Clean Slate

Chapter 2

Of course, Mac knew, his brothers came out here to hunt. Sometimes they even brought friends. But none of them would have dared touch Mac's car. That was against family code.

Mac drifted around the vehicle, inspecting its exterior. Nothing seemed obviously wrong, though he'd have expected it to be much dustier than it was. Opening the passenger door, he saw that the key was in the ignition. As expected. Flipping it to "on," Mac saw the gauge needles leap. Still got juice.

Well and good. But something else wasn't right. Brow furrowed, Mac closed the driver door again and, hands on hips, turned, slowly scanning the reaches of the barn around him, comparing what he saw with the inch-by-inch map in his mind. Slivers of sunlight shot through chinks in the wall planks. Mixed hay and straw lack thick with dust on the floor boards. The wing to his left had always been reserved for storage of straw bales, and some very old ones were still stacked there. In his mind's eye he could clearly see how they'd been positioned before. Quite different from the way they were arranged now.

Mac stepped over there. The bales had been carefully set up to create a sort of ceilingless room in the corner. Access was through a vertical crevice between bale stacks. To fit through, Mac had to turn sideways. Inside, in a space perhaps eight by eight, he found what looked like an old sleeping bag on the floor, with several blankets and a pillow. None of them were familiar. Mac kicked at them experimentally. Nothing inside. Bending, he gripped the sleeping bag and gave it a shake. Several items flew. A pair of ratty white skivvies. Half a pack of Kool cigarettes -- which made Mac wince. And something else white, oblong, spun through the air, slapped the wood barn wall, fell to the floor.

It was an envelope, white, folded. Mac picked it up. Something was inside, something solid: maybe a coin? Slipping out of the nest, Mac went to the open barn door through which flooded the sun. The envelope was unsealed, unmarked, and showed signs of much handling, creases and folds. Opening it, Mac found that the solid thing inside was a medal. A Bronze Star. The red cloth fob was faded, the metal Star itself dull from much handling. With it, folded together, were the citation, and the parchment certificate, elaborately engraved, with the official seal of the United States Army. By now Mac understood, but he read the citation anyway.

Quite a story.

Eddie, Eddie, you sorry sack of shit. What in the world you been up to? . . . .

Back in the house, the message light was glowing again. Squinting, Mac hit play, and nearly flinched at the boom of the basso male voice. "Mac, my boy. I trust this finds you well – if it finds you. I observe from my calendar that your year is up Monday. Which means, if you plan to re-up, you're returning to our precincts right about. . .mmm. . .now. Do give me a call. We should talk."

---

Judge Wildern was standing on his concrete driveway as Mac rumbled his Ford to a halt. Incongruously, His Honor held a hose nozzle in one plump white hand, and was spraying water on the sloping, immaculately trimmed zoysia. Mac knew that the Judge employed a lawn service; knew also that his lawns were fed by an underground sprinkler system; could see from Judge Wildern's attire -- smoky gray trousers, open necked white dress shirt -- that he was really not out here to do manual labor. The hose, Mac discerned, had to be an excuse for the jurist to be out front to welcome Mac, who, despite himself, was flattered. The Judge did not extend such signs of respect without thought, or purpose.

Tossing the hose, Judge Wildern came to the car as Mac got out. The roundish, balding jurist shook Mac's hand, looking up with dark eyes that peered out from beneath thick brows. "Welcome home, Mac," Wildern said. His resonant voice actually had a husky edge, as if, Mac thought, he was feeling true emotion.

"Thanks," Mac replied. "Mighty good to see you, sir."

"Let's go in," the Judge offered, taking Mac's elbow with a companionable hand. "Ruth's got dinner ready."

"I appreciate this," Mac, who'd planned on pizza for dinner, said.

"We don't normally have guests Saturday night," the Judge meandered as they approached the front door of the high red-brick Second Empire house. "But I wanted a word with you before Monday. Give you the lay of the land. Fit you back into the picture," he added, bumping Mac's shoulder with his fist.

As they went into the foyer and down the hall toward the kitchen, Mac thought: Fit into the picture. Whose picture, Judge?

