“That’s Nicole’s department, not yours.”
“Nicole is dead,” Douglass breathed, and closed his eyes and wrapped his two hands together and kneaded them violently.
“Dead?”
Douglass straightened his jacket with methodical care, cleared his throat, and answered: “She got a pistol from somebody. She stuck it in her mouth and blew the back of her head off. Yes, dead is the right word. She looked as if she’d never been alive.”
Winslow watched Douglass’ face twist up.
“God knows why I should care. She had lousy posture and she was always complaining of headaches and cracking fingernails and backaches and corns and the state of the world. She had a face like a rhesus monkey and for Christ’s sake I’ve kicked better ass than her out of bed. She never gave me the time of day. She used to look at me as if she was measuring me for a box.”
Winslow still didn’t say anything but it was becoming clear that Douglass was asking for something—beseeching. And finally Douglass stretched both arms forward along the top of the desk and looked him in the eye. “You know I’m lying, of course. The truth is when I took my clothes off and got in bed with her I had my climax before I touched her. She laughed every time.”
Winslow squirmed and tried to look away but the bleak desperate eyes pinned him. “Oh, hell, Fred.” And it came to Winslow quite suddenly that Douglass had come here to unburden himself because there was no one else to whom he could turn. Winslow, who had always hated him and feared him, was the closest thing to a friend Douglass had.
He said clumsily, “I’m sorry, Ramsey, I wish there was something I could do.”
“Maybe there is.”
Winslow immediately regretted having said it.
“Dangerfield’s on my ass,” Douglass said. “I’ve got to take over Nicole’s job—rounding up all our people in the area and getting them out to the airport. I won’t be able to be here tomorrow so you’re going to have to take over for me. You’ll have to double-check Hathaway to make sure absolutely everybody gets on those buses. Nobody gets left behind, Fred. Nobody. That was supposed to be my job. Shoot anybody who balks.”
Winslow blinked.
Douglass said, “They’ve got dossiers on every one of us. Anybody who doesn’t get on that plane can figure on being dead in twelve hours.”
“I see. Yes.” His mind whirled.
Douglass got to his feet. “Tell the bus drivers not to run any traffic lights but if a cop stops them, shoot him. You understand, Fred?”
“I understand that. I’m not sure I understand why you care any more whether I do it or not.”
“Because it comes down to survival, doesn’t it. All I want to do is keep them convinced that I’m beneath consideration. As long as they don’t notice me I’ll survive. If you trip up, it’ll be my fault and they’ll nail me for it. I need your help, Fred.” He looked hard at Winslow. “Nobody cares what we intended, Fred—nobody cares what our motives are. We’re judged by the consequences of our acts, not by our intent.”
“Yes,” Winslow said, and nodded, and Douglass strutted out.
Alone in the office he picked up the phone. “Get my wife for me, will you Lieutenant?”
He sat absolutely motionless, hardly breathing until the telephone buzzed.
“Celia?”
“Hello, darling.”
“About tomorrow night. We were thinking about not going to that damned party but I guess we ought to go.”
The silence was long and ragged but in the end she said, “All right, Fred,” and all the life had drained out of her voice.
“I probably won’t be home tonight.”
“I know. I’ll see you tomorrow evening then. At the party.”
“At the party.” He closed his eyes and his grip tightened on the receiver until the knuckles ached.
“Take care, darling.”
“Yes. You too.”
He depressed the cradle with his finger and released it again. “Lieutenant? Anything happening?”
“No, sir. Nice and quiet.”
“I’m going topside for a breath of air. I’ll be in hailing distance of the gate guard if you need me.”
Along the ramp the tunnel resonated with disembodied announcements on the PA loudspeakers. When he emerged through the great steel doors the dazzling brilliance made his eyes swim. The rain had passed on toward the east and a thin steamy mist hovered along the ground, burning off; his grainy eyes squinted out across the implacable indifferent desert. He began cursing in a lackluster monotone.
Chapter Twenty
Lamplight reflected from the night-black windows. A hard spiral of heat twisted Forrester’s abdominal muscles. He glanced up and Spode stared back wordlessly, his face a studied mask. Forrester took Ronnie’s hand.
She sat placid and wooden; her voice was flat. “I guess I went away for a little while.”
“It’s all right,” he said in a low voice from which he withheld feeling by an effort of will that made him break out in a fine perspiration.
He had sat with her for hours, speaking softly and trying to reassure her.
When she had first spoken, it had been erratically. She had mumbled about the storm’s end, talked childishly about her paintings.
But now she was coming back. She clung to Forrester fearfully. “Forgive me, Alan.”
“Forgive you?”
“For loving you. For bringing you such unhappiness.”
Her voice was stronger and he sat up. “Ronnie—”
“Les was my brother, you know.”
“Yes. Top guessed that.” Still he didn’t prompt her with questions because he had no way of being sure what might send her off. He touched his lips gently to her forehead. She said, “You have such huge hands.”
He managed to smile but her face did not change. “I have nothing more to lose, except you,” she said, “and I’ve lost you already.”
“Nonsense, Ronnie. I’m right here.”
“You’re here because you want to know what I know.”
“That doesn’t change the way I feel.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I wish it had. It would be easier if I knew I’d already hurt you as much as I was going to.”
He attempted a smile. What was the answer to that?
“I’m sorry I went to pieces. We didn’t have time for me to do that.”
“Are you all right now?”
She had the strength to make a wry face. “As much as I’m going to be.”
“Just take it easy for a while.” Meaningless homilies. He had never been good at comforting.
She said, “In a way it has to be a relief, doesn’t it—knowing it’s out in the open. It doesn’t matter what they do to me anyway, it can’t be worse than what I’ve lived through. I suppose you must have guessed: they made me watch them beat my husband to death.”
Spode’s “Jesus” exploded across the room and Forrester tried not to show his shock.
Ronnie said, “I guess I’ll handle it now. It was seeing Les …”
Spode said, “God knows I didn’t want it that way, Ronnie. But Les didn’t give me a choice.”
She took several deep breaths. Finally she lifted her head.
“I’ll tell you everything I can. I’ve got nothing left to lose—I already said that, didn’t I?”
“You’re alive, Ronnie.”
Spode said, “Help us get to this man Belsky in time to stop them from whatever they’re doing.”
She was puzzled. “Belsky? You mean the man from Russia who came to activate us? He’s calling himself Dangerfield. How much do you already know?”
“Mostly guesswork,” Forrester said. “You’d better tell us, if you feel up to it.”
“I wouldn’t blame you for not believing a word of it, Alan. It’s too fantastic for belief, isn’t it?” Her face was wholly without expression. She had talked for half an hour and she lay back, drained.
“I believe it all. I have no reason not to.”