George Washington Memorial Parkway at President Eisenhower, who cowered inside his bubble-topped Chrysler; and he foolishly followed the will-oâ-the-wisp, the ghost-fire of legend, the pixie light, which beckoned lost souls; and the old fortune-teller bent close and declared, her voice like a seething nest of vipers, that he would have a short life, a pity.
Then he turned his head, slowly, and saw the sun starting to rise behind jagged mountains.
The light in the sky was unmistakably real. Cars passed on the road above, regularly if infrequently. Daybreak was near. The humming in his head was back, a nest of mad bees.
Isherwood was gone.
And Hart had survived the night.
He began the process of getting his functioning leg beneath himself: painstakingly, using his one good arm as a lever. By the time he realized the task was impossible â if he wanted to move, he would need to crawl â the sun had risen higher in the sky, the low clouds beyond the mountains shading from pink to yellow.
And so he struck off in a clumsy slither, dragging his wounded leg behind himself, flopping his ruined arm uselessly, moving in the direction of the scenic overlook and his waiting Buick. He would survive this, he told himself. And next time, he would not underestimate his target. Next time, he would pay more heed to the warnings of the fortune-teller and the will-oâ-the-wisp.
He slithered: scowling, cursing, weeping with the pain that now flooded his body, overwhelming, all-encompassing; and with every excruciating movement he cursed Jesus, Mary, Joseph, his own errors of judgment, and most of all Agent Francis Isherwood.
SEVEN
THE TREASURY BUILDING: NOVEMBER 17
B ehind his desk at 1500 Pennsylvania Avenue, Max Whitman stared philosophically into space, his broad mouth forming a thoughtful moue.
He pictured a beautiful young girl with hair the color of autumn dusk, sitting just on the other side of the desk.
Youâre so handsome, Max
.
Letting you go was the worst mistake of my life. Iâll never leave you again. I love you â¦
The door to the reception area leaned open; and there stood Francis Isherwood, looking even less rested and more bedraggled than the last time Max Whitman had seen him. For an instant, the secretary couldnât keep the surprise off his face.
Then he recovered. âIsh,â he said, managing strained bonhomie.
Stepping into the office, Isherwood let a long moment fall away. At last he said darkly: âNeed to see the Chief.â
âHeâs in a meeting. You, uh, should have called ahead.â Max glanced around furtively. Leaning across the desk, he dropped his voice. âWhere the hell were you last night? I was standing out in that damned pumpkin patch until the cock crowed.â
âJust let the Chief know Iâm here.â
âHe gave specific instructions not to beââ
âIâll wait.â
For the next quarter-hour, Isherwood shared the reception area with Max Whitman without once looking in his direction. At last a man wearing pinstripes emerged from the inner sanctum; Isherwood promptly stood. âBetter let me give him a holler,â Max started, but Isherwood had already breezed past him, moving into the office and closing the door resoundingly.
Max tried to distract himself by shuffling papers around the desk. If worse came to worst, he thought, it would be Isherwoodâs word against his. Unless, that was, they had evidence he didnât know about. Perhaps he had been photographed visiting the senatorâs mansion in Charlottesville, or talking with someone at the bar of the Mayflower Hotel. Perhaps he should just leave his desk, walk out of the building, and make a run for it. But those would be the actions of a guilty man. He would ruin any future he might still have in Treasury. And there was his wife to consider, his two precious daughtersâ
Sitting across the desk, the ghost of Betsy Martin wore her default
Then he turned his head, slowly, and saw the sun starting to rise behind jagged mountains.
The light in the sky was unmistakably real. Cars passed on the road above, regularly if infrequently. Daybreak was near. The humming in his head was back, a nest of mad bees.
Isherwood was gone.
And Hart had survived the night.
He began the process of getting his functioning leg beneath himself: painstakingly, using his one good arm as a lever. By the time he realized the task was impossible â if he wanted to move, he would need to crawl â the sun had risen higher in the sky, the low clouds beyond the mountains shading from pink to yellow.
And so he struck off in a clumsy slither, dragging his wounded leg behind himself, flopping his ruined arm uselessly, moving in the direction of the scenic overlook and his waiting Buick. He would survive this, he told himself. And next time, he would not underestimate his target. Next time, he would pay more heed to the warnings of the fortune-teller and the will-oâ-the-wisp.
He slithered: scowling, cursing, weeping with the pain that now flooded his body, overwhelming, all-encompassing; and with every excruciating movement he cursed Jesus, Mary, Joseph, his own errors of judgment, and most of all Agent Francis Isherwood.
SEVEN
THE TREASURY BUILDING: NOVEMBER 17
B ehind his desk at 1500 Pennsylvania Avenue, Max Whitman stared philosophically into space, his broad mouth forming a thoughtful moue.
He pictured a beautiful young girl with hair the color of autumn dusk, sitting just on the other side of the desk.
Youâre so handsome, Max
.
Letting you go was the worst mistake of my life. Iâll never leave you again. I love you â¦
The door to the reception area leaned open; and there stood Francis Isherwood, looking even less rested and more bedraggled than the last time Max Whitman had seen him. For an instant, the secretary couldnât keep the surprise off his face.
Then he recovered. âIsh,â he said, managing strained bonhomie.
Stepping into the office, Isherwood let a long moment fall away. At last he said darkly: âNeed to see the Chief.â
âHeâs in a meeting. You, uh, should have called ahead.â Max glanced around furtively. Leaning across the desk, he dropped his voice. âWhere the hell were you last night? I was standing out in that damned pumpkin patch until the cock crowed.â
âJust let the Chief know Iâm here.â
âHe gave specific instructions not to beââ
âIâll wait.â
For the next quarter-hour, Isherwood shared the reception area with Max Whitman without once looking in his direction. At last a man wearing pinstripes emerged from the inner sanctum; Isherwood promptly stood. âBetter let me give him a holler,â Max started, but Isherwood had already breezed past him, moving into the office and closing the door resoundingly.
Max tried to distract himself by shuffling papers around the desk. If worse came to worst, he thought, it would be Isherwoodâs word against his. Unless, that was, they had evidence he didnât know about. Perhaps he had been photographed visiting the senatorâs mansion in Charlottesville, or talking with someone at the bar of the Mayflower Hotel. Perhaps he should just leave his desk, walk out of the building, and make a run for it. But those would be the actions of a guilty man. He would ruin any future he might still have in Treasury. And there was his wife to consider, his two precious daughtersâ
Sitting across the desk, the ghost of Betsy Martin wore her default
Similar Books
