Full Circle Read Online Free Page A

saw the Molotov cocktail coming through the window. Correct?”
    “It was a reflex. Someone was outside, cutting the screen in the bathroom window. It was dark. When I saw the bottle framed in the window—the wick, flaming—I pulled the trigger automatically. From fifteen feet the shot pattern was probably twelve inches across. I couldn’t miss.”
    “How’d you feel, watching Willis Dodge burn to death?” It was a casual question, a matter of academic interest, nothing more.
    “I have nightmares.” As again, his inner voice kicked in: Not that it’s any concern of yours, you bloated bureaucrat.
    “Hmmm—yes.” It was a perfunctory expression of bogus sympathy followed by a short, speculative silence. This, Bernhardt suspected, was the carefully calculated pause that preceded the final thrust.
    “So,” Haigh said, speaking with an air of finality, as if he were about to finish the business between them, “what you’ve got here is a pretty clear choice, Mr. Bernhardt. You can either tell us where to find Betty Giles, in which case you’re off the hook, or else you can elect to stonewall us. If you decide to stonewall, in the belief that you’re protecting Betty Giles, then I have no choice but to contact the United States Attorney. I’ll ask him to prepare two charges against you—one for illegal possession of an outlawed firearm, and one for conspiracy to commit murder. The latter charge would include the murder of Nick Ames and the attempted murder of Betty Giles.”
    “You’re joking.”
    “Oh, no. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that, Mr. Bernhardt. I promise you that you’ll be indicted. Whether or not we have a winnable case, that’s a matter of conjecture. The point is, though, that you’ll go bankrupt long before the trial starts. We took the liberty of running a credit check on you. And it looks like you have a total net worth of about forty thousand dollars. Meaning that, even if the case is thrown out of court, you’ll have long since gone broke.”
    “You must want Betty Giles very badly.”
    Haigh nodded. “Very.”

THREE
    “S O WHAT’D YOU SAY ? ” Paula demanded. “What’d you do ?”
    “I stalled. I told them I’d need time to talk to my lawyer. They bought it. I’ve got until tomorrow. At least.”
    “Jesus, the FBI—our tax dollars at work.” She lifted her glass of white wine, drank, returned the empty glass to the table. Sitting across from her, Bernhardt smiled. Only when she was agitated did Paula gulp her wine. Otherwise, she sipped. He caught the waiter’s eye, signaled for a second glass for each of them, red for him, white for her. At seven-fifteen they’d gotten the last table at Bernardo’s, their favorite spot for Italian food. The pasta was made fresh daily, the house wine came from gallon jugs, and the prices came from another era. The waiters at Bernardo’s wasted no time in pleasantries, a nostalgic evocation of Bernhardt’s past life in New York.
    “I think,” Paula said, “that it’s time you told me the whole story.”
    The waiter set the fresh glasses of wine before them. Then, frowning, he stood with pencil poised over a pad, ready to take their orders. As she talked to the waiter, discussing the scampi, Paula’s face was in profile. It was a multifaceted profile, one of the most compelling Bernhardt had ever seen. It was all there in her face: humor, intelligence, curiosity, even a certain restlessness that could turn reckless. God, had it only been four months since they’d met? He’d been conducting a read-through for The Buried Child , at the Howell. Because it was the first read-through, a get-acquainted session, he’d sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, facing the dozen-odd hopefuls sitting in the first two rows. He’d talked about himself, described what he’d done in the theater—and what he hadn’t done. Since one of the things he hadn’t done was support himself by acting, or directing, or playwriting in