Sphere Of Influence (5 page)

So now, despite a fairly obscene amount of groveling on his part, they'd "slowed things down." That's what women said when they were on the fence as to whether or not you were a complete loser: "I think we should slow things down."

There was still hope, though. The necklace he'd given her as a peace offering was dangling from her neck. It shone in the candlelight like . . . well, not like forgiveness, but maybe like the distant possibility of forgiveness.

"What's happening with the inspection?" Carrie said, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. "You haven't said a word about it all night. Is it over?"

An interesting choice of words.

"Just about."

"And?"

Beamon quoted a line from the report that pretty much summed it up. "'While the office has been effective, this has been despite the management and administration, not because of it.'"

"That seems unfair."

Beamon blew air from his nose in an audible rush. Not quite a laugh. "I guess it is, in a way. It should have been worse. The kid running the inspection seems to think I'm a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Jesus Christ. He softened the blow."

Finally spotting their waitress standing by a window, searching for terrorists, Beamon drained his beer and motioned for a refill. "Kind of a strange position to be in. Every time I turn around these days, politics are working for me instead of against me. It's hard to get used to for some reason."

Carrie nodded thoughtfully. "Why do you think that is?" "Am I going to get a bill for this?"

Carrie was the director of psychiatry at a hospital in Flagstaff, a qualification that many people felt made her uniquely qualified to take on the task of being his significant other.

"Pick up dinner and we'll call it even."

"I don't know. Seems like it's about time the system worked for me instead of against me."

"I don't think anyone could say you haven't paid your dues, Mark. You finally got the promotion you'd deserved."

Beamon didn't respond. Maybe it was what he'd deserved--a punishment, though, not a reward. He'd had more than a few chances to ride into the sunset as the FBI's top investigator--some people might have even said the best they'd ever had. He was starting to think he should have just lived up to everyone's expectations and just self-destructed. But he'd convinced himself that it had been time to grow up.

"I guess so," he said, reaching for the pocket of his jacket before remembering that he couldn't smoke in the restaurant. Probably for the best: Maybe he'd manage to come in under two packs today. Instead he just drummed his fingers on the table and waited for his beer to arrive. Carrie wouldn't say anything about that. Giving up his beloved bourbon for light beer was actually one of his successes. What she didn't know, though, was that lately he'd caught himself slowing down when he drove by liquor stores. "You know, Mark, I have this friend. She was a salesperson. Made lots of money, really good at her job. So good, in fact, that they gave her a big promotion and moved her upstairs into management. She absolutely hated it. Three months later she'd gone back to sales."

"I can't go back, Carrie. And I'm a little young to retire." She examined his face carefully. "Mark, I've worked with some of the top surgeons in the country; I know college professors, researchers--you name it. And you're still the smartest guy I ever met. You can do this job if you buckle down. This is an issue of discipline, not ability." He pushed his plate away and dug a toothpick from his pocket. Not as satisfying as a cigarette, but it took the edge off. Carrie just stared at him.

"What?"

"I'm worried about you, Mark."

"You've been worried about me since the day we met." "No, I used to worry that you'd get yourself shot, or fired, or arrested. Now I'm worried about you." She motioned toward his still-full plate. "You don't eat anymore." "The doctor said I had to lose weight."

"Yeah, I know your doctor and I don't think he suggested substituting cigarettes and stress for two of the four food groups."

He shrugged. Whatever the reason, he'd lost the weight--almost fifty pounds. That, along with the beard that he'd grown to even out his thinning hair and the glasses he now wore, made it hard to recognize himself in the mirror every morning.

"I called you last Thursday at home at one P
. M
. and woke you up," she said.

"I guess I'm still adjusting to my new life as a successful FBI executive."

"Are you? I'm not sure. This new job--and the loss of your old job--is . . . I'm afraid it's beating you."

"I think you're being a little melodramatic, Carrie. I've been almost killed more times than I care to remember, and I just narrowly avoided being thrown in jail for God knows how long. I don't think sitting behind my desk and getting a bad report card from some kid is going to kill me."

"Isn't it?"

"Quit answering me with questions."

She nodded and fell silent for a few seconds. "You know one of the things I like best about you, Mark?"

"I didn't know there was anything anymore."

She kicked him under the table. "I've told you this before. What I like best about you is that, without fail, you always do what you think is right. A lot of times you're kind of misguided, but you're one of the only people I've ever met who really tries."

He actually remembered the first time she'd told him that. It had been about three minutes before he'd dumped her. Hopefully she'd forgotten.

"In fact, I think I told you that right before you dumped me."

Great.

"In the past it was always you against the establishment," she continued. "That's not the case here. What you're telling me is that you think they're right and you're wrong. That must be hard for you."

He didn't answer.

"Maybe you need some help--someone to talk to. Someone impartial."

"I'm not crazy, Carrie."

That elicited a little smile from her. "Don't fool yourself, Mark. You're as crazy as anyone I've ever met."

For once, he welcomed the sudden ringing of his cell phone. His dinner conversation with Carrie hadn't started out particularly flattering, and it looked like it was only going to get worse. He dug the phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear. "This is Beamon."

"Evening, Mark."

"Laura? What happened to 'I never want to hear from you again'?"

"Don't beat me up over that, Mark."

"Does your boss know you're talking to me?"

"He suggested it."

Beamon felt his eyebrows rise involuntarily. "Dave Iverson suggested you call me? I find that hard to believe." "Strange but true."

