David Wiltse - Into The Fire

Most men in the Bureau would not have made this trip to see Becker in person, they would have thought it belittled someone as highly placed as Hatcher. But that was because they viewed status as the important thing, and there they were wrong. The important thing was to get the results that would solidify his position and increase his grip on the power his office offered him. Becker could not be manipulated by telephone, nor could he be summoned to Hatcher's office as if he were still employed by the Bureau. He could not be ordered to take an assignment; he could not be soft-soaped into it either. The secret to manipulating anyone was to know his weaknesses, and Hatcher knew Becker's.

Becker's first weakness was that he hated Hatcher, hated him openly and defiantly and made no attempt to hide it. This made him a biased reporter and immediately discounted Becker's account of things with his superiors.

Hatcher hated Becker, too, but knew better than to ever reveal it to anyone. Publicly, he praised Becker's undis courage and skill, bending over backwards to give impression of fairness. This gave credibility to the slightest and grudging suggestion of any deficiency.

Becker vented his hatred of Hatcher to anyone who would listen. Hatcher used his hatred of Becker only in the places where it would do the most good, and that was one of the differences between them. Not that he ever wanted to do Becker too much harm. The man had his uses. Properly directed and sparingly employed, Becker could be used to carry another's career. He could be saddled and ridden. Hatcher had managed to make Becker's successes his own triumphs in the past and he felt confident that he could do it again.

The big cop was staring at Hatcher now and talking to Becker, who didn't bother to turn to look. He had been spotted, which did not surprise him.

Hatcher had not performed well in surveillance technique in training, and even if he had, it would have been hoping for too much to spy on Becker for very long without being detected.

As Hatcher stepped out of the bushes and started across the field, Becker finally feigned to look in his direction.

He said something to the cop and they both laughed. The forty yards across empty field seemed like an eternity with their eyes on him. It was like walking into a sniper's scope with Becker looking at him and Hatcher had difficulty with the simple process of walking now that he was so conscious of it. He stumbled once and looked back to find the vengeful bit of turf that had tripped him, hearing the laughter of the cop floating towards him. Simple acts of coordination had always been troublesome for Hatcherhe never knew where to put his hands when talking to someone, and matters of rhythm eluded him entirely. He was used to these embarrassments and quite accustomed to the amusement his discomfort gave to others. He no longer minded when they snickered up their sleeves at him; while they were having such a good time at his expense, they never noticed that he was outmaneuvering them.

Becker would be reveling in his huniiliation, of course, but Hatcher knew he could turn this to his own advantage.

He would not waste energy worrying about his pride.

Becker was bouncing the ball with his whole body now, keeping it in the air off his knees, feet, shoulders, chest, and head. It was an impressive display of control and agility and gave Hatcher another twinge of hatred. A man that age had no business looking as agile as a tap dancer.

When he got within twenty yards, Hatcher began to smile. It always took him a while to conjure one up, but once he had it securely on his face, he could keep it there for as long as needed.

"What does your unerring eye tell you about this one?" Becker asked as Hatcher stepped into the open.

"Definitely a villain," Tee said.

"Absolutely."

"A brown suit, black shoes. Looks like a fashion felon at the very least."

"There's more."

"Christ, is he stiff! He moves like Nixon." Tee laughed when Hatcher stumbled. "Definitely not a cat burglar."

"So? Your expert opinion?"

"As chief of police-you want the official verdict?"

"Please."

"There's a snake in the grass approaching us."

"Close," Becker said. "But a snake at least has the conviction to get right down on its belly. Hatcher does not have that much courage. He's more of a lizard."

"Friend of yours, is he?"

"Of long standing," Becker said.

Hatcher mistimed his approach and stuck out his hand to shake far too soon. He had to walk fifteen yards with his hand thrust forward, a smile fixed on his face.

"Associate Director Hatcher, FBI," he said, moving first towards Tee.

"Nice to meet you, officer."

"Chief," said Becker.

"I beg your pardon, Chief…?"

"Terhune. Thomas Tee Terhune. How are you?"

"A pleasure." Hatcher turned to face Becker as if just noticing him for the first time. "John. How have you been?"

Becker did not take Hatcher's offered hand.

"I don't feel like it," Becker said.

"Pardon me?"

"I don't feel like doing it. I don't want the case. You can go back."

Hatcher widened his smile and tipped his face skyward for a second as if overcome by a laugh.

"Actually…" he started, then Jack joined the company, easing the ball from Becker's hand. "And who is this? You must be Special Agent Crist's little boy. Jack, isn't it?". "You know it is," Becker said. "You boned up on Karen's file on the way here from New York."

"You're certainly getting to be a strong-looking young man, Jack. Do you want to be an agent like your mom when you grow up?"

"He's going into proctology instead. The work's the same but it pays better." Becker stepped between Hatcher and the boy as if to protect Jack from contamination. "Go home with Tee," he said. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

Becker took the ball back from the boy's hands and dropped it to the ground, imprisoning it with a foot.

"You're looking well, John," Hatcher said as Tee and the boy walked away. His cheeks were burning with humiliation, but his smile was firmly in place. He knew his eyes revealed his hatred, but Becker was not looking in his eyes. He was not looking directly at Hatcher at all.

"Go down to Springville and talk to the man yourself," Becker said. "You don't need me. You've probably already identified him by his prints on the envelope or the DNA in his saliva on the stamp, for all I know."

"I'm not sure who you mean."

"Look, Hatcher, I know honesty is a difficult concept for you, and I don't want you to break a habit of a lifetime and start dealing in it wholesale, but at least fake it for the purposes of this conversation or else this conversation is over. You've been reading my mail, right?"

Hatcher dropped the smile and assumed his forthright look.

"Naturally we screen anything that comes in addressed to an agent, for your own safety."

"I'm not an agent. I'm out."

Becker got the ball in the air, using only his feet, and suddenly Hatcher was confronted with a maze of blackand-white checks sailing between himself and Becker, each flight a tightly controlled arc coming off Becker's knees and feet. Finally he caught the ball on the top of his foot and held it there Re a juggler waiting for applause.

"Very impressive, John."

With another flick, Becker aimed the ball in a lazy arc towards Hatcher, who stepped back, startled, trying to catch it with his hands. The ball fell to the ground and Hatcher stared at it for a moment, as if making sure it was dead before picking it up.

"Well, technically, the U.S. government considers you to be on indeterminate medical extension. Naturally we all still consider you a part of the team."

"I quit. I'm not going to do it anymore. I've told that to half a dozen people." Becker wiggled his fingers, calling for the ball.