ticket for you. We'll transfer Garth to RPC as soon as you sign authorization papers.'
'Have somebody bring in the papers. I'll sign them now.'
'You want company, Mongo?' Veil asked.
'No, thanks. I'll see you back in New York.'
Veil and Lippitt were almost out the door when, drifting up from the psychological rubble in my own mind left by Garth's breakdown, I suddenly remembered another small matter that would have definite impact on all our futures. 'Hey!' I called after the men. 'What's being done about Madison?!'
Veil and Lippitt turned back, and it seemed to me that there was just a trace of a smile on both men's faces. 'Done?' Lippitt said. 'Just what is it you think should be 'done' about the secretary of state?'
'Come on, Lippitt. What's been going on? How are the newspapers treating the whole thing?'
'Colonel, have you seen anything in the newspapers about Mr. Madison?'
Veil shook his head. 'I haven't seen anything in the papers, but I believe the White House issued some kind of statement to the effect that he'd planned to take a short vacation. I think he's off on a hunting trip.'
'Jesus, you'll never get away with it,' I said. 'You've got five senators, a United States marshal, two legal aides, and a stenographer who saw Garth blow out Madison's brains.'
'Ah, yes,' Lippitt said mildly. 'Five old politicians worried about their place in state and national history, two young men who'd very much like to work for the D.I.A., and two career civil servants.'
'You'll still never get away with it.'
'No?' The old man's lips pulled back slightly in what was, for him, the equivalent of a broad grin. 'Obviously, you're not one of those people who believe in conspiracy theories of history.'
24
The Rockland Psychiatric Center, located in Orangeburg, New York, was a small city, complete with its own police and fire departments. As I drove back out through its tree-lined streets after seeing Garth settled in and conferring with his doctors, it struck me that the vast complex more closely resembled a college campus than a mental health facility-except, of course, for the thick steel bars on the windows of many of the buildings and the vacant stares of many of the patients wandering about the grounds on the arms of nurses or volunteers.
I wondered if I would ever again see my brother up and walking around.
As I neared the eastern exit from the complex, I caught a glimpse of a separate, newer complex of buildings off a hundred yards to my left. There were swings, a baseball field. It would, I thought, be the Children's Hospital, a separate facility where Veil would have been treated when he was here, if it had existed.
Veil's service record had been corrected, and all of his honors restored to him.
A much chastened and humbled Kevin Shannon had issued an invitation to me-through Mr. Lippitt, of course, who had undoubtedly planted the notion in the man's head-to come to the White House to receive a personal apology. I'd declined. Lippitt had told me he thought Shannon could turn out to be a fine president. I didn't care what he turned out to be.
My P.I. license had been restored, along with my carry permits, and all pending criminal charges against me had been dropped.
The university had likewise dropped its charges against me and had offered me a hefty raise. In my letter of resignation to my ex-department head, I had suggested that she consult with Kevin Shannon as to what she could do with my raise. I didn't feel like teaching anymore, couldn't see the point. After what I considered the university's betrayal of me, I felt I had nothing left to teach anyone that was of any value-at least nothing that would be accepted in a curriculum guide.
From now on, I thought, my life belonged to my brother.
But first, there was another bit of business to be taken care of before I could consider the Archangel affair over. I was not nearly as sanguine as Veil concerning the threat posed by Henry Kitten; indeed, it had occurred to me that Veil might know a great deal about Henry Kitten and had professed ignorance and indifference simply to keep me out of further harm's way. In any case, I considered Henry Kitten to be nothing less than a walking, talking doomsday machine. The sudden death of his employer would make no difference at all to the assassin, who had made it clear to me that he took great pride in his work, played for an international audience of potential future employers, and always finished an assignment. There was no doubt in my mind that Henry Kitten would keep coming until either he or Veil was dead. I planned to do all I could to see that it was Henry Kitten who ended up dead. Veil, with his injured arm, would certainly need help.
It was dark by the time I reached the East Village, and the streets were crowded with people of all ages, types, colors, and dress out enjoying an unusually balmy early spring evening.
The crowds thinned out and finally disappeared by the time I reached Veil's street. I parked my car in front of his loft, smiled when I looked up and saw the white light spilling out all the windows; injured arm or not, Veil was back to work, painting. It would be interesting, I thought, to see what changes, if any, would now show up in his style.
And then the lights in the loft, and all along the block, winked out. The rest of the neighborhood appeared to be unaffected, and I could see the lights of the skyscrapers in midtown continuing to glow, but I was left sitting in a car in the middle of a rectangular piece of unrelieved night. I quickly ducked down behind the dashboard and drew out my Beretta. I pushed open the door on the passenger's side and sucked in a deep breath. Then I rolled out of the car and, keeping low, sprinted across the sidewalk toward the steel door below Veil's loft, which I somehow knew would be open.
