Chapter Fifteen My Name Is Caleb Graham
In which the whole truth finally comes out, and is not refused
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While Calie kept her lonely vigil at the window, Graham was crossing the city as fast as an experienced driver dared take him.
About the time their car turned onto the avenue, two heavyset policemen wandered with elaborate casualness into the quiet square fronting the Director's house — nothing in their unhurried pace suggesting they'd been dispatched there within minutes of the Director's own call to headquarters, the moment he'd hung up with Graham.
They strolled past the house, exchanged a greeting, circled the small park across the street, and vanished around the corner — apparently gone for good, as far as the three men seated on a nearby bench could tell.
Those three had no way of knowing the exact hidden posts the officers had actually taken up, and when a car finally rounded into view, the three rose from their bench and melted, with practiced stealth, into the shrubbery along the walk, entirely unaware that every movement was already being watched.
Graham sprang from the car and took the front steps in a single bound, the door opening before him as though he'd been expected to the minute.
Two grim, apparently indifferent policemen stood posted outside like carved stone, while up the street came the measured clop of two mounted officers, drawing to a halt directly in front of the house.
The three men in the bushes reached for their concealed weapons and might have bolted, had there been anywhere left to bolt to — turning, they found three more officers closing the gap behind them.
One shot rang out as a single desperate man tried to break for freedom and failed, taken into custody with his gun arm hanging useless at his side.
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Inside, Graham laid the recovered cipher before the Director and stood silent while the older man read it through, his weathered face growing graver with each line.
It was only as he stood waiting that the full weight of what came next settled over him.
He'll want an account of the delay. A full day late — how do I explain that without explaining her?
His chest tightened with sudden, cold panic.
What right had he to speak of a marriage that might, in the end, prove to be no marriage at all — not until he'd told her everything and heard, from her own lips, what she wished to do about it?
Whatever came of it, he understood already that the greatest joy of his life had found him in that church, however it had happened.
He could not assume she would feel the same.
And whatever her answer, he owed her the protection of her own good name — which meant, if she ever chose to let the marriage stand, that not one living soul beyond the two of them could ever know how strangely it had come about.
Even confiding in a chief he trusted completely would be, he understood now, a kind of betrayal of her.
That story belonged to her to release, not to him.
He would hold his silence until he'd spoken with her and knew her mind.
The Director looked up at last.
"Could you make sense of this?"
"Yes, sir, at once. I was half afraid my own face would give away that I understood it before I could get clear of the table."
"Then you understand exactly what you've saved this country, and what this Service owes you."
Graham flushed, looking down. "Thank you, sir. I only hoped I wouldn't fail the errand."
"Any reason to think you were followed, beyond what you saw at our own station?"
"Yes, sir. I'm certain of it from New York onward. One of the men at Halifax's table watched me leave, though I believe the disguise held him off the scent. Then there was a man in Pittsburgh — Balder, I believe you'd know the name?"
"Pittsburgh!"
"Yes, sir — I imagine you're wondering how I ended up there at all.
" Graham gave the account as plainly and briefly as he could manage: the shadowing detective in New York, the improvised detour through a delayed Chicago-bound train, the walk cross-country to catch a different line entirely, the sudden appearance of Balder at the Pittsburgh station, the rigged cab with its jammed doors and armed passenger, the narrow escape behind a lumber truck as a freight train passed.
"I'm afraid I'll be suspicious of every closed cab I ever climb into again, sir, and I believe I have good reason to be.
If I hadn't gotten that door open when I did, you'd never have heard from me or the message again.
I made East Liberty just ahead of them and caught the first train out — a special, as it happened, packed with convention delegates, which seems to have thrown off whatever men were watching for me here in Washington.
They'd gone across the street for breakfast, expecting me on the regular train instead.
Missed me by half a minute, best I can tell.
