Feelings of Fear (14 page)

“But Jack's dead already,” said Harold, through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“That is where my research may be of benefit. Apart from investigating the ways in which people were made into zombies, I researched the ways in which they were revived. The voodoo doctors use a drug derived from the
Bufo marinus,
which is a species of toad. It excites the heartrate, it promotes synaptic activity in the brain. It is the chemical equivalent of electro-convulsive therapy. If it can bring people back from tetrodotoxin poisoning, perhaps it can also bring people back from death.”

“You really think you could revive him?” asked Bobby. He tried not to look at Jack's dull-staring eyes.

“I could only try. The
Bufo marinus
drug is capable of investing the human body with enormous strength. That is why you hear stories of zombies having to be restrained by six or seven people.”

“Where can we get hold of this drug?” asked George.

“I have some myself. If you send somebody to my house, they can collect it.”

Bobby looked at Harold and George, wracked with indecision. Dr Christophe's suggestion seemed like the only chance they had. But what if it didn't work, and a post-mortem showed that the Attorney General of the United States had tried to revive the dead President with a drug made from toads? The most sophisticated nation on earth, turning to voodoo? The administration would collapse overnight.

But George said, “Why don't you go ahead, Dr Christophe? We can't make it any worse than it is already.”

“Very well,” said Dr Christophe. “All I ask is that you give me immunity from prosecution, in case this fails to work.”

“You got it,” Bobby nodded. Harold picked up the phone and said,
“I need a despatch rider, right now. That's right. Put him on the phone. No, this isn't urgent. This is red-hot screaming critical. You got me?”

At three minutes past five in the morning, Dr Christophe tipped three spoonfuls of milky liquid between the President's lips – 500mg of the
Bufo marinus
powder in suspension. They had turned him over on to his back and covered him with a bedspread. Harold had already removed the lipstick-stained sheets and directed one of the two agents to wheel away the room-service cart and make sure that it was returned to the kitchens and its contents comprehensively disposed of. “I don't want one shred of lobster with the President's teethmarks on it, you got that?”

Bobby kept checking his watch. They were supposed to be having a working breakfast with State Department advisers and the Joint Chiefs of Staff at six thirty a.m. “How long do you think this will take?” he wanted to know.

Dr Christophe sat at the President's bedside. “If it happens at all, it will be a miracle.”

Harold sat slumped in front of the dressing-table, his head in his hands, staring hopelessly at his frowsy face. George stood with his arms folded, tense but unmoving. It wouldn't be long before people would be asking where the President was – if they weren't asking already.

The sky lightened, and Harold opened the dark brown drapes. Outside, it was a gray, overcast October day. Traffic along M Street was beginning to grow busier, and the buildings echoed with the impatient tooting of taxis.

At a quarter to six, George switched on the television in the sitting-room and grimly watched the early-morning news: “The President has called Soviet Foreign Minister Gromyko back to the White House today to give him a strong warning about the placement of ICBM missile sites on Cuban soil …”

At six eleven a.m., Bobby called Ted Sorensen to say that he and Jack had talked all night and that the breakfast should be put back an hour. When Ted wanted to talk to Jack personally, Bobby told him that he was in the shower.

He went back into the bedroom, feeling exhausted. Jack was still lying there, and his face was grayer than it was before. Dr Christophe was leaning over him as if he were willing him to come alive, but it seemed as if willpower alone wasn't going to be enough. After a while, he turned to Bobby and said, “I'm going to try one last thing. If this doesn't work, this is the finish.”

He reached into his leather satchel and took out a long pointed bone and a rattle decorated with hair and chicken's feathers.

“Oh come on,” said Harold. “If your drug hasn't worked, you don't think bones are going to do the trick?”

“All medicine is a combination of drugs and ritual,” Dr Christophe replied. “Even in America, you have your ‘bedside manner', yes?”

“Jesus, this is nothing but mumbo-jumbo.”

But George said, “Let him try.” And Bobby, completely dispirited, said, “Sure. Why not?”

