Haynes, his topcoat now draped over a chair, had nearly finished his whiskey when he heard the library door being unlocked. Muriel Keyes came out and turned back to lock the door from the living room side. When she turned again she was aiming a Sauer semiautomatic at the living room in general.
“I know that gun from somewhere,” McCorkle said.
She moved slightly so that the Sauer was aimed at him. “Hamilton wants five minutes or so to collect his thoughts,” she said. “I think he should have the time.” She turned yet again until she was aiming the Sauer at Padillo. “Then you can go in, Michael, and explain how deep the shit really is.”
Haynes glanced at his watch and thought about edging toward the topcoat with its armory of two pistols. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. McCorkle sipped his ale. Padillo kept his eyes on Muriel Keyes.
It seemed like a long five minutes, especially after another fifteen seconds were tacked on at the end. It was then, exactly fifteen seconds after the five minutes were up, that they heard the muffled gunshot in the library. Muriel Keyes walked over to a table and placed the Sauer on it.
“You can all go in now,” she said.
McCorkle didn’t move. Padillo kept staring at Muriel Keyes. Then Granville Haynes opened his eyes, looked at her and asked, “Why’d you bid against yourself? That was you on the phone with the senator, wasn’t it — the mystery bidder?”
She nodded. “I was trying to help buy him an ambassadorship. Somewhere in the Caribbean. He thought he might enjoy it.”
Haynes rose, moved over to the library door, unlocked it and went in. He came out less than a minute later and said, “Through the roof of his mouth and out the top of his head. He used a forty-five Colt. It’s messy.”
“What’d you say to him, Muriel?” Padillo asked.
“I told him I had cut off all his money but he didn’t seem to believe me.”
“Must’ve changed his mind,” McCorkle said.
Padillo looked at Haynes. “He leave a note?”
Haynes shook his head.
Padillo switched his gaze back to Muriel Keyes. “Then you have a lot to be grateful for, Muriel. If he’d written the right note, you could be halfway to jail.”
She seemed honestly puzzled. “I wonder why he didn’t?”
When no one answered her question she turned and went into the library to make sure, McCorkle later claimed, that Hamilton Keyes was really dead.
Two days later, at 3:14 P.M. Thursday, Howard Mott received a call from Granville Haynes, who said he was phoning from Dulles International.
“It’s about that million dollars, Howie.”
“I was wondering whether it had slipped your mind.”
“How much will taxes and your fee take — forty, forty-five percent?”
“Forget my fee. After all, I have my storied Cadillac. But state and Federal taxes’ll take about forty percent, maybe a little more.”
“Find a small liberal nondenominational freshwater college and set up a scholarship fund with whatever’s left,”
“Could be some rather nice tax relief for you in that.”
“That occurred to me,” Haynes said.
“What do you want to call it?”
“The Steadfast Haynes Scholarship Fund for Propaganda Analysis.”
“You’re making me cry,” Howard Mott said.
On Friday, which was exactly a week to the day after they had buried Steadfast Haynes at Arlington, McCorkle waited outside customs and immigration at Dulles International. The flight from Frankfurt was an hour late and he had been waiting for almost ninety minutes.
He finally saw her, the tall woman with the helmet of gold-gray hair that looked almost like platinum. Then her enormous eyes found him, as did her smile, which he suspected he couldn’t live without.
She hurried toward him, carrying only the large shoulder bag she always carried, which was her sole luggage no matter how long or far the journey. McCorkle found himself trotting toward her. They kissed, hugged, then kissed again.
It was after the last kiss that Fredl McCorkle looked around and asked, “Where’s Erika?”
“Out of town.”
“Where’s out of town?”
“California.”
“Where in California exactly?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Doing what?”
“Visiting a friend.”
“Does the friend have a name?”
“Granville Haynes.”
“Would this Granville Haynes be any relation to Steadfast Haynes and, please God, let him say no.”
“His son.”
“When’s Erika coming home? Next week?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Next month?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What happened, McCorkle?”
“Well,” he said, “that’s a long and rather curious story.”