Habit caused Peter to wake up at four thirty in the morning. Custom willed him to get out of bed, go to his briefcase on a bedroom chair, and remove his leather notebook.
They were in a suite at the Hay-Adams, and it was Alison’s introduction to his odd hours of work.
She heard him and bolted upright in the bed.
“Is there a fire?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d hear me.”
“I know I can’t see you. It’s dark out. What happened?”
“Nothing happened. It’s morning. It’s when I like to work. Go back to sleep. I’ll be in the next room.”
Alison fell back into the pillow, shaking her head. Peter smiled and carried his notebook into the sitting room. To the coffee table and the couch.
Three hours later he had finished the eighth chapter. He had not referred to the outline; it was not necessary. He knew the emotions he was defining for Alexander Meredith. He had been gripped with fear; he had panicked. He knew what it was to be the object of a violent chase; he had heard racing footsteps in the darkness.
Alison awoke shortly before eight. He joined her and they made love. Slowly, enfolded in each other, each awakened response more lovely, more exciting than the last, until they were caught in the desperate rhythm of their combined hunger, neither allowing the other to lessen the intensity.
And they fell asleep in each other’s arms, the comfort each sought found in the other.
They awoke at ten thirty, had breakfast in the room, and began thinking about the rest of the day. Peter had promised her a day of “luxuriating”; he wanted to provide it. She deserved it. As he watched her across the breakfast table, he was struck by something that he should have noticed before. In spite of the strain and the sadness Alison had a quality of quiet humor within her; it was never far away.
Cathy had had that quality.
Peter reached across the table for her hand. She took it smiling, her eyes searching his with kindness.
The telephone rang. It was her father’s lawyer. There were various papers to sign and government forms to be filled out and legal rights to be understood. The general’s will was simple, but the army’s death procedures were not. Would Alison please be at his office at two o’clock? If there were no complications, she’d be finished by five.
Chancellor promised that they would luxuriate tomorrow. Actually they would start at one minute after five.
Because the next day, Peter thought to himself, he would bring up the subject of the Rockville house.
Alison left at one thirty for the lawyer’s office. Chancellor returned to his leather notebook.
Chapter 9—Outline
The chapter’s objective is the meeting of Alex Meredith and the senator. It will take place in the hotel room after a harrowing chase during which Alex must elude those following him. In meeting the senator, Alex becomes aware that there is a group of powerful men willing to fight Hoover. He is not alone. It is the beginning of his journey back to sanity.
He accepts the dangers that will face him now, for there are people he can turn to; his dependence on them is established immediately. His relief is given added impact by the senator’s revelation of the identities of his two closest associates: the former cabinet officer and the newspaperwoman. They, too, want to meet with Meredith.
There is a plan. Alex does not know what it is, but the fact that one exists is enough. He is committed without fully understanding his own commitment.
The hours passed; the words were compulsively there. He had reached the point where the senator explains the conversion of Hoover’s messenger. Chancellor read the words, which he’d use virtually intact in the actual chapter, with satisfaction.
“For reasons of survival Alan Long has seen the error of his ways. His past is no more immune to scrutiny than anyone else’s. An isolated fact can be twisted here, taken out of context there. It’s only the source that matters, the damning imprimatur—like the letters F-B-I. Long is about to retire from the bureau because of a terminal illness. A report has been sent to the director to that effect. In truth, however, Long is going to work for us. Although one could not exactly say he’s been washed in the blood of the lamb, he is less inclined toward the archangel of darkness. He’s afraid. And fear is a weapon he knows well.”
It was not a bad day’s work, thought Peter, looking at his watch. It was nearly four thirty. The late afternoon sun created blocks of shadows on the buildings outside the hotel window. The December wind was harsh; every now and then a leaf spiraled up beyond the glass.
Alison would be back soon. He would take her to a small restaurant he knew in Georgetown, where they would have a quiet dinner and look at each other and touch each other. There would be the laughter in her eyes, and in her voice, and he would be grateful for her nearness. And they would come back to the hotel and make love. So wondrously. With meaning. There had been no meaning in his bed for so long.
