Clean Slate

Chapter 17

The plane's cockpit was wide open and sat out at the very front. The engine was behind the high wing, the propeller pointed backward toward the tail. From the cockpit emerged a helmeted man in black leather. He climbed stiffly to the ground and popped off the helmet as Mac approached. "This Wild Rose International Airport?" the man asked Mac, with a sardonic grin.

"This is the place," Mac replied, hand out. They shook. "Mac McGladrey."

"Ben Perkins."

"You made it!"

"Not too bad. Six hours."

"What's top end on this thing?"

"Hundred ten. I keep it around ninety to save gas. Help me tie her down?"

"Sure."

Perkins retrieved ropes and stakes from the second seat area. Mac helped him secure the aircraft. Then Perkins shed the leather jacket and coveralls. He was about six feet tall, Mac figured, a big-boned gent. If he'd been a boxer, Mac thought, he'd be a solid, relentless, ever-forward counter-puncher: no fancy dancing for this one. Perkins had coarse black hair and dark blue eyes and a battered, been-around face with a lot of tan and smile lines. His hands were large, knuckly, veined – working hands. He was older than Mac, at least chronologically, and gave off an air of physical certitude and quiet, calm purpose, along with a sense – which Mac had once had, and then lost, perhaps for good – that nothing in life was worth taking completely seriously. Which, Mac reflected, without rancor or judgmentalness, made Perkins still a bit of a kid. The flier wore a sky blue chambray shirt and black trousers with all-business work shoes that Mac was certain concealed steel toes. He carried himself with an ease that seemed athletic, but that, Mac sensed, could, under the right circumstances, turn dangerous.

"Bring a suitcase?" Mac asked as they walked up toward the house.

"Just a bag. I'll get it later."

Mac felt profoundly uncomfortable, knowing that he was about to spill his guts. Must be, he reflected, how a probationer – at least some of them – feel the first time they see me. "Talk now?" he asked.

"We got time," Perkins said easily. "Whyn't you show me the place."

So they took a relaxed tour. Mac showed Perkins around the shop building, with the wood shop, machine repair area, and the overhang under which Mac parked his Suburban and the tractor. They took the long way to the east end of the property, north along a mown two-track through the hilly meadow and into the hickory woods, then along the stream that led down to the pond at the base of the valley. For a relatively big guy, Perkins walked easily, looking a bit out of place here in the country, but relaxed enough. He smoked a short cork-tipped cigar and bombarded Mac with questions about the farm, his grandparents, and the various wildlife they encountered along the way: blue herons, rising squawking out of the marshy areas, all sticklike elbows and knees and giant seemingly unairborne wings; pheasants, several dozen of them, startled from some sort of slumber at the unexpected approach of the hikers, hurtling into the air as one; a woodchuck, bravely standing at full height in a large cluster of volunteer herbs, staring with beady eyes at them; and of course the inevitable deer: does in flustered clusters, high-tailing it on springy tinker-toy legs across the meadow, and one buck, standing alone, noble profile majestic against the green forest backdrop.

The last stop before the house was the old dairy barn. Inside, Perkins's jaw dropped when he saw the '51 Ford. Reverently, he walked around it, peered inside, and did not touch it until Mac, amused, invited him to. Perkins sat behind the wheel, his tan face suddenly much more youthful. "I had one of these," he said. "Only mine was the four-door."

"Keys are in it," Mac told him. "Take her out."

"Me? Oh, hell no. No, thanks." Perkins got out and gently shut the door. "You don't know me from Adam," he said, grinning. "Let me put this baby on, I might head north and never come back." He gazed around the barn, taking in the wood bays, the hay mows, and the stacks of straw bales at the west end. "So you use this just for storage?"

Eyes on the stacks of straw bales, Mac was tempted to say: Pretty much, except sometimes people live here. Not for the first time this day he wondered about Eddie Fant. On paper, Mac's course of action was clear. Monday, if Eddie had not checked in, Mac would seven-day him. If Eddie did not respond to that, Judge McKnight would issue a bench warrant. These were specified procedures. And, if Eddie did not turn up, hat in hand and apologetic as all hell, and with some kind of written documentation justifying his absence, those were the steps Mac would follow.

Absolutely.

