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H
e's made you,” Kip Fuller said.

“I don't think so,” Jesse replied. He was in the woods behind the Wood Products plant, on his lunch hour. “I've thought about it, and I don't think so.”

“He couldn't just pull something like that out of a hat, for Christ's sake. How could he possibly know about your daughter? I'm pulling you out of there.”

“No, no, Kip; listen to me. It's just possible that he could have broken the Jesse Barron cover; I don't know how, but since I'm not Barron, it's possible. What's not possible is that he could figure out who I really am. There's just no way he could do that.”

“You have a point,” Kip admitted.

“No, I think it was something real, just for a minute there. He used what Casey had told him about Barron, and then he just…I don't know, he read some part of me.”

“Now, that's
really
scary.”

“There are people who can do that, you know,
and I suspect that Coldwater is a very intuitive guy. That's the mark of any good con man, knowing how to read his mark.”

“But you think you're in now?”

“I think so. I've had a formal invitation from the man himself, and I've accepted. Let's see what happens next.”

“I want to know about it if Coldwater comes up with any more stuff about your past life, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, Kip.”

“I mean, sometimes it helps to have another valuation of what's going on, not to just trust your own perceptions.”

“I have a feeling I told you that when you were a rookie.”

Kip laughed. “You probably did.”

“I've got to get back to work; I'll call you when I can.”

“Don't keep me waiting,” Kip said.

Jesse cut the connection, folded the phone and put it into the false bottom he had made in his lunch box. He would transfer it later to the safe under the truck for charging.

 

Back in his office he found Herman Muller waiting for him.

“I was looking for you, Jesse,” the old man said.

“Sorry, Herman; I walked back up in the woods a ways to have my lunch.”

“Jesse, I'm going to ask you to do one of those things for me that I don't want to do anymore.”

“What's that?”

“I want you to go to New York for me next week. I've bid on a good-sized job—chipboard and plywood for a new hotel that's building next year, and the architects want to see somebody from Wood Products up close. It's the sort of job that could lead to others, but to
tell you the truth, I just hate New York City. I swear, I think it's hell on earth, and it just scares me to death.”

Jesse did not share Herman's feelings about the city. “I'd be glad to go, Herman,” he said, trying not to sound too happy about it.

“You're sure you don't mind?”

“Not at all. What do I have to do?”

“They want to know about our plant and our production facilities—capacity, quality, reliability. I'd send one of my salesmen, but to tell you the truth, they're more comfortable talking to lumberyards than architects, and I think you'd handle yourself better.”

“Well, thank you, Herman; that's high praise.”

“I want you to take some pictures of our plant and equipment and write up a little history of the company and some of the jobs we've handled, like the ski resort in Park City. Do whatever you think will make up a good presentation.”

“I'll get right on it, Herman.”

Muller nodded and went back to his own office. Jesse leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. New York! He hadn't been there in years. He'd take Jenny, and they'd have a good dinner or two, maybe see a show. The phone rang.

“Jesse Barron.”

“Jesse, it's Pat Casey.”

“Hi, Pat.”

“Listen, can you stop by the station for about an hour on your way home tonight?”

“Sure, what's up?”

“I'll tell you when you get here.”

“Sure. I'll see you a little after six.” He hung up the phone. Maybe he was about to be let inside at last. He picked up the phone and called Jenny.

“How'd you like a weekend in New York?” he asked gleefully.

There was a shocked silence for a moment. “I don't know,” she replied.

“What do you mean, you don't know? Herman's sending me on business. We'd have a terrific time.”

“Can we talk about it when you get home?”

“Sure we can. Oh, I've got to make a stop on the way. I should be there around seven or seven-thirty.”

“I'll make dinner for seven-thirty, then.”

“Perfect; maybe I'll pick up a bottle of wine on the way.”

“Sounds good.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

He was disappointed in her reaction to the possibility of a New York trip; he'd thought she'd be dying to go, to get out of this little town for a change.

