O'Farrell's Law

Erickson nodded. “Probably right,” he agreed at once.

“O’Farrell’s a good man.”

“One of the best,” said Erickson.

TWO

IT WAS more a mansion than a house, a huge granite-fronted building with Colonial pillars set back in at least three unfenced acres off one of those tree-lined roads that wind up through Chevy Chase toward the border with Maryland. The doctor personally admitted him, so quickly the man might have been waiting on the other side of the door. There was no noise anywhere to indicate anyone else in the house: there never had been, on any of the visits. O’Farrell followed the other man familiarly across the black-and-white marbled floor to the side consulting room. There was no medical staff here, either, unlike the man’s downtown clinic, which was one of the most comprehensively manned medical centers in Washington. But then that was public and this was private: very private indeed.

“How’s it going?” the doctor asked. His name was Hugh Symmons. He was a thin, prominently boned man who had conducted O’Farrell’s three-monthly examinations for the past four years. Despite having one of the highest security clearances as a CIA medical adviser, Symmons was kept from knowing O’Farrell’s real function, merely that it was a position imposing the maximum mental and physical stress. O’Farrell was aware there were other psychologists and psychiatrists with even higher clearances, the real tidy-up-your-head experts, who would be allowed to know his job: the fact that he was still at Symmons’s level proved that no one had discerned his uncertainty.

“Fine,” said O’Farrell.

Symmons waved him to an accustomed seat and opened a thumbed file and sat reading it, as if O’Farrell were a first-time patient. O’Farrell, who was used to the routine, gazed through the picture window to the expansive lawn. There were a lot of carefully maintained trees in the garden, several long-haired gray firs with branches sweeping down to touch the grass. Groups of squirrels scurried around their bases and there were others in the branches, and O’Farrell was surprised. He understood squirrels damaged trees and would have expected Symmons to employ some sort of pest control. O’Farrell, whose training had involved extensive psychological instruction, was glad of the reflection: just what he should be doing, musing unimportant thoughts to minimize the risk of anxiety. Was Symmons taking longer than usual? There was no benefit in posing unnecessary questions. O’Farrell checked his watch. Jill would be at the remedial center by now. A busy day, she’d predicted, at breakfast: eight patients at least. O’Farrell was glad his wife had gone back to physiotherapy now the kids had left home: gave her a proper outside interest and prevented her becoming bored. More unimportant musing, O’Farrell recognized, gratefully: not that he considered Jill unimportant in any way. He sometimes believed that was how she regarded him, though: secretly, of course, never any open accusation. He wished she didn’t. But it must be difficult for her to accept his supposedly being an accounts clerk, knowing as she did of his Special Forces beginning.

O’Farrell turned away from the window as Symmons looked up at last. “Time to play games,” the man announced.

O’Farrell got up and went to the side table, wondering what the sequence would be today: it was necessary for Symmons to vary the psychological assessment to prevent his being able automatically to complete the tests. O’Farrell realized it was to be physical coordination and judgment as Symmons began setting out the differently shaped blocks and wood bases.

“Three minutes,” the doctor said.

Two less than normal. Why the reduced completion span? No time to speculate: he only had three minutes. O’Farrell curbed the nervousness, feeling out in apparent control to fit the shapes correctly into their receiving places. They were different from any he had used before, again necessary to prevent his becoming accustomed. More difficult, he determined; he was sure they were more difficult. Some were carved and shaped almost identically and he made three consecutive mistakes before matching them to the board, in his frustration once almost dropping a piece. Careful, he told himself. Stupid to become frustrated and panicked. Exactly how the test was devised to make him behave. So exactly why he had to do the opposite. There were still two pieces unconnected when Symmons said, “Stop!”

He had failed before to complete fully, O’Farrell reassured himself. On several occasions, in fact: but not for a long time. It didn’t matter: by itself it didn’t matter at all.

“A bitch this time, eh?” Symmons suggested.

O’Farrell knew there was no remark, no apparent aside, that was insignificant during these sessions. He smiled and said, “Next time we’ll set up side bets.” That sounded good enough, someone unworried by a minor setback.

“Let’s try some words now.”

O’Farrell folded one hand casually over the other, crossing his legs as he did so, wanting to appear relaxed. It gave him the opportunity to feel for any wetness in his palms. No sweat at all, he decided, relieved.

“Mother,” set off Symmons, abruptly.

“Disaster.” Why this beginning? Symmons knew the story, but they hadn’t talked about it for a long time.

“Violence.”

“Peace,” responded O’Farrell, at once. Why violence, of all words?

“Death.”

“Dishonor.” The trigger words were not supposed to be connected but there was a link here, surely?

“Water.”

“Boat.” Easier, thought O’Farrell.

“Money.”

“Debt.” Why the hell had he said that! He wasn’t in debt—had never been in debt—but the answer could indicate he had financial difficulties.

“Country.”

“Patriot.” Which was sincerely how he felt about himself: the justification—no, the solid basis—for much of what he did. All of what he did, in fact.

“Dog.”

“Bone.” Nothing wrong that time.

“Fuck.”

“Obscenity.” Another change from normal: O’Farrell couldn’t remember Symmons swearing before.

“God.”

“Devil.”

“Right.”

“Wrong.”

“Plastic.”

“Cup.” It caught O’Farrell as absurd and he came dangerously close to laughing, only just managing to subdue a reaction he knew to be wrong. Nothing insignificant, he thought again.

“Boy.”

“Son.” Saturday tomorrow: the day for the weekly call to John. Stop drifting! No room now for inconsequential intrusions.

“Car.”

“Engine.”

“Oppressor.”

“Russia.” It had to do with his mother!

“Murder.”

“Crime.” Another link, to the first two words, surely!

“Gun.”