“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.