Angela knew that he was trying to jolly her out of the Philip Cronin doldrums and she loved him for it. “What’s wrong with my music?” she asked, humoring him.
“It all sounds the same.”
“And you sound like an old fogy. What music do you like?”
He grinned. “Willie Nelson.”
Angela was horrified. “Come on. That country western guitar-twanging opry house stuff?”
“Sure.”
She put her hands on her hips. “And you have the nerve to stand there and tell me that my music all sounds the same? Here’s a sample of yours.” Angela threw back her head, screwed up her face and wailed in a high-pitched whine:
Since my baby left me
I been cryin’ all the time
Hangin’ out at the truck stop
Drinkin’ cheap red wine …
Devlin stared at her for several seconds and then burst out laughing. “That’s very good,” he said.
“Don’t they all sound like that?” Angela demanded.
“Not quite with those eloquent words.”
“I just made that up,” she replied, tossing her hair nonchalantly.
“I never would have guessed.”
They eyed each other, smiling.
“I’ll compromise,” Angela said. “Remind me later and I’ll play my Big Country album for you. The group is from Scotland. You should like that. The guitars sound like bagpipes.”
“That ought to be interesting,” Devlin said dryly.
“And I’ll listen to a Willie Nelson record,” she said grudgingly. “One. You pick it out for me.”
Devlin extended his hand and she shook it. He yanked her forward and pulled her into his arms.
“Let’s celebrate the truce,” he murmured, steering her toward the hall.
He took Angela back to his room and made slow, careful love to her, caressing every inch of her body with his hands and mouth. She clung to him afterward, keeping him with her. She ran her hands over his back, his hair, his smooth shoulders. She couldn’t stop touching him.
“I want to go back to Connecticut,” she said suddenly. “I want to ride Blossom again, and I want you to make love to me in that barn where we were interrupted the last time.”
“That’s what I like, a woman who knows what she wants.” He stirred slightly, moving to the side, and she murmured in protest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, “just getting my cigarettes.” He fished the packet out of the pocket of his shirt, which was on the floor.
Angela’s gaze roamed the dimly lit room while he struck a match and inhaled the first deep drag. She noticed that the key was missing from his dresser drawer.
“Darling, why do you keep the top drawer of your dresser locked?” she asked.
Devlin stiffened, then forced himself to relax. “I keep my weapon and the ammunition for it in there. It seemed safer. I wouldn’t want anyone to come across it accidentally and get hurt.”
“But it’s only Josie and me here, Brett.”
He shrugged, as if the matter were of no consequence. “It’s just standard procedure with the agency, Angela. It’s part of my training.” He exhaled a stream of smoke, waiting to see if she would accept that explanation.
She did. “Oh, I see. I just thought it seemed odd.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t.” She traced the line of his collarbone with her finger while he smoked. “What time is it?”
He glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. “Nine thirty.”
Angela sighed and sat up. “I hate to bring up an unpleasant subject,” she began.
“But you have to read five million pages in Subtitles and Subtexts for tomorrow morning,” Devlin finished.
Angela shot him a wry glance. “Something like that.”
He watched her picking up her clothes and tiptoeing barefoot to the door. “You graduate in June?” he asked.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Yes.”
He nodded. “I’ll last.”
Angela rolled her eyes. “The question is, will I?” She saluted him with her left shoe. “I’ll be down later to . . . well, we’ll think of something.”
He chuckled, reaching for his ashtray as she went upstairs to study.
* * * *
That night while Angela slept, Devlin made several impressions of the key he’d selected, returning it to her ring and the ring to her purse.
In the morning he would get the impressions to the Bureau where the key would be duplicated.
The next step would be a visit to the bank.
* * * *
That weekend they went back to the farm where the horses were stabled, and Angela had her second riding lesson. She improved steadily, gaining greater control over the horse and losing that tendency to panic that novice riders share. And they made love in the locked barn, as requested.
On the way back to the city they stopped at a country inn Angela remembered from her previous trips with her uncle. It was located in the tiny town of Lambertville on the Connecticut River. The restaurant was an historic home that had been converted to a hotel about fifty years earlier. The rental rooms were all closed, and the first floor had been redone to house two dining rooms, with the massive kitchen at the back. A hostess dressed in an apron and mobcap led the way to a round oak table lit by a brass hurricane lamp. Rag rugs were scattered about the room on the wide plank pine floor. The weathered brick walls were hung with Revolutionary War memorabilia of every kind, from flags to samplers stitched with the motto “Don’t tread on me.”
“Did George Washington sleep here?” Devlin whispered into Angela’s ear as he held out her chair.
“I’m sure he at least had a drink at the well,” she replied, smiling.
“Is this place really two hundred years old?”
“Supposedly. We are now sitting in what used to be the smokehouse.”
“You mean where they used to hang up slaughtered pigs and things like that?”
