Labyrinth

by Jon Land

  Locke would like to have been a better father, just as he would like to have been a better writer, professor, and husband. It was easy to see how people could live their lives for their children: It blotted out their own failures and missed opportunities. But Locke wasn’t going to fool himself. His oldest children were strangers and he couldn’t expect to hold on to the youngest forever.

  Those thoughts had tied a knot of anxiety in his stomach by the time he pulled into the driveway of his Silver Spring home. He lingered briefly before moving from the car. His heart was thumping crazily against his chest.

  “Hi, Daddy!” Whitney greeted him with an affectionate hug as he stepped through the door, leaving the phone dangling by the front hall stairway.

  “Hi, beautiful.”

  She seemed not to hear him. “You’re not gonna believe what happened to me today! I was asked to the prom, the junior prom! Do you believe it? And the guy is absolutely gorgeous, definitely tops in the whole junior class. I can’t believe he asked me. Of course, I knew he liked me ’cause Marcia knows someone who sits near him in study period and she overheard him mention my name… .”

  Locke looked closely at his only daughter as she moved back toward the phone, still jabbering away. She was wearing faded jeans and had tied her flowing blond hair atop her head in a bun. There was a naturalness about her beauty. It wasn’t hard to figure out why boys drooled over her. But she was only a freshman. Could she handle it? Locke wanted so much to discuss that issue with her but knew he’d botch things if he tried.

  Whitney held the phone against her shoulder. “I’ll have to get a new gown for the prom, you know,” she said softer, as tentatively as she could manage.

  “What about the one I bought you for the Christmas dance?”

  “That old thing? Daddy, be serious, you can’t wear the same dress to two formals. Nobody does.”

  “Maybe they just trade off so nobody notices.”

  Whitney frowned, impatient to get back to her phone call. “Be serious, Daddy.” She whispered something into the receiver, then looked back up at Locke as he sorted through the mail. “Can I eat at Debbie’s tonight?” she asked.

  “What does your mother say?”

  “This is Monday, Daddy. Mom works.”

  How could I not know that? Locke asked himself.

  “Okay.” He shrugged.

  “Thanks, Daddy!” Then, without missing a breath, Whitney was back in her conversation.

  Still shuffling through the mail, flinching at each bill, Chris moved into the kitchen, realizing suddenly how thirsty he was. He found Bobby sitting in one chair with his feet up on another sipping Coke and scanning the latest rock magazine.

  “What do you say, Pop?”

  Locke sighed on his way to the fridge. He had never gotten used to Bobby calling him “Pop.” Somehow the word seemed demeaning. He grabbed a Diet Coke and joined his oldest son at the table.

  “How was school?”

  “Okay, I guess,” Bobby replied with his eyes still on the magazine. “Usual shit.”

  “Give any more thought to that talk we had?”

  “’Bout college, you mean? Not yet. I will for sure. But the band’s just starting to get it together and I just haven’t had time. We’ve got two gigs scheduled. Not much money but it’s a start. Things are really beginning to happen for us.”

  “I’m glad,” Locke said lamely, and realized Bobby wasn’t wearing the usual bandanna tied around his forehead. Its absence allowed his sandy hair to fall almost to his eyebrows in tight curls that hung perfectly. He had never been much at sports, and as he grew older had never grown out of his boyish prettiness. A must for rock stars, Locke figured, as was the earring that dangled from his left lobe. Bobby’s jeans were thin and faded with the ragged bottoms tucked partially into a pair of battered high-top sneakers. His ever-present jean jacket was just as faded, barely blue anymore, stuck here and there with pins that Chris thought might be holding the material together. On the back was sewn an embroidered eagle, symbol of some band Bobby had once been fond of.

  Bobby looked away, eyes down. “I’ve been thinking about taking next year off, really giving the band a full shot.”

  Though not a complete surprise, the announcement jolted Locke. A son of his not going straight to college? It was unthinkable. Still, he kept himself calm. React too aggressively and Bobby would just storm away from the table. Give him a chance, Chris reminded himself.

  “Got any specific plans?” he managed to ask.

  Bobby hedged, seeming almost as if he was looking for support or approval. “I was thinking about going out west. That’s where all the action is—records, I mean.”

  “What would you do for money?”

  Bobby leaned forward in his chair, looking surprised the conversation had gotten this far. “I got it figured this way, Dad,” he said, and Locke knew at once what was coming. The only time Bobby called him Dad was when he wanted something. “Even with the load Georgetown takes off the tuition, college has gotta cost you five thou easy. I figured if you advanced me that much, like a loan, I’d have enough to get started.”

  “Five thousand wouldn’t even pay the rent out west.”

  “I’ll live cheap. Besides, there’s a bunch of us going out together. That’ll really cut the cost.”

  “And what happens after a year?”

  “We’ll be big by then. Everybody says we got the stuff. Everybody says—”

  The slamming kitchen door broke off Bobby’s words. Beth stormed in with Greg trailing behind in his baseball uniform. She glared at Bobby.

  “You tell him?” she demanded.

