all went together. I showed Archie and Cal too. And she she knew of course. She knew we were on to her. We'd called the FBI. That's why she hanged herself. It was death or prison." knew of course. She knew we were on to her. We'd called the FBI. That's why she hanged herself. It was death or prison."

I was bewildered. "I don't understand-"

"The Nocturnal Conspiracy" Ada said softly. Ada said softly.

Trying to follow this woman's logic was like trying to watch an electron orbit a nucleus with the naked eye. "What's The Nocturnal Conspiracy?" The Nocturnal Conspiracy?" "His next "His next book. book. The one he was writing on George Gracey. That's what he was going to call it and it was going to be a bestseller. Smoke tracked him down, see. Last May. He found him on a fantasy island called Paxos, livin' high off the hog." The one he was writing on George Gracey. That's what he was going to call it and it was going to be a bestseller. Smoke tracked him down, see. Last May. He found him on a fantasy island called Paxos, livin' high off the hog."

She drew a shaky breath. "You don't know what it felt like, when the police called and told us our father, the one we'd just seen two days before at Chrysanthemum's baptism, was gone. s.n.a.t.c.hed from us. We hadn't heard the name Hannah Schneider Hannah Schneider in all our lives. At first, we thought she was the loud divorcee the Rider's Club had trouble nominatin' for treasurer, but that was Hannah in all our lives. At first, we thought she was the loud divorcee the Rider's Club had trouble nominatin' for treasurer, but that was Hannah Smithers. Smithers. Then we think, maybe she was Gretchen Peterson's cousin who Dubs took to the Marquis Polo Fundraiser, but that's Lizzie Sheldon. So"-by this point, Ada had ripped out most of her punctuation, some of her pauses, too; her words stampeded into the receiver-"after Then we think, maybe she was Gretchen Peterson's cousin who Dubs took to the Marquis Polo Fundraiser, but that's Lizzie Sheldon. So"-by this point, Ada had ripped out most of her punctuation, some of her pauses, too; her words stampeded into the receiver-"after two two days of this, Cal takes a look at the picture I asked the police to get for us and what do you know? He says he remembers her talkin' to Dubs at the Handy Pantry way back in June, when they were coming back from Auto Show 4000-this is a days of this, Cal takes a look at the picture I asked the police to get for us and what do you know? He says he remembers her talkin' to Dubs at the Handy Pantry way back in June, when they were coming back from Auto Show 4000-this is a month month after Dubs got back from Paxos. So Cal says, yeah, Dubs went inside the Handy Pantry to get gum and this same woman s.h.i.+mmied up to him. Cal has a photographic memory. 'It was her,' he said. Tall. Dark hair. A face shaped like one of those Valentine chocolate boxes and Valentine's was Dubs' favorite holiday. She asked for directions to Charleston and I guess they stayed talkin' for so long, Cal had to get out of the car to go get him. And that was after Dubs got back from Paxos. So Cal says, yeah, Dubs went inside the Handy Pantry to get gum and this same woman s.h.i.+mmied up to him. Cal has a photographic memory. 'It was her,' he said. Tall. Dark hair. A face shaped like one of those Valentine chocolate boxes and Valentine's was Dubs' favorite holiday. She asked for directions to Charleston and I guess they stayed talkin' for so long, Cal had to get out of the car to go get him. And that was it. it. When we went through Dubs' things, we found her number in his address book. Phone records showed he called her at least once or twice a week. She knew how to play it, see. After my mother, there's never been anyone special-I-I still talk about him in the present. Archie says I have to stop that." When we went through Dubs' things, we found her number in his address book. Phone records showed he called her at least once or twice a week. She knew how to play it, see. After my mother, there's never been anyone special-I-I still talk about him in the present. Archie says I have to stop that."

She paused, took another labored breath, started to speak again. And as she talked, I was struck by the image of one of those itsy-bitsy garden spiders that decide to make their web not in some sensible corner, but in a gigantic s.p.a.ce, a s.p.a.ce so huge and far-fetched, in it one could fit two African Elephants end to end. Dad and I watched such a determined spider on our porch in Howard, Louisiana, and no matter how many times the wind unrigged the mooring, how many times the web buckled and sagged, unable to hold itself up between the fake columns, the spider went on with its work, climbing to the top, free-falling, silk thread trembling behind it, dental floss in the wind. "She's making sense of the world," Dad said. "She's sewing it together as best she can."

"We still still don't know how she managed it," Ada went on. "My father was two hundred and forty pounds. It don't know how she managed it," Ada went on. "My father was two hundred and forty pounds. It had had to be poison. She injected him with something, between his toes... cyanide maybe. 'Course the police swore they checked all that and there was no sign. I just don't see how it was possible. He liked his whiskey . . . won't lie about that. And there was his medication - " "What kind of medication was it?" I asked. to be poison. She injected him with something, between his toes... cyanide maybe. 'Course the police swore they checked all that and there was no sign. I just don't see how it was possible. He liked his whiskey . . . won't lie about that. And there was his medication - " "What kind of medication was it?" I asked.

"Minipress. For blood pressure. Dr. Nixley told him you're not supposed to drink with it but he had before and it never messed with him. He drove home all by himself from the King of Hearts Fundraiser right when he first went on it and I was there when he got home. He was fine. fine. Believe me, if I thought he Believe me, if I thought he wasn't wasn't fine I'd have caused a stink. Not that he would've listened." fine I'd have caused a stink. Not that he would've listened."

"But Ada"- I kept my voice subdued, as if we were in a library-"I really don't think Hannah could've possibly-" "Gracey was in contact with her. He told her to kill Smoke. Like she'd done with all the others. She was the temptation, see." But- "She's the other one," other one," she interrupted flatly. " 'Other than she interrupted flatly. " 'Other than one one other person.' The other member-weren't you listening?" other person.' The other member-weren't you listening?"

