"She has... they have..." His voice started to clog, and tears began to form in his eyes. He looked down again and breathed in several times, letting the breath out sharply, almost like a sprinter, trying to blow a little extra into his kick. Then he looked up again with his wet eyes and said quite steadily, "There are pictures."

"Oh, s.h.i.t," I said. "I'm sorry."

He began to rock slightly in his chair, his hands still on the tabletop. "Videotape," he said. His voice was choked again. "Color." He stood up suddenly and walked away from the table toward the men's room. I sat and stared at the food. I didn't feel so much like eating anymore either.

The waitress came over and said, "Is anything wrong, sir?"

"Not with the meal," I said, "but my friend is ill. I think we'd better have the check."

"Yes, sir," she said. "I'm very sorry."

She was prompt with the check. I paid it. She went away and brought back the change. I tipped her.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "I hope that your friend feels better soon."

I shrugged. "The ways of the Lord," I said, "are often dark, but never pleasant."

She frowned slightly, and took her tip and went away.

Chapter 7.

When Alexander came out of the men's room he looked very pale but his eyes were dry for the moment and he seemed back under control.

I said, "Let's take a walk."

He nodded. We walked up Fort Street. It was dark out and rainy now, but not very cold. I had on my leather trench coat and Alexander was wearing a poplin raincoat. The rain was light and not bothersome. Under other circ.u.mstances, in fact, it would have been good rain to walk in. Romantic. There were construction and demolition projects all around the lower Main Street area. Silent construction equipment gleamed in the rain, but not many people walked around. We turned up Main Street toward the Civic Center. Alexander had his hands in his pockets, his head bent, looking at the sidewalk as he walked. He wore a checked hat like Bear Bryant.

I said, "This is awful. I understand that. But I didn't bring it up. If I'm going to help you with this, we have to talk about it."

Alexander said, "I know."

We pa.s.sed Bay State West. There were a lot of people in the mall buying things. Recreational shopping.

I said, "I can fix this for you. Not all of it. Not what it feels like, but the other part. I can take care of the blackmail."

Alexander nodded. We pa.s.sed Johnson's, its facade a dark green, the name in gold letters. A munic.i.p.al bus stopped, let some people off, and moved on downtown.

"It was mailed to my home," Alexander said. "In Fitchburg. A videotape. VHS format. No return address, Boston postmark." We turned into Court Square, walking past the City Hall complex with its tower. There was a small park in the middle of the square. I was quiet. He had started. I knew he'd finish.

"I have a recorder, VHS. I played it one night while Ronni was out."

We turned left at the far end of the square. The closed end. Beyond was expressway. Beyond the expressway, the river, adding its damp smell to the rainy night.

"The film showed Ronni having s.e.x with a young man in what appeared to be an apartment. It was apparent that she didn't know of the taping."

At the open end of Court Square, across Main Street, the Civic Center was glowing and bright. Its lights glistened off the wet buildings. The right kind of rain makes everything look good. Even the color-coded parking garage seemed attractive in the soft autumn rain.

"It was also apparent that it was Ronni. No possible mistake. I did not recognize the young man."

We turned right again, back onto Main Street, and kept walking, away from the hotel. I wasn't wearing a hat. My hair was wet. Reflections of the traffic lights shimmered on the wet pavement. "Have you discussed this with her?" I said.

"No. She doesn't know. She's not to know. Ever. It would break her heart if she knew."

"I can't be delicate about this," I said. "The whole thing is indelicate. There's no way around it. I have to ask questions."

"Yes," he said. "Go ahead."

"You're persuaded that this is not a p.o.r.no film, that is, something she posed for?"

"I'm sure that it is not deliberately posed."

"People don't just stroll around with videotape cameras," I said. "Someone set this up."

Alexander nodded.

"The room had to have enough light," I said.

"It was daylight mostly," Alexander said. "One wall of the room was gla.s.s and it was bright daylight. The drapes were open."

"Do you... has she... is there a way to narrow this down?" I said.

Alexander said, "I don't understand."

I took a deep breath. "Can we try to track down her partner or could it be any one of a number?"

Alexander stopped and squeezed his eyes shut and then turned his head away from me and down, almost the way a dog will cower. He tried to say something and couldn't. He tried again and still couldn't. His hands were deep in his raincoat pockets, his shoulders were hunched, and he rocked a little, as if a gentle wind were making him sway.

Finally he said, "I don't know," in a barely human voice.

"Can you ask her?" I said.

He shook his head.

The wind picked up a little and the rain, while it was still fine, was beginning to slant a bit as it came down, and drive in our faces. I turned my back to it. Alexander still stood swaying, facedown, unaware.

"If it came down to it," I said, "would you drop out of the race?"

Without looking up he nodded again.

"And never tell her why?" I said.

Nod.

"And throw your support to Browne?"

Nod.

"I've heard Browne is mob-connected."

