Chapter Nine: Punch Line

---1---

Lunch outdoors, albeit on a mild afternoon and at a suitable table, was too much public exposure for Charlie. Before they were served, he asked Jacobi if she wouldn't mind moving into the café. Inside, he relaxed, feeling less like he might be ambushed at any second. Similar to a disease, fear had infected him, multiplying and spreading at will though he tried to suppress it.

Jacobi seemed to pick up on his jitteriness. "This has to do with what happened to you, doesn't it?"

He pushed his utensils aside, realized his appetite was weak. "It's been a growing problem. I can't seem to contain it."

"Charlie," she said, leaning forward. "A physicist, a chemist, and a mathematician were stranded on an island. A can of food washes ashore and the chemist and the physicist get together and come up with all sorts of brilliant, ingenious ways to open it. All of a sudden, the mathematician gets a bright idea and says, 'Assume we have a can opener...'"

Charlie laughed, although he'd heard it before. But he was touched she'd try to cheer him up. "You memorized that for me?"

She appeared to be having fun with him, dove into another joke: "The Dean says to the physics department, 'Why do I always have to give you guys so much money for laboratories and expensive equipment and stuff. Why couldn't you be like the math department—all they need is money for pencils, paper and trashcans. Or even better, like the philosophy department—all they need are pencils and paper'."

He hadn't heard it and let out a genuine laugh. "I like that one," he said, and their salads were served. Picking up a fork, he nudged a tomato slice to the side of the plate as if it wasn't supposed to be there.

"Here's one from my major," she said. "What's the difference between a violin and a viola?"

Charlie didn't know.

"There is no difference. The violin just looks smaller because the violinist's head is so much bigger."

"I see, string player social hierarchies."

"I'm bombing, aren't I?" She labored on. "What's the first thing a musician says at work?"

Charlie guessed. "I'm counting on you guys?"

She thanked him for trying then revealed the punch line: "'Would you like fries with that'?"

His mood lightened over the mealand he rediscovered his appetite, resurrected jokes of his own, filtering out those a layperson wouldn't comprehend. Afterwards, she encouraged him to indulge in fresh air and coaxed him into the park, saying she'd protect him, that she knew karate and kung fu and Chuck Norris law-and-order kicks. By the time they'd strolled to the pergola on the north side, he was delighted, lured away from his troubles.

The opportunity was inescapable. As they walked down the pergola, their knuckles bumped and they held hands, lightly. He told her he'd like to hear her play the flute again, and she offered to come by and do so.

"Our careers are cousins," he said, dodging a hanging vine. "Math and music are interrelated."

Her eyes lit up. "Yes, almost fourth dimensional in scope."

"Take ratios," he said, testing to see how much she knew, how agile her mind was. Some people were stumped by the most basic concepts. "Tones are comprised of ratios. For instance, on a guitar I can change the ratio by shortening or lengthening the strings." He let her hand go and they stopped walking while he demonstrated his version of air guitar. "It works on a ratio of 2:1, so if the "A" string is one meter long, then the next "A" lower will be two meters long, or, if you go up, it'll be half a meter long. A perfect fourth is 4:3 and—"

"A perfect fifth is 3:2. Low tones are longer, higher ones shorter."

"Correct." Charlie was satisfied, pleased she hadn't given him a blank stare. "On your flute, it's done with the valves by altering the corridors of the tubing. The longer the tube, the lower it is."

"I feel smarter," she said. "Just talking to you."

He smiled, cradled her hand. "I've got a million of 'em." So different from my first date with Amita. If it had been as simple to impress Amita, we would've been an item by now—and I wouldn't be here with Jacobi. The two scenarios were directly opposed.

Charlie heard a shuffling behind them and he turned. A man in tan boots had been trailing them, walking a black Labrador. The boots demanded Charlie's attention, reminded him of Reylott's. I have to stop being spooked by my own imagination.

"Uh, I hate to say it," Jacobi said, checking her watch. "I gotta' go. I have voice at three and the traffic never cooperates."

His mood sank. Back to the real world. The man in boots had come closer and Charlie held her arm, escorted her away from the pergola to a grove of trees about ten feet out. In an adjacent field, a group of young men were engaged in a football game.

"You seem nervous yet," she said. "Want me to stay?"