 

Jesse stopped at the liquor store and chose an extra-good bottle of California Cabernet, then he drove over to the police station.

The place was quiet, with only one officer on duty. Pat Casey met him in reception. “Hey, Jesse. Come on back here with me.” Casey led him down a corridor to the rear of the station. He opened a door with a four-digit combination, and showed Jesse inside.

Jesse was careful to memorize the combination. You never knew. But something he saw in the room nearly made him forget the numbers. Sitting on a table in the center of the room was something he had not seen for a long time, and the sight of it made his blood run cold.

“Have a seat, Jesse,” Casey said. He motioned to a chair next to the table, then pulled up a chair for himself. “Something we have to get out of the way, just a formality.”

“Yeah?” Jesse asked, trying not to sound nervous.

“Yeah. Jack Gene wants you to take a polygraph test.”

“A what?”

“A lie detector test.”

J
esse sat and stared at the machine. He remembered a conversation he'd had with an FBI polygraph operator whom his unit in Miami had borrowed from time to time. “You can't beat the machine,” the man had said. “Not if the operator's good. An experienced man will pick up the lies every time. There's only one way you can beat it, and that's by believing your own lies.”

“Excuse me a minute,” Casey said, “I've got to get another roll of paper for this thing.”

What did the machine measure? Respiration and pulse and something to do with skin reactions: sweat? It was cool enough in the room, but he slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. How could he handle the respiration and pulse changes? Yoga. He didn't know much about it, but his wife, Beth, had bought a book on the subject once, and she had read to him about a breathing exercise that he had tried. He could hear Casey in conversation with someone out in the hallway.

Jesse got as comfortable as he could and began the
relaxation exercise he'd learned. He took slow, deep breaths, counting to ten as he did so, and released them to the same count. After ten of those, he began holding his breath for a count of ten before releasing. Casey continued to talk outside.

I've got to believe myself, he thought. Don't think about what will happen if I fail this test; think about Jesse Barron,
be
Jesse Barron. Nobody else exists in this body; the other guy is dead. He started as Casey reentered the room.

“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you,” Casey said.

Jesse breathed less deeply, but kept the rhythm. He relaxed his toes, his arches, his calves and thighs, then his stomach muscles, arms, neck and shoulders. While the chief connected him to the apparatus he thought of his new life, of Jenny, of his coming trip to New York. He breathed and let his mind wander over his existence. He thought of Jenny in bed with him, of Carey laughing at his jokes, of dinner by candlelight with Jenny in New York.

“Okay,” Casey said, “I'm going to start asking you questions, and all you have to do is answer them truthfully by saying yes or no. Got that?”

Jesse nodded.

“Say yes.”

“Yes.”

“Is your name Jesse?”

“Yes.” Easy first question.

“Are you fifty-five years old?”

“No.”

“Do you live in St. Clair, Idaho?”

“Yes.”

“Are you six feet five inches tall?”

“No.” He began to pick up a kind of rhythm in the questioning.

“Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

Jesse felt his pulse lurch. “Yes.”

“Do you know how to drive a car?”

“Yes.” He slowed his breathing, tried to calm down.

“Are you a police officer?”

“No.” God's truth.

“Do you work at St. Clair Wood Products?”

“Yes.” Jenny was nuzzling his ear.

“Did anyone send you to St. Clair?”

“No.”

“Do you know Jack Gene Coldwater?”

“Yes.”

“Do you drive a Cadillac?”

“No.”

“Had you ever heard of Jack Gene Coldwater before coming to St. Clair?”

“No.”

“Are you a Christian?”

“Yes.” Sort of.

“Do you believe everything you read in the Bible?”

“No.”

“Do you live in the home of Jennifer Weatherby?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sleep with Jennifer Weatherby?”

He hesitated.

“Answer all questions immediately. Do you sleep with Jennifer Weatherby?”

