“It’s not her choice, damn it!” His eyes flick around the interior of the cabin. “God, I wish I had a bottle.” He paces over to the fireplace and pokes the logs, sending a storm of sparks up the chimney. “You don’t want me as a witness, Cage.”

“Why not?”

“I’m damaged goods.”

“Because of your drinking?”

“Drinking isn’t one problem. It’s a whole constellation.”

“Why were you fired five years after the Payton murder? It wasn’t for drinking.”

He stirs the fire some more. “No. Though I was drinking like a fish at the time. When Hoover cut the deal with Marston, I couldn’t believe it. I don’t know why. I’d seen him do it enough times before. But usually it was cases that were dirty all the way around. This murder had a real victim. An innocent victim. And the Korea angle really weighed on me. I started drinking to forget about it. Things were turning to shit in the Bureau. Hoover was using us to harass antiwar protesters, all kinds of unconstitutional stuff. Then we got Nixon. Parts of the Bureau started to function like the goddamn KGB. It made me sick. The booze made it tolerable. For a while, anyway. It also made me impossible to live with. I drove my wife and baby away. I screwed up a dozen different ways. Then I topped them all. You’ll get a kick out of this, because it involves your friend Marston.”

“What?”

“In 1972 I was in Washington, doing some shit work Nixon had requested from Hoover. Something too boring for Liddy and his plumbers. I was walking through the lobby of the Watergate office complex, and there, bigger than life, stood Leo Marston. He was in town lobbying John Stennis for something or other. I was soused when I saw him, and I snapped. The Payton thing had been eating at me for four years. When Marston saw me, that smug bastard tried to make out like we were buddies from way back, in on the big joke. The dead nigger. I straightened him out quick. And everybody in the Watergate lobby heard me. Marston lost it. He took a swing at me, and I pulled my gun.”

I almost laugh, remembering the way I snapped and went after Marston yesterday.

“Henry Bookbinder had been outside parking the car,” Stone recalls. “He ran in and backed me down. Nobody died, but Marston screamed blue murder to Hoover. One of Hoover’s last acts before he died in seventy-two was firing me. I guess that’s a distinction of sorts.”

“Where was Portman then?”

Stone goes still, the poker hovering above the crackling logs. “Climbing the Bureau ladder. I didn’t tell you everything before. When Hoover took over the Payton case, I started making copies of my case notes. I also copied the audiotape that incriminated Marston.”