Word of Honor by Nelson DeMille Page B

angry. I don't mean that in a judgmental sense. I mean it in a practical sense. How did you keep it to yourself and not tell anyone? Did you tell anyone?"
    "No.-
    She nodded and said, "You never even hinted at it . . . ... She thought a moment, then added, "You were blocking. You totally blocked it."
    "Psychobabble. " Tyson tossed the towel in the hamper. "I never blocked it.
    I just chose not to discuss it. Unlike many people, I don't have to pour my guts out and reveal my personal history to casual acquaintances or even to friends. Or even to you." He turned and walked into the adjoining dressing room, closing the door behind him.
    He opened his closet and scanned his suits without really noticing them. It occurred to him that Marcy was going to be his toughest critic, but also his most honest one. He should listen to what she was saying so he could know what others were thinking. "Day two," he said aloud. "Each day brings forth something new. "

    Ben Tyson pulled his yellow Volvo into the drive
    leading to the

CHAPTER Garden City Hotel and
joined a line of slow
    moving cars waiting to
    be parked. He moved
    the car up a few feet.
    Directly in front of him
    was a Cadillac lim
    ousine. In his rearview
    7 mirror he saw the
    grillwork of a Rolls.
    He said, "Let's buy a new car. Something decidedly dec adent. "
    She shook her head. "in your present situation, a new tie would look flagrant. Low profile, Ben. That's the word of the week." She added, "Also, your job may be a little shaky. "
    Tyson nodded. Nevertheless, he thought, the old battered Volvo needed replacing. But now, nearly two weeks after that Tuesday morning, even the most mundane and personal decisions had to be scrutinized with one eye on appearances.

    52

    WORD OF HONOR 0 53

    Tyson moved the car up another few feet and looked out toward the hotel.
    The nine-story building sat in the center of the suburban village, surrounded by ten acres of landscaped park. It was a new building, vaguely Georgian in style and topped by a reproduction of the cupola that had crowned the old Garden City Hotel. The setting sun blazed in red reflection from the windows, and Tyson squinted. He imagined the redbrick Georgian structure that had stood there when he was growing up. The May evening recalled to him his senior prom in the Regency Room. He remembered the annual cotillion, the weddings and celebrations, including his parents'
    twenty-fifth anniversary party in the Hunt Room. It was, he reflected, a privileged childhood and adolescence, a very good time. A time of hope, a time before the war and the turbulence had changed him; had changed everyone. Such had been the years of his growing up in the fifties and early sixties. He said, almost to himself, "Enjoy it while you can."
    "What?"
    "Life. Dance and be merry."
    She glanced at him and said thoughtfully, "Philosophical musings don't become you. "
    "Perhaps. I was just trying to put my petty problems in perspective. That is still the word of this week, by the way.
    "Glad to hear it."
    "Also, the last refuge of a troubled spirit is religion. I'm going to pay a call on Reverend Symes."
    She thought a moment, then said, "Why not? That's better than talking to your wife. And he can't testify against you either. Which reminds me, you never told me what Phil Sloan said."
    "Why should I? I know by something you let slip that you spoke to him yourself. Privileged conversations, indeed. I'll give old Symes a shot at being discreet."
    Marcy didn't reply.
    Tyson expanded on his earlier subject. "But life is good. At least for us.
    There's no war, depression, famine, hunger, or civil strife."
    "Not in Garden City, also known as the Garden of Eden. This place is zoned against reality."
    Tyson exhaled a long breath. Subconsciously, he thought, 54 0 NELSON DEMILLE

    he must have precipitated this conversation about Garden City-Marcy's favorite subject-in order to take his mind off other things. Marcy was a product of Manhattan's Upper West