Chapter 12: Saints & Sinners

A couple of Denver things were bothering me. Cayuse and I were sidelined, out of it. We couldn’t even reconnoiter, explore the area.

And, I found myself itching to stay proficient with my weapons. I’d never practiced drawing my Peacemaker without firing it too. My grandfather Clive had told me, “It should be one smooth motion. Physically and mentally. You don’t want to clear leather and then have to start thinking about pulling the trigger.”

But now, back in our bedroom ... well, I worried that I was actually slowing down since I couldn’t complete the action and fire the handgun.

Plus, I was starting to second-guess our plan, our strategy with Quinn. Was it too complex, too cute? Had I been too impressed with the Gilmore Girls’ sophisticated thinking in Helena? Had I latched onto a long-shot scheme merely because I’d promised myself to try new things, to take different approaches?

Then I remember Captain McIntyre’s pre-battle advice to his troops, “We have a plan; Something will go wrong, it almost always does. Execute until we have to adapt. Don’t hesitate at the beginning, and don’t hesitate to change on the fly.”

In any case, I ended up asked everyone if our plan, our scheme, was too complicated.

Molly grinned and said, “Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble.”

Riles laughed, “Macbeth.”

Well, everything will play out, one way or another.

Molly rushed in, a little breathless, “It worked! Quinn bit!”

I said, “He sent a telegram?”

She thrust a copy toward me, “Yes, to Laramie.” Everyone crowded round to see.

I read it, and stood there stunned. “Santa Claus.”

Riles looked at me sharply, “You actually know the man?”

“No, not personally, but I know who he is. Everyone in Laramie does.”

Things had been moving slow. Or maybe because I hadn’t been directly involved, it just felt that way. Now, suddenly, with Molly’s news, I could feel some acceleration, like a train gathering speed as it left the station.

Back in Helena, Rebecca had reminded me about the EagleLeague’s involvement with Western Union. Around the same time, Riles had warned against putting all of our focus on Quinn.

Those two conversations — a reminder and a caution — gradually led to a plan. A three-part plan.

Autry wrote his letter to Chief Colfax.

At Molly’s urging, Colfax agreed to casually mention to Quinn that I was in pursuit of an EagleLeague leader. That a man named Allan J. Varner had been shot and was now talking while he recuperated in jail.

The third part of our bet was that if Quinn was partnering with, or reporting to someone else, he would send a warning telegram.

Sure enough.

One of Colfax’s sergeants had made arrangements, quiet arrangements with Western Union, to see anything Quinn sent out and received during the next few days.

It was a short message from Quinn: “V. talked. F. M. after us. Q.”

Molly said, “Chief Colfax was really stunned. He simply couldn’t believe that Quinn was bent.”

Riles, “Will he act normal when he sees Quinn again?”

“Yes. And he has a good poker face, doesn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve.”

Emma, “Like Georgie.”

Molly, “Flint, I promised the chief that we’d fill him in when we had any news.”

I said, “Fair enough.”

Riles, “Now who is Santa Claus?”

Emma checked the train schedules — I would leave in an hour for Cheyenne and then connect up there for the ride west to Laramie.

A distant memory had been eluding me for a few minutes, then it popped into my mind. A few weeks earlier, Mrs. Chambers had told me about the rumor that one of her newest whores — Cherry Pie — had passed along. Laramie gossips were talking about the Eagle Force seeking vengeance on me.

And now, Quinn’s telegram to Laramie.

Molly left for Western Union to send a wire to Captain Roger McIntyre at Fort Laramie: “Arrive on 3:10 from Cheyenne. Old uniform?” The signature was ‘Scarface’.

Riles said, “He’ll know it’s you?”

“Yes, he was with me when I bought Scarface. He’ll remember because he asked the Hoskins family how he got those scars.”

“How did he? I never thought to ask.”

“A young punk, didn’t much know how to ride, kept getting thrown. It infuriated him and he took his quirt to Scarface, trying to blind him.”

“My God.”

“An old bird name of Jason Fant drew iron and shot the bastard. Killed him.”

They were silent; that was a tough one to digest. You shouldn’t beat a poor horse, but...

Emma said, “Scarface sounds like Smokey Lonesome. What is wrong with people these days?”

No one had an answer to that one.

Riles said, “And this Captain McIntyre will just leave the fort to meet you in Laramie?”

