Clean Slate

Chapter 18

Mac stumbled out of his bedroom at six. He was barefoot, in jeans and a teeshirt, his reddish blond hair sticking out every which way, bristly of face, foggily unsure as to what had roused him. In the kitchen he found Ben Perkins pouring fresh coffee into a thermos. "Morning," the detective boomed, and gestured with the carafe. "Pour you one?"

Wow, Mac thought. When he says six, he means it. "Sure, thanks." They went to the table with their coffees. Perkins was back in his leathers, though not yet zipped up. "Ready to roll, eh?" Mac asked.

"When the light gets a bit better," Perkins replied, glancing outside. "First we got some business, though."

"Oh yeah. The money part," Mac said drily. He went to his office, which he'd set up in an alcove between the living room and his bedroom, and came back with a check. "How about I give you three days as an advance?"

"Make it just one," Perkins advised. "I figure two days, tops, I'll have this done."

"Really?" Mac scribbled the check out and slid it over. "That would be great."

Perkins tucked the check away into his shirt pocket. His expression was thoughtful, far-away. Though he'd had a lot to drink the night before, he seemed not in the least hung over. He was in fact all coiled energy, anxious for action. Mac had many of the same qualities, but unlike Perkins he was flying with one lame wing, skimming treetops, conserving energy, trying hard to avoid going down. There were other differences, Mac thought, that would probably preclude their ever becoming close friends. Perkins seemed to be a full-ahead type, not prone to reflection, where Mac was reflective almost to a fault, prone to re-hash and second-guess what could not now be changed. Perkins was much brighter than he looked, and brighter than he acted; Mac had intellect to burn, for all the good it had done him.

And Perkins was an early riser. On a typical day it was all Mac could do to get going by seven thirty. But at least, as opposed to a year ago, he could get out of bed, most days.

"In a perfect world," Perkins asked, "how would you want this to work out?"

"For Suzanne to open up, come clean."

"Barring that, you want me to get the dirt."

"If there is dirt to get, I want to know it."

"You're sure about that."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you're still in love with her."

"That's no secret," Mac said, a little sharply, annoyed at being read.

Perkins, understanding, smiled, but there was no warmth in his dark blue eyes. "See, I don't like this kind of job," he said. "Used to do 'em all the time. Used to not care. Used to just take the money and run, you know? But the thing is, it's just so painful, for all concerned. No matter how it comes out. And that slops off on me. And maybe I'm not as good at shrugging that off as I used to be."

"Maybe you got a heart," Mac suggested.

Perkins touched his lips with an index finger. "Don't tell anyone," he whispered.

Mac leaned back in his chair, considering. "So what are you really telling me? You don't want the job?"

"You know, I went to sleep last night all ready to get up this morning and tell you thanks, but no thanks. But I woke up this morning deciding to do it."

"Why?"

"Because you need it done. And you I want to help."

"I appreciate it."

"It's not all good," Perkins grinned. "I've been accused of helping people to death."

"Better than the alternative," Mac remarked.

"Which is?"

"To have help to give, and yet not give it," Mac said. "To me, that's a sin."

"You know, that's one of those things, I've always believed it," Perkins said. "Just never thought it before." Rising, the detective gave Mac a sympathetic glance. "You're about as wrapped around an axle as a man can get," he observed. "And I don't even know why, for sure."

"Long story," Mac said, and nothing more.

Perkins grinned. "I know there's a lot you're not telling me. But I'm over having to know everything."

In silence they went out back, across the deck, down the short steps to the lawn, and across the deep green dewy grass to the shorn meadow where sat Perkins's plane. Mac thought: He's right. And the hilarious part is, in my job I expect the offenders to spill their guts. It's the first step toward the fix. And I want Suzanne to do the same thing. But not me, no sirree.

"Listen," Mac said, "I appreciate this. I really do."

"If it can be found out," Perkins replied, "I'll find it out. In the meantime, you need to do me a favor."

"What's that?"

"Take off," Perkins advised. "Go away for a while. Get your head straight."

"I tried that," Mac said. "I was gone for a year. Didn't work."

"Well then." They reached the plane. Perkins secured his duffel in the rear seat as Mac unstaked the tie-downs. "Then what you need," the detective said, "is --"

"Counseling. I know," Mac said.

"I was gonna say," Perkins went on patiently, "a good romp in the hay with a trashy don't-give-a-shit babe."

