O’Conner’s armchair analysis made a lot of sense. “So would you guess Orbin’s flying solo when he puts the squeeze on pot farmers and cockfighters, or is it possible Tom’s in cahoots with him?”
He frowned. “Don’t know. When he was younger, Tom would never have stooped to that. But when he was younger, he had a lot more choices. He’s had some big disappointments to reckon with, and you never can tell whether somebody’s going to walk out of the valley of the shadow as a bigger person or a smaller one.”
As he said it, I found myself wondering whether I was seeing a bigger or a smaller Jim O’Conner than the one who’d courted Leena Bonds. Then I found myself wondering whether he was seeing a bigger or a smaller Bill Brockton than the one who’d lost Kathleen. I remembered my last phone call with Jeff, and I knew the answer. I vowed to call him and apologize.
“Hell, that’s enough of my cracker-barrel psychology for one day,” said O’Conner, draining the last of his whiskey. “Let me get Waylon to take you back to your truck.”
“You sure Waylon ought to be driving?”
“Hell, Doc, I could drive that stretch of road with my eyes closed,” said Waylon.
“He’s not kidding—I’ve seen him do it,” O’Conner laughed. “It’d take another three drinks before Waylon started to feel that whiskey, and even then, he’d be a better driver than you or I stone-cold sober.”
With some misgivings, I climbed into the truck with Waylon. I rolled down the window and called to O’Conner, “Will you please make him promise not to drag me into any more adventures along the way?”
He laughed. “You hear that, Waylon? Straight to the Pilot station; no stops. All right?”
Waylon nodded. “No stops,” he said.
It never occurred to me to extract a promise to drive with the headlights on. Halfway along the river road, Waylon flicked off his lights, leaving us careening along in utter blackness.
“Waylon, stop!” I yelped.
“Cain’t,” he said. “I promised—no stops.”
“Then turn your lights back on!”
“You b’lieve now?”
“Believe what?” Had something in our discussion of religion struck a nerve in Waylon?
“B’lieve I can drive this with my eyes closed.”
“Yes, for God’s sake. Now turn on your headlights.”
He did. As the beams shot through the blackness, I saw that the big truck was tracking dead-center in the right-hand lane, halfway through an “S” curve, as if it were on rails.
“Waylon, you’re going to turn me into either a believer or a dead man.”
He laughed. “Well, either way, you won’t feel scared no more.”
CHAPTER 29
THE GUARD AT THE John J. Duncan Federal Building was the same stonyfaced sentinel who’d been keeping watch over the lobby the last time I was here. This time, I was determined to get a smile out of him. I checked his name tag. “Morning, Officer Shipley,” I said cheerily. “I’m Bill Brockton, from UT. I’m going up to the FBI’s offices again.” He nodded ever so slightly. “You doing all right today?” He looked startled.
“Just fine, sir.” He said it stiffly, but it was a start, at least.
“Glad to hear it. By the way, did you read the paper this morning?” He nodded warily. “Did you see that story about the recently declassified CIA case?”
“Uh, no, sir, I don’t believe I saw that one.”
“You’ll appreciate this, being familiar with federal agencies,” I said. “You remember back when President Jimmy Carter got attacked by that wild rabbit?”
He looked puzzled, so I decided to refresh his memory. “Carter was fishing in a pond down in Georgia, and this big bunny came swimming out toward his boat in a threatening manner, hissing and gnashing his teeth. Remember that?” He nodded, and I could tell he wondered where this was going. “Well, according to this new report, the CIA sent double agents—undercover squirrels and chipmunks—scampering throughout the forest to gather every scrap of intelligence they could about this foiled rabbit assassination plot. After spending months on analysis and millions in payoffs, they still couldn’t catch this killer rabbit. The reason, it now turns out, is the CIA itself had been infiltrated…by a mole.” He looked at me without expression. “Get it—a mole?” I grinned and nodded encouragingly.
I saw pity in his eyes. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid I do get it.” He shook his head sadly.
“That,” he said, “has got to be the worst joke I’ve ever heard.” He continued to take the measure of the joke’s lameness, and when he’d finished, he finally cracked a smile.