White Rabbit Chapter 39

39.

            “What happened to my van?” Pete asked. He was a hippy with a scruffy beard. Chuck handed him 500 dollars. “Fair enough,” he said. He drove a Subaru Outback and the foursome set off on the road. Highway Patrol cruisers and unmarked black federal cars with applicable plates zoomed past them searching for a white minivan. It was roughly a 120 mile haul from Piedmont, West Virginia to Alexandria, Virginia where Bronson rented an apartment he could barely afford. His girlfriend, Katie, would probably be there waiting for him. He hoped by living close enough to Washington D.C. he could one day land a job for CNN, or work for some major newspaper as a D.C., or better still, a Whitehouse, correspondent. He spent weekends riding the metro and thinking of stories to write. He was a fledgling novelist and ultimately hoped to write mystery novels or screenplays for a living but who knows, as he said, life is a rodeo. On the way to D.C. the foursome stopped at a small family diner and ate. Bronson only ate at non-chain restaurants. He cleaned himself up in the bathroom and was happy he had spare gym pants in his bag. He remembered his mother packing him spare pants in his backpack when he was in kindergarten. But that was so long ago.

No one noticed he was wearing different pants when he came back to the table. Alex De Wolfe was entertaining the other two with stories of his life. They barely scratched the surface. Bronson slid into his chair unnoticed and began listening intently. Water with pellet ice and lemon sat in front of him.

“So where will you go?” Bronson asked.

Alex thought for only a few seconds. “Boston,” he said. “I am in love with a girl in Boston. I need to find her.”

“A romantic werewolf!” Chuck smiled.

“So can you turn into the wolf for us?” Pete asked anxiously.

Alex looked around, “Not here.”      

            “Of course,” Bronson interjected. “Somewhere, more private.”

            “Maybe at Fillmore’s place?” Chuck asked eagerly.

            “Maybe.” Alex replied. “But here…” Alex put a straw in his mouth and disappeared before their stunned eyes. It was the twentieth time he had done it since Dale’s Scrap and Heap in Piedmont. A young waitress came over to take their order.

            “Where’s the other guy?”

            Before she could notice, the straw fell from midair to the table. They laughed hysterically and the lady thought she was dealing with a bunch of potheads who weren’t likely to tip very well. All kinds in this business, she thought glumly. All fucking kinds. Bronson asked Alex if he had ever been to DC before and Alex stated not since JFK’s funeral.

            “So you were born a year before Lincoln was assassinated!” Bronson said in reverence.

            “Yes,” Alex replied casually.

            “Unfuckingbelievable!” Pete’s mind was blown more than a weathercock. 

When the foursome arrived at the apartment Katie wasn’t home. Bronson was relieved that he wouldn’t have to explain anything before they started taping. He and Chuck set up the living room for the interview. Alex and Pete sat on the couch and chatted. Alex had made himself invisible at least two dozen times on the road and each time Pete giggled like a little girl. His mind was blown over and over again. The interview rolled on for three hours. Bronson’s girlfriend came in halfway through but no one noticed. She put her keys on the kitchen counter and sat next to Pete and watched enthralled as the rest of them. Alex turned himself into a werewolf and Bronson tried to continue the interview even though he was shaking like a leaf. When all he got for answers were yelps and howls he asked Alex to turn back and he did right before their eyes and on camera.

“This is Pulitzer Prize shit!” Chuck smiled proudly whispering to Pete and Katie. In exchange for the interview, they agreed to buy Alex a one way ticket to Boston. The government had seized all his accounts so all he had were the given clothes on his back. Lucky for him he was about the same size as Bronson. 38R, 32/30, size 9 shoe, hat size…7½.  

A week later in Boston…

            Delores realized that she was being followed by the same two bricks that came to ask her questions the week before. Everywhere she went they were watching her. She didn’t know what to think. At first, she thought she was imagining things but they were not very clever about following her, or they didn’t care whether she knew they were there. Sometimes it wasn’t them. It was two other stooges who looked pretty much the same. But it was always men in dark suits, sunglasses, usually with a Blackberry hanging out of their ear like a cattle tag. Delores put it together. She knew that Alex De Wolfe must have escaped and they had reason to believe that he was headed back to Boston. The thought of which made her ecstatic.

            She waited patiently. Then the story broke. She watched it unfold on TV in Dunkin’ Donuts over a fresh brewed cup. She hadn’t seen much of Whitney lately since Whitney discovered Bruce and Bruce’s penis. “This is Bronson Fillmore with Associated Press with an escapee from the recently unveiled Keyser United States Military Detention Center, Alexander De Wolfe. Alex was imprisoned in a maximum security detention center for committing no crime. He was imprisoned for being a werewolf in the U.S. Government’s recent attack on the civil rights of U.S. citizens, particularly werewolves. Since the bombing of Flight 1202 by Claude Van Wert, a reported werewolf produced by the government-funded, Project Morphism, in a laboratory at Cornell University, werewolves have been rounded up by the U.S. Government in what is classified as ‘Operation Silver Bullet.’ Labeled a terror suspect, Mr. De Wolfe was taken from the custody of animal control and transported to Keyser U.S. Military Detention Center a few days before Christmas. De Wolfe was held without bail, without being able to contact friends or family and without trial. Alex, thank you for being here today. Will you please tell us how this all began…”

Delores watched him obdurately. She read the closed caption on the bottom of the screen because it was impossible for her to hear over the evening crowd. He was wearing a nice shirt and tie. On the screen it said Breaking News in red. CNN aired about thirty minutes of the interview and Delores watched just as Pentagon officials watched. Alex told his story and the story of dozens like him. He differentiated himself and the others from Van Wert. He told the story of his werewolfism and what things he has done and seen since his birth in 1864. For instance, he fought in both World War I and II. He was friends of Charles Lindberg, Ernest Hemingway, Pablo Picasso and Fidel Castro and had photographs of himself with each of them. Picasso, he says, painted him.   

