Michael Palmer - Oath of Office

“With cheese,” Dennis said.

Another scowl.

Lou went for the Cobb salad and an iced tea.

“So … how ya you doing?” Dennis asked once their cadaverous server had moved on.

“You mean about John Meacham?” Lou asked, as usual having no problems reading the man.

“Your brother called. He said he suspected you might have had something to do with Meacham through your work. Apparently, the papers said he was an alcoholic and had been involved with a group like yours in D.C.”

“Graham could have called and just asked me. I’m in his speed dial.”

“Have they mentioned your name?”

“Not yet.”

“But you did.”

“I did what?”

“Have something to do with the guy, like Graham said.”

“I did, yes.”

“And are you in trouble?”

“Speak softer, Dad.”

“Are you in any trouble? Graham said you might be.”

If Graham, a successful money manager, worked as hard at keeping Dennis away from recurrent fiscal ruin as he did pointing out the mistakes Lou was forever making in his life, there might have been significantly less red ink in the family.

“I’ll give him a call later on so maybe he’ll stop speculating,” Lou said.

He wondered if the younger Welcome had reasoned out that Lou’s job might be on the line as well … or worse.

“Your brother’s smart,” Dennis understated. “He figures things out.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t know. I’m still trying to piece it all together.”

Lou could sense the old man to his right straining to listen in. He turned his back a few more inches and lowered his voice even further. If he had known Dennis was going to be in a chatty mood, he would have insisted on a booth. He should have been able to predict it. The violence surrounding the Meacham case was the sort of thing that utterly fascinated his father-and most other people, for that matter.

“He fall off the wagon?” Dennis asked.

“Nope. That much I’m sure of.”

“Drugs?”

“You know I consider drugs and alcohol flip sides of the same coin.”

“In that case, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“I agree with you there, Pop.”

“No warning?”

“Not that I can find.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Dennis reiterated. “Usually a guy goes ballistic and kills a bunch of people, then folks start coming out of the woodwork to say how they knew he was unstable, a loner, distant, that sort of thing.”

“So far none of that,” Lou said.

“Or else, if it’s a serial killer, they all say how he was just the nicest guy in the world, and always had a cheerful word for everyone, and that they can’t figure out how two dozen bodies got buried in his backyard without anyone suspecting a thing.”

Their drinks arrived. Dennis sipped his apprehensively.

“I don’t generally like any excuses for Coke,” he said, “but this one’s pretty good.”

“I’m glad they could please you. You should let the waitress know.”

“I don’t think she likes me.”

“Nonsense. Your charm is winning her over. I can tell.”

“So, why are you out here?”

“Actually, I drove out to talk with the chief of police. He set me up to meet with one of the witnesses.”

“That was nice of him.”

“I suppose. Dad, there’s something really strange going on around Kings Ridge.”

Careful to keep his voice out of range of the old man to his right, Lou told his father what he had shared with Gilbert Stone. When he was finished, Dennis fixed him with the same sort of curious stare he typically reserved for people with excessive body piercing.

“That is odd,” he said. “One or two weirdos might be a coincidence. Five or six is a trend-unless, of course, you’re overreading things.”

“Always possible.”

Lunch arrived, and after one bite, Dennis Welcome appeared to have become a convert to the church of Millie Neuland.

“Call me delicious,” he said to the reedlike waitress, brandishing his cheeseburger with two hands.

She favored him with an enigmatic smile that might have announced she no longer considered him a form of pond scum.

“Fresh food makes all the difference,” she said.

“Yeah? Just how fresh are we talking about here?”

“Fresh as in everything we serve is local. Produce. Meat. We even bake our own bread.”

“I would call that fresh,” Dennis said, wiping away the juice from another bite of cow.

Lou smiled to see his father so upbeat. With on-the-job injuries, recurrent layoffs, the premature death of his beloved wife, and one financial disaster after another, the man had not had it easy. But one could rarely ever tell.

Without warning, Iris planted her palms on the counter and leaned in close to Lou. “I overheard you boys talking about John Meacham,” she whispered. “You know, a bunch of the crunchy granolas around here are talking about having some sort of memorial service for the victims.”

“That’s nice,” Lou said, sensing where the woman was heading.

“But they’re also talking about including the murderer. I mean, he is a murderer. Seven times over. I say burn the box they’ve got him stashed away in and flush those ashes.”

Lou stopped eating and fixed the woman with a baleful stare. “Dr. Meacham was a friend of mine,” he said, sensing he was about to boil over. “He had a wife. Children. It’s fine for you to have an opinion on matters, but your opinion is getting close to spoiling my meal.”

Iris lost color, topped off Lou’s iced tea from a pitcher, and then left, muttering.

“I told you that Graham called, didn’t I?” Dennis said, changing the subject with the subtlety and grace of a rampaging rhino.

Lou groaned. “Dad, I said I wanted to enjoy my salad. Now, thanks to you and Olive Oyl over there, my chance of doing that is gone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about that you tripped yourself up. Graham didn’t call you. He never calls anyone he doesn’t have to. My guess is you called him.”

“Okay, okay. I called him. Then, a while later, he called me back. Besides, what difference does it make who called who. He’s still my son, just like you are.”

“You called him with a wild new investment idea.”

“This country was built on wild investment ideas. But this is a good one, Lou. A can’t-miss … Sweet Lou … Remember when I used to call you that?”

“Dad, when are you going to learn?”

“This time it’s different.”

“Let me guess. Medical supplies?”

“Nope.”

“Pest-removal services?”

“No, but remind me to check into that one. Look, I’ll tell you because you’ll never guess on your own. It’s gold. Not those sissy Franklin Mint commemorative coins kind of gold-a real mining operation in British Columbia. Riches from the earth. The specs have fortune written all over them.”

“Dad, you’ve got to stop this.”

“I have the brochures in my truck. I’m just asking that you look them over.”

“It’s not gonna happen.”

“That’s what Graham said. Look, just give it a read-through is all I’m asking.”

“Fine. I’ll give it a read.”

“Fine. Can you pass me the ketchup?”

From a spot down the counter, the waitress nodded smugly that she hadn’t missed a word of the father/son exchange, and approved of how the discussion had gone. The tolerance Lou had developed for people struggling with their lives was nudged a bit by the woman, though not nearly to his limit.

The distraction was quickly interrupted by a vegetable chef who was turning a row of peeled carrots into perfect orange disks. He performed the maneuver with the dexterity of a neurosurgeon. The movement, like working a pump handle, was all wrist, with the point of the huge blade never leaving the cutting board. The sound of the broad end of the knife snapping down was like an AK-47 submachine gun.