An Honorable Man (6 page)

“I understand a bit.”

“What else did they say?”

“They called you a few names.”

On the fourth day Mueller saw the forest-green Buick. He recognized the driver. He was the same man who insulted the cashier. Heavy, thick neck, stubby fingers. Mueller knew what he had to do.

He crossed the street, walked up to the driver, and said something he knew would provoke the man, a little hostile, certainly insulting. Words were exchanged. There was some shoving. A fist thrown. The driver's Russian companions were outside the store in a moment restraining their agitated colleague. Mueller's pint of gin had broken on the sidewalk in his fall, and the Russian
driver bled heavily on the hand where glass had opened a gash. A few townspeople gathered around the scene, but no one had seen what happened, so no one knew if the incident had been the fault of the Russian or of the stranger who'd crossed the street. No one heard what had been said, although the cashier vouched for the stranger. This all happened in the afternoon that day.

The oysterman's cottage Mueller had rented sat two miles outside of Centreville on a cove. He biked back there after the incident. The house was a small, quiet place with a gently sloped roof and a screen porch. Wind, rain, and sun had leached color from the shingle siding and the place fit into the colorless winter landscape. A second nearby building held an old canoe, discarded crab cages, rusted parts of gasoline engines, and an old pickup. Mueller got the cottage for a good off-season price and in the first week he'd found a way to engage his mind with all his free time. He read in the sun, cooked a bit, found time to contemplate the lengthening daylight, and rehearsed the quiet life he planned for himself and his son after he resigned.

He didn't wait long after returning from town that afternoon, and he again set out on his bicycle. He made an incongruous picture—grown man, in office shoes and a car coat, pedaling his rickety bike on the narrow road in blustery weather.

He passed low-lying fields of pussy willows left over from the previous season, and further on he veered left on the dead-end street that ran alongside a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Yellow signs warned trespassers to keep out. The road ended at a locked gate with red plaque adorned with hammer and sickle.

Mueller straddled his bicycle and looked through the iron bars. The land was drained of color and trees were bare in winter undress through the patch of forest. He made out the rose limestone mansion. There was no one to speak with at the gate, no one to engage, and he began to wonder why he'd come. They had to come to him, he reminded himself. This wasn't going to work.

On his bike ride home he saw the green Buick. The car came into view when it swerved around a curve at high speed, straddling both narrow lanes. With a tight grip on the handlebars, Mueller aligned his bike's front wheel along the road's edge. He had no room on his right where the thin strip of shoulder fell into a culvert. He narrowed his eyes on the small world of white paint. He moved deliberately, but not slowly, and he was very aware of the automobile speeding toward him. Mueller thought he'd be safe, so he angled slightly but suddenly, taking up more of the lane. The car swept past. Wind slapped his body, jostled the rickety front wheel, causing him to lose control. The bike jumped the culvert and Mueller was thrown off.

It was a few moments before Mueller was able to put his mind around the fact that he had been run off the road. He was on his back in wet earth. He looked at his hands. One ached, but no blood, just bruises mixed with clay and pebbles embedded in his palm. He moved his neck without feeling pain and then saw his bike. It lay on its side against a boulder that erupted from the side of the ditch. Two spokes had popped from the front rim, bent and unridable. He stood and that's when he knew how badly he was injured. A horrible pain shot up his thigh. A dark wetness
seeped from a tear in his trousers. On the ground there was a pointy stick that had snapped from a sapling.

Mueller limped to his bicycle and he confirmed his initial opinion. It couldn't be ridden. But, in a way, that didn't matter because he didn't think he'd be able to work the pedal with his injured thigh. He'd have to walk the bike to town, and that inconvenience, even more than the injury, irritated him.

“Idiot,” he said, under his breath.

He remembered the cashier's advisory, and Mueller admonished himself for not being more careful, but then dismissed his part in the accident. The car was too big. The road too narrow. Its speed too great. And it had all happened in a split second. The driver, the one he'd had words with, was entirely to blame. “Idiot,” he said.