"How was your trip back?" the Judge asked.

"Long."

"Where'd you pop in from?"

"Cambodia."

The Judge snorted. "When you bail out, my boy, you really bail. Even my spy network lost track of you. Ruthie!" he boomed as they went into the kitchen. "Look what the cat dragged in, all the way from Oddar Meanchey."

Mac shot the Judge a look. Ruth Wildern turned from the enormous wood butcher block that stood on stumpy legs in the center of the kitchen, carrying a large wood tray with three soup crocks and a wood bowl of salad. Around them tick-tocked a variety of clocks, against a backdrop of soft classical music. "Hi, Mac," she said quietly, with a smile. "If you'll go out to the deck, I'll serve there."

"How can I help?" Mac asked.

"By making yourself at home. Please, go ahead, I'm right behind you."

Mac glanced at the Judge, who just smiled, and walked out the side door and around to the deck. The dark wood structure spread deep and wide along the back of the house, seeming to hover over the treed slopes of Mount Madison, one of St. Marys's fabled hills, that plunged down to the bank of the cobalt blue Sabbath River far, far below. A glass-topped wrought-iron table was set for three, with white doilies and clear crystal service and heavy silver. Ruth served the soup and salad, poured water for all three from a cut glass pitcher, and sat. Her short wavy light brown hair was picture-perfect, her makeup just so; she wore a simple blue dress and white blouse. Mac realized that at some point she'd discarded the pale blue apron she'd been wearing when he arrived. That he'd not seen her do so did not surprise him. She had always been deft and economical of motion, yet a considerable achiever, who kept her effort so deep in background that half of what she did seemed borderline magical.

They ate. The food was expertly prepared, if light. Mac, making a mental note to pick up pizza on the way home, found it amusing that the Judge managed to sustain -- and, it seemed to him, increase -- his bulkiness on such fare. Clearly, Ruth thrived on it. She was tanned and birdlike in contrast to her husband's pale round heartiness; unobtrusive in appearance as compared to the Judge's flashy gold watch, multiple rings, platinum ID bracelet, thin gold neck chain; soft-spoken when not silent, against His Honor's dynamic and voluble proclaiming, declaiming, questioning, story-telling; serene as differentiated from the older man's finger-jabbing, shoulder-slapping, arm-waving physicality. Watching Ruth watch the Judge, it was clear to Mac that the hefty jurist was the center of Ruth's life's stage, and she observed her husband with an enigmatic smile, seeming to drink in and enjoy anew the information she had to have heard a hundred times already.

Mainly the talk was about St. Marys politics in general and, in particular, the Recorder's Court, the keystone of the Judge's domain. Clearly pleased to have an audience who'd been out of touch for a full year, the Judge regaled Mac with anecdotes, gossip, invective, and borderline slander about groups and individuals large and small within his sprawling purview. This included both divisions of Recorder's Court, plus the Department of Probation and Parole, and the Bureau of the Bailiff. By virtue of his longevity, political skill, and force of personality, the Judge threaded tentacles of influence even into the political entities that were outside his official domain, including the Department of Corrections (which administered the jails), the Department of Sheriff, which had jurisdiction over everything within county limits, and a new entity, spawned by 9/11, called the Homeland Security Desk. Judge Wildern knew where all the bodies were buried, figuratively and (Mac had always suspected) literally.

Which was why Mac, seizing the opportunity to speak while the Judge dosed his after-dinner coffee, asked: "What's up with the headline I saw today, about a hooker's black book?"

Judge Wildern spun his spoon in his coffee, and laughed, a short hard bray. "That's got some folks nervous," he said, self-satisfied. "Division Ten busted a madam in Riverwood, woman named Brody, Debby Brody. Ever had her, Mac?" the Judge asked, thick eyebrow arched.

"Not even biblically," Mac answered drily.

The Judge snorted. Ruth, watching quietly, sipped her coffee; the Judge slurped his. "Well," he went on, "it should have been a big nothing, except that the detective on the case got over-exuberant and confiscated some paperwork from the hooker's place of business. And then the hooker told a nosy reporter that those records included names of customers of some prominence. Men who may not, shall we say, be completely pleased to have their patronage publicized."

