Chancellor found the path. It was bordered by flowers and led up a small hill toward stone walls that turned out to be a rebuilt garth of a thirteenth-century French monastery. He approached it and stood in front of an ancient archway. Inside the courtyard were marble benches and miniature trees in artistic isolation. It was eerily still. He waited.
The minutes went by; the early morning light grew faintly brighter, enough to pick up the glistening white of the marble. Peter looked at his wristwatch. It was ten minutes to six. Rawlins was twenty minutes late.
Or had the congressman decided not to come after all? Was the fear so great?
“Chancellor.”
Peter turned, startled by the whisper. It came from a cluster of bushes about thirty feet away, foliage that surrounded a wide pedestal on the grass. On top of the stand was the sculptured head of a medieval saint. Coming out of the shadows was the figure of a man.
“Rawlins? How long have you been there?”
“ ’Bout three quarters of an hour.” Rawlins walked toward Peter. No handshake was offered.
“Why did you wait so long to come out?” Peter asked. “I’ve been here since five thirty.”
“Five thirty-three,” said the Southerner. “I waited to see if you were alone.”
“I am. Let’s talk.”
“Let’s walk.” They started down the path that led away from the pedestal. “Something wrong with your leg?” asked Rawlins.
“It’s an old football injury. Or a war wound. Take your choice. I don’t want to walk. I want to hear what you have to say. I didn’t ask for this meeting, and I’ve got work to do.”
Rawlins’s face reddened. “There’s a bench over there.”
“There were benches inside the courtyard.”
“And maybe microphones.”
“You’re crazy. So’s Longworth.”
The congressman did not reply until they reached the white wrought-iron bench. “Longworth’s your partner, ain’t he? In this here extortion.” Rawlins sat down as he spoke. The dim light washed over his face; the bravado of seconds ago was fading.
“No,” answered Peter. “I have no partner and I’m not an extortionist.”
“But you’re writin’ a book.”
“That’s how I make my living. I write novels.”
“Sure. That’s why the Central Intelligence boys had a lot of soiled underwear in a ’round-the-clock laundry. I heard about that one. Thing called Counterstrike!”
“I think you’re exaggerating. What did you want to tell me?”
“Leave it alone, Chancellor.” The congressman spoke in a flat voice. “The information you got ain’t worth a thimble of piss. Oh hell, you can ruin me, but I’ll save my butt legally; I can do that. Then you gotta answer for what follows.”
“What information? Whatever Longworth told you is a lie. I have no information about you.”
“Don’t bullshit me. I don’t deny I got problems. I know what people like you think of me. I use the word nigger in private more than you’d like to hear; I got a fondness for pretty black ass when I’m juiced up—’though, goddamn it, I suppose that could be in my favor; I’m married to a bitch whore who can blow the whistle on me anytime and take just about everything I got north of Roanoke. I may live with all that, boy, but I do my job on that Hill! And I ain’t no killer! Do you understand?”
“Sure. Just your normal, everyday plantation family. Very quaint and lovable. You’ve said enough. I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not!” Rawlins was on his feet, blocking Peter’s path. “Please. Listen to me. I’m a lot of things, but you can’t label me a redneck. No one with the brains to get naked out of the rain is any longer. ‘Cause the numbers and the motives ain’t what they used to be. The whole world’s changin’, and to be blind to that is to invite a goddamned bloodbath. Nobody wins; everybody loses.”
“Motives?” Chancellor studied the southerner’s face. It was devoid of artifice. “What are you driving at?”
“I never blocked responsible change. But I fight like a trapped cat when that change is irresponsible. To turn over million-dollar decisions to folks who ain’t qualified, who don’t have the brains to get out of the rain, that only sets everybody back.”
Peter was fascinated, as he always was when the image and the substance clashed. “What has this got to do with whatever it is you think I’ve got?”