“If he can. He knows that I’m working — that we’re working — on the EagleLeague. And that they recruit from the Army. Like Fitzhugh and Fitzroy.”

“What if he can’t get away?”

Emma said, “And the Army uniform?”

“He’ll send someone with a uniform. And it’ll be one that fits me well enough.”

Riles, “Okay. So, Santa Claus?”

“His name is Augustus McGrady. He’s a legend in Laramie. Opens his house, his mansion, every Christmas Eve. Gives a one-dollar gold coin to every kid who shows up. White, colored, Indian, even Chinese. Hundreds of kids. The Laramie Daily Boomerang covers the story every year.”

“And this paragon of virtue is in the EagleLeague.”

Molly said, “Yet another saint.”

Rosie looked puzzled.

Riles said, “St. Nicholas.”

Emma muttered, “Fucker.”

Rebecca packed a small bag for me; I planned to spend only one night in Laramie. Of course, plans...

Rosie said, “I put in some sandwiches too.”

“Thank you.”

Emma said, “At least there aren’t any EagleLeague women waiting for you in Laramie.” She looked around the room and smiled, “I have it on good authority that if you’re captured alive, the women warriors get to eat your testicles.”

Rebecca and Rosie gasped.

I crossed my legs.

Riles winked at me, “Now, don’t let Aunt Em get to you.”

Still...

Then it was time to leave. I looked at Cayuse. He nodded; he’d stay alert all night, no need for us to even discuss it.

We shook hands, and I said, “You’re a major. Congratulations, sir.”

Roger McIntyre had aged, was grayer. Although the man was hard to keep in scale. He was of average size, but had always seemed like a much larger man. And not just to me; most of the soldiers felt he was bigger than they were.

He shrugged, “They’re getting ready to close Fort Laramie and I’m getting ready to retire. Now tell me about your mission, Troop. Before we get home.”

He’d brought a mount for me and we rode slowly north from the train station. I filled him in on the developments since Cayuse and I had killed Fitzhugh and Fitzroy outside of Billings. Told him about Allan J. Varner in Helena and Padraig Xavier Quinn in Denver. And the telegram that Quinn had sent to Augustus McGrady.

He listened like he always did, intently and without interrupting. Then said, “I brought a uniform that should fit well enough. And I’ll buy you a padlock.”

“Padlock?”

“I’m familiar with McGrady’s property. There’s a storm cellar with hinged doors leading down.”

“Ah. Thank you, sir.”

“Listen, Flint. McGrady has a houseman, Hamish Flockhart. I suppose he’s mostly a bodyguard. And don’t underestimate him. He’s Scottish and you know my feelings about them.”

I smiled, “The Scots-Irish are the best fighting men in America.”

“You remembered. Now Flockhart isn’t that big, but he’s quick. Supposedly very quick.”

“Good to know. Say, will you miss it, sir? Soldiering?”

“In a way; it was my whole career, you know. But the times have changed; I guess they always do.”

He looked off into the distance, “Now, I can still captain when the occasion arises. The men still turn to me with questions, needs, and wants. They still seek direction in all things, big and small.”

He gave me a wry smile, “Not many big things these days.”

I had known Captain McIntyre was married, but had never met his wife. She lived off post, and he was a private man. The house was a modest size, but well maintained. Everything in its place.

I shook hands with Reba, who was redheaded with deep laugh lines around her mouth. She nudged her husband, “You’re right, he has some size to him.”

She was the kind of relaxed person who made those around her comfortable. We visited before dinner; the talking was light and easy. Until I turned it serious. “What’s your take on Captain Richard Comba, sir?”

The Fort Laramie commanding officer during my stint there. He kept sending patrols out — on reckless missions in my opinion — while Captain McIntyre did everything he could to keep his men alive.

Reba stifled a laugh.

Captain McIntyre — no, Major McIntyre — spoke solemnly, “There is a period in which I owe my silence. It’s not eternal. It’s not going to be forever.”

Reba kissed her husband on the cheek and turned to me, “Rog and nine other officers will be testifying in Washington D. C. On the role of leadership in today’s Army. At the personal invitation of President Cleveland.”

He shook his head, “Politics. Let’s eat.”

I planned to leave for McGrady’s place around 9 at night. It had already turned full dark hours earlier, but I wanted the neighborhood to be quiet, free from foot traffic.

