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“Well, gee, Ed.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’ve got to check in now and deliver the news.”
“It’s being delivered in D.C. right now,” Rawls said, “so it won’t come as a surprise to them at the White House.”
Holly was President of the United States and found she had some business in the Northeast for the past few days.
She went to the hidden office that Stone’s cousin, Dick Stone, had built for himself to stay in touch with CIA headquarters. Holly had had her own computer installation hooked up. She sent messages to all who needed to hear about the weather in Maine.
2
At lunchtime,the weather was unchanged. Ed Rawls was pressed into staying for some lobster stew, and they all sat down at thedining table.
“I like to brag on the weather to those from away,” Rawls said, “but they’re never going to believe this.”
The doorbell rang, making them all jump. Stone, clutching his napkin, got up and went to answer it. A man in the usual yellow oilskins stood there, identifiable only by his campaign-style, flat-brimmed hat. “Good afternoon, Stone,” said Sergeant Young of the Maine State Police.
“That’s an outright lie,” Stone said. “Come in and get dry.” He pointed at the pegs where the sergeant’s gear should bestowed. “We’ve got a big pot of lobster stew,” he said. “Can I tempt you?”
“You can,” the sergeant said, hanging up his oilskins and sitting down at the table.
“I think you know everybody.”
The sergeant nodded at everyone.
“I’ve heard bad news from the ferry,” Stone said. “Got an ID yet?”
The sergeant reached into his jacket pocket, produced a wallet, laid it on the table, and opened it. Everybody at the table recognized the CIA credentials. Everybody stopped eating.
“Name of John Collins,” the sergeant said. “Anybody know him?”
Heads were shaken.
“Anybody heard of him?”
“Give me a minute.” Holly set down her spoon, picked up the wallet, and went to the concealed office and her computer. Inside, she dialed a number.
“Lance Cabot.”
“It’s Holly.”
“I thought you would have drowned by now.”
“Near enough. Do you know one of your people named John Collins?”
“Perhaps,” Lance said.
“Is he supposed to be in Maine?”
Lance was quiet for a long moment. “How bad?”
“Fatal.”
“Means?”
“Two to the head. Happened on the ferry, which hasn’t run since last night.”