"But I know know she's not a criminal. I talked to a detective here-" she's not a criminal. I talked to a detective here-"

"Hannah Schneider's not her real name. She ripped it off a poor missing woman who grew up in an orphanage in New Jersey. She's been livin' as that girl for years. Her real name's Catherine Baker and she's wanted by the FBI for shootin' a police officer right between the eyes. Twice. Somewhere in Texas." She cleared her throat. "Smoke didn't recognize her because no one's sure what Baker actually looks like. 'Specially now. now. They have old testimony, a composite that's twenty years old-in the eighties everyone had weird hair, freaky looks- They have old testimony, a composite that's twenty years old-in the eighties everyone had weird hair, freaky looks-you know those awful leftover hippies. And she's blond in the sketch. Says she has blue eyes. Smoke know those awful leftover hippies. And she's blond in the sketch. Says she has blue eyes. Smoke had had the picture, along with the stuff on George Gracey. But it's one of those things-it could be a drawin' of me, you know. Could be a drawin' of anyone." the picture, along with the stuff on George Gracey. But it's one of those things-it could be a drawin' of me, you know. Could be a drawin' of anyone."

"Could you send me copies of his notes? For research purposes?"

Ada sniffed and though she didn't exactly agree to send them I gave her my mailing address. Neither of us spoke for a minute or two. I could hear the end credits of the soap opera, the outburst of another commercial.

"I just wish I'd been there," she said faintly. "I have a sixth sense, see. If I'd gone to the Auto Show, I could've gone in with him when he went to get the gum. I would've seen what she was doin'-prancin' by in tight jeans, sungla.s.ses, pretendin' it was a coincidence. Cal swore he saw her a couple days before, too, when he and Smoke were in Winn-Dixie pickin' up ribs. He said she walked right by with her empty shoppin' cart, all gussied up like she was goin' somewhere, and she looked straight at Cal, grinned like the Devil himself. 'Course, there's no way of knowin' for sure. It gets busy on Sundays-" "What did you say?" I asked quietly. She stopped talking. The abrupt change in my tone of voice must have startled her. "I said there's no way of knowing" she said apprehensively. Without thinking, I hung up the phone.

31.

Che Guevara talks to young People The Night.w.a.tchmen have always gone by a variety of names- Nachlicht, Nachlicht, or "Nocturnal," in German, also or "Nocturnal," in German, also Nie Schlafend, Nie Schlafend, or "Never Sleeping." In French, they are or "Never Sleeping." In French, they are Les Veilleurs de Nuit. Les Veilleurs de Nuit. Members.h.i.+p, in its supposed heyday, 1971 to 1980, is wholly unknown; some say it was twenty-five men and women across America; others claim over a thousand around the globe. Whatever the truth-and, alas, we may never know it-the movement is whispered about with greater enthusiasm today than at its zenith (an Internet search yields over 100,000 pages). Its present-day popularity as part history lesson, part fairy tale, is a testament to The Freedom Ideal, a dream to liberate all people, regardless of their race or creed, a dream that, no matter how fractured and cynical modern society becomes, will not die. Van Meer, Members.h.i.+p, in its supposed heyday, 1971 to 1980, is wholly unknown; some say it was twenty-five men and women across America; others claim over a thousand around the globe. Whatever the truth-and, alas, we may never know it-the movement is whispered about with greater enthusiasm today than at its zenith (an Internet search yields over 100,000 pages). Its present-day popularity as part history lesson, part fairy tale, is a testament to The Freedom Ideal, a dream to liberate all people, regardless of their race or creed, a dream that, no matter how fractured and cynical modern society becomes, will not die. Van Meer, "Nachlicht: "Nachlicht: Popular Myths of Freedom Fighting," Popular Myths of Freedom Fighting," Federal Forum, Federal Forum, Vol. 10, Issue 5,1998 Vol. 10, Issue 5,1998 Dad had raised me to be a skeptical person, a person unconvinced until "the facts line up like chorus girls," and so I had not believed Ada Harvey- not until she'd described the Winn-Dixie incident (or perhaps a little before, with "tight jeans" and "sungla.s.ses"); then, it'd sounded as if she were describing not Smoke and Cal in Winn-Dixie, but Dad and me at Fat Kat in September, when I'd first seen Hannah in Frozen Foods.

If that weren't enough to knock the wind out of me, she had to go entirely Southern Gothic, dragging the Devil and his grin into it, and whenever someone with a fudgethical Southern accent said devil, devil, one inevitably felt they knew something one didn't-as Yam Chestley wrote in one inevitably felt they knew something one didn't-as Yam Chestley wrote in Dixiecrats Dixiecrats (1979), "The South knows two things through and through: cornbread and Satan" (p. 166). After I hung up, my bedroom stalagmited with shadows, I stared at my CASE NOTES on which I'd written in famished handwriting Officer c.o.xley-style haiku (NIGHt.w.a.tCHMEN CATHERINE BAKER GRACEY). (1979), "The South knows two things through and through: cornbread and Satan" (p. 166). After I hung up, my bedroom stalagmited with shadows, I stared at my CASE NOTES on which I'd written in famished handwriting Officer c.o.xley-style haiku (NIGHt.w.a.tCHMEN CATHERINE BAKER GRACEY).

My first thought was that Dad was dead.

He, too, had been Catherine Baker's target, because he, too, had been working on a book about Gracey (it was the logical explanation for Hannah stalking us the same way she'd stalked Smoke Harvey), or, if he wasn't at work on a book ("I'm not certain I have the stamina for another book," Dad admitted in a Bourbon Mood, a sad acknowledgment he never made in daylight), then an article, essay or lecture of some kind, his own Nocturnal Conspiracy. Nocturnal Conspiracy.

