The tech arrived about noon and explained to Charlie how the enhancement programs could sharpen an image on the screen but would not add details. “Pixels are pixels,” he said, as if that made sense. Charlie murmured something about tautologies. Tautologies are the sort of thing liberal arts graduates like to natter on about, for IT guys, not so much. The young man nodded and muttered something about the number of pulses per second. At least that’s what Charlie thought he heard. He showed Charlie how to execute the facial recognition programs and repeated the pixels mantra. Charlie smiled, thanked him, and sent him on his way.
The director called and wanted to know what Charlie was up to. Charlie smiled and waited until the door closed behind the tech and then briefed the director. He left out the part about his belief that Ike might still be alive. He knew the director was the soul of discretion, but his secretary had been known to gossip and though in the past she kept it to office scandal, Charlie dared not risk it. Not yet, not until he’d actually talked to Ike, assuming he was correct about Ike being alive and he could.
Right, talk to Ike, but would Ike talk to him? By now Ike must be wondering what part of his past had come into play to destroy him. His first guess would be the CIA—that the Agency had decided he might have to be a necessary pawn in some game involving that past. He’d be wrong, but that would not stop him from thinking it and consequently he would, by now, be someplace where he felt certain the Agency could not track him. Or would he?
Ike had survived all his years in the agency and in his latest iteration as rural cop by convincing people they were cleverer than he. “Dumb like a fox,” Charlie’s grandmother would say. Well, he and Ike had played this game of cat and mouse before. Charlie sat back in his ancient oak desk chair and dropped into a coma-like state that removed him from the world and allowed him to focus on the problem at hand. Alice knocked twice, recognized the thousand-mile stare, and said she’d come back when he returned to Earth.
***
“Woof, it’s been a long time since we made sheet music like that, Ike.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“It’s only been four days…nights.”
“Nevertheless. Glad to discover you haven’t misplaced your playbook.”
“My what? My playbook? You think? You have no idea. Oh, Lord. I say, you have no…no idea. Listen, Buster, with you presumably dead, I’ve done some research. Just in case you really are/were…dead, that is. A wake-up call, you could say.”
“A what?”
“Take this as a cautionary tale, Copper. There are many fewer hot male catches out there than there are female hunters. I know that’s hard to believe but there you are. Don’t ever tell anyone I said that or that it’s even important, by the way. So, if I have to go back into the lists to compete—you being dead and me a widow and all—I want to be a first-rounder. Keeping up with the next generation, see. Kids these days read the Kama Sutra, for God’s sake. So, I‘m always learning, staying ahead of the curve. Fifty Shades of Gray, the aforementioned Kama Sutra, CineMax, Busty Cheerleaders Camp…I’ve been busy. Hey, a woman can’t just rest on her laurels, you know.”
Ruth grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “Allergies.”
Ike wrapped his arms around her. “Right. I wasn’t imagining your laurels or you resting on them. Hey, it’s okay…shhhhh. I’m here and I don’t plan on leaving.”
She shook her head and a tear finally escaped and rolled down her cheek. “I was so scared, Ike. I thought, ‘Okay, I know he’s not really dead, but he could be. Cops die LOD all the time, don’t they?’ And I thought what if it was true, you know? What if it had been you in the car? You know it could have been, might have been. Except for a drunk who took the wrong car…I mean identical keys? Two cars and keys? That’s the difference between the now and the what-might-have-been? What are the fucking odds? God! And then the worst part, I thought about what life would be without you and it…and my heart almost broke. Ike, don’t do this anymore.”
“I won’t, I promise. But until I find the person who thinks he killed me, there can be no end to it. And you don’t have to drop the F bomb. You’re the president of a University, not one of your students.”
“Not drop the F…what? Why? You and your high octane testosterone-fueled cops say it all the time and you know it.”
“They do as do the ladies in the beauty parlor, at least half a dozen clergymen I know, editors, school children, and nearly everyone else. Eighty percent of the world’s English-speaking population and probably most of the rest of the world, too, often in everyday conversation, I’m told. I know, but I don’t. I did, but I don’t anymore.”
