'What's his name?' I asked.
'Eric.' I hate the name Eric, but thought it best not to mention that.
She said, 'You know, I'm not pining for him or anything like that. I'm really not. To be honest about it, I don't even think about him all that much anymore.'
I started to say something, though exactly what, I'm not sure. She kept talking right over me, which I think was a good thing.
'It's just weird, seeing this guy, the guy I married, the guy I figured I'd be with for the rest of my life, to have children with, to send them through college, to retire with, it's just so fucking weird to see him with another person, like I'm so replaceable, like he's moved on, found something better, and I'm stuck, struggling with myself, no different than I was before. Or if I am different, then I'm just worse. That's what's so bad about all this.'
I had half a mind to reach out and put my hand over hers, to comfort her with my eyes, to let her know she wasn't as alone as she was feeling. I held back for a variety of reasons, one of them being the continuing suspicion that I was being fed a line, another being the general inappropriateness of a reporter and a federal agent having any sort of emotional, never mind physical, involvement.
Still, I'm not a mule, so I told her, 'Look, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but my bet is you're not like you were before, that you've grown a lot since you two split. The only difference is that you haven't found anyone yet, and maybe he has. And maybe you haven't found anyone because you're a little more discriminating. You don't want to make those same mistakes.'
I paused, then brushed against inappropriateness, unable to contain myself. 'I mean, look at you,' I said. 'You're stunning looking.
You're a goddamned FBI agent, and a well-regarded one at that. You will have more opportunities to meet men, and good men, than you could ever imagine. The right one will come along, probably when you least expect it.' Like, say, right now.
She stared straight ahead. Around us, the grille was gradually clearing out, the laughter giving way to the background music. She looked up at me and said, 'I know you're right. Sometimes it's just lonely.'
'I know lonely,' I said. 'I've driven off to the hospital with a pregnant wife about to have a baby girl, and I drove home that night all alone, both of them dead.'
She locked her eyes on mine and said, 'I'm so sorry. I know that. My issues, they're trivial in comparison.'
I said, 'No, we all have our own issues, our own problems, our own obstacles to overcome. You mind me asking what went wrong with you guys?'
She thought for a minute, contorting her face ever so slightly so the skin was drawn even tighter over her cheekbones. She said, 'I don't want to go there now.'
I felt a slight rebuke, until she quickly added, 'Some other time I'll tell you.'
'Check, Mr. Flynn?' That was Carlos, in another display of his impeccable timing. I said, 'Yeah, that would be great.' *
The last drops of distant daylight had long since drained from the early winter sky as Baker and I arrived at Rose Park in Georgetown for what used to be our regular game of fetch, a ritual that I had missed this last week because of the press of work and the looming danger.
Used to be, this was my hour of calm. Out in the park, in the chill air, with nothing more than a dog who bore a remarkable resemblance to a small golden bear and the distant flicker of television lights in people's windows, all the bullshit seemed to give way to my own clear thoughts. And it was during this time out here when I so often came to realize where I had been and where I still had to go. Perhaps foolishly, I decided on that night to give it another go.
Baker tends to show his emotions more than me, despite his English lineage. As soon as we stepped on the soft grass, he tossed the tennis ball excitedly from his mouth, gawked as it hit my shoes, stepped back four paces, and sat, the look on his face one of unbridled joy at the event that was to come. I wished for the millionth time that I could get as excited about something, anything, as Baker did about shagging down this ball.
For kicks, I sometimes pretended I was playing quarterback for the New England Patriots, directing the team toward victory with my head and my heart. I don't want to throw the term multitalented around too loosely, but let's face it, I'm a full-service guy. On my first throw, he scooped the ball up in his mouth and whipped his head around as if he were breaking the ball's neck, if it had one, which obviously it didn't, but that's not really the point. That instinctual feat accomplished, he tossed it back at my shoes and set out across the field again as I led him by ten feet or so with another perfect throw.
He caught it on the first bounce. Grogan to Vataha. We were quite a team.
Standing there searching for the kind of peace that comes with perspective, I decided to bring a little misery to my night and take a quick inventory of all that was going wrong. I had an enormous story that seemed to be slipping out of my control. I had an anonymous source who might be about to send me on a wild-goose chase or into the throes of danger. I had someone taking an occasional shot at me. I had a fetching FBI agent with wondrous hair and pouty lips showing an inordinate amount of interest in me, though I wasn't yet sure if this comes under what was going wrong or what might be right. Too early to tell which way it was cutting. And I should add, at that moment, I also had an ominous-looking man in a tan trench coat walking purposefully across the otherwise empty field, heading exactly in my direction. I suspected I might soon be adding his visit to my list.
In regards to the approaching man, Baker spotted him just seconds after I did, and, being the faithful protector of all things Jack, bounded angrily across the field, barked loudly, and then grabbed the man's leg, bringing him down in a heap of blood and pain.
Actually, I lie. Baker joyfully trotted up to the guy, dropped the ball at his feet, and stepped back in wondrous anticipation of the throw he assumed was to come. The man kept walking, ignoring him.
'Be careful,' I called out. 'He's vicious.'
'I'll be all right,' the man said, getting closer, his voice, familiar, just slightly louder than conversational.
'I was talking to my dog,' I said with a shallow laugh.
And out of the dark and into my life once again stepped Kent Drinker, assistant director of the FBI. Coincidence? I wasn't sure.
I added, for no particular reason, 'You really should have called ahead and made an appointment. I'm rather busy out here.'
'I don't need a whole lot of time,' Drinker said.
That was good news. It was Thursday night, the end of a long day, and the dual feelings of exhaustion and uncertainty mingled in my mind and created an uncharacteristic sense of uneasiness, the type of mood when you begin questioning everything you've ever done for reasons that you're unable to fully understand.
I said, flat, 'What can I do for you this fine night?'
'I was hoping I might get some help and give some help,' Drinker said.
That sounded interesting, though rehearsed. I picked up the ball and tossed it for Baker, then watched his form as he hurtled across the field in pursuit. I turned my gaze to Drinker and regarded him for a moment. He was tall and athletic, with looks that spoke to the word Everyman, or at least to that of an everyday federal agent. He had close-cropped hair that I would bet he cut every couple of weeks. His eyes were gray. My guess is that he lived a spare life of simple pleasures, when he pursued pleasure at all. I'm not sure why, but I pictured his wife as a southerner, probably from one of the Carolinas, old-fashioned bordering on obedient, a stay-at-home mother, as if there was any other choice.
'Everything I have, I think I've given you already,' I said. 'My impression is that I was a pretty good witness, despite what you might think.'
There was a long pause between us, broken only by Baker once again presenting me with the ball, and me once again throwing it.
'Look, I've dealt with reporters before,' Drinker said finally. 'I suspect you know that already. And I was more than helpful in my day.
I also got more than burned. My whole fucking career got fried. And now I've been given a rare second chance in the bureau. I'm out here doing the best I can. I'm trying to solve a presidential assassination attempt