Of course-I ran across the room to switch on the overhead light and thankfully, the shadows were instantly whisked away like out-of-fas.h.i.+on black dresses in a department store -I reminded myself, Hannah Schneider was dead (the pet.i.t four of truth I knew for certain) and Dad was safe with Professor Arnie Sanderson at Piazza Pitti, an Italian restaurant in downtown Stock-ton. Still, I felt the need to hear his sandpaper voice, his "Sweet, don't be preposterous." I ran downstairs, tore through the Yellow Pages and dialed the restaurant. (Dad didn't have a cell phone; "So I may be available to others twenty-four hours, seven days a week like some minimum-waged dunderhead working in Customer Service? Much obliged, but no thank you.") It took only a minute for the hostess to identify him; few sported Irish tweed in spring.

"Sweet?" He was alarmed. "What's happened?"

"Nothing-well, everything. everything. Are you okay?" Are you okay?"

"What-of course. What's the matter?"

"Nothing." A paranoid thought occurred to me. "Do you trust Arnie Sanderson? Maybe you shouldn't leave your food unattended. Don't get up to go to the bathroom - "

"What?"

"I've discovered the truth about Hannah Schneider. I know why someone killed her, or-or she killed herself-I haven't quite figured that part out yet, but I know why" why"

Dad was silent, obviously not only weary of the name, but thoroughly unconvinced. Not that I blamed blamed him; my breathing was a madwoman's, my heart was teetering like a wino in a jail cell-altogether an unconvincing figure of truth and forethought. him; my breathing was a madwoman's, my heart was teetering like a wino in a jail cell-altogether an unconvincing figure of truth and forethought.

"Sweet," he said gently, "you know, I dropped off Gone with the Wind Gone with the Wind earlier this afternoon. Perhaps you should watch it. Have a piece of that chocolate cake. I should be no more than an hour." He began to say something more, something that started with, "Hannah," but that word yoga-twisted in his mouth so it came out "hands"; he seemed afraid to say her name, in case it encouraged me. "You sure you're all right? I can leave earlier this afternoon. Perhaps you should watch it. Have a piece of that chocolate cake. I should be no more than an hour." He began to say something more, something that started with, "Hannah," but that word yoga-twisted in his mouth so it came out "hands"; he seemed afraid to say her name, in case it encouraged me. "You sure you're all right? I can leave now" now"

"No, I'm fine," I said quickly. "We'll talk when you get home."

I hung up (infinitely rea.s.sured; Dad's voice was a pack of ice on a sprain). I collected my CASE NOTES and raced downstairs to the kitchen to brew some coffee. ("Experience, intellectual prowess, forensics, fingerprints, footprints-sure, they're important," wrote Officer Christina Vericault on p. 4 of The Last Uniform of The Last Uniform [1982]. "But the essential element of crime solving is a fine French Roast or Colombian blend. No murder will be solved without it.") After jotting down a few additional details from the Ada Harvey conversation, I hurried downstairs to Dad's study, switching on the lights. [1982]. "But the essential element of crime solving is a fine French Roast or Colombian blend. No murder will be solved without it.") After jotting down a few additional details from the Ada Harvey conversation, I hurried downstairs to Dad's study, switching on the lights.

Dad had only written one relatively short piece about The Night.w.a.tchmen, published in 1998, "Nachtlich: "Nachtlich: Popular Myths of Freedom Fighting." Every now and then, too, for his Civil War seminars, he included on reading lists a more extensive commentary about their methodologies, an essay out of Herbert Littleton's Popular Myths of Freedom Fighting." Every now and then, too, for his Civil War seminars, he included on reading lists a more extensive commentary about their methodologies, an essay out of Herbert Littleton's Anatomy of Materialism Anatomy of Materialism (1990), "The Night.w.a.tchmen and Mythical Principles of Practical Change." With little trouble, I located both on the bookshelf (Dad always purchased five copies of any (1990), "The Night.w.a.tchmen and Mythical Principles of Practical Change." With little trouble, I located both on the bookshelf (Dad always purchased five copies of any Federal Forum Federal Forum issue in which he was featured, not unlike a paparazzi-hungry starlet when her picture graces "Around Town" in issue in which he was featured, not unlike a paparazzi-hungry starlet when her picture graces "Around Town" in Celebrastory Weekly). Celebrastory Weekly).

I returned to Dad's desk with the two publications. To the left of his laptop sat a hefty stack of legal pads and various folded foreign newspapers. Curious, I paged through them, my eyes having to adjust to decode his barbed-wire handwriting. Unfortunately, their subject matter had nothing to do with The Night.w.a.tchmen or the whereabouts of George Gracey (thus paralleling Smoke's story like a dream). Instead, they featured Dad's obvious cause celebre, civil upheaval in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and other nations of Central Africa. "When Will Killing Stop?" demanded the awkwardly translated editorials in Afrikaan News, Afrikaan News, the small Cape Town political newspaper. "Where Is Champion for Freedom?" the small Cape Town political newspaper. "Where Is Champion for Freedom?"

I put those papers aside (returning them to their original order; Dad knew snooping the way dogs smell fear) and began my orderly investigation into The Night.w.a.tchmen (or "Mai addormentato" "Mai addormentato" as they were called in Italian). First, I read Dad's as they were called in Italian). First, I read Dad's Federal Forum Federal Forum article. Second, I browsed the long-winded Chapter 19 in the Littleton book. Lastly, I turned on Dad's laptop and searched for the group on the Internet. article. Second, I browsed the long-winded Chapter 19 in the Littleton book. Lastly, I turned on Dad's laptop and searched for the group on the Internet.