“Yes.” He felt Jenny's body next to his.

“Do you like your work?”

“Yes.” Breathe slowly.

“Have you ever lied to me?”

“No.”

“Were you born in North Georgia?”

“Yes.”

“Did you grow up in North Georgia?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like spaghetti and meatballs?”

“No.” Another lie. Maybe a few lies to inconsequential questions would help scramble the results.

“Have you ever had any children?”

“Yes.”

“Do you go to church regularly?”

“No.”

“Is your wife living?”

“No.”

“Have you ever fired a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had any weapons training?”

“Yes.”

“Are your children living?”

Jesse managed something like a wince. “No.”

“Did you love your wife?”

“Yes.”

“Do you prefer the company of white people to the company of blacks?”

Be Jesse Barron!
“Yes.”

“Do you believe white people are superior to other races?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had sex with a black woman?”

“No.”

“Do you like your steak cooked rare?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had sex with a man?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been in prison?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like apple pie?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been addicted to alcohol or drugs?”

“No.”

“Are you an escaped convict?”

“No.”

“Do you believe you could kill in defense of your own life?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like ice cream?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed another person?”

“No.”

“Have you ever stolen anything?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sometimes drive too fast?”

“Yes.”

“Are you opposed to abortion?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a police officer working undercover?”

“No.”

“Do you like sports?”

“Yes.” This was a lie.

“Are you employed by a federal law enforcement agency?”

“No.” He breathed the word.

“Have you told any lies during this examination?”

“No.”

“Are you wearing socks?”

“Yes.”

“Is your true name Jesse Barron?”

“Yes.”

“Is your shirt red?”

“No.”

“Before St. Clair, did you live in Toccoa, Georgia?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, that's it,” Casey said. He switched off the machine.

Jesse had tried to keep count; he had lied nine or
ten times, he thought. “How'd I do?” he asked. If he got the wrong answer, his plan was to grab the pistol Pat was wearing, walk him out of the police station, then make a run for it.

“You lied three times,” Casey said.

Jesse tried not to look relieved.

“No, I didn't.”

“You never stole anything,” Casey said, looking at the tape.

“I stole five dollars when I was treasurer of the agriculture club in high school.”

“You said yes to being a Christian.”

“Well, if I could have, I'd have said I was sort of a Christian.”

“The other one is funny. I got a reaction when you said no to being an escaped convict.”

Jesse couldn't help but laugh.

“You said yes to having been in prison.”

“Well, in jail, once, in Toccoa, when I was a kid.”

“Oh. But you're not an escaped convict?”

“Nope.”

“Actually, Jesse, you did better than most. What I was looking for was a pattern of lies, and that didn't show up.”

Jesse could feel the sweat under his arms. “I swear, I didn't tell you a single lie.”

“Well, if I were a more expert operator, I might not have called the three I did. Mostly, Jesse, I wanted to know if you are a cop.”

Jesse tried looking amazed. “Why on earth would you think I'm a cop?”

Casey slapped him on the back. “Never mind, it's not important. You better get on home for dinner.”

“Okay, see you later.”

“Goodnight, Jesse.”

Jesse walked out of the station into the cool night air, breathing deeply. He got into his truck and started
for home, nearly limp with relief. Then he had a disturbing thought: what if Pat Casey were a better polygraph operator than he'd let on?

 

When Jesse had left the station, Casey called Jack Gene Coldwater.

“How'd it go?” Coldwater asked.

“There were two anomalies that might be important,” Casey replied. “First, I got a reaction when I asked if he were an escaped convict, but judging from his other answers, I think that was a fluke. No ex-con would have a sheriff in his hometown vouching for him.”

“And the other?”

“I think maybe he once killed somebody.”

“Natural enough to lie about that,” Coldwater said. “Is he who he says he is?”

“The polygraph says yes. Oh, and he admitted to sleeping with Jenny.”

Coldwater laughed. “Well, at least we know he's not queer.”