"What did he say, Mary?"
"Just one word: 'Unbelievable.' That's what he said. 'Unbelievable'; you know, like you say when you're just overwhelmed by something that's been said or done."
"He went into town twice?"
"Yes. I know, because he asked permission each time to use the pickup truck. He said he was in a hurry and didn't have the time to walk."
"He was in a hurry each time?"
"He said he was, yes."
"Do you know what he did in town or who he talked to either of those times?"
"No. Anyway, after we found out that he'd drowned, everyone here just assumed that he'd gone out canoeing to try to get rid of some tension."
"Uh-huh. Mary, is Harry Peal still out of the country?"
"As a matter of fact, I think he's scheduled to return sometime today."
"Can you get me an appointment to talk with him?"
She shrugged. "Sure. Harry's easy enough to see when he's around. I'll give him a chance to unpack and rest a little, and I'll call him later. I'm sure he'll be happy to talk with you."
I took a business card out of my wallet, wrote my unlisted apartment phone number and the number of the RestEasy Motel on the back, handed it to her. "After you speak to him, please give me a call. You should be able to reach me at one of these three numbers; if not, there's an answering service on the office phone."
Mary Tree's hand trembled slightly as she reached out and took the card. She suddenly looked very pale. "You do think somebody killed Michael, don't you?"
"Tell me about last night, Mary. What was that all about?"
Her knuckles were white where they were clasped around her right knee, and her jaw was clenched tightly. She seemed now to be looking past, or through, me, at some private haunt.
"Mary. .?"
"If Michael was killed," she said in a low, tense voice, "they did it."
"Who, Mary? The death squad?"
Mary Tree looked away, then abruptly stood and walked across the empty ballroom to the bank of windows at the east end, where she stood stiffly, her arms wrapped around her.
There was still some coffee left in the thermos jug. I poured it into her mug, took it over to her. She glanced down at me, then took the mug in a hand that was still trembling, nodded her thanks.
"Are you afraid, Mary?" I asked quietly.
"No," she replied simply.
"Then what's wrong?"
"I … I don't want to be like them."
"Like who, Mary?"
She set the mug down on a small window ledge, then turned to face me. "I don't want to be like all the terrible people who've made such a mess of this country, Mongo. I've been accused of so many terrible things. The HUAC, the McCarthy hearings. . Harry was a communist, and he made no bones about it, but he wouldn't name others he knew were communists. But so many people who weren't communists or subversive in any way had their lives destroyed just because of accusations. I don't want to be one of those people who just make accusations. Also, quite frankly, I don't want you to think I'm a fool or paranoid or both."
"Are you saying you don't really believe there's a death squad in Cairn?"
"I'm saying I don't have any proof."
"And yet, by holding up that sign, you were, in effect, accusing the Vietnam veterans."
"I know," she said in a voice so low I could hardly hear her. "I probably shouldn't have done that. I was just frustrated. Like I said, I don't want you to think I'm paranoid."
"Even paranoids have real enemies, Mary," I said with what I hoped was a disarming smile. I wanted to hear what she had to say. "What were you frustrated about?"
"You have to understand what's been happening in Cairn lately."
"Tell me."
"It used to be a pretty mellow place," she said, and shrugged. "It's always been an 'artsy' community, if you will-a refuge for artists, actors, and writers, and people who like to be around people like that. Cairn was inexpensive, easygoing. Then word got around in New York City that Cairn was a 'hot suburb.' All of a sudden we had an influx of yuppies, nouveaux riches, and all sorts of people who could never understand what Cairn is really all about. In my opinion, at least, these people began to destroy the very atmosphere that makes this town special."
"People like Elysius Culhane?"
"Yes," she said tersely, anger humming in her voice. She picked up her mug, stared down into its depths as she stirred the cold coffee with her finger, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. "For almost twenty years the Community of Conciliation has tried to reach out to veterans of all wars, and to fighting men everywhere. Some of these soldiers and veterans may hate us, but we don't hate them. They're not the enemy, just more victims, more casualties, of the disease called war. In fact, we've been trying to convince the Russians that they should allow us to set up similar programs there for their Afghan veterans, who are beginning to show the same kinds of severe, post-stress emotional disorders as our Vietnam vets. They don't think much of our setting up shop there."
"I hope that doesn't surprise you."
"Of course not. I never said our government had a monopoly on stupidity."
"What kind of programs are you talking about?"
"We had weekly fellowship meetings, and special counseling sessions led by volunteer therapists from around the county. We had good rapport with the vets, and I like to think we were doing some good for those men. Then Elysius Culhane moved here, and things began to change. I don't have to tell you he's a very powerful man-and he's a persuasive man, with a devil's tongue. He ingratiated himself with the veterans, primarily by throwing a lot of money around to sponsor events for them. Before long the fellowship meetings had to be canceled, because the veterans stopped coming. The same with the psychological and job counseling sessions. Culhane had convinced them that they were victims, all right-of, in his words, the left-wing politicians who used them as cannon fodder while they were selling out Vietnam to the communists. You know how that tune goes. He convinced them-or most of them-that it was unpatriotic to have anything to do with us, since we'd opposed the war. We oppose all wars. And Culhane hadn't been here more than a month before he got himself an emergency appointment as, of all things, a village trustee. There was a lot more money being spent in politics here, and before you knew it there were right-wing Republicans being elected to positions of power in all the riverfront communities that had once been considered liberal, like Cairn."
It was my turn to shrug. "Things like that happen in a democracy, Mary. It's the great American way."
"Yes, Mongo. But then people started to die."
"What people started to die? Political people? Leftists?"
She shook her head. "No, not yet." She paused, shuddered slightly. "Not unless Michael was a victim, which is what's so frightening. At first it was just a couple of drug dealers and then a vagrant who'd been accused of trying to molest some schoolchildren. All three men were shot in the back of the head."