Silence all around. Cochrane turned squarely back toward Hoover. 'You haven't even alerted the Secret Service, have you?'
'Gentlemen,' Hoover cut in sharply, 'we're getting far afield. There are certain facts before us.'
Briefly, Hoover's tongue emerged from his mouth, moistened his pink lips, then withdrew like the head of a turtle. 'Special Agent Cochrane does not deny the abusive and bullying behavior imparted toward another employee of this Bureau. Similarly, Special Agent Cochrane admits to having disobeyed the orders of this particular office by contacting a proscribed source.'
Cochrane leaned back in his chair and waited for the hammer to fall. Lerrick and Wheeler fixed their gazes elsewhere. Cochrane looked Hoover in the eye, but his peripheral vision caught a gloating dwarf. Suddenly the preposterousness of it all weighed heavily.
And meanwhile, Siegfried is out there, Cochrane cursed to himself. While we're discussing table manners, Siegfried is stalking Roosevelt.
Hoover held Cochrane in a long stare, and finally Cochrane, as he returned the gaze, reached the end of his patience. 'Should I stand for sentencing?' he asked.
Hoover let the remark pass. 'Agent Cochrane,' he finally said, 'your letter of resignation from this Bureau would be greatly appreciated. It should be dated the end of this month: effective November 30, 1939.'
Resentment, anger, perplexity: Cochrane clung to them all in ample amounts. But there was, of course, no court of appeal. Not here. And in a strange way, exhilaration finally swept over him. It was done. His job was finished here. Hoover had fired his final shot and Cochrane still lived and breathed and saw a future in front of him- peacefully in a bank somewhere in another city.
'That's just splendid,' Cochrane answered, surprising everyone in the room with the calmness of his reply. 'Fact is, Mr. Hoover, sir, I've an excellent letter already written. All I need to do is change the date.'
'I'm placing Frank Lerrick in charge of this investigation,' Hoover concluded softly. Then he turned to his dismissed employee: 'Special Agent Cochrane,' he said. 'I am deeply disappointed in you.'
THIRTY- FOUR
Laura was noticing the little things.
Her husband had been home for two days and had again become the moody, uncommunicative Stephen that she did not like. He had hardly spoken to her. The least he could have done was tell her about his trip. To her, New York was an exciting, bustling exotic city. She wished he would at least excite her with stories of what he had seen, people he had met.
But nothing. No talk. And heaven knew, he hadn't much been interested in touching her, either. What was she to think? She was a woman of twenty-five with the physical desires of a woman of twenty-five. Why couldn't they make love when he came home? Why wasn't he interested?
Little things, she repeated. She sat in the living room of their home and stared out the window, through the rain, across the lawn to St. Paul's. Her husband had disappeared into the church two hours ago, citing the need to work on Sunday's sermon. Little things, like ignoring her as if she wasn't there.
She caught herself thinking the unthinkable: maybe, long-range, this marriage wasn't destined to work. If Stephen was going to neglect her, well, she could see her reflection in the mirror. She was an attractive woman. She took care of her body and groomed herself well. If this man couldn't love her and appreciate her, maybe another man would.
She dismissed the idea, but with effort.
Then there were the big things. There were the tales told by Peter Whiteside, suggestions and accusations that grew upon Laura like a series of cancers. Combined with Stephen's behavior, Peter's insinuations nurtured suspicion within her. She sought to acquit him. But when she compared his time of return by train two days earlier from New York, she found that no New York train had stopped at Liberty Circle at that hour. There had only been the train that connected with Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington.
“Wrong cities, wrong timetable, Stephen,”she thought.
Wrong husband, wrong wife? She wondered.
There were too many questions. Too much unexplained behavior. Laura rose from the window and went to the closet. She pulled on her raincoat. It had been raining hard that day, a cold wet downpour which did nothing to elevate her mood and much to trigger a residual dissatisfaction and homesickness. A wife could be expected to tolerate only so much. It was time to discuss things. Now.
Laura took an umbrella from the rack in the foyer and she crossed the street to the church. Outside the red front door she shook out her umbrella and slipped out of her coat as she entered.
The minister's chambers were in the rear, past the pews and the altar. When Laura looked for him there, he was gone. The light was off and his small desk looked untouched. She stared at it for several seconds trying to grasp the meaning.
'Stephen?' she called out. 'Stephen?'
There was only the sound of empty rooms in return. It occurred to Laura that Stephen may have left the church through the rear exit, and, as variations of deceit swirled and unraveled before her, she contemplated why. She passed quietly to the doorway adjacent to his chambers. It was locked from the inside.
Facts, Peter Whiteside: Stephen came into this building two hours ago. I have been staring at the front door from across the street. Either I have failed Basic Surveillance or he has not left. He is in this building.
Where? What was he doing?
There remained only the balcony, which was empty, and the front stairway to the belfry and steeple. When she looked at the latter, she found the doorway ajar. She ascended the narrow staircase that wound up to the spire.
As she climbed she listened. She heard her own footsteps on the stairs and the creaks of the aged wood. She came to a first landing, where there was a small window. She stopped, listened, and looked out.
She was higher than the nearest trees. She looked down at the rectory house where she lived and watched the rain sweep over it. She lifted her gaze and could see the road stretching into Liberty Circle. She could see part of the town.
It was a fine view, probably even finer and more dramatic on a clear day or at the next level. Why, she wondered, had Stephen never called her attention to it?
The staircase led to another landing just below the bells. She could smell the mustiness of the seldom-used stairs and could hear the rain driving against the wooden walls. It almost distracted her from the entire point of the search. Where was Steven?
She took the final turn in the staircase and arrived in the bell-tower landing. It was a narrow, square chamber about eight by eight, ringed by panels and several storage closets. The door of one closet was slightly open and she stepped toward it. But as she made her first movement, she saw that several of the panels on the opposite wall had been hastily replaced. She stepped toward them instead.
'Stephen?' she said aloud.
Behind her a closet door exploded open. Laura screamed. She wasn't fast enough to turn to confront the figure that lunged toward her.
It was a man, she was sure, and he hooked one arm around her with his hand covering her mouth. The other hand came up to her throat with a knife and she felt the side of the blade pressed hard-it was hurting her!-to the flesh by the jugular.
He was rough. He forced her all the way forward to the small window in the tower. Her face was pressed roughly to the cold glass.
There he held her and hurt her, until she recognized the hand, the wrists, and the feel of the strong body.
Slowly his hand moved away. Slowly he relaxed the knife.
'Stephen!'
He allowed her to turn slowly to face him. His gray eyes were blazing with a furious cruelty that she had never seen in the man with whom she had shared part of her life.
