by David Wiltse
Nashville had complained briefly about having Becker routed through their office since his ultimate destination was really on Birmingham's turf, but there was very little real point in arguing with the pencil heads in Procurement, the department that dealt with such niceties as paying for airline tickets. The recent wave of cost accounting had made them, if not the tail that wags the dog, at least the hand that jerks the tail that yanks the whole animal around. Several expensive and disastrous operations in recent years-the most notable belonging to a sister organization, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearmsall widely publicized much to the involved bureaucrats' chagrin-had everyone pulling in his fiscal horns. The fact that ATF was subsequently nearly subsumed into the DEA, although not entirely related to the Waco fiasco, was a message not lost on anyone in the Bureau above the rank of foot soldier. Small, cheap, discreet operations had become the order of the day, ones that could reap public-relations triumphs with a minimum of expense.
Tales of the FBI thwarting kidnappers, for instance, were just the ticket. Or of serial killers rooted out and apprehended. Not only were the headlines immense in such cases, but the publicity was all positive.
And, in an increasingly accountable age, such cases were eminently cost-effective. Becker's trip, in Hatcher's estimation, was perfect for the current mood. If it was a success, those who mattered would know who had initiated the success-Hatcher would make sure they knew. And if nothing came of it, the Bureau was out only the cost of a business-class seat to Nashville and miscellaneous-but monitored-expenses. Since Becker did not even require a salary because of his medical extension status, his price was perfect for the spirit of the times.
Desiring no more involvement in a Becker investigation than his Birmingham counterpart, the Nashville agent-incharge sent his most dispensable operative to escort him.
Her name was Pegeen, a nod to her Irish heritage, which should have long since petered out but refused to die. Her great-grandfather, Sean Murphy, was the only Celt in her family tree for the last seventy-five years, and he had fathered daughters with a Danish wife. Her grandmother had married a man of German ancestry and her mother had married a man so thoroughly Americanized that he could trace six different national skeins to his present status, none of them Irish. Pegeen's father's last name was the only relic, several generations old, of a single male ancestor called Haddad, the first, last, and only Lebanese member of the family. And yet, despite the countercuffents over the years, the Gaelic stream had remained the dominant one in the minds of the women in Pegeen's family. Pegeen Haddad, with no disrespect intended towards her father or anyone else on her multifarious family tree, considered herself to be Irish.
Thanks to the determined, perhaps even pugnacious genes of Sean Murphy, Pegeen's hair was the color of a raw carrot, her eyes blue-green, and her skin, when seen in contrast to her hair, the white of a sheet of good rag writing paper.
When Becker first saw her at the airport, holding a cardboard sign bearing his name and perusing the incoming passengers as if any one of them might be concealing a bomb, he thought she was an unfortunate-looking specimen. With'her hair tucked under a baseball cap that rode too low on her head, her ears stuck out, giving her an almost goonish appearance, a sort of female version of Huck Finn, complete to the sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
She wore faded blue jeans with a rip across one knee, a red t-shirt that did nothing for her complexion, a navy blue blazer, and a pair of clunky black shoes that looked as if they had been borrowed from her father.
All in all she looked like a college kid on standby for a flight home at Thanksgiving, one of those who didn't get invited to spend the holiday with a boyfriend. The blazer was to conceal her weapon, Becker knew, since she didn't carry a purse and the jeans were too tight to hide anything bulkier than a credit card. He couldn't imagine what the baseball cap was for, except perhaps as a fashion accessory.
The ubiquitous cap, which did no one any aesthetic favors at the best of times, looked particularly incongruous on a young woman trying to masquerade as an FBI agent, he thought.
"You expecting terrorists on this flight?" he asked.
"Sir?" If he had doubted that she was an agent before, the ever-present, distinctively pronounced "sir" would have dispelled them. Drilled into them during training, it was a form of address that was used as much for distancing as for respect. The young ones were even more lethal with it than their elders because with them it carried an added heft of ageism.
The one word, diligently applied, could hurt a man concerned about aging worse than a volley of curses.
"You're checking out the passengers as if you expect them to be carrying Uzis," he said.
"Do you know anything about terrorists on this flight, sir?"
"Just joking."
"Terrorism is not a funny business."
"No. Sorry." Becker pointed to the card bearing his name. "I'm your man."
"You would be Special Agent Becker?"
"I wouldn't be if I could help it, but I am."
"Sir, I wonder if you'd oblige me with some form of identification?"
"Why? Are you going to arrest me?"
"No, sir. Just a precaution. A driver's license would be good enough if you don't have your Bureau ID."
"Do you mean anyone would seriously want to pretend to be me if they didn't have to?"
"I think a lot of people pretend a lot of things, sir."
Becker handed her his driver's license.
"Well, if you hear of any volunteers to walk around in my skin, be sure to let me know, will you?" he said.
"Something wrong with your skin?" she asked.
"It's too damned tight," he said.
She scrutinized him carefully as if looking for places where he might be bursting through his seams.
