There had been another suicide. This time it had been a man dressed as a police officer, who had managed to penetrate the security surrounding the White House. The uniform had been traced to a District of Columbia station nearby, where it had been stolen from a storeroom.
Impersonating a police officer, the article noted, was a serious crime in its own right. This man, Spiers Jones, had been a prominent writer on civil liberties, as well as a noted lawyer in the Dallas area. His involvement in the conspiracy had sent waves through the liberal community.
The note he was bearing was the shortest yet. It was only one word long, and that word was Samedi.
James shook his head. He loved Grieve; he knew now that he did. But she was only one woman. How many people would die if James did nothing?
He turned back down the hall, and as he did, Stark and Graham came back in. The sound of a car engine could be heard in the background, then the noise of tires on gravel. The detective was gone.
Stark and Graham walked past James as if he were not there.
— Hey, he said. Graham! Graham!
But Graham did not turn. They continued down the hall.
It's completely unfair, thought James. It was Stark's fault that he had been confused about Grieve and her sister.
There was only one thing to do. First he would find Grieve and apologize. Then he would send a letter. He would send the maid, Grieve, with a letter to the police, explaining everything. She was allowed to leave the house, to leave the grounds.
James paused in his search, midway along a hallway on the third floor. He had no idea where Grieve's room might be. He had asked the maids and servants he had come across, as well as a nurse and two orderlies, whether they had seen Grieve. None had.
He saw McHale at the far end of the hall, standing by a window, smoking a cigarette. He approached him.
— Thomas, he said. Do you know where Grieve is?
McHale turned to look at him. His face became scornful.
— We should never have helped you out in the first place.
— I just want to know where she is.
— She doesn't want to see you. Can't you understand that?
McHale threw his half-smoked cigarette out the open window and walked off.
James stood by the window, the smell of smoke still clinging to the air.
It came to him: she would be where she had first waited for him.
James paused in the hall. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, wrote on it:
Meet me in my room at 3. Urgent.
He folded the note and tucked it under the carpet at the entrance to the maids' room. Then he went back, past the door of the man who had drawn him the elephant, through the next door and into the thin corridor. I wonder, he thought, if that man ever found the drawing. I never went back for it.
He came to the end of the corridor, turned, and went to the ladder. He listened carefully, to see if he could hear any sound of breathing. He could not.
Up the ladder he went, slowly. He could feel the roundness of the rungs, the closeness of this odd room. Grieve must be here. She must be. If she is Grieve, then she is here.
At the top, there was only darkness. Someone had pulled a shade across the window. In the dark, he could hear someone breathing.
— Grieve? he said.
He crossed the tiny room slowly and pulled the shade. Light fell through and he could see Grieve looking at him, Grieve pressed against the wall.
— I'm sorry, he said.
Her eyes were red from crying.
He moved towards her. She sat up, and he put his arms around her. He could feel her shaking.
Then a voice came from the ladder's top.
— Lara, what are you doing? Lara, don't you dare!
James turned, still holding Grieve tight. At the ladder's top, he saw Grieve looking at him, Grieve wearing the dress she had worn the day before.
He let go of the Grieve who was in his arms.
— No, James, she shrieked. She's lying. She's lying.
She began to cry again.
He looked at the Grieve on the ladder, and then at the Grieve at his side. How could he know which was the right one?
— James, said the one on the ladder, I'm sorry about what happened before. I should have told you more; I should have explained everything.
James fought to think. How could he know? He addressed the Grieve on the ladder.
— At the diner, how many pieces did you cut your ham sandwich into?
That Grieve answered immediately:
— Twelve pieces.
— That's not fair at all, said the first Grieve. Of course she knows how many pieces I cut my sandwiches into. She's my sister. We grew up together. Ask something that she couldn't possibly know, that only I would know.
— Don't listen to her, said the Grieve on the ladder. I answered the question. Ask her one. You know she's lying. She's the one you saw this morning in bed with the orderly.
James held up his hand.
— Quiet for a moment, both of you.
The Grieve he had been holding began to cry again.
— Don't cry, he said, just wait.
To the Grieve on the ladder, then:
— When you stole my wallet, which pocket of my pants was it in?
Grieve climbed the rest of the way up the ladder.
— Listen, she said, this is stupid. I love you. No more of these questions. I answered one already. She hasn't.
— Answer, said James.
The first Grieve's sniffling could be heard behind him.
— Answer, he said again.
Grieve on the ladder unbuttoned the front of her dress and opened it. She was naked beneath, and all was as he remembered it.
— Don't you recognize me? she said. Don't you remember me?
The other Grieve let out a wail.
— I hate you! I hate you.
— Answer my question, said James, backing away.
— The back pocket, she said. The right back pocket.
Aha!
— But it wasn't in the right back pocket, said James.
— I meant, right when I'm facing you, she said. Not the other way.
— It wasn't in my pants at all, he said, drawing the crying Grieve to him and putting his arms around her.
— It was in his coat, you bitch, said Grieve.
— God damn it to hell, said Lara, buttoning up her dress. Well, it was worth a try.
— I hate you, said Grieve. You always try to ruin everything.