Peter got up from the couch and stretched, revolving his neck. It was habit; when the pain came to his temples, it helped to move his head in circles. Yet there was no pain now. In spite of the stress of the past forty-eight hours, there had been only a few brief moments when he’d felt the alarms. Alteon MacAndrew had come into his life. It was really as simple as that.
The telephone rang. He smiled, reacting like an adolescent. It had to be Alison; no one else knew he was there. He picked up the phone, expecting her to tell him with her own particular brand of laughter that all the cabs in Washington were avoiding her; she was marooned in a concrete zoo and the animals were snarling.
It was a woman’s voice, but it was not Alison’s. Only the hard, strained tones of a frightened human being.
“What in God’s name have you done? How could you put me in your book? Who gave you the right?”
It was Phyllis Maxwell.
It was the beginning of the madness.
He left a note for Alison, a second message at the desk in case she overlooked the note. He had no time to explain; there was an emergency, and he had to leave for an hour or so. He’d call her at the first opportunity. And he loved her.
Phyllis Maxwell. It was insane! What she had said was crazy. And Peter had to give a lot of rapid explanations. Yes. There was a character in his book that some might—only might—think was possibly—only possibly—reminiscent of her! But it could just as easily be reminiscent of half a dozen others!
No! He hadn’t set out to destroy her. Or anyone or anything! Except the reputation of J. Edgar Hoover, and for that there would be no apologies! For Christ’s sake, no! He worked alone! Whatever research he did, whatever sources he used, none of it had anything to do with her!
Or … Paula Mingus … whoever the hell she was.
There was no reasoning with the voice on the other end of the line—one moment faint and inaudible, the next shrill and hysterical. Phyllis Maxwell was losing her mind. And somehow he was responsible.
He tried speaking rationally; it was useless. He tried shouting at her; it was chaos. Finally, he extracted her promise to meet him.
She would not come to the Hay-Adams. She had been with him at the Hay-Adams. Didn’t he remember that? Was it so repulsive?
Jesus Christ! Stop it!
She would not meet him anywhere of his choosing. She did not trust him; for God’s sake, how could she? And she would not meet any place where they might be seen together. There was a house on Thirty-fifth Street Northwest, near the corner of Wisconsin, behind Dumbarton Oaks. It belonged to friends who were out of the country; she had a key. She was not sure of the number; it didn’t matter, there was a white porch with a stained-glass window over the door. She’d be there in a half hour.
She hung up with the words: “You were working with them all along, weren’t you? You must be very proud of yourself.”
A taxi swerved up to the curb. Chancellor jumped in, gave the address to the driver, and tried to collect his thoughts.
Someone had read his manuscript; that much was clear. But who? How? It was the how that frightened him because it meant that whoever it was had gone to extraordinary lengths to get it. He knew the precautions the typing service took; they were a part of the service, one of its strongest recommendations. The typing service had to be ruled out.
Morgan! Neither by design nor permission, but by accident! Tony had the aristocrat’s carelessness. His peripatetic mind crashed about, overseeing dozens of projects simultaneously. It was entirely possible that Morgan had absently left the manuscript on someone’s desk. Or, God forbid, the men’s room.
The taxi reached the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and Twentieth Street. There was an empty telephone booth on the corner. Peter looked at his watch; it was ten minutes to five. Tony would still be in the office.
“Pull up to that telephone, will you please?” he said. “I have to make a call. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time, mister. The meter’s running.”
Peter closed the door of the glass booth and dialed Morgan’s private number.
“It’s Peter, Tony. I’ve got to ask you a question.”
“Where the hell are you? I spoke to Mrs. Alcott this morning, and she said you were in town. I called the apartment, but all I got was the machine.”
“I’m in Washington. I haven’t time to explain. Listen to me. Someone’s read the Hoover manuscript. Whoever it was has done a terrible thing, made an awful mistake—?”
“Hey, wait a minute,” broke in Morgan. “That’s impossible. First things first. What terrible thing? What mistake?”
“Told someone she—he—was in the book.”
“He or she?”
“What difference does it make? The point is someone read it and is using the information to scare the hell out of somebody else!”
“Was it a mistake? Is there such a character?”