In the years since 1998, the number of pages referencing the radicals had mushroomed; the 100,000 had become 500,000.1 scanned as much as I could, no resource excluded for bias, romanticism or even conjecture ("Within prejudice grows all kinds of remarkable truths," Dad said): encyclopedias, history texts, political Web sites, Leftist blogs, Communist and Neo-Marxist sites (a favorite, www.thehairyman.com-alluding to Karl Marx's lionlike appearance), conspiracy and anarchist Web sites, sites about cartels, cults, hero wors.h.i.+p, urban legends, organized crime, Orwell, Malcolm X, Erin Brockovich and something out of Nicaragua called Champions of Che. It seemed the group was like Greta Garbo when she first went into retirement: mysterious, impossible to pin down and everyone wanted a piece of her.

It took me a little over an hour to look through everything.

When I finished, my eyes were red, my throat dry. I felt drained and yet-scandalously alive (p.r.o.nounced "a-LIVE"), giddy as the bright green Darning Needle Dragonfly that careened into Dad's hair at Lake Pennebaker, making him dance like a marionette, go "Ahhhhh!" and barge through a crowd of geriatrics wearing yellow visors identical to the yellow halo Christ sports in old frescoes.

My heart-thumping excitement was not simply because I knew so much about The Night.w.a.tchmen I felt oddly confident I could deliver a Dadified lecture on them, my voice a tidal wave, rising up, up over the shabbily combed heads of his students, and not because, rather incredibly, Ada Harvey's information had held up heroically upon further examination like the British blockade against the Germans in the First Battle of the Atlantic during World War I. My exhilaration wasn't even because Hannah Schneider-all that she'd done, her strange behaviors, her lies-had suddenly come cras.h.i.+ng open at my feet like the outer stone sarcophagus of Pharaoh Heteraah-mes when Carlson Quay Meade, in 1927, fumbled his way through a murky mummy cache high up in the cliffs of the Valley of the Kings. (For the first time, I could crouch down, take my oil lantern directly to Hannah's bone-smooth face, see, in startling detail, its every angle and plane.) It was something else, too, something Dad once said after recounting those final hours in the life of Che Guevara. "There is something intoxicating about the dream of liberty and those who risked their lives for it-particularly in this whiny day and age, when people can barely manage to roll off their Barcalounger to answer a doorbell for a pizza delivery, much less a cry for freedom."

I'd solved solved it. it.

I couldn't believe it. I'd recovered the values of both x and y (with the vital a.s.sistance of Ada Harvey; I wasn't vain like many applied mathematicians, desperate to appear unaccompanied in the Annals of History). And I felt both terror and awe-what Einstein experienced in the middle of the night in 1905 in Bern, Switzerland, after waking from a nightmare in which he'd witnessed two pulsing stars cras.h.i.+ng together creating strange waves in s.p.a.ce-a vision that would inspire his General Theory of Relativity.

"It vas ze sceriest end most beautiful sing I haf ever seen," he said.

I hurried over to Dad's bookshelf again, this time pulling Colonel Helig's treatise on murder from the shelf, Machinations Idyllic and Unseen Machinations Idyllic and Unseen (1889). I paged through it (so old, pages 1-22 dandruffed out of the spine), searching for the pa.s.sages that would cast the last puddles of light on this sprawling truth I'd uncovered, this surprising-and obviously, treacherous-New World. (1889). I paged through it (so old, pages 1-22 dandruffed out of the spine), searching for the pa.s.sages that would cast the last puddles of light on this sprawling truth I'd uncovered, this surprising-and obviously, treacherous-New World.

The oddest insight into the workings of The Night.w.a.tchmen (an incident Dad would deem evidence of "a legend's potential to be worn like a trench coat, used for good, warding off the rain, and evil, streaking through a park, frightening children") was an episode detailed on www.goodrebels .net/nw, in which two eighth graders from an affluent Houston suburb committed suicide together on January 14,1995. One of them, a thirteen-year-old girl, had written a suicide note-posted on the Web site-and in stark handwriting, on frighteningly sweet stationery (pink, rainbows) she'd written: "We hereby eliminate our selfs in the name of The Night.w.a.tch Men and to show our parents their money is dirty. Death to all oil pigs."

The creator of the site (when you clicked on "About Randy" he revealed himself to be an emaciated woolly-mammoth type with a serious red mouth zipped tightly into his face, of indeterminate age) complained about this, the "heritage" of The Night.w.a.tchmen being abused in such a fas.h.i.+on, because "nowhere in their manifestos do they say kill yourself because you're rich. They're champions against capitalist abuses, not wacko members of the Manson Family." "Death to all pigs," of course, was written in blood on the front door of Cielo Drive (see Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night: The Life of Charles Milles Manson, Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night: The Life of Charles Milles Manson, Ivys, 1985, p. 226). Ivys, 1985, p. 226).