Mac nodded. "She hopes the threat of exposure will cause her case to get quietly dropped."

The Judge gulped some more coffee. "Which isn't likely to happen, not on this side of the river. The charge is maintaining a house of ill repute, it's before Judge Scott in Division Two. He made her post a huge bond, and she's looking at doing some time before it's all done. To make matters worse, the lead detective had to not only confiscating those records, but thump the tub about them to the press. And now the whole town is having a feeding frenzy speculating about whose names might be in there."

Ruth poured more coffee for the Judge; Mac waved her off with a polite smile. "Sleazy case like this," he commented, "usually happens in Belle Terre, not St. Marys."

"Sleaze has moved steadily north of the river," the Judge said, round face a mask of mock mourning. "And you're one to talk, given that you live south of the river now, young man."

Ruth, rising, asked quietly, "Are you back to stay, Mac?"

"Not polite to pry, Ruthie!" the Judge boomed, rising also. "Come on, Mac, I've got something to show you."

Mac glanced at Ruth, who waved him on with a shrug and a wink and started gathering the dinner dishes. Judge Wildern led Mac into the kitchen and through a door that led to a stairway leading down into the basement. To the right was another door, standing ajar. "Supposed to be locked," the Judge grumbled. "Damn Ruthie." He led Mac through and up a narrow stairway that switched back twice on its way to the third floor landing. During the steep climb a long fat cigar appeared in the Judge's hands and as they arrived on the landing a plume of smoke emerged, started by a wood match that the Judge waved out. Embraced with fragrant smoke, the Judge glanced at Mac, unlocked a double door, and led him inside. "Something new in my collection," he said.

The top floor had once been servant's quarters, but the Judge had remodeled it into a single large room some years before. It had five white sheetrock sides and steeply slanted ceilings, with three big skylights, and blond hardwood floor. The walls were arrayed with framed documents: proclamations, letters, citations, military commissions. Faded battle flags hung from poles in the corners. Waist high glass display cases stood at intervals around the floor. Most had various items of ordnance, including swords, sabers, bayonets, minie balls, and grape shot. There were also documents, including bound diaries and ancient scrapbooks. The center case, to which the Judge led Mac, had a very long, very bulky firearm: wood stock almost black, metal barrel and works deeply blued. Lying next to it under the glass was a collection of accessories, including ramrod and some cloth wadding and cartridge packs.

"Do you know what that is?" the Judge asked, voice tense with amused eagerness.

"Man, oh man," Mac said softly. "You found it. The 1860 Navy musket."

"Yes sir," the Judge said. "It's the .59. Very rare."

"It's beautiful," Mac said, bending down to examine it closer. "Mint condition. How in the world?"

"Estate auction, in Michigan," the Judge said. "In a casino up there, of all places. I bid by phone. Cost a king's ransom. But nobody was going to beat me on this one, Mac."

"Did that ammo come with it?"

"All original."

"Minies?"

"Of course."

"Amazing."

"Must have been in some old trunk in an attic somewhere," the Judge mused. "Anyway, I thought you'd like to see it."

"Thanks, Judge. What a privilege."

Judge Wildern puffed up his cigar; gray-blue smoke edged through the air around them. Here, in the bright light of the display room, Mac saw that the Judge had aged more than you'd expect in just a year. The crags of his round face were thicker, the eyes a tad less bright, the set of the bull-like shoulders somewhat stooped now, the paunch more prominent, as if he'd done with sucking-in. "You still have your job, of course," he said abruptly.

Oh-ho, Mac thought. Now for "the talk." He replied, "I figured that. I was granted a year's leave of absence, up Monday."

"But you're not section supervisor anymore."

"Oh?"

"Couldn't swing that. You understand. Section can't go without a leader for a year."

Mac thought. "So, who's the section leader now?"

"Clare Epple."

Mac squinted down. "Clare? I trained her!"

"So you're the culprit."

"She hasn't, uh, blossomed into her role?"

