"I can't tell you anything," he said, trying to make it tight-lipped. "I've got to go. I'm sorry."
"Will I ever see you again?"
"Maybe. But probably not. Where I'm going . . . probably not."
He went to the door. She rushed after him and gave him a final kiss, hard and desperate. He left her there clinging to the door, playing the role of the abandoned femme fatale.
Kinsman loped past a row of phones in the hotel lobby and grabbed the last remaining taxi standing at the curb. As it growled and rattled out into the sparse nighttime traffic he gave the black driver the McGraths' address in Georgetown.
Mary-Ellen let him into the apartment, a puzzled look on her face. "Chet, you look as if you're ready to take on the entire Sioux nation. What's the matter?"
"Where's Neal?"
She led him back to the parlor where the party had been. No one was there now except the two of them. The big room was filled with sofas and wingback chairs, the empty fireplace, mirrors, paintings, lamps, bookcases, end tables, the big circular Persian etched brass hanging between the French windows, a hundred pieces of bric-a-brac acquired over the years of their marriage.
"NeaFs out," Mary-Ellen said. "He won't be back for a few days."
Kinsman looked at her. "The committee hearings are still running,"
"He hasn't left town," she said, weariness in her voice. "He's just . . . not here."
"He's with Diane."
She nodded.
"And you're letting him do it?"
"Do you know any way I can stop him from doing it?"
"I'd think it would be pretty easy for you, if you wanted him to stop."
She dropped into the sofa nearest the dead, dark fire- place. "Chet, nothing is easy."
"Do you love him?" he asked, sitting down beside her.
"Do I breathe?"
"Hey, I'm the one who's supposed to give flip answers to hide his feelings."