“Not really. It could be half a dozen different people, but that doesn’t matter.” There was no time for Morgan’s questions.
“I only meant that several of your characters are loosely based on people down there. That general, for one.”
“Oh, God …” In the convoluted process of inventing a character he had taken one aspect of Phyllis Maxwell’s life—her career as a newspaperwoman—and built another person. Another person, not her! Not Phyllis. The person he created was the victim of extortion; that wasn’t Phyllis! It was fiction! But the voice on the Hay-Adams telephone was not a product of fiction. “Have you let anyone else read the manuscript?”
“Of course not. Do you think I want people to know how unpublishable you are before my editorial hand goes to work?”
It was the usual joke between them, but Chancellor did not laugh. “Then, where’s your copy?”
“Where? As a matter of fact it’s in the drawer of my bedside table, and we haven’t been robbed in over six months. I think it’s a record.”
“When did you last look?”
Morgan paused, suddenly serious, obviously recognizing the depth of Peter’s concern. “The other night. And the drawer’s locked.”
“Did you make a Xerox for Joshua?”
“No, he’ll get one when the editing’s finished. Could anyone have read your copy?”
“No. It’s in my suitcase.” Chancellor stopped. The suitcase. His briefcase was in the car with the suitcases! The night in Rockville! The early morning, the racing footsteps; the horrible, severed legs of an animal; the bloodstained suitcase. It could have happened then. “Never mind, Tony. I’ll call you in a day or so.”
“What are you doing in Washington?”
“I’m not sure. I came down to learn something. Now I don’t know.…” He hung up before Morgan could speak.
He saw the white porch and the dim light shining through the stained-glass window above the front door. The block was lined with old homes, once stately, now beyond their time.
“That’s the house,” he said to the driver. “Thanks a lot, and keep the change.”
The driver hesitated. “Hey, mister,” he said. “I could be wrong, and it’s none of my business. Maybe you expected it, maybe it’s why you telephoned. But I think you were followed out here.”
“What? Where’s the car?” Peter spun around and looked out the rear window of the taxi.
“Don’t bother looking. He waited until we slowed down; then he made a left turn at the corner back there. He slowed down pretty good himself. To see where you stopped, maybe.”
“Are you sure?”
“Like I said, I could be wrong. Headlights at night, they’re all just a little bit different. You play games.”
“I know what you mean.” Peter thought for a moment. “Do you want to wait here for me? I’ll pay.”
“Hey, no thanks. This trip took me way the hell out. My old lady’s gonna’ be groaning as it is. Wisconsin’s just down the way. Plenty of cabs heading back into town.”
Chancellor got out and closed the door. The cab sped off down the street; Peter turned toward the house. Except for the dim light in the hall there were no other lamps turned on. Yet it was almost an hour since he’d talked to Phyllis Maxwell. She should be here by now. He wondered if she was in a sane enough frame of mind to follow her own instructions. He started up the path to the porch.
He reached the top step and heard the metallic click of a lock. In front of him the door opened, but no one came into view.
“Phyllis?”
“Come in quickly,” was the whispered reply.
She was standing against the wall to the left of the door, her back pressed against the faded wallpaper. In the dim light she looked much older than she had over the candles in the Hay-Adams dining room. Her face was pale with fear. Lines of strain were pronounced at the edges of her mouth. Her eyes were penetrating but devoid of the flair he remembered; there was no curiosity in them now, only dread. He closed the door.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me. You never did. I mean that, Phyllis.”
“Oh, young man, you’re the worst kind,” she said, her whisper filled with sadness and contempt. “You kill sweetly.”
“That’s utter nonsense. I want to talk to you. And not standing where I can’t see you.”
“There’ll be no lights turned on!”
“At least now I can hear you.” Suddenly, Peter’s thoughts were on the cab driver’s alarming information. There was a car outside on the streets. Watching, waiting. “All right, no lights. May we sit down?”
Her answer was a glare followed by a sudden movement away from the wall. He walked behind her through an archway into a dark living room. In the wash of hall light he could see overstuffed chairs and a large sofa. She went directly to the chair opposite the sofa, the rustle of her skirt the only sound. He took off his topcoat, throwing it on the arm of the couch, and sat down across from her. Her face caught the light from the hallway better than if she’d been sitting next to him.
