"The head of the Bureau's counterintelligence unit is a man by the name of Edward J. Hendricks, who could be described as an unreconstructed cold warrior. He could care less about what's happened in Russia and Eastern Europe because he's a man who desperately needs his old, familiar enemies to give his life meaning. He's a man with a visceral hatred of communists a" and of anybody he thinks sides with the communists. That covers a pretty broad spectrum of people."

"I'm familiar with the type," Mary said in the same wry tone.

"Oh, I'm sure you are. Hendricks fancies himself a super-patriot a" but super-patriots of his sort would also have been, and were, super-patriots in n.a.z.i Germany. He finds it difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish between the country's critics and its enemies. Michael was probably pretty much like that in the early stages of his career; FBI recruits are chosen largely on the basis of ideology. As he told you, virtually all his a.s.signments in the early part of his career involved surveillance of dissident groups, and there was a lot of illegal wiretapping and mail covers. Anyway, Michael mellowed, or got tired of it, whatever. He started arguing that the Bureau should stop wasting its time and manpower on peace groups, and should go after real spies as well as people in the violent right, like neo-n.a.z.is and the Ku Klux Klan. This new att.i.tude of Michael's didn't sit well with Hendricks, and their relationship deteriorated further, to say the least, when Michael became a kind of ombudsman and whistle-blower inside the Bureau regarding matters of racial discrimination in the hiring and promotion of agents. Then Michael's surveillance team blew the CIA defector thing, and Hendricks got his first real shot at Michael. First, Michael was demoted, and then Hendricks ordered him out here to do a spy number on you people. Hendricks knew Michael would hate the a.s.signment; it was his way of getting revenge for all the grief Michael had been giving him."

"You're saying this Hendricks doesn't really believe that the Community of Conciliation is a" oh, how I love this word a" 'subversive'?"

"Oh, he thinks you're subversive, all right, and he really does seem to believe that people like you pose a greater real danger to this country than the Klan or the neo-n.a.z.is. He'd like to see just about every peace and civil rights activist in this country thrown out, or placed in some kind of internment camp, until, as he puts it, 'this thing with Russia is really over, and they're buried.'"

"Is he serious?"

"I've never met the man. Michael described the conversation to me, and Michael swears he was dead serious. But the point is that Hendricks has plenty of zealots under him who would have whistled 'The Star-Spangled Banner' all the time they were spying on you. Hendricks sent Michael here to humiliate him."

"Fools," Mary said tersely. "d.a.m.n fools."

"Did Michael tell you he hated being near water?"

She thought about it as she reached out for another bran m.u.f.fin; she hesitated, then brought her hand back to her lap. "Yes," she said at last. "But he didn't put it that strongly. He said he didn't much care for water. I told him it was no problem, that he didn't have to stay in Cairn. We have chapters, stations, all over the world. I told him that if he really wanted to work for our cause we could send him to live on the top of a mountain, in the middle of a jungle a" wherever he liked."

"Didn't it strike you as odd that a man who didn't like water would go out canoeing on the Hudson River at one of its widest points?"

"Not at the time, no," she replied distantly, her brows knitting into a frown. "People have changes of mood, sometimes do things they wouldn't normally do. . . . Mongo, do you think somebody killed Michael?"

"I haven't said that. I'm just trying to get a picture of what happened. I talked to the chief of police, and now I'm talking to you. Did Michael tell anyone he was going canoeing?"

"No," she answered in the same distant tone. "Not that I'm aware of. He didn't tell me."

"What about the man who owned the canoe? I think you said his name was Franz?"

"Franz Bauer."

"Did he ask Bauer's permission to use his canoe?"

Mary Tree slowly shook her head. "No."

"Building a canoe by hand must take a long time and cost some money. Each of those canoes I see down by the river would mean a lot to the man who made them."

"Yes. Franz made all of them."

"Do the people here normally take out any of the boats whenever they feel like it?"

Again, she shook her head. "The dinghies, yes, and the sailboat belongs to all of us. But not the canoes or the kayak; they're special."

"Did anybody see Michael go out in the canoe?"

"No. It had to have been in the evening, after dark, because all of the canoes were there when I went in to supper."

"Did Michael come to supper?"

"No." Now her brows were knitted even tighter, and tight lines of tension had appeared around her mouth as she thought back and remembered. "We all just a.s.sumed . . ."

"You a.s.sumed what, Mary?"

"There was a full moon Sunday night, and the river was very still. It can be very lovely and soothing out on the river at night when it's like that. Michael had seemed very distracted and tense after coming back from talking with Harry."

"Harry?"

"Harry Peal."

"Harry Peal lives around here?"

"About ten miles north of here. He has a house on a cliff overlooking the river."

"Did Michael tell you what he and Harry Peal talked about, or why he went to see him in the first place?"