"Let's go to the house," Mac told Perkins. "Buy you a beer."

"That'll work," Perkins said easily, as they exited the barn. "And then we'll talk."

"Sure," Mac said.

---

"So," Perkins said, "this is about your wife. What's her name?"

"Suzanne."

"Full name? Including maiden?"

Mac had to think. "Shoemaker. Suzanne Ellen Shoemaker."

"Okay."

They sat on the deck, Perkins to Mac's left, on cushioned patio chairs. Out ahead of them the meadow stretched north, becoming hillier as it went, Perkins's orange and black aircraft tied down in the makeshift runway. The sky seemed endless, and a rich blue, streaked with the wispiest lines of high altitude clouds. There was just enough breeze to disperse the smoke of Perkins's cigars, and to take the edge of the heat from the direct sunshine. It would have been very pleasant, had not Mac had to subject himself to carving himself open as if with a can opener.

Perkins looked up from his little notebook. "Where's she from?"

"Born and raised in St. Marys," Mac said, and sipped some beer from the frosty long-neck. "She was the baby of the family, you know? Her folks split when she was six, her dad took off for parts unknown. Raised in an all-woman house. Her sister was, um, something else. But her mom was sweet – what a soldier – she raised those girls single-handed, did maid work for years --" Abruptly Mac stopped, looked over at the detective, who was smiling. "What?" Mac asked.

"Do I really need all of this?" Perkins asked kindly.

"Prob'ly not," Mac admitted. "Sorry."

"No problem," Perkins said, and looked back at his pad. "Where'd you meet her?"

"College," Mac answered. "USM. University of St. Marys," he explained. The mug of beer sat cupped in his two hands in his lap, chilly and foamy. Mac had not yet touched it. "I was, what, about 23 or so."

"How old is she?"

"Same as me. Just a few weeks younger."

"Which makes her what, now? Thirty?"

"He-ha," Mac said, shaking his head. "Thirty-eight." He looked at Perkins. "Do I seem that much younger than you?"

"You seem that much younger than me." Perkins's grin made it seem like a jest. "Okay. And you married her when?"

"Three years later."

"Kids?"

"One. Nicholas."

"How old is he?"

Mac drank some beer. "Six now."

Perkins straightened, looked directly at Mac for a long moment, expressionless. Then he looked back at his notes, expression grim. He thinks he understands, Mac thought. "Suzanne have a job?"

"Gage tech at the RackMasters plant, in town."

"Been there how long?"

"Forever, just about."

"Y'all live here?"

"St. Marys area."

"I mean," Perkins said, pointing down, "here."

"Oh hell no," Mac said, and drank some more. "She picked out a place in Montcalm. It's a suburb, northeast side of St. Marys."

"That where they are now?"

Mac knew very well who Perkins meant by "they." And his answer, when he finally could give it, was technically truthful. "Yeah. That's where they are."

Perkins gathered a few more details about Suzanne: family, friends, pastimes. Mac answered it all mechanically: None except for the estranged sister; none to speak of; puzzle books, TV, her computer, and naps. He finished his second beer and got them another round. He was starting to feel it. Have to cool it, he thought. Their talk meandered away from the topic, and then, by four thirty or so, the guys started to arrive. By 5:30 the whole gang was there: Howdie, Scoot, and Flip, bearing pizza and twelve-packs and considerable Saturday evening bonhomie. Mac made introductions, telling his friends that the Detroiter had flown down to help Mac with a business problem. They took this at face value – all but Scott, who gave Mac a squinty look – and swarmed over Perkins's ultralight, bombarding him with questions. Then they went inside, when it developed that the visitor had more than a passing interest in poker.

Mac did not, but he sat in anyway, and around pizzas and beers and loud blues music the men played many rambunctious give-and-take hands of stud. Along the way they talked about cars, women, tools, and music, which evolved into a lengthy debate ending with their agreement that the greatest blues song ever was "Before You Accuse Me," with "It Hurts Me Too" as a close runner-up. The evening ended by eleven in the best possible way: nobody got too drunk, nobody lost too much.

Mac saw his friends off, then came back into the house, to find Perkins just returning from the meadow, where he'd retrieved his overnight bag from the plane. "That was fun," the detective said. "Good bunch of guys there."

