Free Conscience of the Beagle by Patricia Anthony Page B

felt coming home day after day, listening to your crap?”
    Arne’s pallid skin has grown so pink that I have to drop my eyes.
    Szabo lurches forward. He towers over the seated Arne. “It was always, ‘They’re after me, Tommy,’ ‘They have something against me, Tommy.’ If you cared, you would have kept your mouth shut. Maybe you would have noticed that I had problems, too. Well, I came to grips with what was bothering me, Milos, and I had to do it alone. I didn’t leave because they busted you. Face it. I left because I couldn’t stand living with you anymore.”
    A raw silence. Then Arne says, “Fuck you,” in a tiny, tiny voice.
    Szabo’s anger is spent. He shakes his head. Walks toward the window and gazes out.
    Louder, but not by much: “Fuck you.” Tears swim in Arne’s eyes. He lunges to his feet and slams out the door.
    Beagle strolls over to Szabo’s station. He says, “Um. The search stopped. Looks like we found us a house.”
    At the window, Szabo turns. “Sorry for losing my temper.”
    “Forget it,” I tell him.
    “No. It was unprofessional. I’m sorry.”
    “It happens. No problem. Forget it.” I hope he’ll shut up. It was me who was unprofessional. Accusing Beagle. Raising my voice.
    “It was the endwrapping,” Szabo says. “It still bothers me. You saw what happened at the bombing site. But for a while it was like I couldn’t put the job down. Not ever. It was with me when I went to sleep. When I ate. I felt like it was on my hands and I couldn’t wash it off.”
    Murder lingers in the mind — gummy as the smell of blood. Does Szabo think just because I’m not psychic I can ignore that?
    I walk over to him. “Look. You don’t have to explain. Just start getting your stuff together. I want out of here.” I grab his arm.
    He jerks away. “Don’t touch me!”
    Beagle looks up from the screen.
    Szabo’s blue eyes are wide. Frightened and angry all at the same time. His voice is a terrifying whisper. “I can feel your fear all the time, Major. It wakes me up at night. I could sense it in the ship and it felt like you were screaming. God. The only time I felt fear like that was when I touched the hand of a schizophrenic.”
    A syllable of surprise drops from my mouth. I back up so quickly I nearly trip over my own feet.
    “No wonder HF wants me to keep an eye on you. I see the reason for it now. You’re the weak link. You’ll end up getting us all killed. You know that?”
    Beagle says, “That’s enough.”
    My God. Szabo’s the spy. And HF thinks I’m crazy.
    “You can’t keep the team together.” Szabo’s cheeks, his bald head, are crimson. “Shit. You can’t even keep yourself together.”
    Szabo. I never really thought it would be Szabo.
    Beagle, too calmly: “That’s enough, Szabo. You’ve said enough.”
    But it has to be Beagle, too. They’ve planned this. They’ve plotted against me.
    “Beagle!” I can’t look at either one of them. “Get your goddamned suitcase packed. Szabo. Get the address of that house. I want us out of this hotel in ten minutes.” And I hurry out the door without bothering to see if they obey.

I‘M PACKING when a change in the room’s light makes me turn. Vanderslice is standing in my Wall. He’s stopped at an outside pay phone. Behind him is a thicket of saplings. And in the distance, a park. Children are playing there.
    His smile is charming and bewildered. “Why do you want to leave the hotel?”
    The muscles in my back knot. High-pitched laughter from the receiver makes me flinch. Dots of color move across a green field: children chasing a ball.
    “Major? I have good reason to suspect you’re in danger.”
    Vanderslice is too hard to look at. I watch the park, instead. There’s something else there, taller than the children. And still. Rounded shape. A rabbit. A bot rabbit with a waistcoat and top hat.
    “You went to the south side last night and spoke to Paulie’s widow.” Vanderslice’s face is friendly,