It sat next to the mug, untouched. Unnoticed. By that time, the coffee was cold, a thin film layered across its surface. A half hour later Cook came back out and removed both the mug and the loaf. She did not return. Hawkes sat throughout, thinking. Brooding.
He and his people had put out the fires. They had collected their dead—collected their attackers as well. For a short while they had debated whether they should radio anyone. It was the same paranoia that had stifled Hawkes's actions before. Whom could they call? And why?7
In the end, however, they chose people they trusted in the local sheriff's office.
It was obvious to Hawkes that whoever had authorized the attack would have to assess its level of success before making another move. It meant they were safe for the moment—but only for the moment.
Oh, yes, quite true, thought the ambassador bitterly, and that's contingent only on us having found all of their inside people.
Stine's betrayal had affected him badly. Yes, he had kept the man—boy, really—at arm's length. It was his way. It was how he treated everyone.
Get over yourself, Benton, he chided himself mentally in a brittle tone. You're not feeling betrayed. You're feeling embarrassed. You're getting old—old and foolish. You're starting to trust people . . . again. Remember what happened the last time you did that?
Hawkes's right hand curled into a fist. He remembered. All too vividly. He remembered the bodies that had been piled up that time as well. Because he had been open to his people. Friendly and trusting.
Not trusting. Weak.
The cynical side of him seized the moment to hammer again at the message it always held at hand for him.
Weakness. That's what sentimentality brings, it reminded him. Weakness and death. Look around you—at the broken windows and bullet holes and the blood on the ground . . . smell the smoke in the air. That's gunpowder and what's left of your home.
All right, he told himself. Leave it alone.
Certainly, Mr. Ambassador, he thought to himself in a mocking voice. Oh, but of course. You just sit there. Wallow. Have a good time. Don't worry about the men and women who died last night because you're getting soft.
Hawkes squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm himself. It did not work.
No, no—I mean it, his mind continued. Don't give them a second thought. Or the fact that since you're still alive, whoever did this will probably be back. Don't worry about that, either. Just tell me one thing . . .
His body began to shake as the cynical side of him asked, Shall we have Disraeli buried, or just fed to the hogs?
"Shut up!" Hawkes screamed aloud, his body pulsing with rage. The ambassador slammed his fist against the arm of his chair—once, once again. The third blow shattered it, sending splinters deep into the edge of his palm. Cook came back out and stared as blood began to drip from his hand.
She was a short woman, standing no taller than five feet three. In her flats, her brow was barely higher than Hawkes's, even though he was still seated. Lowering her graying head a fraction to meet his eyes, she said, "That's what happens to men who don't eat. First they starts off by talkin' to themselves. Then they graduate to hurtin' themselves."
"Cookie, please . . ."
"Not you, though. You not one to beat around the bush."
"Cook—"
"Nooooo, sir. Unn-unh. You gettin' it all out of the way in just one shot. That's why you such an important man. 'Cause you know how to get things done."
Hawkes looked up at the old woman. She had fed him, as well as most of his staff and workers, for the last seventeen years. Ed Keller said once that she hadn't actually been born—that she had been cut from raw pig iron and brought to life by a lightning storm. She had taken it as a compliment.
Walking across the porch, hard and stiff, her tight face seeming more forged than human, she said, "Now I'm tellin' you, you've had enough time in that chair, playin' old man. You get up and get in that house and start figurin' out what happened here and start doin' somethin' about it."
"Why?"
"Damn you! Damn you for askin' and damn you for even needin' to ask. Who you think you are you can just go and give up like some nobody?"
"I am nobody."
"I believe you," she snorted, mad and indignant. Standing her ground, she reminded him, "But it's a big world out there. A lot of folks you still got conned. A lot of people in this world are stupid—they still think you care about doing the right thing."
Hawkes's head snapped around. His eyes crackling, he snarled, "I'm nobody special. I've never been any more than just another guy doing his job. I didn't ask for people to turn me into some kind of folk hero."
"Too bad," she answered him. "Everybody's got somethin' to live with. That's part of yours." Turning on her heel, the short woman marched back to the kitchen door. Holding it open, she turned her head enough to see Hawkes.
"Now, you goin' get in here . . . let me see to that hand of yours and feed you, or should I just find Ed and tell him to dig another hole so you can crawl in it?''
Hawkes held his place for a long moment. He was so tired. All he had wanted was to be left alone. He