“You do know how sanctimonious that makes you sound.”
“Yes, I do. I don’t care. Sanctimonious sounds a little pejorative, though. How about prudish? I sound prudish…no, stick with sanctimonious. Prudish is for little old ladies. Sanctimonious sounds more macho, don’t you think? Anyway, why not simply respect a decision made and not judge it at all?”
“Macho? Jesus! Okay, I won’t judge, though you do know that others will. Why have you given up the F bomb, as you say?”
“Well, believe it or not, when every upper-middle class housewife drops it into conversation on the mistaken notion it adds to their sense of relevance, it loses its punch. I mean when it ceases to shock, it ceases to be useful. Also, it has become a word that has lost its meaning. It is now used as an adjective, verb, adverb, object, and noun and often in the same sentence. You might as well say, ‘oatmeal’ or its euphemism, ‘fudge.’ Same impact.”
“Wow, so if it is no longer meaningful, why do you care if people say it?”
“Aside from I find it disconcerting, maybe I just don’t want to be like everybody else.”
Ruth took a deep breath and straightened up. “Surely you kid. ‘Not be like everybody else?’ Jesus, Ike, there is no way in hell you will ever be mistaken for anyone else in this life or the next, assuming there is one. Oh, God, that’s not quite true, is it? Someone already…Okay, no more verbal fucking. Just the actual kind. Gottcha. So, what can we do?”
“First, I have to consider who I can trust and then begin to poke around. I wish I had Sam Hedrick in my back pocket.”
“Well, you don’t. She’s been exiled to Washington, DC, the navel of the Universe. So, except for her, you don’t know who to trust?”
“I am not ready to rule anybody in or out.”
“Frank, Karl. None of your deputies? They’re your friends.”
“Yes, in time…soon. I have to figure how to limit the number of people who know.”
“Because? Never mind. Then, how about Charlie Garland?”
“Nope.”
“Charlie is out?”
“He’s CIA, Ruth. The Agency is a screwy place. They work hard at what they believe is the best interests for everyone at any moment in time, but times change and alliances shift. Today’s friend is tomorrow’s enemy. Their loyalties can be powerful, but at the same time, fickle. Who knows what trade-off might have required me to be the bait in some larger dodge? I have a history, but I am ex and therefore, very expendable. The Agency has few scruples in matters like that.”
“I hate your past.”
“Yeah, well it sucks but it has it perks. Anyway, if Charlie is involved he will react one way. If not, another. I will wait and see which way he jumps. When that happens and I have a line on its direction, as much as you will not like it, he could become a necessary part of our lives for a while.”
“If it gets you out of this, I’m okay with that, but you’re right, I won’t like it. What will you do while you wait for him to, as you say, jump?”
“Catch up. How’s our ward, Darla, taking this?”
“Darla is a ‘Wednesday’s child,’ Ike. Her life has been one of nearly continuous awfulness. For her, this is just one more crappy thing to absorb in a lifetime of crap. I suspect she will take it all in better than any of us. Besides she’s at that GED prep program and I haven’t told her yet. Maybe I won’t have to.”
“Your mother?”
“My mother is the ultimate Drama Queen. She’s in her element. So, again, what now?”
“At this exact moment, I need to realize what I could have lost. You are not the only one who was scared. With that in mind, I think for now I’ll start exploring all the new additions to your playbook you implied you’d added.”
“Dare I say the word?”
“Not say, do.”
Ruth frowned and looked at the man who was supposed to be dead, but wasn’t and who, but for a twist of fate, should have been. Ike Schwartz, her husband. Peculiar word, husband. It means “dutiful manager” or something stupid like that. How many women really think of their husbands as their manager, dutiful or otherwise? How many women would introduce their spouse as their “dutiful manager?” How many in her world could do so and live? She shoved Ike backwards. Some managing might be in order here, but not by the manager.
Ike cocked an eyebrow. “You did say you’ve done some research.”
“Do we have any plum sauce?”