untidy bedroom, through the den and to the kitchen. Her bare feet were cold on the floor. Her first stop, as usual, was the answering machine. No messages. She opened the refrigerator and drank orange juice straight from the carton. She took the array of vitamins the doctor had suggested for her, swallowing one after another the pills that might have choked a horse. Then she stood in the middle of the kitchen, blinking in the sunlight and trying to decide if she should have raisin bran or oatmeal.
First, call Kastle. She did. His secretary, who'd initially been sweetness and Georgia peaches but was now more crisp and lemony at Laura's sometimes-dozen calls a day, said Kastle was out of the office and wouldn't be back until after three. No, there was no progress. Yes, you'll be the first to know. Laura hung up. Raisin bran or oatmeal? It seemed a very difficult decision.
She had Wheat Chex. She ate standing up, and she spilled some milk on the floor and almost cried again, but she remembered the old saying so she let it go. She wiped the drops of milk away with her foot.
Her parents had gone home the previous morning. It was the beginning, Laura knew, of a cold war between her and her mother. Doug's mother had returned to Orlando two days previously. Doug had started back to work. Somebody's got to make some money, he'd told her. Anyway, there's no use just sitting around here waiting, is there?
Doug had said something the night before that had sent Laura into a rage. He'd looked at her, the Wall Street Journal on the sofa beside him, and he'd said, 'If David's dead, it won't be the end of the world.'
That remark had sliced through her heart like a burning blade. 'Do you think he's dead?' she'd asked him savagely. 'Is that what you think?'
'I'm not saying he's dead. I'm just saying that life goes on no matter what happens.'
'My God. My God.' Laura's hand had gone to her mouth, her stomach roiling with horror. 'You do think he's dead, don't you? Oh Jesus, you do!'
Doug had stared at her with heavy-lidded eyes, and Laura had seen the truth in them. The subsequent storm had driven Doug out of the house, racing away in his Mercedes. Laura had called C. Jannsen's number. When a woman had answered, Laura had said bitterly, 'He's on his way. You can have him, and I hope you enjoy what you get.' She'd hung up, but not with a slam as she'd first intended. Doug wasn't worth the effort. Sometime before midnight she'd found herself sitting on the bed, cutting apart their wedding pictures with scissors. It came to her, as she'd sat with the shards of memories in her lap, that she was in real danger of losing her mind. Then she'd put all the pieces into a little pile atop the dresser and she'd taken two sleeping pills and searched for rest.
What to do? What to do? She wasn't ready for work yet. She could imagine herself trying to cover a social function and collapsing in the foie gras. She put on the coffeepot, and she wandered around the kitchen straightening things that were already straight. As she passed near the telephone, she thought of calling Neil Kastle again. Maybe there would be some news. She picked up the phone, put it down, picked, it up once more, finally left it in a helter-skelter of indecision.
Straighten up in the den, she thought. Yes, it needed straightening.
Laura walked in and spent a few minutes going through magazines in the basket where they collected. She chose issues that were two or three months old and stacked them up for the trash. No, no; this one couldn't go. It had an article about breastfeeding in it. This one couldn't go, either, it had an article about how babies responded to music. She drifted away from the magazines to the bookshelves, and began to line the volumes up so that their spines were exactly even. The larger-sized books gave her a fit of consternation. And then she came to a volume that made her hand stop its relentless arranging.
Its title was Burn This Book.