“I was set up in Newport News! I was fed a barrel of sour mash and taken down dark alleys I never saw. I may have humped that little girl, but I didn’t kill her! I wouldn’t know how to do what they did to her! But I know who did it. And those black bastards know I know. They’re worse than scum; they’re nigger Nazis, killin’ their own, hidin’ behind—?”
There was a spit of air behind them, somewhere in the distance. And then the unbelievable—the inconceivable—happened. Chancellor stared in terror, unable to move.
Rawlins’s mouth had sprung open. A circle of red had formed above his right eyebrow. Blood spewed out, gushing at first, then rolling down in rivulets over the ashen skin and unblinking eye. Still, the body stood, frozen in death. And then, slowly, as if in some horrible ballet, Rawlins’s legs gave way and his corpse fell over, collapsing in the wet grass.
A muted expulsion of breath came from Peter’s throat; a scream had been born, but no sound came, his shock beyond any cry of terror.
There was another spit; the air waves shattered above him. And another; there was a ping, and the earth exploded beneath him. A bullet had ricocheted off the bench! Whatever remained of his instincts propelled him off his feet; he dove to his left, rolling on the grass and lunging out of the target area. There were more spits, more furious explosions of grass and dirt. A fragment of stone whipped past his ear; inches closer and he would have been blinded or killed. Suddenly his forehead scraped a hard surface, the palm of his hand stinging as it pressed against jagged rock. He had lurched into a monument of some kind, a medallion of stone surrounded by bushes.
He spun over on his back. He was hidden, but all around were the sickening thumps of bullets.
Then there were shouts, half crazed, hysterical. They came from over there, and there, and there! Moving, racing, fading. And finally one voice, one roar, hard and guttural, commanding obedience.
“Get out of here!”
A powerful hand gripped the front of his jacket, bunching his shirt and the skin beneath in its grasp, pulling him up from the stone shield. A second hand held a large automatic, a thick cylinder on its barrel. It was leveled in the direction the shots were coming from; bursts of fire and smoke spat out of its bore.
Peter was beyond speech, beyond protest. Above him was the blond-haired Longworth. The despised Alan Longworth was saving his life!
He crashed through the bushes, his body low, diving through sharp nettles to the grass beyond. He scratched the earth with his feet and hands, propelling himself forward. The air was gone from his lungs, but only escape mattered. He raced down through the gardens.
14
He walked the streets like a man who wanders in deep sleep. Time and place were lost; disorientation had swept over him. His first thought was to find help, find the police, find someone who could impose order on the chaos he had barely lived through. But there was no one. He approached several pedestrians; they looked at his odd appearance and shook him off, hurrying away. He stumbled into the street; horns blew, automobiles skirted around him angrily. There were no police to be seen, no patrol cars in this quiet section of the city.
His temples throbbed, his left shoulder ached, his forehead felt as though it had been scraped with a file. He looked at the palm of his right hand; the skin was red; specks of blood had been forced to the surface.
Slowly, after he had walked for miles, Chancellor began to find part of his mind. It was a strange realization, a stranger process. Knowing and not knowing, aware of his very dangerous mental state. He vaguely understood that his defenses were not capable of repelling the assa
ults on his mind, so he tried to force the images from his consciousness. He was a man desperately trying to regain control. He had decisions to make.
He looked at his watch, feeling like a lost traveler in a foreign land who was told that if he had not reached a certain destination by a specific time, he had taken a wrong turn. He had taken a great many wrong turns. He looked up at the street sign; he’d never heard of the name.
The sun told him it was morning. He was grateful for that. He had wandered the streets for four hours.
Four hours. Oh my God, I need help.
His carl The Mercedes was back at the Cloisters, parked on the street in front of the west entrance. He put his hand in his trousers pocket and pulled out his money clip. He had enough for a taxi.
“Here’s the west gate, Mac,” said the driver with the florid face. “I don’t see no Mercedes. What time did you leave it?”
“Early this morning.”
“Didn’t you look at the sign?” The driver pointed out the window. “This is a busy street.”
