IT WAS EXACTLY THE kind of headache, Sean Murphy knew, that a couple of quick shots of bourbon would fix right up. Well, maybe not fix. Maybe “delay” was a better word. The bourbon would push the headache into a corner of his head too remote to be felt, where it would stay until the bourbon wore off.
Then a few more shots would banish it again. This was a process that could go on for days, even weeks—Murphy knew that from experience. Drinking for him was like a ride in a fast car on a mountain road. There was always a crash somewhere ahead, but the trip leading up to it could be exhilarating.
He caught himself licking his lips. You goddam idiot, he thought, and bit his tongue, hard. Tears came to his eyes; he tasted blood. It was his own home-grown brand of aversion therapy, and so far it had been working. He hadn’t had a drink since he’d braced Trotter about his past.
Not that this wouldn’t be a good time for a drink. Celebrating a triumph and all that. Because he had him. He had Trotter dead to rights. Right here on the screen in front of him. Murphy could almost take pride in this particular headache. It had nothing to do with alcohol; it had to do with staring into the bright lights of a microfilm projector every spare minute since he’d started the project. Why couldn’t microfilm stay in focus? More than once, Murphy had walked out of the Hudson Group’s microfilm morgue seeing double and too tired to drive home. He’d been sleeping on the couch in his office. His clothes were rumpled, he needed a shave, he smelled bad—Christ, he thought, I might as well be drunk.
But it was worth it. Here was the picture, in a late-summer issue of Worldwatch magazine from a few years ago. Elizabeth Fane, the daughter of a defense contractor, had been kidnapped by terrorists. There was a picture of the officials in charge of trying to get her back.
One of them was Trotter. He was heavier in the picture, his hair was lighter, he wore different glasses. The caption identified him as “State Department Official Clifford Driscoll.” But it was Trotter. Anybody could see it.
Now Murphy knew why Trotter had bothered him from the start. Murphy had been National Affairs editor at Worldwatch at the time of the Liz Fane case. He had undoubtedly selected this very photograph. Subconsciously, he must have recognized the man when he’d turned up as Regina’s lover. (That hurt. Even thinking the phrase “Regina’s lover” hurt).
Murphy had thought it was simply logic on his part to look for Trotter (or Driscoll or whatever) in accounts of tragedies involving rich young women. He was afraid for Regina; he wanted evidence that would scare Regina away from Trotter—it seemed like the best way to go. Now he realized that his subconscious had been steering his logic.
It didn’t matter. The question was, what was he going to do now?
Should he take it to Regina? She was back in town; she and Trotter had returned from Washington a couple of days ago.
No. She was in love with Trotter, and by now Trotter had undoubtedly told her the way Murphy felt about her. What an idiot he was to have admitted he loved her. He didn’t dare say anything against Trotter. She wouldn’t believe it. Worse, she would lose whatever affection she felt for him.
He’d have to take it to Trotter.
No! Trotter was not a normal man. Trotter, Murphy was sure, was not a man you could threaten. He was a blade with a brain. Murphy ran the tape back and reread the story of the Liz Fane case. People died when Trotter was around. People died nasty.
What else could he do with it?
Causing it to be printed in Worldwatch or any other organ of the Hudson Group would be worse than bringing it to Regina. Not only would he have attacked Trotter, but he would have gone behind her back and expropriated her own property to do so.
The police? The FBI? Some other part of the government? They’d laugh in his face. Or lock him up or have him committed. The theory was that Trotter was already working for the government, remember?
So he’d have to take it to Trotter. God help him.
But not naked. Not without something to back him up.
Murphy had the microfilm librarian pull him some copies of the photograph. He didn’t like the first batch—not clear enough. He ignored the technician’s mutterings as he tried again. Much better, this time.
Murphy clutched the photos to his chest as he returned to his office. He ignored the terminal on his desk and pulled an old Smith-Corona Silent Super portable out of the bottom drawer. What he was about to type would go into nobody’s memory banks. He sandwiched paper to make an original and two carbons. He rolled the paper in and hit the keys.
An hour later, he was finished. He put a picture and one copy of the document in each of three manila envelopes. He addressed two of the envelopes, left the third blank. He told his secretary he’d be gone for the day. He took the elevator to the parking-lot entrance. He got to his car and delivered the two addressed envelopes in person. He kept the blank one on the seat beside him. As he drove, he touched it lightly from time to time, as though he expected it to scorch him. Maybe it would.
He tried to think of what he would say to Trotter.
God, he wanted a drink.
No. No. He would not have a drink. The last time he faced Trotter with a bellyful of Dutch courage. This time, he’d just have to home-grow some of that, too.