Dragonfly

felt-tip pen from his shirt pocket, uncapped it, and held it next to the first name on the list. Standing over Altmuller, he said, “Do you know a federal marshal named Frank Jaekal?”

Glassy-eyed, Altmuller did not respond.

Buell asked the same question again, in a firmer, louder voice this time.

“No,” Altmuller said weakly.

“Do you know a federal marshal named Alan Coffey?”

“No.”

“Do you know a federal marshal named Michael Morgan?”

“Yes.”

Buell drew a line through that name.

On the couch Altmuller began to twitch uncontrollably.

“Better hurry along,” the other agent told Buell.

Buell read out the remaining thirty-seven names, one at a time, until he had finished the list. Fourteen of the forty names were familiar to Altmuller. Calling the names at random, Buell went through the list a second time in order to double-check it, and he found Altmuller's responses did not change.

“It's really hitting him now,” the smaller agent said.

Altmuller had fallen on his side on the couch. His eyes were wide and sightless. Clear fluid bubbled at his nostrils. He mumbled and murmured and chewed at his tongue. His body snapped and twisted like a flag in the wind.

“It's a damned good drug,” the smaller agent said, “except for the side effects.”

Altmuller fell off the couch and thrashed violently on the floor. His tongue was bleeding, and his chin was painted red.

“Will these convulsions kill him?” Buell asked. He watched the big man roll and twist; he was intensely interested.

“No,” the smaller agent said. “Unless he was under a doctor's care, he might injure himself severely. But the drug isn't deadly.”

“I see.”

“But that's academic, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” Buell said. He drew his pistol and shot Altmuller twice. He put the gun away.

“Lets wrap him in that rag rug,” the other agent said.

When they had the corpse rolled into a neat cocoon, they carried it out to the kitchen.

Connie Eaton was sitting on a straight-backed chair, a strip of cloth adhesive tape over her mouth. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. She didn't struggle when she realized what was in the rug. She didn't try to scream, and she didn't faint. Instead, all the life drained out of her pretty eyes; she stared ahead as if she were mesmerized, catatonic.

The agent who wore eyeglasses said, “No need to carry him down to the basement. I found a better place to put him.” He led them across the room to a food freezer that stood in an alcove beside the back door. The freezer was practically empty. “Good?”

“Perfect,” Buell said.

They dumped Altmuller's body into the frosted bin and were just closing the freezer when the telephone rang.

“Probably for us,” Buell said. He went to the wall phone by the refrigerator, picked up the receiver, and “Hello?”

“Buell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is the Spokesman.”

“Yes, sir.” He explained how things had gone with Altmuller.

The Spokesman said, “Too bad about the woman.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But why haven't you disposed of her too?”

“She must have a family.”

“She does,” the Spokesman said.

“And if she disappears for a few days, they'll have the police looking for her. They're bound to come to Altmuller.”

“Yes. You're right. What will you do? Take her somewhere and make it look like an accident?”

“That would be best,” Buell said. “Does she live alone?”

“According to my information, she does. I see what you have in mind. You can take her back to her apartment and make it look like the work of a burglar.”

“Yes, sir. Do you know her address?”

The Spokesman gave it to him. “But I have another job for you, first. There's a federal marshal named William Peyser. Lives near Maryland Park. Not far from where you are now.” He gave Buell the exact address. “Get to Peyser as soon as you possibly can and run him through the Altmuller program.”

“Will Peyser be alone?”

“To the best of my knowledge, yes. He has no children. His wife died four months ago, so he shouldn't have a girl friend.”

Buell stroked his chin with his long, pale fingers. He had a musician's hands, and he was fairly good on the piano. “Then I can leave one man here with the woman. Two of us can deal with Peyser.”

“When you've had time to wrap things up in Maryland Park, I'll give you a call there. I want to know which names on that list were strangers to both Altmuller and Peyser.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll have additional instructions for you when you're finished at Mr. Peyser's place.”

“Fine.”

“Wait there for my call.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Spokesman hung up.

Putting the receiver back on the hook, Buell turned and looked at the woman.

She stared through him.

To the agent who wore eyeglasses, Buell said, “Jerry, you stay here with Miss Eaton. Jim and I have another job to take care of. It's just over in Maryland Park, We shouldn't be gone very long. When we get back we'll deal with her.”

Jerry took off his raincoat and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. “She's so pretty. I wish she hadn't been here.”

The smallest man said, “How do we deal with her?”

“The boss says to take her back to her apartment and make it look like some burglarkilled her.” Buell watched her eyes and saw no spark of fear.

“Sounds reasonable,” Jerry said.

Buell smiled. He had a sharp, saturnine face as pale as dusting powder. “I have a better idea.”

“What's that?”

“We take her back to her apartment, just like the boss says. But we don't make it look like the work of a burglar.” Buell paused to see if she was listening. She gave him no sign. “We make it look like the work of a rapist.”

Emotion, like dark fish in a gelid sea, flickered deep in the woman's eyes.

Buell knew that look, that well-concealed but still-visible terror. He had seen it in the eyes of countless women — and men — when he'd been a rifleman in Vietnam years and years ago.

“Good idea,” Jerry said, grinning.

The smallest man agreed.