by Joseph Kanon
He slid out, not opening it wide enough for her to see, and he took her good arm, leading her away from the corner.
“Leave the car. If anyone asks-when they ask-just say he dropped us at the hotel. We didn’t see him after that.”
“The shots-”
“They’re both dead.”
“We can’t just leave.”
He turned to her. “We were never here, understand? Nobody will ever know.”
She nodded, frightened.
“Come on, we’ll pack and get you to a hospital.”
“Pack?”
“For New York. But first we’ll see about the wrist.”
“I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not. Besides, I have one more thing to do. Stay at the hospital until I get back. Don’t leave. You’ll be safe there.”
She looked at him. “One more thing,” she said dully.
“I have to see Hoover.”
She glanced at the envelope.
“No,” he said. “Only the others. They still know about us. Now I have to.”
“But not him.”
“No.” He tore the envelope into small pieces, then bent over and tossed them into a storm drain, where they would float, like a shirt, to the Potomac. “He’s not a spy anymore.”
“They’ll find out. What would he be doing there?”
“What does any man do in a store like that? They’ll cover that up. Out of respect,” he said, an edge in his voice. “He’s a crime victim, Molly. Mugged. It happens in Washington all the time.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
He looked at her. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s over.”
“Except for one more thing.”
“Yes.”
They took a taxi to the hotel and he made the phone call while Molly packed. No one was outside, watching. He drove her to a hospital out in Georgetown, the late sun still glowing on the buildings.
“Why Georgetown?”
“It’s on the way to Hoover’s. He said he’d see me at home.”
“God, his home,” she said, sounding better, as if movement itself had begun to rub away the shock. “I never thought of him living anywhere.”
“Remember, don’t leave,” he said as they pulled up to the hospital. “For any reason. They’re still out there.”
Thirtieth Place was a quiet cul-de-sac near Rock Creek Park, large brick houses with Georgian windows set back on narrow lawns. For a second Nick stopped, disbelieving. Hoover’s grass, a hardy even green, was Astroturf.
A Negro houseman opened the door and led him into the living room. At first Nick thought he had walked into a gift shop-there were hundreds of antiques, vases and statues, silver teapots and curios, oriental carpets laid on top of each other so that every space was filled. An oil portrait of a young Hoover on the stair landing. Hoover himself, in an open-necked shirt and slacks, came into the room followed by two Cairn terriers, who sniffed at Nick’s ankles, then padded away. The voice, still quick, had lost its machine gun effect, as if it too had been softened by domesticity.
“Drink?”
A drink with Hoover.
“No. I can’t stay.”
Hoover indicated the overstuffed couch. He took the chair next to it, sinking into the cushion so that his body became foreshortened, the round head bobbing on it like Humpty Dumpty’s. He made the first move, extending his hand and opening it. The lighter.
Nick took it, staring at the initials. No longer shiny, a dull gold, from the days when they used to go dancing. “Thank you,” he said.
“Now what have you got for me?”
“I want to make a deal.”
“The Bureau doesn’t make deals.”
“That’s no way to do business. You haven’t heard what I’ve got.”
A flash of irritation, then a slow smile. “The father’s son. Larry never comes empty-handed. What have you got?”
“Names. I want to trade you some names.”
Hoover looked surprised, then distracted as a thin, once good-looking man shuffled vaguely into the room.
“Speed?”
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Clyde.”
“Oh, I thought it was time for drinks.” He was illness thin.
“Why don’t you start? I’ll be down as soon as I’m finished with my young friend here.”
The man nodded, still vague, and headed for the basement stairs, the rec room, where Larry had told him Hoover had an obscene cartoon of Eleanor Roosevelt. A joke from the past.
“Clyde’s staying here for a few days,” Hoover said, as if he needed to explain him. The rumored companion. But it was impossible to think of Hoover being intimate with anybody. Nick wondered what they talked about over, dinner. The Dillinger days, maybe, filled with public enemies.
“Speed?” Nick said.
“A nickname,” Hoover said, annoyed. “What kind of trade?”
“Five for one. Five Russian spies. Here, in Washington.” Hoover looked at him, impressed. “You were right about my father. He knew he’d have to buy his way out. This is what he had. It’ll be a coup for the Bureau. Headlines. You can pick them up now.”
“On your say-so.”
“The names are good. He knew.”
“Proof?”
“You’ll find it once you’ve got them. The Bureau’s good at that, isn’t it?”