Laura took the book down. Mark Treggs, the holdover hippie. No author's photo. Mountain top Press, Chattanooga, Tennessee. A post office box. She skimmed through the book, searching for the part where Treggs had talked about the Weather Underground and the Storm Front. On page 72, she found it: 'The Love Generation, bleeding from a thousand wounds inflicted by the militant counterculture, may well have expired on the night of July 1, 1972, when police in Linden, New Jersey, cornered the terrorist Storm Fronters in a suburban tract house. Four Storm Fronters died in the firefight, one was captured alive but wounded, and four more escaped, including their main man 'Lord Jack' Gardiner. The pigs searched, but they could not find. Some say Canada, that saint of America's political fugitives, took them into her forests. You can hear it still today if you put your ear to the right track: the Storm Front's out there somewhere. Maybe still licking their wounds, like old bears in a cave. Maybe muttering and dreaming, aging longhairs huddled over candles with their stashes of pot and acid. I knew one of the Storm Fronters, a long time ago before the flames destroyed the flowers. She was a nice kid from Cedar Falls, Iowa. A farmer's daughter, can you dig it? To her I send a message: keep the faith, and love the one you're with.'
Laura's gaze flickered back up the page. I knew one of the Storm Fronters.
Not Mary Terrell. She was born in Richmond. Who, then?
Somebody who might help the FBI find her baby?
Laura took the book to the telephone. She dialed Kastle's number in such a hurry that she messed up and had to redial. His secretary, the lemony bitch, answered after the second ring. No, Mrs. Clayborne, Mr. Kastle isn't in yet. I told you before, he won't be back until after three. No, I'm sorry, I don't have a number where he can be reached. Mrs. Clayborne, it's not doing anybody any good for you to keep calling. I'm terribly sorry about your situation, but everything possible is being done to find your –
Bullshit. Laura hung up.
She paced the kitchen, her heart pounding. Whom could she tell about this? Who could help her? She stopped at the telephone again, and this time she dialed Directory Assistance in Chattanooga.
The operator had no number for Mountaintop Press. There were two Treggses: Phillip and M.K. She scribbled down the latter number and called it, her stomach doing slow flip-flops.
Four rings. 'Hello?' A woman's voice.
'Mark Treggs, please?'
'Mark's at work. Can I take a message?'
Laura swallowed, her throat dry. 'Is this… the Mark Treggs who wrote the book?'
A pause. Then, cautiously: 'Yes.'
Thank God! she thought. Her hand was clenched around the receiver. 'Are you his wife?'
'Who is this, please?'
'My name is Laura Clayborne. I'm calling from Atlanta. Is there a number where I can reach Mr. Treggs?'
Another pause. 'No, I'm sorry.'
'Please!' It came out too fast, too charged with emotion. 'I've got to talk to him! Please tell me how I can find him!'
'There's no number,' the woman said. 'Laura Clayborne. I think I know that name. Are you a friend of Mark's?'
'I've never met him, but it's vitally important that I reach him. Please! Can't you help me?'
'He'll be home after five. Can I give him a message?'
Five o'clock seemed an eternity. In frustration, Laura said, 'Thank you so much!' and this time she did slam the receiver down. She stood for a moment with her hands pressed against her face, trying to decide what to do. The image of David in the weeds came to her again, and she shook it off before it latched in her mind.
Chattanooga was about a two-hour drive from Atlanta, northwest along I-75. Laura looked at the clock. If she left now, she could be there around one. I knew one of the Storm Fronters. Treggs might know more about the Storm Front than he'd written in the book. A two-hour drive. She could make it in an hour and forty-five minutes.
Laura went into the bedroom, put on a pair of bluejeans that fit snugly around the puffiness she was still carrying, and she shrugged into a white blouse and a beige cable-knit sweater. It occurred to her that she might have to stay in Chattanooga overnight. She began to pack a suitcase, another pair of jeans and a crimson sweater, extra underwear and socks. She loaded up her toothpaste and toothbrush, decided to take her shampoo and her hair dryer. Money, she thought. Have to go by the bank and get a check cashed. Got my Visa, MasterCard, and American Express. Have to get the BMW's tank filled. Leave a note for Doug; no, forget that. Get the tires checked, too. It wouldn't be good to have a blowout, a woman alone in this hard old world.
She knew now that violence could strike from any direction, without warning, and leave tragedy in its wake. She walked to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and lifted up Doug's sweaters. She took the automatic pistol
