William McGivern - The Seven File

Duke had been eight when she died, and he had carried her picture for more than thirty years, hiding it from everyone else, guarding this relic of her with sullen, passionate jealousy. What did that tell you about him? Nothing...

There was no way to know — no way to guess at what this shyly smiling woman had meant to him, or what her death had destroyed in him. Had he tried to revenge himself on the world for taking her from him?

Guessing was futile. What had the Inspector said? Someone might understand him. Someone with perfect understanding. Staring at the picture, he remembered what an army chaplain had once said to him: “I believe in hell, certainly. But if you were to ask me if anyone is in hell — well, I might give you an argument. Who am I to put a limit on God’s mercy?”

The phone began to ring then, and the sound was clear and welcome in the silent house. He turned toward it, a smile touching his lips. She had said she would call...

He stared around the room, seeing the firelight on the smooth pine flooring, hearing the wind pressing against the windowpanes. The phone called to him again, and he let the faded snapshot slip from his hand into the fire. He didn’t wait to see the flames take it. This was the closing of a door, the final goody-bye. He went quickly to the phone and lifted the receiver. His movements were sure and confident, and a smile came on his face as he heard her voice.