The crash brought Gen. Leslie Bowers (ret.) up out of bed--about
two feet out of bed--old muscles tense, white mustache bristling.
Even at his age, the general was a man of action. He flipped the
covers back, swung his feet out to the floor and grabbed the
shotgun leaning against the wall.
Muttering, he blundered out of the bedroom, marched across the
dining room and charged into the kitchen. There, beside the door,
he snapped on the switch that turned on the floodlights. He
practically took the door off its hinges getting to the stoop and
he stood there, bare feet gripping the planks, nightshirt
billowing in the wind, the shotgun poised and ready.
"What's going on out there?" he bellowed.
There was a tremendous pile of rocks resting where he'd parked his
car. One crumpled fender and a drunken headlight peeped out of the
rubble.
A man was clambering carefully down the jumbled stones, making a
detour to dodge the battered fender.
The general pulled back the hammer of the gun and fought to
control himself.
The man reached the bottom of the pile and turned around to face
him. The general saw that he was hugging something tightly to his
chest.
"Mister," the general told him, "your explanation better be a good
one. That was a brand-new car. And this was the first time I was
set for a night of sleep since my tooth quit aching."
The man just stood and looked at him.
"Who in thunder are you?" roared the general.
The man walked slowly forward. He stopped at the bottom of the
stoop.
"My name is Wesley Adams," he said. "I'm--"
"Wesley Adams!" howled the general. "My God, man, where have you
been all these years?"
"Well, I don't imagine you'll believe me, but the fact is...."
"We've been waiting for you. For twenty-five long years! Or,
rather, _I've_ been waiting for you. Those other idiots gave up.
I've waited right here for you, Adams, for the last three years,
ever since they called off the guard."
Adams gulped. "I'm sorry about the car. You see, it was this
way...."
The general, he saw, was beaming at him fondly.
"I had faith in you," the general said.
He waved the shotgun by way of invitation. "Come on in. I have a
call to make."
Adams stumbled up the stairs.
"Move!" the general ordered, shivering. "On the double! You want
me to catch my death of cold out here?"
Inside, he fumbled for the lights and turned them on. He laid the
shotgun across the kitchen table and picked up the telephone.
"Give me the White House at Washington," he said. "Yes, I said the
White House.... The President? Naturally he's the one I want to
talk to.... Yes, it's all right. He won't mind my calling him."
"Sir," said Adams tentatively.