“Right.”
He looked up nervously, as if expecting a deceased porker to be suspended over his head.
Angela laughed. He could be very boyish at times. “It was a long time ago, Brett. I’m sure all the pig ghosts have been laid to rest.”
A waiter arrived to take their drink orders and a guitarist began to sing in the adjoining room.
“Entertainment?” Devlin asked.
“I guess so.”
“No fife and drum corps?”
She kicked him under the table.
“Ow,” he said.
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have anything in Kansas but wheat.”
“I beg your pardon. We have many sites of historic significance in my home state, especially Civil War monuments. ‘Bleeding Kansas’ was a major battleground.”
The waiter brought their wine and Angela took a sip of hers. “Do you miss it?”
“Home, you mean?”
“Yes.”
His eyes became distant, focused on memories. “Sometimes. It’s really beautiful when the crop is about to be harvested. You always razz me about ‘amber waves,’ but that’s exactly what it looks like. When the breeze blows the fields seem to be an ocean of flowing gold.”
Angela looked down at the table, deeply moved. “I’d love to see it,” she said softly.
His hand covered hers on the linen cloth. “You will.”
Two of the busboys opened the double doors that separated the two dining rooms, and the entertainer became more audible. He was a long haired teenager in jeans and a leather vest, singing a tender ballad. His tenor voice sang the simple melody without a false note:
Once inside a woman’s heart,
A man must keep his head
Heaven opens up the door
Where angels fear to tread ...
Devlin’s eyes sought Angela’s across the table. The lyrics were a little too close to their situation for his comfort.
So
me men go crazy,
Some men go slow
Some men go just where they want,
Some men never go.
Devlin cleared his throat.
“Don’t you like the song?” Angela asked.
“I suppose,” he said, toying with his drink.
“Very true, don’t you think?” she persisted.
“I think the young lady is waiting for us to order,” Devlin replied pointedly, gesturing to the waitress who hovered nearby.
Angela ordered mechanically, troubled. She was tuned in to her lover’s moods and she sensed that something was bothering him. In fact, despite his apparent happiness at the development of their relationship something was always bothering him. She often caught him staring into space, preoccupied, and his expression in repose was tense, introverted. She tried to tell herself that it was his worry for her safety but she couldn’t quite make herself believe it.
When the food came they ate with little conversation, and after Devlin had settled the bill he lingered over his coffee, as if loath to go.
“Would you like to see the veranda out back?” Angela asked. “It overlooks the river and has a very pretty view.”
He smiled slightly, nodding, and followed Angela to the rear of the building where a narrow passage led to the exit. Outside the stars were reflected in the still water about five hundred yards away, separated from them by a grassy knoll. The wide porch had a wooden railing and was furnished with several cane rocking chairs. They were the only diners who had ventured forth to sample the scenery.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Angela asked, pulling her coat more closely about her as the November wind swept in from the river.
“Yes. My grandmother had a porch like this on her farmhouse when I was a kid.”
Angela listened alertly. He talked so rarely about his background that she always paid attention when he did.
“On summer nights she would sit in a rocker on that porch and spin stories,” he continued. “I can still hear her voice. She had a Scots burr and she used to tell the most hair raising ghost tales you ever heard.” He chuckled softly. “She favored me because I was named after her. Her maiden name was Brett. My mother used to get so annoyed because she would keep me up till all hours after the others had gone to bed, going on about the demons of the glen and all such nonsense.” His voice changed. “God, I missed her when she died.”
Angela went to him and put her arms around his waist, pressing her lips into the hollow of his throat at the opening of his collar.
“Darling, what is it?” she whispered. “I can tell that something is on your mind and you can’t seem to forget it, no matter what I do. You are smoking too much and you look exhausted. Can’t you let me share it with you, help you with it?”
He didn’t answer, merely put his hand to the back of her head and held her against him.
“You aren’t happy,” Angela continued sadly. “I thought I would make you happy.”
“You do, you do,” he said fiercely, his lips moving in her hair.
“But something is wrong,” she persisted.
He sighed deeply, his arms encircling her tightly.
“All right, I can’t force you to tell me,” she conceded. “But I know it’s something more than this job. You have perfect faith in your ability to protect me and it isn’t worry about that.”
“Angela, please don’t badger me. I’m not on the witness stand.”
She tried to move away from him but he held her fast.
“Angela, Angela,” he said in an agonized voice, “I love you so much. I love you more than anything or anybody in my life. You believe that, don’t you?”
There was no mistaking his sincerity or the depth of his anguish. She began to be really frightened.
“Of course I believe that,” she replied, standing on tiptoe to put her palm against his cheek. He turned his head to kiss her hand. “But I’m concerned about you. All I’m asking is for you to confide in me. If you love me, is that so much to ask?”
It’s everything, Devlin thought. It’s everything, and the one thing I cannot do.