Hoover’s face was wary and eager at the same time. “Why so helpful all of a sudden?”
“My father wanted you to have them. You were wrong about him. He wasn’t disloyal, he was trapped.” Hoover looked confused. “This was his way of giving something back.”
“A friend of the Bureau,” Hoover said, almost sneering. “Why didn’t you tell me this at the office?”
“I’ve been checking them out. But I’m not as good as you are-they caught me doing it. They know about me. Now I want you to pick them up.”
A slow smile. “That’s more like it. So you want me to save your behind. For two cents I’d let them take care of you. Not ‘disloyal’-your father was a traitor. You just want me to save your behind.”
“And yours,” Nick said easily. “You could use a little press. Nixon wants you out. You made him, but now you make him nervous. You could use this.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? One of them’s in Justice.”
Hoover raised his head, as if he’d heard a bell.
“If you don’t want them, maybe Nixon will. He could make you look awfully pathetic. Director’s so past it he doesn’t even know he has a spy in his own department. He’d do it. With a speech about your long record of service.” A twitch in Hoover’s jowls; anxious now. “But I’d rather give them to you.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, I don’t trust him to get them off the street in time. You could do it in an hour. Keep my behind safe for walking around.” He paused. “And I want something from you.”
Hoover peered at him, waiting.
“I want to know who told you about Rosemary Cochrane. One name.”
“For five.”
“Well, four, to be precise. One of them’s at the Russian embassy. I only have the code name. But you probably know all the players there anyway. Maybe on tape. I’d like that destroyed too, by the way, the tape you played the other day. I always sound funny on tape.”
“A real wise guy, aren’t you?”
Nick shrugged. “I grew up in Washington. You get to know how a place works.”
“No, you don’t. A trade. What makes you think I wouldn’t get them out of you anyway?”
“What, with a rubber hose? Like the Commies? You don’t do business that way. You do business this way.”
Hoover said nothing.
“One name.”
“What do you want it for?”
“I just want to know. It’s worth it to me. But not as much as my names are worth to you. It’s a good deal.”
Hoover watc
hed him, thinking, then leaned over and picked up a silver pen from an antique set on the coffee table. He scribbled on a notepad, then tore off the page and held it up.
“There’s not much you can do now anyway,” he said with a sly smile, making the better bargain.
Nick reached over, but Hoover raised his eyebrows. Nick nodded and took the sheet of names and addresses from his pocket. He handed it to Hoover with a formal gesture, like a diplomatic exchange, then looked at the small piece of paper.
It took a second to sink in-a name, just a squiggle on a piece of paper. Rosemary’s letter. The overlooked clue. One confession is enough. The start of everything that had happened to them.
“You’re surprised,” Hoover said, enjoying it.
Nick stood up. “Thank you for the lighter.”
“I knew you’d be a friend to the Bureau.”
Nick looked at him. That’s one thing I’ll never be.“ He pointed to the list in Hoover’s hand. If you start now, you can probably get them before you go down for drinks.”
“You’re a cold bastard,” Hoover said, a kind of admiring salute.
“I didn’t start that way,” Nick said.
He found her in the emergency room, her wrist taped but not in a sling.
“It’s just a sprain. They don’t know why I’m still hanging around.”
“Just sit tight for a few more minutes. I have to pay a visit.”
“Your face,” she said, studying him.
“I’ve just been with Hoover.”
She nodded at the TV monitor in the waiting room. “There’s been nothing on the news, by the way.”
“There won’t be. Store’s closed, remember? I doubt if any of our friends are running to report it. I’ll be right back.”
“A visit here?”
“An errand of mercy. Five minutes.”
The night-duty nurse was sympathetic. “It’s after hours. Just a few minutes, okay? He gets tired. It’s difficult for him to talk. He still slurs.”
Nick went into the private room and closed the door. There was a small reading lamp, but no books. Father Tim’s head was raised on an inclined pillow, his body motionless. Only the eyes moved in recognition.
“Nick,” he said, the word muffled by the twisted face. A string of drool hung out of one side of his mouth. His hands still had some movement. He was clutching a rosary, a nurse’s call button nearby. “Nick,” he said again, that awful forced sound. “Livia-?”
“You hateful bastard,” Nick said.
Tim’s eyes blinked in astonishment.
“You told me to think of him as dead.”
A gargled sound came from the bed.