Reba said, “Don’t worry, Troop, I won’t inquire about your secret mission.”

I glanced at Major McIntyre and said, “Sometimes I have doubts about this. Am I really doing the right thing?”

“Remember, the best soldiers have no imagination. They see their duty and perform it to their highest standards.”

Reba smiled at him, “But those without imagination don’t make the best men.”

He smiled back; this was obviously a long-running topic with them.

Changing the subject, she patted her husband’s arm, “This lout says you’re okay. Is it true you actually know how to read?”

Ah, just like the Gilmore Girls, Reba was putting a guest at ease with some gentle chivvying. She poured me another cup of coffee. “You probably are wondering about my accent. Boston. I met Rog when he was on leave from the Point. Something about a uniform must have gotten to me.”

Major McIntyre, said, “Good reminder, hon.” He brought a Cavalry uniform into the kitchen, “You can change in the guest bedroom.”

It was time.

As I left, carrying my overnight bag and my scattergun, Reba said, “He’ll never tell you himself, but they’re bumping him up to Lieutenant Colonel, right before he calls it a day. And we’re moving back to Boston when he testifies in Washington. It’s time.”

I looked at him, and he smiled, “We’ve lived my life; now we’ll lead a Boston life.” He shrugged, “Whatever that entails.”

I shook hands with her, thanking her for the beef stew and the hospitality. I wondered if I’d ever see Major McIntyre again. Colonel McIntyre. I hoped so. I respected him; and liked him.

It was what they called a ‘rustler’s moon’ — barely one-quarter full. Any larger and it would be too bright to steal livestock and horses. Any less — the thieves couldn’t see six feet in front of them. Rustler’s moon.

As I headed to McGrady’s house, I found myself — wearing the uniform once again — in military step. Marching to a standard Cavalry cadence. And, I could almost hear the old verse:

We’ll break windows, we’ll break doors,

the watch knock down by threes and fours,

then let the doctors work their cures,

and tinker up our bruises...

McGrady’s property took up an entire block. The four yards were enclosed by a black wrought iron fence about six feet tall. But it was mainly decorative — the entry gate wasn’t even locked.

The veranda had a gaslight on each side of the front door, but they weren’t lit. However, there were lanterns on in the back of the house and I knocked loudly.

It took a couple of minutes, then the front door opened a crack. I could see part of a thin, sinewy man dressed in a black suit. He looked steadily at me, at my uniform.

“Yeth, thir?”

Major McIntyre had told me about Hamish Flockhart, but hadn’t mentioned the severe lisp. Flockhart didn’t look like someone who would lisp.

I held up a thick envelope with a red wax seal, “A letter of commendation from Major Roger McIntyre of Fort Laramie. He’s retiring later this year and is presenting the Army’s formal acknowledgement of gratitude to Laramie’s leading citizen.”

Was I laying it on too thick? I had read about some wag back East who once said, “Too much flattery is just right.”

Flockhart held out his hand, “I’ll thee that he retheives it. Thank you.”

“Sorry sir, but my orders are to hand-deliver it, and secure a recipient-signature in return.”

He frowned, “Wait here.”

My scattergun, pointed down, was ready to fire, both barrels. I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that. But was prepared to do whatever it took. I knew my duty ... whether I had much imagination or not.

Two minutes, three.

I was betting that he would tell McGrady that a soldier was wanting to see him. Even if he mentioned my size, the uniform might be enough to get me inside the door.

Flockhart returned holding a Colt Peacemaker, just like the one I owned, in his right hand. “We maintain tight security here.”

“Of course, sir.”

The front room was unlit, the long hallway was dark, but I could still make out oil paintings — portraits of old men. McGrady’s ancestors, I assumed. Flockhart motioned for me to proceed in front of him, “He ith in hith office.”

August McGrady, a tiny man, was seated, in lamplight, in front of a massive rolltop desk. He leaped up when he saw me, “It’s him, you fool!”

I pivoted full circle on my right foot and swung my scattergun sideways as viciously as I could. It sliced through the air, directly into Flockhart’s neck. It thudded into him, making a sickening sound — both squishy and crunchy. He collapsed on his back, his head smashing into the hardwood floor. I spun back to McGrady, both barrels pointed at his chest, hammers already cocked.