According to most sources, Randy was correct; nowhere in the manifestos of Nachtlich Nachtlich did they urge suicide under any circ.u.mstance. In fact, there were no manifestos at did they urge suicide under any circ.u.mstance. In fact, there were no manifestos at all all penned by the group, no pamphlets, brochures, outlines, recorded sound-bites or fervently worded essays detailing their intentions. (It was a choice Dad would deem remarkably astute: "If rebels never broadcast who they are, their enemies will never be sure of what they're fighting.") The only paper evidencing the group's existence was a single notebook page attributed to George Gracey, dated July 9, 1971, marking the birth of The Night.w.a.tchmen-at least, as the nation, the police and the FBI knew it. (It wasn't a welcomed nativity; The Establishment already had their hands full with the Weather Underground, Black Panthers and Students for a Democratic Society, among a handful of other "hallucinating hippie quacks," as Dad called them.) penned by the group, no pamphlets, brochures, outlines, recorded sound-bites or fervently worded essays detailing their intentions. (It was a choice Dad would deem remarkably astute: "If rebels never broadcast who they are, their enemies will never be sure of what they're fighting.") The only paper evidencing the group's existence was a single notebook page attributed to George Gracey, dated July 9, 1971, marking the birth of The Night.w.a.tchmen-at least, as the nation, the police and the FBI knew it. (It wasn't a welcomed nativity; The Establishment already had their hands full with the Weather Underground, Black Panthers and Students for a Democratic Society, among a handful of other "hallucinating hippie quacks," as Dad called them.) On that day in 1971, a Meade, West Virginia, policeman discovered this notebook page Scotch-taped to a telephone pole ten feet from where Senator Michael McCullough's white Cadillac Fleetwood Seventy-five had exploded in a wealthy residential community known as Marlowe Gardens. (Senator Michael McCullough climbed inside and was killed instantly in the blast.) The Night.w.a.tchmen's sole manifesto could be read on www.mindf.u.c.ks .net/gg (and Gracey was no Spelling Bee Winner): "Today dies a crooked and gluttonus man" -it was true, at least literally; McCullough allegedly weighed three hundred pounds and suffered from scoliosis-"a man who gets rich by the suffering of women and children, a greedy man. And so I, and the many with me, will be The Night.w.a.tchmen, helping to divest this nation and the world of the capitalistic greed contemptuous of human life, undermining democrisy, blindfolding its people, forcing them to live in the dark."

Dad and Herbert Littleton supplied insight into the objectives of The Night.w.a.tchmen, inferred from the 1971 a.s.sa.s.sination, as well as Gracey's subsequent explosion of an office building in downtown Houston on October 29, 1973. Littleton reasoned Senator McCullough had become the group's first known a.s.sa.s.sination due to his involvement in a 1966 toxic waste scandal. Over seventy tons of toxic waste had been dumped illegally into the West Virginia Pooley River by Shohawk Industries, a textiles manufacturing plant, and by 1965, the tiny, impoverished coal mining towns of Beudde and Morrisville had suffered an increase in cancer among its low-income population. When the scandal broke, McCullough, then the governor, voiced his outrage and grief and his highly publicized, heroic mandate to clean up the river, never mind the price tag (what it cost taxpayers), had won him a seat in the senate the following election year (see "Governor McCullough Visits Five-year-old Boy with Leukemia," Anatomy, Anatomy, Littleton, p. 193). Littleton, p. 193).

In truth, however, in 1989, Littleton exposed McCullough had not only known about the dumping, and the toll it would take on the communities downstream, but he'd actually been well compensated for keeping mum, an amount estimated between $500,000 and $750,000.

The Houston bombing of 1973 ill.u.s.trated, according to Dad, The Night.w.a.tchmen's resolve to wage war against "capitalistic greed and exploitation on a global scale." The target was no longer a single man but the corporate headquarters of Oxico Oil & Gas (OOG). An AN/FO-based (Ammonium Nitrate/Fuel Oil) explosive was planted on the executive floor by George Gracey masquerading as a maintenance man; a security camera taped him hobbling out of the building early that morning, as well as two other figures wearing ski masks beneath janitor caps-one purportedly a woman. The blast killed three high-ranking executives, including the company's long-time President and CEO, Carlton Ward.

Littleton contended the a.s.sault was provoked by Ward's approval, in 1971, of a secret cost-saving initiative for Oxico's South American oil refining interests. The proposal outlined that Oxico should stop lining their crude oil waste pits throughout refinery fields in Ecuador, allowing seepage and severe environmental contamination, yet saving $3 per barrel-an action "ill.u.s.trative of the flagrant disregard for lost human life in favor of amiable profit margins." By 1972, toxic drilling waters were actively contaminating the freshwater supply of more than thirty thousand men, women and children; and by 1989, five different indigenous cultures faced not only escalating cancer rates and severe birth defects but also total extinction (see "Girl Without Legs," Anatomy, Anatomy, Littleton, p. 211). Littleton, p. 211).

The Houston bombing marked a sea change in tactics for The Night-watchmen. It was then, according to Dad, that "the reality of whiny radicals ended and the legend began." The Oxico executive a.s.sa.s.sinations disheartened (others said "defeated") the sect; it did nothing to modify South American refinery policies-it only strengthened building security, forced the maintenance crews to suffer increasingly vigorous background checks, many losing their jobs; and an innocent secretary, a mother of four, had been killed in the explosion. Graeey was forced to go underground. The second to last confirmed sighting of him was in November 1973, a month after the Houston bombing; he was spotted in Berkeley, California, eating at a diner close to the university with an "unidentified dark-haired child, a girl between thirteen and fourteen years of age."

If The Night.w.a.tchmen had once been highly visible -if solely through their use of explosives -in January 1974, Graeey and the twenty to twenty-five other members resolved to carry out their goals wholly unseen, according to Dad, "without pomp and circ.u.mstance." While most revolutionaries (even Che himself) might consider such a move unwise and self-defeating-"What is civil war if it isn't fought in the open, deafeningly, colorfully, so the ma.s.ses are encouraged to take up arms/' contends Lou Swann, Dad's artless Harvard peer who'd penned the well-received Iron Hands Iron Hands (1999); "He purloined my t.i.tle," Dad noted sourly-it was actually a strategic s.h.i.+ft Dad would deem both clever and highly sophisticated. In his various essays on insurrection, Dad maintained: "If fighters for liberty are forced to use violence, they must do it silently to be effective in the long term" (see "Cape Town Fear," Van Meer, (1999); "He purloined my t.i.tle," Dad noted sourly-it was actually a strategic s.h.i.+ft Dad would deem both clever and highly sophisticated. In his various essays on insurrection, Dad maintained: "If fighters for liberty are forced to use violence, they must do it silently to be effective in the long term" (see "Cape Town Fear," Van Meer, Federal Forum, Federal Forum, Vol. 19, Issue 13). (This actually wasn't Dad's idea; he'd plagiarized it from Vol. 19, Issue 13). (This actually wasn't Dad's idea; he'd plagiarized it from La Grimace La Grimace [Anonyme, 1824].) [Anonyme, 1824].) For the next three or four years, The Night.w.a.tchmen did just that; silently, they restructured, educated and recruited. "Members.h.i.+p tripled not only in America, but internationally," reported a Dutch theorist who ran a Web site called "De Echte Waarheid," "The Real Truth." They supposedly formed a tangled web, a mysterious network with Graeey poised at the center surrounded by other "thinkers," as they were called, and spangling the outside of this maze, countless ancillary members-the majority never meeting Graeey or even each other.