“I’m going to tell you something,” he began. “If I tell it awkwardly, it’s because I’ve never had to explain anything like this before; maybe I’ve never analyzed what is dubiously called the creative process.” He shrugged, denigrating the term. “I was awfully impressed with you,” he said.
“You’re too kind.”
“Please. You know what I mean. My father’s been a newspaperman all his life. When we met, I’m sure I was more impressed than you were. The fact that you wanted to interview me struck me as kind of foolish. You gave me a lift when it didn’t hurt, and it had nothing to do with my books. You’re part of something very important, with a significance I don’t have. I was damned impressed, and it was a terrific evening. I drank too much and so did you, but what of it?”
“Kill sweetly, young man,” she whispered.
Peter held his breath, controlling himself. “I went to bed with a great lady. If that’s my crime, I’m guilty.”
“Go on.” Phyllis closed her eyes.
“I asked you a lot of questions about Hoover that night. You gave me answers, told me things I didn’t know. Your vehemence was electric. Your morality had been deeply offended, and you showed me an anger in person that I’d never read in anything you’d written.”
“What are you driving at?”
“It’s part of my awkward explanation. I was in Washington getting background; a few days later I started work. Your anger was very much on my mind. Beyond that, it was a woman’s anger. An articulate, successful woman. So it was a logical step to invent a variation of that woman, someone possessing the same characteristics. That’s what I did. That’s my explanation. You gave me the idea for the character, but you’re not her. She’s only an invention.”
“Did you also invent a general who was buried yesterday at Arlington?”
Chancellor sat motionless, stunned. Her dead eyes stared at him through the dim spill of light. “No, I didn’t invent him,” he answered quietly. “Who told you about him?”
“Surely you know. A horrible, flat, high-pitched whisper over the telephone. It’s frighteningly effective for something so basic. Surely you know.” Phyllis spaced her words out, as if afraid to hear herself say them.
“I don’t know,” replied Peter, indeed not knowing but beginning to perceive the spreading of a terrible pattern. He struggled to remain calm, to sound reasonable, but he knew his anger showed. “I think this has all gone far enough. Whispers over a telephone. Words painted on walls! Houses broken into. Animals cut up! Enough!” He got up and turned around. “It’s going to stop.” He saw what he was looking for: a large lamp on a table. Deliberately he went to it, put his hand beneath the shade, and pulled the chain. The light went on. “There’s not going to be any more hiding, no more dark rooms. Someone’s trying to drive you crazy, drive Alison crazy, drive me out of my goddamned mind! I’ve had it. I’m not going to let—?”
It was as far as he got. A pane in one of the front windows exploded. Simultaneously there was a harsh splitting of wood; a bullet imbedded itself somewhere in a molding. Then another pane shattered; glass fragments shot through the air, cracks of plaster sliced the wall like the jagged edges of black lightning.
Instinctively, Peter lashed out his hand, sending the lamp spiraling off the table onto the floor. It landed on the side of its shade, the bulb still lit, eerily projecting light across the room on the floor.
“Get down!” screamed Phyllis.
Chancellor realized as he dove to the floor that there were bullets, but there were no gunshots! And terrifying images came back to him.
Dawn at the Cloisters! A man killed in front of his eyes; a circle of blood abruptly, without warning, formed on a white forehead. A body in spastic contortion before it fell. There had been no gunshots then! Only sickening spits that had disturbed the stillness and filled it with death.
Move! For Christ’s sake, move! In his panic he had lunged toward Phyllis, pulling her to the floor with him.
Another pane of glass exploded, another bullet cracked the plaster. Then another, this one ricocheting off stone somewhere, smashing the glass of a photograph on the wall.
Move! There is death!
He had to get the tight. They were targets with it on. He pushed Phyllis away, holding her down, hearing her moans of fear. He darted his eyes to his right, then his left. Stone! There had to be a fireplace! It was directly behind him and he saw what he wanted. A poker leaning against the brick. He lurched for it.