He was staring down as Flockhart turned purple, his heels kicking up and down on the floor. He clutched both hands to his throat as he strangled to death, his windpipe crushed. I used my foot to slide the Peacemaker behind me.

McGrady, eyes bulging, was panting now, struggling to catch his own breath as he gaped at the lifeless form of his bodyguard.

By the time Flockhart had died, died in horrible pain, he had soiled himself. McGrady seemed to be going into shock. Fine.

I brought a long, thick rag out of my pocket and gagged him tightly. Then I used the four lengths of rope that Major McIntyre had given me, and tied him securely to his chair. He could rock from side to side and perhaps tip it over, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

I headed back to the front veranda and quick-walked around the house. I moved as stealthily as I could, and didn’t see anyone out and about. It was a cold February night and I was pretty sure no one was watching. Back inside, I hustled up the central stairway to the second floor and checked every room, every closet, to make sure no one else was in the house.

Next, I went back down and walked from room to room, carefully closing all of the heavy drapes.

In the office, McGrady was still staring at Flockhart, seemingly unaware of the stench.

I spoke quietly, “Fitzhugh and Fitzroy are dead. Venerable is in a Cleveland jail cell waiting to be execiuted. Varner is in a Helena cell, missing one arm and maimed for life. Harmon is dead, Olbaum is dead, Richardson is in jail.”

McGrady slowly shifted his eyes up to look at me. I couldn’t read anything into his expression — not fear, not remorse, not anger.

“Padraig Xavier Quinn is a dead man; he just doesn’t know it yet. So are you.”

I let that sink in; no response.

“You can die fast or you can die hard. But you are going to tell me everything I want to know about the EagleLeague.”

He just looked calmly at me. I wasn’t sure how far I would go with him. How far I could go. I knew that when I reminded myself of the Gilmore Girls and the Robinsons, it would fire me up. But the simple truth was — I was no torturer.

I started by changing clothes, taking off the Cavalry uniform. I would leave it on Major McIntyre’s back porch on my way back to the train station.

Time to search the house. I’d never done this before, but my instincts told me to concentrate on the bedroom and bathroom. The two most private, most personal rooms in any home.

Well, so much for my instincts. Nothing.

I went back to the office and started going through every drawer in McGrady’s desk. Slowly and carefully. Overall, I would also search every room, open every book, check behind each oil painting. I’d tap the walls, listening for a hidden compartment. But I was no detective. I’d find what I could, and leave well before the sun came up.

All in all, I searched that house, that mansion, for almost seven hours. And ended up with nothing more than I’d found in the first desk drawer I’d opened.

I hadn’t discovered a safe, nor a cache of one-dollar gold coins. Hadn’t expect to either. The last Christmas I’d spent in Laramie, the Laramie Boomerang covered McGrady’s annual gift-giving to the kids. It described how three armed guards from the Wyoming National Bank of Laramie accompanied the bank’s owner, Edward Ivinson, to deliver ‘an unspecified number of gold coins to the McGrady mansion’.

The article quoted Mr. Ivinson, “We may have to use silver next Christmas. One-dollar gold coins are becoming harder to find.”

So, no treasure trove. I had, however, uncovered a sheaf of telegram copies — to and from Quinn, Varner, Marina Cravens, Venerable. Useless in a court of law because of the way I’d obtained them. I tucked them in my overnight case — so far as I could determine, some of the wires contained the only mention of me in the entire house. I did learn that it was McGrady himself who had originally recruited Fitzhugh and Fitzroy. Just a sad footnote at this point, but I’d let Major McIntyre know.

Nevertheless, the wires confirmed that Augustus McGrady was in the middle of the EagleLeague’s western operation. More than in the middle — he was the head of their westward expansion.

There were also two wires from McGrady back to Philadelphia, to someone named Roland Perelman. Never heard of him, but I’d keep the name in mind in case some officials ever investigated the origins of the EagleLeague.

McGrady had refused to say a word the entire time I searched the house. He just sat there, staring off into space.

I stepped behind him and put one hand under his chin and covered his forehead with the other. I leaned over to look at him, “Want to tell me about the EagleLeague?” He gazed back, no expression on his face. I jerked his head back and to the right, and broke his neck. There was no death-rattle like with Flockhart; just a sharp sound, like the snapping of a small twig.

