O'Farrell's Law (37 page)

“I don't understand,” O'Farrell said, confused.

Petty gestured toward his deputy. “He warned me it wouldn't sound right if I did it this way. But I didn't want to make it seem like a condition. I thought you'd agree, you see. Then it would have come out altogether differently. Now it won't; no way.”

“I really don't understand a word you're saying,” O'Farrell protested, bewildered.

Petty selected one of the carved-bowl pipes tidily racked on his desk, lighted up, and emitted thunderclouds of smoke. O'Farrell thought what a useful ploy it was for delaying a discussion. The pipe going, Petty said, “There is no other way of saying it, except straight out.”

“I'd like that,” O'Farrell said.

It wasn't, however, Petty who began. From his window-sill perch Erickson said, “There's been a big personnel review at Langley, covering all the departments.…”

“Including ours …” Petty said, on cue. “There's going to be a lot of changes: dead wood cut away, a lot of reshuffling.…”

“And you feature on the list.…” Erickson said.

The speed of his being dumped surprised O'Farrell. He knew that it was to be expected, because of his refusal, but he'd imagined there would be some cosmetic interim period, a week or two before the hidden privileges began to be stripped away. He tried to think of something to say but couldn't.

“High on more than one list,” Petty said. “For all our secrecy and deniability, there's a lot of respect for you … a lot of respect.”

It sounded just like the enforced-retirement speech O'Farrell suspected it to be: before presenting the much-deserved gold watch, the managing director talked at length of dedication and loyalty over many years.… The difference here was that the speech was in stereo, from two speakers. And there wasn't going to be any gold watch. Feeling he should contribute something, O'Farrell said, “That's nice to know.”

“Which is going to be recognized …” Erickson announced. The man's swinging heel scuffed another black smear among all the others, a shape vaguely resembling a question mark.

“How'd you feel about working here?” Petty asked. “Permanently here, I mean. With Don and me.”

O'Farrell looked from one man to the other, his initial, irrational thought how unusual it was to hear Petty refer to the other man by his Christian name. Frowning, he said, “But I
do
work with you both.”

Petty smiled. “Ever wonder why Chris Winton was never replaced as second deputy?”

The asthmatic bachelor who'd been the third member of the group when he'd first joined the department, O'Farrell remembered. He said, “A long time ago. I supposed there was a good enough reason that was none of my business.”

“There was a good enough reason.…” Erickson started.

“And now it's very much your business,” Petty finished. “Winton wasn't replaced because there was no one good enough, no one with the necessary mental strength and qualifications to fill the position. The feeling at Langley is that there is, now; that you should get the job.”

O'Farrell was astonished and had to call upon every last bit of his training not to show it. His mind raced. He would no longer be in the field, no longer required to kill. The most important consideration. No reduction in his income. Essential, with all the family demands. No abrupt overseas trips, so he'd always be available to sort out Ellen's problems. What about drawbacks? He didn't think … And then he did, brought up with a jolt. He said, “No, it doesn't come out right at all, does it?”

“I explained!” Petty insisted.

“So explain it some more,” O'Farrell said. “Has my promotion already been decided? Or does it depend upon my finishing the Rivera assignment? No Spain, no promotion?”

The looks were very obvious between Petty and Erickson. Petty poked into the bowl of his pipe with a pointed metal spike he took from the pipe rack. He said, “We've both been interviewed, separately and together. Both made it clear we very much want you on board.…”

“You've got to believe that!” Erickson said. “We really do want you here. It would be a terrific team.…”

“But no decision has been reached?” O'Farrell asked.

Petty shook his head. “No.”

“Nor will it be if I refuse the Rivera assignment?” Why had he been so contemptuous earlier of the ambiguities? Why didn't he say “kill” or “murder”?

“That doesn't necessarily follow,” Petty said. “It shouldn't affect any decision.”

“Shouldn't,” O'Farrell said. “But it will.”

“Not if I explain it properly. Which I will,” the division director promised.

So what was it? O'Farrell demanded of himself. A genuine although badly phrased invitation, for which Petty had already apologized? Or the ultimatum he'd accused them of presenting? As an ultimatum it had to be the clumsiest, most heavy-handed ever put forward in the history of ultimatums. So bad, in fact, that it practically supported the director's apology for making the offer the wrong way around.

A loud silence built up in the room. Petty let his pipe go out and Erickson stopped swinging his leg. Both looked at O'Farrell, obviously expecting a response. O'Farrell looked back at them, wishing he could think of one but not able to. because there was so much at so many different levels to consider and decide upon. It was Petty who broke.

“That's the best I can do.” The man shrugged. “I'll make the strongest pitch I can. Okay?”

“When?” O'Farrell asked, speaking at last.

“When?” Petty frowned.

“When do you have to make this strong pitch?”

“There's a meeting penciled in for Friday. I guess that's when it'll be. I haven't heard any differently.”

Three days' time, O'Farrell thought. “I just can't do it; not after what happened in London. It's—” He stopped, seeking the right way to express himself. “I don't know. I just can't do it.…”

“Your personal decision,” Petty said. “That's the way it's always been.…”

“Always will be,” Erickson said. “You going back to Chicago tomorrow?”

“Sometime,” O'Farrell agreed. Why the vagueness? He had a confirmed reservation on a noon flight.

“Hope everything turns out all right,” Petty said. “Don't forget: if there's anything we can do, just ask.”

O'Farrell didn't catch that noon flight. After the interview at Lafayette Square he drank more than he had for a long time. He took the martini pitcher into the den of the Alexandria house and sat in head-sunk reflection, making and unmaking decisions until it became difficult to rationalize at all. But not because of the booze. O'Farrell still felt in complete control of himself when the pitcher was empty. His difficulty was the difficulty that always existed: his complete and utter aloneness, never having anyone with whom he could discuss anything. And then he remembered that there
was
someone.

