“You’ll be mine now, when I want you.”
“You’re drunk.”
“All of a sudden, you don’t like the idea of fucking me when I’m drunk.”
Field looked at her, his disgust no longer disguised.
“I’m an easy lay when I’m drunk, aren’t I, Richard?”
“I don’t like the idea of fucking you under any circumstances.”
She yanked her dress up and took a step toward him. “Don’t you want to stick it in, Richard? Or have you had enough already? Want to go back to that Russian bitch, is that it?”
She lunged for him, her dress still raised, thrusting her crotch against his and trying to kiss him, her tongue on his lips before he could take hold of her arms and force her back.
“Penelope?”
They both heard the soft shuffle in the corridor outside. She stepped back, straightening her dress and checking her hair in the mirror. She was suddenly cool and calm. “Yes,” she said.
“You all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Where is Richard?”
“I don’t know. I think he must have gone upstairs.”
They waited, heard a shuffle as Geoffrey moved away again. Field leaned back against the wall, catching sight of himself in the mirror and shutting his eyes in despair. Penelope let herself out quietly, without saying another word.
Field slipped up the stairs to cover himself. When he returned to the dining room, he squeezed between Patrick’s back and the Chinese sideboard, avoiding Geoffrey’s eye and looking as if he had just been sick.
“Are you all right?” Caroline asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, sitting down. “Just been feeling a bit off-color all day.”
“Working the boy too hard, Patrick,” Lewis said sourly. “You should take a break, Dickie, go down to the coast.”
“He’s working on a murder,” Geoffrey said sharply. “He’s hardly got time for that.” Field looked up and saw the hurt in his uncle’s eyes and knew that he had heard.
That he knew exactly.
The meal dragged after that, like nothing Field had ever experienced. It was even worse once the women had retired and the four men were left to their port. Geoffrey and Charles Lewis returned to a discussion of British politics, a conversation that neither Patrick nor Field contributed to.
As soon as Field could reasonably get away with it, he announced his intention to leave, explaining that he still did not feel at his best. He managed to avoid meeting Geoffrey’s eyes as they shook hands, and then Patrick was on his feet to show him to the door. Patrick finished his cigarette as Field put on his holster and jacket. Lewis came into the corridor and leaned against the wall, glaring at him.
Field went back to the veranda, walking past Lewis without comment. He said good night to Caroline and Penelope and then came back to shake Patrick’s hand.
“Good luck, old man,” Lewis said, still watching him.
Field stepped out into the street.
The road was deserted save for a black sedan parked outside a house twenty yards away. As he looked at it, its lights came on and it pulled out into the middle of the road. For a moment Field wondered if it was someone he knew—Caprisi perhaps—and then he heard the rattle of the machine gun and felt a stinging pain in his shoulder.
He was over, on the ground, his head on the sidewalk staring at the night sky, the car’s tires screeching as it stopped, the bullets punching into Granger’s car in front of him and into the sidewalk beside his head.
There was pain, blinding, in his arm—his left arm. He reached into the holster with his right, the gun in his hand now, pointing toward the sky, his finger on the trigger, squeezing off a shot, into the air.
He moved. He swung himself around as the door above him opened and he saw Patrick Granger charging out, as if in slow motion, his gun in his hand. He fired. He was shouting. Field turned his head once more to see a man towering above him, a machine gun in his hand, his face exploding.
Forty-seven
Damn it, man.” Granger was kneeling beside him, tugging at his coat, trying to pull it from his shoulder. “You’re all right.”
Field winced with pain, recoiling from Granger’s rough embrace.
“Stay still. You’re all right.” He had the coat off Field’s shoulder now and tore at his shirt. He exposed the wound, then stuck his fingers in it to stop the bleeding.
Caroline was at the top of the steps, her face ghostly. Penelope, Geoffrey, and Lewis swam into view behind her.
“Get a bandage or a shirt,” Granger shouted. “Anything clean.”
Caroline disappeared. Penelope looked as if she was about to cry as Geoffrey and Lewis came down the steps. Geoffrey stood beside him. Lewis took off his shirt and began tearing it.
