“They're all federal marshals assigned to the Washington area.” He read off eighty names. “I want an address for each man. I want to know if he lives alone or with someone. I want his age, physical description, everything that you can get. You can call me at the usual number. I'll be here until seven o'clock this evening.”
“It may take longer than that, sir,” Miss Rockwalt said.
“Then I'll wait here until you've called.”
“No later than nine.”
“Every minute counts, Miss Rockwalt.”
He hung up.
He ate another cookie.
He looked at his watch.
Was David Canning dead by now?
SEVEN
After McAlister had gone, David Canning spread drop-cloths around the schefflera, mixed up a quart of Malathion solution, protected his eyes with ski goggles, and sprayed the tree to prevent a recurrence of the mealybugs. One pint of solution remained, and he poured that into the potting soil to kill any insect eggs that might be there.
While the insecticide dripped slowly from the sharp tips of the schefflera leaves, Canning sat at the kitchen table and wrote a note to the cleaning woman who came in twice a week. If he had to be gone more than seven or eight days, she would have to know how to mist and water the plant. He didn't want to come home and find it yellowed, spotted, and wilted.
In a strange way he felt responsible for the tree. His was more than the sense of responsibility that a man should have for
“You act as if it's a child,” Mike had said, amused.
“There's more to plants than most people realize. I swear that sometimes the damned tree seems— aware, conscious. In its own way.”
“You've been reading books. Talk to your plants. Play some classical music for them. That kind of thing.”
“I know it sounds crazy—”
“I'm not criticizing. I'm just surprised. I didn't know they taught you reverence for life in the CIA.”
“Please, Mike.”
“Sorry. I'll keep my opinions to myself.”
“I never had to accept the prevailing philosophy of the agency in order to work there.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.'
“Sure. Okay. Can we talk about something else?”
The way Canning saw it, he had bought the tree and brought it here, and he was the one trying to make it flourish inside of four walls and under a roof where, it had never been meant to grow. He had a duty to make every effort to keep it in good health, in return for the beauty that it added to his world and the peace of mind it gave him. He had an unspoken covenant with the tree, and his promise was his self-respect.
Or was he kidding himself? Was his caring for the tree merely an attempt, unconsciously motivated, to atone in some small way for having been a failure as a husband and father? Was he trying to make up for having destroyed his marriage and for having ruined his own children? Was he desperately trying to convince himself that he was not a cold, burnt-out, emotionless son of a bitch?
Don't be so hard on yourself, he thought.
Was it your fault, he asked himself, that Irene became a frigid, nagging bitch? To make her want him again, he paid her every imaginable form of tribute: praise, respect, love, romance, patience, tenderness, gifts and gifts and more gifts. He was a good lover; his own satisfaction mattered less to him than did hers. But because they did not enjoy a natural and mutual lust, because he always had to finesse her into bed with carefully thought-out game plans, his love soon became cynical, his respect feigned, and his praise as hollow as the chambers of the heart.
But to pretend that sex was their only failure was not fair to Irene. They had drifted apart both in and out of the bedroom — and they had become strangers to their children, as, well. Yet, as his father had taught him, and as he had learned from the examples provided by his father's friends, he had given his family all of the important things: a good home in a fine neighborhood, a swimming pool in the backyard, a nice school for the kids, allowances for the kids and money for their clarinet lessons and ballet school and baseball camp, the security of a substantial bank account, new cars, membership in a country club, an expensive vacation every year… If he had provided all of this and yet the four of them were strangers who merely boarded under one roof, then he had not fully understood his father and had gone wrong somewhere, somehow.
But what was the answer? Could it be explained by the usual pop sociology and pop psychology? Had he provided all the material comforts and then failed to give them love? Had he not managed to communicate to Irene and the children the things he felt in his heart? Had he and Irene been trapped by conventional man-woman roles that stifled their relationship? Had he been a male chauvinist pig without wanting to be, without knowing that he was? Had he walked along the generation gap, his kids on one side and he on the other, without understanding that it was a vast canyon and not just a gully? Running missions for the agency, he had been away from home for one and two months at a tune, six months out of twelve. Mike and Terri were adults by the time he received the White House assignment. Should he have been with them more time than he had been when they were young, to serve as an example and as a source of authority? Should he have been home every night to comfort Irene, to share the triumphs and defeats and irritations of daily life? Had his prolonged absences — and perhaps even the sometimes ugly nature of his job — been the cause of the alienation within his family? And if that were true, then wasn't he responsible, after all, for the withering of Irene's desire?
He felt very much alone.
He was adrift. Moving aimlessly toward an unknown future. He had no one. No one. And nothing. Nothing at all.
Except Dragonfly.
He finished the note to the cleaning woman, left it in the center of the kitchen table, switched off the fluorescent lights, and went into the living room. He took up the dropcloths, folded them, and put them away. He called a taxi service and asked to have a cab waiting out front at three-fifteen. Then he went into the bedroom and packed two suitcases.
After he had changed out of his jeans into a pale-brown suit, yellow shut, brown tie, and leather shoulder holster, he took his gun out of the top drawer of his bureau. It was a nickel-finished Colt Government Model.45 Automatic with an eight-and-a-half-inch overall length and a five-inch barrel. Weighing only thirty-nine ounces, it was perfect for use with a shoulder holster. The sights were fixed, of square Partridge design, and glareproof. Slanted ramp-style, the forward sight caught the light and yet allowed for an easy draw. Canning's holster, which snapped open from sideways pressure and “sprung” the pistol into his hand, thus accommodating a barrel lengthened by a silencer, made the draw even easier. The Colt's magazine held seven standard.45 Auto cartridges, not the most powerful ammunition made, but sufficient. More men in the counterintelligence services of all nations had been killed with this handgun than with any other weapon. Canning had killed nine of them himself: two Russians, two Poles, two Chinese, and three East Germans.
He often wondered why he was able to kill with such complete professional detachment, but he had never found the answer. And in his darkest moments, he thought that a murderer who suffered no remorse should expect to raise a family as alienated as his own.
Struggling to avoid that sort of despair, he took the precision-machined silencer from the bureau drawer and