O'Farrell used the unlisted number that John Lambert had given him, feeling a positive stomach lurch of relief when the psychologist answered at once. Lambert said of course they could meet—that had always been the understanding—but not until the afternoon of the following day. O'Farrell agreed that would be fine. He canceled the Chicago flight and didn't book another and reached Jill at their daughter's apartment at the first attempt, too.

The same brittle tenseness there'd been in Jill's voice when he'd announced the Washington visit came back when O'Farrell apologized for having to extend the trip. There was a lot of “what the hell” and “for Christ's sake” (and “fuck” once or twice) but O'Farrell remained levelvoiced and very calm. There was something important that had come up, jobwise, and he had to see it through. There was no practical purpose in his being in Chicago; everything that had to be done had been. She asked how long and O'Farrell hesitated and said he wasn't sure; just one day later than she'd expected him back, maybe. When Jill had worked the anger out of her system, she asked suddenly if there were anything wrong and O'Farrell hoped she missed the hesitation in his reply. There was nothing wrong, he assured her. He promised to tell her all about it when he got up to Chicago; there'd be more than enough time to create some fantasy about embezzlement inquiries or clerical mistakes. After so much practice, he'd become expert at such stories. Jill said she loved him and he said he loved her, unusually anxious to end the conversation. She sensed the keenness, asking if there were anything else the matter apart from work, and O'Farrell said of course there wasn't.

He decided against any more to drink, leafing instead through the mail that had built up. He dumped the circulars and slipped the bills into his diary for payment. The only letter left was from the historical society that had provided most of his ancestor's archive. There was a lot of photocopied material. A cover letter explained the society had been bequeathed several storage boxes of records kept until now by a family who'd researched their own ancestor's arrival and subsequent career in America. The man had been a judge who'd actually sat upon some of the first O'Farrell cases. From their past dealings the society had known, without the need for an offering letter, that O'Farrell would want the copies, for which they enclosed their bill. They hoped O'Farrell would find the shipment useful.

O'Farrell flicked through the shipment without actually reading any of it, which was as unusual with such new and potentially exciting material as wanting quickly to terminate a conversation with his wife. There had to be about fifteen to twenty legal-sized sheets and other pages of different sizes. O'Farrell put them tidily upon the top of his bound archival books, which he didn't bother that night to open. Which was the most unusual deviation from habit of all.

O'Farrell arrived early at Fort Pearce but Lambert had already given the authority for his entry to all the checkpoints. The psychologist actually came in person to the last guardpost to sign him through.

Lambert appeared to have walked down because he rode in O' Farrell's immaculate Ford back to the barracks-type building in which the man had his office.

“So how are things with Billy?”

Momentarily the question startled O'Farrell, and then he recalled the telephone call for help from Chicago. He said, “I was going to thank you. The psychiatrist you recommended, Mrs. Dwyer, has been tremendous.”

“Ms.,” Lambert said. “It's Ms. She's not married. So what's happened?”

O'Farrell told the other man, and Lambert said, “Sounds like Patrick is a contender for the shit-of-the-year award.”

O'Farrell stopped carefully in the parking lot behind the building, choosing a space where he thought the Ford would be least likely to be hit by another motorist. He said, “There'd be no contest, believe me.”

As they walked side by side into the building, Lambert said, “Do you think all that you threatened will keep him in line?”

“I don't think the bastard is capable of being straight if he wanted to be. At least we've got the court order now; we can pressure him. And Christ, am I going to pressure him if he screws up!”

Lambert led the way into the windowless office. O'Farrell, his previous visits in mind, saw that again the impossibly young-looking man was as always dressed with Ivy League smartness, the willing guest always ready for a party invitation. Without asking, Lambert filled a plastic mug from the permanently steaming coffeepot and handed it to O'Farrell. For once the television wasn't on.

“So what's the problem?” the psychologist asked.

He didn't know how to begin, O'Farrell realized; not in a way that would properly convey his conflict of feelings to the other man. He looked around the room, trying to sort out his thoughts. There appeared to be several new rubber trees since last time, neatly planted in individual pots, but their leaves still looked dry. Near one stood a watering can. O'Farrell hadn't thought rubber trees had to be watered very much.

“I asked what the problem was,” Lambert said.

“I want to explain it all so you'll get the true picture, so that you'll understand,” O'Farrell said. “It's important that you understand how it all fits together.”

Lambert grinned openly at him. “Why not stop trying to think for me?” the man suggested. “I've got degrees that say I can understand things pretty well.”

“I wasn't being offensive.”

“Just let it come out whichever way it comes.”

Which was what O'Farrell did, and he wasn't happy with how it sounded. Several limes he backtracked, explaining parts of the meeting with Petty and Erickson quite differently on the second attempt than on the first; at other times he petered out in the middle of a sentence, unable to find an ending. At last he stumbled to a halt and said, “I didn't get that across at all, did I?”

“I got most of it,” Lambert assured him. “It certainly looks like an ultimatum. I just can't believe anyone could make it as awkwardly as that.”

“That's something I find hard to believe,” O'Farrell agreed.

“He's your boss; you've worked for him for a lot of years,” the psychologist said, “Is he normally as half-assed as that?”

“The opposite,” O'Farrell said. “Ours isn't a division that can allow any misunderstanding.”

“So let's turn it over the other way,” Lambert said. “If it's not an ultimatum, then Rivera and Madrid don't matter. And you're still in line for the promotion.”

“Unless the panel or the director or whoever is making the final decision change their minds
because
of my refusal.”

“Good point,” Lambert agreed. “This promotion means a lot to you?”

O'Farrell paused before replying; he wouldn't try to explain it because he was unsure if he could. He said, “A hell of a lot.”