"No one knows what most members were up to," wrote Randy on www.goodrebels.net.

I had an inkling. Charlie Quick in had an inkling. Charlie Quick in Prisoners of War: Why Democracy Won't Stick in South America Prisoners of War: Why Democracy Won't Stick in South America (1971) (a regular on Dad's syllabus), wrote of a necessary period of "gestation," when it was beneficial for a potential freedom fighter to do nothing but "learn everything about his enemy-including what he has for breakfast, his brand of aftershave, the number of hairs on his left big toe." Perhaps that's what each member had been a.s.signed to do, collect (with the precision and patience of collecting b.u.t.terfly specimens, even the rare, shy species) personal information on the men Graeey deemed their targets. Hannah had shown this level of detail when discussing the Harvey family at Hyacinth Terrace; she'd known the Civil War story about his house, Moorgate, and intimate particulars about people she'd never met, probably never even (1971) (a regular on Dad's syllabus), wrote of a necessary period of "gestation," when it was beneficial for a potential freedom fighter to do nothing but "learn everything about his enemy-including what he has for breakfast, his brand of aftershave, the number of hairs on his left big toe." Perhaps that's what each member had been a.s.signed to do, collect (with the precision and patience of collecting b.u.t.terfly specimens, even the rare, shy species) personal information on the men Graeey deemed their targets. Hannah had shown this level of detail when discussing the Harvey family at Hyacinth Terrace; she'd known the Civil War story about his house, Moorgate, and intimate particulars about people she'd never met, probably never even seen. seen. Maybe Gracey was like Gordon Gekko ("You stop sending me information and you start getting me some.") and each of the ancillary members were Bud Foxes ("He had lunch at La Cirque with a group of well-dressed heavyset bean counters."). Maybe Gracey was like Gordon Gekko ("You stop sending me information and you start getting me some.") and each of the ancillary members were Bud Foxes ("He had lunch at La Cirque with a group of well-dressed heavyset bean counters.").

(After scribbling these speculations in my CASE NOTES, I read on.) During this particular period, the group also abandoned the too-obvious, too-unproductive Group Meeting-in March 1974, police had come close to raiding one of their gatherings in an abandoned Braintree, Ma.s.sachusetts, warehouse -in favor of more covert, well-disguised meetings, private "one on ones." According to www.livingoffthegrid.net/gracey, these encounters typically began "at a roadside diner, truck stop or local dive bar and continued in a Holiday Inn or some other cheap motel-the intention being that the meeting would look to observers like a random pick-up, a one-night-stand," and hence, "totally unremarkable." (Obviously, I wanted to jump for joy when I read this, but I made myself stay focused, reading on.) According to www.historytheydonttellyou.net/nachtlich, in early 1978, whispers of a renewed, silent presence of The Night.w.a.tchmen began to surface again, when MFG Holdings CEO Peter Fitzwilliam died in an electrical fire at his fifty-acre Connecticut estate. Fitzwilliam had been in clandestine merger talks with Sav-Mart, the discount retailer. In the aftermath of his death, the negotiations fell apart and by October 1980, MFG (whose manufacturing sweatshops in Indonesia were deemed by Global Humanitarian Watch "some of the most atrocious in the world") had filed for bankruptcy. Their stock had gone to zero.

In 1982, Gracey's radicals-now purportedly going by the name Nie Schlafend Nie Schlafend were again discussed throughout countless left-wing and Conspiracy Theory journals were again discussed throughout countless left-wing and Conspiracy Theory journals (Liberal Man, (Liberal Man, and something called and something called Mind Control Quarterly) Mind Control Quarterly) when the four Senior Managers, directly responsible for the design and distribution of the Ford Pinto, ended up dead within a three-month period. Two died from sudden cardiac arrest (one, Howie McFarlin, was a health nut and exercise freak), another from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head and the last, Mitch.e.l.l Cantino, drowned in his own swimming pool. Cantino's autopsy revealed his blood-alcohol level to be .25 and a large dose of a Methaqualone was found in his system, a sedative prescribed by his doctor for sleeplessness and anxiety. He'd been in the process of divorcing his wife of twenty-two years, and she told police he'd confessed he'd been dating another woman for six months. when the four Senior Managers, directly responsible for the design and distribution of the Ford Pinto, ended up dead within a three-month period. Two died from sudden cardiac arrest (one, Howie McFarlin, was a health nut and exercise freak), another from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head and the last, Mitch.e.l.l Cantino, drowned in his own swimming pool. Cantino's autopsy revealed his blood-alcohol level to be .25 and a large dose of a Methaqualone was found in his system, a sedative prescribed by his doctor for sleeplessness and anxiety. He'd been in the process of divorcing his wife of twenty-two years, and she told police he'd confessed he'd been dating another woman for six months.

"Said her name was Catherine and that he was madly in love. I never saw her but I know she was a blonde. When I went to the house to pick up some of my clothes, I found blond hair in my comb," Cantino's ex-wife informed police (see www.angelfire.com/save-ferris8os/pinto).

