“Both,” she said. “Also the color of my checkbook balance. Maybe short for ‘Ready Reference,’ too. How can I help you, Dr. Brockton? The lights in the library go out in about three minutes, so tell me quick, if you can.”
I started with the thing that seemed strangest. “I need you to dig up whatever you can about someone called ‘Goose Man.’” The line was silent, and I wondered if the call had been dropped—or if she’d decided I was a crank and hung up. “Hello? Red? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” she said. “I was waiting for you to tell me more.”
“There is no ‘more.’ That’s it.”
“That’s all you’ve got—‘Goose Man’? You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” I snapped, feeling defensive. “I’m not kidding. I told you I couldn’t give you much to go on.”
She laughed again. “So you did. I see you’re a man of your word. But . . . can I ask a couple things, superquick? Just to make sure we’re on the same page here—the same virtually blank page? What put ‘Goose Man’ on your radar? How’d you hear about him? In what context?”
“I heard a cop—at least, I think he was a cop—mention him to another cop.”
“Was the second one also a maybe cop? Or was cop number two a for-sure cop?”
“A for-sure cop.”
“Knoxville cop?”
“No. Federal cop. Both feds, I think. One’s FBI. The other, I don’t know—maybe Homeland Security, maybe DEA, maybe Border Patrol. Hell, maybe even CIA.”
“Wowzer,” she said. “You don’t play in the minors, do you? Should you even be telling me this?”
“No,” I said. “Almost certainly not. But something’s going on that I don’t understand, and it’s making me nervous. I’d like to know who the other players are, and what teams they’re playing for.”
In the background, I heard a robotic-sounding announcement: The library is now closed. Please exit now. “Crap,” she muttered. “Oh well—in for a penny, in for a pound. Quick, what makes you think Fed Number Two might be CIA?”
“He said they were waging war with the worst badasses on the planet. Pardon the language.”
“Pardon it? I appreciate it. I hate it when people beat around the bush, all tactful and mealy-mouthed. Say what you mean, mean what you say—that’s my motto. One of ’em, anyhow. So . . . presumably the Goose Man is one of these badasses?”
“Presumably,” I said. “The FBI guy was getting reamed out. Apparently he scared the Goose Man away, just as Fed Number Two was about to reel him in.”
“In-ter-esting,” she said. “So the Goose Man is a pretty big fish. And he’s swimming around right here in the little ol’ pond of Knoxville?”
“Ah. No,” I said. “Sorry. In San Diego. I mean, I don’t know if San Diego’s where the Goose Man is swimming, but it’s where I’m swimming at the moment. Or treading water. And it’s where these guys were arguing.”
“I really have to go,” she said. “How do I reach you?” I gave her my number. “Got it. Let me give you mine.”
“I’ve already got it,” I pointed out. “I just dialed it.”
“I’m away from the desk most of the time,” she said. “Better to call me on my cell.” She rattled off the digits like machine-gun fire; I wrote hurriedly, hoping I was getting it right.
“Let me read that back to you.”
“I gotta go—I’m about to get locked in.”
“Last question,” I said. “What are your hours—do you work weeknights?”
“Call whenever,” she said. “I really, really gotta go.”
The line went dead, and I was left staring at the scrawled phone number of a woman who didn’t even trust me with her name.
I SLEPT FITFULLY, MY DREAMS A PATCHWORK OF conversations, confrontations, and altercations. Some of the dreams featured a fat man with red hair, one whose shadowy, sinister face I could never quite discern. Others featured a redheaded woman, her features also veiled and vague.
I stayed in the shower a long time—hot water, then cold, then hot again—to clear the cobwebs from my brain. When I turned off the taps, I heard the warbling of my cell phone. Still dripping, I raced to answer. “Kathleen?”
“Uh, no. Sorry. Is this Dr. Brockton?”
I recognized the voice of the reference librarian. “Oh, sorry. Yes, this is Dr. Brockton.” I hesitated, feeling foolish, then plunged ahead. “Red, is that you?”
“Yes. Am I calling too early?”
“No, it’s fine. I was in the shower. Have you tracked down the Goose Man already?” I was speaking low and fast. “That was quick. What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, for one thing, I can tell you that there is no such guy as ‘the Goose Man.’”
“It’s a nickname,” I said. “Like ‘the Godfather’ or something.” I thought I heard a snort of laughter at the other end.
“Yeah, ‘Goose Man’—there’s a name calculated to strike fear into the hearts of global badasses,” she said, sounding far more amused than I thought she should. “I can hear it now: ‘Call off your goons, or the Goose Man is gonna come peck you to death.’” Now there was no question about it—she was definitely laughing.