Glass erupted; twin cracks appeared on the walls, partly obscured by shadows. Phyllis screamed, and for an instant Peter thought she might be heard, but then he remembered the house was on the corner, the nearest house at least a hundred feet away. The night was cold; windows and doors were shut. Her screams would bring no help.
He crawled toward the lamp, raised the poker, and smashed it down on the shade as if killing a deadly animal.
There was still the light in the hallway! It took on the intensity of a searchlight, the spill probing corners, washing the room with a brightness he would never have thought possible. He lunged up, racing to the archway, and heaved the poker toward the fixture in the ceiling. It spun through the air like a whirling crossbar and crashed into the teardrops of glass. All went dark.
He dove back onto the floor and crawled toward Phyllis. “Where’s the phone?” he whispered.
He could feel her trembling; she could not answer.
She understood him. In the dark shadows produced by faraway street lamps he could see her eyes grasping what he said. She was barely audible between her sobs. “Not here. A jack in here, no phone.”
“What?” What was she trying to tell him? A jack? No telephone?
One more explosion of glass filled the room, the bullet cracking inches over their heads, snapping into the wall above them. Suddenly from outside there was a loud gunshot in counterpoint to the muted firing, and a guttural shout, muffled quickly. It was followed by the sounds of screeching tires and metal against metal. Another roar of a furious voice. A car door opened and closed.
“Kitchen,” whispered Phyllis, pointing in the darkness to her right.
“The telephone’s in the kitchen? Where?”
“Through there.”
“Stay down!” Peter crawled like a panicked insect over the floor, through an archway to a doorway. He felt kitchen tiles beneath him. The phone! Where was it? He tried to adjust his eyes to the new darkness.
He scraped his hands along the walls in panic. Kitchen telephones were usually on the wall, cords spiraling below.… He found it! His hand shot up; he tore the instrument from its cradle and brought it to his ear, his free hand reaching up for the dial. The last circle. 0.
The phone was dead.
There was a deafening crash. Glass shattered on the opposite side of the pitch black kitchen. The top of the outside door had been smashed; a brick bounced off the wall. A brick had been thrown through the glass.
A brick! The fireplace! He’d seen it at the corner of the slate, to the right of the grate. He was sure of it. It was the answer! The only one left.
He propelled himself on all fours—half crawling, half lunging—back into the darkness of the living room. Phyllis was crouched next to the sofa, frozen in shock.
There it was! Now, if only the owners of the house had meant it when they’d put it there.
Some people called it a New England fire lighter; in the Midwest it was known as a Lake Erie starter. A round porous stone at the end of a brass rod soaking in a pot of kerosene. Held under logs, it acted as kindling.
He reached for the pot and took off the metal lid. There was liquid inside. Kerosene!
A fusillade of gun spits erupted. Bullets cracked the air, some breaking new glass, others having a clear path through previously shattered windowpanes. The walls and ceiling absorbed them; he could hear the pings as the deadly missiles ricocheted off metallic objects, deflected in their flights.
Perspiration rolled down Peter’s face. He was sure he had his answer, but he did not know how to construct it. And then the words came back to him, rooted in his own fiction. He had invented the answer before.
Dobric tore off his shirt and plunged it into the vat of gasoline. The harvest was finished; there were stacks of hay in the field. The nearest would go up in flames, and the wind would carry the fire. Soon the grasslands would be ablaze, and platoons of soldiers would be diverted from their search.…
Sarajevo! An incident like that had happened after the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand.
Peter tore off his jacket and shirt. He lurched over the floor to the table where the lamp had been. He yanked the tablecloth off and returned to the fireplace. He spread his shirt on the floor, placed the tablecloth over it, and poured the kerosene over both, saving only a little. He sprang toward the couch and pulled off a sectional cushion; he poured the remaining kerosene on it.
There were more sickening spits from outside, more shattering of glass; Chancellor thought he would vomit in fear. The pain in his temples had returned with such force he could barely focus his eyes. He closed them for an instant, wanting to scream but knowing he could not.
He placed the empty iron pot in the center of the tablecloth and proceeded to wrap the tablecloth and the shirt around it. He tied the sleeves together until the pot was securely bedded inside, one sleeve extended. He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a book of matches.
