"Fantastic organization," said Beggs.
"Those of us who are entrusted with the responsibility strive very hard to keep it that way," said Hatcher. He, too, studied Beggs' cigar as if to discern the mystery of the nonexistent ash.
"We all owe you a debt of gratitude," said Beggs.
"And I, for one, am a man who honors my debts." There, it's said aloud, let's get on with it.
Hatcher managed a watery smile, casting his eyes to the floor, too modest to speak. Momentarily.
Beggs cleared his throat before replacing the cigar in his mouth, signaling that the preliminaries were over.
"I'm happy to be able to report some good news," Hatcher responded on cue. "Excellent news, most excellent."
"What!" Beggs said curtly. The man was more longwinded than an Alabama senator.
"We have apprehended the man who abducted your niece."
"Good God! You've caught him?"
"Yes, sir."
"After all these years, you've actually caught him?"
"Yes, sir, I'm happy to be able to say that we have him in custody."
"Christ, that's wonderful! Do you know how many votes that's worth?"
"I knew you would be gratified."
"Gratified, shit. I'm a — s good as reelected, man! Can I announce this? I mean, is it all wrapped up?"
"I thought perhaps a joint announcement. You and I together..
"Of course, of course-but I mean, is it a done deal?
You actually have him in custody and you can keep him?
We're not going to have some civil libertarian lawyer getting him out on a technicality?"
"Naturally he has to be tried in a court of law..
"I'm not going to wait three years for a goddamned verdict and have him get off on insanity or some such shit. Hatcher, I'm asking you, is this wrapped up? Can I go public? We… can we go public?"
"Yes, sir," said Hatcher. "Not only do we have the perpetrator in custody, the man has confessed."
"Beautiful," said Beggs.
"Did you wish to contact the girl's parents, or shall we?"
"The girl's parents?"
"The parents of the deceased," said Hatcher. "Your niece."
The dead girl had been the daughter of Beggs' wife's brother, an unemployed mine worker who had deserted the girl and her mother when the girl was six years old.
Beggs had played up his relationship at the time of her disappearance because it gave him a vehicle of public sympathy and outrage that he rode all the way to elective office. He had not heard from the girl's mother in years.
His wife's brother continued to apply for handouts on a regular basis.
"You do that," Beggs said. "You deserve the credit."
Hatcher launched into another round of modest demurral, but neither man paid much attention to it. Both of them were looking forward to the press conference, and beyond.
Becker had prepared a cassoulet, a French casserole dish that called for beans, tomatoes, onions, celery, wine, salt pork, duck drippings, lean pork, lamb, garlic or Polish sausage, and either roast duck or canned, preserved goose.
Improvising to meet the nature of his larder, Becker omitted the salt pork, duck drippings, pork, lamb and duck or goose and substituted hot Italian sausage. He then doubled up on the beans and threw in a package of spinach because it seemed the thing to do. Having brewed the mess for a couple of hours, he sampled it as Jack entered the kitchen.
"Soccer cleats outside the door, for the hundred thousandth time,"
Becker said, pulling the wooden spoon gingerly towards him, blowing away the steam.
"Sorry, I forgot," said Jack. The boy sat and removed his soccer shoes and left them directly in the middle of the kitchen door. It was a talent that Becker had noted before. School bags, shoes, clothing-all sloughed off Jack's body when he entered the house as freely as if it were so much dried skin, but somehow the pattern was not random. Things did not just lie where they fell. With an inevitability that promised design, every item ended up where it would be most surely in the way.
Shoes were never in the corner, the school bag never behind a chair.
Everything was placed, or tossed, or shrugged off, squarely in the middle of the busiest pathway. Doorways seemed to be a favorite, but the hallways got their share of detritus, too. When Jack was home, it was impossible to walk a straight route to anywhere else in the house.
Becker decided the beans were passable if one were just tasting, better if the consumer was hungry. He hoped that Karen was ravenous.
"What's for dinner? I'm starving," Jack announced.
"Jack, old pal, you're in luck. I've got just the meal for you."
"What is it?" Jack asked suspiciously.
"Ask not what it is. Ask what it is not." Becker made a great show of inhaling the aromas from the pot. He knew that the best he could do was lure Jack into one exploratory taste. If the boy didn't like it at first blush, no amount of cajoling or threatening would make him eat more.
Becker cooked for himself and Karen. Jack appeared to live on plain spaghetti and peanut butter sandwiches, yet had the energy of ten men and was growing like a patch of kudzu.
"What it is not?"
"The recipe called for duck droppings," Becker said.
"Gab!"
"Well, it's French."
"Gross."
"The problem was, I couldn't find any duck droppings.
You don't feel like running over to Scribner's park and getting some, do you?"
"That's disgusting… Where's Scribner's park?"
"That's the official name of the town pond where you swim all summer."
Becker and Jack opened their mouths and eyes cartoon wide, stared at each other for a second, then screamed. It was a well-practiced routine that drove Karen crazy but pleased the two of them.
"So I had to be creative," Becker continued. "Since I didn't have any duck droppings, I paid a visit to Emily."
Emily was Jack's rabbit. "Bunny droppings make a pretty good substitute.
Want to try some, Jack?"
Becker advanced on the boy with the spoon.
Karen entered her house with Gold to find Becker and her son screaming at each other.
"They do that," she explained to Gold.
"A lot?"
"Too much," she said. To Becker she said, "Look what I brought you."
"Ah," said Becker. Karen thought he was suddenly holding the spoon as if it were a weapon.
"Jack, say hello to Dr. Gold," she said and Jack dutifully held out his hand to be shaken and muttered "hello."
The boy waited uncomfortably as Gold made a fuss over him, his size, his age, his grand appearance, then, when the adults had turned their attentions from him, he slipped away.
"You're looking well, John," Gold said.
Becker regarded Karen questioningly.
"I just brought him," Karen said. "I have no comment, no further part in this. I'll leave you two to it," Karen said, easing out the door.
"Oh, no," Becker said. "You brought him, you deal with him."
"I can't," Karen said. "If you don't want to talk to him, fine, but you'll have to drive him to the train station yourself. I'm tired."
"I can't really talk in front of Karen," Gold said.
"Why not? She's with the Bureau, she's got a higher clearance for any classified than I do-if I have any clearance left at all. I don't have any secrets from her."
"No, but I do," Gold said.
Bowing elaborately, Karen withdrew.
"I think it's best that Karen not be involved in this conversation at this point," Gold said. "It's best for her, that is."
"Are you trying to seduce me with mysteries, Gold? I've got beans to cook."
"I like beans."
"Why didn't you just call me if you wanted some advice? "
"Because there's some material I want you to look at… And it's not a conversation I want anyone to overhear. For that matter, I don't want any mail going back and forth between us that someone might log in. This is just a social visit as far as anyone else is concerned. Including Karen. I just asked her for a ride."