Trust Your Eyes by Linwood Barclay Page B

if they’re an expert in maps and—”
    “Cartographer.”
    “What?”
    “A person who’s an expert at making and studying maps is a cartographer. But you can’t really get a degree in cartography. You’d probably get a degree in geography and apply what you’d learned while acquiring that degree when you began working as a cartographer.”
    He’d thrown me off my game for a moment there, but it didn’t take me long to get back on track. “Okay, so, you don’t have a geography degree, and you’ve never worked as a cartographer.”
    “That is correct,” Thomas said, nodding.
    “So what you believe is, you, with no actual qualifications and no connections to the powers that be, have attracted the attention of the Central Intelligence Agency, this multi-billion-dollar organization with operatives all over the world, and they want you to be their map guy.”
    Thomas nodded. “I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
    “That it is,” I said.
    “But I have a good memory. So I’ve been chosen.”
    I leaned back in my chair and said, “ You are the chosen one.”
    “Now you’re mocking me again,” he said.
    “I’m not—okay, I suppose it sounds like I am. What I’m trying to do, Thomas, is point out to you how totally absurd this is. Dr. Grigorin even told me that you’ve been in touch with former president Clinton.”
    The night before, standing at Thomas’s partially open door, I’d watched him carry on a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. The phone was on the hook, and he wasn’t on the keyboard or looking at the monitor. I’d heard him say, “I almost called you Bill.”
    “That’s right,” Thomas said. “But you can still call him Mr. President. Former presidents are still called that.”
    “I know.”
    “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Thomas said. “Those pills the doctor gave you aren’t working. I thought they’d make you more tolerant and understanding. But you’re just like Dad.”
    He left his unfinished banana on the table, got up, went back up to his room, and slammed the door.
    WE needed food in the house. I couldn’t keep going out for subs and pizza. I was loading up on frozen foods at Price Chopper when I ran into Len Prentice and his wife, Marie. Len and my father had maintained a friendship after Dad left the printing company. Normally of pasty white complexion, he looked as though he’d gotten some sun lately, although he’d lightened up slightly since the funeral. Marie, however, was pale and washed out. She’d had health problems as long as I’d known her. I couldn’t remember what, exactly, but thought it had something to do with chronic fatigue syndrome. Always tired. I’d known the two of them—admittedly, not well—for the better part of three decades. They had a son, Matthew, who was about my age, and whom I’dhung out with some when I was in my teens. He was an accountant now in Syracuse, married, with three kids.
    “Hey, Ray,” said Len, who was pushing the cart. Marie had been trailing along behind him. “How’re you and Thomas doing?”
    Before I could answer, Marie said, “Ray. Good to see you.”
    “Hi,” I said to both of them. “We’re good. Managing. Just getting in some provisions.”
    “It was a lovely service,” Marie said earnestly. Dad had always referred to her as “Mary Sunshine,” although not to her face. Despite her health problems, she was perpetually cheery. The minister could have dropped his pants and waved his dick around and she’d still have commented on how nice the flowers were before anything else.
    “Yes,” I said. “Thanks again for coming.” I looked at Len and smiled. “I meant to ask you the other day whether you fell asleep under a sunlamp.”
    Marie patted my arm playfully. “Oh, you. Len got back from a vacation a couple of weeks ago.”
    “Where’d you go?” I asked. “Florida?”
    Len shook his head, like it didn’t really matter, but said, “Thailand.”
    Marie