Mac laughed, at the dead-seriousness of Perkins's expression and the sheer absurdity of the suggestion. "And Plan C would be?"

"Well," the detective said thoughtfully, "some sort of mission, then."

"Like what?"

"Beats me," Perkins said, walking around the plane, eyeing it critically in the yellow light of the rising sun. "Three options is generally where my five hundred a day wisdom done runs dry, pal."

"I'll keep it in mind," Mac said. "But anyway, thanks."

They shook hands. Perkins clapped his shoulder. "You're a good man," he said. "It's been a pleasure."

"Likewise."

"I'll be in touch," Perkins said, climbing into the cockpit.

"I'll be waiting."

"Okay." Perkins put on his helmet, examined the controls, flicked buttons. "Hey," he called, as Mac stepped back. "You want to give that prop back there a spin for me?"

"Oh, sure."

"Contact," Perkins said, and snapped down his face shield. Mac went to the big wood propellor, took it in both hands, wound it till the engine compression pushed back, and then gave it a hard push. The engine caught and fired and flattened out into a smooth roar and the propellor quickly spun up to a blur as Mac danced back away from the plane toward the house. Giving Mac a black-gloved salute, Perkins powered the aircraft around, charged up the informal runway, and in an alarmingly short distance went airborne, climbed steeply, receded into a toy, then a speck, and finally just a memory, consumed by the deep blue northern sky.

---

"Harder," Ruth said.

Earl, atop her, complied with fiercer thrusts.

"Come on," Ruth gasped. "Harder."

It was Sunday morning, their post-church date, in good old Room 33. In the musty air and dim light, atop the maroon spread on the double bed, Earl speared Ruth, his bulky form pale against her slighter, darker, almost waiflike shape. Her left leg angled across his back, her other one was drawn up as if to give her traction; her head was wedged between two pillows hard against the oak head board. Earl hovered above her, hairy chest brushing her breasts, timing his smooth metronomic plunges with her responses, watching her face, normally so quiet, reserved, proper, echo the sensations that rocketed around her body as they fucked. For his part, Earl was hard enough, but wasn't sure he'd be able to finish, having just come from an all-nighter with an offender. Nineteen, she was. Another Latina. God, they were hot.

Reaching up a hand, Ruth grabbed Earl around the back of the neck. "Harder!" Her brown eyes were just glinty slits, jaws clenched, brow furrowed with concentration. "Harder! You can do better than that! Give it to me! Harder!"

Earl braced his right arm atop the headboard, and his other hand on Ruth's thin neck. Now he had real leverage, and he drove her, more battering than love-making, as she kept urging him on in her choir-girl voice that rose louder and louder. All it once, knowing she was about to explode, he felt himself coming on too, in an avalanche so sudden it was like he was 20 again. He always looked into their eyes when he came, and when he looked into Ruth's, he saw that they were glassy, pupils rolled back, face flushed deep red – and his hand, quite unconsciously, was clenched tight around her throat. If he felt an alarm, it was way far back, because, to his surprise, she was climaxing, and then he came too, launching his essence deep inside her in three or four fierce bursts – all he was capable of at this point. Then, releasing her, he dropped exhausted to her side.

Her breathing was coarse, raspy. But she was still breathing. Earl felt relieved, in more ways than one. Gradually his own respiration returned to normal, and some sense of vitality returned. His thoughts were random, like fireflies in the dark: She really is amazing. Does the Judge have even a clue? The light seemed dimmer than usual in here. They'd been tight against the headboard. He reflected on angles and ranges, and wondered: did I get that?

Presently she raised herself up. Her flushed face was the same color as the splash of red rising across her small breasts. "My God," she croaked, and it was all admiration, "how did you know how to do that?"

"I didn't," he said. "It was an accident."

Smiling, she crossed his lips with a thin finger. "You improvised," she corrected. "I loved it."

"Your voice is shot."

"Yes, I may have to skip choir practice this week," she said lightly.

Watching her in the dim light, he said brusquely, "Good thing you weren't hurt."

Her slender fingers went to the lined skin of her throat. "Yes, it is a good thing," she said, sitting lithely up on the bed. "What would you have done? If I'd choked to death here?"

He rolled his eyes. "You don't want to know."

"But I do," she said, staring at him, quietly playful.

He lazily shrugged his big shoulders. "Oh, prob'ly wrapped you up in a rug, taped it tight with duct tape, taken you up to Sawyer Bend, wrapped fifty feet of chain around you, and dropped you in the drink."

