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Page 32.
Chapter 25.
 Louis Beering waited outside Maxxon's house, but Maxxon, who had expressed an interest in The Book, was not showing up. Where could he be? It was one a.m.
Louis got out of the van and walked under the fog-drowned trees, his soles squishing on wet leaves. A dog barked, and Louis ducked back among hedges. So Maxxon had a dog. For a moment, Louis thought of strangling the animal. But why tip his hand? He wanted Maxxon's cooperation, not his anger.
Maxxon might not be coming home tonight. Louis got into his van and resolved to take care of another piece of business that must not be left unattended. As he drove along slick streets into Raritania, he reflected bitterly upon his own untimely death. Was there a hope of avoiding it? Somehow, he must find out what had gone wrong. Why had he been found dead back in 1936 on the very day he'd gone forward? He'd thought of confronting his brother, but had dismissed the idea as leading to an emotional side-track. At stake was the fate of mankind. And to top it off, Albert's only son had married a Jewess. There was no forgiving that. Young Alex Beering, killed in some stupid war, had married a Jewish woman and had given birth to a Jew bitch who stood to inherit the entire family fortune. It was the ultimate irony, the final indignity.
Louis angrily wiped condensation off the windshield with a rag. Doomed this fucking world was, for sure. There were these few neo-Nazi elements, these weird boys who shaved their heads and liked, what did they call it, hard rock, but that was all.
Louis found the Whiston house and parked. There was a light on inside. A woman's outline moved behind a drawn shade, then the light went out. Louis stealthily opened the car door, got out, pushed it shut with a gentle clicking sound, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Knotted around his fists was one of the chains he'd taken from Pincus's cuckoo clock.
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