"No, I'm fine." He glanced left to right. "I'm a little nervous. Sometimes it feels like I have about as much resistance as the surface tension on a water drop." He clapped his hands. "Pop!"

"Poor Charlie." She reached up, fingers over his jaw line, into his hair. "Silky. I was intrigued."

Surprised, he felt a torrent of tickles cascade down his spine. "Assume we have a few more hours..." he said, and their lips met. But mid-kiss, Charlie stumbled, pushed forward by the Labrador who'd unexpectedly brushed between the backs of his knees and a tree.

"Perfect punch line," she said, and they watched the dog run barking into the field, chasing birds, with the man running after it.

He released her hand. "You should go. You'll miss your class."

Charlie offered to walk her to her car; Jacobi declared it wasn't necessary, it was a long stretch and she'd have to rush, be boring company. He didn't press it, feeling he'd moved too fast, recalling his father's advice: Problems don't go away because you meet someone.

As he turned to go, the man with the boots popped out from between the trees and Charlie drew aside, moving away from him.

Strolling near Charlie, the man shortened the leash, bringing the Lab under control. "That your wife?" he said, telling the dog to mind. "Think I've seen her here before."

Suspicious, Charlie picked up his pace to add a little distance and headed toward the main pathway. "A friend."

The man remained parallel to him. "Pretty thing," he said. "You should marry her." He veered off to the east. "Have a nice day."

Charlie said, "You, too," but didn't mean it, and hurried out from the trees, feeling skittish, and exited the park.

---2---

At the courtyard—I'm near Don's office—he considered visiting Megan and, maybe, Don had gone back to work? No, not without the psych evaluation. If he saw Don, Charlie wasn't sure he could look him in the eye. He was disheartened that his brother would tell him one thing one day and another thing the next, urge him to get counseling then call him a scaredy-cat.

Megan was in. She knew what he was there for as soon as he walked up, taking him directly to the conference room.

She closed the door. "He won't call back," she said, arms crossed. "I'm sick of answering machines. You having any luck?"

"My father went over today. Perhaps he'll be able to change his mind." Over the width of the display board, photos of a bombing site had been hung and Charlie scanned them casually.

"You haven't seen him?" she said.

"No, I…we had an argument." He buried a hand in his pocket. His fingertips were cold. Air conditioning must be set low, he figured, room's freezing.

She took a seat. "I heard you've had a few stresses of your own."

He slid a photograph over, hanging it straight. "We assumed it would be easier than this. I think we're both somewhat overwhelmed."

"Somewhat? If you'd been here after that meeting—I've never seen Don like that."

Charlie rearranged two small photos. "He's displayed a different side to me, too."

"Don's never talked much about what happened," she said. "No one knows the details of what went on between him and Reylott when they were alone. He just says he lost it when he believed you'd died in the fire. Then he shuts down. I think it still terrifies him."

"I don't understand him."

"What'd he do?" she said. "Storm out on you, too?

"He supported dad's idea about seeing a counselor, tried to persuade me to see one. But he wouldn't consider it for himself." Charlie turned from the photos, slid out a chair but didn't sit. "After he was put on leave, he flip-flipped on me, said I had no backbone because I was concerned about Reylott."

"We had another sighting today, sorry."

"Great."

"Don cares about you, Charlie." She asked him to sit with her and he did. "He's projecting his own embarrassment about having a panic attack on the job right onto you. He's frustrated, not only for breaking down at work but out there, when Reylott was pushing his buttons. He's embarrassed, probably ashamed. And you remind him of all of it." She rested her hand on his. "When he sees you, he's seeing what he's trying to forget."

Her palm was warm, comforting. "He hasn't anything to be ashamed about," he said. Neither do I.

"You and I know that. He's one of the toughest agents I've ever met. Capable, terrific leader. But his identity's been shook up. He isn't going to get over it quickly. Why don't you go see him? Tell him Megan has a pile of files ten feet high on her desk."

"I'm not prepared to. I'm pissed at him."

"The sooner you deal with it, the sooner you'll both improve," she said. "As for Reylott's whereabouts—unconfirmed, some conflicting details on the clothing and beard, no beard. At this point, I'm convinced it's just a doppelganger and a bunch of bored citizens."

Charlie got up to leave. "I have a headache."

"You're a little pale." She reached over and touched his forehead. "All this would put a strain on anybody."

"Thanks," he said, feeling queasy. "It's been a rollercoaster."

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