She was staring. "Incredible," she breathed. "You've thought about it."

"No, I haven't."

"You just rattled it all off," she observed mildly, "like you've planned it for weeks." She paused. "Or, like you've done it before."

"I improvised," he said, and smiled.

She did not. "Well, nothing like that is going to happen," she said. "When I die, it'll be in my bed, with nurses and friends all around me. Then I'll have a fabulous public funeral, two days of open-casket viewing, with hundreds of people there, and choirs, and acres of flowers, and a limousine procession a city block long, all the way out to Grace-Wood."

Her words seemed to hang for an instant in the dim, musty motel room, and then were gone. Outside somewhere, a locomotive hooted. Then silence stretched for a longish moment, and Earl said: "Whatever."

Now she was smiling. "What's the matter? Don't you think about it?"

"Do I think about your death? No."

"Not mine. Yours."

"I'm not going to die. I'm going to live forever."

She chuckled. "Well, you're just a youngster. My boy toy," she added, giving his flaccid penis a loving stroke.

Boy toy? I'm fifty years old, Earl thought. But I guess to her I'm – and she's – how old again?

Am I really doing this?

Who the hell was Ruth Wildern, anyway? Was the real one the soft-spoken community-minded hostess of teas, promoter of worthy causes, quietly smiling helpmate of the Chief Judge? Or was she the butcher-block fuck-slut who screwed his brains out each Sunday morning, gradually unfolding her appetites untold? Which prompted him to ask: "So that choking thing – you really got off on that?"

"Oh," she said, standing up, "the choking itself wasn't so good. I couldn't get a sound out. The blackness just --" She waved her hands around her head – "came up to drown me. I have to admit," she went on, tone objective, not in the least scared – "I thought I was going to die." In profile to him, her business side in shadow, she looked much younger, her smile for him small and supremely satisfied. "But I was still present – somehow – and that come I had – my God --"

Abruptly she bent down and kissed him, on the lips, just briefly. Earl was not sure they had ever really kissed before. It wasn't that kind of relationship. But what kind was it? Earl had the uneasy feeling – and this was not the first time – that his control here was an illusion. With offenders, and the others, the control was absolute. But with Ruth – hell – what leverage did he have? And now, lying there on the bed, feeling dead from the midriff down, he did something highly unusual for him, which was to add up potentialities, to see out to some kind of end. For everything in life, he knew, came to an end. What would be the end of this? Try as he might, he could not work it out. Amazingly – for he had not yet had his fill of her, and was grimly unsure that full fill of Ruth was possible – he found himself feeling just an instant of regret that they'd ever started up. What was that about? Some kind of distant early warning? Earl did not know. What he did know was this: they had started, he was here, he absolutely would continue, and he was not about to let her get away.

"You going to shower?" he asked.

"No," she said vaguely. "He won't be home." She was looking at the low-slung vinyl chair by the curtained window, on which lay Earl's clothes and some other items. Bending down, a motion that tightened her shapely ass, she rose holding his .25 Beretta in its ankle holster. Unsnapping the strap, she extracted the blued handgun, holding it gingerly by its walnut grips. To him she looked sexy as hell, naked, tanned, wearing her large gold earrings, brown hair a tousled bed-head, orgasm flush fading on her breasts, expression as JBF as they come. "Carry this all the time?" she asked.

"Pretty much."

She fingered the weapon. "You know what I've always wanted to do?"

"What?"

She told him.

Earl sat up in the bed, swung his heavy legs around to sit on the edge. He considered several responses, and managed to pick the wrong one. He chuckled. "Why don't you just go have a paint-ball session somewhere?"

Ruth straightened, fixed him with a dark look, mouth a straight firm line. "This is not a joke," she said quietly, and put the weapon back.

"You're serious?" he asked.

"Quite." Going to the closet, she got out her white panties and slipped them on.

Earl had not seen this side of her before. Now he had a choice. He could stand firm – for the whole suggestion, he thought, was nuts. He could say No, run the risk of losing. . .well. . .all of this, all of her.

Or he could comply.

But the notion really was crazy. He could think of a thousand ways it could all go wrong. He'd be out of his mind to accede, agree, set it up for her. Words of rejection rose to his lips, locked, loaded, and ready for utterance. But of course, what ended up emerging from his mouth was but a single word: "Okay."