"You look fit," she said finally.
"So do you."
She studied him a moment longer, examining his comment for sexist content.
"I try," she said finally. She extended her right hand to shake while her left extended her FBI identification.
"Special Agent Haddad," she said.
"Hi."
"Do you have luggage, sir?"
Becker hefted his overnight bag. "I'm ready to go. This shouldn't take long."
"Very good. Just follow me, then, sir."
"One stop first," Becker said.
In the gift shop Becker bought a carton of cigarettes, discarded the box, and distributed the packs in his various pockets.
He opened one of the packs, stripping off the cellophane and peeling away tiny foil. He breathed deeply of the cigarettes, then offered the pack to Pegeen.
"It's the only time they smell good," he said. "Before they start to kill you."
"You're not a smoker," she said, her tone sounding more accusatory than she had wanted it to.
"Why not?"
"No stains on your hands or teeth."
"You've got quick eyes," he said. "Very good."
"Thank you, sir," she said dryly. She found herself bridling at what she took to be the condescension in his remark. They praised her too much for the little things, as if she were a child, all the older men of the Bureau.
And they all were older, even the young ones, especially the ones close to her own age. They acted in her presence as if they were veterans of the Trojan Wars who loved to impart words of wisdom earned through the ages.
As if she were not only a child, and a girl, but a project, an experiment in pedagogy. Could they possibly teach this amazing dog to talk? Could they convert this woman into a man? is what they really wanted to know, Pegeen was convinced. She told herself to calm down and not start any fights. They had a long way yet to go.
"I haven't smoked in twenty years. They're bribes.
Very small bribes."
"Cigarettes as prison currency. Yes, sir, I do know that.
Shall we go then?… If you're ready?"
When they reached the parking lot Becker asked abo
ut the cap.
"Do you always wear it?"
"It was my day off when I got the call to pick you up, but since I'm going to be a chauffeur, I might as well look the part. It's the closest I could come… You don't like it?"
"I think it looks silly enough on baseball players."
After a pause she said, "I can change it when we get to the car."
"You always wear a hat?"
"I'm very fair," she said.
"A nice quality."
"I mean my skin. I burn easily."
"I see that."
"What does that mean… sir?"
"I see that you have fair skin," Becker said carefully.
He was getting the feeling that Special Agent Haddad wasn't carrying a chip on her shoulder, she was sporting a whole brick. "I can tell that by looking at you."
"Do you have a problem with that?"
"No. Fair skin is fine with me."
"Thank you."
"I'm making no judgments on your skin, Haddad. It's not my skin."
"That's right," she said. "My skin is fair and yours is too tight."
"Did I come in the middle of something here?" Becker asked. "You haven't known me long enough to be mad at me."
She looked at him, surprised.
"I'm not mad at you, sir. I thought you were attempting to make conversation by those comments about my hat and my complexion, so I was conversing back."
"All," said Becker. "You thought I was criticizing you."
"Why would I think that, sir? As you pointed out, you hardly know me well enough to do that."
"Sorry," he said.
"Not at all. You have nothing to apologize for."
She yanked open the car door. "I'm just here to drive," she said, some of the words lost in the sound of doors opening and closing.
"Sorry to ruin your day off."
Pegeen shrugged.
"Happy in your work?" Becker asked.
"Just fine, thank you," she said. She tossed her baseball cap into the backseat and put on a soft brown felt hat with a large floppy brim that slouched over most of her face.
"Very nice," he said.
Pegeen maneuvered the Ford out of the parking lot.
"What do you call that hat?" Becker asked pleasantly.
"Ethel," Pegeen said. She laughed abruptly, as if she had caught herself by surprise.
Becker paused long enough to show he recognized the joke. "I meant the style. Does it have a name?"
"It's called a Trilby," she said.
"I like it," Becker said.
"Oh, good." Pegeen got a receipt for the parking charges, then turned towards 1-65, which would take them to Springville.
"Do you need anything before we begin? Any bladder problems to take care of?"
"Just that prostate thing, but nothing I can do about it here," Becker said.
Pegeen turned and looked at him directly. Becker grinned in what he hoped was a winning manner.
"Special Agent Becker, we have a two-hour drive to Springville. Sir, I think it will go more smoothly for both of us if we don't try to be pleasant."
"Yikes," said Becker.
"Sir?"
"Step on it," he said.
Perhaps it was the silence, or perhaps it was the lulling of the road, but after about an hour of driving Becker thought he detected a slight easing in Agent Haddad's posture. Her knuckles, which never left the proper ten minutes-to-two position, had relaxed enough so that blood was flowing back into them.
"I hope I wasn't rude," she said without preamble.
Becker thought for a moment before answering. "No.
You could call it direct, but not rude. I'm sure I deserved that in some way. I usually do."
"It wasn't you," she said. "Not really-well, somebut mostly it was just me. I thought maybe you don't drive, but you do have a license."
"Have we just changed the topic?"