Dr Christophe pointed the bone so that it was touching the President's forehead. He drew a cross with it, and murmured,
“Il renonce de nouveau à Dieu aussi au Chresme … il adore le Baron qui apparait ici, tantôt en forme d
'
un grand bomme noir, tantôt en forme de bouc … il se rend compte de ses actions à lui
…” At the same time, he violently shook the rattle, so that they could scarcely hear what he was saying.

After a while he stopped murmuring and began to make an extraordinary whining sound, interspersed with hollow clicks of his tongue against his palate. He shook the rattle in a slow, steady, rhythm, knocking it against the bone. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he clenched his teeth. Gradually his lips drew back, and his eyes rolled up, and his face turned into a grotesque, beastlike mask.

Bobby glanced at George in horror, but George reached out and held his arm. “I've seen this before. It's the way they conjure up spirits.”

Dr Christophe's voice grew higher and higher, until he sounded almost like a woman crying out in pain. He lifted his rattle and his bone over his head and beat them faster and faster. The back of his shirt was soaked with perspiration, and his whole body was clenched with muscular tension.
“Je vous prie!”
he cried out.
“Je vous prie!”
Then he fell back as abruptly as if somebody had punched him, and lay shivering and twitching on the floor.

“This is it,” said Harold. “I've had enough.”

But at that moment, Jack opened his eyes.

Bobby felt a thrill of excitement and fright. Jack hadn't just opened his eyes, he was looking at him, and his eyes were focused, and moving. Then his mouth opened, and he tried to say something.

“He's done it,” said George, in awe. “Son of a bitch, he's actually done it.”

“Harold – help the doctor up, will you?” said Bobby. He went around the bed and sat next to Jack and took hold of his hand. Jack stared at him without saying anything, and then tried to raise his head from the pillow.

“Take it easy,” Bobby told him. “You're fine. Everything's going to be fine.”

Jack spoke in a slow, slurry voice, his chest rising and falling with the effort. “What's happened? What are you doing here? Where's Renata?”

“You had a heart attack. We thought we'd lost you.”

“George,” said Jack, trying to smile. “And Harold, how are you? And you, Dr Christophe.”

“It was Dr Christophe who saved you.”

“Well done, Dr Christophe. You'll have to increase your fees.”

Dr Christophe was patting the sweat from his face with a bath towel. “You take it really easy, Mr President. You've just made medical history.”

Jack tried to sit up, but Bobby gently pushed him back down again. “It's OK … the best thing you can do is rest.”

He went through to the sitting-room, where Dr Christophe was packing his bag and putting on his coat. “It's a miracle,” he said. “I don't know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything, Mr Kennedy. I didn't think it was going to work either. That's why I tried the invocation.” He paused, and then he added, “I never tried the invocation before. I never dared. I don't know what the consequences are going to be.”

“He's alive. He's talking. You'd hardly think that he ever had a heart attack.”

“Yes, but I called on Baron Samedi; and I'm not at all sure that was
wise. The President doesn't just owe his life to a drug, Mr Kennedy. He owes his life to the king of death.”

Bobby laid a hand on his shoulder, and grinned widely. “He faced up to Nikita Khruschev. I'm sure he can face up to Baron Samedi.”

“Well, we'll see,” said Dr Christophe. “In the meantime, keep a very close eye on him. Make sure that he keeps on exercising … the worst thing for heart recovery is too much sitting around. No more amyl nitrite, ever. And watch for any sign of depression, or moodiness, or violent temper. Also … watch out for any behavior that you can't understand.”

“You got it,” said Bobby. “And doctor … thanks for everything.”

Bobby was astonished by the speed of Jack's recovery. He was able to dress and return to the White House by mid-morning; and that afternoon he confronted Andrei Gromyko and gave him one of the sternest dressings-down that Bobby had ever heard. He appeared confident, energetic, quick-witted. In fact he seemed to have more energy than ever. He almost
shone.

“You should call it a day,” he said, after Gromyko had left.

“What the hell for?” Jack asked him. “I never felt better.”

“Jack, you had a heart attack.”

