In the Evil Day

52

…VIRGINIA…

They walked in the day’s cold ending and stopped beside a pond, silver, sat on a wooden bench bleached white as bone by sun and rain and snow.

‘Got a smoke? I’m not allowed to.’

Palmer reached into his coat. ‘Allowed? Fuck, who’s running things here?’

They lit cigarettes, sat back. Smoke hung around them in the still air, reached the earth, curled. High on the wooded hill behind the pond a cluster of maples blazed amid the brown oaks, seemed to be sucking in the light.

‘Pretty spot,’ said the shorter man. ‘The prick’s hard to kill, is he?’

‘He’s quick.’

‘And they’re dead.’

‘Yup. Messy. I sent Charlie Price to sort it out. They told him they’d use pros next time.’

Three ducks came around a small point in the pond, ducks keeping close together, missed the mass exodus to warmer places, just the three of them left.

‘He’s been in the trade,’ said Palmer. ‘Now he’s riding shotgun. He drove this Shawn’s wife home, the arrangement was that he stayed for the husband to get back. I think he just lucked onto this.’

‘Shawn had the film?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘What about him?’

‘Well. A known quantity. Courier mainly. They say Ollie North used him.’

‘You wouldn’t want that to be the high point of your career.’

Palmer shot his cigarette butt towards the water. It fell well short, lay on damp leaf mould. ‘I gather he took Ollie. Like everyone else.’

Silence. The other man shot his butt. It almost made the water, died in a puddle.

‘So who would be using him?’

‘We’re checking.’

‘I was given to understand this history was history.’

Palmer put both hands to his head and scratched all over-back, top, sides. ‘Burghman was in charge, we can’t ask him. The film- well, that’s something else. No one knew about a film then.’

‘Not a huge cast of suspects.’

‘No. Trilling says Burghman told him, he thinks it was in ’93.

Burghman said there’d been a problem but it was fixed and the slate was as clean as it needed to be.’

A deer had appeared from the thicket on the far shore of the lake. It looked around, advanced with delicate steps to the water’s edge, lowered its head and drank.

‘Never saw the point of killing animals like that.’

‘No,’ said Palmer.

‘I might have another smoke.’

A breeze had come up, worrying the trees, worrying the water. Palmer lit a cigarette, handed it over, lit another.

‘As it needed to be. That’s not the same as clean.’

‘No.’

‘This guy’s tried the media. Could try again.’

‘We’ll hear, we’ll have some notice,’ said Palmer.

‘It’s late to be caught in the rain, Scottie.’

They heard the sound of a jet on high, the booming hollow sound, filling the world, pressing on trees and water, on the throat. The deer started, was gone.

‘Won’t happen,’ said Palmer. ‘But we may have to go on with the Brits. I wanted to ask you.’

‘Don’t let Charlie near them. Subtle’s a Mossberg up the arse.’

‘I’ll go myself.’

‘Good. Time. Going back tonight.’

Out of the wind, on the path, deep in shadow, their heads down, feet disturbing the leaves. The other man looked at Palmer and Palmer looked at him, and they both looked away.

The man said, ‘Well, judgment. Live or die by your judgment.

Comes down to that.’

Palmer nodded.

‘But you know that, Scottie.’

‘I do. Sir.’

They walked, smoking, smoke hanging behind them like ragged chiffon scarves, the dark rising beneath them.