He had parked in a towaway zone.
“It was dark,” said Peter defensively. He gave the driver his address in Manhattan.
The cab turned left onto Seventy-first Street from Lexington Avenue; Chancellor stared in astonishment. His Mercedes was parked in front of the brownstone, directly in front of the steps to his apartment. It stood there in eerie splendor, the dark blue glistening in the sunlight There was no other automobile like it on the block.
For an insane moment Peter wondered how it had been moved from across the street, where he had parked it the night before. Cathy must have moved it. She often did that because of the sidestreet parking regulations. Cars had to be removed by eight o’clock.
Cathy? Oh, Jesus, what was wrong with him?
He waited on the curb until the taxi disappeared. He approached the Mercedes, looking at it carefully, as if inspecting an object he had not seen in years. It had been washed and polished, the interior vacuumed, the dashboard cleaned, the metal parts gleaming.
He took out his key case; the climb up the steps seemed interminable. There was a typewritten note on the outside door, stapled to the wood.
Things got out of control. It won’t happen again. And you will not see me again.
Longworth
Chancellor ripped the note from the door. Then he looked carefully at the paper. The o’s of the script were slightly raised; the paper was a thick bond, cut off at the top.
The note had been typed on his typewriter. The paper was his stationery, his name removed.
“His name is Alan Longworth. Josh found out about him.” Peter leaned against the window, staring down at the Mercedes in the street.
Anthony Morgan sat in a leather armchair across the room, his long slender frame uncharacteristically rigid.
“You look like hell. Did you do much drinking last night?”
“No. I didn’t sleep well. What sleep I had was filled with nightmares. That’s another story—?”
“But not booze,” interrupted Morgan.
“I told you, no!”
“And Josh is in Boston?”
“Yes. The office said he was taking the four o’clock shuttle back. We’re supposed to have dinner tonight.”
Morgan got out of the chair; apparently convinced, he spoke emphatically. “Then for Christ’s sake, why haven’t you called the police? What the hell do you think you’re doing? You saw a man killed. A congressman was murdered in front of you!”
“I know, I know. You want to hear something worse? I blanked out. I walked around for damned near four hours in a fog. I don’t even know where I was.”
“Have you heard anything on the radio? The news must have hit by now.”
“I haven’t turned it on.”
Tony walked to the bookcase radio and tuned in a news station, keeping the volume low. Then he went to his writer, forcing Chancellor to turn from the window. “Listen to me. There’s no one I’d rather have you call than me. Except right now, the police. I want to know why you haven’t!”
Chancellor groped for words. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I can tell you.”
“All right, all right,” said Morgan gently.
“I’m not talking about hysteria. I’m learning to live with that. It’s something else.” He displayed his injured palm. “I drove my car to Fort Tryon. Look at my hand. My fingerprints, maybe specks of blood, should be on the steering wheel. The grass was wet and there was mud. Look at my shoes, my jacket. Traces should be in the car. But the car was washed clean; it looks like it just came out of the showroom. I don’t even know how it got back here. And the note on the door. It was typed with my typewriter, on my stationery. And for hours after the … madness, the insanity, I can’t account for myself!”
“Peter, stop it!” Morgan grabbed Chancellor’s shoulders, raising his voice. “This isn’t fiction. You’re not one of your characters! This is real. It happened.” He lowered his voice. “I’m calling the police.”
Two detectives from the twenty-second precinct interrupted Peter’s story with sporadic questions. The older man was in his fifties, with wavy gray hair, the younger about Chancellor’s age, and black. They were both alert, experienced professionals and made an effort to put Peter at ease.
When Chancellor finished, the older man went to use the telephone, the younger talked about Sarajevo! He had liked it very much.
It was only when the older man rejoined them that Chancellor realized the black had prevented him from listening to the phone conversation. Peter admired the professionalism. He would remember it.
