Color of Blood(12)

“I’m not a spy,” Dennis said.

“Yes, I know. I tried to guess what you did when I was a kid, but Mom said not to worry about it. Remember I sat down with you when I was in seventh grade and read off a list of facts that I had pieced together about what you did? Do you remember what I guessed you did?”

“Vaguely,” he said.

“I thought you were in the Secret Service. You know, protecting the president. It seemed pretty glamorous. Well, I don’t really care who you work for, and I don’t know why it was such a big deal to me back then, or even now.” She sighed again.

“I work for the CIA,” he said.

There was a pause.

“The CIA?” she said.

“Yes.”

“The CIA?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a spy? Jesus Christ, Dad!”

“Not everyone who works for the Agency is a spy, Beth.”

“Dad, I’m twenty-eight years old and you just tell me now that you work for the CIA? Why in God’s name would you hold that back for so long?”

“Agency rules, or the old rules, anyway. That’s all changed now.”

“Did Mom know?”

“She figured it out. But I didn’t tell her in so many words, and she knew better than to ask.”

Dennis had not planned to tell his daughter that he worked for the Agency, but given the circumstances and his morose state of mind, it just seemed the thing to do. Not that it was anyone’s business what he did, really.

“If you’re not a spy, what do you do for them?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

“Sorry, Dad,” she said. “After all these years I’m not letting you off the hook. So what do you do?”

“I’m an investigator.”

“What do you investigate?”

“Things.”

“Dad!” she shouted. “Stop being so obstinate.”

“Damn,” he muttered, squirming on the bed. “I investigate things that have gone wrong for the Agency. Beth, don’t ask me any more questions, please. I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Jesus,” she said. “Where are you now?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“In a hotel room,” he said, a little confused.

“I mean where? In what country?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Just answer me, Dad.”

“I’m in Australia.”

“Good grief.”

There was a longer pause, and Dennis could hear himself breathing in the warm beige plastic mouthpiece.

“Dad, what time is it there right now?”

“One thirty-four a.m.”

“Have you been drinking?”

Dennis glanced at the nearly full bottle of Macallan.

“Not really.”

“Tell me the truth,” she said sternly. “Are you feeling all right? You had me really concerned after Mom died.”

“I’m much, much better, Beth. Really.”

“But you’re back at work. Is that such a good thing?”

“Of course it is. I’ve got nothing else going on in my life except work. And you.”

Dennis was unaccustomed to spontaneous expressions of intimacy, so even this small acknowledgement about Beth’s importance in his life surprised and worried him at the same time.

“Dad, as hard as this is for me to say, you have to listen to me: we need to get on with the rest of our lives. Mom would expect that. You need to move forward. I’m glad you’re working again, but you have to make sure you keep your head in the right place, OK?”

“Sure. I’m doing fine.”

“The CIA!” she said suddenly, as if in the middle of another conversation. “I can’t believe it.”

“Um, try not to blurt it out from the rooftops, if you don’t mind, Beth,” he said.

“Don’t be silly. When are you going to call me again?”

“I’ll do it again soon,” he said.

“That would be nice,” she said. “I’d call you, but I don’t know how to get hold of you. And you don’t use an answering machine at home, even though I sent you one two months ago. Can you give me your phone number now?”

“It’s against the rules,” he said.

“Of course,” she said. There was a long pause.

“And I really need to be getting to bed,” he said.

“Bye, Dad. Um, thanks for calling.”

“Bye, Beth.”

Dennis tried to sleep, but he felt restless and strange, as if someone else were lurking in the room. He got up and drank another glass of water, urinated, and lay down again. It took him until 3:30 a.m. to finally fall asleep, and when he did, he dreamed of Martha. She was in a hospital with a serious illness, but he could not find out which room she was in. It was a dream of frustration and confusion; it was so upsetting that he woke up an hour later, tired and a little disoriented.





Chapter 7


Judy bent over and looked at the hole in the wall. It was the size of a twenty-cent coin and surrounded by an extraordinarily small amount of blood splatter.