9cb261f7cd45f33ca37c87fa6590aac1

He was sincere. No matter what he thought of the party in question, he would take every possible step to safeguard him. The Bureau would expect no less. An agent must never per­mit his personal feelings to influence him in his relationships with people, which he guessed included cats since all cat lovers took the cats’ point of view that they were people.

She experienced a warm glow. Just talking with Zeke Kelso was as comforting as stepping into the sun on a day when golden aspen leaves were falling. He was totally unlike Greg. He moved and talked slower, as if he had no place to go and was in no rush to get there. And still, he gave an im­pression of quiet determination and singleness of purpose that would carry him plodding over any mountain.

Dropping to the bed, she rubbed D.C.‘s ears. He looked up at her with adoration, and twisted his head about so he could lick her wrist. This was his girl. He hadn’t reared her, as he had Inky and Mike, but he was just as fond of her. When the others forgot, she remembered his dinner. And she was quieter. In times of stress he could climb into her lap and be assured of a haven where he could rest body and mind.

“I won’t be home until about eleven,” she said, “but Inky and Mike will be here, and if there’s anything you want they’ll take care of it. You’ll find them very dependable.”

He thanked her, and watched as her trim, sharply deline­ated figure glided out the door and turned left.

In the dining room she stopped before the mirror above the chest for one final check. She had had only one slice of meat for lunch, and some unborn peas, which her Uncle Bob would have said were a great waste of pea potential. And she swore they showed in a neat little pad on her right hip. She remem­bered then to get two frozen dinners out of the deep freeze for Mike and Ingrid. Zeke had had dinner, so he said, prior to arriving.

In the living room she stopped very still on discovering Inky crying, then dropped quickly beside her on the divan, taking her into her arms. On the record player in the far cor ner “The Unfinished Symphony” was approaching its con­clusion.

“Hon, what in the world?” Patti asked.

“It’s so beautiful,” Inky managed to say. “So beautiful.”

Patti stood up quickly, letting Inky drop. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ingrid Randall, act your age. Why do you play it if you know you’re going to cry?”

“I felt like crying. I just felt like it – and it’s so beautiful I can’t help it.”

Honestly, that kid. Her record collection included Bee­thoven, Bob Newhart, Wagner, Pat Boone, Verdi, Ella Fitz­gerald, Julie London, Debussy.

Inky continued, “I guess I’m going to have to go to the dance with Eddie. I thought sure Tommy was going to ask me. His sister said he was but I can’t wait much longer. Oh, sis, why can’t a girl ask a boy? Why must it always be the boy?”

“It’s man’s last stand in a changing world. Something like Custer’s.”

She was about to leave when she remembered how shat­tering these crises could be. Turning back, she said, “Look, hon, sometimes a real sensitive guy has a hard time getting up enough courage to invite a girl. Why don’t you ask him casually if you’re going to see him at the dance? You know, be subtle in a sledge hammer sort of way.”

Ingrid’s tears vanished. Going out the door, Patti said, “See you about eleven. Take good care of the FBI agent. I’m not sure he’s safe around D.C.” As she closed the door, she added, “Or you either.”

She hurried down the path to the sidewalk, conscious that Mrs. Macdougall was watering the roses again. No wonder they didn’t bloom. They were always going under for the third time. Patti called out hello, and Mrs. Macdougall nod­ded in a robot kind of manner. She hadn’t smiled in a quarter of a century and had no intention of shattering precedent. She said something that Patti didn’t hear. Overhead there was the roar of sound chasing jets around.

Passing under the apricot tree, a blackened skeleton limned against the soft evening sky, Patti felt the pull of sadness. That tree had helped to rear Inky and Mike. Her mother had trained it for its mission when it was a sapling by snipping its main stalk, so it would branch out low from the ground and be a good “climbing tree.” Every few years, in successive turns, they had shinnied up it to hide in its foliage, and sit very still, and watch the world pass by on the sidewalk beneath. They had hissed catlike at unsuspecting dogs, and barked at cats, and surprised hand-in-hand couples by shouting their names loudly. That tree was a part of her past, and now, like almost everything in her past, was going. It was a part, too, of the house, shading it in the summer, and in the winter dropping its leaves to let the sunshine in. Without the tree the house would look like a plucked chicken.

That blasted Blitzy, she thought.