The corners of her mouth drew back in a thin smile. "I know why Michael went up there. Harry was another of the FBI's 'old friends,' Mongo. Michael had spied on Harry, too." She paused, and her smile, while still tinged with sadness, grew broader. "At least, with Harry, Michael had himself a real, honest-to-goodness communist to deal with. Ex-communist, anyway. Michael said he wanted to pay his respects to the man who'd spent two terms in prison, first for refusing to answer questions before the House Un-American Activities Committee, and then for telling Joseph McCarthy a" on live television a" to go f.u.c.k himself. Harry was leaving that evening for Hungary to accept some award as part of President Shannon's cultural exchange program with the Russians and the Eastern Bloc countries. But he agreed to see Michael in the afternoon; if you knew Harry, you'd know what a hoot it was for him to have an FBI agent coming to visit him by the front door, as it were. Michael thought it was a real hoot, too. He was really high when he left here a" but not so high when he got back. He was moody, distracted. He was in and out the rest of the day, and I know he went into town at least twice. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said something . . ."

"What did he say, Mary?"

"Just one word: 'Unbelievable.' That's what he said. 'Unbelievable'; you know, like you say when you're just overwhelmed by something that's been said or done."

"He went into town twice?"

"Yes. I know, because he asked permission each time to use the pickup truck. He said he was in a hurry and didn't have the time to walk."

"He was in a hurry each time?"

"He said he was, yes."

"Do you know what he did in town or who he talked to either of those times?"

"No. Anyway, after we found out that he'd drowned, everyone here just a.s.sumed that he'd gone out canoeing to try to get rid of some tension."

"Uh-huh. Mary, is Harry Peal still out of the country?"

"As a matter of fact, I think he's scheduled to return sometime today."

"Can you get me an appointment to talk with him?"

She shrugged. "Sure. Harry's easy enough to see when he's around. I'll give him a chance to unpack and rest a little, and I'll call him later. I'm sure he'll be happy to talk with you."

I took a business card out of my wallet, wrote my unlisted apartment phone number and the number of the RestEasy Motel on the back, handed it to her. "After you speak to him, please give me a call. You should be able to reach me at one of these three numbers; if not, there's an answering service on the office phone."

Mary Tree's hand trembled slightly as she reached out and took the card. She suddenly looked very pale. "You do think somebody killed Michael, don't you?"

"Tell me about last night, Mary. What was that all about?"

Her knuckles were white where they were clasped around her right knee, and her jaw was clenched tightly. She seemed now to be looking past, or through, me, at some private haunt.

"Mary . . . ?"

"If Michael was killed," she said in a low, tense voice, "they did it."

"Who, Mary? The death squad?"

Mary Tree looked away, then abruptly stood and walked across the empty ballroom to the bank of windows at the east end, where she stood stiffly, her arms wrapped around her.

There was still some coffee left in the thermos jug. I poured it into her mug, took it over to her. She glanced down at me, then took the mug in a hand that was still trembling, nodded her thanks.

"Are you afraid, Mary?" I asked quietly.

"No," she replied simply.

"Then what's wrong?"

"I ... I don't want to be like them."

"Like who, Mary?"

She set the mug down on a small window ledge, then turned to face me. "I don't want to be like all the terrible people who've made such a mess of this country, Mongo. I've been accused of so many terrible things. The HUAC, the McCarthy hearings . . . Harry was a communist, and he made no bones about it, but he wouldn't name others he knew were communists. But so many people who weren't communists or subversive in any way had their lives destroyed just because of accusations. I don't want to be one of those people who just make accusations. Also, quite frankly, I don't want you to think I'm a fool or paranoid or both."

"Are you saying you don't really believe there's a death squad in Cairn?"

"I'm saying I don't have any proof."

"And yet, by holding up that sign, you were, in effect, accusing the Vietnam veterans."

"I know," she said in a voice so low I could hardly hear her. "I probably shouldn't have done that. I was just frustrated. Like I said, I don't want you to think I'm paranoid."

"Even paranoids have real enemies, Mary," I said with what I hoped was a disarming smile. I wanted to hear what she had to say. "What were you frustrated about?"

"You have to understand what's been happening in Cairn lately."

"Tell me."

"It used to be a pretty mellow place," she said, and shrugged. "It's always been an 'artsy' community, if you will a" a refuge for artists, actors, and writers, and people who like to be around people like that. Cairn was inexpensive, easygoing. Then word got around in New York City that Cairn was a 'hot suburb.' All of a sudden we had an influx of yuppies, nouveaux riches, and all sorts of people who could never understand what Cairn is really all about. In my opinion, at least, these people began to destroy the very atmosphere that makes this town special."

"People like Elysius Culhane?"

"Yes," she said tersely, anger humming in her voice. She picked up her mug, stared down into its depths as she stirred the cold coffee with her finger, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. "For almost twenty years the Community of Conciliation has tried to reach out to veterans of all wars, and to fighting men everywhere. Some of these soldiers and veterans may hate us, but we don't hate them. They're not the enemy, just more victims, more casualties, of the disease called war. In fact, we've been trying to convince the Russians that they should allow us to set up similar programs there for their Afghan veterans, who are beginning to show the same kinds of severe, post-stress emotional disorders as our Vietnam vets. They don't think much of our setting up shop there."

"I hope that doesn't surprise you."

"Of course not. I never said our government had a monopoly on stupidity."

"What kind of programs are you talking about?"