Nod.

"And you'd support him?"

Alexander's shoulders were beginning to shake. He raised his face. Tears were squeezing out of his squinted eyes and running down his face.

"Yes," he said. His voice shook, but there was an energy in it I had never heard before. He straightened a little and stopped swaying. The rain came harder and the wind intensified. It was no longer a good rain to walk in. Even under other circ.u.mstances. It had gotten cold, as if November had rea.s.serted itself. We were alone on the street, with the wind driving the rain before it.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheek!

"I would support Satan to spare her," Alexander said.

I nodded. "So would I," I said.

Chapter 8.

It was nearly midnight when we got back to the Marriott and went up with the water dripping off us and making small puddles on the elevator floor. Outside the door to his suite Alexander paused and looked at me. His eyes were a little red, but other than that he had it back together.

"We'll be returning to Washington through the holidays. I don't use Christmas to campaign," Alexander said.

I nodded.

"I want her free of this," he said. "Remember that priority. It is the only absolute you have. She is to be free of this."

I nodded.

"And she's not to know."

I nodded.

Alexander put out his hand. I took it. We shook hands. Alexander stood a minute holding on to my hand after we'd finished shaking. He started to speak, stopped, started again, and then shook his head and released my hand. I nodded.

"I have to trust you," he said. "I've no other hope."

Then he went into the suite and I went next door to the room shared by Cambell and Fraser. I knocked on the door. When Fraser opened it I said, "Alexander's back. I'm going to bed."

Fraser nodded, closed the door, and I went to my room on the other side of Alexander's.

In the morning Alexander told Cambell and Fraser that I was doing a special a.s.signment for him and that they'd have the full security responsibility henceforth. I rented a car and drove ninety miles back to Boston and straight to Morrisey Boulevard. It was twenty of eleven when I pulled into the visitors' parking s.p.a.ce in front of the Globe. It was ten of eleven when I was sitting in the straight chair beside Wayne Cosgrove's desk in the newsroom.

"This a social call," Cosgrove said, "or are you undercover for the Columbia Journalism Review?"

"No, I came in to lodge a complaint about the Globe's white-collar liberal stance and they directed me to you."

Cosgrove nodded. "Yes," he said. "I handle those complaints."

"Well, what have you to say?"

"f.u.c.k you."

"Gee," I said, "words must be your business."

He grinned. "Now that we're through playing, you gonna tell me what you want?"

"I want everything you have on Robert Browne."

Cosgrove was tall and narrow with curly hair and gla.s.ses and a blond beard. He wore a three-piece suit of dark brown tweed, and a dark green shirt and a black knit tie. The vest gapped maybe three inches at his waistline and his green shirt hung loosely out over his belt buckle. "The congressman?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"None of your business."

"Christ, how can I resist?" Cosgrove said. "You're so charming when you need something."

"Can you dig it out for me? You're computerized. How long could it take?"

"Yeah, sure, I can get it up for you, but being as how I'm in the news business, I can't help wondering if there might not be something, you know, newsy, about a guy like you wanting everything we have on a U.S. congressman."

"And senatorial aspirant," I said.

"Senatorial aspirant? Jesus Christ. Want a job on the editorial page?"

"I need to know anything I can about Browne," I said. "I won't tell you why. Probably never will tell you why, and I'd rather no one knew I was interested."

"Well, that sure sounds like a good deal for me," Cosgrove said. "Meet me someplace tonight, around six thirty, and I'll give you what I got."

"Ritz bar," I said. "I'll pay."

"You should," he said. The phone rang and Cosgrove picked it up. I got up waved him good-bye and went out. I turned in the rental car and walked to my office. It was still raining, steady and cold now. No longer pleasant. The office was stale from emptiness and I opened both windows while I went through my mail. Across the way the art director was in residence and I blew her a kiss from the window. She smiled and waved. The mail was not worth opening. I dropped it all in the wastebasket. Maybe I should get an unlisted address. What if I did and n.o.body cared? I called the answering service. There were no messages. I sat down in my swivel chair and took out my bottle of Irish whiskey and had a drink. The cold wet air from the window behind me blew on my neck. I thought about lunch. I looked at my watch. Twelve twenty-five. I had another pull on the bottle. I looked at Susan's picture on my desk. Even filtered through a camera I could feel her energy. Wherever she was things coalesced around her. I made a small toasting gesture with the bottle.

"Like a jar in Tennessee," I said out loud.

I drank another shot of whiskey and looked at my watch again. Twelve thirty already. I put the cap back on the bottle and put it away. Lunch.

I walked up to a Mexican place on Newbury Street called Acapulco and had a plate of enchiladas and three bottles of Carta Blanca. Then I walked to my apartment on Marlborough Street and went in and aired it out. There was a letter there from Paul Giacomin. Things were good at college. He was going to spend Thanksgiving with me, and he might bring a girl friend.