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house directly opposite, another observer
     
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watched Toby drive away. With angry curiosity he studied Pat as shestood in the doorway. His hands were thrust into the pockets of hisskimpy overcoat. White cotton pants, white socks and white rubber-soles blended into the snow that was banked against the house. Hisbony wrists tightened as he closed his fingers into fists, and tensionrippled through the muscles in his arms. He was a tall, gaunt manwith a stiff, tense stance and a habit of holding his head unnaturallyback. His hair, a silvery gray that seemed incongruous over a peculiarlyunlined face, was combed forward over his forehead.She was here. He had seen her unloading her car last night. Inspite of his warnings, she was going ahead with that program. Thatwas the Senator ’s car, and those boxes probably had some kind ofrecords in them. And she was going to stay in that house.The memory of that long-ago morning sprang into his mind: theman lying on his back, wedged between the coffee table and sofa; thewoman’s eyes, staring, unfocused; the little girl’s hair matted withdried blood . . .He stood there silently, long after Pat had closed the door, as if hewere unable to tear himself away.Pat was in the kitchen broiling a chop when the phone began toring. She didn’t expect to hear from Sam but . . . With a quick smileshe reached for the receiver. “Hello.”A whisper. “Patricia Traymore.”“Yes. Who is this?” But she knew that syrupy, whispering voice.“Did you get my letter?”She tried to make her voice calm and coaxing. “I don’t know whyyou’re upset. Tell me about it.”“Forget your program on the Senator, Miss Traymore. I don’t wantto punish you. Don’t make me do it. But you must remember theLord said, ‘Whoever harms one of these my little ones, better amillstone be put around his neck and he be drowned in the depth ofthe sea.’”The connection went dead.
     
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5
     
     
     
It was only a crank call—some wacko who probably thought womenbelonged in the kitchen, not in public office. Pat recalled the characterin New York who used to parade on Fifth Avenue with signs quotingScripture about women’s duty to obey their husbands. He had beenharmless. So was this caller. She wouldn’t believe it was anythingmore than that.She brought a tray into the library and ate dinner while she sortedout Abigail’s records. Her admiration for the Senator increased withevery line she read. Abigail Jennings had meant it when she said shewas married to her job. Her constituents are her family, Pat thought.Pat had an appointment with Pelham at the network in the morning.At midnight she went to bed. The master bedroom suite of the houseconsisted of a large bedroom, a dressing room and bath. TheChippendale furniture with its delicate inlays of fruitwood had beeneasy to place. It was obvious that it had been purchased for this house.The highboy fitted between the closets; the mirrored dresser belongedin the alcove, the bed with its elaborately carved headboard on thelong wall facing the windows.Veronica had sent a new spring and mattress, and the bed feltwonderfully comfortable. But the trips to the basement to clean thefiling cabinets had taken their toll on her leg. The familiar naggingpain was more acute than usual, and even though she was very tiredit was hard to fall asleep. Think about something pleasant, she toldherself as she stirred restlessly and turned on her side. Then in thedark she smiled wryly. She’d think about Sam.
     
The offices and studio of the Potomac Cable Network were justoff Farragut Square. As she went in, Pat remembered what the newsdirector at the Boston station had told her: “There’s no question you
     
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should take the job, Pat. Working for Luther Pelham is a once-in-a-lifetime break. When he left CBS for Potomac, it was the biggestupset in the industry.”At the lunch with Luther in Boston, she’d been astonished at thefrank stares of everyone in