On the train back to Cheyenne, I reviewed my steps. I’d taken the gag and the four pieces of rope with me. I’d get rid of them during one of the stopovers.

I had grabbed Hamish Flockhart by the ankles and dragged his smelly body out the back door and down the steps of the storm cellar. I laid him on his back on the dirt floor that was half-covered with rat droppings. Next, Augustus McGrady, who was as light as a child.

I rubbed some dirt on the padlock so it wouldn’t look new, then placed it through the hasp. It should keep out any curious kids. I also used a tree branch to brush the ground and cover any drag marks in the ground.

I slowly went through every room in the house one last time. Didn’t see that I’d left any traces of myself. I then walked through the dark night and placed the carefully folded Cavalry uniform inside Major McIntyre’s back porch. One final military act.

As I walked toward the depot, I looked back and saw a downstairs lamp come on. Major McIntyre, just checking that I’d made it.

With luck, it would be several days, maybe even weeks, before the bodies were discovered.

On the train from Cheyenne, I again marveled at how the railroad had changed the West. A trip that would have taken me days was now only a few hours. I don’t know that the transcontinental railway had made our country smaller — as some said — but it sure made travel a lot easier.

Back in our rented house in Denver, no one asked me any questions about my trip up to Wyoming. I would have told them the truth — they deserved to know — but I was glad that we simply left it that ‘the Laramie situation had been resolved’.

Quinn went into hiding. Well, Chief Colfax was pretty sure he was in Atonement House, but the man had cancelled all of his appointments, didn’t go out on the town, didn’t guest-preach at any of Denver’s many churches.

When we were back in Helena, back when Mrs. Chambers had first told us about Padraig Xavier Quinn, we had decided to postpone our San Francisco trip yet again. And to go take a look at the man.

Well, here we were in Denver and that man had vanished. Yet none of us really wanted to head back out on our interrupted journey. With Quinn unaccounted for ... well, there was a sense that we had one last task left to accomplish.

Late one night, Chief Charles Colfax himself showed up at our little house. He wasn’t wearing his uniform and he had knocked on the back door. A large man, robust, about 40 or so. I’d seen his type a couple of times in the Cavalry; he had what some called a command presence. An impressive man.

Of course he knew nothing about my Laramie excursion. When and if word reached Denver about Augustus McGrady, Colfax might have his suspicions since Quinn had sent that telegram to Laramie. But unless I’d missed something at McGrady’s house, there shouldn’t be any link to me.

Molly introduced him around and Riles said, “We do thank you, Chief, for having that talk with Quinn.”

“I was wrong about him, dead wrong. He had me fooled. Hell, he had all of Denver fooled.”

Emma smiled and patted the back of his hand, “It takes a big man to admit a small mistake, Charlie.”

He looked at her sharply; obviously he wasn’t used to being addressed so informally.

I said, “Any idea where Quinn is?”

“No, not if he’s not at Atonement House. And I don’t have any legal justification for searching there. Not on the basis of one vaguely worded telegram.” He glanced at Molly, “I’m still monitoring Western Union though. No more wires, in or out, to or from Quinn.”

I said, “I heard he takes the waters in Glenwood Springs.”

Colfax nodded, “Yes, yes he does. Or did.”

Molly said, “Is it a spiritual thing? Or for his health?”

He shook his head, “Everything I thought I knew about the man is upended. I don’t even know if he’s a genuine abbot like he claims.”

Riles said, “What are those vapor caves like?”

“I only went once ... the Mrs ... well, I only went the one time.” He shook his head again, “Those mineral waters taste like ... taste terrible, I don’t care how healthy they’re supposed to be.”

Emma, “I like a man who knows what he likes. And what he doesn’t.”

“Well, those vapor caves are popular. A lot of Denver folks go there right regular. Especially now that the D&RG beat out the Colorado Midland Railroad and was the first to reach Glenwood Springs.”

Molly, “D&RG?”

The Gilmore Girls liked to know things.

“Denver & Rio Grande Railway.”

“Oh, of course.”

I said, “I plan to go out there, look around.”

Colfax shrugged, “Free country. Glenwood is about 180, 200 miles west, but it’s an easy trip now with the railroad.”

“So Atonement House and the vapor caves. Anywhere else?”

Colfax looked down at the floor, “I admit I was embarrassed to be so wrong about Quinn.”