  “Tell me what?” Locke asked.

  “Tell him!” Beth shouted.

  Bobby said nothing. Beth swung toward Locke.

  “Our proud firstborn over there was suspended from school today.”

  “What?”

  “They caught him smoking in the parking lot.”

  “I thought cigarettes were allowed.”

  “Not cigarettes—pot! Marijuana!”

  “Oh, Christ …”

  “The assistant principal called me at work. I had to interrupt a meeting with some clients. It was so damn embarrassing. So I take him home and tell him we’ll deal with this later ’cause I’ve got to get back to the office.” Her raging eyes swung back toward Bobby. “And I leave him the car with instructions to do one simple thing: Pick up his brother at baseball practice.”

  “Mom,” Greg started, “it was no big deal. I could have walked. Or hitched.”

  “Hitched?” Back to Locke now. “You hear that, Chris? You hear that? So of course he doesn’t go pick his brother up like he’s supposed to and I get another call at the office from Greg’s coach telling me that practice is over and nobody’s there to get him. Then I have to borrow Sally’s car and rush to the field and I’m already late for another appointment.” Beth’s finger thrust forward violently enough to make Bobby shrink back. “I have had it with you, young man, just had it! Maybe a prep school’s what you need after all… .”

  At ten grand a year, thought Locke.

  “I’ll tell you, Chris, we’ve got to talk about this. I can just see all the wives whispering at the next faculty lunch.”

  Locke almost told her that wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

  “I’m really fed up with all his nonsense.” Beth was already starting back for the door. “We’d better talk as soon as I get home. I’ve gotta run now. I’m late for that appointment and Sally needs her car.”

  The door closed behind her.

  Sighing, Locke turned slowly back toward Bobby, dredging his mind for the right response to his oldest son’s misbehavior. But the boy rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs before Chris had a chance to say anything. Seconds later the roar of rock music, speakers on full, started pounding the walls, forming a barrier between Bobby and the rest of the world. Chris had never been much good at breaking such barriers down.

  “Turn that shi
t off!” Whitney screamed from somewhere.

  Locke sank down at the kitchen table and smothered his face in his hands.

  Greg’s hand grasped his shoulder. “You all right, Dad?”

  “Tough day, that’s all.”

  His youngest son frowned. “Mom’s pretty mad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mad too?”

  Locke reached up and touched Greg’s cheek, smoothing his wind-whipped hair, which already showed the first sign of the sun’s bleaching. “Not at you. Hey, it looks like it’s just you and me for dinner.”

  Greg returned his father’s gesture, sliding down Chris’s face a small hand dominated by the Little League championship ring he wore proudly even to bed.

  “McDonald’s?” he posed hopefully.

  “You talked me into it.”

  Locke ordered his usual two Quarterpounders with ketchup only and barely finished one, while Greg gobbled up his Big Mac and fries, washing them down with a giant cup of Coke with Ronald McDonald’s smiling face etched all over it. The boy had gotten braces in February and Chris hoped they would stay on forever, for as long as he wore headgear and had to sneak gum, Greg would be a boy and Locke didn’t want to let go of that.

  It was Greg’s turn to pay tonight and pay he did, peeling a bunch of worn, rolled-up bills from his jeans, dodging the buttons of his baseball uniform top as he fiddled for the right change, just making it. It was a game they played. Greg liked to pay when they went to McDonald’s as an assertion of his independence. And Locke encouraged him. Later in the night he would sneak into the boy’s room and replenish the sock where Greg hid his funds from all except his father. Maybe the boy was on to the game. Maybe he wasn’t. Chris kept playing either way.

  Locke had stowed the station wagon in the garage when he heard the phone ringing, hurried inside and grabbed the receiver, certain the caller had given up.

  He hadn’t.

  “Chris, it’s Brian Charney… .”

  Chapter 3

  THEY CHOSE THE TOMBS for lunch, an early one since Tuesday was Locke’s seminar day and he would be tied up all afternoon. Since seating at The Tombs with its prestigious political clientele was difficult after twelve, the eleven-thirty meeting was probably the best thing anyway.

  Locke arrived first and was ushered to a table at the very rear of the main floor, away from the chatter of other diners in an area usually reserved for more distinguished patrons. He hadn’t seen Brian Charney in six months and then only briefly at a reception at Georgetown. Their conversation had been strained. There was too much to catch up on and no sense in trying.

  Brian Charney stepped into The Tombs, picked Locke out immediately, and started toward him. Chris rose, impressed as always by Charney’s appearance. The years had treated him well, left him with a fine physique and all his hair. There were lines under his eyes to be sure and something alien about those eyes, but for the most part Brian Charney looked a decade younger than his forty-two years.

  For himself, Locke had managed a regular three workouts per week at the Georgetown athletic center. It was a constant battle, though, just to stay even and not fall back. His muscles didn’t respond as they used to and ached plenty for the effort.

  “Good to see you, Bri,” Locke said, trying to mean it.

  Charney took his extended hand with a faint smile. “You too, Chris. It’s been a while.”

