that knowing so little about the weapon and its potential long-term consequences had made Truman’s decision to actually use the atomic bomb very difficult. Crockett felt a bomb of a different type in his gut. He wanted to know what was causing autism. He had pieced together bits of information, but the unanswered questions were overwhelming the trivial number of answers. The only defining conclusion he had was that both the cause and the cure for autism were unknown. He even picked Elena’s brain, but her information proved equally sketchy. Her focus was understandably on treatment, his on the cause. Find the cause and the discovery of a way to stop the spread of autism would follow. He was sure of it.
Anna barged in with an armload of groceries. “Why the sad face?” she asked,
“I didn’t think it showed,” Crockett mumbled without looking up, his voice barely audible.
Anna quickly dumped the groceries on the counter, and confronted him. “I’ve been looking at your grumpy ass for days! Are going to share what’s eating you or do I have to guess?”
Crockett looked up, his frown giving way to a hint of a smile. He appreciated Anna’s directness. “I’ve spent the last two months running into dead ends, researching a subject that, apparently, even our own government doesn’t know a damned thing about. Every time I call someone in Washington to inquire about what’s going on in those hallowed hallways as it relates to autism, all I get is the runaround from some pompous politician or they refer me to some agency that’s equally unresponsive!”
While sympathetic, Anna became uncharacteristically stern, leaning onto the table within inches of his face. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“I am not sure there is anything I can do. I’ve pretty much exhausted my resources.”
Anna turned, quickly swinging open the door to the back deck. “Look out there!” she demanded, pointing to the hillside. “It’s Angels Camp. All there is to do around here is fish, chop wood, eat, and die! Elena and Terry will always make the right decisions for your grandson. If you’re troubled over all this, get the hell out of the house and go get your own answers. Maybe, you should take another look up there!”
Crockett didn’t need to look up. He knew what up there meant. Hanging above the kitchen door was a plaque Anna had given him for his sixtieth birthday. Made of driftwood, it had two vultures carved into the face, both sitting on what looked to be a scrubby Joshua tree branch. As one vulture looked to the other, the caption below said it all. Patience Hell! I’m going out and kill something!
“You’ve made your point!” Crockett said, still ignoring the plaque.
Anna’s voice became even louder and emphatic. “Enough said! Now, what are you going to do about it?”
That night, Crockett lay in bed. After rehashing his morning conversation with Anna several times over, his last thoughts were of President Truman. The president was fearful of the bomb because he actually saw it and knew the devastation it could cause. It was very predictable. Multiply the bomb’s effective range by the number of people below, and his staff could calculate within a few percentage points how many people would die. In his case, he had choice. The bomb carried options. It could be disarmed, dropped, or not dropped. There were no choices with autism, no way to disarm the metaphorical bomb because, without knowing the cause, finding the triggering mechanism, there was no way to stop the carnage.
By morning, Crockett had made his decision. The two vultures on the plaque were right. He would go to Washington, DC. He wanted answers, not bullshit. Patience had never been one of his virtues. The carnage had to stop.
Chapter 19
April 25, 1992
Washington, DC
In Samuel Crockett’s opinion, the steps of the Lincoln Memorial always had best view in Washington DC, but today was even more special as he took his customary seat on the top step and looked down the National Mall toward the Capitol building. Springtime blossoms from hundreds of late-blooming Yoshino cherry flanking each side of the mall were so beautiful he was certain that no words could ever properly describe their grandeur. He had purposely chosen the perfect time to visit his old stomping grounds, but he had a problem. He was beginning to feel as archaic as the former Soviet Union. There was a time when he roamed the halls of Congress with the respect of a Russian general in the Kremlin, but no more. He was a long forgotten entity, old news, thrown out with the rest of the unelectable fugitives. Not only had reality set in, his week had been exhausting and unproductive.
Late that night, Crockett sat alone at the bar at a trendy Georgetown restaurant, waiting for a table. It had been nine years since he vacated his office on Capitol Hill. Navigating the maze of governmental offices for the last four days had been far more demanding than he remembered. He wasn’t sure if it age or the aggravation of running into so many dead ends that made him weary, but he knew he was spent. It was time to go home.
A voice came from behind. “Excuse me, Congressman.”
Crockett looked over his shoulder. A man he guessed to be in his mid-thirties stood patiently waiting for an acknowledgement of his informal greeting. While he was in no mood for trivial pleasantries, Crockett politely swiveled his stool around and took a chance. “How is it you know who I am?”
“Well sir, you made quite a splash while you were in office and I have a pretty good memory,” the man said, handing Crockett his card. I worked for the Post as an assistant to the senior political editor. “My name is Mathew Manning.”
Still not particularly interested in casual conversation, Crockett palmed the card without looking at it, scanning the dinner crowd over Manning’s shoulder.
Manning ignored the slight. “I might also add that I am a huge fan of your monologues. I saw your Mark Twain Tonight benefit performance in San Francisco last year. I even bought one of your tapes.”
Crockett quickly backed off, suddenly breaking a smile. “Well, I am afraid I am no Hal Holbrook, but at least I have a legitimate claim to his middle name.”
“Congressman, I’m dining alone at my table and there is an extra chair. I’d be honored if you joined me.”
Crockett looked around again, weighing the wait time for a table. It was intimidating. He picked up his drink and accepted the offer.
Manning was noticeably excited. “I must say that life was not as much fun around here after you left. Your tenacity is still legendary. You were irascible, almost ruthless. For the Post, you were a media darling. You sold newspapers.”
Crockett smiled, ignoring the compliment. “So tell me Mr. Manning, how is life at the Washington Post these days?”
“Well, I no longer work there. I have a degree in finance and work for the CDC. I am based in Atlanta now. I am here on vacation, visiting some old friends. Please, call me Matthew.”
Crockett needed no explanation of the CDC. He used to sit on an appropriation committee for the CDC when he was a congressman. While everyone called it the CDC, the agency’s name had long ago changed to Centers for Disease Control and Prevention putting an emphasis on prevention. It was headquartered in Atlanta but had ten other locations in the United States and Puerto Rico. It was one of the two most powerful agencies in the US government. Only the Food and Drug Administration could match it in size.
As dinner progressed, Manning shared that he was thirty-five, divorced, had no children and spent his leisure time jogging. He