Emma placed a palm on his knee, “Aw.”

“So one Sunday morning, I spent a couple of hours in the Swamp.”

Molly said, “The swamp?”

He smiled at her, “What do you know about police work, Molly?”

She started to answer, then stopped for a moment. “Actually, very little, I suppose. We make an annual contribution to the Policemen’s Benevolent Fund back in Indianapolis. But really, I suppose I’m like most civilians, I don’t know much about the inner workings of the department. Just newspaper stories. And gossip, that’s about it.”

“Interesting you mentioned newspaper articles. We started clipping and filing them. I took a refresher course up in Chicago a few years back. Picked up the habit from the Pinkerton’s.”

Emma said, “Who had the foresight to hire the first ever female detective. Do keep than in mind, Charlie.”

He laughed, “Yes, ma’am. Anyway, police work. There’s what goes on in public — warrants served, newspaper coverage, court rulings, like that. Now for every suspect there’s a range of actions we could take. From arrest and conviction to no charges being filed.”

Molly nodded; she was interested, so was I.

“But there’s also a ... a half-world. A world where individual policemen make small decisions on a daily basis. In Denver we call it street justice.”

Emma patted his knee again, “Do tell.”

“It could be charges that were never filed. An arrest never made because of lack of evidence. Or sometimes the person who filed a complaint withdraws it.”

Riles said, “An example?”

“Okay. Two men have a few too many whiskeys in Costello’s Italian Saloon. The have words, one shoves the other, fists start flying. One of the bartenders gets the beat cop to break it up. Both men want to file charges against the other one.”

“I see.”

“Now a smart cop, an experienced one, will pretend to get angry, threaten to arrest both of them for disturbing the peace. That usually sobers them up a little. Gets them thinking about a boss or a wife and kids. What will they think? So the cop agrees to let them go, sends them off in opposite directions. Saves the booking sergeant some trouble, saves the judge some time.”

Riles said, “Street justice.” She was thinking of the beatings we’d given Eugene’s mother and uncle. Our own kind of street justice, I guess.

“Denver style. We have a saying that comes true too often — ‘the cop proposes and the judge disposes’. But I imagine every major city does something similar to our street justice. In any event, this cop, this smart cop, this experienced cop, knows enough to write the Costello incident up. Just in case one of the troublemakers changes his mind and hires a lawyer.”

Emma muttered, “Too many lawyers out there.”

“Amen to that. And that report goes into the Swamp. It’s just a dusty storage room full of cartons. And the cartons are filled with files that say, ‘Charges Dropped’ or ‘Agreed to Make Restitution’ or ‘Refused to Press Charges’.”

I saw where this was going, “And you looked through the Swamp for something on Quinn.”

“Yes. Not a file, not a paragraph, not a single sentence.”

So, Atonement House or Glenwood Springs.

Colfax stood to leave and Emma stood too, “I’ll see you out, Chuck.”

She came back in a few minutes later with a bemused look on her face.

Introspection, I think that’s the right word for looking back on your actions. Thinking about them.

I had never hit a woman in my life; never even considered the possibility. Yet I had punched Stumpy, then Patcheye, hard enough to knock them out. Later, I asked my mother about it.

“Flint, would you do the same thing again? In the same circumstances?”

“Yeah ... I guess so.”

“Then it was the right thing to do.”

Dispatching Hamish Flockhart didn’t bother me in the least. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have left that house in Laramie alive.

He may well have been quick, as Major McIntyre warned me, but he was caught flatfooted between August McGrady’s screech and my whipsaw scattergun.

On the other hand, did I think about what I had done to McGrady himself? The coldblooded killing of a frail old man tied to a chair? Of course. Did I agonize over it? No, not all that much anyway. Would I do it again? Well, that one, I’d have to think about.

I could rationalize it of course. McGrady had told Quinn to send Varner to kill me. And if I had left McGrady alive...

Still, snapping a helpless old man’s neck...

I pondered on why he hadn’t reacted when I put my hands on both sides of his head. He just looked back at me calmly. The only conclusion I could reach was that he had known — at some level — that he was a dead man the instant I walked into his office.

I did wonder about one thing, though. When I was wearing that Cavalry uniform, and found myself marching in cadence toward McGrady ... well, was I subconsciously trying to transform my deadly personal errand into a sanctioned military operation?