Police ruled the drowning an accident. There was no evidence "Catherine," or any other person, had been present at Cantino's house on the night of his death.

It was during this period, 1983-1987, that Catherine Baker-or at the very least, her myth-began to materialize. She was referred to on countless Web sites as the Death's Head Hawkmoth, or Die Motte, Die Motte, as she was called on an anarchist site out of Hamburg (see www.anarchieeine.de). (Apparently everyone in the group had a nickname. Gracey was Nero. Others [none of them ever identified with an actual person and widely disputed] were Bull's-Eye, Mohave, Socrates and Franklin.) Dad and Littleton barely mentioned The Moth in their essays; she appeared as a postscript in Littleton's piece and Dad only mentioned her toward the end, when discussing the "power of the freedom fairy tale, when men and women fighting injustice are a.s.signed attributes of movie stars and comic book heroes." I could only a.s.sume this slight was because while Gracey's ident.i.ty was real, both doc.u.mented and validated -he was Turkish in origin, had undergone hip surgery following an unknown accident, leaving his right leg a half-inch shorter than his left-Catherine Baker's life was cast with more hairpin curves, loopholes, murk and Muddy Footprints Leading Nowhere than the plot of a film noir. as she was called on an anarchist site out of Hamburg (see www.anarchieeine.de). (Apparently everyone in the group had a nickname. Gracey was Nero. Others [none of them ever identified with an actual person and widely disputed] were Bull's-Eye, Mohave, Socrates and Franklin.) Dad and Littleton barely mentioned The Moth in their essays; she appeared as a postscript in Littleton's piece and Dad only mentioned her toward the end, when discussing the "power of the freedom fairy tale, when men and women fighting injustice are a.s.signed attributes of movie stars and comic book heroes." I could only a.s.sume this slight was because while Gracey's ident.i.ty was real, both doc.u.mented and validated -he was Turkish in origin, had undergone hip surgery following an unknown accident, leaving his right leg a half-inch shorter than his left-Catherine Baker's life was cast with more hairpin curves, loopholes, murk and Muddy Footprints Leading Nowhere than the plot of a film noir.

Some claimed (www.geocities.com/revolooshonlaydees) she'd never technically technically been linked to The Night.w.a.tchmen, and the fact that the town of the last confirmed George Gracey sighting and the location of her own brutal crime happened within two hours (and twenty-three miles) of each other, was simply a coincidence and, subsequently, an overeager conclusion of "extremist ties" by the FBI. been linked to The Night.w.a.tchmen, and the fact that the town of the last confirmed George Gracey sighting and the location of her own brutal crime happened within two hours (and twenty-three miles) of each other, was simply a coincidence and, subsequently, an overeager conclusion of "extremist ties" by the FBI.

There was no way of knowing for certain if, on September 19, 1987, the blonde spotted with Gracey in a Lord's Drugstore parking lot in Ariel, Texas, was the same same blonde pulled over by a State Trooper on a deserted road off Highway 18 outside Vallarmo. Fifty-four-year-old Trooper Baldwin Sullins, following the 1968 blue Mercury Cougar onto the shoulder of the road, radioed headquarters to say he was on a routine stop for an extinguished taillight. And yet, something unusual about the woman must have made him ask her to step out of the vehicle (according to www.copkillers.com/cbaker87, he'd asked to see the inside of her trunk, where Gracey was hiding), and as she climbed from the driver's seat wearing blue jeans and a black T-s.h.i.+rt, she pulled out an RG .22 handgun, commonly called a Sat.u.r.day Night Special or Junk Gun, and shot him twice in the face. blonde pulled over by a State Trooper on a deserted road off Highway 18 outside Vallarmo. Fifty-four-year-old Trooper Baldwin Sullins, following the 1968 blue Mercury Cougar onto the shoulder of the road, radioed headquarters to say he was on a routine stop for an extinguished taillight. And yet, something unusual about the woman must have made him ask her to step out of the vehicle (according to www.copkillers.com/cbaker87, he'd asked to see the inside of her trunk, where Gracey was hiding), and as she climbed from the driver's seat wearing blue jeans and a black T-s.h.i.+rt, she pulled out an RG .22 handgun, commonly called a Sat.u.r.day Night Special or Junk Gun, and shot him twice in the face.

(I'd hoped Ada Harvey had been embellis.h.i.+ng that particular detail; I'd wanted the Unintentional Tugged Trigger, the Slipped My Mind Safety Off, but sadly, it seemed Ada was not p.r.o.ne to ornamentation.) Trooper Sullins had called in the Mercury Cougar's license plate tags before he'd left his police car, and the car was registered to one Mr. Owen Tackle of Los Ebanos, Texas. It soon came to light Tackle had put the car up for sale at Reece's Cars-for-Less in Ariel three months prior, and a tall blonde, who gave her name as Catherine Baker, had purchased the car the day before, paying in cash. Seconds before the shooting, a Lincoln Continental happened to drive by, and it was that driver's testimony-s.h.i.+rley Lavina, age 53-that led to the police sketch of Catherine Baker, the only certified portrait of her in existence.