“Mr. Chancellor,” began the gray-haired detective cautiously, “there seems to be a problem. When Mr. Morgan called us, we dispatched a team to Fort Tryon. To save time, we included forensic; to make sure the area wasn’t tampered with, we called the Bronx precinct and had them post street patrolmen. There’s no evidence of gunfire at the scene. There’s no disturbance of the grounds.”
Peter stared at the man in disbelief. “That’s crazy. That’s wrong! I was there!”
“Our men are very thorough.”
“They weren’t thorough enough! You think I’d make up a story like that?!”
“It’s a pretty good one,” said the black, smiling. “Maybe you’re trying out some material.”
“Hey, wait just a minute!” Morgan stepped forward. “Peter wouldn’t do that.”
“It would be a foolish thing to do,” said the older man, nodding without agreeing. “It’s against the law to falsely report a crime. Any crime, to say nothing of homicide.”
“You are crazy …” Peter’s voice trailed off. “You really don’t believe me. You get your little report over the telephone, take it as gospel, and conclude I’m a lunatic. What kind of police officers are you?”
“Very good ones,” said the black.
“I don’t think so. I don’t think so at all, goddamn it!” Chancellor limped to the phone. “There’s a way to settle this; it’s been five, six hours now.” He dialed and within seconds spoke. “Washington Information? I want the office number of Congressman Walter Rawlins, House of Representatives.”
He called out the number as the operator gave it to him; Tony Morgan nodded. The detectives watched without comment.
He dialed again. The wait was interminable; his pulse raced. In spite of his own undeniable knowledge he had to prove himself to the two professionals.
A woman’s voice came on the line, subdued and obviously southern. He asked for the congressman.
And when he heard her words, the ache returned to his temples and his eyes momentarily lost focus.
“It’s simply terrible, sir. The bereaved family released the news just minutes ago. The congressman passed away last night. He died of a coronary in his sleep.”
“No. No!”
“We all feel that way, sir. The funeral arrangements will be announced—?”
“No! That’s a He! Don’t tell me that! It’s a lie! Five, six hou
rs ago—in New York! A lie!”
Peter felt the restraining arms around his shoulders, hands on hands, taking the telephone from him, pulling him back. He kicked out, shoving his elbows viciously into the policeman behind him. His right hand was free; he grabbed the head nearest him, lashed out his hand, and wrenched the hair half out of the skull. He yanked the head up; the man had fallen to his knees.
Tony Morgan’s face was in front of his, wincing in pain, but he made no move to protect himself.
Morgan. Morgan, his friend. What was he doing?
Peter slumped; he was still. Arms lowered him to the floor.
“There won’t be any charges,” said Morgan, coming into the bedroom, carrying drinks. “They were very understanding.”
“Which means I’m a lunatic,” added Chancellor from the bed, an icebag on his forehead.
“Hell, no. You’re exhausted. You’ve been working much too hard. The doctors advised you against that—?”
“For God’s sake, Tony, not with me!” Peter sat up. “Everything I said was true!”
“Okay. Here’s your drink.”
Chancellor took the glass but did not drink. He placed it on the bedside table. “No you don’t, old friend.” He pointed to a chair. “Sit down. I want to get some things very clear.”
“All right.” Morgan ambled to the chair and fell into it. He stretched his long legs out in front of him; the casualness did not fool Peter. The editor’s eyes betrayed his concern.
“Calmly, rationally,” continued Chancellor. “I think I know what happened. And it won’t happen again, which explains Longworth’s note. He wants me to believe that; otherwise he’s convinced I’ll howl like a banshee.”
“When have you had time to do any thinking?”
“Those four hours in the streets. I didn’t realize it, but the pieces were falling together. And when you and the police were having your conference downstairs, I saw the pattern.”
Morgan looked up from his glass. “Don’t talk like a writer. ‘Patterns,’ ‘pieces falling together.’ That’s bullshit.”
“No, it’s not. Because Longworth is forced to think like a writer. He has to think as I do, don’t you see?”