Mueller had walked a few steps when he saw a small sports car approach from the direction of Centreville. The red convertible slowed and Mueller saw the driver, a young woman in dark glasses and colorful scarf tied under her chin. Her hair whipped behind in the wind. She must see the incongruity of a bicyclist walking his bike, Mueller thought, and he considered whether the two-seater would be able to hold him and the bike. It was getting on to dusk. Better to get a ride and he could always come back for the bike.

Mueller signaled as she passed, and he thought,
No, she isn't going to stop.
He glanced back.
Stop lady. Have a heart.
Surprisingly, he saw her pull over a short ways down the road. Mueller pointed his numb foot in the right direction. He wasn't aware how much he'd bled until he felt the blood slosh in his shoe. His
hand went to his thigh wound and there was a fierce tenderness. He became aware that the young woman was speaking to him in a loud voice, asking a lot of questions, standing there beside him, trying to get his attention. Somewhere in his struggle to provide answers he felt an overwhelming dizziness.

6

BETH ENTERS THE PICTURE

M
UELLER BECAME
aware that he was in an unfamiliar room. His long groggy dream tapered off without an ending and vanished in the lifting fog of a fevered sleep and the bright light that seemed to be everywhere. He blinked. There were only sensations at first. He opened and closed his hand, feeling his fingers. He did not comprehend the large canopy that spread over his bed, or the pillows under his head, or the many shelves of children's books in the room. He became aware he was breathing. Then came the questions, one after the other. Where was he? How did he get here?

He heard a woman's voice outside in the hall. He couldn't see anyone through the half-open door, but there was no mistaking her loud instructions.

“There will be twelve tonight for dinner, Lizzy. I want the linen tablecloth, and the nice glasses, and Mother's silverware.
It's an event and I want it to be festive. Do you think anyone has flowers this time of year? Will you remember it will be twelve? I want the extra place setting in case he is well enough to join.”

Mueller saw a shadow move in the dark hall, and suddenly a young woman came through the door and approached the bed. She wore dark glasses and a soiled work coat over scruffy blue jeans. Her hair was long, whiskey-colored, windblown, and her face was red from sun or cold and streaked with dirt where she'd wiped the back of her gloves. She removed the gloves one finger at a time and gazed at Mueller.

“So, you're alive,” she said.

Mueller nodded.

“How do you feel?”

Mueller had to think. “I'm okay.” His voice was hoarse.

“Better okay than not okay.” She answered the question that she saw in his expression. “This?” she asked, displaying her dirty clothing. “The garden. My father can't plant bulbs, but he tries. Mother always did them. I've redone them. So . . . here you are.” She gazed at him.

Mueller made an effort to smile. “Where is here?” He tried to sit up, but lancing pain made him reach for his leg.

“Yes, you're okay, I see.” She helped him lean against the headboard, tucking a pillow under his head. “This is my father's home. You passed out. Do you remember that? I was asking what happened and you fell over. One minute you were standing there and the next you fell and struck your head. You were quite a mess. The driver of a passing van helped get you in my car. I called the doctor in town. Stitched your leg. Fixed the ugly gash on your head.”

Mueller felt the bandage above his ear. He lifted the comforter and saw cotton gauze wrapping his thigh. A spiderweb of purple colored his skin.

“You'll live,” she said, unsympathetically. “What happened?”

“I was on my bike. A car went by.”

She looked at him skeptically. “A car went by?”

“He tried to drive me off the road.”

“You're very lucky.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

She cocked her head. “Your fairy godmother, it seems. When was the last time you rode a bike?” She put out her hand. “I'm Beth. Is there someone we should call?”

The office? His secretary? “There is no one to call,” he said. “I've rented a cottage.” She was a plain woman with a pretty face and her thick work coat gave her the appearance of wide hips. These observations came to him all at once, as he was trained.

“You're alone?”

“Yes.”