(A grainy posting of the composite is featured on www.american outlaws.net/deathmoth and Ada Harvey was right; it looked nothing like Hannah Schneider. In fact, it could very well have been a rendering of June Bug Phyllis Mixer's Standard Poodle.) There were hundreds of other details to read about Die Motte Die Motte (according to www.members.aol/smokefilledrooms/moth, she looked like Betty Page, while www.ironcurtain.net claimed people mistook her for Kim Basinger) and it was these details -not to mention the startling reappearance of "Lord's Drugstore" (where Hannah had said (according to www.members.aol/smokefilledrooms/moth, she looked like Betty Page, while www.ironcurtain.net claimed people mistook her for Kim Basinger) and it was these details -not to mention the startling reappearance of "Lord's Drugstore" (where Hannah had said Jade Jade had been stopped by police at the end of her phony road trip)-that made me wonder if I might faint from sheer incredulity. But I forced myself to press on with an unyielding countenance and bearing, much like old British pinch-faced spinster, Mary Kings-ley (1862-1900), the first female explorer, who without batting an eyelash traveled up the crocodile-ridden Ogooue River in Gabon to study cannibalism and polygamy. had been stopped by police at the end of her phony road trip)-that made me wonder if I might faint from sheer incredulity. But I forced myself to press on with an unyielding countenance and bearing, much like old British pinch-faced spinster, Mary Kings-ley (1862-1900), the first female explorer, who without batting an eyelash traveled up the crocodile-ridden Ogooue River in Gabon to study cannibalism and polygamy.

While some sources contended Catherine Baker was British and French in origin (even Ecuadorian; according to www.amigosdaliberdade.br her twin had died from stomach cancer due to the Oxico-contaminated water, prompting her to join the group), the resounding, and least refuted idea, was that she was the same thirteen-year-old Catherine Baker who'd been reported missing by her parents in New York City the summer of 1973. She was also "almost certainly" the "unidentified dark-haired child, a girl between thirteen and fourteen years of age" who'd been spotted with Gracey in Berkeley, November of that same year, a month after the Houston bombing.

According to www.wherearetheyn0w.com/felns/cb3, the parents of the mislaid Catherine Baker had been stratospherically wealthy. Her father was a Lariott, a descendant of Edwards P. Lariott, the American capitalist and oil tyc.o.o.n, once the second richest man in the United States (and archenemy of John D. Rockefeller) and it was her rebellious spirit, a disenchantment with her home life and a childish infatuation with Gracey (who some estimated she'd met in New York, early in 1973) that had motivated her to escape her life of "capitalist privilege and excess," never to return to it again.

Naturally, to me, this rarefied upbringing looked infinitely more at home around the bare and bony shoulders of Hannah Schneider than Sergeant Detective Harper's contention that she'd been an orphan, raised at the Horizon House in New Jersey-a difference between a mink stole and a Member's Only. If Ada Harvey was to be believed (and thus far, there was no reason not to), Fayonette Harper's mistake was that she'd investigated the life of Hannah Schneider the Missing Person, the orphan whose ident.i.ty Catherine Baker had apparently absconded with (the overcoat she'd donned and blithely strolled out of the store with, without paying). And yet, frustratingly, I couldn't confirm Ada's conjecture as fact or fiction; searching for "Hannah Schneider" and "Missing Person" yielded not a single result, which I initially found strange until I remembered what Hannah herself had said that night at her house: "Runaways, orphans, they're kidnapped, killed-whatever the reason, they vanish from public record. They leave behind nothing but a name, and even that's forgotten in the end." "Runaways, orphans, they're kidnapped, killed-whatever the reason, they vanish from public record. They leave behind nothing but a name, and even that's forgotten in the end."

It had happened to the person whose name she'd taken.

As I read the first startling details about Catherine Baker's life (www .greatcommierevolt.net/women/baker was particularly well researched, replete with bibliography and links to Additional Reading), I started sprinting like an Errand Boy all the way back to that conversation with her, when I was alone at her house, retrieving her every word, expression and gesture, and when I dumped that splintered cargo at my feet (something "night," police officer, The Gone), I turned around and sprinted back for more.

Hannah had claimed it was the truth about the Bluebloods, when in fact, it was her own past she'd narrated between all those cigarettes and sighs. She'd a.s.signed each of them a portion of her own history, neatly sewing it into them using an invisible applique st.i.tch, garnis.h.i.+ng it with a few erroneous, baroque details ("prost.i.tute, junkie," "blackouts") in order to floor me, make it look so astonis.h.i.+ng, it had to be real.

It'd been her her father, not Jade's, father, not Jade's, "from oil money, so he had the blood and suffering of thousands on his hands." "from oil money, so he had the blood and suffering of thousands on his hands." And it had been And it had been she she who'd run away from home, from New York to San Francisco, and those six days of travel had "changed the course of her life." When she was thirteen, she, not Leulah, had absconded with a Turkish man ("handsome and pa.s.sionate," she'd called him) and she, not Milton, had wanted something to believe in, something to keep her afloat. She joined, not a "street gang," but "something who'd run away from home, from New York to San Francisco, and those six days of travel had "changed the course of her life." When she was thirteen, she, not Leulah, had absconded with a Turkish man ("handsome and pa.s.sionate," she'd called him) and she, not Milton, had wanted something to believe in, something to keep her afloat. She joined, not a "street gang," but "something night"- night"-The Night.w.a.tchmen.

She'd cut out the police officer killing from her own past and tacked it onto Nigel's parents as if dressing paper dolls.

"Life hinges on a couple of seconds you never see coming" she'd said broodingly (so broodingly, I should have known she could only be talking about herself, a tenet of Dad's Life Story principle: "People will always reserve The Brood, The Glower and The Heathcliff-Styled Mope, for their she'd said broodingly (so broodingly, I should have known she could only be talking about herself, a tenet of Dad's Life Story principle: "People will always reserve The Brood, The Glower and The Heathcliff-Styled Mope, for their own own Story, never someone else's -call it the narcissism that leaks out of Western culture like oil from an Edsel."). Story, never someone else's -call it the narcissism that leaks out of Western culture like oil from an Edsel.").

"Some people pull the trigger" Hannah had said (a palpable glower on her face), Hannah had said (a palpable glower on her face), "and it all explodes in front of you. Other people run away" "and it all explodes in front of you. Other people run away"