Free Torch Song by Kate Wilhelm Page A

doesn’t even have time to talk to me.”
    They both turned to look when a car pulled into the driveway. Constance was back. She got out of the Volvo, carrying a cardboard tray with three styrofoam containers.
    â€œCoffee,” she said. “We may have a little wait.” She sat in the backseat and they drank the coffee. In twenty minutes, a car pulled in, then a second one. They went out to meet the feds.
    Six men emerged from the two cars; five of them were nameless, and they went straight to the cabin and entered, carrying little satchels, cases of various sorts. They looked like a flock of doctors making a house call on a head of state. The sixth man introduced himself. “Robert Chelsky,” he said. He looked as if he belonged out on a whaler, as if he had spent most of his years at sea, where the salt spray and wind had chiseled his face down to the bare essentials and colored him red. He took their statements, made notes, and then snapped his notebook shut.
    â€œWe’ll know more what to ask after we’ve gone over the cabin,” he said with a heavy New England accent. He studied Charlie. “Eisenbeis has been out for over a year. Took you a while to get interested in tracking him down.”
    â€œI’ve been out of touch,” Charlie said. “Just found out recently.”
    â€œUm, All right. Mr. Breckinridge, I reckon you’ll want to stay and cover up those windows. Maybe we can turn on some heat in the cabin and talk a little. Mr., Mrs. Meiklejohn, if you want to leave, there’s no reason not to. Long drive back down to your place. Appreciate it if you keep this quiet for now.”
    â€œTrust me; we will keep it very quiet,” Charlie said gravely. He shook Breckinridge’s hand, pitying the wretched man even more than he had before. He suspected that Chelsky would find out when he lost his first baby tooth before this night was over.
    In the car, Constance asked, “Do you think he knows about the ATF investigation?”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œWill the FBI tell Pulaski about this?”
    He laughed. “Does the dog tell the cat?” He patted her leg. “Want to make a note of some dates before I forget them?” They both knew he would forget nothing of what Breckinridge had said, but she got out her notebook and he filled her in.
    She studied the dates thoughtfully. “He proposed in September of 1991. December twelfth, Pete showed up at her house. On December twentieth, Breckinridge showed up. She agreed to resume their relationship on her terms and has had access to his cabin ever since. You don’t think Pete’s been there all that time, do you? With Breckinridge there one night a month, too?”
    â€œMaybe he hid under the bed,” Charlie said. Now, he thought, the big guns would go after Marla’s contacts, her clients; there would be a list. He began to ponder the problem of how he could get his hands on it.
    â€œI bet he hasn’t been there at all,” Constance said after a long pause. “Until last night, anyway. It’s too far from Marla’s place, and there’s no telephone in the cabin. He certainly wouldn’t have gone into town to use a phone, too public.”
    And they are in touch, Charlie finished silently for her. He said, “You know, it really doesn’t take both of us. We could take turns staying home, tending the fire.” This time, she patted his leg.
    That night, holding a book that she was not reading, Constance worried. Had the trap at the cabin been step three? First the threatening note, then the tip to the ATF, next an explosion and fire, possibly another death. If Breckinridge had gotten there first, he would have been killed; Charlie would have been found on the scene of another fire with another body. Step three? But there had been no guarantee that Breckinridge would open that door. It might have been her, or Charlie, who… She shivered.