«Settle? Murder? Those sons-of-bitches were gunning for Trevayne! What was I supposed to do? Let them kill him!»
«Major, have you got one shred of evidence that August de Spadante was there to do injury? Even in a hostile frame of mind?… Because if you do, you’d better let us have it; we can’t find it.»
«You’re funny. He was armed, ready to fire.»
«Your word. It was dark out; no weapon was found.»
«Then it was stolen.»
«Prove it.»
«Two Secret Service men from ‘sixteen hundred’ were deliberately removed—contrary to orders. In Darien. At the hospital. I was shot at, driving into the Barnegat property. I rendered the man unconscious and took his weapon.»
The Captain pushed himself away from the door and approached Bonner’s desk. «We read that in your report. The man you say fired at you claims he didn’t own a gun. You jumped him.»
«And took his piece; I can prove that! I gave it to Trevayne.»
«You gave a gun to Trevayne. An unregistered handgun with no other fingerprints on it but his and yours.»
«Where the hell did I get it, then?»
«Good question. The injured party says it’s not his. I understand you have quite a collection.»
«Horseshit!»
«And no Secret Service men were removed from Darien, because they weren’t scheduled to be there.»
«Double horseshit! Check the rosters!»
«We have. The Trevayne detachment was recalled to the White House for further assignment. Its duties were assumed by local authorities through the office of the County Sheriff, Fairfield, Connecticut.»
«That’s a lie! I called them in; through 1600.» Bonner rose from his chair.
«A mistake at Security Control, maybe. No lie. Take it up with Robert Webster at 1600. Presidential Assistant Webster, I should add. He said he was sure his office advised Trevayne of the switch. Although it wasn’t required to.»
«Then where were the locals?»
«In a patrol car in the parking lot.»
«I didn’t see them!»
«Did you look?»
Bonner thought for a moment. He remembered the sign in the hospital driveway directing automobiles to the rear parking area. «No, I didn’t… If they were there, they were out of position!»
«No question about it. Sloppy work. But then, those cops aren’t 1600.»
«You’re telling me I misinterpreted everything that happened. The patrol, the shots. That hood with a gun … Goddamn it, Captain, I don’t make mistakes like that!»
«That’s the opinion of the prosecution, too. You don’t make mistakes like that. You tell lies.»
«I’d go easy if I were you, Captain. Don’t let this brace fool you.»
«Get off it, Major! I’m defending you! And one of the tougher aspects of that defense is your reputation for unprovoked assault. A proclivity, in the field, for unjustifiable homicide. You’re not going to do yourself any good if you beat me up.»
Bonner took a deep breath. «Trevayne will back me up; he’ll straighten it out. He was right there.»
«Did he hear any threats? Did he see any gestures—even at a distance—that could be interpreted as hostility?»
Bonner paused. «No.»
«What about the housekeeper?»
«No, again… Except she held my neck together; Trevayne put a tourniquet around my arm.»
«That’s no good. Mario de Spadante claims self-defense. You held a weapon on him. According to him, you pistol-whipped his head.»
«After he tore me apart with those iron-spiked knuckles.»
«He admits the knuckles. It’s a fifty-dollar fine… Did either of the other two, the deceased and the one you ‘chopped,’ did they initiate any assaults?» The Captain watched Bonner carefully.
«No.»
«You’re sure we couldn’t find anything?»
«No.»
«Thanks for that. A lie wouldn’t hold up under diagrams. They’ve got us with the first man. His injuries were caused by an attack from the rear. A lie would finish you.»
«I’m not lying.»
«Okay, okay.»
«Have you talked to Cooper? General Cooper?»
«We’ve got his deposition. He claims he gave you authorization for a plane in from Boise, Idaho, but had no knowledge of your trip to Connecticut. The operations officer at Andrews said you told him you had Cooper’s authorization. Conflict there. Cooper also says you failed to phone in a progress report.»
«For Christ’s sake, I was being ripped apart.»
The Captain moved away from Bonner’s desk. He spoke with his back to Paul. «Major, I’m going to ask you a question, but before I do, I want you to know that I won’t use the answer unless I think it’ll do us some good. Even then, you could stop me. Fair enough?»
«Go ahead.»
The Captain turned and looked at Bonner. «Did you have some kind of an agreement with Trevayne and De Spadante? Have you been taken? Squeezed out after delivering something you can’t admit to?»
«You’re way off, Captain.»
«Then what was De Spadante doing there?»
«I told you. A job on Trevayne. I’m not wrong about that.»
«Are you sure?… Trevayne was supposed to be in Denver, in conferences. That’s an established fact. No reason for anyone to think otherwise—unless he was told. What was he doing back in Connecticut, unless it was to meet De Spadante?»
«Seeing his wife at the hospital.»
«Now you’re way off, Major. We ran confidential interrogations all day long. With every technician at that hospital. There were no tests run on Mrs. Trevayne. It was a setup.»
«What’s your point?»
«I think Trevayne came back to see De Spadante, and you bungled into the biggest mistake of your career.»
Roderick Bruce, watchdog of Washington—once little Roger Brewster of Erie, Pennsylvania—pulled the page out of his typewriter and got out of his specially constructed chair. The messenger from the paper was waiting in the kitchen.
He placed the page at the bottom of several others and leaned back to read.
His quest was about over. Major Paul Bonner wouldn’t survive the week.
And that was justice.
Chalk one up for Alex. Dear, gentle Alex.
Bruce read each page slowly, savoring the knifelike words. It was the sort of story every newspaperman dreamed of: the reporting of terrible events he’d forecast; reporting them before anyone else did—substantiating them with irrefutable proof.
Sweet, lonely Alex. Bewildered Alex, who cared only for his precious remnants of antiquity. And him, of course. He cared about Rod Bruce.
Had cared.
He’d always called him Roger, not Rod, or Roderick. Alex always said it made him feel closer to call him by his right name. «Roger,» he said, was a beautiful name, soft and sensitive.
Bruce reached the last page of his copy:
… and whatever the speculations on August de Spadante’s background—and they are only speculations—he was a good husband; a father of five innocent children who, today, weep without comprehension over his casket. August de Spadante served with distinction in the armed forces. He carried shrapnel wounds from Korea to his death.
The tragedy—there is no other word but «tragedy»—is that too often the citizen soldier, men like August de Spadante, serve in blood-soaked battles created (created, mind you) by ambitious, rank-conscious, half-crazed military butchers who feed on war, demand war, plunge us into war for their own obsessions.