“Shut up. He is dead now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No-”
“It was you. Hoover told me. One confession. That poor, stupid girl. She’d never imagine, would she? It’s supposed to be sacred. Did you run right over from church to tell him? You interfering sonofabitch. One of Hoover’s little helpers. Root out the Communists, protect the Church. Christ.”
“Godless,” Tim mumbled, struggling to explain.
“She didn’t know you were just like the party. Means to an end. She trusted you. You were a fucking priest. But you’re the real party. No doubts.”
Tim’s eyes darted about the room in frustration.
“Just one bad moment, when you thought you caused her death. But you forgave yourself, didn’t you? God always forgives if you ask him in time, isn’t that the way it goes? And for such a cause. But I don’t forgive you. I want you to die knowing that. Never. You ruined our lives. For what? So you could have dinner with Clyde and Edgar? Do God a favor? Rosemary Cochrane was murdered. My father was murdered. Does God forgive that? Maybe yours does, but it’s a chance, isn’t it? What if you’re wrong? Maybe they’re just beads.” He brushed the rosary in Tim’s hand.
“Communists-”
“Yes, they were Communists. So what? Anyway, they died for it. I want you to see their faces when you go. Do you know how my father died? Somebody took a pillow, just like this one, and held him down till he couldn’t breathe. Till his legs stopped kicking. Yours wouldn’t even move.”
Tim, his eyes wide with fright, moved his hand toward the call button, but Nick snatched it and put it on the table, out of reach.
“Don’t worry. I’d like to, but I won’t. You’re not worth it. Let God do it.” Nick leaned over. “I just wanted you to know what you did. So you can live with it too.” And then suddenly, the fury broken, Nick felt his eyes fill with tears. “You started everything. You unholy bastard. Just so you could be somebody-with your lousy piece of gossip.”
He looked down at the figure, the still, wasted frame, the twisted face, already punished. What was the point? Tim’s eyes leaping.
“You thought I’d never know,” Nick said calmly. “All that time, watching it happen. My mother. Nobody blaming you. Not even blaming yourself-not after putting yourself in God’s hands. I’ll bet you made a private confession. Only a fool would trust the box.”
“Nick-” Another gurgle, his breathing ragged.
“But I do know. So die knowing that. I do know. No absolution.”
Nick turned to go. A frantic sound. He looked back. The breathing was a gasp now, Tim’s hands motioning toward the call button. Nick started toward the table to get it, then stopped.
“No,” he said. “Let God do it. He owes you.”
The old man’s eyes wild now, afraid. A grunt.
“Pray, Tim,” Nick said, backing away. “Maybe he’ll hear you.”
Molly, seeing his face, said nothing in the car, fiddling with her bandage instead.
“Who were you seeing?” she said finally.
“An old friend of my mother’s. He’s dying.”
“What a good little boy you are.”
“The best.”
She looked at him. “You all right?”
He nodded. “It’s over. We’re going to New York.”
“They’ll call. About your father.” For a moment she was quiet. “You killed him, didn’t you? Not the other man.”
He looked straight ahead. “Yes.”
She bit her lower lip. “Was it-self-defense?” Wanting it to be true.
Nick saw Larry’s surprised face, finally betrayed. “Yes,” he said. She was about to speak again when he turned to her. “It’s over.”
She nodded, then placed her hand on his, just a touch, and looked out the window at the river. “I wonder if they’ll find John Brown,” she said finally.
“Count on it. I hope Hoover nails him personally. He’d be just right. They both lived with their mothers.”
He turned the car toward the Mall.
“This isn’t the way to the airport.”
“No. I thought we’d take the train. For old times’ sake.”
She looked at him, the first hint of a smile. “Okay.”
He drove past the Mall, where crews were cleaning up litter from the rally, then up the hill, turning into the street behind the Supreme Court, the lighted Capitol dome. A spring night in the South, the magnolias thick and glossy, lights on in the row of houses. The big forsythia bushes spilling over the wrought-iron fences. He stopped the car, idling.
“Was that your house?” Molly said.
“Yes.”
Lights on upstairs. His bedroom window no longer scratched by the tall tree, which must have been taken down. When? Inside, a woman passed in front of the window. Everything was quiet in the street.
“Does it bother you?” she asked softly.
“I thought it would.”
And for a second, just one, he was looking out the back window on that last day, the sidewalk covered with moving cartons.
“But it’s just a house,” he said, shifting into drive, the frozen picture moving again.
She looked at him. “Your house.”
“No,” he said. “Not anymore.”
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