 “Where will you go?” Bronson asked finally after a very successful and satisfying interview.

“I don’t know. Until the CIA stops hunting werewolves and they officially end Operation Silver Bullet, I suppose I will stay invisible.” It was a clever response being that Alex never admitted to being an invisible. The Pentagon released an official statement never denying that there was an Operation Silver Bullet but saying that it was preposterous that the government would be arresting werewolves.

Directly following the televised interview, CNN went to an impromptu damage-control press conference with CIA assistant director, Mark Glick, who laughed, “What is next? Vampires? Aliens? Santa Claus? The Easter Bunny? The Bigfoot? This story is a complete and obvious fabrication. There isn’t an ounce of credibility to the story or to the reporter. Who is this guy, anyway? It is clear that anyone can make accusations or a video and post it to YouTube.” The reporters at the press conference attacked like piranhas. But Glick was a professional liar. Didn’t break a sweat. Though a very different person, fifty some odd years along, his philosophy in life was much the same as young Bronson Fillmore’s. Life is a rodeo. Presently, the bull was bucking and Glick was on for the ride.

Delores smiled brightly. She finished her cup and ran out the jingling door thrilled to be alive again. Caffeine and hope raced through her veins. Now she knew why they were following her. They were still there sitting in a black Lincoln across the street. She waved at them instead of flicking them off. But just like they did when she flipped them off, they didn’t respond. Cool as cucumbers.

For the next few weeks “hoax” was the buzzword on TV news and in all the papers in regards to werewolves. People didn’t believe the story for the most part. The government claimed that the persons being held in the prison were terrorists and it was a matter of national security that they were kept there without receiving Constitutional rights. It was un-American to demand their release. You must want another plane to be hijacked or another building to explode if you are demanding their freedom. The story was too fantastic to believe. Besides, after the story broke, no one knew where Alex De Wolfe was. He could not be located to confirm his testimony for another source. A congressman from Ohio invited him to testify in front of Congress but he didn’t show. (Though it was good that he didn’t, it was a covert CIA strategy to arrest him. He never would have showed, either way.) Unfortunately, the story was buried when news broke of some high-ranking and popular senator sending naked pictures of himself to some underage girls and was accused of having several affairs with staffers. Werewolves were old news and the ADD public feasted on the sex scandal. It didn’t matter what anyone said, Delores knew Alex was a werewolf and she waited and waited and waited.   

            Then finally as she was coming home from school in late March she heard footsteps behind her. The black Lincoln rolled around the block watching her walk as usual. Delores turned around and she knew he was there. She softly bit her bottom lip in excitement as she had long ago.

            “To say I have missed you is to say the ocean is water. Turn around and keep walking so they don’t suspect anything.”

            “I love you!” she said as she walked.

            “I love you, too, Delores.”

            “You shouldn’t be here. They will catch you!”

            “They don’t know that I am an invisible. So I am at an advantage.”

            “We cannot go to my house. Lady Goodyear knows.”

            “Oh, yes. The lady with the whistle. She did a fine job of nabbing me.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “No! Don’t be! It was entirely my fault for turning into the wolf when I smelled the peanut butter. I need to have more self-control.”

            “So that is a flaw?”

“Yes, for peanut butter.”

“So when can I see you.”

            “See me might be very difficult under the circumstances. But I will walk you home from school every day you like and meet you at the donut shop whenever you can. Don’t know that I could have a coffee though. Cups floating through air and such…”

            “Every day!” she said. “Every day!” she turned around to look behind her. The agents were both talking on their Blackberries. They were getting complacent with the lack of action. “Quick! Follow me!” Delores took off running up a narrow driveway, between two old historic houses and around a corner sneaking behind a tall hedgerow. It would have been impossible for the agents to follow her in the car and they never seemed too fond of getting out and pursuing her on foot. She stood there in a small space shimmying her slim body between a shed and a row of hedges behind a house two blocks or so from hers. Not enough room. She looked up behind her. There was a small but large enough window. She turned and jumped grabbing the ledge pulling herself up. She pushed the window open. Inside it was a large old garage/shed with stone walls. There was an old Mustang that seemed like someone gave up restoring it halfway through the job. There was a work bench and large cardboard boxes marked Xmas, Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and some without markings. The shed was dark but for the light that snuck through the lone window. Delores went to the door and opened it seeing the back of another nice old house. She locked it. The window had swung open again and as she turned there he was standing by the old faded-red Mustang. Delores dropped her book bag and they found the backseat.