“The Iraqis,” Kevin said.
From time to time Clyde got the job of driving a prisoner down to the state mental-health facility in Iowa City for testing, observation, treatment, and, sometimes, an open-ended stay. Consequently, Dr. Kevin Vandeventer was not the first Forks County resident—not even the first Ph.D.—who had insisted to Clyde that he was the target of secret, carefully disguised assassination attempts by foreign governments.
He had learned a few rules of thumb for identifying certain broad categories of mental illness and now began to apply his rudimentary knowledge to Kevin Vandeventer. He seemed sincere, rational, and convincing. But these guys always did—especially the ones with Ph.D.’s.
“I hadn’t known until now,” Clyde said carefully, “that Baghdad was running those kinds of operations inside our borders.”
Vandeventer laughed, much too loudly. “You and me both, Clyde, we’re both babes in the woods. Shit. The university is one big nest of foreign spooks.”
“I know it is,” Clyde said. In part he was just trying to placate Vandeventer so that he would go away and leave the Bankses alone. The absence of Desiree was a howling void in their household and their lives—a sucking chest wound. Clyde felt like a soldier on a battlefield who has been shot in the abdomen and is using both hands just to keep his insides from falling out on the ground. All he wanted was for Desiree to be back in this house. And so when people came to the house who were not Desiree, it just emphasized her absence and aggravated the pain. He frankly could not care less about Kevin Vandeventer and his impending assassination.
But Clyde wasn’t precisely lying. In the months since he had recovered the fatal rowboat from the rushes of Lake Pla-Mor, in the course of following the Marwan Habibi murder case, and of getting to know Fazoul and his family, he had come to realize that Eastern Iowa University was, as Kevin averred, a snake pit of foreign intrigue.
And he could hardly care less. He had overwhelming problems of his own.
“If you see anything goofy, call the cops,” Clyde said. “If you have evidence that foreigners are involved, call Marcus Berry down at the FBI.”
Kevin nodded eagerly, as if this were all incredibly new advice to him. He kept staring expectantly at Clyde, his eyes glittering.
Clyde heaved a big sigh. Through the screen door he could hear Maggie shifting around in her crib, beginning to fuss. “If that doesn’t work, give ol’ Clyde a call,” he said, wishing that he could kick himself in the ass even as he was saying it.
Kevin nodded and took half a step back. But he was still waiting for something.
Clyde said, “If you turn up dead or mangled, I will attempt to look beyond the obvious.”
“Thank you, Clyde,” Kevin Vandeventer said. Like every other paranoid schizophrenic Clyde had ever humored in this fashion, he then said, “Watch your back!” And he turned his back on Clyde and walked down the front steps of the Banks home in the cautious, measured gait of a man who was convinced he had a bull’s-eye painted between his shoulder blades. Or maybe he just didn’t want to work up a sweat.
Chapter Thirty-One
Larkin Schoendienst had told Betsy that in D.C. there were two ways to murder policy without appearing to have committed a crime. One was cobwebbing, in which a person with an idea—usually a young and bright person with a good, new idea—would fall victim to the surrounding bureaucrats, who would exclaim, “Why, that’s a good idea!” and throw out a web of reporting requirements, consulting requirements, or new budgeting procedures. Soon the person and his idea would be totally immobilized by a shimmering silken cocoon, to be put away and devoured another day.
The second method was the interagency task force.