She smiled. "Thank you, Colonel. I'll cooperate to the full, so long as I can remain anonymous."
"I'll do my best to respect your wish, but I make no promises."
She hesitated. Thought of Powell. Murmured, "I understand. I agree to the terms. What will you do first?"
"That, I'm not free to say. But I assure you of one thing. The statements you've made won't be ignored."
She saw the iron wall drop in his eyes and knew it was useless to argue or ask more questions. No matter. She had set the machine in motion. Powell was finished.
"Of course I said her statements wouldn't be ignored," he explained to Madeline that night. "What else could I tell someone pretending to be sincere?"
Madeline caught the significance of the word pretending. He went on. "I didn't inform her of the next step because I was damned if I knew what it should be. I still don't. One thing I told her was correct. Reports of assassination schemes are common. Yet this one — How can I properly explain why it feels different? Not because the woman impressed me. I think she's out to get someone. Powell, probably. What bothers me is one question: Why should she invent so many concrete details when it's obvious that an hour's investigation can prove them false? Is she stupid? No. Telling the story may be her way of getting revenge. But maybe the story's also true."
"Powell," Madeline repeated. "The same Powell who was Ashton's investment partner?"
"That's the one."
"If there's a plot, could she be involved?"
Orry reflected only a moment. "No, I don't think so. Ashton isn't precisely a zealot about the cause. Beyond that, it's my impression that those who try to change history by killing someone are afflicted with several kinds of lunacy. Condoning murder — being willing to do the deed — that's one, and the most obvious. Another, slightly less obvious, is lack of concern about personal consequences. Ashton never heard of self-sacrifice, or if she did, she laughed. Ashton cares for Ashton. I could believe that James would risk himself in some crazy political scheme, but not my sister."
She nodded. "Does anything else bother you?"
"Yes. The woman's refusal to go to Winder. It was perfect — and perfectly performed. Yet Winder's precisely the man who should be told first. He'd arrest Powell, lock him up, then look into the charges. Instead of doing that, Mrs. Halloran came to the War Department — surely knowing we'd be more deliberate than the provost, though ultimately, if we built a case, it would stand up. Winder's often don't. What I'm saying is, I think she wants results more than she wants quick revenge. Wants them and knows they can be gotten. That bothers me — that and those damn details. We hear of plot after plot, but seldom do we get specifics. Here we have the very center of the cabal pinpointed. She drew the map, which I locked in my desk. One last detail disturbs me most of all."
"What is it?"
"Bombs. It's the first time I've heard infernal devices mentioned in connection with assassination. Knives, pistols, yes. But not bombs."
Raising his hand, Orry slowly squeezed space between thumb and forefinger. "It's the kind of tiny detail that sets my teeth rattling — with or without that prod about bearing the guilt if I do nothing and something happens."
"Will you go to the secretary?"
"Not yet. Nor Winder either. But I may take a ride down the river alone some evening soon."
She knelt at his side, rested her cheek on his right sleeve. "It could be dangerous if you do."
"But disastrous if I don't."
97
"And then —"
Charles interrupted the tale to puff his cigar, down to a stub now. The smell grew as the length decreased.
Gus could barely tolerate the smoke. She shifted sideways, away from his bare hip, and pulled the light cover higher on her stomach. The cigar's glow faded, the pale plane of Charles's chest disappeared in the dark.
Though she wouldn't have admitted it, when he failed to say something about her pulling away — didn't even reach for her hand — it was a hurt. Small, but there were so many of them recently. They devastated her. She no longer had the ability to armor herself with words. Once she had lowered the defense, she couldn't seem to raise it again.
"— Hugh Scott and Dan and I slid some logs into the river. We hung onto them and paddled across. The water was cold as sin, and the dark made it worse." He was speaking quietly, reflectively — almost as if he were alone with his thoughts. Which in a sense was not far from the truth.
For most of the winter, he had bivouacked at Hamilton's Crossing. It was no great distance from the farm, but that didn't mean she saw him more often. He was away on duty most of the time. Tonight, as usual, his arrival had taken her by surprise. He rode up just after dark, wolfed the supper she prepared quickly, then grabbed her hand and led her to bed with the same brusqueness he had exhibited at the table. Scarcely a trace of his old politeness remained, though that wasn't the serious issue. The war had wrought a change, and the change had beaten many things out of him, manners being but one.
He was describing events at the time of last month's Richmond raid. She prompted him to go on by saying, "You crossed the river toward the enemy?"
"That's usually how it works when you're a scout. You've been around me long enough to know that much."
"Do forgive my lapse of memory."
Instantly, she regretted the bitterness. The regret was wasted. He just hitched his body higher against the creaky headboard and turned his face away, toward the open window and the slow, stately dance of moonlit curtains. The April night smelled of the earth Washington and Boz had plowed that day. In the pasture behind the barn, where rain had created small ponds in low places, bullfrogs honked.
"We did a lot more than swim the Rappahannock that night —" The memory brought a chuckle, which pleased and relieved her; she hadn't heard him laugh in quite a while. "We went on, soaked through, till we found the Yankee column. It was Kilpatrick, all right. We hid out until we could snag three of his spare horses as they went by. We mounted and rode along for a while, bareback."
"In the middle of the Union cavalry?"
"No one noticed in the dark. And it was easier for us to count noses while we were right among 'em. We even forded the river with General Kilpatrick and his boys. I wish we could have shot some of the sons of bitches, but we had to carry our information back to division. So, south of the river, we split away — the dumb sods didn't notice that, either. We rode like fury, and that's the reason General Hampton was waiting when Little Kil showed up."
She wanted to soothe the hardness from his voice. "That is quite a story," she said, patting his bare arm.
Instantly, he rolled away, lifted the curtain, and flipped the cigar butt into the side yard. An Indian cobra of smoke formed in the moonlight. "Got a few more —" a great loud yawn "— but I'll save them for morning."
He pulled up the cover, pecked her cheek, rolled onto his left side, and within half a minute started to snore.
The curtains leaped and fell back, partners in a moonlit quadrille. Gus pushed the back of her head deeper into the bolster and once again tugged the cover higher, to warm her breasts. She rubbed her right cheek, surprised and angered by what she felt.
I think he's done with me, and I don't know why. I think he wants to end it and hasn't the courage to say so.
The change, whose causes she understood only in a general way, was poisoning every part of their relationship. His love-making had been drained of tenderness; he thrust hard and hastily all the time, with few kisses and no spoken endearments. What was she to do? There were no alternatives. She couldn't stop what was happening to him or stop loving him either.