" He drew a slow breath. "That's the whole of it, sir, or near enough. "
Something suspiciously bright flickered in the old Director's eyes as he reached out and shook Graham's hand hard. All he said aloud was, "And I'll wager you haven't slept a full night since you left this office."
"No, sir. Day coach seat, shared with a stranger, and rather a lot on my mind besides."
"Of course, of course." The Director cleared his throat gruffly, plainly moved beneath the bluster.
"This won't be forgotten by this Department, young man.
Go home. Sleep. Take the whole day if you need it, and come back tomorrow morning to give me the rest in writing.
Anything more I need right now, for the record? "
"I don't believe so, sir. I wrote out a list of the men at that dinner last night, when I couldn't sleep — and some of what was said, enough to show how deep this thing runs. I wouldn't have understood half of it if I hadn't already read the message myself."
"Mm. If there'd been more time before you left, I might have briefed you properly. But it seemed better that you walk in there not knowing what you carried — a man who doesn't know he's sitting on dynamite doesn't sweat over it."
"I understand now why you planned it that way, sir. It was — remarkable, honestly. You had accounted for nearly everything."
"Pah. Go home and sleep." The Director rang a small bell, and an aide appeared. "Jessup — is the street clear?"
"Yes, sir. There was some trouble in the park a few minutes ago — shots fired, three men taken into custody. Officers are standing by to see the gentleman home safely."
"Get along home, Graham, and don't show your face at the office before ten tomorrow. Come straight to my private room when you do."
Graham thanked him and left, trailed by the gray-haired aide, mildly startled to find a full police escort waiting outside — one officer riding ahead of his car, another behind, the whole way home.
He was deeply relieved not to have been pressed for the full story just yet.
His whole heart now strained toward one thing only: getting back to Calie, and telling her everything — though he dreaded that conversation more than anything he had ever faced in his life.
He rode home with his face in his hands, seeing nothing but her tear-bright eyes, remembering nothing but the particular way she'd laughed under the willow tree in Milton. Will I ever see that little town again?
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Calie's nerves had worn thinner with every slow, crawling half hour that passed without him. Then, at last, two mounted policemen came riding fast down the street ahead of a car — and in the car, unmistakably, the man she'd been watching for.
She had no attention left for the two men who'd been lurking across the street all morning, and when she did think to look for them, she caught only a glimpse of their backs, running hard in the opposite direction, waving frantically for a passing car to stop.
She watched from the window as Graham climbed out and disappeared into the building below, watched the car pull away and the mounted officers take up posts at either corner, heard the elevator clang into motion, heard it stop at her floor, heard footsteps in the hall and a key turning in the latch.
She turned to face the door, both hands clasped tight at her throat, her eyes a confusion of relief and fear and something else entirely.
"I've been so frightened for you," she said, her voice breaking on the last word as she took one small step toward him. "I'm so glad you've come back."
He let his hat fall wherever it landed and crossed the room to her, something bright and unguarded breaking open across his tired face, arms already reaching for hers.
"Did you," he asked, almost afraid to hope it, "did you actually care what happened to me?"
"Yes." A small sob caught in her throat even as her eyes shone. "I couldn't help it."
His arms came around her then, hungry and careful all at once — holding the shape of an embrace without quite closing it, as though he meant it more as blessing than claim.
1 John 4:18 rose in him, plain and true: "There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.
" Looking down into her upturned face, he murmured, "I want so badly to hold you close and kiss you right now. "
She looked up at him, breath held, and thought she understood him completely. "I trust you," she whispered, lashes falling.
"Not yet," he said gently, and set her instead into the great leather chair with a tenderness that felt, to her, almost like reverence. "Not until you know everything."
"Then tell me quickly," she said, fear rising cold and sudden through her whole body. She pressed a hand flat over her heart as though to hold its racing still.
He drew the leather couch opposite her chair and sat, head bowed, unable at first to meet her eyes.
She waited.
At last he lifted his head, and something in his face, when their eyes finally met, was tender enough to steady her.