  Silently both men took their seats.

  “I hope the table is to your liking,” Charney opened. “I figured we could use the privacy.”

  “You arranged it?” Locke said, not bothering to hide his surprise. “You must pull some weight here. Government’s been good to you, Bri. What is it, still CIA?”

  “Hasn’t been for years,” Charney said.

  “But you told me—”

  “I never told you anything. I just nodded and made lots of evasive answers. You drew your own conclusions.”

  “So who do you work for?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain. I’m sort of a liaison between the State Department and various tiers of intelligence. The Company is one of them. Basically, I’m just a simple bureaucrat.”

  “Simple bureaucrats don’t get corner tables reserved for them in The Tombs.”

  “This is the city of bureaucracy, remember?”

  A waitress came over and took their drink orders. A Perrier with a twist for Locke, gin and tonic for Charney.

  “So how are you doing?” Charney asked.

  “You want the truth, Bri?” And suddenly their souls touched like best friends again and Locke felt his guts starting to spill. “Things aren’t too good and that’s an understatement. I’ve got two kids I don’t even know and a wife I have to get to show me a house if I need to talk to her. I’ve got two novels boxed in a closet and that’s probably as much circulation as they’re ever gonna get, not to mention the fact that I’m not exactly on best terms with the Georgetown administration.” Locke held the truth of his dismissal back. Admitting failure in his personal life came easier than admitting failure of a professional nature to someone of Charney’s status. “There’s something wonderful about passing into the great decade of your forties, Bri. For the first time you realize you can’t go back and start all over but that doesn’t stop you from trying; not me anyway.”

  “It’s called a midlife crisis,” Charney said lightly.

  “Screw that. My midlife crisis started when I was twenty-five. This is worse.”

  Locke said that with a smile and Charney smiled back slightly. This was still the same person who had been his best friend in college. They shared both a room and their lives. Charney had thought he’d be able to put all that behind him. After all, twenty years had passed and all the change that went with them. Essentially, though, the two of them hadn’t changed. They were still the same people at the core, and that would make his mandate all the more difficult. Charney had sent men to their death before but never a friend.

  “I know about the tenure review board,” he said suddenly, seizing the advantage. He had to take charge now if he was going to go through with it.

  “You what?” Locke exclaimed.

  “I read their complete report last night.”

  “It’s supposed to be confidential.”

  “And it is.”

  “Yet you read it.”

  “The need was there. Need overrides confidentiality.”

  “Speak English, Bri. This is about to become the shortest lunch ever.”

  The waitress arrived with their drinks.

  “This isn’t a social call,” Charney told Locke, sipping his gin and tonic.

  “I’m beginning to get that impression.”

  “I need your help, Chris, and in return I think I can help you.”

  “You’ve piqued my interest. Please continue.”

  “The Luber’s dead.”

  Locke’s mouth dropped. He felt a numbness in his brain. The glass almost slipped from his fingers but he recovered in time to place it on the table. He wanted to say something but there were no words. The grim finality of Charney’s statement had shattered any possible response.

  “He was killed last weekend,” Charney elaborated.

  “How?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Eliminated in the course of duty?”

  “That’s the indication.”

  “Where?”

  “Colombia. That’s South America, not District of.”

  “Oh, God.” Locke ran his hands over his face, letting the light of The Tombs back in slowly. “Why there?”

  “Why not? It would have probably been his last assignment in the field.”

  “The Luber wouldn’t retire.”

  “We were retiring him,” Charney said.

  “I can’t believe it… .”

  “He was the same age as you, Chris. Think back to what you just said to me about your life; all the questions, all the doubts. You’re starting to see shadows. So was Lube. Only in
our business, shadows will get you killed, sometimes other people too. It was in the training, Chris,” Charney noted, meeting Locke’s eyes and understating his words just enough. “We went thought it together, the three of us.”

  “Lube must not have learned that lesson very well.”

  “No,” Charney said without hesitating. “He just couldn’t accept it in his own case. He knew what was coming and wanted to prove us wrong. The easy life in the sun wasn’t for him, never was. He latched on to something and followed a trail. It led him to something big, all right, but he never got the chance to tell us precisely what.”

  “Why are you telling me all this? I assume it’s classified stuff and a man in your position wouldn’t just be exorcising guilt.”

  “I want you to take his place.”

  Locke was thrown back. “You’re kidding!”

  “Hardly. We think whatever the Luber was on to has something to do with the World Hunger Conference, which is scheduled to start in thirteen days. That doesn’t give us much time. They’ll cover the trail if we send out the pros. I think—we think—you could slip by them.”

  “Because I spent six glorious months at the Academy?”

  “Because you’ve got a personal interest. Because Lube was your best friend. Because you … owe him.”

  Locke flinched, stung by the comment. His face reddened. From somewhere down deep came a memory of the Luber pulling him from a crevice in the earth as the sides squeezed together, threatening to crush him.

  “If you’re trying to make me mad, you’re doing a pretty damn good job of it” was all he said.