“You're welcome to stay for dinner.” She threw out, “You were talking a lot in your sleep.” She put her hand on his forehead. “You're cool now, but the fever lasted all night.”

Mueller was surprised by the calming touch of her palm on his skin. He wasn't accustomed to kindness from strangers. Cautious. “What did I say?”

“Gobbledygook.” She looked skeptically at him. “You think I'm joking? I couldn't understand a word. I take that back. There was one word. ‘Stop.' You kept saying ‘stop.' There you have it.”

It never occurred to Mueller that he might talk in his sleep.
Stop?

“Your pants and shirt are there. We washed them. And there's your wallet. We put you in my brother's pajamas. I didn't undress you.” She said this in response to nothing. “Lizzy had that pleasure.” She said that without an ounce of irony. “So, you'll join us?”

Mueller nodded. “Yes.” When she was gone Mueller shifted his legs to the side of the bed and tested his footing. He could stand without pain, but his thigh was tender and swollen. He hobbled to his clothes and took his wallet from the back pocket of his pants. Driver's license, State Department ID, insurance card, cash. Nothing missing. Tradecraft had taught him a trick to know if his wallet had been violated. The trick was simple. Place a human hair in a folded note. Imperceptible to the careless meddler, but he would know the note had been read if the hair was missing. He unfolded the paper. The dark strand was gone.

He sat on the chair and considered his situation. What was next? The Russians would show up sooner or later. The police would ask questions, and probably already had, and the lines would begin to converge. Someone had washed his clothing and mended the tear in his trousers. He went through contortions to place his left leg inside the trousers, grabbing the end of the bed when he wasn't able to balance on one foot.

At the window, he pulled aside the drawn curtain and looked out onto a wide lawn of spring snow melting under the furious heat of a noon sun. Farther along a small dock jutted into the bay. He leaned forward against the glass and saw a gravel driveway that curved around the front of the house. A black Cadillac was parked there and a silver-haired man in a European suit stepped out onto the driveway and greeted Beth. They hugged. Mueller
was surprised at the emotion on display. He leaned into the window and saw she was crying. He had an odd sensation in the moment. Curious and impatient, those opposite feelings existing in him at the same time.

His thoughts turned to the green Buick that had run him off the road. He would have to deal with that. And then he thought again about his restless night and his fevered talking. He felt his face. It was shaved, but he hadn't done it. Beth came to mind.

An hour later. He was at the front door of the house about to step into the bright day, when he heard a woman scream.

“You don't want to do that!”

A stout, jolly maid came out of a dark hallway waving her arms in the air. “You stay in the house, Mr. Mueller.”

His name.
They had looked
. He smiled and nodded. “I'm just getting some fresh air.”

“The air is fresh in here too. We don't have stale air inside this house. We don't want you falling down those steps.”

“I'm fine with walking.”

“You're good with biking too, I'm told. You don't know how lucky you was. She was so upset. You was in a fever, talking and going on and on. She was up all night. Worried sick. I don't want you go down those steps and fall on your damn fool head.”

  •  •  •  

Dinner. Mueller sat at one end of the long table between two talky, well-dressed women, but he was silent and could have been sitting by himself. He was the outsider among the lively guests who whispered to each other or debated loudly. Mueller looked
at his plate, picked at his entrée, and rubbed his thigh, which throbbed in sympathy with his boredom.

The table was festively set with flowers, wineglasses, bone china, silverware, and serviette rings empty of their cotton napkins. A huge crystal chandelier hung over the table, bathing the twelve guests in warm, flickering light. Two loud ones at the end of the table talked over each other, voices emphatically rising to argue a political point about totalitarianism. The hideous din gave Mueller a headache. He listened, smiled if smiled at, said little.

A stylish older woman in turquoise shawl and strapless gown glanced at Mueller twice before she leaned toward him, eyeing him intently. “You're awfully quiet.”

“Listening,” he said.

“Oh.” She continued to look at him, waiting.

“He's the one I found on the road,” Beth said.

Mueller felt like some kind of charity case.