Over his right shoulder Merrion saw a robed figure come out of the shadows into the dim light at the front of the kitchen. It was a woman. He could not make out her features but could see that her hair was blonde and that the robe was too big for her. She went to the refrigerator and opened it, taking out a quart carton of milk. She put it on the counter and opened the cupboard above it, removing a glass.
She poured the glass half full. She put the carton back into the refrigerator and closed it. She picked up the glass and turned toward the glass door, advancing into the soft light so he could see her clearly, looking straight into his eyes. Then Mercy Hilliard smiled comp licitly at her ex-husband's best friend, so that he could not help but smile back. Then she raised her milk in a silent toast before giving him a small fluttery wave and disappearing back into the shadows.
Hilliard, still looking down on his hands folded in his lap, said: "All Bob knew on Friday was that he couldn't see how the heck they could do anything to either of us on campaign funds or anything else. I haven't run now for over ten years. The federal statute of limitations is five. So I said: "Well, then there's nothing to get, and they've got their heads up their asses. I have to be in the clear."
"And he said, "Well, that's what you'd like to think, naturally, and not knowing exactly what their approach is, that is of course what you would think. But this's no ghost-image we're looking at here, something that will just go away. It's too substantial to be a mirage; the rumbling's just too distinct. It must be that they think they've found a way, to get around the time problem. Now our job's to find out just what that way is, and find a way to block them if we can. I'm on the case; I am actively on it. By Monday I should know what it is that they're after. Have Merrion come in to see me then, late in the afternoon. Then I'll be back to you."
Hilliard looked up. "And that's really all that I know, Amby," he said earnestly. "I know you don't like Bob, but at least after you see him, you'll probably know what it is we have to contend with. And that will be before I do." Then he registered Merrion's expression of beguiled surprise. He spun in his chair and looked back into the kitchen, now unoccupied once more. He turned back and looked at Merrion. "What's with you?" he said. "Are you all right?"
Realizing he'd been holding his breath, Merrion exhaled heavily and smiled at Hilliard. "I think I am," he said. "I'm still worried, of course, but for now that's secondary. You said something about ghosts just then: I could swear I just saw one right there in your kitchen.
Has to be since it was the spitting image of your ex-wife, and I know she's on Martha's Vineyard so that couldn't be." Hilliard's face reddened. "Barged in on reunion night, did I?" Merrion said, grinning now. "Little duet of "Auld Lang Sync," I take it?"
Hilliard squirmed in the chair. He found his practiced sheepish grin and turned it on. "I've discovered that I may be getting old, Amby," he said. "And this world isn't getting any warmer. I find I still need all the friends I can get, even if only occasionally."
Merrion finished his drink and stood up. "Can't argue with you there, pal," he said. "Can't argue with you there at all."
Leaving his house late in the morning of the third Sunday in August, Merrion was mildly pleased to register another day of sunshine. He began to feel actual cheer. The change surprised him; he'd been resigned to plodding through the day as best he could, resisting anxiety. He went to the grey and white house with the pale yellow front door on Pynchon Hill where Diane Fox had lived with Walter amid much laughter and not just when they had friends over for dinner, either, although there had been a lot of that.
Merrion had always liked Walter Fox, 'always' having commenced in 1972 when he had first begun to get to know the red-haired ruddy-faced man with the bristling red handlebar mustache. Succeeding to the seat Larry Lane had occupied and left to him along with his ownership interest in the Fourmen's Realty Trust he found he had inherited Walter Fox along with the wealth. Fox's place had belonged io his late grandfather, Phil, who had died in '68.
The trust had been set up in September of 1956. The original investors were Charles Spring, Roy Carnes, Larry Lane and Finnis D.L. "Fiddle'
