The jab bounced off him.

“Dude, I was sitting two feet away, listening to your conversation with Doc Campbell. You met Tom Mandibole and his satanic Mouseketeers’ club. Had to be a disquieting experience.”

“To put it mildly.”

“Ever think maybe what you know, what you’ve seen in your flea’s span on this planet, might not be the whole picture?”

“I dig legitimate explanations,” I said. “Makeup, sleight of hand. People are double-jointed.” I said this, thinking of Ichabod’s mini-transformation in the airport garage. “People can dislocate limbs or alter their posture. The mind plays tricks. I don’t understand the desire to pin shit on the supernatural or the extraterrestrial. The world is plenty fantastical.”

“A kewpie doll to you, Amazing Randi, master of skeptics. Each and every solitary day, we dwell in the shadow of a cosmic mystery. My faith in the docs doesn’t rely on their gurudom.” He lit another cigarette. “Regular scientists hide the welcome mat whenever the docs come calling. It’s a shame, because nobody really has a handle on what’s what. Astronomers studying data from telescopes monitoring deep space have discovered galaxies are moving away from us faster than we’d predicted. Kicker is, either dark energy is fucking shit up, or we’re gazing back in time when galaxies expanded more rapidly, or there’s an undiscovered subatomic particle capable of near light speed. The community is great at guessing because it guesses a lot. The docs are certain about fringe theories and the community doesn’t tolerate that kind of conviction. They’re in exile, academic Siberia. Somebody has to defend them. Doesn’t mean I’m a disciple.”

“Then what are you?” I said.

“Been with the geezers on a dozen major expeditions in jungles and deserts and godforsaken tropical murder nests where everything wants to eat you, down to the vegetation. Got trapped inside a tomb in a rain forest in South America with a gaggle of porters and a guide. Twenty-ton slab of rock toppled and sealed us in. A trap for tomb robbers. Water rising, snakes and spiders slithering and creeping. Flashlights going dead. While the rest of us stood around, dicks in hand, Ryoko and Campbell did what eggheads do at times like these—they worked the problem.”

I wanted to ask how the doctors miraculously saved the day, but he plowed ahead. A beast of a man whose thought processes mirrored his physicality.

“Sean was scarce until he came back into our lives for his college years. Same bighearted kid at nineteen as he was at nine. Starry-eyed little fucker.” A shadow crossed his face. “I wish the docs hadn’t relocated to New England. If we’d stayed here, near him and Linda, things might’ve gone another direction.”

“I can’t find Ms. Flanagan. You think she was bad for Sean?”

“Changed back to her maiden name, huh?” He exhaled. “He’s gone. Linda got a million bucks richer. That’s the final score. Too-much to not-enough.”

“There might be an overtime quarter,” I said.

■■■

I left a message for Meg to say I was alive. Women appreciate the little things. Beasley directed me toward the living room, where the doctors awaited.