“A minor seizure, that was all. Things got out of hand. Lobster, champagne … too much excitement. That Renata reminds me so much of Marilyn.”

“It wasn't a minor seizure, Jack. You were technically dead for more than three hours. I'm amazed you don't have brain damage.”

“Listen,” said Jack, jabbing his finger at him. “I'm fine.”

The Russians shipped their missiles back to the Soviet Union. Afterward, Moscow agreed to the President's scheme to connect the Kremlin and the White House with “hot line” teletypewriters, so that he and Khruschev could communicate instantly in times of danger. Jack was ebullient, full of new ideas. He broke a Cold War precedent and allowed the Russians to buy American wheat.

In mid-July, Bobby came up to Hyannisport to spend a few days sailing and relaxing. Ethel and the kids were there already, and although Ethel was distracted and fraught and kept complaining
about Rose, the kids were tanned and happy and having a good time. The first day, Bobby and Jack went for a walk on the beach. There was a strong southwest wind blowing and the grass whistled in the dunes.

Jack said, “I've been having these strange dreams.”

“Oh, yeah? What about? The Civil Rights movement?”

“No, nothing like that. Not political dreams. I've been having these dreams about blood, about killing things.”

The sand was very deep and soft here, and Bobby's bare feet plunged into it with every step, right up to the ankles. “I guess it's the responsibility, you know. The whole responsibility for life and death, having your finger on the button.”

Jack shook his head. “It's more personal than that. It's like I want to kill something, and kill it for a reason. An animal, a child. I can almost feel myself doing it. I can feel the knife in my hand. I can smell the blood.”

“You're tired, that's all.”

“Tired? I never felt better. I hardly need any sleep; my appetite's terrific. I feel like sex about every five minutes of the day.”

“So what do you think these dreams are all about? Why do you want to kill things?”

Jack stopped, and looked around. The wind was fresh and salty and the sea sparkled like hammered glass. He was tanned and fit. His eyes were clear, and he had never looked so strong and charismatic.

“I don't know,” he said. “I just feel the need to make a sacrifice. You remember that time at the Madison Hotel, when I had that heart attack? I feel like somebody gave me my life; and I owe them a life in return.”

“Listen, I shouldn't worry about it. What do you say we take the dinghy out?”

“No,” said Jack. “I've got too much to think about. Too much to do.”

Bobby was about to say something, but couldn't. They started to stroll back to the compound together, their bare feet kicking the sand, their hands in their pockets. An amateur photographer took a picture of them which later appeared on the cover of
Life,
and they couldn't have looked more carefree, two brothers with their hair blowing in the wind.

“Do you still see Dr Christophe?” asked Bobby, as they reached the house. John-John was sitting on the porch swing wearing a white sun-hat and determinedly stroking a white kitten that didn't want to be stroked. The swing went
sqqueeaakkk-squikkk, sqqueeakk-squikk,
over and over.

“Christophe? That quack?”

“He saved your life.”

“I recovered, that's all. I was naturally fit. There wasn't any mystery about it.”

“But you want to make a sacrifice to somebody that saved you, even if it wasn't him?”

Jack hooked his arm around Bobby's neck, almost throttling him. “Hey … these are dreams, that's all. Don't get upset.”

But later that night, unable to sleep, Bobby put on a toweling robe, left the house, and walked down to the beach. The moon had concealed itself behind a cloud, but the night was still bright, and the sky was the color of laundry-ink. The sea glittered and sparkled, but its waves wearily washed against the shore, as if they were tired of washing, as if they had really had enough washing for one millennium.

He walked westward for a while, but then he began to grow chilly and he decided to turn back. Suddenly the idea of a hot, restless night next to Ethel seemed much more attractive, stringy sheets and all. As he started to trudge back, however, he saw an orange flame flickering not far away, among the dunes. It was almost like a flag waving. He hesitated, and then he started to walk toward it. Some students, most likely, camping on the beach.

He climbed the long, soft side of the dune, and then he reached the top. At first he couldn't understand what he was looking at: his brain couldn't work it out. But then he gradually made sense of it; and it was the worst carnage that he had ever seen in his life.