"I'm intrigued. What . . . ?" He let his voice trail off. Time to get his goddamn priorities straight for once in his life. "But I can't talk now."

"It's about the launcher," she said, baiting him wit
h
something that he would normally find absolutely irresistible.

"I don't care what it's about."

"What do you mean?" she said, obviously confused. "I don't understand."

"I'm having dinner with Carrie."

"Really? Good job, Mark. Give her the phone, I want to say hi."

He held it out. "It's Laura."

Carrie flashed a wide smile and snatched the phone. "Laura! How've you been?"

Beamon concentrated on his beer, trying to ignore the conversation that soon degenerated into smirks, ironic laughter, and brief phrases designed to be indecipherable to him. It went on like that for five minutes before Carrie finally handed the phone back.

"Go, Mark!" Laura said. "It sounds like you're softening her up. Call me when you get home, okay?"

"I don't know. Might not be able to get back to you till tomorrow."

Her laugh crackled through the earpiece. "I don't think you've softened her up that much."

Chapter
6

MARK Beamon stepped into the cold air of his apartment and slammed the door before the July heat could slip in behind him. He looked around at the immaculate living room and sighed quietly. He'd cleaned it up that morning--or at least hidden everything dirty--in case things went better than expected with Carrie. Of course they hadn't and she'd escaped back to Flagstaff and her daughter. Who could blame her? He'd been less than a sunny companion lately. That was something that needed to change.

He dropped onto the sofa and picked up the inspection report he'd left there the night before. After staring at the blank cover for a few seconds, he dropped it in his lap and flipped to a dog-eared page about a third of the way in. This page, he told himself, would be the turning point. Things were going to start looking up from here on. After a quick scan, it turned out to be yet another inaccurate criticism of one of his assistant SACS. Instead of crossing it out and writing a note as to why it was his fault, he just tossed the report on the floor and flipped on the television, surfing the channels at high speed, looking for something uplifting. There wasn't much to choose from--mostly doom, gloom, and wild speculation about pending biological and nuclear attacks. He finally settled on Charles Russell speaking passionately to a television camera. His message seemed uncharacteristically confused: half prediction of impending death and destruction, and half plea for people to climb out from under their beds and support the economy. As he always did when something bad happened, Russell eventually segued into a fire-and-brimstone speech on why the government needed more power to "root out these evildoers" Even as a senator he'd had the disturbing philosophy that if the U
. S
. would just incarcerate three-quarters of its citizens and severely restrict the freedoms of the other quarter, America would be transformed into some kind of utopia. The guy was so goddamn law-and-order, even cops thought he was a pain in the as
s
Russell pointed right at him. "We have to give law enforcement the tools to--"

"Careful, America . . ." Beamon cautioned, starting to flip through the channels again. Yet another brutal civil war in Southeast Asia, casualty reports from a recent school shooting, rocket launchers, rocket launchers, and more rocket launchers. He finally settled on the Cartoon Channel. Carrie's daughter had turned him on to it. Some of the most intelligent programming on cable.

Settling a little deeper into the sofa, he tried to lose himself in the old episode of Scooby-Doo. It was the one with Mama Cass as a guest star. A classic.

After a few minutes he caught himself drumming his fingers relentlessly on the cushions. He laced his hands tightly across his stomach but couldn't keep the phone next to the sofa from looming larger and larger in his peripheral vision. He lit a cigarette, despite his ironclad rule of not smoking in his apartment, and focused on the elegant plot unfolding on the television.

The truth was, he was more than a little put out by Laura's smug prediction that he'd strike out with Carrie--not to mention her certainty that he'd call her back after she'd snubbed him last time they'd spoken.

What did she want? Why would Iverson suggest she call? It would have to be important. . . .

"Goddamn it," he said in disgust at his own lack of willpower. He glanced at his watch. It would be one-thirty in the morning in D
. C
. Hopefully he'd wake her up from a good dream.

She picked up on the first ring, sounding wide-awake. "It's Mark."

"Home so ear--"

"Don't say it," he warned. "Just don't even say it." "I guess I've caught you in one of your moods"

"My relationship with Carrie seems to be in a permanent stall and she thinks I'm crazy." He jabbed his cigarette out in an ashtray cleverly disguised as a candy dish. "I don't think she's seeing anyone else, but at this point I honestly don't know. Shit, if she isn't, she probably should be." "She isn't seeing anyone else, Mark."

"I wish I could be so sure."

"Look, she's put her hand on the Mark Beamon stove, what, three times now? She was bound to learn eventually. She loves you, Mark. But you make things so damn hard. . . ."

"I have professionals pointing out my failings, Laura. I don't need you to."

"You want me to talk to her?"

"No. . . . Thanks, though. I'll work it out."

"You can, you know."

"Yeah. Now, what do you want?"

"Have you been watching the news?"

"Not really. I assume that they don't know anything and are just trying to whip up a little panic. It took me a goddamn half an hour to find a restaurant that was open." He let his head loll to the right. Scooby and Shaggy were being chased by a monster. He wouldn't have predicted that plot twist.

"Mark? Are you still there?"

"Yes"

"Where's the commentary? Normally, I can't shut you up."

"It's not my case, Laura. I mean, I feel bad that there's a rocket launcher floating around out there somewhere, but the Director, Dave, and all the other powers that be aren't going to want me involved in this thing. They're more than happy to just let me hang myself here in Phoenix."

"I'm sorry about the 'Don't call me anymore' comment, Mark. I didn't mean--"