"Not so you'd notice," the Judge grumbled. "But she's in the job now, and you're out, and that's the deal," he added, face remote, cigar end red.

"Well, okay."

"Don't fight me on this," the Judge said. "It's done-and-done. You're still Level 11, but you work for Clare now, and that's final."

"I hear you, Judge."

The jurist stared up into Mac's face intently, mouth a tight line around the big cigar. "Okay," he said, seemingly reluctant to end an argument in which he was the only adversary.

Sensing imminent dismissal, Mac asked the question that had been on his mind since afternoon. "Wondering about a particular offender," he said. "Eddie Fant. Seen him lately?"

The Judge stood stockily still, hands folded behind his back. "Name means nothing," he said. "Sorry." He took the cigar from his mouth. "I need to finish this, and I can't smoke downstairs. I'm in enough dutch with Ruthie as it is."

"One more thing, Judge."

"Yes?"

"What made you say Oddar Meanchey?"

Judge Wildern's round face creased into a beam. "Would you believe, a lucky guess?"

"Matter of fact, no."

"Take care, Mac."

"You too, Judge."

As he strode down the stairs, Mac reflected on the visit. What was the point? he wondered. To show me the musket? To kill off an otherwise boring evening? To drop what amounted to a demotion on him? Or simply, as the Judge had alluded, to size Mac up, figure out where to fit him back "into the picture?" That had to be it. For "the picture" was the Judge's true life's work, a vast tapestry of personalities and relationships, his knowledge and control of which was the very essence of his power, of which there was never, for men like Wayne Wildern, ever enough. So even Level 11 PPO Mac McGladrey, to the Judge far from the largest of fry, was worth two hours of the Judge's time on an otherwise dull Saturday evening.

What amused Mac, in a weary sort of way, was the reminder that the Judge took it for granted that everyone else, even Mac, lusted for power the way he did. Hence the lengths the Judge had gone to put Mac in his place: news of the demotion, display of the ruinously expensive antique weapon, knowledge of the specific Cambodian province in which Mac had worked. The Judge had affection for Mac, but still saw him, as he saw everyone, as a threat. When in fact Mac was, at this moment, just one question and answer away from checking out of St. Marys for good.

Entering the kitchen, Mac encountered Ruth working with quiet industry at the sink. She turned to him, drying her hands. "I take it you've been dismissed?" she asked softly, smiling.

"Yeah, His Honor's finishing his stogie up there." Mac had been uncomfortably conscious of how the Judge, and by unwilling extension Mac, had pretty much excluded Ruth from all the conversation. "How've things been with you?"

"Been all right." She frowned, as if unwilling to add something, then went on: "My mother passed away in the spring."

"Oh, Ruth. I am so sorry." Mac stepped to her and gave her a hug. She felt slight and birdlike in his arms; her hands patted his back. "Clara?" he asked, stepping back. "Do I have that right?"

"Yes, you do. Very good." Ruth, Mac noticed, was dry-eyed. Unlike him. He'd never met Ruth's mother, but his emotions in such things were still raw, close to the surface. "It was all for the best," Ruth went on. "She had a long life."

"In a better place," Mac agreed.

"Quite. Well, I'll see you out." They went up the hall toward the front door. "If I might ask, how are you and Suzanne?" Ruth asked.

She assumes there is a me and Suzanne. "Remains to be seen."

They stepped out the front door onto the stoop. This close to the river, the evening air was cool. "I bumped into her a few months ago," Ruth commented.

"Oh, really."

"Yes." Ruth looked up into his eyes, her thin tanned face impassive. "She said she still loves you."

Mac smiled briefly. "Makes us even."

As he watched Ruth, he saw something new in her expression, perhaps speculation, perhaps something else -- just for an instant. Mac had the strong sense that Ruth had a question for him, an important one, but had changed her mind about asking. "Well, I'm sure it will all work out for the best," Ruth said.

"Well, it'll work out," Mac said. "Night."

"Good night, Mac."

He trotted down the walk to his car. As he backed into the turn-around, the high beams swept across the porch, throwing gold light across Ruth Wildern, still standing there, facing him, slight, serene, thoughtful.