Free April Fool by William Deverell Page A

hope. Guilty means the whole book. Pomeroy told him he could get out of the shrink tank after maybe a five-spot on condition he stays on Prozac, or whatever keeps you from dissociating.
    Dark thoughts intrude. Was it truly his DNA? What if there is a murderer inside the Owl, unrecognized, crawling from his skin? A rapist…He tells himself to get real. But this is far worse than the other false charge, Adeline Angella, the magazine writer. She inveigled to meet him in a bar after Beauchamp got him off the Kashmir Sapphire caper, wanted to know all about “the fascinating world of the jewel thief,” as if he was going to tell her. How had he been so sappy as to go up to her apartment?
    In the lounge, where he’s reading the last of the case studies, Faloon is interrupted by the defrocked priest, a cherubic sixty-year-old, Father Réchard, who originally comes from Quebec and is impressed with Faloon’s French–his parents spoke it at home. “Something seems to be troubling you, my son.”
    He wants to tell him Satan has fucked him from behind. Someone had to be lying about the DNA. Why?
    â€œShould there be any troubles you want to relieve yourself of, I will be happy to extend an ear.”
    Faloon likes Father Réchard, despite his disability, likes the well-mannered way he has of talking. He thinks of confessing to him. But to what? He’s not particularly religious, though he prayed to the Prophet, Jesus, Buddha, you name it, Krishna, to send him an angel. Hoping it might be Beauchamp.
    â€œFaloon!” a guard calls out. “Medical visit!”
    He is led through a series of buzzing doors to the clinic, where Dr. Sloan is reading a poster about correct condom use. He is overweight, has the jaded look of a man who hasn’t gone far in his choice of career. Faloon is urged onto a plastic chair–everything is fixed to the wall or floor, maybe in case of tantrums.
    Sloan doesn’t want to waste time, the hearing is tomorrow, he has to get his report written tonight. He asks Faloon about his medical history, which is uneventful until the shrinker asks him about any strange occurrences in his past. Faloon explains he has been bothered since a teenager about a series of lapses–he isn’t sure what to call them–in which he found himself wearing women’s clothes.
    He knows the shrinker will test this against other evidence, and when asked about witnesses to these episodes he gives a couple of names he already supplied to Pomeroy, old friends. Sloan wants to know about his parents.
    â€œThere’s only me, I lost my…it’s something I’d rather not talk about.”
    Sloan’s appetite is whetted, so Faloon tells him the story, haltingly, as he fights emotion, about how when he was a child in Lebanon, the Falange came into his village and shot all the men, including his father. Only the women escaped. Sloan’s brow furrows, and he begins making notes.
    â€œBut many were raped, including my mother…I’m sorry, I can’t, I…Oh, goodness, he does carry on, that weakling.”
    Upon hearing this feminine lilt, Sloan looks up. Faloon can’t tell from his expression if he’s buying or not, but ploughs on. “He just has no spine, can’t face the harsh realities. That’s why he became a crook, doctor, without his parents there was no moral upbringing.”
    â€œWho are you right now?” Sloan is squinting at him.
    â€œI’m Samantha, I think…I’m confused.” He begins shaking.
    â€œMr. Faloon…”
    The Owl perks up. “Yes, doctor?”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œSame guy I’ve always been.”
    â€œDid you just have one of those, as you call them, lapses?”
    â€œNot that I’m aware. Except I forgot what we were talking about.”
    Sloan pulls some diagrams from his briefcase. “I’m going to put you through some tests.”
    As Faloon