Angela saw the hard jaw, the firm mouth, the withdrawn, uncommunicative eyes. This man would never talk; there was no persuading him. She would learn nothing until he made up his mind to tell her. A tremor passed through her and he felt it.
“You’re getting cold,” he said. “Let’s go.” He took her hand and led her back inside.
* * * *
That night there was a quality of desperation in Devlin’s lovemaking that did nothing to dispel Angela’s fears. It was as if he wanted to stamp her with his brand, mark her indelibly as his, so that no matter what happened in the future she would belong to him. Long after he had fallen asleep Angela held him in mute suffering wondering what his silences meant. She wondered whether her dreams of their life together were just that, dreams with no hope of reality. The sky was turning light before she drifted off to sleep herself, troubled and confused.
The Bureau sent the key by messenger later that day. When Devlin and Angela returned from her classes he retrieved it from the place he’d designated, the flowerpot on the front steps. Such a prosaic hiding place but convenient, and Angela never noticed as he lingered behind while she unlocked the door.
The next step was a little more painful. He waited until Josie’s half day off and then drugged Angela’s coffee so that she fell deeply asleep during the afternoon. While she slept he slipped from the house and hailed a cab to take him to the bank.
As promised, the guard asked no questions. Devlin gave him the number of the key and was led to an interior room with an electronic door. The box was presented to him and then he was left alone with it.
Devlin stared at the oblong metal box, wondering if what he sought was inside it. He inserted the key into the lock, and it turned slowly, its newness making access difficult.
He lifted the hinged cover, and saw a pile of invoices, photostats and originals of what looked like purchase orders. He picked one up and read it. Then he scooped up the rest and shoved them all inside his jacket.
This was it. Patria had been using Angela to keep a file of his current shipments, all labeled neatly with their contraband contents. A simple system but very effective. It would have gone on smoothly for an indefinite period with an ignorant courier to transport the records. But Devlin had infiltrated the inner sanctum by winning the trust of the head man’s niece.
He signaled the guard to replace the empty box, and then walked out into the cold November sunshine.
What should he do? Should he tell Angela now, before he had turned over the final, damning evidence? But what if she begged and pleaded? He would not be able to resist her. Should he throw the whole stash down a sewer and tell the Bureau it had been a false lead? Sorely tempted, he leaned against the marble exterior of the bank and lit a cigarette.
No, he thought bitterly, he would do what he had been assigned to do. Frank Patria had to be put out of business. Not even the love of a beautiful, warm, intelligent woman could turn him from that purpose.
He tossed the butt into the gutter and walked away.
A few blocks down he stopped at a pay phone and made a call. Then he stood and waited, turning his collar up against the cold, until an unmarked car pulled up by the curb where he stood.
He took the papers from his coat and turned them over to the man who emerged from the passenger side.
“Is that everything?” the messenger asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you coming with me?”
Devlin shook his head. “I’m going back to the house. There’s one more thing I have to do, and I don’t want to be contacted again until I call in. Is that understood?”
The other man shrugged. “Suit yourself. The job is done.” He got back in and signaled to the driver.
Devlin watched the car pull away, and then turned in the other direction.
He wanted to be back by the time Angela awoke.
* * * *<
br />
Angela emerged from sleep, groggy and disoriented. She rarely fell asleep in the afternoon like that and her head was full of cotton. She sat up and saw Devlin sitting in a chair across the room.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
She nodded, brushing her hair out of her eyes.
He got up and came toward her, his gaze steady, his voice calm.
“Good,” he said, “because I have something to tell you.”
Chapter 8
Angela swung her legs off the bed and stood up.
“What is it?” she asked, reaching for her hairbrush. “I’m sorry I flaked out like that. I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
“Angela, let’s go downstairs. I want to talk to you.”
Angela glanced at him over her shoulder in the mirror.
“Brett, you sound disturbed. Did something happen?” Her expression was puzzled.
“Just come with me. Please,” he said quietly.
Her face clouded. “Was there another phone call or a note? I didn’t hear the phone ring.” She turned to look at him, worried.
He held out his hand.
She walked to him and took it. He put her palm against his cheek and closed his eyes. “Something is wrong,” she whispered.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he repeated, leading the way.
An icy finger traced Angela’s spine as she walked down the staircase with him. Devlin’s tone was the same one she’d used with Philip the last time she saw him. Whatever was coming it wouldn’t be good. She tried to read Devlin’s face, but to no avail.
Once in the living room, he went directly to the bar and she saw the reason for his choice of location. He wanted the liquor supply handy. The finger became a cold hand on the back of her neck as her apprehension grew.
She watched him pour a few inches of scotch into each of two glasses. Angela accepted hers from his hand and noticed that he was trembling slightly. He was not as calm as he was trying to appear. And his offer of a drink was troubling too; she never drank scotch, and he knew it.
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