"The best," Mac answered. "You fit in pretty good."

"Hey. Poker, beer, the blues? What's not to fit?" Perkins took a seat at the bare kitchen table. "Have to say, it's not that often I play poker with a priest and win."

"Scott went easy on you," Mac said, grinning.

Smiling, the detective simply said, "Yeah." His dark blue eyes were on Mac. "If you're still up for it, maybe we can talk some more? I want to get going early tomorrow."

"Sure." Mac was tired, and still a little high, but now, as they were getting to the crux of the matter, he felt better about Perkins. He was okay. "I suppose the subject is what? What happened in Detroit?"

"Yeah. What happened in Detroit."

"Okay. Well. A year ago March --"

"Exact dates?"

Mac calculated. "The tenth she got there. Came home the, uh, sixteenth."

"Okay," Perkins said, writing.

"She went to some kind of training seminar thing up there. For her work. Some kind of gobbledygook gage type of stuff, don't ask me what."

"Matters not," Perkins said, making a note.

"Anyway, I'm, uh – I've always felt the training thing was an alibi. Even her boss says he didn't make her go; she pushed for it. I think the whole point of the trip was to meet somebody up there."

"Any idea who?"

"None."

"Evidence? Aside from your gut?"

"Zip." Mac touched his chest with his fist. "But my gut has always served me well. In my job and in other ways."

"That's good," Perkins said. "Too many people disregard those sorta things. So you want me to find out if she was seeing somebody. Assuming it's yes, how much detail do you want?"

"Whatever you can get."

Perkins leaned back in his chair. "Okay," he said, tone just this side of doubtful. "Where'd she stay?"

"The Tuller Hotel."

"That old dump?" Perkins said. "I heard they're tearing it down."

"Can I push the plunger?"

The detective straightened, fixed Mac with a look. "Why do you say that?"

Feeling caught, Mac shrugged. "Just, you know, what the hell, tear the thing down, who cares."

Perkins was squinting. "Seems like an over-strong reaction to me, that's all."

Mac told himself: Be careful. Do not underestimate this man. He could see now an ingredient of Perkins's success. He made you think he wasn't listening all that well, not watching, semi-oblivious. When in fact the man, for all his good old boy bang-around demeanor, was very much in the picture and on the case. Always.

When Mac did not reply, Perkins said, "Okay. So I've got the dates, I've got your wife's name – oh. What was she driving?"

"Um, she had the Dodge minivan then. Purple."

"This training thing, where was it held?"

Damn good question. Mac pored through his memories, and dredged up a name. "Cobo something."

"Cobo Hall? Okay." Perkins, making notes, did not look up. "Can you give me a picture of her?"

"Picture?" Mac echoed, surprised. Did he even have any? He wasn't sure. "Let me check." Going into his bedroom, Mac pushed his way through hanging clothes into the back of the walk-in closet, and dragged out an old wax-coated beer box. It was jammed almost to the top with pictures that he'd more or less liberated from the Montcalm house archives while Suzanne, whose was indifferent about memorabilia, was at work one day. He'd been choosy about the pictures he'd selected, he saw now. Most of them were Nicholas, or Mac and Nicholas, or scenery shots from various vacations. Toward the bottom he found what amounted to the only picture he still owned of his wife, taken, it looked like, at Appomattox Court House. Her smile was clearly forced. He could hear her say: If you pose me beside one more cannon, I'm gonna scream.

Back in the kitchen he handed the picture to Perkins. The detective eyed it. "Cute," he said, and added, "The kid, too."

Throat thick, heart sore, Mac managed: "Anything else? Think I'll hit the rack."

"Yeah, me too. Where'm I bunking?"

"Through that door," Mac pointed, "up the stairs, room on the left. It's all ready."

"Thanks." Perkins ambled toward the door, overnight bag under his arm. "I'm up at six," he said. "We can finish up then, before I go?"

"Sure. Sleep well."

"'Night," the detective answered without looking back, and left the room. Mac heard the stairs creak, one after another, each with its own unique sound, then the click of the upstairs door, and silence.

Feeling wrung out, Mac went to bed, glumly sure he'd never sleep this night. As it turned out, he was wrong about that. As wrong as he'd been that morning, when he thought he'd had his only good cry of the day.