"It's just that it seems more efficient for you to rent a car to drive to Springville by yourself That would allow me to do the kind of work I'm trained for."
"How long are you in the service?"
"A year and a half."
"It doesn't surprise you that the newest agents always get the shit work, does it?"
"The youngestfemale agents do, I have noticed, yes."
"Ah," said Becker. "Double discrimination. And then you have to put up with me to boot. No wonder you're pissed off."
"I'm just a little curious why they want to take a college graduate, a woman who has passed the Bureau's rather rigorous training-you would agree it is rather rigorous, wouldn't you?"
"Rigorous," Becker said.
"I have a master's degree, for that matter. And nearly sixteen months of active service to my credit. Why would they want to make me a taxi driver for a straightforward delivery? It wastes my whole day."
"Shoots the hell out of mine, too," Becker said.
"Yes, but you're going to Springville for some purpose, presumably, not just along for the ride."
"You really don't know why they assigned an agent to drive me there?"
"No."
"What do you know about me?"
"Nothing. Should I? Did you used to be famous?"
Becker laughed.
"You're not shitting me, are you, Special Agent Had dad? You didn't bone up on my file? You didn't ask around?"
"No. Should I have?"
"So you really don't know why you're here. No wonder you're mad."
"Why am I here?"
"To keep an eye on me," Becker said.
"Why do I need to do that?"
"Because I'm the big bad wolf," Becker said.
Pegeen looked at him to see how best to read his remark.
His voice had been flat and serious, and she studied his face for any clues that he was joking. He was faintly smiling but it looked to Pegeen like a very rueful smile, an expression of deep regret.
"You don't look like one to me," she said.
"I'm wearing my sheepskin," Becker said. He turned to her and his smile widened but she thought his eyes the most mournful she had ever seen. "I told you it was too tight… And I'm about to pop out of it."
Pegeen tried to laugh, not knowing what else to do.
By the time they reached the prison Becker was sunk so deeply within himself that Pegeen wondered if he was still with her at all. She parked the car in a slot reserved for prison personnel and waited for Becker to get out.
From her vantage point behind the wheel she was too close to the prison to see much but stone. A parking lot stretched away on one side, a well-tended lawn on the other. It could have been an industrial plant, a factory, a warehouse.
"This is it, sir," Pegeen said.
Becker was slouched, staring straight ahead as if reading patterns in the stone that faced their car. His arms were crossed tightly on his chest, as if he were cold. Or something else… No longer distracted by the driving, Pegeen took a long look at his face. He seemed oblivious to her presence. There was a darkness in his facade that Pegeen knew but refused to recognize at first. She cleared her throat, moved about on her seat, hoping to bring him out of it, but he was sunk into the emotion. Eventually she had to admit that he looked like nothing else so much as frightened.
"We're here, sir," she said finally.
"I know," Becker said, still facing forward. "We've been here a long time."
Pegeen considered asking him what he meant, then decided to let it go.
"Is-uh-is everything all right?"
"I'm just scared," he said, matter-of-factly.
Pegeen did not know how to respond. She could not remember an adult male who had ever admitted to fearing anything. Instinctively she wanted to reach out to comfort him, but this was the FBI, they were both agents, they were on duty, Becker was a grown man… she touched his shoulder.
"I'm sure it will be all right," she said.
"Promise?" His tone was boyish, but with a note of humor that said he was aware of how he sounded.
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Still not turning to face her, Becker took hold of the hand that rested on his shoulder.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.
Becker shook his head, continuing to stare at the stones in front of them. Resisting the urge to draw him closer and comfort him with an embrace, Pegeen sat perfectly still, letting him hold her hand.
Slowly Becker seemed to change, or rather his hand seemed to change. He did not move it, there was no more pressure in his grip, no alteration in the position of his fingers or his palm, but gradually Pegeen became aware of a growing heat. It was as if he were transferring energy to his hand by just thinking about it. Or perhaps she was doing it, Pegeen thought. It was possible. It was equally possible that nothing whatsoever was happening, that she was just imagining it. He certainly gave no sign that anything was happening; he had not moved since enwrapping her hand in his.
It wasn't sexual, she was almost sure of that. Almost. But she didn't know what else it was. Well, maybe compassion, fellow feeling, something like that. Maybe he just had a higher body thermostat than most, or she did, or something about the two of them in combination caused it. All she was certain of was that she could not stop thinking about the sensation of their two hands together.
And the equal certainty that he must also be aware of it.
She tried to think what she would tell the agent-incharge if he did quiz her about her trip as Becker seemed to think he — might. Would she tell him that nothing hapned, but she sat holding hands with another agent forhow long had it been? It seemed a very long time. Pegeen remembered going to a movie with a boy in her early teens and feeling his hand resting upon her leg throughout the film. She had been so surprised, and nervous, and excited, that she had sat still as a statue for the whole feature, and he, for his part, had not moved an inch. It was only when the lights came on and the hand still did not move that Pegeen had looked to see that she had been pressing her leg against the armrest the whole time.
