And with this Lyle raised a fist.
“But …” I agreed, solemnly glancing over to be sure Bass wasn’t going to prompt me.
“But once we were in a war, the Whigs went to military leadership to lead the country as we always did. Tippecanoe, Taylor, and Winfield Scott. And that is what we want, Mr. Peters. A strong military leader to take American back where it belongs, behind its own strong borders, defended with a big stick.”
“And with you behind the scenes as Henry Clay?” I added. “And Bass here will be Daniel Webster?”
“Doctor Olson was to have served that function,” said Lyle. “Behind your sarcasm is accidental truth, Mr. Peters.”
“So?” I said, twirling the cowboy hat in my hand until Lyle nodded and Bass stepped forward to take the hat from me.
“So, if you involve us in some tale of murder, threats, and this dog obsession, it will be very difficult to get a military figure of the stature of Patton, MacArthur, or Eisenhower to join us. We need credibility. Our ranks are small but our resources boundless and our determination unswerving. New members join us every day.”
“Like Mr. Academy,” said Bass, from behind me. I turned to face him, but he had sunk back into attention for his leader, who fixed him with a less than paternal look.
“We did not kill Doctor Olson,” Lyle went on, returning his gaze to the flag. “Roy Olson was a man of great vision, though he had little fortitude for the essential actions of political realism.”
“Like dognapping,” I said.
This time I moved my head as Bass’s palm descended. It was a good and bad idea. It kept my brain from turning to Kosto pudding, but it resulted in his hand hitting my left shoulder. My left arm, hand, and fingers went numb.
“The dog was … There are more important things than the dog,” Lyle sighed.
“Mrs. Olson,” I said, trying to get some life into my tingling fingers.
“Between us,” said Lyle, “and no one will ever believe you outside this room-that was an accident. She found out about certain … things.”
Like the dog, I thought, but I didn’t say anything this time. I wanted two good legs if the chance came to get out of the room. I’d also need at least one good hand to open the door.
“Mr. Bass attempted to reason with her, but things got out of hand.”
With this, Lyle’s hands went up as if to show that the matter was out of his hands, a question of fate or bad timing.
“It was,” he went on, “an accident.”
“And the woman who pretended to be Mrs. Olson,” I said. “The one who kept me from maybe saving Olson the night he was killed, the one who took off my pants in the clinic yesterday?”
Lyle looked at me with genuine curiosity.
“I may have misjudged you, Peters,” he said. “You may simply be mad. Bass, do you know of any such woman?”
We both turned to face, Bass, who looked bewildered. The conversation had passed him by.
“Woman,” I said. “You know what that is? Mrs. Olson, not the one you killed, but the other one.”
“No,” said Bass, but it sounded less like the answer to a question than an attempt to ward off the one weapon with which he couldn’t cope, words.
“Mr. Peters,” Lyle returned to me. “This is getting us nowhere. Certain things have to be done if political viability is to be maintained, if this country is, literally, going to be saved. Your petty investigations of an inconsequential murder and a less consequential missing dog might well jeopardize the fragile but vital web we are constructing. It is, indeed, like the first, strong strand of the spider. It is the strand on which the entire structure is based, a structure that will grow and encompass our enemies, but that first strand must be protected until it is strengthened. Do you understand?”
“You’re no Daniel Webster,” I said. “Or Henry Clay. Spiders and webs. Come on, Lyle. People are getting killed out there. China’s going to fall. The RAF is getting shot down over Germany and you’re back in the nineteenth century.”
“Bass,” Lyle cried, and before I could move from the chair, Bass had his arms around me and had lifted me up. I lost my wind and gasped for air, but my voice came out in a little puff.
“Wait,” I tried to say, but Lyle had opened the window behind him and nodded to Bass, who carried me easily around the desk.
“Wait,” I tried again, but Bass didn’t wait. He stuck my head and shoulders out the window, eight floors above Broadway. Traffic was heavy below me. I spotted my own car in the parking lot and even spotted the parking lot attendant from Lubbock.
“Since there is no reasoning with you, Mr. Peters,” Lyle said within the room, “then you will simply have an accident or commit suicide.”
“Others,” I gasped as I felt Bass’s arms loosen and tried not to imagine myself bouncing off the building.
“Others?” said Lyle. “Others what? What others?”
Bass’s grip had loosened enough for me to cough out the words, “Butler. Bass knows him.”
“I beat him,” Bass said, proudly shaking me.
“One out of three,” I said
“Pull him in,” Lyle’s voice called out, and in I came. Bass threw me into the corner of the room, where I bounced off the wall and sat catching my breath.
“I think you’re lying about your friends waiting for you,” said Lyle, closing the window and advancing toward me with Bass right behind.
“Send Kong down to look,” I said as I got up.
Bass looked puzzled and then something clicked.
“He called me a monkey,” he said, pushing past Lyle and reaching down for me.
“Bass,” Lyle shouted, stopping the hands inches from my throat. I could smell Bass’s breath. It should have smelled of garlic, but it was more like mint, which was even more unpleasant than garlic would have been.
“I haven’t time for games like this, Peters,” Lyle shouted. “Let us call this little visit a warning, a friendly warning. If you persist, the warning will have been made. Now get your silly hat and take your silly ideas out of here. Out of here.”
I picked up my hat, and using the wall, got up with Bass glaring at me.
“Monks, monks, monks,” I said, limping to the door and brushing off my hat.
“What? What did you say?” Lyle croaked.
“Your parrot, that’s what he said the last time I saw him. He said he was Henry the Eighth and then the bit about the monks.”
“Those were Henry the Eighth’s last words,” Lyle said.
“Those were the parrot’s last words too before that second Mrs. Olson you know nothing about blew his head off.” My hand was on the door and I looked back at Lyle. His upper lip was trembling.
“Henry is dead?” he said.
“Unless a parrot can live without a head.” I sighed. “Just thought I’d give you a little good news to start the day off right.”
Before he could recover and consider having Bass remove my head, I went out the door, hobbled through the outer office, went into the hall, and headed for the stairs, the location of which I had noted before I had entered the office.
I wasn’t sure what I had discovered beyond the fact that Bass had killed Mrs. Olson, but that was a start and a few things were fitting into place.
Jeremy was working on the mirror in the Farraday elevator when I arrived. He sprayed, scrubbed, looked at his own image. Since my ribs were bruised, I rode up with him.
“I should replace this mirror,” he said, “but I like to maintain the original. Replacement is necessary in all things but there comes a point at which so much has been replaced that what you have is but the replica of what once stood. When that process begins, we are too often unaware of the transition. However, my fear, Toby, is that when singular replacements become necessary, I will lose my interest in maintaining the building.”
“That will never happen,” I assured him as we groaned up past the first floor, which reminded me. “How are Alice and Jane getting along?”