“And?”
“Come for a walk,” she said, raising her eyes toward the ceiling. She picked up her jacket, then went over to put the box on the desk. “What’s this?” she said, touching the urn.
“My father. His ashes.”
She pulled her finger away, staring at it. “God. What are you going to do with it?”
“Take him home.”
She kept staring. “It’s so small.”
Outside, it had begun to drizzle, so instead of walking they crossed the street to the broad island in the middle where the trams ran. Out of the corner of his eye he could see one of Zimmerman’s men leave his car and follow them. The evening rush was over. Only a few people were waiting for the clanging bell of the approaching tram.
“What did he say?”
“What you thought. He couldn’t wait to get back to Washington with the news. He called them right after I talked to him.” Everything in place.
“Who did he tell?”
“His boss. Somebody called Ellis.”
“Who else?”
“I couldn’t exactly get a personnel chart, Nick,” she said wearily. “He hopes it might have gone up to the director. In other words, it’s around. People know.” The agencies were like a sieve, his father had said, secrets dripping through a hundred holes. Anybody. “But I don’t have to worry,” Molly said, her voice a parody of Foster’s. “You’ll never suspect a thing. The Bureau keeps things to itself.” The tram doors opened and they waited for people to get off. She turned to him. “I can keep on going. Be your playmate.” Nick said nothing.
They sat at the back of the nearly empty tram. Zimmerman’s shadow was in front, pretending to read a newspaper.
“Did he tell them before?” Nick said, his voice low. He leaned into her, making them a couple out for an evening’s ride, trying to find some privacy in the brightly lit car.
She shook her head. “Just that he had made contact.”
The tail turned a page, looking in their direction. Nick put his arm over the back of the seat. When she felt it, she looked at him, surprised, as if he were making a pass.
“The man in front is watching us,” he whispered.
But she kept her eyes on him, not bothering to turn her head.
“He didn’t mention you?” he said.
“I don’t think so,” she said, throaty, so close now that he could feel the heat of her breath. “You were right about that too. He wanted it to be his show.”
“Good.”
“Not for him.”
“What happened?”
“Ellis thought it was a joke-that Jeff was being taken for a ride, to embarrass the Bureau. Now it’s not so funny. Especially since you called Kemper to rescue you. Everybody wants to know what’s going on. How he died, whether he meant it about coming back. All of it. So they’re all over Jeff. He wants to call you in.”
“When?” Nick said, aware again of the film in his pocket. How much time did he have?
The tram lurched to a sudden stop, throwing their heads together with a sharp bump. She raised her fingers to his forehead, touching it gently, as if she were soothing away a bruise. She left them there, a surprise of skin. “Nick-” she said. Then the tram started again and he saw an old woman coming toward them with string bags, glowering. She plopped down in front of them, as disapproving and unmovable as a duenna.
He lowered his head to Molly’s neck. “When?” he said again, in her ear.
Molly was shaking her head, her face grazing his. “I said I could handle it.”
“Handle what?”
She looked at him, her fingers now at the side of his head. “You,” she said, in a murmur, intimate. “Isn’t that what you want?”
He could smell her now, everything close, as if the film and her body were part of the same thing, the same unexpected excitement.
“I don’t want you to do anything. It’s not safe.”
“I will, though. I’ll do it.” Her eyes on him. “Like a double agent,” she said softly, the phrase itself suddenly erotic. “Ask me.”
“No.”
“Ask me,” she said in his ear, her hair brushing his skin. So close he could not tell which of them moved, but her mouth was on his, the same touch, and then her hand was at the back of his neck, keeping him close, as if afraid he’d pull away. “I’ll do it. I don’t care,” she said, her breath on his mouth. “You believe me, don’t you?” She lifted her mouth to him again, a yielding. When he broke off and nodded, his head next to hers, he could feel her shake, a tremor of release, and she began kissing his face, moving over him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I never meant-”
“Ssh.” He kissed her again, almost involuntarily, caught by the smell of her, remembering her opening to him. She gave a faint moan, and the old woman turned, glaring, but her eyes were like the hotel microphones, making everything illicit, more exciting. Improbably, he felt himself growing hard, his prick rising to bump against the film.
“It’s all right now, isn’t it?” Molly was saying in a rush. “I don’t want to lose you. I keep losing people.”
“Ssh.”
“I’ve been so worried.”
“No, don’t.”
With a burst of Czech, the old woman made a show of gathering her bags and moving across the aisle. Molly, ignoring her, held him closer, her face next to his, necking.
“I’ll help you,” she said, kissing him again.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he whispered, out of breath. He felt her moving against him, the rocking of the tram, in a kind of haze.
“Yes, I do,” she said, nuzzling his ear. “I’ve got you back. I don’t care about the rest.”
He raised his head a little, catching sight of their tail in front, staring frankly at the unexpected blue movie. “We have to talk,” he said, trying to bring himself back.
But Molly wouldn’t listen, her hands on his face. “Not now.” She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything.”
“But-”
“Just keep doing that.” She smiled, leaning her neck into his hand. “Keep doing that.” Putting herself literally in his hands.
He looked down at her, so sure of him, and in that second he knew that what he did next would decide everything. Life could change without even thinking, a hair-trigger response, everything changed by a second, a phone call in Union Station, an accidental bump on the head. Make room.
“Let’s go back,” he whispered, his face on hers, giving in, letting the rest go.
She nodded absently, letting him kiss her, and then she looked up at him, a glint. “We’ll make out.” A backseat phrase. His skin jumped, like drops of water on a skillet, ready for her. The windows of the tram were shiny with condensation, catching the light of the bare bulbs that lined the warm car. Outside, the city slid by, drizzly, unseen.
“Do you have any idea where this goes?” he said, his face still close.
“It’ll turn around,” she said. “They always go back where they started.”
When they got back to the hotel, he only left her for a moment, taking the urn into the bathroom, shoving the film down into the ashes, then closing the door behind him, so that nothing else was with them in the room.