He was ready. He crawled toward the windows on the left, to the wall, pulling the pot behind him, pushing the cushion in front. Slowly he rose to his feet, out of sight, one hand clutching the extended sleeve, the soaked cushion on the floor. He manipulated the book of matches awkwardly between both hands, tore off a match, and struck it. He dropped the flame on the saturated fabric; it exploded in a burst of fire.
In two motions he swung the sleeve behind him, then brought it forward with all his strength, letting go at the last instant. The flaming pot crashed through the remaining glass, whirling out over the lawn like the fireball it was. The outside rush of air intensified the flames; dripping liquid caught fire, leaving a wake of jagged, leaping yellow.
Peter heard footsteps, then incomprehensible shouts. And more footsteps, these coming from the side of the house. Men were trying to put out the fireball. It was the moment for his second weapon. He struck another match, holding the flame in his left hand. With his right he picked up the cushion and brought the lighted match to it.
Again a burst of fire, singeing the hairs on his arm. He raced to the far right window and propelled the flaming cushion through the glass. It landed where he hoped it would: At the base of the white porch.
The old wood and the windy kerosene fire were compatible. The porch began to burn.
Again there were shouts, words screamed in some unknown tongue. What was it? What language? He’d never heard it before.
A last barrage of muted gunshots was leveled at the windows, fired aimlessly into the house. He heard the racing of a powerful engine. Car doors were opened and closed, tires screeched, spinning on the street. The car sped away.
Peter ran back to Phyllis. He pulled her to her feet, holding her close, feeling the trembling body in his arms.
“It’s over. It’s all over. It’s all right. We have to get outside. Through the back door. This place is going to go up like—like a haystack.”
“Oh, God! Oh, my God …” She buried her face in his naked chest; her tears would not stop.
“Come on, let’s go! We’ll wait outside for the police. Someone’ll see the fire and call them. Come on!”
Slowly Phyllis looked up at him, a strange, pathetic panic in her eyes, seen clearly in the reflection of the spreading flames outside the windows. “No,” she said in the harsh whisper she had used before. “No. Not the police!”
“For Christ’s sake! People tried to kill us! You’d better goddamned well believe we’re going to see the police!”
She pushed him away. An odd passivity seemed to grip her; she was trying, he thought, to find a moment of sanity. “You have no shirt—”
“I’ve got a jacket. And a coat. Come on.”
“Yes, I see.… My purse. Can you get my purse? It’s in the hall.”
Chancellor looked over at the hallway. Smoke was streaming in through the cracks in the front door; the porch was blazing, but no fire had yet penetrated the house.
“Sure.” He released her and reached down for his jacket by the fireplace.
“It’s on the staircase, I think. Or perhaps I left it in the closet. I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get it. You go on outside. Through the kitchen.”
Phyllis turned and started out. Peter put on his jacket and went quickly toward the hall, picking his topcoat off the couch on his way.
It was over. There would be conversations with the police, with the authorities, with anyone who wanted to listen. But tonight was the end of it There would be no book at this cost.
The purse was not on the stairs. He walked halfway up to the landing; it was nowhere in sight. The smoke was thicker now. He had to hurry; the front door had caught fire. He ran down the steps and turned left at the bottom of the staircase, looking for the closet. It was in the far right corner of the hall. He walked over quickly and opened the door. There were coats, two fedoras, and various scarves on the hooks and hangers, but no purse.
He had to get out. The smoke was becoming impenetrable. He began to cough, and his eyes were tearing. He raced back through the living room, through the arch to the dining room, into the kitchen, and out the open door.
In the distance he could hear the wail of sirens.
“Phyllis?”
He ran along the side of the house to the front. She was not there. He continued around to the other side, down the driveway to the backyard again.
“Phyllis! Phyllis!”
She was nowhere. And then he knew. There was no purse on the staircase or in the closet. She had fled.
The sirens were louder, no more than a few blocks away. The old house was going quickly. The whole front section was on fire, the flames spreading rapidly inside.
Peter was not sure why, but he knew he could not talk to the police alone. Not now, not yet.
He raced away into the night.