O’Farrell would definitely have gone to Petty and ended it, but for how things were going at home. That was worse, too. Not actually worse—it seemed important, as strained as he felt, to get the words accurate—but not as good as he would have liked. During a second visit to Chicago, Ellen admitted that she hadn’t gone to an attorney yet and there had been a shouted argument in front of Billy, which had been a mistake. They’d all ended up in tears, only O’Farrell staying dry-eyed, and that with difficulty. And then John had flunked a course in Phoenix. It was not an outright disaster, just a setback that was going to mean maybe an extra nine months before he graduated. And nine months was a rather apposite period, because in his last letter his son had announced that Beth was pregnant and they were all very happy about it. So were Jill and O’Farrell, although they realized it meant Beth was going to have to quit her job selling advertising space in the local Scottsdale newspaper, which had provided most of their income, apart from what O’Farrell sent and had intended to reduce.
It would not have been so difficult if O’Farrell hadn’t years before gone in for the sort of insurance he had, guaranteeing a tremendous death benefit but with matchingly high payments he was locked into, without any possibility of renegotiating. At the time he’d felt—he still felt—that it was the responsible thing to do to protect the unknowing Jill and the kids if anything did happen to him on an assignment, but in the changed circumstances it monthly absorbed more of his available cash than was convenient. And then there was the heavy mortgage on the Alexandria house. So there were nights in the den now when O’Farrell hunched over rows of figures, not his ancestor’s archive, working out how much he could afford to send to Arizona, on top of the allowance for Ellen, when Beth did have to stop work. He discussed it with Jill, of course, because they discussed every domestic situation together, and decided that the best they could manage for Phoenix was $300 a month; John had a part-time job in a garage anyway and they both agreed, without much discussion, that Ellen’s needs were greater. O’Farrell had been relieved, during the last telephone call two days ago, to hear that Ellen had at last gone to her attorney and that the lawyer had already written to Patrick. And even more relieved to hear that three pushers had been rounded up near Billy’s school without others appearing to have taken their place and that the feeling was that there had been an overreaction to the drug scare in the first place. O’Farrell hoped it were true.
The Wichita addition to his archives provided a welcome respite. The material came a month after the initial letter from the historical society and built up an appreciable amount about his great-grandfather’s early life. It stopped short of answering one of O’Farrell’s major questions—whether the man had been an immigrant or whether there had been an American O’Farrell before him—but it put him at eighteen on a westbound wagon trek and recorded his swearing in at Wichita as a sheriff’s deputy. Earlier than I started, reflected O’Farrell, the second martini already half-drunk and dinner still an hour away; years earlier in fact. But the ruling (by whom? O’Farrell wondered) decreed that a person had to attain a reasoning and balanced maturity before being inducted into the specialized section of the CIA to which O’Farrell was attached.
He finished the martini and topped up his glass with the overflow that seemed invariable these evenings, pleased that it practically filled his glass for a third time. The assessment wouldn’t be a problem, he was sure; he’d get through it, like he’d gotten through all the others. And not just the sessions with Symmons—any psychologist. Since his last, successful, encounter with the man, there had been range practice—not just fixed but moving targets—and his score had only been a point below his usual average. so the twitch in his hands wasn’t a problem in an important situation. And he’d isolated and evaded the watchers on each of the mandatory surveillance exercises and that wasn’t easy because shitty-shift penalties were imposed upon the tracking professionals if they failed. So he was still as good as ever. Almost. Just a bit under par, that’s all; distracted by the children’s difficulties.
Wrong, though, to let it all get to him like it had. So okay, they weren’t having an easy time—Ellen more than John—but objectively (always be calm and objective) they were a damned sight better off (and certainly better protected) than a lot of others their age. Had that been when it started, this uncertainty of his, around the time of Ellen’s problems? Near enough, O’Farrell thought; within days at least. Christ, these martinis were good! O’Farrell decided he could win drink-making contests with them. He studied the glass seriously, extended before him. Not a difficulty, he told himself. He’d increased from one to two—and sometimes a half more, so what!—a night but that was still a very moderate intake and it didn’t affect him at all. Still steady as a rock. Almost. Hadn’t he thought that word before? Not important. What was important was that he didn’t need it. That afternoon on the way back from Chevy Chase had been the last time he’d taken a drink before getting home and after that he’d set himself the test and passed, because he didn’t think of booze or need it during the day. Didn’t need it now; just a way of relaxing while Jill fixed the meal and he looked over the cuttings.
He hadn’t done anything about getting them copied, he realized. Or preserving the photograph upstairs. He really had to do that. Maybe he’d take the whole lot into Washington the following day and get it done, there and then. Then again, maybe he should wait and ask around; he couldn’t risk the slightest damage. Who could he ask? Someone in one of the libraries or archives, he supposed; Washington was knee-deep in records so it shouldn’t be difficult. He seemed to remember that the Library of Congress had a photographic section, too, so he could ask there about the fading print. He’d definitely do it the very next day. Not a lot of work on, after all. He was up to date with the accounts and Petty hadn’t—O’Farrell determinedly stopped the direction, unwilling to consider Petty and what a summons from the man would mean. Perhaps there wouldn’t be one anymore, he thought, the perpetual hope. With it came the other hope to which the first was always linked. There were others in the department after all—although he had no idea of their identities, of course, any more than they had of his—so it was not automatic he would be the one chosen.
With the third martini almost exhausted (no, he wouldn’t make anymore: that would be ridiculous) O’Farrell hunched over his glass, forcing the examination upon himself. Why? Why was he feeling like this, nervous like this, flaky like this! It couldn’t be any moral uncertainty. Every sentence he had carried out had been one hundred and one percent justified, absolutely, unquestionably, and unequivocably; all the evidence examined and checked, all the benefits and doubts allowed in the defendants’ favor. Proven guilty beyond doubt or appeal. Why then! Age; some midlife hormonal imbalance? Preposterous! What did age have to do with anything! The three-monthly physical examinations would have picked up any bodily fluctuations. And mentally he’d been trained far beyond this sort of infantile self-questioning. What about fear? The word presented itself in his mind, like an unwelcome guest whose shadow he had already picked out beyond a door but hoped would not intrude. Fear of what then? The roles being reversed? Had he become frightened of the tables being turned, of there one day being a mistake—the simplest, easiest error—and of himself becoming the victim, the hunted, rather than always the victor, the hunter?