Windmills of the Gods

He sat there admiring Mary. I’ll make it up to her, he thought. I’ll surprise her this summer with a trip to Paris and London. Maybe Remania. We’ll have a real honeymoon. “Any regrets?” he asked her.

Of course there were regrets. But they were castle-in-Spain regrets about the kind of glamorous, impossible dreams that everyone has. Mary smiled. “None, darling. It was a fluke that they even asked me.” She took Edward’s hand in hers. “I’m glad I refused the offer.”

Edward leaned across the table and kissed his wife. “I love you so much, Mary.”

“I love you twice as much, darling.”

AT THREE o’clock in the morning, when Edward and Mary were fast asleep, the phone exploded into sound. Edward sleepily reached for the instrument and brought it to his ear. “Hello.-. .

A woman’s urgent voice said, “Dr. Ashley?”

“Yes?”

“Pete Grimes is havin’ a heart attack. He’s in pain somethin’ awful. I think he’s dyin’. I don’t know what to do.”

Edward sat up in bed, trying to blink the sleep away. “Don’t do anything. ]Keep him still. I’ll be there in half an hour.” He slid out of bed and sewed to dress.

“Edward, whays wrong?” Mary mumbled.

“Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Five minutes later Edward was on his way to the Grimes farm. It was a cold and raw morning, with a northwesterly wind driving the temperature well below zero. He turned the car onto Route j18, the two-lane highway that went through junction City. The town was asleep, its houses huddled against the bitter, frigid wind.

When Edward came to the end of Sixth Street, he made the turn that took him onto Route 57-How many times had he driven over this. road on hot summer days, with the sweet smell of corn and prairie hay in the air? And how many winters had he driven on this road through a frosted landscape, with power lines delicately laced with ice, and lonely smoke from far-off chimneys?

Edward thought of Mary lying in their warm bed waiting for him. He was so lucky. I’ll make everything up to her, he promised himself

Ahead, at the junction of Highways 57 and 77, was a stop sign. Edward came to a halt and looked up and down the deserted road. As he started into the intersection a truck appeared out of nowhere. He heard a sudden roar, and his car was pinned by two bright headlights racing toward him. He caught a glimpse of the giant five-ton army truck bearing down on him, and the last sound he heard was his own voice screaming.

IN NEUILLY church bells pealed out across the quiet noon air. The gendarmes guarding Marin Groza’s villa had no reason to pay attention to the dusty Renault sedan that was cruising by. Angel drove slowly, although not slowly enough to arouse suspicion, taking everything in. There were two guards in front, a high wall, probably electrified, and inside” of course, would be the usual electronic nonsense of beams, sensors, and alarms. It would take an army to storm the villa. But I don’t need an army, Angel thought. Only my genius. Marin Groza is a dead man. If only my mother were alive to see how rich I have become. ow happy it would have made her.

In Argentina podr families were very poor indeed, and Angel’s mother had been of the poorest. Through the years Angel had watched friends and relatives die of hunger and sickness. Death was a way of life, and Angel thought philosophically, Since it is going to happen anyway, why not make a profit from it? In the beginning there were those who doubted Angel’s lethal talents, but people who tried to put roadblocks in the way had a habit of disappearing. Angel’s reputation as an assassin grew. I have never failed, Angel thought. I am Angel. The Angel of Death.

Chapter Five

THE snow-covered Kansas highway was ablaze with flashing red lights that turned the frosty air blood red. In the center of a circle of vehicles, ringed by headlights, sat the five-ton M871 army tractor-trailer, and partially beneath it, Edward Ashley’s crumpled car. A dozen police officers and firemen were milling around, trying to keep warm in the predawn freeze. In the middle of the highway, covered by a tarpaulin, was a body.

A sheriffs car skidded to a stop, and Mary Ashley ran out of it. She was trembling so hard that she could barely stand. Sheriff Monster grabbed her arm. “I wouldn’t look at him if I were you, Mrs. Ashley.”

“Let go of me!” She was screaming. She shook loose from his grasp and started toward the tarpaulin.

“Please, Mrs. Ashley. You don’t want to see what he looks like.” He caught her as she fainted.

She woke up in the back seat of Sheriff Monster’s car. He was sitting in the front seat watching her. The heater was on, and the car was stifling. Mary stared out the window at all the flashing red lights,and thought, It’s a scene from hell. In spite of the heat, her teeth were chattering. “How did-How did it h-happen?”

“He ran the stop sign. An army truck was comin’ along Seventyseven and tried to avoid im, but your husband drove right out in front of him.”

She closed her eyes and saw the truck bearing down on Edward and felt his panic. All she could say was, “Edward was a c-careful driver. He would never run a stop sign.”

The sheriff said sympathetically, “Mrs. Ashley, we have eyewitnesses. A priest and two nuns, and a Colonel Jenkins from ,Fort Riley. They all said your husband ran the stop sign.”

Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion. Finally, she watched as Edward’s body was lifted into the ambulance.

Sheriff Monster said, “They returned him to the morgue. I’d best get you back home. What’s the name of your family doctor?”