"We had weekly fellowship meetings, and special counseling sessions led by volunteer therapists from around the county. We had good rapport with the vets, and I like to think we were doing some good for those men. Then Elysius Culhane moved here, and things began to change. I don't have to tell you he's a very powerful man a" and he's a persuasive man, with a devil's tongue. He ingratiated himself with the veterans, primarily by throwing a lot of money around to sponsor events for them. Before long the fellowship meetings had to be canceled, because the veterans stopped coming. The same with the psychological and job counseling sessions. Culhane had convinced them that they were victims, all right a" of, in his words, the left-wing politicians who used them as cannon fodder while they were selling out Vietnam to the communists. You know how that tune goes. He convinced them a" or most of them a" that it was unpatriotic to have anything to do with us, since we'd opposed the war. We oppose all wars. And Culhane hadn't been here more than a month before he got himself an emergency appointment as, of all things, a village trustee. There was a lot more money being spent in politics here, and before you knew it there were right-wing Republicans being elected to positions of power in all the riverfront communities that had once been considered liberal, like Cairn."

It was my turn to shrug. "Things like that happen in a democracy, Mary. It's the great American way."

"Yes, Mongo. But then people started to die."

"What people started to die? Political people? Leftists?"

She shook her head. "No, not yet." She paused, shuddered slightly. "Not unless Michael was a victim, which is what's so frightening. At first it was just a couple of drug dealers and then a vagrant who'd been accused of trying to molest some schoolchildren. All three men were shot in the back of the head."

"What makes you think these killings were the work of a death squad?"

"Because it was after the third death that the threats started coming, and the threats mentioned the execution-style killings."

"You've received threats?"

"Yes. The Community has, by letter and telephone. They say we're communists and deserve to be shot. And there's been repeated vandalism. A number of liberal organizations in the river communities have shut down because of the threats and vandalism. I wouldn't accuse Elysius Culhane of being behind it, because I don't think he's that stupid, but I certainly do accuse him of creating an atmosphere that supports that kind of vigilantism and terror. I've heard him defend and praise the Salvadoran and Guatemalan death squads on a number of occasions."

"So have I, but right-wingers tend to talk like that. Have you reported these threats and the vandalism to the police?"

"Of course." "And?"

"Nothing's happened."

"Do you think the police are choosing to do nothing about it?"

"I'm saying they haven't caught anybody."

"Do you think Chief Mosely is covering up something?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "No, I'm not saying that. But I don't have a lot of faith in his pa.s.sion for pursuit of equal justice for all. Mosely is a lackey of Elysius Culhane. It was Culhane who convinced his fellow town officials that Mosely was the perfect candidate for our chief of police."

"How do you know that?"

"I have a friend who's a village trustee. It's no secret that Dan Mosely was Culhane's choice. It doesn't mean that Mosely would cover up a crime, but I say it does mean that he's very tuned in to Culhane's sensibilities; I just don't believe he'd go out of his way to ease the problems of individuals or groups Culhane disapproves of. He seems a decent enough man, but I'm sure he feels grateful to Culhane for plucking him out of the jungles of New York City and plunking him down here in Cairn, where he can walk out of his office after work and sail off into the sunset on his catamaran."

"I've been waiting for you to mention Gregory Trex. I would think he'd be a prime suspect for threats, vandalism, and membership on a death squad."

"Vandalism and threats, sure," she replied matter-of-factly. "I'm not sure he has enough brains to be on a death squad."

"You don't need a lot of brains to pull a trigger, Mary."

She merely shrugged. "You're right, of course. It's just that I find it hard to get all that mad at Gregory."

"Really?" I said, making no effort to hide my surprise at her reaction a" or lack of it. "That's funny; I didn't have any trouble at all getting mad at him."

"I noticed," she said, and smiled. "But then, you didn't watch him grow up. I've been a member of the Community of Conciliation and lived here in Cairn for more than twenty years. Gregory's very limited, you know. He's the perfect example of the dull little fat boy everybody laughed at and picked on, and who grew up to be town bully. He was in a cla.s.s for the educable r.e.t.a.r.ded in school here, and he spent a year in a psychiatric hospital after he once tried to kill himself. They put him on some medication when he was there, and he seemed to be a lot mellower when he got out. His father's one of the nicest men you'll ever want to meet, and he blames himself for what's happened to Gregory. I don't want to go into a lot of detail, but that family has seen more than its share of tragedy."

"A lot of families have seen more than their share of tragedy. It's not an excuse."

"I know. But it was Culhane who got Gregory all worked up again with this war and patriotism business. Jesus, it was Culhane who suggested to Gregory that the poor boy enlist in the Marines. Can you imagine? He spent a week bragging all over town about what he was going to do before he actually did it. He did manage to get a recruiter to sign him up, but he was back from boot camp in less than two weeks. His story was that he was too good for the Marines, that he was showing everyone else up. He was discharged on a medical, of course. My point is that Gregory Trex is a victim. The real enemy of Gregory, you, me, and all the other people in the world is a man like Elysius Culhane. Men like Culhane can't stand the thought of living in a peaceful world."