Cody McFadyen: The Face of Death

I have some choices to make about my life, and I have two weeks to decide what I'm going to do. That's a self-imposed deadline. I need to make a decision, not just for me, but for Bonnie as well. We both need stability, certainty, a routine.

This has all come to a head because I was summoned to the Assistant Director's office ten days ago.

I have known Assistant Director Jones for the entirety of my FBI career. He was my original mentor and career rabbi. Now he's my boss. He didn't arrive at his current position through politics; he moved up through the ranks by being an exceptional agent. In other words, he's real, not a suit. I respect him.

AD Jones's office is windowless and austere. He could have chosen a corner office with great views, but when I'd queried him on it one time, his response had been something along the lines of "A good boss shouldn't spend much time in his office anyway."

He'd been seated behind his desk, a big, hulking, gray-metal anachronism that he's had for as long as I've known him. Like the man himself, it screams, "If it's not broke don't fix it." The desk's surface was covered, as always, by multiple stacks of folders and papers. A worn wood and brass plaque announced his title. No awards or certificates adorned the walls, though I happen to know he has plenty he could put up.

"Sit down," he'd said, indicating the two leather chairs that are always there. AD Jones is in his early fifties. He's been in the FBI since 1977. He started right here in California and worked his way up the chain of command. He's been married twice and divorced twice. He's a handsome man, in a hard, carved-from-wood kind of way. He tends to be terse, gruff, and unapologetic. He's also a formidable investigator. I was lucky to have worked under him so early in my career.

"What's up, sir?" I'd asked.

He'd taken a moment before answering.

"I'm not big on tact, Smoky, so I'll just lay it out. You've been offered a teaching position at Quantico, if you want it. You're not required to accept it, but I am required to tell you about it."

I'd been dumbfounded. I'd asked the obvious question:

"Why?"

"Because you're the best."

Something in his demeanor had told me there was more to it than that.

"But?"

He'd sighed. "There is no 'but.' There's an 'and.' You are the best. You're more than qualified and more than deserving based on merit."

"What's the 'and'?"

"Some higher-ups in the Bureau--including the Director--feel that you're owed it."

"Owed it?"

"Because of what you've given, Smoky." His voice had been quiet.

"You've given the Bureau your family." He'd touched his cheek. I didn't know if it was an unconscious gesture or apropos of my scars.

"You've been through a lot because of your job."

"So, what?" I'd asked, angry. "They feel sorry for me? Or are they worried about me cracking up down the road?"

He'd surprised me with a grin. "Under normal circumstances, I'd agree with that line of thinking. But no. I talked to the Director himself and he made it clear: This isn't a politicized payoff. It's a reward."

He'd given me an appraising look. "Have you ever met Director Rathbun?"

"Once. He seemed like a straight shooter."

"He is. He's tough, he's honest--as honest as the position allows him to be--and he tells it straight. He thinks you're perfect for the job. It would come with a pay raise, you'd have stability for Bonnie, and you'd be out of the line of fire." A pause. "The thing is, he told me it was the best the Bureau was going to be able to do for you."

"I don't understand what that means."

"There was a time you were being considered for Assistant Director--my job."

"Yes, I know."

"That'll never be on the table again."

Shock had coursed through me.

"Why? Because I got thrown for a loop when Matt and Alexa died?"

"No, no, nothing like that. That's way too deep. Think shallower."

I had, and understanding had arrived. On one hand, I hadn't believed it. On the other, it was Bureau, through and through.

"It's about my face, isn't it? It's an image issue."

A complicated mix of pain and anger had flared up in his eyes. This had died away to weariness.

"I told you he gives it straight. It's a media-driven age, Smoky. There's no conflict with you running your unit and looking the way you do." His lips had twisted into a sardonic smile. "But apparently the consensus is that it wouldn't work in a director-level position. Romantic if you're the hunter, bad for recruitment if you're a Director or Assistant Director. I think it's crap, and so does he, but that's the way it is."

I'd searched for the outrage I'd expected to feel, but to my surprise had found it absent. I could only summon up indifference. There was a time when I had been as ambitious as the next agent. Matt and I had talked about it, even planned for it. We'd assumed that I'd climb the command ladder as a matter of course. But things had changed.

Part of this was pragmatism. Personal feelings aside, the powersthat-be weren't wrong. I was no longer fit to be the administrative face of the FBI. I was good as a soldier, scarred and scary. I was fine to train others, the grizzled veteran. Photo ops with the President? Never going to happen.

The other part was possibility. Teaching at Quantico was a plum position that many aspired to. It came with good pay, regular hours, and a lot less stress. Students didn't shoot at you. They didn't break into your home. They didn't kill your family.

All of this had passed through my mind in an instant.

"How long do I have to give my answer?" I'd asked.

"A month. If you say yes, you'd have plenty of time to make the transition. Six months or so."

A month, I'd thought. Plenty of time and no time at all.

"What do you think I should do, sir?"

My mentor hadn't missed a beat.

"You're the best agent I've ever worked with, Smoky. Hard to replace. But you should do whatever is best for you ."

Here in the present, I glance at Bonnie. She's engrossed in her cartoons. I think about today, about relaxed mornings and breakfast burps and trips to Claire's.

What's best for me? What's best for Bonnie? Should I ask her?

Yeah, I should. But not now.

For now I was going to continue with the current plan. I was going to pack Matt and Alexa away. Gone but not forgotten. We'll see what things look like after that.

I didn't feel stressed by the need to decide. I had choices. Choices meant future. Future here, future in Quantico, it was all forward motion, and motion was life. All of that was better than six months ago. You keep telling yourself that. But it's not that simple, and you know it. Something's hiding behind that indifference, something dark and nasty and fang-ful.

Fang-ful isn't even a real word, I reply to myself, scornful. I put all of this out of my mind (or try to) and snuggle closer, let ting Saturday be Saturday again.

"Cartoons rock, don't they, babe?"

Bonnie nods without looking away from the TV.

Yes, she agrees. They do.

Not fang-ful at all.

4

"DON'T YOU BOTH LOOK LAZY AND PLEASED ABOUT IT," CALLIEsays.

She stands in the kitchen, posed. Burgandy-painted fingernails tap the black granite countertop of the kitchen island. Her copper hair contrasts with the white-oak cabinets behind her. She arches a single perfect, disapproving eyebrow.

Bonnie and I grin at each other.

If there was a patron saint of irreverence, it would be Callie. She is crass, sharp tongued, and has a habit of calling everyone "honey-love."

Rumor says that she has a written reprimand on file for calling the Director of the FBI "honey-love." I don't doubt it; it is Callie to the core.